I'm not sure if I should have Luke barf….how much alcohol does that even take? Anyhow, here's your freaking smut…kinda. I don't see these two as kinky guys. Watching the episodes where Luke was actually drunk, you can see a pattern: first he's hesitant, then he gets the beer in hand and turns into an asshole, and last he gets touchy and desperate, maybe a little sensual. So I'll keep with that theme. Hope you like it.
I lassoed Luke into the passenger's seatbelt, in his own surprisingly messy car. There were water bottles thrown here and there, some only half finished, college course books nestled under foot, and a couple stray ties made a home in the back. He propped a knee against the dash and stretched his belt out to its fullest then let it snap back.
His disposition was still sparky, but the wound up tension that saddled him before was at large, at least until he returned to normalcy—if there was such a state for Luke Snyder. His posture simply read mellowness, like he could sink endlessly into the seat and not care where he was. With a jerk of my wrist the engine roared to life at the turn of a key. Glancing around the dark parking lot, I noted no one with in my sight, aside from a couple empty cars still as death.
"Careful, I know diving's hard for the great neurosurgeon," Luke clipped, he was tracing haphazard designs on the foggy window.
"Careful, I know speaking's hard for the mentally impaired," I muttered back.
He rolled his head around and snarled, "Hah!" and scrubbed his knuckles over the scribbles he had drawn.
Rich people had it good, this car floated on the road and turned like it was on rails. It rode smooth and sure, even with constant barrage of insults dripping from my charge. His constant movement cued me in that he was at a restless point in the course. Burning not to be strapped in, his clumsy hand scratched at the buckle until he located the release button.
"Knock it off," I pushed his hands away.
"You," he whacked at my only hand on the wheel. The car jittered over to the other lane, I righted it fearfully.
"Idiot!" I yelled, "Do you want to get us killed?"
"Only if you promise I won't have to hear your conceited voice anymore," he retorted.
Despite his greatest attempts to murder us, I rolled the car up his abnormally long driveway. Luke spilled out of the passenger's seat as soon as he could find the handle to unlatch the door. He ran and stumbled a few paces to keep from face planting in the gravel. I pocketed the keys and fastened his arm around my shoulder, his frame pressed agonizingly secure to me. I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to recognize any body parts. A slight brush of a thigh against mine, the way shoulder muscles constricted beneath his shirt, how very little I would have to move to claim a spot on his neck….
There was an arm around me again, this one attached to a stern faced doctor rather than a warm eyed Noah. But he shouldered me with more tenderness than in this same instance before, one year ago. I pressed into it, the feeling of touch I'd missed for so long, even if it was just the small kind.
"Alright," I sighed, dumping the open mouthed Luke on a chair, not sure where to take it from here. I took a gander around his kitchen for inspiration as for what to do next.
"Water, water would help," I inwardly grimaced at my slowness, frustrated at the way Luke scrambled my mind—even when he was drunk.
I opened cabinets around the kitchen in search of cups. It was unusually silent, I turned my head behind me to look at the mute boy still sitting there. He watched me unsteadily. It was unnerving.
Upon finding a glass, I filled it with tap water. I hadn't really a hope of finding aspirin in this place, so I just set it in front of him. He had a staring contest with it, and slowly shook his head side to side, "I don't want it," he stated plainly.
"Oh really? Well you're going to drink it," I flared.
He flopped and arm over the back of his chair and smirked, "Are those the doctor's orders?" his jaw slackened and eyebrows rose.
"Yeah."
He tipped the chair back on its hind legs ,"Well frankly, you kinda suck as a doctor. I don't know if you've realized it yet, but Noah's still blind. You're the last guy to be proscribing me to drink anything," He drawled.
"mmhm mmhm, this coming from the underage drunk," I ensnared the front of his shirt to pull him upright, the chair thumped back on all fours "If you won't drink the damn water, then go take a cold shower," my eyes drew a line down his front. "You're a mess," his eyes were sad at this, his mouth perked to protest as I watched the same docile acceptance the flooded his eyes with Noah. The kind of kicked dog that had finally been trained to believe he had it coming. I felt guilt seep through my hand and it slackened. I cleared my throat, "Well, come on," I said harshly, pulling him upstairs.
"You're a mess." He says. If I had a nickel….
Luke stomped on each step with enough force to break through, I'd fallen in step behind him, preparing for the worst case scenario of his performing a back tumble. An unfortunate drawback to this predicament was the unadulterated view of his rear. Unfortunate, because every step he took put me closer and closer to the edge of doing him right on the stairs. His pants creased and stretched in sinful ways, directing my mind to places they had better not go. SO when I say this kid has a nice ass…it doesn't really sum it all up.
