#undersugarnightsask

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It’s been one week of rehab and already you’re itching to get out. Not for the first time, you’ve found yourself in this similar but dreaded cycle of pretending you’re going to get better when everyone knows you’re one rejection away from ending up here again.

The routine drags, it’s always the same. Wake up, breakfast, get your meds, group therapy, individual therapy, lunch, art therapy, outside time, dinner, rec room, and bedtime. Rinse and repeat.

You’re starting to grow a little insane.

Right now, there’s a lull between breakfast and group therapy— which just means you’re waiting for your turn to get your head shrunken.

Raising your hand, you rub your eye hard enough that sparks of color burst behind your lids. Yes, the days drag, yes you can’t wait to get out, but sometimes the quiet moments were good enough to have your creative spark coming back to life.

Right now, you’re staring at a piece of paper with mindless lyrics scribbled in the lines with marker. Apparently, you’re not allowed pens in rehab— they could be used as a weapon, a tool to hurt yourself and others.

Truthfully it just feels like a sack of shit.

With a loud sigh, you pull back, letting your marker fall limply on the page. Your eyes dart around, watching the people you’re set to spend the next three weeks with— sort of, if they’re not about to be discharged.

Then your gaze lands on him. For a second, you don’t believe your eyes. He looks sadder than he does onstage and on the pictures shared around Twitter like sacred texts.

Plus he’s missing his signature lip ring.

Luke Hemmings isn’t what you would call a star. He’s part of a music duo with his best friend. The Neurotics. They’re the kind of band that most people don’t know, but the ones that know him make it loud.

They have a couple of sleeper hits, songs that just barely tease the mainstream but never quite land.

But that isn’t how you know of him.

A few months back, you sent a demo out to their manager of one of your songs. It’s not like it’s unusual for you to do that— after all, people buying your songs is how you make a damn living— but what really stuck is that Luke Hemmings himself turned the song down.

It didn’t exactly hurt, Emmy, their manager, had explained that he usually writes his songs with Ashton. Apparently he didn’t take very kindly to the label’s suggestion that they get handed a more palatable song to release as their own.

So yeah, seeing him in person is just as jarring as you could expect.

He doesn’t lift his gaze, eyes trained to the floor as he trails behind one of the workers. He looks a little lost, sporting a few days worth of stubble and pale as a ghost.

It’s no wonder he ended up in rehab of all places.

You doubt he even knows who you are, chances are he didn’t even see the name attached to the demo, he probably didn’t even listen to it.

Maybe you should be mad, maybe you should have some kind of apprehension towards sharing your healing space with him, but there’s something about the aura that clings to him that halts your train of thought.

He’s in rehab, that alone is enough of a scandal to make you reconsider making this poor guy’s life more complicated. You don’t care to keep up with the forums and the gossip pages that babble about him like they’re placed under a spell.

Luke is only nineteen but he looks older, maybe it’s the way this entire program strips you of any armor you use to hide the rot. You frown, feeling a mixture of pity and maybe even intrigue.

The worker drones on— probably about the schedule— and you watch steadily from your place in the corner. The marker and paper are long abandoned, as well as any creative incentive you had before.

This is much more interesting.

Luke nods along, chewing on the corner of his lip. He seems a little startled at first, and you think it’s because he’s probably not used to the lack of metal on his face. You can’t help but feel for him there, this damn facility owes you for all the repiercing you’re gonna have to do once you’re out.

You can’t help but lean forward on the table, curiosity winning and taking root. He’s pretty, a tortured soul as far as the eye can see, and maybe he’s just like you.

Finally, Luke is left to his own devices. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, almost like a teenager on their first day of high school assessing where to sit, most definitely deciding they hate everyone.

Your eyes flit back to your paper, and you force yourself to not glance up again. He needs to come to you on his own, and if you’re right about him, he will.

Nerves light up beneath your skin, and it’s almost better than doing a line. It takes everything in your power to keep your eyes trained on your messy scrawl, the one standing bright and crimson against the dull paper.

Everything in this damn place is dull.

You feel him before you hear him, that static in the air that raises the hair on the back of your neck. Your heart skips a few beats, and usually you wouldn’t be so nervous about talking to another patient, but he’s the closest thing to your everyday life you have here and no one here has any idea.

