Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
You’re sick. What better way to recover than indulging in the heat of the moment with your loving boyfriend?
word count: 3.9k
-
When the haze of reality comes to view through the blur of your slow-blinking eyes, it’s nothing less than how you pictured heaven would be. The warm embrace of your favourite blanket, whose softness could be rivalled only by the clouds from which poked out the friendly sun, the cool air billowing in from the cracked window and the gentle fan humming on your bedside table, and your favourite part–your phone, sitting enticingly on that same table, containing within it your very own sunshine. As you sit up halfway, eyelids still heavy and begging to stay closed, it’s then that the day turns to hell.
The pounding inside your head is like no other, it seems to knock the world off balance with every breath you take. Swallowing, you’re greeted by the familiar sting in your throat that only presents itself when you’ve been breathing through your mouth all night. And as you try to inhale from your nose, it’s clear. Stuffy and suddenly overcome with an urge to throw off your suffocating duvet, it’s obvious. You’re sick.
Abandoning your cellular device and all hesitation, you stumble out of your bedroom and into the bathroom, stomach churning even as you try to complete the simple task of splashing some cool water on your forehead and swishing some around in your dry mouth. You hate being sick, as most do. The hot flashes, the cold flashes, the lack of appetite, and worst of all, the loneliness of it. Not wanting to infect others so you isolate, avoiding physical touch yet almost selfishly hoping someone would shake their head, insist they don't care, and kiss you deeply anyway. As the thought briefly crosses your mind, you smile, nearly positive that the sunshine in your phone would do exactly that. And just like always, no matter how guilty you felt about it, you would give in, and pretend not to notice for the next few days the way he kept tissues in his pockets and subtly left the room before coughing.
Pulling you out of the clouds, your stomach growls in time with the way it’s turning over repeatedly, and the idea of food alone has you coming undone. Your throat burns, last night’s dinner ejecting itself from your body into the toilet. With no one home to hold your hair back, you grab desperately at the strands available, hiccuping on your sorrow and that first thought of selfishness as you consider calling him home. But you don’t.
For the next few hours, you spend your time in bed, vapor-rub smeared under your nose and tissues piling up in your garbage bin. You sip warily from your favourite water bottle, unwilling to cause yourself to throw up again. The thought sends a shiver down your spine. Hours pass slowly as you drift in and out of sleep, body running on Advil and a handful of salted crackers which seem to be all you can keep down. The space beside you feels empty, sheets cold and pillow fluffed neatly, like no one had slept there at all. But someone did, and you instantly can’t believe you forgot to check your phone this morning. Reaching for the device, you peer through your fingers at the too-bright screen, flipping across tabs until you find your voicemail. With the click of a button, you hear his voice.
“Goodmorning beautiful. I know we talked about it, but I still feel bad that I had to leave so early today. Text me, call me, whatever, whenever. I’ll pick up dinner tonight. I love you.” Short and sweet, and has your heart blooming in your chest. This could be what heals you, you think, as you replay the message. Over and over until you’ve memorized the sound of his seatbelt clicking in the background, the exact timing of his breaths, every detail, until you fall asleep again.
When you wake, it’s late into the afternoon. Luke should be wrapping up soon, if he hasn’t already. Somehow, the dull throbbing in your calves and back has intensified. Wrapping your hand around the tender musculature of your leg, you rub gently, hoping to massage the pain away. It subsides momentarily as you continue the movement, only to resurface like memory foam. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You can’t help but feel sorry for yourself, and for your loving partner as you repossess your phone. It rings once, then twice, and you nearly consider just hanging up, as you don’t want to disturb him if he’s in the middle of recording or something equally important–but then it picks up.
“Baby.” He says, grin almost audible, “You okay? Sorry, I’ve been pretty busy today. Did you text?” He asks, and you can hear the faint voices of his friends in the background. You're surprised your own voice even works when you speak into the phone, throat sore and nose plugged.
“No, I’m sorry.” You cough. “When are you coming home?” Is all you can bear to ask, circling your temples with your spare hand.
He pauses. “Are you sick?” You can practically hear his frown amidst the rasp in his tone, presumably from having sung all day. The sound incites a tingle that extends into your fingertips.
“Yeah.”
“Oh baby. I’m just on my way. Be there soon, okay? I love you.” He assures you. You return the words of affirmation before hanging up. When his voice is gone, emptiness instead seizes the atmosphere. It’s too little and too much all at once. You replay his recording from this morning, where the effect of having been asleep just half an hour prior to recording bleeds into the edges of his voice and that former spark suddenly ignites.
Peeling away from the sides of your face, your fingers gently brush the fabric of Luke’s shirt covering you. The smell of him envelops you, clinging to where the material drapes against the valley of your chest. Your skin is sensitive even hidden under a layer of clothing. Pulling your lip between your teeth, you imagine it’s not you who teases the peak of your breast nor you whose digits dip into your hot mouth before travelling lower towards an area of equal temperature. With a sharp inhale, you can see it. The way Luke’s strong hand navigates the most vulnerable part of you with ease, indulging himself in your pleasure. Slipping his fingers inside, curling them just the right way, open palm delivering your exterior the perfect amount of friction. It builds, and it builds, and it consumes you like a wildfire, burning bright along the horizon.
But it’s not him, not his hand, and that fire never quite grasps you, it smolders just out of reach.
Frustrated, you cease the movement of your wrist, hand resting casually under your sleep shorts, or a pair of Luke’s old boxers. They were still in good condition despite the clear signs of wear, and they happened to be your favourite colour, so you happily claimed them. They happen to be comfier than most of the underwear you own. Lost in thought, thumb still clicking absentmindedly on the ‘replay’ button of the voicemail from this morning, you don’t even register the front door or the subsequent footsteps to your bedroom.
“You sleeping, sweetheart?” As he carefully nudges the door open and peers his head into the room, you lazily make eye contact. He straightens, a smile forming on his cheeks. “There you are.”
Returning the gesture, you can’t be bothered to lift your hand from under the blanket, or to wipe your face of sweat and tears. You just gaze at him, bashful and heart-eyed as ever. His honey blonde curls are getting long now, framing his face. He settles down on the side of the mattress, expression immediately falling into one of concern.
“Baby, what’s wrong? I’m here, it’s okay.” He coos, thumb gently caressing your cheeks and tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ears. His head tilts, crystal blue eyes analyzing you, taking in your sick, touch-deprived state. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine...” You slur, heating up again at the sound of his voice. “I missed you, I…” Your voice trails off, you’re slightly embarrassed now. The air conditioning blowing down on you is your only saviour in this moment, otherwise you might burst into flames. Luke’s stare, equally worried and stern as he urges you to share with him your feelings, and the pre-existing heat from your sickness are mingling to create something dangerous, something that has you wanting to pull him in first despite your usual notions. But before you can, he speaks, lips parted enticingly.
“You what, baby?”
“I need you, Luke.” The omission is quiet, raw. As if intuitively, your hand sinks lower once again, moving slowly, almost inconspicuously. Not enough. Pupils dilating significantly, Luke’s gaze shifts lower, and he bites his lip to muffle a groan. Voice thick with a new element, he pulls the blanket back at a speed that matches yours.
“Baby. You’re sick.” He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing, when he reveals your hand tucked into his pair of briefs. They sit comfortably on your hips, working together with his shirt to conceal your smooth skin. Your fingers continue, causing shallow breaths to exit your lungs. The sight of you, glassy-eyed and desperate with his name on the tip of your tongue, voice too broken to say it, is unbearable for him.
“I know… Just don’t kiss me? Please, Luke.” You plead between sighs. Words are almost a foreign concept to you now, but the ones swirling in your head are silently begging him to just take you. The tent in his black track-pants is becoming increasingly visible, resolve wearing thin. Almost unfortunately, you fell in love with a man whose main priority is you, and your safety.
“I don’t care if I get sick, but you need rest.” He reasons. He’s almost completely convincing with the way he concentrates on your face, resting his hand on your hair, masking the verity of his emotions. And he’s probably right, you barely have the energy to continue this battle with him. But your head is swimming, heart thumping, and every time he fights himself not to look down, you can feel yourself getting wetter. With the fire growing in your belly, you’re pretty sure the gates of hell have indeed opened to swallow you whole. There’s only one person who can bring you back to heaven. Slipping your hand out from under the blanket, you raise them to Luke’s mouth, which he opens without hesitation. His tongue swirls around your fingers, accepting the taste of you and fully prepared to drown in it.
“Tell me again,” his voice is drenched in desire, threading around his words and pulling them taut. Your hand drops to his lap, resting atop that familiar bulge, unmoving.
“I need you. Please…” Finally, your prayers have been answered. He shifts, placing his hand on yours, helping you to palm his increasing hardness. As you suspected, against your better judgement, he leans in, your lips moulding together as one. It’s soft, hot, and over before you even have to worry about pulling back to gasp for air. Your eyes snap open, greeted merrily by the sight of him pulling off his tee, revealing the velvety skin underneath. Your hands roam his toned abdomen, up to his broad shoulders. His tall frame towers over you, consuming you as you pull him closer, nails sinking into his flesh. He shudders, reaching for your own shoulders to lift you from the mattress. When you’re sitting halfway up, his hands make quick work of removing your shirt and discarding it somewhere in the room, exposing your tender breasts.
“My beautiful girl.” He whispers under his breath, leaning forward to pepper the area in open-mouthed kisses. You’re dazed as you peer down at him, hand coming up to rest on the back of his hair. Fingers tangling in it, pulling slightly when you’ve become too sensitive to the sensation of his tongue swirling around each of your nipples. As his kisses travel lower, ghosting over your arms, the bottom of your tummy, your thighs and even down to your ankle as he hikes one of your legs over his shoulder, your stomach flips. Other than still having to breathe through your mouth, all reminders of your illness have faded by now. Luke is the only thing confirming that you’re still in your body, not just a stream of consciousness floating amidst the universe, observing and hoping to keep him company for all of eternity. He fluidly pulls his boxers off of you. You’re dripping, heart racing eagerly. As the man below you inspects your weeping core, he brandishes a smile that bursts at the seams with ego.
“Oh, baby. All this for me?” He rasps, wedging your legs open further with his shoulders, in turn spreading your folds and dipping the pad of his thumb into the moisture there. His breath is hot, tickling the delicate skin on the inside of your thighs.
“All for you.” You nod. How can you explain that you’re positive it’ll only ever be for him? He’s ruined you for anyone else. The way he smells, tastes, the way he holds you and kisses you and fits inside you like he was always meant to. You crave it, the sweet relief that you know will wash over you only when he pumps deep inside and paints you white. Hips writhing from his meticulous examination of your pussy, his attention is drawn back up to your pouting face.
“I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart. Just want a taste.” He eases his tongue against your folds, and the contact has you jerking upward, only to be settled by one of Luke’s large hands pressing against your tummy. His tongue circles your clit softly, then again with more pressure. He repeats the motion several times before his tongue drops lower to collect the wetness from your opening. Like it’s his sole purpose, he devours you in all the right ways, holding you down despite knowing that you’re not going anywhere. His lips purse over your clit once more, gingerly sucking it into his mouth. At the same time, he slips a finger inside you, angling upwards, right where you need it most. A moan echoes in the room, straight from your chest. The pleasure is building quickly, it’s too much and not enough and entirely delicious all at once.
“Fuck, Luke, yes.” you draw in a breath, sounding all too sluggish and nasally, “feels so good.” His only response is a strong hum, vibrations sending another flash of heat into your belly as he curls a second finger into you. View trained hungrily on the motions of his hips as they grind against the mattress at a level pace, you could come at any second, head spinning at the idea of him getting off to pleasuring you. But he knows you too well, knows your tells. The way your breaths become drawn out, your motions still, as you try to focus entirely on the way he makes you feel. He knows, and he won’t let it happen yet. He pulls away, keeping the flames at bay, and you wrapped around his finger.
Leaning forward, hands planted firmly beside your hips, Luke’s wet mouth meets yours again. The taste of him, the faint taste of you, the heat and the affection laced throughout the kiss have you pulling him impossibly closer, shrugging away your compunctions about getting him sick, instead focusing on the passion between the two of you. As you pull away from each other, he cups the bottom of your chin.
“You want me inside?” A blonde curl clings to his dampened forehead, his eyelashes seem to sparkle in the warm lighting emitted from the lamp in the corner of the room, and he is utterly breathtaking as he makes this promise to you. An assurance that he will alleviate you of your sorrows and sickness, at least for a moment of pure bliss. Your feverish nods of approval elicit a soft chuckle from your lover as he stands to step out of his sweatpants and briefs. You gulp reflexively upon seeing his heavy cock freed from the layers of fabric. He’s perfect. Big and sensitive and rosy at the tip. Luke strokes himself patiently, settling back within your legs.
“Missed you today baby. Always miss you.” He moans lowly, thumb tracing circles around your clit as he teases your entrance. Gaze latched onto yours, he pushes into you smoothly. You choke out a strangled moan, head falling backwards onto your pillow. The slight stretch, the dual stimulation and the sheer fullness as he eventually bottoms out–it’s everything you’ve waited for and better than anything you’d imagined.
“Oh my god. You’re so warm, baby. Fuck.” He pants, steadily pulling out until you’re almost empty, before sinking back in again. He’s dragging it out, watching through half-lidded eyes the way your pussy sucks him in greedily. The air in the room is thick, charged with the sexual energy between the two of you. It’s difficult to breathe, but you don’t mind; You would willingly suffocate for a hint of the euphoria that overtakes your body when his cock pounds into you with abandon.
He gradually picks up the speed, thighs smacking against yours with every thrust, the lewd sound reverberating against the walls of your bedroom. His hands clutch your waist firmly, your ankles crossed together behind his back, keeping each other in place. With every movement, he brushes against a new spot that has you mewling. When he nudges against your g-spot, you gasp so harshly that a cough rumbles in your chest. He slows, brows knitted together in alarm.
“You okay?” He asks, blinking hard to still his swimming vision and get a proper look at you. It’s dizzying, the way you already look completely fucked-out and dumb. Your hair is wild, sticking out every which way, lips swollen and pink, eyes wide and glassy. He couldn’t love you any more. “Can I do anything?” When you respond with a sheepish shrug, he clicks his tongue knowingly, immediately moving.
Flipping you over so you’re on your knees in front of him, he wraps his arm under your armpits, hugging your back flush to his chest. The position is raw and intimate, and everything you need.
“Being upright might help.” Luke explains, breath fanning your ear. You hum in agreement, not really listening, just distracted by the temperature of his body against yours. When he enters you from behind this time, the angle is completely different, it nearly has you doubling over in ecstasy. “That okay, baby?” He drives into you again, arm gathering your breasts and keeping you steady, other hand dropping between your legs to resume massaging your sensitive bud.
“Yes, fuck me. Yes, yes.” You stammer, vision blurring as he fucks into you, building into a relentless pace. You recall this morning, those sweet moments of dream-like serenity before the sickness was realised. Now, you’re convinced this is heaven. Luke is an angel, pleasure is your destiny, and you’re along for the journey onward, even if you never come back to life.
His cock moves perfectly inside you, slamming deep upwards in time with his hands pulling your body towards him. The fire inside you is growing, pulsing soundly like you around his length. Fingers increasing in speed as they circle your clit, his actions become vehemently desperate, chasing that high, equally determined to give it to you. The hand around your breasts slips up to the side of your neck, turning your face to his, attaching your lips again. This kiss is messier, born out of pure passion and desire. It’s completely addicting, and despite neither of you breaking, you can breathe clearly for once. Whether your sinuses have cleared up or you’re breathing the oxygen directly from Luke’s lungs, you’re unsure, and unconcerned. You’re on the edge of all destruction, of rapture.
Into the shell of your ear, Luke whines.
“Baby, baby I’m gonna come. So warm. So–so close. Fuck.” He pants. Snaking your hand back into his hair, you pull him impossibly closer. You can almost taste your climax. It’s growing, on the tip of your tongue, hot like fire and lingering like smoke. Luke holds you, fingertips calloused from years of playing guitar. You can feel it, the way he pours his soul into you as he does his music, playing you skillfully. With white-knuckle grip, you clutch his hair in your fist, mind exploding from the stimulation, heart and head pounding like a gong.
“Gonna come.” You choke out. You feel Luke take your free hand, interlacing your fingers, still rubbing your clit with the other.
“Come with me baby, come with me, please, please come.” He drawls, voice breaking into ragged whimpers. The sound resonates in your ears, the request irresistible, fanning the flames of your desire. It’s enough to break you.
Your body seizes, a guttural cry ripping its way from your throat as Luke’s cock drives incredibly against that perfect spot inside you. The fire has consumed your body, you may never see the light of day again. Hips stuttering, you feel Luke twitch and he cries out in equal fervor, spilling inside of you. The sensation of his hot, thick ropes of cum painting your cervix has your back arching into him. His thrusts slow, eventually coming to a complete stop when you’ve milked him for all he’s worth. When he pulls out, gradually softening, you shudder at the feeling of being empty once again, and you collapse down onto the bed.
