All You Know (Luke Hemmings x Reader)
Part Four (Part One, Part Two, Part Three)
Word Count: 7.571K (I know I'm insane)
Blurb: When Luke Hemmings returns to your hometown the same time you do, you are forced to address the greatest heartbreak of your life: being left behind by your best-friend.
Warnings: abandonment by best friend; language; smut: oral (both receiving, extensive f receiving) slightlysubmissive!Luke, switch!Luke, overstim, sadomasochism if you squint really hard, painkink, unprotected p in v (wrap it IRL pls for the love of god, I'm just a mere bard of kink at this point), praisekink, faceriding ; mention of neglectful parent; alcohol; cigarettes; lovers to enemies (back to lovers?) trope; slightly toxic relationship (?)
Note: I'm sorry ahead of time for the emotional devastation I have caused. I WILL keep doing it. Also sorry for the length of this. But it had to be done. This is NOT the final part hahaha.
Taglist: @julie-must-die @startovercal @uhmmjayla @painkxllers @mjskeetz @shouldakissedyouanyway
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Liz is, in fact, hungover.
When you both walk back into the house, she is sprawled out on the sofa in her house coat, pillow over her eyes. A glass of water sits precariously beside her near the edge of the coffee table as well as an open bottle of ibuprofen. You slide the glass closer to the center of the table.
Luke leans over the sofa, resting on his forearms as he looks over Liz.
"Are you awake?" he asks.
"I am trying to be," Liz says, voice muffled from the pillow. "I'm not doing a great job."
"Why don't you stay in your room where it's dark," you suggest, moving to stand alongside Luke.
Liz pulls back the corner of the pillow just the smallest bit to look at you two. Her eye unsubtly moves back and forth between you. She winces against the light spilling in through the living room windows, but doesn't cover her exposed eye.
"Were you guys out on the porch together?"
Luke sighs at the question.
"Don't worry about that right now, I'm concerned about you," Luke says, brushing his fingers along her shoulder.
Liz groans in pain and covers her eyes with the cushion again.
"I'll drop it, but only because I feel awful."
"I'll get you an ice compress," you say, grateful for the change in subject and going into the kitchen to retrieve one from the freezer. You reach to open the door when you see the faded mark of a handprint on the fridge.
Luke's handprint from last night.
From right before two fingers on that very same hand were somewhere else they shouldn't have been.
You open the door and pull the compress out. You may be willing to be cordial, to move on where you need to, to establish decency. The tiptoeing into nearly hate-fucking, okay, acting-like-you-hate-each-other-fucking, is a big no. There's already the complicated emotions of finally admitting you're hurt, of wanting to heal while simultaneously being around the person who caused you some of the worst pain you've ever experienced in your life. Of making yourself move on because you don't want to carry the weight of what happened between you for another twelve years.
You just want to be okay. To co-exist with Luke. To have those memories of your childhood with him not be tinged with grey-blue sadness.
And that means not letting the heightened emotions alcohol and anger brings get you to the point it did last night. And because you are you and Luke is him, you know you can get through this without talking about it if it means establishing a peace treaty, reaching equilibrium.
So you close the door, tuck the ice compress under your arm, and don't think about how you were willing to take whatever Luke gave you on that counter as you pass it.
You don't think about it when you hand the ice pack to Liz.
You don't think about the way his touch lit your skin on fire when you help guide her back into the dark bedroom.
You don't think about it when she tells you and Luke that you should both do something fun even though she's ill.
You don't think about how Luke moaned into your kiss when he casts a sideways glance to you, his forefinger and thumb rubbing together at his side.
Not when when you go back into the kitchen with Luke to make some semblance of a breakfast.
Not about Luke's mouth when his eyes land on the residual proof staining the fridge from the night before.
You don't think about it, because from the way Luke swallows hard and his eyes briefly go to the counter, you know he is.
And when he takes a rag and wipes away his print, catches your gaze afterward, part of you thinks you'd prefer if you really did hate each other.
A few hours later, you're sitting on the living room sofa reading the book you got with Liz from the library. You're at least trying to read it, but you've caught your eyes glazing over the same sentence.
Luke and you made breakfast and got along just fine this morning. Hell, he had even asked if you still liked your eggs the same. You did, but when he set the plate in front of you, the eggs cooked with the perfect center without you reminding him how to prepare them, it twinged something raw inside of you.
