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The sun has long set behind Fox Tower when Neil finally allows himself to look up from his homework to glance at his phone. He’s so stressed about exams, his head still caught up in formulas and theories, that it takes him three or four moments to understand he’s received a message about thirty minutes ago.
The heat no longer carries through the open windows of their room, it’s grown significantly more chill since the sun is gone. Neil can’t wait to get his exams over with to spend summer at the court; whether on the playing field with Kevin at his side or up in the stands, ideally with Andrew between his legs.
Another moment to decipher the message. It’s from Andrew. “late night ride? you need to give your brain a break”
As if awoken like a sleeper agent, Neil gets up from his desk, rummages through the dormroom for a hoodie and comes up with a white-orange one dangling from Andrew’s and his’ bunk bed.
He bumps into Kevin on his way out as he pulls the fabric over his head, who merely arches his eyebrow at him. “Have you seen Andrew?”, he asks as he crosses the room toward the fridge behind the kitchen isle, checking the freezer for a bucket of ice cream.
His peace offering to the blonde goalkeeper for when he locates him.
Kevin leans against the isle from him, elbows on the counter. Watching Neil scoop up two spoons from a drawer before tugging on his converse shoes by the door. “Last time I saw him, he went out to his car”, Kevin begins, his gaze dropping onto the container of vanilla ice between Neil's hands. With a disapproving stare, he adds: “…Don’t tell me you’re gonna eat all that now. You haven’t even taken a run today!”
Neil’s hand catches on the doorframe as he turns to leave. Kevin’s stare is buried in his back as he has difficulties dragging it back toward the redhead’s face. Ice cream past 10PM must really be a sensitive topic to the former Raven.
“Thanks for playing my fitness coach, really lovely, highly appreciated”, Neil smiles as he peppers Kevin with sarcastic remarks, “But I’ll share should I find him.”, he shrugs as he leaves their dorm eventually, leaving a flabbergasted Kevin—who is still leaning against the counter—behind. Maybe his nervousness comes from impending exams. Then again, the Queen of Exy doesn’t do nervousness. Must be one of his many sour moods.
In the hallway he bumps into Renee, who is still in her workout clothes. Trailing her is Allison.
They glance at him with curious eyes, but when Allison moves to open her mouth, Renee pokes her ribs to stifle the upperclassman’s comment.
Instead, she grants him one of her many unapologetic smiles. “He’s sulking in his car. You should go check on him”, she prompts, and adds, with a look at the goods in Neil’s hand, “but I believe that’s what you’re planning on doing, anyway.”
She slides her hand into Allison’s and pulls them toward their dorm when Neil nods thanks at her. How Renee knows, he can’t explain. But it’s Renee.
Down three flights of stairs, Aaron’s hostile glare takes him in. He is waiting for the escalator when Neil pushes open the door to Fox Tower’s lobby. The blonde’s eyes catch on his chest as if he were trying to blow him up with his mind. “Praying the day he dumps you will come soon”, is all he says when the escalator’s bell dings.
Neil ignores him, pointedly. Heads for the door, his fingers growing cold from the ice cream in his hands.
When the night air greets him, Neil takes a couple steadying breaths. The past few nights had been rough, filled with studying and too little time for Andrew.
Nonetheless, his heart doubles in size when he spots the blonde goalkeeper propped against his car, cigarette in hand. Their eyes meet, and almost unnoticeably, Neil witnesses as those hooded hazel eyes open just a fraction more than they usually do, drinking him in as they stare each other down across the parking lot.
How he notices, he himself doesn’t know. He just knows Andrew stares him down differently, almost in disbelief. His pierced lips part just slightly.
From behind, Fox Tower illuminates Neil's silhouette as well as Andrew’s pale face, the cigarette he’s holding. The dark dots of many piercings decorating his face glisten in artificial light.
“Still wanna go for a ride, Andrew?”, Neil smiles. It’s a genuine smile. A wide, toothy one, accompanied by blown-out eyes. Andrew doesn’t reply verbally.
