Andrew, who moans for the first time during sex. Andrew, who was taught he had to stay quiet, who learned that any reaction would be taken as proof: see, you like it, stop pretending, you whore. too tense to let go. too tense to lose control. because if you want to keep face, or whatever is left of it, you don’t show weakness.
but now it’s Neil. Neil, whose scarred palms settle at Andrew’s waist and thigh with careful precision—not pushing, just holding him steady. Neil, whose steady thrusts hit just right, and suddenly it’s too much, so much that, before he can stop himself, Andrew lets out a low, drawn-out moan, muffled deep into the pillow. his body tenses immediately. he realizes—he’s slipped. he’s given something away, something he wasn’t ready to show. but instead of anything else, he feels the rhythm slow slightly. Neil shifts his weight, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his bare shoulder. “I like the way you sound,” he murmurs, so quietly it almost disappears. Neil could’ve picked up the pace. he knows exactly what triggered that reaction, he could’ve done it again, easily. but he doesn’t. he won’t push, not when Andrew is already on edge from his own response. Instead, he returns to a smooth rhythm—deep, controlled, hitting that same point again and again. and slowly, Andrew starts to give in.
the muffled sounds come more often now, slipping through the pillow, turning into heavier breaths, broken now and then by quiet, low groans as the rhythm gradually builds. because it’s Neil. Neil, whose lips trace down his spine. whose hand finds Andrew’s, covering it when he grips the pillow like a lifeline. Neil, who leans in close and murmurs something quiet, soft and irritating right as Andrew’s body shudders for the last time: “Just like that.” who soothes him through it, hands steady on his trembling thighs, the one who would do anything just to hear those sounds again.
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