— watch it all fall down.

Luke lets Ashton take and take. 

He meets Ashton’s kiss halfway, arches into him and traces along his ribs as he clenches down. 

Ashton hisses. “Fuck,” he pants. “Do that again.” 

And Luke does. The bathroom mirror is cold against his shoulder-blades. Ashton fucks into him a few more times, nips along his shoulders, whispers ‘Luke,’ into his skin like Luke’s something reverent, something he wants for more than a quick fuck in a party bathroom. 

Ashton kisses him, deeper and more desperate. Luke licks into his mouth and moans when Ashton wraps a hand around his cock. Ashton jerks him off in quick pumps, and his thrusts grow sloppier, more frantic. 

He pulls away from the kiss and empties himself into his condom with a quiet gasp of Luke’s name. Luke blinks fast, abs tightening, and Ashton continues jerking him off—until Luke’s back arches off the mirror, and he finishes onto his belly and onto Ashton’s fist. 

This is where it ends. Luke knows the next part all too well. 

Ashton steps back. He reaches past Luke to open the tap and wash his hand. He pulls off his condom and ties it off, dropping it into an overflowing bin near the toilet. 

The silence is always awkward. Luke slumps against the mirror, pressing his thighs together, wincing as he shifts along the cold tile of the sink counter. He watches Ashton tuck himself into his jeans. 

“You staying for longer?” Luke asks, tipping his head toward the bathroom door, towards outside, where the party rages on. Luke doesn’t even know what time it is. 

“Maybe,” Ashton replies simply. He doesn’t offer Luke anything more. Over Luke’s shoulder, he looks at himself in the reflection and runs a hand through his hair. 

Luke slips off the counter and tugs his skirt back into place. He washes his belly clean of his now-drying cum, then tucks his shirt back into place. His fucking—his fishnets are ripped. When he steps away from the counter to turn around, his knees buckle. 

“Careful,” Ashton says, stepping into Luke’s space to slip those big hands around his hips. Holding him up. If it wasn’t for Ashton, Luke would’ve dropped straight to the ground. 

Luke clears his throat. He doesn’t meet Ashton’s eyes, but he can feel the cocky smirk playing at his lips. 

“Fucked you that good, huh?” Ashton teases. 

Luke shoves at his chest. “You fucking wish.” 

Ashton steps back, raising his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.” 

Luke watches him brush his trousers off and fix his shirt where it splays open to the third button. He tries not to stare. 

Ashton turns to the bathroom door. “Wait for ten minutes after I step out,” he says. 

Something tightens in Luke’s chest. 

I don’t want to be seen with you. 

Luke nods. Ashton exhales through his nose, like he’s preparing himself to step back into the thumping bass of the party outside. 

He pauses with his hand around the door handle. His eyes flit back to Luke, trail the length of his body. Catch at his lips.

He frowns. 

“Fix your…” He gestures vaguely at Luke’s face. “Whatever.” 

And then he’s pulling open the door, and disappearing into the music. 

When Luke turns back to the mirror, his eyes are wet, and his lip-gloss is smudged. 

—

Early the next week, Luke wakes up with a headache, to the doorbell. 

The sunlight streaming through his window hurts his eyes like all hell, and he rolls over, pulling the blanket over his head. If he pretends he isn’t home, whoever’s at his door might go away. 

Except it doesn’t work that way. 

The bell rings again. 

Luke contemplates staying in bed, but he’s already awake now, and he’s beginning to feel a guilty itch in his chest. It would be shitty to leave whoever-the-fuck-is-outside-his-door waiting for so long. Even if they’d rudely woken him up at—he checks the time—11 a.m. 

He drags himself out of bed with a rough, “Coming!” thrown in the direction of his front door. 

He wraps a robe around himself, steps into his house-slippers, and crosses his living room to the door. 

When he swings it open, it’s a man in a delivery-service uniform. He squints at Luke, and Luke flushes as he realizes he looks very obviously like he’s just rolled out of bed. 

The man holds out a box, roughly the size of a large hardcover book. Luke blinks at it. 

“I didn’t order anything,” he says. He doesn’t even fucking recognize this delivery service, what the hell. 

“Look, mate,” the guy says. “This thing is addressed to your apartment. I just make the deliveries. Take it up with the company.” 

Luke pouts. He takes the box anyway. It’s practically weightless. He bounces it a little in his hand, but it doesn’t rattle. 

“Sign this,” the delivery-man says. He hands Luke a clipboard, and Luke signs beside his address. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, handing the clipboard back. The guy tips his hat, and then he’s off down the corridor. 

Luke looks at the box in his hands. 

He shuts his front door, then sets the box onto his kitchen table. The label doesn’t have his name on it, and he’s pretty positive he hasn’t ordered anything online for the past month. 

He’s not fucking stupid—maybe a little paranoid—so he slips on his washing gloves, before going hunting for his box-cutter. 

Then he’s slicing the tape off, and opening the box. 

There’s another box inside it. It’s a pastel pink, wrapped in ribbon. There’s an inscription in gold letters laid into the top left corner. Luke’s breath catches. 

It’s—it’s a luxury store. Clothing—he recognizes it from hours of scrolling through their website, sighing wistfully at the silks and chiffons and the lovely silhouettes as they fall from the models’ bodies. 

With shaking hands, he unties the ribbon, then lifts the cover. 

Oh, wow. 

Luke lifts the fabric inside, shivering at the touch of the cool silk—real silk!—and tries not to squeal. 

He pulls it all the way out of its box. 

It’s a dress, in his size. A gorgeous piece, in shimmering golden-yellow, with a halter strap, and a deep cowl neckline that has Luke’s cheeks burning. It’s just long enough to cover the tops of his thighs, the curve of his backside. Luke bites his lip.

And then he’s squealing. 

“Oh my god,” he gasps. “Oh my god, oh my god—” He hugs the dress to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut as he smiles hard enough for his cheeks to ache. And he’s jumping in place, trying not to start singing for joy on the spot—when a little lettercard flutters from somewhere in the folds of the dress and slips to the ground. 

He stops his little impromptu celebration and stares. 

Setting the dress side, Luke bends to pick up the little card, and flips it open. 

There, in neat handwriting: 

Looked expensive. Thought of you. 

xx Ash

—

Lounging in the common-room of his fraternity house, flipping absent-mindedly though the TV channels as he waits for his dumbfuck mates to come back with beers, Ashton’s phone buzzes. 

He glances at the screen. 

[L. sent you a photo.] 

Oh. Okay. 

Ashton looks over his shoulder, just in case, before he swipes down on the notification. 

Immediately, his throat runs dry. 

“Oh, fuck me.” 

It’s—god, it’s a fucking wet dream. Luke’s standing in front of a mirror, dressed in nothing but a pair of…bloomers, Ashton thinks they’re called—and thigh-high socks. They make his fuckin’ legs look like sin, milky white and impossibly soft, even in the picture. His palm is splayed teasingly over his abdomen, and Ashton imagines him trailing those fingers lower, lower…

And. His cheeks are flushed pink. His lips are red, wet with saliva. His—his eyes are hooded, lined perfectly with a shade of glittery dark blue as he tips his head to the side to grin at the camera. Curls falling over his forehead in that perfect way, like always. 

Ashton thinks he’s having a heart attack. Or the most painful boner of his life. 

A second text comes through: 

looked expensive. thought of you. 

It draws a husky chuckle from him. Ashton slips further down on the couch and spreads his thighs, trying to relieve the pressure between his legs. He sends a text back, plays along. 

Ashton: 

Think of me often when you’re in your underwear? 

The reply is nearly instant. 

Luke: 

maybe 

sometimes in the shower too. when i feel like it. 

Ashton nearly chokes at the mental image. 

Luke, palm braced against the tiles of his bathroom while he plays with himself, presses his fingers deep, arches his back just right, moans Ashton’s name. 

Another picture comes though. 

Ashton takes a deep breath as he opens it, then groans outright at the sight. 

Luke’s on his hands and knees in front of the mirror, spine arched just enough to show off the shape of his ass. The phone hides his face, but the glitter decorating his eyes catches the light, and Ashton can tell from the swell of his cheeks that he’s smiling. There’s a notable bulge between those pale thighs. 

Ashton: 

Cheeky 

Luke: 

be nice 

Ashton: 

You like when I’m mean 

Luke: 

try again. maybe i’ll send you something real. 

“Fuck,” Ashton says. His jeans are uncomfortably tight. He glances briefly at the clock, wonders what’s taking Michael and Calum so long to get the fucking drinks. Then decides it’s a good thing they’re late, because he gets the place to himself. 

He stares at the picture for a moment more, then types out a reply. 

Ashton: 

Gonna make me beg? 

Luke: 

eye for an eye 

Ashton: 

Aw 

Even after I sent you that pretty gift? 

It takes Luke a few moments to reply. The text-bubble shows up, then disappears. Finally, 

Luke:

how’d you know my size? 

Ashton scoffs a laugh. 

Ashton: 

Got my hands around your waist half the time we’re together 

This ain’t amateur hour 

Luke: 

i love it when you talk dirty to me 

Ashton laughs at that, and in the silence of his frat-house, it’s a punctuated sound. He shifts on the couch, something warm swirling in his chest. 

Ashton: 

Love it enough to send more? 

Luke doesn’t reply for a moment, and Ashton worries that he’s scared him away, asked for too much, too quick. He’s about to set his phone aside and head upstairs to maybe jerk off awkwardly over the toilet, but his phone vibrates as soon as it meets the leather of the couch. 

[L. sent you a photo.] 

It’s lewd, this one. Luke’s face is just out of frame—and Ashton has to curse him and his fucking internet safety rules, because he would’ve killed to see Luke’s expression just then, as he spreads his legs and reaches under the elastic of those bloomers to cup himself. The head of his cock peeks out from where he’s touching himself. The light falls onto him like he’s art, like he’s meant to be on display in some sort of gallery, museum, whatever. Ashton wants to lick up the line of his exposed throat. 

It’s only when Luke’s next message comes through that Ashton realizes he’s been staring for a solid three minutes. 

Luke:

enjoying the view? 

Ashton clears his throat. His cheeks are flushed hot. He’s got half a mind to get up, take the stairs two at a time, lock himself in his room for the rest of the night with Luke’s name on his lips. 

Ashton: 

Don’t get too full of yourself 

Luke: 

could be full of you instead 

Fuck. This…this guy’s going to kill Ashton one of these days, really. 

He’s in the middle of typing back something stupid, just to fuck with Luke some more, to maybe make him laugh as he waits for Ashton’s reply with his hand wrapped around himself—when the front door slams open, followed by a loud, “We’ve got the goods!” 

Ashton jumps nearly a foot in the air. As his douchebag friends approach, he shoves his phone into the space between the couch cushions so that they can’t see who he was talking to. He crosses his ankle over his knee. His boner’s halfway gone, anyway—but he’s annoyed at being cockblocked. 

“Damn,” Michael says as he meets Ashton’s irritated gaze. “Who pissed in your cereal?” 

Ashton flips him off. “Just hand me a fuckin’ beer, mate.” Calum pauses from where he’s setting the six-packs on the kitchen island. He shares a look with Michael, and then Michael’s face is splitting into a grin. 

“Ah,” Michael says. “You were about to get laid.” 

Ashton rolls his eyes. “I—”

“Who’s the lucky lady?” Calum prods, sporting a matching grin. “Wait, don’t tell me—the chick from the bar last week?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ashton says. Calum tosses him a beer can. Ashton catches it, wipes the condensation off on his jeans before opening the can. He sips deeply from it. 

“Mmmaybe,” Michael says, and his conspiratorial tone puts Ashton on edge. Michael falls into the bean-bag with a sigh. “It’s that pretty boy from the house party on Friday.” 

Ashton stiffens microscopically, but forces himself to lose the tension in his shoulders as Michael looks over for confirmation. Ashton doesn’t meet his eyes. 

Calum’s face scrunches up in question. “The…one with the glitter? In the skirt?”

Michael pointedly slurps loudly from his beer can. Ashton looks away. “Dunno what you’re talking about. And fuck off.” 

“No shame in it, mate,” Michael shrugs. He clinks his can with Calum’s in cheers as Calum crosses over him to settle into the couch. “We all know you like ‘em, like, dainty and shit.” 

“‘Dainty’?” Ashton scoffs. “Okay, Shakespeare.” 

Michael squints at Ashton for a moment, then raises his can. “You’re deflecting.” “Suck my dick.” 

“I’m sure somebody is.” 

Ashton stands abruptly. “Okay, I’m going to bed.”  

Michael cackles, and Calum cocks his head to the side as Ashton sets his half-empty can on the coffee table and moves towards the stairway. 

“Dude,” Calum calls after him. “It’s normal, y’know? Like, I get it. He was cute.” 

Ashton throws a glance over his shoulder. Michael’s distracted by his drink, but Calum smiles encouragingly. 

“Whatever,” he says. And then he’s ignoring Michael as he calls for Ashton to come back, opting instead to pointedly stomp up the stairs and slam his room door loudly. 

Later, into the long hours of the night, when he comes back downstairs to retrieve his phone from between the couch pillows, there’s a few notifications from Luke. 

Luke: 

where’d you go? 

did i say something wrong? 

And then, ten minutes after his last message,

Luke: 

okay. message received. have a good night. 

Ashton slaps a hand to his forehead. 

Shit. 

—

Luke spends the next week being ignored by Ashton in every way. 

Which is fine. It’s fucking whatever. He doesn’t even care all that much. He doesn’t. 

It’s just. It would’ve been nice to know what he’d said wrong. In the aftermath of Ashton disappearing that night, Luke had spent his hours curled up under his bedsheets, skin hot with shame and he read and re-read every single one of his text messages, analyzed the tone in Ashton’s replies—and came up blank as to what went wrong. 

It was. Humiliating, to say the least. For Ashton to have all those pictures, for Luke to come off as so willing to send them, all for it to end on a note that Luke can’t even decipher. And the worst part is, if Ashton asked, if he came back, Luke would still send more.

But—no reply. Not once, over the next seven days. 

It’s fucking pathetic, to be reduced to this. To check his phone first thing in the morning, last thing before he goes to bed. And to scan every room he steps into for a flash of brunet curls, a dimpled smile. 

He sees Ashton, just once. 

Across the cafeteria, they lock eyes. Luke watches him stop in his tracks while his friends go on ahead, laughing about something. It spikes Luke’s anxiety, the way Ashton looks at him. He’s saying something with his eyes, but Luke can’t read him. And Luke watches his hand twitch, as though he was going to raise it, to wave at Luke. Maybe wave him over. 

But then Ashton’s friends turn around, and Ashton looks away like Luke repulsed him, and smiles at his friends like he’d never paused there, never borne some part of his mind and heart out to Luke on the floor of their campus cafeteria. 

So—fuck him, Luke decides. 

Fuck him for pretending Luke doesn’t exist, for texting back that night like he wanted Luke. Fuck him for—looking away from Luke, like he was ashamed of knowing him. 

Luke goes over this as he waits tables at the cafe just off campus. It’s crowded today, like it always is at this hour of noon. Students and faculty and tired officegoers and the occasional tourist. 

Like routine, Luke wipes the tables, distributes menus, wears a smile, and in his head chants: Fuck Ashton Irwin. And his stupid face. And his stupid hands. And his stupid smile. And…his stupid lips. His smile. His—

A laugh cuts through the crowd, like a melody he knows too well. Luke’s head whips up from where he’s refilling the coffee pot. His eyes find the source of the sound—and his heart drops out of his ass. 

At the counter, Ashton. Dressed in a dark button-up, leaning his weight against the table as he smiles beautifully at. A girl. Sitting far too close for comfort. 

She’s pretty, Luke thinks immediately. Blond curls fall gracefully over her shoulders as she laughs along, flashing pearly white teeth. She’s got blue eyes too. Maybe—Ashton’s type. 

Something hot and angry sparks down Luke’s spine. This—this isn’t right. Ashton doesn’t get to…fucking ghost Luke without explanation, then show up where he works with a date. It’s cosmic retribution of some kind, isn't it? Having Ashton flaunt how he doesn’t need Luke. Doesn’t want him. How easily he can move on, play pretend, put on an act. 

God, she’s fucking beautiful. She’s everything Luke isn't. Soft in all the right places, curves where Luke has planes of muscle. Is this what Ashton was looking for all along? When he was fucking Luke, was he pretending he was…this? 

“Luke,” Chef calls over the kitchen window. “The pot’s overflowing.” 

It snaps him out of it. He looks down at the pot in his grip, and—it’s overflowing. He sets it aside, takes a deep breath to steel himself. His cheeks burn. How did Ashton do this to him? How did Ashton get such a hold on him so quickly? 

He heads to the stock room to retrieve a mop. Spends the next ten minutes forgoing all his duties for favour of meticulously mopping up his mess of coffee, trying to ground himself. He’s working—he’s better than this. 

He spares a glance towards Ashton and his date. She’s got a hand on his forearm for support as she throws her head back and laughs, and Luke burns. 

“Hey,” comes a voice, and Luke turns to see one of his co-workers, Lou, tipping her head towards the bustling floor of the cafe. “Refills, please.” 

Luke nods absentmindedly, until a thought occurs to him and he looks back to where Ashton’s sitting with his date, and their coffee cups are empty. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

He’s decidedly sluggish in his movements as he winds through the table, asking the patrons if they want their coffees to be topped-up, and manages to go through most of the room without having Ashton spot him. He’s about to go back behind the counter without approaching Ashton altogether, when Lou pointedly clears her throat and gestures towards Ashton’s cup on the counter. 

Okay, so. Luke’s really doing this. 

He plasters on the friendliest smile he can manage while his insides churn with anxiety, with anger, and walks up to the couple. 

“Hi!” he chirps, then internally facepalms as his voice cracks. Ashton turns to look at him, and instantly the smile is wiped off his face.

Luke asks, "Refills?" 

Ashton stares. 

Long enough for it to get awkward, really. His pretty date looks between Ashton and Luke, then purses her lips. She clears her throat and offers Luke a kind smile. “Yes…please?” 

Luke nods mechanically. He reaches between them for their cups. His arm brushes Ashton’s as he does, and instinctually, he wants to lean into that warmth. But Ashton’s still an asshole, and Luke’s still working, so Luke shrinks away from him, unnoticeably. 

He fills the cups. Then straightens. Tries not to drop dead on the spot when his eye twitches. “Enjoy!” 

He turns to walk away. Then, upon impulse, he backtracks to look at the girl. “He’s fucking terrible at giving head, by the way.” 

And then he walks off, ignoring how he can feel Ashton staring hard enough to burn a hole into his back. He sets the coffee pot in its place, then yanks off his apron and calls over to Lou that he’s taking his break. Then he’s dipping back into the empty stockroom, leaning against the wall, and trying to catch the breath that’s been running from him ever since he’d first spotted Ashton. 

In. Out. In. Out. In— 

The door jerks open. 

Ashton—stepping in before Luke can protest, holding the door shut with a palm pressed to the frame as he turns to look at Luke incredulously. 

Luke flails for just a single second before he’s putting on his customer-service smile again, but it’s too late. Ashton noticed. 

“What are you doing?” Ashton narrows his eyes. 

Luke tips his head to the side. “Working.” 

“No,” Ashton spits. “What the fuck was that?” 

Luke drops the bullshit smile. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Luke, you—” “I don’t want to hear it,” Luke says, turning away to glare daggers into the shelves of the stockroom. “And don’t you have a date to get back t—” 

“She left,” Ashton interrupts. “You fucking—you got her to leave. Happy now?” 

Luke takes a moment to assess how that makes him feel, and comes up with an answer: he’s fucking pissed. 

“You—” he starts. He turns to look at Ashton again, jabs a finger into his chest hard enough to hurt. “You don’t get to do that.” 

Ashton furrows his brows, even as he leans in to hiss, “Do what? Have a life?”

“No, this—” Luke says. “This whole—disappearing for a week, then showing up where I fucking work with a date—and then making me the bad guy?” 

Ashton lets out a surprised bark of laughter, then quietens when he realizes Luke’s being genuine. “You can’t throw a tantrum every time I don’t give you my attention, Luke. God.” 

Luke’s heart stutters. That one—that one stung. Luke’s anger flares, hot and heavy under his skin. Along with something else. 

“Sorry your stellar-fucking-personality won’t get you laid tonight. But I don’t think she was going to fuck you either way.” 

Ashton blinks, surprised. His jaw clenches briefly. When he looks at Luke, his pupils are blown wide. He’s mad. “You’re being a fucking brat.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Why not?” Ashton says, and there’s a dangerous lilt to his voice. The air around them thickens. Luke’s warm under the collar as Ashton steps closer. “You wanna act like a little bitch, but I can’t call you out on your shit?”

“You disappeared.”

“I’ve got things to do.” 

“But you come crawling to me to get your dick wet.” 

Ashton narrows his gaze. He puts on an infuriating smirk, then. “Don’t act like y’don’t beg for it, baby.” 

They’re close—too close. Pressed almost chest-to-chest. Ashton’s breath fans Luke’s cheeks, and they’re both breathing heavily. Heat ripples off his skin, and Luke tries so hard not to break eye-contact, to keep his eyes from flitting down to Ashton’s lips, but. 

He fails. 

Ashton’s grin grows. 

