Archive of Our Own

Neil is sitting in the lounge at the Foxhole Court when Andrew slides down beside him—closer than he usually does when there are people around—and holds out a tube of lipstick. Neil grabs it without a second thought.

“Commission,” Andrew says. He crosses his arms and leans back into the couch, shoulder pressed to Neil’s. 

His hair is semi-damp and combed back, every piercing open to see. Blinking slowly, Neil allows himself to admire the handsome curves of Andrew’s nose and jaw, the magnetic space behind his ear, the dirty blond color his hair turns when wet.

Eventually Neil nods and pockets the tube despite his confusion. To be fair, Matt and Dan look even more confused than he is, with their raised brows and scrunched foreheads. Deciding it’s funnier to not give them context, Neil doesn’t ask Andrew for clarification.

“When?” Neil asks.

“Tomorrow. I’m leaving Kevin in Aaron’s custody. We can use the studio.”

The hum Neil uses in acknowledgment is pleased. It’s rare any of them go up to Columbia not to spend a while; they wait until Friday night—usually Saturday morning, really—to collect and drop anything they need at the house.

A two hour drive round-trip. However long the commission, prep, and editing takes. Whatever else Andrew wants to do. A while of just them without anyone in the next room over; Neil is surprised that he finds the thought comforting.

“Are you driving, or am I?”

Andrew responds with a shrug. “I’ll drive up. We can decide who drives back after.”

“Got it. I’ll pay for gas,” Neil says. He briefly glances at Matt and Dan, who do a bad job of hiding their suspicious stares. “Anything I should bring?”

“No.” Then Andrew closes his eyes and dozes while the others finish getting dressed.

———

Andrew sits behind the wheel, eating peanut M&Ms Neil bought from inside while Neil fills up the Mas’s gas tank.

When he slides back into the passenger’s seat and Andrew starts the car, Neil finally asks, “So what’s with the lipstick?”

“CD case,” Andrew says instead. Neil digs through the glove box to hand it to him. Swapping the discs from pop to rap, he passes whatever he no longer needs off to Neil for him to put away. “The commissioner requested kiss marks covering me. I have bones that prevent me from reaching everywhere, so that’s where I exploit you for labor.”

“Erotica or porn?”

They peel out of the gas station with terrifying speed, but Neil is used to it by now. He settles into his seat, elbow on the center console, and examines Andrew’s side profile some more.

He’s clean shaven and glowing like candlelight in the late morning sun. His ash blond hair is longer than usual, grown out where Aaron never allows it to go; all the way around his head, the length is long enough to dig fingers through, wavy in a cherubic sort of way from the products he styled in this morning. His expression is calm, and the bar through his right eyebrow is un-tensed from his relaxed face. His tongue makes a bulge around his bottom lip as he fiddles with a ring there.

“Staring,” Andrew chides. “And erotica.”

“You look good,” Neil hums.

Despite being on the freeway, Andrew taps his breaks and sends Neil flying into the dashboard. Neil rubs his forehead where he slammed into it and glares. Horns blare behind them, but Andrew pays them no mind.

“Don’t expect anything. I am not in the mood,” he says, threat evident in his tone.

“I didn’t assume you were in the first place,” Neil scowls.

Andrew rolls his eyes and cranks the sound up. They don’t speak the rest of the drive, because Tupac is singing too loud for Neil to form an independent thought.

———

“I have no clue how to do this,” Neil says, frowning at his reflection. He’s sitting on the floor in front of a full-length mirror with a tube of dark red lipstick in his hand. He hasn’t dared attempt to put it on. 

He peeks up at Andrew through the mirror right as he throws his briefs off, then rummages around in a dresser, fully nude except his armbands. There isn’t really a logical reason, but Neil keeps his gaze to the floor until Andrew has underwear back on; sure he’s seen it before, but Andrew said he didn’t want anything so Neil doesn’t give himself permission to appreciate anything.

“Put it on your lips,” Andrew says unhelpfully. His new briefs are the same bloody red as Neil’s lipstick tube. He walks up to stand behind Neil, arms crossed. Neil purposely stares at his face and not his bulge—or the bulge of his pecs. “It’s self-explanatory.”

“Ha-ha. Have you ever thought about stand-up comedy?” Neil deadpans.

Andrew shoves Neil’s head to the side like a dog sniffing the dinner table and lazily plops down next to him. He snatches the tube from Neil.

“Face me,” he commands. Neil shifts so their folded legs touch at the knees, denim on skin. “Don’t speak or I'll castrate you.”

Neil almost says ‘okay’ but thinks better of it.

Andrew holds Neil’s jaw with his left hand and gets to work applying lipstick with his right. The pigment is cold and sticky, feeling like oil pastels over Neil’s mouth. Still as stone, he moves however Andrew guides him and entertains himself by watching Andrew’s dirty blond eyebrows shift with concentration.

With one final swipe, Andrew says, “This shouldn’t dry for a while, but we’ll have to re-apply for visible marks.” He caps the tube and keeps custody of it. When he speaks, Neil catches sight of his tongue stud.

“Did you change your jewelry?” He asks.

Andrew sticks his tongue out, and his usual black heart has been replaced with a jeweled pendant in the shape of two cherries on a stem. 

“Neat.”

Andrew hums with disinterest and stands. He holds a hand out for Neil and hauls him to his feet with swoon-worthy ease, then retrieves his phone to scroll through messages.

“He had three picture requests. A bust-shot, full body, and ass pictures. Told me I had ‘creative liberty’ with where the lip stains are,” Andrew explains as he reads the commission. 

“You have a good eye for that stuff,” Neil says. Talking feels weird and sticky, and he looks fairly ridiculous in the mirror. He smacks his lips together.

“Choose a record. This will take a while.”

In the most empty corner of the studio, there’s a record player and two milk crates filled with vinyls. Andrew hasn’t listened to most of them with Neil present, and usually just finds whatever rock or metal album he has. The vast majority of the records don’t seem to be those genres, though.

Crouching next to the crates, Neil flips through them as if he has any clue about music or bands. Even with the collective effort put in by the Foxes to give him good taste, he doesn’t care much either way.

He finds an album with an interesting looking cover and carefully sets it up. The first notes make him squint.

“Is this Irish gospel music?”

Andrew hums. “The singer is Irish. Listen to the lyrics for more than two seconds.”

“Not really your typical genre, huh?” Neil turns to find Andrew sitting spread-out on the studio couch. He walks over to kneel between his legs.

