El

Luke Hemmings x reader

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The rain in London wasn't a gentle mist; it was a heavy, relentless curtain that blurred the streetlights outside the window of Luke’s apartment. Inside, the atmosphere was just as oppressive.

The suitcases were already packed. They sat by the door like silent sentinels, marking the end of a three-year timeline that neither of you was ready to erase.

You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your head bowed, shoulders shaking with the kind of silent, racking sobs that leave you physically exhausted. The glow of your phone sat face-down on the nightstand, but the images were burned into your retinas—thousands of comments, threads dedicated to picking apart your appearance, your past, your very right to exist next to him. It had started as a trickle and turned into a flood that was finally drowning you.

Luke moved across the room, the floorboards creaking under his weight. He didn't say anything at first. He simply sat behind you, wrapping his long arms around your waist and pulling you back against his chest.

As you leaned back, your tears fell hard on his shoulder, soaking into the soft cotton of his t-shirt.

"I can’t do it anymore, Luke," you choked out, the words feeling like shards of glass in your throat. "I’m not strong enough to be hated by the people who love you. It’s changing me. I’m becoming someone I don't recognize just to survive the day."

Luke buried his face in the crook of your neck, his grip tightening. He smelled like expensive shampoo and the familiar, comforting scent of home. "They don't know you," he whispered, his voice cracking. "They only see a version of us they’ve invented. They don't see this. They don't see how you make me feel like a person instead of a product."

"It doesn't matter," you sobbed, turning in his arms to face him. Your eyes were red and swollen, your face pale in the dim lamplight. "Every time we go out, I’m waiting for the camera flash. Every time I post a photo, I’m waiting for the first insult. I’ve spent months looking over my shoulder. I just want to breathe again."

Luke reached up, his large, calloused hands framing your face. He wiped a stray tear with his thumb, his gaze desperate and searching.

"Don't leave," he pleaded, the words barely a breath. "I don't wanna start over."

The raw honesty in his voice stopped your heart. Luke was the golden boy, the frontman who always seemed to have the right melody, the right lyric. But right now, he looked like a boy who was about to lose his entire world.

"How am I supposed to go back to a life where I don't wake up next to you?" he asked, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "How am I supposed to write songs that aren't about you? I’ve spent my whole life looking for a girl like you, and I’ve been waiting for this—for us—for so long. Can't you see I've been waiting for you?"

"Luke, please..."

"I'll delete the apps," he insisted, his voice rising with a frantic kind of hope. "We’ll move. We’ll go somewhere quiet. I’ll quit, I’ll—"

"You can't quit," you interrupted, placing your hand over his heart. It was racing, a frantic staccato against your palm. "Music is your soul. I would never ask you to give that up. But I can't stay in the blast zone anymore. I’m breaking, Luke. I’m already broken."

The silence that followed was heavier than the rain. Luke closed his eyes, a single tear escaping and disappearing into the scruff on his jaw. He knew you were right. He knew that the love you shared was being poisoned by a world that didn't know how to be kind. But the thought of the "Firsts" again—the first date with someone new, the first time telling a stranger his secrets—felt like a death sentence.

"I don't wanna start over," he whispered again, his voice breaking entirely. "I don't want to learn someone else's coffee order. I don't want to find out someone else's favorite movie. I just want it to be you. It was always supposed to be you."

He pulled you into him, his face hidden in your hair, holding you with a strength that suggested if he just squeezed hard enough, the morning would never come. You held him back just as tightly, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

This was your last night. The last night of "us."

Ashton Irwin x female!reader

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The kitchen was thick with the scent of roasted garlic and simmering tomatoes, a warm fog that blurred the edges of the room and made the chilly Sydney evening outside feel a world away. Ashton was in his element. To most, he was the powerhouse behind the kit, all sweat and thunderous precision, but at home, his energy translated into a rhythmic, focused sort of domesticity.

He moved with a dancer’s grace between the stove and the cutting board, humming a melody that hadn't found its lyrics yet. You were perched on the counter, legs swinging, watching the light catch the gold of his rings as he stirred a heavy cast-iron pot.

"It’s missing something," he murmured, more to himself than to you. He grabbed a pinch of red pepper flakes, his brow furrowed in that intense concentration you loved. "Just a bit of heat to cut through the cream, maybe?"

He stirred the sauce three times—always three, a drummer’s habit—before picking up a wooden spoon. He blew on the steaming liquid with a soft whistle, his eyes scanning your face as he approached.

"Open up," he commanded gently.

As he brought the spoon to your lips, his other hand moved with a fluid, practiced ease. He didn't even have to think about it; his palm cupped beneath your chin, fingers slightly curled to create a safety net for any stray droplets of sauce. It was a gesture of such inherent protection that it made your heart skip a beat.

It was the quiet intimacy of the act—the way he shielded your favorite sweater from a potential stain with the same casual devotion he used to shield you from a crowd.

You took the bite, the flavors exploding on your tongue—savory, bright, and ending with that gentle kick of heat he’d just added.

"Well?" he asked, his hand still hovering there, his thumb grazing the very edge of your jawline as he waited for the verdict. He was so close you could smell the cedarwood of his cologne mixed with the basil on his hands.

"It’s perfect, Ash," you managed to say, though your voice was a little breathy. "The heat is exactly what it needed."

A dimpled grin broke across his face, the tension leaving his shoulders instantly. "Yeah? You're not just saying that because you're hungry?"

"I'm starving, but I'm also right," you laughed.

He didn't pull his hand away immediately. He used his thumb to catch a tiny smudge of sauce near the corner of your mouth, his gaze dropping to your lips for a lingering second. The air in the kitchen suddenly felt much warmer than the stove could account for.

"Good," he whispered, leaning in to press a quick, tasting kiss to your mouth—a mix of salt and sweetness. "Then let’s eat before I start hovering again."

Calum Hood x female!reader

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The recording studio was always a few degrees too cold, but Calum never seemed to notice. He was hunched over his bass, fingers dancing across the strings as he chased a melody that had been eluding him all afternoon.

You were curled up on the frayed velvet couch in the corner, ostensibly "helping" by keeping him company, though you’d mostly been scrolling through your phone and occasionally humming along.

"I think I’ve got it," Calum murmured, his voice scratchy from hours of vocal takes. He played a quick, rhythmic riff that vibrated deep in your chest. "What do you think? Too busy?"

"No, it sounds grounded," you said, leaning forward to look at him. "It gives the chorus some teeth."

Calum looked up, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He set the bass down against its stand and stood up, stretching his arms over his head until his joints popped. He walked over to the couch, sinking into the cushion next to you with a heavy sigh.

"I’m starving," he confessed, leaning his head back against the wall.

"We can go grab something? That diner down the street is still open."

As you spoke, a loose strand of hair fell forward, obscuring your vision and tickling your cheek. You went to brush it away, but Calum was faster.

His hand moved with a fluid, quiet grace. Without even breaking eye contact, his fingers caught the stray lock. He didn't just push it back; he lingered for a heartbeat, his thumb grazing the shell of your ear as he tucked the strand securely behind it.

The movement was so fluid, so second-nature, that it felt like he’d been doing it for a lifetime. He didn't stutter in his sentence or look down at what he was doing.

It was pure instinct—the way someone might reach out to steady a glass that’s tipping, or breathe without thinking.

It wasn't until his hand stayed there for a second too long, his fingertips resting against the sensitive skin of your temple, that he seemed to register the contact. His pupils dilated slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips and then back to your eyes.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice dropping an octave as the realization of how close he’d pulled himself finally hit him. "Diner sounds good. But maybe in a minute."