From the embers at the end of his cigarette lighting up, Neil knows he’s just taken a strong hit from it, blowing smoke through his nose. He closes the distance until he smells the acrid smoke, until he’s face to face with Andrew.
“You ignore my text to show up with”, he takes the bucket from Neil’s cold hands and turns it so the label points up at them, “vanilla ice cream while wearing my hoodie”, Andrew comments blankly, but his hooded gaze catches on exposed collarbones. They’re delicate and so perfectly on display with white fabric pooling around them.
“I just grabbed the next-best thing. Do you think any of them will be weird about it? Oh and of course, you can have it back, if that’s what bothers you?”, Neil admits, tugging at the sleeves of the hoodie as if meaning to take it off. Andrew’s free hand swats at them, heavy-lidded eyes burning with hunger.
“Keep it on”, the goalie demands. It is an order. After a split second, Andrew adds, “You look good in it”, Neil can’t help himself. He steps closer, leaning down until his lips are inches from Andrew’s.
“Yes or No?”
“Yes.”, the blonde breathes, his fingers tangling in Neil’s hoodie—his hoodie as he pulls the redhead down for a kiss. The remnants of nicotine on his lip, Andrew drinks him in, the ice cream bucket resting on top of the car, forgotten.
The kisses they share are soft and long, without rows of teeth clacking or tongues exploring each other’s mouth. Just soft sighs and Andrew’s hands sneaking around Neil’s waist, pulling him closer.
Their body heat keeps them going, their thighs and chests pressed together as they melt into each other’s gentle touches. It’s so unlike their usual style of making out, Neil appreciates the break away from studying and routine. Nonetheless, thoughts of returning back to their dorm to finish his revisions keep him from losing concentration.
Andrew notes the shift in energy, of course.
When Neil finally takes a step back, his cheeks are flushed, yes; but the nervosity in his eyes hasn’t faded yet. His head’s not in the game and he seemingly trails off more often than usual. “So, about that ride…?”, he asks Andrew, retrieving the bucket of ice cream.
Wordlessly, the goalie frees him to get to the driver’s side, opens the door and lets himself drop into the seat.
Neil follows suit; he doesn’t know where Andrew wants to go, he doesn’t ask where the blonde plans to drive towards. But he knows the route Andrew is taking. The familiarity soothes his anxiety and stifles his gnawing thoughts, mixing with excitement the moment a familiar building comes into view.
The stadium is huge, its orange walls and empty lots a welcoming scenery after the past few days. Neil can almost imagine the crowd chanting during game night, can smell the fast food vendors are selling and the adrenaline flowing freely through his veins. Another place he’s learned to call a home for many reasons.
Andrew pulls into the Foxhole Court’s parking lot, steering toward subsection 03 of the vast and empty space. The redhead feels the weight of his glance being drawn toward the Court. They unbuckle their seatbelts.
Neil turns to the backseat as if Kevin would manifest out of thin air, searching for the raven-haired striker as if he hadn’t left him standing by the kitchen isle back at Fox Tower.
“But… Kevin?”, he raises concern when Andrew halts the car, killing the engine. Kevin has cancelled night practice. There’s no reason to be here. But Andrew doesn’t make a move to leave the car, instead he offers Neil his open palm and is rewarded with the ice cream bucket at a perfect temperature.
“What about him?”
Andrew entertains the oblivious redhead for a moment as he pulls the paper lid off the container, absentmindedly dipping his finger into the cream-colored substance.
Neil watches every motion of his, every dip of the finger as it disappears into the dessert, coating the fingernail and its chipped black nail polish in slowly melting sugar.
The blonde leads his finger to his lips, pushes it deep into his mouth to suck it clean and swirls his tongue around it to make sure every last droplet has been caught by his mouth. Andrew savours the taste—vanilla being his favorite flavour—and makes a mental note to go easier on Neil tonight. He won’t admit it, but seeing the striker wearing his hoodie had him almost on his knees then and there on the pavement of the Fox Tower parking lot.
