#princessscut

You wake up in the most ideal of conditions.

The sun is shining brightly, casting a warm, healthy glow on every crevice and corner of the room. The silk sheets of the bed rub deliciously against your bare skin, and the air that you breathe is clean and pure. You feel cozy laying underneath the duvet, and when you roll over, your nipples begin to pebble due to the slight change in temperature.

Though you’re disoriented at first, it doesn’t take you long to remember the circumstances under which you’ve found yourself. It never does. The sight of a certain curly-haired figure standing out on the balcony is more than enough to help jog your memory.

You sit up, searching the floor for the pair of lacy red panties that had been so urgently discarded the night before. Eventually, you find them at the foot of the king-sized bed, laying in a mangled heap. You reach down, fearing that Harry had ripped them, but a small sigh of relief leaves your lips when you find them still intact and slide them on.

As you approach the man standing on the balcony, you can’t help but to notice how good he looks from behind. His hair is windswept and messy, and you predict that he had woken up only a short time before you did. There’s a loose, black pair of basketball shorts sitting low on his hips, and his hands are holding onto the railing as he leans forward slightly. The muscles in his back are more prominent than ever, casting shadows along his skin. Under normal circumstances, you would have pinched the small bit of skin that bulges from the waistband of his bottoms.

But you can’t. Not only because there is no extra skin to pinch, but because these are not normal circumstances.

Harry tenses in surprise when you wrap your arms around his midsection, but then you press a soft kiss to the space in between his shoulder blades and he relaxes. His right hand leaves the railing so that he can cover both of your palms that are currently splayed out on his abdomen.

“Mornin’,” he greets, his voice hoarse from lack of usage.

You lean up to kiss the nape of his neck; the curls at the back of his head tickle your nose. “Morning.”

You stay like that for a while, your naked front pressed to his back, enjoying the feeling of his torso rising and falling with each breath. From the balcony, you have a perfect view of the beach, the white sands and the clear blue water lapping up against the shore. A few birds caw in the distance and you close your eyes, turning your head to the side and resting your left cheek against Harry’s warm skin.

After a few more tranquil moments, he clears his throat. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mhm,” you hum, keeping your eyes shut. “You tired me out last night.”

Harry chuckles, finally deciding to turn around. You step back, allowing him to move before you’re back on him, arms wrapping around his hips and breasts pressed against his front.

“Made you a promise, yeah?” he says.

Your eyelids drift closed as you remember the filthy words he’d whispered to you on the plane (“Gonna fuck you morning, afternoon, and night…you’re my wife now…gotta make sure you know that…”). You’d barely settled into the spacey villa before he was on you, taking you against the kitchen counter and leaving no inch of skin unmarked.

“Oh? Did you?” you ask, smiling impishly. Harry smirks, his dimple popping on his left cheek as he leans down and plants his lips against your forehead. You inhale deeply, your nostrils flooding with the scent of Tom Ford and something else—something that’s just so irrevocably him.

“I did, love,” he replies, pausing before adding, “Think my mum knew about it before I even made the decision, though.”

You groan, one of your hands coming up to slap his chest. Anne had driven you both to the airport the morning after your wedding, and though you had tried to cover up the numerous marks on your body, Harry had worn his proudly. Shortly before boarding, his mother had hugged him tightly before wrapping her arms around you as well, murmuring a few quiet words into your ear: “Don’t make me a grandmother just yet, alright dear?”

You had been mortified, and Harry had cackled on the plane once you’d told him.

“Shut up,” you mutter, pressing your face into his neck. You can feel your face heat up in embarrassment, the memory still fresh in your mind.

“Come off it,” Harry grins. “’S your fault…you marked me up good that night.”

“You didn’t have to broadcast it to your mum!” you hiss, but your words have no real venom behind them. Harry’s begun moving forward and you comply, your feet stepping back of their own accord. You re-enter your bedroom, and a moment later he’s pushing you down onto the large bed, climbing on top of you and growling playfully as you squeal.

“Just wanted everyone to see the marks my wife gave me,” Harry mumbles, slowly kissing up your neck. “My wife…”

You sigh, your left hand sliding up his back before disappearing into the tuft of hair atop his head. He lets out a satisfied noise, running the tip of his nose along your jawline. “You’re my wife…,” he says, as though the thought has only just dawned on him for the first time, “You’re my wife, love.”

“I am,” you concede breathlessly. “And you’re my husband.”

Harry groans, dropping down so that his forehead is pressed to your collarbone. “Fuck…that sounds so good.”

“Yeah?” you giggle as he nips at the sensitive skin on your neck, “How long have you been waiting for that?”

“Too fuckin’ long,” he tells you. You want to pout when he pulls away from you, his lips leaving your throat, but the way he fixes his gaze on you leaves you frozen and utterly stupefied. He’s looking at you with so much emotion in his eyes, it’s difficult to register every sentiment he must be feeling. You see adoration and tenderness and intensity and disbelief. Harry tucks his lips into a fine line as he just stares at you, and you offer up a small, tentative smile.

“What?” you ask.

There’s a beat of silence, and you can feel him turning the question over in his head and choosing his next words carefully.

“’M just…,” his lips quirk up into a good-natured smirk. “I’m really fucking happy.”

And okay. You hadn’t been expecting that.

But despite your initial shock, you can’t stop the corners of you mouth from pulling up into a beaming grin. Suddenly, your chest feels tight with emotion. It had snuck up on you, piling quietly until it had eventually overflowed, and you can’t seem to properly convey what you want to say.

“I—,” you swallow heavily, feeling your eyes prick with the faintest trace of tears. It’s like your throat has closed up, sealed tight and unbearably itchy. Your muscles are stiff and your eyes are moist and everything is just so much. Harry tilts his head to the side, waiting for you to finish your sentence, but at the moment, the simple task is an impossible feat.

“What’s wrong?”

God, even his voice is so utterly perfect. Everything about him is just…

“I love you!” you finally choke out, your voice thick with adoration. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

You’re definitely crying now. It’s all too much—you feel like you’re living in a dream, where everything has miraculously worked out for you. You’re married to the love of your life, you’re happy, and it’s so difficult to fathom that this is now how you’re going to proceed. A single tear slips out from the corner of your right eye, trailing down your temple and dampening your hair.

“Enough of that,” Harry tells you firmly, his jugular bobbing forcefully in his throat. His eyes glisten slightly, and his blinks rapidly to keep his own tears controlled. “If you cry, I’m gonna cry, love.”

“Sorry,” you let out a wet laugh. “It’s just…I can’t believe we’re married.”

Harry smiles. “You’re stuck with me.”

“And I couldn’t be happier,” you say.

“That’s a lie.”

