Work Text:
But You Painted Me Golden
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Over the course of their relationship, Neil has learned many things about Andrew Minyard.
How he likes his coffee black but sweet, and hot enough to burn his tongue.
How he likes to cut the tags off all of his shirts, sometimes ripping a hole in the collar completely.
How "I hate you" sits as a placeholder for similar words and scarier feelings.
How, when it comes to sex, Andrew likes to be fucked slowly.
The circumstances always have to be just right; an empty house, a stretch of time, and Andrew clearly in the mood to be taken care of.
Neil can see the tells before Andrew even seems to know he's showing off. His body spread languid and soft against the bedsheets, one leg swinging idly over the edge.
The bottom of his barefoot grazes against the soft shear of the fuzzy rug at every pass. Neil catches the distant look on Andrew's face, not dark with bad memories but relaxed, almost dreamy.
One hand rubs soothingly over his front; across his ribs and up to cup at the slight bulge of soft pectoral muscles. Then down, down, down until his pinky touches the elastic band of his jogging pants.
Up again and a small sliver of pale belly hooks Neil's attention. Andrew's hand rucks his shirt up, the cotton snagging on the rough parts of his palms and when he slides his hand back down over his belly again, Neil hears the slightest hitch in his breath.
The tip of his pinky finger dips under the loose elastic this time, the touch turning into a caress when his hands slip under his shirt on the upstroke.
Neil feels his heart speed up but Andrew's expression is still placid and flat, the pink spreading up his neck the only sign of his slowly rising temperature.
Neil folds the rest of their clean laundry in building anticipation, watching in the dresser's mirror. Andrew rubs a thumb over his own nipple, unhurried as he brings his body to life. He knows Andrew likes it, likes to get lost in his own fantasies sometimes. He doesn't ask what Andrew pictures when he gets like this, he just knows he always has permission to watch when it happens.
Neil glances down long enough to push the folded shirts into their proper drawers and when he looks up again, Andrew's eyes are on him.
He keeps Neil's gaze, hand still moving idly under his shirt as his other hand rubs teasingly over the top of his thigh. Andrew draws his right leg up, bent at the knee, his fingers curl around the thickly muscled bulk of his leg, pulling until Neil can't help but see the outline of his hardening dick in the stretched-out front of his pants.
"Neil," he says and his gaze is heavily lidded, as searing as a physical touch. "Yes or no?"
"Yes."
Despite the desperation, Neil keeps his movements deliberate, easy. He crawls onto the foot of the bed, careful not to touch until he's lined up, body held up and away from Andrew's sprawl.
Neil had never thought Andrew would be comfortable underneath him, never thought about what it would take for him to put that bullet of trust in the chamber and hand Neil the loaded gun.
The first time Andrew had pulled him down, his hands had been curled so tightly in the front of Neil's shirt to keep them from shaking. Neil had barely touched him, just hovered here how he does now, elbows and knees pressing down into the springs of the mattress. They'd kissed until their mouths were numb with it, until Neil's arms shook from holding himself up.
Andrew had eventually flipped them over, returning to a tried and true comfort zone for them both but the attempt had awakened something in him, a desire for a tenderness Andrew had thought the world had ripped out of him.
The next time he'd pulled Neil down, he'd done so with his hands around his ribs, dragging them flush from head to toe.
They’ve learned how it feels to crave that closeness ever since.
Andrew must see the direction of Neil's thoughts because he fits those same hands around Neil's ribs, thumbs sweeping gently over his shirt. Neil isn't small by most definitions besides height but he's narrow in all the places Andrew's hands like to settle.
Clever fingers find the spots they know so well, the crater of a ricocheting bullet, the bump where broken ribs have healed wrong. Neil lets Andrew reacquaint himself with a body he knows better than anyone else. His hands are hot, even through the material of Neil's shirt, the type of brand Neil relishes as they slide down to fit snugly around his hips and pull Neil into the cradle of Andrew's body.
He isn't hard, not yet, not the way he can feel the line of heat between Andrew's thighs as their bodies settle against each other.
Neil's lack of a physical tell to his arousal doesn't send Andrew into a whirlwind of self-recrimination and doubt the way it might've in the years before. Neil has explained, in awkward but unselfconscious words, that his libido is a summer storm; sometimes brief, sometimes swiftly triggered, sometimes a long a distant rumble- it all depends on the circumstances.