Andrew raises an eyebrow at his position, but shrugs. “With the other idiots, I play whatever tunes them out.”

“Fair enough,” Neil says. “I’m Irish on my dad’s side.”

“A short ginger with valuables hidden everywhere? Shocking.”

Neil smacks his shin. “Asshole. Where do you want me to start?”

“Start at the bottom and work your way up. We’ll mark my back after the other two shots,” he directs. Neil nods and tips forward, but Andrew snatches him by the hair and painfully cranks his neck backwards. “Remember I want nothing. Do not try.”

“I know.” Neil holds his gaze and snuffs out the arousal from Andrew’s hair-pulling.

Andrew stares for a few moments longer, golden eyes narrowed. He releases Neil and leans back, scrolling through his phone.

Neil lifts Andrew’s leg up and avoids touching where Andrew is most sensitive. Steering clear from the tops of his feet and the backs of his knees, Neil places the first kiss on the side of Andrew’s calf. The color is impressively close in shade to his briefs. Neil’s lips press into an average mark; the lipstick is so dense he can’t really feel Andrew’s leg hair against him.

He places three marks on each shin, then two on Andrew’s right knee and one perfectly centered on his left; all the while some Irish man sings about church in the background.

“Up,” Andrew says. Neil is grabbed by the chin, lipstick re-applied to his mouth as he tries not to scowl. “Go.”

Attempting to leave no pattern, Neil moves at random, more for the marks than actual kisses. He gets clinical the higher up on Andrew’s thighs he goes, hands firmly in his own lap. Andrew puts his phone to the side and observes Neil like he’s waiting for him to mess up, so Neil stares and tries to read his expression. Nothing.

“How far?” Neil asks.

“To the hem.”

Once he’s done, Neil backs up to make sure Andrew is fully covered, and he’s satisfied with the end results. “Looks good. Higher?”

Andrew gazes at him. He throws his left leg over Neil’s head to lounge sideways on the couch, scooting to make a pillow of the armrest.

“How do you want me?” Neil asks.

Andrew pats his thigh.

Neil discreetly pinches himself hard enough to hurt.

He climbs to straddle Andrew’s legs while keeping a large distance between their hips. He lets another coat be applied, then starts at the waistband.

Directly below Andrew’s belly button, nose bumping his piercing, he lays the first. The tops of Andrew’s hip bones, barely visible through his weight. A couple over the faint squares of his abs. Stray kisses along his ribs, where the distant bone fits perfectly between the purse of Neil’s lips; Neil accidentally stays there for longer than necessary, trying to process the emotion scorching his nape. His mouth is slightly open, and his tongue brushes Andrew’s rib.

Neil jerks away and hovers, shifting his hands so they don’t touch bare skin. He stares, frozen.

Andrew narrows his eyes, but looks more suspicious than pissed. “What?”

“Sorry,” Neil says. “Tell me where to go.”

“You suddenly don’t know how to smash your face into something?”

“I suddenly don’t trust myself to smash my face into you,” Neil clarifies.

The pure confusion on Andrew’s face makes Neil nauseous. He moves, slow, reaching for one of Andrew’s hands on the armrest. Neil wraps delicate fingers around his wrist and guides Andrew to his head; Andrew grabs like second nature, gently holding his bangs.

“Tell me where to go,” Neil stresses.

Andrew pulls him side to side, and Neil follows each pivot without question. Andrew squints in consideration. He combs until he’s gripping the hair at Neil’s crown, close to the scalp.

Pulling forward and down, he directs Neil’s mouth to the perfect center of his breastbone. Neil feels Andrew’s steady heartbeat under his lips as he leaves a mark.

Andrew hums.

He steers with detachment. The lines of his collarbones, his shoulders and the tops of his pecs. Andrew examines carefully as he places Neil over his right nipple; Neil holds eye contact while pressing a close-mouthed kiss over it, sure to retreat as soon as the stain sets in.

“Neck,” Andrew commands, dropping Neil’s hair.

“No.”

His freeze is immediate. Golden eyes blink several times, and Neil feels the heart against his chest pump faster.

Neil hurries to explain, “I don’t want free rein, here. Not your neck. Keep leading me.”

Above the collarbones is where Andrew is most sensitive; his hair and neck are general safe zones for Neil to toy with. Neil developed muscle memory for kissing exactly where Andrew likes the most. Keeping a distance and preventing any sort of possible pleasure from this is easier.

“You are a strange, strange creature,” Andrew says. Nonetheless, he bares his throat and pauses to think. “I point, you mark.”

Andrew closes his eyes as he directs, focused on visualizing from a third-person perspective. He has Neil kiss stereotypical places; beside his Adam's apple or the overhang of his jaw. Thankfully the lipstick builds a thick barrier between Neil and Andrew’s warmth, but he can’t block out the lemon smell of his hair products and his ocean-scented body wash. His skin is overwhelmingly soft when Neil’s nose or cheeks brush him. Neil doesn’t let himself breathe until he’s up and away.

For Andrew’s face, they take a break to wipe off then reapply Neil’s lipstick so the marks are more defined. They settle back down, Neil hovering over Andrew’s lap and desperately keeping their hips apart.

“Do what you think is best,” Andrew shrugs, relaxing into the cushions.

“Where am I allowed to go?”

“Anywhere. It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”

Neil takes a private deep breath and sets off to work.

He avoids smearing any existing marks by cupping Andrew’s neck with careful hands. It’s…strange, doing this so gently. They have before, obviously, but they don’t speak about it. They may kiss each other soft and slow, intimate and nerve wracking, but they don’t acknowledge it afterwards. Andrew will drag his lips in an adoring path up Neil’s spine, or Neil will kiss between Andrew’s eyebrows, but then they hop out of bed, get around people, and pretend neither of them are capable of such gestures.

Neil presses kisses at the peaks of Andrew’s cheekbones, the side of his nose, above the arch of his unpierced brow, his jaw, his sideburns, below his right eye, across his forehead; all places Andrew relaxes for. Allows him to touch.

And Neil burns. 

Because he’s hard but he isn’t really horny, and his skin is buzzing with electricity, and Andrew smells so good and he points to his mouth so Neil has to—

He fails to keep the kiss distant. They connect, and Neil’s shoulders slump without his permission. He sighs like a pathetic dog, letting his lips work into Andrew’s.