“It is not!”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you nod, cupping his face in your hands. You lean up, seeking a kiss that he happily bestows upon you. Your eyes close and any residing tension in your body leaks out through your toes, which curl blissfully once you realize that Harry has yet to make good on his promise for today.

“Let me show you,” you breathe, pulling back only a fraction of a centimeter so that your mouths still brush together when you speak. “Let me…”

You trail off, sliding your hands down his smooth, firm sides and hooking your fingers into the waistband of his shorts.

Harry groans when he understands what you’re implying. He squeezes his eyes shut and his head drops down so that his forehead is pressed against your collarbone. He kisses your skin softly, his right hand moving from the bed to your shoulder. His fingertips trail along your arm before they veer off to the side, and you gasp breathlessly when he squeezes your left breast. He chuckles and flicks your nipple underneath his thumb, enjoying the stiffening of your body.

“You’re gonna kill me, you know that?” he asks.

“I know.” You exhale shakily.

With him distracted, it’s easy to flip the two of you over. Harry’s eyes go wide once his back hits the soft mattress, and he snickers when you flash him a grin. You reach forward—he positively beams when your breasts become level with his face—and grab one of the plush pillows at the head of the bed.

The look on your husband’s face when you drop down to the floor is priceless. You settle with the pillow beneath your knees so that they don’t bruise and then you lean forward, reaching for Harry and encouraging him to sit up. He scoots a bit closer to the end of the bed, his feet touching the ground and his legs spreading so that you can fit comfortably between his thighs.

“Love you,” you mumble to him, pressing a kiss to his left knee.

He discards his basketball shorts quickly, helping you to pull the material down so that it pools around his ankles. You smirk when you discover that he hadn’t thought to put on a pair of underwear before walking out onto the balcony. His cock bobs up—pink and thick and slightly shiny at the tip—and he hisses when it taps against his stomach, his abdomen tightening.

“Yeah?” Harry says, looking down at you with dilated pupils. “My wife loves me?”

“So much,” you reply, and without a warning, you wrap your hand around his cock and give his tip a firm suck.

“Fuckin’—!” Harry lets out a loud shout, evidently taken by surprise. “Bloody hell! Love you too, fuck!”

You pull back and smile, slowly moving your hand up and down his length. Your wrist twists expertly; after years of being with him—both romantically and sexually—you know what he likes. You’ve pick up on what makes him taut, what makes him moan, what makes him shoot into your mouth with his fists balled in your hair and a choked apology on his bitten lips. You love seeing him flop backwards, rub his face and let out a disbelieving laugh after he’s sent ropes of him down your throat.

Your thumb skirts over his slit, and Harry exhales through gritted teeth. He’s watching you intensely, his dark eyes trained on where you’re currently laving your tongue up his length, getting him wet so that you can glide your hand along his cock. He opens his mouth to say something, but at that exact moment, you take him into your mouth again.

“Good girl!” he blurts, his left hand flying down and tangling into your hair. “Doing so good for me, pet. Such a pretty mouth—love taking my cock, don’t you?”

You moan in affirmation, and you would nod if you could. Harry doesn’t know what to do with himself as you start sliding your mouth down the length of his dick, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around each inch as you take him deeper, deeper. His right hand reaches out to brush some hair away from your face, and he trails his fingers down your temple. It’s not long before he’s pressing against your cheek, feeling the outline of his cock in your mouth and choking out a weak, “Christ!” as his eyes roll up into the back of his head.

You’re quite enjoying watching him fall apart above you. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands—first they’re in your hair, then they’re balled up against his thighs, and then they’re rubbing his eyes as he fights and fails to regain his composure. Though tears are pricking at your eyes, you push a little further, and his tip slips into the back of your throat.

“Easy!” he tells you when you gag. “Easy, love, please!”

He tugs at your hair, and you reluctantly pull off of him, your lips swollen and your breath leaving you in sharp exhales. “I want you to cum in my mouth,” you tell him, your hand still twisting up and down his cock.

“Can’t,” Harry pants. “Gotta—gotta fuck you first…gotta—”

“Please,” you whimper, rubbing your cheek along his thigh like a kitten. “Please Harry. I just wanna taste it.”

He’s staring at you with wide eyes and raw, parted lips. His cheeks are flushed a deep pink, and there’s a slight crease in his brow. Right now, more than anything, you want to make him feel good. You want to treat him the same way he treats you, with love and respect and so many orgasms. All other thoughts have been pushed to the back of your mind, replaced by the single, primal desire to suck him until he crams his load down your throat.

“Christ,” Harry nearly sobs. “You kiss me with that mouth?”

You only then realize that you’ve uttered the words out loud.

“Please,” you merely whisper again before you’re back on him, sucking him with a fervour that you’ve never felt before. Harry’s head tips back and a guttural groan sounds low in his throat, and your chest tightens as you realize that he’s about to give you what you want.

“I’ll cum…,” he tells you, “I’ll cum in your mouth if you want it so badly…I’ll give it to you…”

You moan around him, your tongue teasing his head and dipping into his slit, and with a wordless shout, the first rope of cum bursts forth from his tip. You keep sucking gently as he rides out his high, your hand finding his hip and rubbing soothing circles into his skin. Harry’s babbling nonsensical words and reedy whimpers, and your stomach tenses victoriously. You wait until he’s given you everything before you pull off of him slowly.

His eyes remain closed, lips forming around silent words—praises, maybe, or even prayers. You give him a few more moments to himself before softly tapping his thigh, and gradually, he opens his eyes.

His irises are glazed over with pleasure, but you can tell that he’s coherent. Locking your gaze with his, your throat works around his load as you swallow, wiping the corners of your mouth to ensure that you’ve gotten every last bit.

“Fuck me,” Harry whispers incredulously.

“Later,” you smile gently. You scramble up, leaving the pillow on the floor as you flop down next to him on the bed, cuddling into his side as he fights for air.

“That was…,” he trails off, unable to find the right words. You laugh quietly, burying your face into his neck and pressing soft kisses to his sweaty skin.

“Mediocre?” you offer, and he barks out a hoarse laugh.

“‘Mediocre’?” he says, pulling back so he can look at you with raised eyebrows and wide eyes. “That was just…bloody…amazing.” He sighs happily, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you whisper, your noses brushing together. Harry hums blissfully before making a small, dissatisfied sound, realizing something.

“How am I supposed to fuck you now, huh?” he asks, only half-joking. “Don’t think I’m gonna be ready to go for at least another hour.”

“You can make it up to me tonight,” you say, nuzzling against him. “Just wanted to do this for you.”

Harry groans.

“You make it so hard for a bloke to stay mad at you,” he grumbles. He then presses a bruising kiss to your lips, followed by several playful pecks that make you giggle. “I’ve already broken my promise, love.”