After breakfast, Luke had excused himself, saying he had promised Ashton he'd take a listen to a snippet of something he had been working on. See if he had anything to add. You were fine with it, wanting to have some down-time, anyway.
But obviously, your mind is anywhere but on the book.
The idea of Luke writing in his childhood room distracts you as you can make out the faint strumming of a guitar. Since the incident twelve years ago, you have not listened to any of 5 Seconds of Summer's music except for their single Youngblood. You were unable to escape that song as it played in every store, every radio station, hell, you were even in the waiting room of a doctor's office once and it was spinning.
You avoided their music like it was a sickness. Which for you, it was. You had loved listening to every song they released, how Luke lit up on stage. You would watch performances of them while he was away, feeling proud of the confidence he was gaining with every show. But when he cut you out, you stopped listening and watching and reading news articles. Instagrams were blocked, including the rest of the boys that you had been at least adjacent friends with. The last album you had ever listened to was their debut.
Now, your curiosity is piqued and you ask yourself if it would be some sort of fucked up self-mutilation to finally listen or would it be the culminating event of forcing yourself into moving on?
You eye your phone laying face-down on the coffee table.
The faint sound of strumming stops and you hear Luke's bedroom door open. You return your eyes to your book, to the never-ending sentence. You act like you were engrossed in it when Luke steps into the room.
"Do you want to get out?" Luke asks.
Your eyes gravitate up toward him. He's changed into a form-fitting t-shirt and jeans since breakfast. His eyes are a more alert clear-blue than you've seen the last few days. You're reminded of how pretty you had found them to be.
"With you?" you ask, closing your book and setting it beside you.
"Preferably," he deadpans, shrugging.
You're caught off-guard by his offer, not expecting him to want to be one of one with you anywhere outside of this house so soon into your peace treaty. To be completely honest, you didn't expect for you to want to be one on one with him this soon either, but you find yourself entertaining it.
"Where do you want to go?" you ask.
"Wherever you're willing," he says.
Even though his words are just a response to a simple question, the underlying meaning sits heavy between your ribs.
"Isn't Liz' car still at Jack's since he drove you home?"
"Fuck, nevermind." Luke's nose scrunches in irritation. "I forgot he's bringing it back tonight," he says, turning toward his room.
"Wait," you say, pulling his attention back to you. "Let's grab a coffee. I'll drive."
"You don't need to drive me; it was my idea," Luke says.
You stand up from the sofa and grab your phone.
"If you haven't noticed, I only do what I want, now. Let me get dressed and we'll go," you say.
A small smile plays on Luke's lips and a levity comes to his eyes.
"But you're buying my coffee," you say.
Then it's a laugh from him. A real one, genuine. One that makes your sternum ache.
"Wouldn't expect anything less."
Fifteen minutes later, and you're both climbing into your car.
You're adjusting yourself in the seat as Luke struggles to get in, working with the lever to give himself enough leg room.
"Jesus Christ, why is your car so difficult?" he complains.
"I'm sorry, I don't drive around giants in my car as of late," you say, turning the key in the ignition. The air con comes to life and you sigh in relief.
Luke aggressively slides the passenger seat all the way back and sits down, adjusting himself.
"I'm really not a giant," he defends, strapping the seat-belt over him.
You turn a glance toward him.
"You're literally almost a foot taller than the last time I saw you. Meanwhile I'm roughly the same. You're a giant, Hemmings."
"Have you thought maybe you just stayed short?"
You turn on the radio to a low volume and put the car into reverse, a dry laugh coming from your throat.
"Never crossed my mind. I thought it was normal for a nearly thirty-year old to still struggle to see over the front of her car."
The energy of the car shifts into something more than the platonic teasing you had meant and you give Luke a sideways glance. He meets it briefly before averting his eyes. He clears his throat.
"So you're in publishing like you wanted," Luke says, altering the subject less than smoothly.
"Yeah," you say. "It's taken years to even become a Junior Copyeditor, but I'm hoping within the next few I can move up."
"Do you want to just stay editing and not writing your own stuff?" he asks. The question seems completely innocent from the outside, and it would be if you hadn't had extensive conversations about your dreams when you were younger. Conversations you had tried to block out.
"Eventually," you say, turning into the parking for Zoe's Cafe.
