He's rushing for it as much as he's being pulled, hungry for it, panting against Neil's jaw, the ratty old motel room gone and the entire world folded into heat and pain and pleasure and hot, damp skin. His hips stutter into Neil's hand, half driven there by the thrusts into his body; he wrenches himself upward and lets out a strained, half bitten-back cry, and he doesn't have any fucking control anymore. He doesn't want any fucking control. He comes with a hot rush against his belly, over Neil's fingers, one hand fisting in the sheet and the other clenched in Neil's hair.

He might be trying to say something. He's really not sure, after.