The room is silent apart from your shallow breathing, muffled by the blankets in which your head is buried. Your bones ache, fatigue and hunger catching up to you all at once. Turning halfway onto your side, Luke comes into view. His chest is shining with a thin layer of sweat, eyes red-rimmed and beaming like the moon. He stares at you like you hung the stars around him, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand still interlocked with his. It sends butterflies racing through your chest and belly, like it always has and forever will.
“I got you some soup.” He says, voice nothing more than a hint of a whisper. The offering of proper nourishment is inviting. An idea of a hot shower crosses your mind too, has you wiping the greasy strands of hair away from your face, blushing when you remember his cum seeping languidly between your thighs.
“Sounds good.” You croak, though part of you just wants to stay here together, basking in the calm. Sitting up and grabbing his briefs, a small smile plays at his lips before pulling you into his arms.
“Did that help at all?” He asks, referring to your escapades. With the symptoms of your flu creeping back in, tickle forming in your throat and head beginning to throb dully, the question stirs in your mind. You chuckle.
“Yeah. I’m still sick, though.” You imagine the two of you might be ill for the next few days. Luke just shrugs at your words, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck.
“Well,” the angel sighs, sounding pleased and utterly devoted, “I’ll take care of you.”
best friend! Ashton who you moved in next door to when you were a little kid
best friend! Ashton who you would stay up late with, watching re-runs and grown up movies you weren't meant to
best friend! Ashton who slept over at your house the day he found out One Direction wanted them for their tour.
best friend! Ashton who shyly admitted, moonlight covered secrecy that same night that he'd "never kissed anyone before"
best friend! Ashton who tasted like the gum he had stolen from you and mint toothpaste, messy and desperate but so shy. A proper first kiss.
best friend! Ashton who gradually stopped texting back. Who you watched from the TV he helped you choose on MTV. Who loses himself on the drums the same way he did that first day on giant stages.
ex best friend! Ashton who doesn't even tell you he's coming to your city on tour
ex best friend! Ashton who spots you in the GA pit, far back enough that he wouldn't have noticed if it wasn't you
ex best friend! Ashton who has to hide in the bathroom after the set, hand stroking fast and biting back moans as he tries to get that image of you out of his head
ex best friend! Ashton who hasn't been able to admit to himself that your awkward first kiss was the best he'd ever had, that the thought of you was the only thing that could get him off anymore
ex best friend! Ashton who imagines you on top of him, nothing but your shirt, watching your thighs struggle to keep up with his pace
ex best friend! Ashton who feels his stomach clenching when he thinks about your shirt, neckline cut off with scissors like he taught you, faded design he's sure was his, "fuck!"
ex best friend! Ashton who washes his hands, white running down the drain, as he promises, promises that he's going to find a new groupie tonight
ex best friend! Ashton who still ends up at your apartment anyway
TW: Toxic relationship, unprotected sex, rough sex, drug and alcohol use, SMUT, name calling,..etc
-
“What now Y/N?” Ashton asked, his tone dripped annoyance and his face only supported the way he was feeling. He was headed to Calum’s place to celebrate his birthday with the guys and a couple other friends. Ashton had just finished getting ready dressed in his signature attire that only ever made your eyes turn into hearts.
Normally, you’d be going with him except this time they’ve decided to save our friends from the immense tension that surrounds you tightly during this moment.
Everyone did see the vulnerability that held you down at the ankles and saw how you still stayed. Staying with Ashton is like fighting an internal struggle. No one gets it but you.
He gives me a quick glance and huffs before grabbing the keys hung up next to the door. “I’ll be back”
You nod, everything you wanted to say had already been said.
The door slams shut behind him making the other keys rattle from the impact and the house falls silent. You take a deep breath to calm down. Your feelings are hurt but that’s not a new thing. There’s nothing to do now that it is 5pm but to eat dinner alone. Again. This whole argument between Ashton and you had begun yesterday around this time. You had prepared his favorite food for dinner, made noodles from scratch and garlic bread with the sourdough starter recipe that you’ve been mastering. Except he never came for dinner due to being at Calum’s to prepare for today, leaving you alone.
“Okay” you murmured looking around the house. There’s nothing to do, really. You make your way to the couch and plop down turning on the TV for some background noise and go on your phone. You’re busy looking over your clients for Monday when you receive a call from your best friend.
You: Hellooo?!
Joi: Bitchh! Are you doing anything tonight?
You: Nothing. What’s the move girly?
Joi: Colby got a last minute section for his birthday, he said we should go. What do you say?
You: You know what? I think I could go for some drinks.
Joi: I’ll text you the details now, what are you wearing?
You pull the phone away from your ear and transfer the call to a video call and get up to head upstairs. You both continue to talk about what you will wear for the night and do your makeup. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten put together and actually feel good, putting on a tiny black top and a mini skirt, tight on the skin with black strappy heels. The winged liner deepened your eyes making them appear smaller, perfect for a night time look. The jewelry you wore clinked with every move and it only made it more exciting. The feeling of getting ready and looking pretty was just a devine feeling.
Truthfully you would have better enjoyed being with Ashton but the way he’s been acting has really been getting to you, wanting nothing more but to stray away from him for the night.
“I say a black lip liner and that red lipstick I gave you. Blend it” Joi speaks, she must’ve seen the way you were looking through my lip products. Putting on the lip combo she suggested, everything was perfect.
+
The night was going great, talking to friends followed by shots every 10 minutes. The music was blaring and the LED light jumped from wall to wall in beams. At some point you, Joi and Tara go to the bathroom to touch up the melting makeup on their faces.
While you’re there you go on your phone and go to instagram and click on some stories to see what’s going around. First it’s Luke’s and it’s a post of him and Calum, each holding up a red plastic cup and a beer on the other hand wishing Calum a happy birthday. The picture was blurry, the flash on making their faces look bright in contrast to the dark background. Despite the setting of the image, you could make out the figure in a leather jacket with brown hair and shades in the background. He held a red plastic cup too, his head tipped down but the small white gap demonstrated his smirk at the girl in front of him.
That’s all you had to see before turning off the device and gulping. Brushing the ache in your heart you touch up in what you need to before heading back to the VIP section Colby bought. Through the night the picture was engraved in your head but tried to not think much of it. It could be a friend, but even that didn’t sit right with you. Ashton wouldn’t cheat, everyone knew that even if he was the biggest asshole to you.
+
Ashton’s mood had uplifted greatly once his feet hit Calum’s empty house, arriving early to set some last minute stuff with the guys. The guests started to swarm the house and soon there were people all over having fun.
“Hi Ash!” A hug engulfed Ashton making him stumble back a bit. It was Mandy, a friend of a friend who’d been wanting to persuade Ashton for the longest.
“Mandy” Ashton greets in a bland manner, his eyes scoping the area for an escape. His hands held a red solo cup filled with his choice of alcohol that had already started running through his veins. The burn lingered in his throat from the sips he had already had, the burn only grew to his chest.
“How’ve you been? You came alone?” Her whole face perked up once she noticed the missing presence, her head whipped and scanned the room. There was no you. She brought her hand to his arm, giving it a light rub above the elbow.
“Don’t touch me” Ashton’s voice was harsh, wrapping his fingers around her wrist and removing it off him making her face drop before quickly fixing it. He brought his chin lower, to where Mandy could not miss what was said. “This is the second time I tell you this now Mandy, leave me the fuck alone, I don’t want your ass”
Her attempts to get at Ashton always angered him but this time it humored him. He didn’t want shit to do with her.
“I have a lady that I love very much, you simply can’t compare” the little smirk that played on his lips disappeared before reaching his full height and making his way to where Calum was with a freshly rolled joint in his hands.
“What was that, man?” Luke asked nudging his head to the direction Mandy and Ashton were once at.
“On my ass. Told her to drop it” Ashton shrugged and took the last sip of the remains of his drink before tossing it and cracking a beer open.
-
Ashton’s head was now high on cloud 9 once the joint was finished.
“Ashton, mate” Michael plopped next to him, his phone in hand. “You might want to see this”
Ashton sat up taking the phone from Michael’s hand and sitting with his elbows on his knees, the phone displayed Michael’s Instagram account. Michael’s finger comes in sight and presses on the little grayed out circle with a green ring around it. The story took over the screen. A section at a club and just people dancing.
Ashton didn’t see the need to take a look at it but Michael’s finger started skipping through the stories when Ashton sees a familiar face making him still.
“Oh shit, I passed it” Michael slurred before Ashton could say anything and backed it up.
The video restarted and first it’s just showing the people around before pointing to a mutual friend of ours on a booth receiving a lap dance. She said something glancing at who was giving the lap dance and the camera panned to you.
You were bent over, grinding your hips on your friend slowly whining down spreading your knees before bouncing on your heels slightly, then puckering your backside out as you came back to your original height to only start shaking ass. The little black skirt kept riding up, the lower part of your ass was out but you had gave up on trying to pull it down a while ago. Tara moved in front of you where you smiled at the camera before turning to your friend and straddling her, then it ends.
Ashton didn’t know how tight his grip was on the phone until Michael tried taking it back letting it go. If he wasn’t already mad about the whole situation before, he sure is now.
+
Colby ended up getting both of you an Uber back to each of your houses, after many shots your walk was sloppy like the words that came out as you thanked the uber. “Thank you ma’am”
Half way through the yard the front door opens up revealing Ashton in the same clothes he had left in. Not wanting to deal with anything he had to say, you continue the walk past him almost bumping into his shoulder.
“So you want to go out, not even let me know before hand, and every fucking time I called you it went straight to voicemail even though you viewed Luke’s story.” He follows behind you, each step landing heavy on the floor. The sound of his movements were loud, he removes his jacket tossing it somewhere in the house creating a dramatic effect. “Oh but you’re posted on Tara’s close friends shaking ass in front of every-fucking-one” he spins you around harshly from the elbow, his calloused fingers digging into you.
You finally look him in the eye, his own dark and lined with makeup, red and low. He smelled of alcohol and weed mixed with his cologne.
“And what Ashton?” You finally snap pulling your arm away from his grip. “It’s never a problem when you do stuff, right?”
“Don’t worry about my doings baby, we’re talking about you right now” his body doesn’t part from yours but only stalks you to the base of the stairs. “For fucks sake, it’s been forever since you’ve worn that little skirt. You filled it up nice it doesn’t even cover that ass anymore” his slurred voice faded behind you as you climb the starts with an unsteady walk matching yours.
Seeing Ash drunk and faded out of his mind always did something to you, skyrocketing your vital signs at the look of him. “You’re still mad? Silly girl, drop that attitude because this little act of yours? I didn’t fucking like one bit.” His voice deepened the same way your heart felt in your chest. “Fucking listen to me, you little bitch” he sneered. This time with an even harder grip than before he turns you to face him.
“Fuck you Aston” you let out the anger steaming from you. The feeling heavy in your chest build up the tears in your eyes. You felt all the words in your throat but nothing came out.
His eyes are hard on you, his eyebrows furrowed in anger, his ears burned red just like his face. His lips are suddenly on yours, his tongue aggressively moving against you the rough hair from his beard scratching you. Ashton’s a good kisser. He’s aggressive but soft with it, but in moments like this there is none of that softness I know. His fingers dig into your sides pulling you closer to him.
“How much did you have to drink huh?” He pulls away. He towers over, looking down at you. “It must I’ve been a good amount no? Did you know Michael’s in Tara’s close friends? He showed me. I saw you dancing like a slut on Steph, your fucking nipples were basically out. And you ass?” He laughs “it was out. You can’t fucking take a step without it riding up. Did you notice how all those fucking men around you were staring at what’s mine?”
His chest was pressed against you, pushing you into the room that belonged to both of you.
“At least I wasn’t over here up close and personal to them” your voice doesn’t come out as strong as you hoped for it to sound. “If they wanted to look, then that’s fine”
Ashton didn’t like that, nor did he like the way you were talking back. Bending you over the bed he tore the skirt off your body. You go to protest his actions when a hard smack lands on your ass making you hold onto to the mattes.
“Shut up. You don’t need it, it didn’t cover shit to begin with. And this?” He snaps the thin strap of your thong on your skin “Skanky as fuck” he pushes it to the side grazing his fingers against your pussy.
“Fuck yo-“ you’re cut off by his fingers sinking all the way into you. He knew you were wet, he knew you were desperate for his touch.
“Go on and pretend you don’t like the way I treat you like shit. Cry that your little feelings are hurt, but it’s okay right baby? I’m still the only one you need” he hums “You don’t have anyone else. I’m the only one who loves you baby. Know it” his fingers scissored inside you making you cry out “Cry baby, let it out”
The tears stream down your face. From hurt, because he’s such a fucking asshole who’s the only one to take care of you and because everything he said is true. Your pussy gushes around his thick fingers, the slightly curl up to the spot where he knows drives you crazy.
“Your pussy knows these finges baby, feel it giving up? Who else can play you like this?” You clench around him.
“Anyone cou-“ your smart comment doesn’t get past your lips because Ashton shoves his girthy dick into your pussy. Theres no time to adjust because he takes your wrists behind your back thrusting hard into you, your face falling down on the soft sheets. His heavy nuts swung against your clit, sticking together from the wetness.
His hot breath fans your cheek, lips brushing your skin. You feel a burn on your wet cheek making you cry out in pain, Ashton’s teeth dug into the rosy flesh. Sucking harshly he groans.
“Ash-ton. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck” you moan out taking each aggressive shove. He trails kisses down your neck, sucking at the junction where your shoulder and neck meet. You try to break your arms free from his grip but there was no use. All you can do is move your head way him. “A-asshole”
He hates when you call him out his name. He thrusts fully into you making you cry out.
“Say it. Say you hate me. Say you wish you never met me. Say I don’t make this pussy so fucking wet. Agh” he moans, the grip on your wrist tightens. He brings his other hand and presses it against the side of your head. “Say you don’t like the way I fill this cunt up with my spunk” he laughed. Everything was hot and sticky, but everything was fogged up in your brain.
“You liked getting fucked like a little bitch in heat, don’t you?” His words were degrading and nasty but both of you knew what it did to you.
All you could do was whine, his weight heavy on your face. Everything was blurry there was nothing to say but to take it. His hips met your ass with rough slaps, painting you red with the abuse you were enduring. The pleasure built up in the pit of your stomach, the heat radiating through your body making you quiver under Ashton. Your legs started to give up, flattening out slowly pushing you into a prone bone position. The assault didn’t last long that way before he flipped you over, his hands immediately finding their way to your tits, pinching at each nipple.
“Fucking-say-it” his thrusts grow sloppy but keep the same intense force. He knew you were close, your pussy throbbed around him, he could feel the way you held back. He leaned down giving you a deep kiss, caressing your cheek and pushing away the strands of hair that stuck to your face with sweat and tears. He wrapped both hands around your neck cutting off your air supply going harder than before. He looked heavenly. Hair stuck to his forehead, he had lost the tshirt he was wearing so he glistened in sweat, and fuck his huge biceps that had doubled in size when he applied pressure around your neck.
“That’s right baby. Let go for me, you know you can’t resist this dick. Yea, yea baby. No one’s love you like I do. Do you hear me? My slut. Mine” his lips tightened into a thin line, his dimples adorned his face with each expression he gave. Ashton had shaved off his beard only leaving his mustache and fuck it was hot.
You gripped his forearms, your nails digging into the tatted moons making him flinch in pain only to thrust deeper into you.
“Where do you want it? Huh?” A smirk on his lips, he knew where you wanted him. He loved how the words cut off where his fingers were. Releasing his grip letting you talk. “Cum in my cunt please Ashton”
The words are cried out, barely being able to make out what they were but were well enough for Ashton to understand you. “Oh yeah? You want to be filled pretty?”
Ashton feels you clench around him as your orgasm hits, your legs shake under him, the euphoric feeling buzzed loudly in your ears and pure adrenaline pumped through your veins. Your pussy squeezed tightly milking his dick.
“Take it baby, take it all” He shot ropes of cum into your womb, coming at the same time. He kept fucking you slowly riding you out of your orgasm. “Good pussy, always draining me. Fuck.”
You could feel the warmth in your pussy, the warm liquid getting fucked back into you with Ashton’s slow place.
“Ugh-fuck” Ashton groans removing his hands from your neck and hold his dick at the base removing it from you.
“Oh-wait” you say when he spreads your legs wide open looking at the mess of your pussy. Slow beads of cum dripped from the head of Ashton’s dick but he pumped his dick over your pussy making sure it all goes where it needs to. His release was now leaking out but before it could hit lower Ashton’s fingers pushed it up back into your pussy making your groan and throw your head back.
“Quit acting out” he shoves his fingers in your mouth leaving the taste of both of you and gives you a smack on the cheek before walking to the bathroom leaving you worn out on the bed.
Asshole.
——
An- Sorry yall I’ve been busy studying and getting thrown around at work😡
Michael Clifford x female groupie reader by 5secondsofcecelia <3
Summary: You’re basically Michael Clifford’s own personal groupie that’s it this is a pretty short and quick one shot lol!
