A Birthday Present - One That's On Time, Unlike That Other One.
For your information: I'll be in the bathroom, scrubbing my own eyeballs out of my head, and amputating my fingers for having the audacity to write this. (Blech) But Happy Birthday, lugonn ...after this, I’ll be sending my therapy bills to you, love.
Oh yeah. And Cat? There’s nothing here for you, best you be moving along. Just email me and I’ll say lovely things to you instead.
***
Luke can’t remember not being angry. Portland sucks. It’s always fucking raining here. And he hates Newport because it’s fucking Newport - which doesn’t leave him a lot of options. He’s angry at his Dad, and he won’t look that guy in the kitchen in the face, because if he does he just knows he’s gonna snap and start punching him and then he’ll just end up in someplace like juvie with pretty boys in jumpsuits. So he slams the drawers shut, and bangs the cupboards closed, and he gets up off the couch and stalks to his room whenever *he* comes into the den and uses one of those soft-lip smiles on him and says things like, 'hey Bud,' as if Luke is supposed to want to talk to him.
Luke can hear them talking, whispering things like, ‘give him time,’ and ‘it’s a tough adjustment,’ and ‘he’ll do fine. He just has to make a few new friends, you’ll see.’ Which makes Luke sneer to himself, because what the fuck do they know?
The thing is, Portland isn’t so bad. There isn’t a water polo team at his new school, but he’s playing soccer again and their striker was a bit of pansy, so Luke snagged his spot without much effort. He’s even dating a girl. Blonde, stacked, with long, painted fingernails. And she gives decent head, so there’s that too. Marissa gave rotten head, now that Luke thinks about it. She always brushed his hands off the back of her head whenever he tried to get her to take him a little deeper. And she mouthed the head of his cock in the most irritating way.
***
Luke masturbates. A lot. But then, all teenage guys do, he thinks, letting his fingers spider walk down his torso and past the waistband of his pajama pants. So there isn’t anything wrong with him cupping his balls, and rolling them between his fingers. Nothing wrong with slipping his hand up the hard length of his cock and thumbing the sensitive ridge there. There isn’t anything wrong with settling into a steady rhythm, one that makes the warm buzzing deep in his belly start humming in his ears. And certainly there isn’t anything wrong with letting his other hand, the idle one, trail little patterns across his chest, until it is circling his nipple and pinching it sharply between his thumb and forefinger.
All guys masturbate. So most of them don’t think about Ryan Atwood, naked and wet in the locker room after soccer practice, but they definitely masturbate.
Luke doesn’t think that it makes him queer. After all he did come (loudly) with Julie Cooper arching under him, her back slick with perspiration, her hips pushing back to meet him, eager. Julie fucks like someone who’s gonna die if they don’t come. Julie also pants, baby, baby, baby, in his ear, riding the hand between her thighs hard. And Luke thinks that it doesn’t make him queer if for a second Ryan flashed in front of him just before he buried himself a little deeper in her ass. He’s not queer because he knows what a clit is, and he knows what to do with it. And what he does is make women whimper, and groan words like, fuck and harder and oh yeah baby. There, right there.
He’s a little proud of his track record, truth be told. He’s lost count of the number of panties he’s felled, lacy little things dropping to the floor, the crotch of them wet with a little want. He has *actually* lost count. So maybe he’s just a little bored. Not queer. Bored.
And besides, if anyone around here (there, he thinks irritably. Newport’s there now, not here) is queer, then it’s that little fucker, Cohen. Cohen with his shit brown, curly hair and wide lips that look like they need to be wrapped around a cock. Preferably Luke’s. Or Atwood’s.
Luke sometimes, in the shower with a bar of soap, thinks that Seth already knows his way around on his knees. And sometimes (with the radio playing loudly in the background) he works himself up thinking about Seth on his knees, and Ryan groaning, tipping up on his toes and pushing deep, deep, deeper into the back of Seth’s throat. He thinks about Ryan, his ass cheeks clenched tightly, and everything shaking and quivering. Luke would be willing to bet that Ryan comes grunting and biting back the urge to say, fuck, fuck, fuck, over and over again. He bets that Cohen's never made him come, without much more than a soft whimpter. Luke would definitely be willing to bet that Ryan would come screaming if Luke fucked him, slamming into him hard and fast, lifting him off his feet and fisting his cock at the same time. Luke comes in the shower, listening to the sound of his own panting bouncing off of the tiles.
***
Luke’s not sure if that makes him queer. Probably not. They’re just bodies fucking and slipping against each other. But when his fingers are spider-walking down his torso, and he starts thinking about Ryan’s lips, ghosting over his own…when his stomach flips in tight knots, and he comes wetly in his boxers with Ryan’s face smiling in front of him, he thinks he might be just a little queer. But queer might be better than angry, and so he’s not sure he gives a damn.
