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Andrew does not dream.
When he closes his eyes to sleep, engulfed by blackness, it’s much more like falling into a deep, dark pool. No light can come through, and no light can go out. His body sinks to the bottom, leaden and heavy, until morning calls and floats it back to the surface of consciousness.
It happens easiest after sex. Though Andrew wouldn’t describe himself as someone who ever had trouble falling asleep, sometimes the action of sleep itself felt more like drowning than resting on the sea floor. A good orgasm—long, drawn out, overdue—was always something of a cheat code to ensure a good night’s rest.
Andrew does not dream, but sometimes, he still feels the echoes of it.
Sleep cradles him in her arms, cat-like and warm. In his unconscious state, something rubs against his thigh. Andrew feels it like a shadow clinging to skin, thick as it caresses him. The feeling pushes up, up, up, until it’s brushing underneath swell of his ass. Familiarity has his sleep-addled body rocking back, wanting to get a better feel for whatever was pressing against him.
Except, then, it slips.
Hazy, not quite awake but no longer asleep, the thing breaches Andrew’s hole, fucking into him slowly. Andrew’s body shudders at the intrusion, but it takes so easy, like this is routine; like this is normal.
And if it’s normal, surely it can’t be bad, right?
Its ministrations are so slow, almost rhythmic. Andrew is quick to adjust to the feeling, even as his mind struggles to wake and comprehend what is truly happening. All he knows is that something is fucking him, and he hopes it doesn’t stop.
Unless, of course, this is a dream?
Andrew wouldn’t be able to tell—it’s been so long, it’s too hard to recognize them now. He remembers only the sensation of anything being able to happen; like free-falling into endlessness. Rocking back onto whatever is inside of him, he supposes, is similar. If he keeps his eyes closed and his mind empty, maybe he can milk this feeling forever—of being full, of being stuffed just the way he likes.
If only it would go a little faster.
He likes this, too; the languidness of it, like Andrew is nothing more than a toy to be used. Something soft and warm to bury yourself in, happy to take it, content to give back when the moment is right. But he can’t move his body the way he likes just yet, still lulled into sleep’s embrace as he is. He wants to push back further, to get this thing inside of him to rub against his prostate, hit that spot that always has him seeing stars. But it’s almost as if it knows, and refuses to comply simply because Andrew is wanting. Words struggle to crawl up his throat, scratching at his vocal chords until all he can mumble is, “Fuck.”
The sound gets lost somewhere between his unconscious state and the real world. There’s some rustling, and a sharp click. Andrew is barely able to make it out, but he doesn’t have the breadth nor the time to focus on it with the way the rhythm finally picks up. What had been a slow, nearly teasing thrust turns into one with purpose, intent. It slides deeper inside of Andrew, forcing his walls to spread to accommodate its girth. Immediately, it’s so much better, satiating the hunger that had begun to fester. Andrew thinks he’s moving his hips in his dream, hoping to pull it in closer, make the slide easier. He’s just as happy to take what he can get, though.
It’s so wide, stretching Andrew so nicely. He’s never truly been all that picky, but Andrew has always had a deep sense of appreciation for those on the fatter side. There was something about feeling his flesh pulled taut, made only to host someone else to their liking, that had his heart racing, mind spinning.
Coupling its shorter thrusts, it pounds into Andrew with a bit more force. His body is still only in the early stages of waking, and he doesn't possess the capability it takes to move around and get the thing to hit him right where he wants it. Truly, it’s all Andrew can do to swivel his hips just the slightest bit, wanting to wrestle it in the right direction.
But no matter the positioning, it’s still so good. Andrew’s cock leaks in tandem with its push and pull, rock hard and a flushed pink. He can see it even in his mind’s eye—knows just how he looks when he’s being pushed to that edge, so close and yet so far. Small gasps tumble past his lips as he lies there and takes it, takes all that it’ll give him, because really: What else can he do?
There are, perhaps, few things that Andrew loves in this life, but sex in undoubtedly one of them. Where it’s sometimes regarded as a means to an end by some, Andrew views it as the closest you can get to worship. And it isn’t that he’s worshipped any of the guys he’s been with before: but the ritual of it, something sacred, nearly holy, is far too reminiscent of a childhood spent dragged along pews, hands clasped together despite his insistence that he didn't believe, for Andrew to ignore.
Older, now, Andrew can admit that part of him had liked it. That he’ll always see parts of that past in pieces of his daily life. That maybe Adam and Eve couldn’t really be blamed for their crimes, because once you knew how good it could be, why would you ever go back?
More than it all, Andrew loves to give. Sex is the one area of his life where he can’t help but want to show his worth, get on his knees and give his partner a performance to last a lifetime. He considers it an art form, really, and is more than happy to play his role in the making of a masterpiece.
