✶⋆.˚ 𝔬𝔥 𝔟𝔞𝔟𝔶

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── baby, i do it all the time!

[imprcperdose]

IMPROPER DOSE ! private usfw sideblog to @prcperdose tormented by bambi. im being so fr if we are not alr besties do not follow this blog. i will block u. do not look at me fr. i dont know what the fuck i'm doing <3

[dovecrys]

August is fucking smitten. Which is not the best for himself, or Evan, if neither one of them is willing to succumb to the travesty that this may just become. August has never been normal about these things. Possessive and obsessive, something that really teeters on the edge of toxicity. Evan's so fucking malleable, August doesn't ever see it being an issue. "I promise, I'm not gonna laugh," August hums, quietly coaxing. All August wants is to sift through every fucking thought Evan has ever had, even if there's not much to sift through. August takes a minute to just admire Evan, who looks like he can't stomach the thought of sitting through his feelings. It wakes something in August, something that probably should not entice him as much as it does. Some shade of depravity comes biting along the edges of August's fractured mind. Evan closes the distance, their lips colliding. It becomes apparent then, whenever Evan's words fall short, he leans into the physical. It's no complaint from August, who burns for that kind of shit. August laughs against his mouth – because it's almost funny. "God, it's almost like you can't get enough of me, baby."

[imprcperdose]

evan is just as smitten with august. which—it was kind of humbling when he mentioned it to teddy. because he didn’t expect a dry look and an exasperated finally. looking back, that did kind of answer the persistent questions that teddy had been asking. duh. august promises not to laugh, and evan takes him at his word. well, he also has been laughing for a few days at this point. so maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if august did too. “let’s see,” a laughs, leaning in closer. “i’ve googled how weird is having sex dreams about your friends like four times in the past three months.” he offers a grin, and then shakes his head. he wants august CLOSER. he doesn’t know much about depravity, but what he does know is he’d do anything to keep august looking at him exactly like this. the kiss is hot and heavy, it grounds him back here instead of letting insecurity rip through him and wring him out. and the laughter coiled at the edge of auggie’s lips feels like a gift instead of a damnation, salvation over pity. “uh– yeah.” he grins back, “duh.” he pushes forward, hunger and softness wrapped up into one. he doesn't like to sit in his own feelings. they've always felt so uncomfortable. like a shirt a size too small. but august is trying to make it easier, so evan's trying to let him. "why don't you tell me what you want, since i clearly don't know shit??"

[unearthlydust]

MONDAY (2021)

[dovecrys]

♡ – continued from here, @prcperdose

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.

The warmth of Evan is a comfort that August desperately seeks in moments like this. He's out of his element. He's all fucked up. He's never really been this fucking far from home, and everything feels completely ungrounding. But here? To be tucked away in a private moment with Evan pressed up against the wall like this – it brings August right back down to earth. August pulls his lips from Evan's neck to pass a pointed glare. "You're the best fuckin' prize, baby. I don't want anything else." His words are spoken like a biblical truth, like it's not something for Evan to ever question. August rolls his eyes, though his pride wears itself in a coy smirk. "Yeah, c'mon, tell me how proud you are of me."

[imprcperdose]

evan is grinning like he has some kind of fucking secret. he doesn't, of course, but he's acting like he knows something. which, he's pretty sure they both know evan never really knows anything. well, that's not entirely true. it's more of a he doesn't know anything useful situation. growing up in park city will do that to someone, he's sure of it. but here he is, in the fucking olympic village, so like, he can just pretend that all of that utah shit doesn't sit in his bones. he doesn't know what it means for him, but he likes that august seeks out comfort in him. he likes that agust finds grounding in his attention. that's important to him. the glare pulls another laugh from him, but he blooms under the praise anyways. his head cants to the side, as if offering more space for august, should he want it. "not even a medal ??" he laughs, but he knows it doesn't hold a candle to this for august. "i'm so proud of you, babe." a beat, "and you can have whatever you want since you won."

