Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Organized crime," Professor Josten says, dropping the chalk back onto his desk, "is different from regular crime in that it happens, as the name would suggest, through organized institutions. Gangs. Clans. At their best, little self-contained governments and economies."

He smiles, something grim, and slaps the residue chalk of his palms as he walks back into the circle of the lecture hall. Andrew drags his eyes up from the cinch of his waistband to his face with a not inconsiderable amount of effort.

"As I'm sure many of you know, your very own city of Baltimore had an organized crime ring that ran for many years until its bust, a decade or so back. Who can tell me what they know?"

A few polite hands go up. Andrew crosses his arms over his desk, and watches for the little spark in Josten's eyes when they land on him.

"Mr Minyard." He takes just a half step closer, his hip cocked. The dark blue wool of his sweater looks very nice against the copper of his hair, curling out of its little ponytail against the back of his neck. The corner of his mouth curls, as if to challenge. "Anything?"

Andrew leans back. Digs his fists into the pockets of his sweater. "The Wesninski ring operated out of Baltimore storefronts and banks from 1984 until its uncovering in 2005. It was headed by Nathan Wesninski but employed nearly a hundred people at the time of its discovery, all in varying ranks and degrees of involvement. They dealt mostly in extortion through violence, as well as money laundering, though they may have also handled drugs on occasion."

Josten smiles a little wider. "Very well," he says, stepping back. "The Wesninski case is a good example, because it illustrates the concept of organized crime very nicely."

He spins back to the blackboard, chalk in hand, and draws a huge triangle besides his letters. Andrew, out of the limelight, lets his gaze sink back down to the curve of his ass in his slacks.

Introduction To Criminology, so far, has turned out to be his most well-chosen class, if only for the eye candy. He may have picked his major primarily as a joke, to show Aaron the acceptance letter and watch a constipated little look appear on his face, but he did not regret the choice when he sat down for his first day of classes and Neil Josten walked in — folder stuffed under his arm, little flyaway curls around the plastic frame of his glasses, a sweater vest tucked into the leather belt circling a criminally tiny waist.

And that was before he opened his mouth.

"Mr Price," Josten says, evenly, "Do you care to share your thoughts with the class?"

A dark-haired boy a few rows back blinks and stammers his way through a question about the logistics of smuggling drugs through seemingly legal businesses in the city. He does not seem the type to stutter, or to blush as furiously as he does, but he, too, seems to hang onto Josten's every word.

"A very good question," Josten says, with a permissive tilt of his chin that has Price slumping back in his chair. Though not far enough to miss the explanation Josten launches into.

He is unlike anything Andrew has ever seen.

There must be fifty-odd students in the class. Josten knows each by name. Knows where each of them is, always, can spin and turn to find anyone at once. Somehow, some way, he has them all under his spell.

And unlike most of the other professors on faculty he does not ever seem to call down to them from the ivory tower. Andrew has yet to quite figure out if it's the rugged scar on his cheek or the fire in his eyes when he explains the intricacies of criminal operations to them that makes him seem so real, so alive. Approachable, almost, though he hardly is.

He is the first out the door at the end of class, and does not seem to keep office hours in any capacity Andrew could find.

Not that he was planning to go. He just looked it up. Out of curiosity.

"Of course," Josten says, setting his chalk back down, "all the preparation in the world cannot shield these organizations from being run by humans, at the end of the day. And humans are historically fickle, uncontrollable factors. Most gangs are uncovered through members turning coats, or through blunders and unnecessarily violent crimes." The smile on his face is grim when he adds, "The Wesninski ring, of course, was discovered almost by accident during police investigations when the head of the organization murdered his wife and son in what seems to have been nothing more than a fit of rage."

Silence threatens to settle over the room, but Josten does not allow it to linger. He redirects them to their assignment for the week, and dismisses them no more than a second before the clock strikes noon. He's headed out the door before anyone could think of going up for questions.

It might be the best class of Andrew's life.

Andrew would not call himself obsessed with Neil Josten.

He would say he has a healthy fascination with his way of teaching, his apparently deep-reaching expertise on the intricacies of crime, and the way his tight little ass looks in those expensive slacks he wears to class.

So if he has to, on occasion, shoo away any untoward thoughts in the middle of class, then that is entirely his own problem. Or if he needs to jerk off furiously back in his dorm like he could forcibly dispel the images of Professor Josten on his knees, pretty face flushed and glasses splattered with cum, out through his dick. Or if he freezes up like he's been caught when he steps around the corner of the faculty building to find Josten already there, leaned against metal grate fence and staring out at the campus green with a cigarette between his lips.

He considers turning around, heading the other way with his own pack of cigarettes already in hand, but his shoe brushes up against a leaf on the ground, rustling. Josten half-turns toward him, but does not seem particularly surprised. He nods, once, and keeps on smoking.

Andrew nods back and fiddles for his own cigarette.

He feels, stupidly, fifteen again, sneaking around the juvie outbuildings with the smokes he bummed off his cellmate during lunch. Trying to impress a boy or two, and telling himself he wasn't.

But he is not fifteen, and Josten, with his unruly hair and his sweater tucked into his pants, looks nothing like the boys Andrew was in juvie with. He also pays him no mind.

So Andrew lights up, and smokes leaned back against the brick wall, and tries not watch the way Josten's pink mouth wraps around the butt of his cigarette, the way his chest rises and falls beneath the soft wool of his sweater — cashmere, if Andrew had to guess just from the look of it.

