#ashton

Divus Crewel

Ashton Vargas

Mozus Trein

Sam

When you arrive at the party, the only thing on your mind is seeing him.

Ashton.

You took an Uber here, mostly because you’re already imagining leaving with him—just like you usually do. That’s how these nights tend to end.

But Ashton? He’s never been a stranger to switching plans last minute.

Chewing on your bottom lip, you flip your hair over your shoulder and step inside the venue. The mix of smells is almost overwhelming, though achingly familiar—cheap and expensive perfume, sweat, and weed.

The lights are dim, purple and blue lasers slicing through the dark just enough for you to vaguely make out who’s standing in front of you. Influencers, mostly. Some models, like you. People with the right faces, the right connections.

It doesn’t matter who you are or why you’re here—not to them, not even to you. The only thing that matters is whether or not they end up hanging off Ashton’s arm by the end of the night.

You scan the crowd, searching for a familiar mop of jet-black curls, fingernail picking at your carefully manicured cuticles—a habit you’ve never quite managed to kick. The room’s full of familiar-enough faces. People you’ve worked with. Friends. Not-friends. Girls you’re almost certain have fucked Ashton at least once.

It isn’t unusual anymore, the attention Ashton and Luke get. The Neurotics are gaining traction in the mainstream, finally stepping out of their quiet little alternative shell.

Not in sound—God no, the music’s still sharp and snarling.

But now? People are actually listening.

Thankfully, you spot him quickly. He’s leaned back against a wall, drink in hand, an unlit cigarette perched behind his ear, mid-conversation with his producer.

You lift your chin, square your shoulders, adjust your dress. You woke up in his bed just yesterday morning, so he can’t pretend to be that indifferent tonight. Right?

Then again, Ashton’s as unpredictable as the weather—shifting by the second.

Stopping a few feet in front of him, you clear your throat and cross your arms over your chest, barely sparing a glance at the guy he was just engrossed in.

“You know,” you start, trying to pack as much nonchalance into your voice as you can, “a heads-up that you’d be showing up without me would’ve been nice.”

Ashton’s head snaps in your direction, green eyes locking on yours, eyebrows lifting in surprise. He takes a sip of his drink, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

“Didn’t realize we made plans,” he says with a shrug, smiling like you’re not two seconds away from losing it completely. He really does have a way with words—a way to piss you off like no one else can.

You clench your jaw, shifting your weight as your gaze flicks to the guy beside him. “So,” you say, matching Ashton’s infuriatingly casual tone, “are you gonna keep being rude, or introduce me to your friend?”

Ashton pushes his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing just slightly as he peels himself off the wall. “Sure,” he sighs. “Max, this is Y/N—Luke and I’s friend.”

Your breath catches.

It’s the way he says friend—the tiniest hitch in his voice, so subtle it flies right over Max’s head, but sharp enough to slice clean through your chest. You blink rapidly, trying to collect whatever scraps of composure you can find.

Max turns to you, far too drunk to notice the tension strangling the air. “Nice to meet you,” he slurs, easy and oblivious.

You offer him a half-hearted smile—fake as hell, but who cares. Ashton’s already looking smug. He always does when he’s playing this game.

Just a friend.

As if he wasn’t giggling into your neck two nights ago, high off cheap wine and sitcoms, his arm around your waist like it belonged there.

Just friends. Right.

“Can I talk to you?” you grit out, low enough to keep things private, close enough to make your anger unmistakable. You don’t care if Max hears. Let him.

You’re starting to reach your limit.

And Ashton? He’s starting to push it.

“Aren’t you talking to me right now?” he asks, dimples flashing like your irritation is the funniest thing that’s happened to him all day.

Ashton is always like this—giving you everything one second, yanking it away the next, then laughing when you dare to get upset.

He said it was casual.

But God, there’s never been anything casual about the two of you.

“Cut the shit with me, Fletcher,” you snap. “You know exactly what I mean.”

Ashton lets out a low whistle, sets his drink down on a nearby table, and shoots Max an apologetic look. “Fine,” he says, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to a joke only he finds funny.

Without so much as a glance at Max, you grab Ashton by the wrist and drag him through the crowd. Past perfume clouds and camera flashes and people pretending not to watch.

He hasn’t done anything worse than usual tonight, not really—but after nearly a year of this endless back-and-forth, the push and pull is starting to wear you down. And tonight? It stings a little deeper.

You don’t stop until you find a somewhat secluded corner, tucked just far enough away from the music and the noise. The second you halt, you whip around and face him.

“What’s your problem?” you demand, jabbing your finger into his chest hard enough to make him shift back. “What did I ever do to you that makes you so embarrassed to be seen with me?”

Ashton catches your wrist mid-jab, holding it firm. “Jesus, Y/N,” he breathes, eyes narrowing. “What’s my problem? Mine? Do you even hear yourself right now?”

You blink, stunned at how fast he twisted it. How effortlessly he flips the whole damn thing back on you.

“Of course I hear myself,” you snap, yanking your hand free and cradling it against your chest, the fight beginning to drain out of you like air from a punctured lung.

Ashton has a way of making you feel small—through words, through looks, through subtle little dismissals. He knows exactly what will gut you and exactly what will send you soaring. It makes arguing with him feel impossible. Because nothing ever seems to get to him.