Just as he forces himself away, Andrew combs his fingers into Neil’s hair and pulls him back in.

His hum of appreciation is more of a groan as Andrew tugs him exactly where he wants Neil to be. Actually reciprocating leads to Andrew’s open, pressing lips and metal jewelry, red smears around both their mouths. Neil feels himself trembling, but he knows it’s more from emotions than physical exertion, because he can plank for far longer than this.

When Andrew lets him up for air, the first thing Neil says is, “I’m sorry.” Then, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Andrew asks, somehow expressing bewilderment with barely scrunched eyebrows. He looks a tad ridiculous with a giant lipstick smudge covering half his face, camouflaging the twin rings in his bottom lip.

“I’m hard,” Neil admits. He’s tense like he knows there’s a sniper trained on him, tense like he’s braced for a stab wound. “And I don’t want to be.”

Andrew narrows his eyes. He wedges a thick thigh up between Neil’s, grinding against the erection hidden by his jeans. Neil throws himself to the opposite end of the couch, knees to chest where Andrew can’t reach him. Heat shivers shamefully up his spine; it gets even hotter from the angle he’s viewing Andrew at, laid out and covered in Neil’s marks still looking so beautiful it’s pissing him off.

Neil groans in frustration and shoves his face in his hands.

The leather creaks as Andrew shifts, cushions dipping. Neil looks up from his shield to find Andrew cross-legged in front of him, slouched to be at eye level with Neil in fetal position.

“Do you want me to fix that for you?” Andrew sighs, and his expression looks tired. Unenthused.

“No. That's the opposite of what I want,” Neil groans again. “I don’t—I don’t want you anywhere near this. Christ, I feel like I’m fourteen. Can you punch me?”

“Why would I punch you? I’m not your mom,” Andrew says.

Neil blinks at him. 

It rips out of his throat before he can stop it—straight cackles, sharp and painful. He chokes on his own laugh and gets stuck in a coughing fit. Andrew helpfully slaps him on the back until it stops.

“Oh wow,” Neil wheezes. “That’s fucked.”

“Are you going to look at me and tell me I’m wrong?”

“No,” Neil huffs one last chuckle, lightheaded. He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“Can you breathe?” Andrew asks.

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to jack off in my bathroom?”

“No,” Neil says, “I much prefer the kitchen for masturbation.”

“Fair enough. I can see the appeal of the ambiance,” Andrew shrugs. “Go take care of that. I’ll set up the camera.”

Neil frowns. “Take care of it? I’m ignoring this until it goes away.”

“I tried that with Kevin; it doesn’t work.”

Neil shakes with held-in cackles, feeling slightly hysterical having laughed more than once in less than two minutes.

“Let’s keep going with the shoot. Full body or bust first?” He asks, rising off the couch. His erection drags uncomfortably against his boxers, friction with his jeans. Neil winces and walks it off, approaching the camera and tripod.

Andrew stares at him. Neil stares back.

“We have established I’m not getting you off,” Andrew says, “my confusion arises from you refusing to get yourself off.”

“I wasn’t planning for this to happen. Why waste time dealing with it when we can just keep going and get work done?”

“People don’t plan erections, Josten. Except me when I’m clocked in.” Andrew leans against the back of the couch, ankles crossed as he stretches his legs out in front of him.

Neil digs his hands in his pockets. “We all know you have an immaculate schedule. You said you weren’t in the mood, and this happened anyway, so it’s—I don’t…” want it?

That’s a new thought. Strange. 

He did disobey an order that doesn’t have any loopholes or pieces to exploit.

It’s just…this hasn’t happened before. Neil has never been turned on after Andrew expressed disinterest. Neil is weak today. And he feels disgusted at the idea of getting off with Andrew in the next room over.

“Neil,” Andrew calls, pulling Neil out of his head, “yes or no?”

Neil doesn’t even have to consider it: “No.”

Andrew hums, looking surprised, but nods.

“We’ll start with the full body,” he decides, standing up. “Twiddle your thumbs while I make myself pretty for the camera.”

He’s already pretty enough that Neil feels like punching someone, but he doesn’t mention it.

———

It feels okay, after that.

Even as Andrew has to spread his legs and look seductively bored at the lens. Even as Andrew palms himself through his briefs and sneaks glances at Neil until he’s half-hard for the photo’s sake. Even as Neil lays kisses over his lower spine and the backs of his thighs for ass shots. Even as Andrew drips precum into his briefs when it’s all over.

Neil said no downright, so he doesn’t have to worry about Andrew feeling responsible for taking care of his pleasure.

Andrew didn’t used to care. It’s more noticeable as time goes on, that he feels some sort of obligation because of what he and Neil are. He’s more pliant, now, whether he knows it or not. Andrew was fully ready to stab Neil in the lungs if he touched without permission when they started this—now he’s offering to get Neil off despite previously making his disinterest known.

It’s weird.

Honestly, Neil would rather Andrew make ribbons of his insides than touch him when he doesn’t want to.

Once the photos are transferred to Andrew’s computer, he plops down on the swiveling desk chair that’s so cushioned it freaks Neil out. He sets things up, sliding between monitors and tabs and programs Neil doesn’t understand with ease. Neil lays on the couch and pretends he doesn’t find the competence attractive.

“Neil,” Andrew calls once he pulls up the last picture he needs to edit. He twists to face Neil and pats his thigh. “Come look at this.”

Neil pauses before approaching. The pat is typical when he gives permission for Neil to sit on his lap, but his dismissive glance and relaxed posture allows Neil the option to stand without them mentioning it.

Neil sits on his lap.

Their legs slot together as Neil plants himself on Andrew’s left thigh, spine straight. It doesn’t matter anyway because Andrew snakes around his waist and pulls him close with a hand on Neil’s stomach, chin hooked over his shoulder. Nice and warm, Neil lolls back against him, held up by Andrew’s broad shoulder.

One monitor displays the commissioner’s request and payment receipt, the other has photo editing software.

“The saturation looks off,” Andrew says near Neil’s cheek. The metal of his numerous ear piercings are cold against Neil’s jaw, hair brushing his neck.

“You’re upping the saturation instead of the lighting, so you look more yellow than your typical gold tone,” Neil points. “Keep the saturation normal, maybe a little higher for the red, but focus on the light source and warmth there.”

Humming in acknowledgment, Andrew messes with a few settings until the photo of him lounging out on the couch looks sunny.

“Deepen the shadows,” Neil instructs.