It suits him.

If Josten feels anything of the tension thrumming in the air between them, he does not show it. He keeps his eyes on the campus green and the parking lot beyond, and Andrew keeps his eyes somewhere between him and the ground.

Josten finishes his cigarette and flicks it away. He hesitates a single beat when he turns towards Andrew, then nods. "See you in class," he says, and hurries past him.

Andrew allows his gaze to trail him until he rounds the corner. He props his own cigarette back between his lips, and breathes in the smoke.

Josten's office is up the stairs from the lecture rooms, down a short hallway lined with several other offices. The door hangs open just far enough to reveal him seated at his desk, one leg crossed over the other, glasses slid to the very tip of his nose as he leafs through the stack of assignments in his hands.

He looks up at the rap of Andrew's knuckle on the doorframe. "Ah, Mr Minyard." He gets up in one fluid motion and gestures. "Come on in."

Andrew does, and clicks the door shut behind himself. The room feels smaller with just the two of them in it, though it's neatly kept and nicely lit by the large windows. The warm autumn sunlight falling in lights up every copper strand of Josten's hair.

"You had a question about the assignment?" Josten's rounded his desk, and crosses his arms as he leans back against the front.

Andrew tries not to zero in on his supple butt cheek propped up on the wood. "Yes," he says, and sets his bag down on the single other chair. He pulls the folder holding his paper out. "I am done with the parts of the essay you assigned, but while reading I had a few other ideas that I thought might be interesting angles."

Josten takes the papers he hands him with slender fingers. His eyes flit over Andrew's neat, cramped handwriting, and he sinks further back against his desk. Like this, leaned back, he is just a few inches shorter than Andrew and when he looks up from the papers, at last, he tilts his chin just the slightest bit up towards him.

"These are nice ideas," he says, nodding. "Certainly many of them will be covered in your further courses, but I would not discard these in case they ever come in handy for your thesis one day. I can give you some more in depth feedback on these thoughts if you're alright with me taking this home?"

Andrew nods, and watches his assignment disappear into Josten's dark leather satchel.

"You are a very talented student, Mr Minyard," Josten says. His eyes narrow just a bit when they fall back onto Andrew. "It makes me wonder. One of my colleagues mentioned that you missed several of his classes and that your assignments are always just barely above average, but this is not an experience I've had with you."

Andrew huffs. "I must just have a knack for criminology," he says. It certainly has nothing to do with his abject desire to bend his professor over the polished mahogany of his desk.

Josten smiles. He doesn't quite take his eyes off Andrew's face. "Of course," he says, and pushes himself off his desk. Andrew is almost grateful to have his face above his own again. Almost. "Was there anything else?"

"No," Andrew says, and steps back toward the door.

"See in you class tomorrow."

Andrew keeps a normal pace through the corridor and down the stairs, though he digs his fingernails into his palm beneath the sleeve of his jacket.

Fuck.

It's just his luck when it starts pouring a minute before class lets out.

Andrew, kicked back in his seat, watches as Josten hesitates a moment longer than he normally would, eyes on the water-streaked window, before he stuffs his stack of loose papers into his leather satchel and hikes it over his shoulder.

Josten walks home. Andrew knows this for totally normal and sane reasons, such as having watched him head out past the faculty building and down the little cobbled street leading away from campus. Once or twice. Or maybe four, five times. Maybe once a week since the start of the semester.

He finds him still hesitating by the door when he makes it out of the lecture hall, staring out into the sheeting rain. Students hurry past them, opening umbrellas or pulling hoods over their heads, most making a mad dash for the parking lot just across. A few linger in the entryway, staring out at the pandemonium like Josten is.

Like Andrew is too, now.

His hand closes around his car keys in his pocket.

It's a Friday, and late in the day. Most everyone has gone home, their class one of the last to let out before the weekend. The corridor of offices upstairs seems dark already, even the custodian staff finished with cleaning up there.

Andrew watches Josten crunch the same numbers in his head, come to the same conclusion — no retreating to his office until the rain lets up.

The last few students hesitating by the door make a break for it, at last, pulling their coats over their heads and dashing down the steps into the street. Andrew watches one of them get nearly blown away by an oncoming gust of wind, another get splattered by a car passing through a puddle in front of her.

Josten looks down at his light tweed coat and appears to be considering the same when Andrew steps up next to him.

"Heavy storm," he says, conversation sticking to the backs of his teeth like gum. "Seems like it's not gonna let up for a while."

"Oh, Mr Minyard," Josten says. He seems flustered, somehow, a little frazzled. "I didn't know you were still here."

Andrew shrugs. He pulls his keys out of his pocket. "Are you walking?" he asks, like he doesn't know.

"Ah, well, yes. I suppose I must."

Andrew nods. Lets his key ring dangle from his finger. "I could give you a ride."

Josten blinks at him. More hair than usual has come loose from his ponytail, and it falls around his face in loose curls like a frame. "Oh, no thank you. That's not necessary."

Andrew squints out at the rain still thundering down. The clouds above are nearly black, and stretch on like that for miles. The rain only seems to be growing heavier, wind howling through the trees lining the street. "Are you sure?"

Josten nods. He pulls his coat on, at last. "Yes. It's not that far of a walk."

"Then it won't be that far of a drive, either." He jerks his chin at the door. "It's just across."