Andrew returns to reality, wiping the saliva coating his finger on his dark trousers.
When the redhead offers him a spoon, Andrew declines. Instead, he raises the bucket to his mouth and instead begins to drag his tongue across the surface lazily. Neil’s throat is dry, all of a sudden. It takes him two or three gulps. His gaze is trained on following Andrew’s tongue working the ice cream, maneuvering chunks of slowly thawing vanilla into his mouth.
The goalie swallows slowly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He lets his gaze flicker over to Neil sitting in the passenger seat, mesmerized by the view—Andrew. “Staring.”, he muses simply, leaning back in his seat.
His finger hovers midair during their staring contest. A drop of ice cream separates from it, dripping low onto Andrew’s chest. Both are caught off-guard momentarily, but when Neil slowly raises his hand to wipe it off, his cold hand halts inches from the goalie’s skin.
“Yes or No, Andrew?”, Neil asks, mimicking the conversation they had in the parking lot of Fox tower—his pale blue eyes stare right at Andrew's naked soul.
The breath catching in Andrew’s throat comes out as a clear ‘Yes’, but he shivers underneath cold fingertips wiping the droplets off his skin, nonetheless. Neil's eyes are hauntingly beautiful, they always are.
“Whoops.”, Andrew comments dryly as he trails his finger above his chest, over his throat and chin, sucking it clean. His hazel eyes monitor Neil, who understands the queue. A trail of vanilla ice droplets lead up to Andrew’s mouth, like an open invitation.
But when Neil—oblivious to Andrew's invitation—reaches out to wipe the stains off with his hand, Andrew stops him by interlacing their fingers. He pulls the redhead in, who shifts uncomfortably, his leg above the console. Andrew only relents his grip on the other’s hand when he finishes whispering in his ear: “No hands. I want you to use your tongue, junkie.”
Neil swallows, nodding understanding. He still has a lot to learn when it comes to consciously picking up on clues like these.
He steadies himself against the driver’s side door with one hand, before his head sinks down to the starting line of the trail. Whenever his eyes look up at Andrew—so innocently—as his hot tongue moves across pale skin to free him of the sticky dessert, the goalie shakes in anticipation. Sighs in defeat. Feels heat pooling in his guts.
When Neil’s tongue slides past his collarbones, the redhead hesitates. He glances up at Andrew before straying from his path by nipping at exposed skin, eliciting a surprised groan from the goalie.
“We’ve talked about this”, he warns, his hand tangling in Neil’s—his—hoodie.
Neil chuckles, lips barely hovering above hot skin as he speaks: “Yeah. I remember the fact you like it.”
“114 percent. Bordering on 115.”
Neil just scoffs at that, before nipping at Andrew’s skin again. Licking over the soon-appearing bruises like a paintbrush over an empty canvas, eager to fill it with specks of color and aching remnants of their make out session for the next few days.
Andrew tugs at the collar of Neil’s hoodie, guiding him upwards. “Later, junkie”, he promises as Neil finally rests his tongue on slowly drying ice cream stains, taking his time to slide it over crusty edges of sugar, which sets Andrew’s skin on fire. It’s agonizing and the goalie knows it is his fault; but Neil takes his sweet time licking and kissing at the other’s skin, soft gasps crawl up his throat and reverberate against wet skin.
The blonde curses breathlessly as Neil bites into skin above his jaw abruptly, more so when he begins feverishly sucking at it.
“Losing track again, Neil”, Andrew reminds him, unable to stifle a gasp as he speaks the other’s name. He’ll wear those marks for days.
Inch by inch, Neil closes in on the finish line, drool on his chin and ice cream on his tongue. Andrew chases his lips down and entangles him in a long kiss. Neil’s eyes widen in surprise, but flutter shut when he feels Andrew’s solid hand at the back of his neck, drawing him in.
