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Andrew sits on the armchair and beckons Neil, with two violin-string fingers, to come closer, to step between his spread legs.
Neil settles himself carefully on Andrew’s thighs, straddling his lap, and tucks his knees cosy on either side.
Andrew lifts one hand to cradle the curve of Neil’s cheek with his palm. There, he brushes a thumb gently beneath Neil’s eye, and tilts his face down towards him. A fan of fair lashes trails after his touch, and Neil’s gaze, milk-water and glassy, blinks dizzy and dazed at him. When he presses down on Neil’s golden skin, it pales beneath his touch, blanching, but the flush back is less of a rush and more of a seep in of slow, woozy, sleepy colour.
“Are you thirsty, Neil?”
Oh, he is. He is so thirsty. Andrew knows. He can feel it.
Feel it in the way that Neil leans into him, sways toward him, softens for him. In the fingers that Neil scrawls tightly into the upholstery of the armchair when he grips the back of it for support, elbows tight, snapping threads above and around Andrew’s shoulders. One, two, three four. Brittle cracked-twig sounds as the fabric gives beneath the claw of his grip.
Andrew tipts his head to the side, just a breath, and raises an eyebrow. “Eager,” he says. "Patience."
Slowly, he draws Neil’s tucked-in shirt free from his waistband, then smooths a gentle palm across the flat of his tummy. Neil’s breath shivers out of him, as if Andrew’s fingers have caught upon the end of a silky ribbon, something hidden between his ribs, and it has already began to unravel him in sugar-strand threads. He watches the drag of Andrew’s hand across his skin.
“Look at me, Neil,” Andrew murmurs. “Eyes up here.”
Neil’s gaze snaps back up. Those blue-blue irises and auburn curls, clustered round his temples, falling over his forehead. He looks like sin, like damnation, with the berry-red hue of his glossy lips and the flash of his tongue as he wets the corners of them. As if he has just crawled hands-and-knees out of the dark woodwork of an inverted crucifix, scripture from the bible inked upside-down into his palms. The heat of his body drips from every part of him, saturating through Andrew’s thighs, down to the bone.
“Tell me,” as he strokes over Neil’s waist, the dip of his hipbones, “what you want.”
Neil’s eyes drift back down, magnetised by the touch, but Andrew clicks his tongue.
And when Neil comes back to him, he whispers, “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”
A rosy-pink blush blooms on Neil’s cheeks in the wake of the words. He dips his head in a nod. Slowly, he leans a little closer, and his words are warm on Andrew’s face when he whispers, when he confesses, when he prays, with his nails on the upholestry scritching in his restlessly open-closing hands, “I want you. You know I want you. I…”
Andrew holds his gaze steady. He's so unruffled, so unbothered, as his fingers begin to untuck the button of Neil’s jeans, sliding the metal slowly free. He gentles the sides of the denim away and quitens Neil's hips whhen they start to squirm. “How much?”
Neil’s breath hitches. One hand sliding off the armchair, he reaches down to curl it round Andrew’s wrist. Squeezing at the smooth inside of it, where the thrum of Andrew's pulse lives in his veins. In-and-out, in-and-out, like the thu-thump of a heart against his palm's love lines.
“This much,” he says, and he draws Andrew closer, to ease his fingertips finally, finally, in beneath his underwear, where he has been aching all day, where he is wanting, where he is throbbing. Where he needs him. “Here.”
Andrew curves his fingers around him just right, there, and Neil’s body immediately crumbles forward. Bowing himself into the warmth of Andrew’s chest, like all the restraint has withered tiredly from his bones. His forehead presses to the dip of Andrew’s collarbone with a shudder, and he feels a kiss brushed lightly to his hair, a palm stroked soothingly at the small of his back.
“Andrew,” he gasps, he heaves his breath, and oh, the dry scorch of thirst is high in his throat again now, blistering and raw, flames licking at his teeth, as Andrew strokes him so devastatingly slow, so heartbreakingly gentle.
It doesn’t take long. It never does, not ever, but especially when Andrew has had him waiting all day, not when he is so thirsty, not when he is so sensitive. It’s only a handful of moments before-
“Andrew, I’m- I’m going to, I can’t- I need-” and Neil is not really sure what he is trying to beg for through his tumbles of babbling-out words because an orgasm is tightening up tight at the base of his spine already, pulling between his hips, pleasure spilling so sharply from the wrap of Andrew’s hand, but his mouth is also drawn back to the column Andrew’s throat, lips opening up wide, fangs aching to soak their tips in the softness of his skin, “I’m-”
“Wait.”
Neil freezes. So abruptly that his lungs stutter around his next breath, like it’s already halfway fallen out. He barely manages to hold back a broken sound.
Andrew brings a hand back to Neil’s face, again, like before. Holds it there as, along the seam of Neil's lips, he traces a featherlight fingertip.
“Open for me.”
Just a breath, just a sliver, just a tiny cherry-lollipop pop of sound as Andrew strokes his lips into parting.
The warmth of it, the warmth of him, teases Neil’s newborn fangs into unsheathing from his gums. It stings, Andrew knows. Neil has told him about it, about how it prickles like pinwheels of needles along his jaw, but he sees it, too. Sees it in the zipped-up tightening of Neil’s shoulders and the ice stilling of his body, before the relief of the release melts through him, soaks his cells. His eyelashes flutter in gratitude, head falling forward.
“Poor thing," Andrew sighs. He strokes the tip of Neil's fang with his littlest finger. “It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Neil tries to nod, but it's weak. There’s syrup drizzling through his chest, now, honey warming too-hot his tongue. Andrew’s scent so warm and fresh and alive. Right there, the iron-rich lure of it, filling Neil’s veins.
So caramel-thick and sticky-sweet that it curls in the back of his throat, feeding the fire of the thirst. Flooding his lungs so decadently that he can already taste the fine-wine flavour of it, can hardly draw a breath around its heady perfume.
His fang coaxes a single droplet of blood into blossoming on Andrew’s finger.
The shudder of Neil's body rattles all the way up to his shoulders. So strong that Andrew has to pin him still, with a hand pressed flat to his chest.
“Oh,” he says, simply, on a sigh, as Neil's breathing takes on a wild edge. “You’re starving.”