“You’ll have the rest of your life to make it up to me,” you suggest. Harry’s lips part, as though he’s just realizing—yet again—that the two of you are bound to each other, now and forever.

“The rest of my life…,” he tries the words out on his tongue, and then smiles at you like you’re the reason for which the sun rises every morning. “Can’t fuckin’ wait.”

~*~

Luke walked up the rickety steps of the familiar porch, his chest rising and falling as he took deep breaths. It had been two years—two years with no contact, no phone calls, not even a text. The house still looked the same: white stucco and a plain white garage, the cobbled path leading to the door, the cross nailed to the space right underneath the doorbell. Luke gulped, removing his hand from the tight grip it had on the handle of his suitcase. He rang the doorbell and waited anxiously, his hands clasped behind his back.

For a moment, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: maybe no one was home. A part of him would be disappointed, but a larger part would be relieved. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to face them, endure the awkward silence and the unfilled gaps, the judgemental, hurt eyes and the tension saturating the air. He could leave. He could escape.

But then the door was swinging open, and he knew that he was fucked.

His mother’s eyes narrowed when she cast her gaze upon him, as though she didn’t recognize him. Luke couldn’t blame her—he had changed a lot since he’d left for Oxford. His slacks had been replaced with black, ripped skinny jeans, his loafers by suede boots. His hair—which had been lighter and styled up into a quiff during his teenage years, now swept down across his forehead, the shade having dulled to a sandy blonde. He was no longer clean-shaven—stubble lined his jawline, and—almost reflexively—his hand came up to scratch his chin.

“Hi, Mum,” Luke forced out, his voice hoarse. 

His mother’s eyes connected with his—her irises were the exact same shade of peculiar blue, and he felt like he was being examined, studied, overturned from the inside and exposed.

“Luke?” his mother stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes raked down his body, taking in his appearance. Luke shot her a half-smile, expecting the gesture to be returned, but instead he was met with her horrified expression.

“What happened to you?” she demanded, “What are you wearing? How long has it been since you’ve last shaved?”

Luke blinked. He glanced down at his outfit and then at his suitcase before looking back up at his mother—the woman who was supposed to love him unconditionally and support him. Yet here she stood, staring at him like he was an utter stranger and critiquing him, just as she had always done.

She hadn’t changed. Their encounter had been so brief, but Luke could already tell. His hopes of returning home for the holidays and being greeted normally flickered and went out, quelled by a despairingly strong gust of reality. He knew—just by looking at the betrayed expression on his mother’s face—that he wouldn’t be welcome here. She hadn’t changed.

And she never would.

“I-I’m sorry,” Luke stammered, reaching back blindly for the handle of his suitcase, fumbling. “I have to—”

He didn’t finish his sentence, rushing back down the porch steps with his belongings in tow. The wheels of his luggage clattered noisily along the cobbled path as he sped into the street, hurrying away from his childhood home. He squeezed his eyes shut, chuckling bitterly to himself. How could he have been so stupid? He’d thought that things could go back to how they once were, and he had been so wrong.

She hadn’t tried to stop him.

His mother had let him go.

~*~

He was not going to do this.

There was no way in hell that he was going to do this.

He opened the door, and a faint jingling sound reached his ears.

Holy shit, he was going to do this.

Luke entered the tattoo parlour, dragging his luggage in behind him. His wallet had been shoved back into his pocket, considerably lighter now that he had paid a hefty amount to the taxi driver. The man behind the wheel had warned him that travelling to the next town over wouldn’t be cheap.

The place was brightly lit, with a large waiting room. Several people lounged around—the majority were large men who looked as if they could squash Luke with their thumbs. There was a younger couple sitting in a corner, giggling madly and trading cheek kisses every so often—Luke assumed that they were there to get matching designs. A woman with a shaved head and a septum piercing lifted her head at the bells that had tinkled when Luke entered. She glanced at him once before going back to scrolling through an app on her phone.

Luke tentatively sat down in one of the chairs, gulping as he rubbed his hands together. He rolled his suitcase so that it was situated between his spread knees, and looked around again, his head cocking to the side when he noticed something.

One of the men—the buffest one who wore sunglasses and who looked like he could be the leader of a fucking motorcycle gang—sat across from him, smiling down at a young child who rested on his lap. The baby looked to be no more than two years old—perhaps only a year and a half—and wore a frilly blue frock, with white tights and blue shoes to match. Their wispy blonde hair was secured with a white, sparkly pin, and Luke assumed that the child was a girl. Scary Biker Dude—that’s what Luke would call him—lifted his hands to his eyes, pausing briefly before removing them suddenly. Luke heard a faint “peek-a-boo!”

The child laughed and clapped, a high-pitched squeal leaving her lips. Luke smiled slightly, looking down at his lap to hide his face. The interaction continued for the next few minutes, the child giggling happily and bouncing up and down, and Scary Biker Dude chuckling gruffly in return.

And then there was a voice—a voice that Luke hadn’t heard since he’d kissed you at the airport. An action that he’d performed despite the decision you had both made weeks before: to end what you’d both had so that you could avoid the heartbreak that would come with his departure.

Pain flashed through Luke’s chest as he remembered your solemn expression when he had presented you with the extra plane ticket, the sad shake of your head, your watery eyes once he’d turned away from you a month later and the flight attendant had confirmed his ticket. He remembered those first few nights away from you, how lonely he had felt, how his hand couldn’t bring him the same pleasure, how it hurt for him to breathe because fuck, he couldn’t smell the fruity scent of your perfume. Not anymore.

“Clay, don’t get her too excited, or she’ll throw up!”

Luke’s head snapped up, and he was sure that he stopped breathing.

There you were. Right in front of his fucking eyes.

Luke wasn’t sure where to look first. If anything, the few years apart had made you even more beautiful. Your hair was tossed up into a haphazard bun, and you wore a black button-up, your breasts stretching the fabric slightly. Pale blue jeans adorned your legs, the colour cut off abruptly by those same clunky combat boots—a reassuring jolt of pleasure ran through Luke when he saw the familiar shoes.

“Sorry, Y/N,” Scary Biker Dude—Clay—said, though beneath his graying beard, Luke could make out the fragments of a smile.

You just walked over to the biker with your arms held out. Clay reluctantly picked up the child sitting in his lap and passed her over to you. Luke watched in confusion as you placed the girl on your hip, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You like playing with Clay, Jo?”

The toddler giggled.

Luke stood abruptly. Before his mind could catch up with his body, he was crossing over to where you stood. He stopped a few feet away, but you didn’t look up at him, seemingly too distracted by the child in your arms.

“Is she yours?” Luke asked.

Still staring lovingly at the baby, you nodded.