Nothing except Luke.

Ashton and Luke are inseparable—have been for years, even before you met them. Luke is… troubled, from what you’ve seen. Never fully grounded. Always floating on some unreachable high or sinking into the heavy depths of his own mind.

Ashton’s saved him more times than you can count. And that’s just in the past year.

So far, the only person who ever gets an actual emotional reaction from Ashton is Luke. Luke gets his attention. His affection. His time. All the things Ashton only gives you behind a closed door.

And the worst part? Luke deserves it.

He’s the sweetest, softest person you’ve ever met—so heartbreakingly fucked up, and still somehow always the first to offer his whole chest to the world. Including you.

Still, you can’t help it. You wish Ashton wasn’t so selfish with his heart. That maybe, just maybe, there was room for you in it too.

“I don’t know why you act like me begging to be acknowledged is such a chore,” you say, your voice quieter now, your weight shifting uncomfortably under the heat of his gaze. His stare cuts straight through your bravado like it was paper-thin to begin with.

“Y/N…” Ashton starts, low, like he’s already tired of the conversation. “I do acknowledge you. But I don’t know what you want from me. You know what this is.”

Your head snaps up, your mouth curving into a wounded frown you didn’t mean to let show.

You swore you wouldn’t cry over Ashton Irwin again—not tonight.

“Do I?” you challenge, your voice cracking, embarrassingly fragile. “You call me. You text me. You tell me you miss me when you’re on tour. You sing to me. You hold me while I sleep. You cry in my fucking arms— And I’m just supposed to be okay with casual?”

Ashton exhales sharply through his nose, stepping back like he needs the distance just to keep himself together. His shoulders are drawn tight, jaw clenched with the effort it takes not to scream.

“I give you what I can,” he bites out. “And you act like you’re not throwing yourself at Luke every damn time I don’t come running.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you—bitter and breathless. Tears spill freely now, tracking down your cheeks as you giggle, shaking your head like you’ve finally gone completely insane.

“No,” you gasp. “No, that is so not what that is.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ashton snaps, closing the space between you in two long strides. He grabs your arms, holding you in place like the truth won’t hit as hard if you’re steady.

“I don’t know how else to say it,” he hisses. “I can’t do a relationship. I can’t give you what you want.”

“Then stop taking what you want,” you sob, yanking yourself free. “Stop expecting me to act like this—feel like this—if you can’t even do the bare minimum of loving me.”

For once, Ashton falters. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Nothing comes out. Instead, his posture caves inward—shoulders slumping, jaw softening—as he runs a trembling hand through his dark curls.

“I don’t want to do this tonight, Y/N,” he mutters at last, his hand dropping to the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tension like he’s trying to hold everything else in place.

“I’m not sober enough to untangle what I feel—or don’t feel, or might feel. I don’t even know anymore. And I sure as hell can’t explain it to you right now. Just… let me take you home. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, voice shaking with fury. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Not now. Not ever again.”

Before he can respond, you spin on your heel and storm off, breath stuttering in your chest.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking completely, pushing through the crowd as the bass swells, drowning out the angry murmurs of people you shove past.

You’re almost to the door when you slam face-first into someone’s chest—solid, warm, familiar. Arms instinctively reach out to steady you.

You blink up through watery lashes.

It’s Luke, and he looks just as startled as you.

“Y/N?” he croaks, brows drawing together. “What’s wrong?”

You let out a frustrated huff, throwing your head back as you fought off yet another round of tears—this time, angry ones.

“I’m so sick of being Ashton’s emotional support whore,” you blurt, the words ripping from your throat before you can stop them, raw and loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Whatever. Let them. It’s not like anyone gives a shit. Ashton was probably balls-deep in someone else already.

So who’s to say you couldn’t be fucking someone else, too?

“Jesus, okay,” Luke mutters, licking his lips, eyes darting around the venue like he’s checking for hidden cameras. Then he reaches out and takes your hand in his—warm, steady, grounding. Without a word, he starts guiding you through the crowd, using his broad frame to carve a path, shielding you like it’s instinct.

The crowd thins as you near the exit, and for a moment, you feel stupid.

Coming all the way here just to scream at your situationship for five minutes and leave crying?

So much for keeping it together.

Luke pushes the door open. The cool night air hits your tear-streaked face like a slap. You drop to the curb and bury your face in your arms, heart pounding like it still hasn’t caught up with the emotional whiplash.

You hear Luke sit beside you, the subtle shuffle of denim and sneakers as he fidgets, trying to figure out what to say.

“I’m so fucking sick of him,” you mumble between sniffles, voice thick and shaky. You sound just as pathetic as you feel.

“What’d he do this time?” Luke asks, bumping your shoulder gently.

You lift your head, turning to face him with puffy eyes and a broken sigh. “He’s just… him. Treats me like I’m his whole world, loses his mind if some other guy so much as breathes near me—and then turns around and humiliates me. Makes me feel insane for feeling things.”

“Well,” Luke says dryly, “you are a psycho.”

You glare at him and kick his shoe. “It’s not helping,” you mutter. “I feel like I’m losing my fucking mind, Lu.”