“Gonna let me make it up to you?” Ashton murmurs into the space between them. 

Luke inhales sharply. 

And then Ashton’s stifling the curses upon Luke’s lips with a searing, angry kiss. 

God, it’s like wildfire. Ashton crowds Luke against the wall, braces a palm near his head as he licks into Luke’s mouth with hot fervour. Luke hums into his mouth, then nips punishingly at Ashton’s tongue, drawing a hiss from him. He pulls apart with a chuckle, and Luke realizes he’s got both hands fisted in the front of Ashton’s shirt.

“See?” Ashton says. “Begging for it.” 

Luke huffs. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Ashton shoves his knee between Luke’s legs, and Luke gasps from the sudden stimulation to his hardening cock. 

“What was that?” Ashton grins as he presses a line of kisses down Luke’s jaw, his neck. 

“Ah—this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

Ashton continues trailing cheeky kisses and wet nips into Luke’s skin. He soothes his free hand along the curve of Luke’s waist. 

“Missed this,” he murmurs. Luke’s stomach twists. 

“Shut up and get me off,” Luke deflects, pressing his nails into the wall. He bites back a moan as Ashton looks up from where he’s painting a hickey along his collarbone, then holds Luke’s gaze as he drops to his knees. 

Oh, fuck. 

Ashton’s hands fly to Luke’s belt, and Luke tips his head back against the wall. 

“Don’t come too fast,” Ashton warns. Luke shifts his hips so Ashton can tug his jeans low.  

He blinks away the haze of pleasure that fights to take over. 

“I won’t,” he breathes. “Terrible at giving head, remember?” 

“Oh,” Ashton smiles, as he’s painting a mark high on Luke’s thigh. “We’ll see about that.” 

And then Ashton’s taking Luke in his mouth fully, pressing a palm to his hip to hold him against the wall as he works his tongue, and he doesn’t stop until Luke begs and begs and begs. 

When Luke comes, it’s with a broken cry of Ashton’s name. 

“Next time,” Ashton murmurs, and his voice carries a rasp, rough with use. “I wanna suck your cock from under one of your little skirts.” 

Luke catches his breath, says, “Kinky.” 

“Can’t help it with you.”

It slips out so easily. Sounds so genuine. 

Luke huffs a flustered laugh, and Ashton meets his gaze with a gorgeous smile. From down on his knees, Ashton looks up at Luke like he’s on his knees at an altar. There’s a wet sheen over his eyes, a glimmer like reverence, like looking upon something beautiful, trying to etch it into memory. 

(Luke’s eyeshadow is smudged when he goes back out: a streak of blue high on his cheeks.

Ten minutes later, when Ashton steps out from the stockroom wearing a self-satisfied grin, there’s a touch of blue on the bridge of his nose. 

Luke doesn’t point it out.) 

—

Luke looks best when he’s tangled in Ashton's sheets. 

Sleepy and sated, beautiful curls mussed, neck blooming purple and red with hickeys, he smiles at Ashton from where he’s splayed lazily across the bed. God, even off-guard and soft like this, he looks like pure sex. 

Ashton watches him blink away the remnants of pleasure. He lets himself feel the way his chest floods with warmth at the sight. The way the gold of his lamp dances over Luke’s skin like it’s caressing him. The way his chest rises and falls as he catches his breath. The way his opalescent eyeshadow is near-faded, mascara drying under his eyes. 

Ashton drags his gaze away. He clears his throat, and he knows Luke’s watching as he traipses over to the dresser to take out a fresh shirt. When he turns back, Luke’s lying back against the pillow, blinking up at Ashton’s ceiling. The sheets just-barely cover those pale thighs, and heat curls in his gut. 

A touch of glitter high on his cheek catches the light. Ashton’s mouth goes dry. 

“You…” Ashton starts, and Luke brings his gorgeous blue eyes to his own, and Ashton feels stranded. “Why do you…wear that?” 

A short silence. Luke’s eyes shine with amusement, and he tilts his head. A stray curl drops over his forehead, and Ashton wants to touch. 

“Makeup?” Luke asks, smiling a little shy. Ashton nods. 

“Because I like it,” Luke says. And Ashton’s feet are walking him back to the bed. He sits along the edge, and Luke reaches for him like instinct. 

“Because it makes me feel good,” Luke says. His voice is a low hum, a sweet melody. He doesn’t meet Ashton’s eyes, and his cheeks are dusted pink. “Because it makes me feel pretty.” 

Ashton takes Luke’s hands, where his nails are painted a dark blue. He plays with Luke’s fingers for a moment, pretends it’s okay to picture kissing his knuckles, his fingertips. There’s something heavy underneath his ribs. “And this?” 

Luke’s eyes flit to his nails. “It’s fun,” he says. “It’s…I like it.” 

Ashton stays quiet. He wants to ask more. He wants to know everything. Luke lets him explore, trace over his wrist, up his arm, his shoulder, his chest. Ashton touches and touches and touches, for no reason other than simply because he can. 

Luke watches Ashton, silent. Contemplative. Curious. His breath hitches when Ashton’s hands smooth past the slope of his neck and up along his jaw.  

“You like blue,” Ashton murmurs, because Luke does like blue. His fingernails, the colour on his eyelids, the shade of his eyes, how they darken and lighten when he’s looking at Ashton from across the room. 

“I do,” Luke nods. His voice is breathy. He doesn’t dare to move. 

Hesitantly, Luke asks, “Do you?” 

Ashton thumbs over the powder across Luke’s cheekbone. 

“Yeah,” he manages.  

With Luke’s face cradled in his palm, with the way Luke looks up at him now like he’s waiting and wanting…Ashton’s breath is caught in his lungs. 

“You look—” Ashton starts, but his tongue feels heavy. “You look…” 

Luke shifts a little. He sits up, knees folding underneath him. The sheets slip further down on his lap, but he’s leaning into Ashton’s space and suddenly Ashton’s entire world is messy curls and blue eyes and pink lips.

“Yeah?” Luke prompts. His eyes are wide, eager, wet with something unsaid. 

Ashton gulps. A loud sound in the quiet of the room. His skin is buzzing with energy. 

“I like this on you,” Ashton breathes. His heart is racing. “You’re—fuck, you’re gorgeous.” 

Ashton hears Luke’s breath catch, watches the way his pupils swell and his cheeks bloom a wonderful red. The way his lips split into a shy smile. 

Luke bites his lip. “I—” 

There’s a loud crash from downstairs. 

Ashton springs away from Luke, and Luke jumps at the sudden movement. He draws the bedsheet up to his chest.

Ashton looks to his door, and he can hear the guys as they flood into the house, whooping and cheering and passing jokes. 

Shit. Shit, they weren’t supposed to be home yet. And now—now he’s here, with Luke, and they’ll all see, they’ll all know—

Ashton looks back at Luke, and he knows from the way the light in Luke’s eyes dims a little bit that he understands what Ashton’s thinking. Luke draws back, and takes his warmth with him. The room shrinks, then expands endlessly. There’s miles of distance between him and Luke, all of a sudden. 

“I’m sorry,” Ashton says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Because he doesn’t like the way Luke seems so small, and it’s all his fault. He’d been glowing a moment ago—why did Ashton have to fucking ruin—

“It’s okay,” Luke smiles, a little sad, and he’s already crawling out of bed, and then Ashton’s bed is miserably empty as Luke pads across the room and draws his clothes on. 

Ashton’s heart is beating in his throat, because he can hear footsteps coming up the stairs.

“Hurry,” he says, before he realizes it. Luke looks at him then, a flash of hurt, and Ashton would’ve gotten on his knees to beg for forgiveness if it wasn’t for the urgency of everything. 

“I know,” Luke says, a bitter twist to his words. He picks up his bag and drapes it over his shoulder, takes his shoes in hand. He’s heading for the door, and Ashton’s a fucking idiot, oh god, because he says, 

“Wait.” 

Luke looks back, hopeful. And Ashton wants to kill himself on the spot, because his stupid fucking mouth opens, and his hands gesture to his window, and he says, “Go out from here.” 

Luke looks between Ashton and the window. His shoulders drop, and he exhales, and it sounds like rejection, like resignation. 

“Okay,” he says. And then he’s crossing the room to sit on the windowsill and set his stuff onto the rooftop outside. 

He turns back to Ashton at the last moment, and he looks like he wants to say something—which makes sense because Ashton has things to say too. Things like I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m—

But then Luke’s turning away, and disappearing out through the window. 

—

The problem is—Ashton doesn’t fucking learn, and he’s too stubborn to face what he wants. Which would be fine if Luke was a better person, a more patient one, perhaps—but Luke isn’t a fucking saint. And if Ashton doesn’t get his shit together himself, Luke will just have to play his game. 

He texts Ashton an address in the middle of the morning. When Ashton responds with confusion, Luke doesn’t offer much more. 

Luke: 

one hour 

i’ll see you there 

And then by 11:30, he’s standing at the doorstep of a store he’s wanted to step into for weeks—because their assortment of dresses, especially their newest collection, have been absolutely exquisite to pass over on their website. Every time he’s walked past their storefront, the mannequins on display have taken his breath away. 

He’s practically shaking with excitement by the time Ashton arrives, dressed in jeans and a simple black button-up. He looks so good, and Luke wants to reach out—but. Not…not today. 

So when Ashton steps close in greeting, goes to brush his hand over Luke’s waist, Luke sidesteps with a cheeky smile. Ashton frowns in confusion. 

“You’re late,” Luke says. 

“To what?” Ashton asks, glancing briefly at the store they’re standing in front of. 

Luke smiles. He doesn’t deem Ashton with a reply, opting instead to wander into the store, hoping Ashton follows. 

And he does. 

Luke takes his own sweet time browsing through the shelves and racks filled with fabrics that feel like water slipping over his skin, in colours he can’t name, cuts he can’t define. Ashton saunters behind him, occasionally reaching for Luke, but Luke always steps out of reach just before Ashton touches him. This ends with Ashton sending him pouty looks and the occasional frustrated groan. Luke only smiles wider. 

“Hold this," Luke says at some point, shoving a beautiful chiffon piece into Ashton’s arms. Luke’s excited to try it on, excited to see the way it falls off him, the way the straps will frame his shoulders. 

Ashton holds the dress up. “This…” 

“Hm?” 

Ashton looks between the dress and Luke. His cheeks put on a soft pink shade. He clears his throat. “Nothing.”

Luke hums as he turns away, unable to hide the satisfied smug grin that fights to slip out. 

When Luke’s happy with the dresses he’s chosen, he leads them to the fitting room. It’s thankfully deserted, owing to the fact that it's a week-day and only just touching noon. 

Ashton settles into a couch opposite the cubicle Luke’s chosen. There’s no door, only a heavy felt curtain, and Luke bites his lip at it. 

“Watch for me,” Luke tells Ashton. “Don’t let anyone come in.” 

Ashton exhales, and his eyes trail the length of Luke’s body. 

Oh, Luke thinks. I’m going to enjoy this. 

He’s deliberate and slow in the dressing room too, taking his time to strip his clothes off, then choosing the first piece he wants to try on, then in pulling it on. It’s methodical, unhurried, and he can almost hear Ashton breathing on the other side of the curtain, how he shifts impatiently on the couch. 

The first dress he tries on isn’t much to his taste, he realizes. It’s a pale pink piece, fitted to his frame, but loose around the neckline. It dips low on his back, and even though Luke doesn’t like how restraining the fabric feels, he looks good in it. 

He steps outside, past the curtain, to show Ashton.

He doesn’t miss the way Ashton straightens, the way his breath catches. 

“What do you think?” Luke asks, hands on his hips. 

“Um,” Ashton says, voice heavy. “‘S nice.” 

Luke’s brows draw together, even though he’s fucking elated on the inside. “Just nice?” 

Ashton nods stiffly. 

Luke clicks his tongue. 

“That won’t do,” he shakes his head. He turns to show off the back of the dress. “D’you think it’s too tight on my hips, Ash?” 

Ashton’s eyes trail down. He exhales slowly. “Yeah,” he says. 

“Okay,” Luke smiles. “I’ll try on another.” 

The next dress he wears is—god, it’s pretty. Dark blue, embroidered with gold, it’s like the night sky condensed into fabric. Luke loves how it sits, tight around his waist but loose in the way it drapes over his waist. 

When Luke steps out, he nearly walks straight into Ashton. 

Ashton’s hands reach out to steady him by the waist, but Luke catches on quickly and catches himself on the doorframe of the cubicle with a smile. 

Ashton huffs a laugh, then, and Luke knows he’s caught. 

“Ah,” Ashton says. “I know what you’re doing.” 

Luke cocks his head to the side, amused. “What am I doing?”

Ashton reaches out, tucks a curl behind Luke’s ear, grinning. “Want me to apologize?” 

“No,” Luke says. “I want you to tell me how the dress looks.” 

Ashton looks over Luke, unashamed in the way he licks his lips. “Give me a twirl?” 

Luke’s stomach flutters, but he obliges, spinning on his heel so the dress flares out. 

“What do you think?” 

“Pretty,” Ashton says, simple. Controlled. Luke wants to laugh. 

Instead he steps back inside and shuts the curtain in Ashton’s all-too-smug face. 

Luke finds that the next piece he tries on has him feeling giddy with anticipation. It’s deep maroon, corseted with a sweeping waistline, and a gathered skirt that reaches the floor. There’s a high slit up along the side, and he’s fitted a black garter over his thigh where it peeks out. He already knows it’s a perfect fit and—if nothing else, he’s definitely buying this one. 

Except. 

“Ash,” he calls out. 

From beyond the curtain, “Yeah?” 

“Can you zip me up?” 

Luke bites his lip upon a grin as he waits for a response. 

The curtain slides open, and Ashton steps through, meeting Luke’s gaze in the mirror. His pupils are blown out, and it sends a thrill through Luke. Ashton’s gaze drops to where the dress is splayed open down Luke’s back. He steps close. 

Luke inhales sharply at the first brush of his knuckles on his skin as he takes the zipper. Luke watches the way his brows twitch in the reflection. 

“Fuck,” Ashton murmurs, and the slow drag of the zipper is punctuated by the heavy silence, the way the air shifts and folds into something thicker. Ashton buttons the safety clasp, then pauses as he lets his hands trail just-barely-touching back down Luke’s spine. 

“Ashton,” Luke warns. 

“I know,” he replies. He huffs, and Luke feels the warmth of his breath, before Ashton’s leaning in to press a kiss into the back of Luke’s neck. 

Goosebumps erupt at his touch, Luke flushes as he turns around. “How do I look?” 

Ashton’s hands hover over Luke’s waist, and Luke almost feels bad. Ashton’s cheeks are a deep shade of red, and his breath comes out in sharp stutters.

“Shit,” Ashton says, like he’s thinking aloud. “Ain’t this a fuckin’ view.” 

His eyes are caught at the garter high on Luke’s thigh. Luke can’t breathe. 

He steps back in an effort to put some space between them, then gasps as his shoulders meet the cold glass of the mirror. 

Ashton steps forward. They're close enough to be sharing air. Ashton braces his hand on the mirror, and Luke can feel the heat of his skin. 

“Y’know what you do to me, don’t you?” Ashton says, voice low and gravelly. His eyes find Luke’s lips, and Luke wets them unconsciously. 

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Luke breathes. 

Ashton’s lips split into a grin. “Gonna let me touch yet, princess?” 

Luke swallows the saliva pooling on his tongue. He wants to say yes, but. 

“Think you deserve it?” 

Ashton laughs lightly, and Luke already knows he isn’t in power anymore. Ashton’s free hand ghosts down over the slope of his waist, his hip, down to the exposed flesh of his thigh. Luke doesn’t dare move, barely breathing. 

Luke thinks he’s going to touch, but—

Ashton pinches the lace of the fabric between two fingers, then pulls it and lets it snap back harshly. 

A gentle sting. 

Then Ashton soothes it by pressing his palm over the skin there. 

Luke’s cock twitches. 

“So you aren’t doing all this f’me?” Ashton asks casually. 

“Not—hah,” Luke’s cut off as Ashton presses close, shoves a thigh between Luke’s legs, forcing him to spread his legs. “Not everything is…about you.” 

Ashton dips momentarily, to hook his hand under Luke’s knee and lift his leg. The dress falls open almost entirely, and then Luke's arousal is obvious for Ashton to see. Ashton’s wearing a sly grin as he meets Luke’s gaze. 

“Th—the curtain,” Luke manages. 

“Let ‘em see,” Ashton grins. “That’s what you wanted, right?” 

Luke tips his head back against the mirror, and Ashton takes the opportunity to press his lips to Luke’s pulse-point. Luke moans weakly. 

“I know, baby,” Ashton says. “Gonna christen this dress, yeah?” 

Ashton nips at his earlobe. 

“I wanna lay you out on my bed and fuck you with these garters on,” Ashton murmurs. 

Luke scoffs, sarcastic and needy. “The same bed you kicked me out of?” Ashton draws back a little. His hands are hot on Luke’s ribs, and Luke can feel his hard-on pressing into his hip with how they’re wrapped up in each-other. 

“Let me make it up to you?” Ashton asks, and the sincerity in his voice helps clear the haze in Luke’s head. 

“How?” 

“Any way you want,” Ashton pauses, then seems to decide something. 

He pulls Luke off the glass, then spins him so he can meet Luke’s eyes in the mirror. “A date?”

Luke’s heart drops. 

“For real this time,” Ashton says. His hands sooth along Luke’s arms. 

“Properly?” Luke asks, hope brewing in his chest. 

Ashton nods. “Properly,” he agrees. “I’ll prove it to you.” 

Luke watches Ashton in the mirror, the way his hands move over Luke’s skin like he’s something precious. The hope in his eyes as he looks back. The way Luke can’t think straight when Ashton’s near. The way he’s such a fucking mess, but he pulls himself together for Luke, then takes him apart piece by piece. 

Luke takes a deep breath. 

“Okay,” he says. “A date.” 

Ashton’s smile is radiant. Luke’s chest grows warm as Ashton kisses him under his ear, and all of a sudden his clothes are too warm. 

He reaches behind himself to fiddle with Ashton’s belt buckle. 

“You wanna…” Luke breathes, exposing more of his neck for Ashton to paint marks into. “Show me how sorry you really are?”

Ashton grins wolfishly. “I’ll make it good f’you, princess.” 

—

They get kicked out of the store. 

Luke can’t stop grinning, because it was the best sex of his life—pressed up against the dressing-room mirror, scrabbling for purchase, whining like an animal in heat. Ashton fucking into him with a hand around Luke’s throat, whispering pure filth into his ear. The way he’d cried his makeup off. The way Ashton buys all three dresses for him. The way Ashton drives him home with their hands intertwined over the console, his cum still drying between Luke’s thighs. 

—

Ashton picks Luke up at 7 the following evening. Meets him at his doorstep with flowers. Luke opens the door wearing a smile that takes Ashton’s breath away. His makeup is beautiful today, eyes lined in shades of pink to match the pink of his shirt, of his cheeks, his lips. Ashton has to hold back from pressing him to the door just there, abandoning his plans for the night to stay in and spend his hours kissing Luke. 

He’s stronger than that, though. He drives them down to a restaurant he likes, somewhere in the backroads of his area, where nobody they know could bother them. Luke’s smile turns forced for a moment when Ashton tells him where he’s taking them, but he isn’t sure why. And when Ashton pulls up to the hotel, Luke’s energy is back, so Ashton thinks nothing of it. 

It’s a cozy dinner: Italian food and expensive wine. Luke steals Ashton’s garlic bread and Ashton lets him. The candle-light turns Luke’s makeup almost golden. Ashton’s heart flutters every time he manages to draw a laugh from Luke. 

When he leads Luke back to his car, he pauses to lean in and kiss him against the car, just because he can.

“Where to now?” Luke asks, when Ashton pulls back. His eyes are hazy. 

 Ashton thumbs at the smudged lipstick at the corner of Luke’s mouth and says: “You’ll see.” 

It's a five-minute trip down to the drive-in theatre. There’s not a lot of cars parked around them, and nobody Ashton recognizes, thankfully. Luke laughs when he realizes they’re watching Casablanca, then pouts at Ashton until he agrees to go pick up drinks and popcorn for them. 

When the movie starts, Ashton’s only half paying attention, but Luke’s eyes are glued to the screen. God, he’s—he’s so beautiful. It’s all Ashton can think about around him. It’s like his brain cells are fried, rewired into the shape of Luke.

“Pay attention,” Luke murmurs, smiling a little, and Ashton realizes he’s been staring. He turns back to the film, but he can’t focus. Luke’s cologne fills the car, and he can barely even remember the main leads’ names.

So when a quarter-way through the film, Luke turns to him and presses a shy kiss to his cheek, Ashton’s entire system shorts. 

“Thank you,” Luke says, blinking fast. “Um, for this. Tonight.” 

His cheeks are red. Ashton can tell, even in the darkness. He wants to lean in, kiss Luke for real. Tell him he wants to stay in this moment forever. 

“You’re welcome,” he says instead. “I…I’m glad you’re here.” Luke smiles. “I’m glad I’m here too.” 