The end result is Andrew looking like a pinup oil painting. Black and tan and bloody red, he’s angelic the same way Lucifer is. Half-lidded eyes, smeared lipstick, blond hair like a halo as it frames his face. Leaned against the couch, biceps over the back and legs spread open.

Neil rubs his cheek against Andrew, deep satisfaction settled in his gut from the privilege of having him this close.

“You should sell posters,” he says. “Imagine the money you’d make.”

“I’m assuming you’d be my first customer.”

“Top customer. I would stick them on my ceiling to look at while I fall asleep,” he deadpans, half serious. Maybe sixty-forty.

“Freak,” Andrew insults affectionately. Eighty-twenty.

“So why did this dude want lipstick stains? Valentine’s Day was months ago, and it seems pretty atypical.”

“Fetish,” he shrugs. “They pay the best. That’s a nugget of wisdom you should hold onto. I found an idiot with an Exy fetish and he bought me a car.”

Neil throws his hand back to slap Andrew’s shoulder, huffing in amusement. Andrew puts his lips against Neil’s neck to smear leftover red across it, rings dragging coldly.

“Ugh, I hate the way that feels. Tacky,” Neil grumbles. Andrew scoffs at him, but grabs a makeup remover wipe from the desk and cleans it off. “No idea how you do it. You’re a stronger man than I.”

“I know.”

Neil melts backwards and shoves his way into Andrew’s neck, the bridge of his nose fitting perfectly against it. He closes his eyes, and goosebumps erupt over Andrew’s body when Neil’s lashes brush his skin. Andrew idly drags his knuckles up and down Neil’s lower stomach.

Turning closer into him, Neil’s legs shift so both are between Andrew’s; his thigh accidentally presses the warm line of Andrew’s erection. Andrew exhales infinitesimally harder.

“Sorry,” Neil murmurs.

“Whatever. I’ll go jack off in the kitchen later,” he shrugs in response, “where you won’t be subjected to watching.”

Neil scoffs. “Subjected? It’s more of a punishment if you don’t let me watch. If you’re okay with my voyeurism, that is.”

The rumbling of Andrew’s throat bounces around in Neil’s water-filled skull. “Interesting. Get back to me if your no ever sways to yes.”

He nudges his nose in the alcove behind Andrew’s ear and knocks his head into him. “If we’re talking about you, I’m a yes.”

Andrew pauses. “Is that so?”

“I could say the same for you, by the way. Tell me if your no becomes a yes and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“…What?”

“Yes or no?”

Cupid’s bow on Andrew’s pulse, Neil feels his heart pick up speed, shoulders tense. There are still kiss stains all over him, so Neil lines himself up with one on his throat, an inch of distance between lips and skin while he awaits response.

“What do you want?” Andrew asks instead. His knuckles stop petting Neil’s stomach as he flattens his hand. Pinky under Neil’s waistband, thumb above his belly button, Neil hums at the possessive nature of it.

“If you say no, then I want to go get lunch,” he says, “and if you say yes, I want to get you off without reciprocation.”

Neil only feels unease at the thought of his own sexual pleasure, right now. A pang of disgust settled in his chest the moment he felt himself get hard, and even if Andrew has changed his mind, that pit won’t go away. He’s fine with anything Andrew wants—more than fine, really—and Neil always feels comfortable giving it to him. As soon as he’s granted any new permissions, it hits like euphoria.

Andrew hadn’t let Neil reciprocate for at least a month or two, in the beginning. He took care of Neil then waited until Neil was gone to do anything to himself.

Neil kinda wants that same privilege.

Looking for justification, Andrew asks, “Why?”

Neil tells the truth. “I don’t want to cum. It feels wrong right now. But if you change your mind, if you let me, I want to take care of you.”

The room quiets aside from the whirring of the computer fans.

“It wouldn’t be changing my mind,” Andrew says slowly. “I wasn’t concerned about whether or not you touched me.”

Neil waits for a while, and when Andrew doesn’t elaborate, he noses at him. “But?”

He feels Andrew tense harder. Steel himself. Prepare. “But it burned when I thought of touching you back.”

A moment passes.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Neil shrugs. “Yes or no?”

“…Yes,” Andrew mumbles. Then, more sure, “Yes.”

Neil nudges his lips against a kiss mark he left a while ago. Without lipstick caked on, he can feel Andrew’s heart and warmth easily, intimately. Shifting their bodies, Neil hauls himself up to straddle Andrew’s lap; knees on either side of his hips, Neil presses tight against him, offering himself to grind on.

Hard between Neil’s legs, Andrew hums and holds his waist.

“It feels as though the tables have turned,” Andrew says. “And I’m getting Thanksgiving déjà vu.”

“Sorry, should I have threatened to kill you first?” Neil says between kisses and light nips to the neck. 

Andrew shivers. “No. But I could pass you a bowl of gravy with a disturbingly intense stare.”

“I thought you liked my disturbing stare?”

“‘Like’ is not the proper word for how I feel about it.”

“I’m taking that as a positive.”

Neil sucks the skin behind Andrew’s ear and rolls their hips together. Through denim, Neil can’t feel much of Andrew’s cock, but it provides more friction for Andrew so it doesn’t matter.

The desk chair creaks in warning.

“We’re gonna tip over,” Neil warns.

“Couch?” Andrew proposes. Neil nods, but he continues, “Which one?”

Neil pulls back so Andrew sees his eyebrows raise. There are only two couches in the house: the studio and the living room.

“Seriously?”

“What? You don’t want to make out on the couch while our definitely alive parents are out of town? Watch a horror movie that is definitely more scary than the terrors we’ve bore witness to? Make popcorn?”

Neil kisses Andrew to shut him up, because he fucking adores him so much it aches.

“The Silence of the Lambs or Scream?” Neil asks against his lips.

———

Clarice Starling is jogging through the woods when Neil plants himself in Andrew’s lap and sucks his tongue down his throat.

They took the fastest break ever so Andrew could scrub the makeup off his face and torso and change his tongue jewelry back to normal; also so Neil could vibrate on the living room couch with anticipation. 

He removed his jeans and replaced them with sweats. Those are easier to feel through.

Neil is already gasping into him, desperate, cupping his cheeks like he’ll fall off the Earth if he doesn’t. Andrew has to grab Neil by the hair on his nape and yank him away just to get a breath. They don’t mention how Andrew pulls him back but tips forward to follow his lips anyway.