Luke’s stomach plummeted while his heart somersaulted—he didn’t know what to feel, anticipation and dread and shock and anger rolling like waves throughout his body.

“How old is she?” he said, desperately trying to keep his voice level. A suspicion was building in the back of his mind, quickly gaining momentum with each passing second. Luke’s mouth was dry, as was his throat, and he tried swallowing but found that he couldn’t—he was choking on air, on the remnants of what used to be, on the possibilities that could have come true.

“Sixteen months,” you said. Luke calculated in his head, and a loud gasp left his throat. He looked down at the little girl, only to be met with the brightest shade of cobalt—a peculiar blue.

His peculiar blue.

Finally, you looked up at him, having heard his sharp intake of breath. You cocked your head to the side. “Is everything okay?”

And no, everything was not okay, because you didn’t seem to recognize him—at least, not at a first glance. Luke took a step back immediately, inexplicably overwhelmed. His hands came up to rake through his sandy hair, causing some tendrils to stick up—like the old Luke, the straight-laced pastor’s son, the Luke who had loved you, wanted to take you with him, wanted to break down your walls and know you fully.

And goddammit, that part of him was the one thing that hadn’t changed.

~*~

Luke sat at your kitchen table, his hands folded and his head bowed. The apartment was silent apart from the faint shuffling that could be heard from down the hall, the sound of you trying to put your—his—daughter to bed. Luke dragged his hands down his face, attempting to compose himself. His suitcase was leaning up against the wall near the front door.

He could leave right now if he wanted to. He could stand, slip on his boots, and get the hell out. And God, a part of him wanted to do just that.

But he also needed answers. He needed to talk to you, to question you—dammit, he needed to look at you. It was an innate urgency; he had to study your face, your soft lips, your deep eyes, the caring soul within that was trapped and bound by years of shattered trust. He hadn’t see you in two years—and it was as though within those two years, you had started over, made a life for yourself, let go of anything that was holding you back, erased your past completely.

Luke didn’t want to be erased.

His head whipped to the side once he heard footsteps approaching. He watched with tense shoulders as your silhouette entered the small kitchen.

You leaned against the wall, a small, nostalgic smile playing on your lips.

“Hey, pretty boy.”

Fuck.

Luke swallowed. Sighing gently, he ran a hand through his hair and turned towards you. “Hey.”

There was silence. Luke could hear you breathing heavily, the steady sound mixed in with the erratic thumping of his heart. It was so loud that he was afraid you would be able to see his chest pulsing. You could always read him—even before he’d left, you seemed to know his desires, his worries. You’d helped him conquer his fears and realize that his dreams could become realities, and for that, he was eternally in your debt.

“Do you want something to drink?” you asked, your voice tight.

“Water is fine.”

You nodded, and for a moment, Luke saw through a crack in your composure. You were just as nervous, just as afraid. There was a storm brewing behind your guarded eyes, the dim lighting in the kitchen reflecting off of your pupils. Luke was hit with the strongest urge to hold you, to kiss away your worries and make you happy.

Making you happy—that was all he’d ever wanted.

“Here you go,” you snapped him out of his trance. Luke’s hand shot out to catch the glass of water that you had slid across the table. He hunched his shoulders as he cradled the cup with both hands, trying to make himself seem as small as possible.

“You still do that.”

He looked up. “What?”

You smiled wistfully. “That. You always…curl up into yourself. ’S cute.”

Luke didn’t reply.

You looked around the kitchen as you walked over, pulling out a chair and sitting next to him. Luke regretted sitting at the head of the table; it suddenly felt like he had picked the perfect spot where you could watch him, study him, scrutinize him. He looked down at the clear liquid in his cup, willing himself to keep his gaze trained downwards, but once you let out a defeated sigh, he couldn’t resist a small peek.

“How’s Oxford?” you asked, but the question was hollow, as though you weren’t expecting him to respond.

Luke cleared his throat. “It’s good,” he grunted.

A small smile found its way to your lips and you ducked your head, trying to hide it. Luke couldn’t help but to smirk as well—your happiness was fucking infectious.

“I bet it’s a lot of work,” you continued, looking hopeful. Luke nodded, finally taking the first sip of his water. The liquid slid down his throat easily, cooling his entire body. It was like that was all he needed, because he set the glass down, looking at you squarely.

“I don’t want to talk about me. I want to talk about you.”

A beat of silence passed. You looked away, squeezing your eyes shut for a moment before your irises were trained back on Luke.

“I—,” you hesitated, body tight from the sudden onslaught of communication, “—what do you want to know?”

Luke seized the opportunity, not knowing when he would ever receive another chance like that. You were blatantly allowing him to ask whatever he wanted, and it seemed like your answers would be sincere. His lips were moving before his brain had a chance to filter through the questions, and words poured from his mouth.

“How did you get into the piercing business? When did you get this apartment? Are you stable—like, financially? Do you need me to lend you some money? Because I have plenty, don’t worry. Why did you move out here? Why didn’t you tell me that you were pregnant?”

“Luke!” you stopped him, your voice rising slightly. He clamped his mouth shut, his chest heaving. You sighed, pursing your lips.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, “Okay.”

Luke waited, gazing at you expectantly.

You looked up at him, inhaling sharply before beginning, “I figured that my chances of getting a job were shot back in the suburbs. I moved out here—nobody knew me or my reputation, so I figured that I could start over. That’s when I met Ashton—he’s the guy that owns the parlour—and fuck, even though I was five months pregnant, he gave me a job.”

“How old is he?” Luke demanded, “Ashton, I mean.”

You smiled, “He’s twenty-two.”

Luke’s mouth went dry. He looked away, trying to swallow. “Oh,” he mumbled, “And did you—did you guys ever—?”

“No,” you smirked, shaking your head, “We didn’t.”

Luke breathed a sigh of relief, and you continued, looking uneasy, “I was—I was still too hung up on you.”

Luke’s head snapped up at that, his eyes wide. You looked away, suddenly seeming to find the walls of your kitchen extremely intriguing. Luke studied your side profile, his fingers twitching around his cup. God, all he wanted to do was take your hand. A single touch, the brush of palms—it was like that would be enough to mend everything that had happened between the two of you. Luke studied the bridge of your nose, the delicious curve of your lips. His eyelids fluttered shut as he remembered how he used to kiss you—how you kissed him back.

“Ashton let me stay at his place until I made enough to move out,” you continued, your gaze still fixated on the wall. Luke felt an ugly knot form in the pit of his stomach, and he grinded his teeth together at the thought of you living with another man.

“So, I bought this apartment,” you said, “It’s nothing special, but it’s got two bedrooms, and that’s more than enough. Believe it or not, piercing bodies actually pays a decent amount.”

“Do you need—?” Luke began, but your head suddenly turned, and you shot him a glare.