"What's stopping you?" Luke asks, and you do your best to not be annoyed. He's only creating conversation, but telling him about your writing means exposing what you've thought about the last twelve years. Your characters, inherently, are iterations of you.
Your thoughts, your feelings, your desires. You heal through having someone else work out what you're going through. You cannot even talk about the plot-line of the only novel you can ever seem to write without it being evident that it is your story. The one where Luke left you. And that's not what bothers you. Obviously, he knows the harm he caused, what he did.
But the character you wrote, very clearly, still loves the man who left her.
"Time?" he questions, voice dripping in disbelief as you park the car.
"Yeah," you say, looking to him. "It's going to take forever to finish and it may not even go anywhere."
His expression isn't entirely unreadable. There's obvious awareness that you aren't being truthful with him, but the thoughts behind his eyes are kept to him alone.
"You should still do it," he says, unbuckling himself. "When you fight doing something because of time, it passes anyway. We both know what that does."
You know he's alluding to himself, how he wanted to reach back out but didn't. That maybe if things had been done different, you guys would be too.
But that's not a conversation you want to have in the lot of the coffee shop you frequented as kids, so you just nod your head.
Luke knows you're delaying an inevitable conversation, but he follows you anyway, only crossing in front of you to open the door. When a group of teenagers come pouring out of the building, Luke's hand immediately goes to your waist and pulls you into him, holding you snugly against his side as the kids scramble out, shoving and laughing with each other, never even noticing they almost trampled you.
You don't notice much about the kids, only that when Luke swiftly pulled you in, it raised up the hem of your shirt, and his hand sears into the skin at your hip. Even when he lets you go, his hand dropping, the residual heat blooms there.
"Are you okay?" he asks, looking over you. "I didn't mean to grab you like that, just knew they weren't going to look out."
Your face betrays you when you feel the flush crawl into it. Luke's eyes bleed concern, his forehead drawn together in the way it always has when you've been mistreated. It makes you believe he was honest in the kitchen last night, even drunk, when he swore that he never hated you.
"Yeah, I'm good," you manage. "Let's just get inside."
But you're not good, because fighting off the knowledge that you want Luke when he's hurt you is hard. It's damn near impossible when you never stopped loving him.
You make it four full days of coexisting with Luke with complete respect and civility. You sat in that coffee shop for three hours, talking about life in a way you hadn't been able to for so long. You expected the conversation to be unbearably painful, but it wasn't.
Luke had always been funny and easygoing when it came to conversation. That part about him, the one that playfully bantered with you hadn't changed. You told him about your best friends back in Brisbane, how you had dealt with one horrific author that everyone seemed to love. Luke just drank his coffee and listened.
And when it was your turn to drink your coffee, the one Luke had heart-wrenchingly remembered your exact order for, you listened to him talk about his band, about how they all had been since you no longer knew them, about his dog Petunia who had passed.
It was good conversation. Easy. Talk that didn't get too deep into emotions right away. You appreciated that, that he made sure it stayed simple.
Liz was improved that evening and for the first time since you had been under the same roof as Luke, dinner didn't feel like walking across a minefield every time you spoke. Liz of course, noticed a difference, her eyes going between you and Luke the entire evening, but she never voiced it.
The truce continued the next four days. All of you visited Jack's, you went to Bondi Beach for a day-trip, Liz even sent you and Luke grocery shopping together. She was taking advantage of the you and Luke that no longer hated, or at least acted, like they hated each other.
However, those four days revealed to you more and more that you and Luke weren't just civil now. If you were correct, and you believe you are, alcohol wasn't the only reason you and Luke had done what you did in Liz' kitchen.
Because in those four days, you notice the way Luke watches you when you speak. How his eyes rove over your face, briefly to your mouth, and back up. How when you pass anything to each other, your brushing fingers send heat into your chest. The way his hand always hovers over your lower back when he passes, as if he doesn't dare to actually touch you.
And mentally, you revisit that night in the kitchen often. Think about his long fingers. Think about what would have happened if you hadn't been interrupted by Liz.
But you tell yourself that it's better to not entertain that. You and Luke live different lives. Sex, despite how good you can imagine it being, would only de-stabilize what you had worked so hard to construct with him. The peace. The knowing that you can't waste your life being angry with the nineteen year old version of Luke you had sworn to hate.
On the fifth day after, you wake up to a text message from Luke, your contacts re-established in your phone after Liz had asked him to text you the grocery list the day before.
