Bonus Content: Don't Tell My Brother

Ride

A/N: Explicit sexual content in this chapter (it's just Damien's horny brain, but sort of graphic, so just a heads up. This is set during Chapter 18

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Damien's POV

Damien had to concede that Lucas wasn't too bad. In the handful of moments where he goddamn relaxed, he was actually alright. Smart, but not in a way that made Damien feel stupid, and oddly funny (not always on purpose). Even his awkwardness (and God, the guy was so awkward) was sort of...it was something. Damien couldn't put his finger on it.

Lucas might've almost been fun, if he just let himself live a little. If anything, Damien thought, he was helping Lucas. Doing him a favour by putting him out of his comfort zone, because otherwise Lucas' life would've been painfully boring. Honestly, he was a saint. Someone should give him a medal.

Mallory would've told him his behaviour was attention-seeking. But she would've been wrong, Damien assured himself. That was stupid. Why would he want Lucas' attention? Lucas was the one who probably wanted his attention.

Only Lucas didn't act like it. Lucas didn't even seem to like him most of the time, and for some reason that only pushed Damien to do more, if only to watch Lucas roll his eyes and adjust his glasses and scrunch his face into that annoyed little expression.

Knowing Lucas, he'd probably already planned out his journey home, but it'd be funny to offer him a lift. Lucas would say no, no doubt afraid of the bike (which in truth, Damien couldn't altogether mock – Sofia didn't like the bike either), but he'd offer anyway.

"Wanna ride?"

"You?" Lucas responded, and Damien's brain, always reading to jump to the gutter, connected the dots in half a second.

Wanna ride you. And fuck, whether he'd meant it or not (he hadn't, there was no fucking way Lucas Sawyer would've said that), it was too late. Unbidden, accidentally, without his goddamn permission, Damien's brain grabbed hold of that idea. Showed him exactly what it might look like.

And...it wasn't a bad picture. Stuck up, clever, careful Lucas straddling him, legs spread so sweetly, head tilted back and moaning as he sunk down onto Damien's cock. Would he moan? Or would he try and keep quiet, bite his lip until it was red and raw, muffled, soft little sounds, as stubborn as he was at work? Would Damien have to coax it out of him, fuck him until he was begging (and God, after all those insults, Damien would've liked to hear Lucas beg, hear his voice break around his name), fuck him until he couldn't keep quiet. Maybe Lucas would be shy about it, uncertain, and Damien would have to hold his hips (tight enough to leave handprints on his pale skin, just to remind him) and show him how he liked it. Or maybe, a voice whispered (a particularly cruel little voice, one that clearly wanted Damien to suffer), maybe Lucas knew exactly what he wanted, maybe he would do whatever Damien asked and open up so beautifully for him and cling as tight as he had on the bike as he rocked back and forth, riding him like a fucking porn star, and—oh God, if Damien didn't stop thinking he was going to have a very obvious problem. And a very uncomfortable time riding his bike.

Riding. Don't think about riding.

No riding.

No Lucas.

But it wasn't like he hadn't wondered sometimes. How far down did those freckles go? How far down would Lucas go, if Damien got him on his knees and had his hand in his hair and put that mouth of his to—fuck, no, fucking stop it.

He inhaled at the same time he swallowed. The spit went down the wrong way. He began to cough, spluttering, trying to catch his breath. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores.

Though he was pretty sure the Virgin Mary was the wrong person to look to at a time like this.

Thankfully, Lucas was too busy correcting himself to notice. Standing up straight, hand on the bike, the picture of nonchalance, Damien pulled himself together.

"Yeah, I can give you a lift home."

Not a ride home. No more talk of riding.

Best to ignore it.

But later that night, much later, past midnight, when it was dark enough that he could barely see his own hand in front of him, when it was sticky, humid-hot and he couldn't sleep...it was harder to ignore it then.