He's moaning in rhythm now, in time with the thrusts, low and rough and aching, one arm still hooked around Neil's neck but not daring to move the other. Not daring. Because he wants to obey, and it's such a different thing than he's come to think of regarding orders.

"Please," he breathes, little snatches of friction against his cock, brief sweet instants of it, but not enough. And he won't touch himself. He knows better than to even try.

But even that might not be what he's asking for.