Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Neil reluctantly navigated Smash—a streaming site cluttered with explicit content, unsavory gambling streams, and ragebait gaming. 

To Neil’s infinite dismay, Smash was also the go-to platform for Exy streamers—only because it was the only streaming platform operating overseas in blatant disregard of U.S. copyright laws, allowing full match broadcasts without restrictions. 

Neil didn’t have cable and never planned to, which meant that, occasionally, he had to wade through the quagmire of content he really didn’t want to see just to find what he was looking for: today, it was the Boston Bears vs. Houston Sirens match, paired with some amateur Exy commentary that might—or might not—be tolerable depending on where in the category he landed.

At the very top, with the most views, was Alli Rey—a popular Exy influencer Neil recognized from clips circulating on social media. He generally found her streams watchable. She had good game knowledge from her college days, was naturally confident on camera, and occasionally offered insightful takes.

Her stream chat, however, was a minefield of misogyny that Alli made a point of addressing head-on, often resulting in prolonged derailments or what the streamer space lovingly dubbed “stun locks.”

Neil empathized—he really did. He couldn’t imagine how exhausting it must be to constantly fend off accusations that her popularity hinged solely on her looks. But he was also in possession of an unforgiving attention span, which meant he clicked out of her streams more often than not when the stun locks dragged on too long.

Today, the streamer with the second most views was Seth the G.

Neil clicked in—only to spiral into confusion. Why was Seth streaming with Alli’s feed open in split-screen? Why was he obsessively analyzing her every talking point?

The chat, ever helpful, responded with an explosive rush of spam that instantly triggered a ban—but not before Neil caught the message:

bro get over your ex already ur pathetic

Neil closed out of that bullshit and clicked on the third streamer from the top: Andrew M.yard, the title pure clickbait in its truest form:

Bears vs Sirens: get your Exy fix here, you depraved freaks

The streamer’s name sounded vaguely familiar, though Neil wasn’t sure he’d seen him before—or whether the guy was even prominent in the Exy streaming space.

The stream revealed a man with blond hair, eyebrow and ear piercings, and black armband tattoos covering the length of both forearms. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth as he typed something out on a mechanical keyboard loud enough to rival a jackhammer against a brick wall. He exhaled a puff of smoke, leaned back in his chair, plucked the cigarette from his lips, and said—

“Chatter, if you think the Rodriguez sub will do anything for the Bears this season, you are a moron and you should feel very bad about your fathomless stupidity.”

Neil smiled faintly. He agreed. The Rodriguez sub in their striker lineup was, in his opinion, the stupidest decision he’d witnessed in all his young life.

He left the tab open and kept his headphones on while heading to the kitchen to make coffee before the match started, listening absently as Andrew continued berating chat in a flat, bored tone. He even banned people for seemingly innocuous offenses—like typing I love Exy in all caps.

“Idiot,” Andrew said. “Go outside and touch some grass.”

Neil found Andrew’s ruthlessness with his audience half amusing, half irritating—and was on the verge of looking for another stream yet again—when the five-minute match countdown began and Andrew launched into a rapid-fire list of every player’s stats, strengths, and weaknesses with startling precision, not pausing for even a second to catch his breath. 

Neil hurried back to his desk, just in time to see Andrew leaning back with his head tilted toward the ceiling, cigarette ashing onto the floor, still speaking in the same deadpan tone, now delivering oddly specific predictions for the game.

Neil was intrigued.

And he stuck around—to see if any of them would hit the mark. 

In the end, Andrew wasn’t that far off on most of his predictions: just a goal short of the final score, and roughly in the same ballpark for passes and fouls committed.

But about halfway through the match, Neil came to a glaring realization—Andrew wasn’t primarily an Exy streamer.

Maybe not even secondarily.

For one, it was obvious he harbored some deep-seated resentment toward the game, despite being uncannily knowledgeable about it. A quick Google search revealed that, like Alli Rey, he’d played in college—on the same team, in fact.

That’s when Neil remembered why Andrew’s name rang a distant bell. He’d always had a passing interest in college Exy and definitely remembered hearing about the infamous Palmetto Foxes—a chaotic lineup that came dangerously close to toppling the top three schools during the years Kevin Day and Andrew Minyard played together.

But while Kevin’s post-college devotion to Exy had remained steady and, for the most part, innocently fanatical, Andrew had apparently taken a very different career path—if one were inclined to even call it that.

Neil was too focused on the match to notice the banner at the top of the stream—until Andrew said, calmly:

“Thanks for ten gifted subs, MilkChurner69. We’re only a few subs away from the goal and the stockings reveal.”

The what reveal?

Neil did a double take, wondering if he’d hallucinated the word. But there it was—splashed in bold pink letters across the stream overlay:

Stockings reveal with 200 new subscriptions.

Only then did Neil actually look—really look—at Andrew’s streamer page.

There were…mildly concerning details.

For starters, the banner under the video proudly read:

My Milkshake Brings All the Boys to the (Min)yard,

accompanied by a cutout graphic of Andrew, shirtless, nipples obscured with water droplet emojis, lips puckered obscenely around a straw.

The channel’s custom emojis were all milkshakes—oversized and cartoonish—spilling with chocolate syrup and sporting googly eyes.

It was ridiculous. And oddly…on brand.

Then Neil checked his Instagram. Which, in hindsight, might have been a mistake. But his killswitch stalled long enough to tilt his worldview slightly sideways.

One photo had Andrew on his knees, wearing a custom Exy jersey, one tattooed arm lifting the hem to expose the corner of a six-pack, his gaze lidded and lazy.

Another close-up showed Andrew licking the handle of an Exy racquet—his hair wild, eyes shut, cheeks flushed from some prior exertion.

It wasn’t technically pornographic.

But it was lewd enough that Neil’s first instinct was to suck in a sharp breath and close the tab immediately.

He came back to it later.

Not for any particular reason.

Just…maybe to marvel at the fact that it had never occurred to him to view an Exy racquet as a sex toy of sorts.

During the post-match breakdown, Andrew’s chat went into a frenzy—an endless stream of hype spam, dripping milkshake emojis, and celebratory music. A heavily remixed version of Kelis’s Milkshake, of course. 

What the fuck else, Neil thought, watching in mute horror as the stream hit its sub goal.

Andrew didn’t look even slightly impressed. He let the song play for a moment, then cut it off mid-riff with a flat, “Alright, pipe down, you fucking degenerates.”

There was no real heat behind the words. He simply propped his legs up on the desk, in full view of the camera.

Apparently, he’d been wearing black fishnet stockings under his shorts the entire time.

The stocking threads stretched taut over his bulky leg muscles, digging crosshatch indents into his skin, drawing attention to the insufferable thickness of his thighs.

Jesus.

The chat exploded. Again.

Neil typed a quick message:

Can we get back to the post-match discussion?

He didn’t expect it to register—didn’t even want it to, honestly—not in the blur of spam flying across the screen. But Andrew’s reading comprehension was lightning-fast. A second later, Neil’s message lit up in bright red—the way Andrew always flagged the annoying ones before roasting them to shreds.

In a perfectly snide tone, Andrew read aloud:

“ExyJunkie10 wants us to get back to a post-match discussion so boring I’d rather walk in front of a speeding semi-truck. I’m gonna do you a favor and give you a temporary ban so you can go shower off all that disgusting Exy sweat.”

A moment later, a mod message popped up: You’ve been temporarily banned from this channel.

Neil huffed a quiet, “Whatever,” and closed the tab.

“So. Andrew Minyard,” Neil said to Kevin, who was a regular at the gym where Neil worked.

The gym—tucked on the second floor of a residential building—was a private club offering only one-on-one personal training sessions. It was Neil’s world, nearly five days a week. At first, it had been a steady, comforting rhythm. But after a year, it had morphed into something closer to a stifling prison—chewed out and monotonous, despite the ever-rotating set of clients.

Some stuck around for months or years. Some vanished after a week. But after a while, all their faces blurred—just passing strangers siphoning an hour of Neil’s attention at a time. Sets and reps that had long since become second nature. He could run entire sessions in a sleep-adjacent trance that clouded his mind just after waking.

The gym walls didn’t help. Mirrored glass on every side. His father’s face in every reflection. The smells—plastic foam, iron, disinfectant. The sounds—scuffing shoes, clanking weights, the ear-splitting churn of whatever Spotify playlist had been chosen for the day.

When it all became too much, Neil had seriously considered quitting. The old urge to run perched on his shoulder like a devil, whispering familiar temptations: Leave it. Burn it down. Tear the walls apart and go.

But he hadn’t. Whether from resistance or resignation, he stayed. Because quitting without a fallback plan in a city oversaturated with subpar personal trainers hustling clients at Planet Fitness was somehow worse than the numbness of staying put, than the acceptance that sometimes life was just this, and nothing else—one shaky breath that keeps you moving forward. 

Besides, Neil liked his coworkers. He didn’t mind most of his clients.

Kevin had only briefly been one of them. That short-lived arrangement had tested Neil’s temper in ways that bordered on unhealthy—Kevin was argumentative, convinced of his superior knowledge on all things, and absolutely insufferable when challenged.

Neil, not being particularly patient himself, had pawned him off on Jeremy—one of his coworkers—who, bafflingly, had a soothing effect on Kevin’s otherwise obstinate nature.

In the face of Jeremy’s easy, toothy smile, Kevin managed to shut up long enough to do what he was told. And it worked. Kevin had already been in decent shape, but he needed a specialized regimen that accounted for an old injury—a shattered arm that had ended his professional run early and left him bitter in its wake.

He was better now, Neil thought. At breathing. At moving forward. Maybe they all were.

Jeremy’s background in physical therapy made him a perfect fit, and more importantly, it saved Neil and Kevin’s tenuous friendship from being smothered under the weight of a trainer-client dynamic. They could simply enjoy Exy now—Kevin with his deep, abiding love for the game; Neil with whatever was left of it in his blood.

At Neil’s question, Kevin dropped the weights he was lifting and gave him a long, accusing stare.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been watching him.”

“No,” Neil replied. He’d only just seen one stream—it hardly counted.

“Good,” Kevin said, massaging his previously broken arm out of habit. “There are better Exy streamers out there. Like Allison.”

“Alli Rey? Yeah, I watch her streams sometimes.”

Kevin’s fingers froze mid-motion. He tilted his head, suspicious. “So what’s your question, exactly?”

If only Neil knew what this spark of curiosity was—what lit it, what fed its flame. He sifted through possibilities, none of them quite right, and eventually settled on: “Why does Andrew hate Exy?”

“Does he?” Kevin mused. “Or does he just use that act to further his brand?”

“So he doesn’t hate it?” Neil asked, brows drawing together.

Kevin waved him off vaguely, his gaze drifting toward his personal trainer, who was too distracted with another client on the far side of the gym. Not that it mattered. At this point, Jeremy offered very little actual guidance, and Neil was starting to suspect Kevin just enjoyed the blond’s company.

“Who knows?” Kevin said.

“I mean, if anyone should know, it’s you—you were on a team with him.”

“Yes,” Kevin replied. “And I still have no idea. But it’s not a question that concerns me anymore.”

“You sound bitter.”

“You sound awfully curious for someone who doesn’t watch his streams. Or is it the cam boy stuff that interests you?”

“Cam boy stuff?” Neil echoed, chewing incredulously on the term.

Kevin let out a long-suffering sigh. “I would call bullshit on this innocent act, but actually—this is the only part of this conversation that makes any damn sense.”

Neil wasn’t planning to tune into any more of Andrew’s streams—really.

He just wanted to check if his ban had expired.

It had. And he was once again granted full access to the glory of Andrew’s broadcast, which today featured TikTok reacts—unsurprisingly laced with scathing commentary about everything from fashion disasters to moral collapse under the weight of the capitalist hellscape. At one point, he challenged his chat to send a single cat video that could actually make him laugh.

Neil had a feeling that was an impossible task. Andrew’s lips stayed unsmiling, the lines around his mouth smooth as ice—rigid, except when he paused to clasp a cigarette between his teeth.

Idly, Neil let Andrew’s voice play in his ear—strangely soothing, despite its flat tone and caustic bite—while he scanned the FAQ page, curious about the other aspect of his streaming that Kevin had alluded to.

He found it quickly enough: a link that led to a third-party site. It asked him to confirm he was over eighteen, then unfurled a gallery of Andrew’s photos, blurred behind a paywall. The thumbnails alone were enough to suggest they were explicit. Beneath them was a bright call-to-action button:

Book your private webcam session.

Neil closed the tab immediately.

But he left the stream running. Let Andrew’s voice worm its way through the drifting quiet of his day off—while he moved through chores: laundry, cooking, letting the noise push back against the edges of solitude.

Noise in his head was good. It didn’t matter that it was Andrew. Or maybe—on the contrary—it did.

Because despite what Kevin said about Andrew’s streaming persona being an act, Neil found something oddly refreshing in it. The way Andrew didn’t seem to give a fuck about what people thought of him. The way he moved through the world with a kind of unbothered audacity—even if it was all smoke and mirrors.

There was something about that armor, that unflinching presence, that called to a part of Neil—a part that wanted to shed all his reservations. To step out of the shadows of who he’d been, and who he’d never get to be now. To just exist.

Content—or maybe simply resigned—with the version of the universe he’d been given. With this second—third—fourth chance at life.

Over the next few weeks, Neil found himself tuning into Andrew’s streams more often than he’d like to admit. Sometimes it was audio only, fed quietly through his headphones while he worked at the gym—pointedly avoiding Kevin’s line of sight out of guilt, even though Kevin had no way of knowing that his ex-teammate’s voice was playing in Neil’s ears.

Andrew didn’t stream much Exy content—unless it involved broadcasting popular matches or indulging in his favorite recurring segment: Smash or Pass.

He’d go meticulously through the roster of professional players, dropping judgment with the confidence of a god deciding who got through the gates of heaven.

Neil, unable to help himself during one of these streams, typed into chat: Kevin Day?

Technically, Kevin wasn’t a pro player anymore—but that felt beside the point.

Andrew flagged the comment immediately, highlighted it, and said flatly: “I don’t rate people I know.”

Neil rolled his eyes at the screen, then pulled up a video that lived on one of their mutual friends’ Instagram feeds—a clip where Kevin was being squarely defeated by Jeremy in an arm-wrestling match. Kevin grit his teeth comically the entire time until he lost focus after catching the dangerous glint in Jeremy’s eye.

Neil typed, Rate this, milkshake boy 

And dropped the link.

Andrew clicked on it, letting it play off-screen—probably checking to make sure Neil hadn’t sent something explicit—then dragged it into view for the stream. His face stayed unreadable as he delivered his judgment: “Eight out of ten. Needs more Kevin humiliation.”

Neil typed back immediately: weird kink but k

Then: wait a sec, I got something

He scoured the feed for another video. He hadn’t been there when it happened, but someone had caught Kevin at a nightclub—drunk and belligerent—trying to challenge Jeremy to another match, only to slip off the table and fall directly into Jeremy’s lap.

Andrew played it. Then played it again. His lips twitched—just barely—with something that might have been amusement.

ExyJunkie10: do I win the challenge to make you laugh?

Andrew highlighted the message, stared at it for a beat, then said: “No. Fuck off.”

Neil was held captive by the glow of his phone screen—the only light in his dark room—looking at the photo Instagram’s algorithm had provided him, scarily attuned to where his head had been lately.

Andrew’s latest update: a mirror selfie, taken after what looked like a workout. His face was hidden behind the phone, but his damp blond hair clung sensually to his skin. A tight white tank traced every relief line of his muscles. The shorts—tight, black, stretched over thick thighs—left little to the imagination. One hand gripped what was unmistakably the hard outline of his dick.

Neil tapped the screen off.

The darkness that bloomed was jarring enough for Neil to turn the phone back on almost immediately—not to look at the photo again, but because he could still see it. Burned into his eyelids.

He rolled over and groaned, pressing his face into the pillow.

He was achingly hard. And completely lost on what to do about it.

It didn’t feel wrong, exactly, to get off to the photo. Neil wasn’t innocent, and he wasn’t stupid—he knew exactly what kind of reaction Andrew was hoping to elicit with a picture that suggestive.

But it wasn’t just the overt sexuality of it. It was the other part—the parasocial part—that made Neil feel unstable. The sense of danger he instinctively recognized but still couldn’t protect himself from.

The way he watched Andrew’s streams with alarming regularity. The way he interacted with him in chat. The way Andrew responded—

The way he teased Neil’s interest in a way people in Neil’s life never did.

That interest had started to spill into something messier and slightly unbearable. 

Because Andrew was out of reach, and not quite real. 

He might as well have been a figment of Neil’s imagination. A mirage of his own conjuring.

Until he wasn’t. 

Until it was too late. 

Neil was acutely aware of the mistake he was committing, but unable to stop himself. 

The prospect of speaking to Andrew one-on-one—claiming his sole attention—had consumed him completely. The idea of booking a private session began to seem more exciting than dangerous, and exciting too, precisely because it was dangerous. 

A spectacularly terrible decision that Neil knew he’d have to reckon with later—amid the monotony of his daily life. For now, it was a deviation. A rupture. A dizzying side effect of a life not fully lived—until this very moment, standing at the ledge and staring down the drop.

And the closer time dragged toward that session—ridiculously expensive by any standard—the more helpless Neil felt. Powerless to pull the brakes, propelled forward by inertia alone. The way a car keeps rolling even after it's stopped. The illusion of motion so convincing it made him dizzy.

That sense of being pulled along—that headrush of anticipation—didn’t fade, not even in the slow-dripping moments before the session started.

He didn’t have a webcam, so at least he had that flimsy layer of anonymity to shield him.

Neil joined the call, the video feed flickering to life.

Andrew appeared—dimly lit, more shadowed than he was on stream, his room darker. He looked bored and careless, the way he always did on stream, leaning back in his chair, idly toying with a cigarette between his fingers.

Neil knew Andrew wouldn’t show up in a private session already lewd or compromising. But still—something about the sight knocked the breath from his lungs.

It was too familiar.

Too much like the countless times he’d sat there—headphones on, eyes glued to this man through a screen.

And now Andrew was here.

And it was just Neil—no stream, no chat, no mods or trolls or other obsessives.

There was power in that. It thrummed at the tips of Neil’s fingers, filling him with an urge that was hard to contain—an ephemeral impulse to reach further. To have more of it. More of Andrew and more of his light.

Andrew set the cigarette down on the table, his eyes narrowing at the screen, probably seeing his own reflection in the black square of Neil’s muted video feed.

“So, Exy Junkie,” he drawled. “I’m a little surprised.”

Neil cleared his throat, finding his voice. “By?”

Andrew registered the single word with a slow blink. “That you found time in your clearly Exy-obsessed life for this.”

Neil let out a half-aborted laugh. He hadn’t thought he was nervous before the call. And doing this didn’t exactly make him nervous. But still—he was getting his bearings. Adjusting to the sound of his own voice crossing the digital space between them.

“I’m not so single-minded that I don’t want other things.”

Andrew hummed. He leaned a little closer to the camera, as if offering more of himself—the sharp cut of his face, the pale gleam of his hair under the screen’s light. He was dressed in his usual all-black, the color matching the inky tattoos along his forearms, contrasting starkly against his skin and hair.

“And what do you want?” he asked.

“What do others make you do?” Neil shot back, genuinely curious. He’d never done this. Had no frame of reference. No idea how to proceed, or how to get what he wanted.

“Oh, the possibilities are endless,” Andrew replied mockingly. “Jack off. Play with my nipples. Suck a dildo.” A pause. Then, flatly: “Fuck a dildo if I’m feeling up to it.”

“And are you feeling up to it?” Neil asked—not because he wanted to push it that far, that fast. But because he wanted to know.

“No,” Andrew replied, curtly.

“What are you feeling up for, then?” Neil pressed.

“I feel like sitting on my couch and eating ice cream,” Andrew said, lips thinning in irritation, as though even the question annoyed him.

Neil hadn’t expected Andrew’s customer service skills to magically improve in private, but it was still a relief to find that he was as unabashedly himself as ever.

It was a relief—and an amusement—that Neil felt when he replied, breezily, “So do that, then.”

“Do that, ” Andrew echoed, maybe just to confirm.

“Do you have ice cream at home?” Neil asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Go get it. Sit on the bed and eat it.”

Andrew blinked at the camera. Once. Twice. Pale lashes fluttering shut—then he got up and disappeared offscreen.

When he returned, he had a tub of chocolate ice cream in hand. He dragged the mic from his computer desk as far as the cord would allow, then sat cross-legged on the edge of his bed.

“Food play,” Andrew said. “I’ll admit, that’s a new one for me.”

“Nope,” Neil replied. “Just want to make you comfortable.”

“I am comfortable,” Andrew snapped, and Neil had the distinct sense he was getting under Andrew’s skin—which, again, amused him in a way he didn’t bother to examine.

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to,” Andrew added. “And I won’t hesitate to end this session for any reason I want—and still charge you full price.”

“Got it,” Neil said, offering a mocking salute that Andrew couldn’t see, but felt right anyway. “Can you face the camera more? Sit back on your knees?”

Something dark flashed through Andrew’s gaze. Something that Neil had little hope of deciphering across the digital barrier between them. But whatever storm had started passed before it could fully form. Andrew gave in. He shifted in the sheets, adjusting, a metal spoon hanging from his mouth as he moved.

Then he settled, thighs tucked beneath him, ass to heels, the spoon popping wetly from his lips as he reached for another bite.

“Yes. Right there,” Neil murmured. “Spread your legs wider for me.”

Andrew froze again around the spoon in his mouth, but obeyed—his knees falling apart on the bed into a wider stance.

He kept taking messy bites from the increasingly perspiring tub of ice cream, licking the smudges off the spoon, hollowing out his cheeks every time like the little wannabe porn star he clearly was.

“What else do you want?” Andrew asked.

“Are you taking requests?”

“Don’t be coy, and stop wasting our time,” Andrew said, looking directly at the camera like he could see Neil.

“It’s kind of fun watching you do this,” Neil admitted with a smirk. “Would be better if you were sucking on something else instead of that spoon, though.”

“Dildo or your cock?”

