✶⋆.˚ 𝔬𝔥 𝔟𝔞𝔟𝔶

Evan is doting. Evan looks at August like he's God, which August finds amusing considering, like, fucking everything. It's the kind of thing that brings a certain weakness in his knees. August cannot handle adoration in small doses. Everything is worth consuming without moderation, without decorum. Every nerve ending feels burnt to the touch whenever Evan is near. August, truly, just cannot help himself.

noah pulls back with that dark, hungry look that's focused and delighted, like he's studying the exact moment rory’s composure gives, and rory feels heat crawl under his skin because he knows he's being transparent like this. his breathing's too quick, his pulse is thudding at his throat, and he keeps leaning in when he means to play it cool. then noah's palm returns, just slicker now, confident in a way that makes rory’s stomach flip, and the contact forces another helpless sound out of him, one that hits too close to a groan. his head thumps the door behind him, knees going loose for half a second, hips rocking into the pressure like his body had been waiting for it. humiliation flashes hot, because he's supposed to be the one who keeps control, the one who gets under people's skin, not the one unraveling behind a locked door. "you think this is me having fun?" he mutters, his voice rough and breathless, trying to catch onto attitude he no longer fully has a grip on. but then noah leans close again, his breath warm and biting at rory's throat, and rory's whole body answers him, with his shoulders dropping and spine arching as a quiet, broken exhale slips out that he'd never admit to if he could help it.

every sound stirs something low and proud within him. it travels through his blood stream, hot and desperate, and noah is sure that rory can see just what he’s doing to him. just because he’s all precision and control doesn’t mean that his body doesn’t betray him. he struggles against the friction in his pants, and his head swims with images of rory, bitten red lips parted around him, on his knees and needy. his head thumps against the door, and noah's free hand is quick to reach up into his hair. it's gentle in a way he often forgets he's capable of. "don't give yourself a concussion on my account." another wicked grin, but he's being nice and he knows it. every motion from noah pushes rory further, and every broken noise and arch of his back spurs noah on. it's hot and heavy and desperate – exactly the way noah likes things to be. the arch of his spine, his hips rock, and the sound of it, breathless and wrecked, feels like music to his ears. "oh, yeah ??" pick up the pace then, vanek. "this isn't you having fun ??" his thumb traces for sensitivity, like he already knows exactly how to drive rory insane. because it's just his hands. it's not enough. rory needs more, and with enough surrender, noah will be happy to give it. to let everything disappear but them.

he hates how good it feels. he hates how fast his pulse trips under noah's hand. he hates the low, broken noise that leaks out when noah's mouth finds his throat again, so he swallows it by kissing him harder and rougher, biting back like he can force the upper hand through sheer attitude. it works for a second, until noah crowds even closer, and rory realizes he's the one bracing against the door like he needs something solid behind him.

noah says nothing, yet does everything, and rory feels every careful, claiming sweep of his hands. he should shove him. chirp him. do anything except melt the way he is now, with hips pulling noah closer like instinct, chest rising too fast, and heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to give him away. and noah wants all of it; that's what makes rory's head spin. noah's want is loud as hell, even behind locked doors.

rory drags him in by the back of his neck, foreheads almost touching, trying to smirk through the way his breath keeps stuttering. "you're doing that on purpose," he mutters, voice gruff, trying to sound smug and hitting breathless instead. "don't think i don't notice you aiming for the good spots." his grin tilts sharper, wicked and unsteady. "you practicing on mannequins or am i just naturally this inspiring?"

the answer is another grazing touch, lower than last time, and rory's hand slaps the door behind him like he needs something to hold onto. humiliation and heat twist together in his gut. he tips his head back, just a little, giving noah more of his throat because he's a disaster and can't help himself. "i should tell you to stop," he breathes, "just so i can watch your face fall." a beat, full of smugness he doesn't feel, and then a quiet, breaking exhale when noah's fingers push him right up to the edge of restraint. "but i'm not looking away."

he can feel the quaking of his pulse, and noah loves it. he leans in every time, he loves being able to pull reaction straight from him, like he crafted every sound in his own mind. that makes it easier to fall in, but harder to tread water. it's too bad he doesn't care. he'd drown in this if he had the option.