“If you offer me even a penny, Luke Hemmings, I will kick you out.”

Luke held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay, sorry.”

You blew a wisp of hair away from your face. “It’s fine. It’s just—I’ve managed this far on my own. I don’t need you swooping in to save me or anything like that.”

“I didn’t mean—,” Luke tried, but he broke off once you chuckled.

“It’s fine, pretty boy. Jo and I…we’re okay.”

Jo. Luke had nearly forgotten about the toddler that was asleep just down the hall. His mind flashed back to earlier that day—the girl’s wispy blonde hair, her charming and captivating giggles, her striking blue eyes. She resembled Luke so closely—it made him feel a bit nauseous.

“What’s her full name?” Luke blurted. He couldn’t help it.

“Josephine,” you smiled softly, your eyes growing distant.

Luke gnawed on his bottom lip. There was so much happening, and he was beginning to feel overwhelmed and slightly hysterical. He had so many questions, but he knew that he wouldn’t have enough time to ask all of them—and that terrified him.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said quietly, looking down at the water in his glass. He was suddenly overcome with aggravation and frustration, his head feeling like it would explode. “Why didn’t you tell me that we were going to have a fucking baby?”

He looked up at you, feeling betrayed. The shock had come and passed, and now he was angry—he was so goddamn angry.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, but Luke just shook his head, growing more and more irritated.

“Sorry isn’t good enough. I want to know why. Why didn’t you tell me that—that I was going to be a dad?”

He knew that he couldn’t start screaming, but that didn’t stop him from raising his voice a fair amount. He ran his fingers through his hair anxiously, pushing back against the table—his chair made a loud screeching noise against the floor, but he paid it no mind, standing and turning away from you. Luke heard the soft sigh you let out, and he clenched his jaw, rubbing his hands over his face to regain his composure.

Several long, silent moments passed, the tension in the kitchen unbearably thick. Luke’s shoulders oscillated dramatically with each breath. He squeezed his eyes shut and clutched at the hem of his shirt, wishing that it would help ease some of the strain that resided in his body.

And then there was a gentle hand on his arm. He froze, swallowing heavily. “Luke,” you breathed, and the way that his name rolled off of your tongue finally persuaded him to turn around.

He moved slowly, his eyes glued to the floor. It was only when you squeezed his bicep that he finally dragged his gaze upwards—he had to hold in a gasp.

Your bottom lip was quivering, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. You inhaled, the breath shaky and difficult. Luke watched as your right hand came up, your thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of your nose. You expelled a long breath, closing your eyes and shaking your head slightly. Luke was frozen, unable to move—it had been so long since he’d seen you cry.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, “I’m so fucking sorry. You have no idea—how many times I wanted to call you and tell you. I was so scared…I didn’t want to do it without you but—”

You broke off, clearing your throat. When you spoke again, your voice was laboured, thick with emotion, “I didn’t want to hold you back. I couldn’t. You—it was your dream to leave, and I couldn’t force you to stay just because we fucked up. It wasn’t fair.”

“Why didn’t you abort?” Luke asked, “Or—there’s always adoption.”

Immediately he cringed—that was the best that he could do? It was obvious that you needed comfort, and he hated how the situation had robbed him of being able to wrap his arms around you and whisper consoling words into your ear.

You shook your head. “I didn’t—I don’t know why. I think I just…didn’t want to be alone.”

Luke’s heart shattered and his brain clicked.

“That’s why you didn’t—you didn’t want to come—fuck!” he exclaimed, smacking his hands against his face. He whirled around again, taking a few steps away from you and leaning his forehead against the wall, breathing heavily. Behind him, he heard you sob.

“I’m sorry,” you said again. Luke exhaled slowly, his nostrils flaring.

“When did it—?” he paused, trying to rephrase, “We were always careful. How did it even—?”

He waited for an answer. When you didn’t reply, he turned back around, looking at you expectantly. You crossed your arms over your torso, hugging yourself—Luke couldn’t help but to notice how much you’d changed. You were softer, not only physically (though he found himself eyeing your new curves hungrily, aching to feel your skin underneath his fingertips), but emotionally. He vaguely wondered if that old predicament was true—if motherhood really did make a woman more sentimental.

“I’m not sure,” you said, shrugging your shoulders sadly, “But I think—,” you sighed, “—do you remember that night when we went to your dad’s church? And I—”

“Gave me the best fucking blow job of my life?” Luke supplied, “Yeah, I remember. It’d be pretty hard to forget.”

You froze, your eyes wide. And then you laughed.

Luke’s brow furrowed, and his hands flew up. He couldn’t help his agitation. “What’s so funny?”

You covered your mouth to mute your amusement. “I—I’m sorry, it’s just…I’ve never really heard you talk like that before.”

You broke off into quiet giggles. Luke watched, shocked at how your mood had changed so drastically within seconds. The longer he stared, however, the quicker his anger seemed to seep out of him, and his frown began to lift into a smile. He couldn’t help it—your happiness was contagious. Luke smirked and a moment later, a low laugh slipped past his lips.

And eventually you both stood there, smiling bashfully and chuckling. You wrapped your arms back around your body. Luke stepped closer to you. You looked up at him, your eyes still wet—Luke presumed that they were a mixture of sad and happy tears. He lifted his hand, gripping your wrist and pulling your arms away from your body, effectively dismantling the makeshift shield that you had created.

“You’re always fuckin’ doing that,” he grunted.

“Doing what?” you breathed, looking up at him from under your eyelashes.

“This,” he said, squeezing your wrist gently, “Always hiding away from me. I just want to see you, you know? Like, really see you.”

“I’m right here,” you whispered, your eyes fluttering closed before they opened once more.

Luke swallowed, taking another step towards you. Your fingers twitched; Luke loosened his grip on your wrist, though you didn’t let him retreat, instead reaching for his hand and brushing your fingertips against his palms. He understood, lacing your digits together and squeezing appreciatively. You glanced up at him, your eyes hooded. Luke watched—completely enraptured—as you licked your lips.

“I really want to kiss you,” he blurted.

You pursed your lips, “I know.”

“So—hypothetically—if I were to kiss you, would you be okay with it?”

“Hypothetically?” you cocked an eyebrow, and Luke nodded. You shrugged. “Hypothetically, I don’t think it’d be a good idea.”

“Why not?” Luke asked, his brow creasing and his heart aching painfully. He was so goddamn close. You were right there, pressed up against him, your breaths intermingling. His pulse was pounding, and his head was foggy as he breathed in the comforting scent of your perfume. He wanted nothing more than to kiss you, to grab your face and make sure that you knew how much he had missed you.

“Because,” you said softly, “If you kissed me, I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself from giving you the second best fucking blow job of your life.”