Luke is quiet for a moment, leaning back on his palms as he stares out at the empty road in front of you. You glance over, taking a second to really look at him—the straight slope of his nose, the way a few curls cling to his forehead with sweat, the glint of his chains resting against his chest.

There are shadows under his eyes, slightly bloodshot, and a few days’ worth of stubble along his jaw. He looks like a mess— A gorgeous one.

“You’re not losing your mind, Y/N/N,” Luke says softly—so gently it almost makes you cry all over again. “Ashton can make anyone feel insane. It’s, like, his specialty.”

You don’t answer.

Luke takes that as permission to keep going.

“Ashton loves pretending he has his shit together. And yeah, from the outside, it looks like he does. I mean, next to me, anyone looks like they’ve got life figured out.”

That earns him a soft, tired chuckle. Luke’s always been self-deprecating. It’s practically his second language.

“But,” he adds, after a pause. “He doesn’t know shit. Not about love, anyway. For what it’s worth…” he exhales, “I think he does love you. He’s just doing a horrible fucking job of showing it.”

The tears have finally stopped, leaving behind only one thing: your burning desire to hurt Ashton as much as he’s hurt you.

“Can I be honest?” you blurt out, shifting to face Luke fully. His blue eyes are wide, locked on you with that intense kind of stillness he only reserves for when he really wants to hear you.

He nods.

“I don’t know what this is. You and me,” you admit, voice low, shaky. “You’re so nice to me. You let me cry to you about Ashton, overshare every tragic little detail of my life, flirt with you—and you flirt back. But then you turn around and reassure me about his feelings.”

Luke grins, that devilish, cheeky grin that could ruin a girl with just one flash. “I’m just here for emotional support,” he says. “You hear me rant about all the people in my life. I think it’s a balance.”

You narrow your eyes. “Correction,” you say, dryly. “I listen to you rant about all the girls you fall in love with for one night and ghost by morning.”

Luke freezes. A blush spreads across his cheeks and creeps all the way up to the tips of his ears. The night breeze catches his curls, tousling them into soft disarray, and for a second he looks… adorable.

Deadly, but adorable.

“Okay, that’s enough out of you,” he mutters, standing up and stretching his limbs. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin between his waistband and his hem—milky, smooth, unfair.

Your throat goes dry.

“C’mon,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m sober enough to drive you home. And clearly, you don’t wanna be here any more than I do.”

There’s a moment—just the slightest beat—where your breath catches. Your brain spins into overdrive, every broken piece snapping into place all at once.

Luke falls in love as easily as he gets scared. As easily as he hurts.

He’s selfish—you’ve seen glimpses of it, and most addicts are, in one way or another.

But he’s also Ashton’s person.

You slip your hand into his, his rough, calloused palm closing around yours as he tugs you quietly into the night.

His car isn’t far, and by the time he opens the passenger door for you, adrenaline has already started to hum beneath your skin.

The car isn’t exactly messy, but it’s lived-in—old wrappers crumpled near the gearshift, small plastic bags, a cut straw or two in the cupholder, lighters everywhere. The smell of clove and weed clings to the interior, and weirdly? It’s comforting. Almost pleasant.

You watch as Luke fumbles with his phone, waiting for the Bluetooth to connect. Only when the soft haze of a shoegaze track spills through the speakers does he finally start driving.

It’s soft, grungy, ethereal. Probably Pearl, if you know Luke like you think you do. He’s been obsessed with that band lately—especially the lead singer, June Evans.

You like to pretend it doesn’t bother you.

He’s got one leg up, seat pushed way too far back, one hand resting lazily on the wheel. The roads are empty, quiet. And even though you know the car’s packed with all the safety features Luke desperately needs—his recklessness wrapped in tech failsafes—it doesn’t matter.

He looks hot behind the wheel. Too hot. Dangerously hot.

“Do you ever get tired of being some girl’s little fixer-upper?” you ask, tossing your feet up onto the dashboard, heels long abandoned.

Luke rolls his eyes, shooting you a brief glance. “Nah. Gets me laid.”

A giggle slips past your lips before you can stop it, the sharp, throbbing pain of heartbreak softening—just for a second.

“I’m sure you can get laid without being someone’s science fair project,” you say, flashing him a cheeky grin.

Streetlights flicker past, washing Luke’s face in waves of amber and gold. You catch the tilt of his too-pretty mouth, the subtle twitch of a smirk he’s trying—and failing—not to let show.

“Are you trying to tell me you think I’m hot, Y/N?”

You shrug and reach over to turn the radio up a notch. “I’m not blind,” you reply coolly. “But also, I’ve heard all the groupie stories. That subreddit dedicated to you guys? Reading through that while drunk? Honestly a cinematic experience.”

“I also tend to overshare when I’m high,” Luke says helpfully. “Which you know. Actually, you know so much about me that if we ever stop being friends, I might have to kill you.”

You smirk. “I don’t think I’d mind your face being the last thing I see.”

Turning in your seat, you face him fully. “Though, I’m not sure I’d look good in blood. Being a scream queen was never really my calling.”

Luke shrugs. “You look good in red.”

“Proof?”

The car takes a slow turn, streets outside growing familiar as you near your apartment. Luke turns the wheel with the heel of his hand, his rings catching the light like tiny little knives.