teeth bare low on rory's neck, digging into the soft skin often protected by a neck guard. his tongue sweeps across, as if to soothe the bite before it bruises. he's smart enough to know where the boundaries are. he's spent enough time hiding to be able to find all of the buttons he can push without being seen. and then rory's kissing him again, and he feels his composure cracking further. he's ravenous. he's desperate. he knows what he wants and has no intention of letting it slip through his fingers. the broken sound he makes could absolutely drive noah insane.

blue eyes, dark and depraved, focus on him. his hand pulls back, just for an instant, and his eyes sparkle with something like mischief when he spits in his palm. in an instant, he's back at it. like nothing has changed. "absolutely am, ro." he replies, smirk firmly planted on his face. he's delighting in all this chaos. it's something that he's not allowed to admit to, but noah has ALWAYS delighted in it. in the mess. and rory makes it so fucking easy for him to that he goes insane. everything is breathless and unsteady, and he can't believe that he's lucky enough to actually get exactly what he wants. everything he wants. "neither." a smug grin, "you're just needy." he chuckles, but there's no real bite to it. this is a game he likes to play. and he's sure he'll be on the opposite side soon enough, he likes the way that humiliation and want and desperation all coil around rory, all right there for him to see. to reach out for. to grasp.

his breath is hot against rory's skin, want ablaze in his own chest. it's all setting him off, every nerve a live wire. he can feel the way that rory's composure is crumbling in his hands, and he wants to drown in it. "no you shouldn't." he replies, all dimples and heat. "you're having too much fun." their lips brush, and he wants to make rory pay for that. so he moves slower. it's easier that way.

Even when his attention strays and he finds himself in someone else's bed, Luca always thinks of Noah. If he closes his eyes hard enough, and if he really pulls himself out of the moment – he can almost convince himself that someone else comes close to Noah. Luca runs from the truth. The fucking inevitable. If he were an honest man, he would admit to how much this shit scares him.

he doesn't like the idea of luca sleeping with anyone else. he doesn't share. and he doesn't need to unpack why he would be heartbroken over the idea of luca under anyone else's hands, even if the fact that he's imagining noah would be intoxicating to him. jealousy is a disease, and noah has always been ill.

noah's breath is hot against him, and rory answers it by tilting his head, giving him more, then turning his face in to catch his mouth again, teeth knocking like he's trying to swallow the moment whole. he hates how good it feels to be wanted like this; he hates how his pulse makes a liar out of him. his fingers flex at noah's nape, holding him there, and the other hand stays planted at his waist like a claim. he thinks about the other side of the door — the noise, the jokes, the consequences — and it only makes him pull harder, like if he presses close enough he can erase the whole world.

the feeling of hands in his hair pulls a moan straight out of him, one he doesn't bother to bite back. as far as he's concerned, noah has no interest in pulling anything back. not when he's been so composed, and so practiced for so long. let him lose himself, just for a moment. he nips at rory's neck, and despite how NOT CAREFUL he wants to be to suck bruises into expanses of pale skin, to move without consequence. but since they don't have that, he has to readjust. rory catches his lips in another desperate kiss, it's sharp in all the right ways. fingers flex into his hair, and it's enough to drive him insane. there's so much they're avoiding on the other side of that door, but noah's convinced that he can snuff all of it out of existence if he pulls enough noise from between rory's lips.

There is nothing that could be changed about their respective pasts, and Luke has accepted that for what it was. Teddy has seen darkness and allowed himself to be consumed by it, just as Luke has done the same. It's a crushing revelation because Luke is firm on his belief that Teddy has only deserved devotion. To think that Teddy has endured something vastly different only makes him ache with a guilt that should not be his own. For someone whom Luke finds to be the most beautiful person, both inside and out, it feels criminal to consider they'd been subjected to such horrors. It only provokes Luke's desire to be the light, even if it is often faced with a fight like tonight.

He doesn't care. He'd fight all night had it meant it would drive his point. Teddy was so fucking stubborn to the point where it silently drove Luke into madness. Frustration simmers, and it builds to the point where Luke is left with no choice but to fully come apart at the seams. All he's ever wanted for Teddy is for him to find peace. Solace. Comfort. Something that contrasted with whatever reality he had known in the past.

Luke is quiet. What could be said to that? No words could manage to prove the theory wrong. Loving Teddy was never violent to Luke. As much as Teddy pushed his buttons, it would never succumb to such a thing as violence. Luke frowns, knowing the implications of Teddy's words.

