Rating: M.
Warnings: Angst, sex, swearing.
Summary: They need to stop doing this, but it's the only time he ever feels tangible Angry. Alive.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to their respective owners.
Paper Moon
They need to stop doing this, he thinks for the third (maybe tenth) time, except he's panting hard and he doesn't want to stop--can't stop. Luke is running his hands over his chest and down his back, blunt fingernails digging into his skin. He's sucking on Luke's lower lip, shuddering, one hand gripping at Luke's waist with bruising force. They need to stop doing this, but it's the only time he ever feels tangible. Angry. Alive.
And it's always when he's pressed up against a wall, a doorknob or an edge up against his back, where he thinks the most. Where he gets real damn philosophical. His shirt is half-way up his chest, but he won't let Luke pull it up over his head. Not yet. He trails his mouth down Luke's throat, biting and sucking, and starts thinking.
It's so fucking hilarious, the two of them, right now. Luke is always talking on and on about being honest and upholding fairness--to Maddie, to himself, to one another, to the whole damn universe--and Noah just thinks it's fucking funny how he's so righteous. Noah had been willing to give Maddie and him a chance. Then Luke'd cornered him, pressed up against him, told him that he needed to face reality. What reality had Luke wanted him to face? Noah doesn't think it was really about him wanting to fuck guys--fuck Luke; he thinks it was Luke wanting to fuck him.
Because sometimes the most honest person, the most forthright person, could be the most selfish. What else could explain this? Them, rubbing up against one another in the middle of a deserted WOAK, two interns working overtime, seeking something best left unsought. It wasn't their first time either, in this room. He doesn't even know what number they are at. Noah had stopped counting when they'd hit fifteen.
"Don't stop," Luke hisses out between a moan and a gasp.
Noah only laughs dryly against Luke's neck before pushing him all the way against the desk. Their shins connect painfully the few steps back, but they just kiss harder; sweat and pain were the reason he was letting this happen, because Noah doesn't think he could ever do romance now. He threads his hands through Luke's hair, tugging harder than he probably should, but he knows Luke likes it that way. Whatever the pain was for, the both of them get off on it.
He hears Luke gasp, feels him spread his legs wider to accommodate him. It soon becomes clear that Luke is half-perched, half-off the desk, so Noah uses his body as leverage to keep him there.
They've finally come to the hardest part, he realizes, because he has to pull back. This is where he can say I can't or this is wrong. He knows Luke is thinking the same thing because he's giving him this small, embarrassed smile; as if he didn't even know how they'd let their fucking around get so far. Noah almost wants to hit him.
Instead, he struggles out of his shirt and Luke follows suit, yanking off his striped polo with ease. Noah doesn't see where the shirts land, because he's back against Luke as soon as the fabric leaves his fingers, touching him everywhere, kissing him wherever he can reach with his mouth. He doesn't know when the game will end, when he'll finally get angry enough to turn Luke around and press into him hard from behind. He can't fuck Luke face-to-face yet, and he doesn't know if he ever will. He knows it bothers Luke. And he would be lying if he didn't say that that was almost half the fun. It was Luke's fault this was happening. Noah doesn't think he owes him anything.
When Luke snakes a hand down his unbuttoned jeans to cup his erection, he pulls back.
Luke simply looks him in the eyes, breaths coming out in short gasps. It's not strange that he's looking, because Luke always looks at him dead-on, but it's only right before they fuck when Noah sees what Luke wants him to see. Love and a little bit of something else. Hope that the straight guy might actually like him back. Hurt, completely raw, from some wound Noah half-thinks he's teared open. Why Luke trusts him enough to let him see any of this, Noah will never know. But he's probably looking very much the same as Luke, he thinks.
He steps out of his jeans, then out of his boxers.
Luke unbuttons his pants and slides his underwear off--he's never said it, but Noah knows Luke likes to watch him strip down. He smiles and steps closer, forces Luke back against his previous seat; he places one hand on the edge of the desk, and curls the other around Luke's dick. He pumps once, slowly, and Luke's hand snaps up to dig into his shoulder just as he lets out a shaky breath. Noah might have even called it a whimper.
"God. Noah"
He kisses Luke hard, all tongue and teeth. He loves Luke talking, but he can't bring himself to say anything back. All he can do is grab the condom packet from his jeans and tear it open; slip it over his hard cock. He thinks that says enough, hopes it does. He grips Luke's elbow, begins to turn him around. But Luke hesitates.
"Noah. Please."
And the something else in his voice finally breaks Noah and the anger he'd felt earlier melts away into some twisted-as-hell affection. They kiss again, except this time it is slow-burning and soft; both his hands come up to cup Luke's face, their foreheads touching as Noah breaths in the scent of sweat and sex and Luke. He doesn't love Luke at all (except for a little), and he's afraid these tender moments will mislead (and make him love him even more).
"I don't mind the floor," Luke says quietly. "I just want--I just want to see you..."
Noah takes a deep breath; his chest is tight and he doesn't know why. He kisses Luke, doesn't even try arguing, and Luke lies down, pulling Noah with him. The floor is harsh under his knees and, for once, the pain isn't entirely welcome. Luke looks up at him again, washed out in the fluorescent lighting, but Noah thinks he's never looked more fucking beautiful.
He rearranges their discarded jeans for some cushioning and Luke just smiles up at him, laughs a little. Noah can already tell that his wrists will be killing him at the end of this. Luke fixes his position from underneath him, lifts his legs up and wraps them around Noah's hips; brings his hands up and around Noah's back, silently giving Noah permission to fuck him. Except, this time, Noah doesn't think they're fucking. And it scares him beyond belief. He can handle the anger, the urgency they'd had, but he doesn't think he can handle this.
He bites his bottom lip and pushes into Luke with one clean thrust. His mouth drops open as he clenches his eyes shut; lets out a panting gasp--hears Luke groan at his ear. Even before he's done bracing himself completely, his hips spasm on their own accord. Luke's chest rises in time with his and his fingers are back to digging into Noah's lower back, urging him on. Noah feels the urgency building again--they both do. Except it's different. It's more personal. It still scares him. His breath rattles around in his chest, his heart pounds away, and Luke's touch at his shoulder tells him to go.
He rocks into Luke slowly, drops his forehead to Luke's neck because he thinks he'll come embarrassingly fast if he keeps looking at Luke's face. And he wants to cover Luke's mouth to get him to stop panting and moaning and gasping, because the little sounds he makes make the biggest differences. Because Noah likes being in control almost as much as he needs to be.
He keeps rocking and Luke keeps meeting him thrust-for-thrust, fingers digging into him, and Noah is suddenly lost in the sensations of: kissing Luke, all tongue and teeth and slow-burn and soft; that he doesn't love him (except maybe a lot more than before) and, and, and.
End.