Chapter 10: Dreams
The engine idled outside Scott’s apartment building, a low purr in the rain-drenched dark. Luke didn’t go up. He sat, hands loose on the wheel, watching the lit rectangle of Scott’s window three floors up. The fantasy, once a dormant seed, had broken open inside him, its roots digging deep, twisting around his spine.
In love with him.
The words had been a key. Now the door was wide open, and Luke walked through.
He imagined coming home. Not to his own sterile apartment, but to a space warm with Scott’s presence. He’d push the door open, shrugging off the weight of the world, and there he’d be. On the couch, curled up with a book, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. He’d look up, those anxious eyes softening into something else, something welcoming and safe. “Hey,” he’d say, and the word would mean you’re home.
The fantasy didn’t stop there. It accelerated.
He’d cross the room in three strides. The book would tumble to the floor. No words needed. He’d fist a hand in Scott’s hair, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to pull his head back, exposing the pale column of his throat. He’d kiss him then, deep and claiming, swallowing any gasp. He could almost taste it—the faint coffee, the unique scent of Scott’s skin, clean and slightly sweet.
“On your knees,” Luke whispered to the empty car, his own voice rough.
In the fantasy, Scott obeyed without hesitation, his movements fluid with submission. He’d fumble with Luke’s belt, his fingers trembling not from fear, but from eager anticipation. The zip would sound like a gunshot in the quiet room. Luke would push his pants down just enough, freeing his cock, already thick and heavy.
“Look at it,” Luke would command. “Look at what you do to me.”
Scott would stare, wide-eyed, a flush creeping down his chest. Then he’d lean in, not taking it yet, just nuzzling the length, worshipping it with his cheek, his breath hot. He’d lick a slow stripe from base to tip, then take Luke’s balls in his mouth one at a time, sucking gently, his tongue swirling.
“Now the pits,” Luke muttered, his hand moving to his own thigh, gripping hard. In his mind, he’d haul Scott up, spin him, and shove his face into the damp, musky hollow of his underarm. “Breathe it in. That’s me. That’s your fucking anchor.”
Scott would moan, the sound muffled, his body pliant. He’d lick the salt from Luke’s skin, a filthy, devoted act that made Luke’s vision swim.
Then the taking. Hard and fast. He’d bend Scott over the back of the couch, not bothering with more than spit as lubricant. The first thrust would be a brutal, seamless claim. Scott would cry out, a sharp, beautiful sound of pain-pleasure, his fingers scrabbling on the upholstery.
“Mine,” Luke would grunt, setting a punishing rhythm. “You’re my fucking slut, aren’t you? My good, broken boy.”
“Yes, yes, Luke, please,” Scott would whimper, pushing back against him, taking every inch, every ruthless drive.
Luke would fuck him in every configuration his mind could conjure. On his back on the floor, legs hooked over Luke’s shoulders, his cock slamming into him so deep Scott would sob with it. Against the wall, Scott’s feet barely touching the ground, the drywall cracking with the impact. On his side, Luke spooning him, a hand clamped over his mouth to stifle the screams as he pounded into him over and over.
It wouldn’t be enough. He’d come, hot and deep inside him, and within minutes, feeling Scott’s spent body beneath him, he’d be hard again. He’d roll him over, force his mouth open, and fuck his face, holding his head still, watching his pretty lips stretch obscenely around his girth. Scott would gag, tears streaming, but his eyes would stay locked on Luke’s, full of utter surrender.
The fantasy spiraled darker, wetter. After the third round, with Scott lying boneless and glazed on the sticky floor, Luke would stand over him. He’d take his cock in hand, still semi-hard, and let go. A hot, golden arc would splash across Scott’s chest, his stomach, his face. Scott wouldn’t flinch. He’d open his mouth, catching some, swallowing, his expression one of ecstatic degradation.
Then tenderness, of a kind. He’d haul Scott up, drag him to the shower. Wash him clean with rough, possessive hands. And under the spray, on his knees again, Scott would suck him back to full hardness, his mouth used and willing, until Luke came down his throat, gripping his hair to make sure he drank every drop.
The fantasy didn’t shock him. It settled him. It was a blueprint. This was what he wanted. Not just the chaos, not just the control, but the after. The quiet where he’d hold Scott, spent and shivering, and feel a peace so profound it was alien.His Scott. His to ruin and his to rebuild. His to possess in every possible way. The kindness, the trust Scott gave so freely—that was the prize. It wasn’t weakness; it was power. Luke could tell him anything, and those eyes would listen without judgment. He could show the darkest corners of himself, and Scott would still reach for him. That care was a shelter Luke hadn’t known he needed.
His phone vibrated in the cupholder, shattering the silent film reel in his mind. A Facetime request. Scott’s face, a small circle of anxiety.
Luke swiped to answer, composing his face into its usual stoic mask. “Hey. You okay?”
Scott’s image pixelated then cleared. He was in his bedroom, the familiar worn comforter behind him. His hair was mussed, his eyes a little red, but he offered a tentative smile.“Yeah. Sorry about earlier. I just… spiraled.”
“It’s okay,” Luke said, his voice softer than he intended. All he could look at were his lips. Slightly chapped. He imagined the feel of them, first against his own, then wrapped around his cock, slick and tight. He wanted to reach through the screen and trace them. “I’m here.”
“Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” The trust in that statement was absolute, a palpable wave.
“You’ll never have to find out,” Luke said, and he meant it with a ferocity that tightened his chest.
Then movement. Another figure leaned into the frame.Ethan. His arm slung around Scott’s shoulders, pulling him close in a casual, possessive gesture. Scott leaned into it, a familiar comfort.
“Luke! The man, the myth,” Ethan said, his grin easy. He was shirtless. His chin rested on top of Scott’s head. “Just checking in on this one. Making sure he’s hydrating after all those tears.”
It was a joke, friendly. But Luke saw the way Scott’s body relaxed against Ethan’s chest. He saw the intimacy of it, the unthinking closeness of shared trauma. Ethan’s thumb stroked Scott’s collarbone.
A cold, black spike drove through Luke’s gut.
“I’ve got it covered, Ethan,” Luke said, his tone losing all its softness, flattening into something dangerous.
“Oh, I know you do,” Ethan said, but he didn’t move. He looked down at Scott, his expression shifting into something warmer, more intimate. “But we gotta stick together, right, Scotty? Got our own little club.”
He squeezed Scott’s shoulder. Scott gave a half-laugh, awkward, his eyes darting back to Luke on the screen. “Yeah. Club fucked-up.”
Luke’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The fantasy of Scott on his knees, covered in him, was obliterated by this new, horrific image: Scott in someone else’s arms. Scott looking at someone else with that grateful warmth. Ethan’s hands on what was his.
The protective urge mutated, curdling into a raging, singular clarity. Ethan wasn’t just a friend. He was a rival. An interloper. He was touching Luke’s mate.