You’ve always had a thing about his hands—long, ringed fingers, surprisingly delicate, almost artistic. Everything about Luke is pretty in that unnerving way.

Unlike Ashton, who looks like every brooding romance novel cover brought to life—

Luke looks like a faerie prince who’d trick you into dancing for eternity.

“That one shoot you asked me to pick you up from,” he says casually. “Remember that red bikini? You looked hot. Kinda get why Ashton gets so bent out of shape over you.”

And just like that— the car falls silent. Luke’s grin falters, jaw ticking slightly as if he just remembered that Ashton’s supposedly in love with you. Supposedly.

Even if you don’t always feel it.

If ever.

The sudden tension becomes too much—too real—and you scramble for a lifeline. Some distraction. Anything to drag you both back to that dangerous line you always seem to teeter on.

“But whatever the case,” you say, clearing your throat, “after doomscrolling that goddamn subreddit, I don’t think I’d fuck you.”

Luke lets out a startled laugh, shooting you a sideways glance as he parks in front of your building.

“Seriously?” he says, brows raised, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Why? What—are you scared I’d ruin you?”

You roll your eyes, pulling your legs off the dashboard, but your heart kicks up anyway. The implication in his voice burns hotter than it should.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you reply, “No. You wouldn’t ruin me.”

“Liar.”

“Nope,” you say, popping the p with a grin. “You just seem like you’d be a dick.”

“I am not!” Luke laughs, offended in the most unserious way. “Never that. I send every girl home with an orgasm and a great memory to share on Reddit. Might even throw in a punch card—hit it five times and I’ll cry in your lap about how much I hate myself.”

You raise a brow, leaning in over the center console until you’re close—close enough to notice how strong the clove scent is on him, clinging to his shirt, his hair, his skin.

Luke’s always thought he’s too good for regular cigarettes. He smokes clove ones like it’s a personality trait. God knows where he even finds them.

Then again, Luke’s out there scoring far more concerning shit on a daily basis.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” you murmur, your voice dipping into something sultrier—saccharinesweet, low and raspy, soft enough to sting.

You reach out, fingertip brushing along the curve of Luke’s bicep. His skin is warm beneath your touch, soft and startlingly real.

The moment stretches—too long, too loaded. The leather seat sticks to your flushed skin, the silence outside the car only amplifying everything you’re not saying.

This feels too real. Too charged. Too full of implications neither of you are ready to name.

You clear your throat and pull back, masking the sudden suffocating shift with a sly grin. “Wanna come up?”

Luke kills the engine. Doesn’t answer right away.

Your eyes sting, sore from crying earlier. The skin beneath them is tight, raw. Still, you don’t blink. You just look at him.

When he finally turns to face you, half of him is swallowed by shadow, the other half lit by cold moonlight—and his eyes, when they meet yours, are softer than you expect.

“Of course.”

Luke follows close behind as you enter the building. A quick glance over your shoulder catches him with his hands stuffed in his pockets, lip bitten, lost in thought.

It’s all falling into place too perfectly.

You don’t have a plan—not exactly. Just an idea. An aching heart. And a devastating need to hurt Ashton back.

But layered underneath all of that?

The traitorous flutter of butterflies that erupt every time Luke looks at you a second too long.

At your door, you fumble with the keys before finally shoving it open. The first thing to hit you is the scent—the warm, sickly-sweet vanilla caramel candle Ashton bought you last week. He’d handed it to you with a shrug and said it reminded him of you.

You exhale, sharp and annoyed. “God, what a day,” you mutter, toeing off your heels and kicking them aside.

Luke trails in behind you and collapses dramatically onto your couch with a huff. You follow, curling your legs beneath you as you sink into the cushions.

It’s not weird having Luke here.

Not really.

The two of you hang out sometimes when the timing feels right. He’ll bring his guitar, play a few mindless chords while you talk his ear off about whatever Ashton crisis-of-the-week is unfolding.

One time, Luke even tried to bring over his cat. That smug Russian Blue—Yorke, named after Thom Yorke like the absolute loser Luke is. The cat hated you on sight and scratched half your furniture like he was performing a ritual.

It had definitely been a day.

But tonight is different.

There are no inside jokes filling the air. No sad melody drifting from a guitar. No half-slurred rant about how Kurt Cobain was the last real rockstar.

It’s just you and Luke, sitting on the couch, suffocating under the weight of something unspoken—something huge.

You turn your head and catch him already watching you. His blue eyes are hazy, pupils blown in that way you’ve come to recognize. Still, he looks wrecked.

You reach out without thinking, curling a piece of his hair around your finger, tugging gently before tucking it behind his ear.

Your heart thunders, the rush of blood in your ears making it hard to hear anything else—except the shaky inhale Luke lets out the second you touch him. You’re suddenly painfully aware of how close he is.

“Does Ashton love me?” The words slip out before you can stop them, small and unsure.

Your hand doesn’t move from his hair, fingers brushing lightly through honeyed curls like they might keep the question from sinking too deep.

Luke breathes in. Deeply. Like it hurts. “I think so.”

You tilt your head, studying him. His lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks, and from this distance, you can see the delicate scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

You’re so close, it feels like gravity is trying to pull you in.