[imprcperdose]

continued for @hurtslikeyoudo from here !

evan doesn't know much. he never really has. he blames the prophet. which like – he should. mormonism is weird. he's like – not some weird virgin or something. but he's never had the vocabulary to talk about anything. he's never had the option. he doesn't know if anyone who's not utah really gets what it's like. to be repressed like that is to never know yourself. to never be anything but a part of something awful. he's always relied on snowboarding, something he's allowed to do without fear or frustration. there's no CONSEQUENCE. perhaps that's why he leaned in. august asks him to talk about it, and evan feels bad for the way he laughs. "aug–" a beat, "you're gonna LAUGH at me." he wished when he reached his pockets, he had something attractive to say. he doesn't. he's always kind of off kilter about things like this, he's always struggled to be any more than he is. and what he is – well that's just kind of an awkward snowboarder. "i dunno," he shrugs, cheeks keep running hot and he doesn't know what to do. so he tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of augusts's neck, and hopes he's not screwing this up. "you can ask me whatever you want," a grin and a shrug, " but most of the answers are incredibly unsatisfying." god, august is going to drive him nuts. so instead of talking, he leans forward and catches augusts's lips once more. god – was it always supposed to feel like this ?? he's spent his entire life FUCKED because he didn't even know this was an option.

[splitmeopens]

rory feels the shift in noah like a bodily blow; one moment he's the polished, impossible to crack prodigy everyone watches with expectation, and the next he's all sharp want and sure hands, moving with purpose like he's finally letting himself touch what he’s been starving for. it knocks rory off balance in a way nothing on the ice ever does. he tries to hold onto his grin, to keep his posture loose and cocky, unbothered, but the second noah's hands drag lower with intent, his breath hitches hard, and it's sharp enough to make his chest tighten. he hates the way it betrays him. hates even more the way noah hears it, how that faint flicker of wicked pleasure flashes in those blue eyes like rory's reaction was exactly what he'd been aiming for. and then noah's mouth finds his neck, teeth dragging where his gear usually shields him, and his fingers fist in the other's shirt, a low, rough grunt ripped out of him before he can bite it back. noah's tongue follows, soothing the bite he wants to leave, and the shiver it sends down rory's spine is so real he surges forward, crushing their mouths together to cover the sound he didn't mean to make.

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.

he drags noah closer by the collar, foreheads nearly colliding because space feels impossible, because noah calling him needy hits somewhere deep and dangerous. rory's fingers slide into his hair, tightening as if to anchor himself to something solid while everything inside him tilts off its axis. "keep talking like that," he breathes, the words brushing noah's mouth in a way that's half threat, half surrender, "and you'll find out exactly how fast you go under." noah slows the kiss deliberately, savoring, tormenting, and rory's answering sound is scraped raw from somewhere he never lets anyone touch — half-groan, half-plea, helpless even as he tries to smirk through it. he pulls noah in tighter, eyes dark and blown wide, his smile crooked and fraying at the edges. "go on," he murmurs, daring and undone all at once, "push me again." his voice drops, weighted with a truth he can't hide no matter how hard he tries. "see just how needy i get for you, vanek."

[imprcperdose]

noah watches people. it’s another one of those things people are always commenting on. that the vaneks always have these wide lost looks in their eyes, like they’re always waiting for something. noah never comments about why. there’s always been a reason he’s careful, he’s always needed to be the smartest player in the room. hockey is a language that makes sense to him. there’s not much else that ever has. but this— want and attention and need— this makes sense to him too. he can see the way rory tries to hold himself together, like noah would ever let him keep himself from coming apart at the seams. he’s so starved for attention, and he knows rory must be too if he’s here. because locked closets in buildings full of nhl players don’t feel like a good idea unless the only other option is the wilt of loneliness. and if noah wants to keep his secrets to himself, those were the only option.

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.

his gaze is focused and a little mean, as he watches the way rory strains against everything holding him back. his attitude, his composure, even his clothing. noah likes having that effect on him way more than he likes to let on. "i'd like to see you fucking try." his voice is roughened and dark, like watching rory unravel is undoing his composure. probably because it is. if he knew that this was sacred, that every touch pulled something from hidden depths within the other player, he might be a little more reverent. but who needs that, when he's too busy trying to take him apart, piece by piece ?? the goading lands like an invitation, and noahs hands are both in motion again. his grasp is slow, intentional and irritating wrapped into one. being grating in moments of desperation has always made it all just that much more delicious for him. and his hand keeps moving, rough from stick handling and grasp deliberate, as the other presses into the swell of his ass. grasping like his life depends on it. "wanna see just how needy you can get beaumont."