Neil couldn’t help but laugh at the bluntness.

“Actually, I had something else in mind.”

Andrew visibly rolled his eyes. “How could I forget for a second that you’re one of those.” He stretched the last word with scorn. “Didn’t you read the rules before you booked? Exy fanatics get charged a premium.”

“Oh really?” Neil mused. “I did read the rules. And there was nothing of the sort.”

Andrew tossed the spoon into the tub and shoved it aside. “Who the fuck actually reads those?”

“I don’t know. But I didn’t want to misstep.”

“Weirdo,” Andrew muttered, with a meaningless shrug of his broad shoulders. 

“I’ll keep the nonexistent charge in mind for next time,” Neil offered.

“Next time?” Andrew arched a brow at the camera.

“If you manage to get me off this time, that is.”

“Do you usually have trouble getting off?”

The question was vague. Neil didn’t struggle to come—at least not alone—but he did, more often than not, have trouble finding the motivation to start. The desire that got him there was another matter entirely.

“Sometimes,” he replied, just as vaguely.

“Okay, listen, ExyJunkie10,” Andrew sing-songed the username again, thick with mocking contempt. “I’m not a mind reader, and I’m not here to diagnose your impotence issues, so tell me what you want—or this isn’t going anywhere.”

“I want you to change,” Neil said after a moment. “Wear your Exy jersey. And get your racquet out.”

“Fine,” Andrew replied, rolling his eyes again, half-hearted and dismissive.

He disappeared off-screen, and returned some minutes later wearing an Exy jersey—the jersey Neil had seen in photos he’d scoured online. Custom-made, black, with MINYARD printed across the shoulders and the number 3 bold and white on the back. He was holding a heavy racquet that looked brand new—confirming Neil’s suspicion that it existed purely as a prop.

“Much better,” Neil said. “You look beautiful like this.”

Andrew visibly tensed at the praise, just for a moment. Then his chest rose with one deep, steadying breath, and he resumed his position on his knees in the sheets, just as Neil had asked earlier.

He gripped the racquet, tapped the end of the handle against his lips, and said, “How much of this racquet do you think I can swallow down?”

“I’m sure you’ll show me,” Neil said. “But I don’t want you to put it in your mouth yet.”

“Oh?” Andrew prompted, tilting his head.

“Why don’t you start by licking it?”

Neil’s breath didn’t hitch, exactly—but it unraveled, atom by atom, at the sight of Andrew in bed, thick thighs spread open around the sturdy shaft of the racquet.

Andrew dragged his tongue slowly along the handle. His lips paused at the tip, swirling his tongue around it. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then snapped open again. He sucked eagerly at the plastic head, then slid down, lower and lower, before licking back up again—each motion a wet, messy glide Neil could almost feel against his own skin.

A soft, pleased moan escaped Neil’s lips.

Andrew shouldn’t have heard it.

But maybe he did. Because his eyes flicked toward the camera, and in that instant, something changed—his golden gaze shading darker, flame-hot.

“Does this turn you on, junkie?” he asked, voice low, matching the darkness in his stare.

“Yes,” Neil replied. The word was full, heavy in his throat. “I’m really hard right now.”

Andrew’s lips found the handle again. This time, he bit down—his teeth bared in a snarl.

Neil’s eyes raked over the screen, over the frame of Andrew’s body, noting how tight his shorts had gotten. The fabric pulled taut over the bulge in his lap. 

“You’re into this too,” Neil said.

“No,” Andrew replied, shifting on the bed—his ass dragging against the mattress in a way that betrayed him.

If Neil weren’t so achingly hard, he might have laughed at the blatant lie. But as it was, he needed to stay focused. Needed to guide him further.

“Now suck on the handle,” he instructed. “Make it really wet for me.”

Andrew lifted the racquet, brought the tip to his lips, and opened wide. Slid it inside. Pushed it in, then pulled it out—repeating the motion, deeper each time. Testing the limits of his mouth, his throat. 

“Christ,” Neil breathed. “You can really fucking take that.”

Andrew half-hummed, half-moaned around the object in his mouth. Then he pulled it out, letting a glistening string of spit hang obscenely in the air, before swallowing the racquet back down, setting a rhythm, fucking it into his mouth with brutal thrusts. 

Neil bit down on his lip to muffle the moan tearing up his throat. He pressed a hand to his still-clothed cock. The pressure was instant relief. He kept touching himself with insistent, grounding strokes, watching Andrew lose himself in the act, his hips jerking against the mattress in eager pulses, chasing some decadent rhythm Neil wanted into.

He wanted to exist in that rhythm. To live in the air Andrew breathed.

“Andrew,” Neil said, his voice rougher than he expected, “Take the racquet and put it between your legs. I want to see you grind on it.”

For once, there was no hesitation from Andrew. None at all. Like he’d been waiting for that command. Like it had occurred to him too.

He pulled the racquet out—slick, dripping with spit—and flipped it net-up, wedging it between his thighs. He rose slightly on his knees, adjusted, and began grinding the hard line of his cock against the shaft. His hips found a vicious rhythm almost instantly—thrusting hard, sharp, desperate. His ass slammed into the sheets with every forward grind.

“Fuck,” Neil rasped, awed.

His hand moved faster now, his cock leaking into his underwear, every nerve alive—pulsing with desire, with a savage need to watch Andrew. To consume him. To own it. This moment between them. 

“Andrew,” he ordered through his ragged breathing, “I want to see you come.”

Andrew growled something in response, hips still moving with relentless urgency. His cock pressed hard against the wooden shaft. He bared his teeth as he bit down on the racquet, one hand lifting to shove his jersey up—first revealing the sharp line of his abs, then one pink, pebbled nipple.

He pinched it hard, twisting. A wildfire flush spread from his cheeks, down his throat.

And that—that—was what broke Neil. The sight of Andrew’s bare skin. The way he pleasured himself. The way he was getting off, so eagerly, so obediently, for Neil.

Neil’s lips were raw from biting down, trying to stay silent. But another moan broke free, guttural and aching, as he whispered into the mic, “Fuck, Andrew, you’re so fucking hot—so close, I’m going to come—”

And then he did.

Thrusting up into his own hand, spilling into his underwear, eyes rolling back even as he fought to keep them open. To keep them locked on Andrew.

Andrew was coming undone too, gripping the racquet tight with one hand, hips twitching helplessly against the wood. A low moan broke from him, deep and strained, crackling through the static of his mic, and still, somehow, it reached Neil, even through the crashing white of his own orgasm.

Neil eventually closed his eyes—because some part of him couldn’t look anymore.

Couldn’t look at Andrew—his stunning form slouched in bed, wrecked, the Exy racquet discarded to the side, one hand in his lap, his gaze dropped low, no longer meeting the camera.

And still, that flush remained. The wild, wild light of him.

“Guess I could get you off, after all,” Andrew said, snide and unnecessary, dragging Neil back to the surface.

“Guess so,” Neil murmured. “Until next time, then.”

And he ended the call.

Chapter Text

As it turned out, next time—Andrew showed up prepared.

Already wearing his Exy jersey.

Neil felt conflicted, even as his eyes drank in the sight of Andrew lounging in his streaming chair, in a slight backward tilt. That usual bored expression carved his face into something precious and remote—a gem cut with sharp edges and an unattainable quality that made Neil want to take it and manipulate it. Until it shattered.

He was equal parts pleased that Andrew had skipped the drawn-out prelude and irritated at the presumption of it—at the idea that Andrew thought he had Neil figured out. That he believed this, just this—wearing a piece of fabric with his name on it—would satisfy Neil.

It did.

“What’s the sigh for?” Andrew asked, idly examining his black-manicured fingers.

“Stand up,” Neil said, surprised by the way the barely restrained command drenched his tone.

Andrew wasn’t exactly animated before, but now every inch of him stilled, visibly tensing as he leaned forward in his chair.

“Bossy,” he said. “No ‘hello’? No ‘let me buy you a drink first’?”

“I can’t afford that,” Neil said, teasing. “You’re not a cheap date.”

“True,” Andrew agreed easily—and then stood, giving Neil a full view of his thighs, bare and solid beneath his shorts.

“Will it be more of the same?” Andrew asked. “Should I go get the racquet?”

“No,” Neil said. “Just you.”

Andrew’s gaze dragged slowly toward the camera, his arms crossing with a lazy kind of impatience.

Neil let him stand there a few beats longer before he spoke again. “Take off your shorts.”

Andrew spared the camera a single quirk of an eyebrow before he complied—bending to shrug them off. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Neil’s breath hitched. He hadn’t indulged in any of Andrew’s other explicit content, and last time, Andrew hadn’t taken off his clothes.

This was better.

Neil liked the way Andrew looked now—newly revealed. The jersey hung just long enough to cover his navel, a tease of dark blonde curls visible beneath it, his soft cock resting between his legs.

Someone else might have fidgeted under the scrutiny.

Not Andrew.

He stood defiant, unbothered, shoulders squared, shifting his weight with lazy confidence.

“Lube?” Neil asked.

Andrew nodded. He retrieved a black bottle with a metallic sheen from a drawer, uncapped it, and squirted some into his palm. The sound was slick and obscene. He rubbed it between his hands to warm it, then tossed the bottle aside.

“Sit on your bed again,” Neil said, voice mostly steady. “And touch yourself.”

Andrew climbed onto the mattress, legs falling wide—framing him beautifully.

Neil felt another pull of breath tighten in his chest. Andrew remembered. He remembered Neil loved the sprawl, the way his ass sank into the sheets, the bulk of his thighs framing everything beneath him.

Andrew’s eyes grew lidded as he gave himself a slow tug. Then another. Working himself to full hardness, his cock flushed a deep, gorgeous pink in the low light.

“Keep talking,” Andrew murmured.

Neil bit back a smile at the smoky edge in his voice—just shy of pleading. His own cock thickened in response, straining against the fabric of his shorts. He let his mind wander, surrendering to the heat unfurling low in his belly.

“I wish I was there with you,” Neil began. “But I wouldn’t touch you. Just watch. You’re gorgeous like this—wearing nothing but that jersey, touching yourself for me.”

Andrew’s eyes flashed with concentrated fury, cutting to the camera before dropping again. He’d asked for this—asked for Neil’s voice. But now it seemed to hit him like a blunt blow, like regret. Neil could still feel the lash of his gaze, the way it raked across his skin in retribution, pulling a shiver from him.

He breathed through it. Through the resistance. The challenge.

“I’d pull my cock out, too—I’m so fucking hard watching you,” Neil continued, softer now. “I’d get close. As close as you’d let me. I want you to see it. See what you do to me.” His voice dropped into a hush. “I’d stroke myself right next to your face. Would you let me do that?”

Andrew’s fist sped up, then faltered. “Yes,” he bit out tightly. Then resumed, hand slick and steady, the flushed head of his cock slipping in and out of his grip.

Neil’s balls tightened. His cock twitched against the inside of his shorts. He reached down, not bothering with lube, wrapping a hand around himself and mirroring Andrew’s rhythm—the twist of his wrist, the press of his thumb to the tip, the way he bucked slightly into his own grip, like he couldn’t help it. Like he needed to fuck his own hand.

“Andrew,” Neil rasped, “I’d want to press my leaking tip against your cheek. Feel your skin. Drag my cock across your lips. But I wouldn’t. I’d just stand there and stroke myself while you’re on your knees, getting off so good for me.”

Neil’s hand moved around his cock, to the beat of his words—fierce in his chest, but softer, tempered, when they slipped from his lips.

“I’d imagine coming on your face—or in your mouth—as you part it for me so eagerly. I’d be so close from that image alone, I wouldn’t be able to hold on long. But you know what would push me over? The thought of spilling on your tongue, then smearing the rest across your face. Painting you. Claiming you.”

Andrew’s features twisted—eyes fluttering shut, jaw clenching. He froze on a long, shuddering breath, squeezing the head of his cock.

“Let me see you come,” Neil murmured.

Andrew’s eyes shuttered in surrender. His teeth caught on his lower lip as he started moving again—rougher this time. An exquisitely broken sound pooled in his throat and spilled out in a half-moan as his hips jerked up into his hand.

Then he was coming in long, stuttering bursts—thick white arcs that nearly reached his face, streaking his jersey, the sheets, his hand. It dripped down in messy trails, across flushed skin and dark fabric.

Neil had never seen a cumshot more beautiful. More erotic.

His own orgasm hovered like fire at the edge of his nerves, threatening to consume him. But he held on, eyes locked on Andrew—on the crimson bloom of his cheeks, the wild rise and fall of his chest. He looked radiant, suffused with light, and it made Neil ache to the point of pain—made him want to reach through the screen, push Andrew down, and take him under. To gather all of this up and make it his. Take it all, just for himself.

Andrew was never late to their sessions.

Today, after ten minutes of waiting, Neil seriously began to consider that he was being ditched—and that there was nothing to be done about it except move on with his day. He was just about to close out of the meeting room when the feed flickered to life, the static incongruous with the usual crisp quality of Andrew’s stream. Then it cleared into a video feed.

Andrew was streaming from his phone. And he was outside.

Neil could tell by the way sunlight flooded his face, making him squint slightly at the camera. By the way his hair collected all available light and reflected it back in spades, making it a little hard to look at.

“Are you taking your own advice and touching grass?” Neil asked, noting the way Andrew was lying down, his hair spilling into the grass like a river winding down a slope.

“Something like that,” Andrew muttered.

“So, how is it?”

“Itchy,” Andrew replied, rubbing at his neck where thick blades of grass crowded against his skin. “Vaguely smells like dog piss.”

“I always knew that advice was bullshit.”

Suddenly, the camera tilted, and Andrew’s face moved in a blur of blond hair. “Give me a second, Junkie. I’m gonna go inside and we can get started.”

“No, stay,” Neil said.

He liked this, he realized. Seeing Andrew outside of his stream room. It felt like a secret—an unexplored side of Andrew’s universe that Neil had stumbled into by luck. 

Andrew was sitting up now, his face turned slightly toward the clouds drifting above, a faint frown tugging at his mouth.

“No to whatever perversion you’re cooking up. I’m not getting arrested for public indecency.”

“Nothing indecent,” Neil assured him. “Just stay there a little longer.”

Andrew brought the phone closer to his mouth and muttered, “Okay, weirdo.” Then there was movement again—as though he was falling back into the grass—but he either forgot to take the phone with him or let it rest on his stomach. The camera pointed to the sky, clouds visibly drifting above, chased by strong wind.

Neil wanted to see Andrew’s face. To study the mysteries of it—the bronze green of his eyes, a color so strange and singular Neil wasn’t sure he’d seen it anywhere else. The faint freckles across the bridge of his nose. The wet sheen of his pale burgundy lips, and a mouth that looked impossibly soft to the touch. The way the metal bar of his eyebrow piercing danced in the sun. 

But this wasn’t so bad either.

It felt like lying beside him in the grass, looking up at the sky. 

“Having a bad day?” Neil asked.

“No,” Andrew said—not far away, but distant all the same. And not just physically. “Just a day.”

“Yeah,” Neil replied. “I have a lot of those.”

“You have an accent,” Andrew said abruptly.

“No, I don’t?” Neil protested, though it wasn’t entirely true. Most people didn’t catch it.

“It’s mild. But it’s there.”

“I traveled around Europe a lot when I was young,” Neil admitted after a pause filled with the hum of traffic, the bark of a dog, the rustle of leaves—life happening somewhere in the background. “Not many people notice it.”

“Europe,” Andrew said in a way that was a question, without bothering to add the mark at the end.

“Have you been?”

“Germany.”

“I miss watching old people chug beer at 10 a.m.,” Neil said in German.

There was a pause. Then the phone shook, and Andrew’s windswept face slid back into view. He looked at the screen like he could will Neil’s face into appearing.

“That’s your happiest memory of Germany?”

“What’s a happy memory?” Neil mused, back in English—even as he was momentarily overwhelmed by smells and sensations from a past so ancient it might as well have been dust: the crisp December air tingling on his reddened cheeks, the steam of hot chocolate rising from his clasped hands, the boundless crowd they could lose themselves in for a few hours.

“It’s always easier to blend in a crowd,” his mother told him.

“No idea,” Andrew said flatly—his voice washing the memory away, pulling Neil back from the sands of time.

Andrew plucked a blade of grass with a fluffy stalk at the end and stuck it in his mouth, chewing it thoughtfully.

“Touching grass not enough?” Neil asked. “You need to eat it too?”

“This isn’t enough either,” Andrew said. He spit the stalk out and pulled out a cigarette.

He set the phone briefly on his stomach as he lit it, then brought it back to his face and took deep drags, smoke warping toward the clouds above.

Neil could smell it, the smoke seeping out through his headphones, stinging his nostrils.

“Did no one tell you that if you smoke a lot, you won’t grow?”

Andrew’s lips curled wryly. “A little too late for that.”

“At least you’re closer to hell. I hear that place is fun.”

Andrew pointed his cigarette at the screen in mock accusation. “Height jokes—this is how I know you’re short too.”

Neil’s heart gave a vicious thud. Then settled. Slightly off-rhythm. Andrew didn’t know what he looked like. He couldn’t.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Neil said. “I’m extremely tall.”

“Uh huh.”

“Giant. Broadest shoulders you’ve ever seen.”

“Beard?” Andrew supplied.

“Yes. So hairy.”

“What are you, Hasan Piker?” Andrew scoffed, stubbing out the cigarette.

“Yes,” Neil said. Then frowned. “Wait—who is that?”

“Seriously? Only the most famous streamer.”

“Oh, I see,” Neil said, Googling quickly. “Yup, that’s me,” he added, then gasped.

“What?” Andrew asked flatly.

“His thighs,” Neil said, utterly enthralled. “I’m watching a TikTok of him crushing a watermelon with his thighs.”

Andrew scoffed again, unimpressed. “I can do that.”

“Can you?” Neil teased.

Neil was mildly aware that he was probably being rude—sitting there, eyes fixed on his phone—but it was also rude of Kevin to drag him out in the first place. Kevin knew Neil hated lounges, hated loud music, didn’t care for alcohol.

But strategically? If Neil came out once in a while, it guaranteed that Kevin—and Jeremy, by extension—would leave him alone for months, or at least take his excuses without too much interrogation.

So there Neil was, fulfilling his social quota by nursing the world’s meltiest cocktail, slowly developing a throbbing headache from the reggaeton thumping through the walls, wildly at odds with the lounge’s candlelit mood lighting.

He scrolled through his socials absently. Then, giving in to impulse, opened his private thread with Andrew on Smash —angling his phone slightly so none of his friends could accidentally glimpse the screen.

The video Andrew had sent of himself crushing a watermelon with his thighs was…probably too dangerous to watch again in public.

Still, Neil couldn’t stop a small smile from teasing at his lips as he reread the thread.

ExyJunkie10: you motherfucker

ExyJunkie10: you cheated

ExyJunkie10: that’s a baby watermelon

Andrew M.yard: you didn’t specify

They’d been texting on and off for a few days now. Weirdly mundane stuff—Neil sent a photo of a sunrise from his run. Andrew replied with his coffee, in an oversized mug printed with a lewd drawing of two men and a caption that read the daily grind. Memes, TikToks, an Exy joke from Neil that earned a predictably dry “I will block you” from Andrew.

It was surreal—audacious, even. Like toeing the edge of a liminal space between real and imagined. Something held in that quiet breath between witching hour and dawn. A leap into uncharted territory with no markers or map. A thrilling punctuation to the drag of Neil’s days that he began to look forward to. 

Andrew had also sent a photo just an hour ago—evidently dressed for a night out. Black shirt rucked up to reveal his bricked abs. Black jeans shredded to hell. And peeking through the slashes: fishnet tights.

Neil bit his lip, staring at it again. His finger hovered over the keyboard, trying to fruitlessly think of an appropriate response. 

"Let me take you apart." 

He typed it. Then deleted it.

He was still caught under the spell of the photo when Kevin said, “Neil.” Maybe not for the first time, judging by the irritation threaded through his voice.

Neil looked up, ready to glare. Wasn’t it enough that he was here? Did he have to participate, too? This absurd ritual of socialization that meant nothing, that required shouting over music just to be heard?

And then—he froze.

Except for his fingers, which fumbled his phone. It launched from his hand. He lunged, missed, and in the process knocked over his drink. The fluorescent cocktail spilled in one sweeping arc across the table.

Andrew was there.

Not on his phone screen. Here. Standing beside Kevin, arms crossed, wearing those same ripped jeans. Fishnets visible through the holes. Eyes narrowed at Neil and one corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk.

“My friend, Neil,” Kevin said, frowning at Neil’s sudden clumsiness. He started introducing everyone—Jeremy, their coworker Tasha, and a few others from Jeremy’s circle—but Neil wasn’t listening.

He ducked under the table to grab his phone. Took his time wiping the screen off on the hem of his shirt.

When he resurfaced, there was nothing left to do but look at Andrew.

He was still studying Neil with a tilt of his head. 

Then he leaned in and whispered something to Kevin. Kevin furrowed his brows and looked at Neil, then shook his head at Andrew in response. 

Neil stood abruptly.

He couldn’t take it anymore. His legs wobbled slightly as he crossed the floor, leaned down toward Kevin, and hissed in his ear:

“Come with me.”

The music was loud enough that Andrew probably couldn’t hear him. Couldn’t recognize Neil’s voice—

Probably.

But Neil couldn’t risk it.

Kevin followed Neil to the only place he could think of where the music dropped even a decibel lower: the hallway leading to the bathrooms.

“What the fuck is Andrew Minyard doing here?” Neil snapped, whipping around on Kevin.

“Why?” Kevin asked, instantly suspicious. 

It was sobering enough to knock some sense into Neil, forcing him to take a step back and suck in a deep, shuddering breath.

“You didn’t tell me he was coming,” Neil said through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t know I had to ask your permission to invite an old friend,” Kevin shot back. “What’s your problem?”

“I just thought—” Neil stammered, floundering for anything to say that wouldn’t give him away entirely. “I thought you two weren’t that close. Not after graduation.”

Kevin tilted his head, like a hawk trying to decipher a human face. “We haven’t talked in months. But he hit me up, said he wanted to go out, see what kind of crowd I’ve been hanging with.”