Their kisses are much more impatient now, the ice cream bucket resting on the dashboard, abandoned.
“I wanted to check for the locker rooms”, Andrew begins, withdrawing from the heat of Neil’s mouth—albeit against his will, “but what do you think of right here, right now?”
“Mmh, here?”, Neil reiterates over a whine, lower lip sagging as he struggles to catch his breath. Both know what he’s referring to.
But tonight, Andrew doesn’t feel like blowing Neil. He feels like making Aaron wanting to burn his car. He feels like making Neil squirm between his legs.
He feels like desecrating the Maserati’s backseat.
His brain likes the idea. “No. Backseat.”, Andrew replies, his voice rough as he leans over Neil to push open the passenger side door. While Neil scrambles out of the passenger seat, Andrew’s hand slides over the glove compartment and pulls out a condom and lube.
Originally, he’d planned on being merciless toward Neil for burying himself in coursework without so much as regarding him, knowing fully well this was how Neil operated—lower urges weren’t his priority; But right now, all he wants is to see the redhead melt under his touch, wants to see him come undone as he takes his mind off things just for tonight.
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In the back, Andrew pushes the other to rest against the door and backseat, making quick work of Neil’s sweatpants until they drop down into the footwell.
The redhead pulls him down for further kisses and tries shuffling out of his shirt again, but Andrew stops his attempt without hesitation.
“Leave it”, he demands, tugging him closer by the hood strings, “Don’t you dare take it off before we’re done here.”
It shows who you belong to, Andrew means to say. If the orange 03 on the front didn’t suffice, the name printed on its back definitely was a solid clue.
“Can I prep to fuck you, Neil? Yes or No.”
The directness of his request short-circuits Neil’s brain. His pale eyes blink up at the goalkeeper resting between his knees, Andrew’s thighs lodged underneath his spread-out legs. Waiting for his reply.
It comes in the form of a dark blush which creeps onto his cheeks, from both excitement and nervosity.
“A-andrew- …Yes.”
The blonde nods curtly, letting his hands slide upwards along well-defined leg muscles, his dark fingernails a stark contrast on scarred skin.
They slide over soft orange fabric and curl around the white hem of Neil’s boxers, eliciting an excited gasp from the redhead.
Andrew pulls them down in one swift motion, discarding them with the striker’s sweats and just sits for a moment, admiring the flustered Neil. Of course he’s the first to destroy the sweet moment. He can’t shut up, even if his life depends on it.
“I can’t believe all it took for you to ask me was me gifting you ice cream”, Neil rasps as he helps unbuckle Andrew’s belt with shaky hands.
At this remark, Andrew pushes him back into the corner and props the redhead’s legs over his shoulders with an annoyed grunt. “The ice cream. Yeah, that was it.”, he replies dryly. The godforsaken hoodie pools around Neil’s throat and does not prove to be soothing for his hard dick.
Neil’s thighs strain from withstanding gravity as they rest high over Andrew’s shoulders, converse still on. The goalie can’t help himself but be mesmerized by the chiseled muscles, a direct product of constant cardio. Absent-mindedly, he brushes over Neil’s scarred skin and is rewarded with a layer of goosebumps.
“Just relax. Breathe for me.”, Andrew commands.
Neil twitches as Andrew shifts to grab the lube and uncaps the bottle with a creak. The blonde is generous with the amount he pours into his palm, coats his fingers as he’s dripping onto the seat below. It’s Aaron’s usual seat. Not like Andrew would and could care any less; Part of him wants them to leave stains for him to find and be weirded out by.
“Now, be nice and quiet for me, Neil. Wouldn't wanna alert stadium security, would we?”
Andrew doesn't care whether or not they'll be thrown from the stadium premisses. Truly, he just really needs to see the desperate look on Neil’s face, the sight of him choking on a moan while the goalie has his fingers buried knuckle-deep inside of him.
