Title: A Poetic Retelling Of An Unfortunate Seduction
Pairing: BL with a little LP
Summary: "She's loud and she's truthful and she sees more of him than he's comfortable admitting to". A little OOC for them in early s1, spins off into AU around the time Lucas finds Brooke in the backseat of his car. Somewhat angsty. Short, pointless and random.
Rating: T-ish
Disclaimer: So very not mine.
Notes: This is unbeta'd and English isn't my native, so my apologies for any mistakes. I have no idea why it's always Lucas's POV.

"I can remember when the air was clean

and sex was dirty."

George Burns

Six days or so out of the week, he's insanely crushed out on Peyton Sawyer.

He can count the conversations they had on one hand, and times when she was actually nice to him are even fewer, but she is angry and hurt, and Lucas can relate. She is also angelic, and there are times he's just desperate to brush the hair out of her face.

And it's a little embarrassing, especially since Haley and his mom know, and talk about her sometimes, but most of the time he successfully veils his as something more, deeper, edgier, the way, he recons, Peyton is. Lucas lies to himself a lot.

Nathan, he's convinced himself, is a jerk. Peyton is perfect. Dan is out to ruin his life. Truth is, he knows neither. He believes he has no one but his mom, Keith and Haley. Six days or so out of the week, he enjoys his little fantasy neverland.

Lucas Scott reads, plays varsity basketball and silly mini-golf. He jogs sometimes for hours, sad song after sad song shuffling on his iPod. He has long talks with his mother on their porch swing, and he finds a father in his uncle whenever he feels the need. He misses the brother he never had, the best friend who doesn't have time for him anymore, and that peace of mind he used to possess. His knees melt sometimes when Peyton Sawyer flips her hair or does a high kick on a cheerleading practice.

Six days or so out of the week, he doesn't know what to do with Brooke.

She's loud and she's truthful and she sees more of him than he's comfortable admitting to. He hides behind his desk, in his books when she's asking things that he can't answer. He hovers ineffectually in the school hallway when she stroll through, bitter and beautiful; struggling for words Peyton won't cut off with a glare or a wave of her hand, Brooke won't laugh at or cheapen and write off as a meaningless come-on.

He's tongue-tied, guilty and unbelievably turned on for hours after Brooke Davis so much as brushes his hand with hers, all innuendoes and softest, breathiest words he's ever heard.

Those times, he'd give anything for a manual.

Game night, he knows exactly what do with her.

Those nights, he watches his teammates try and flirt with her, listens while they talk about how to win a night with Brooke, and interrupts when their flirting borders on harassment. He plays ball, and he wins.

He makes sure there are jelly-filled doughnuts in the car, along with a six pack of Diet Cream Soda. After it's over, he watches her eat, watches the tip of her tongue as she licks her fingers delicately after finishing the last piece.

Watches her sigh in satisfaction.

He can swear he feels his hormones cutting to the bone right then, scraping along like a paring knife, stripping him bare.

He doesn't get much sleep before game nights, twisting and rolling beneath the sheets, biting the flesh over his knuckles so his hand doesn't move south.

And he waits.

It's usually over the morning after the game night. His need for her is barely there over coffee, almost non-existent after the morning run. Except, Lucas lies to himself a lot.

The whole week, he does his homework thoroughly, works in the body shop and does his chores, plays ball in the Riverpark after playing it in gym, winning game after game after game. He avoids Dan Scott and bickers with Nathan, tries desperately to find a friend in Jake, to rid himself of his anger, and bitterness, and a self-resenting 'Why?' haunting his relationship with his parents. He thinks of Peyton when he takes his shower sometimes. He's a poster boy for a good teenager.

But on some days he wakes up knowing the game awaits him that very night, and those days he doesn't even have the time to get out of bed before he gets the tingling feeling in the pit of his stomach. And not because he needs to piss, although technically he does, but because for a fraction of a second he realizes that he just can't contain his excitement about finding Brooke Davis on his backseat today. Lucas knows he'll see her today.

And he will.

He watches from the corner of his eye as she stretches in her skimpy uniform, always the first to show up at practice before the game. Brooke never acknowledges that she's noticed his stare.

It's the same dance, every week for the last seven.