Luke Hemmings: Do you have any cigs?
You roll your eyes, but it doesn't stop the smile at your lips as you type your response.
You: I have one. But it's going to cost you your soul.
The bubble pops up on the screen as he types.
Luke Hemmings: As if that will deter me.
You pull yourself out of bed. Grab your carton with the singular cigarette left. You hadn't been sleepless as of late, so your night-time smoke sessions with Luke had faded. You know that's a good thing for your health, but the craving for one is still there.
When you open your bedroom door, Luke is already standing in the doorframe. His dark curls are messy, hanging into his eyes as they've been growing out. His lips are pink this morning, as if he's been applying tinted lip balm. It makes him look very pretty. You push down the flip in your stomach.
"You're an Angel," Luke says, voice low when you hold up the cigarette.
"That's not the first time I've heard that," you say, aiming for levity, but you notice the look that crosses over his face as it comes off flirtatious.
"Sit outside with me?" he asks.
"And watch you smoke my last cigarette?" you tease.
Luke sighs, sucking his teeth for effect.
"You owe me, Hemmings," you say, moving past him and into the hallway.
"That I'm more than aware of," he says, following you to the back porch.
He delivers it as a joke, but you hear the undertone. The seriousness there of him actually believing he owes you. You don't address it. At least, not until you're out on the porch, door closed behind you, and your cigarette lit in-between his fingers. You lean against the railing as he sits in the chair, using his first exhale of smoke as your sign.
You're nervous to go this deep again, but you do it anyway.
"You don't forgive yourself for what happened do you?" you begin.
Luke's eyes come up to yours.
"What tells you that?" he asks, briefly trying to uphold that wall.
But you also know him. Even if it's been so long, this part of him isn't new. So you only raise your brows toward him.
"Really? You think you owe me."
"I do," he says, another drag, another exhale. "I hurt you."
It's earnest, not deflective in a self-criticizing way. Luke's being honest and it comes so simply, it's a bit disarming. Even before, it would take a lot of prodding for him to finally open up, to know he could tell you anything.
"I'm forgiving you," you say.
"For everything? For the other night?" he asks, and you feel the way a shallow gasp breath through you.
You did not expect him to bring up that night with you. You hadn't talked about it beyond that brief apology the morning after.
"I don't need to forgive you for the other night. Nothing happened that needs forgiving," you say. He swallows, shifts in his seat, rolls the cigarette between his fingers as the smoke unfurls around him. You're toeing a line, so you push forward. "And for everything else, I'm working on it. You should too."
There's more in Luke's eyes; you can see it clearly, the way he hooked onto you saying there's no need to forgive him for the other night. You mean it. You wish you hadn't complicated things, but you and Luke are complicated. You wanted him, you still want him. You're not going to ask him to beg for absolution over something you willingly did too.
Would still do, if you're honest.
"Okay," Luke says. Then, because he's him and excellent at segueing into something less severe, "but you're going to let me buy you another pack. Maybe two."
You grin, lean back into the chair as he finishes smoking.
That night, after playing board games with all three of the Hemmings', you decide to listen to your first 5SOS album in twelve years.
You weren't going to, but tonight at the table, when Luke and Andrew had left to get more beer, Liz had turned to you, placed her hand over yours, sent such a soft smile.
"I'm so glad you're here."
"I am too," you had said, really meaning it.
"I'm also glad you and Luke have worked things out," she said, pressing deeper.
You had expected this at some point. She had been so reserved, not addressing the change in your demeanor toward Luke, the way you both would actually laugh together.
"I'm glad, too. We're working on it," you said, nodding, also meaning that.
"I knew whatever had happened couldn't come between you," Liz continued. "His songs are clear of that. They've always been."
You didn't tell her that you hadn't listened to any of his music since then. You didn't tell her anything else, because Luke and Andrew came walking back in through the door. And when Luke had set the beer on the counter, he had smiled at you so wide your chest hurt. So you didn't say anything at all.
Sounds Good Feels Good makes sense for you as the first album to listen to, it being the one you had immediately missed after that night. You decided this isn't a punishment, but rather the last thing you need to move on. To know that it really is right of you to fully forgive Luke. If anything, it's something to reward yourself for doing the work. It's knowledge.