He needs to watch the infamous Neil Abram Josten unravel beneath his hands; because of them, because of him. He wants to be the reason Neil can’t form proper words for the rest of the evening. And going by the excited smile forming on Neil’s lips, the redhead seemingly wants the same.
His right hand gently follows the curve of Neil’s ass, guiding himself down, eliciting a small sigh from the other.
Andrew’s brow quirks up momentarily, the very second he pushes a finger into Neil. His other hand cups his ass, gently painting circles into soft skin. To soothe, the intent. But Andrew’s fingers have an effect akin to pure electricity dancing across Neil’s skin, shooting right towards the redhead’s dick, leaking precome.
Andrew lets go of Neil’s ass and his right hand roams freely over pale skin riddled with freckles, down his thigh and digs into muscular flesh above the striker’s right knee.
He’ll repay Neil for his silly neck fetish.
His hand is still busy with digging into Neil, but Andrew lets his focus wander, changes from merely preparing Neil in a borderline sterile way to pressing his lips to the inside of the redhead’s propped up thigh.
Neil tenses instinctively at the unexpected touch. A shuddered breath, almost a gasp, escapes his lips. His hands dig into the backseat, scramble for purchase. Pale blue eyes watch helplessly as Andrew begins kissing his way upwards, nibbling at scarred skin.
Not a sound leaves his throat, but Andrew knows Neil holds his very name on his tongue. He’ll scream it soon enough. The name of a man who never dared dream of getting what he wished for.
The blonde busies himself with alternating from kisses to licks and gentle bites, until he glances down at Neil, curling his lips.
“Taste of your own medicine, Josten”, he remarks sheepishly, before tugging playfully at the skin of a sensitive spot on the inside of Neil’s thighs. His teeth pull on skin as he closes his lips around flesh—damp from previous licks. With gentle pressure, Andrew sucks at Neil’s skin like he’s dying from thirst and the only source of liquid is the striker’s blood trapped beneath layers of skin.
Neil watches Andrew’s mouth work, holding his breath in amazement, a hand clasped to his mouth. His body shudders, tenses, twitches. So does his cock.
When Andrew feels satisfied with the pressure he’s put on the spot, the blonde releases him, spares abused skin two or three apologetic flicks of his tongue before immediately moving upwards to repeat this slow and sweet torment.
Andrew is keen on leaving a trail of love bites on these godlike thighs, just to ruin their perfection. The scars and burns haven’t accomplished that; if at all, they have only enhanced the beauty Andrew seeks to humble, tries to normalize. Tries to rationalize what was supposed to be a side effect of the drugs he’s been eased off for almost two years now.
All the while Andrew’s mouth works his way upwards, his fingers slide in and out of Neil, filling the car with obscenely wet noises as he buries first one, then eventually two fingers inside the breathless striker, down to his knuckles.
Almost inaudibly, Neil gasps when the blonde sucks the sixth or seventh hickey into a spot mere inches from his neglected dick. He tries bucking his hips once but Andrew denies this bratty behaviour, retracting the hand keeping his leg steadily over his shoulder and presses it down onto the redhead’s abdomen. He can feel muscles tensing under his touch and imagines the fingers of his other hand forcing themselves deeper into Neil. He almost wants to add a third digit, just to relish in the broken moan escaping Neil.
“Feeling prepared?” Andrew muses minutes later. Minutes filled with gentle teasing and fingers crooking and pathetic whimpers and the rustling of fabric as Neil shifts in Andrew’s hoodie.
His face still dangerously close to Neil’s cock, Andrew establishes eye contact from beneath the redhead’s dick. As much as he’d love sucking bruises into Neil’s skin for the rest of the night, he fears for security workers eventually finding them fucking in the parking lot of their very own stadium.
Neil just nods. If he opened his mouth now, no power in the world could stifle the moans he keeps swallowing down determinedly. His eyes are blown wide with lust, glint impishly in the dim light of the parking lot.