That’s when it hit Neil—the nightclub video. The one he sent Andrew during one of his streams. He remembered the slight uptick of Andrew’s lips when Kevin appeared in the background. At the time, Neil had thought it was all amusement. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was warmth, or fondness. Maybe Andrew had missed Kevin.

“Okay,” Neil said, as if there was anything to accept in Kevin’s statement. As if he had any say in this.

Kevin was still watching him, like he was trying to pick apart the machinery of Neil’s brain. Meanwhile, Neil was chewing on his lip, trying to figure out how to say I need to get the fuck out of here without saying it at all.

He’d never ruled out the possibility of meeting Andrew in person one day—even if it had always seemed unlikely—but he wasn’t prepared for it to happen tonight. Not like this. Not after weeks of cam sessions and messages. Not while Andrew could look at him and know. Know that he was that guy. The one who booked private sessions. Who got off to them.

“I don’t feel good,” Neil said. “I’m leaving.”

Kevin’s suspicion thickened in the air between them, a weight Neil could feel in his chest. “You can’t leave before Jean shows up. He said he’s only coming out because of you.”

“Me?” Neil asked, already leaning against the wall, exhaustion sinking deep in his bones.

“Yes. Said he needs your misanthropic companionship to survive this hell.”

“Cool,” Neil sighed. “When is he getting here?”

“Soon,” Kevin said.

It was obviously not soon enough, because Neil was subjected to at least another epoch—consisting of five minutes—of staring at Andrew before Jean showed up.

He watched as Andrew stood and made his way to the bar, elbowing through other patrons with confident ease, rapping his knuckles on the counter to get the bartender’s attention.

Jean dropped himself onto the cushions beside Neil, and they talked. Neil was sure his own mouth was moving, but he wasn’t exactly certain what came out of it.

At some point, Andrew returned, resuming his seat across from Neil.

“Hot summer’s night,” Jean said from Neil’s right.

“What?” Neil asked—quietly, so quietly—so Andrew wouldn’t hear him. Wouldn’t be able to make out his voice from the bass-rattled air.

“Are we doing it?” Jean asked.

“Yes,” Neil replied.

“The 5K, Neil,” Jean clarified, a hint of frustration in his voice, as though Neil hadn’t just agreed. As though he wouldn’t have agreed to anything Jean said.

“Love 5Ks,” Neil said.

His eyes were magnetized to Andrew’s legs—at the mercy of how he sat, thighs spread wide, one arm draped lazily over a knee, a glass of liquor in hand.

His pants were so obscenely tight that Neil felt a little lightheaded just looking at them, his own blood flow seemingly cut off by the way the stiff denim gripped Andrew’s groin, teasing the outline of…

Neil swallowed, stumbling over that thought, his mind derailing until only one remained: he had a response to the photo Andrew had sent him earlier.

ExyJunkie10: that looks tight as fuck. are you wearing any underwear?

He typed it out while waiting for a drink at the bar, jostling for space along its overcrowded length.

His senses tipped off to a presence behind him—too much heat, too fast—and he spun, grabbing at the person’s collar before he could stop himself.

“Oh. It’s you,” Neil breathed, letting go. He turned back to accept his drink from the bartender.

“You seem on edge tonight,” Jeremy whispered in his ear, bracketing Neil’s back with his body. “Everything okay?”

“Sure,” Neil replied, sucking from the straw because his throat felt tight and dry, and every sound and sensation pulsed into his body like a dull blade.

Jeremy stole the drink from his hand, but Neil’s attention had already drifted back to the table—watching Jean fall into conversation with the others. That probably meant Neil had fulfilled his social obligation and could leave soon.

Every minute at that table felt like a trap. He’d only spoken to Jean since Andrew arrived—and even that, barely above a whisper. What if Andrew actually tried to talk to him? The thought sent a bolt of nervous energy surging down his spine.

“Jeremy,” Neil said, placing a hand on his shoulder—finding, or maybe inventing, a way out of this mess. “Do you want to dance?”

“You dance?” Jeremy asked, eyebrows rising in surprise.

Neil didn’t answer. He just took Jeremy’s drink—his drink, originally, if they were being accurate—from his unresisting fingers, slipped his hand into his own, and led him toward the small dance area near the back of the lounge.

On the way, he passed their table and dropped the drink down without a word. The gesture caught most of the group’s attention; including Andrew, strangely, who turned his entire body to watch them, his gaze trailing after them like a slow-burn fuse.

Neil tried to ignore it, injecting confidence into his stride that he absolutely did not feel, pulling Jeremy along, who seemed shocked enough into mute compliance.

The dance floor wasn’t crowded, but the few people who were dancing were pressed in tight. Swaying and grinding in that way only Latin trap and reggaeton could inspire. Which meant Neil’s ordeal was instantly ten times more humiliating, but he couldn’t back out now. That would wound his pride more than anything.

So he resigned himself. Wrapped his arms around Jeremy’s shoulders and swayed.

Jeremy’s hands slid easily around his waist, warm palms enclosing him, pulling him closer—heat blooming instantly between the press of their bodies. 

“Okay?” Jeremy asked again, smiling down at him.

“Fine,” Neil muttered, trying not to glance over his shoulder. The awareness of Andrew was seared into his skin, a phantom pressure between his shoulder blades.

Luckily, mercifully—Jeremy knew how to dance. Neil had seen him do it countless times on nights out with their friends. He spun Neil effortlessly by raising their joined hands, then reeled him back in, flush against his chest.

Then Jeremy did something with his hands, flipping Neil’s arms around his neck and dropping them again—until they landed on his hips.

“Now move your ass against me,” Jeremy murmured in his ear, teeth catching briefly on his earlobe before pulling away.

Neil sucked in a sharp breath between clenched teeth at the wet contact. Then took another, deeper one, his chest caving with it, and moved.

He rolled his hips back against Jeremy’s body, mirroring the girl in front of them with her own partner—grinding, slow at first, then faster, the movements growing frantic as the beat rose.

Neil thrust rougher now, openly pushing against Jeremy, who moaned into his ear, “Neil, you’re such a tease.”

Something molten curled in Neil’s chest. He wasn’t interested in Jeremy—not like that—but there was a pleasure in this. A study in cause and effect. The knowledge that he could do this with nothing but the press of his ass.

He spun around to face him again, one hand tangling in Jeremy’s hair. The music dropped to a deeper pulse. The floor seemed to slip out from under him and he gripped Jeremy harder, closer—trying to steady himself as Jeremy’s mouth dragged along his neck.

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” Jeremy murmured, and Neil could feel the hard line of his cock against his thigh, the wet glide of his tongue leaving shivering tracks in its wake.

And still, through it all, Neil’s eyes sought Andrew.

Andrew, who had migrated to the cushions with Kevin, both of them leaning back lazily as they watched the dance floor, heads close together, occasionally exchanging words in low tones brushed cheek to cheek.

Andrew’s gaze burned through the flicker of his metal cigarette lighter, which he flipped open and struck again and again, the shadows of the flame dancing wanton across his face. 

It was Jeremy’s hot breath on Neil’s neck—but all he could think about was Andrew. The need that was his presence. What his hands would feel like on him. The solid shape of his thighs. The ripped fabric of his jeans.

Neil’s eyes fell closed, his body chasing the fantasy: Andrew wrapping those thighs around him, Neil grazing fingers along the holes in those obscenely tight pants, tearing through the fishnets to get at the skin beneath.

Shit. He was so hard—too hard—and another wave of arousal crashed over him. He would’ve gone under, drowned in it, if not for Jeremy holding him together at every point of fiery contact. The friction from Jeremy’s groin was just right, and Neil knew he had to get out of there before he came in his fucking pants.

Grinding on his friend. In the middle of the dance floor. In plain view of the others—and Andrew.

Neil lurched away from Jeremy, bolting for the exit, ignoring Jeremy’s loud protests and the blur of Jean in his periphery. 

Neil was faster than any of them. He was out of the suffocating air of the lounge in seconds, pushing through the doors and stumbling down into the parking lot.

Only once the car door slammed shut did Neil feel remotely safe.

He didn’t even try to start the engine. Just dropped his head to the steering wheel, heart in violent tumult. The leather pressed into his forehead, sticky like glue.

It was hot and airless inside the car, heat soaking through his clothes, and Neil practically gasped for breath.

Eventually, he reached for the ignition and turned the key. Then cranked the air conditioning to max. The vents blasted hot air into his face as he peeled out of the parking lot.

On the drive home, he didn’t think about what had just occurred at the lounge—

What had possessed him on the dance floor.

He didn’t, and he did.

Excuses scrambled for purchase: he was unmoored by Andrew’s presence, rattled by the realness of him. Not himself—switched out for a version he didn’t recognize. A version that wanted. Yearned. Spiraled with need.

After getting home and taking an extended shower—cooler than he usually preferred, trying to temper the residual heat simmering beneath his skin—Neil should’ve gone to bed.

But he was not himself. Not someone with much self-control. So he opened his Smash messages instead.

The photo Andrew had attached to their thread sent Neil’s pulse into fresh revolt, warmth blooming across his chest all over again.

It was clearly taken in the lounge’s bathroom—Neil recognized the blue-tiled floor, the amber lighting immediately. The entire composition was flawless, and teasing by design.

Andrew’s jeans were unbuckled, the tight string of his fishnets hooked around one finger and tugged just low enough to reveal a tuft of blond curls and the base of his soft cock, disappearing out of sight. Just one word accompanied it:

nope

Neil’s fever returned. His cock stirred beneath the loose hang of his pajama bottoms.

His first instinct was to wrap a fist around himself and get off, quick and rough. But his second impulse, coaxed by the quiet of his room and the soft drag of his sheets, won out.

Instead, he stroked himself unhurriedly to the image, letting it sink into him. Letting memory and fantasy blur into a volatile cocktail that made every nerve in his body thrum.

ExyJunkie10: 🥵🥵🥵

ExyJunkie10: I want to see your cock

He wasn’t expecting an instant reply—figured Andrew was still out. But the next message came faster than Neil’s heartbeat could recover.

Andrew M.yard: it will cost you

Neil didn’t bother asking how much. He just transferred $100 to the account he always used for Andrew’s sessions.

Andrew M.yard: not what I had in mind

Andrew M.yard: but it will do

The next photo was another shot from the lounge’s bathroom—this one a mirror selfie.

Andrew’s cock was freed from the fishnets and pants, hanging half-hard. One hand rode up his torso, fingers grazing the ridges of his abs. His face was visible in the mirror—eyes blazing, cheeks tinted with color.

All the details Neil had tried not to memorize earlier were now right there, gifted back to him as evidence. As permission.

Neil imagined himself on his knees in that same bathroom, mouthing at Andrew’s cock, teasing the slit with his tongue, breathing him in. That was the last image he had before his orgasm slammed into him, stealing his breath and wracking him with tremors.

It took him ages to come down from it and longer still to type a reply.

ExyJunkie10: what will it cost me to rip those tights off you?

His fingers hovered over the send button. His heart beat once, a scant soft sound in the stillness of the room.

Then he changed his mind and deleted the message.

Chapter Text

Neil jogged the familiar path to work. To the right, parking lots; to the left, more suburban dystopia. The sun unburied itself from a veil of thin clouds, hazy rays lighting up the pavement ahead, the temperature climbing steadily alongside his heartbeat. He’d be drenched by the time he got to the gym.

It was the typical, blistering state of things in Columbia almost year-round—but today, it annoyed Neil more than usual: the glide of sweat down his back, the damp strands of hair barely held in place by a bandana, clinging to him in all the wrong spots.

The irritation simmered and multiplied until it was all Neil could feel—all he could rationalize, as the sole reason for wanting so badly to run in the opposite direction of the gym building.

The prospect of the day ahead felt more imprisoning than the strange confines of his own mind, where nightmares thrashed through sleepless nights and unease churned through the hours of daylight. Today, it was a beautiful cocktail of both: a restless night, and a morning plagued by disquieting thoughts.

The memory of him and Jeremy on the dance floor still pulled a grimace out of him, even as he actively tried to smother it every time it surfaced.

He’d never been like this before. Not with anyone.

He was still thinking about how he could somehow blame all of this on Andrew, how the man had inspired some savage desire in him that had spilled over the edge of control, when he reached the gym door, unlocking it just as Tasha arrived hot on his heels, armed with the biggest cup of Dunkin iced coffee, shaking the ice in lieu of a greeting.

Neil had fully expected to deal with Jeremy, which turned out to be easier than he feared—he should’ve known his friend better. Jeremy sensed Neil’s discomfort and didn’t press the matter, offering nothing more than a strained smile that constricted Neil’s chest with an ache he couldn’t quite parse, and an aborted pat on the shoulder.

“If you’re ever having a gay crisis, you know you can talk to me, right?”

Gay crisis , Neil mouthed the words in disbelief, even as he was pretty sure that wasn’t what was happening at all.

What he didn’t expect was to also have to deal with Kevin, who cornered him as soon as he arrived for his morning workout.

“What the fuck was that?”

“Care to be more specific?”

“Whatever the hell it was you were doing with Jeremy. And then the way you bolted out of the lounge like the building was on fire.”

“Gay crisis?” Neil tried, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Kevin’s brows remained furrowed throughout his workout, punctuated by a few pointed glares in Neil’s direction.

Neil had little desire to contemplate Kevin’s disapproval when his own behavior confused him infinitely more. The day passed slowly, sticky—the air conditioning barely keeping up with the afternoon heat—and by the time Neil broke free from his shift, he needed a third shower of the day, and maybe a way to split his skull open to relieve the pressure inside.

For the first time in a long while, Neil regretted not taking his car to work. The walk melted him into the pavement, robbed him of breath, and the phone in his hand was a distraction.

There was nothing there—no new notifications, no new messages in his Smash inbox—but there was always the Smash app itself, alerting him to the fact that Andrew was streaming. That his voice was just a click away.

Neil breathed in deeply, trying to draw the scorching air into his lungs. Then he closed the app.

Last time, Neil assured himself. This was going to be the last time he did this. It had to be.

He didn’t sound like an addict when he repeated the phrase in his mind leading up to the session with Andrew—

Well, maybe he did. Just a fraction. Maybe he did need help. Maybe he needed to actually show up to the therapy appointment he’d been rescheduling for months now.

The thought made him shudder in disgust—the idea of baring his soul to a stranger, of giving solid weight, even in the shape of ephemeral words, to all the dark apparitions of his mind. And now, lately, to this wild fixation on watching Andrew—on watching him get off—

Well, he didn’t think he could survive that kind of vulnerability.

He would rather die, he thought.

He would rather make this the last time.

For both their sakes.

Andrew wasn’t just some internet persona anymore—wasn’t just a camboy for hire that existed only on a screen and nowhere beyond. He was Kevin’s friend. He was flesh and bone. As real as a gush of blood from a razor cut. One mistake, one wrong move—and Neil would bleed to death from the artery.

He knew this. He was self-aware enough to make this the last time. 

Neil waited for Andrew to join the session with his eyes shut. When he opened them again, Andrew was there—his face sliding into view first as he adjusted the camera slightly, the whole world shifting into the golden hue of his eyes before dispersing into other details Neil documented with care.

His fair hair was swept back behind his ears. The silver had been replaced with a black metal piercing in his eyebrow. His plush mouth curved into the ghost of a smirk. What secrets did it keep?

Neil noticed, too, that he wasn’t wearing the jersey this time. Just a tight black tank that exposed his shoulders—sculpted biceps, a hint of sharp collarbone.

Neither of them spoke for a while. 

Neil’s throat felt tight, and he didn’t know what words would emerge even if he tried—so he didn’t. 

Then Andrew looked directly at the camera, leaning into the palm of his hand, his arm braced casually against the table. 

“What did you have in mind today, junkie?” His voice was gauzy with seduction.

Neil thought the smirk deepened at the nickname—or maybe he imagined it—but it still sent a shiver through him, his teeth grinding against the impact.

“What will you give me?” Neil asked instead.

“Anything you want,” Andrew replied quickly. Too quickly. His eyes narrowed into slits, as though issuing a challenge.

Neil considered it—the challenge, and the ease with which Andrew held himself. The trust he’d just been handed. It felt important somehow. More important than anything that had transpired between them so far. And fragile, too, like ash between his fingertips that might blow away if he wasn’t gentle. 

Neil breathed through the tightness climbing his chest.

“I want to see you get off,” he said. “I want to see you fuck yourself—if you feel up to it.”

Andrew’s gaze dropped momentarily. When he lifted his eyes back to the camera, he gave a small nod—one Neil might’ve missed if he hadn’t been watching so closely.

Then Andrew stood and moved across the room, toward the bedside drawer. He pulled out several items: a jar of lube, which he set aside on the bed, and then a few dildos—one slick and black, another nude with a suction cup, and a third that was pink, slimmer but curved.

“Which one?” Andrew asked, carrying his trove of toys back and laying them out on the table.

Neil imagined Andrew on all fours, fucking himself with the thickest dildo, struggling to take it all in. Arousal surged through him like a cresting wave—his cock twitching hard in his shorts.

It would be good. Better than good— divine . But Neil wanted more than that. Because this was the last time. He needed more.

He wanted Andrew spread wide, on full display.

“The one with the suction,” Neil said. “Ride it for me.”

Andrew’s fingers brushed thoughtfully along the length of the dildo, and Neil’s heart pounded in his ribs—caught between the possibility of refusal and the shaper ache of acceptance. Andrew’s eyes glossed over with something unnamed as he fixed the camera with a dark look.

Neil thought he was beginning to understand that look—Andrew’s cold resistance, always falling away in favor of warm surrender. He seemed to enjoy being watched, to relish performing for an audience. And more than that, he appeared to love being told what to do—so long as it was within the safety of his own room, on his own terms, with the power to end it whenever he wanted, no consequences.

A part of Neil wondered if Andrew even cared about the money anymore. Maybe he did. Maybe it added another layer of submission that Neil couldn’t fully grasp.  Or maybe it was just a neat line—clear and transactional, a number ticking into Andrew’s account.

Regardless, the shadowed depth of Andrew’s gaze was seductive, compelling Neil to push further. To break him just a little more.

It wouldn’t be half as erotic if the submission came easily. If it wasn’t earned.

Eventually, Andrew’s fingers closed around the dildo’s shaft. His other hand reached for the camera, tilting it down toward the floor, toward a spot just beside the desk. Then he rose and sank to his knees just as fast, fastening the dildo to the hardwood, his back muscles flexing briefly beneath the black tank.

Neil—watching, breath caught in his throat—was suddenly suffused with vicious need. The ache to see all of Andrew, bared just for him.

“Take off your clothes,” he instructed.

Andrew complied, but slowly—too slowly, as if determined to tease the moment into madness. To test Neil’s patience. He shrugged his tank over his head first, holding it in his hands before dropping it on the floor. Then he eased his shorts down, revealing black silky briefs underneath—a deviation from last time. He tugged at the waistband, let it snap back against his stomach once, twice, before cupping the outline of his cock, already hardening beneath his touch.

Neil ran a hand over his own clothed cock—an involuntary gesture, almost distracted—until it pierced him with a jolt of pleasure that he sought again and again, rubbing himself through the fabric, losing himself to the friction, to the lovingly obscene show Andrew was putting on just for him.

Andrew continued to palm his now fully hardened cock through the briefs, tugging down the band just enough to reveal the pink head before tucking it out of view again.

Neil groaned, the grip on his cock tightening. “Take your time,” he murmured.

Andrew smirked. “Impatient.” He teased the head of his cock into view over the band again, tilting it down slightly to show off a bead of glistening precum—then smeared it over the slit.

“Fuck, Andrew,” Neil breathed, his sanity already splintering into tatters—and he hadn’t even seen Andrew naked yet. Hadn’t seen him prep himself. “Hurry up,” he gritted out. “I want to see your cock bounce over that dildo.”

Andrew’s fingers stilled for a moment. Then he abruptly tugged his briefs off, bending as his cock and balls sprang free. Just as quickly, he grabbed the jar of lube and positioned himself on the floor, squirting it over the dildo and roughly slicking the shaft.

Then he turned around—and oh, fuck—

Neil hissed through clenched teeth. “Andrew?” he managed after a second, heart hammering out of his chest as Andrew lowered himself over the entire length of the dildo in one smooth motion, holding himself up with one arm as his thick thigh muscles bulged ruinously with the effort.

“Andrew,” Neil repeated, more urgently now—because what the fuck—the dildo had penetrated Andrew so easily, slid into him without resistance, almost as if—

“I prepped myself. For you, baby,” Andrew said, the sarcasm of the pet name undercut by the slight hitch in his breath.

“Okay,” Neil said, his own cock pulsing and leaking in his shorts. “But next time—you’ll show me. I want to see your fingers working you open.”

Next time was a lie. But it didn’t matter just then, not in this haze of arousal that held Neil in a trance.

“You want too much. Has anyone ever told you that?” Andrew asked with a tilt of his head. His ass stayed planted firmly over the dildo, hips shifting slightly—likely from the pressure, the stretch, the complete fullness inside him. His perfect pink cock was hard and heavy against his stomach.

“But you’ll give it to me,” Neil murmured. Not a question. Not a command. Just something in between—a soft subspace, a whispered promise neither of them could keep. “Anything I want, remember?” 

Neil didn’t show up for the next session he’d booked in a moment of weakness.

He left the house altogether, just to stay away from his computer.

The skies outside were bruised with chrome clouds, threatening rain that never came. Neil ran laps around his neighborhood, fighting the humidity with gasping breaths.

His phone buzzed.

Andrew M.yard: got hit by a car?

Neil tapped out a reply in their Smash thread:

ExyJunkie10: sorry, something came up

Hours later, a new notification appeared—this time in his inbox. A refund for the session. Neil knew the rules. Andrew didn’t issue refunds. Not for no-shows.

ExyJunkie10: you didn’t have to do that

Andrew M.yard: and you don’t have to be an idiot

Andrew M.yard: but here we are

Did Andrew really understand the full extent of Neil’s idiocy? Doubtful. But he would, soon enough.