Andrew wants to wake up.
He wants to wake up, turn onto his stomach, spread his legs and bring them closer together. Bridge the gap and go for closer, closer, closer, until there’s barely any room left to breathe.
It’s not so easy, but he tries. With pleasure overriding his neurons, Andrew keeps his eyes shut tight as he moves. The bed is soft and warm from morning light beneath him, and he nearly sinks between the pillows when he turns his head into them. A moan pulls itself from his throat at the new angle. This is what he wanted. This is what he needed.
Click.
The pace picks up again, turning into something brutal. Andrew’s body shakes with the force of it, jostling further up the bed. “Oh, shit,” he breathes before cutting himself off with a groan, hips lifting if only so it can thrust into him more deeply. His fingers tighten in the sheets in time with Andrew’s brain finally seeming to catch up, his eyes fluttering open. The stark white of the pillows greet him, but his eyes nearly roll back into his head at the feeling of being pushed to his limit. Over and over, it pounds into him, so deep now that it finally begins to hit that sacred spot Andrew has been craving so much. His nerves are so sensitive, keyed up and strung out from how long he's lied here, simply taking whatever was given to him.
Getting fucked into the bed means that his cock can’t help but rub against the sheets. He’s achingly hard, smearing precome onto his stomach, making a mess all over himself. It only serves to urge him on more, rutting into the cotton and chasing that high. “Yes,” he mewls into the pillows, drool forming a wet spot around his open mouth. “Yes, yes, ah—”
And then, as if having awaited that cue, it stops.
Andrew can’t help himself: he groans, the sound as frustrated as it is fucked out, hips shaking with the aftermath of being denied. He can still feel the ghost of pressure against his hole, just out of reach.
“Fuck,” Andrew practically whines, distraught from the loss. “That’s—That’s not fair.”
If he focuses, he might hear a chuckle, but Andrew is too caught up in the lack of stimulation that he can hardly process anything happening outside of his body. His cock, still so hard and begging for release, twitches where it’s caught between his body and the bedsheets.
Ah. But Andrew is so close. He strains the muscles of his arms, pulling himself up just enough before dragging his body down again. His dick continues to leak, helping the slide—yes, perfect, just a little more—
On the downturn, it starts again. The pace is still brutal and bruising, is immediately what Andrew needs. He mewls, the sound pulling itself as if from the depths of his throat. It feels like having his body set alight, a match ignited and ready to burn. Andrew aches for release, chases it like a dog to a bone, hips swivelling in time with the thrusts as if it’ll get him that much closer. A sob tumbles past Andrew’s lips unbidden as the rope finally snaps, the thread burning to a crisp and taking Andrew’s release with it. He spills all over his stomach and the cotton, body shaking through the climax. It’s so much, so filling, so perfectly catered to exactly what he hadn’t known he needed.
Except, the thrusting doesn’t stop.
Andrew cries out as it continues to fuck into him, throat scratched raw, cheeks flushed bright red from exertion. He reaches back, unsure of what he’s hoping to find. In the end, it’s no good. Andrew knows his place.
Fingers curling into the meat of his thighs, he spreads himself open wider.
In the back of his mind, Andrew thinks, it hurts, it feels good, it hurts, it hurts.
In the silence of the room, Andrew moans, “Haaa, shit, there, yeah—”
The heat is quick to return, building low in his stomach. Strength seeps from his bones, spilling into the sheets, as if it were never really his to begin with. It’s all he can do to simply lay there and take what he’s given, take all that he’s given, with nothing less than the utmost gratitude. Tears begin to stream down his cheeks, but whether it’s from the relentless pain or the overwhelming pleasure, Andrew can’t tell. All that matters is that it’s his.
He isn’t sure when he cums again, but he’s sure he does. The orgasms come and go, but the fucking doesn’t stop, burrowing so deep into Andrew as if trying to make a home inside of him. He wonders, idly, somewhere between this space and the next, if he’s a good fit, if he’s warm, finally shaped perfectly to its liking, wonders if—
At some point, the thrusts had slowed, staggering so much until they stop completely. It pulls out of Andrew gradually, heavily, leaves him gaping and aching and twitching on the sheets. He can’t stop his legs from shaking. His heart has picked up a jackrabbit’s pace behind his ribcage, threatening to burst and drench the cotton red.
Between gasping breaths, Andrew mutters, “Why?”
There’s a distinct click, and then, “That’s enough for the camera, I think.”
Relief is a tidal wave crashing over Andrew. It oozes through him, until he’s practically melting against the mattress, trying to become one with the foam topper. Warm hands slide over his skin—gentle, always gentle—caressing his worn out legs, following the curve of his ass. Andrew longs to stretch himself out further, show off how good he’s been, how good he still can be.