His mouth falls open in pained surprise as Andrew crooks the fingers inside Neil, proving him wrong. “Impatient, as always”, the blonde hums while he continuously fucks Neil open, brushing against his prostate, this small bundle of nerves—oh so accidentally—in the process.
Pathetic whimpers crawl up Neil’s throat but he stifles them by now chewing on his bottom lip. His body twitches and contorts as Andrew pulls out his fingers almost completely, until Neil feels dissatisfyingly empty, before sinking his fingers back into him until his knuckles brush against the rim. He repeats this, settling on a slow and steady rhythm.
The redhead is melting into a puddle beneath Andrew’s motions, squirming and writhing everytime the goalie works his fingers meticulously over the sensitive spot, stretching and teasing him thoroughly. With every pushing motion, every scissoring motion of his fingers, every brush of calloused skin against his prostate, Neil loosens up from Andrew’s controlled touch.
His eyes squeezed shut, soundless words form on Neil’s chapped lips. They can easily be read as the redhead forming Andrew’s name in desperate prayer.
“You want me to take your mind off things?”, the blonde coos as he pulls his fingers out a final time, smearing lube across pale skin messily.
Neil’s nod is frantic, his eyes glassy. A silent plea on his lips; Begging Andrew, Andrew, Andrew. His breath escapes in warm puffs of air, strains as Andrew suddenly decides Neil’s dick is worth his attention as he halts his fingers’ movements and licks along the shaft toward the flushed head instead. Just once. The gaze he directs at Neil holds the same old question: Yes or No?
Neil gasps, threads his fingers through the blonde’s hair in response. They contort in pleasure as Andrew finally succumbs to his silent plea and sinks his mouth onto Neil, swallowing his dick whole. At the same time, he pushes a third finger into Neil, noticing how the redhead’s body clenches around them. The promised broken moan fills the car—Andrew drinks it greedily.
Hands entangled in blonde hair steady Neil; Andrew, the ever so solid rock for the redhead to lean on. To rely on. To surrender to—in its entirety.
The striker’s head thumps against the window as a shudder wrecks his body; his eyes roll back into their sockets as Andrew gently bobs his head up and down with a steady rhythm. His lips are sending prayers and his hips keep bucking uncontrollably as Andrew’s tongue swirls around the head, while his fingers simultaneously stretch him further open.
He bucks and contorts beneath the overwhelming sensations. So much so, Andrew presses him down by his hips, until he can feel his bones digging into the carseat and pulls off Neil when not even this seems to control his body. As he lifts himself back upright, a string of spit connects his puffy lips to Neil’s dick momentarily. He sighs in disappointment at the mess in front of him, clicking his tongue disapprovingly.
Again, his fingers still inside Neil, idly resting above his prostate. Every subconscious twitch rocks in waves through the redhead’s body, making him writhe and squirm in the backseat.
He leans forward above Neil until his mouth is close to the redhead’s ear. When Andrew speaks up, his tone is low and dangerous; Nonetheless, Neil swallows every word he utters, nodding hastily. Apologetically, even.
“Keep up this bratty behavior and I promise I will end it for tonight, so you have some time to cool down. Got it?”
At this, Neil stifles a moan. Andrew wouldn’t—couldn’t bring himself to it—but the thrill of the threat has him collecting himself. He nods weakly and lifts his head to stare Andrew down. His gaze flicks toward the blonde’s lips, who captures Neil’s in return.
Their kisses are slow but not any less heated; Tongues scrape across sealed lips and teeth, clash with one another, but their motions are slow and careful, so atypical for them.
That is, until Andrew moves his fingers again, rubbing Neil raw from inside. He bites down onto Neil’s lower lip in warning to stifle the pathetic noise crawling up his throat, before increasing both the violence of his kisses and the thrusts of his fingers.
A shiver runs through the redhead as he tenses around Andrew, which is the sign for the goalie to remove them entirely.