Warnings: nsfw, 18+, unprotected p in v, handjob, groupie, smut
Wattpad: 5secondsofcecelia
Word count: 1,591
I know this was short butttttt I needed to write a Michael fic since everyone else has 3 or 4 fics about them but I didn’t feel like starting a series so yeah here’s a quick smut fic! As always I didn’t proofread lol! I hope you enjoyed it and if you did lmk! Xx
The year was 2014, you had just recently turned 18 so for your birthday you had decided to go to five seconds of summer show with a friend as a gift to yourself. That’s where this all started, you ended up getting lost and somehow ended up backstage after the show, and that’s where you met Michael Clifford. Since that night you’d been following him around tour and hooking up with him every night. That’s how you basically became Michael Clifford’s own personal groupie, I mean you wouldn’t reject the any of the rest of the members of the boy band but none of them never asked, and let’s face it Michael would be totally pissed. He likes to pretend it’s casual and deny it’s anything more, as if he hadn’t told you (more like moaned out loudly) multiple times during sex that he loved you. It’s not like either of you were against the thought of it being more than casual, it just never really mattered to you.
Anyways, tonight was another one of those nights. You were watching the concert from a tv in the green room backstage and you swore Mikey was teasing you. The way he was moving his arms, flexing the muscles of his biceps extra hard, it made you want to pull him off stage right then and there and have your way with him. Finally as jet black heart came to a close, the crowd cheered and the band said their goodbyes before walking off stage. Michael instantly searches for you and finds you lying on the couch in the green room. He was practically panting and covered in sweat, he looked like a dog who just got home from a day at the park. You giggled at him as he sat down next to you, his arm around the back of the couch, the other reaching for a water bottle off the nightstand next to the couch. You lift your legs to rest them across his lap, his hand moves to rest on your thigh as he puts the water down. “God I’m so burnt out” he breathes. You sit up and move to put your elbow on the top of the couch and your hand supporting your head as your legs cross. “Well then” you lean down to whisper “What if we head back to the tour bus and I help you calm down a bit?” Michael grins and bites his lip “Sounds like a plan.” He says as his breath brushes your lips. You giggle and stand up taking his hand, you lead him outside to his tour bus. You walk through the bus and he follows after while chuckling before reaching the bedroom. You practically throw him onto the bed with a giggle. You crawl on top of him, your hands run up and down his body under his shirt. “Quick question before we start, were you teasing me out there?” You ask with a grin. “Maybe…” he responds back as his cheeks flush pink. “I knew it! God I hate you!” You groan playfully. “No you don’t, or else you wouldn’t be here.” He teases while smiling sheepishly. “Shut up, just lay back and let me do the work.” You say as your cheeks flush pink. You kiss him passionately, you tilt your head to deepen the kiss as his tongue enters your mouth. You pull away just long enough to get his shirt off. You giggle against his lips as the kiss continues, your tongues lapping each other's tongues. Your one hand finally stops rubbing his sweat filled chest and reaches down for his skinny jeans, you quickly tug his zipper down and off. You grind against his hard bulge, only 3 thin pieces of fabric stopping the full raw friction from happening. Michael lets out a muffled groan behind your lips, you could practically feel the pre-cum leaking from his cock under his boxers. You reach your free-hand inside his boxers and trace the familiar veins and muscles with your finger. His cock twitches, sending goosebumps down his thighs. You finally tug his boxers and his jeans down and fully off. Mikey pulls away just enough to coherently speak. “J- just a quickie though, I’m tired. Please” he cry’s out in a whisper. You nod and give him a quick kiss before whispering “Of course baby, we’ll just do two things.” His hand grips the back of your neck and pulls you back in to kiss you. His tongue slides into your mouth effortlessly before you pull away. You grin up at him biting your lip as you crawl down him, stopping once your face aligned with his cock. You gave his shaft a quick stroke, base to tip, before giving the hot pink head a sloppy kiss, a string of spit connecting it to your lips. You giggle against the soft skin and kiss the base of it. You give the head one last quick kiss before putting it in your mouth. Michael groans and his hands fly to your hair, gripping your scalp tightly, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to guide you if needed. You slowly lower your lips down his cock, taking the whole thing inside your mouth, before slowly beginning to bob your head up and down. Michael guides you and quickens your pace. He lets out a loud groan from behind his teeth as he looks down at your eyes prickling with tears as you choke on his cock, it only encourages him as his cock grows harder inside your mouth. You quicken your pace making Michael subconsciously buck his hips up.
Your hands find his goose bump textured thighs and kneads at them softly. You moan against his cock, the sight alone of him coming undone underneath you making your panties soaked. The vibrations of your throat against his sensitive skin sends a shiver down his body as he cries out a loud moan. He guides your head just a small bit faster, the feeling sending him over the edge completely. Mikey whimpers as he finishes, his juices spilling down your small throat. You finally pull your lips off his cock with an audible pop. Your lips were wet and plump as spit and cum drizzled down your chin. Michael chuckles and cradles your face with the hand that was guiding your head. He uses his thumb to wipe the excess cum off your chin and then pushes it past your soft lips and puts it in your mouth. His thumb presses against your tongue making you swallow every bit of his seed, he pulls his thumb out as his cock gets half hard at the sight of you. You giggle and climb back on top of him, you give him a quick kiss before pulling away to unzip your jeans. Mikey tugs at your belt loop silently asking you to hurry up. You grin and pull your jeans down and off, your Lacey panties following soon after. You smile and kiss his cheek before picking up his shaft and aligning it with your wet core. His hands fly to your bare hips. You let out a hiss as you feel the tip of his cock stretch your walls, while Michael throws his head back with a whine. You slowly drop down fully onto his cock. You gasp as you feel him fill you up, the feeling of him filling you up wasn’t new but it always felt new to your pussy due to the sizing. You let out a small whimper as you sit there for a moment before beginning to slowly ride. Mikey whimpers and subconsciously thrust his hips up, begging for more friction as he tries to guide your hips. You moan and quicken your pace, you knew he was tired and so were you so you were trying to make sure you made it quick. You grip his shoulders for leverage as he bounces you up and down on his hard lengthy shaft. The tour bus bedroom filled with the sounds of Michael’s whines and whimpers and your moans as you found a rhythm. Your eyes almost roll back with a choked gasp as Michael hits your g-spot. “Fuck, right there Mikey!” You cry out and quicken the pace. He lets out a loud long moan as he feels your walls clench around him and try and milk his cock as you reach your climax. He groans before relaxing and letting go, reaching his own climax. You whine as he fills you up, you slowly ride it out before coming to a stop. You sigh and he lifts you from off his cock with a breath. You lay down next to him panting, both of your bodies painted in sweat now. “Can we lay here for a minute before cleaning up?” You breath. “Yeah” Michael pants out as he catches his breath.
I know this was quick but I hope you enjoyed it and if you did lmk! Xx
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
warnings: brief mentions of being high and probably just horribly written. lowercase intended.
note: i wrote this a while ago. this is inspired by everytime by ariana grande <3 i’m open for requests. also ignore anything grammatically incorrect thank u
"hello?"
you can't say the no caller ID was a complete mystery. you checked the time on the phone before pressing your ear against it. it's 11 p.m., and if you know him, which you do, you’d know he's high and the biggest side effect he's feeling right now is loneliness.
"are you home?" a low voice hums out in response.
"who is this?" you sigh.
not a completely serious question, for the record. you know he knows that you know who it is.
"don't do that," he chuckles for a second before stopping himself, "you know."
you don't respond. you’re unsure how to at this point. it's a little embarrassing how much of a routine this has become. it's been a couple of months since you two have broken up, and ironically, you’ve been more in touch than ever.
"you can't keep calling, cal," you let out as a half whisper.
as much as you’d hate to keep self-destructing this way, you couldn't help yourself either.
"you can't keep answering," he rebuts almost immediately. you can hear the smile on his face.
you pause for a moment. you could feed him hundreds of reasons as to why this isn't healthy for both of you but you don't.
"fair enough," you admit in defeat.
"so," he goes on, "can i pass by?" he whispers. you’d question his quietness more if it weren't this late. but it is late and he's probably around his friends.
it doesn't offend you that he hides the situation from them because you do the same with yours. it's not something you’d both be proud to confess.
his friends would probably call him weak and yours would probably convince you to cut him loose.
"yeah," you whisper back.
some minutes pass, a quick update on his ETA, and before you know it, the door opens.
you set the phone down and walk to the door.
"cal?"
you take a look at him. white tee, black sweats, eyes puffy, and hair disheveled. broken up or not, his presence still triggers nervousness inside.
"usually people knock before entering." you chuckle at him.
"sorry," he half-smiles. "easy to break in when you leave the key under the mat.” he takes your key and hangs it up on the key holder by the door.
you both stand at the door for a couple of seconds in silence. it'd be a little more awkward if this was the first time you’ve done this but this feels like the hundredth time.
"i missed you," he breaks the silence, hand reaching out for yours.
you look at his hand briefly before looking up at him. there's no point in playing hard to get. he's already here. you both know what you’ve gotten into and you both don't care. at least not right now.
sooo maybe fic/hcs (nsfw or sfw) on that topic?? maybe mixed with a little fluff with a hangover the next morning and cuddles and allat
hope you have a nice day <3
sfw n nsfw dj luke hcs
a/n: ohhh believe anon he changed my life (for better or for worse I still don't know)
𐔌 Luke is ridiculously clingy when he’s hungover, he'll just start burrowing into your chest and refusing to let you get up. He’ll complain about his headache while you play with his hair, occasionally tightening his arms around you whenever you try to move, like you'll somehow make it better.
𐔌 He always checks where you are when he’s performing. Doesn’t even matter how crowded the place is. He’ll be halfway through the set, glance towards you and immediately look a little more relaxed.
𐔌 Luke likes having you sit beside him while he works, even if you’re doing absolutely nothing. Sometimes you’ll be scrolling on your phone for an hour, and he'll randomly hand you one side of his headphones and be like “Listen to this.” because he wants your opinion and wants you to feel included.
𐔌 Shower sex after a sweaty night at the club is basically a non-negotiable for him. He hates going straight to bed when he’s still got all that leftover buzz in him, so somehow you always end up in the bathroom with him. He’ll have you backed against the tiles, the steam fogging up the mirror as you both try to keep your voices down.
𐔌 He knows you’re obsessed with his hands, so after every gig he pulls you into his lap and fingers you slow and deep while he talks about the set, his ringed fingers stretching you open while his thumb works your clit. He keeps his voice low and casual like he’s not knuckles deep in your cunt.
A/N: big fat kiss for whoever can catch the lyric easter eggs. PLEASE let me know what you think, fluff makes me so nervy 😇
tags: clubsos!calum x reader (afab, no y/n), meet cute-ish, fluffyyyy, slowburn (over the span of one night lol), mention of smoking/cigarettes, reader is EXACTLY like other girls (positive connotation), reference to shaving your whole body for one direction (… no comment 😀), reader and calum are bumbling flirting idiots, making out, calum likes his hair pulled propaganda, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise, talks you through it
It had been a fun night. One of the best he’s had in a while, but two hours in, Calum’s social battery was at an all time low.
The other guys were carrying the set well enough for him to slip away unnoticed, finding the furthest possible exit backstage. He takes a deep breath as the cool night air finally envelopes him, his head immediately clearing up.
Reaching in his pockets, he digs around for his lighter before pulling out a pack of cigarettes. His thumb brushes over the striker, nearly jumping at the voice that speaks up.
“I’m so sorry, could you please not do that here?”
His head whips around to find the source of the request, his shoulders immediately relaxing at the absolute sight in front of him. With how sleep deprived he is and how much he’s drank in the past 24 hours, he momentarily believes he’s hallucinating an angel.
“Shit, yeah, sorry. Must’ve missed the ‘No Smoking’ sign,” he shakes his head at how aloof he feels, immediately shoving everything back into his pockets.
She tilts her head, looking him over with a faint smile on her lips, “Oh, there’s no sign.”
“Oh,” his brows furrow in confusion, “Uh… so I can smoke here?”
“You could,” she shrugs, “Unless you want company.”
His lips part and close as he processes her words, his hands eventually setting deep in his pockets as he leans against the wall next to her. Eyeing her not so subtly, he speaks up after a comfortable pause.
“Were you not enjoying the set?” He’s not offended, just curious as to why someone would be hiding out in a back alley rather than being inside the club.
“I was,” she turns to look at him, “Just needed some fresh air.”
He nods, quickly looking away. For some reason, her eye contact makes him falter, breath catching in his chest as he tries to spit out anything at all to keep the conversation going.
“Are you a fan?” He blurts out, immediately cursing himself for asking such a stupid question.
But when she looks at him blankly, he begs the ground to swallow him whole. Standing up straight, he scrambles to explain his question.
“Sorry, that probably made me sound like a douche. My band’s the one hosting the event, so I just assumed that you were a fan and I guess I didn’t realise-”
“I’m fucking with you,” she laughs, “I know who you are.”
He can’t help but laugh too, even if it’s at his expense, her expression putting his entire body at ease. The neon lights of the EXIT sign paint her in a soft glow, convincing Calum she really must be an ethereal being. She looks tired, but happy. He wonders if she reads him as the same.
Clearing his throat once he realises he’s been staring for a little too long, he takes a cautious step closer to her. He’s careful with maintaining the distance between them, more so afraid of scaring her off than anything else.
“I was gonna have a smoke and take a walk. Since I’m banned from the former,” his cheeky smile makes her heart drop, “Care to join me on the walk?”
He can practically hear the gears shifting in her head as she contemplates her answer. Surely the cons outweigh the pros, but he’s still hopeful. After the week he’s had, he would be grateful just for the comforting silence of this stranger’s company.
Nodding warily, she falls into step next to him. Aimlessly walking through quiet side streets, their voices occasionally fill the somber air with mindless questions or commentary about the starry night. The further they walk, the closer they get. The occasional brush of their hands makes her breath hitch, making her even more conscious of the situation she’s put herself in.
Meanwhile, though he’s trying his best to play it cool, he’s as giddy as can be with the prettiest girl in the world by his side. Every faint touch, every step forward, has him opening up just a little more. By the time they turn around to head back to the venue, he’s told her about a recurring childhood nightmare and asked her at least two existential questions (which she was more than happy to oblige).
When their fingers graze for just a second longer, a chill runs up her spine. He frowns, attributing it to the breeze that suddenly picked up.
“You’re cold.” Stating more than asking, he immediately unzips his jacket and hands it over to her.
“Oh, no, I’m okay!” She eyes the metallic fabric in his hands, refusing to look at the way his chest fills out the fitted tank he’s wearing under. Subtly glancing over the muscle of his arms as her eyes draw back to his face, she stifles a laugh when she speaks again, “I don’t think I’m cold enough for a thermal blanket yet.”
His jaw drops with a laugh, “I thought it looked cool!” He shoves the jacket her way, wordlessly encouraging her to put it on regardless. Something in him aches at the thought of her falling ill.
When they finally round the block back to the club, an hour has passed. The quiet conversations, accidental brushes of skin, and her inconspicuous teasing refueling him to no end.
Hovering around the back entrance after she returns his jacket, he can’t quite get himself to go back inside.
“Wanna come up behind the booth?”
She visibly cringes at the thought of her on stage, “Thank you, that’s really kind of you, but I think that might freak me out a little.”
Laughing, he holds the door open for her, “Fair enough. How about side stage then?” He watches her closely, hoping she’ll say yes. He’s not ready to let her go yet. “Not as crowded, not as visible, and you can still have fun?”
Her mouth twists as she contemplates his offer, the reassuring – with a hint of pleading – look in his eye breaks her down immediately. She sighs.
“What the hell, sure.”
He grins, stepping in behind her. After finding her a relatively secluded spot, he heads back to the booth with the rest of the guys.
Though he tries his best, tells himself to wait until the end of each song at least, he can’t help but look back at her at every opportunity. And why shouldn’t he? The way her face lights up every time she recognises a song, the way her eyes track him every time she thinks he isn’t looking. He would be a fool to not drink it all in while he can.
Somewhere between the last song and the band taking a bow, she slips away, wanting to beat the crowd on the way out. And also not wanting to be called out for shamelessly ogling Calum throughout the set.
She doesn’t make it far before she hears heavy steps running down the hallway, calling her name.
“Was it that bad?” He teases, coming to a halt when she turns around, his chest heaving from the effort of weaving through the crowd on stage to catch up to her.
“No!” She laughs, shaking her head, “It was great. You were great.”
He beams at her approval, burning it into his memory, “Why are you sneaking out then?”
“The show’s… over? Right?”
“Yes, but I’d like it if you could stay back for a while. Promise I’ll drop you home.”
Staring at him blankly, she waits for a camera crew to come out and reveal an elaborate prank. When they don’t, she blinks back to reality, “Oh, you’re being serious?”
Now he’s gawking at her.
“Yes?” He tries to recover his failed attempt at flirting, “I mean, unless you don’t want to, which I totally get! That’s absolutely your decision to make, no pressure here! At all! I am so sorry if I came on too strong, I can call you an Uber, what’s your address-”
“I’d love to,” her face splits into a wide grin, resting her hand on his arm to stop his rambling, “I enjoyed our talk earlier. I just didn’t have any of this on my bingo card for tonight.”
A wave of relief washes over him.
“Right, of course.” He nods in agreement, the cheeky smile back on his face, “If it makes you feel better, it wasn’t on mine either.”
Dodging the incoming congestion backstage, he grabs her hand and strategically guides them through a maze of hallways to his dressing room.