The bathroom was a mint colored room, first on the left, and with my head at last leveled with his I could gather myself back to a purpose. He staggered in the door with a gentle push and used the wall to stop his self-created momentum. A shower would do him better without cloths on, I placed my hands on his lopping frame to release him of his jacket and flopped it on the hamper. Thankful he was at least cooperating thus far, I tweaked the shower knob on—figuring he couldn't tell cold from hot at this point.
I rotate to see him bent over his crinkled shirt, his fingers floundering to find purchase on one of the buttons. He wasn't having any luck with it, I reached in with a, "Here," and loosened each button down his chest. His hands attempted to help me, I flicked them away and he let them fall to his sides.
His surgeon's hands tipped each button slowly out of their slits, letting air in to lick at my chest. It was an embarrassment, being incapable of taking off your own shirt, my hands crept along with his trying to aid but he nudged them away. I gave in to having him reveal my body, and dropped my head to the wall. He pulled out my shirt tails that hadn't already been untucked before and I pretended it was something more than an accomplished man assisting a drunken college reject.
My fingertips smoothed over the silky skin of Luke's stomach, I itched to run my hands all over him and feel the rest, but I rescinded them to allow him to remove the rest of his shirt. He shuffled out of it like a child, tucking his chin into his chest looking at the floor. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably in the cool of the air, I still stared at the expanse of him before me. The hiss of the shower finally called me back to time. Reasoning that he wouldn't fare much better on his pants, I unsnapped them. At the same moment I glanced up and met mocha colored eyes, the click and 'zzzzt' of his zipper sounded through the bathroom.
Dr. Reid Oliver clicked open my pants. What do I do? The haze of booze was boggling my mind. The half sober part of me wanted to slap his hands away, saying, "No, this part is reserved for Noah." And the argumentative half—which had the upper hand here—said quietly, "Noah doesn't want you. Take this." And the spreading heat in my lower parts argued just as persuasively.
I looked intently at Luke's flushed face, the curvature of his open lips, the slight cleft of his chin and the scruffy way his hair decorated his forehead. If the words "puppy dog eyes" described anyone, it was Luke Snyder, they were deep and expressive as dark windows to his emotions, usually clear and humoring or rich and passionate—the way he looked at Noah. The type of exchange they were having now, it wasn't the same as with Noah, but the rugged want tingeing his irises almost had me on top of him. My thumbs slid down his hip bones and found place inside the band of his boxers.
I savored the warmth inching lower and lower, my breath caught, I bore into his face. I'd never noticed the color of his eyes, they were light. So light I couldn't place a color to them, almost a gray absence of color. They were strong. I reveled in their difference from Noah's. Noah's chocolaty eyes, always so restrained, but loving none the less. The icy eyes that locked with my own, were straight and focused, clear in their direction and unapologetic, I swam in it.
His thumbs wedged between the band of my boxers and skin, crooked like they were preparing to turn the page of a book. My hips tilted forward imperceptibly, willing him to go further. Then all of a sudden, no more. Dr. Oliver averted his eyes with a turn of his head. I fought hard in attempt to not admit to myself how much I need this, right now.
What was I doing? Luke loved Noah. Luke wanted Noah. I ripped my hands off him and looked away to cut off the source of temptation, I cleared my throat and said huskily, "I…ah, think you've got it from here, Mr. Snyder," I stood back, taking a last look at the angelic boy slumped against the wall, knowing something like this wouldn't happen again. I chanced on seeing a reddened peek of a line curling around his back. I squinted.
Dr. Oliver's face troubled, "Luke, what is…" he started in a quizzical tone. He focused on my side, then abruptly twisted me around to look at my back. "Is that a kidney transplant scar?" he asked indignantly, he was close again, I could feel his breath rolling against my shoulder blade. My eyes shut without an answer.
Luke stayed hushed, a forearm propped against the wall for support, but still he swayed. The patch up job was sloppy, more scaring than should be there. I ran a finger overtop of it, soft to the touch, must be an old one then, I thought. If he really had only one kidney, it was near suicide to be drinking at the rate he was.
"Lu—Snyder," I said sternly to earn and answer, I craned my neck around to look at his face. His eyes were shut, "Hey—" I started, when he throatily said, "You're hands are warm." And took hold of the hand not tracing his past, bringing it around to his abdomen. Too much. I was too close, too much in contact, he was too open—we pressed together and I abandoned my resolve.