"Love is not violent." A beat. "Loving you is not violent." As calm as Luke is, and as firm as his voice sounds, he feels the polar opposite of such things. It pains him to consider the aftermath of Teddy's trauma – and how that bleeds heavily into whatever dynamic they shared, now. "I don't know who convinced you that you deserved any of that, Teddy, but I need you to fucking trash the idea of you deserving violence." It's not a want. It is not a desire. It is a necessity, and the way that Luke's tone doesn't waver is a testament to that notion.

Luke's smothering embrace tightens. He feels too much, all at once, and it makes his head spin. "I don't want you to apologize." The words are muttered against Teddy. "I just want you to try to abandon the idea that you aren't deserving of my love." He pauses, silent for a moment as he holds back the weight of his own feelings. "That you do, in fact, deserve love. Not violence. That the two of those things are not the fucking same."

luke is stubborn. it's something teddy likes about him, even if it's actively working against him right now. he likes that luke doesn't need an opinion from him, that he never has. if teddy said the sky was blue, luke might disagree just for love of the game. that had always been incredibly attractive to him, even if he hates it when he's like this. he wants so badly to crumble, to beg for him to press him back together, like he's made of clay instead of glass.

he doesn't have it in him to beg for it anymore. he can't handle the rejection. he knows luke keeps saying it won't happen, but he won't survive it if luke is wrong. he won't survive it if luke's knuckles are another memory that torments him when he's by himself.

the words land heavy in his chest. love is not violent. it feels like he shouldn't laugh, but he wants to. he doesn't, but he wants to. he swallows it down. he has to. so instead of laughing, he shakes his head. the look on his face is broken. open. exhausted. "you don't understand." it sounds pathetic coming out of his mouth. "i did deserve it." a shake of his head, everything is cracking and shifting within him. does luke know it's all just momentum. that THIS is what he's like, underneath it all. that every night they fall into bed together, he's praying that salvation under his hands looks like fucking him until he's not ROTTEN ANYMORE. until it breaks. until he breaks.

he's not sure if he's shaking anymore. he doesn't know if he's doing any of this right anymore. he doesn't know anything anymore. what he KNOWS is that he wants everything to slow down. to stop. a sob rips through him, and he doesn't even know why he's crying anymore. he never knows anymore. all he knows is he can't tell the difference between damnation and whatever he feels right now.

There is no explanation. There is no logic. Luke abandoned every desire to know the reasoning behind his devastating fixation for Teddy. It wasn't logical to find himself at the throes of his own heated desires – to feel so utterly fucking consumed by them. It never mattered that all of his past meaningless trysts – Teddy struck something within him that was different from anything before. Love and violence bled together, an amalgamation of something that Luke grappled with, familiarizing himself with.

Possessive nature burns brighter. There is a primal desire to make Teddy his own. It presents itself with a warning and without the manners of introducing itself before pressing the issue. To the bone, Luke burned to own every fiber of Teddy. It was sickening – he knew that, embraced the cold touch of his own ailing nature. It's the reason his hands often reach out to touch, to grab, to feel. He marks his skin, presses into flesh, leaves a memory of his touch to make this more real. Something tangible for Teddy to remember him by.

If this was fleeting, Luke demanded to be remembered. It was insatiable – that much he knew. He revels in the sight of Teddy on his knees, those pleading doe eyes peering up at him through thick lashes. As much as Luke wants to throw his head back and relish the sensation of Teddy's lips on his thighs, he fights it. He wants to watch every move, to watch Teddy slip into that mindless blur. Inked hands come down to rake through Teddy's hair, tugging roughly at the nape of his neck.

Luke can't stand it. Can't tolerate the way heat pumps through his veins. Every nerve ending is set to flame. He's hot with desire, and that only ever makes him an animal. "So fucking pretty like this." His voice is dense, marked with a darkness that comes to light in moments like this. A hand moves to cup his jaw, thumb brushing against the skin of his plush lips. He's not so gentle, here, with his fingers prying into his mouth like he seeks salvation in the space there. "Begging to just taste me." A wry chuckle wraps against his words as two fingers find solace in Teddy's mouth.

"Show me that you deserve it, sweetheart. I might let you." There's no question about it. Luke would rather die than suffer the tension that threatens to pull him apart.