Andrew himself has learned when to let them cool down and when to ramp up the heat.
Today, they set their fires to a slow, simultaneous simmer.
Andrew huffs when Neil keeps his upper body arched away from him, chin tilting up in a silent request for a kiss. Neil lets his weight slip unhurriedly out from underneath his palms, coming down to bracket Andrew's head between his forearms.
He isn't someone Neil would ever describe as soft in his entirety, but there are parts of Andrew that are undeniably delicate. The shell of his ear and the skin just behind it where Neil's thumbs always seem to fit. The heavy-lidded, almost sleepy gaze of his eyes as he lets Neil look his fill, looking back himself. The generous curve of his bottom lip when Neil finally lowers his mouth to Andrew's, lips parting even before they touch.
Andrew kisses like a dialog, kisses in a language Neil has been decoding since the very first time Andrew spoke it against his mouth.
Neil touches those delicate places now, brushes his thumb over the curve of Andrew's ear, sweeps it gently behind to touch the soft divot of skin. There's an art to it, almost- holding on but never holding down.
Andrew's breath trips, just enough to stutter against Neil's lips and he lifts his hips in a slow, lazy roll.
The hands around his waist dig in, ten points of contact, of a conversation that heats Neil's blood faster than anything else.
Their bodies shiver and shift together as they kiss, a restless rhythm that builds until Neil's spine feels like liquid heat, until he pulls his mouth away from Andrew's to drag wet lips down over the column of his throat.
Andrew lets out a breath that sounds like steam but tilts his head to give him space, a clear declaration of consent. Neil feels the heat of his own dick in his pants now, tight and aching but distant, secondary to dragging the flat of his tongue along the beating pulse of Andrew's bared throat.
"Marks?" Neil mumbles the question against salty skin, pressing his teeth gently to emphasize the intent. One of Andrew's hands leaves his waist to slide down the length of his back and settle on his tailbone, pushing Neil's hips into the roll of their bodies.
"Yes." Andrew's voice sounds clipped in the quiet air between them, but Neil feels the jolt in his thighs when he catches skin between his gentle teeth and pulls hot blood to the surface with infinite care.
The hand over the rise of Neil's ass flexes, middle finger pushing against the fabric of his pants to slip into the crease of his cheeks. Neil hums, dragging his free hand down to thumb at the bump of Andrew's nipple, the thin cotton of his sleep shirt barely a barrier to his touch at all.
Andrew hisses louder this time and tucks his thumb over and into the waistband of Neil's pants, pulling them low. "Pants," he says, knocking his chin into the side of Neil's head to kiss him again. "Pants."
Neil pulls back, sitting back on his knees to give them room.
Andrew kicks his own pants off first, already bare beneath, before tugging at Neil's waistband pushing their clothes down until they tangle uselessly at the foot of the bed. He's barely settled back down between the spread of his legs when Andrew wraps both calves around Neil's own, rubbing them together until Neil shivers.
Andrew's legs are hairier, the hair there fine and blond and prickly, raising goosebumps all along Neil's legs when his ears catch the rasp of it. He rocks forward a little, just enough to feel Andrew's toes curl into the muscle of his legs.
The slide of their dicks against each other is wet, Andrew's belly and groin shiny with pre-cum. Neil kisses him again, letting their hips find that instinctual rhythm, his own pulse pounding in his chest, his back, the creases of his hips.
Andrew's hands slip back up and under his shirt, rough skin skimming over the ragged tatter of road burn on Neil's side. That's the scar he likes best, if like is a word they would use for it. Palms unerringly find their way to drag and clutch at the torn skin there, the sensations both muted and intense.
Neil shivers against Andrew's mouth, pulling back to balance on one shaking arm as he reaches back and yanks the shirt over his head.
Andrew's eyes are dark, the ring of hazel so thin, Neil has to lean in close to see his favorite shades. He doesn't ask and Andrew doesn't offer to take his own shirt off. Complete nakedness is still hard, even on the days he craves to be touched. Neil refuses to cross that unspoken boundary and offers himself up instead.