I threw my free arm around him, he inhaled sharply and leaned against my chest. I breathed in his whole smell, though tainted with alcohol, it was still distinctly his. I grappled with his boxers, he placed his palm over my hand and tucked it deeper in, I let out a shaky pent up exhale, continuing to move down.
He curved his head into my neck, the quickness of his breath raising goose bumps. My fingers closed around the base of his cock, he groaned and dug his hands into my jeans, pulling me closer. I'm growing harder by the second, feeling his hands clench.
"Hold on," he snapped his head back and unevenly stumbles until he's facing my perplexed face. His eyebrows lower in just as much confusion as mine. He's disgruntled and steamy, "But," he says hesitantly, "you hate me."
I want to be touched and held, I want this. But beforehand had made it blatantly obvious he detested me, my head and crotch pounded nearly as painfully as the other. His face was that impenetrable mask it always was, but his eyes smoldered and his hands burned into the parts of me he clasped. Without hesitation, his slightly parted lips crushed into mine.
I'd been wanting it for awhile now, those plush lips of Luke Snyder's, and I claimed them. Seeing his helplessly inebriated body opening up for me. I latched onto his lips. He paused, then fell into beat. He sucked in the kiss and wound his hand in my hair, the other ceasing a fist full of my shirt. He ran his tongue along my upper lip and opened his mouth, begging me to deepen it. I rubbed my way down his lower back.
Dr. Oliver attacked my mouth like there wasn't enough time, my head spun with beer and arousal. Gravity won out against my fight, and I swayed precariously on my feet, he responded with firm guidance to the wall I'd abandoned. His nibble fingers trickled their way around, squeezing and rubbing until I yanked away from the kiss to drag in a ragged breath. "ah," I released into the heavy air,
I could barely stand to watch Luke huff and groan, my jeans strained against my erection. I braced him against the tiles and slapped a hand next to his head when he surfaced for air. I palmed his crotch, digging for a response. Which I got, his eyes shut and his Adam's apple bobbed as he relinquished a shaking moan. My heart stuttered, he curled when I flexed my hand on the throbbing bulge. Seizing the opportunity, I leaned down to his exposed neck sucked on his pulse point, sensing the racing speed of his heart. I tipped my hand in and felt the rumble in his throat as he groaned lowly.
My skin was searing, Dr. Oliver's practiced fingers crawling over my groin demolished the faint grip on reality I had. I fell farther away from any recognition of myself I had, succumbing the feel of his body on mine. It took me to a level of unrecognition even greater than the alcohol—perfect. Out of nowhere I crashed back to earth with a shocking pain in my back region.
Luke went rigid and let out a strangled mewl and crumbled to the floor, clawing into his back on top of the scar. "So it is the kidney," I said grimly, still standing above his cowering state. He raised flickering eyes to my face, I kneeled beside him and pried his hands away. His stiffness then leaked out and his eyes drooped shut, he panted out labored breaths. I wrenched his chin up to look at his face, perspiring lightly with the strain.
"You brought this on yourself you know," I was angry as hell, "I mean, what kind of idiot knows about the risks of poisoning themselves then goes ahead and does it?" I questioned the weak face. He starred back irritably.
"C'mon," I said quickly, "you're going to the hospital."
"No," he said flatly.
"That wasn't a request, Mr. Snyder."
"Either way, I'm not going." His shaking limbs supported him enough to help him lean against the hamper he crumpled close by. He pulled a half smile, "I'm fine."
"The hell you are! You need this checked out."
"Dr. Oliver," he fixed his eyes on my face, "Please. I'll do anything, just don't—" he struggles with finding words, tripping over his booze slackened tongue. "I'm not going," he concluded.
I stared at him, he's trying to protect people again. Trying to shield them from the ugliness of his life by keeping them shut out and neglecting himself.
Dr. Oliver's eyes traveled down from my face to my bottom half, he placed a hand mere inches from my groin and focusing on that area muttered, "Anything?" I shut my eyes out of exhaustion or avoidance and breathed, "Yeah," I felt his lips tickle my ear, "Never do this again."
I slit open my eyes in search of his, and finding them gazed a bit dumbfounded. He met them square with the unyielding direction of a doctor, he dropped his mouth open and said slow and clear, "Now take a shower, drink water, and go to bed. I'm not dealing with this ever again." He rocked back on his heels and stood up. Nary a look back he climbed past my sprawled figure and left. The 'shhhhhh' of the long forgotten shower offered my only company in an empty house filled with now only one empty person.