“Where can I touch?” He interrogates, ebbing and flowing, further and closer to Neil.

For the first time, Neil actually has to think about his answer.

“Not my dick.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. You can touch and grab anything, aside from that. Whatever you like. Whatever you want.”

Andrew doesn’t attempt to argue since Neil already gave a set rule. He lets go of Neil’s hair and digs both arms completely up his shirt, armbands rubbing his back as Andrew strokes between Neil’s shoulder blades. 

Neil doesn’t get any direct sexual gratification from it, but the sensation is nice; he feels like a cat being pet. And the knowledge that Andrew is grasping at him not because Neil derives pleasure from it, but because Andrew wants to—that’s where his rush is coming from.

Wrapping arms around his neck, Neil tips them horizontal until he straddles Andrew, laid out and starting to flush.

Thick calluses drag across his spine, warm enough to melt. He goes boneless aside from his hands in Andrew’s hair and his hips jerking them together. Typically when they grind like this, it’s the hard heat of their erections sliding against each other; Neil doesn’t want that stimulation, so he lines Andrew’s bulge up with the curve of his ass and rolls into him.

Something about their position makes Neil blush. Fabric under them and not leather, the open space from the front door to the stairs, their shoes kicked off by the closet and the echoing sound of their kisses across the house.

It feels public. Open. Fucking domestic, Neil dares to think. The only “domestic” thing Neil has ever known is terrorism and abuse.

Now he’s hooking up with a guy on a living room couch with a sentimental horror movie in the background.

Past Neil would have an aneurysm. Current Neil is having an aneurysm.

Andrew grabs the nape of Neil’s neck, hand popping out from under the collar of his shirt. Other hand massaging down his back, Andrew slides between his sweats and boxers to grope his ass.

Neil moans low and heavy into Andrew’s mouth. He’s giddy about their environment, deeply satisfied by Andrew’s attention.

With permission to ignore Neil’s pleasure completely, Andrew is rougher and unrefined. He’s moving more desperately, jerking and twitching at random, rolling into Neil’s ass however feels best. Neil is (not so) slightly obsessed with it.

He fucks up Andrew’s styled hair by combing through it, leaving it fluffed and wavy. Andrew’s eyebrow piercing stabs against Neil’s forehead.

“You look so good,” Neil mumbles. “Hate me all you want, but we both know it’s true.”

He feels Andrew’s cock throb against his ass, and his pale face pinkens. “Shut up.”

Neil does, partially. He stops speaking in favor of moaning; it’s easy to slide his voice into breathy rumbling until it emerges low-pitched and desperate—just how Andrew likes it. Creating a serpentine path atop Andrew’s sharpest points, Neil kisses up his nose to his brow, loops down to trace his eye sockets, over his cheekbones and on the corner of his jaw. His skin is dewy and clean from washing it, warmed by blush.

Neil can’t stop himself from thrusting erratically. He laps his tongue over Andrew’s neck and rolls his hips down harder, annoyed he isn’t prepped for Andrew to fuck him.

“Want me to blow you?” He offers, closer to pleads.

“No,” Andrew grunts, holding him tighter. He maneuvers Neil into their grinds with large hands and encompassing power. “Like this.”

Andrew hisses through his perfect, crooked teeth, and Neil needs Andrew’s bite to be permanently indented in his skin. Pushing and pulling, Andrew has the curve of Neil’s ass cupping his erection, using him to jerk off.

“Do you—know why I don’t get jealous?” Neil asks, avoiding a hitched breath. “Of you being a porn star; of other people seeing you?”

“Because you know what’s good for you?” He tauntingly answers, eyes screwed shut.

There isn’t any justifiable reason Neil decides to spill his guts in the middle of this, except how vulnerable the environment feels. “No. It’s because other people may get to see you, but I’m the one who gets to keep your bed warm.”

Andrew’s eyes shoot open only to roll back, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a molar or two.

“I don’t care if other people get to see you in lingerie because I get to buy lingerie and wear it for you,” Neil continues, clutching the couch cushion on either side of Andrew’s neck. “They can jerk off to you, but they’ll never know what you feel like. Smell like. Taste like.”

“Neil,” Andrew hisses, squeezed out his chest.

“Why would I worry about the impossibility of them having you?” With short, quick thrusts, Neil ruts into Andrew because he can’t stop. There’s a desperate giddiness in every movement, tensing and easing so Andrew gets the stimulation he deserves. “No one else has a fucking chance. And yeah, that’s me being cocky, but how could I not be when it comes to this? I still have no clue how I’m worthy of half the shit you let me get away with. As far as I’m concerned, no one is good enough to have you, including me.”

Andrew’s face is the reddest Neil has ever seen it in the daytime. “I need you to shut the fuck up before I hurt you,” he threatens. Neil moves his hips in a circle and mouths along Andrew’s neck.

“Whatever you want, Adonis.”

Next thing Neil knows, he’s being thrown; his back hits the couch cushions, legs completely entangled with Andrew’s as Andrew straddles his thigh.

“Do you care about this shirt?” He interrogates, clutching Neil by the collar.

It’s a completely plain black tee, so Neil shakes his head.

Andrew tears it down the middle.

“Whatever I fucking want,” he mocks, then attaches his mouth to Neil’s nipple.

Neil yelps like—well, like a fox. Andrew isn’t gentle here in the slightest; his suction is close to painful, teeth sinking into the bud. It makes a lightning strike out of Neil’s spine as he stiffens. Even though Neil likes pain, it’s clear Andrew is doing this for his own personal gratification, hands clawing at Neil’s shoulder blades to pull him closer, rutting into Neil’s thigh. Without looking up, he tears the rest of the fabric away and whips it somewhere across the room.

The hard pressure of Andrew’s fingertips and nails and teeth rub against Neil’s more sensitive scarring occasionally, and he jolts. Atoms connected by webs of thread, a single brush triggers his nerves and has him twitching.

Andrew bites and kisses his way around Neil’s torso, open-mouthed and sloppy with no real pattern, tongue stud dragging. He gropes whatever he can reach.

Messy. Hungry. Juvenile. 

Neil goes limp and takes it.

He holds his own hair tight to ground himself, and in doing so he lifts his arms away from his body, vulnerable. Skin going taut over his ribs, Andrew scrapes his teeth down the ladder of bone and sucks at the ridge of one, just as Neil had.