Josten narrows his eyes at him. A favorite pastime, it seems, but Andrew is content to wait him out, keys dangling.

"Alright," Josten says, at length. "Let's get out of here."

They hurry through the rain, and are both soaked through even though Andrew's car is one of the first in the lot. Andrew throws himself into the driver's seat and Josten clambers in beside him and they slam the doors shut, and breathe hard in the muted silence of the car.

Josten huffs a laugh, short and baffled. His hair is plastered to his temples and cheeks, and he takes his glasses off to wipe them dry on his sweater.

"This is better," he admits, a little breathless. "Thank you. Andrew, right?"

Andrew nods. Ignores the buzzing in his stomach.

"Thank you, Andrew."

The wet streets cram in on them from all sides, but Andrew winds the car through them like a needlepoint. Music trills softly from the speaker between them and leather of the seats creaks under every shift. Josten gives him simple directions but keeps quiet otherwise, keeps his hands in his lap and stares out the window at the grey sky until they pull up to a simple brick townhouse.

"Thank you," Josten says again, and hesitates with his hand on the door. His throat moves, and his tongue flicks out over his bottom lip before he says, "Oh, I also have my feedback on your assignment inside, if you have a second I can grab it for you."

Andrew looks at him. Josten looks back, blue eyes open and his fingers on the door handle. Andrew can hear them both breathing, can see a droplet pearl out of Josten's hair and run down his jaw.

"I can come inside."

A flash of a smile on Josten's lips. He opens the door, and Andrew scrambles to follow.

It's a short trip up a narrow set of stairs to Josten's second story apartment. His keys jangle in the lock, and beyond the door lies approximately what Andrew imagined of Josten's living space.

Not that he had. Imagined it.

It's simple, but warm in its colors and its textures. A couch with a blanket folded over the armrest and a single pillow in the corner, dented from a body lying against it. A little wooden table with coffee rings on the surface, a kitchenette with a breakfast nook and an open doorway leading to a study with a desk and two large book shelves. Two doors behind which, Andrew suspects, are the bathroom and Josten's bedroom.

A single plant sits on a credenza beside the door, and a window-paned door leads out onto a tiny scrap of balcony.

Josten toes out of his shoes and passes through the kitchen into the study, and Andrew trails after him. He takes off his shoes only to be polite.

"Here we go." Josten digs a familiar stack of papers out of a folder on the corner of the desk and turns around with it.

Here, against the backdrop of his home, he looks somehow both smaller and larger than he does in the classroom, softer and realer at the same time, a fuzzy photograph with a single point of focus. He's shorter without his shoes, and the legs of slacks pool a little around his ankles.

Andrew swallows to rewet his mouth, and takes a step closer to accept the papers. The rows and rows of his writing are adorned now, at points, by a second set of handwriting in red ink, looping and curling around his words.

He says, with some effort, "Thank you."

Josten nods, and passes by Andrew back into the kitchen. A little too close — he smells like cloves and rain and books. "Would you like anything to drink? Water, tea, coffee?" His voice is neutral, friendly even, but Andrew watches his hands dance an anxious path down the front of his sweater, smoothing out imperceptible wrinkles. He smiles over his shoulder. "As a thank you. For the ride."

There's a spark in his eyes that calls home to the one in Andrew's chest. Something almost a little hopeful.

Though that might just be Andrew's own overactive imagination.

He says, "Water is fine," and it's only half a lie. He feels parched, overstuffed, hot beneath the collar.

Josten nods, and grabs two cups from a cabinet above his head, boosting himself onto his toes to reach. He fills them from the tap and hands one to Andrew, leans back against the counter with his own.

Andrew watches him take a sip. Takes one of his own. Tries to parse a single thought that isn't centered on ravishing the man in front of him.

"I thought your paper was very interesting," Josten says, idly.

"Yes?"

"Yes." His smile is edged with something almost nervous. "Very good … thoughts."

His eyes jump down Andrew's face, down the rest of his body, before coming back up to his eyes. Half his bottom lip disappears between his teeth.

Fuck it. Andrew can barely believe he's gotten this far, gotten to even step foot into this apartment, gotten to to see him here, soft and at home. It's all or nothing now, anyway.

Josten tightens up when he takes a step closer, but his eyes stay locked on Andrew's face. "It's nice," he continues, voice hitching in his throat. He shifts his glass in his hand. "To have a student so … dedicated."

Andrew hums. "I see," he says, letting his voice dip low.

He takes another step closer, and Josten shifts his glass from one hand into the other.

"Yes," he says again, sucking the rest of his lip between his teeth. His eyes never move from Andrew's face, but jump down to his mouth again for a fraction of a second. "It's … motivating."

"Flattering," Andrew supplies on his next step.

Josten nods. He sets his glass down behind him without looking away from Andrew. "Yeah," he says, voice gone hoarse. "Rather."

There's maybe a step between them now. Andrew pauses, tilts his head. Josten's whole body and face are tight, but pinched in something more like anticipation than fear.

He hears the shaky breath he draws like a rock tumble between them when he closes that final bit of distance.

"Everything okay, professor?"

"Just," Josten breathes a quivering note, "Just Neil is fine."

Andrew has to bite down a smile, on the surge of victory in his chest. He's not won anything, but the tremble of Neil's lip, and the sound of his name in his own head, sure makes him feel like he did.

"Alright," he says. "Everything alright, Neil?"