Neil can’t stifle the whimper at the loss of stimulation, but his glassy eyes—filled to the brim with need for Andrew—unleash something within the goalie.
“On your hands and knees, junkie”, Andrew orders softly, helping the shaky mess that is Neil up. He leans over him, Andrew’s chest against the redhead’s bare back, to leave more bite- and lovemark on scarred skin.
Neil’s hands are pressed flat against the backseat window, leaving sweaty handprints everytime he adjusts. He locks eyes with Andrew over his shoulder, arches his back. It’s sinful and pathetic and also the hottest thing Andrew has had the pleasure of seeing in his time on earth as he leans back to rip open the condom.
Calloused palms squeeze scarred skin reassuringly, begin rubbing soothing circles into Neil’s hips. Neil knows how impatient Andrew himself is. He presses his chest flush to Neil’s back and lets his lips be captured by the redhead’s as he slowly starts pushing into him, swallowing the whines and moans Neil can’t stifle. He’d allow him to be vocal, but their surroundings would come and investigate. As they got to realize together over the past months: Neil is very vocal in bed.
Their mouths slot together awkwardly, with Neil’s neck craned and Andrew laying half on top of him, but they fit like they’re made for one another, embracing and holding onto each other as if every kiss they break to catch their breath could be the last.
The white fabric of Andrew’s hoodie clinging to Neil’s sweaty skin as it’s being illuminated by the bright moon shining far above them—it short-circuits the blonde’s brain. In the moonlight, the bright orange ‘03’ painted on Neil’s back burns holes into Andrew. It doesn’t help that his own last name is printed in equally intense orange letters across Neil’s shoulders, the cotton fabric moving erratically with every thrust.
A sudden, heated thought rushes through his brain, a sense of possessiveness: Mine.
Neil is his, just as much as he is Neil’s. They are intertwined, beyond anything physically achievable. They have crawled underneath each other’s scarred skin and made themselves a home. Home, a laughably mundane word which elicited a response in Neil as extreme as apologies did to Andrew. Neil is his.
Rougher than necessary, but just the way Neil needs him to, Andrew pounds into Neil, buries his feelings deep within the redhead where no one can see him letting his guard down. In response, the redhead presses his hands against the back door window to balance out their weight rocking back and forth across the back seat in stuttering motions.
Neil elicits a surprised hiss at the rough handling, but it immediately turns to frantic panting as his face is squished against the cold material, his hot breath further fogging up the glass with short puffs of air. Pale eyes seek Andrew’s gaze, pupils blown so wide with lust, the irises are barely more than a thin ring of chill blue framing pools of black.
Mine, all mine.
Neil cranes his head again, meeting Andrew’s gaze with glassy eyes and a raised eyebrow. His lips are kiss-swollen and glossy, not entirely closed, stuck on a hoarse moan which Andrew punches out of him with another thrust. Neil’s mouth forms words, his coherence made difficult with every of Andrew’s thrusts.
“Want to- see you- need to- face you-”
Andrew pulls out—only long enough for him to reposition Neil, the redhead’s bodyweight hits the seat cushion with a soft thud. Like the lovesick idiot that he is, he stares up at the goalie with a fierce, blissful smile and finds Andrew’s hazel eyes in the dim light with ease.
“Andrew.”
His name rolls off Neil’s tongue like a tsunami over land, swallows the blonde whole and punches the breath out of him in the very same way he did to Neil just moments earlier. Andrew can’t stand it. He can’t stand it when Neil is looking at him like he’s the center of the exy junkie’s pathetic little world, but he’d hate it more if this were a lie.
“Shut up.”, he hisses as a reply, but there is no malice in his voice, no heat. It’s empty and velvety-soft and distinctly asks Neil to do the opposite. “Shut up or i’ll-”
They catch their breath, slot back together, Andrew never finishes voicing his threat toward Neil. Their next kiss tastes faintly of vanilla ice cream—or maybe it’s just the slowly melting ice cream bucket sitting on the dashboard which fills the heated air in the car with its scent. Teeth scrape against swollen lips and tongues slide together as Andrew pushes himself back into Neil, tangles his hands in Neil’s- Andrew’s sweater and slowly pushes it up, just a bit.