Ever the gentleman, he hands her a sealed bottle of water and waits until she settles down on the couch to take a seat halfway across the room. She raises her brows at his choice, but holds back from saying anything about it.
“Did you have fun?” Screwing the cap back on the bottle after a sip, she redirects her focus on him.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
“You already know my answer. I wanna know if you had as much fun as it looked like you were having.”
He groans, rolling his head back, the smooth expanse of his neck short circuiting her brain and making her think of ungodly situations that would have him reacting the same way. “God, did I look absolutely insane?”
“Please,” she scoffs, the words leaving her mouth before she can stop them, “‘Insanely hot’ is a better way to describe it.”
His brows shoot up, a smirk immediately gracing his face while hers flushes red.
“Fuck,” she buries her face in her hands, her voice muffled, “I am so sorry, that was extremely inappropriate. I’m going to blame it on the drink I had three hours ago.”
“Oh, no, please,” he grins, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, “Go on. This is great for my ego, it’s been a while.”
A surprised laugh escapes her, “As if you don’t already know you’re hot.”
“Doesn’t hurt to hear it from a pretty girl,” he shrugs casually, adding smoothly, “And I’m not blaming that on a drink I had three hours ago. I am very, very sober.”
The heat in her cheeks travels down her neck, still trying to play it cool while her body betrays her.
“If you have to specify that, I’m not sure I believe you.”
“I’ll convince you by the end of the night,” he states confidently, turning to face the array of food prepared for him, “Wanna do a taste test?”
“What–” her eyes widen from the whiplash of his flirting and the sudden change in topic, “Huh?”
He stands up, holding his hand out for her, “Come on, I can’t finish all this myself.”
This time she doesn’t hesitate, placing her hand in his as he pulls her up to the table.
They spend the next hour trying every edible item present in their vicinity, with a few personal questions snuck in (which they both think they’re being extremely subtle about).
A moan escapes her at a particularly flavourful novelty chocolate.
His head whips up from the cake he’s working on, trying to ignore the twitch in his pants at the sound that just came out of her. “That good?”
“So good,” she groans again, “Do you like spice?”
The question flies right over his head, his eyes locked on her mouth as she licks the melted chocolate off her lips, snapping back to the conversation when she repeats her question.
“Uh, no– yeah, maybe,” he chokes out.
“Right…” Her eyes narrow at him, the slight upturn of her lips to an amused smile making his heart stop. “Here, try it anyway. It’s not too intense.”
He nearly goes cross-eyed when she holds a piece up to his face, dumbly opening his mouth, completely losing autonomy over his body as she stands in front of him.
She plops the piece onto his tongue, watching closely for his reaction to the chocolate, grinning when his eyes widen in awe.
“Oh, you were so ri–” the words catch in his throat when her hand reaches up to his face again.
“You have a little…” she murmurs, her thumb wiping at the corner of his lip to remove the smidge of frosting from the cake he was eating earlier.
The air grows heavier between them, her touch lingering for a beat too long. Pulling away unhurriedly, her eyes drift up to his locked on her lips. She clears her throat, taking a step back as she pretends her watch is much more interesting than the man in front of her.
“It’s really late, I should probably get out of your hair and get that Uber home.”
Tearing his gaze away, he pulls his phone out.
“I’ll get you one. And if it’s alright I’d like to join you on the ride.” Adding on quickly at her skeptical look, “Not for anything weird! I’ll just feel better knowing you got home safe at this hour.”
She hesitates before agreeing, not necessarily keen on getting in a stranger’s car at three in the morning by herself.
They find themselves in the backseat of a Benz not long after, his mind continuing to spin from her touch and now her proximity. He pretends to stretch his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of how she looks under the warmth of the passing city lights.
But she’s already looking at him – and when he jerks his head forward to stare at the back of the driver’s seat, she laughs. Laughs. The dulcet tone of her voice curves his lips upwards against his will, his cheeks filling out.
He sinks deeper into the seat, the bashful look on his face ridding her of any leftover nerves or fatigue from the long night.
The idea that pops into her head at that moment is not a good one. Definitely not one she should act on, let alone speak out loud. But he looks so cute and he’s been so kind and so generous and she really, really, does not want the night to end yet.
“So,” she starts, her heart nearly melting when he gives her a shy glance, “Swear this isn’t me being presumptuous, but would you like to come up for a nightcap? Maybe a tea? You can say no, I just thought it might be nice to–”
“Yes.” He interrupts a little too quickly. Trying to recover with a mumbled, “Sorry, just really love tea.”
She nods, pursing a smile as the car rolls to a stop in front of her apartment.
The elevator ride up is quiet. A little awkward, not in a way that’s uncomfortable, but in a way where they both know what could happen once the doors close behind them. If they allow themselves to lose the tiniest morsel of control.
As he steps inside her apartment, his eyes rake over every surface in some form of desperation. He tries to take in as much as he can, tries to learn who she is as much as he can, before the rug is pulled out from under him and he wakes up from this dream.
“I have spearmint, chamomile, rooibos, and regular black tea,” she peers over her shoulder at him as she walks into the kitchen, “What are you in the mood for?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he says passively, shrugging off his jacket as he pauses in front of a bookshelf spilling over with paperbacks and leatherbounds.
His eyes land on the framed photobooth pictures sprinkled throughout the shelves. Somehow, even while pulling the silliest of faces, she stands to be the most beautiful person he’s ever laid his eyes on. Though he’s convinced no camera in the world would be able to capture the way she gives the moon a run for its money. Dark nights have never felt so bright to him.
Taking a step towards the kitchen, he can’t help but appreciate the oddly cohesive decor. A fish lamp on an industrial cabinet, a tulip shaped clock mounted next to a vintage world map, fresh flowers in an… oversized martini glass? Things that shouldn’t work together, but they do. Something that fills him with a glimmer of hope.
“Sorry about the mess,” her eyes briefly drift to the pile of outfits she’d tried on before leaving for the night out, trying to distract him with a lame joke, “It’s definitely not in a ‘shaving my whole body before the One Direction concert’ way.”
“I’m sorry– what?!” He guffaws.
“Oh God,” she winces, pouring their chamomile tea into two mugs, “Please tell me you know that reference and I don’t sound like an absolute weirdo.”
He grins, “I am very sorry to inform you, but I have no idea. Sounds pretty self explanatory though.” Watching her closely when he speaks up again, “Wait, what do you mean ‘definitely not’? Was it really not worth the effort for tonight?”
She raises her brows at him, his cheeks turning pink, immediately regretting joking around with her like that. He keeps forgetting; they just met.
“No, I’m a grown woman now.” A sweet smile graces her lips as she adds under her breath, “And I wasn’t seeing 1D tonight.”
His jaw drops, scoffing out a laugh, the tension leaving his shoulders at the teasing glint in her eye. “Ouch.”
Handing him one of the steaming mugs, she leans against the counter with her own. Their quiet conversations from much earlier in the night make a return as they take their time with the tea, not a semblance of sleep in either of their eyes.
The faint buzz of the refrigerator fills the quiet lull that takes over when both of them take a sip at the same time. And he truly, physically, genuinely, cannot stop his gaze from dropping to her lips. How is he supposed to look anywhere else? Why would he look anywhere else?
She tilts her head slightly, her throat working as she swallows, and he knows she’s caught him. He wasn’t exactly being coy, but he’s hopeful she won’t call him out and humiliate him.
“Are you waiting for my permission?” Her eyes rake over him, the sudden shift in them filling his mind with thoughts he should be ashamed of.
Oh, this is so much worse.
The shame is fleeting, though. He realises he’s had enough.
He nods.
Setting her mug down on the counter next to her, the three words that leave her mouth snap the thread he’d been hanging by all night.
“You have it.”
All the tension of the night comes to a head when his lips meet hers. It’s slow, sweet at first. He’s being so careful, his thumb gently brushing against her jaw as he tests the waters. Her hands move to his arms, holding on to them lightly as she tries to ground herself.
Tilting her chin up for more, her fingers press into his tattoos as he deepens the kiss. A quiet sound escapes her when his tongue traces the seam of her lips, his fingers carefully carding through her hair.
Unfortunately, the otherworldly dream doesn’t last too long.
“Fuck– Sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” she gasps a breath, pulling back, “I want to, but I can’t. We can’t.”
He stops immediately, her words shocking him back down to Earth.
“Okay…” his skin burns where her hands had been. “Can I ask why?”
“I–” she balks. Any valid reasons she could come up with vacating her brain.
The seconds hand on the clock feels like it’s ticking louder with every moment that passes, but he waits patiently for her response. His eyes scan her face, her body, trying to understand where he may have misstepped.
She finally strings together a coherent sentence. Though in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t make much sense.
“I can’t think of a good enough reason.”
A beat passes. The startled laugh caught in his lungs with her fingers digging into his tank, yanking him back to her.
This time the kiss is messy, desperate. Deliberate.
His hands in her hair, her nails nearly tearing through the fabric taut at his abdomen, chests flush against each other. He presses her back against the counter, mugs clinking when her elbow pushes against them, the tea sloshing over the least of their concerns right now.
Her fingers slip under the hem of his tank, their cool touch making him take a sharp intake of breath. Gently nipping his lower lip at the opportunity, her tongue tentatively presses against his. A low sound from the bottom of his throat gets swallowed by their kiss, his hand moving down to cup her jaw.
“I want to see you again,” he whispers between breathless kisses. “In daylight,” another kiss, “I swear.” He pulls back, his eyes boring into hers in an attempt to explain the gravity of the situation, “But I really, really need you right n–”
“Stop talking and touch me,” she pants, closing the gap between them, her voice muffled against his mouth, “We’ll get breakfast tomorrow– today, whatever.”
He groans into the kiss, equally as aroused by the prospect of getting her on a date as he is by getting her under him. Hands immediately dragging down to her thighs to lift her onto the counter, he nooks himself between her legs. Even with all the layers of clothing between them, she can feel how hard he already is.
The cold marble under her provides a stark contrast to the heat pooling in her core, gasping into his mouth when his grip tightens on her hips to pull her closer. Her nails dig into the soft skin of his waist before trailing up to his chest, his shoulders, pulling the tank over his head before finding purchase back in his curls.
“Arms up.” He mumbles against her lips, tugging at the hem of her shirt, leaving her in just her bra and skirt. Moving back slightly to take her in, he curses under his breath when she takes matters into her own hands and unclips her bra, her hands immediately returning to his hair to pull him back to her.
While they get lost in the kiss again, he hangs on to what little lucidity he has left to slip his fingers under her skirt, carefully inching up her thigh to bunch it at her waist. To her disdain, he slows down; starting to pepper kisses across her jaw, down her neck, over her chest, cascading down her stomach until he’s on his knees and level with her core.
He takes his time, wanting to commit every part of her body and every sound she makes to his memory. Kissing both of her knees before starting to make his way up her thighs, she starts squirming when his lips barely brush over the damp spot spreading on her panties.
Her grip tightens on his hair and he whines, as if on cue. His body stills as he processes his reaction to her pulling his hair. He’s quite certain he’s never made a sound like that in his life.
Gently scratching his scalp to get his attention, she looks down at him, her voice already hoarse from anticipation, “What’s wrong? Do you want to stop?”
“No, I just–” he takes a deep breath, shaking his head, “Keep doing that.”
The look of realisation on her face sends a chill up his spine, and he knows he’s in trouble for the rest of the night, but he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed.
He drops his head between her legs again, his nose nudging where her clit would be before placing soft, barely-there, kisses all over her clothed pussy. When she starts fidgeting again, his grip on her thighs tightens, bracketing them over his shoulders so he can mouth at her without any disruptions.
To her credit, she puts up with it for as long as she can. Until she faces the genuine worry of him making her cum from this alone. Tugging at his hair to get him to speed up, the vibration of his groan against her makes her hips cant upwards. His fingers finally hook into the waistband of her panties, looking up at her through hooded eyes to make sure this is still what she wants. At her nod, he peels them off with the utmost care, his mouth instantly returning to his newly founded haven.
Starting with light kisses scattered everywhere but where she really needs him, his thumbs run across the seam of her lips before delicately parting her folds. He pulls back just enough to take her in, a shaky breath leaving him when he finally decides to stop wasting time and licks a slow stripe along her slit, stopping with a wet kiss on her clit. Her hips buck up, his amused exhale against her making her whimper.
His lips dwell on the nub, occasionally wrapping around it or soothing it over with a flat press of his tongue. The quiet desperation of her mewls fills the heavy air of the kitchen, her arousal quick to drip onto his chin. Calloused fingers eventually replacing his thumbs, he drags the middle one along her slit, coating it in her wetness. He presses the tip of his finger at her entrance, looking up at her through his lashes to make sure he doesn’t miss a single reaction.
Pushing in at a languid pace, he pauses whenever her face scrunches up or her breath hitches. He’s aware his fingers are pretty thick, years of playing the bass making them exceptionally dexterous too. Something she’s sure to be grateful for by the end of their night.
He lets her adjust once he’s knuckle-deep, his measured kitten licks on her clit a permanent fixture to keep her distracted and aroused. But apparently he’s a little too patient, her voice coming out thin and frantic.
“Calum,” her hips grind down to the heel of his palm, “More. Please.”
“Yeah?” He huffs a chuckle, breath hot against her skin. His eyes shift down to watch how his middle finger fucks in and out of her, “Already taking me so well, angel. Sure you can handle another one?”
She nods eagerly, lips parted in a silent moan as the rough pad of his finger presses up against the spongy spot that has her momentarily forgetting her own name. His free hand leaves her thigh to replace his mouth, his thumb swiping at her juices before starting to run slow circles around her clit.
Continuing like this until he feels her walls starting to tighten around him, he tapers to a stall, her body reacting with a whine and tug of his hair. He moans, his head dropping to her thigh.
“Just wanna give you more, pretty,” his voice muffles against her skin before he places a kiss there, resting his chin on the plush muscle to get a perfect view of her cunt and face. “Deep breath for me.”
Her hold loosens on his hair as she follows his command, his ring finger slipping in much easier with how wet he’s gotten her, but she feels the stretch nonetheless. He starts moving them lazily, occasionally curling them up to hear more of those sounds she’s been trying to hold back by biting her lip. He pushes in all the way until the hilt of his knuckles again, holding them there when she winces.
“Fucking hell,” she glances down at him through glazed over eyes, her chest heaving, “Your hands are literally as huge as they look.”
He laughs, gently nipping at her inner thigh, “In a good way or a bad way?”
She blinks at him owlishly.
“Please, do not ever ask me a stupid question like that ever again.” Her walls twitch around him, “And please do something about that.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks, restarting with full force – since she so kindly asked.
Replacing his thumb with his mouth again, he suckles on her clit as his fingers scissor inside of her, stretching her out at every spread. He starts thrusting them in and out of her, fingertips curling up at every entry and exit to eke out more of her moans and meek sounds. Her white-knuckled grip on the countertop matches the death grip she has on his hair, and he still can’t seem to understand why it keeps getting him unbearably hard. An issue he’ll be sure to look into later.
He’s relentless in his efforts, mouth and fingers working tirelessly to get her where she needs to be. Where he wants her to be.
His ears perk up as her lips part with mindless babbles, her pussy convulsing around his fingers as her eyes flutter shut.
“Oh, there we go,” he hums, voice muffled against her skin as he pauses between suckling on the swollen bundle of nerves, “Almost there, sweetheart.”
She whimpers, her hips uncontrollably rolling up. And he keeps talking.
“I know, I know. Feels so full, hm?”
“Took both my fingers so well and now I need you to cum all over them. Can you do that for me?”
His teeth scrape over her clit, fingers pressing up at her G-spot until she’s a writhing mess, gasping out a moan as she finally reaches her orgasm with an intensity she’s never felt before. Her thighs tremble around him as he continues to work her through it, fingers drawing in and out, tongue salving over her puffy lips and swollen clit.
“Did such a good job, angel,” he murmurs as he licks up the mess he caused, “Looked so pretty when you came for me.”
She can’t remember the last time she was so pleased to hear a man talking. He really was putting his mouth to good use.
Her fingers gently brush his hair out of his eyes as she leans back against the cabinet, trying to catch up on her breath.
Once he’s content with his work on her – though he could very well spend a few more hours down here – he rises to stand between her legs, leaning down to place a soft kiss on her nose.
She hums contentedly, her fingers trailing down his bare chest to the buckle of his pants. Before she can make any move to get rid of it, his hand is on her wrist.
“No, no way,” his eyes widen as he shakes his head.
She jolts back, immediately removing all contact, wanting to respect his boundaries. Though her brows furrow as she assumes the worst. She’s definitely fucked it up, maybe this was just a heat of the moment thing and she got her hopes up, which is entirely her fault now that she’s thinking about it, very typical of her to misread the situation, she should’ve known better, there’s no reason he would actually–
“No, sorry, I mean,” he cups her face, trying to still the panic visible in her eyes. Their foreheads touching as he kisses her until her body relaxes under him, “A little embarrassing, but I’m definitely not going to last. And I do want to take you out before anything else.”
“Huh. Eat me out, then take me out,” she mumbles lethargically, the twinkle back in her eyes.