“…Do you?”

The question hits something in Luke. His eyes darken, but he still doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t remove your hand. Doesn’t create any space between you.

“Y/N,” he whispers. “This isn’t right. We’re friends, remember?”

You sigh, shifting closer. “Then don’t answer. It’s not that important,” you pause, tilting your head. “Unless you’re scared?”

Luke’s gaze flicks down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “Scared of what? You asking me to kiss you?” His breath catches. “Maybe.”

“Well,” you whisper, “I wasn’t gonna ask you to kiss me.”

His hand comes up to grasp your wrist. Long fingers wrap around it—not to pull away, not to stop you. Just to hold. Steady. Burning hot against your skin, branding you before you even realize it.

“Then what were you going to ask?” His voice is soft. Guarded. Almost childlike in its curiosity.

You tilt your head. “Do you love him?”

Luke bites his lip and looks away. “Of course I do,” he murmurs. “He’s my best friend. My person.”

Silence settles over the room again. His eyes flick back to yours, wide, waiting. Expectant in a way that almost seems childlike.

The hurt still lingers—Ashton’s indifference still raw in your chest, pulsing like a rotting bruise. But now? Now, you have the perfect revenge.

“I lied,” you say, voice calm. “That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”

Luke’s brows lift, surprised. His head leans into your touch like instinct. “Then what is it?” he asks, mouth twitching into a half-hearted smirk. “You really want that kiss, huh?”

You don’t smile at his futile attempt to joke. Instead, you just tighten your grip on his hair—slightly, deliberately. Just enough to make his breath hitch.

“I wasn’t going to ask you to kiss me,” you say slowly, dragging each word out like a matchstrike.

Luke swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I was gonna ask you to fuck me.”

Luke’s eyes flutter shut, his head dropping back against the couch with a soft thud. The room is silent—so silent, you swear your heartbeat is echoing off the walls.

You feel his fingers twitch around your wrist. His breathing grows shallow as he guides your hand from his hair down to his chest.

His heart pounds violently beneath your palm. His eyes stay shut, lashes trembling.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispers.

“I want you so bad.”

Luke moves fast, using his grip on your hand to yank you toward him, crashing his mouth against yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs.

You gasp, startled—but he’s already pulling you into his lap. His lips move against yours with a practiced hunger, messy and full of need, catching you entirely off guard.

A low sound rumbles from the back of his throat—almost a growl—before he releases your hand and slides his own beneath the hem of your dress, which is already riding scandalously high. He cups your ass, fingers flexing, grip possessive.

“So fucking pretty,” he pants between kisses, his tongue tracing the outer seam of your lip, the feeling sending a shiver down your spine and a current of electricity straight between your legs.

His hands are large—holding you, guiding you, urging you to move. You can feel him growing hard beneath you, already straining against his jeans as you settle into a slow, perfect rhythm, grinding against him.

“Luke,” you breathe, your head falling back as his lips trail from yours to your jaw. His stubble scratches deliciously against your skin as he nips and licks his way down your neck.

“What is it, baby?” he pants, hands bunching your dress up to your waist. “Needy already?”

You moan, fingers tangling in his curls and giving a firm tug. He whimpers—actually whimpers—and fuck, why does he sound so pretty?

Suddenly, Luke pushes you off of him.

You blink, startled, collapsing back onto the couch—but he doesn’t give you a second to protest. He’s back over you in a flash, crashing his mouth onto yours again, stealing your breath with every kiss.

You bite his bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth, and his answering groan rattles your bones. It makes your whole body ache.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down your legs without finesse, without pause.

You’re soaked—there’s no hiding that. When he finally gets them off, the rush of cool air makes your slick even more obvious.

Luke pulls back, hovering, eyes raking over you like he’s never seen anything more sacred.

“Fuck,” he breathes, barely audible.

His mouth is on your neck again, hands tugging at the collar of your dress until your breasts spill out. He cups one, fingers tweaking your nipple as he kisses a trail lower and lower down your body.

“You’re so perfect,” he gasps, mouth sealing over your nipple, teeth grazing it just enough to make your breath catch. “Oh my God—let me make you feel good. Fuck, I need to.”

You bite your lip and nod, barely managing the motion before Luke’s already dropping to his knees in front of the couch, throwing one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks at you like you’re divine. Eyes gleaming, full of heat and awe, as he uses two fingers to spread you open.

You gasp at the rush of cool air, at the soft, teasing drag of his index finger playing with the wetness at your entrance.

“Luke—” you whimper, voice wrecked. You don’t even know what you’re begging for. You just need.

Your chest rises and falls like you’ve run a mile, hands curling around the edge of the cushion, thighs trembling in anticipation.

“Shh,” he soothes, voice low, sweet, wrecked. “It’s okay. I’m gonna make you feel so good.” He pauses. Then again, barely a whisper: “Fuck, I need to.”

Before you can respond, he’s licking a long stripe up your core, a desperate moan rumbling from his chest at the taste.

You cry out, head falling back as his tongue circles your clit—fast, frantic, needy. He hooks your other leg over his shoulder, pulling you closer until his face is fully buried between your thighs.