[splitmeopens]

rory clocks the change in noah the instant those hands start traveling, for they're slow, sure, and practiced in a way that should piss him off but instead sends a hot shock down his spine he can't hide. he tries. god, he tries. the grin comes up automatically, that practiced, shit eating tilt of his mouth he uses to cover anything too real, but the second noah's touch dips lower, his breath betrays him with a sharp, involuntary hitch. it's humiliating. exhilarating. it's exactly the kind of thing noah will notice because of course he does, as noah pays attention like he's been starving for someone to look back at him. rory's fingers tighten in his hair, not to stop him, but because noah is too close and rory refuses to let him pull away from the mess he’s making.

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."

his free hand slides to noah’s jaw, thumb brushing his lip with a lazy, taunting drag. "you wanted me thinking about you?" his smile turns downright unruly. "congratulations. i'm already annoyed with how well it's working." he leans in, lips brushing noah's without giving him the full kiss. "and don't get cocky. i can still drag you down with me."

[imprcperdose]

noah struggles to hold himself together at the best of times. but having the opportunity to do something he actually wants, instead of standing around in obligation, snaps his restraint clean in half. of course it does. because he's like – a golden boy. noah vanek. prodigy. little brother to one of the best players in the league. so of course he's all practiced smiles and white knuckled grips and practiced smiles and quick motions. rory might distract, but noah only ever seems to excel. he refuses to ever let himself be seen as anything but the perfect player. perhaps that was why he was both literally and figuratively in the closet right now.

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.

"i'd love to see you try." neither of them really mean any harm, and noah's far too busy trying to tear every bit of composure and every stuttering breath from rory's lips.

[spitrots]

Luca comes with his fair share of guilt and greed. The two things seem to hold a very similar sentiment for Luca. What he holds with a vice grip is the very thing that drives him into his guilt. He knows, ultimately, that he is of no benefit to someone as glowingly perfect as Noah. It's an easy bite – someone so painfully vulnerable. He knows just enough to get Noah under his thumb, and as selfish as it was – he loves to know that he's needed. Wanted. Ached for. Luca keeps this as private as it can be, because he'd be damned if anyone knew the way he seemed to gravitate to Noah, despite everything. Plays himself off as someone so violently negligent, just to fall at the merciful hands of Noah.

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.

Luca doesn't say anything, but is quick to his feet to retrieve Noah. Ravenous hands ache to touch – to bend and break. Pulling him into the privacy of his home and feeling every nerve ending stand on edge. "Finish all that fuckin' laundry, hm?"

[imprcperdose]

he's always felt greedy. and everyone might say that luca is bad news, but noah knows he is too. everyone just misses it. he hides it behind locked doors and bright smiles, but he's just as fucking bad. maybe he's not outwardly an asshole like luca, but he is absolutely a problem. if he wasn't, then why would he be thrilled by the fact that luca, for all of his reputation, was practically begging to be his. to be claimed. and god, did noah want to claim him. if he knew enough, if he thought through it, he might realize that luca's doing him a favor by keeping the reputation intact. because even if he's the only person that luca is actually seeing, no one is looking at him. luca keeps them all distracted. no one but fucking devon sees it.

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.

as soon as he's behind the door, needy hands dig into sharp hips. he has always craved contact. "baby," he chuckles, wickedness dripping into every word as it pours from him. "sometimes i just like to make you wait."

[splitmeopens]

the door clicks and rory can feel noah's restraint falling away the second the hallway disappears, how his hands turn claiming instead of careful, and stops performing and becomes pure want. it sends a hot, stupid pulse straight through rory's gut that he refuses to show on his face. he keeps the grin anyway (and the attitude), but his body gives him away in how he catches noah by the hips and drags him in, closing the gap until there's nowhere left to pretend they're being anything but casual. his shoulder presses the door as if he's holding it shut with his own weight, and when noah's mouth finds his neck, rory's hand slides up to the back of his head. it's not gentle; it’s rory, all insistence, and stubborn refusal to be the only one undone.

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.

when noah asks him to talk, rory gives a short, breathless laugh that doesn't sound like him, then masks it with a sharper smile. he drags his mouth along noah's jaw like punctuation, slow enough to be mean about it, and murmurs, "you wanna know how often?" his grip tightens at noah's hips, a deliberate little reminder of who's got him. "often enough i've had to tell myself to knock it off." a beat; he nudges noah back into him again, letting the contact answer what he won't say plainly. "and yeah,i love testing you," he adds quietly, because it's easier to admit it like an accusation than like a need. his gaze shifts up, completely locked in. "because you don't flinch, you push back. and you look at me like you want me anyway." he kisses him again, and it's hard, brief, and claiming, before pulling back just far enough to make it a dare. "so keep pushing me. keep making me prove it. just… don't make me beg for it."