As you sit there in the dark, headphones tucked into your ears, you realize that you enjoy the album. That listening to his band's music doesn't rip your heart in two like you thought it would. You listen through the first few songs with ease. At least, until you get to a song called Catch Fire. The opening strumming of the guitar is not just familiar, but it's the exact chord progression of the first song you and Luke had ever written together.
It makes you angry. At least, at first it does until you listen to the words. Your hand goes to your chest, clenching into a fist over your heart. You try to steady your breathing as the blood goes to your ears.
This song doesn't just use the chord progression of the what you both had written, the song itself is about you.
And sure enough, when you look at the credits, Luke is the first listed.
The weight of him writing about you less than a year after he told you to never speak to him again sits in your throat, nearly suffocating. All he had to do was call. All he had to do was pick up the damn phone. But he was only nineteen. He was sorry, he is sorry. So much time was wasted over what? Over him thinking you'd be better off without him in your life? Despite you understanding his supposed reasoning and your decision to move on from the pain, that still hurts you.
Not even from his actions, but because so much of that time between you both was lost. Time with your best friend that you can't get back.
You let the rest of the album play through, but Google search Luke's name and the list of songs he's been accredited with writing on. You open the lyrics of them, read them all within the next couple of hours.
So many. So many of them with traces of you left there. Ones only you would recognize. Ones that apparently Liz did. Somewhere deep within you, you feel the crack of your heart breaking open, exposing the soft tissue beneath that you had told yourself Luke would never get to see again.
He thought about you. He wrote about you. He remembered you.
The songs you wrote, the way you took your eggs in the morning, your coffee, how you had sworn that all you ever wanted to be was a published author. All the little parts of you that even you wanted to forget.
He hadn't pushed that away, even when he had done that to you.
And you hadn't pushed away the memories of Luke either. You never had. He lives in everything you write. His sins, his shining moments, the times he fell apart to you the only way best-friends could. How all the best and worst moments of your life orbit around Luke.
Even when the divide between the both of you was so great, you were tethered to the other.
You pull your headphones out of your ears and stare at the ceiling. The ache in your sternum is overwhelming now, bleeding into your fingertips and toes. The grief, the love, the pieces of the anger that continue to fall away. You know the shadow of hurt is always going to be there in some way. Even when you move on, even if you and Luke somehow ever became friends like before, it would be there. It would stay there.
Because love had been there.
So why waste more time waiting for it to go away?
You get up, not caring to tug on sweats over your shorts and tank top. You grab the carton Luke replaced for you and your lighter from the top drawer. And like you've done for three of the last nine nights here, you go outside onto the back porch.
You're not shocked when Luke is there. In fact, you had planned for him to be considering it was a quarter till three.
He's sitting in the folding chair, cigarette in his right hand, hunched over his own lap as he's smoking. He looks up when he sees you come onto the porch. Luke sits up straighter and his eyes soften.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asks.
"I was listening to your band's music," you say, half answering his question.
Apprehension flickers across his face.
"I need to know the full truth as to why you never reached out," you say, not able to ease into it.
"I know you say you thought it was better for me to hate you, but that's not it," you say. "Not when you wrote the kinds of songs you did."
Luke sighs, stands from his chair and leans against the porch railing. He takes a long drag before extinguishing it against the wood.
"I was heavily dealing with addiction. Not just alcohol or this," he pauses to gesture with his cigarette. "But pills. Coke. Whatever I could. I wasn't lying when I said I was high that night."
He glances toward you, his eyes roving over your face before he continues.
"I did lie when I said I didn't remember that night. I did. I do. I relive it often," he confesses. "The next morning I woke up and immediately wanted to fix it, but there was nothing I could offer you. No real change. I'd get high again. Do some stupid shit. You didn't deserve to wait for someone like that. So I just stayed away. I rathered you hate me from one occurrence than to constantly be hurt by my bullshit."
Your heart thrums in your chest, moves into your throat. You swallow hard.
"Keep going," you say, walking toward him, leaning against the railing beside him. You don't face Luke, just look over the side of the porch and listen. You don't light your cigarette.
"When I got clean of all that, it had already been three years. Mum said you had moved out and were working in the city. You were doing good. You did just fine without me."
Luke pauses and it makes you turn your head to find his eyes on yours. You see the way they move over your lips. They linger there for a moment and then he blinks, adjusts his gaze back to your eyes.
"You've always deserved better than me. Deserved more than loving another addict who couldn't keep their promise. That's why I thought you'd move on."