Neil’s hard cock bounces with every slow and deep thrust, until Andrew’s hand trails down along Neil’s side, follows a long and bumpy yet faded scar from his hipbone down to his freckled thigh, sneaks around the base of the striker’s cock and matches his stroking pattern to his slow and methodical thrusts, taking Neil apart from the inside and out.
Neil meets his thrusts with rolling hips, eager to reciprocate what Andrew doesn’t dare spell out: The urge to melt into one another, be closer than physically possible in this moment. Soft, broken whimpers fill the car, gather in the humid air, mingle with the vanilla.
Andrew’s hand between their bodies slides along Neil’s cock, feels for the veins, drags along hot skin and over the pre-come gathering at Neil’s tip. Smears sweat and fluid, coaxes moans from the redhead’s lips to hide Andrew’s own stifled gasps.
The moans transform into fragmented words, punched out between thrusts, a mingle of ‘fuck’s and ‘yes’es and ‘Andrew’s which are reduced to muffled ‘Drew’s in the heat of the moment.
The scent of vanilla flows over when they both push over the edge—ascending, soaring, riding the high, taking the plunge and falling free—limbs intertwined and eyes screwed shut and each other’s name on their lips.
For a couple long minutes, they remain like this: Pressed into the cushion, Andrew a steadying weight on top of Neil, two pairs of hands tangled into the hoodie clinging to Neil’s skin.
While the redhead remains horizontal, Andrew sits up slowly, pulls out and rearranges himself. The filled condom finds its way into a bin outside the car as Andrew gets back into the driver's seat where he hunts for his cigarettes—finds nothing in the cup holder and as he leans over to rummage through the glove compartment, his hooded gaze trails back to Neil. The Fox striker’s chest heaves as if he were still trying to catch his breath.
Andrew gives up on his cigarettes in favor of drinking in the disheveled state of Neil Josten—sprawled out in the backseat of his Maserati, blissed out, not the least bit eager to get back up—before grabbing the ice cream bucket off the dashboard.
The top layer of ice has melted, and not even the cold air seeping in through the open window on the driver’s side slows the process.
Andrew finishes the bucket by the time Neil finally shows signs of life, huffing a complacent sigh before he opens one of his hauntingly blue eyes. His gaze slides toward Andrew immediately, the smile on his kiss-swollen lips widening.
“Can we drive to the store and get some more?”, he muses as Andrew presents him the empty container with a dry ‘you weren’t fast enough, junkie’. Neil sits up to locate his clothes and tugs them back on, joining Andrew in the front and hands him an almost empty pack of Marlboros which had slipped beneath the driver’s seat.
“I’m paying if it means you can be bribed into going for round two”, Neil adds half-jokingly, “If I’d known the way to your heart was through ice cream–” but never finishes the thought.
Andrew doesn’t answer. He just rakes his gaze over Neil, his stare getting caught on the hoodie pooling loosely around the striker’s shoulders. Sure. It must have been the ice cream persuading Andrew into acting on his urges. He turns the key in the ignition and reverses without allowing himself another glance in Neil’s direction.
For the first time since Neil arrived in South Carolina, he doesn’t need to pry his eyes off the Foxhole Court as they drive off and out of sight of the stadium. His gaze remains on the unmoving presence of Andrew, whose hand hangs out the window, lit cigarette stuck between calloused fingers, eyes on the road. It’s on Andrew while they browse the frozen section at the store—Neils gaze falls onto his hand as the goalie tugs him by the strings of his hood toward the exit. It’s on Andrew when they climb the stairs of Fox Tower toward their dorm, a chill bucket of ice cream each in their hands.
By the time they call an end to round two, these, too, will have been reduced to ice cream soup.