Should Neil be concerned that Andrew is showing lots of interest in taking a chunk out of him and swallowing him down while they watch The Silence of the Lambs? Probably. Is Neil concerned? Not at all.

Andrew chews at the fat of Neil’s stomach until there’s a guaranteed bruise the size of an Exy ball. 

He doesn’t go lower except to nip at Neil’s hip bones, and Andrew is trembling. His shaking is visible and intense. The muscles of his back ripple and move like waves under his flesh. Neil gasps, vision blurring as Andrew peers up at him.

Hair halfway in his face, Neil can still see the sharp, Jupiter-brown of his irises, eyelids narrowed. 

“Andrew,” Neil groans. “Mein Löwe."

In response, Andrew’s eyes widen. He furiously tosses himself upwards and straight into Neil’s lips. Their teeth clash but Neil opens his mouth and lets Andrew drink from him. His thick legs straddle Neil’s torso, cock rubbing against briefs rubbing against stomach.

Somehow he manages to pry Neil’s hands from his scalp and laces their fingers together. He pins Neil’s hands above his head on the armrest, gripping hard enough to crack a few joints in Neil’s knuckles. Their armbands drag together. Rutting his erection into Neil, he’s warm and hard and dripping and alive. 

“I distinctly remember telling you to shut the fuck up, Häschen,” Andrew hisses.

Raw emotion slaps Neil square in the face, takes a sledgehammer directly through his breastbone. His chest gets tight, unable to breathe.

He wants Andrew to tear him apart. Bite flesh from his thighs. Scar and mark. Either devour everything Neil is—ever will be—or keep him collared forever and feed off Neil whenever he’s replenished. Andrew wouldn’t even have to hold the leash; Neil would await his beck and call.

He wants to buy Andrew’s gas for the rest of his life—which is now guaranteed to be longer than a couple months. Only ever smell like Andrew’s lotion. Buy him whatever book or record he wants, listen to him insult the characters and their idiotic choices for hours. Trail dutifully next to him at Eden’s Twilight, watching Andrew’s back while Andrew watches everyone else’s. Witness Andrew ignore Nicky’s calls but text Betsy Dobson when he sees a particularly odd looking dog. Watch Andrew silently dole out money from his pornography to the Monsters, flippantly giving twenties when they ask for fives. Have Andrew raise amused eyebrows at macabre media jokes. Keep his bed warm—cock warm—until Andrew kicks him out.

This desire tears out of Neil’s chest with razors for claws.

Neil didn’t comprehend that humans were capable of feeling this much positive emotion. This ache is what myths are made of; the tragedies legends are born from. He feels ill, like someone put him in a cup and shook it. He wants, so much it hurts.

“Neil,” Andrew calls. Vision snapping into sharp focus, Neil remembers to inhale. “Come back.”

Squeezing Andrew’s hands in his own, Neil stares.

This is his. Neil used to be prepared to die any second, between his father’s hunt and Riko’s ire. Now he can’t stand the thought. Not with everything he’s built; family, home, warmth, this. 

There’s distinct concern in the furrow of Andrew’s brows; he’s utterly still, curled over Neil’s lap and gazing down with his head tilted. 

“You’re amazing,” is all Neil can think to say.

To deflect from his burning cheeks, Andrew scowls. “Are you high?”

“Not at all,” he replies. “Just thought you should know.”

Andrew releases one of Neil’s hands to cup his face, coarse palm like a river stone over his cheek. A four letter word bounces around in Neil’s skull, and he has some idea of what it is, but Andrew encompasses so much he can’t be sure.

“Do you want to keep going?” Andrew asks.

“Yes.”

“What do you need?”

“You,” Neil says. “I need you. I know you think I’m bullshitting when I give you full access, but I want to. No matter what you do to me, if you like it, then I like it.”

Rolling his eyes indignantly, Andrew fakes exasperation as his head drops like a bag of bricks into Neil’s chest. His hand slips from Neil’s cheek to his neck, giving him a tight squeeze. Neil buzzes happily.

“You told me you didn’t want reciprocation,” Andrew muses, “but if I gave it to you anyway, what then?”

“You wouldn’t. If you like it, then I like it; but you wouldn’t enjoy touching me after I say no.”

Andrew sighs, long and loud, probably uncomfortable about being read so easily. Neil plays with his hair as Andrew recovers, combing away any knots from product.

“Mein Löwe,” Neil says again. Andrew exhales hard over his sternum, then kisses it.

“Has anyone ever told you how insufferable you are?”

“Yes. You. Every time I blow you.”

“Drats. You got me there,” he deadpans. 

“Careful. You saying ‘drats’ is a real turn-on.” 

Andrew closes his mouth over Neil’s untouched nipple and bites. Neil jolts like an electrocuted fish and accidentally pulls Andrew’s hair too hard, but he doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

Eventually Andrew sits up straight; thighs straddling Neil’s waist, posture proud and eyes gleaming. He braces his hands on Neil’s chest. Kiss marks still riddle his legs because he couldn’t bother to finish removing them, and his briefs are the same color as the lipstick aside from the gradually growing wet spot at the tip of his cock. With living room curtains closed, the light of the TV is what reflects off of Andrew’s jewelry, including the matte black bar in his navel. 

Neil blinks and is bombarded with fantasies of Andrew riding him. His breath hitches.

Andrew catches it instantly and narrows his eyes. “What was that for?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Neil sighs. “I’m just thinking about things.”

“Things could mean anything. I don’t trust you thinking about things,” Andrew says. “The last time you had an idea, Riko attempted to murder you on live TV.”

Neil braces himself. “I was wondering if you would ever consider bottoming.”

“I fuck myself as a career.”

“For me,” he confesses. “I was curious if you’d ever think of it as a possibility. Allowing me to fuck you.”

Andrew looks down at him, chin still high so Neil really feels small. His cheeks remain a beautiful blushing pink, but it doesn’t make his eyes any less terrifying. Andrew examines Neil carefully, trying to parse if he worded it that way to be manipulative, or if that’s really how he views it. The answer is both.

“Maybe, Häschen,” he murmurs.

Neil’s body sets ablaze.

“How can I make you cum?” He asks, mouth watering.

Andrew rolls his hips down into Neil’s stomach and huffs out a breath. The softness of his briefs rubs nicely against Neil’s skin—and he realizes belatedly that it’s the same fabric of Neil’s lingerie—and nothing catches uncomfortably on his scars.

Four letters. Several possibilities.