Neil blocked the thread. The temptation to keep going—whatever twisted thing this was—was too strong. Too all-consuming.

Afterward, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

This was better, he told himself.

Even as the hollowness in his chest rose to his throat—a numbness he wouldn’t shake in the days to come.

The days stretched—some thinner, some fuller—but all underlined by an ennui that made Neil desperate to shatter it. A deep recklessness had taken root in his core—a force he wrestled with daily. The bad decisions were held at bay for now, but for how much longer?

It was the same recklessness that had led him here—to this half-state of non-being and confusion, forged by a parasocial connection he’d known was dangerous from the start. He needed to do better. To playact a normal life until it resembled something closer to one.

Neil tried—he really did. He re-downloaded a dating app and made an honest effort to talk to someone. And though he hadn’t expected much, he agreed to a date with a girl named Pam, who had cute selfies with her sheltie and seemed perfectly affable in conversation.

Only to meet her in person and discover the wildest eyes he’d ever seen—and a penchant for downing shots that was borderline terrifying.

She leaned in at the bar and whispered conspiratorially, “Want to fly out to Austin with me this weekend?”

“What?” Neil asked numbly around his drink. Surely he’d misheard. They’d been on this date for all of—he checked—twenty-five minutes.

“My parents are pastors and they think I’m gay because I never date anyone. Just come out with me to prove them wrong?” she asked, batting her lashes in a way she clearly thought was flirtatious—or innocent—or both.

It shouldn’t have worked. But against all odds, it appealed to that insane, reckless streak in Neil—the part of him that wanted to undertake a venture as ludicrous as flying to Austin with a stranger to meet her evangelical parents.

In the end, Neil told her no.

But he couldn’t say no to the other request—making out—and it was messy. It inspired so little desire in him that he felt wretched afterward, couldn’t wait to go home and wash the encounter off his skin.

It wasn’t the flavor of bad decision he craved.

That same craving led him to Kevin’s apartment for game night—and later, to his knees in the bathroom, getting one of Kevin’s friends off.

It was an improvement over the date, but not by much—only because Neil couldn’t banish the image from the last cam session with Andrew.

The way he’d taken that dildo. The way he rode it, cock bouncing with every thrust. The way he wrapped a hand around himself just before he came—spilling everywhere, almost but not quite hitting his face.

It was so vivid, so enduring, it wormed its way into every sexual fantasy Neil’s brain could conjure.

There should have been some thread of joy to hold onto, watching the semifinals game afterward. Neil didn’t exactly want all this company and noise, but it was better than the stilted silence of his apartment.

“Neil,” Jean’s voice brushed against him on the couch, and Neil forced himself to close the dating app he’d been idly scrolling through. “How’s marathon prep?”

“What do you think?” Neil replied curtly. He’d been running so much lately, his knees hated him for it—might give out completely any day now.

Jean’s face fell, gray eyes fluttering shut for a beat, and Neil regretted the rudeness instantly. He rubbed at his temple, the world burning at his fingertips with the same tired sequence: action, then regret. What would it take to break the cycle?

“How’s yours going?” Neil asked, softer this time. “Want to do a few runs together in the mornings?”

He didn’t have a chance to register Jean’s reply.

A voice—so familiar now in its flatness, and everything it hid underneath—rose above the noise.

Jeremy, fiddling with the Exy game stream, had somehow landed on Andrew’s Smash channel, one of the rare occasions when Andrew deigned to broadcast a match.

“Turn that off,” Neil said, unable to look away. He had Andrew’s face memorized, but the forced separation had already eroded it into something dreamlike—something Neil wanted to reach for with his hands, but knew he shouldn’t.

In the periphery, Neil caught Kevin and Jeremy exchanging a look. He pinned them both with a glare of his own, daring them to speak. To ask.

But they didn’t. Jeremy just quietly closed out of Andrew’s stream.

False fall came and went, September granting them another taste of summer’s heat—the insistent sunlight drenching the gym through the windows that Tasha kept open in hopes of fresh air.

The fresh air wasn’t very forthcoming, but a soft breeze occasionally tickled the back of Neil’s neck if he stood long enough by a window. He hadn’t gotten a haircut in so long he’d started tying his hair up in a messy bun just to keep it out of his face during gym hours.

It was a slow morning—uneventful, caging Neil in with its daily monotony—so when the door downstairs chimed open, it startled him. Like the premonition of an accident seconds before it struck.

“No,” Neil muttered, his attention snapping toward the entrance. The old habit of watching doors and exits had long outlived necessity, but it served him well now.

“No,” he said again, with more panic this time, pulling Jeremy aside and whispering furiously into his ear. “What is he doing here?”

Sauntering up to the reception desk, hair mussed so artfully it should’ve been illegal this early in the morning, was Andrew Minyard—clad in black joggers, a tank top, and Nikes worn-in but not destroyed, unlike Neil’s sneakers, which never lasted long. He was too fast, too careless.

Andrew leaned casually against the desk, his gaze sliding dispassionately toward Neil on the other side of the gym—a glance that stopped Neil’s heart in its tracks. Then he turned to Tasha, who must have recognized him from their night out all those weeks ago, because the smile she gave him was at odds with her usual morning disposition—typically foul until well after ten.

“Um,” Jeremy said slowly, following Neil’s line of sight. “I think Kevin mentioned Andrew wanting to try our gym. Is there an issue?” 

“No issue,” Neil said, even as his chest rose too quickly, betraying him. “But I’m not taking him on as my client. I’m busy.”

Jeremy glanced over at Neil’s only client at this hour—Barbara, a woman in her fifties who was currently doing squats against a wall, abs visible beneath her sports bra, lean leg muscles tensing with every move. She was in better shape than most of their clients and didn’t need Neil nearly as much as she pretended to.

“Okay,” Jeremy said again, even slower than before, disbelief stitched into every syllable. “I’ll take him, if he wants to sign up.”

“Great,” Neil replied, though there was nothing great about the situation at all.

He guided Barbara through her next set of reps, watching despondently as Andrew filled out paperwork at the desk, answering Jeremy’s questions with half-nods and sparse replies. His gaze landed on Neil only once before his lips thinned into a tight line.

Neil tore his eyes away. Even that minimal attention was dangerous—his composure already crumbling, his mind spiriling with how the fuck he was supposed to survive the hour Andrew would be here. However many days he decided to show up after that.

He tried to focus on his second client, who had arrived after Barbara, but it was difficult to stay far enough from Andrew without being obvious about it. And Jeremy, of course, was taking him all over the gym—first sessions were always more about assessment than anything else. They threw everything at new clients to see what they could handle, to get a baseline.

Neil tried, in vain, to keep his voice down. Tried not to lose track of Andrew—his location, his proximity, his every move.

It was a precarious balancing act: watching and not watching.

Andrew on the floor, doing push-ups as Jeremy timed him. Andrew benching an enviable amount of weight. Andrew barely flinching as resistance bands strained against his biceps.

Neil nearly pulled Jeremy aside to tell him to stop going easy on him—Andrew could clearly handle more—but he wasn’t Neil’s client. It wasn’t Neil’s place.

And maybe there was something he didn’t know—an injury or limitation he wasn’t privy to.

So he held his tongue. Didn’t look.

Didn’t look when Andrew sat at the bicep curl machine, thick thighs spread wide—and oh fuck, Neil was looking. Was staring. Distracted. Memory ambushed him with completely inappropriate images of Andrew doing something else on the floor—

Neil was in so much trouble.

He could feel his chest caving in. He excused himself abruptly, muttering something to his client, and fled to the bathroom.

There, frozen by the sink, he splashed cold water on his face. His reflection stared back with flushed cheeks and eyes gleaming with something almost beastly. 

He didn’t look better afterward. Only wetter.

The hour Andrew spent there felt like an eternity—an obnoxious eternity that put Neil at constant risk of being recognized, of being discovered at any second.

He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Andrew might not recognize his voice. Andrew was too smart for that.

Neil had almost made it out unscathed—only for the pitfall to come in the form of Jeremy and Tasha collectively, conveniently disappearing somewhere, leaving Neil to man the reception desk alone. Just for a minute.

Long enough, of course, for Andrew to choose that exact moment to come up and buy a bottle of water to refill his flask.

Neil realized his lips were parted a moment too late. Realized he hadn’t moved for a beat too long. Andrew’s eyebrow quirked—not in confusion or impatience, Neil realized, but something worse.

Amusement.

Andrew was flushed from exertion, glistening with sweat, real in a way that made him more untouchable than ever. Neil reached for a cold bottle in the fridge, didn’t bother asking what size Andrew wanted, and just set it down on the counter between them.

“How much?” Andrew asked. His eyebrow was still raised.

Neil cleared his throat and tried to push his voice up higher than usual. “Two dollars,” he blurted.

Andrew’s hand, which had been reaching for his wallet, paused briefly. Then continued. He pulled out two bills and laid them on the counter with a definitive slap.

Okay, Neil thought. The ruse was going to be up much sooner than he’d hoped.

Over the next several days, Neil’s favorite preoccupation became agonizing over whether Andrew had already recognized him—and whether it mattered if he had. He couldn’t will the answer to either question into existence, no matter how closely he watched Andrew’s face for clues.

There was nothing to give him away. No hints of amusement anymore, no pinpricks of attention like there’d been that first day. Or maybe Andrew had just gotten better at hiding them.

Better than Neil, probably.

Neil ran his tension out on the treadmill—an imperfect substitute for the solid feel of ground beneath his feet, but enough to kill the long hour of Andrew’s visits. He noticed him only in glimpses, reflections. The way he moved around the gym. The way his conversations with Jeremy had grown longer, less clipped than on day one. The way Jeremy’s gaze lingered on Andrew’s ass when he walked away.

Neil punched the treadmill speed higher. Then higher again. Until the mirror blurred with the motion of his body, until he was oozing at the edges, heart pounding so loudly it became the sole noise in his head, a drum roll that silenced the world. 

On the last day of the week, an unexpected rainstorm broke out. Neil stepped out of the gym early for lunch, chasing a breath of coolness against his skin—only to pause at the threshold.

Andrew was standing just under the awning. Smoking a cigarette and watching the rain. 

His head turned briefly in Neil’s direction before the dismissal set in—as though the washed-out gray street was more captivating than anything Neil could offer. Which was bullshit. Neil could offer him things that would bring Andrew to his knees. They both knew that.

Neil inhaled the smoke Andrew’s lungs had exhaled and breathed it out reverently, pushing down the thousand memories it stirred, and said, “Andrew,” in his normal voice—steady, even as recklessness clawed its way up, tearing him apart.

Andrew lowered the cigarette just before it reached his mouth. Looked at Neil with an expression so cold it poured ice into his veins. “Oh? Finally done with the pretense?”

Neil had suspected Andrew knew. But the confirmation still wrenched the air from his chest. He forced himself to stay still and asked, “How long?”

Andrew flicked the cigarette against the wall, snuffing it out on brick. The ember sizzled weakly as it hit the wet ground. “Since before the lounge.”

Neil’s pulse raced in time with his thoughts. The night came back in fragments—his erratic behavior, Andrew’s too-knowing eyes. Did it make more sense now? Or less? He couldn’t tell. He raked a hand through his hair, the bun dislodging, strands falling free.

“How?” he asked, faintly. 

Andrew gave him one last unimpressed look before turning back to the rain. “Kevin told me about your gym. I checked out the Instagram.”

Neil let his head fall back against the damp wall with a dull thud. Of course. The fucking Instagram account. The videos Jeremy had posted—clips of Neil spotting clients, doing reps, giving light instructions. 

“You have a nice voice, Neil. Our clients love it.”

He’d hated Jeremy a little for that then. He hated him more for it now.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Neil asked.

“Why didn’t you?” Andrew shot back, his tone sharpening. 

“I think you know the answer to that.”

Neil had liked the anonymity of their encounters—being just a voice. It had been freeing. There was power in it too, control he lost the moment this bled into the real world, into something with shape and consequence.

But he’d already given it up once. He could do it again. He could live with it. 

With being known.

“I don’t,” Andrew replied. “But it doesn’t matter.”

He gripped his workout bag and turned to head up the stairs, but Neil stepped in, blocking his path.

“Andrew,” he said quietly. “Then why this gym?”

“It’s just a gym. A place to work out.” Andrew jabbed a finger to his temple, nudging Neil out of the way. “Don’t get ideas.”

Neil stood there, watching him climb the stairs, the ghost of Andrew’s touch still seared into his skin.

Andrew didn’t show up for a few days after that, though every time the front door chimed, Neil tensed—half hoping, half dreading that he’d see that blond head appear in the morning light. He told himself it would settle his nerves, just seeing Andrew again.

That, too, was a lie—one of many he fed himself in those days.

Because when Andrew did finally appear, Neil’s nerves didn’t settle. They detonated.

He spotted him outside the gym, smoking—sharing a cigarette, of all things, with Jeremy, who didn’t even smoke, as far as Neil knew.

Jeremy waved casually, cigarette smoke twisting between them.

Andrew didn’t acknowledge him beyond a flat stare that gave little away.

“We’re going to get drinks in a bit,” Jeremy said, with a smile so irritating Neil badly wanted to punch it off his face. “Want to come?”

Neil stared back with a flat look of his own, said nothing, and stalked past them. 

He knew he was being rude. Knew Jeremy didn’t deserve it—probably.

But he wasn’t in any kind of mood. Not with the lies, and the regrets, and everything else piling up faster than he could outrun them.

After a while, Neil began to see Andrew at the gym again—but rarely. Maybe he came after Neil’s shift was over, or on the days Neil wasn’t there. Neil could find out if he really wanted to—it would be easy to check the logs—but even that felt like an intrusion. A violation of privacy he no longer allowed himself.

When Andrew was there, he ignored Neil. And Neil ignored him back. Even if it felt, at times, like an insurmountable task—the way Andrew’s presence called to him, a gravity beneath his feet, a whisper of temptation.

But Neil could distract himself—with other clients, with the treadmill in between. Only then did he allow himself a glance in the mirror. Sometimes his eyes caught Andrew’s there, falling into their riotous depths, before Andrew scowled and looked away first. 

Neil nearly lost his balance once, stepping off the machine. 

“Neil,” Jeremy called, just as Neil was struggling to steady his breath, the treadmill still humming beneath him. “I have to go. Can you take Andrew and George? They’re both doing legs and core. And Antonia’s coming in a bit. She’s fuck—” Jeremy gestured wildly at the door, flustered by the idea of Antonia’s future arrival, “I don’t remember what we did last time, ask her.”

Then Jeremy was already whipping around to leave, but Neil reached out and braced a halting hand on his shoulder.

“Wait,” he said. “Is everything okay? When will you be back?”

“Just some family shit. You know how they are,” Jeremy replied, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Not long, hopefully.”

He gave Andrew a strangely pointed, almost longing look, then turned back to Neil and said, softer, “Thank you.”

Neil deliberated for a breath, deciding to check in with Andrew first, and George later—who was obviously slacking, stretching his thirty-second breaks into minutes.

“How many more sets of this?” Neil asked.

Andrew had clocked Neil’s approach from afar; Neil could see it in the subtle shift of his shoulders, the way he snapped the resistance band tighter around his thigh—half-revealed by the sickeningly tight black shorts he was wearing.

Neil swallowed, forcing his eyes upward to Andrew’s face instead.

“Last one,” Andrew said, straightening with his back pressed to the wall. “Jeremy?” he asked in a bland tone. 

“You get me today.”

“You,” Andrew echoed, stepping out of the resistance band. “And what will you have me do?”

The question was innocent enough, but out of Andrew’s mouth it landed differently, more suggestive, stirring memories Neil had absolutely no business revisiting right now.

He nearly laughed at the absurdity of it all. How was his life like this?

“Floor,” Neil said, keeping his smile in check as he led Andrew to the open mat area on the other side of the gym.

He dropped a mat in front of the mirror, set a timer on his smartwatch, and casually ordered, “Lie down,” holding his hands out for Andrew to grip.

Assisted sit-ups were a standard part of the core rotation. Neil had done them countless times with clients—and had seen Jeremy do them with Andrew, too—so he didn’t understand the hesitation. Andrew just held his hands and didn’t move for a few beats.

“You know this makes it too easy, right?” Andrew said, still unmoving. His hands were warm in Neil’s.

Neil rolled his eyes. “You know it’s about sustained endurance, right? It doesn’t matter how strong you are—if you tap out after a few minutes, you haven’t done the workout. This way you can last longer.”

“What makes you think I can’t last?” Andrew asked, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. 

Neil wanted to roll his eyes again, but settled for a slow shake of his head as he tugged at Andrew’s arms—pulling him upright until they were a breath apart, Andrew’s face level with his.

Andrew held his gaze for a moment before dropping back onto the mat with too much force, nearly yanking Neil down with him. Neil had to engage every leg muscle to stay steady, but he managed without a wobble. Andrew mutely completed the next sit-up and didn’t say another word for the rest of the set.

The minutes ticked by in a dazed blur—Neil completely absorbed by the flush rising along Andrew’s cheeks, the line of his throat, the flicker of a blue vein that surfaced with each controlled thrust upward. That stretch of unkissed skin gleamed, damp with sweat, under the harsh lights.

Fuck.

Neil almost recoiled, his body teetering on the edge of something reckless. The cradle of their joined hands had set his skin on fire, and now his control was unspooling by degrees. And it was his fault—all of it. He could have given Andrew a dozen other exercises. But he hadn’t.

Maybe Andrew knew it. Amusement danced golden in his eyes, his gaze trailing after Neil even as Neil broke away to check on George. He lingered longer than strictly necessary, trying to collect himself, shielding his eyes from the overhead lights with one arm. He rested them, briefly, until the loud clunk of weights snapped him out of the reprieve. 

Neil’s head turned instinctively, his gaze landing on Andrew—slouched against the machine, his head tipped back, one arm braced around the right side of his ribcage.

Neil crossed the gym before he even registered what he was doing. “Okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” Andrew bit out, his hand jerking away from his ribs. But Neil could see something was wrong—something off in the way he held himself, in the tightness marring his usually unreadable expression.

“Old injury?” Neil pressed.

Andrew ignored him and moved as if to resume the set, but Neil pushed back on the handle, a counterweight Andrew had trouble working against. 

“Take a longer break.”

If Andrew had more to argue, Neil didn’t stick around to hear it. He walked briskly toward the staff freezer and grabbed an ice pack. When he returned, Andrew was on the bench, phone in hand, tapping the screen in short, clipped bursts. His eyes barely lifted when Neil approached.

But Neil couldn’t stand the dismissal. Not now. 

“Can I?” he asked, firm.

Andrew stilled, clicked his phone shut, and said, “I told you I’m fine.”

“I’m not having you re-injure yourself on my watch,” Neil said, extending the ice pack. “Let me.”

After a beat, Andrew nodded slowly, edging closer on the bench to give Neil access to his ribs.

Neil pressed the pack against the fabric of his shirt, knowing the cold would still reach his skin. Andrew’s lashes lowered, eyes slipping shut, taking their hazel light with them. Neil watched the lines of his face soften almost imperceptibly under the chill.

“You should’ve told me,” Neil murmured.

Andrew’s eyes snapped open—bright and furious. The intensity made Neil falter, just faintly, in his grip on the pack.

“What time do you get off tonight?” Andrew asked.

Neil frowned at the question, but the answer spilled from him anyway. “Seven.”

“Okay,” Andrew said, voice rough. “I’m going to pick you up. Yes?”

Chapter Text

A little past seven, Andrew’s Maserati was waiting for him outside—glossy red, the brightest star on that drab street. A low thrum of bass pulsed from the open windows, making the frame vibrate gently.

Andrew didn’t lower the music when Neil climbed in, didn’t greet him beyond a cursory once-over that ended the moment Neil buckled his seatbelt. Then he threw the car into gear and peeled off. His eyes stayed fixed on the road the entire drive, though Neil tried not to watch him too closely—didn’t dare, not with the way it made his stomach tumble. 

He probably should’ve asked where Andrew was taking him. But the assured way he gripped the wheel, the ease with which he navigated, made it clear he had a destination in mind—and Neil found himself more curious than apprehensive.

They drove through town—all the chewed-up, spit-out streets of it—before veering onto a ramp toward the interstate.

Neil braced an elbow against the door, gazing out toward the sky's fading light, steeling himself for a longer drive.

But just minutes later, Andrew pulled off abruptly into a small gravel lot on the side of the highway—one Neil hadn’t even noticed until the tires crunched to a stop. When the engine cut out, the hum gave way to the rush of cars speeding past.

Without a word, Andrew grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the console and stepped out.

Neil followed, mirroring his stance against the Maserati’s hood.

The lot opened onto a view of the valley below, the sky saturated with color, the sun a molten sphere sinking beneath the horizon. There weren’t many places of elevation around Columbia—but this was evidently one of them. Just below their feet, a gentle grassy slope gave way to a sea of trees stretching for miles—a thick, dark forest set on fire by the setting sun.

Neil nearly brought a hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp. He hadn’t known a place like this existed—hidden in plain view, just miles from his house, but improbable anyway. Cut from the fabric of better places, calmer dreams.

The tension that had held him together all day began to seep out of him like heat rising from pavement after the first drops of rain.

An aching sense of déjà vu seized him too—but in reverse. Not like he’d already been here, but like he would be again someday. Like he would drink in this same sunset. Like he would feel Andrew’s steadying presence beside him once more. Like he would get the chance to take Andrew apart, piece by piece, and know him better. 

Perhaps it was wishful thinking.

But Neil clung to the fantasy anyway. Couldn’t help but wonder about the rigidity of his cage, the tang of coppery disappointment on his tongue—of being trapped in a life that always felt short on gratitude. Maybe it had all been intentional—a divine design meant to lead him here. To this one sunset, catastrophic in its splendor—the colors running together in blood orange and translucent violet. Backward and forward, dissolving, changing shape. And Neil was running with them, freed at last.

He turned his gaze for a moment to take Andrew in, to etch him into this memory too. Andrew stood facing the valley, cigarette in hand, the tip burning low. He hadn’t offered Neil one.

He was painted in the same light—his skin inked in reds, his eyes lit like goldfire.