And—selfishly, Ashton leans in. Luke meets him where he’s at. It’s sweet at first, but then Luke’s back straightens and Ashton’s hands find his hips and then they’re trapped in each other. He can taste the wine from earlier on Luke’s tongue, can feel his desire with the way he sighs gratefully into Ashton’s mouth. His hands tangle in Ashton’s hair, demanding more and more and more. 

And when he shifts in his seat, Ashton takes the hint and drops his backrest down for Luke to climb over the console and onto his lap. 

It’s hot and wet and messy. Luke’s tongue slipping over his teeth, his weight as he grinds down on Ashton’s cock, the curve of his ass in Ashton’s hands. All his senses are occupied with everything Luke. He can barely remember to breathe each time Luke pulls away, only to come back for more. 

Greedy, he thinks. Ashton’s being greedy. This is everything he’s wanted and more. Luke pliant and wanting and his in his lap. But when Luke’s hands go to the fly of his trousers, something anxious spikes in his chest. He grabs Luke’s wrist. 

“Wait,” he manages, licking his lips clean of Luke. Luke pauses. 

“N-not here,” Ashton says. 

Luke’s expression shifts every so slightly. His brows drop, and he slumps back against the steering wheel. His jaw clenches microscopically, and Ashton would’ve missed it if he wasn’t so tuned in to every little thing Luke did just then. 

Ashton strokes up along Luke’s thighs, and there’s tension there, but Ashton can’t quite place why. Luke climbs off his lap and falls back into his seat on the passenger-side. 

“Okay,” Luke says, but he won’t meet Ashton’s eyes. “Drive.” 

So Ashton does. 

He takes them to a deserted grocery store parking-lot, parks the car at the further spot from the prying eyes of the street. 

He turns to Luke, and his heart is in his throat because something is so terribly wrong with the way Luke’s shoulders sit, with the way he stares pointedly out of the window, eyes wet. 

“Luke,” Ashton says, and the tension in Luke’s shoulders sharpens. Ashton isn’t sure what to say.

He reaches out. 

Luke shrinks away. 

Ashton’s chest clenches painfully. 

“Don’t,” Luke says. His voice is so fucking small, heavy with emotion. 

Ashton exhales shakily. “Luke,” he says, gentle. “Look at me?” 

He watches as Luke’s eyes fall shut, and worries that Luke’s just going to ignore him. Then Luke turns and meets his eyes, and Ashton’s ribs feel like they’re caving in. 

“You’re ashamed of me,” Luke says. Simply. Like it's a fact. Like there’s nothing more to it. 

Ashton reels. “No, I—” he tries, but he’s coming up short. Why? Why?

Luke lets him sit in his own silence. 

“You’re ashamed of me,” Luke says again, and he’s pressed to the car door like he wants to get away. “Because I’m…what? Because I like to…wear makeup?” 

Ashton inhales sharply, and he wants to protest, but his words are failing him. 

“Can’t be seen with the guy that likes to play dress-up, is that it?” Luke spits. His words are souring. Ashton’s heartbeat is loud in his ears. 

“It’s not like that,” Ashton manages. 

Luke scoffs a laugh. “Yeah?” he mocks. “Why did you bring me to a restaurant that’s so hidden away? Why did we go to a drive-in theatre instead of a regular one? Why did you want to drive away when—when—” 

Ashton shakes his head. He didn’t even—he didn’t even think of it that way. 

But. 

Fuck, but…somewhere in his head, that was his reasoning, wasn’t it? To keep to themselves, to stay away from everybody they know, because…because…

Ashton furrows his brows. “No, I didn’t—” 

“I’ll tell you why,” Luke says. His voice cracks, and Ashton can see the tears gathering in his eyes. “Because you’re afraid someone will see.” 

Luke looks so small, just then. His hands shake where they’re clenched in his lap, and Ashton vaguely thinks, ‘How did we get here? Everything was going so well.’ 

“Luke, it’s not like that,” Ashton tries. “It’s not…I don’t—”

Luke lets out a wet laugh. And…shit, this isn’t fair. This isn’t fair, is it? Luke’s lashing out. Ashton can’t be everything for him all at once. That’s not—how it works.  

“I have obligations,” Ashton says. He tries to school his features, tries to hide again. “I—I have to build a life outside of—” 

“And I don’t?” Luke snaps. “I’m not fucking embarassed to be seen around you. Because I like you, Ashton. But—but you—” 

“You know what my life is like,” Ashton reasons. “You know I can’t—” 

“Can’t be seen with a freak show?” 

It lands like a blow. Like hot iron, twisting into his gut. 

“Fuck you,” Ashton snaps, before he knows what he's saying. And it's too late to go back now, from the way Luke's expression changes. “I don’t—I don’t owe you anything. I don’t owe you my time. I’m not your boyfriend.” 

Luke freezes. A stray tear slips down his cheek, and Ashton almost reaches out to wipe it away. 

“Not my boyfriend," Luke smiles, but it’s pained. “Right.”

Luke turns away, and Ashton listens to him breathe for a moment. He can’t shake the feeling that something is coming, that he’s made a terrible fucking mistake.

“You’re a coward,” Luke says. “You’re a fucking coward. You wanna fuck me like you're hot shit but you're too scared of all your little wannabe friends to hold my hand in public?”

Luke meets Ashton’s eyes again and scoffs. “Give me a break.” 

Ashton can’t breathe. Luke’s words are ice cold, and his voice is like stone even though Ashton can read his hurt through his eyes. 

Ashton opens his mouth to say something, reaches out for Luke. And Luke looks at him, eyes glistening with hurt, but he shakes his head when Ashton doesn’t say anything more. 

He reaches behind him, unlocks the car door, and steps out.

And Ashton stays there, staring at the phantom image of where Luke had been sitting, and aches. 

—

It’s—fuck, its the worst week of Luke’s entire academic career, maybe. He wakes up every day with a flickering ball of hope in his chest, and then it fizzles out when he rolls over to check his phone and there’s…nothing. Instead he’s left with hands that feel too heavy and a huge gaping hole in his chest where once there’d been the shape of Ashton’s voice, his laugh, his touch. 

And he goes through his routines, his chores, attends his classes, catches brief glimpses of curly hair and dimpling smiles—and all the sadness fossilizes and turns into something hard and angry. 

Luke wants to break things, scream and yell and cuss Ashton out—but that wouldn't do anything. And Luke wants to do something. Luke wants Ashton to feel it. That dull burning ache, the sting of humiliation, of sneaking out the window and kissing in shadows and never telling anyone. 

So when he finds out about Delta Phi’s party the following weekend, he decides he’s allowed to be a petty little shit—regardless of whether or not Ashton shows up. 

At 9:30, after pregaming an absurd amount, Luke pulls up to the frat house in the gold silk piece Ashton had bought him all those weeks ago. He feels incredible in it. It’s certainly a perfect fit, tight in all the right places. It dips low on his chest, and he reminds himself to be careful of bending over because the dress is just that short. 

It’s an easy few hours after that. He loads up on the shitty spiked punch and downs shot after shot and finds his way onto the dance floor like always. His skin is sticky with sweat and liquor. He’s sure he smells a little, and hopes maybe the scent of his cologne drowns out the worst of it but—when he steps aside to catch his breath and some Tall-Dark-and-Handsome comes up to him wearing a million-dollar smile, Luke forgets about everything else. 

Or. Atleast, he tries to. 

Because somewhere around the 11 ‘o clock mark, there’s a commotion near the front door, and Luke turns away from the conversation he’s having with Whatshisname just in time to see Ashton step in. 

Luke can’t quite tear his eyes away. He looks…good. He doesn’t look like he’s spent his past week moping and hurting the way Luke has. And that pisses Luke the fuck off. 

Ashton looks around the place, and his eyes find Luke’s like gravity. Luke’s breath hitches, and it’s like everything around them grows dull as they look at each other. Ashton tries to smile, raises his hand to wave…and then seems to realize where he is. He glances away.

There it is again. That sharp spike of hurt. 

“You know Ashton?” asks Whatshisname, cutting through Luke’s thoughts. 

Luke turns back, puts on his best smile. “Not really,” Luke shrugs. “I’ve heard his name in passing.” 

“He’s in a few classes with me,” Whatshisname offers. “Cool guy.” 

Luke’s smile tightens. “I don’t want to talk about him.” 

Whatshisname hums. Luke watches how the light reflecting off the cheap mirrorball falls over his jawline and thinks of that night in the drive-in theatre before everything went to shit. 

He looks down at his cup. It’s empty. So he reaches for Whatshisname’s cup, plucks it out of his hands and downs the whole thing. 

He winces at the taste. Whatshisname blinks at him, and Luke forces a grin. “Wanna go dance?” 

Whatshisname’s face splits into a charming smile. He holds out his hand. “Thought you’d never ask.” 

Luke leads them to the middle of the crowd of writhing bodies on the makeshift dance floor. It’s momentarily uncomfortable, as he pulls Whatshisname close and lets the guy put his hands on Luke’s hips. It’s odd not having Ashton’s hands on him like this. Odd having someone else paint their touch onto a dress that Ashton bought for Luke. 

Luke shakes his head and tips his head back to look Whatshisname in the eye. Blinks away the image of Ashton. 

Whatshisname presses close, and Luke tries to lose himself in it, in the rhythm and the way he sways to the music but—his hands feel wrong on Luke’s skin and his cologne is all wrong and—Luke spins around, so his back is pressed to the guy’s chest. A feeble attempt at staying within his comfort zone. 

Whatshisname nips playfully at Luke’s ear. Luke laughs lightly. Something warm curls in his belly. 

But when he blinks his eyes open and glances briefly across the room, the warmth sharpens into something hot and urgent. 

Because Ashton is there, looking at Luke over the rim of his cup as he leans against the wall. There’s an unmissable tension in his posture. 

Luke grins to himself. Ashton rakes his eyes down Luke’s body, and the recognition in his eyes sparks smug satisfaction in Luke’s chest. 

Yeah, he wants to say. Your dress. But you’re not the one touching me tonight, are you? 

Luke rolls his hips just so, and Whatshisname’s hold tightens on him. He groans lowly into Luke’s ear. Luke shivers, because Ashton hasn’t blinked once. 

“Cheeky,” Whatshisname grins. 

“What do you mean?” Luke flirts back, but his eyes flit back to Ashton, where his grip is harsh around his cup and his jaw is clenched. 

“Oh, you know,” Whatshisname kisses behind Luke’s ear, and Luke turns to arch into him properly. 

Luke slides his hands deliberately up Whatshisname’s chest, making sure to savour the resulting shiver he draws out of him—but also making sure Ashton can see. He presses his lips to the man’s neck and smiles when it makes his hips jump. Luke can tell this guy’s into it. 

“Do you…” Whatshisname starts, slipping his hand just under the hem of Luke’s dress.

“Hm?” 

“You want to get out of here?” 

Luke pulls back. He looks up at Whatshisname, the way his pupils are blown out, his lips flushed pink. The way his curls fall over his forehead. And he thinks, maybe this could be good. 

He needs to start moving on, right? And…what better way to do that than with meaningless sex? 

Luke intertwines their fingers and ignores the way he can feel Ashton’s gaze burning into his shoulders. Whatshisname flashes a sweet smile. 

“Yeah,” Luke says. “Okay.” 

Whatshisname leans in to press a kiss high on Luke’s cheek, and it’s so…nice. So…soft. This could be good. This could be good, right? 

“Upstairs?” Whatshisname offers, and Luke nods. 

Luke leads him off the dance floor and up the stairs, pointedly avoiding looking anywhere in Ashton’s direction. 

—

Ashton watches Luke as he waves through the crowd with that fucking loser glued to his back, watches Luke grab the banister for support as he treks up the stairwell, stopping occasionally to laugh as his partner leans close to press kisses into any skin he can reach—and Ashton burns. 

That—that should be Ashton instead. Making Luke giggle into his hands, drawing those hushed gasps from his lips that Ashton’s so used to by now. Pressing his fingers into the soft silk of the dress that he bought for Luke. 

His solo cup is basically crushed up from how tightly he’s gripping it. He can barely breathe, barely hear whatever story Michael’s telling him as they stand off to the side. All he can think about is Luke, and how he’s probably up there in some room, arching his back the way he does, with some random asshole painting marks into those pretty thighs. 

No. No. That’s not fucking right at all. 

And that’s just it, isn’t it? The entire world has been off kilter for the past week, and Ashton's been struggling to get his bearings, because everything is so far out of focus without Luke beside him. Everything is duller, and tipped off to the side, and nothing makes sense and things aren’t right. Nothing is right without Luke. 

And now someone’s up there with Luke, putting his hands onto something that doesn’t belong to him. On something that’s been Ashton’s all along, even if he didn’t have the fucking balls to say it aloud. 

And before he realizes it, he’s shoving his cup into Michael’s hands and moving through the crowd, with singular focus, hands buzzing with energy. 

He takes the stairs two at a time. 

Thankfully, most of the rooms upstairs aren’t occupied. That doesn’t stop Ashton from banging on every locked door, though. 

On his third try, the door swings open, and Ashton comes face-to-face with The Loser. His hair is mussed, and his eyes are wide as he glares at Ashton. Over his shoulder, Ashton can see Luke as he props himself up on his elbows on the bed. When their eyes meet, Luke’s flush deepens into something beautiful and warm. He sits up and straightens his dress. 

“Hey, what the fuck, man?” Loser exclaims in Ashton’s face. 

Ashton ignores him. He shoves the guy aside, and then he’s walking into the room and then his hands are on Luke’s waist. 

Luke gasps, because Ashton’s lifting him up and off the bed, then. He throws Luke over his shoulder, and walks straight out of the room, ignoring the protests of the guy at the door.  

“Ashton—” Luke struggles. His hands curl into Ashton’s shirt. Ashton holds fast to Luke's waist over his shoulder. “Ashton, let me down!” 

“No,” Ashton replies. He’s carrying Luke down the stairs now. 

“Please,” Luke says, and Ashton knows he’s flushed beet red from how his voice drops. “Please, Ashton, people are watching.” 

Ashton pauses. He looks beyond the stairwell and—yeah, people are looking, alright. The entire party seems to have come to a stop, and they’re all staring. Ashton inhales sharply. 

“Let them,” Ashton says. 

Luke whimpers, a low, pathetic sound. He shifts a little, and Ashton suddenly realizes, oh, he’s into this. 

“My…my skirt,” Luke mutters, trying to hide his face. “It’s…I—” 

Ashton grins to himself. “Too short?” 

Luke whines. “Ashton.” 

“I know, baby,” Ashton pats the back of Luke’s thighs with his free hand. “But you wanted people to know, right? And now they know.” 

Luke’s skirt is riding up, up, and Ashton walks them through the crowd unabashedly. He catches Michael and Calum’s eye, and they snicker into their hands. Calum shoots him an encouraging thumbs-up. Ashton rolls his eyes, but Luke squirms. 

“Let ‘em look,” Ashton murmurs, low enough for only Luke to hear. “They won’t be able to do anything about it. All this is for me, yeah?” 

Luke is quiet, his hold on Ashton’s shirt tightening. Ashton soothes along Luke’s thighs, and the party seems to open up for them. Ashton navigates to the laundry room, and he wants to flip off everybody that’s staring, but he wants to swell with pride too. Look, he wants to say. This is mine. He’s mine. 

He slams the door to the laundry room shut in the face of the two blondes that were peering in at them. He sets Luke down.

Luke opens his mouth to say something, but Ashton steps into his space, backs him against the door. He cups Luke’s face, then leans down and kisses him. Luke’s hands tangle in Ashton’s hair immediately, and it's like he melts on the spot, open and wanting and desperate. He makes a greedy sound when Ashton presses impossibly closer and trails a hand down to cup his ass. 

“Who was that?” Ashton says, between wet kisses. 

“Who?” Luke replies, and his voice is wrecked already. His eyes stay closed as he chases Ashton’s lips. 

“That asshole you were talking to.” 

Luke pouts a little and leans in to kiss Ashton again, but Ashton shifts out of reach. Luke’s eyes flutter open. 

“Dunno,” Luke murmurs, gaze flitting to Ashton's lips. “Don’t remember his name—please, Ashton.” 

So fucking demanding. Ashton cups Luke’s jaw, pressing hard enough to snap Luke out of his little daze. 

“I saw that little show you put on f’me out there,” Ashton tells him. “Fuckin’ slut. Desperate for my attention, aren’t you?” 

Luke’s knees go weak, but that's okay because Ashton’s holding him. Luke whimpers a little.

“N-no,” he breathes. Ashton’s eyes flit down to his lips. 

“No?” Ashton mocks. “Then you didn’t dress up like this for me?” 

Luke smiles, a little bitterly. “Maybe I didn’t,” he says. “Does it matter? ‘M not your boyfriend.” 

It stings a little—knowing Luke’s just mirroring his own words. 

Ashton leans down to press a kiss along the slope of Luke’s neck, apologetic. 

“‘M sorry I said that, baby,” he says. “Wanted to get on my knees and beg when you walked out.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Luke breathes. 

Ashton leans his forehead against Luke’s. It’s so jarringly intimate. The entire world fades away. Ashton finds that he wants to do this every day for the rest of his life. This close to Luke, he can hear how his breath stutters. 

“I was scared,” Ashton confesses. His heart is in his throat, and he can’t quite look Luke in the eye. “But…I’m not anymore. More than everything I’m scared of, through it all, I want you. And—you deserve someone that loves you loudly.” 

There’s a short sniffle. 

Ashton raises his eyes to find there’s tears gathering along Luke’s lashes. He chuckles, brushes a thumb under Luke’s eyes. 

“Aw,” he smiles. “Don’t cry, princess. You’ll ruin your makeup.”

Luke only laughs wetly, then leans back in to kiss Ashton. It’s soft, sweet at first, and Ashton can taste the salt of his tears on his lips, along with all the disgusting liquor from earlier tonight. Then Luke rises on his toes, pulls Ashton closer by the nape of his neck, and then they’re making out for real. 

Ashton slips his tongue into Luke’s mouth and swallows all his little sounds. When Ashton nips at his bottom lip, Luke’s hands fly to Ashton’s belt. 

Ashton breaks away from Luke with a slick pop. He laughs as Luke struggles with the buckle. He wraps his fingers around Luke’s wrist. 

“Eager, aren’t you?” he teases. Luke flushes impossibly redder. 

“I just—I want to—”

“Oh, I don’t care much about what you want,” Ashton says, and Luke freezes. He pulls Luke off the door. 

“You come here wearing a dress I bought you,” Ashton murmurs, leading Luke towards the washers. “Flirting with anyone but me. Getting it on with some dipshit on the dance floor…I don’t know if I want to let you get away with that, Lukey.” 

Luke audibly gulps. Ashton crowds him against the washer, rolls his hips lightly against the curve of Luke’s ass. 

“I…I didn’t…” 

“Tell me,” Ashton murmurs, drawing close to speak into Luke’s ear. “Would you have fucked him? If I hadn’t walked in?” 

Luke shakes his head sharply. “N-no, Ash, I w—” 

“Really?” Ashton presses. “Because it looked to me like you’d spread your legs for any fucking loser that puts his hands on you.” 

Luke’s skin is burning hot to the touch as Ashton trails his hand down Luke’s arms. He’s shaking. 

Ashton grins as he sets a hand between Luke’s shoulder-blades and slowly bends him over the top of the washer. Luke exhales shakily as he goes down and—Ashton nearly blacks out because what a fucking view. 

Ashton presses his palm to Luke’s ass. 

“Look at you,” Ashton murmurs, almost reverent. Luke’s blush spreads further down his shoulders. “So pretty like this.” 

Luke rocks back on his heels, trying to grind against Ashton, but Ashton steps back, clicking his tongue. Luke whimpers. 

“Greedy,” Ashton chides. 

“P-please…” Luke whispers. His voice cracks upon the word, and Ashton realizes with a shot of arousal that there’s tears in his eyes again. 

“And why should I give you what you want, hm?” Ashton asks, continuing to stroke across Luke’s skin. The silk feels incredible, warm under his palm as he trails his palm in a line up along Luke’s spine. “When you’ve been flaunting what’s mine all night like a fucking whore.” 

Luke bites his lip and tries to turn to the side to meet Ashton’s eye. Ashton shucks up Luke’s dress, presses his thumbs into the flesh of Luke’s thighs. 

Ashton grins, moving his hand up, up, the dress rising over Luke’s ass. “Are you a whore, Lukey?” 

Luke shivers as the cold air hits his skin but doesn’t reply. So Ashton presses the outline of his cock against Luke. He gasps. 

“I asked you a question, princess.” 

Luke shakes his head, as though snapping out of a daze. “N-no,” he says. “‘M not.” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Ashton says, picking up a slow grind. “Because I wouldn’t go around sticking my cock into just anything, would I?” 

“No,” Luke replies, small and ashamed. His hands curl into fists. Ashton savours the way he scrabbles for purchase over the edge of the washer.

Ashton tugs at the flimsy thong Luke’s wearing. Snaps it back against his skin. Luke jumps at the sting. 

“Should open that door,” Ashton murmurs, grip tightening around the back of Luke’s neck. “Let everybody in to see how fuckin’ needy you are, bent over and open like this.” 

Luke whimpers. “Please,” he says. “Please, Ashton, I—” 

Ashton huffs a cruel laugh, and it makes Luke squirm. Ashton reaches for his wallet, for the packet of lube he’s kept there for exactly these situations. When Luke hears the crinkle of the wrapper, he gasps. He inches his hand down, probably to palm himself. 