“Don’t take my underwear off,” Andrew states. “Touch me.”

Neil is going to have a fucking conniption.

“What am I allowed?”

“Whatever you know will get me off.”

Neil knows a lot about how to get Andrew off. He’s been taking precise mental notes since last December. He has a chart. 

Shivering, Neil nods. Andrew rolls into him one more time—and it's permission to proceed. With a hard buck of the hips, Neil tosses Andrew forward until he lands on top of him, eye-level with Andrew’s pecs. Clearly not expecting it, Andrew grunts in surprise as he catches himself on the armrest just above Neil’s head.

He holds Andrew by the ribs and pulls a nipple into his mouth.

Andrew’s exhale spurts out in sections—his voice rises up out of his throat with it, high-pitched and barely fucking audible but it’s a titanium casing over Neil’s brain.

It’s the closest Andrew has ever gotten to a scream of pleasure, and it’s a whisper against the top of Neil’s head.

Neil sucks sensitive tissue harder, pressing the bud tightly between his lips. The hips on his lap thrust at random with whatever movement feels best to Andrew at the time. Blood pumps hot and throbbing, cock so hard Neil can feel it burn past the fabric barriers.

Because Andrew loves this, Neil discovered. When they mapped each other’s bodies, they found that his mouth on Andrew’s chest feels so good Andrew doesn’t let him do it so as not to lose composure. But composure can go fuck itself right now.

Gathering spit in the curve of his tongue, Neil drags over Andrew’s nipple to make him gasp. With his left hand, he palms at the other pec, calluses scraping and kneading over flesh. Excess fat spills through his fingers like a bag of water. Neil wonders if he could push Andrew’s pecs together—and if that crease could be used for anything.

He trades off which nipple he sucks on and which he gropes. Suction drags the skin between Neil’s teeth, and he lets the scrapes sting for stimulation.

“Andrew,” Neil only stops for long enough to groan, “you feel so good.”

“Fuck,” Andrew grunts. He shifts his weight to one braced arm and threads his fingers through the back of Neil’s hair. He pulls Neil closer to his chest. “Freud would have a field day with you.”

Neil just moans around his nipple. Maybe Andrew shouldn’t pierce them, because Neil would go catatonic if he isn’t allowed to put his mouth on them anymore.

Neil moves and flexes his stomach against Andrew’s erection, picturing what it would be like if he was inside Andrew while doing it. He reaches his free hand between them to palm the length of Andrew’s cock. Following the line of his hip, Andrew just barely stays inside his underwear, dripping precum below the waistband.

The groan Andrew draws out is addictive. And it hits right in Neil’s ear.

“Ich fühle mich geborgen bei dir,” Neil says.

The fingers in his hair clutch tighter, and he can feel Andrew’s swallow against his cheek. 

“Don’t,” he threatens, but his breathing gets faster, and his hips thrust a little harder. Neil strokes his cock through his briefs. 

“Is that a ‘don’t’ as in ‘I’ll shank you’ or a ‘don’t’ as in ‘I like it’?” 

“I hate you,” Andrew moans.

“Got it,” Neil replies with a small smile. He sucks a hickey directly over Andrew’s heart. “Ich vertraue dir.” 

With the next stroke, Andrew slams his fist into the armrest and grumbles out something rude. He shoves his face into Neil’s hair, panting above his left ear, and nuzzles closer. Kissing wherever he can reach, Neil gets sloppier so he can focus on jerking Andrew off and groping at his pecs; he’s basically just drooling over Andrew’s chest, non-metaphorically for once.

Fever-warm heat radiates off the cock in Neil’s hand to make a strangely pleasant sensation. Neil tenses his fingers for something firmer to rut against, rolling the heel of his palm up when the tip hits it.

“Fucking—close,” Andrew hisses, hips working harder.

“I want you to cum on me,” Neil says. “Anywhere you like.”

“You’re disgusting,” he replies, which means ‘okay.’

“Can I see your face when you do?”

“Why?”

“Because I really like looking at you.”

“Fuck,” Andrew groans.

He sits up straight on Neil’s lap, retracting his hand from his hair and Neil’s palm from his pec. He’s tilted forward like his forehead weighs two tons, eyes screwed shut, jaw hanging loosely as he gasps. Spit shines on his chest.

Now with free hands, Andrew shoves the band of his briefs under his cock, moving quick enough to snatch Neil’s hand in his and wrap them both around the throbbing length. Finally seeing him hard today has Neil breathing faster; the tip is dark red with blood, every vein bulging out so far Neil can feel them. Andrew furiously guides Neil’s hand up and down, choosing when to rotate and tighten, when to rub the head.

Andrew’s other hand disappears behind his back. For a split second, Neil is afraid he may try to get Neil off, too—but that doesn’t happen. 

“Neil—“ 

“C’mon, mein Löwe, I want it, give it to me—“

Andrew cums with an aborted moan, open-mouthed with golden eyes rolled back into his skull. Ash blond bangs fall in his face, angelic waves curling around his cheekbones and ears. He paints Neil white from chest to navel. Cum drips down his cock and over their fists, which Andrew hasn’t stopped stroking. 

Neil ends up heaving just as dramatically despite his lack of orgasm—a familiar headrush he associates solely with Andrew hits hard enough to make him dizzy.

“Andrew,” he whispers just to say it. “Andrew.”

When his chest finally rises and falls normally again, Andrew slumps. 

Near Andrew’s ass, knuckles brush Neil’s waistband, right below—

“Do not look at me like that,” Andrew warns. 

Neil doesn’t know if he means the confusion, the arousal, or the adoration. He isn’t really sure how to feel. 

What do other people do when they catch their beau massaging his hole with his fingers after it has been violently established that he doesn’t do that?

Andrew looks a second away from fleeing, eyes like a caged animal.

Neil blinks.

Andrew throws the hand that was around his cock back at him and retreats off the couch while stuffing himself back into his briefs, knees wobbling. He’s halfway across the living room when Neil finally finds his voice.

“Wait,” he calls, pushing himself into sitting up. “Can…can you stay with me?”

It hits like a gunshot, and Andrew freezes completely with his back to Neil.

His scowl is audible from several feet away. “Why?”

Neil knows that the truth will be better than any lie he can come up with—and they’ll both get what they want out of it, no matter how much Andrew denies it.

“I feel unsteady,” Neil says. He keeps his voice low and intimate. “And you make that feeling go away. I want to be close to you, right now. Can I?”