“Hilarious.” He rolls his eyes with a smile, “I’m serious. Can I actually take you out on a date?”
The smile on her face reaches her eyes, answering his question before she can.
“Yes. Please.” Her eyes shift to the clock behind him, “There’s no way I’m getting up for breakfast though.”
He laughs, leaning down to kiss her again. He really can’t get enough.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: You weren't supposed to be backstage. You’re not a celebrity, an influencer, or even a VIP. You're there because a friend working the show handed you an All Access pass at the last second, expecting to watch from the side and leave unnoticed.
A/N: Enjoy this, it was rushed lol!
You never planned on meeting Calum Hood.
Especially not while trying to find the back entrance for a free ticket your friend got you.
If someone had told you twelve hours earlier that I'd end the night sitting in a hotel room at three in the morning sharing cigarettes with him, you would've laughed in their face.
But that's the funny thing about nights like this.
Chicago buzzed with life in a way you'd never experienced before.
Music spilled from every direction, strangers laughed as they crossed the streets, and festival wristbands flashed on almost everyone you passed. The start of August air was sticking to your skin, carrying the smell of bad drinks, city pavement, and the lingering excitement from Lollapalooza weekend.
Your Phone buzzed in your back pocket, while crossing the street.
Macie: Where are you?
You typed back while the fan line got longer and longer.
You: I'm pretty sure I'm lost. :{
The three dots appear on screen almost immediately.
Macie: Of course you are.
A second message appeared.
“Back entrance. North side of the building. Purple door. Hurry.”
You look back up and turn the corner. Seeing the line of tour buses and vans, between two brick buildings. There it was, a plain purple door with a handful of people already waiting outside, each wearing the same 5sos aftershow guest sticker. Your heart skipped. This was actually happening.
A week ago, you'd accepted that the 5SOS aftershow would be impossible to get into. Tickets disappeared almost instantly, and resale prices were so outrageous you'd laughed when you saw them.
Then Macie called.
"I might have a way to get you in."
Turns out "a way" meant she was working with the event crew and had a single extra guest pass.
One.
She'd given it to you without a second thought.
A security guard stepped forward.
"name?"
You held out your id as he scanned the list.
"You're good."
The heavy door swung open. The muffled thump of bass instantly became deafening.
Lights swept across the dark room in shades of pink and deep red. Around twenty people were on the stage, behind the dj booth. Every inch of the venue was already packed. The air was warm, impossible to breathe through, but nobody seemed to care.
You couldn't stop smiling. This felt like being let in on the world's best-kept secret. The lights suddenly dropped. A roar erupted around you. Four silhouettes walked onto the stage. Luke. Michael. Ashton. And then Calum. The room had exploded.
You found yourself screaming with everyone else, laughing because you couldn't hear your own voice over the music. Calum grinned as he adjusted the bass, glancing over the crowd for only a second before the first note rang through the speakers.
The night had officially begun and your lives were about to collide.
The show ended. People poured toward the exits, the last song was still buzzing but somehow you'd managed to wander in the opposite direction.
"Seriously?" you think to yourself, looking at two identical hallways.
One led toward the loading dock. The other…you had no idea.
"Lost?"
The voice makes you jump. You turn around. Calum Hood is leaning against the brick wall, a jacket thrown over his shoulders, in a white tank top.
"I was looking for the exit."
He laughs.
"Well it was the wrong exit."
"I've noticed."
"Good show."
He smiles.
"I'd hope so."
The cheers that had filled the venue only minutes ago were distant now, swallowed by passing cars and the occasional burst of laughter from fans lingering outside. For a while, neither of you said anything. Calum leaned against the brick wall, pulling out a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his skirt. He glanced over at you.
"You smoke?"
"Only when life gets hard."
A laugh escaped him.
"I think tonight checks out."
He held the pack out, giving you every chance to say no. You took one from his warm hand that made the hairs on your skin stand up.
He flicked his lighter, shielding the flame from the breeze with his hand before lighting his own. Then he reached toward you, the flame reflecting in his eyes.
"Thanks," you murmured.
The first inhale burned more than you remembered. It wasn't awkward. It felt comfortable and safe. You stood shoulder to shoulder.
"You know," Calum said, "that's probably the first thing someone has said where nobody asked for a selfie."
You smiled, taking another drag before looking over at him.
"You deserve at least one normal conversation for today"
He looked back at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He dropped his cigarette and put it out. He looks around then at you. “I’m starving” You laughed.
"That's the smoothest way anyone's ever asked me to get food."
"It wasn't supposed to be smooth."
"No?"
"No." He smiled, cheeks dusted pink. "I just haven't eaten since...soundcheck?"
"You've got terrible priorities."
"Ive been told. So?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a chuckle
"This is going to sound weird."
"Probably."
"The band's supposed to go to this afterparty."
"Oh?"
"They've got food." He paused. "And it's free."
You couldn't help but smile.
"Free food?"
He nodded seriously.
"I'm a sucker for free food."
"I can tell."
A faint blush crept across his cheeks as he looked down at his shoes.
"I was just wondering..." He glanced back up at you. "Would you want to come with me?"
Your eyes widened.
"To the afterparty?"
For a second, you just stared at him. This was Calum Hood, the bassist of one of your favorite bands. Standing in front of you, asking if you'd like to go eat with him.
"You know," you teased, "you could've just led with the part where you wanted to keep talking to me." His ears turned pink.
"So... is that a no?"
You smiled, dropping your cigarette into the nearby bin before meeting his eyes.
"I'd love to."
The grin that spread across his face was brighter than any of the stage lights you'd seen all night.
"Cool," he said, failing to sound casual.
"Cool."
He held the backstage door open for you.
"After you."
You laughed as you stepped inside. Maybe the night wasn't over after all.
A few fans still lingered outside the venue, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the band before the night was over. Calum pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his curls and kept his head down as the two of you hurried toward the waiting van. The door slid shut behind you, muffling the distant cheers outside.
Neither of you said much during the short drive. Every now and then, your eyes met, and one of you would smile before looking away again. The hotel came into view only a few minutes later. As the van came to a stop, Calum stepped out first. He turned back toward you and held out his hand. You looked at it for a second before placing yours in his.
"Careful," he said softly as you stepped down onto the pavement.
The simple gesture caught you off guard. When you looked up to thank him, you noticed the tips of his ears had turned a light shade of pink. Inside, the afterparty was already in full swing.
Music pulsed through the ballroom, conversations overlapped from every direction, and trays of drinks were passed around. Crew members, friends, and guests filled the room, celebrating another successful night.
"I'll be right back," Calum said.
Before you could answer, he disappeared into the crowd. A minute later, he returned, balancing two plates.
"I remembered you said you were hungry."
You laughed.
"I also remember saying you have terrible priorities."
"I do," he admitted, handing you a plate. "But at least I'm feeding us now."
The two of you found a spot near the corner of the room, talking between bites as the party carried on around you.
After a while, Calum rubbed the back of his neck and glanced toward the crowd, where more people had begun calling his name.
He leaned in so you could hear him over the music.
"Do you... want to go upstairs?" he asked quietly. "I'm pretty out of it."
You nodded without hesitation.
"I'd like that."
Calum smiled.
He caught Michael's eye across the room and motioned toward the elevators.
"We're heading up," he called.
Michael looked between the two of you before a grin creeped on his face. He walked over, gave Calum a playful pat on the back, and said, "Don't stay up too late." Calum rolled his eyes, laughing as he led you toward the elevators. The noise of the party lingered within the hotel.
The elevator ride was quieter than either of you expected. The buzz of the afterparty faded with each passing floor until all that remained was the soft hum of the elevator and the occasional glance in each other's direction. Calum smiled to himself.
"What?"
"You've been smiling since we left."
"So have you."
You opened your mouth to say something but then the elevator doors slid open. Calum led the way to his room, pulling the key card from his pocket. The lock clicked. He pushed the door open and stepped aside. You stepped inside, taking in the room. Clothes were draped over a chair, and pages of handwritten lyrics on a napkin covered the bedside table.
"It's clean, shocker"
He laughed and tossed his jacket onto the couch before walking over to the windows. Chicago glittered beneath the night sky, the streets still alive despite the hour.
"It's a nice view," you said, popping next to him.
"It is."
For a while, neither of you said a word.The silence wasn't uncomfortable, it was peaceful. Calum turned toward you.
"I'm really glad you came with me tonight."
You looked up at him.
"I'm glad you asked."
He nodded and stepped a little closer, his voice quieter now. "I just didn't want the conversation to end."
Your heartbeat picked up. The space between you suddenly felt much smaller.
"You know," you whispered, "you could've just said that."
"I know."
Neither of you moved, you didn't pull away, he took one slow step closer.
"Am I going to kiss you." he asked softly.
Your smile answered before your words did.
"I was wondering when you were going to say it."
Then he cupped your cheek with one hand and you leaned into his touch and gripped onto his tank. The kiss was gentle and soft. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, both of you smiling like idiots. His dark brown eyes glistened in the dark room. His hands moved down to your waist and pulled you in. He led you to the edge of the bed.
With no word left in your mind, you pulled him down and kissed him harder. His frame was slowly lowering itself onto you. And his hands slid under you as he held onto you. Your hands went into his bleached curls, tugging them lightly. He made a soft groan as his hand gripped onto your waist once again. His body was pressed onto you and his hand was caught on your t-shirt. When they finally pulled apart, neither of them spoke. Calum let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of your neck.
"I've wanted to do that for the last hour." You smiled, unable to stop yourself.
"Only an hour?" He grinned.
"Okay…maybe since the loading dock."
You held onto his shoulder, laughing. "I thought I was imagining the way you looked at me."
"Definitely not imagining it." As you scoot closer until your shoulder brushes his. He opened his arms, you curled into his side, resting your head against his chest.
call him daddy and he goes FERAL. that man has a certified daddy kink. all it takes for him to give you multiple crazy orgasms is to CALL ASHTON DADDY
hes a drummer so he must have crazy good stamina
directly translates to he can fuck you for HOURS and not get tired
and in my head he would definitely not pass up the chance to play with your pussy and rub it until youre sore from the countless orgasms he can pull out of you with just his fingers
his hugeee biceps would feel so good to ride. just ask him for a chance and he will gladly present you his flexed arm to go stupid on
drumsticks… 🥁 would definitely spank you with his drumstick if you distract him too much when hes trying to focus in the studio
lovesss to have you on top so he can feel your weight above him. and dont worry if you get tired, he will take over and grip your hips to ground him while he thrusts into you from underneath
he would talk you through it. just all the sweet and degrading words growled or rasped into the air for only you to hear
favourite position would be you on top of his dick while he does all the work, thrusting up into your sopping pussy
would probably be into cockwarming with a twist. loves to put you on his lap when he drums so you can feel the vibrations and jolts from him playing it. he wont be satisfied until you cum on his cock three times and he still would fuck you properly afterwards
hes also a hugeeee tease and would NOT let you get what you want unless you tell him exactly how you want it. words just mean that much and he doesnt want you to be a brat!
ashton is a munch. definitely tries to make you squirt everytime he eats you out. and when you do he’s going to tease you because he knows it turns you on so much
first long smutty post how we feeling… idk if this would be a series but lmk what yall think!! hopefully i dont get flamed bc this is seriously js self indulgent😮💨😮💨
presenting: close friends - a multi-chapter luke hemmings x reader fic!
pairing. luke hemmings x female reader
synopsis. Y/N is 5 Seconds of Summer’s new social media manager. Fresh out of college at 22 years old, you landed the job after a successful internship working for Olivia Rodrigo’s team during her junior year. You've been in love with 5SOS since you were 7 years old when the band debuted – so landing this job is a huge deal for you. You've always had the fattest crush on Luke, even trying to pierce your own lip at 11 to mimic him.
But you work for the band now. You can’t let trivial tween dreams get in the way of your current ones. But, honestly, you're a mess right now – this is your first time away from her home in Massachusetts, you're coming off a messy breakup with her toxic (and lowkey abusive) boyfriend of 5 years, and you still struggle with recurring panic attacks that you've had since freshman year of high school. You needs to lock in, though, as you're set to manage the band as they go on their sold out Everyone’s A Star tour.
Everything’s going good until one day in the dressing room where you accidentally walk in on Luke changing. You swear to professionalism, profusely apologizing and on the verge of crying, but Luke doesn’t seem flustered. He seems completely the opposite.
What will happen between the two of you? What will happen to your job? How will the two of you feign professionalism, hiding a budding romance from the rest of the band, the crew – and most importantly – the fans?
warnings. alcohol consumption to the point of heavy inebriation, smoking (cigarettes, vaping, and weed), drug use, profanity, angst, SMUT, self-destructive behavior, AGE GAP (7-8 years), power imbalance in relationship, mentions of body dysmorphia and sh, mentions of past emotional trauma, mentions of past abuse, bullying, panic attacks, mental health issues, prob more
inspired by. STOP, Say It Say, and Promise by Bella Kay
release date(s). currently aiming for at least once a week, starting this wednesday
pairing. luke hemmings x female reader
word count. 7613
synopsis. you've always had one rule: never answer a Luke Hemmings text after midnight. it was the only thing keeping you sane, the only boundary you'd managed to hold onto after years of being his emergency contact, his late-night call, his built-in therapist who also sometimes fucked him. but when he shows up at 2 AM with bloodshot eyes and the same brand of cigarettes from years ago, all your rules and morals go up in smoke — along with your resolve, your self-respect, and the last shred of distance you'd carefully constructed. after all, the two of you had always been experts at noticing everything about each other except the bright red exit signs.
warnings. smoking (cigarettes), profanity, angst, toxic relationship dynamics, sexual content (hair pulling, degradation, spitting, dirty talk, slight choking), emotional manipulation, self-destructive behavior, slight power imbalance in relationship, mentions of past emotional trauma
inspired by: iloveitiloveitiloveit by Bella Kay
You’ve always had one rule: Never answer a Luke Hemmings text after midnight. All they did was get you into trouble — trouble that you didn’t need to deal with.
A couple years ago, you could’ve blamed it on youth. On the reckless pulse of an adolescent brain chasing a high only he could deliver. Sneaking around with one of the world’s most sought-after frontmen? That was a flex in itself — but that was just the surface. Luke Hemmings was so much more intricate than that.
But that’s exactly why you couldn’t have him.
You couldn't have him — not really. Being with him was always a race against something: a tour schedule, a press cycle, the dark monologue in his own head telling him he didn't deserve you. It was a vicious rhythm — one minute he needed you like oxygen, the next he couldn't bear the sight of you.
So you drew a line. Midnight. No exceptions.
Which is why, when your phone buzzed at 1:47 AM, you knew it wasn't some publicist-approved message filtered through three assistants.
Luke: You up
You stared at the ceiling of your apartment for exactly eleven seconds. Rules. That's what you told yourself. You had rules about this now. You were done with that life from years ago. Done being the one people fell back on. Done being the thing Luke Hemmings reached for at 2 AM when the tour bus got too quiet and his thoughts got too loud.
But if you were being honest with yourself?
You were never really good at following rules.
Y/N: depends
You paused, contemplating turning your phone off and going to bed. But — as always — his text bubbles appeared again, in the same routine they always do: typing for a few seconds, then disappearing, then typing, then disappearing, then the message.
Luke: Depends?
Luke: Depends on what?
Luke: I know you’re awake.
How could you ever respond to something like that?
Before you could think of a response, Luke was typing again.
Stopped.
Started again.
Stopped.
The little bubble disappeared for so long you convinced yourself he'd come to his senses.
Luke: Can I ask you something?
Y/N: great opener.
Luke: Is the key still under the mat?
Your thumb hovered over the keyboard like it was wired to a bomb.
“Is the key still under the mat?”
You wanted to lie. You wanted to type no so fast your screen cracked. But the key was still there. Had been for years, through two different leases, through a dozen nights you told yourself you'd finally move it. You never did. Some habits weren't habits at all.
Y/N: that's a dangerous question to ask at 1 AM.
Luke: It's 1:49.
Luke: You’re stalling.
Luke: It's still there.
You bit the inside of your cheek. God, you hated how well he knew you. Hated how nine years and a thousand miles hadn't dulled that particular knife.
Y/N: you're in a different country, last time I checked.
Luke: Who said I was in a different country?
Your stomach dropped.
You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly hyperaware of the window — the way the city lights bled through the blinds, the way every shadow outside seemed a little too long, a little too deliberate.
You told yourself you were being paranoid. Luke Hemmings didn't just show up anymore. Maybe he would’ve years ago. But now? He had schedules, obligations, and a life that didn't include sneaking through your building at nearly 2 AM. Not now, anyways.
But then again, he'd always done the thing he wasn't supposed to do.
Y/N: luke.
Y/N: where are you?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then disappeared. You could picture him perfectly — his crystal eyes scanning his phone with a quiet determination, chewing the inside of his lip the way he did when he was trying to decide how much truth to spill.
Luke: Outside.
Luke: Not your door.
Luke: Down the street.
Luke: I don't know why I came here.
Luke: That's a lie.
You exhaled slowly. Outside. He was outside. Not on your doorstep — not yet — but close enough that the air between you had suddenly shrunk to nothing.
Y/N: what do you want, Luke?