Ashton snatches his wrist. “What? I’m not enough to get you off?” 

“You are,” Luke gasps, wet. “You are, Ashton, I—I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” 

“Don’t fucking care,” Ashton snaps. He shoves his foot between Luke’s own and urges him to spread his legs. “God, I should prep you just enough for me to use you and leave, huh? What do you think?” 

Luke presses his forehead to the cold surface of the washer and exhales, and it’s like music to Ashton’s ears. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ashton presses. He leans over Luke and trails a line of kisses down from the nape of his sweaty neck to his shoulder. “Being used like my personal cocksleeve. ‘S all you’re good for, no?”

Before Luke can reply, Ashton shoves Luke’s underwear aside, and presses a lubed-up finger in deep. 

Luke moans like it punches the breath out of him. 

“You’re so tight,” Ashton says. “Relax, princess.” 

Ashton soothes a hand along Luke’s ribs and Luke breathes out. “Ashton.” 

“I know, baby,” Ashton smiles. “Gotta open you out f’me.” 

“Hurry,” Luke whines. 

“Patience,” Ashton hums. He begins pumping his finger in and out. “Wish I could—spread you out on my bed ‘n take my time with you. Fuck you open nice and proper on my fingers. Make you cum on my tongue, but—you just had to come out here and show off, huh?” 

Luke’s rutting back against his fingers. His hand slips down to touch himself again, but Ashton can’t have that. He grabs Luke’s wrists in one hand, uses them for leverage to press his finger deeper. 

“More,” Luke whines. “More, more, Ashton—” 

“Louder,” Ashton tells him, slipping another finger in alongside. He scissors them in and out. “Make sure they can all hear you out there. Make sure everybody knows how good you feel.” 

Ashton curls his fingers up and brushes against that spot inside that has Luke going brainless and lax for him. Luke, bless him, drops his lips open and whines. Ashton’s so fucking hard in his jeans, he might die. Unconsciously, Luke struggles in his hold, and Ashton only tightens his grip, continuing his assault on Luke’s prostate.

Luke whimpers and moans and gasps through it all, hands curling into fists and opening up again, rising on his toes to ride Ashton’s fingers as he adds a third one inside. Ashton lets go of Luke’s wrists, and immediately Luke pushes up to press his back to Ashton’s chest. 

“Ashton,” Luke says. “Ashton, fuck me, fuck me, pl-please.”

Ashton bites down gently at Luke’s neck, then soothes the sting with his tongue.

“So impatient,” Ashton says into Luke’s skin. “Fuckin’ pathetic. Can’t even hold still for a few minutes?” 

Luke whimpers, damn near melts into him, and Ashton has to guide him back down again.

“I hear you, princess,” Ashton smiles, twisting his wrist cruelly. Luke lets out a wrecked, broken sound. “Play nice. I’ll give you what you need.” 

Luke pouts, brows furrowing, eyes fluttering shut. “I want it now.”

Ashton slaps Luke’s ass. It startles Luke, but his hips jerk violently, and Ashton almost wants to do it over and over, see if Luke could finish from just this. 

“I’m being real fucking good to you right now, baby,” Ashton tells him. “So you’d better repay the favour. Be quiet and take it.” 

Ashton presses incessantly at Luke’s prostate, and Luke’s scratching mindlessly at the surface of the washer, then, stray tears catching the light while he moans and writhes. 

“Fuck, I’ve barely even started and you’re already a mess,” Ashton tsks. “Think you can take my cock after all this?” 

Luke whimpers upon a soft sob, nodding sharply, mussing his curls against the washer. “I need you,” he pleads. “I need you, I need it, please.”

Ashton laughs openly at Luke’s desperation. He slips his fingers out, and Luke lets loose a guttural moan at the feeling. Ashton shushes him, wearing a touch of cruelty, of humour in his voice. He wipes his fingers off on Luke’s bare thigh and then unzips his trousers, slipping them off just enough to pull himself out. 

Luke’s whimpering, arching his back like he’s presenting himself, and—just because he can—Ashton kneads his ass, humming appreciatively. 

“Look at you,” Ashton says, lining his cock up to Luke’s entrance. “Whining like a bitch in heat.” 

“Ashton,” Luke murmurs, and he’s gone, voice a miserable wreck, wet with desire. Ashton grips Luke’s hips, making sure to press his fingers in hard enough to bruise. Luke, bless him, ruts back, then forward like he’s chasing friction. 

“Please,” he begs, and—hell, Ashton isn’t that merciless. 

When Ashton begins pressing into Luke, it’s like the very first time all over again. Luke opens up for him brilliantly, hot and warm and so fucking tight. 

He bottoms out with a groan, and then holds still for Luke to adjust, but Luke’s hole is fluttering and clenching down on him, and Ashton thinks he might die on the spot. God, Luke is—he’s a fucking vision. Pliant and docile, eyes shut to the pleasure, sweat pooling at the base of his spine. 

“M-move,” Luke breathes, and who is Ashton if he isn’t giving Luke exactly what he wants? 

He pulls out, a slow glide, almost all the way until Luke’s whining at the emptiness, before slamming back home. Luke groans, reaching back blindly, hands grasping Ashton’s hip weakly to pull him closer, closer. He moans something incoherent, and Ashton grins. 

“I know, baby,” he soothes a hand down Luke's spine, watches the goosebumps rise. “Taking it so good, aren’t you?” 

Ashton keeps his pace slow, a painful roll of his hips that has his patience cracking down the middle, all while Luke clenches down and arches his back and presses closer, urging him to go faster. 

“Ash, more,” Luke begs. “H-harder, please, I can take it.” 

Ashton gives a particularly rough trust, and the washer protests weakly under them as Luke sobs. 

“Yeah, I know you can, Lukey,” Ashton says. “You wanna be used like a toy, don't you? Fucked until y’can’t walk straight.” 

The way Luke responds to him—fuck. It’s like he physically feels Ashton’s words, in how he shudders and moans. 

Ashton won’t give it to him just yet, though. He maintains his pace, occasionally fucking up into Luke nice and proper, just to mess with him, to keep him on his toes, wanting and desperate like this. Until Ashton brushes something inside him. Luke gasps something urgent, goes still, lips parted upon a broken moan. 

“There!” Luke gasps, eyes glazed and unfocused. “There, there—please, m-more.” 

And Ashton grins, sadistic, and changes the angle just enough to brush up tantalizingly close to where Luke wants him, but not giving him enough. Luke begs and begs and writhes under Ashton, and he has to press his palm fully between Luke’s shoulders to hold him in place as he keeps going, ignoring Luke’s pleas. 

“Touch me,” Luke says, and his voice cracks upon little cut-off moans. “Ashton, touch me. Please? Pl—just touch me.” 

Ashton could give him what he wants, but where’s the fun in that? He thrusts in, particularly rough, and Luke’s thighs hit the washer hard enough that Ashton knows he’ll bruise beautifully tomorrow. He caresses along Luke’s thighs, reaches below him to stroke his belly soothingly, even though he’s anticipating Ashton’s touch, he isn’t going to get it. 

When Luke processes what’s happening, he falls forward, curls his hands into fists and cries, shoulders shaking with built-up frustration. 

Ah. 

“There it is,” Ashton praises, pulling back slowly, then fucking into Luke hard. “Let it all out. Good girl, go on.” 

Luke goes stock-still, then whines long and high-pitched as Ashton sets a new pace, pressing deep into Luke to incessantly hit his prostate. 

“I want—” Luke pants, even as he’s hiccuping through sobs. “I want…Ashton, I want to see you, can we—can I—” 

Ashton picks up on what he wants, lets Luke guide him to pull out. Immediately, Luke’s legs give out, and Ashton notes the way he shudders, with satisfaction. Luke reaches for him, and Ashton goes easily. He grasps Luke by the waist, the fabric of his forgotten dress crimping under his fingers, and helps Luke jump up to sit atop the washer. 

Luke leans in almost immediately. He drags Ashton in by his shoulders, spreads his thighs to make space for Ashton to step closer, and presses their lips together. Ashton smiles against Luke, revelling in the salty taste of his tears, in the way he can’t seem to catch his breath. Ashton presses one hand to Luke’s thigh, and Luke pulls apart with a wet gasp. 

He leans back, and—fuck, it’s the picture of debauchery. The way his perfect curls are mussed to hell, glitter shimmering along his skin, makeup flowing. Lips red and bitten. He bites his lip upon a shy smile as he spreads his legs, wider, wider, inviting. 

Ashton’s brain short circuits. 

“Fuck, Luke, you’ll fucking kill me,” Ashton says. He steps in, and in one smooth glide, bottoms out into Luke with a groan. 

He works his hips faster this time, enamoured by the way Luke takes him like a fucking champ. His eyes drift to the place where they meet, and he watches Luke’s dick bounce against his abdomen as Ashton disappears inside of him with an obscenely loud squelch. 

Luke’s moans grow louder, music to Ashton’s ears. He slams over and over into Luke’s prostate, and Luke meets each thrust with a roll of his hips. His eyebrows are furrowed, tears glistening high on his cheeks, and Ashton wants to lean in and lick them off his skin. 

And he’s ready to do just that when Luke brings his hand up to his chest and tweaks his own nipple. He moans with it, and Ashton goes blank momentarily. When he comes back online, Luke’s hand is slipping down, down his abs, to his cock. 

Ashton grins. He grabs Luke’s wrist, pins it to the surface beside him. It brings Ashton much closer to Luke than he was before. 

“You weren’t about to touch yourself, were you, princess?” Ashton asks, nipping at the underside of Luke’s jaw. 

When he meets Luke’s eyes, Luke shakes his head, almost bashful in how his cheeks flare with embarrassment, how his eyes shine with a fresh wave of tears. 

“N-no,” he whispers. “But I…I can’t—” 

“Nah, I think you can," Ashton says instead. “I think you can finish just like this on my cock.” 

He lets go of Luke’s wrist and slows his movements to a stop. Luke whimpers, then frowns questioningly when Ashton looks at him expectantly. 

Ashton nods between them. “Go on,” he says. 

Luke bites his lip. 

“Be a good little slut f’me,” Ashton grins. “Fuck yourself on my cock. Take what you need, yeah?” 

And—god, he’d expected some hesitation but. Luke plants his palms onto the surface of the washer, wraps his legs around Ashton’s weight and—does exactly what Ashton asked. He lifts his hips, rocking beautifully forwards and back on Ashton’s cock, over and over. His head tips back in pleasure, and Ashton leans forward to bite at the line of his throat. 

He’s close. Ashton can tell from the way he’s clenching down, the way his movements grow sloppier. Luke almost reaches for his cock again, and Ashton tsks loudly. 

“Aw,” Ashton mocks. “Tired, princess?” 

Luke opens his eyes, blinks away the haze. “Please.”

And that's enough. Ashton’s had his fun. He grabs Luke’s hips, harsh and unforgiving, and fucks into him properly. 

It's barely a minute before Luke’s clenching down hard on Ashton’s cock, moaning his name over and over as he finishes between them, painting his belly and thighs in streaks of cum. Ashton fucks him through it, Luke’s cock weeping feebly between them as he whines from overstimulation. It nearly tips Ashton over the edge. 

“Fuck, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” Ashton grits, and he’s close, so close, so he leans in to press his lips to Luke’s, and then he’s finishing into the condom, groaning into the kiss while Luke nips and bites playfully at his lower lip. 

It takes him a minute to pull himself out of it, with the way Luke’s lips taste, the way the heat warms the room, the way his muscles ache with exhaustion. When he pulls out, it’s with a hiss, met with a weak whimper from Luke—one that he soothes again with a quick peck. 

He finds fresh bedsheets in a hamper in the corner and spreads them out onto the floor, then drags Luke down until they’re curled into each-other. Luke’s got his cheek pressed to Ashton’s chest, and Ashton hopes he can’t hear the way his heart is racing. He plays with the curls at the nape of Luke’s neck. 

“You like to kiss me when you finish, do you know that?” Luke asks faintly, tracing patterns into Ashton’s ribs. Ashton chuckles. 

“Yeah?” he says, unbearably fond. “That bother you?” 

Luke tilts his head up to look at him. He looks absolutely breathtaking. “No,” he smiles. “You should do it more.” 

“Kiss you more or finish more?” 

Luke jabs him in the side. “Shut up.” 

And as he laughs, Ashton brings his hand to wipe off some of the glitter on his cheeks. But Luke shuffles just out of reach, and when he curls into Ashton’s side again, the glitter comes off on his skin. 

Ashton finds that he doesn’t mind. He’s here to stay, anyway. 

A part of him doesn’t even want to find out. Another part, louder and more incessant, tells him to grow up and listen and finally figure out why everyone’s been acting so fucking weird. 

He makes a little pained noise in the back of his throat. He shouldn’t be doing this. He’d promised Calum. He’d been so loud about not listening to the story. 

He shoves his earphones on and presses play. 

The blurb plays, a short few sentences in Calum’s voice, and Luke’s already shivering. He processes the words. 

It hits him like a freight train. 

Calum’s reading a story for male listeners. 

And if that wasn’t enough of a heart attack, if it wasn’t enough to send him reeling, Calum’s love interest in the story, the character that’s meant to be the ‘listener’—is named Lucas.

Luke for short. 

Fuck. 

Oh, fuck. 

Luke’s nervous system might be giving out. He might be going into cardiac arrest. The walls are moving. Is his room always this hot? Shit. 

Shit. 

Luke’s brain is fried, scrambled beyond repair. Probably dripping cerebrospinal fluid out of his ears like a raw egg. He numbly registers the storyline as it begins, Calum’s voice clear and crisp in his ear, low and playful as he reads dialogue and speaks over background special-effects. 

It’s a silly plotline, something about Calum pretending to date his best friend (oh, shit) while the media speculates on and on about the two of them (oh, shit) and the Luke character struggles to conceptualize his feelings for Calum’s character (oh, shit).

By the end of the first recording, Luke isn’t really breathing. Not enough oxygen getting to his brain, blood saturated with the sound of Calum. The way his voice pitches up when he jokes, the way it takes on a rough edge as he flirts. The way he says ‘Luke,’ like he was thinking of the real Luke while recording. 

Shit. 

Motherfucking-piece-of-shit-oh-hell-Luke’s-going-to-die. 

By the end of the third recording, Luke’s sitting stock-still, staring at the wall, because—

Because—

“God, Luke,” Calum’s voice says, pitched low, heavy with arousal. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful.” 

Luke squeezes his eyes shut. He’s hard in his pants. Oh, Christ. 

“You’re being so good for me, baby. I’m going to make you come so hard.” 

Luke might kill himself tonight. 

Calum’s voice is like silk. Like honey dripping from a silver spoon. 

“That’s right, love,” Calum murmurs, and Luke can hear the slight rasp, the shake of his breath. He’s palming himself before he realizes it. “Go on, make yourself feel good.” 

Luke’s hips jump. Calum gasps something urgent, and then Luke’s falling back against his bedsheet, head tipping into the pillow as he lets out an involuntary whimper. 

“I know, Luke,” Calum coos in his ears, and then Luke’s grasping himself through his jeans. “You’re aching for it, aren’t you?” 

Eyes squeezed shut, Luke’s lips part on a silent moan. He exhales, nods sharply. Yes, like Calum can hear him. Yes, god, I need you. 

Something hot builds in his belly as Calum groans. “Touch yourself, sweetheart,” he says, and Luke can almost imagine Calum—warm brown eyes fixed on him, dark with desire. 

Luke slips out of his jeans, wraps his hand around himself. 

“That’s it,” Calum’s voice says. “Just like that. Nice and slow.” 

Luke shoves his shirt up, passes his palm over his chest desperately. Hisses at the stimulation. In the silence of the room, he bites down on the hem of his shirt as he strokes himself. 

“Look at you,” Calum groans, and Luke gasps, squeezing himself. Pictures Calum watching him, open and wanting, just for him. “All spread out. So beautiful. This for me?” 

Luke flutters his eyes open. The bare ceiling looks back at him. His hand is slick over his shaft, pleasure building like a tight string at the base of his spine. Shame rears its head, hot and urgent. Calum is his best friend—he shouldn’t…he shouldn’t do this, right? 

And then Calum’s voice utters something like a breathy moan, and Luke pictures his face like that day at the recording studio. 

“Luke,” he moans, like he’s dying. Like he’s begging. 

“Spread your legs a little more, love,” Calum murmurs through his earphones. Luke does, until he feels the burn at the joints of his thighs, pretends it’s the weight of Calum’s hands pushing them open wider. Luke’s mouth floods with saliva. He’s soaking the fabric in his mouth, but he tightens his fingers around his cock, and nothing matters except for Calum’s voice. 

“Can’t think straight when you’re around,” Calum’s voice mutters. Luke can almost feel the brush of his stubble against his skin. His heart skips a beat, the sting sudden and painful. Does the real Calum feel this way? “God, I want you so badly,” he continues. His voice dips into something airy, something wet with desire. “Luke, do you hear me? I’ve wanted you since the day we met.” 

Luke’s back arches off the bed. There’s a sincerity in Calum’s voice that’s too…real, too honest to be manufactured. Luke can hear it in his voice. He lets himself hope Calum pictured him in that recording studio. 

“You need it, don’t you? Need me to touch you,” Calum groans. Luke whines, high-pitched and careless. His hand speeds up, the pleasure growing hotter, like wildfire. “Need to feel my hands on you.” Luke nods, tears gathering in his eyes from how close he is. 

“If I slide my hand down, just so…” Calum teases, and Luke can imagine the weight of Calum’s hand, slipping down Luke’s chest, down the slope of his ribs, down, down, where he needs him most. “...can you feel the way your breath catches for me?”

God, he’s close. Luke’s close. He’s about to finish to the sound of his best friend’s voice. Shame and guilt blend into urgent desire. He just wants to come. 

“I know you’re almost there, baby,” Calum says, and Luke can hear a smug grin upon his lips. Calum moans, a guttural sound, low in his throat. “Go on, love. Show me.” 

A low groan, like Calum’s right there, watching. “Come for me, Luke.”

Oh. That does it. 

Luke tips over the edge, flames shooting down his body as he finishes all over his belly, over his hands. It’s almost involuntary, a low moan of Calum’s name slipping past his lips, legs shaking, abs tight. 

The whisper of what this means. Of what it could mean. 

Luke shoots upright, rips the earphones from his ears and throws his phone across the bed, breathing hard. Shock rockets through him, alongside the reality of what he’s done as it slowly settles in against his will. 

He isn’t sure how long he sits there. Faintly, he can hear his earphones continue to play the track. Calum’s voice a low, muffled murmur in the silence. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Oh, god.” 

He cleans himself up quickly, refusing to even look at his phone.

Fifteen minutes later, he musters the courage to grab his phone and hit pause on the story, like disarming a bomb. 

Two hours later, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. He tries to turn his brain off, but it won’t shut up.

Luke, I’ve wanted you since the day we met.

Come for me, Luke. 

Luke. 

Luke. 

—

This is fine. Everything is perfectly fine and well and good. 

He listens to the story again the next night. 

Repeats a segment three times over when he picks up on the way Calum gasps, “Fuck, Luke, your lips feel amazing around me.”

He gets off to it, obviously. 

Twice. In a row. 

With hot, uncomfortable embarrassment simmering under his skin night after night, Luke presses play with his hand down his pants. He feels gross. He feels like a terrible friend. 

So, conveniently, he convinces himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. Calum’s voice is hot, right? Things can be hot and friends can be friends without making it weird. Even if said friend is moaning Luke’s name into a mic for the whole world to hear. 

—

“There’s new content of Calum on Wren’s instagram page,” Ashton says casually as he walks into the room. Michael follows after him. Luke fights not to roll his eyes, opting instead to continue figuring out this chord-progression he’s working on. He turns the volume on the amp down, though.  

“Thought you’d want to see it,” Michael says, waving his phone. 

“I’m working,” Luke grits, pointedly strumming his guitar. He’s in his home-studio. Michael falls into the bean bag to his left, Ashton beside him on the couch he’s seated on. 

It isn’t often that Luke regrets giving his house keys to his mates, but today might be one of those days. 

“So you don’t want to see it?” Ashton says, grinning like he’s winning a game. Bastard. 

Luke pauses. He clears his throat. “Um,” he says. “Why would I want to see it?” 

“Well,” Michael says, splaying his legs out. He nudges Luke’s amp, and Luke wants to kick him. “Because he mentioned you in it, maybe.” 

Luke freezes. 

“What?” 

Michael smiles, all smug. “See for yourself.” 

He unlocks his phone, and Luke’s hands are a little sweaty where they’re resting on the fretboard, but nobody’s noticed, so it’s fine. And anyway, he doesn’t even care. It’s natural to want to see stuff where you’re mentioned, right? Like, media safety or whatever. 

Michael hands Luke his phone, with Wren’s instagram page open. 

It’s a promotional video. 

Calum appears on the screen, dressed in a white button up with the sleeves rolled up. Luke’s mouth goes dry. 

The video starts with a clip of Calum tossing a cue-card at the camera, letting out a husky laugh as he says, “You guys just want to get me talking!” 