Neil nods, throat bobbing, and wraps his hands around the lip of the counter behind him. Andrew has him boxed in against it, their bodies now inches apart. He can feel every shaky breath Neil draws physically between them, feels the tension humming off his body and into the air.

When he lets his gaze drag down, and down, Neil shivers bodily, and Andrew's eyes catch on the bulge in the front of his slacks, straining desperately against the fabric.

His blood catches fire.

His eyes jump back up to Neil's face, find him flushed beet-red and chewing on his lip properly now.

"I'm sorry," Neil whispers, then, "I've never —"

Andrew thinks he might go cross-eyed.

"No?"

"No." Neil shakes his head. He raises a hand off the counter to push his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, nervous. "I've never … wanted to."

Andrew hums. He hasn't touched him yet, hasn't gotten his hands dirty, though they itch to be. "But you do now?"

Neil hesitates. The guilt in his eyes is palpable. Andrew wants to bite him, tear it out of him with his teeth, even though something deep inside of him appreciates the knowledge that Neil thinks about it.

"Yes," he says, at last. "But —"

Andrew raises a brow. "But?"

"Its not very …" He hedges over the word, licks his lip. "… Appropriate."

Andrew shrugs. "We're adults. Who cares?"

He can see in Neil's eyes that doesn't, not really, at least not in a way that counts. Neither does Andrew, though he thinks he might have, once upon a time. Before he met Neil, and his sexy little teacher's outfits and his sharp wit and his mind and the way he nervously adjusts his glasses again.

Neil swallows. Then nods. "Okay."

Andrew leans the faintest inch closer, until he has to grip the counter on either side of Neil's waist to keep his balance, and Neil has to pull back to keep their heads from knocking together. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Neil's lips are a little rough and very still against his own. Andrew kisses him, softly at first, then with a little more insistence, and it takes him a moment into Neil's obvious hesitation to realize that he might not even have been kissed before.

The thought sends his head spinning, and he cups a careful hand around Neil's jaw to guide his head against his lips, kisses him slowly as if to take him along.

It works. Slowly, slowly, Neil kisses back, and he shudders against Andrew like he's already falling apart.

By how tightly he's been wound, he might as well be.

Andrew settles a hand on his hip, pulls them forward against his own. Neil's own hands, shaking like the rest of him, come to settle somewhere on Andrew's shoulders, hesitant until Andrew uses his hand still on his jaw to readjust their mouth, kiss him deeper.

Neil startles, gasps at the first touch of Andrew's tongue to his own. Andrew can feel his hot length press up against his hip, and uses their angle to thrust against it, long and slow.

The sound Neil makes into his mouth rings in his ears.

His hips jerk in Andrew's grip, strain against Andrew's when he repeats the motion, a little faster but no less indulgent. Neil shakes, and shakes, and makes another little noise half smothered by Andrew pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, and then he — impossibly, beautifully — shudders apart.

His head drops away from Andrew's. He buries his face against the back of his own hand still sitting on Andrew's and he heaves a breath while his body works itself through it with little aborted rolls against Andrew's hip, still chasing the sparks.

Andrew stills him when he hisses through his teeth.

"Fuck," Neil says, breathless, and again, "Fuck. I'm sorry."

Andrew huffs. He pushes Neil back against the counter only so he can look down the length of his body. Today's slacks are a very dark slate grey, but just a few shades away enough away from black that he can make out the wet spot slowly spreading across the crotch.

He reaches out to drag his finger tips across it, feather light. Neil twitches and hisses again.

Andrew flicks his eyes up to his face. "Good?"

Neil nods. His cheeks are nearly the same shade of cherry-pink as his raw lips. "Yeah," he says, still panting a bit, "I'm sorry, I —"

Andrew kisses him to shut him up.

Neil is easy to convince, it seems, and lets himself be dragged back under. His breath hitches and hiccups when Andrew kisses a trail down his cheek and jaw, the side of his neck. He gropes along his sides again, up and down his waist and over the small of his back to his plump ass.

It's really unfair, Andrew thinks distantly. He doesn't seem like the kind of guy to work out, and his butt's give is plush and supple when Andrew digs his palms into it.

Neil makes sound that's nearly a whine, pushed forward again. His hips shift like he's trying to take his weight off his thighs. Andrew considers lifting him up onto the counter until he looks down from where he's been dedicatedly sucking a mark into the junction of his neck and finds him already half-hard again.

"Jesus," his mouth curses without permission.

Neil warbles something in confirmation. Andrew surges back up to kiss him properly.

"Sorry, don't know what's wrong with me," Neil pants out between kisses. "It's like — I'm a teenager —"

"It's hot," Andrew promises, and Neil lets out a breathless laugh and kisses him again.

Andrew manages to let go of him long enough to get his pants unbuttoned at last, ruck up his sweater and push down his soiled boxers. His dick's a pretty pink, embedded in a nest of soft dark-red curls, curving up against the V of his hip as it fills out.

Andrew kisses his chin, then his lips, and draws back to say, "I'll suck you off. Yes?"

Neil blinks at him, owlishly, then nods. "Okay. Yeah. If — if you want to."

"I do."

Neil holds tight onto the counter behind him with one hand, the other fisted into the bottom of his sweater to hold it up to his navel while Andrew sinks to his knees. He dusts kisses over the rides of his hipbones, finds a mole hidden into the dip of one and drags his tongue over it. Right beneath the hem of Neil's sweater he could swear he catches the pearlescent wink of a scar, but then Neil adjusts his grip on the fabric and it disappears from view, and Andrew decides not to ask about it.