There's tension in the small space between you. You can feel the heat radiating from his body in the proximity. He's always exuded warmth. He had been your source of happiness for so long as a child, as your salvation even when he and Liz gave you a place to stay. But even now, when you've created your own sense of self, your own life without him, your own security, his heat still draws you in.
"And why haven't you moved on?" you ask, turning your body toward him as you lean against the railing. The answer is so obvious. So evident.
You just want Luke to say it.
From how he looks at you with his sad but expressive eyes, you know he knows the truth you both keep dancing around. That you both have felt and still feel things you've never spoken aloud. Not to anyone else, not to each other, not even to yourselves. The fighting showed it, the way you so both so easily slipped back into being cordial when you realized you were tired, how you both looked at each other when you touched.
Your actions bleed the truth like a fresh wound.
"The night in the kitchen wasn't just because of the alcohol," Luke says, voice unsteady. "I never stopped wanting you. It didn't stop when I fucked us up. Not when we didn't speak. When we got here you acted like you wanted to kill me." He leans closer to you, not touching you, not stepping into your gravity, but thinning the space. "It was never too hard to play into you driving me crazy because you did."
Luke's earnestness, and the rhythm of his songs still playing in your head, and the blue of his eyes that have not changed in nearly twenty years has you stepping closer to him.
But it's your stupidity and desire to be done with the fraction of you that hasn't forgiven Luke that has you asking your next question.
"And what about now?" you ask, looking up into his face. "Do I still drive you crazy?"
There's hunger in his dilating eyes, but he doesn't move despite the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat when he swallows.
"Angel, I don't want to hurt you again."
You do something dangerous, reach up and intertwine your fingers into the curls at the back of his head. The texture is soft, gentle, so much different than what the black hair and eyeliner and leather gives off. You anchor your fingers there, not tugging, not pulling, but secure.
"Then let me hurt you," you say.
From somewhere in Luke's throat, a groan breaks free.
This time when you kiss Luke, you aren't hesitant. You push yourself up on your toes, pull him into you as your kiss presses hot onto his mouth. You're hungry too, have known nothing but starvation the last twelve years.
You're sober this time to notice the sweetness of his lips, the taste of the cherry chapstick he wears. How shivers shoot up your spine and his arms as you lick past his teeth and into his mouth. He opens up for you so easily, his tongue searching for yours. His hands go to your backside, his long fingers kneading into the plush skin there, eliciting a groan from your mouth as he brings you up to rest on the railing, leveling you both.
You sink your teeth into his lower lip when he squeezes your ass and Luke Hemmings, the man who broke your heart, the so-called egotistical rockstar, whimpers.
It goes straight to your head. It goes straight to your cunt.
"Fuck, you sound so pretty," you say, briefly pulling away from his mouth to attach your lips to his exposed neck. You bite down hard, not caring if it leaves a mark in the morning. Luke ruts into you, his already hard cock pressing through his sweats and against your inner thigh. He groans when you suck harshly over the sensitive skin of his throat, the bruise already purpling in the yellow porch light.
"I told you," Luke pants. "You drive me fucking crazy." Your teeth drag over his collar bone, and another whimper spills out. "I'd give you anything."
You move your kiss from his neck to his earlobe, tugging on the flesh. Your hand goes down between you, palming over him, sliding the length of his cock. He grinds into your hand unwillingly, his breathing ragged. You squeeze over the material of his sweats, hard. He goes rigid in your hand and you know you're playing with fire.
You're not normally like this. The you twelve years ago would have never been this domineering the first time you and Luke fucked. But you didn't fuck then. And that you isn't the you now. The you now wants Luke in his most honest way.
You want it all from him.
His arrogance, his pleasure, his breakdown.
You want to burn each other, to consume.
All you've known is hunger when it comes to Luke Hemmings.
If all you have is tonight, you aren't going to waste it. You want to feed, both of you.
"Show me, baby," you whisper into his ear. "Give me it all."
Luke's hands go to your waist immediately, sliding into the band of your shorts and tugging.
You comply immediately, lifting your hips as he drags the shorts and panties together off your legs in a fluid motion. His arms hook under you and he lifts you off the beam, staggering the few steps to move you into the chair he was just smoking his cigarette in. He drops to the ground like it's practiced, his knees hitting the hardwood.