“It’s beautiful,” Neil whispered.

Andrew’s lips froze around the filter. Then he tore the cigarette from his mouth and turned sharply, favoring Neil with an indeterminate look. A heartbeat passed, suspended in the hush of young dusk, before Andrew exhaled smoke into Neil’s face and said, “I come here sometimes to fly my drone.”

“A drone?” Neil asked, nudging the conversation forward.

Andrew nodded, tossed the cigarette into the gravel, and ground it out beneath his boot. Then he walked to the back of the car and retrieved a black case.

“I haven’t charged it, but there should be enough battery for a short flight,” he said, placing the case atop the hood and unzipping it.

“Can I fly it?” Neil asked, watching him set it up—feeling reckless, maybe, or just bold because he was already here. With Andrew.  

“Do you know how to?” Andrew asked, unfolding the drone’s arms.

“No, but how hard can it be?”

Neil thought Andrew’s mouth might have twitched—but then it straightened into a rigid line. Andrew walked a few paces off to place the drone on even ground, then came back and handed Neil the controls.

“If you get it stuck in a tree, you’re buying me a new one.”

“Okay,” Neil said, studying the buttons. “Wait—is that an idle threat, or does that actually happen?”

“Oh, it happens,” Andrew replied.

“Oh my god,” Neil said, looking up from the panel. “You landed a drone in a tree?”

Andrew shrugged. “The oak tree by my house was a lot closer than I thought.”

“And how did you get it down?”

“I didn’t,” Andrew said coolly.

“Shit,” Neil muttered, smothering a nervous laugh. Suddenly, he wasn’t so confident in his drone-operating abilities. But he forged on anyway—banishing thoughts of its probable cost—and pressed the button that seemed most likely to bring it to life.

It worked. The drone spun up with a sharp mechanical hum, loud enough to drown out the highway.

There were two control sticks on either side of the panel, and Neil tested the right one first, watching as the drone lifted effortlessly, hovering a few feet above the gravel.

The left stick controlled horizontal movement—and that was all Neil needed to know. He sent it soaring into the sky, watching the screen as their two figures and the Maserati shrank into insignificance, the valley below swelling in size, its shape expanding toward the horizon now veiled in twilight.

“How well does this navigate in the dark?” Neil asked, thumb easing back on the control before he took it too far.

“Not well,” Andrew replied, and suddenly he was near. 

Neil felt it first: the heat of him, pressing in close, the scent of his cologne—warm and sharp and masculine. Neil liked it immediately, though maybe that was inevitable. He’d been drawn to Andrew long before they met in person, and every new detail only deepened the pull; made his skin peel off with desire that he desperately tried to ignore when Andrew reached around him to adjust the settings, his fingers brushing Neil’s as he toggled the dials. His voice was low, tracing words against the shell of Neil’s ear—something about saturation and contrast, how to tweak the lighting to make the colors pop.

He showed Neil how to record a time-lapse, and then they stood together encased in silence, save for the hum of passing cars and the rising chill of evening nipping at their skin. The drone hovered high above the valley—so far away it might’ve been in orbit, capturing the last breath of daylight before it vanished.

Eventually, Neil tried to navigate it back, but the valley looked the same in all directions. He couldn’t spot the highway until Andrew said, “There’s a return-to-home button.”

“Oh.” 

It took a moment, but the drone located them. Neil managed to land it on a flat patch of gravel, intermittently lit by the headlights of passing cars.

After Andrew packed it away, he pulled another cigarette from the pack but didn’t light it—just held it, pinched between his fingers. The silence returned, now joined by the gloom of night and the burning breeze. Neil began to fear this was how the evening would end—that Andrew would drive him home, and that would be it.

Neil didn’t want him to. Not yet.

“Andrew—” he started, just as Andrew said:

“Why—”

Neil waved for him to go first.

“You blocked me,” Andrew said simply.

Neil winced. “I didn’t want to keep doing this,” he said, motioning vaguely between them. “Not once I knew you in real life. It felt…wrong.”

“‘Knew me in real life,’” Andrew repeated, voice flat. “You’ve done nothing but avoid me.”

“Yeah, because it’s fucking weird, okay?” Neil snapped. “The guy you’re lusting after on the internet isn’t supposed to just show up in your life.”

“‘Lusting,’” Andrew echoed again.  

Neil groaned. “Would you stop repeating everything I say?” He dragged his hands through his hair, tearing the bun loose out of habit—then froze, catching how Andrew’s shadowed form shimmered and blurred in the dark.

For a moment, he thought Andrew was heading back to the car. Not yet, Neil thought. Not like this.

But then Andrew changed direction—or maybe Neil hadn’t noticed how close he’d already gotten—until he was standing directly in front of him, a held breath away.

Seconds dripped by before Andrew reached out and gently tugged Neil’s hand down from his hair. Neil let him. Then, experimentally, he gave Andrew’s arm a pull—to test him. To see if he’d resist, or come closer.

He came.

Settling between Neil’s legs where they rested on the hood.

The next gust of wind whipped around them, catching their hair, tangling it together. Neil could taste Andrew’s breath on his lips—cigarette smoke and heat. The question bloomed before it was spoken, carried by the bending creak of branches, the moan of metal holding their weight. 

“Can I kiss you?” Andrew asked.

Neil lifted his eyes to meet Andrew’s—slow as continents shifting. He filled his chest with Andrew’s breath and murmured, “Yes,” on the exhale.

Their chapped lips brushed first, then came everything else, in fits and starts. Noses bumping. A pause. A slight adjustment. Andrew’s tongue pressing into Neil’s mouth—tentative, then more insistent—just as a truck roared past on the highway, shaking the car beneath them.

Or maybe that was Neil’s body, trembling with the force of it.

They found their rhythm and preferred angle, the kiss growing more frantic with every slick drag of their mouths. A sizzle and a pop of static that Neil felt down his spine, bursting like starlight behind his eyes.

It couldn’t be that this is how kissing felt, Neil thought deliriously— like it was their last chance at this, at freedom and aching, and fall sunsets you could never quite forget. 

Andrew broke away—but only just. He hovered, breathing against Neil’s mouth.

And Neil knew there was no catching their breath. No coming back from this.

The wind contains you. You contain me.

When Andrew returned the gift of his mouth, he brought the full weight of himself with it—toppling Neil back against the hood, one hand roaming along Neil’s leg, lifting it, the other gripping his waist and brushing the strip of exposed skin where his shirt had ridden up. His mouth grew bolder, teeth grazing Neil’s lower lip.

Neil, dizzy and freefalling—even as the hard surface of the hood dug into his spine—reached for him, sliding his hand beneath Andrew’s shirt to feel the warm skin underneath. Goosebumps erupted beneath the pads of his fingers.

But then Andrew stilled and pulled back.

Neil’s heart dropped. “I’m sorry—” he began.

“Shut up,” Andrew said.

He covered Neil again with the weight of his body, took Neil’s hand, and draped it firmly over his waist.

“Just like this for now. Over the clothes. While I get used to you.”

Get used to you.

The phrasing rippled a shiver straight through Neil—the premise of it, the permission it implied, the promise tucked inside the restraint.

And Andrew, as if to answer the violence of that reaction, kissed him harder, his fingers dragging along Neil’s thigh, scratching lightly at the skin, leaving behind faint moon-marks.

Neil moaned into the kiss, tried not to shift beneath him—tried not to press his hard cock against Andrew. But somehow, Andrew sensed every intent, every transparent desire. Maybe he’d already memorized the shape of Neil’s struggle, because instead of letting him get away with it, he surged forward, pressing his thigh right up against Neil’s erection.

“Andrew—” Neil gasped, biting into the kiss. He had more to say, he was certain—if only he could push the words past the tightness in his chest—but Andrew cut him off with a low murmur against his mouth, voice rolling like a blade:

“Want to suck your dick. Yes or no?”

It took a second for Neil’s brain to catch up. Another ruinous heartbeat for his cock to twitch against the thick muscle of Andrew’s thigh. And then a few more to remember where they were—the car rocking faintly beneath them with each thundering pass of trucks on the highway, the cold moon rising in the night sky above them.

It was still just them in the lot. But what if another car pulled over?

A “Fuck yes,” tumbled out of Neil’s mouth—except that wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He took a breath, tried again. “Here?”

Andrew eased back slightly, letting a gust of wind sweep between their bodies. Then he grabbed Neil’s arm, tugging him off the hood—down, down onto the gravel.

Neil barely had time to register the rough texture beneath his palms before Andrew was guiding him again—dragging them past the edge of the lot and down the slope. The gravel transformed to wild grass: damp, fragrant, impossibly soft. It smelled of earth and old rain, forgotten storms, and the last warmth of sun.

Neil breathed it in. Breathed in Andrew, his skin, his cologne, the lingering cigarette smoke, before he lost him completely to the descent.

Andrew sank between Neil’s parted legs, his mouth chasing every inch of Neil’s exposed skin on the way down—tongue dragging hot and greedy over his neck, his collarbone. He shoved Neil’s shirt up, pressed wet kisses into the ridges of his abdomen, mouthed at the bulge in his shorts before yanking them down in one swift motion. His lips closed around the head of Neil’s cock, then took him mercilessly to the hilt.

Neil gasped, body arching. Fell further into the grass, his hands digging through the blades, tearing them out by the root.

“Fuck—” he choked out. Andrew’s mouth worked him with steady rhythm, slick and relentless, all wet pressure and searing heat. One hand steadied the shaft while the other rolled his balls gently in his palm, and Neil’s cock pulsed, straining under the onslaught.

“Wait—” Neil tried to warn him, voice catching on a moan. Andrew didn’t hear—at first—but something must have registered in the way Neil tensed beneath him.

He stilled, then pulled off abruptly. Neil’s cock slipped from his mouth with a wet sound, the sudden absence of heat devastating. 

Neil reached down, catching his wrist, gently guiding him back. “Don’t stop,” he said breathlessly. “Just slow down. I’m gonna come.”

He couldn’t see Andrew clearly in the dark, just the shape of him and the pale glint of his hair.

“That’s typically the point of a blowjob,” Andrew said flatly. 

Neil grinned, knowing Andrew wouldn’t really see it. “I want to enjoy it.”

“You want to enjoy getting sucked off on the side of the road.”

“I want to enjoy your mouth,” Neil said, reaching out. His fingers found Andrew’s lips, silky slick with spit. Andrew bit one lightly before swatting them away with a huff.

But then he leaned back in and took Neil into his mouth again. Slower this time, almost gentle.

“Right there, Andrew,” Neil encouraged, voice low and trembling as Andrew dragged his tongue along the underside of his cock with indulgent care. “Fuck, keep going. That feels so good.”

“Have I mentioned,” Andrew said, pausing to blow cool air over the wet skin of Neil’s dick between words, “that I hate you?”

Neil ignored the declaration and gave a shallow thrust into Andrew’s mouth, a needy plea he couldn’t quite contain. Andrew answered it with a pleased hum, deep in his throat—vibration rolling down Neil’s cock, radiating through his thighs in shivery aftershocks.

Andrew kept going, slow and cruel, keeping him teetering on the edge. Neil murmured encouragements between gasps—half moans, half praise—always letting Andrew know when he was close.

“Yes, fuck—Andrew, I’m gonna come—”

But every time, Andrew eased off. Let Neil’s cock throb helplessly in the heat of his mouth, motionless—perfectly still in his malicious compliance.

They did this too many times.

Neil was wrecked, so full of vicious arousal it felt like a sickness. 

Andrew flicked his tongue across the tip of his dick. It pushed Neil suddenly toward the precipice, and he cried out in frustration—so fucking close. But Andrew still wasn’t moving. Just holding Neil’s dick in his mouth, cockhead shoved deep in his throat, not letting up.

Neil buzzed and tingled, every nerve alive and howling, and he thrust his hips—lightly, just once—chasing the release that was so near it gripped him, choked him with its promise.  

That one shameless movement was all it took. 

He came hard, spilling down Andrew’s throat, and Andrew held him through it, kept him whole even as he shattered. Neil groaned brokenly, cursed, and might have gasped Andrew’s name. The pleasure was tidal and all-encompassing, wiping out the edges of thought. It receded—only to come back, crashing over him in another aching wave.

His heartbeat echoed in his ears—loud enough to tremble the scant starlight from the sky and bring it down around them.

Neil drifted in that light, in the afterglow of his orgasm, in the feel of Andrew’s mouth around his softening dick for a few stolen breaths—until Andrew released him, tucked him back in, and pulled his shorts up.

Then Andrew’s mouth found his again—a filthy tangle of lips and tongue and teeth. Neil slipped out of time once more, until he heard the unmistakable sound of Andrew’s hands working his own buckle and zipper open. Neil wished he could see it. But the ghost-touch of Andrew’s fist, pumping his cock in rough strokes, was erotic enough to spark another ember of arousal low in his gut.

Andrew’s rhythm picked up, and the kisses turned messier—his mouth going slack against Neil’s.

Neil indulged the distraction. He bit lightly at Andrew’s lower lip, then trailed lower, tracing the hinge of his jaw, then the winding slope of his neck—kisses and bites sketched across skin, drawing invisible bruises he might one day leave for real, if given the chance. 

Andrew groaned.

A shiver passed between them, carried on the drag of their breath. Maybe Andrew was starting to lose control, because his fist slipped—and the slick head of his cock brushed Neil’s bare thigh, just beneath the hem of his shorts.

Neil moaned loudly. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”

Another groan escaped Andrew. He shifted above Neil—a beat of hesitation, a stuttered breath—and then he was pressing the head of his cock into the thickest part of Neil’s thigh. A slow, deliberate drag of warm skin on skin. It left Neil boneless and aching. It coaxed another wanton, shameless sound out of him as Andrew thrust under the hem of his shorts, tugging them higher, digging deeper against the fabric.

“Holy fuck—” Neil gasped, letting him grind into him. He felt every torturous slide, every ragged jerk of Andrew’s hand, every bone-deep shudder Andrew passed into him like second hand smoke. 

“Right there, Andrew, fuck,” Neil rambled, as Andrew’s pace picked up—then faltered. Not stopping, just wavering, teasing the edge like he was trying to find his way back from it. 

“Yes, yes—Andrew—want you to come like this. Come in my shorts,” Neil whispered.

Andrew growled something that sounded dangerously like fuck you —but he did it anyway.

He tensed, moans stifled behind clenched teeth, and came—spilling into Neil’s shorts, cock twitching where it was trapped between warm skin and damp fabric. 

Andrew’s stance disintegrated slightly as he held himself over Neil, chest heaving so hard it brushed against Neil’s every few seconds. A few strange, peaceful moments passed—just their breaths in sync, the world forgotten—before Andrew rolled off and collapsed onto the grass beside him, arm flung across his stomach.

Then he turned his head and said, “You are a little sex freak, aren’t you.”

Neil nearly laughed, took the teasing in stride. “Only for you, I think.”

“You think ?” 

“Besides, you’re one to talk. You’re—” Neil started, but couldn’t finish. He didn’t have the wherewithal to entertain the thought: that while Neil was only like this with Andrew, Andrew wasn’t only like this with Neil. That he liked being watched. That he performed for others. 

“A what?” Andrew asked, daring him.

Neil didn’t bite.

He let his gaze drift up, searching the stars that hid behind clouds now, willing his heart to settle into safer rhythms.

Some time passed like this—or maybe no time at all—until Neil began to shiver in earnest. The ground beneath him deposited cold into his bones, and the arms of the grass felt less welcoming now.

“Come on, before the ticks get you,” Andrew said. He rose first, and then offered a hand, gripping Neil’s arm and pulling him to his feet.

“Ticks?” Neil echoed, overtaken by a flood of numb horror. Instantly, he felt assaulted by invisible insects crawling up his legs. His skin itched all over.

He rushed up the hill toward the car, gritting his teeth through the sensation of cum sliding down his thigh, the stickiness in his shorts. He just waited, impatient and twitchy, for Andrew to catch up and unlock the door.

As soon as the lock clicked, Neil hurled himself inside and dove for the glovebox. He found some tissues and cleaned up as best he could before turning to the more pressing task: checking himself for ticks. He used the flashlight on his phone, scanning every inch of exposed skin—but the tight confines of the car made it an imperfect, clumsy process.

“Let me see,” Andrew murmured.

Apparently, he’d been watching Neil’s frantic efforts this whole time—entirely unaffected by Lyme-disease-induced panic, thanks to the black jeans he was wearing and his minimal exposure to grass.

Neil nodded and let Andrew pull his legs over the console.

Andrew’s fingers were methodical and warm, tracing lightly over Neil’s ankles, then calves, and higher still. Neil couldn’t look away from his face while he worked—fine lashes lowered in concentration, the tip of his nose tinged pink from the cold, faint freckles melding into smooth skin. 

When Andrew’s touch skimmed over the backs of his thighs, goosebumps unfurled across Neil’s legs in its wake. Then Andrew pulled back, leaving Neil bereft of warmth once again. 

“No ticks,” he concluded.

“Thanks,” Neil said, not really caring that much anymore. He swung his legs back down to the floor, thinking of the fury of Andrew’s mouth and the tenderness of his touches. 

“Hungry?” Andrew asked, turning the ignition.

“Yeah,” Neil said, stomach clenching at the reminder. “No dinner? What kind of shitty date is this?”

Andrew winced, fingers gripping the leather of the steering wheel. “It’s not a date.”

“What is it, then?” Neil teased, watching him carefully.

“Nothing,” Andrew said—so flatly Neil couldn’t tell who he was trying to convince more: Neil, or himself.

But Neil let it go. “Okay. Can we still get food, though? I’m starving.”

“Yeah.” Andrew’s reply was clipped as he threw the car into reverse.

“And it better not be something disgusting like a milkshake,” Neil added.

Andrew slammed the brakes. The tires spun out, struggling for traction on the gravel. Neil’s seatbelt snapped tight across his chest from the jolt.

“You know what—” Neil continued, ignoring every warning sign, “your milkshake does bring the boys to the—”

He didn’t get to finish. Andrew’s firm hand clamped over his mouth, cutting the sentence off. 

He peeled out of the lot, struggling to merge onto the highway one-handed. A truck blared its horn behind them, but Andrew didn’t let up—he just floored the gas, the engine roaring in protest beneath them.

Neil was still laughing softly when Andrew’s hand finally dropped away.

“Be quiet,” Andrew muttered, “or I will throw you out of this car.”

“You can try,” Neil replied. “I’ll take you with me.”

Chapter Text

“I have a vision for the new banner,” Renee announced.

Andrew slurped his frozen mocha, barely paying attention. Renee was full of visions all the time.

“You in a corset,” she continued, clearly enamored with her idea, strands of hair escaping the colorful buns piled on her head. She didn’t wait for a response—just flipped open her sketch journal and turned it toward him.

“Biting on a maraschino cherry,” she added cheerfully.

Andrew gave her a long, lackluster look. She ignored it.

“And these are the new emoji designs.”

Andrew glanced down. Just as absurd as the milkshake ones she’d made for him—except now everything was cherry-themed.

“No,” he said flatly.

“I don’t see why not. Your chest would look incredible in a corset. And it fits the theme—”

“Scrap it,” Andrew cut in, pushing away his empty cup. “The whole milkshake thing.”

The words came out harsher than he meant them to—arrested by a memory from a few nights ago.

Neil perched over him in the car’s front seat at the drive-thru window, torso stretched, perky ass at Andew’s eye level. Briefly—too briefly—before he turned around with a wicked grin and said, “Nice try. Not getting a milkshake.”

Andrew had naively thought that ordering a frappe with extra whipped cream would save him.

Then the barrage began.

“You’re the whip to my cream,” Neil had said solemnly, hand to chest like he was delivering a tragic monologue.

“Andrew—Andrew—I’m feeling a little whipped over here.”

Then, lower, smug: “You look mad. Do you want to whip me into shape?” 

Andrew had only shut him up by shoving a burning hot fry into his mouth.

Back in the present, one of Renee’s perfectly manicured eyebrows arched at Andrew’s veto.

“You’re joking. It’s perfect. It’s your brand.”

Andrew’s attention flicked between the tattooed barista not-so-subtly making eyes at him and the notifications lighting up his phone.

He made a decision: handle things one at a time.

“No corsets,” he said finally. The idea wasn’t terrible—just something he’d prefer to save for a more explicit shoot.

“Cherry’s fine.”

He tilted his head, assessing the barista—cute, but hesitant. Gaydar faulty as fuck. Still under the illusion that these coffee dates with Renee meant something more than what they were: an excuse to get Andrew out of the house.

The timidity killed his interest.

He didn’t chase things that flinched.

Renee, acting as his unofficial brand manager, hummed thoughtfully. “What about a tight tank top and shorts? With a little apron?”

“Whatever,” Andrew muttered, thumbs already moving as he replied to Neil’s message.

Neil: I know a cool spot to fly your drone

Neil: It’s a bit of a drive though

Andrew: when? 

Neil: I’m off today

Andrew already knew that. He was intimately familiar with Neil’s work schedule—had memorized it once upon a time to minimize their encounters at the gym, after Neil refused to be his personal trainer and blocked him for good measure.

Andrew was great at taking a hint.

He just hadn’t counted on Jeremy abandoning him to Neil’s mercy the one day they did cross paths at the gym.

Andrew: coming to get you

It would get him even further out of the house—a good thing, he rationalized, trying to justify the impromptu decision.

“I have to go,” Andrew said, pushing to his feet.

“In a hurry somewhere?” Renee asked, smirking as she gathered her things and followed him outside.

He could feel the barista’s stare trailing them like a heatwave.

“Going to fly a drone with a boy,” Andrew said, because he wasn’t in the habit of lying to Renee.

“A boy?” she repeated, pausing by the door of her Subaru. “The boy?”

There was only one boy who had persistently become a thorn in Andrew’s side—

The boy from the Instagram workout videos. The boy from the private sessions. The boy from that night out with Kevin. The boy from the gym.

How Neil was all of those boys at once was mystifying—and somehow still the least interesting thing about him.

Andrew regarded Renee over the rim of his sunglasses. That was all the answer she needed.

“Have fun,” she said with a knowing smile, and released him from the hot afternoon sun burning down on them.