He moves on instead, sets his eyes on the prize.

Neil blows out a shaking breath above him when Andrew kisses his tip and sucks it into his mouth.

Ordinarily, sucking dick is an almost meditative task to Andrew. He loses himself in it, the simple rhythm, the weight on his tongue, the ache in his knees becoming almost soothing after a while.

But with Neil, his mind cannot disappear. His eyes stay focused on him, staring up into his steadily darkening face. He squeezes his eyes shut when Andrew swallows him down, over and over again, laves spit over his cock until it pops wetly in and out of his mouth on every upstroke. Neil's abused lower lip disappears between his teeth again, and Andrew aches to tug it free but stays where he is, staring.

He's a vision. He's everything Andrew imagined. More, probably.

It lasts longer this time, with Neil no longer drawn tight like a spring, which is to say it takes about half the time it typically takes Andrew to get someone off.

"Oh fuck," Neil gasps out when Andrew drags the flat of his tongue along the underside of his cock, and he doubles over a bit. "Andrew, I —"

Andrew draws back just far enough that most of it lands on his tongue. He keeps the tip in his mouth while Neil comes, suckling and swallowing around it until Neil's back bows off the counter and he writhes, one leg kicking up.

Andrew catches the back of his knee to steady him, sets it back down gently.

Neil has both elbows braced behind him on the counter now, his head thrown back as he catches his breath. His forehead is coated in a thin sheen of sweat, glistening in the light.

"Shit," he emphasizes, heaving a large breath through his chest. He raises his head when Andrew pushes back to his feet, brow pushing a wrinkle into his forehead. "Shit."

Andrew offers him a sombre nod in confirmation, like his whole body isn't on fire.

Neil pushes himself mostly upright again. "What about you?"

Andrew shrugs. He's hot all the way south of his navel, his boxers damp between his legs. "Later," he says, vaguely, and Neil accepts that with a nod.

"Well," he says, letting his sweater drop back down. Untucked, it's long enough to cover him, but just barely. His pants still pool around his ankles, but he's evidently too embarrassed to go fish for them. Andrew isn't feeling inclined to help him, not when something in him thrills at seeing him squirm.

Neil bites his lip again, adjusts his glasses. "Well," he says, a second time. "Um. Would you like to stay for dinner?"

Andrew wanders around the living room while Neil scuttles around the kitchen, lets his fingers dance over the consoles and shelves and soft surfaces.

Not many personal belongings, aside from books and the occasional photo frame, though Neil has evidently lived here for some time. Andrew pauses on a picture of Neil with a taller man, his arm tucked around Neil's shoulders. Their heads are knocked together, but it's obvious by the strain in Neil's smile that he's in the picture somewhat involuntarily.

It's a sweet photo, though. Andrew recognizes the man in another frame, this one on one of the book shelves. They're accompanied by a short-haired woman in this one, her arms slung around the strange man's neck, all three of them grinning at the camera. Even Neil seems genuinely happy in this one.

"Oh," Neil says from behind him. Andrew turns around to find him standing by the counter with two plates of pasta in his hands. "That's Dan and Matt. They're my … friends."

Andrew doesn't miss him hesitating over the word, but does not dwell on it.

He joins him at the table instead. Neil disappeared into his room to change while the pasta boiled, and looks unfairly soft in a large pair of sweatpants and a quarter-zip fleece. Andrew lets his gaze drag over him, slowly, top to bottom. Neil flushes anew and sets the pasta down. He turns back to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of red wine and two long-stemmed glasses from the cabinet.

"Wine?" he asks as he pours one, and looks up at Andrew before the second. He blinks. "Shit. Are you twenty-one yet?" The question itself seems to startle him into blushing harder, and he pours the glass before Andrew can answer.

Andrew smudges a smile off his lips with his knuckle and accepts the glass.

Neil sits stiffly across from him. Andrew lets himself lounge backwards in his chair and looks at him over the rim of his wine glass, tries to catch his flighty eyes.

The pasta is delicious. So is the wine, though Andrew can't help his distraction.

It's only when his fork if scraping over the porcelain of his plate that Neil speaks up again. "This is wrong," he says, sounding all at once despaired. His eyes, when he finally looks at Andrew head-on again, are wrought with something a little too close to fear for Andrew's liking.

Andrew shrugs. "Not really." He is deeply aware of all the ways it is. He is also deeply aware of how little of a fuck he gives. Not if it means he gets to have this. "Besides," he adds, "it's a little late for freaking out now."

Neil barely seems to hear him. He watches his finger tips drum on the table, anxious. "What if someone finds out?"

"I'm not telling," Andrew says. "Are you?"

"No! No. Of course not."

Another shrug. "Then no one will know."

Neil sets his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands.

Andrew sighs. Leans forward across the table. "Neil," he says, pointedly, and watches the little shiver going through Neil's shoulders. "Do you still want me here?"

Neil lifts his head far enough to peer at Andrew over the tips of his fingers. He hesitates a moment, two, the corners of his eyes tightening in misery. Finally, quietly, he says, "Yes."

Andrew takes him by the wrist and drags his hand away from his face. The other drops of its own accord. Andrew hooks a finger under Neil's chin, tilts his face up. "Do you still want this?"