Luke’s breath hitched in his throat. He stared at you in awe, but there was no shame in your expression. Your eyes were wide, tender, sincere. Even before he’d left for university, Luke had only seen that look a handful of times. He knew that it was a look that was reserved for him and only him—proof that he had finally broken down your walls.

And he was determined to make the most of it, before you built them back up.

“Would that be so bad?” Luke questioned, “Hypothetically, I mean.”

You smiled wistfully, your eyes glimmering. Luke watched as you tilted your head up, your lips moving to form words.

“I guess not,” you paused, biting your lip. “Kiss me, pretty boy.”

Yes.

When his lips touched yours, Luke felt like he was going to explode. His heart hammered against his ribcage, and his mouth tingled, the zealous feeling spreading from his lips throughout the rest of his body. He suddenly felt energized, like he could run a fucking marathon, and his fingers twitched against yours. He carefully slipped his hand out of your grip, moving instead to cup your cheeks and keep you close.

“I missed you,” he panted once you’d finally broken apart, “I missed you so fucking much.”

You looked up at him with vulnerable eyes. “I—uh—I haven’t been with anyone. Not since you left.”

Luke tilted his head to the side in confusion. You gripped the collar of his shirt as though you couldn’t bear to be far away from him.

“I mean—,” you said, your voice taking on a hint of desperation, “Fucked. I haven’t fucked anyone since you left. But I—I want…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “God, this is so embarrassing—”

“No!” Luke cut you off, his tone higher than he’d intended. He cringed before sweeping his palms down your neck, across your shoulders so that his fingers were eventually wrapped around your biceps. Luke pressed a hard, fleeting kiss to your lips, “I fucking—I want you too, shit. I just—are you sure?”

Instead of replying with words, you merely leaned up, your fists tightening around the fabric of his shirt as you delivered a bruising kiss to his mouth. Luke’s hands immediately went to your head, his right cupping the back of your neck and his left raking through your hair.

You began moving backwards, and Luke opened his eyes in surprise (one of you had to watch where you were going). His hand shot out to stop your back from colliding harshly with the wall; the abrupt movement made you pull back, and after glancing over your shoulder, you giggled quietly. Luke’s ears were hot, the sound of your laugh ringing like church bells—and God, he wanted to repent.

“C’mon,” you mumbled, gripping his chin between your thumb and forefinger and pressing another short kiss to his lips. You sidestepped, grabbing his hands and pulling him through the doorway that led off into the small (and only) hallway of the apartment. Luke followed you thoughtlessly—he’d follow you straight into hell, if you’d asked.

You led him down to the very end of the hall. Luke couldn’t help but to glance at the closed door of Josephine’s room—his daughter’s room. The thought invaded his mind, and he almost stopped right in his tracks.

“Luke, I—,” you began, and he looked back at you as you pushed open the door of your bedroom. You had used his name; he knew that you meant to say something serious. He followed you inside, waiting for you to finish your thought, but you hesitated and clamped your mouth shut. You leaned up to kiss him, but Luke stepped back, shaking his head.

“No. You’re not allowed to do that now. Tell me what you were going to say.”

“It’s not—”

“Please,” Luke was prepared to drop to his knees and beg. “Don’t hide from me anymore.” He approached you again, pressing your foreheads together and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “Open up, angel. Let me see you.”

Your breathing hitched at the pet name, and Luke smiled softly, immediately deciding that he liked it. You looked up at him, your arms winding around his neck, fingers playing with the soft curls at the back of his head. The double bed was so close, but Luke only had eyes for you—everything else could wait.

“I just—,” you said, taking a deep breath, “Tell me what happens after this. With us.”

Luke tensed, his eyebrows knitting together. He would’ve been prepared to answer anything—except for that. Immediately, his mind was travelling a mile a minute, and he was trying to rack his brain for a reply.

He found none.

“I don’t know,” he finally said, his voice quiet and ashamed. You swallowed heavily, nodding and looking away, running your own fingers through your hair. It was easy to see that you were flustered; your eyes were wide, lips swollen, nostrils flaring as you inhaled sharply. Luke just wanted to kiss the worry from your face.

“I don’t—,” you began, shaking your head, “I can’t let you go; I can’t go through that—not again.”

“I can’t either,” Luke was quick to reassure you, gripping your face in his hands and leaning down so that he was staring into your frazzled eyes. “Please, I’m—I’m here for the next two weeks. We can talk about it, we can figure it out, I promise.”

You stared at him, gnawing nervously on your bottom lip. Just when Luke was certain that you’d push him away, you did the opposite, pulling him in close and kissing him harshly. He resisted the urge to chuckle against your lips—he’d never truly be able to figure you out.

“Fuck me,” you whispered, and Luke let out a faint growl, not needing to be told twice. 

He moved forwards until the backs of your thighs hit your mattress, and you pulled him down onto the bed. Immediately, he was on top of you, his knees and palms bracketing your body—you whimpered, reaching for the hem of his white shirt and rucking the material up his torso.

He smiled against your lips, indulging you and pushing himself up. He sat back on his heels, reaching for the collar of his t-shirt and yanking the fabric up over his head. When he tossed it behind him and looked back down at you, he had to restrain himself from grinning. You were staring at him hungrily, your eyes soaking in his broad, bare chest, his smooth shoulders.

“Your turn,” he said.

You sat up, your gazes locking and staying that way as you reached for the top button of your black blouse. Hastily, you undid each clasp, but to Luke, it felt like eons had passed until you were finally slipping the material from your body, baring your blue bra to him. The garment was cute—it was a periwinkle colour, with a small bow resting snugly between the cups, but Luke thought that it would look even cuter standing out against the dark hardwood flooring.

He said just that, and watched how you grinned mischievously before nodding. A moment later, your torso was bare, and Luke couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and giving your breasts all the love and attention that they deserved.

“Fuck,” you breathed, lying back as Luke climbed on top of you once more. He chuckled, and you let out an embarrassed laugh. “It’s just—it’s been a while.”

“Tell me about it,” he groaned, tweaking your nipples gently.

You gasped, seemingly torn between arching your back for more and curling up to avoid the contact. Luke leaned down, kissing you passionately. You tangled your hands in his hand, your fingers tugging at his sandy curls when he moved away, pressing a kiss to your cheek and proceeding down the column of your neck.

“I missed you,” Luke mumbled—the words were constantly there, pushing against the barrier of his lips. Without waiting for your reply, he took your right nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bud and reveling in the quiet squeak that left your lips.

Suddenly, he felt a hand pushing at his shoulder, and he pulled away from your nipple with a low ‘pop!’

“Is everything okay?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, afraid that you would close up on him again. But you merely nodded, your eyes wide and your chest heaving with pleasure. Luke vaguely noted that your lower halves were still covered by black skinny jeans, and he vowed to do something about it.