Neil hadn’t been exaggerating—the place was far. But Andrew didn’t mind the long drive.

Neil seemed thoroughly immune to his driving habits: the way Andrew pushed the Maserati, wove through traffic, bullied slower cars out of the left lane with ruthless tailgating. When they finally hit a stretch of open interstate, Andrew relaxed into a speed he could actually tolerate—even if it was thirty miles over the limit.

He entertained himself with the occasional glance at his passenger, swathed in sunlight. Neil’s hair shimmered in so many shades of red it was hard to keep track—and Andrew tried, for a while. Ruby. Scarlet. Currant. Merlot. Burgundy. Garnet.

Eventually, he ran out of terms—and patience.

Because Neil was sitting there with his legs spread, thighs on full display courtesy of those damn shorts he liked to wear. A lazy, relaxed posture. Maybe too relaxed. Intentional, even—judging by the way Neil sometimes caught Andrew’s glances and returned them, steady and curious, charged with a light too impossible to contain.

Forcing Andrew to look away.

They arrived to cliffs rising on one side and a thundering river on the other, a narrow hiking path snaking along its edge. The trail started in the back of a state park and seemed a little overgrown, forgotten—tree tops bending toward each other, beckoning them closer, deeper into the woods.

Andrew had checked the maps beforehand. Technically, he could fly his drone here. But—

“But?” Neil asked, leaning against the car, catching the hesitation.

“But it could disturb the wildlife,” Andrew said, glancing up at the cliffs—sparse with vegetation, but climbable.

“Come on.”

They clambered to the top—a grueling ascent that made Andrew regret not wearing shorts, or at least something closer to athleisure.

The view that unfurled before them was staggering—rippling hills that, millions of years ago, might have been mountain peaks. From the drone’s perspective, the valley looked even more expansive, shadowed by drifting cumulus clouds.

Andrew let Neil pilot it. He was a shockingly fast learner, and Andrew had no qualms about handing over control. He liked watching him like this—eyes wide with wonder, face tipped toward the sky. The same spark Andrew had felt with his first drone. Before the novelty faded. Like everything else.

He watched Neil carefully now, waiting. Waiting for the moment this would fade too. The novelty of him. Waiting for the interest to dull, for the silence before the gunshot—before everything came crashing down.

“You know, boredom is a sickness,” Neil said, glancing down at him.

Andrew sat on the ground, cigarette in hand, turning it over between his fingers but not lighting it. Not yet.

Neil must’ve been afflicted by the same sickness—to sense it so profoundly in Andrew.

Andrew frowned up at the storm clouds gathering fast above them.

Neil remained oblivious, leaning precariously off a boulder, fingers trailing through the shallow stream below. The water parted gently around his hand—concentric ripples expanding outward, only to vanish without a trace the moment he withdrew.

They had packed the drone back into the car before hiking further down the river path. It seemed to stretch on endlessly—Andrew didn’t know how much farther they’d go before Neil finally relented and led them to this calmer bend of water.

Andrew’s guard was down, lulled by the geometry of rushing water—how it coalesced, then scattered again. Idly, he tracked Neil’s hand as it returned to the surface, not expecting the ambush when a spray of cold water hit him square in the face.

Neil looked up at him then, a playful challenge gleaming in his eyes, a wild storm brimming just behind them.

Andrew blinked—against the sting of cold droplets clinging to his lashes, against the tempest above and the one sitting in front of him. But no amount of blinking could clear the image from his sight.

It wouldn’t leave him.

The way Neil had become a recurring thread in the fabric of Andrew’s life. A pattern too precise to be coincidence. Too mythic to be real—unless Andrew had conjured him into existence himself, pulling this impossible creature into orbit with sheer force of will.

Maybe the first time he did it was before he even knew Neil. When all he had was that video—Neil’s body in motion, reckless and obscene. Thrusting his hips to lift “the weight of an average twink,” as the caption helpfully supplied, all with effortless control. Every sharp pump of his pelvis made his thigh muscles flex like someone had carved them out with a blade.

Andrew was perfectly content with his regular gym—he’d been going there for years. His routine was dialed in: balanced muscle mass across the board, with just enough upper-body focus to keep his college bench numbers intact. Cardio, unfortunately, was non-negotiable—a necessary evil to counteract a diet riddled with sugar cravings. 

He wasn’t looking for a new gym. Or a personal trainer. 

There was no reason he should’ve been checking out Kevin’s gym on Instagram with such alarming frequency.

It definitely wasn’t because the private trainers who worked there were all offensively attractive.

Especially the shorter one with fiery curls, whose ab routine Andrew had been watching—again—for the past few minutes. In the current video, he was in a low plank, hips rotating slow over a mat, his tiny waist twisting with each roll, thighs flexing with every dip.

It was borderline pornographic. Possibly in violation of Instagram’s terms of service.

Andrew bit his lip and clicked out of the video.

Only for the algorithm to serve him another reel a minute later.

This time, the guy was talking. Not entirely by choice, judging by the barely restrained scowl on his face. He was outside—evidently just finished a run—curls held back by a bandana, damp strands clinging to his forehead, sweat beading along his cheek. Sunlight slid over him in a golden wash, catching on the curve of his mouth, the keen flash of his eyes—a sharp, arresting blue, like seawater lit on fire. Freckles stood out across his skin—ember sparks refusing to die.

It shouldn’t have been hotter than the workout video. But somehow, it was worse. Whoever was filming him knew exactly what they were doing.

And then there was his voice—measured, even after the run. Calm and sure. Completely unbothered by anything outside his immediate orbit.

Fuck. He was exactly Andrew’s type.

And because Andrew was extremely fond of bad ideas, he decided—right then and there—that he needed this guy to be his personal trainer.

“I’m not so single-minded that I don’t want other things.”

Andrew was either losing his mind—or he recognized the voice.

He recognized the username too. Of course he did. His photographic memory made that inevitable. He was able to track his active chatters with annoying precision—especially before agreeing to any private sessions.

Not that he accepted many. Aside from a few longtime regulars he tolerated out of habit, Andrew turned down most. He didn’t need the money—not anymore. Not since his Smash streams started pulling in steady subscriber numbers.

But this one caught his eye.

Partly because the guy seemed to know Kevin. And partly because he didn’t seem like the type to engage with this kind of content. No appearances in the public cam sessions. No comments, no tips, no impulse buys of Andrew’s locked photos or videos—unlike his more indulgent, obsessive followers.

Andrew accepted the request without expecting much. Fully prepared to end the call the moment that flicker of curiosity burned out—and it always did. With everything. With everyone.

Instead, he found himself staring at the screen, wondering why the voice on the other end sounded so goddamn familiar.

He didn’t piece it together—not until later. Or maybe he just didn’t let himself believe. Technology had a way of distorting things, deceiving, leading you astray.

“Yes. Right there,” Neil murmured. “Spread your legs wider for me.”

Bending space until there was nothing left but this—this voice that systematically took Andrew apart.

No. What was more interesting about the boy wasn’t how he’d slipped into every part of Andrew’s life—seamless, sudden, like tumbling into a fever dream. It was his voice. That silky timbre. That shameless tongue. The way he twisted words until they unraveled Andrew completely.

There was inexperience there too—Andrew could hear it. But he couldn’t fault him for it. Not when Andrew had only ever explored his own fantasies from behind a screen, buffered by distance and pixels.

That inexperience made it worse. More surprising. More dangerous.

Neil didn’t seem to know what he wanted—until he did. Until the moment he zeroed in with a surety that toppled Andrew like a bullet to the heart.

And Andrew was weak for it. Tipsy on the sound of him alone—each quickened breath sizzling through the mic, explosions of static landing as goosebumps on his skin, a thumping pulse in his chest.

Blackout drunk on Neil’s moans—those half-whimpers, half-exhalations he couldn’t suppress when he came. Trembling sounds that echoed down Andrew’s spine, made his thighs shake.

He hated what Neil’s commands did to him—the way his body wanted to surrender without question. The way it reached back, eager to please.

Every defense falling away as Andrew sat there—inert. Pliant. Obedient.

Andrew became certain—without a shadow of doubt—when he saw Neil in the lounge.

Not just because of the way Neil gave himself away—the way he reacted to Andrew’s appearance—but something less tangible. The hate rising in Andrew’s chest, churning hot and feral as he took him in: those wild curls, bloody red in the gasping candlelight; sharp cheekbones flushed with embarrassment; midnight eyes darkened by defiance.

Andrew stared, cataloguing imperfections—detesting the fact that he couldn’t find any. Not in the smooth line of Neil’s neck. Not in the raised veins along his forearms. Not in the flash of jutting hipbones, his shirt riding up to tease sculpted abs beneath the fabric as he lifted his arm.

Not a single fucking flaw. Except the Exy obsession, of course. 

Andrew wondered, distantly, if he could fuck it out of him.

He leaned in to drawl into Kevin’s ear, eyes never leaving Neil. “I see you’ve been holding out on me.”

Kevin followed his line of sight—and shook his head in silent dismay.

Andrew loathed Neil so much, he couldn’t look away from him. Not that night in the lounge, and not now—in the woods.

They should’ve headed back the second the air changed—early fall heat eroded by the snap of a single gust. Then the clouds closed in, shrouding the sky. But they waited too long, and the heavens split open.

They jogged back, the earth beneath them softening with every tap of rain but still solid enough not to slip.

At last, they reached the Mas, climbing inside to escape the downpour that had only intensified in the last few minutes.

Neil’s shirt was completely soaked, clinging to him in a way that contoured his nipples—hardened from the cold—framed by the delicate line of his pecs. He tugged at the damp fabric with a groan, then dragged his fingers through the dripping strands of his hair, creating the perfect illusion that he’d just stepped out of the shower—or been subjected to some other strenuous activity that left him utterly wrecked.

The mental images ran rampant in Andrew’s head, blotting out everything else—including the way stray drops fell from Neil’s hair onto the leather seats.

He might have to be livid about that later.

Right now, most of his mental focus was concentrated on not getting an erection—from the mere presence of soaked, disheveled Neil next to him—and maybe also on catching his breath.

Andrew wasn’t clutching his chest or gasping like he was on death’s door—he wasn’t. He just needed a minute. A reprieve from the adrenaline-fueled nightmare sitting in his passenger seat.

“You okay?” Neil asked, not a hint of breathlessness in his voice. Like they hadn’t just run a mile.

“No, I’m dying,” Andrew deadpanned. He tilted his head meaningfully in Neil’s direction. “Help.”

“Oh?” Neil said, tucking a sodden strand behind his ear, the beginnings of a smirk curling on his lips. “Do you require mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?”

Andrew was pleased Neil had caught his drift. He moved closer, hands finding Neil’s shorts-clad thighs. Neil spread them for him—just so, just a little wider.

“What I need,” Andrew said, “is mouth-to-thigh resuscitation.”

“I think I can help with that,” Neil hummed, folding his leg at the knee to give Andrew better access.

Andrew leaned in, seeking—pressing his lips to Neil’s thigh. The skin tasted of rain and sweat and Neil—a heady mix that shot straight to his dick, thickening in his pants.

Neil exhaled sharply at the jolt of contact.

Andrew nosed at his hip, trailing higher, teeth catching on the hem of his shorts. He felt Neil growing harder too—the outline of his cock straining against the clingy material.

Andrew licked a slow stripe up to his hipbones, pushing the shorts as far up as they would go.

“Fuck,” Neil gasped, slumping against the seat.

Andrew looked up, drawn by the rasp in Neil’s voice—distracted by the lush outline of his lips. He reached up to kiss him, his hand slipping beneath the fabric, fingers roaming without direction—cupping Neil’s balls, stroking the length of his cock, thumb rubbing circles over the tip as Neil parted his lips, thrusting lightly into his palm.

Andrew had been stockpiling touches for years—and now they were breaking free. Unleashed on Neil. Into the ravenous heat of his mouth. Into the obscene tangle of their lips. Into the way Neil let him grope him under the shorts—another burst of madness Andrew couldn’t resist, couldn’t contain.

It poured out of him in waves. In hitched breaths. In broken moans.

Neil’s thighs were rocking harder now, his breath hot and uncontrollable against Andrew’s mouth—

Until the low growl of an engine shattered the moment. 

A car starting up, just a few spaces down.

Andrew froze, dizzy with a sudden vertigo. 

Their panting felt deafening in the enclosed space. 

Shit.

He’d lost track of where they were. Of course he had.

The Mas had tints, and the storm helped, but—it was still broad daylight.

Neil was coming to the same realization. He extricated his fingers from Andrew’s shoulder, where he'd been gripping hard enough to leave bruises.

Andrew pulled away, adjusting his cock roughly in his pants—wincing at the friction. He was so fucking hard he could probably come just from palming himself through the fabric. But he didn’t relish the mess that would make so far from home. He reclaimed a sliver of control with a deep, steadying breath.

The drive back was infinitely longer—and not nearly long enough—with the way Neil’s thigh burned beneath his fingertips. Andrew kept his hand there for all 56 miles, drumming his fingers, occasionally massaging the muscle or dragging his nails lightly up the length of it, just to see how much he could make Neil squirm.

“Andrew,” Neil growled, voice tight.

Andrew glanced over.

“Drive faster,” Neil urged.

“Tell me something,” Andrew said instead, letting his hand settle in the dip of Neil’s thigh—for now. Searching for a different kind of distraction.

“Can you be any more vague?” Neil asked. When Andrew looked again, he saw him slouched against the seat, eyes shuttered.

“About yourself,” Andrew clarified. Then added, “Why Columbia, if you grew up in Europe?”

“It was either that or Topeka, Kansas, for the witness protection program,” Neil said quietly.

“Kansas,” Andrew echoed, with audible distaste.

“Exactly,” Neil said.

“Witness protection program?” Andrew asked.

Neil let out a slow, labored sigh. “Long story,” he said, flicking a hand in a vague gesture—one Andrew barely caught because he was merging onto the highway.

“Try me,” Andrew said, checking the GPS and the many miles still stretching between them and his house. The arousal still a persistent, aching hum under his skin.

“Crime family,” Neil said.

Andrew turned just enough to shoot him a flat, unimpressed look. “Wow. What a thrilling account.”

Neil laughed—a breathy, warm sound that unspooled into the tight space between them. “Don’t you think you should earn it?”

Andrew considered that. The way all good things took work. Took time. How instant gratification was overrated, no matter what his body might argue. There was truth in Neil’s words, even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

Even now, Neil refused to stop being interesting. Like he knew exactly how to play the game. And it irked Andrew. That molten thrill bloomed in his chest again. He gripped Neil’s thigh harder. Floored the gas.

“After the program ended,” Neil said at last, “I just kind of stuck around. It was like…inertia.”

Then he ran his fingers over Andrew’s hand—for a single, disappointing moment Andrew thought he was going to push it away, but Neil only covered it, trapping him with his heat.

“And you?” Neil asked after a beat. “Why did you stay in Columbia after Palmetto?”

“Inertia,” Andrew said, and could feel Neil watching him—eyes boring into the side of his face. Skeptical, maybe.

But it was the truth, so he added, “It was either that or sell the house after my brother and cousin moved out.”

“Must be a nice house,” Neil murmured.

It was just a house—a place where, once, Andrew hadn’t been lonely. Not entirely.

“You’ll see,” Andrew replied instead.

Andrew didn’t waste time—brought Neil straight upstairs to the room, pushing him down onto the bed.

He hadn’t planned for guests today—or ever, really—not in the sacred space where he worked and slept. But he kept it tidy enough that Neil wouldn’t mind the slight mess: the tangle of sheets, the scattered throw pillows. How could he, when he was looking up at Andrew like he meant to devour him whole—leave nothing behind?

Andrew slid a knee between Neil’s thighs, pressing against his erection.

Neil’s arms hovered uncertainly around Andrew’s waist, a question mark carved into every line of his body as he breathed, “Andrew.”

“No touching,” Andrew warned.

“Okay,” Neil agreed easily, letting his arms fall to the bed.

“Don’t you know,” Andrew said, leaning down to kiss his neck, “to lay a hand on another is to touch death?”

Neil stilled beneath him, like he was actually contemplating it. Andrew felt the subtle bob of his throat. “Because we’re always dying?”

“Just so,” Andrew murmured.

“If you’re trying to kill my boner with existential dread, it’s not working.”

Andrew smothered a smile into the crook of his neck, biting at the pulse thrashing under his skin. He wanted that pulse inside him—wanted to be filled with it, until there was nothing left of his own.

“Hey,” Neil said again, trying to make Andrew look at him. “But that gives me an idea.”

“Oh?” Andrew pulled back slightly.

“I want to watch you.”

“Just watch?” Andrew asked, even as his dick throbbed at the thought—of doing this for Neil, of performing for him.

“Yes,” Neil said, soft and certain. “Wear something nice for me.”

Andrew nodded, already surging away. He could do that—for Neil. For himself, too. Never not self-serving. He could earn this. The realness of Neil. The truth of him.

And maybe then—maybe—he could finally be free of him. Of his thrall. Of his illusory grip.

He stalked the rows of his walk-in closet, outfits and shoes arranged neatly—plucking an item here, another there, only to toss them down in frustration. None of it was good enough.

He needed something perfect—something that would blow Neil’s mind. Eviscerate him. Render him incoherent with thought and speech. Because Andrew wasn’t sure he could handle him running his mouth—not today, not when he was already so turned on from almost getting Neil off in the car. From the sprawl and heat of his thighs on the ride over.

Andrew’s hands paused over the leather and metal—yielding beneath his touch. Just one small item, insignificant on its own—but it gave him the vision. The inspiration.

Even once the outfit was assembled, he took his time getting ready in the bathroom. Fixing his hair from the rain, fastening on jewelry—a single long earring, a heavy chain around his neck. A black crop top with sleeves so long they curled around his manicured fingers. The hem rode high above his chest, exposing abs, bellybutton, and the edge of his new tattoo treading along his ribs.

He ran his fingers down the ink—dagger-shaped, tilted down. Still weeks from settling into his skin. For now, it sat stark and black against pale flesh. Andrew wondered what Neil would think of it.

His fingers drifted lower, past the snug black thong—the wide band biting into his waist. He tightened the leather garter strap clipped to sheer black stockings, silky soft under his palms. Then bent to fasten the final clasp on his boots, the metal piece locking into place with a decisive click.

“Oh fuck,” Neil said when he saw him. The phone slipped from his hand, landing forgotten on the bed. He sat up straighter, his eyes a lash of lightning, tracking every inch of skin Andrew was offering.

Andrew strode past him to the desk, giving Neil a perfect view of his ass and stocking-clad thighs—then taking it away just as fast, leaning casually against the edge.

“Andrew,” Neil said, a low groan catching in his throat. He’d moved to the edge of the bed, looking seconds away from pouncing—even though his hands stayed clenched in the sheets.

“No touching,” Andrew reminded him.

“Yes,” Neil agreed instantly. “But come here.”

Andrew sank into the chair and rolled it forward. His legs spread automatically.

“Closer,” Neil growled, and Andrew—weak as ever—obeyed. The command went straight to his gut, flooding it with warmth and arousal and compliance. He shifted until he was right in front of Neil, planting a boot on the wooden edge of the bed between Neil’s parted legs—not touching, but close enough to feel the heat of him. To see the bulge in his shorts. To notice the wild quake of his heartbeat in his chest.

“Is that a new tattoo?” Neil asked, gaze dropping to Andrew’s ribs. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

“Yes,” Andrew said, lifting the hem of his shirt to reveal the full piece—and leaving it raised as his fingers trailed upward toward his nipple.

“It’s beautiful,” Neil murmured, eyes locked on his. “You’re beautiful.”

Andrew could feel the praise bruise into him—washing over him in waves of pleasure and weakness both. He’d never loathed anyone this much. He wanted to wrap his fingers around Neil’s neck and choke those words out of him. Wanted to bite him into silence.

But he had a part to play. And so did Neil.

So he stayed where he was. Scowled and bit out, “Shut up,” dragging his boot until it hovered just near Neil’s hard dick.

Neil raised a hand in a mockingly placating gesture, eyebrows quirking at the implication of the object so close to his lap.

Andrew let his leg fall back between Neil’s thighs for now, fingers returning to his nipple, working it—twisting, torturing—until it was red and swollen. Another shot of aching pleasure inserted straight into his veins. His cock strained against the meager fabric of his thong, the tip nearly slipping into view just from this—from the stimulation alone. From the way Neil watched him now, leaning lazily on one arm, eyes obliterating with fire, a smirk edging at his lips.

This was better than performing for a camera. This was worse. Because Neil’s gaze—the curl of his lips—felt like a physical thing. Like teeth. Like hands. Like nails sinking into flesh. 

Andrew released his nipple and shoved the thong aside, freeing his aching cock. He watched Neil suck in a breath at the sight—watched his hips roll against the sheets, like he was the one starving for friction, for release.

“Fuck yes,” Neil said, low and breathy. “Right there. Touch yourself for me.”

“Have I not told you,” Andrew murmured, pressing his boot lightly against Neil’s clothed cock, “to keep your mouth shut?” He finished with a tilt of his head.

Neil arched back with a loud moan, squirming into the touch. Into the hard press of the leather treads.

Andrew kept him there—kept his boot steady—as he squeezed his dick hard, coaxing a generous dollop of precum from the tip. He smeared it across the head, slicking his palm, then glided his hand along the shaft. It didn’t matter whether he went slow or fast—he wasn’t going to last. So he gave in. Surrendered control to the fiery drag of Neil’s eyes that pinned him in place. Pumped the length of his cock with a brutal, unforgiving rhythm, chasing every stroke with a thrust of his hips.

Neil didn’t dare speak. But Andrew could hear him anyway—his voice lived in his head now. It was in his blood. Etched into his DNA: yeah, just like that—fuck, Andrew, you’re so hot—let go—come for me.

And Andrew did.

With a few more indulgent strokes, his cock pulsed heavily in his hand, thick spurts shooting up in wide arcs—splattering across his chest, his abs, his hand and cock. He came and came, with a low, guttural moan trapped in his throat. He struggled to keep his eyes on Neil. Struggled not to float away into an abyss of white-hot pleasure that wouldn’t recede. He milked so much out of himself, it didn’t seem physically possible.