Neil nods, mute. When Andrew doesn't move, he adds, "Yes."

The wine stained his lips a ruddy red. Kissable, so Andrew does, still stretched across the table. Neil makes a small sound and kisses back, hands still useless on the table. Andrew holds him by the chin, tilts him how he wants him, and Neil lets him, turns to putty in his hands.

"God," he says when Andrew draws back, at last. "I'm so fucked."

Andrew huffs. Wipes at Neil's smudged bottom lip with his thumb. "Aren't we all?"

Neil smiles, eyes creasing. He tilts his cheek into Andrew's palm, turns his face to he can place the tiniest of kisses against it.

Andrew aches with all his being to fuck him.

They clear the table, rinse the dishes and place them in the dishwasher and kiss some more, Neil hoisted up onto the counter with his arms wound around Andrew's shoulders and his thighs bracketing him in. They're slower now, kisses grape-sweet and dragging. Andrew strokes his flat palms up and down Neil's supple thighs for no reason other than to do it, to feel him.

Neil draws back, eventually, hands hooked around the edges of Andrew's jaw. He looks at him for a moment, blue, blue eyes drinking him in until Andrew is near boiling over, before he says, "Do you wanna go to bed?"

Andrew does. Oh, how he does.

Neil leads the way. Andrew grabs his bag, half forgotten where he dropped it by the door earlier, and almost trips over himself in his haste to follow.

Neil's bedroom is as modest as the rest of the apartment, taken up mostly by his bed and another desk crammed under the window. A few more picture frames hang from the walls, another plant adorns the corner of the desk, and his plain green sheets are neatly made.

Neil is sitting on the corner of the bed when Andrew comes in and closes the door behind himself, hands wringing in his lap. He's taken his glasses off and placed them on the bedside table. He looks up when Andrew steps up to him, flicks a glance at the backpack dangling from Andrew's shoulder before settling on his face.

Andrew drops the bag on the foot of the bed. "Yes?" he asks, and Neil nods.

He shuffles backwards up the bed and Andrew crawls after him, settles himself between his legs when Neil's head lands in the pillow and their lips meet again.

Neil is desperate now, noticeably, his body arching off the bed into Andrew's, his hands coming up to holds Andrew's face close to his own.

Andrew's hands skirt low over his torso, down to the hem of his fleece. He works them beneath it, finds the warm skin of Neil's waist, and grabs the fabric to pull it off, when Neil reaches for his wrists and stops him.

Andrew halts. Looks at him and finds his whole face furrowed.

"Um," Neil says, lip between his teeth again, and this time Andrew does tug it free. "I have … scars."

Andrew pointedly does not feel vindicated about his earlier observation. He says, "Me too."

"They're pretty bad."

"Do you want to keep it on?"

It's a genuine question, and he's glad to see Neil consider it like one, even though he shakes his head, in the end. "No. It's fine, if you don't mind."

"I don't."

Neil nods, and Andrew helps him out of his sweater. He was right; they are pretty bad. They cover most of his torso, in varying shapes and degrees of severity. Andrew spares them a cursory glance over, and moves on to dragging Neil's sweatpants down his legs. He seems to have skipped putting on a new pair of boxers earlier, and his cock already rests half-hard against his thigh, flushing redder the longer Andrew looks at it.

"Come on," Neil murmurs, blush spreading to his cheeks, and Andrew kisses him again.

He takes off his own hoodie, chucks it down the bed and unbuttons his pants but leaves them on for now. Neil's eyes skim over his chest, the scars beneath his pecs, and his brow furrows briefly before he's distracted, seemingly, by the dark blonde dusting of hair leading from Andrew's navel to his waistband.

"No touching below my shoulders unless I say so," Andrew says, and Neil nods, looking startled but obeying when he places his hands onto Andrew's shoulders, runs his palms over the skin there.

Andrew sinks down against him, properly settled between Neil's thighs. He kisses him briefly, then trails a path from the corner of his mouth over his jawline to his earlobe. He tucks a stray curl behind Neil's ear and asks, "Have you ever sucked a cock before?"

Neil makes a wounded sort of sound. "Of course not."

Andrew hums. He follows the pattern of one of Neil's curls with his finger, pinches it at the end and tugs at it. "Do you want to?"

Neil turns his head to look at him. From up this close, Andrew can see a light smattering of freckles across his cheeks, framing the scar on his cheek and the fine lines around his eyes.

He nods, finally. "Yes."

Andrew dots a kiss onto his cheek and pushes himself off him, scoots back down the bed. Neil sits up, confused, as Andrew unzips his backpack.

He kicks off his pants, at last, followed by his boxers. From his backpack, he digs up the little bag containing his harness and strap, which he unpacks onto the bed, and a bottle of a lube.

When he looks up, Neil is staring down the bed at him, frowning.

"Problem?"

Neil's eyes jump from the jet black, sparkling dildo Andrew dropped onto his sheets to Andrew's suspiciously dick-less crotch and back, once, twice, three times before he looks back up at Andrew's face and opens his mouth.

It hangs open a moment, before finally, he splutters, "Did you have that in class?"

Andrew can't hold his snort. He shrugs. "No. It was in my car."

Neil blinks at him. His mouth flops open and closed a couple times, before he asks, sounding all at once utterly affronted,"Oh, and you decided to bring it in, why?"