[imprcperdose]

noah is ravenous. he always has been. behind practiced smiles and sure hands and laughter a second too late, there is this low, thrumming need to be satisfied. one that rory is always on the receiving end of in his fantasies. he'd take him up against this door if that was what it took to have this satisfaction that he's always chasing. the need blotted out. he doesn't acknowledge the way that rory's body betrays him sets him alight. he doesn't want to think about that what it means for them. rory doesn't want to admit to any of it, and noah doesn't need him to. he doesn't need to be promised forever, he needs to break RIGHT NOW in his hands, take it apart instant by instant, until he can hold stuttering breaths and heady movements and the taste of desire in his hands.

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.

the laughter, breathless and foreign, feels right in every way. hips collide again, rocking into him just one more time, and hands slide down across expanses of muscle like can commit this to memory. as soon as rory starts talking, his left hand is reaching between rory's thighs, like he can claim everything right here, against this door, no questions asked. often enough makes him feel less crazy. but he wouldn't mind insanity at rory's hands. he wouldn't mind being taken apart like that. he doesn't say he wouldn't mind if rory had him begging either. it's so easy to want it all. and he wants it all with rory behind a locked door. "don't knock it off." he replies, wicked grin cracking across his face. "i want you thinking about me all the time." a beat, and he listens when rory talks, but if he's being HONEST, that's not why he asked. his hands don't fumble when he pulls on the button, where rory is all charisma and smiles and attitude, noah has always been precision and practice. so as soon as he starts talking, a hand slips beneath his waistband. he wants to hear the way that his breath stutters, he wants to watch him fall apart while he tries to talk. he wants rory yielding under his grip. he likes the attitude, he likes the gnashing teeth and the attention, he’s greedy and he wants it all. “can’t flinch,” he murmurs against the heat of rory’s skin. “then i’d have to look away,” a pause, motion fills the space, “and i like staring too much.” their lips collide, and noah is claiming what he wants. he’s not making excuses anymore. “wanna watch you prove it, ro.” it’s not like he hasn’t noticed the way heat climbs across his chest every time he says the nickname. it’s obvious. sue him for paying attention! but it all feels delicious in a way he can’t describe. so he hopes he’s doing a good job proving it.

[imprcperdose]

continued for @splitmeopens from here !

noah has never really known how to say what he wants. how to claim it. losing yourself behind locked doors is something taught early and often. but when the door clicks shut, noah lets his guard drop and suddenly he's actually allowing himself to be ravenous. he's allowed to want when no one is looking. and god, he wants rory. he wants him yielding under his grip and and wanton, desperation bleeding out of every pore. he wants every thing he's imagined with a hand wrapped around himself and boiling water pounding into his back. everything he pictures when he can't sleep. rory pulls. that matters. he pulls noah's hips flush to him, and noah takes it as an invitation. of course he does. if rory wants to press every complication out of his body, every fearful thought and broken glance, he can absolutely try. noah won't stop him.

noah rocks his hips against rory's, like he's never been hungrier for this than he is right now. lips meet the smooth expanse of his neck, and his teeth rake across rory's neck like consumption. a beat, a noise that hits like desire. he's always wanted this, he's just never been able to take it. rory's comments land like mines, but and they burst against the inside of his ribcage. he wants this. he wants loud and rough and needy, but he's settling right now. he has to. because there's a million people on the other side of that door who can't know that this is what they're getting up to. "fuck–" it's just a little breathless and ruined at the edges. "i'm gonna take you apart." and he's never meant anything more. breath runs hot against skin tinged with want, and noah can practically taste it all. his thumb pulls down on rory's lower lip, and it all feels vulgar and obscene in all the right ways. "fuckin' cocky asshole," a beat, "you love testing me." there's no part of him that would change it. it's consumption and want and worship all wrapped in a neat little bow. "talk to me, ro." he smirks, "tell me how often you think about this."

[lassolesbian]

it’s butch thumb in femme mouth sunday

[najd-social-club]

[deathcalleds]

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."