“Everything’s fine,” you breathed, inhaling, “It’s just—we need to be quiet. And I won’t be able to if you keep doing that.”

Luke let the words sink in. After a moment, he chuckled, raising his hands. “Alright, alright. I’ll let it slide this one time.”

You smiled at him before sitting up, your hands sliding down your stomach, fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans. Luke helped you undo it, hooking his fingers into your waistband and tugging the denim down your legs. When the material was finally bunched up at your ankles, he pulled it off with a dramatic flourish, and you laughed softly at his antics. Luke beamed.

“Your turn,” you prompted, repeating his words from earlier. 

With a quiet groan, Luke stood from the bed, messing with his own jeans and trying to remove them. You laughed yet again as he hopped around on one foot, and he pouted at you when he finally wrestled his pants off.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he moped, “I’m trying to be sexy here.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him back down to you and pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his perfect nose. “You’re doing a fine job of it, pretty boy. I just like seeing you—the dumb and clumsy you.”

“The mood’s ruined,” Luke frowned childishly, and you merely cocked an eyebrow. You tilted your head up—pulling him into a heated kiss—while your right hand snaked down his body, your palm eventually pressing into the bulge at the front of his boxers. Luke’s hips bucked forward, and you grinned deviously against his lips.

“Mhm…are you sure about that?”

“F-Fuck,” Luke stuttered, only making your smile widen. He blushed, his eyelashes fluttering down against his cheeks. You didn’t stop, your fingers wrapping around his girth through the cotton of his briefs, and Luke’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head (it had been far too long).

You rubbed your nose against Luke’s jawline, and he was momentarily afraid that he’d come right there on the spot. It wasn’t only your fingers squeezing his dick—it was the intimacy, the closeness, the knowledge that you were right here. Luke’s hips rutted against your hand, and he buried his face into your neck, trying to muffle his groans.

“You’ve got to be quiet,” you whispered against the shell of his ear. Luke nodded fervently, using every drop of willpower to pull away from you and the heavenly sensation that you offered. He sat back on his heels once more, his large hands wrapping around your hips and dragging you closer to him.

You smiled mischievously as his fingers toyed with the waistband of your sheer black panties. Luke returned your expression, reveling in the gasp that you emitted when he yanked your underwear cleanly down your legs. You barked out a laugh.

“Okay, that was sexy.”

Luke bit his lip to suppress a smile.

“’M going to open you up now, okay?” he asked, and then continued on an afterthought. “I just really want to fuck you. I promise I’ll eat you out for, like, an hour later tonight.”

You smirked. “Whatever you say, pretty boy.”

He took his time, his hands running down your sides and his mouth open in awe when he finally felt the impact of your pregnancy. You were so fucking soft, and if it weren’t for his raging erection, Luke probably would have nuzzled each roll of fat, each stretch mark, pressing consistent kisses to your skin.

He cursed when he swiped his index finger along your folds, feeling the moisture at the apex of your thighs. You shivered, breathing out a gentle ‘fuck’ and twisting your fingers into the bedsheets. Luke couldn’t stop himself from popping his finger into his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as he tasted you. His shoulders rolled as a shudder passed down his spine, and he brought his hands back down, his left poised carefully on the inside of your thigh to keep your legs spread.

You inhaled sharply as the first finger entered you. Luke watched you, completely enraptured by the creasing of your brow and the flaring of your nostrils. He leaned down, his left hand squeezing your thigh reassuringly as he pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your swollen clit. A small ‘oh!’ left your lips, and God, Luke was so fucking hard.

“You okay?” Luke asked, looking up at you with concerned eyes. In response, he received a teasing shrug.

“You don’t have to be so gentle, pretty boy. It’s not like I haven’t done this to myself.”

“Fuck,” Luke swore, pressing his forehead against your pelvic bone. Images of you getting yourself off—your fingers between your legs, your body convulsing as you came—flashed through his head, and he subconsciously rutted against the mattress. God, he was fucking pathetic, reduced once more to a fifteen-year-old virgin with quaking knees and fragmented sentences.

Your smirk grew, and Luke—who was determined to regain the upper hand—pursed his lips, retracting his finger from your pussy only to plunge back in with two. It was his turn to smile smugly as he watched your back arch, your left hand flying to your mouth to stifle a moan.

“Fuck me,” you gasped. Luke thought that it was merely an exclamation, but then you repeated the demand, your voice taking on a conscious and sure tone. He looked up at you and your eyes locked.

“Are you sure?” he asked. You nodded rapidly.

“It’s fine, I’ll be fine.”

Luke pouted playfully. “I’m kind of offended—are you implying that I have a small dick?”

You laughed, and he grinned. With a quiet grunt, Luke pushed himself back up, clambering on top of you and pressing a messy kiss to your lips. It was barely a kiss, seeing as you were both smiling like idiots, lips bumping against teeth and low snickers being breathed into the clammy air.

“I love your dick,” you whispered against the corner of Luke’s mouth, “You know that.”

Luke hummed in response, pressing a final kiss to your lips before rolling off of you, his feet connecting to the floor. He stood, tucking his fingers into the elastic waistband of his boxers and hastily yanking the offending material down his legs. He stepped out of them once they pooled around his ankles, climbing back onto the bed and resuming his previous position on top of you.

“Do you have a condom?” he asked. Your eyes widened, and then you clenched them shut angrily.

“Fuck, I—”

“It’s okay,” he said quickly, “I can—pull out if you want? I got tested about a month back; I’m clean.”

You looked skeptical but eventually you nodded. Luke returned the gesture, shooting you a reassuring smile.

He bowed his head, kissing you fervidly as he reached down, gripping the base of his cock and lining himself up with your entrance. The kiss deepened—he tried to distract you from the obvious discomfort that you would feel—as he slowly tilted his hips forward, his dick sliding into you with an obscene sound.

“Shit,” Luke said immediately, his shoulders tensing and his vision whiting out for a good few seconds. You were so fucking tight—after months with just his hand to keep him satisfied, he didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep himself from coming.

“Yeah,” you panted against his mouth, nosing along his cheek. Luke kept his right hand planted firmly onto the mattress next to your head, granting his left hand the luxury of exploring your body, feeling down your torso, squeezing your thigh and hip appreciatively.

“Are you okay?” he asked, pursing his lips. Hurting you was the last thing that he wanted to do.

But you just nodded, closing your eyes briefly before they snapped open once more. Luke immediately felt relief wash over him, and he drew comforting circles against the skin of your hip to soothe you. You shifted underneath him, and he tried to pull out, but you gripped his biceps, shaking your head silently.