"Why do you think?" Andrew asks, and gestures to both of their general nakedness.

Neil narrows his eyes at him. "Were you planning this?"

"Sure." Andrew lets himself drop back onto the bed. He crawls up Neil's body, flattens him back into the pillow. Neil, for all his indignation, goes willingly, melts back down easily until Andrew has him pinned, until their faces are inches apart and Andrew can look him right in the eyes when he says, "Why? Are you embarrassed?"

Neil's face grows ever redder. "No," he says, then, more truthfully, "Yes. A little."

Andrew watches him, the twitching of his beautiful face, the slow expanding of his pupils the longer Andrew hovers here, too close yet just out reach. "I've wanted you," he says, finally, pointedly, and Neil full-body shivers beneath him.

"How long?"

"First day of class."

"You can't be serious."

"So serious." Andrew drags a thumb over the edge of Neil's jaw. "You drive me insane."

Neil shudders again. He closes his eyes. "Oh my god."

Andrew stretches up to press his lips to the hot, hard center of Neil's forehead and hold himself there for several long seconds, listening to their breathing sync up.

When he backs away, at last, it's to ask, "Still trying to suck cock?"

Neil opens his eyes. "Fuck you," he says, but all the pretend fight's drained out of him. His eyes sparkle with something like desperation when he says, "Yes."

Andrew bows down to kiss him, and crawls back off the bed. He buckles the harness around his hips, and comes to stand beside the bed. Neil scoots over to sit on the edge, legs dangling off, and looks up at Andrew with eyes so, so big and blue.

His hair's all messed up from shuffling around in bed, much more than usual falling out of his hair tie and curling around his face. He's so beautiful. Andrew tucks some of it behind his ear, and Neil instinctively leans his face against his hand.

So good. So beautiful.

He leans forward, uncertain eyes still fixed on Andrew's face, until the tip of the strap rests against his bottom lip. He opens his mouth and lets it slip inside, just the head first before he sinks down, slowly, inch by inch dragging over his tongue.

"Careful," Andrew finds his mouth saying. He thinks he might explode.

Neil is. So careful. He draws back up when he gets it halfway into his mouth, then starts over. And over. His hands stay folded in his lap, never touching, as he begins to bob his head with more confidence. The next time he lets it slip from his mouth, he presses a kiss to the tip, eyes still fixed on Andrew's face.

"Fuck," Andrew hisses.

His body feels aflame, a wet, sticky sort of heat all over, and Neil looks like sin. He makes the tiniest of sounds around Andrew's cock when Andrew slides a hand around the back of his head, tangles his fingers in the tight pull of his ponytail and uses it to guide him forward. He goes slow, but further than Neil had dared before, keeps his eyes straight on Neil's as they start to water, as he gags, throat spasming.

Andrew releases him, and Neil draws back, half-retching and panting for breath.

He's back a moment later, though, already lapping Andrew's cock back into his mouth. He raises his arm when Andrew taps it, lets Andrew's settle his hand on his hip and holds tight, does not move from his allowed spot. His eyes are so fucking sweet, and never move from Andrew's face.

He goes further now by himself, gags himself on it without even being guided to. Spit trails out of his mouth over the silicone, dripping wetly down his chin, his lips red and bruised and his cheeks flushed and his eyes watering, and for a moment Andrew thinks he might come just from the sight and the minor friction of the harness moving over him, and then he realizes Neil's got a hand wrapped around his cock.

His vision nearly whites out and he has to haul himself back. "Shit," he curses, tugging Neil back by his hair.

Neil whines in protest, tongue lolling out as if to chase him before he catches himself. He slaps a hand over his mouth, mortified.

Andrew is undeterred. He pushes him back onto the bed, dives after him to kiss him hard and fast, half crawls into his lap so he can knock Neil's hand away from his cock and replace it with his own. He's hot in Andrew's palm, and it takes barely a few more twists of his wrist before he's coming again, hips raising off the bed and release splattering over his taut stomach.

Andrew is all static, his body filled to the brim with spiky little crystals of pleasure, digging into the soft meat of his insides. But he knows he can't come yet.

Neil lies on his back, heaving heavy breaths and murmuring little curses to himself in the spaces between. He's rosy all over, messy with sweat and cum and spit.

Andrew lets himself roll onto the bed beside him. Neil's eyes, when he looks over at him, are a cool shock of blue in all the reds of him, and crease when he smiles, laughs.

"Wow."

Andrew leans over to kiss him again, lick up some of the spit drying on his chin.

When they've both caught their breaths, he asks, "You have another one in you?"

"Christ," Neil mumbles against Andrew's jaw, where his teeth have found an idle nibbling point that is sending shivers down Andrew's spine. "I'm not twenty anymore."

Andrew hums. He lets his fingers dance over Neil's cum-splattered stomach, scratches through the downy trail of hair there. Neil twitches when he drags his fingers lower, and lower.

Andrew presses his nose to the side of Neil's skull, his mouth hovering over his ear. "I thought I could fuck you. If you do."

Neil shudders. He presses his knuckles into his eyes and curses quietly to himself.

Out loud, he repeats, "Fuck. Okay. Yes."

Andrew smothers a grin by catching the shell of Neil's ear between his teeth.

He fishes up the bottle of lube from where he dropped it earlier, and gets Neil settled back into his pillow. He pulls down a second pillow to wedge beneath Neil's hips, lift them off the bed, before he crawls back up between his legs — quickly becoming his favorite spot in the world.