Luke blanks out for a moment, and when he zones back in, Ashton and Michael are leaning gleefully over his shoulder. Calum has his haversack in his lap, and a text overlay boasts, ‘What’s in Calum Hood’s bag?’ 

Calum goes through a few quick essentials: his phone, breath mints, cologne. Luke’s beginning to think Michael and Ashton were just taking the piss. He turns to ask Ashton exactly that, until— 

“Oh, and this…this isn’t really mine,” Calum says in the video, slightly surprised. 

Luke’s eyes find the screen again to see Calum tossing a little green cardboard box of something between his hands. 

He recognizes it instantly. 

“This is Herbal Tea,” Calum holds up the box. “For my—uh, bandmate. Luke Hemmings.” 

Luke gulps. Yeah, he’s seen that box before. A lot, actually. 

“Luke, he’s…he’s a vocalist, right? So he tends to strain his voice a lot, even in the studio,” Calum explains. “I carry this around for him. It’s, like, tea-bags, so we really just need a cup of hot water. Super convenient.” 

Calum looks down at the box, and something in his expression says he’s looking back on a fond memory. 

“Yeah, he tends to forget to take care of himself,” Calum says, and he seems lost in thought. “So I’ve gotta do it for him, sometimes.” Calum’s quiet for a moment. Then he snaps out of his daze and looks up at the camera. He blinks, then smiles. “Yeah. Herbal tea for Luke.” 

The video goes on for another thirty seconds. Luke sits through those thirty seconds, not really hearing a single thing. He’s too busy trying to calm the thrum of blood in his ears, the way his heart is skipping every other beat, painful in his chest. 

When the video starts looping around, he shoves the phone into Michael’s chest. 

“Okay,” Luke says, totally calm and definitely not losing his mind. “Cool.” Michael grins, wolfish. “Wanna watch it again?” 

“Turn it off and get out of my house,” Luke says. 

“We were just leaving,” Ashton nods solemnly. “We just wanted to drop in and check on you.” 

“I’m fine,” Luke says, too quick. He mentally facepalms. “Uh, why wouldn’t I be?” “No reason, “ Michael cuts in, looking disturbingly self-satisfied. “Cool video, right?” Luke stares. “Right.” 

“Right.” 

“Get the door on your way out.” 

“Spoken to Calum lately?” Ashton asks, faux-innocence dripping from his tone. 

Luke shakes his head. “No, I haven’t, now would you—” 

And because the universe hates him, and nothing in his life ever really goes his way, Luke’s phone chimes a notification at that exact moment. All three of them turn to look.

[Notification] 

Wren

Revisit Calum Hood’s newest story only on Wren! 

Silence. 

Luke’s face burns a hot red. 

He wills the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Maybe his guitar will short-circuit and he’ll die of electrocution. He’ll take anything, really. 

Ashton straightens and clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “You’ve certainly heard from Calum, then.” 

“Re-visit, eh?” Michael grins. “You been doing a lot of visiting Wren lately?”

Luke drops his head onto his guitar. “Please leave,” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut. Embarrassment rushes hot and urgent through his veins. 

There’s a moment of stillness, before Ashton and Michael are heading towards the doorway of his home studio, and Luke exhales, grateful that they’re actually leaving him the fuck alone. 

Michael turns at the last moment. 

“Hey, you’ve got moisturiser, right?”

Luke looks up, furrows his brows in confusion. “What—” “Friction burn can be a serious bitch,” Michael waggles his brows, eyes flitting pointedly to Luke’s crotch. 

Luke grabs one of his house slippers and throws them at Michael, but he and Ashton are already gone, joint cackles echoing down the hallway in their wake. 

His slipper hits the wall, and flops to the floor sadly. 

—

Luke ends up revisiting Calum’s story that night. 

—

Ivan Pavlov was a neuropsychologist known famously for his ‘Classical Conditioning’ experiments with dogs, where he taught them to salivate at the sound of a bell. 

Luke vaguely remembers the specifics of that experiment as he walks into the Studio and stops in his tracks at the sight of Calum, who smiles, all sunshine and rainbows, and says, “Hey, Luke. You look good.” 

So, as it turns out, spending every night of the past ten days listening to your best friend grunt and whisper and murmur and moan into your ear can cause involuntary bodily reactions. 

Luke spins on his heel and walks out. 

He ignores Calum’s calls of his name on his way out. 

He takes care of the situation in his pants with Calum’s voice blaring in his earphones. 

It’s hell. Or purgatory. Whichever is worse. 

—

It’s a problem. Obviously. 

Because Luke can’t stop fucking listening. It’s like a high, hearing Calum say his name that way, in all those recordings. Time stretches and folds, and Luke starts thinking in terms of ‘how much longer till I can go home and put my earphones in?’ 

And he’s thinking of Calum’s face, his hands, his lips, his fucking dick. 

And that’s new. Thinking of Calum’s dick. How it looks when he’s hard. How it would feel, how it would taste. Except Luke always cuts that train of thought off before he pops a vein or loses the ability to see out of one of his eyes or something. 

Through it all, he speaks to Calum just once, on the phone. 

It had been an accident, okay? He’d just gotten off the phone with his mom, and when the phone rang he had thought Mom was calling again for something, so he picked up without looking. 

“Hello? Luke?” Came Calum’s voice, and Luke had the split-second thought of ‘did I accidentally open Wren?’ 

But then he checks his screen and it’s Calum’s caller ID and Luke’s blood is frozen in his veins.

“Um,” Luke says, then clears his throat when his voice cracks. “Hi, Calum.” 

Calum exhales, and Luke can hear a touch of concern, a touch of relief in just that sound as it crackles over his phone. “Hey, mate. You doin’ okay?” 

Luke nods. Then, realizing Calum can’t see him, he says, “Yeah. W—uh, why?” 

Calum is silent for a moment. “Okay, good.” 

(“Good boy. So eager to please, aren’t you?”)

Luke clears his throat loudly. Then coughs when he chokes on a mouthful of air. 

“You’re sick?” Calum’s voice comes through, laden with concern. God, this—this method of communication with Calum is really, really bad for Luke’s sanity. He needs to get off his call, because his cock is stirring in his sweats. 

“Yeah,” Luke lies. “Drinking lots of tea. Um. Vocal rest too. So I should probably…not be on call.” 

Calum goes quiet. Luke’s heart wrenches as the silence stretches and stretches. He’s a terrible friend, isn’t he? A terrible friend and a terrible, perverted person. Oh, god. 

“Okay,” Calum says. His voice is small, defeated. Luke’s heart wrenches. “I’ll let the guys know. See you at the studio soon. I…I hope.” 

Luke purses his lips. His chest feels heavy. 

“Bye, Calum,” Luke manages. He hopes Calum can hear how sorry he is. 

A pause. 

“Bye, Luke,” comes the reply. Luke goes to disconnect the call.

Just as Luke pulls the phone away, a muffled, “I miss you. Get well soon.” 

And then the screen goes blank. 

—

Calum went to the aquarium last night. 

Luke knows this because when he turns his phone on in the morning, shamefully closing the Wren tab from last night, there’s a new text message waiting for him. 

[New Message] 

Calum 

This reminded me of you

Attachment: Video

Something warm blooms under Luke’s ribs. He folds his legs under him, drawing his blanket further up his body as he bites his lip. 

It takes him a moment to build the courage to open the video.

It’s an oceanarium tank. 

A wall of blue, sunlight dancing through the surface of the water, far above. Colourful ecosystems litter the sandy bed of the tank. Just out of frame, Luke catches sight of a gorgeous manta ray. His breath catches in his throat. 

Calum’s camera finds a school of fish as they flit past the front of the tank. They’re beautiful creatures, glimmering shades of silver and blue and green as they swim by. They seem to glow under the sunlight filtering through the water. It looks peaceful. 

The clip cuts off just there. 

Luke watches it over and over. Looks over the frame, for every little creature. Maybe for a glimpse of Calum in the reflection of the glass. 

This reminded me of you. 

When Luke finally manages to get out of bed, it’s because his doorcam has been going off for the past five minutes. 

He pulls on his robe and power-walks to his door, pulls it open with a frustrated tick in his jaw. 

There’s a takeaway tray of some…warm drink and a to-go bag on his doorstep. 

His heartbeat spikes. 

He steps past it and glances around, but his porch is deserted, and as is the street beyond. His front gate is closed too, so whoever dropped this off is a familiar, because—how else would they know the passkey? 

Warily, he picks up the bag and looks inside. 

Warm danishes. A note, folded up. 

Inside, in Calum’s neat handwriting: 

Ginger tea for your throat. Drink it while it’s hot. 

Baked goods because ginger tea tastes disgusting. 

Feel better :)

Luke folds up the note again and holds it to his chest, breathing deeply. There’s a sticky-sweet feeling in his throat, climbing up to curl around his tongue, like honey, fresh fruit.  He’s so warm, it’s like his bones are emitting a heat of their own. And Calum’s name is on his lips like a prayer. 

Standing there, barefoot on his own front porch while herbal tea cools on his doormat, Luke thinks he might be in love. 

Because Calum dropped this off on the way to the studio. And Luke’s house is not on the way there, but in the opposite direction. 

Calum came all the way to drop this off for Luke. 

Oh, Luke thinks. I’m in trouble. 

—

Two days later, the next episode releases, and Luke almost walks out of a grocery store mid-checkout when he receives the Wren notification. 

He listens to it that evening. And when he’s hard even before Calum’s completed the first line of the script, barely fifteen seconds in, he realizes he probably needs to do something about his situation.

So he calls Ashton and Michael over. 

“You’re telling me you Pavlov’d yourself into getting hard at the sound of his voice?” Ashton asks incredulously, cocking his head to the side, and Luke’s face flares hot and red. Behind Ashton, Michael’s leaning against the wall, clutching his belly as he laughs. 

“Stop fucking laughing at me,” Luke snaps at him, who only laughs harder. 

He looks back at Ashton. “This is your fault, by the way.” 

Michael straightens, wiping a tear. Luke has the urge to throw something at him. 

“How the fuck is this on us?” Ashton frowns, though his eyes are alight with humour. 

“If you’d just—if you’d just told me,” Luke says, and then he’s pacing up and down his living room, running his hands through his hair. “I wouldn’t have found out this way and then I wouldn’t be in this situation and—” 

“It’s not either of our faults that you’re a twisted pervert, mate,” Michael cuts in, voice high with laughter still. 

Luke’s flushed so red he might explode. “I’m not a pervert.” 

“You Pavlov’d yourself into getting horny at the sound of—” “I know that,” Luke bites out. “Help me.” 

Michael and Ashton stare at him blankly. Luke looks between them, pleading with his eyes because—this can’t go on for much longer. Calum’s going to start thinking Luke hates him. 

“He already does,” Ashton offers. Luke groans and buries his face in his hands. 

“If only he knew it was the opposite," Michael sounds far too smug. “That his stupid pervert best friend fantasizes about him and his voice and his…I don’t know. His hands? What do you think about, Lukey?”  

“Just kill me,” Luke says, muffled through his fingers. “I’m ready. I can take it.” 

Ashton sighs through his nose. Luke can tell he’s sharing some sort of look with Michael because the room is suddenly quiet. 

“Alright, mate,” Ashton says. “Y’know the deal with Pavlov and his dogs?” 

Luke looks up, drained altogether. “What the fuck does that have to do with—” 

“You noticed how Calum was acting weird around you a while ago, didn’t you?” Michael leans forward, gleeful. “When he couldn’t say your name properly and whatnot?” 

Luke nods, kind of confused as to where this is going.

Ashton says, “Classical Conditioning works both ways. Pavlov played into his own trap, mate.” 

“I bet he spent the rest of his life hearing doorbells and thinking he’s gotta go feed the dogs,” Michael grins. 

Luke squints at them. “Stop speaking in code.” 

Ashton’s laughing to himself now. “Luke,” he says. “Calum says your name while he’s saying all that horned-up bullshit.” 

“You know what that means?” Michael prompts. Luke doesn’t. He really does not know what the fuck that means. And he tells them so. 

“It means that while you’re busy perving out to his voice, Calum can’t say your name without thinking of the shit he’s said along with it,” Michael says. “Luke, he’s getting turned on just by saying your name.” 

Luke blinks. 

Oh, okay. Right. 

So. 

“I’m—” Luke starts, then stops, because he really can’t string together a sentence when his brain feels like it just short circuited his entire system.

Michael and Ashton are wearing shit-eating grins. Luke’s knees are like Jell-O. 

“I feel sick,” he says flatly. 

Ashton arches a brow. “Oh?” 

“I’m going to throw up,” Luke says. “And then I’m going to take a nap.” 

“Sweet dreams,” Michael sings, but Luke’s already disappearing into his bedroom. 

—

Luke wakes up early the next morning and calls in sick from their studio session. 

It’s his second consecutive week pulling out of work, so he calls Michael up to wrangle him into making a strong excuse for Luke. 

“You’re sick?” Michael asks, theatrically. Luke’s brows draw together. 

“Um…yeah?” 

Michael gasps, loud and dramatic. “That’s crazy. Second week in a row?” 

Luke rolls his eyes as Michael goes on. He pulls open his fridge and locates a bottle of orange juice. “Tsk, tsk, Luke,” Michael says. “You need to take better care of yourself, you know?” “Stop being weird,” Luke says, setting his phone aside on speaker as he pours the juice into a glass. 

“Weird?” Michael asks, faux-offended. He hears Ashton giggle in the background. “Why, I’m just looking out for you. In fact, all of us are.” Luke pauses. “All of you?” 

Far too self-satisfied and smug, Michael says, “Yeah, all of us.” Luke’s doorbell rings. 

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. He’s really not in the mood to deal with Michael and Ashton’s bullshit today. 

“Michael,” Luke starts carefully. “Please tell me you’re not outside my door.” 

“Me?” Michael replies, and Luke can practically hear his grin. “Oh, no, I’m not.” 

Luke relaxes. He downs his glass, then traipses past his kitchen island towards his front door.

“Calum is, though.” 

Luke freezes. 

He makes a noise akin to a wet cough. Or a seal choking on frozen fish. Something like that. 

He brings his phone to his face. 

“What?” he hisses. 

Michael only cackles. “Have fun!” 

And then the line disconnects, and Luke’s left standing alone, six feet away from his door, heart racing in his throat. 

The bell rings again. 

Luke thinks he could make a run for it, sneak out through his back door, but then—

“Luke?” Calum’s voice is muffled through the door. “I know you’re in there. Just—wanted to check in.” 

Luke stares at his door, hoping that if he stays still long enough, it’ll eat Calum or something. 

Calum rings the doorbell again. 

Oh, fuck it. 

Luke strides forward and opens the door. 

Calum looks—Calum looks good. He’s holding a paper bag of something (probably soup, because he knows Luke wouldn’t be eating if he was sick for real), his glasses lopsided on his nose as he gives Luke a once-over. Luke watches his lips part in slow-motion, like an out of body experience. He pales. 

Luke scrambles to speak. “What are you doing here?”

“You…you don’t look good,” Calum says, wearing a worried pout. He’s so fucking cute, Christ. 

Luke has to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth. “Thanks,” he croaks. “You look—great.” 

Calum bites his lip, tilts his head like he’s scrutinizing Luke. He really does look great, shirt stretched tight around his chest, trousers low on his narrow hips, sunlight dancing through his bleached hair like licks of flame. 

“Luke—” he starts, and immediately Luke’s traitorous mind takes a headfirst dive into the gutter. Calum’s voice in all those recordings flash through his mind, and it takes everything in Luke not to let out a nervous whine. 

Calum pauses. He frowns, trying to read his expression. 

Luke can’t fully meet his eyes. He tries to shake Wren-Calum’s voice out of his head and folds his arms, posture tense. 

And when he shifts his weight, clears his throat, glances off to the side like a guilty dog, Calum makes a pained little noise in the back of his throat. 

“You listened,” Calum says, breathless. “You listened, didn’t you? Shit, you listened, oh god. Fuck, okay, I’ll just—”

Luke’s flushing hot all the way down to his toes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you said not to but—” 

“ —I swear, it’s not how you think, I could’ve asked them to change the script—” 

“ —I don’t know how it happened but I got off to it and I’m sorry—” 

“ —and I even…wait, what?” 

Hold on. 

Luke caught something there too. He’d be shaking with embarrassment just now if it wasn’t for…”You could’ve asked them to change the script?” 

Calum narrows his eyes. He licks his plump lips, wary. “Wait, Luke, you said—” “Later!” Luke interrupts, voice pitched up. His cheeks are burning but…he needs to know. He needs to know. “You could’ve asked them to change the script?” 

Calum is silent. Like, dead quiet. His throat bobs. “Yeah, I could’ve.” 

Luke grips the doorframe. His knuckles turn white with the force of it. God, please let this be—

“Why didn’t you ask to change it?” Luke asks. Small. Hopeful. 

Calum’s gaze flits to the ground. He takes a deep breath, then takes a step further up the porch. Luke doesn’t back away. 

“Because I didn’t want to,” Calum says. 

Luke holds Calum’s gaze. He’s wearing a tinge of red upon his cheeks, wonderful honeyed skin growing warmer and warmer under Luke’s eyes. 

“Are you upset?” Calum asks. 

“Why would I be upset?” Luke shoots back, and Calum looks away. 

“I just…I know it put you in a weird spot, and I know the optics—and you, uh. You avoided me for a while and I thought you were pissed off, and, like…all things considered, if you want some time apart—” 

“What?” Luke cuts in. “What? No. Calum, I—” 

Calum continues rambling. “No, I…I get it, I should’ve asked, or…cross-checked, or…” 

Luke tunes him out, because his pretty face is flushed a gorgeous pink, and he’s shrinking into himself and—watching this 6-foot-something man try to make himself smaller as he fidgets with his fingers and rubs at his forearm just does something absolutely irreversible to Luke’s psyche. 

“Calum,” Luke interrupts.

Calum pauses. Big, wet, brown eyes shifting to meet Luke’s own. “Yeah?” 

“Shut up.”

And then Luke’s reaching out to pull Calum in by the front of his shirt, and Calum lets himself be drawn in like gravity—even though he stumbles a little—and then Luke’s lips are on his. 

It’s messy. Not in a charged, wet and desperate way, but like a shaky exhale, a whimper, like finally. Calum’s lips are sweet against his own, hands moving to pull him in further by his waist. The soup-bag slips from his hands as Luke sighs into him, and Calum takes it as an invitation to lick into his mouth. It feels like electricity, like the tide coming in with a roar. 

He backs Luke into the house, then against the door as soon as it clicks shut behind them. The realization of I’m kissing Calum and Calum’s kissing me back and is that a remote in his pocket shoots around his skull, dizzying and frantic with the buzz of desire thrumming under his skin. 

Calum pulls away first. Luke chases his lips, until he realizes Calum isn’t about to step back. They breathe against each other, until Luke opens his eyes to find Calum already looking at him, the warm brown of his eyes swallowed by black. There’s a pretty pink flush high on his cheeks, and Luke’s probably worse. 

“You said—” Calum starts, then stops to catch his breath. Luke laughs, and Calum smiles. Until Calum’s hand is sliding under Luke’s shirt and along the hem of his sweats. 

“You said you got off to the recordings,” Calum murmurs, grinning. He presses a kiss at the corner of Luke’s lip when Luke tries to turn away and hide his face, groaning. 

“Look at me, Luke,” Calum says, and heat shoots through Luke at his words. It’s insane, having Calum speak into his ears for real this time. Just for Luke to hear. Calum cups his jaw to guide Luke to meet his eye. “You like the sound of my voice?” 

Luke turns his face, cheekily nips Calum’s palm. “You like saying my name.” 

“I’ve always liked saying your name,” Calum admits. Luke grows impossibly warmer still. 

He trails his hand down Calum’s chest, down his torso, to cup him through his trousers. He squeezes a little, and Calum hisses. 

“So you said it for the whole world to hear?” Luke chides. He rubs Calum through the fabric.

Calum drops his head into Luke’s neck as he shudders at the stimulation. “Thought of you the whole time, though.” 

Luke laughs into Calum’s skin, and then he’s dragging Calum towards his bedroom, where his bed is still undone, sheets soft with sleep. Calum kisses him in the doorway to the room, pressing him up against the wall again, and his fingers move over Luke’s skin like he’s something precious and delicate. 

“Say my name,” Luke gasps as Calum paints hickeys along his neck, backs him towards his bed. Calum chuckles, a low and throaty sound. 

“Luke,” he says. “Luke, Luke—you’re so beautiful. I can’t believe this is real.” 

Luke flushes a hot pink, lets Calum grip his hips, lets Calum hold him in place with those hands he’s spent hours thinking of while he strips Luke of his trousers. Luke falls back onto his sheets, and Calum’s towering over him as he pulls his shirt over his head, and Luke wants to lick every inch of wonderful skin that comes into view. 

“Fuck,” Luke says, breath catching. 

Calum’s grinning as he crawls over him, big hand sliding under Luke’s shirt to push it up and out of the way. His lips close around one of Luke’s nipples, and Luke moans loud enough to alert the neighbours. 

And then Calum’s free hand is sliding along the hem of his boxers, and Luke’s head is tipping back and he’s whining into the pillows. 

“Demanding,” Calum tsks. “So greedy for it, aren’t you?” 