You typed it before you could stop yourself. Blunt. Borderline cruel. But you needed to hear him say it, needed to make him put the words in the open where you could examine them, dissect them, decide if they were the same old nonsense or something that actually meant something this time.
The typing started. Stopped. Started. Stopped.
Luke: I want to know if that key works.
Luke: I want to know if you'd let me use it.
Luke: I want to know if you're still the person who used to leave the porch light on for me.
Luke: And I want to know if you hate me for asking that.
Your throat tightened. The porch light. You'd forgotten you used to do that — a small, stupid ritual that you'd never admitted out loud. He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed.
Luke noticed everything except the bright red exit signs.
You stared at your ceiling again. Eleven seconds turned into thirty. Turned into a minute.
You were never good at rules.
Y/N: the porch light's been broken for two years.
A pause. You could feel his disappointment through the screen, even before he replied.
Luke: Oh.
Y/N: but the key still fits.
You watched the screen. Watched the three dots appear, disappear, appear again, disappear again.
Luke: Can I come see you?
Luke: Just for a minute.
Luke: I swear I'm not here to mess with your head.
Luke: Okay maybe a little.
Luke: But not the way I used to.
You laughed despite yourself. Same Luke. Same infuriating, self-aware, absolutely devastating Luke.
Y/N: you have five minutes.
Y/N: and if you wake my neighbors, I'm telling them you're a burglar.
Luke: I'd make a very attractive burglar.
Y/N: five minutes start now.
Luke: I'm running.
Y/N: oh god.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
Just two minutes passed before you heard footsteps at your front door.
The lock turned slowly, like whoever was on the other side was giving you one last chance to stop them.
You thought about it. You had zero obligation to that door. You had zero obligation to the man on the other side. You didn't wait hand and foot for Luke Hemmings, running towards his every beck and call.
But something inside you pulled you towards that door.
It opened six inches before it caught on the pile of shoes you'd forgotten to move.
"Still can't keep an entryway clear," Luke said quietly.
And there he was.
It had been six years since you'd seen him in person — nearly seven since you'd touched him with any intention.
The man that opened the door wasn’t the Luke Hemmings you’d grown up with. He looked different. Older. The baby fat that had clung to his cheeks in his early twenties was gone, replaced by sharper angles and a jaw that looked like it could cut glass. His hair was now a deep black, a stark difference from his usual bleach blonde you'd grown used to over the years.
He looked expensive. He was wearing a designer leather jacket over a thin t-shirt, accessorized with Gucci sunglasses, high-heeled boots, a watch that had to have cost more than your rent, and an ostentatious amount of silver chains. The whole get-up was inappropriate for both the weather and time of day, but then again, Luke Hemmings had never been particularly good at dressing for anything other than the aesthetic.
But somehow, under all the glamour he was exuding, he looked absolutely exhausted.
"You look like shit," you said.
It wasn't true. He looked devastatingly beautiful. But you couldn't admit that, and you needed to say something to break the spell of just standing there — staring into his ever-eluring blue eyes.
Luke's mouth quirked — that half-smile that had ruined you more times than you could count. "That's all you could come up with? It's been half a decade and you still can't conjure up a comeback."
"I'm just surprised you remember how to use a key. Tour buses don't really need those."
The half-smile flickered. Just for a second. But you caught it — caught the way his eyes dropped to the floor, the way his hand came up to rub the back of his neck.
"Can I come in?" he asked. "Or are you gonna make me stand out here and have this conversation with your welcome mat?"
You stepped away from the door, kicking your shoes towards the corner. Not because you wanted to. You knew you'd regret it either way, and at least this way you could control the narrative. At least this way he was in your space, on your terms.
Luke stepped past you, close enough that you caught the familiar scent of him — cigarette smoke and something darker, something that had always smelled like trouble. The smell clung to his jacket like a second skin. He paused, looking around like he was cataloging every change.
"New couch," he observed.
"The old one broke."
Luke turned to face you fully, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled too thin — one wrong move and it would snap.
His hand drifted to his jacket pocket, patting it absently. A nervous habit you remembered too well.
"I need a cigarette," he said abruptly, already pulling a crumpled pack from his pocket.
"Camel?" you asked, your voice carefully neutral.
"Obviously." He shook one out, pausing to look at you. "You're not going to lecture me?"
"What's the point?" You pushed off the wall and walked toward the back of the apartment. "You never listened before."
The back porch was small — barely big enough for two chairs and a dying plant you kept meaning to water. The city sprawled out below, lights flickering in the early morning haze. Luke followed you out, already lighting the cigarette before he even sat down.
"You quit, didn't you?" he asked, exhaling smoke into the night air. "Seven years ago."
"Six," you corrected, sitting down beside him. "And I’m still clean. Unlike some people."
"Good for you." He took another drag, and you watched the way his fingers curled around the filter — the same way they always had, even when you were teenagers sneaking cigarettes behind the band’s tour bus. "One of us had to grow up."
He offered you the cigarette. An old ritual, one he'd never quite stopped performing.
"I don't—" You paused. It would be so easy. One drag. One moment of weakness. "I quit, Luke. I'm not starting again because you showed up."
Luke's mouth curved into that half-smile again. "Come on. One won't kill you."
You hated that he knew exactly what to say. Hated that your hand was already reaching out before your brain caught up.
Your fingers brushed his as you took the cigarette — deliberately, you knew. Luke Hemmings didn't do anything accidentally. The touch was light, fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn't blame on the cold.
You brought the cigarette to your lips, inhaling, and the familiar burn hit your lungs like a betrayal. You coughed once, then again.
"Smooth," he said, watching you with something between amusement and satisfaction.
"Shut up." You handed it back to him, though your fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary. "Since when do you smoke this much?"
"Since the last album cycle." He took it back, inhaling slowly, letting the smoke out in a long, careful stream. "It's a problem."
"Everything is a problem with you."
He laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of him. "Fuck. You haven't changed at all, have you?"
"Neither have you." You watched the ember glow in the dark. "You're still showing up at my door at 2 AM asking questions you already know the answers to."
Luke was quiet for a long moment. The cigarette dangled between his fingers, forgotten.
"I didn't know where else to go," he said finally. "That's not — I mean it. I was on tour, and I was in this hotel room, and I couldn't breathe. I kept thinking about—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I don't know. I just got in a car."
He lifted the cigarette to his lips again, and the gesture was so familiar it ached — the way his eyes half-closed, the way his shoulders dropped just slightly as the nicotine hit. Seven years since you'd watched him do that, and nothing had changed.
Nothing except you. You'd quit. You'd moved on. You'd built a life that didn't revolve around Luke Hemmings and his emergency packs and his 2 AM confessions.
And now here you were, sharing a cigarette with him on your back porch like no time had passed at all.
"You should quit," you said quietly.
"I know." He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a second the exhaustion on his face was unbearable. "But some habits are harder to break than others." He paused. “Right?”
You scoffed, taking the pack off his bouncing leg and lighting your own. The city hummed below you: distant cars, a siren somewhere in the distance. The sounds of a world that didn't care about the two broken people on a tiny balcony.
"I'm not your therapist, Luke,” you said. "I'm not going to be your emotional support person. I'm not going to—"
"I know."
"—listen to you talk about how hard everything is and then let you disappear for another six years and—"
"I know." His voice was sharp, cutting through your rambling. "I know, okay? I'm not asking you to fix me."
"Then what are you asking?"
Luke stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, flicking it off the balcony. He turned to look at you, and in the dim light of the city, his eyes looked almost black.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I just…I needed to see you. I needed to remember you were real. That you still existed, that you didn't just—" He gestured vaguely. "Disappear."
"I'm not the one who disappears, Luke. That’s you."
"Okay." He nodded, accepting the blow. "Okay, fair. I did. I do. I'm not good at staying."
"You're good at running."
"You're good at pretending you don't care."
The words hit harder than you expected. You turned away, staring out at the city, the cigarette burning between your fingers.
"I never pretended," you said quietly. "I just got tired of being the one who cares more."
Luke moved. You felt it before you saw it: the shift in the air, the way he leaned closer, his presence overwhelming in such a small space. His hand came up, and you flinched — but he didn't touch you. He just took the cigarette from your fingers and stubbed it out beside his own.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"It's cold."
"It's seventy degrees."
You didn't respond. Because he was right — you weren't cold. You were something else entirely. Something that had been dormant for two years, waking up the moment you saw his face in your doorway.
"Why do you always come here?" You asked as you rose from the chair, crossing your arms tight against your chest in an attempt to make yourself smaller – a habit you’ve had forever.
Luke blinked. He looked genuinely confused, like the question didn't compute.
"You have friends. You have your band. You have a family. You have god knows how many therapists–”
“I have two.”
You scoffed. "You have so many people who would drop everything for you. So why do you always come here?"
Luke stared at you. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
"Because you always answer," he said finally.
Not an “I love you” or an “I miss you.”
You always answer.
Something cracked in your chest. You wanted to argue, wanted to point out that you'd been trying to not answer, that you'd been trying to build a life that didn't revolve around him, that you'd almost succeeded—
But you were here. On the porch at 2 AM. Smoking cigarettes you'd quit six years ago. Letting him in.
"I hate you," you said quietly.
"I know."
"I mean it. I hate you. I hate that you can just show up and I let you. I hate that I still have the key under the mat. I hate that I fixed that stupid porch light after it broke six fucking years ago, just in case you came back."
Luke's expression flickered — something raw and vulnerable breaking through the carefully constructed walls.
"The porch light," he said slowly. "You said it was broken."
"I lied."
"Why?"
"I don't know." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Because I wanted you to think I'd moved on. Because I wanted to prove something. Because I'm an idiot who can't let go of you no matter how hard I try."
Luke crossed the space between you in two steps. His hands came up to cup your face, and you let him. You let him tilt your head up, let him look at you with that expression that always made you feel like you were the only person in the world.
"You're not an idiot," he said. "I'm the idiot. I'm the one who keeps leaving and then coming back. I'm the one who can't figure out how to stay. But you—" He swallowed hard. "You're the only thing that makes sense."
"That's not true," you mumbled, looking away from Luke and into the cityscape.
"It is." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "It's always been true. I just didn't know how to handle it."
"Luke…"
"Can I kiss you?"
The question hung between you. He was asking — actually asking. It threw you off balance.
"Why are you asking?" you managed.
"Consent,” he laughed, earning a soft smirk from you. “No, seriously. I'm trying to be better." His voice was rough. "I don't want you to think I'm just here to use you. Because I—" He stopped and shook his head. "Just tell me. Yes or no."
You should have said no.
You should have pushed him away, gone back inside, locked the door, moved the key, changed your number, done any of the things you'd been telling yourself you would do for the last six years.
But you were never good at rules.
"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, fuck, okay, yes."
And then he was kissing you.
It wasn't soft like you’d remembered. It was desperate — six years of absence poured into the way his mouth moved against yours, the way his hands tangled in your hair, the way he pulled you so close you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.
You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer even as you told yourself to push him away. He tasted like cigarette smoke and something sweeter underneath, and you remembered how he kissed like he was trying to memorize every part of you.
"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth. "God, I missed you so much."
"Don't." You pulled back, gasping. "Don't say that. Don't make this—"
"Make it what?"
"Real. Don't make it real. You're going to leave anyway. You're always going to leave."
Luke's eyes — those sad, blue eyes that had always been your achilles heel — softened. "I'm right here."
"You’re a bad idea, Hemmings."
"I’m a good time, Y/L/N."
You shook your head, but you didn't pull away. His hands were still in your hair, and you were still pressed against him, and every logical thought in your head was being drowned out by the feel of him.
"You're going to leave," you repeated. "You're going to leave, and I'm going to be here, and I'm going to spend the next six years trying to forget you again."
"Then let's not think about that," he said. "Let's just have tonight."
"That's the same thing you’d always said."
"Because it's the only thing I know how to say." He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at relationships, or staying, or being what you need. But I'm here. Right now. And I want—"
He stopped. Swallowed.
"What?" you prompted. "What do you want?"
Luke opened his eyes. "I want you to tell me to stay."
It was the most honest thing he'd ever said.
“Fine. Stay,” you mumbled, gripping his jacket with full force.
You kissed him again — harder this time, more demanding. You pulled him inside, away from the porch and into the dim light of your apartment. The kiss didn't break until you reached the kitchen, and when it did, it was only because you needed to breathe.
“Fuck, Hemmings,” you groaned into his lips as he lifted you onto the countertop. Your wine glass from earlier tipped over, shattering on the floor. Neither of you stopped to clean it up. Neither of you stopped at all.
"Tell me to stop," he breathed against your neck. "Tell me to stop and I will."
But you didn’t. You pulled him closer by the roots of his hair, and the sound he makes is almost wounded.
"You want to know why I keep coming back?" he asked, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. "Because no one else makes me feel like this. No one else makes me feel like I'm burning alive. You make me want to self-destruct in the most beautiful way."
"You're such a fucking poet."
"I mean it."
"So do I." You yanked him back in. "Shut up and kiss me."
The kitchen was too bright. He pushed you toward the hallway, through the living room, and into the bedroom. He pressed you into the mattress, and for a moment he just looked at you. Disheveled. Flushed. His thumb traced the line of your jaw.
"Look what you do to me," he murmured. "Look at what you make me."
"Luke—"
He kissed you like he's trying to prove something—maybe to you, maybe to himself. You kissed him back the same way. It was the kind of kiss you'd be embarrassed about if anyone else were watching.
"I've thought about this," he said between kisses. "Every night. I've thought about what you sound like, the noises you make…"
"Then you should—" You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone. "You should know what to do."
"Oh, I know exactly what to do."
His hands found your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He guided you backward until your ass hit the bed, and then he was on top of you, covering your body with his.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he said. "I forgot how beautiful you are."
"You're lying."
"I never lie to you." His mouth found yours again, and the kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue and barely contained hunger. "I hold things back. I disappear. But I never lie."
When he pulled your shirt off, he tossed it somewhere across the room. Your bra followed. He was still fully dressed, and the power imbalance made you feel exposed.
"Tell me," he said, his lips at your ear, "tell me how much you hate this."
"I hate you."
"Tell me."
"I hate how you do this. I…I hate how you show up and ruin everything and I still—" you gasped as his mouth found your collarbone, "—I still let you."
The sound you made was a half-groan, half-sob — caught somewhere between pleasure and the sheer humiliation of wanting him this badly. His teeth grazed your collarbone, and you arched into him like a reflex you never unlearned.
"That's it," he murmured against your skin. "That's my girl. Always so fucking honest when you're falling apart.
"Look at you," he said, and there's something almost reverent in his voice, even as the words turn cruel. "Six years and you still spread your legs the second I show up. Pathetic."
You should push him off. You should slap him. Instead, your hips roll up against his thigh, and you hate yourself for it.
"Say it," he demanded, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Say you're pathetic. Say you've been waiting for this."
"Fuck you."
"Wrong answer." He released your jaw and sat back just enough to pull his shirt off in one fluid motion. The leather jacket hit the floor; his chains clinked against each other as they settled across his bare chest. He's all lean muscle, sharp lines and tattoos you've never seen before.
"Like what you see?"
"Don't flatter yourself,” you scoffed.
"Too late." He leaned back down, his mouth hovering over yours, not quite kissing. "I've been flattering myself since the day I met you. You know why? Because you let me. You always let me."
His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He didn’t pull them off. Just toyed with the button, tracing the edge of it like he had all the time in the world.
"Tell me you want it," he said. "Tell me you want me to ruin you."
"I want you to shut up."
He laughed snarkily before yanking your jeans down your hips so fast you barely had time to gasp. They caught on your ankles, and he didn’t bother to untangle them. He just pressed his knee between your thighs, spreading you open, and the rough denim of his jeans dragged against the thin cotton of your underwear.
"Jesus," you breathed.
"Not quite." His hand cupped you through the fabric, and your hips buck up against his palm. "But you can call me whatever you want if you say it right."
"Luke—"
"That's not what I want to hear." He pressed down harder, the friction maddening. "Try again."
You shaked your head, teeth clenched. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Wouldn’t let him win.
But then his fingers hooked into your underwear and pulled them aside. His ringed thumb found you exactly where you needed him most, and every coherent thought dissolved into static.
"There she is," he murmured, watching your face. "There's my girl."
His thumb circled you slowly, deliberately, and you were already embarrassingly close — six years of nothing and suddenly, your body didn’t care about pride or rules or any of the walls you built.
He laughed low and dark, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You're so desperate. You've been desperate since I walked in the door. I could smell it on you."
"Luke—"
"I could smell how much you wanted me. How much you needed this. You've probably been touching yourself thinking about me, haven't you? Imagining this."
"No."
"Liar."
"I—" You couldn’t even finish the denial before he pressed his palm against you, feeling how wet you already were.
"Pathetic," he said, but there's no cruelty in it. Just heat. Just hunger. "You're soaking through your panties, and you're going to tell me you haven't thought about this?"
"I thought about it," you admitted, barely a whisper. "I thought about it all the time."
"That's my girl." His fingers hooked into the waistband. "Tell me what you thought about."
You swallowed hard. "I thought about you—"
"Specifically."
"I thought about you fucking me from behind. I thought about you pulling my hair. I thought about you—" You stopped, embarrassed by your own honesty.