The grip of Luke’s hands on your legs is delicious, firm and possessive, holding you in place as he flicks his tongue against you over and over. The slurping sounds echo off the walls, obscene—almost as filthy as the moans tumbling out of you.

You brace on your elbows to look down at him— and it’s almost a mistake.

His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with lust. He’s licking you with the kind of intensity that makes your stomach flip. Moaning into you like he’s the one unraveling, spit and slick glistening on his face in the low light.

“God, you taste so fucking good,” he mutters, words barely coherent as he keeps working you over.

You’re a mess—whimpering, panting, legs trembling around his head. It’s so good. Too good.

“Fuck—fuck!” you cry out, spine arching as one of Luke’s fingers slips inside you, curling just right, perfectly timed with his tongue. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—that feels so good.”

Luke groans into you, adding another finger. The stretch makes you gasp, white-hot pleasure zipping down your spine. You can feel it building—your orgasm rising fast, your stomach tightening, your breathing going ragged.

Then his lips seal around your clit and he sucks.

And all bets are off.

You come with a sharp, broken cry, thighs clamping around Luke’s head, back arching as your nails dig into the couch cushions. Your eyes roll back, body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over you, one after the other.

When you finally come down—body going limp against the couch—Luke starts to move.

Your eyes track him lazily, watching as he grabs the hem of his black t-shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.

His torso is beautiful. Broad. Lean. Soft in the right places. Tattooed skin glows faintly in the low light.

And then you see them.

Silver lines—scars—catch the light. Some straight. Some in faint, overlapping crisscrosses. They litter his wrists, his forearms, the curve of his biceps.

Your breath catches.

But you don’t look away.

He’s still the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

He leans down, capturing your mouth with his, the taste of you still on his tongue. You groan into the kiss, your hand sliding to the back of his neck and pulling him closer.

Luke’s hips rut helplessly against you, his cock straining hard against the rough denim. His mouth stays hot on yours—sloppy, needy, filthy.

When he finally pulls back, his hands drop to the button of his jeans, undoing them with practiced urgency. Then he’s gripping the hem of your dress and tearing it off like it offended him.

“I need to be inside you,” he gasps, voice broken with desperation. “Please. I need you. Please let me fuck you.”

“I need you to,” you breathe, equally wrecked.

Luke doesn’t waste much time, kicking off his jeans and pulling his underwear down with trembling hands. You’re still so dazed from your orgasm that you almost miss the first glint, but then—

There’s a second. Then a third.

By the time your brain catches up, your eyes are locked on the metal running up the underside of his cock—four piercings, evenly spaced, gleaming in the low light like something out of a goddamn fever dream.

Your breath catches in your throat. Holy shit.

Luke has a Jacob’s ladder.

“What the fuck is that?” you breathe, pushing up on your arms until you’re sitting upright.

Luke’s cock is pretty—there’s no denying that. Long, thick, intimidating in the best way. Flushed pink at the tip, where you can already see a bead of precum forming. On its own, it’d be enough to make you salivate—but seeing it decorated?

“Oh. Yeah,” Luke mutters, flushing a deep red as his hand drags up the back of his neck. “You didn’t read about it?”

You lick your lips and shake your head. Tentatively, you reach out, your fingertip tracing the outer curve of his cock, making him shiver.

Then you wrap your hand around him.

Luke hisses at the contact, a sharp moan slipping past his lips as you begin to stroke him. The metal catches lightly on your skin—cool, smooth, and just unfamiliar enough to make your heart pound.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, tilting your head as your thumb brushes over the head, smearing the bead of precum down his length.

Luke shudders. “No,” he says, voice tight. “Not anymore.”

You lean in and lick a stripe up his cock, slow and deliberate. He whimpers, head falling back. The sweet, musky taste of him floods your senses, and suddenly you’re desperate to take him into your mouth.

But there’ll be time for that later. Especially because right now? Curiosity is eating you alive.

“I need to know what that feels like inside me.”

You hear Luke suck in a sharp breath just before his hands come up to cradle your face, dragging your mouth back to his in another heated kiss. You clutch at his forearms, kissing him back with the same intensity—hungry, desperate, wrecked.

“On your knees,” he groans between kisses, nipping at your bottom lip like he means it. “Let me see that pretty little ass bounce.”

You pull back just long enough to breathe, nodding as you shift to fully climb onto the couch. You bend over the top, chest pressed to the cushions, and glance over your shoulder—Luke’s eyes are locked on you, taking in everything like he’s starving for it.

“Condom?” he asks, voice low, breath shaky as he climbs onto the couch behind you, one knee resting between the cushions.

You bite your lip and shake your head, eyes flickering down to where he’s still hard and glistening.

“No condom,” you whisper. “Need to feel you. I’m clean. On the pill. Please?”

“Fuck,” Luke groans, one hand gripping your waist while the other wraps around his cock, pumping slowly. “Yeah… yeah, I want that.”

You feel it when he drags the head of his cock through your folds, breath hitching at the way your slick coats him.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” he croaks, thumb brushing soft circles into your hip as he teases both of you with maddening patience.

Finally, the tip of his cock nudges your entrance—and then he starts to sink in.

You moan, loud and open, feeling him stretch you inch by inch. The piercings catch slightly on the way in, each one sending a jolt of sensation that makes your toes curl and your brain short-circuit.