Luke takes a seat a few feet away from you, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. He has his guard up, and that will only make it more difficult on everyone.

“You gotta relax,” is the first thing you have said since last night's therapy, and your voice is raw enough to prove it. Talking here feels redundant, so you save it for therapy. “Nobody here is going to strap you down and subject you to electroshock therapy.”

He stiffens, blinking owlishly as if seemingly remembering he exists in other people’s perceptions, too. He turns his wide blue eyes to you, and it’s almost impossible not to melt.

“I thought that was outlawed,” Luke says dumbly.

“It was,” you agree, unimpressed. “So why do you act like it’s going to happen?”

He blushes— genuinely blushes. The crimson that spreads on the apple of his cheeks makes your chest tight, and he looks so sweet, so unlike that entitled rockstar you thought he would be.

“First day jitters,” he shrugs. “Not really used to being around addicts so sad… usually they’re on break from tour and hopping between models.”

You snort, caught off guard by his honesty and humor. He’s unusually endearing for a rockstar, but you don’t mind it at all.

“Y/N,” you offer, biting the back of your marker.

“Luke,” he says.

His name carries weight, at least for you. Still, the way he says it, so removed, almost ashamed, piques your curiosity. Leaning forward, you let some bitterness slip.

“I know,” you drawl. “You rejected my song.”

Luke freezes, recognition flickering over his features. It’s almost amusing how he pales so quickly. You want to feel bad, but watching him squirm is the most fun you’ve had since getting shoved into this place.

“Oh,” he breathes out. “I—I’m really sorry.”

You burst out laughing, hand coming up to cover your mouth. Luke still seems a little startled, but the way his pupils dilate at the sound of your amusement has your breath catching.

“You diva out a lot?” you ask, moving closer to Luke. He seems to relax a little, maybe it’s because he knows you’re not mad— at least not anymore— or maybe it’s something else.

The proximity is intoxicating.

His eyes narrow playfully. “I don’t really try to, no,” he laughs, a hearty sound in this miserable place. “I dunno, I’m sorry. Music is important to me, I just didn’t want to slap my voice over someone else’s work.”

He sounds so sincere that you feel your heart melt a little in your chest. Suddenly you’re overcome with a need to know everything that goes on in his brain, how everything clicks into place.

“It’s how I make a living,” you explain. “How I pay for this wonderful five star hotel.”

Luke snorts, pulling his sleeves over his hands. Your eyes instinctively trail the movement, catching the delicate and graceful length of his fingers.

“They took my fucking lip ring,” he grumbles. “Like, what the hell am I gonna do with that? Boof it?”

You wrinkle your nose in distaste. “You’ll use to chip away at the walls to escape,” you muse, suddenly chasing every flicker of amusement.

Luke seems a little breathless, a pink blush lingering on his skin. He’s smiling, and it’s just as soft as everything else about him. There is a strange sort of familiarity that clings to the air between you, the kind that makes your brain go haywire with possibilities.

Maybe he’s just like you.

“What brings you in?” you ask, because you can’t help the curiosity that nags at your brain. You’re not supposed to ask this to anyone, you’re not supposed to be making friends, either.

Rehab is full of shit anyway.

“Overdose,” he explains plainly, shrugging like he’s recounting what he had for breakfast. “My manager put me in here. Think it’s time I get my shit together.”

You hum. “What else?”

Luke blows out a puff of hair. “At the hospital they diagnosed me,” he continues. “Borderline personality disorder. How about that?”

“Aw, baby’s first diagnosis,” you coo, and Luke playfully rolls his eyes at you. “Me too. Though I’ve lived with it a little longer.”

He tilts his head. “Does the name help?”

You snort. “Not in the slightest,” you mutter. “It makes me feel crazier. But hey, at least you know how to find your community.”

Before Luke can reply, someone’s already calling for group therapy, herding the patients down the corridor to the salon where they usually meet. He’s already looking at you, side eyes searching for instruction.

Groaning, you push yourself off the chair, looking back at Luke. “C’mon,” you say. “Time to sit and hear everyone trauma dumping for an hour.”

He gets up and the two of you make your way over to the group. You feel his hand brush against yours, an electric sort of contact that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You hug your notebook close to your chest, biting your lip to keep your smile at bay.