Luke tugs his shirt off altogether, heart stuttering under his ribs. “D-don’t—” 

“Can I try something?” Calum asks suddenly, and the sunlight from Luke’s window slopes across his features, and Luke thinks he’s looking at an angel. He nods. 

Calum’s off him, then, crossing the room to Luke’s closet. He swings open the doors and looks through the shelves, and the domesticity of it all has Luke’s chest aching.

“Okay,” Calum says, when he’s found what he’s looking for. He turns around and he’s got one of Luke’s ties balled up in his hand. 

“What are you doing with that?” Luke asks, even as his pulse skyrockets. 

“You trust me?” Calum asks, grinning a little lopsided, and Luke wants to kiss him again. And because he’s allowed to, now, he does. 

“Yeah.” 

Calum beams. “Can I blindfold you?” 

Luke’s stomach swoops with arousal. “Can you what—?” 

“I want you to focus on the sound of my voice,” Calum says, voice dropping. Something warm shoots through Luke’s chest. “And the feeling of my hands on your skin.” 

Luke scoots up towards the headboard, folding his legs under himself. His skin burns with embarrassment. “Don’t use that voice on me.” 

Calum climbs atop the bed to kneel before him. He presses a chaste kiss to Luke’s lips, even as he smiles. “Thought you liked it?” 

“Not when you’re using it to get your way.” 

“Might have to get used to it, then.” 

“I hate you,” Luke tells him. He takes a moment of silent consideration, and Calum sits there patiently, smoothing his palm along Luke’s bare thigh. 

“Okay,” Luke says finally. “Blindfold me. But I want your fingers inside me now.” 

Calum snorts a laugh. Luke is painfully endeared. “Poetic.” 

“I’m a wordsmith.”

Calum shakes his head, fond, as he unrolls the necktie. He waits for Luke to meet his eyes, to nod yes, until he’s bringing the cloth up to his eyes. 

As soon as his vision cuts out, Luke understands what Calum meant. Not having the ease of his sight, all his other senses are magnified tenfold. He can hear his heart in his throat, but he can also hear every little shift that Calum makes atop the sheets, every shaky exhale. 

“How’s that feel?” Calum asks. Luke jumps, because his voice was closer than he’d anticipated. Calum chuckles at his reaction. The sound goes straight to his dick. 

Luke gulps. “Good.” “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, baby,” Calum smiles, and Luke can’t breathe. Baby. Baby. 

“Lie back now, Luke,” Calum tells him, and Luke’s shaking with anticipation already, blood thrumming with too much adrenaline to string together a sentence. He complies easily. 

When Calum’s hand finds place on Luke’s thigh again, he startles. Goosebumps arise under Calum’s touch. Luke can barely breathe with how turned on he is. 

He feels the bed shift. Calum’s hands reappear at the waistline of his boxers.

“Can I?” Calum asks, and Luke can feel his breath fanning his lower-belly. He nods. 

There’s a low ‘fuck,’ in the silence that follows as Calum drags Luke’s boxers down his legs and off. Luke preens at the sound—at knowing he has the same effect on Calum that Calum has on him. 

“Here’s what's going to happen, baby,” Calum murmurs, and Luke knows he’s sitting on the bed still, but his hands aren’t on Luke anymore. “Pay attention, now.” Luke swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth. Calum continues. 

“You’re going to touch yourself.” Luke’s breath hitches. “You’re going to show me what you did all alone in your room, with my voice in your ears.”

Luke rushes to comply. His hand flies to his cock, hard and leaking between his legs, but Calum clicks his tongue. 

“Not just yet,” Calum teases. Luke whimpers, a broken and desperate sound. “Play with your chest.” 

Luke bites his lip. He’s slower with his movements this time around, waiting for Calum's instruction. When nothing comes, he passes his fingers over his chest. 

The stimulation is delicious—Luke’s always had sensitive nipples, but having Calum watch him now is an incredible high. 

He pinches one of his nipples gently, and bites his lip to keep from moaning. 

“How do you feel?” Calum asks. 

Luke exhales sharply. “Naked,” he says. “So fucking naked. And…warm. ‘S good.” 

“Yeah? Your hands feel good?” 

Luke nods. “But…yours would be—” “Don’t think you’re in much position to be making demands, baby.” 

Luke’s mouth snaps shut immediately. Calum laughs, and Luke shivers. 

“Keep going,” Calum tells him, so Luke rolls his nipples in his fingers, pinching and playing until he’s sure they’re red with use. His hands wander south, back arching. He squeezes his thighs together. 

“More?” Calum prompts. Luke moans just at the sound of his voice. 

“M-more. Please.” 

Calum hums. Luke expects Calum to touch him now, but when the feeling of his hands doesn’t come, he furrows his brows. He opens his mouth today something, but—

“Patience, Luke,” Calum says. 

Luke pouts. “I want—” “I know.” 

Reluctantly, Luke’s hands skirt around his erection. He trails his fingers across his skin, over his thighs. Arches his back and moans because he knows Calum’s watching. 

“So pretty, aren’t you?” Calum mutters. “Do you like it when I tell you what to do?” Luke nods urgently. His fingers press into his flesh. God, he wants to touch himself so badly. 

“Yeah?” Luke can hear Calum’s grin. His fingertips ghost along Luke’s hip. Luke tries to arch into the touch, but it disappears as quickly as it had arrived. “Spread your legs wider for me, Luke.” 

Fuck. 

Luke’s lips fall open and he moans like he’s dying for it. He hears Calum’s sharp intake of breath. Obediently, he parts his legs and waits. 

“Touch yourself,” Calum says, voice dripping with arousal. A rough, restrained sound. “Tell me what you thought about.” 

Immediately, Luke wraps his hand around himself and moans hotly. He pumps himself slowly, and it’s like his palm is burning. All his skin feels like it’s on fire, really, under Calum’s gaze. The blindfold makes everything feel sharper. He can’t run from the sensation.

“Calum,” he gasps. “Please—touch me?” 

“Talk to me, baby,” Calum urges instead.

 Luke bites his lip. 

“Your hands,” Luke manages. He licks his palm to wet it, and Calum moans lowly at the sight. He brings his hand back to his dick, twists his wrist on every upward stroke. “Thought about your hands…touched myself how you described in—the story.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes—hah,” Luke gasps. “You’ve—got such long fingers…thought about how they’d feel inside me…” “Fuck,” Calum groans, and the sound is so jarring that Luke has to squeeze himself at the base to keep from finishing on the spot. His back arches off the bed. 

“I pictured…being on m’knees f’you. Felt the weight of you on my tongue.” 

Then Calum’s hand wraps around Luke’s own on his cock, and he’s guiding Luke to jerk himself off in quick, rushed strokes. 

“Calum,” Luke gasps. “Ah, ah, Calum, I—” 

“Thought this is what you wanted?” 

Luke tries to loosen his grip, but Calum’s hands are larger than his own, and his hold is strong, and it’s beginning to ache a little bit. Luke turns his head to the side, shakes his head, tries to say something—

“What’s wrong?” Calum mocks, and the sudden switch-up has Luke struggling to get his bearings. “Too much? C’mon, gorgeous, we’re barely getting started.” 

“Cal—” “No more of that,” Calum says. “Go on, take it like a good boy f’me.” 

He’s shifting across the mattress then, settling between Luke’s legs. There’s tears gathering along Luke’s eyelashes already, but he doesn’t want to wet the necktie, doesn’t want Calum to know. 

Calum’s hold disappears around Luke’s on his cock. Sharply, he says, “Don’t stop, or I won’t let you finish at all.” 

Luke gasps, but obediently keeps stroking himself, albeit with a looser grip. If Calum notices, he doesn’t say anything. He slaps the outside of Luke’s thigh. “Open,” he orders.

Luke tries to spread his legs, but his muscles feel like jelly. Calum tsks, and anxiety spikes through Luke at the thought of disappointing him. 

“Wider,” Calum says, impatient. Luke complies, never stopping the movement of his hand. He moans as he feels his orgasm draw closer. 

A moment of silence, then—its like Luke can hear the sadistic twist in Calum’s lips. 

“Wider,” he snaps. He presses his hands to the inside of Luke’s knees and spreads him open still, until the burn nestles in the joints of his thighs, until Luke feels disgustingly exposed, all spread out for Calum, unable to hide. 

His cock twitches in his grip. He tries not to sob with it. 

Calum’s touch disappears. Luke hears a rustle, then a soft pop!, and then Calum’s finger, coated with lube, is prodding at his hole. He whimpers from the cold. 

“Shh, shh,” Calum murmurs. “I know, baby.” 

He pushes Luke's hand away from his cock. Luke whines in disappointment, and the wave of pleasure ebbs away sadly, his orgasm leaving him abruptly. Calum laughs at him. Luke glows a hot red, then whines as Calum’s finger presses into him. 

Luke had damn near driven himself insane at the thought of Calum’s fingers. 

Opening up to take them feels like heaven. 

Luke gasps and grinds down against Calum’s hand, tips his head back and whines when Calum brushes his prostate, then spends the next five minutes intentionally avoiding it. Luke can feel Calum’s eyes on him as he takes another finger, then another, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut to keep the desperate tears from slipping out and soaking his blindfold. It’s probably the most erotic situation Luke’s ever been in—blind while his lover looks on, unable to predict where he’ll touch next. 

“God, Luke,” Calum mutters when his fingers twist just so and Luke writhes against the sheets. “You’re a fucking vision.” Luke curls into himself at that. Tries to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. So he fists his hands in the bedsheets and holds on. 

And Calum’s cruel with it, with how he dances around where Luke really needs him, how he kisses and nips at his hips and thighs. 

“No more,” Luke gasps, when he thinks he might die just from being fingered. “N-no more, please, Calum—I can’t wait any longer, please.” 

Luke feels Calum’s fingers still inside him, and then there’s warm lips pressed to his own. Luke’s hands fly to cradle Calum’s face, to hold him closer, closer, slip his tongue into Calum’s mouth and run it along his teeth like he’s memorizing the shape of him.

Calum pulls away all too soon, and Luke slides further down the bedsheets because he knows this part, knows what comes next. 

"How do you want it?” Calum asks breathlessly, kissing down his neck, nipping at the skin long enough to paint a mark. 

Luke gasps a soft laugh. “Any way you’ll give it to me.” Calum groans, like he’s in pain. “God, Luke,” he says. “You’ll be the death of me.” 

And his hands are on Luke’s hips, grip bruising, and Luke’s exhaling, preparing himself, and Calum lines himself up—and Luke gasps like he’s been shocked. “Wait.” 

Calum freezes. “What’s wrong?” 

“I want to see you,” Luke says, reaching blindly for Calum’s hands, intertwining their fingers when Calum meets him there. “I want to see.” 

Calum huffs a fond laugh, then his fingers are wrapping around Luke’s blindfold, and the light meets his eyes like a flash of lightning.

The sight before him—oh, god. Luke will remember this forever. Calum, sitting between his legs, pumping himself slowly. Cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with desire. He licks his lips and grins when he meets Luke’s gaze. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” He cocks his head to the side. “Still with me?” 

Luke nods, and then he’s pulling Calum in by the shoulders. He lets himself spill all his whines and gasps into Calum’s ear as Calum presses into him, as Luke opens up inch by inch for his cock. Through the rush of mind-numbing pleasure, he registers Calum leaving a pleased kiss to his shoulder. 

“Okay?” He murmurs into the space between them. 

“You feel so good,” Luke smiles, eyes falling shut. 

“Yeah? Better than the recordings?” 

“Haven’t decided yet,” Luke teases, moaning low as Calum shifts, and begins moving. “Say my name again.” 

And Calum pulls all the way out, then pushes back in like he’s slotting home. 

“You take it so good, Luke,” Calum says deliberately, and Luke tips his head back against the pillows. “So fucking perfect. Look so pretty.” 

Calum sets a deep, slow rhythm with his hips, and Luke sighs with it, hands slipping on Calum’s skin where he’s trying to paint every divot into memory. 

Calum keeps it steady, slotting himself inside fully with each stroke, and he holds it that way until Luke’s writhing against the sheets, arching into his chest, little peas slipping past his lips. 

“Talk to me, baby,” Calum says, and the hitch in his breath betrays how much he wants this too, how badly he wants to pin Luke to the sheets and fuck him into the mattress. Instead, he nips at Luke’s earlobe and smiles. “How’s it feel?” 

Luke blinks through the haze of pleasure. “Feels—so good. So…” 

“Yeah? This what you wanted?” 

“Yes,” Luke whines. “Yes—you’re so…it’s everything—I always thought…” 

“Wanted you for so long,” Calum murmurs, and their faces are so close, noses brushing as Calum moves, as Luke takes it like he’s made for it. “L-long before that fucking contract, Luke—you need to know. I should’ve done this years ago.” 

Luke cradles Calum’s face. Peppers kisses across his nose. “I didn’t—understand. Ah…I thought I was dreaming it all up. And then you went and moaned my name into a mic and—”

“It was for you,” Calum shakes his head. His skin is hot, slick with sweat as he rolls his hips against Luke. “Thought of you. The whole time, it was your face in my mind. Your name on my lips.” 

Luke laughs, and Calum hisses when Luke clenches around him with it. “Sorry it took me so long,” Luke says. “‘M sorry I didn’t meet you halfway.” 

“I have you here now,” Calum says. He leans in to kiss Luke again, lazy and sweet. When he pulls away, it’s like he’s glowing. “‘S more than I could’ve asked for.” 

Luke feels it then—his heart swelling, like sunlight, like warm honey. Calum, here, now. Like he’d always been. 

“I want—” Luke says, suddenly. “Closer. Please?” 

Luke nudges Calum, and he goes pliantly, until Calum’s sitting with his back to the headboard, Luke in his lap. Luke wraps his arms around Calum’s shoulders, smiles against his lips. They’re pressed chest-to-chest, Calum’s hands on Luke’s waist as they make out languidly, all while Luke bounces and grinds down. 

Luke rolls his hips fluidly, barely rising off Calum’s cock before he’s sitting back down to press him deep. It’s hot, and wet, and Luke can barely breathe because Calum’s hands are all over, and he can’t remember what it was like to not be wrapped up in Calum like this. 

“God, I want you like this, forever,” Calum says, when he breaks apart. “Want to take you apart on my fingers, leave you wanting for hours. Want my cock in your mouth. Want to tie you to the bed and fuck you till you my name’s all that’s left on your mind.” 

Luke moans in response, clenching down impossibly tight, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Calum’s neck. 

“Calum,” he breathes, and then Calum’s planting his feet on the mattress to fuck up into Luke with a purpose. Luke lifts his hips and whines when Calum bites down on his lower lip. There’s this feeling, like electricity coiling over his skin, shooting up and down his spine, and Luke leans forward, closer to Calum, like he’s trying to mould into him.

Luke’s cock rubs between them, wet against his abdomen, and it’s all he can do not to cry into Calum’s skin as he moans into his ear, begs for more, more, harder— 

“Luke,” Calum says. “Luke, Luke, I—”

“Gonna come,” Luke manages. “Gonna come, Calum, please, there, there—” “Give it to me, gorgeous,” Calum tells him, panting as he drives himself up with fervour. “Come for me, Luke. I’ve got you.” 

Come for me, Luke.

It’s an odd memory to think of, just then, as the air is punched out of Luke’s lungs. He comes with Calum’s name on his lips, all over again, thinking of how a few weeks ago he’d been on this bed all alone, still finishing to Calum’s voice. 

His thighs shake with the force of it, and Calum fucks him through it. Luke bites his lip to keep from crying out loud, holds on to Calum for dear life. Calum kisses him then, the vigour in his hips stuttering, and then he’s emptying himself inside Luke barely a moment later. 

Luke stays there, Calum softening inside him, as they catch their breath, and then—a Herculean effort—he slips off Calum’s lap and curls into the bedsheets. 

Calum cards his fingers through Luke’s hair. “Was that…how you imagined?” 

Luke hums, stifling a yawn. “I don’t know,” he jokes. “Say my name again.”

Calum laughs, and the sound is a melody that Luke wants to bottle and store away forever. He looks up at the man. Calum—his Calum, now. He’s the most beautiful thing Luke’s ever seen. 

“Luke,” Calum says, indulgent, and it curls in Luke’s gut like fire. 

“Again.” 

“Luke.” 

“Again.” 

—

They stay in bed all day, change the bedsheets around noon, then mess them up again when Calum spills salsa from the nachos they’d called in for dinner. 

The next morning, they fuck again, slow and sleepy as first light slips into his room. Luke, still open and wanting; Calum, still giving and giving. Luke presses his cheek to the sheets, moans low when Calum wraps a hand around his cock, and finishes with a gasp. 

Afterward, Luke curls into Calum’s side and drums his fingers to the beat of his heart. 

Luke’s phone rings, and he frowns, reaching blindly for the screen and swiping to pick up. 

Immediately, Michael’s face appears, Ashton smushed up beside him. It’s—shit, it’s a video call. 

“Oh, fuck,” Luke murmurs, angling the camera away, but it’s too late. There’s a dramatic gasp from the phone. 

“You FUCKED!” Michael yells, and it’s loud enough to startle Calum awake from where he’d been dozing off. 

Luke brings the phone to his face and goes, “Shh!” 

“This is what you’ve been skipping writing sessions for?” Michael continues, even though he’s grinning like a madman. “To sleep with our best friend? Luke hemmings, you slut, I—” There’s a short scuffle, and Michael’s face disappears from view. Luke can still hear him yelling in the background as Ashton smiles at the camera. 

“Congrats,” he grins. “Is he as good in bed as he is in his Wren story?” 

Calum snatches the phone from Luke, and Luke splutters. 

“Fuck off,” Calum tells them. 

Luke watches Ashton shift the camera as Michael drapes himself halfway over his lap. 

“Michael says he’s happy for you,” Ashton says. 

“No, I don’t,” Michael whines. “I want to write music. Get your ass out of bed and get to the studio.” 

Luke chuckles, and Calum’s arm smooths over his waist. 

“We’ll be there in an hour,” Calum sighs. He goes to disconnect the call, when— “Wait,” Michael says suddenly, eyes wide. “Does this mean you’ll sneak off to make out now?” 

Luke and Calum share a look. Yeah, they probably will. 

Michael picks up on it immediately, even through a pixelated video-call. 

“Ashton,” Michael says. Luke watches him sit up and look at Ashton. “We can’t let them one-up us.”

Silence. 

Ashton clears his throat awkwardly. The camera moves again, and Luke laughs when he sees Ashton’s cheeks are red. 

“You wanna make out?” Michael asks seriously. 

“Um,” Ashton says, and his voice cracks. A pause. Then, “Okay?” 

Calum sits straight up, jostling Luke. “What?” 

Luke follows him up just in time to see Michael cheekily pluck the phone out of Ashton’s hand. 

“Mind your own business,” he grins. His eyes glimmer in excitement. “See you soon. Knock before you enter—for your own sake. Bye!” 

The line disconnects. 

In the quiet that follows, Luke laughs incredulously. Calum looks at him, eyes wide in amusement and confusion and—Luke can’t stop laughing. A smile, like the sun breaking through the clouds, spreads over Calum’s face, and then they’re both snorting into their hands. 

Afterwards, Luke heaves a sigh and falls back against the sheets. “Coffee?” he asks Calum. 

Calum smiles, because he knows Luke won’t be the one to go make it. 

“I’ll get some,” he says. He slips out of bed, pressing a kiss to Luke’s shoulder. Luke watches him go, shamelessly checking him out just because he can. 

Before he reaches the door, Luke calls his name. Calum turns, and Luke stretches like a cat, sprawled on his stomach, letting the sunlight catch the curve of his spine. He looks at Calum through his lashes. 

“When does the next episode come out?” 

—

[New message] NOT A Boyband!!!

Michael: 

EMERGENCY 

EVERYBODY COME OVER RIGHT NOW 

CODE RED CODE RED THIS IS NOT A DRILL 

Ashton:

?? 

Luke: 

what’s going on???

Predictably, Luke gets left on read. It’s probably the most ominous message he’s received since all the way back when the fucking Rolling Stones article came out. 

It’s an anxious twenty-minute drive to Michael’s place, especially because the noon traffic suddenly seems to grow a vendetta against him. He keeps checking his phone for more messages on their groupchat, but there’s nothing. Luke pointedly notes Calum’s lack of reply. 

When he arrives at Michael’s apartment, it’s with a grandiose slam of the door, loud enough that the hinges rattle. He looks frantically over the living room. 

Calum’s slumped against the corner of the couch, blushing furiously as he avoids eye contact. For a moment, Luke’s heart drops. He visualizes a repeat of the horrible Snapchat Leak incident. But then Michael’s pacing up and down, phone in hand, practically vibrating with excitement, and Luke thinks it really can’t be that bad if Michael looks fucking ecstatic. 

He gasps when he spots Luke. “Oh, good!” he says. “Sit! Sit, sit, sit, sit—” “What’s going on?” Luke presses, shoving his car keys into his trousers as he falls into the armchair across Calum, who’s still dreadfully silent. 

“Wait for Ashton,” Michael says in lieu of reply. Luke frowns.

“Calum?” Luke prompts, turning to face the man in question. “Calum, what—” “I have coffee and alcohol!” Ashton bursts through the door, a tray of takeout coffee in one hand, and a bottle of tequila in the other. “Which one do we need?”