“I didn’t think it was possible to be so jealous of plastic,” Neil says, thumb circling over Andrew’s rim. Andrew wonders how he must look from his point of view. “But I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“Fuck o-off,” Andrew huffs, even as his hips wriggle back, chasing more of that delicious pressure. Maybe if he moves them just right, Neil will fill him again—the emptiness, it’s worse, it hurts—
“You sure about that?”
Andrew’s skin goes cold as Neil pulls away.
He keens—it’s horribly embarrassing, nauseating to hear, can’t be a sound that actually came from his mouth—and shifts his hips up again. “Ah, don’t—come on, rabbit, don’t be so dramatic.”
It’s a sad, shameful attempt at please.
Without the energy to lift his head and find Neil behind him, Andrew is forced to lie there in wait, wondering if Neil had heard the thinly veiled ask beneath his words. He’s trying to get better, slowly, surely. Better about asking for things, things he might, as described by a normal person, want.
He’d wanted this. He’d asked weeks ago, and said, “Surprise me.”
Andrew supposes a trickster never quite unlearns what it means to be clever.
The only warning he gets is Neil’s warm hand fitting itself to the small of his back, fingers splaying across the flesh as if to make room to hold. There’s no preamble, no advisory, before he slides straight home, exactly where Andrew has been waiting. The dildo on the fuck machine had been drenched in lube—he knows, can feel it sticking to his thighs, now—and it’s more than enough to make it easy for Neil to bury himself inside. Hips flush to Andrew’s, he lets Andrew sit with the feeling, of being full of something real, before pulling halfway out and starting to fuck him proper.
It’s merciless, almost, the way Neil fucks him. Like he might actually be jealous of silicone, of having to sit there and only watch as it ruined Andrew just enough to make him stupid but not enough to give him what he really wants. Andrew gasps around the feel of him, wishes he could see his face—would Neil be angry? Cheeks flushed and sweaty, eyes dark from something more vicious than lust?
Does Neil know that they aren’t comparable? Truly, they aren’t even in the same league. To be used by Neil—who’d once had to be coached through it, who had pieced together what he actually likes over the years he and Andrew have been together—is one of the greater honours of Andrew’s life. He likes being able to take some of Neil’s firsts; likes to be the one that ignites that fire beneath him, that flame of possession that riles him up and leaves Andrew marked for days afterward. Fuck the camera, fuck the viewers; Andrew would trade it all for Neil to know that he has become all that Andrew really needs.
This Neil, the one that’s learned all the ways to make Andrew’s body tick, is Andrew’s favourite toy of all.
They’ve become so attuned to one another: Know exactly what buttons to push to make the other feel just right. It’s a harmony they’ve built together, the swell of the music always so completely enthralling it leaves little room to do much else than to ride its waves to the end.
Today’s melody rages with possessiveness, cresting over Andrew beneath the ever-present surge of take whatever you want. It’s yours.
Because that’s just the crux of it: There is no Andrew without Neil, nor Neil without Andrew. Plastic could never replace what they have; could never truly understand how Andrew enjoys the chasing, the pleasing, the feeling of showing off. Where others might see someone stone-cold and ruthless, Neil—and all of Andrew’s viewers—know him for what he truly is: a slut desperate for making his partner feel good.
Does Neil feel good, now? With Andrew so loose, so thoroughly debauched? He grunts as he slams his hips forward to meet Andrew’s, over and over, running towards that edge Andrew can’t help jumping off. Is Andrew better, like this, having already been taken by something else? Is Neil upset that he didn’t get to ruin him himself?
If he is, he does not show it. His touch sets Andrew’s body alight where they meet, the digits of Neil’s fingers creating new dips in his waist, his hips. Bruising him for later, the way he knows Andrew likes (though Andrew is fairly certain he likes them, too). Neil’s grip grows tighter the closer he gets, a silent warning, though Andrew doesn’t need it. He’s happy—perhaps even grateful—to be that vice for Neil, to help ease the ache.
Neil always sounds so good when he’s close, too. Like the strings have been keyed in, bringing the symphony to it’s crescendo. “Fuck, baby,” he moans as he continues to slam into Andrew, using his body as nothing more than a means to and end. Just the way he knows Andrew likes it. “Got you nice and fucked up for me, huh? Bet you didn’t even remember I was there.”
“I remembered,” Andrew tries to say between his own broken mewls. “I wished—wished it was you.”
A disbelieving chuckle fills the space between his next thrusts. “Don’t lie, now. I know you don’t think about anything other than how good you’re getting fucked.”