A/N: Poor Marissa. That bitch can’t do anything right. Heh. Thank you to shoshannagold for dusting off the stupid for me, in what was perhaps the worlds quickest beta. Lovely chatting with you dear.
Oh yeah. And Cat? There’s nothing here for you, best you be moving along. Just email me and I’ll say lovely things to you instead.
***
Luke can’t remember not being angry. Portland sucks. It’s always fucking raining here. And he hates Newport because it’s fucking Newport - which doesn’t leave him a lot of options. He’s angry at his Dad, and he won’t look that guy in the kitchen in the face, because if he does he just knows he’s gonna snap and start punching him and then he’ll just end up in someplace like juvie with pretty boys in jumpsuits. So he slams the drawers shut, and bangs the cupboards closed, and he gets up off the couch and stalks to his room whenever *he* comes into the den and uses one of those soft-lip smiles on him and says things like, 'hey Bud,' as if Luke is supposed to want to talk to him.
Luke can hear them talking, whispering things like, ‘give him time,’ and ‘it’s a tough adjustment,’ and ‘he’ll do fine. He just has to make a few new friends, you’ll see.’ Which makes Luke sneer to himself, because what the fuck do they know?
The thing is, Portland isn’t so bad. There isn’t a water polo team at his new school, but he’s playing soccer again and their striker was a bit of pansy, so Luke snagged his spot without much effort. He’s even dating a girl. Blonde, stacked, with long, painted fingernails. And she gives decent head, so there’s that too. Marissa gave rotten head, now that Luke thinks about it. She always brushed his hands off the back of her head whenever he tried to get her to take him a little deeper. And she mouthed the head of his cock in the most irritating way.
***
Luke masturbates. A lot. But then, all teenage guys do, he thinks, letting his fingers spider walk down his torso and past the waistband of his pajama pants. So there isn’t anything wrong with him cupping his balls, and rolling them between his fingers. Nothing wrong with slipping his hand up the hard length of his cock and thumbing the sensitive ridge there. There isn’t anything wrong with settling into a steady rhythm, one that makes the warm buzzing deep in his belly start humming in his ears. And certainly there isn’t anything wrong with letting his other hand, the idle one, trail little patterns across his chest, until it is circling his nipple and pinching it sharply between his thumb and forefinger.
All guys masturbate. So most of them don’t think about Ryan Atwood, naked and wet in the locker room after soccer practice, but they definitely masturbate.
Luke doesn’t think that it makes him queer. After all he did come (loudly) with Julie Cooper arching under him, her back slick with perspiration, her hips pushing back to meet him, eager. Julie fucks like someone who’s gonna die if they don’t come. Julie also pants, baby, baby, baby, in his ear, riding the hand between her thighs hard. And Luke thinks that it doesn’t make him queer if for a second Ryan flashed in front of him just before he buried himself a little deeper in her ass. He’s not queer because he knows what a clit is, and he knows what to do with it. And what he does is make women whimper, and groan words like, fuck and harder and oh yeah baby. There, right there.
He’s a little proud of his track record, truth be told. He’s lost count of the number of panties he’s felled, lacy little things dropping to the floor, the crotch of them wet with a little want. He has *actually* lost count. So maybe he’s just a little bored. Not queer. Bored.
And besides, if anyone around here (there, he thinks irritably. Newport’s there now, not here) is queer, then it’s that little fucker, Cohen. Cohen with his shit brown, curly hair and wide lips that look like they need to be wrapped around a cock. Preferably Luke’s. Or Atwood’s.
Luke sometimes, in the shower with a bar of soap, thinks that Seth already knows his way around on his knees. And sometimes (with the radio playing loudly in the background) he works himself up thinking about Seth on his knees, and Ryan groaning, tipping up on his toes and pushing deep, deep, deeper into the back of Seth’s throat. He thinks about Ryan, his ass cheeks clenched tightly, and everything shaking and quivering. Luke would be willing to bet that Ryan comes grunting and biting back the urge to say, fuck, fuck, fuck, over and over again. He bets that Cohen's never made him come, without much more than a soft whimpter. Luke would definitely be willing to bet that Ryan would come screaming if Luke fucked him, slamming into him hard and fast, lifting him off his feet and fisting his cock at the same time. Luke comes in the shower, listening to the sound of his own panting bouncing off of the tiles.
***
Luke’s not sure if that makes him queer. Probably not. They’re just bodies fucking and slipping against each other. But when his fingers are spider-walking down his torso, and he starts thinking about Ryan’s lips, ghosting over his own…when his stomach flips in tight knots, and he comes wetly in his boxers with Ryan’s face smiling in front of him, he thinks he might be just a little queer. But queer might be better than angry, and so he’s not sure he gives a damn.
A/N: Poor Marissa. That bitch can’t do anything right. Heh. Thank you to shoshannagold for dusting off the stupid for me, in what was perhaps the worlds quickest beta. Lovely chatting with you dear.