“Marry me,” Michael says, as he skips over the couch to fall into Ashton’s arms. Ashton catches him, but just barely. The coffee tray tips at a dangerous angle. 

“Don’t you ever lock your door?” Ashton asks. 

“Hug me back, asshole.” “Michael,” Luke cuts in. “What happened? Why’d you call a Code Red?” 

Michael straightens. He clears his throat dramatically, and Luke immediately knows he’s in for some serious bullshit. 

“So,” Michael starts, and he folds his hands behind his back. Ashton sets his goodies down on a table by the threshold, slipping into the room to splay across the centre of the couch. 

“I was on Twitter this morning, as one does,” Michael continues. “And I happened to come across the trends page. As one does.” 

Luke isn’t following. By the look on Ashton’s face, he isn’t either. 

“How’s that—” 

“Now,” Michael raises his voice to speak over Luke. “I’m sure we all remember our dear friend and video-blogger Tara—alias Tarayummy.” 

Pointedly, he looks at all three of them, one by one. Calum looks up, frowning. He’s wearing a pretty pout. Luke doesn’t linger too long. 

Calum says, “Mikey, it isn’t even—” 

“No, shush,” Michael says. “So anyway, like I was saying. Tarayummy recently dropped a wonderful video prank calling all her friends.” 

Ashton sits up. “Uh, what’s this got to do with—” 

“You’d find out if you stopped interrupting me for two seconds, holy shit,” Michael groans. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, exasperated. Then seems to give up on his dramatics. “Okay, she called Calum in the video, and somebody clipped that part of the video and put it on Twitter, and I woke up to nearly a million tweets about how hot Calum’s voice is. Jeez, you guys are no fun.” 

Luke blinks. 

The room devolves into silence as Ashton and Luke process what Michael said. Calum’s looking away, staring at a vase in the far corner of the room, arms crossed. 

“Hold on,” Ashton says. Already his voice is tinged with amusement. “What?” 

Michael grins like a kid on Christmas day. He opens his phone, begins scrolling through what Luke presumes is his Twitter feed. He clears his throat. 

“‘He sounds so sexy, I need to go eat the entirety of my front lawn,’” Michael reads. He sounds elated. Ashton barks a laugh, and Calum shifts uncomfortably. 

“‘Who is he and why is his voice doing something to me right now,’” Michael continues. “Someone else said—and wait for this one, guys—‘this video just got me pregnant with twins and they’re both named after their father, Calum Hood Voice Clip.’” 

“Mate,” Ashton says, reaching across to pat Calum on the thigh. “You’re viral for being hot. Again.” 

Michael goes on scrolling. “‘I’ve been playing this video on loop all day and I’m so fucking horny—’”

“Okay!” Calum cuts in. 

Luke laughs along. It’s an amusing situation, of course. To go viral for your voice is certainly…it’s not something Luke would’ve thought would happen to any of them. He watches Ashton giggle along to all the thirst tweets Michael reads off his phone. 

It’s slightly absurd, Luke thinks, for Michael to have called them over with such urgency only so they could partake in making fun of Calum. Dutifully, the man in question rolls his eyes and crosses his arms and huffs as they mock him. 

Later, when they’ve opened Ashton’s tequila bottle and agreed on day-drinking, Luke logs on to his Twitter dummy account. He doesn’t really know how to navigate the app because he hasn’t used it in so long, and it takes a few clumsy tries before he switches to the trends tab and finds that Calum is still trending. 

And then his fingers are slipping over the screen, and he stands in the middle of Michael’s kitchen, mortified, because the fucking video clip is blaring on full volume through his phone speakers. 

Ashton, Calum, and Michael stop from where they’re pouring their fifth round of shots, and turn to stare—Michael, with a barely concealed grin, like a Cheshire cat. Luke wants the ground to open up under his feet and swallow him whole. 

Luke scrambles to shut the app, mentally vowing never to open it again, but it’s too late. They’ve caught him in the act. 

His mind scurries for an excuse to make, until— 

“Actually,” Ashton says. “I haven’t seen the video yet. Can you play the clip properly, mate?” 

God bless you, Ashton Irwin. 

Calum flails. “Uh, you can listen to it la—” 

“No,” Michael says, grinning wider still. It’s almost creepy. Luke inches away from him. 

“Let's listen to it now,” he continues. “Lukey’s got it open too. I’m sure he’s curious.” 

There’s a pointed undercurrent of something to Michael’s words, and it makes Luke want to hurl something at his stupid pinstriped blond head. But Ashton’s looking at Luke like he’s waiting for him to play the godforsaken clip, so Luke breaks his vow to never open Twitter again, and switches back to the trends tab. Finds the video, unmutes, presses play. 

And immediately understands why someone would get turned on at the sound of Calum’s voice. 

They sit through the whole two minutes of runtime, Calum turning progressively redder. Ashton giggles into his drink, Michael watches for Luke’s reaction, and Luke puts on his best poker face. 

Later, when the sun is purpling below the horizon and they’re dizzy with alcohol, Michael calls them all Ubers to take them home. 

Luke drops into the back seat of his Uber, shoves his headphones on, and pulls up the video clip. He plays it on loop for the whole twenty minute ride back home. 

—

They thought the hype would die down. Luke assumed they’d get some traction, gain a few more fans, and then they’d fade back into obscurity like usual. 

Ben, their manager, always preaches the same ‘all publicity is good publicity’ bullshit, so Luke wasn’t too surprised when their PR team wanted them to ride the wave of attention. They posted a few tiktoks, each with Calum’s voiceovers, and Luke did not listen to them as he fell asleep, thank you very much.

All in all, the older fans were happy at the prospect of more content, and the newer fans were happy at the prospect of Calum’s voice. In the scheme of things, as they geared up for their next album cycle, things were looking good. 

That is, until Luke wakes up one day to a message on their group chat with their management team.

[New Message] 5SOS Management  

Ben Evans 

Conference today at 4 p.m. Attendance is expected from all! 

This is regarding Calum and our current PR campaign surrounding him. 

Ashton 

👍

Michael 

👍

Luke 

👍

Luke doesn’t hear from Calum until the conference that evening. Luke’s one of the last people to show up, and he enters the air conditioned conference hall with his head bowed sheepishly. He takes a seat beside Ashton, who nudges a coffee cup into his hand. Michael leans across from his seat on Ashton’s other side. 

“It’s got vodka,” Michael stage-whispers. “You’ll need it.” 

Luke scrunches his nose. And then he spots Caum, sitting closer to the head of the table. He’s flushed bright red, and Luke’s beginning to grow accustomed to this image. Ben’s beside him, whispering urgently into his ear as he shuffles through a pile of sheets. 

Luke feels a pang of pity for his friend. Calum never asked to blow up, extremely attractive voice or not. 

At a quarter past 4, Ben stands.

“Alright,” he says. Calum shrinks further down in his seat. As Ben drones on with formalities and greetings, Luke leans into Ashton. 

“Why isn’t he sitting with us?” Luke asks, glancing at Calum. 

Ashton gives him a look, like oh, you sweet child. “You’ll see.” 

Luke sits back, tunes back into Ben just in time. 

“...so, let's discuss the topic we’re gathered here for today,” Ben says. He lifts the pile of papers he’d been shuffling through earlier. “Calum has been offered a contract for a feature story with Wren.” 

Luke stares. Calum exhales, and it’s like Luke’s senses zero in on the sound. What the fuck is Wren? 

Jess, a friendly blonde lady from their PR team, pipes up helpfully. “Wren is an audio service. Calum would be narrating a story of approximately eight episodes, spread across weekly drops for two and a half months.” 

Right, well. That doesn’t really sound like something worth holding a conference meeting over, but Luke will let it slide. Not like he had much else to do, anyway. 

“We would…strongly suggest Calum takes the gig,” Their PR Head, Allen, says, even as he types into a laptop that looks something like two sheets of silver glued together. There’s a touch of sympathy in his voice. The words cast a hush over the room. It’s like everyone turns to look at Calum. Luke has a strong urge to rescue Calum from whatever oppressive weight everyone’s stares are placing on his shoulders. 

“Why wouldn’t he?” Luke asks, before he can stop himself. It’s only narration. Like a podcast, right? “Why is this something we’re discussing formally?” 

Michael snorts softly. Calum looks at Luke, big brown eyes wet with embarrassment. 

“Luke,” Calum says carefully. “Wren is an audio service…for adults.” 

Ashton clears his throat. “It’s—uh, it’s like—” 

“Porn,” Michael offers, and it’s like Luke’s heart stops and restarts within the span of three seconds. “It’s audio porn, basically.” 

“Audio erotica,” Ben corrects, pointedly. “Eight episodes.” 

Calum is quiet. Michael snickers softly into his hand, and Calum’s flush deepens. He feels Ashton shift sharply, and from the low moan of pain Michael lets out, he assumes Ashton probably nailed him in the shin. Good. 

“It’s a good deal,” Jess says. “With the wave of attention he’s already garnered, it’ll reflect well for our upcoming promo cycle. We’re drawing views in by the thousands already.” 

“Wren is a respectable service,” Allen adds. Still not looking up from his screen. Luke makes a mental note never to fuck with the guy. “They’ve worked with big names too. It isn’t just some sleazebag porn website.” 

Ashton whispers to Luke, “Take a shot every time somebody says ‘porn’.” 

Luke thinks he might need another bottle of tequila. 

He tunes out immediately. He thinks back to that Uber ride back home, when he listened to the clip of Calum from the Tarayummy video until he could recite his words by memory, point out every shift in tone, timbre, every little crackle of the phone connection. He thinks of the tiktoks with Calum’s voiceover narrations. 

Audio erotica. 

Porn. 

Oh, fuck. 

“We’ve put forth our suggestions and recommendations,” Allen says. “However, we’ll leave the decision to Calum. This has the potential to alter your public image. It’s your choice, ultimately.” 

Luke logs back into the discussion to catch the way Calum bites his lower lip. He’s quiet for exactly one minute—Luke knows, because he counted the seconds in his head. To stay calm. To keep from jumping up from his seat and leaving the room in a flustered rush. 

“I’ll do it,” Calum says. “It’s like any other podcast, right? For the band. Publicity.” 

Michael pumps his fists under the table. Luke considers throwing his vodka-coffee at him, before he remembers that’s actually one of his best friends.  

So Calum’s going to do audio porn. It’s fine. 

It’s fine, right? 

—

Calum catches up with them in the parking lot. 

“Don’t listen to it,” Calum tells them. “When it comes out, don’t listen to it.” 

“Aw,” Michael pouts. “But what if I need to get off?” 

Calum scrunches his nose. As does Luke. “Ew.” 

“Can’t believe I lived long enough to watch one of my best mates become a pornstar,” Ashton says, clapping Calum on the back. 

“I’m not a—I haven’t even signed the contract yet!” 

“Mate,” Michael says, awestruck. “People are going to be finishing to your voice.” 

Luke shifts on his feet. It’s an odd idea, difficult to conceptualize. He can’t imagine how it must feel for Calum. Is it scary? Is it like an ego boost? 

“Don’t be gross,” Calum tells Michael, who only grins. 

“Will you give us family discounts on the subscription?” Ashton teases. Calum makes a face. 

“Family discount? For porn? Ash, what the fuck.” 

“He just told us not to listen to it,” Luke offers. Calum gives him a grateful look. Michael throws an arm over Luke’s shoulder. It's an uncomfortable position, because even in his massive boots, Michael’s an inch shorter than Luke. 

“‘S alright, Luke,” Michael grins. “I’ll gift you the subscription. I know you’ll be first in line to listen.” 

“I won’t—” 

“I’ll be second in line, of course. I take my ‘best friend’ duties seriously, just saying. I want to hear it all.” 

“Surprised you can hear anything with your head that far up your ass,” Calum grumbles.

That draws laughter from his mates. Michael stumbles back theatrically, as though injured. “You wound me, Cal.” 

Ashton chuckles. “In all honesty, man,” he says to Calum. “If you don’t want us to listen to it, we won’t.” 

Calum smiles, relieved. Luke’s glad to see the tension leave his shoulders. Michael nods solemnly. 

“Twitter clips don’t count though,” he adds. 

“Just—promise you won’t listen, okay?” 

“Scout’s honour,” Michael says, flashing a mock three-finger salute. 

Calum frowns. “You were never a scout, dipshit.” 

—

The first episode releases two weeks later. Michael and Ashton listen to it immediately. 

[New Message] NOT A Boyband!!!

Michael 

CALUM 

giggling and kicking my feet 

Ashton 

Where have you been hiding that voice? Holy shit, man 

Michael 

in heat rn. dhmu 

Ashton 

Damn

Gonna be playing this on repeat all day

Michael 

luke u gotta get in on this mate i can feel his voice where the sun don’t shine 

[CALUM has left the group chat] 

[MICHAEL has added CALUM to the group chat] 

[MICHAEL has renamed the group chat to ‘HOODlums🥵’] 

Luke has to put his phone down after that. He knows Twitter is blowing up, because updates keep coming in on their PR team’s broadcast channel. The fans have received the Wren story with astounding enthusiasm. Calum’s voice is the lighthouse in the storm, and apparently everyone on the entire planet is a ship in search of shore. Or whatever. He can’t really be bothered to fix that metaphor. 

His vow to stay off Twitter is in shambles, though. He’s constantly on his dummy account. He keeps seeing people praise Calum’s story, alongside long-winded-borderline-love-confessions of how hot his voice is. He doesn’t even know what the storyline is. He won’t search it up, either—especially now that Ashton and Michael backstabbed Calum to go and listen to his story. 

He’s a good friend. He wouldn’t do that to Calum. 

(Well—also, he probably wouldn’t really recover from it if he listened to it. Calum’s voice…sounding like that…saying words like—)

Anyway. 

So even though he burns and aches and writhes internally with curiosity, and envy at how apparently everyone seems to have heard it except for Luke, he won’t listen to it.

It’s like a dull ache. A constant thrum. An earworm, even. Like a devil sitting on his shoulder, constantly taunting him. He wants so badly to abandon whatever promise he made to Calum. And with each tweet he scrolls past, each tweet asking in all caps ‘HAS LUKE HEARD THIS YET????’, he feels his desperate desire etch a little hole in his mind, one that’s constantly playing Calum’s voice on loop, wondering what he’d sound like when he’s whispering praise into a mic. When he’s telling the listener what to do. When he’s moaning and groaning and—

Enough. 

Luke needs to take a cold fucking shower. 

—

Luke tries to stay as far away from any shred of information about Wren and Calum’s story. So when the second episode comes out, Luke finds out in the middle of the street. 

On the way back from a coffee run, dressed in sweats and fucking house slippers of all things, he meets a small group of fans. They’re nice enough, only approaching him with a polite, reserved, “Hi, sorry to bother you but…are you Luke Hemmings?” 

Luke had smiled, obviously, because he’s not a monster and he actually likes his fans, so he’d been chatting with the gathering of four girls for a few moments, laughing and talking about new music and sharing band inside-jokes. That’s when the topic gets brought up. 

One of the girls, a tall brunette with grey eyes, steps up and asks, “Oh, have you or any of the band been listening to Calum’s story?” 

Luke freezes. He tries not t o make it too obvious when his grip tightens around his cup of iced espresso. 

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “Nah, not yet. Not sure I even want to, honestly.” 

He tries to laugh, make light of the conversation even as the air grows thicker with awkwardness. The girls blink up at him. The short blonde—Cassie, if Luke can remember their introductions correctly—smiles a little. “But…you do know what it’s about, right?” 

Before Luke can reply, Cassie’s other friend pipes up. “Like, you’re okay with it, right?” 

Luke’s brows twitch a little. “Of course I’m okay with it,” he smiles gently. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

A collective sigh from the group, like amusement, like relief. The conversation moves on. He spends a few minutes more, passing quips and teasing them and being teased back about new music. He knows they’ll probably share their exchange on Twitter later, so he’s careful with what he says. 

When he finally gestures vaguely towards the parking lot and gives them a feeble excuse about needing to get back, they’re graceful with accepting his farewell. He takes a few pictures, signs a few notebooks, and bids them goodbye. 

That evening, he receives a text from his PR officer, so he knows those fans have probably given their bit to social media, and the fans are eating it up. 

[New Message] 

Evan PR 

Good job on handling the Calum/Wren situation. 

Luke blinks. He didn’t know there was a situation to begin with. 

—

Inevitably, it comes up in interviews. 

They’ve started their promo cycle by the time the third episode comes out. They’ve teased the new lead single, and a little bit about their album. Michael’s hair is red now. Luke keeps telling him he looks like a fire hydrant. 

“So, Calum,” the interviewer starts, and sitting beside him, he sees Calum tense up in anticipation of the question. “You’re currently releasing a feature story with Wren…” Calum nods along, chuckling and humming along at all the right cues, and Luke almost relaxes, almost lets himself believe it’s smooth sailing from here, that he’s got nothing to worry about. 

“...and thanks to the, let's say, content of the story, certain speculations have been stirring among the fans. What’s your take on that?” 

Luke’s smile fades into something practiced rather than genuine as his mind begins to race. He’s got a billion questions, and they’ll all have to wait until the interview ends. What speculations? What is the content of the story? 

Calum only chuckles lightly, and Luke watches his media training kick in. 

“Well,” Calum says. “Wren and their writing team have really put into perspective the importance of exploring pleasure outside conventions, you know?” 

The interviewer smiles and nods politely. She brushes an invisible speck of dust from her skirt, and Luke’s heart is in his throat. 

“As consumers, we don’t like to look far outside the box when we’re exploring mediums like audio as an art form,” Calum continues. Luke wonders for a moment if he’s reading off a script, but there's no prompts or cue-cards in sight. 

“Because even voice-acting is an art form, right?” Calum goes on. “And art shouldn’t be contained or confined by what we expect. What we’re conditioned to see.” Damn. Damn. Luke’s really proud of Calum for this answer. Jeez, he makes audio porn sound like contemporary art.

“And,” Calum laughs. “Really, it’s just a script. I’m given a great amount of freedom to work with what they give me, but ultimately I’m just reading a story. It doesn’t need to mean more or less than just that.” 

Michael, from the seats behind them, makes some joke about Calum finally learning how to read. Ashton pats Calum’s shoulder in approval. Luke would too, but he’s stuck watching Calum, watching the way the warm lights of the studio catch the slope of his nose. He’s…he’s beautiful, in a way that screams quick wit and poise and charm and Calum. Luke looks on as the fill-light glints in his eyes, and worries that he might melt into his seat even as the cameras continue rolling. 

“Er, Luke?” 

He snaps out of his daze. Everybody’s looking at him, and it occurs to him that this was probably not the first time his name had been called. He flushes, shifts in his seat to cross his leg over his knee. 

“Uh, sorry,” Luke says, tugging at his collar. “What was that?” 

Calum meets his gaze. Tilts his head, like you good?

Luke smiles back, like I’m good. 

Even though he isn’t. Oh god, he really isn’t.

—

So—things are odd. 

Not in a noticeable, what-the-fuck-is-going-on, outright weirdness way, but more subtle. Like, Luke can’t tell what’s wrong, but everybody else seems not to notice that something is wrong altogether. Or, if they have noticed, they seem not to think anything is out of place. 

Or perhaps Luke is just going insane. It’s about time, honestly. 

Calum’s acting weird, is what the problem is. Not outright strange, because he can still hold conversations and make jokes and play along with their silly bits. But ‘weird’ in the sense that he pauses before entering any room to sweep his eyes over the place and check if Luke's there already. And if Luke is there, then he freezes for a single micro-second, staring like he can read Luke’s mind, before his face erupts in a light shade of red, and he either leaves or sits in the opposite corner of the room, like Luke has some contagious disease. 

He also can’t seem to say Luke’s name properly. Which is funny because, y’know, Luke’s name is monosyllabic. But Calum seems to stumble over the letters, like his mouth has forgotten the shape of his name. It hurts a little. Builds like a dull ache in Luke’s chest.

Calum hesitates when he talks to Luke, now. He looks a little afraid, a little conflicted. He looks at Luke like he’s glassware about to tip over the edge of a table. He still laughs along and talks like he always has, but there's a wariness in his eyes now. 

Luke can’t figure out why. When he looks at Michael in question, he only receives a knowing grin. So then he goes to Ashton. 

Who laughs in his face. 

“Have you heard his Wren story yet?” he asks instead, and Luke’s kind of upset that they’re deviating from the issue at hand. 

“No, but what does that have to do with—” 

“And you’re not even curious?” 

Luke frowns. “Of course I’m curious,” he says. “But he told us not to listen to it, and I’m not a shit friend like you or Michael.” 

Ashton just smiles at him. Like he can see right through Luke. All these fucking puzzling expressions and glances are really getting on Luke’s nerves. Why can’t he get a straight answer out of anyone? 

Why is Calum acting so weird? 

Why is Luke so affected by it?

—

“So how does the whole thing work?” Michael asks, falling onto the bean-bag in the corner of the room. They’re all at Ashton’s this time. Calum’s glaring daggers at Ashton’s lemon tree through the window, but he snaps out of it at Michael’s words. 

“How does what work?” he asks. 

Michael gestures vaguely at Calum. “The whole…voice porn show?” 

Luke throws a pillow at Michael before Calum gets the chance to. 

