The flat was quiet. Music low. Rory poured wine and set the glasses on the nightstand in his bedroom. The bed.
They undressed each other without hurry. Nothing like the frantic pulling of the sofa. Rory reached for Neil's jumper. Lifted it over his head. Set it on the chair. T-shirt next. Each piece removed was a small surrender Neil had stopped resisting.
Neil undid Rory's shirt buttons. One at a time. His fingers were steady. That was new. Tonight his fingers moved from collar to hem, choosing at each buttonhole. The shirt fell open. As he pushed it off Rory's shoulders, Rory shrugged it off and it dropped behind him.
Jeans next. They helped each other. The familiarity of four months meant the belts and buttons and zips happened without crisis. Boxers. Last.
They stood in the dim light of the bedroom, lamp on, curtains drawn. Naked and looking at each other.
Rory's skin was still faintly damp from the shower he'd taken when they got back. His hair was still wet at the ends, curling against his neck, and he smelt of soap and underneath it, skin and woodsmoke from the barn.
No rush. Neil's mouth found the collarbone, the scar he'd catalogued in the studio, the ring he'd learned to tug. Familiar territory now.
When he reached Rory's mouth again, the kiss carried the barn's wine and underneath, just Rory, the baseline taste he'd been learning since October.
They fell onto the bed. Rory pulled him down, hands on his hips, and the weight of Neil on top of him was still new enough to register. The full-body press. Chest against chest. Cock against cock, both hard, both slick at the tips. Rory's hips rolled once, grinding up, and the friction drew a sound out of Neil's throat that would have embarrassed him three months ago.
Rory's mouth at his ear. No apology, no performance.
'Fuck me.'
Rory's hand was already on Neil's arse, pulling him closer. His legs had opened, knees wide, making room. His body had already decided. His mouth was catching up.
Neil's stomach dropped. He'd thought about this for weeks. His browser history cleared twice.
'I've never... not this.'
'I know.' Rory's hand came to the side of his face. Thumb on his cheekbone. Green eyes, steady. Offering, not leading. 'I have. And I want you to.'
The drawer. Rory reached across the mattress and pulled it open. Condom. Lube. A bottle half-used, which meant Rory used it, which meant Rory's hands on his own body with this exact bottle, and Neil's cock twitched at the image before his brain could intervene.
Rory pressed the condom into his hand. Then the lube. Then lay back. Arms above his head. Patient. Wanting something specific and willing to wait for Neil to find his nerve.
Neil's hands were shaking again. First time in weeks. He opened the lube. The click of the cap was loud in the room.
'Here.' Rory took his hand. Guided two of Neil's fingers, slick now, behind his balls and lower, to the tight muscle, and pressed them there. The heat of it. The way the ring of muscle contracted against his fingertips and then, as Rory breathed out, opened.
One finger. Rory's face changed. Concentration, not pain. His hips shifted, tilting, a practiced adjustment. The jaw loosened.
'Another.' A fact, not a request.
Two fingers. Resistance, then give. Smoother than skin inside, the muscle gripping then yielding as Rory's body accepted. Neil curled his fingers, uncertain of the angle, and Rory's whole body flinched.
'There.' A sound that wasn't quite a word. 'Christ. Right there.'
Neil kept his hand still. The muscles in Rory's thighs locked, stomach contracting, the cock that had softened with the first finger now fully hard again. The pad of his fingers pressed against a firmness that wasn't muscle, and when he rubbed across it, Rory's back arched off the mattress and the sound he made was so stripped of the charm that Neil almost came from it alone.
'Now.' Rory's hand gripped his wrist. 'Neil. Now.'
The condom. His fingers were slick and the wrapper slid. He tore it with his teeth. Rory lay on the pillow, eyes half-closed, his cock hard against his stomach, his body open and entirely without shame. Wanting to be fucked and not pretending otherwise.
Neil rolled the condom on. More lube. Too much. It ran down his shaft and dripped onto Rory's thigh, cold, and Rory laughed. A real laugh. Brief and low.
'You'll get better at that.'
'Shut up.'
'Make me.'