He stopped too, hand still resting on your hip. "What?"
"You."
His eyes darkened. "What about me?"
"I thought about you saying my name like you meant it. Like I was the only person in the world."
Something flickered across his face — too fast to name. Then it was gone.
"That's sweet," he said, but his voice was rougher now. "Sweet and pathetic and so fucking hot." Luke pulls off your panties before letting his fingers slide inside you. "You want me to say your name? You want me to remember who I'm fucking?"
"Luke—" You gasped.
"Because I'll remember." He curls his fingers, finds the spot that makes you see stars. "I'll remember every sound you make. I'll remember how you feel. I'll remember that you came on my fingers before I even took my pants off."
You arch into his hand, chasing more, and he watches you with something like satisfaction.
"You know what I thought about?" he asks, adding another finger. "I thought about you on your knees. I thought about you begging."
"Luke—"
"I thought about you telling me you needed me. About you admitting that no one else makes you feel this way." He's pumping his fingers faster now, and you can hear how wet you are, and you'd be embarrassed if you had the capacity for embarrassment right now. "And I thought about how good it would feel to make you come so hard you can't speak."
He doesn't give you time to respond. He slid out of his jeans and pushed into you in one sharp thrust, and the breath leaves your lungs in a broken sound. He's not gentle—not like he used to be—and you feel every inch of him, every place where you're stretched to accommodate him.
"Fuck," he groans, head dropping forward. "Fuck, I forgot how good you feel. I forgot how perfect you are."
He doesn't move for a long moment. Just stays there, buried inside you, letting you feel the weight of him. Then he pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, and your vision goes white.
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes—"
"That's right." He sets a brutal pace, each thrust punishing, each one driving you higher. "Take it. Take all of it. You were made for this. Made for me."
His hand finds your hair, tangling in it, yanking your head back. You can't see anything but the ceiling, can't think about anything but the way he's moving inside you.
"Look at me," he demanded. "Look at me when I fuck you."
You force your eyes open, and his gazewaswild—hungry and desperate and something else, something almost scared.
"God," he breathes. "I hate how much I need this. I hate how much I need you."
"Luke—"
"Shut up." He slaps your thigh, hard enough to sting. "Shut up and take it."
He pulls out, flips you onto your stomach, and pushes back in before you can catch your breath. The angle was deeper, harder, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle the sounds you made.
He grabbed a fistful of your hair again, pulling your head up, and the sting of it sent sparks through your entire body.
"Don't hide from me," he growled. "I want to hear you. I want to hear what I do to you."
So you stopped hiding. You let him hear everything — every moan, every broken plea, every time you said his name like it's the only word you remember.
His hand came down on your ass, sharp and sudden. Then again. Then again.
"You like that?" His voice was rough and absolutely wrecked. "You like being treated like this? Like you're fucking nothing?"
"Fuck—yes—"
"Of course you do." He spat on your back — right between your shoulder blades — and the wet heat of it made you shiver. "You're dirty. You're so fucking dirty for me."
He pounded into you harder, faster, and you felt the orgasm building again, coiling low in your belly.
"Please," you begged. "Please let me—"
"Not yet." His grip on your hair tightened. "You don't cum until I tell you."
"I can't—I can't hold it—"
"Yes you can." He slowed down, just slightly, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge. "You can do it. You're so good at doing what I say."
You whimpered into the pillow, and he laughed — dark and pleased.
"Look at you. So desperate. So pathetic. You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"
"Anything," you admitted, and the confession tastes like ash.
"I know." He sped up again, slamming into you with renewed force. "I know. That's why I keep coming back. Because no one else would let me do this. No one else would let me ruin them and still say please."
His hand slid around to your throat, pressing just enough to cut off your air. Not enough to hurt — just enough to remind you who was in control.
"Tell me you love it," he said. "Tell me you love being used."
"I love it," you choked out. "I love it, I love it—"
"Tell me you love me."
The words hit like a slap. You couldn’t breathe — not from his hand, but from the weight of the question.
"Tell me," he demanded, voice cracking. "Tell me you love me. Even though I don't deserve it. Even though I always leave."
"I love you." The tears came then — silent, hot, running down your face into the pillow. "I love you, Luke. I never stopped."
He made a sound — broken, almost a sob — and he pulled you up, pressing your back to his chest, his arm locked around your throat and his other hand gripping your hip. He fucked you like that, deep and slow, and the change in rhythm made you dizzy.
"I love you too," he whispered against your ear. "I love you and I can't stop coming back. I can't stop needing you. You're the only thing that makes sense."
"Cum with me," you gasped. "Please—please cum with me."
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."
He counted down, and on three, you fell apart together — your body shuddering, his grip bruising, both of you crying out in the dark. He kept moving through it, dragging out every last wave of pleasure until you were oversensitive and trembling and begging him to stop.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Luke rolled off you, and you felt the absence of him like a physical wound. He lied beside you, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving. Neither of you spoke.
"Are you okay?" he finally asked, and the question is so absurd you almost laugh.
"Define okay."
He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, and there was a vulnerability on his face that you knew he never let anyone else see.
"I didn't mean to—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Yes I did. I meant every second of it. But I also—" He swallowed. "I didn't want to hurt you."
"You didn't hurt me." You stared at the ceiling. "You did exactly what I wanted. That's the problem."
"What's the problem?"
You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your chest ache. He looked young again — young and scared and desperate.
"The problem is," you said quietly, "I don't know how to stop wanting this. I don't know how to stop wanting you. Even when I know you're going to leave. Even when I know you don't really want me — you just want someone who makes you feel less alone."
"That's not true."
"It is true." You sat up, pulling the sheet around you. "You told me yourself. 'Because you always answer.' That's not love, Luke. That's convenience."
He sat up too, reaching for you. You flinched away.
"Don't," you said. "Don't touch me. Not right now."
His hand dropped. "I didn't mean it like that."
"Then how did you mean it?"
"I meant—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I meant you're the only person who sees me. Who doesn't care about the fame or the money or any of that shit. You see the real me, and you still answer. That's not convenience. That's—"
"What? Love?" You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You don't love me, Luke. You love that I make you feel less broken. But I can't fix you. I never could."
"I'm not asking you to fix me."
"Then what are you asking?"
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes were glassy, and you realized he was close to tears.
"I don't know," he admitted, throwing his hands up in dramatic fashion. "I don't know what I'm asking. I just know I can't stop thinking about you. I just know every time I'm in a city that's close to yours, I have to physically stop myself from coming here. And tonight I didn't. Tonight I let myself need you."
You closed your eyes. The tears were coming again, and you were so tired of crying over this man. So damn tired.
"Please don't cry," he said softly. "Please. I can't handle you crying."
"Then don't make me cry!"
“I’m not trying to!” Luke whispered-yelled, his voice cracking. “I’m not trying to.”
The words hung between you like smoke, like the ghost of the cigarette you'd shared hours ago. His eyes were wet, and you couldn't look at them anymore — couldn't look at the way they made you want to forgive him for everything, for years of nothing, for showing up like this and expecting you to still be here.
You looked away instead. At the ceiling. At the water stain in the corner you'd been meaning to get fixed. At anything except Luke Hemmings, who was breaking you open again with nothing more than the truth.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said, voice raw. "That's the last thing I'd ever want to do."
"And yet here we are." You pulled the sheet tighter, wrapping yourself in it like armor. "Here we are. Again."
"I know." He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I know. I'm — I'm so fucking sorry. For all of it. For leaving. For coming back. For making you feel like this."
"Then stop."
He looked at you then, really looked, and whatever he saw made his face crumple.
"I can't," he whispered. "I've tried. I've tried so hard. I've been with other people. I've done the therapy. I've done the meditation and the journaling and all the shit they tell you to do. But I still—" He broke off, shaking his head. "There's still this part of me that's yours. That's always been yours. And I don't know how to turn it off."
You laughed, but it came out broken. "You think I don't know that feeling? You think I haven't spent six years trying to unlove you?"
"Then why—"
"Why do I keep letting you in?" You turned to face him fully, and the tears were streaming down your face now, hot and shameful. "Because I'm weak. Because you're the only person who's ever made me feel like I wasn't just floating through life. Because when you look at me, I feel seen in a way that terrifies me. Because even knowing how this ends — knowing you'll leave, knowing I'll be the one left behind — I still want you. I still want you so badly it makes me hate myself."
Luke reached for you again, and this time you let him. His hands found your face, thumbs brushing away the tears, and he looked at you like you were something precious, something fragile, something he couldn't bear to break.
"I don't want to leave," he said quietly. "I never wanted to leave. I just — I didn't know how to stay. I didn't know how to be what you deserved."
"Then learn."
The words came out before you could stop them, raw and desperate and so much more honest than you'd intended.
Luke's hands stilled on your face. His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for something — permission, maybe, or a sign that this wasn't a trap.
"What?" he breathed.
"Learn." Your voice cracked. "Stay. Figure it out. I'm not saying it’s easy. I'm not saying I'll trust you right away. Honestly, I don't know if I'll ever trust you again. But I'm tired of being the one who cares more. I'm tired of being the one who's always waiting. If you want this — if you want me — then you have to stay. No more disappearing. No more showing up at 2 AM when it's convenient. You have to be here. All the way here. Or not at all."
Luke stared at you. For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing. His hands dropped from your face, and you braced yourself for the letdown — for the excuse, the apology, the careful way he'd let you down.
Instead, he reached for his jacket on the floor. You watched him pull something from the pocket, heart sinking.
He was leaving. Of course he was leaving.
But he didn't stand up. He just sat there, shirtless and wrecked, holding a pack of cigarettes in his trembling hands.
"I threw these out," he said, staring at the pack like it had betrayed him. "In the car. Before I came. I threw them out because I knew you'd quit, and I wanted to—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I don't know. I wanted to be better for you. I wanted to show up and not be the same disaster I always am."
He opened the pack. Inside were the last three cigarettes, crushed and broken.
"I got another pack from the corner store on my way here," he admitted. "I smoked three before I even got to your building. I put on cologne to hide the scent but…" He laughed bitterly. "I still showed up smelling like them. I couldn't even give that up for you."
You watched him, heart pounding. He looked so small suddenly, so human, stripped of all his designer armor and expensive accessories. Just Luke. Just the boy who'd written you songs you never got to hear, who'd left you voicemails in the middle of the night that you never answered, who'd been carrying this weight for years and never knew how to put it down.
"Luke," you said softly.
"I'm trying," he whispered. "I'm trying so hard. I know it doesn't look like it. I know I keep fucking up. But I'm trying. I want to be better. I want to be the person who stays. I just—" He looked at you, eyes crumbled and wet, and you saw the seventeen-year-old boy who'd first kissed you behind a tour bus. The boy who cried in your arms on his eighteenth birthday because he was terrified of what was to come. The boy who sobbed to you at twenty-one years old over his messy breakup, begging you to stay.
It was ironic.
"I don't know how,” he cried. “I don't know how to be anything other than this."
You reached out and took the pack from his hands.
"I can't teach you," you said. "I don't know how to be anything other than the person who lets you in. But maybe—" You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. "Maybe we can figure it out together. If you actually stay."
Luke looked at you like you'd just handed him something he'd been searching for his whole life.
"Really?" he asked, his voice small.
"Really." You took a breath. "But I mean it, Luke. If you leave again — if you disappear for another six years without a word — I'm done. There won't be a key under the mat. The porch light won’t be on. There won't be anything for you to come back to. Do you understand?"
He nodded, slow and solemn. "I understand."
"I'm not going to fix you. I can't fix you. If you need help, you have to get it somewhere else. I can be your partner — maybe, eventually — but I can't be your only lifeline. I almost drowned being that for you once. I can't do it again."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know. I'm not asking you to fix me. I just — I want you to be here while I figure it out. If you can. If you want to."
You stared at him. Six years. Six whole years of convincing yourself you were over him, that you'd moved on, that you didn't still think about him every time you heard his broken voice on the radio. Six years of building walls, and here he was, dismantling them with nothing more than that broken voice.
"I want to," you admitted, and the words felt like letting go of something you'd been holding for too long. "I want to. I'm terrified, and I don't know if this will work, and I don't know if I can ever fully trust you. But I want to try. God help me, I want to try."
Luke moved then, pulling you into his arms so fast you almost fell. He buried his face in your hair, and you felt his shoulders shake.
"Thank you," he whispered against your skin. "Thank you. I won't — I promise I won't waste this. I promise I'll try. I promise."
You held him back, and for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Let yourself believe that this time could be different, that the two of you could somehow figure out how to be something other than a disaster waiting to happen.
It was stupid. It was probably the stupidest thing you'd ever done. But you were never good at rules, and Luke Hemmings had always been your exception to every single one. Maybe that's what loving him had always been: mistaking every broken rule and exit sign as another invitation to keep going.
It was a bad habit, of course. But loving him was one you couldn’t break, even if you tried.
Blurb: As an accomplished song-writer in Los Angeles, you've survived a lot of things: asshole landlords, cut-throat industry workers, your addictions. You're used to coming out on the other side stronger and in more control than before. But when it comes to surviving Ashton Irwin, you're not certain you've got control at all.
Warnings: extensive talk of addiction and overdose, hard substances; sober!reader; toxic relationship; sexualization of drug use; flashbacks of smut, angst, deception, allusion to religious iconography
Note: Thank you for being patient with this. This part is full of set-up for the rest of the fic, so do with that what you will. Please heed the warnings. I'm not responsible for what you read.
You're used to dreaming about the night you overdosed.
You had memorized the ugly puke-green tile and the chill that seeped into your bones. The consciousness, yours, weaving between this plane and some other. How your breathing seemed to be occurring outside of your own body, your chest not your own but belonging to some organic machine. The way you ached anyway. The sensation of feeling nothing and everything at once.
You're used to reliving when your mind didn't seem to care that you were dying. All the thoughts that swarmed had to do with the man who had pushed the pills into the pocket of your jeans, kissed you with tongue and hungry hands, who had whispered he'd miss you when you said you needed to use the restroom.
Ashton, where's Ashton?
But the next dream that your nightmare bleeds into, the scene in the bathroom fading, is new. It's something you hadn't thought of or revisited for years.
You and Ashton sit on the sofa in his living room. Your guitar is in your lap, a notebook and recording phone on the coffee table. You had only been working with the band for a couple of weeks at this point, and when Ashton had invited you over to show you what he had been working on, asked so politely over the phone, you had said yes. You hadn't seen anything wrong with it.
"I think this needs to be tweaked a bit," you say, scrawling words down on the notebook.
"In what way?" Ashton asks. You look up to him. You try to push down the beat of your heart at how green his eyes are tonight in contrast with his newly dyed black hair. You remind yourself that you're twenty-four and a professional. No room for a crush on someone you just began working with.
"I think the cadence of this line is what's throwing us off on the sound," you continue, singing the line. "Never enough chasing satisfaction, it sounds wrong."
A half-grin plays on Ashton's lips.
"Okay, so what are you thinking, Miss Songwriter Professional?"
You tilt your head to the side, taking him in. Unsure if he's making fun of you or praising you. That's something you've noticed about him the last few weeks. He rides along in the grey with his words, even though he's always one of the first to speak his mind. It intrigues you, the way he knows exactly where to push and pull.
"I'm thinking, we change chasing satisfaction and switch it to and no satisfaction."
Ashton chuckles, somewhere deep in his chest. The sound is reverberant in your bones, warms you.
"No satisfaction, huh?"
"Do you vibe with it?" you ask.
Ashton sends a smirk to you, shifts slightly closer. There's something new in his eyes.
"Do you vibe with no satisfaction?"
You're aware that Ashton is talking about much more than the song. Your body knows it, the thrum in your chest picking up speed and the warmth in you moving somewhere below your navel. His eyes watch you, no nonchalance in them, direct and cutting. Yours land on the pulse point of his throat.
"I like to think I only take what satisfies me," you say, your voice steady.
And Ashton, he grins at you, as if seeing you fully for the first time.
"And me? Do you think I could satisfy you?"
Your gaze rakes over his face, his throat, his strong shoulders, his hands. You don't have to lie. In fact, you don't want to, but with the way he watches you, you like the game of making him wait a bit for your response. To see you taking him in.
"I think you could," you say.
And Ashton closes the space between you. Shoves the guitar out of your lap, pulls you into his with a heated kiss. In your memory, in your dream, it makes you wet.
In real life, it wakes you from your sleep with a jolt.
Your heart pounds in your throat. The room is dark, faint light from the street seeping in through the minimal gap between your two curtains. You push your palms into your eyes, feel the heat of your face and the tremble of your hands in rage.
At Ashton, at your mind for taking you back to the first night with the man who ruined your life for three whole years after.
You stand from the bed, tossing the comforter back over it haphazardly and go into your bathroom. The sound of the running sink grounds you, steadies your breathing. You splash water against your face, let the coolness contrast with the heat enough to pull you out of the white-hot rage in your mind.
For the first six months after your overdose from the pills Ashton hadn't tested, you weren't angry. You were in the doldrums. There was only heartache. Grief over the fact that Ashton didn't come back for you, that he never reached out when you were hospitalized for four days after. That it wasn't him who had found you, but Michael.