“It’s not—” Calum starts, but Ashton cuts in when he walks back into the room with a six-pack of chilled beers. 

“It is a porn thing, though,” Ashton says, setting the pack down on the coffee table. Luke immediately reaches for a can. He’ll need it if he has to get through this conversation. 

Calum frowns childishly, stretching his legs out on the coffee table. “Whatever,” he says. "You're all unsupportive assholes.”  

Michael reaches forward to pet Calum's ankle consolingly. “We love you and we support your vocal promiscuity,” he says seriously. 

Calum kicks at his hand, and Michael cackles. 

“Seriously, though,” Ashton says, and he’s reclined on an armchair too. “How does it work? Do they script out all the moaning and shit?” 

Calum flushes lightly. His eyes might’ve slitted to Luke for a moment, but Luke can’t be sure. 

“They give me directions, sometimes,” he says. “It’s not really directly in my script but—usually I just. They let me figure out what sounds right.” 

“So you’re in the booth repeating the same sentence in three different ways then?” Michael laughs. 

“Kinda,” Calum reaches for a can, and it hisses as he opens it. “It’s not as, like, sexual as you guys think. It’s a real gig, man. Like, professional shit.” 

Ashton hums disbelievingly. 

Calum frowns. “You could—come along sometime. See me work. Maybe you’ll believe me then.” 

Luke’s heart drops straight to his ass. Michael, on the other hand, sits straight up. “Really?” 

Calum shrugs. He looks at Michael, then Ashton. 

Ashton says, “You’re okay with that?” “I mean,” Calum replies. “You guys have heard it already, anyway.” 

He glances across the room at Luke, who fidgets uncomfortably under his gaze. Luke rubs his palms against his thighs, wiping the sweat he didn’t realise was gathering. 

“Um,” Calum huffs an odd little laugh. “Most of you have.” 

“I’m—” Luke’s talking before he realizes what he’s saying. “I’m coming along.” 

Calum’s breath hitches, and suddenly there’s a tension stretching between them, like the push and pull of the tide, like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Michael and Ashton are quiet. 

Calum says “Okay, Luke.” 

And his lips curve into a pleased smile, and Luke forgets how to use his hands. He thinks he’d be willing to change his name just to keep it on Calum’s lips forever. If Calum struggles to say ‘Luke,’ maybe he’d like ‘Lucas.’ Or ‘Bartholemew.’ Whatever. 

Luke says, “Okay.” 

And then Michael throws his stinky socks at Luke, yelling something about lovebirds and flavoured beer, and the moment is gone. 

—

The next time Calum’s due for a recording session, he sends a message to their groupchat, and that’s how Luke finds himself at a voice-recording studio at 11 in the morning. 

They’re introduced to the writer of the series, a slender lady with greying hair named Clara, who looks nothing like she writes audio erotica scripts for a living. Another lady with cropped hair, dressed in a business casual suit, accompanies Clara. She introduces herself as Abby, the director. There’s a recording and mixing engineer seated at a console that Luke recognizes from music production. They all make friendly conversation and talk about Calum and their new single until the director glances at her watch and decides it’s time for Calum to get in the recording room. 

Luke, Michael, and Ashton stand back as Calum picks up the script. He’s got a pair of headphones on, connected with all three members of the crew in the room, so Luke can’t really hear Calum’s side of the conversation. He can’t tell what Calum reads out either, which is completely fine by him. They watch him work through the glass. 

Michael, beside Luke, nudges him lightly. Luke looks to find him smirking. “So,” Michael says. “What do you think?” 

Luke looks back at Calum. “Uh,” he shrugs. “Looks pretty professional to me.” 

Abby murmurs something to Clara, then steps forward and speaks into the mic connected to her headphones. “Calum, can you say that last line again? With a lower baritone this time, thank you.” 

Luke gulps. In his head, he imagines Calum speaking in low tones, voice dipping into something sultry and warm. 

Ashton snickers into his hand. Luke snaps out of it to see Calum squinting, annoyed, through the glass. 

“It’s weird,” Ashton mutters to Luke. “I can see his face but I can’t tell what he’s reading out.” “We’ll know in two days when the episode drops,” Michael pipes in. 

Luke looks between his friends. “It isn’t weird for you guys to hear him moaning and shit?” 

Ashton shrugs. “Not…really?” 

“I’ve seen him butt naked, mate,” Michael says, and Luke feigns gagging. “Not much he could do that’ll faze me.” 

“We’re in this for the blackmail,” Ashton clarifies. 

Luke’s a little conflicted. On one hand, he’s seen the shit Michael and Ashton have been putting Calum through. Hell, just two days ago, Michael had traipsed into the studio, leaned over the back of the couch, and moaned lewdly directly into Calum’s ear. It startled the poor man so bad that he’d spilled hot coffee all over his jeans. 

On the other hand, he feels like an asshole for wanting to listen too. It’s not like…it’s not like Calum would be surprised by it. Like, two out of three of his best mates have heard it. Why not make it a complete set?

“Go back to line one, please,” Abby says. Calum, behind the glass, nods solemnly. “I want more implication on the name rather than the rest of the sentence. Let’s try a few versions of this.” Calum’s right. It really does look professional. Calum shoots Abby a thumbs-up, then closes his hand around the earmuff of the headphones as he reads from the script, presumably iterations of the same line. 

Ashton folds his arms. Michael yawns, trying to hide it behind his hand. Luke shares the sentiment. He can see himself getting bored. He wonders briefly if Calum would mind them leaving early. 

The light in the studio is kind to Calum, Luke realizes. It dips under the slope of his jaw, turns his silhouette into gold. His bleach-blond hair looks like licks of white flame. He’s pretty, Luke thinks. Shit, he’s really pretty. 

“Once more,” Clara calls into her mic. “I don’t like the way the sentence catches. Try replacing ‘your mouth’ with ‘your lips’.” 

Luke gulps. He can almost visualize the words. He’s beginning to take a guess at what part of the storyline Calum’s reading out. He turns to his mates, but they’re not paying attention. 

Michael pulls out his phone and opens twitter. He takes a quick snap of Calum, then goes to tweet something. His brightness is turned all the way up, and the blue light annoys Luke a little, especially when Ashton leans over to look and then to snicker into Michael’s shoulder at whatever he’s busy typing out. 

Luke brings his attention back to Calum. He’s focused on the script in hand. There’s a little furrow in his brows, and Luke wants to smooth it out with his thumb. Calum’s eyes flit between Abby and Clara, and the script. 

He pauses to take a deep breath. 

“Get a sip of water,” Abby says. “Let’s keep going, and we’ll take a break after this scene. I don’t want to get out of it just yet.” 

Calum says something back, and Abby and Clara laugh under their breath. Luke watches Calum as he uncaps a plastic bottle. His throat bobs as he takes a quick few sips, and Luke’s throat is a little dry all of a sudden. He’s mesmerized. 

“Good to go?” Clara inquires. Calum nods. 

He exhales sharply and shakes out his limbs before he puts the headset back on. He draws a breath in, and then he’s leaning into the mic. His lashes flutter, and his cheeks put on a low red tinge as he seems to just…breathe into the mic? 

Luke looks on, slightly confused, but he knows Calum must be doing something right because Clara and Abby watch him with rapt attention. 

It’s a moment of just this—Calum’s eyes falling shut, cheeks dipping into shades of red, licking his lips to wet them over and over. His eyes flit to Luke a few times, but he never holds Luke’s gaze for too long, as though he’s embarrassed by something. 

“Once more, please,” Abby calls. “A little breathy, if you can.” 

Luke can't seem to take his eyes off Calum as the man gulps, then seems to steel himself. He steps up to the mic again. His lips part upon whatever sound he’s making, eyes falling shut, cheeks flaring pink. His head falls back a little towards the end, and it hits Luke like lightning what Calum is doing. 

He’s. He’s fucking—he’s moaning. 

Oh fuck. 

Oh, shit. Fuck. 

All the blood rushes away from Luke’s head. He feels dizzy immediately, mind conjuring the sound of Calum whining and moaning and gasping into his ear. Fuck, his trousers are growing tight. 

He needs to go. He needs to leave. 

He makes a mad scramble for his things, swiping his wallet and keys off the coffee table. In his rush, he attracts the attention of everyone in the room. He straightens, blushing violently. 

“Um, I need to—” he stumbles over his words. “I need to go.” 

Through the glass, Calum’s confused look hits Luke like a truck. “Sorry,” Luke says to him, even though he knows Calum can’t hear. 

He throws a glance over his shoulder at Ashton and Michael, who seem equally puzzled. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Luke leaves the studio without looking back. The door slams shut. He’s alone in the hallway to face himself, the world, and—his painful fucking boner. 

—

Two difficult days later, deep into the night, after a long stretch of avoiding Calum (and the rest of his band) like the plague, Luke tucks himself into bed and stares at the ticking hands of the clock as the seconds turn into minutes turn into hours. 

At some point in time, he’d downloaded the Wren app onto his phone. Opened it and navigated to Calum’s story. Hovered his thumb over the play button, waiting, waiting. 

He never pressed it. 

—

Luke’s mom asks him if he’s listened to the audio. He has to pull his phone away from his ear and stare at the screen for a moment, just to confirm that he’s talking to his own birth-giver and that he hasn’t accidentally fallen into an alternate dimension. 

“Mom,” Luke says, once he’s gathered his wits. “Why have you heard it?” 

“I haven’t!” his mom defends, and the touch of laughter in her voice makes Luke’s chest ache. He misses her terribly. “Just—heard things around the neighbourhood. I vaguely know what it’s about.” 

“Our neighbourhood is listening to Calum’s story?” 

“No,” his mother says. Then, contemplative. “Maybe?” 

Luke groans. “Everyone’s heard it,” Luke murmurs. He has to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep from snorting in incredulous laughter. “And everybody keeps asking me if I’ve heard it.” 

Liz hums a little, sympathetic to Luke’s misery. “Why don’t you?” 

Luke scrunches his nose. “First of all, because he asked me not to—” 

“He asked you specifically?” 

“ —and second of all, why are you asking me to listen to audio erotica? Mom, don’t be gross.” 

She laughs. It's a wonderful melodic sound, and sitting alone in his room, reeling from bewilderment and all the feelings that have been clawing at him for the past few weeks, Luke suddenly wishes he was back in Australia. 

“Baby,” Liz says. “I think you’ll be surprised by what you find.” 

Again, there’s that same churning anxiety. The confusion, rising to the surface uninvited. He has so many questions. He wants to go grab Michael or Ashton by the shoulders and shake them until they tell him why everybody keeps asking if he’s heard Calum’s story. They sure as hell seem to know something. He wants to curl into his mother’s lap, tell her everything, all these new sensations and thoughts and feelings he’s suddenly noticing within himself. He wants to check himself into a shabby inn, disappear for a week, have everything be back to normal when he gets back. 

“Mama, I don’t—” 

There’s a loud clatter in the background on Liz’s end. She sighs through her nose, then chuckles a little.

“Listen, sweetheart, I’ll have to call you later, okay?” She tells Luke. “The kids are—god only knows what they’re doing now.” 

Luke exhales, a little disappointed. “Okay,” he says, forcing a soft laugh. “Tell everybody I love them.” 

“Will do,” Liz replies. “I love you, okay? Do whatever you think is right.” 

“I will,” Luke says. “I love you.” 

When the call ends, Luke scrolls to the godforsaken Wren app on his phone. He stares at it for a moment. Contemplates deleting it. 

He doesn’t, though. 

—

The next time Luke sees Calum, it’s across a dimly lit bar that Michael dragged him to. It’s been two torturous weeks of avoiding Calum and ignoring calls and messages and slinking past Calum’s name when it comes up in conversation. 

He’d been moping. Or, at least, that’s what Michael had accused him of earlier that night. 

“You’re moping like someone just told you Santa Claus isn’t real,” Michael had accused, towering over Luke where he was clinging to the arm of his couch so Michael couldn’t bodily drag him. 

“Really,” Luke deadpanned. “And what about the Easter Bunny?” Michael narrowed his gaze. “Don’t sass me,” he’d said, waving his pointer finger before Luke’s nose. “We’re going to go out and get drunk. Get up.” 

And Luke had firmly refused, so Michael had taken his stinky socks off and chased Luke around his own house with them, until Luke swore he’d go out with him if he put the socks away. He can’t be blamed for giving in. Michael’s socks smell like getting tear gassed. 

Anyway, that’s how Luke found himself sulking in the corner of a bar, nursing a Tequila Sunrise, instead of sulking at home. 

Luke’s gaze flits around the room. Michael and Ashton are well on their way to getting drunk, and Ashton’s lost his top few buttons. Michael leans into him as he laughs at some dumb joke Andy makes. Really, Luke thinks, Michael’s a traitor for dragging him out of the comfort of his home and then abandoning him this way. 

Then, like second nature, Luke’s eyes find Calum. 

He’s talking to a pretty blond with streaks of glitter in her hair. She sips deeply from her beer as she speaks animatedly to Calum, who listens with a smile that says ‘I’m enjoying this conversation’ rather than ‘I need to find a way away from this lady.’ Luke feels a stab of something hot and angry—Calum should be talking like that to Luke. Not some random lady in a bar, drop-dead gorgeous or not. 

And Luke…Luke could be drop dead gorgeous, right? Luke could be anything Calum wants. 

But that’s a train of thought he’s not allowed to follow to a close. 

He takes another sip from his drink. And then Ashton appears beside him. 

“Enjoying yourself, loverboy?” Ashton grins. Luke has to fight not to roll his eyes. 

“I hate you,” he tells Ashton. “And I hate this. I want to go home.” 

“Michael says you can’t go home till you stop brooding.” 

Luke splutters. “I’m not—I don’t brood!” 

“Okay, well,” Ashton says pointedly. “You need to fix whatever your face is doing, because you’re not going to get laid tonight unless you stop looking like someone just ran over your dog.” 

Luke frowns. He doesn’t even want to get laid. “Don’t bring Petunia into this.” 

“Stop sulking,” Ashton says. Luke tries to—he really does. Consciously, he smooths out the furrow in his brow, pushes away the downturn of his lips. 

“Better?” Luke asks, but when he looks up at where Ashton’s supposed to be, he isn’t there anymore. Instead, it’s Calum. 

Luke’s heartbeat picks up, pulse thudding in his throat like a drum. His glass nearly slips from his grip.

“Um,” Calum offers. “You look fine?” 

Luke clears his throat, blinking hard. 

Don’t think about him moaning. Don’t think about him moaning. Don’t think about him moaning. Don’t—

“You okay, Luke?” Calum asks, leaning in a little to get Luke to look at him. His voice is low, like how he probably speaks into the mic. His tongue catches on Luke’s name, and it only serves to trap Luke’s breath in his lungs. “You look a little, um, red.” 

“It’s—” Luke gestures around vaguely. “It’s just the light.” 

Calum looks at him for a moment, silent. It’s odd. Luke’s known the guy for over a decade, and it’s never been as awkward between them before as it is now. 

“Okay,” Calum says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. He swirls his drink, something thick and gold. Luke watches the way his fingers close around the glass. Thinks about the way he’d gripped the headphones in the recording studio. Tries not to die. 

Calum clears his throat. “Um, you—” 

At the same time, Luke says, “So, how—” 

They cut themselves off. Luke laughs a little under his breath, a clumsy and forced sound. “You first.” 

The corner of Calum’s mouth twitches. He sets his glass on a table to the side. “You—uh…you disappeared. That day at the recording studio.” 

Luke freezes. God, he’d been hoping this would never come up. In retrospect, it was stupid not to have considered that Calum would ask why. Only, Luke didn’t think this through before, so now he needs to come up with a believable excuse, and fast. 

“Uh.” His brain supplies. He reaches blindly for something, anything. “I had an appointment at the. The fish…store.” 

Oh, he’s. He’s really got to start carrying duct-tape around for his fucking mouth. 

Calum stares at him blankly. “The aquarium?” 

Luke gulps. Sure, what the hell.  “Yeah.” 

Calum’s brows draw together in skepticism. Luke takes a large sip from his drink, then winces at the taste. He coughs. 

“You…left early to go to the aquarium?” Calum asks again, like he doesn’t quite believe it. Good man. 

Luke nods sharply. “Yes, I had—” he scrambles for more bullshit to spew. “It was an art direction thing. F-for the album.”

“Our album?” Calum arches a beautiful brow, and Luke feels he might swoon like an early European noblewoman. “Are you…are you sure you’re okay?” “Yep,” Luke says. Quick. Too quick. God, he’s really fucking this up exquisitely. 

Calum nods. He probably knows Luke is lying. Luke’s grateful that Calum doesn’t press for more. He doesn’t want to spill his guts in a sticky, dark bar at 11 p.m. on a weekday. He doesn’t really want to spill his guts at all, frankly. 

“Alright,” Calum says. He reaches for his drink. “I’ll—uh…leave you alone.”

“Yeah,” Luke murmurs, cheeks flaring hot. He feels a little pit open in his belly at the prospect of Calum feeling like Luke’s lying to him but—what else could Luke say? ‘Hey, the idea of you moaning into my ears keeps me up at night. Also, I can barely look at your face without seeing how you looked that day at the recording studio while you gasped into a microphone. No big deal, though. Hope we can still keep it chill between us.’

Yeah, fuck no. 

So Luke tucks his drink under his chin and gazes out woefully at the bar, loses track of Calum and Ashton and Michael, drowns himself in a series of Tequila Sunrises. 

Time slips by like sand in his grasp, the loud thrum of conversation and music fading into a pleasant hum as the tequila catches up to Luke. He sneaks off from his spot, in search of somewhere to sit. He finds an unoccupied booth somewhere to the side and collapses into it. Tries not to doze off on the spot. 

Against his better efforts, though, his eyes grow heavy. He’s nodding off, little by little, the bass blaring through the speakers lulling him into a lovely little nap—

Someone falls into the couch beside him, and he jerks awake. 

He has to squint a little to get his bearings, but then there’s a shock of red hair in his line of sight, and he groans. 

“Go away, Michael,” Luke murmurs, head tipping back to rest against the wall of the booth. 

Michael throws his arms over the back of the couch. Luke shifts a little as a second body joins them. Instinctively, he knows it’s Ashton. 

“I just want to sleep,” Luke complains. 

“Luke,” Michael says, and the sincerity in his voice immediately sobers Luke up. Fuck. 

He raises his head to see both Michael and Ashton looking at him, wearing expressions that are a cross between calculated and smug. Luke feels cornered, in some way. 

He gulps, because his tongue feels heavy. “What?” 

Ashton leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “What do you think about this whole audio porn thing?” he asks seriously. 

Luke would roll his eyes, but he’s got a building headache. “We’ve talked about this already,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care. It’s whatever.” 

“What do you really think, Luke?” Michael says. 

Luke makes an expression akin to a verbal ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’ 

“I just told you,” he says, slower this time, so Michael can keep up. “I don’t care.” 

Michael arches a brow. “You sure?” 

Luke fidgets. He feels caught, warm under the collar. “Y-eah, I’m sure.” 

“You hesitated.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Luke says. Childishly, because he had, in fact, hesitated. 

“We’re six episodes in now, right?” Ashton asks pointedly, and Michael nods. This whole thing is beginning to look terribly orchestrated. Luke narrows his eyes, suspicious.

“What’s your game?” he hisses. 

Ashton shrugs. “Just—surprised you aren’t freaking out more about this.” 

It occurs to Luke that Ashton and Michael probably think he’s finally sat down and listened to Calum’s story. They probably think Luke’s been holed up in his home because he’s actually heard it already, and…found something out, clearly. 

Okay, Luke thinks. I’ll bite. 

Michael says, “Like, I’m surprised this isn’t a bigger deal to you.”

Ashton nods. “We thought you’d talk it out with Calum today, but you clearly haven’t, have you?” 

Slowly, carefully, Luke shakes his head no. 

Michael slaps his thigh. “Yeah, I guessed as much,” he nods, solemn. 

Right, so. The reason this whole act looked so orchestrated to Luke was because Ashton and Michael are drunk. They’re not masterminds, they’re fucking floating. 

“It’s just—we thought you’d talk to him,” Ashton goes on earnestly. “And we’d have some kind of, like…announcement. By the end of the night.” 

Luke’s hands are shaking a little. Not from the alcohol, but because he feels like he’s on the verge of putting something together. Like he’s about to line up the stars with his hands. Like he’s about to find a missing piece to the puzzle that’s been eating him alive. 

“What are you talking about?” Luke asks, careful to enunciate his words.

Michael cocks his head to the side, and Ashton’s eyes grow wide. 

“You…don’t know,” Michael grins his cheshire-cat grin.

Luke has had just about enough. 

“Don’t know what!” he squawks, drawing the attention of a few people passing by their table. He’s too fucking agitated to care. “I don’t understand! Why does everybody keep asking if I’ve listened to it? Everybody and their mother—even my mother—knows about it, apparently! Calum told us not to listen! What’s so fucking special in that story? Why—why should I care?” 

He’s breathing hard by the time he’s done. Michael’s snickering into his hands. Ashton leans back against the cushions, crossing his knee over the other with the grace of a man completely sober. His lips curl into a knowing grin. 

“Because you’re in it, Luke.”

Luke blanches. 

“What?” 

—