Andrew murmurs something that sounds exactly like ‘dammit’ and turns back around. He looks wary, suspicious. 

But he grabs the remains of Neil’s torn shirt to wipe himself down. Then he inches back to the couch and angrily sits between Neil’s legs.

“Thank you.”

“Stop talking.”

Neil sets his right foot on the floor to give Andrew more sitting room. Andrew folds up the scrap fabric and wipes Neil’s body down—but not before Neil scoops a glob of cum up to press into his mouth. The musk and salt hits his tongue and instantly Neil sighs, melting into the cushions.

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “I don’t understand you. It doesn’t taste good. No one is making you eat it.”

“I want to. It’s you.”

“You mock me for my possessive streak, yet your obsessive streak is far more disturbing,” Andrew frowns and looks away, but Neil can see his blush in the TV’s glow.

“How long are we going to act like we both don’t enjoy them?”

They wrote their initials on each other without knowing or talking about it. Andrew left a bite so aggressive under Neil’s ear that it didn’t heal for several weeks; he had to hide it with gauze everywhere he went so the press and/or PSU students didn’t question anything. Andrew has a photo album filled with nude pictures of Neil specifically, in the dirtiest positions they could think of—because Neil kept bringing him the camera while covered in cum. Sometimes Andrew gives him a leather choker to wear at Eden’s, and Neil doesn’t voice that he wants to upgrade to a collar. 

Pets are owned and loved. Objects have a place.

Neil feels like a bottle of whiskey addicted to its consumer.

“However long it takes for you to stop making a goddamn mess with my cum,” Andrew snarks.

“If I do that, will you stop tearing all my clothes? I’ve lost three pairs of boxers and a shirt.”

He scoffs. “Good. Your clothes are hideous.”

Neil rests his head on Andrew’s shoulder and folds his knees into Andrew’s lap, curling completely into his side. Andrew tenses for a moment before relaxing, cheek pressed to Neil’s hair.

“You can dress me up if you want. As long as it’s comfortable, I don’t care what I wear,” he shrugs. 

Andrew points to the TV, where a human skin mask is being shown off. “New wardrobe idea right there.”

“…Would it be sad if I said that reminds me of my father?”

“Yes, Neil. That would be sad.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

He takes a deep breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and allows himself to fully melt into Andrew’s side. He’s achingly hard and has no desire to fix it with an orgasm. Andrew smells like sweat and makeup remover wipes and lemon hair mousse; his skin is smooth the way only skin can be, like marble powder or the meat of a peach.

The unease Neil picked up along with his erection is gone, now. Gone because Andrew got to finish without worrying about Neil, and because Andrew is still close enough to taste the heartbeat of.

“Thank you,” he says again.

“For what?”

“For staying. For not touching me when I told you not to.”

“Don’t you ever fucking thank me for that,” Andrew bites out fiercely. “That isn’t worthy of a thank you, that’s common fucking sense. Don’t make it sound virtuous.”

“Okay,” Neil nods. He pauses for a long, long time, then sighs and asks what he really wants to: “Should we talk about it?”

Andrew stiffens.

Neil continues, “I can’t exactly judge you for anything. I knew exactly what your job was when we started this, and I was the one who asked you to fuck me in the first place.”

“You know this is different,” he murmurs—and the fact that he voiced it sends chills down Neil’s spine. 

Andrew talks about his past with miles of distance between what happened and his feelings regarding it. He can recount details with terrifying clarity, but tells Neil with detachment fit for a police report. There was always an implied threat that Neil shouldn’t bring it up outright. Acknowledging what happened—acknowledging Andrew has lasting fear instead of anger about it—is rare enough to spark terror in Neil. It activates his lightning-flash empathy; an emotion so removed from who Neil Josten is as a person that the very presence feels like an ailment.

“I don’t want anything if you don’t,” Neil says. “Sex is only interesting to me because you’re the center of it. You not enjoying it makes the entire thing pointless.”

Andrew’s huff reminds Neil of his own laughter.

“Junkie.”

“Teasing me for telling the truth doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Shut up.”

“Tie me down.”

Andrew goes quiet. Neil feels his pulse quicken.

“…What?”

“If you ever decide you want to bottom, then tie me down. Hands and feet on the bedposts. Don’t let me move. Take me however you want to,” Neil explains.

Being tied up and handcuffed has always been a bit terrifying for Neil. Thrown in trunks and locked to radiators, Riko cuffing him to Kevin’s old bed in the Nest.

But Andrew’s room is safe. Andrew’s bed is safe. If they aren’t passed out on the studio couch, they sleep up there, curled into each other under bear-printed bedding. It’s where they mapped each other’s bodies, and technically where they lost some version of their virginities. Even if he did panic, it would be okay because Andrew wouldn’t let anything bad happen.

“Yeah, because tying you down to have sex feels so ethical,” Andrew says sarcastically, but it falls a little flat.

“I’m asking you to,” Neil argues. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure. I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t feel safe.”

“I beg to differ—“

“Let’s call it a trade of power. Maybe I wouldn’t like it if you were topping, because that’s a lot of control at once, but I’m content being restrained if I’m technically the one providing. Like when you fucked my mouth.”

“Stop talking,” he spits. Neil doesn’t fully understand why until Andrew snatches a throw pillow and shoves it into his lap. 

“Want me to blow you?”

“You are insatiable,” Andrew says incredulously. “No. Take a break.”

Neil frowns and stares at the TV. He stops frowning when Andrew tosses an arm around his shoulders and digs fingers into his hair. With a groan, Neil nuzzles his cheek into Andrew.

Someone on screen screams in terror. Neil huffs a laugh. “We don’t have any popcorn. Can’t reach into the bowl at the same time to hold hands. Disappointing.”

“I was too busy planning on how to ask you to homecoming. Planning what color corsage to buy.”

“Oh, can I wear your letterman’s jacket? Going to show it off when I get voted homecoming queen.”

“Not if you’ll get pig’s blood all over it,” Andrew says. They pause, then he scoffs, “What kind of movies does Matt expose you to?”

“I have no idea how to answer that question with any modicum of seriousness,” Neil says with amusement in his tone.

“Fair enough. Do you actually want popcorn?”

“Honestly? Yeah. Kinda.”

Andrew rises. They both ignore that he’s half-hard. Disappearing behind the couch, he tousles Neil’s hair before padding into the kitchen.