It's almost like the first time he had shown his scars. Andrew's fingers touch the mark from the bullet, the long line across his ribs from Riko's knives. His fingertips curve over Neil's shoulder, fitting into the holes of the old iron mark, pressing down once before dragging down, down, down over the slim fit of his chest and belly to hover just above the coarse, dark hair at the start of his groin.
The soft drag of knuckles back and forth, fingertips barely scraping into the demarcation between hair and skin, is enough to wreck Neil's steady, slow grind.
He bucks up against the touch, folding over to rest shakily on his elbows, head bowing down to press against Andrew's chest. The slide of their dicks is even wetter now, with Neil adding to the slick mess between them. Andrew cups the back of his head, scratches his fingers through the damp hair at the nape, and lets Neil regain his composure by reaching awkwardly into the bedside drawer for their supplies.
"You're going to kill me one day," Neil says into the cotton of his shirt, pressing a firm kiss to his sternum. Andrew's hand on his neck clenches in time with the tightening of his thighs around Neil's hips.
He shoves the bottle of lube into Neil's face. "Are you ready or do you need another minute?"
Neil huffs at the mocking tone, letting his hot breath ghost through Andrew's shirt, and takes the bottle out of his line of sight.
He knows Andrew likes to see him desperate, likes to see that Neil wants this just as much as he does. It heals some lingering hurt in him, to give pleasure, to use his hands in a way that doesn't break something.
Neil is a much simpler creature; he just likes to see that Andrew likes it. His own pleasure is secondary, presence to the hitch of Andrew’s chest, the twitch of his hips when he’s tangled up in desire.
With the slick pressed into his hand, Neil has permission to help Andrew like it as much as possible.
Neil keeps his touches light, guiding instead of pulling them into position near the middle of the bed. Andrew stays on his back, running a hand down over the soft, worn sheets, lifting his hips when Neil grabs the pillow neither of them will admit was bought specifically for sex and wedges it under him.
Neil tries not to stare but it feels like a herculean task, when Andrew runs a hand through his own hair, hot eyes tracking his movements with obvious intent. The curtains are closed but the sunlight still cuts in between the gaps, striping Andrew in lines of soft gold.
Everything about them feels careful and syrupy slow. Andrew's legs rock open and closed around him, gentle nudges to Neil's ribs and thighs. They're in constant contact, even when Neil lets his touch hover questioningly over the smooth skin of Andrew's inner thigh, only touching when Andrew pushes into his hand.
He lets his hands stay light, open palms and unclenching fingers rubbing slowly from the curve of his knees to the soft crease of his groin and back up again. Andrew flexes into the touch, brings his hand down to roll his palm over the head of his own dick, his breath escaping in a noise of contentment.
Neil relishes the opportunity to feel, to bask in the simple trust of touching just to touch. It's so easy to see that Andrew likes it like this, likes Neil's hands on his thighs, dragging down to push his thumbs into the cushion of his cheeks and back again.
Neil knows what to look for when it's time to move on- the rock of hips, the flex of Andrew's toes against Neil's thighs, or the bedsheets. A pink flush spreads up under the shirt Andrew still has on, the hem pulled up enough to show the expanse of his ribs expanding with every breath.
Neil drops his hands from their gentle caress to pop open the bottle of lube, pressing a smacking kiss to the side of Andrew's knee as he warms it up.
"Ready?" He asks because that's how it works.
Andrew strokes himself, cants his hips up and breathes out a soft yes.
Neil wriggles his fingers, an overabundance of excited energy making his spine tingle and shake. He enjoys this part, could spend hours trailing calloused fingers over Andrew’s thighs, down over the skin behind his balls where it’s so soft and intimate. He rubs the pads of his fingers over Andrew’s hole until everything is slick and warm, until the tight, tense muscles unfurl enough for Neil to press in gently, catching Andrew’s free hand in his own and tangling their fingers together for one more check-in.
“Still yes?”
Andrew hums, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder, and nods.
Neil sinks his finger inside him, brushing his thumb over the uneven bumps of Andrew’s knuckles when he tenses. Andrew’s hand drifts from his to smooth up his arm and Neil lets him feel the unique topography of scar tissue, a history of horror turned into a beacon of safe security.
Neil keeps his pace even and slow, lets the slick wet sounds of the lube crack apart the quiet of the room.