By the end of it, Andrew was drenched—covered in his own cum. And part of him almost wished they’d recorded it. Because he was pretty sure that was his best cumshot yet.

Not to mention what it did to Neil.

The heavy-lidded look of his sea-wild eyes. The decadent flush across his cheeks. The way he rutted up against Andrew’s boot before hissing and yanking his shorts down, jerking himself with rough, desperate tugs. Just a few passes over his cock and he was spilling too, thick ribbons streaking across the leather of Andrew’s boots—sliding down in messy lines.

The sight of it ricocheted through Andrew’s gut, tumbling inside him with renewed arousal. His cock had barely begun to soften before it was hard again.

Neil clocked it immediately. His own cock, still twitching between his legs, hadn’t gone soft either.

He groaned, dragging a hand through his damp curls.

“I would kill for it,” he said, breathless. “To have you. Have all of you.”

His eyes were fixed on the satin glint of the stockings catching the light, stretched tight around Andrew’s thighs.

Maybe he could. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to kill anyone for it. But not yet—not today.

Even as Andrew felt less free than ever. More enthralled. More enraptured—down to the marrow of his bones.

So he dropped to his knees and took Neil’s deliciously slick cock into his mouth—intent on bringing him to ruin. On coaxing another orgasm. Or two.

Chapter Text

Andrew needed to get out of bed. Out of Neil’s eyes—eyes that held him captive in their simmering flux, alive even in the static light, always changing. His thumb grazed Neil’s lips, parted around soft breaths, glistening with spit and maybe something more.

Andrew had kept Neil’s cock deep in his mouth when he came. Then he didn’t swallow, let Neil kiss the cum out of him. It was indecently hot. Transcendent. That willing exchange. That effortless erasure of every line meant to separate them.

And not for the first time, Andrew searched for the middle, the place where he was still wholly himself, untouched and unaffected, and couldn’t find it.

Not for the first time, either, he considered what a waste it was that none of this was recorded. Not for anyone else, not yet, but maybe for himself, to enshrine it in another medium instead of letting it fade to memory. Neil’s face going slack in the throes of pleasure. The needy noises rumbling in his throat, vibrating through Andrew’s skin. The way his chest glistened, heaving with a heartbeat that rearranged Andrew’s to ruin.

The camera would love Neil. It already had in the videos Andrew had found online, always latching onto the details that made him irresistible: the tumble of curls, the cut of his jaw, the languid sweep of his lashes.

Andrew looked down at him now, Neil blinking slowly, like he could read every thought behind Andrew’s eyes. Andrew’s thumb was still stroking over his mouth, and Neil didn’t speak, didn’t ask any questions, even as the silence thrived. 

There were a lot of pauses between them lately. One of Andrew’s favorite tactics with other people had always been silence, a stony absence meant to provoke discomfort, to force them to fill it with something revealing.

It didn’t work on Neil. Not particularly.

Neil simply stared back, nursing the heat in his sea-glass eyes. Posing his own quiet challenge.

What do you want? What do you need?

Andrew exhaled quietly. He climbed off Neil, then off the bed, heading for the bathroom.

It wasn’t a routine. Andrew didn’t form routines with other people. But there was a pattern. After their encounters, they’d go out for food. Hit a drive-thru. Sometimes stop at the overlook off the highway, staring out at the dark valley below while headlights flared and vanished.

How many more times until it did become routine?

He thought about it as he cleaned himself up—the nature of beginnings and endings. Like a scriptwriter chasing the perfect opening scene, the satisfying finale. Something to make it all feel less mundane. To defy time itself. 

Yet with Neil, it always started the same way: a tangle of heated skin, walking willingly into a forest fire. And always ended the same too, Andrew choking on smoke as Neil drove away.

He gave himself a parting glance in the mirror, noting the flush in his face, the faint scowl threatening to undo his mask.

He was going to walk out there and tell Neil they couldn’t do this tonight. That he had work to do. It was a blatant lie, of course. 

Andrew couldn’t have forced himself to work if he tried—not after coming twice. Once into his own hand while Neil watched. The second time all over Neil’s thigh, a sticky mess neither of them bothered to clean up until later.

But when Andrew finally stepped out, the words died in his throat.

Neil was already dressed, pacing the room. He paused only long enough to cast an indeterminate look at Andrew before saying, resolutely, “I have to go.”

Andrew nodded. Watched him turn toward the door.

Neil paused with his hand on the knob. A strange quiet settled over him, something he carried with him as he left.

Andrew wasn’t in the brightest mood when he opened the door to Neil a few days later.

He’d just finished a long stream that involved more trolls than usual, each one clawing at his short fuse, and all he wanted now was to fall into bed. Or to his knees.

Neil, however, looked suspiciously put together. Tight black slacks cupping his ass, a white fitted tee, curls soft and loose around his face. He slipped past Andrew like he was in a rush, restless energy rolling off him in waves.

“Going out somewhere?” Andrew asked, shutting the door.

When he turned, Neil was frozen at the bottom of the stairs.

“Yeah,” he said evenly. “Forgot it’s Tasha’s birthday. I said I’d go. But I wanted to see you first. Since I promised.”

Andrew’s lip curled at the word promised. A stretch, considering all they’d done was text about Neil coming over.

“I see,” Andrew said dryly, starting up the stairs.

“You look mad,” Neil said, catching his wrist. “Why are you mad?”

Andrew yanked free, turned to stare him down. “I’m not.”

“You could come,” Neil offered with an easy shrug that didn’t match the tension in his shoulders.

“I wasn’t invited.”

“You would’ve been. But you haven’t been at the gym in a while.”

True. Andrew had been avoiding it, choosing to work out at home. Everything had felt too loud lately: work, streams, people. The only quiet he found anymore was with Neil’s skin against his.

The thought made him angrier, not less.

He grabbed Neil’s arm, hauled him up the stairs, and kissed him hard, finding some satisfaction in the way Neil fell into it immediately, kissing him fervently back, moaning low, tongue sliding insistently against Andrew’s.

“What are you here for?” Andrew demanded when he pulled back, arm wrapping around Neil’s waist. “A quickie?”

A smile flickered on Neil’s lips. “A quickie sounds good.” Then his voice softened. “But I do want you to come with me.”

Andrew didn’t answer. He just took Neil upstairs and shoved him onto the bed.

Neil’s lips dragged slow-ticking kisses along Andrew’s neck, the place he loved to worship most, and still, Andrew said nothing.

Not until much later, when Neil repeated the words come with me with a smug smile, rubbing their cocks together.

Andrew growled against his mouth, their foreheads pressed tight, seconds from release. Pleasure crashed through him like vertigo as he came, spilling in thick arcs over their joined hands, frustration and desire tangled into the same raw sound as he moaned into Neil’s mouth.

“Idiot,” Andrew murmured, his palm spread across Neil’s bare chest, hot, too hot, as Neil’s eyes rolled back and he came too. 

“Junkie,” he cursed, even as he wanted to lick every drop of their cum off his fingers. Wanted to bite the hand that fed him.

Neil, sensing it perhaps, pressed one slick finger to Andrew’s lips. “Does that mean you’ll go?”

Andrew swung the bar door open, and then instantly stopped short. Neil almost collided with him, faltering in his own stride.

“You didn’t mention it’s karaoke,” Andrew said, grimacing at the small stage in the back, the projector glowing faintly above it.

“You didn’t ask,” Neil countered. “Did you need a heads-up? So you could plan the perfect duet to sing with me?” His smirk was deadly, razor-sharp along the line of his mouth. 

Andrew’s urge to wipe it clean off his face was overwhelming on a good day. Tonight, it was intolerable. His fingers actually itched with the need to grip the back of Neil’s neck and keep him close. Keep that wicked mouth too occupied to provoke him.

“Come on,” Neil said, guiding them toward the back of the bar, through a partition that opened into a private area.

Andrew’s senses immediately revolted at the low thrum of voices and clinking glasses, the chaotic press of people around the table. An ice bucket sat in the center, bottles sweating inside it.

He clocked the faces as they turned toward them: Kevin. Jeremy. Jean. The birthday girl in the middle. A few other familiar strangers from the lounge.

Every pair of eyes fixed on them, scrutinizing.

Someone whistled. Someone else voiced the obvious question:

“You two? Since when?”

“Jesus,” Neil said dryly. “Hello to you too, Jeremy.”

“Hello, Neil.” Jeremy grinned, wisps of bleached hair escaping his headband. “Hello, Andrew,” he added with a meaningful tilt of his head.

“Maybe we were just catching a ride together,” Neil muttered.

“Oh, tell me everything about your ride,” Jeremy teased.

“I’m going to kill him,” Andrew said flatly into Neil’s ear. “I’m going to kill everyone here.”

Beside him, Neil let out a soft huff of laughter, then leaned back to whisper, “Okay. But not before I sing my duet.”

The attention on them slowly broke apart—people drifting back to their conversations, questionable liquor mixes, and a small war erupting over the karaoke machine.

(“We don’t fucking start with ballads! You’re gonna put everyone to sleep!” Jeremy yelled at Kevin.)

Everyone moved on, except Jean.

His gray eyes stayed fixed on Andrew, a quiet storm. Almost disapproving. Far too curious for someone Andrew barely knew.

Andrew met it head-on, waiting for him to back down. Jean didn’t, at least not until Neil got up to pick his songs at the karaoke machine.

But Neil never made it back to Andrew’s side. He was dragged into the middle of the seating arrangement, where both Tasha and Jean started talking to him at once, their voices overlapping with the music and a truly horrific rendition of a Lady Gaga song. The notes were so off-key Andrew’s only recourse was to pour himself a generous shot of whiskey and down it in record time.

Neil did a decent job of looking engaged with his friends, but Andrew caught the way his eyes lingered. They traced the line of Andrew’s neck as he tipped back two more shots. Neil quirked an eyebrow at him and refused his own shot, pushing it across the table for Andrew instead.

Out of everyone there, only one person could actually sing—a girl with hot-pink hair and knee-high leather boots, who threw a leg up on the table to scream her way through Down with the Sickness by Disturbed. Her growls weren’t clean, falling just short of hitting the mark.

Fueled by the heated swirl of alcohol in his veins, and the inexplicable need to do the song justice, Andrew grabbed the second mic, planted his boots on the edge of the table, and joined in.

Neil leaned back, eyes shamelessly trailing up and down Andrew’s black-jean-clad legs stretched across the gap between the table and the cushions. Andrew caught his gaze, held it, and mockingly pointed to his own mouth, as if to say, Keep your eyes up here.

When the song ended, Andrew’s co-star grinned and asked, “What else are we singing?”

“Find me a System of a Down song,” Andrew told her.

Aside from the two of them making a spectacular duo and subjecting everyone to ear-splitting screamo, the only other pair Andrew didn’t immediately want to throttle for their lack of vocal ability were Jean and Neil.

Annoyingly, their voices worked together—Jean’s baritone against Neil’s tenor, Jean’s darkness to Neil’s light.

Jean passed the mic to Neil with a secret little smile. “This is our song.”

The song was a pop love ballad that had been played to death on the radio. Andrew found it nauseating, his good run with whiskey churning in his stomach.

His thumb slid irritably along the side of his glass.

“Hey,” Jeremy’s silky voice murmured in his ear.

Andrew turned to regard him blandly.

“I haven’t seen you at the gym,” Jeremy said. “You’re not slacking, are you?”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. Out of the corner of his vision, Neil and Jean stood facing each other, gazes locked in as they built toward the song’s climax.

“You know, Neil asked to transfer you as a client,” Jeremy added with a sigh, still leaning far too close. Cologne and hair product, something flowery like jasmine, clung to him and invaded Andrew’s space

“And did you?” Andrew asked idly.

“No,” Jeremy replied with an infuriating smile. “I’m not giving you up.”

Christ . Andrew wasn’t exactly uncomfortable—Jeremy had been clear about his interest early on. But Andrew had no idea what to do with it. Not weeks ago, when Neil had bulldozed into his life and then shut him out just as abruptly. And not now, when Neil was everywhere—on Andrew’s skin, in his head—until his thoughts were too jumbled to form a reply, the structure of language itself slipping, crumbling down to bare foundations: a nod, a shake, a wordless yes.

Not that he got the chance to manage even that. Neil himself swept in, pulling Jeremy to his feet and pressing a mic into his hand.

They launched into Backstreet Boys—Jeremy’s shaky vocals drowned out by Neil’s. Halfway through, Jeremy threw an arm around Neil and swayed him, grinning as he said, “Remember that move from my aerobics class?”

Neil rolled his eyes, but grabbed his pants by the hem and gave a sharp thrust of his hips, indecent enough to draw every gaze in the room, even from the drunkest, most distracted patrons.

Andrew’s shirt collar suddenly felt too hot. He needed to get out.

Except Kevin materialized in his path like some oblivious wall, plopping into the seat beside him. His high cheekbones were flushed deep red.

“For what it’s worth, I think it makes sense,” Kevin began.

Andrew, knowing exactly what Kevin meant, only scoffed.

“You and Neil,” Kevin clarified needlessly.

“Don’t get it twisted,” Andrew said, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “There is no ‘me and Neil.’”

“Right,” Kevin said slowly. “You don’t date. He doesn’t either. That’s why I said it makes sense.”

“He doesn’t date,” Andrew echoed before he could stop himself, fingers tightening around the crumpled pack.

“Well…he hasn’t. Not to my knowledge,” Kevin said. Then frowned. “Didn’t we talk about this already?”

Andrew sneered, for no reason at all, except that they had talked about it already.

“Can’t say that we have,” he lied, standing.

He left without looking back, shouldering his way out of the bar. Outside, the pale yellow light of the building’s facade broke apart the night. Smoke curled from his cigarette, rising up to touch the edge of the jet-black sky. 

He hadn’t made it halfway through half a cigarette, the nicotine only a tease, a promise that burned in his lungs, when Neil found him.

Neil carried with him the wild breadth of himself, that impossible fullness that always lodged somewhere in Andrew’s chest.

“Had enough?” Neil asked, plucking the cigarette from his fingers.

“No,” Andrew said flatly, frowning at the stolen artifact. Neil didn’t even smoke it, just held it between his fingers, breathing in like it wasn’t pure fumes and cancer.

“I mean the party,” Neil said, smiling through the smoke veiling his face.

Andrew stared at him, unimpressed. "That wasn’t a party. More like a tribute to the worst songs of the last twenty years."

“Hey, washed-up Millennial,” Neil teased. “All of your songs were from the 2000s too.”

“Obviously, my songs were the exception.”

“Nice voice, by the way,” Neil hummed. “Now we have to find our duet.”

“Do we, though?” Andrew mused. 

The night air was cool and quiet. His ears rang in the hush. A late fall breeze nipped at his bare arms.

Neil noticed. He stepped closer, fingers trailing smoke as they brushed Andrew’s skin—lighter than light.

And Andrew understood, all over again, why he’d kept himself away from this. Because if it could feel like this, with someone who made it easy, it would never be enough.

Wanting was the problem. It never ended.

“Andrew,” Neil said, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Kevin wanted me to ask you something.”

“Oh?” Andrew leaned in so Neil could feed him the cigarette, lips closing around the filter as he drew in a slow pull of smoke.

“Fuck,” Neil said softly, gaze stuck on Andrew's mouth. “Let’s go back to your place.”

“Neil.” The name carried more heat than the smoke in Andrew’s chest; it was more urgent too. “What did Kevin want?”

Instead of answering, Neil stubbed the cigarette out on the pavement and held out his hand. “Keys. I’ll drive.”

Andrew handed over the keys to the Maserati and followed him down the block. Their footsteps struck a sharp rhythm against the pavement until Neil finally spoke, far too casually for the shaky breath he’d taken just before:

“Kevin’s organizing an Exy game this weekend. At the city sports center. He wants you to come play with us.”

“Us, ” Andrew repeated. “You play.”

Neil raked a hand through his curls, uncharacteristically nervous, before sliding into the driver’s seat. 

“Not for a long time. Not since little leagues,” he admitted as Andrew climbed in.

Neil turned the ignition. “But it’ll be pretty amateur. Should be fine. What do you say?”

“What do you think I’m going to say?” Andrew asked, buckling in.

“No,” Neil replied immediately, the faint smile slipping from his face.

“Correct.”

“I told Kevin you’d say that. But he thought I might be able to convince you.”

“Can you?”

“Can I?” Neil echoed, eyes glinting in challenge as the red light at the intersection painted his face—a flicker of flame across the contours of Andrew’s fever dream.

Maybe Andrew had drunk too much. Maybe that was why he couldn’t stop the train of thought he kept finding himself on lately—how little content he’d made, how little inspiration he’d had until the very moment Neil strode into his room, dressed him the way he wanted, and took him apart. Piece by piece. Breath by breath. His will reshaped to Neil’s liking alone.

He thought of how good Neil’s sprawled thighs would look on camera. Of Neil’s pretty cock dragged across his face. The mere mental image made Andrew shiver, blood rushing to his dick. He’d never collabed with anyone before—never even wanted to. But there it was again: the wanting. Expanding in color and dimension until it was all he could feel.

“Make a video with me,” Andrew said, before he could stop himself.

“What kind?” Neil asked, glancing at him sideways.

“I could blow you,” Andrew said simply.

Neil considered. “I don’t want my face in it.”

“Are you saying yes?” Andrew asked.

“If you come play with us this weekend,” Neil replied, smirk audible in his voice.

Playing Exy again was far from appealing—but Andrew’s head was already elsewhere: between Neil’s thighs, Neil’s fingers in his hair as he pushed his cock insistently against Andrew’s lips.

“Deal,” Andrew said, distracted, adjusting himself without an ounce of subtlety.

Andrew pulled Neil through the front door by his collar, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that had been gathering force over the days they’d gone without seeing each other. It was only when they broke apart that he noticed the grocery bag dangling from Neil’s hand.

Neil brushed another quick kiss against his lips before stepping past him into the kitchen. He unpacked the bag: first a tub of ice cream—chocolate, thank fuck—then some fruit, and finally two cans of whipped cream still sealed together in plastic.

“Not interested unless you’re planning to let me lick it off you,” Andrew drawled, leaning against the counter.

“Funny you should say that.” Neil’s brows quirked. “I got it for the shoot.”

“Oh,” Andrew said mildly, even as possibilities raced through his mind, scorching hot. 

Neil grabbed the cans, and Andrew by the waist, steering them upstairs.

“Neil,” Andrew said quietly once they reached the bedroom. “Are you sure about this?”

Setting the cans aside, Neil sat on the edge of the bed. “I told you. I’m fine with it, as long as my face isn’t in the video.” 

“Fine with it,” Andrew echoed, not entirely reassured.

Neil rolled his eyes and murmured, “I want to. Come here.”

Andrew crossed the space slowly, each step stoking that taut thread of anticipation.

Neil hooked a finger through the chain belt slung low on Andrew’s hips, tugging him close until Andrew’s stomach brushed his mouth. He pressed a chaste kiss to Andrew’s happy trail before pulling back.

“How do you want to do this?” Neil asked, peerless blue eyes cutting up at him.

“Here,” Andrew said. “Just me between your legs. Camera angled top-down. Do you want to hold it, or should I set up the tripod?”

Neil’s fingers traced idly along Andrew’s hipbones as he considered. “Tripod. I want my hands free, if you don’t mind.”

Andrew nodded and, with effort, stepped back, his body already hot enough that it felt like the sun was licking at his fingertips.

He set up the tripod and camera, tested a few short clips until the angle and lighting were perfect—sultry-soft, just on the edge of decadent. Then he looked at Neil and murmured, “Don’t move.”

Neil leaned back, legs spread, smiling lazily in a way that obliterated everything except the intense pulse of arousal surging through Andrew. It was almost a shame no one else would see Neil’s face. Almost. Because it meant this was Andrew’s alone.

He didn’t bother warning Neil before hitting record. It was pointless. Neil was already poised to ruin him, had been inhabiting that role long before they’d stepped into this room.

Andrew dropped to his knees and worked open Neil’s fly. Neil shifted, lifting his hips to give him better access, letting Andrew tug both pants and boxers down to his ankles. His cock sprang free, half-hard and gorgeous. Andrew brought his face close, one hand wrapping around the length, tongue sweeping over the flushed tip.

Andrew hadn’t asked Neil to perform for the camera, he knew he wouldn’t need to. Neil was always unabashed, unfiltered.

When Andrew lingered too long teasing the slit, licking away the beading precum, Neil’s patience snapped. He wrapped his own hand around the base and pushed forward.

“Come on, baby,” he ordered, voice rough. “Take it. Take my cock.”

Andrew parted his lips, Neil’s words blazing through him as Neil slid home. His mouth filled with the heavy weight and intoxicating taste of him. A moan tore out of Andrew, vibrating around Neil’s length as pleasure sparked all the way down to his own cock, straining painfully against the tight confines of his pants.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Neil praised, fingers toying absently with Andrew’s hair. “Always so eager for me.” His gravelly voice washed over Andrew, melting him down to the bone.

Neil thrust up into his mouth, hitting the back of Andrew’s throat in a way that left his jaw aching with a familiar stretch. Andrew was so hard he could’ve come just like this, stroking himself through the fabric. Fuck, he probably should have taken care of himself before they started.

But Neil pulled out abruptly, the slick length of his cock sliding free.

Andrew wiped spit from his mouth with the back of his hand, watching as Neil reached into the covers.

Right. He’d almost forgotten.

Neil shook the can of whipped cream with a few sharp jerks of his arm, uncapped it, then pressed the nozzle down. He sprayed a thick ribbon of cream from the base of his cock to the tip, coating himself in sweet white clouds. 

Andrew’s mouth watered at the sight. He didn’t move—couldn’t—arousal surging viciously through his veins. 

Neil crooked a finger under his chin, guiding him closer. “Lick it up,” he murmured.

Andrew cursed softly around the head of Neil’s cock as it smeared cream across his lips. Neil’s fingers brushed over his mouth, adding to the mess. Andrew was leaking in his pants, heat fizzing through every nerve as Neil fed him the rest of his whipped-cream-covered cock, inch by inch.