You both stayed like that for the next minute, Luke watching as you closed your eyes, tuning him out and trying to grow accustomed to the foreign (though it used to be familiar) feeling. Finally, just when Luke was sure that his head was going to explode if he didn’t move soon, you opened your eyes, squeezing his arms and nodding your head.

“Go.”

Luke groaned gratefully before pulling out slowly, watching your facial expression change from anticipatory to blissful. That was the only confirmation that he required, the last push that he needed to plunge back into you, coaxing forth a surprised gasp from your lips. He smiled lightly, biting his lip to stop the corners of his mouth from curving up into a radical grin.

“Shit,” you whimpered, biting your fist to keep your moans quiet. Luke set a quick rhythm, leaning back slightly and placing both of his hands underneath the skin of your thighs. He pushed your legs upwards, practically folding you in half and thrusting back into you. You threw your head back into the pillows at the top of the bed, covering your mouth—though your pleading, helpless whimpers still managed to escape.

“Fuck,” he cursed, “You feel—so fucking good. I…”

“I know,” you mumbled, a soft moan tumbling from your lips. You reached out and Luke understood, leaning into you so that he could kiss you deeply. His lips proved to be no more useful at muffling your noises, so he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours.

“God, I missed this,” Luke choked out, “My fucking hand—I could never…never even—”

And goddammit, he wasn’t making any sense. You felt too good, too tight for him to form even a single coherent sentence. His thrusts were already faltering, growing sloppy and sporadic, and he chalked it up to the fact that he hadn’t fucked anyone in so long—he hadn’t fucked you in so long. And he had missed it. Fuck, he had missed it so much.

His hips stuttered when you subconsciously clenched around him, and a shudder raced down his spine. He fell forward, his elbows digging into the mattress beside your shoulders.

“Kiss me,” you gasped, and Luke obliged happily. The kiss was so fucking messy, tongues and teeth and whimpers and groans and God, Luke thought, it was perfect.

“I—I can’t,” Luke stuttered out, driving into you with more force and speed, determined to make you come so that he wouldn’t look so utterly pathetic. “I can’t hold it, ’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you soothed.

You rubbed your palms along the vast expanse of his shoulders, and Luke wanted to cry because wow, here you were, looking more beautiful than ever, and he had been able to provide only mediocre sex (at best). Yet you didn’t appear to care, seemingly happy merely because he was with you, and Luke felt his heart somersault in his chest at the realization.

His sudden awareness pushed him to do it: he managed to snake a hand down your body, his thumb rubbing hard circles into your clit. Luke’s chest panged victoriously when he angled himself perfectly, the head of his cock spearing directly into that special spot inside of you. That—coupled with the stimulation of your clit—was enough to push you over the edge, and you shook in Luke’s arms, your orgasm overtaking you.

Luke swore when the silky walls of your pussy locked down on his dick, and he knew that he had to pull out. He steadied himself, sliding out of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he made a fist around his dick, he was coming, the first spurt of come streaking against your hip.

“Fuck,” Luke babbled, his head becoming foggy, “I love you. I fucking love you so goddamn much.”

Somewhere, deep down in the cobwebbed corners of his mind, his brain panicked, realizing what he’d said and screaming out a steady chorus of ‘fuck, fuck, fuck!’

But a larger part of him was drunk on pleasure, unable to register even the most obvious of movements, too high on bliss to remember anything. Luke shuddered, the last bit of his come kicking out and lacing onto the skin of your thigh. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking lethargically and trying to take in his surroundings. In a way, it was sort of like being reborn.

And then he slumped on top of you, not caring that his own come was being smeared between you. You let out a surprised groan, but Luke silence you by pressing his lips against yours, the kiss chaste yet passionate.

“You just—,” you began, and Luke nodded solemnly, sighing. Here it was—the part where you pulled away from him, built up your walls and withdrew once more. He was used to it, but it still stung.

“I know.”

He was waiting for the blow: the tensing of your shoulders, the angry smouldering of your eyes. You would most likely roll over, sit up and mumble about how the whole thing had been a mistake, how you had both let it go too far. Luke’s jaw clenched as you opened your mouth.

“I love you too.”

~*~

“You’re going to call, right? And we’ll Skype?”

“Yes, pretty boy,” you blew a strand of your hair away from your forehead in exasperation, securing your arms around the toddler who sat on your hip. Luke watched you with fond eyes, his gaze flitting over to his daughter.

“Goodbye, Jo,” he mumbled sadly, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the girl’s hair. “Daddy loves you very much.”

“It’s been two weeks,” you teased, “Don’t you think you’re rushing into things?”

Luke chuckled, shaking his head. “Shut up. You know you’re going to miss me.”

It was like—with those words—a dam had broken inside of you. Luke watched, utterly horrified, as your eyes filled with tears. His lips parted in surprise, and then he was pulling you into his arms, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “Oh, shit. Please don’t cry, I’m sorry.”

“No,” you tried for a sad laugh, “Don’t be sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” Luke said earnestly, trying to sear the words into your brain. He pulled back, stroking your cheek while the toddler in your arms gnawed on the skin of your shoulder. Luke heaved out a tired sigh, trying to take in all the details of your face before boarding the plane. He was painfully aware of the suitcase resting only a foot behind him, the handle gleaming in the bright lights of the airport.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Luke assured you, though his own voice was thick. “Five months, okay? And then I’m coming back. For, like, two months. Two full months.”

You gave him a watery smile, and Luke returned it. He leaned down, kissing your lips softly. A grainy voice came onto the intercom, informing him that other passengers of his flight were beginning to board. Luke pulled away from your lips (quite reluctantly, if he was being honest) and looked at you helplessly. You pursed your lips and tried for an encouraging smile, nodding for him to go.

“I love you,” he reminded you.

“I love you more,” you replied softly. Luke pressed another kiss to the top of his daughter’s head—grinning widely when she giggled—before turning around, gripping the handle of his suitcase and heading off to the gate of his flight.

He forced himself to stare straight ahead; he watched where the other passengers were lined up, their tickets in their hands as they waited for the slips to be confirmed by the flight attendant at the door. Luke closed his eyes for a moment, counting down the days until he’d see you again.

Five months in England. And then two months spent with you. Another four months, gone, separated by thousands of kilometres. And then three months, back. The cycle would repeat once more, and then he would finally be through with his studies.

And that meant coming back to you—and to his daughter. To several job opportunities that he would happily consider. Luke found himself smiling at the ground—once upon a time, he had hated how predictable his life had been; you had been able to offer that deviation, the rebellion that he secretly craved. And now, he just wanted certainty—you provided that sense of support, that promise of stability.

It didn’t matter what Luke needed; you were always there, and with you, things always had a funny way of working out.

He boarded the plane.

 ~*~