You spread your legs, exposing your cunt to him, letting him see the wetness there. You commit the image of Luke between your legs to memory, to his pink rimmed eyes and mouth as he drinks you in.
"Always knew you'd have a pretty pussy," he says, looking up to you, eyes heavy and lidded. His words rush through your abdomen into you, the cool air of the night contrasted with the heat of him in petition between your legs.
Luke brings his mouth to you, the only permission he needs, his lips enrapturing your clit. His tongue circles you, stroking in small semi-circles that has you struggling to stay in the seat. A moan leaves your mouth, but it's nothing compared to the whine that leaves Luke and disappears into your cunt. His hips buck against nothing and the head rush of him being so desperate while eating you goes to your head.
"You taste amazing," Luke groans.
And you know it's loud. You know you should care that you could wake his parents inside the house, but Luke on his knees devouring you is worth any risk. Especially when he flattens his tongue over you, dragging upward through your lips and lowering to your entrance, pushing into you. Your hands go into his curls as your hips buck up. You tug harsh, pushing him deeper.
He whimpers and ruts again against your leg. You've never seen him so needy for affection before. It winds into your ribs, makes you even more slick.
"You're so good," you breathe. "Fuck, you're so goddamn good."
Luke's tongue works harder, as if the praise from you is all he's ever wanted, all he's needed. To taste you, to feast, to have you pushing him deeper into you as your cunt welcomes him so greedily. Like all he's known the last twenty years is you.
And it's not enough. Having him like this isn't enough.
"Fuck, lay down," you say. "On your back."
Luke pulls back at your instruction and your cunt throbs at the loss of his tongue, at the appearance of his face. His stubble is slick with you, eyes red and lips swollen. There's nothing in his eyes but bliss, but submission, completely drunk on your pussy.
"I want to taste you when you finish," he says, voice small, on the verge of breaking.
"You will," you say. "Be a good boy and lay down."
Luke does, pulls back from you immediately when he realizes what you want, and he's honest when he says he would give you anything, because when he's flat on his back against the flooring, his legs going beneath the chair, you step over him. He immediately pulls you down, forcing your pussy against his face and dragging you across his mouth and chin and nose.
The sensation makes your eyes roll back, the sound of him noisily consuming you pushing the carnal desire inside of you to teetering over the edge and into insanity. This is insane, fucking Luke's face on the back porch, feeling his tongue so deeply in you that you're rutting against him. But you don't stop because he doesn't stop.
Even if he tried, you wouldn't let him.
Because you need to ruin him so desperately. Because you need to see what he looks like covered in you. Because you need Luke Hemmings desperate, and he is, his hips bucking and grunting as you drag yourself over him, eyes rolling back in his head with every moan. The thread inside of you tightens, coiling in your lower stomach as he consumes, tongue fucking relentlessly, only stopping to suck on your clit, to graze his teeth along your folds.
Then it snaps, your orgasm careening through you and out of you. You feel the way you soak Luke's face, only the white-heat running through you as you still during your orgasm. Luke doesn't let you still though, he hooks his arms around your thighs and moves you on his face as you finish, sharp overstimulation moving into you, through your clit, making you dizzy.
"Luke," you pant, struggling for any breath.
"Please," he returns in a whine, barely breathing. "I need it all."
So you let him take control, let him drag you over his mouth, over his nose, what feels like his entire face. You don't know who's crying: you, him, both, but hot tears of overstim stream your face as he sends you through a freefall and into pure ecstasy. Words stream out of your mouth mindlessly, just babble as the night fills with the sound of you breaking the other.
"You're so good. So fucking good. So--"
You're orgasming again, your walls clenching around nothing, not even Luke's tongue. The trembles go through your legs and into the rest of your body. You can't stop shaking, can't stop Luke from taking, from giving. The deepest part of you doesn't want him to.
Your limbs go slack, the only reason you stay upright because of Luke's iron grip on you. You collapse backward, your back resting against the seat. Your brain is fuzzy, vision blurred as you're vaguely aware of Luke lifting you off him.
You come down, his face filling your vision.
He looks like a wet dream.
His face and eyes are red, tears still brimming. His entire face is slick, the collar of his shirt soaked with you. He looks absolutely ruined.
"Are you with me?" he asks, hand going to your face, his thumb brushing your cheek before pressing a kiss to your mouth. You taste yourself on him and it should be enough for you, this should be enough, but it's not.