Sweetness burst on Andrew’s tongue, dripped down his chin. He was made of it now. Neil was made of it.

When Andrew had licked him clean, swallowing every last trace, Neil hissed in pleasure, pulled out, and traced another ribbon of cream down his cock.

Andrew swallowed it down again: licked, lapped, relished the salt-slick taste of precum cutting through melting sugar.

“Fuck,” Neil panted, hips tightening. “Close,” he warned, hands unsteady as he coated himself again.

He came down Andrew’s throat with wanton moans, the wet, messy sounds of thrusting filling the room—spit, cum, cream all blending together. Andrew kept his mouth slack, letting Neil fuck himself into it, milk the last drops from his cock.

Then Neil yanked him up by the chain at his waist, crashing their mouths together in a filthy kiss, tasting himself on Andrew’s tongue. The sudden movement toppled them both onto the bed, knocking the tripod askew. Andrew barely caught it with one hand before tossing it aside.

He was too far gone to care about a clean ending, rutting helplessly against Neil’s bare thigh, precum smearing his boxers.

Neil moaned into the kiss, breath still uneven, managing a soft protest:

“Hey—what about the video?”

“Fuck it,” Andrew muttered, hips rolling harder.

They could re-record later—again and again, if they wanted. Right now, he just needed to consume Neil, needed Neil to consume him back. Needed to burrow into his skin, wedge himself under his ribs, find a rhythm there—a heartbeat steady enough to pull him back from this brink of madness.

The madness receded later, but not all the way. Andrew lay beside Neil, lifting his arm and dropping it over and over again, listening to the thud of skin against the sheets, re-assuring himself. 

Neil sighed, tilting his face on the pillow to look at Andrew, and that was worse somehow—the realness of his gaze, watching with a tender ache no one had bestowed upon Andrew before. 

“Stop,” Andrew said, irritated by it all, but tired too—the last of his energy seeping out of him with every breath. 

“I’ll go,” Neil conceded.

Andrew wanted to ask, “Why do you always go?”

But couldn’t find it in himself. 

Just watched in silence as Neil gathered his clothes and shrugged them on, his back to Andrew the entire time.

“See you, Andrew,” Neil said with a neutral tone that flared in Andrew chest like the unforgiving burn of an iron pressed to the skin. 

He closed the door behind him, leaving Andrew staring up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that wouldn’t come.

The wanting had already transformed him, twisted him into someone he no longer recognized. A beast thrashing against the night.

Chapter Text

“You,” Kevin said, pointing a lazy finger at Neil from across the high-top table, trying to wrangle his attention. “You’re fast,” he pronounced.

“Thanks,” Neil replied absently, his focus elsewhere. Remembering how Andrew looked on the court today in a full Exy uniform, shorts clinging to his thighs, pads making him seem bulkier, wider. Held under by the memory of how Andrew had twirled the racquet carelessly in one hand, standing in the goal like he was a mile away from the game, maybe on a curb outside, cigarette in hand, and still somehow managed to shut down every single shot with little more than a tepid glance at the ball flying toward him.

“And you,” Kevin said, turning his judgment on Andrew now, maybe realizing Neil was a lost cause. “You’ve missed playing. Admit it.”

“I didn’t,” Andrew refuted without pause, lips closing around the straw of a neon-cherry slurpee.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Kevin said. “You put in more effort than you did in half our college games.”

Andrew sucked hard at the straw before replying, the tip of his tongue stained red as it darted out to lick his lower lip. “Jeremy was livestreaming on Smash. You think I was going to let him embarrass me in front of my audience?”

An ear-piercing ding rang out from across the arcade bar, announcing the end of a basketball round. Jean and Jeremy were locked in split stances at the machine, lightning-fast free throws still flying as the scoreboard flashed.

Kevin observed them for a breath, then looked back at Andrew, a sardonic smile tugging at his mouth. “One day you’ll grow old, Andrew, and realize this is a bullshit way to live.”

“Tell me, old man—what way exactly?” Andrew asked, tone flat, entirely incurious.

“The one where you pretend to hate everything you actually love,” Kevin said.

“I don’t hate Exy,” Andrew countered. “It’s not interesting enough to hate.”

“We could’ve been court ,” Kevin groaned, sinking his head into his hands, fingers tangling in his curls.

“Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,” Andrew taunted.

“I’m kind of with Andrew on this one,” Neil said evenly. “Hypotheticals are pointless.”

“Oh my God. You two fucking is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Kevin proclaimed. 

“The worst?” Andrew asked, eyebrows lifting mockingly. 

“Second worst,” Kevin corrected.

“Don’t despair, Kevin,” Andrew said. “One day you’ll get laid too.”

Neil mouthed at Andrew, stop, this is elder abuse, earning himself the faintest upward curl of Andrew’s lips.

Kevin rolled his eyes like Neil had just proven his point about the emotional damage their involvement was causing him. 

“If only you weren’t so painfully straight, Kevin,” Neil said at full volume now. “Then you could do something about your man-crush on Jeremy.”

Kevin grimaced like he’d bitten into a lime wedge.

Andrew stared at Neil like he’d grown an extra limb.

“What?” Neil asked under the scrutiny.

“‘The world of professional Exy is easier to navigate when straight,’” Andrew recited, mimicking Kevin’s tone with scarily accurate precision.

Neil blinked at Kevin, still not getting it. “You’re not a pro anymore,” he said. 

“It’s not that easy,” Kevin muttered, staring fixedly at the vaguely sticky tabletop, eyes tracing the warped reflections gathered there.

“Well, it can’t be that hard,” Neil said, and thought of things that actually were hard. The puzzle of Andrew’s incandescent eyes. The riot and the silence they held in a single heartbeat. The words he spoke that Neil couldn’t yet decipher. The push and pull of his hot, wanting mouth—every kiss at once a greeting and a parting, longing and letting go.

“I’ve never been anything but this,” Kevin admitted after a moment. 

“It’s not too late to start. Even at your old age,” Neil said decisively, then called out, “Hey, Jeremy!”

Jeremy, just done annihilating Jean at the basketball machine, turned toward them in a tumble of bleached waves. 

Neil beckoned him over with a curt flick of his hand.

“Kevin wants to be bi-curious with you,” Neil announced without preamble. “You down?”

Jean slid onto a high chair across from them. Jeremy chose to lean against the table, ribs pressing into its edge.

A taut moment passed before Jeremy’s smirk bloomed, wary but amused. “Kevin? Really?”

Kevin only glared at Neil, seconds away from razing him to the ground with sheer willpower.

Apparently, that was enough to convince Jeremy Neil wasn’t joking. At least, not entirely.

Jeremy’s smirk tipped into a full sunburst smile. “I am DTE.”

Neil stared blankly. 

“Down to Experiment,” he clarified.

“Sometimes it pays off to have a crush on a manwhore,” Neil told Kevin. 

“A manwhore,” Jean repeated, eyes oddly locked on Andrew.

Andrew gave his drink one last obscene slurp, then tilted his head at Jean in silent challenge.

“Slut. Lover boy. Player,” Andrew listed lazily. “Fuckboy.”

“Fuckboy,” Jean echoed, tasting the unfamiliar words.

Jeremy gasped dramatically. “Don’t say that, mon ami. I can’t decide if I should be offended or turned on right now.”

“Leaving,” Andrew announced flatly, hopping off his chair. His eyes flicked to Neil, wordlessly transmitting entire galaxies of thought.

“What about karaoke?” Kevin protested.

“No more fucking karaoke,” Andrew said, still looking at Neil.

“Yes, karaoke,” Neil countered. “You missed out on your song that night.”

“My song?” Andrew deadpanned. “If you put on ‘Milkshake’, I will have no choice but to burn the place down”

Neil smirked in triumph. “Oh, but I was really looking forward to seeing you squeeze and shake your chest like Kelis does in the video.”

“You’re insane,” Andrew observed, though his faint smile sharpened into something sickly-sweet and poisonous. “That would be a private show.”

He turned and started for the door.

“Uh—” Neil said, already rising. “I have to go.”

Neil’s fingers grazed Andrew’s ribcage, following each dip, each hollow between bone, before tracing the dagger tattoo, pads sliding along the blade up to its hilt. They paused just beneath Andrew’s left pec, hovering as he searched Andrew’s face for a reaction, navigating his state of mind.

Andrew was already watching him, heat pouring from darkened hazel eyes flecked with cinnamon. No censure in them this time. Just the deliberate drag of Andrew’s gaze along Neil’s arm, like a silent command to keep going.

So Neil did. He pushed up gently at the edge of Andrew’s pec, cupped it, then rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Beneath him, Andrew’s cock pressed hard against his ass, and Neil’s own ached in his pants, spurred by the dizzying rush of having Andrew pinned, by the urgent, consuming fantasy that unfurled vividly in his head: Andrew’s chest slick and pushed together, Neil’s cock sliding through the warm press of cleavage.

“Want to fuck your chest,” Neil admitted, breathless, twisting Andrew’s nipple and watching his eyes roll back at the touch.

It had taken weeks to get here—slow concessions, one at a time. Andrew’s first warning: Just like this. Over the shirt. While I get used to you.

A stark contrast to today, when Andrew shrugged his own shirt off without a second thought, muscles flexing under Neil’s hungry gaze; shrugged Neil’s off too, and toppled them both into bed.

“Yes,” Andrew answered into the bruising hush.

“Then I want to fuck your mouth,” Neil murmured, brushing two fingers across Andrew’s lips.

“Yes,” Andrew said again, then his eyes snapped open, irises widening almost imperceptibly. “Wait.”

Neil stilled, hands falling away.

“I have something,” Andrew said. His hips rolled upward, entirely unhelpful to Neil’s self-control, but Neil forced himself to climb off, watching Andrew slip out the door.

He returned moments later with a curious pile in his arms, lowering himself onto the edge of the bed beside Neil, folding one leg under himself.

Neil reached out, fingers feeling out the first item: a black corset, stiff and unyielding under his touch, but laced together with silky ribbons that slid sinfully through his fingers as he lifted it. He hummed in approval, then reached for the other piece in Andrew’s grip.

“Oh,” Neil said softly, toying with the leather collar and the silver chain attached to it. “Do you want to wear this?”

Andrew nodded. “Do you want to record again?”

Neil hesitated, a shiver running down his spine as the memory of their last video surfaced: Andrew, beautiful and debauched between his legs, licking whipped cream from his cock with filthy, adoring hunger. It wasn’t just the memory, the way Andrew’s ravenous lips had felt on him, it was the idea of doing this for Andrew. Of being the one to hold him, grip him, break him apart on camera; just hands and voice, a shadowed presence behind Andrew’s unravelling.

“Yes,” Neil said at last, a fond smile emerging before he could stop it. “Does that mean you’ll play Exy with us again?”

Andrew sighed, long-suffering and insincere. “So materialistic. Everything a transaction. I guess I can respect that in a man.”

“Good,” Neil said, thrusting the collar at him, then just as quickly taking it back.

The items Andrew had offered up felt new, the leather smooth, polished, but none of them had tags. Neil set the collar aside and turned the corset over in his hands.

Something unpleasant twisted in his chest, writhing in tandem with the stilted beat of his heart.

It wasn’t hard to imagine Andrew had worn these for someone else—on stream, maybe for a regular.

But it wasn’t Neil’s place to think about this. He had no claim on Andrew. Not really. Not like that.

He closed his eyes against the irreparable feeling of wrongness, shame prickling hotly as it warred with the uglier discomfort coiling in his gut. 

When he opened them again, Andrew was leaning back on his arms, watching, waiting for Neil to bolt into the night. 

Neil wanted to. God, he wanted to. It was what he always did when this feeling struck, after the high had receded, when the fever cooled and daylight made the obsession bearable. He’d run. He’d distance himself before it tainted them both, before it ruined whatever this was.

He understood the hypocrisy of it, too. Even as he burned for Andrew, always. It was laughable to resent what Andrew did, when Neil had taken so much pleasure in it himself. Asking him to stop would be no different than Andrew showing up at Neil’s gym and demanding he quit training clients.

Still, the ugliness was winning. It hollowed him out, left a terrible silence in its wake. 

Andrew merely watched him with that phantom smile, daring him to speak, daring him to lay down his cards.

“How’s work?” Neil said at last, folding first.

Andrew’s smile turned real. “The usual. Now stop pouting and ask me a direct question.”

Neil swallowed against the tension in his jaw. “Have you been streaming a lot?”

“The same amount,” Andrew replied flatly. When Neil grit his teeth, Andrew went on, “Every other day on Smash. Some nights—explicit streams on my website.”

“What do you do during those streams?” Neil asked.

“You’ve never watched them?” Andrew tilted his head, faint incredulity coloring his tone.

“No,” Neil replied firmly. 

Andrew’s gaze stayed locked on him, skeptical.

“I haven’t,” Neil insisted. “I want your full attention if I’m going to watch you get off. So?”

“I don’t get off during those streams.” Andrew looked away briefly, and if Neil stared long enough, he could swear a blush began teasing across the pale of his cheeks. “Not really.”

“You don’t cum?” 

“No,” Andrew replied, holding his gaze. “I save that for private sessions.”

Neil’s jaw tightened another notch, bone turning brittle under the onslaught. “How many private sessions have you done lately?”

“Why? Jealous?” Andrew asked, smirking carelessly.

Neil sat for a moment with the ugly feeling clawing up his insides like acid. Was it jealousy? Obsession? Where did one end and the other begin?

“Yes,” he ground out, tasting the unvarnished truth in his mouth for the first time.

A beat passed, heavy and buzzing. Neil could hear his own breathing, too loud in the room’s returned silence.

Andrew’s smirk faded. “I’ll give you a truth for a truth,” he said slowly.

“Okay,” Neil answered just as slow, dread and anticipation twining in equal measure. “What do you want to know?”

“You and Jeremy.”

Neil leaned back on his elbows, mirroring Andrew’s posture on the bed. The question startled him, but relief came with it too. Because the answer was obvious. And because he could always flip the same question back.

“We’re just friends,” Neil replied. 

“Are you? Didn’t look like it that night at the lounge.”

Neil pressed his lips together, enduring the weight of Andrew’s gaze.

“That was…a one-time thing.”

Andrew’s eyes eased, barely. He hummed, then said, “No private sessions lately.”

“Why?” Neil asked, even as he wanted to bite his own tongue for pressing further.

“That’s another question.”

“Then I’ll give you another truth.”

Andrew shook his head. “I don’t have anything else I want to know. Yet.”

“Then save it.”

“Fine,” Andrew muttered. A grimace carved shadows across his face, like the admission was difficult, unwelcome. “I haven’t been in the mood.”

“That’s not an answer,” Neil snapped.

Andrew’s eyes flared, blistering, a blade brought up to flame. “Because they’re not you. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes,” Neil said, satisfaction loosening every tight muscle, bones solidifying, ribcage knitting back together. “I like it when you get like this.”

He leaned over, molding his lips to the scowl on Andrew’s mouth.

“Like what?” Andrew breathed against him, kissing back, desperate heat sparking, conducting the live current between them.

“Angry,” Neil murmured. But he didn’t add the rest—that anger was a start, that it made Andrew’s words true, made them real, something Neil could hold between them. Something he could work with, until he felt out the softer thread running underneath.

Epilogue 

“Why the long face?” Jeremy asked.

Jean was staring down at his phone like it was a yawning chasm. He lifted his eyes slowly, expression unreadable. “You think I have a long face?”

Jeremy slid onto the workout bench beside him. Jean’s training lately had been heavy on cardio, courtesy of all those marathons he’d signed up with Neil, and the sweat dripping down his fair skin was…distracting. Jeremy forced himself not to tuck a damp curl behind Jean’s ear, settling instead for a practiced smile and words that felt loose in his throat. Never quite the right ones. Jean had that effect on him.

Jeremy had plenty of attractive clients. Years in the industry should have dulled him to it. But his attraction to Jean was harder to smother—his accent, the prominent nose, the storm-grey eyes. They were impossible to pin down, like waves breaking roughly against a cliff.

“It’s an expression, Jean. You look like—” Jeremy groped for the right metaphor. “Like a kicked puppy.”

Jean’s brows furrowed. “A kicked puppy?”

“Stop fucking with me.” Jeremy sighed. “Your English is perfect.”

Jean’s face cleared, smirk slipping into place. “Fine. But have you seen this?”

He thrust the phone toward Jeremy, screen glowing inches from his face.

Jeremy swallowed, throat tight as he took in the explicit image. 

Andrew sat on the floor, wedged wantonly between someone’s spread thighs, his head tipped back to rest against their support. Half-lidded eyes. An expression of utter serenity. He wasn’t wearing much—just a pair of black jeans, tantalizingly undone at the top, and a leather choker with a chain held possessively in the other man’s hand, the silver flirting with light, reflecting it back. 

You couldn’t see the man’s face. But Jeremy knew those hands. Knew those thighs. He’d been staring at them for years.

He handed the phone back to Jean and, almost against his better judgment, swept his eyes across the gym. They landed on a pair of bodies on the far side, tucked between machines.

Andrew was pulling himself up on a bar, muscles flexing with each lift, while Neil stood braced at his side, steadying him with both hands on his waist. Every pull upward made Andrew’s arms bulge, Neil looking up at him like he hung the moon, Andrew’s gaze fixed only on him.

It was strangely intimate, borderline intrusive to watch, and Jeremy had to wrench his eyes away, though heat still crawled up his neck. No matter how quickly he looked away, he knew that photo, the one of Andrew half-naked between Neil’s legs, wasn’t leaving his head anytime soon.

“They’re always like this lately,” Jean said dryly, having traced Jeremy’s line of sight. “It’s sickening.”

“What can you do?” Jeremy shrugged. “Young love.”

“Love?” Jean scoffed. “Did you know Andrew did this?” He gestured at his now-dark phone, as though the cursed image still lingered there.

“This?” Jeremy arched a brow.

“Adult material,” Jean said primly, lips pursing.

“Vaguely,” Jeremy admitted.

Jean kept glaring in their direction like his eyes alone might raze them apart. Jeremy, exasperated, set a placating hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t be an ass about it,” Jeremy said. “If that’s what they want to do.”

Jean regarded him through a slow flutter of lashes, then stood and left for the lockers without another word.

Neil didn’t even notice until later, when he finally remembered his other clients, and remembered Jean. By then, Jean was already gone.

Neil leaned over the front desk. “Where’s Jean?”

Jeremy stood behind it, idly shuffling through paperwork.

“He left,” Jeremy said.

“Without saying goodbye?” Neil asked, visibly offended by the notion.

Jeremy set the papers aside, a headache starting to throb behind his eyes. How can someone be this oblivious? he wondered. Out of everyone in the world who could have slipped past Neil’s impossible walls, it made twisted, perfect sense that it had been Andrew: stone-cold, indifferent, and somehow exactly what Neil needed.

Neil’s expression was still clouded with indignation when Andrew appeared, striding over with damp hair from his post-workout shower.

Jeremy didn’t miss the way Neil’s face changed the instant he registered Andrew’s presence.

“Jean wanted to know if he could goon to the porn you two made,” Jeremy said flatly, his patience for the day worn thin.

“He didn’t,” Neil shot back, horrified. “What the fuck is gooning ?”

Andrew slid an arm around Neil’s lower back, a fleeting touch before letting go.

“He can,” Andrew said, already walking away. “If he wants to.”

He shouldn’t do this. He shouldn’t click.

He’d already satisfied some of his curiosity, browsed through the gallery of photos he’d been looking for. Andrew collared and kneeling. Andrew pulled along by a chain. Andrew spread open, a firm hand gripping his ass.

Fuck.

Truthfully, the photos hadn’t eased his curiosity—they’d made it worse. Pushed his desire to see more into untenable territory.

He was achingly hard in his pants, his cock demanding attention. He gave in, unbuckling, wrapping one hand around his length as his eyes stayed glued to the screen. The video played. The scene unfolded.

Andrew was on all fours atop black silk sheets: no collar, no restraints, nothing but bare skin and the smooth, flexing planes of his body. Abs taut in the low light. Ass arched back, rocking lightly against someone’s fingers.

The other person stayed just out of frame, behind the scenes, always ceding the spotlight to Andrew alone.

“Yes, baby. Just like that,” a voice praised, stern but velvet, like the insistent press of a thumb into a fresh bruise. “Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

Andrew groaned, thrusting back hard. Blond hair spilled over his face, hiding most of his expression but not the rest of him: lips swollen and bitten-red, a flush spreading faintly across his chest. His cock was hard and bouncing with every push, his body utterly yielding to the unseen man.

“You take my fingers so well.”

Another hand slid into frame, drawing lazy circles over the swell of Andrew’s ass.

A sound broke from Andrew’s lips—pleading, maybe, though distorted, glitched by the video to obscure the name he gasped. Then another strangled moan as the man curled his fingers deep inside him.

“Fuck me,” Andrew rasped.

“Of course,” the nameless man crooned, “but not yet.”

He pulled his fingers free, leaving Andrew’s rim clenching around the sudden emptiness. The camera lingered on Andrew’s arched ass, his cock leaking a glistening strand of precum onto the sheets, his flushed cheeks pressed down violently into the bedding like he was using it to keep himself steady, anchored. 

When the man’s arms reappeared, they held a racquet, its handle slick with lube.

“You’re going to fuck yourself on this racquet,” that rough, sultry voice instructed. “You’re going to ride it and imagine it’s me. My cock. You’re going to fuck it until you come. Got it?”

The command seemed to slam straight into Andrew’s chest, making it heave wildly.

The video froze and a sharp, sucked-in breath rang through the quiet of the room, lit only by the glow of the screen.

It was too much.

The man was so close, his fist tight around the tip of his cock, holding back the inevitable release. He needed to see more, but he couldn’t look. Terrified of what the video was doing to him. Terrified of how much he craved them, both of them, how well he knew them.

It felt personal. Wrong. And unbearably, devastatingly hot.

He thought of the eyes he’d meet tomorrow. Sea-blue. Molten hazel. How they might see right through him, know exactly what they’d done to him.

Would that be so bad?

He held the thought for a single, imprisoned breath, then hit play.