He's thorough with opening him up, but efficient, slipping one, two, three fingers into him on gratuitous amounts of lube. The pressure alone and the soft reassurances he kisses into the inside of his thigh have Neil's dick twitching again.

Neil moans loud enough to startle himself when Andrew fingers brush up against his prostate.

Andrew scrapes his teeth over the inside of thigh and circles his fingers against it, and Neil's legs nearly snap closed around his head.

"Good?" he asks.

Neil groans. "Fuck."

Andrew takes that as a yes. He pulls his fingers out with an apologetic kiss to Neil's thigh, pushes himself back up to his knees and lubes up the strap.

Neil is still not fully hard when Andrew lines himself up, but he seems content. Andrew kisses him when he pushes in, and in, and Neil wraps his arms around his shoulders and holds tight. His shivery breath hits Andrew's ear, ghosts down the side of his neck, and Andrew keeps kissing his jaw, his cheekbone, his temple.

His own dick grinds up against the pad sewn into the harness, rubs tension up against his tender insides. It explodes when he thrusts forward, and he ruts into him almost on instinct.

Neil's stomach quivers with the breaths hiccuping out of him, and when Andrew sets a pace his dick, at last, revives fully. It's slow to fill, still, and he seems more content to let himself be carried on the gentle wave of Andrew's thrusts than desperate to get off, but it settles something inside Andrew.

"Yes?" he asks, just to hear it, and Neil nods.

A genuine smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Yes," he says, and reaches a hand up. Andrew threads their fingers together and holds tight. His other hand grabs the back of Neil's knee and brings it up, folds his thigh slowly back against his chest.

Neil groans with the stretch, but it goes, and goes. Andrew's insides tighten. Flexible, he files away for further use later, and leans forward, properly folding Neil in half.

Like this, he can dig his knees into the mattress and fuck him, drive his hips home. Neil, tired and loose from the night they've had, is freer with his noises, with the little moans and babbles dropping from his lips.

Andrew is rubbed raw and coiled to the breaking, and every passing reminder that this is Neil, Neil Josten, his sexy little professor, and he's taken Andrew into his tidy little home and fallen into his arms and let him have his virginity, only drives him further up into his head.

Their mouths brush, messy kisses more easily mistaken for breathing into each other, open mouthed and wanton. Neil nibbles on Andrew's bottom lip, shy, and Andrew hears himself make a breathless noise.

He comes without even touching himself, the wave crashing over his head without warning, his hips shuddering to a halt buried to the hilt inside of Neil.

Neil kisses along his jaw while he rocks himself through it, sending little sparks down Andrew's spine that only add to the mess between his legs. He's got a hand wrapped around himself again, and when Andrew's brain comes back online long enough to grind the strap into his prostate, at the angle that makes Neil gasp and moan, it doesn't take much more for him to come.

When he does, it's with a wheeze and a pathetic little spurt over his stomach. He deflates into the pillow, his whole body shaking and twitching all over. Andrew lets himself drop against him, catching his breath.

After, they spread out on the mattress together. The little clock on Neil's nightstand is creeping closer to midnight. Fatigue drags at Andrew's limbs and, visibly, at Neil's eyelids, but Andrew shuffles himself out of the harness, tosses it somewhere off the side, while Neil climbs out of bed and walks naked to the bathroom.

Andrew bunches a pillow under his head, lets himself sprawl against the sheets. His fingers are still fizzing, his stomach still clenching in overactive pleasure-pain, his mind, at last, trying to grapple with everything that's happened over the past few hours.

Neil returns clean, water dripping down his face from the ends of his fringe, and carrying a wet washcloth for Andrew. It's warm when he places it in Andrew's palm.

"Okay?" he asks, voice low, while Andrew cleans himself up as best he can. He crawls back onto the mattress beside him, and takes the cloth to set it down on the bedside table when Andrew's done.

Andrew looks up at him, his filigree face, his hair curling out of his eyes. He nods. "Okay."

"It's pretty late." Neil wrings his hands in his lap. "You can stay the night. If you want."

Andrew wants. He hooks his palm around the back of Neil's neck to draw him close enough to kiss. Drags his lips over Neil's chin and jaw and neck. Into his collarbone, he murmurs, "Oh yeah?"

Neil shakes a little. "Yeah," he says into Andrew's hair. "Stay."

Andrew does. He borrows a pair of sweatpants and a toothbrush, and Neil dresses in large shirt and a clean pair of boxers, and they slip beneath Neil's soft comforter together. A few inches apart, always within reaching distance.

They sleep, and in the morning Andrew wakes to Neil already crinkly and bleary-eyed, and he pulls him up against him again, slips a hand beneath the waistband of his boxers until Neil is moaning and writhing before he's fully awake.

Andrew leaves him to catch his breath while he takes a shower and putters around the kitchen. Neil emerges from his own shower, damp and wearing his glasses again, when the pancakes are almost done.

"Breakfast?" he asks, hopeful.

Andrew places the final pancake onto the tower he's built, and turns to reel Neil in by the front of his sweater. They trade sticky sweet kisses and Neil steals a blueberry from the carton Andrew fished out of the fridge.

Andrew licks the tart juice off his teeth. "Food," he says with a nod to the pancakes. "We have the whole weekend ahead of us."

Neil flushes to this tips of his ears, but follows him to the table.