[imprcperdose]

teddy has always been consumed by all of this. he has always believed he was unworthy. he has always wanted to be more – he has always wanted to be important. to be SEEN and WANTED ANYWAYS. but that doesn't mean that he can be. he doesn't feel capable. he's broken at best, rotted at worst, he wonders if anyone can see it. if luke can see it. if he can parse through it all and still want him. but he doesn't trust it. he's never trusted any of it. he did, once. a long time ago. and he learned. teddy had always been a quick study. he's a lot smarter than he likes to pretend he is. he likes to act like he doesn't pay attention, but he always has. it's all momentum and composure laced too tight and broken need. because when it's not, when everything cracks open and all of these pieces of himself spill out, he's too vulnerable. he has to protect himself. because he'd let luke do just about anything to him.

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.

"it's fine," he mumbles, into his chest, "i just – i don't – i don't want it to happen to you too." fucking pitiful. "because i LOVE YOU and i can't – i can't DO IT AGAIN !!" fists ball in his shirt, "i can't – i don't want you to HIT ME !!" he hates this. hates how vulnerable it feels. "and that's STUPID because i know– I KNOW – i know it's my fault – i –" god, he just wants this to end. "i'm sorry."

[imprcperdose]

closed starter for @spitrots !

okay so maybe he cared a LOT about who luca slept with. noah doesn't want to be clingy. he tries not to be. but he's like – feeling incredibly weird about being in chicago. the shit he is so used to holding onto like a grounding force, things like his anger aren't really relevant anymore. it's a whole lot easier to be mad at devon when he doesn't look at him like a dog that's been kicked. so sue him if he wants to keep this ONE THING to himself, so it's no one's business but his own. it's not like anyone needs to know about the heat that radiates through his fingers or the way blue eyes lock on luca while he's on his knees or the way he wants so badly to be claimed. he's always been greedy. and he doesn't fucking share.

shit is pissing him off. the whole city hums with this feeling of being wrong. like he doesn't belong here. so he tries to focus on anything else. and TODAY, anything meant his fucking laundry. but of course luca had questions, of course he wanted to know why noah was asking, and that shit pissed him off too. it's all so fucking stupid and he hates it. so when he finally finds himself at the other man's doorway, he's not sure how he's managed to do it without tearing someones skin off. even his own would've sufficed.

a phone call at a back door, because no one needs to know. "hey, i'm outside." that's all it ever really takes.

[qaradise]

need.

[deathcalleds]

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.

[imprcperdose]

teddy doesn't NEED logic. he never has. because it doesn't matter to him why he wants luke to hunt him like prey, he just knows he does. he doesn't know why he wants the outline of his teeth bruising every expanse of skin he can reach, he just knows he does. he's always been consumed by how much he wants. he never talks about it, but luke has OWNED HIM since the day they met. he thinks about it with fingers wrapped around himself in the dead of night. he proves it to himself with every depraved text. but he admits nothing. every fiber in his body sets alight with desire for luke. every piece of his desperate with need. it pools between his legs, it demands to be felt. he doesn't know the difference between love and violence, but luke never needs him to know anything but whether or not he can keep going. to speak up if he can't. if teddy thought about it, that might be more gentle and caring than anything he's ever been able to hold. every bruise to freckled skin carries heat and a promise teddy refuses to hear. fingers in his hair pull an obscene noise from deep within him, he's so hard he can't see straight. every nerve ending is set alight, brown eyes are blown wide with desire as he stares up through his lashes. they rake over every inch of luke, as if committing his body to memory. he doesn't interrogate the way he commits every stuttered breath and the tightness in his grip to his memory too. the praise is heavy and dark, and it vibrates straight through him. plush lips open as luke pries his fingers into his mouth, being difficult is a part of the fun. but he welcomes luke's fingers like this is all he was built for. he runs his tongue across them like worship and his cheeks hollow expertly. if luke wants a show, he can give him one. he hums against the fingers in agreement with the statement. he IS begging, and he'll be damned if he lets luke forget it. every motion practiced devotion, every movement carefully crafted just to pull luke apart just a little more. his hands brace against strong thighs, but his thumb hooks under the edge of boxers like he's not thinking about it. he is. he's thinking about how desperately he wants hands in his hair and hips bucking into his mouth and tears running down his face. he WANTS so badly it hurts.

[theone1n]