In your greatest time of need, you had cried out to the deity you had bled and nearly died for. Just like every version of a god you had known, he didn't show.
And like grief does when the sadness is gone, it morphs into rage. You've been angry for over a year now, but with AA and your sponsor and the mantras you breathe like a prayer, you haven't let it raise its head.
You need to keep it tamped down for your sake: your job, your sanity, your healing.
"I free myself from the burden of resentment," you speak into your reflection in the mirror. "I solely am responsible for my actions. Anger does not serve my higher purpose." The water dampens the neckline of your sleep shirt so you tug it off, exposing yourself to the mirror. Your chest is warm, the fury from your face bleeding into the skin. You take the water into the palms of your hands and let it drip down your chest.
"I free myself from the burden of resentment. I control how I respond to anger. It does not control me."
Breathe in for four, out for six, repeat. You do everything you can to pull yourself out of the headiness of wishing your fist had actually made contact with Ashton's face earlier tonight. Of wishing you could go back and un-fuck him that first night.
If you hadn't had fallen so easily, been so intrigued by the Ashton then who hid his addiction so well until you were already in love, maybe it would be different. Maybe he wouldn't have stoked your already crackling embers of your own struggle into the full blown fire that almost consumed you.
But that first night had been so different, both of you sober. He had worked you open so easily, taking to heart the way you said you think he could satisfy you. The laugh that had warmed you earlier had nestled into your chest when it bled into his awed pleasure at you orgasming three times before he had even fucked you. It had secured itself into that bright curiosity of early infatuation when he had carried you into his room, stripped you bare, slotted between your legs with the groan of a depraved man. It cemented into something more, something worse when he had fucked you so good you had cried, his hand caressing your hair and telling you how pretty you looked taking him.
It was already too late for you to go back even before he had held you in the aftermath, bare-chested and sweaty and his arm securing your body to his. Before he had whispered between the silence, the silence of something both new and awful setting itself like a broken bone, that he didn't want you to think that he did this often with writers. How he had whispered your praises as if an already devoted worshipper to your mind and mouth and body.
The first night alone set your fate into stone. Wrote on the walls of your heart the future of you loving Ashton Irwin. It was just your fault that you didn't read the prophecy to the end. That you and his story would finish with you hating him and trying to do anything but.
The healed version of you isn't going to let that hatred seep into the rest of your life. You've been done with letting any emotion about him take over your life for a long time now. You've done well on staying away, tiptoeing around his friends and social circle in a well-versed dance. Last night was only an accidental slip up.
You're safe from him dismantling the altar you've built to yourself.
You tell yourself that as your breathing steadies, the anger rearranging back into its carefully curated box. You tug on a new shirt, climb back into bed.
The rest of the night you don't dream about anything.
*****
"What do you mean that's my next project?" you ask your manager over the phone, scrambling to keep your tone even.
It's three weeks from your encounter with Ashton. Three weeks of peace and schedules and clients who have nothing to do with 5 Seconds of Summer.
Three weeks of an illusion of safety, apparently.
"Ben Evans specifically asked for you," your manager, Carina, says. "He said he wanted the writer that helped write No Shame. The offer was substantial."
The roaring in your ears betrays you.
"Substantial for you or for me?" you seethe.
You hear the frustration in Carina's voice, can imagine her weight shifting between her legs and the tight-line of her lips.
"You know I look out for you," she says, curt. "Do you want to tell me why you've been avoiding a session with any of the 5SOS men for nearly two years now? If it's something I need to know as your manager I--"
You cut her off, not wanting to give her the chance to press more.
"No, Carina. I'm sorry. It's fine. I'll do it. When do they need me?"
You hate the question. You hate this situation. But Carina kept you on after everything. You restructured yourself. You're strong enough to do this for her. You have to.
"First session is Friday," she says. "10AM, you've got this."
She ends with that, hanging up the phone.
You toss yours on the couch, withhold the scream inside of you.
God-fucking-dammit.
*****
Friday comes.
You've prepared yourself by the time you walk into the session. You meditated, went to AA twice this week, had a boxing session, walked every evening. Hell, you even found some witchy manifestation ritual thing on YouTube that was supposed to remove any blockages to your higher self.
You're not sure you believe in all that, but you admittedly did feel better after.
So when you walk into the session on-time, and the only person in the room is Ashton, who is looking down at his phone, you can't completely blame yourself for what stirs in your chest. You've tried.
"Where is everyone?" you ask, keeping your voice even-keeled, at least, as best as possible
Ashton looks up, rakes his eyes over you, brings them back to your face.
"Late probably," he says, standing. "You don't remember how they all ran behind when writing for CALM?"
Ashton is in black jeans and a form fitting black t-shirt. You see the outline of a carton of cigarettes in his right pocket. Your fingers itch for one, it would be the least he could do. You remind yourself you've sworn those off, too.
"Don't remember much from that time," you lie.
Ashton nods, catching your lie. His eyes are very green this morning. Sober. So you know when he asks the next question, it's in his right mindset.
"Why'd you stay in touch with Mikey and not me?"
It's a simple and stupid question, but it cracks open your resolve.
"You're going to ask me that right fucking now?"
Ashton shrugs.
"We're alone aren't we?"
"There you go," you scoff. "Alone. Answered your own question."
A puzzled expression passes over Ashton's face. You can't tell if it's falsified or legitimate.
"What do you mean?"
"As if you don't fucking know I OD'd," you say.
The mantra is running in your mind, but the fury seeps from the cracked open box and pushes it to some forgotten place in your brain. The confusion stays on his face, but Ashton's eyes and voice soften.
"What? That last night I saw you?"
You're even more enraged now at his play at stupidity. The warmth of your skin spills into the room and your chest heaves with your next words.
"You never came back into that bathroom to check on me. Michael was the only one who found me, so forgive me if I occasionally speak with him and not my ex who left me to die."
"Wait-- Michael found you? He said he--"
Ashton doesn't get the chance to finish, because the door to the room opens and the rest of the band pours in. Luke, Calum, and Michael with coffees in their hands.
Your eyes go to the man you also haven't seen in years, the one who you and Ashton had just been speaking about. His hair is grown out now, dyed black at the end of his blonde. Out of the whole band, he's the one whose appearance has changed the least. He smiles wide at you after a brief sideways glance to Ashton.
"How are you?" he exclaims, setting the coffee on the table and wrapping you in a hug. You let him, the warmth of his joy a grounding contrast to the heat of your anger. He puts his mouth to your ear when he pulls you in. "I'm sorry we were late. I tried to not leave you alone."
It's quiet and quick, but you just nod to him and send him a smile when you back away.
"I'm well," you say.
Calum is next, just giving you a side hug and a nod. Luke does the same, Michael remaining the only one to give you a full embrace.
"I'm glad you agreed to work with us," Luke says. "When Ashton pitched it to Ben he immediately said yes if you were up for it."
Your stomach drops, the bile rising in your throat. You swallow it down, no longer being by yourself with Ashton making it easier to conceal how much you would love to strangle him. He had no reason to ask for you, nothing but selfish ones.
Instead, you feign a smile.
"Of course! So, I hear we're writing a new album?"
You sit on the sofa and Michael sits next to you as you pull out your notebook, putting space between you and Ashton. You're grateful for it, because the whole session you feel the shift of Ashton's gaze between you and Michael. You catch moments of his mind elsewhere, even in the discussion about their new album concept.
Ashton mentally isn't fully there with you. Between that and Michael's grounding presence next to you, you get through the session with minimal issue until the end.
"How long do we have to work on this?" you ask, scrawling down pertinent information in your notes.
"Two months," Calum says.
Your eyebrows raise, you fight the urge to groan. Two months. Two months with the band. With Ashton.
"Okay, you say. That's doable."
"Is it?" Ashton asks, finally speaking up.
You send him a side-long glance, see the deeper questions in his eyes. You clear your throat and shove the notebook into your bag.
"Sure, you've been known to do a lot in two months," you say.
Ashton goes quiet.
Michael's hand goes to your knee and squeezes.
If anyone else saw, they don't say a thing.
*****
After the session, you find out that you and Ashton parked right next to each other. You don't speak as you walk across the lot. You don't need a repeat of the night at the club in the middle of the day.
"I really didn't know," Ashton says.
You groan this time.
"Ashton, can you not?" you ask, turning to address him.
"I just want you to know I didn't know. I--," he pauses, as if searching for words which is unlike any version of Ashton you've known. "If I had known that happened that night, I would have never asked for you to write with us. I thought you just blocked me. I didn't think something had happened."
Another scoff from you.
"Okay, sure. I never talked to you ever again for no reason. Got it."
"No," Ashton says. "I mean it. Michael told me that after I got so high and left with Luke that you were done. That it would be better for me not to go after you."
Your heart drops into your stomach, your confusion bleeding into your face. You catch yourself, shift, bring composure back into your being as best as you can while your mind reels. You get to your car the last few steps across the lot.
"I don't want to talk about this," you say. "None of it matters now."
Ashton rolls his eyes.
"That's obviously a lie when you look at me like you want to kill me."
You unlock your car, open the door, toss the bag in.
"Even if I wanted to, we still wouldn't be even," you say. "See you in two days," you finish, not giving Ashton the chance to say anything else.
Once the door is shut and you're out of the parking lot, you let your breathing go ragged, let the hot tears of rage pry at your eyes. But it's toward someone else besides Ashton or yourself for the first time in years.
When you get to your apartment, you pull out your phone and text Michael immediately.
You: I need to know exactly what happened that night. I need to know what you told Ashton.
Michael Clifford: He told you didn't he?
You look at his message on the screen, your fingers going numb. You don't type out a response before Michael sends you another two messages.
Michael Clifford: I need to tell you in person. Do you still live at the same place?
Michael Clifford: I promise I did it for you.
You breathe deeply, steady the storm in your head that wants someone to lash out at. But you know Michael. He was never the one who hurt you.
Or at least you've believed that for a long time now. You don't know if that's going to be true soon.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is breathless, helpless, as the closet door shuts behind them.
Their chests nearly touching in the tight space, she takes a step towards the door, her back brushing against it.
“Tell you what, Cal? What are you talking about?” Her eyes search his in confusion, hand gently rubbing his arm in hopes of calming him down from whatever this is.
“I mean it was years, I spent years-”
He stops himself, taking a deep breath before continuing.
“You like me. Liked me,” he corrects himself, brows furrowing when she lets out a nervous laugh.
“Of course, I like you. We wouldn’t be friends if I didn’t like you.”
“No,” he shakes his head, her teasing tone frustrating him further. Stepping closer to her until her back is flush against the door, he runs a hand over his face, “You know that’s not what I meant. I need you to be honest with me about this. Please.”
She looks away, trying to pretend that the leopard print coat hanging beside him is much more interesting. Clearing her throat, her eyes stay locked on the faux fur, “Okay, yeah. Yes. I used to, but I swear, I buried those feelings so deep because I knew you’d never-”
His hands carefully rest on her cheeks, silencing her unnecessary rambling.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmurs, “Can I?”
Eyes widening in shock, she nods eagerly, her body reacting before her brain can.
His head dips down, lips finally landing on hers with a groan of desperation. It’s infuriating how long he waited to make this happen. All the fears, the ‘what-ifs’, leave his body with the quiet sound that escapes her when she tilts her chin up for more.
Fingers tangling in each other’s hair, he presses her up against the door seeking as much bodily contact as possible after depriving themselves for years. He can’t help himself, kissing her until they’re both out of breath, chests almost aching from being so close but he just can’t get enough.
He laughs breathlessly when he finally pulls back for air, eyes searching hers to make sure this is still what she wants. Panting, her fingers lightly tug at the curls on the nape of his neck, his eyes flickering close from the pleasure before locking back on hers.
Almost immediately, his lips find hers again like they’re a source of oxygen meant just for him. Her hand moves to his shirt, fingers intertwining in the fabric to pull him impossibly closer. Grunting as her hips push up against him, his hand shifts to her waist, fingers pressing down in a bruising grip to make sure she never leaves him again.
He tries his best to slow himself down, practice some self control, even though all he wants after waiting this long is to drown in her. And when her lips part in a quiet gasp, all bets are off. His tongue carefully traces the creases of her lips before slipping in, smiling when she comes back with just as much desperation.
They’re a mess of tongue and teeth, everything repressed finally coming out in a coat closet on a random Saturday night. It could’ve lasted for hours, just memorising each other’s lips and mouths alone, but a knock on the door with a muffled ‘I need my jacket’ brings them back to reality.
His grin sends a punch straight to her gut, wishing she hadn’t spent years making such harsh decisions regarding her feelings on his behalf. Her thumb moves to wipe off her lip gloss all over his mouth, but he turns his head out of reach.
“Let me clean it off before we go back out.”
Shaking his head, he gently grabs her wrist.
“Who cares? It’s going to end up back on me anyway,” he leans down to place a soft kiss on her lips, “I have a lot of time to make up for.”
luke hemmings, famous for being the main vocalist in the band 5 seconds of summer, has a secret girlfriend the world doesn’t know about. one night, while writing the most special song to come out of their relationship, something unspoken clicked between them.
warnings: none!
word count: 931
song recommendation: i’m scared i’ll never sleep again / 5sos
authors note: potentially my proudest piece! this got requested a few hours ago and i had to do it. also message to anon i’m sorry there’s no smut i didn’t feel like it would fit with the vibes :(
luke has been thinking about having this conversation for months. he’s not ashamed of you. he never has been. he just wants to stop all the hiding, all the lies in interviews and often there’s times where he wants to introduce the world to you.
it started when you both sat in your shared living room, you’ve always had a passion for songwriting and exposing your vocals but never taken up on putting them on a track. his guitar sat in his lap, fingers plucking strings in attempt to find a melody.
when he did, the lyrics came easily. all the words that sat at the tip of your tongue spilled out onto paper, written in foundation pen. you knew this song would sit deep in your soul for the rest of your life, you knew it would bring you something special because it brings you somewhere special. that place is with luke, sitting here with him blending vocals with an acoustic in the background.
this is where you want to be for the rest of your life.
the song made it’s way to the studio, where it became fully produced. luke wanted you on it, infact, he needed you on it. he believes your vocals are better than his, but you don’t believe it, but you trusted his word anyway.
it came to life with the band on it, the emotion cut straight to the heart. you can vividly remember the feeling of hearing it finished for the first time. you were silent the whole way through, taking the song in and experiencing it to it’s full potential.
even now, almost a year since it had been recorded, it still feels the same. it carries the same feeling in your gut.
luke pulls you out of your reminiscence, feeling the familiar dip in the couch beside you. he has his phone in hand, you can see that it’s open on messages.
his voice cuts through the comforting silence. “do you want to be credited on the song when it releases?” his australian accent deep while asking you something that could destruct your privacy in this relationship forever.
“people don’t know about us.” you replied. “they’re going to look at the credits and wonder who i am, then what?” you asked, your voice soft with slight concern.
“you wrote most of the song. i don’t wanna take that from you.” he reminds you, shutting off his phone and placing it face down against the leather material. “you know i wouldn’t do it if you didn’t want me to.” he says, his fingers sliding toward your inner thigh, squeezing the flesh. that sentence could mean one thing or another.
you have to ask him straight up, no more cutting corners.
“do you want to go public?” you ask him, turning your head and catching his blue eyes before he could look away. his hand stilled against your skin, lips folding into a line before responding.
“i said i wouldn’t do it if you didn’t want me to. take that as you will.” his voice had dropped quieter, like if he spoke too loud someone would overhear this conversation, though you were the only one in this house with him.
you stared at him for a moment, his response circulating your brain. you know that by this point he’s hinting at making your relationship something for the public eye to see. you can’t help but feel a want for this. it means you don’t have to worry about being seen with him anymore. you know that nothing could break you and luke up, no amount of hate will cause him to leave you.
“i can’t find a reason to say no.” you tell him and he nods, his hand losing the tension and he kneads your flesh once again.
“is that you agreeing?” he wonders.
“yeah, i guess i am.”
“are you sure?”
“i’m sure.” you nod, your lips stretching into a smile you couldn’t contain.
“okay.” he mirrored your smile, patting your leg before grabbing his phone again. “i’ll let someone know and we’ll post something, yeah?” he looked at you for assurance.
“yeah, of course.”
from that moment on, fans have been nothing but kind to you. occasionally you’d get recognised on the street, it’s something you had to get used to but it didn’t happen often since you were just a regular woman before any of this.
when the album released, your name was infact credited for the lyrics and vocals on ‘i’m scared i’ll never sleep again’, the song you poured your love into and now the whole world can hear how luke makes you feel. some fans have picked up on your voice in the background of the bridge and have complimented your pipes since.
it’s helped with growing your confidence too. you didn’t expect such a positive reaction to being luke’s girlfriend, but you knew from the start that this song would give you something good in return for writing it.
as the everyone’s a star tour came along, luke had invited you to the most special show of his career, madison square garden, and as the setlist progressed, the familiar sound filled the arena. he knew where you were sat, in one of the boxes hidden from sight but he could see you.
he could spot you in any room.
he sung the lyrics to you with the widest smile. everyone noticed where he was looking by the end when he blew a kiss your way. his affection stayed permanent, even while he was on stage.