"Yeah," you say, breathing out. "Are you?"
"Do you want more?" you ask, chest heaving.
Luke closes the space between you again, needy.
And you and Luke have a habit of being stupid with each other, because somehow you're upright and through the house, shorts be damned, and into his room. A place you swore you'd never go again, but it's further from Liz' room than yours.
Luke shuts the door behind you and the second he turns, you grab him by the material of his shirt. Drag him backward toward his bed.
"Pants off," you say, sitting at the edge, hands going to the band of his sweats. You find the front of his sweats are wet and it makes the want in you burn brighter, to the idea of him ruining himself from servicing you. It makes you need him even more than you already do.
He shrugs out of the sweats and tugs his shirt over his head. Your breath hitches in your throat at the broadness of his shoulders, the patch of hair peppering his chest, the stretch marks decorating his hips, at the man he's become.
Then Luke steps out of his boxers and his cock is so pretty, tip pink and leaking, impossibly hard already that you don't care if you come to regret this night later. He looks down at you from where he stands, as if he's waiting for you to deign him worthy, to give him the more he's so desperately asked for.
You remove your tank top. Let him look over you. Over your chest, the curves of your body that being a grown woman has given you.
"Angel," Luke whispers, not touching you, frozen in place.
You look up to him, wrap your arms around his thighs, press a kiss to his lower abdomen where his cock rests. He flushes through his stomach at your kiss, twitches visibly.
You ghost your mouth over him, teasing, being cruel you know, but you're not going to last if you let him fuck you immediately. You may not last regardless.
So you take Luke into your mouth and the taste of him bleeds into you. His hands go into your hair as his head falls back, his hips stuttering into your mouth, grazing the back of your throat.
"Goddammit," he moans. You move up him, tongue swirling over the precum at his tip and flattening on the underside of him. When you open your jaw and hollow your cheeks to take him deeper, his fingers at the back of your head stops you, pulling you off of him.
"I can't," he says, his eyes pleading. "I need to be inside you."
And because it's all you want, you move back onto the bed, let him clamber over you, take the kisses he gives you. Let him capture your nipple in his mouth, let him whine into your neck as you stroke him, lining him up to your entrance.
When he pushes in, you don't remember anything from before. There's no mixed feelings. You're only in this moment of Luke looking down on you, eyes blissed out and red, jaw going slack at the feeling of your cunt immediately squeezing around him. At the broken noise he emits. There's only the want pooling in your stomach and the love in your chest.
There's only you taking Luke, your Luke, as he breathes your name and moves into you.
"You're fucking perfect," he praises, burying himself unbearably slow until he bottoms out.
The stretch burns, spreading from your center and consuming you. But it feels so good, the pain needed, Luke's touch and adoration encompassing you. The tightness in your lower stomach begs for attention already.
You pull Luke into you, pressing your mouth into his with the next drag of his cock. You're so full you could cry.
"Give me everything," you say.
Luke does, without fail. His pace quickens as he moves into you, thrusting impossibly deeper, so deep that you feel like you're gagging from the inside. He works you open, your body molding around him, doing your best to stay quiet as he fucks into you, consumes, satiates. His eyes stay on you, but he's not here, you see him go somewhere else, somewhere you've taken him behind his eyes.
"I need you," he moans, on the verge of another whimper. "It's all I've needed," he whinges.
"Then take it," you say, fighting the orgasm building again. "Make me yours," you add, honestly, idiotically.
Luke expertly lifts you from your back, pulls you into his chest as he continues fucking into you, his pelvis brushing against your clit. You kiss his neck, sink your teeth into his skin and clench around him at the new sensation, pushed into the abyss. You come hard around Luke, trembling, shaking, taking. Luke works you through it, and within a few more thrusts, you feel him go rigid, hear the swear that leaves him as he spills into you.
Your eyes roll back into your head, the sound of your wet cunt still taking him overwhelming you. The smell of his sweat, and sex, and cigarettes settling into the room. The sensation of him burying his face into your neck, whispering the same thing over and over, delirious with you.
"I never stopped, I never stopped, I never stopped."
You don't need to ask him what he means. Don't need any elaboration he could give you, because as he slows and eventually stills, holds you against his chest in his childhood room, you know.
So you don't ask, you don't push it.
You let yourself stay with Luke. You breathe him in.
You're not mad at yourself for it this time.
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