“Oh my God, you’re so fucking tight,” Luke gasps, finally bottoming out. He leans forward, pressing open-mouthed kisses across your shoulder blades as one hand slips beneath you to cup your breast.

“I’m not gonna last. Fuck.”

You let out a breathless giggle, clenching around him just to hear the broken moan he gives in response. Every inch of your body touching his feels electric—lit up, delirious, wanting.

“Luke,” you pant, voice wrecked, “please, baby—I need you to move.”

He answers by pinching your nipple, then pulling his hips back until just the tip of him remains inside— then slamming forward, hard enough to jolt you up the couch.

You gasp, nails digging into the cushions as he does it again, and again. Luke sets a rhythm, pounding into you with growing urgency, each thrust harder, deeper, faster than the last.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, broken only by your choked moans and Luke’s desperate whimpers. His fingers dig into your hips, his hand abandoning your breast to grip you harder—forcing you back onto him, harder, faster.

“So fucking messy for me,” Luke pants, leaning in to gently bite your earlobe. His breath is hot against your skin, sending goosebumps down your spine. “Greedy little thing. Taking me so fucking well. You like it, Y/N?”

You screw your eyes shut, nodding quickly as his pace sharpens.

Luke lets out a low, guttural growl that startles you—and then his hand wraps around your chin, fingers firm, unrelenting. Deliciously so.

“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you fucking love it—the way I’m stretching this pussy. Fucked so good, just like you deserve. Fuck, my pretty little thing.”

You sob, every thrust hitting deep, every drag of his piercings making your eyes cross, your body convulse. Your heart stutters in your chest like it can’t keep up.

“Fuck, I love it, Lu,” you cry out, pushing back against him, meeting every brutal thrust. “You’re so big—fucking me so good—please don’t stop, don’t stop.”

You can feel Luke starting to shake behind you, muscles tight, movements frantic. His teeth sink into the place where your neck meets your shoulder, and you cry out—but don’t stop him. You want it.

You want the bruises, the soreness— every bit of evidence that this is real.

Luke’s thrusts are erratic, frantic in that way that screams he’s not thinking anymore—he’s just feeling. Desperation bleeds from every inch of him, from the guttural moans spilling from his mouth to the way his skin slaps against yours.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he chokes out, voice raw and cracking under the weight of restraint. “Fuck—you’re gonna ruin me. I’m already ruined— all I wanna do is be buried in this perfect pussy.”

“Luke—” you whimper, squirming against his hold.

He suddenly drops your hips, grabbing both your wrists with one hand and using the leverage to drive into you harder. Your head drops forward and you cry out, the sudden intensity tearing a sob from your throat.

“Are you gonna come again?” Luke pants, fingers tightening around your wrists. His hand is huge, easily holding both of yours like they’re nothing. “Please—please come again. Wanna feel you squeeze my cock. Need it.”

Then his other hand slips between your thighs, two fingers finding your clit, rubbing in fast, tight circles. Your legs begin to tremble, vision blurring at the edges as you start to fall apart all over again.

“Please,” he begs, hoarse and wrecked. “Let me feel you. Need you to soak my cock, c’mon baby—I know you can.”

Heat blooms through your body like wildfire, gathering low and sharp in your belly. Every thrust makes you more sensitive, makes it worse, makes it better—climbing and climbing until it feels like you might shatter.

“Fuck,” you gasp. “I’m so close—please don’t stop. Stay just like that—fuck, fuck—”

Before you know it, the heat in your belly snaps—exploding outward in devastating waves that ripple through your entire body. You scream, the sound muffled by the couch as your body shakes, pleasure overwhelming every one of your senses.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Luke gasps. “You’re so good for me. That’s it, baby—just like that. Just like that.”

He doesn’t stop. Not even as you writhe through your orgasm, not until you’re trembling and breathless and finally coming down.

You feel him pull out and whine at the loss. The couch dips under his weight as he collapses beside you, panting.

It doesn’t take long before he’s grabbing your hips again, shifting you gently until you’re straddling him—his chest pressed flush to your back.

“Shh,” Luke murmurs, voice like velvet. “Stay just like this for me, baby.” He presses a kiss to your temple—soft, grounding.

You glance down, just in time to see him fist his cock, guiding it back to your entrance. Slowly, deliberately, he pushes in again.

Your eyes flutter shut, head falling back onto his shoulder as he fills you all the way up.

Luke groans—low, filthy, torn straight from his chest—as his hands wrap tighter around your waist. He starts moving again, slow but reverent, fucking up into you with practiced, aching precision.

“Still so tight,” he gasps, lips trailing kisses along your neck as his grip on you tightens. “Still so fucking perfect.”

You scramble for purchase, one hand tangling in his curls. His hair is thick, soft between your fingers—and you tug, hard, just to hear the breathless little whimper it pulls from him.

“That’s it, baby,” he moans. “Just let me use you like this. Like a good little toy for me.”

Your back arches against him and you twist, catching his mouth in a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. His thrusts grow sloppier, messier—his mouth still moving against yours with the same chaotic hunger.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come,” Luke breathes, voice breaking as his arms lock around you tighter. “Where do you want it, baby?”