Andrew unfolds in stages; in his head, in his heart, in the questioning tilt of his hips when Neil’s finger bumps against the spot that makes his belly jump. The bottom of his shirt sticks to the mess Andrew has made of himself- Neil doesn’t feel bad when he adds more lube to his hands and pulls out to rub two fingers around Andrew’s rim.
He doesn’t groan or moan, but Andrew’s body rolls into the press of it, rocking down when Neil drags his fingers out and back inside again. The fingertips of their joined hands on the bed dance over each other, a grounding touch between the stretch and the give of a body still unused to being handled with infinite care.
Each breath slips between Andrew's lips in a small whoosh, a gentle exhale. His lashes flutter as he tries not to sink too obviously into the easy push, push, drag of Neil's fingers but Neil doesn’t let him hide from it.
He takes his time, opens him so slowly, so thoroughly, Andrew quivers on the edge of pleasure. The tremble of his thighs has Neil sweeping a soothing hand down his open legs, cupping the thick muscle when he pulls his fingers out.
Andrew's chest expands as he takes one deep breath, then another. The first time Neil had done this, he'd thought Andrew was panicking, trying to tough it out in a fit of self-destructive pique. He'd pulled out and pulled away then, cold to his core that he'd misread the situation, had missed some crucial clue that all was not well between them, but Andrew had arched back against him, confused and heated.
"Yes," he'd practically hissed, dragging his own hand down his chest and belly, curling his fingers against some deep, desperate ache he couldn't reach outside himself. "It's a yes."
They hadn't moved past that; Neil discovering his palm fit perfectly against Andrew's body as he rocked down onto his curling fingers, and Andrew's deep, shuddering breaths and squeezing thighs as he shivered his way to completion, but it had been enough.
Neil knows what to look for now.
It had taken him weeks of careful prodding, taking note of every shudder and breathy sigh, for Neil to realize Andrew's laxity came from pleasure, not a long learned reaction to trauma.
Learning how not to touch Andrew, when not to let their skin press and drag, had been a matter of decency and survival. Learning the ways Andrew wanted to be touched, the ways he liked to be taken apart, was another language entirely.
Neil had become fluent in both.
The crinkle of the condom wrapper is loud, even as Neil’s heartbeat thunders in his ears. Andrew widens his already spread thighs, far enough Neil can see where he’s wet and pinked up, twitching with emptiness now that Neil’s fingers are occupied. Neil rolls the condom on, tossing the open wrapper to the floor to be dealt with later.
Andrew keeps one hand loosely clutching around himself, stroking slowly as Neil shuffles forward to catch his palm under Andrew’s bent knee, bringing it up to curl gently around his hip.
“Any day now,” Andrew mutters, cutting off Neil’s final inquiry with a flex of the leg around his hip.
Neil exhales on a laugh and presses forward in response, pushing into Andrew with a low groan. It makes him pant, makes him feel like every nerve ending starts and stops where they’re barely joined together.
Andrew breathes in deep, measured breaths, rolling his shoulders back into the bed with a sound so low and keening, Neil only catches it because his body has been attuned to Andrew’s every pleasure since the dawn of time. He leans back over him, his hips bones flush against the curve of Andrew’s ass, the clench of his legs as he adjusts to the feeling of being full and close.
Neil locks his elbows, fingers gripping at the sheets. A buzzing, tingling pull in his belly makes him want to buck up into the tight clutching heat around his dick but Neil’s willpower is a thing forged in iron and love. Andrew is slowly rocking against him, fisting himself in tight, concise jerks- opening himself to Neil in absolute trust.
Neil would rather shred the skin from his body than do anything to break that.
Andrew sighs, breath blowing out to fan against Neil’s cheek and the tension rushes out of his body like water. His eyes, barely open, trapped in the haze of arousal and satisfaction, latch onto Neil’s and he lifts his chin. “Kiss me.”
Neil leans down, shoulder blades bowing as he keeps his weight off of him but Andrew’s hands slip from between them to grip at his back, dragging Neil’s body down onto his with authority.
He swallows Neil’s startled moan with a deep kiss, licking at the seam of his lips and burying his hand in his hair. Andrew barely lets them breathe, straining forward when their mouths part, desperation finally breaking free. Neil gives his all, answering back with shuddering breaths and his thumbs back against the thin skin behind Andrew’s ears.
His hips jerk when Andrew’s teeth tug on his bottom lip and the shocking bolt of pleasure knocks them into a persistent grind.