Andrew wants to disagree—really, truly, it’s on the tip of his tongue. But Neil chooses then to pull Andrew’s hips down to meet him halfway, and the slight change in angle has sparks lighting up his spine. Andrew can’t help himself from crying out, even as he’s so spent that barely anything comes out of his cock. The orgasm still hits all the same; locks all his nerves until he can’t do much more than lie there and sob from the pleasure.
“See?” Neil is saying, but it sounds as if he’s underwater. “Couldn’t even wait for me.”
If Andrew were a better man, maybe he’d apologize. Fortunately for them, apologies have never really been their style.
Neil keeps hold of Andrew’s body, moving him exactly where he needs. He continues to hit Andrew’s prostate with reverence, rhythm growing sloppy as his orgasm looms. Andrew is barely able to keep his eyes open, but he musters the remnants of his strength to keep his ass-cheeks spread wide, mumbling into the pillows, “Come inside.”
And Neil, thankfully, doesn’t need to be told twice.
His orgasm crests over him like a giant wave, pushing Neil to fall forward onto Andrew’s body. Andrew hardly registers it, because the feeling of Neil filling him up is enough to have him shuddering again. Andrew thinks that there’s perhaps a deity, or a god, that he should pray to; that he should thank for giving him this, allowing him to have this. This bed is the altar, his body the offering.
If Andrew could have his way, he’d rewrite every prayer to hail Neil’s name instead.
With a gentleness at complete opposites from how roughly he’d just fucked Andrew, Neil pulls out, one hand splayed across Andrew’s back for guidance. Andrew mewls at the loss of warmth. Neil’s cum drips from his hole, leaking over his perineum and onto the sheets. It’s an alleviating balm on his senses, to have tangible proof of how well he’s done, even as Neil rubs a warm washcloth over his skin.
When had he left? Andrew can’t remember. There’s no time to dwell on it either, as the adrenaline drop and physical exertion have Andrew succumbing to sleep within minutes.
Andrew does not dream.
When he wakes from that sea of black, it’s to low-light and warm blankets thrown over his body. Blinking his eyes open with great effort, Andrew searches for Neil.
He does not have to look very far, thankfully. Neil is sat up in bed next to him, laptop resting on his thighs and an intense look adorning his face. It melts away when he looks towards Andrew, meeting his bleary gaze. Andrew hates the immediate smile that takes over Neil’s face. Andrew equally hates the way he files it away in his memory for safe-keeping.
“Morning,” Neil says, looking away briefly to click something on the screen before shutting the computer. He sets it off onto the bedside table before turning fully towards Andrew. Neil shuffles down in the bed so they’re laying parallel to each other, knees knocking together beneath the blankets. He still hasn’t stopped smiling. “Sleep well?”
“What were you doing?” Andrew asks. He coughs immediately after, his throat dry from hours of—overuse.
Shuffling closer, Neil answers, “Editing. It’s a good video.”
“Top 1% good?”
“Top 0.1%, even.”
Andrew hums and lifts his leg to wrap around Neil’s. Neil takes it as a cue to throw one of his arms across Andrew’s waist, tugging until they’re flush to one another. Andrew watches as his gaze jumps around Andrew’s face as if cataloguing every twitch of muscle. He lets Neil have his fill, more than happy to study every aspect of Neil’s expression himself. It’s always a bit disorienting to watch Neil’s eyes twist and distort until only the thinnest ring of blue can be found within them. If Andrew didn’t have years of evidence to back it up, he thinks the only proof he’d need of Neil’s devotion to him would be the gaze he keeps solely for Andrew. It’s as devastating as it is divine, something pure and hallowed and belonging to Andrew alone.
There are few things in this world that Andrew think of as his. His life, now, is one. The home he’s built with Neil, another.
Neil Josten, mortal, is the most important.
“Did you really stop the recording?” Andrew asks, willing that spiral of unhelpful thoughts away.
Neil’s hand lifts to card through Andrew’s hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “No,” he answers honestly, searching Andrew’s face. “Not the one on my phone, at least.”
Andrew knows the answer, but can’t help himself from wanting to hear it from Neil’s mouth directly. “Why? Stingy, much? That could be the difference between 0.1 and 0.01%, you know.”
Lips pulling into a thin line, Neil’s expression darkens for only a moment. It makes something in Andrew’s chest shudder with pleasure. He chooses to examine that later. “I didn’t feel like sharing you anymore.”
“So possessive, Josten,” he teases, even as Andrew brings his hand up to grip Neil’s jaw.
“Yeah,” Neil sighs, the sound coming out as more of a breath than agreement. His gaze falls to Andrew’s mouth and is slow to find Andrew’s eyes again. “Can you blame me?”
Andrew doesn’t bother answering. He simply kisses Neil with all that he has.
He doesn’t think I’m yours has to be said. Neil knows it all too well.