The post-orgasm haze still fogging your brain clears in an instant.

Ashton’s face flashes behind your eyes—his voice, breathless and shaking just like this, begging to come inside you.

Every time, the answer was no.

“Inside,” you gasp, your gaze flicking to your phone resting a few feet away on the couch cushion. “Please—come inside me.”

You’d never let Ashton do that.

It was your line in the sand. A dumb little boundary you set. It was your quiet way to keep something from him, the same way he always kept pieces of himself from you. Coming inside was a boyfriend thing—Not a sleazy situationship thing.

Which is exactly why letting Luke do it will hurt him more than anything else ever could.

“You serious?” Luke pants, his rhythm faltering.

You nod.

“Fuck.” His hips snap into yours harder, faster, chasing the edge with reckless desperation. You tug at his hair again, letting yourself drown in the feel of it, the sound of it, the ache of it.

“Fuck, baby, gonna come—”

“Come for me, Luke,” you whisper. “Claim me.”

He comes with a cry, body shaking behind you as he fucks himself through it, twitching deep inside. You’re trembling too, the sensation of him emptying into you raw and overwhelming—proof of what just happened. Evidence.

And the perfect weapon.

Luke goes limp behind you, his grip on your hips loosening slightly. You melt against him, but your mind is still sharp. It’s a matter of now or never.

“Luke,” you whisper.

“Hmm?”

You glance toward your phone, reaching for it. “I want to take a picture,” you say. “Of this. Of us.”

Luke lets out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “What? What of?”

You lift yourself just enough for him to slip out of you. He hisses at the loss, and immediately you feel it—his release, starting to drip out of you, slow and filthy.

“Your mess,” you murmur, smirking as you look back at him. Your tone is teasing—but it’s a challenge.

Luke mutters a curse under his breath, his fingers slipping between your legs to spread you open wider, like he wants to make sure the image is damning.

You snap the photo.

You’re very aware of the details: the ink on his hands—detritus written along the side, the faded Nirvana smiley peeking from beneath his wrist. The chipped red polish on his nails. Every bit of him is recognizable. Every bit of it is proof.

“Jesus,” Luke grins lazily, kissing your cheek. “You’re so weird. It’s hot.”

Maybe you should feel bad. After all, Luke’s still floating—still high off the sex, the rush, the drugs humming through his bloodstream. He’s not fully here. Not as sharp as usual. He has no idea the weight of what he just let you do.

He probably doesn’t catch the hidden truth in your voice.

He probably never will.

You slide off his lap, climbing off the couch before sinking to your knees in front of him. His eyes widen, just now registering what you’re about to do.

You wrap your mouth around the head of his cock—softened, spent. But not for long.

You bob your head slowly, tongue circling his tip. You can taste both of you—his release, your slick—and you moan around him, eyes fluttering closed.

Luke groans, head falling back against the couch as he starts to grow hard again in your mouth. It doesn’t take long before he’s fully hard, twitching between your lips.

“You look so hot with your mouth stuffed,” he murmurs.

You pull away with a soft pop, grinning as your hand continues to stroke him slowly.

“So take a picture,” you smirk. “It’ll last longer.”

—

The sky outside is starting to turn blue, but the blinds keep most of it out, bathing the room in shadows. At least for the most part.

You lie awake in your bed—naked, spent, but entirely too aware. Luke is asleep beside you, peaceful in a way you envy. Like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Maybe he should.

You shift slightly, keeping the covers pulled up to your chest as you turn onto your side, watching him. His back is to you, that perfect, inked skin marred now with deep red scratches.

His curls are a mess against the pillow, the blanket low on his hips. He’s a dream— A beautiful man who either doesn’t realize the weight of his betrayal, or simply just doesn’t care.

Luke didn’t happen to the world, the world happened to Luke.

Your eyes drift to the tattoo across his shoulder blades—L’ange Déchu, the fallen angel, Cabanel’s Lucifer. It’s done in black and white, but the dark ink contrasts so sharply against Luke’s skin it almost looks alive.

It’s a beautiful piece, chosen with the same care as most of his tattoos. He likes to tell a story on his skin. It suits him perfectly, especially now—marked up with the scratches you left behind.

Tonight was long. After you blew him, he took a picture of the mess he left on your face.

Then kissed you stupid.

It’s ridiculous, how much it got to you.

He’d splayed you out on the couch, lips soft against yours as he whispered mindless praises—words that felt entirely too genuine for the kind of mess you were about to drag him into. He got you off one last time with lazy, sleepy circles to your clit before the two of you crashed in your bed.

You bite your lip, thinking of the way Luke had curled around you like a cat, drifting off so easily. He’d been warm, soft, whispering against your skin not to leave.

Luke is entirely too precious.

You reach for your phone, thumb unlocking it with practiced ease. The camera app opens to the gallery— all the photos the two of you took earlier, the filthy ones, the damning ones at full display.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

Yet here you are, debating if you really want to use the pictures—if you can reduce a night that felt this real into petty revenge. Despite how it started, tonight felt like something to you.

So, without thinking twice, you snap a picture of Luke. Just him, sleeping peacefully. Tattooed back on full display.

This one’s just for you.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

if you liked this version of luke, make sure to check out his fanfic, bite the apple