He's so aware of their pattern he goes straight to the backdoor. He never bothers straightening his clothes after a shower anymore, disregarding any aesthetical part in the burning need to feel her body, to feel satisfaction, to feel… anything that has absolutely nothing to do with his father. He will resent himself for treating a pretty nice girl like a soulless instrument to quench his anger later. He doesn't really care now.

But he is.

Treating her like a whore.

Lucas grabs her wrist, and pulls her to him, snaps the overhead lights on so he can see more of her soon-to-be-naked skin, and shoves Brooke on top so she straddles him.

"Brooke," he begins the same way every time, almost unsure, and she cuts him off, hand to his mouth, mouth to his mouth, tongue slipping in and pressing against his teeth, his gums.

She moans and he forces himself to go slowly, because he wants to make it good for her, always, so she wants it.

So she wants him.

So anybody wants him, really, even for a little while.

Wouldn't think of abandoning him, or ignoring him, or leaving him.

He trails a hand down her hip, smoothing over the slight roundness of her belly, to her thighs. Gathering the material of her skirt up, he slips his hand inside, along that warm leg, up the silky flesh.

While his mouth loves hers, tongue inside, stroking, enticing.

Cleaving her to him.

She taught him so well, in ways he never imagined. She is so long past her 'little girl in her princess' bedroom and her ice cream pink sheets' stage. She's beautiful, even if cheerful most of the time. She's… the truth. His descriptive ability fails when it comes to Brooke Davis. He's known her in a biblical sense, more then once, yet he doesn't know her at the slightest.

So when they stop to breathe, he gazes up at her in the dim tangerine light, and runs a thumb along her bottom lip, watches as it turns a rough, hot pink, and she licks it, licks his thumb.

He slips it into her mouth and she curls her tongue around it like a cat licking cream and he trembles and shakes, hot black fire burning inside his lungs instead of oxygen, instead of breath. Hot like coals, like lava, like his body.

Every passing second with her, he gets harder, falls deeper. Every time he pushes into her, her head goes back and she cries out softly, sounding as though she's being born and dying at the same time, and he likes that sound way more then a good sissy virgin momma's boy should.

She wants what he can give her, has given her.

What he'll give her again, every game night.

Lucas still doesn't know what it is she's after.

This thing between them is tenuous at best.

"Say my name," she says to him in a voice even raspier then her normal, and that voice is the most erotic sound he's ever heard.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. It might have been her name, or it might have been a pleading for more.

Whatever it is, it's enough.

They ride each other's orgasms, tongue on tongue, drawing it out.

He pushes back as she slumps in his arms, his head banging against the headrest of his backseat.

There is a pink flush that goes from high on her cheeks to her chest.

He wants to reach for her again, kiss that slack mouth of hers, hug her, talk to her, know her. He wants her to know him. God, how he wishes they weren't both too broken, too screwed up in the heads to make something good out of it. But he's too angry, and she's too jaded. He wants to love her, but neither of them knows love.

So he doesn't.

He can only take what he's allowed and pretend it's enough.

So when her legs drop boneless around him, he pulls them together, and lowers her skirt, smoothing it over her thighs.

He doesn't dare touch any other part of her, and when she's ready, she puts her shirt on, grabs a doughnut and bites, licking sugar powder off her lips. He doesn't want to fight over radio stations, so they eat in silence, reluctant to part.

Eventually, he takes her home.

Later, when he's alone, he'll dream of her being his girl. It's pathetic and makes him feel like he's violating her somehow but it's the only way he can stay sane.

Not once does he think of Dan, of Nathan, of his mom, or Haley, or Peyton. In these hours with Brooke Davis he's no longer Lucas Scott. Because Lucas lies to himself a lot.

Not once does he have to with Brooke.

Tomorrow, he'll listen to guys talk about her in a locker room; he'll watch her at her desk, doodling instead of taking notes.

He'll remember the game night, and get flushed, and push it to the very back of his mind. He'll nurse his enormously intense crush on Peyton Sawyer and wish he still has picket fence dreams about her.

He'll remember the game night, but he won't bring it up.

She won't either.

Six days or so out of the week, it's the way it has to be.

Another A/N - I'd love it if you took time to review.