A/N: If you're not watching this show, you should be. Cut from "Toxic Valentine" by All Time Low.
Their kisses are all clicking teeth and tangled tongues, hands knotting in hair, a power struggle that goes far beyond the physical. By the time they make it to the bed, Tyler’s jacket is gone; he tosses Nolan down and climbs on top without a moment’s hesitation. Straddling his hips, he starts to unbutton Nolan’s shirt. His fingers stutter and Nolan pushes his hands away, finishing the last few himself as Tyler tugs his own shirt over his head.
Nolan’s pressed back against the pillows as Tyler fucks himself on his cock, head tossed back, biting his lip so hard he nearly splits skin. Nolan watches through half-shut lids, enjoying the way Tyler’s neglected cock jumps beneath the slightest touch. He’s cruel, teasing—this is more a game than a negotiation—and his fingers move to grasp Tyler’s hips instead, skin turning white beneath his grip. The thought of bruises marring that pale, perfect skin only makes him press harder.
Nolan’s pouring them each a drink, robe wrapped loosely around his body, when he hears Tyler come into the room. He turns around just as Tyler reaches him, sinking to his knees without missing a beat. Nolan groans as Tyler swallows him down, never once looking away, gaze begging him to fuck his mouth. Crystal forgotten on the counter behind him, Nolan obliges, fingers unforgiving as they twist in Tyler’s hair.
Nolan backs Tyler against the bathroom counter, marble cold against his bare legs; he hardly seems to notice, though, lifting himself up to sit on the edge, hooking an ankle around Nolan’s waist to drag him closer. Nolan doesn’t resist, kissing his open mouth and fitting his fingers into the contours of his hips. He feels Tyler wince at the fresh ache left from earlier and can’t help but grin, pressing his teeth to the fragile skin of his neck. Watching the slope of his back in the mirror, the way his head tilts, asking for more, Nolan pulls Tyler even closer, swallowing his moan as their cocks press together, caught between the heat of their bodies.
Tugging Tyler down by the collar of his polo, Nolan murmurs, “Don’t forget the terms of our agreement,” breath hot on his lips. Tyler kisses him, and it’s nothing like the start of the evening; the violence still lurks just beneath the surface, the question of fucking or fighting, but it’s like the calm before the storm, and Nolan’s heart feels as though it’s caught in his throat. His mouth is bruised by the time Tyler pulls away, grin wicked and lazy at once. He picks up his jacket from the floor as he makes his way out, Nolan leaning back against the sheets, watching him go. Glass houses with no one around to look in; Nolan eyes the camera hidden across the room, exhilaration coursing through his veins. You can’t con a con.