'Down.'
Rory lowered. The full weight of him, chest against chest, hips against hips, the press of his cock against Neil's stomach and Neil's against his. The heaviness was extraordinary. Grounding. The physical fact of another human body covering his completely, like a blanket that breathed and had a heartbeat against his own sternum.
Neil wrapped his arms around Rory's back. Hands flat against the shoulder blades. Held him.
Rory's mouth found his. The kiss was slow. Thorough. His tongue moving against Neil's without hurry. The whole night ahead.
They moved together. Past the crash of the first time, past the studio, past the sofa. Something without precedent. Slow. Every touch intentional. Neil's mouth on the serpent tattoo, travelling up, wrist to forearm, a route he'd traced a hundred times and that was, tonight, a pilgrimage. Rory's hands in Neil's hair, the fingers curling rather than pulling.
Rory shifted down Neil's body. Mouth on his throat. On his chest. On his stomach, the muscles twitching under the kiss, the breath ghosting across his skin. He took Neil's cock in his mouth, slow, deep, the heat of it total, and Neil's hand went to the back of Rory's head. The dark curls between his fingers.
'Come up,' Neil said. Rough.
Rory crawled up his body. The drag of his skin, the hair on his chest rasping against Neil's stomach, his cock leaving a wet trail on Neil's thigh. He settled on top again. The weight.
Neil reached for Rory's hand. Brought it to his mouth. Kissed the knuckles. The paint that never fully left the creases. Then guided the hand down between his legs.
Rory went still. His eyes searched Neil's face.
'You sure?'
'I want you inside me when I say it.'
Rory's breath caught. He understood. His hand was already moving, reaching for the nightstand drawer, the lube. No condom. They'd been to the clinic together, three weeks ago, a Tuesday afternoon in Brixton, a waiting room with plastic chairs and free leaflets about chlamydia. Both negative. Both tested. Both choosing this.
The cap clicked open. Rory's fingers, slick, between Neil's legs. The touch at the opening familiar now. They'd done thissince that night on the sofa. Neil's body had learnt. The first finger went in without resistance. The muscle knew Rory's hand.
'More.'
Two fingers. The stretch that had burned the first time was a welcome pressure now, a door his body opened because it recognised who was knocking. Rory's fingers curved, found the spot. Neil's hips lifted off the mattress. His cock jumped against his stomach.
'Fuck.' The word came from the back of his throat. 'Right there.'
Three fingers. The fullness of it drawing a groan from Neil that he let out without filtering, without counting, without managing. The management was over. Had been over for months.
Rory withdrew his fingers. Slicked himself. The sound of his hand on his own cock, bare, no wrapper, no barrier. The bed shifted as he positioned himself between Neil's legs.
Neil hooked a leg over Rory's hip. Drew him closer.
Rory pushed in. Bare. Skin against skin, his cock entering Neil with nothing between them. Different from every other time. Warmer. The ridge of the head distinct against the internal wall, every texture magnified. Neil's breath left him in a rush.
'Slow,' Neil said. Not because it hurt. Because he wanted to feel every inch.
Rory went slow. All the way in. His forehead dropped against Neil's, their noses touching, breathing each other's air. His hips flush against Neil. Inside him completely.
'I love you,' Neil said.
During. With Rory inside him. With the weight of Rory's body pressing him into the mattress and Rory's cock filling him and the specific, internal heat of skin against skin with nothing between them. He said it looking at Rory's eyes, close enough tocount the darker flecks in the green, and his voice cracked on the second word but he didn't repeat himself.
'I know, love.' Rory's voice broke on the word. 'I know you do.'
Then Rory moved. Drew back and thrust in, slow, deep, the angle finding the prostate on the first stroke because Rory knew. Eight months of learning this body and he knew where Neil needed him. The pressure bloomed upward through Neil's pelvis and his legs tightened around Rory's hips and his fingers dug into Rory's shoulders.
The rhythm built. Slow at first, then deeper. Rory's hips driving with a force that pushed Neil up the mattress by inches. Neil's hand gripped the headboard behind him. The wood smooth under his palm. Real.
And then Neil did something he hadn't planned.
He planted his feet on the mattress. Pushed up against Rory's chest. Rory's eyes widened, a flash of confusion, and Neil kept pushing, rolling them, using the leverage of his legs and the momentum of Rory's own weight. Rory went onto his back. His cock slipped out in the turn and Neil felt the loss like a door slamming.