Andrew rips his mouth away, panting and baring his neck. Neil swoops down to set his teeth to the long, straining tendon there, sucking a bruise that makes Andrew shiver and clutch at his back, at his ribs before dragging his face back up for another biting kiss.
They kiss until their mouths are raw with it, the sex is almost secondary to the way it feels when they're wrapped up in each other. Andrew's legs lock around Neil's waist so tight, Neil barely pulls out before Andrew’s dragging him back down, back all the way inside.
Andrew's hands slide down Neil's back, over the rough of the road rash on his ribs and hip, over the neat slices from Riko's blades, until he can cup his hands around the supple curve of Neil's ass, fingers digging in to hold them together. Neil loves these moments the best, how it feels like Andrew is pushing him deeper, taking him just a little more.
Neil flexes his hips, grinding in a slow circle and Andrew's breath puffs over his face in a quick, hitching rhythm.
They're so quiet when they're like this, just the sounds of the slick and the sweat of their bodies, the slow rocking of the springs, and the hot, heavy breathing pressed against each other's necks.
Neil spreads his legs wider on the bed, leveraging his next slow thrust up into the hot squeeze of Andrew's body, and knows he's hit the spot when Andrew's throat clicks around a soft moan.
He keeps the pace steady, the roll of his hips a precise onslaught as he lifts his mouth from the small patch of skin he's been worrying with his teeth again. Andrew will bitch over it after, will wear his high collared shirts until it fades but right here and now, Neil shifts his hand up to press against the mark with the pad of his thumb, and Andrew arches into the touch.
With miles more skin on display, Neil can't help but kiss his way up, up, up over the bob of Andrew's throat, lips buzzing over the little patch of hair under his chin that the razor missed that morning until he's hovering over his open mouth.
He waits, shuddering as his hips tighten. He's so close-
Andrew's eyelids crack open, gaze dark and heated as it falls upon Neil's face. His hair is a tangled mess, from Neil's fingers, from the motion of the bodies. It's darker at his hairline, damp and curling over his brows.
Neil wrestles with his own pleasure, breathing a groan against Andrew's wet open mouth. His spine feels molten, every nerve ending tingling down to pool at the apex of his hips.
One of Andrew's hands slides back up his body, dipping into the length of his spine, palm spanning the wings of his shoulder blades until he can cup the back of Neil's head and pull him into a deep kiss.
Andrew likes to be kissed, likes to tilt Neil's head until he gets the angle he wants, likes to cradle his face, his chin. Touch is a fickle experience on the best of days, but when it's this good, Andrew can't resist it.
He pulls back with a twitch, and Neil can feel the throb in him, the growing wave of pleasure trembling through the legs squeezing rhythmic and tight around his waist.
"Now?" Neil whispers, not wanting to break the blanket of quiet around them but needing to know. Andrew bites at his mouth, puts his teeth to Neil's lower lip again, then down to his chin, and exhales sharply.
Neil kisses him again, just because he can and gets rewarded with a wrecked "yes."
He starts with his thumb back on the first purple-red mark, a smear of color against the pale stretch of Andrew's throat as he tilts his head back into the pillow. Neil keeps his movements slow, telegraphed, sliding his hand down over the bunched-up sleep shirt, over the wiry patches of fine blond hair on Andrew's chest, down over the thick cut of the trunk of his body, the soft pouch of his belly.
Andrew makes that noise again when Neil's hand finally wraps around his dick, the sound soft as a sigh. He's so wet, leaking since the moment Neil had pressed him down onto the sheets. Time feels twisted back on itself between then and now- has it been hours or minutes? He doesn't know.
Neil keeps his grip tight, focuses on the ways he knows Andrew likes to be touched- the thick vein along the length of his dick, the spot just below the head. The arm holding Neil's weight trembles but he refuses to buckle, keeps working them both towards completion.
Andrew's hands flutter and clutch at him, at his shoulder, his waist, his ribs. His body is bowstring tight, hips curling up and up into Neil's thrusts until Andrew's eyes snap open wide and wild.
"Neil," he says, a thread of desperation cracking his name in two, breaking his composure, as if Neil would ever leave him like this, on the edge of bliss.
"I'm here," he says, "I've got you." And watches Andrew fall apart.
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