You and Luke take a seat, and he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Eventually, everyone gets situated and the therapist comes in.

She’s a nice lady, her name is Artie, always smelling like roses and speaking like a self-help book that you’ve grown to loathe. She gets everyone started by greeting them, talking in a cadence entirely too bright for the place.

Luke is zoning out, his blue eyes glazing over as Artie drones on about twelve steps and accountability, and honestly, you’re more concerned with watching Luke.

His fingers twitch in his lap.

Carefully you uncap your marker, slowly enough that nobody hears the click. You do the same when ripping the paper.

You think you’ll be able to keep in your pants for 30 days?

You know well enough the things that are said about Luke, the whispers between breathless giggles from girls who think fucking rockstars is a personality trait. The Neurotics are not known for being angel boys, after all.

Carefully, you nudge your hand against Luke’s, hard enough to draw his attention. You push the paper onto his hand, and he catches with nimble fingers. His eyes stay trained ahead until he’s unfolding the note in his lap.

He laughs quietly under his breath, smirking slightly as he shakes his head in disbelief. When he turns his head to you, you know exactly what he’s thinking.

You can’t hide your smug look as you lean a little closer. “It’s not allowed,” you whisper. “Bad for morale, encourages toxic behaviors or whatever.”

“Is that really the worst vice to have in this place?” he mutters back, eyes flickering down to your lips and sending heat down your spine. “Because—“

“Y/N,” Artie clears her throat, drawing your attention back to the meeting. Annoyance sparks beneath your skin, but you meet her eyes anyway. “This is—” she looks down at her chart, flipping a page before she looks up again, “—Luke’s first day. Remember we’re here to work on ourselves.”

You bite your tongue, a sudden wave of possessiveness surging through you. Choking it down, you stay stubbornly quiet.

“Well now that we’re on you, Luke,” Artie sighs. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”

He stiffens, almost like a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes meet yours, and there’s a glint in them you haven’t seen before, a sort of heat that matches your own.

That’s enough indication for you to know that you’re in trouble.

Luke drones on a half assed story that you know isn’t real, he seems like the type to never take his own wellbeing seriously, and you love that. Carefully, you scribble something down on another torn piece of paper.

Meet me in the laundry room after lights out.

—

You have only been at the facility for only a week, but you already managed to figure out the way the staff works in a matter of hours.

The laundry room is mainly empty at his hour, which is exactly why you told Luke to meet you here. This is the place where you stay writing for hours, graced by the sliver of moonlight that slips past the window and somehow manages to light most of the room.

It’s nice to have some privacy sometimes.

It’s not romantic, it’s not erotic, but the pins and needles still swim beneath your skin. You’re biting your nails, a habit you swore you dropped years ago but somehow the prospect of being alone with Luke brings it back out of retirement.

It’s been too long since you’ve been touched, and you can’t explain why your brain seems to have fixated on Luke the way it did. Maybe it’s his pretty pink lips, the dreamy eyes just haunted enough to make anyone swoon, or the messy dark blonde hair you just know would feel like heaven beneath your fingers.

But you know it’s none of that.

Finding someone so similar to you feels like a gift the universe handed you after a load of bullshit. If he shows— you don’t know how that will make you feel.

The dopamine rush at the thought is enough of a hint.

Maybe it’s the fact that if he shows, you’ll finally get his approval. The rejection of the song hurt, it sent you into a week long bender and a spiral of thoughts you’d kill to never have again.

It’s difficult not to take it so personally when someone who bleeds emotion through melodies seemingly sneered at your work.

Luke doesn’t seem like an asshole, not the way you imagined, at least. His talent is plentiful, but the ego is lackluster.

Still, if he caves in, if he feels that strange connection that has been plaguing you since he first spoke, it would heal that little part of you that lost it after the song was scrapped.

Taking a steadying breath, you hop on top of one of the drying machines, humming a melody under your breath. It doesn’t have a body, just a feeling.

Just a vague impression of Luke.

You hear the soft patter of footsteps against the floor and freeze, holding your breath as a reflex. It’s not that this place is a prison, exactly, it’s just run like one. You understand that it’s safety, that on paper everything that is being done to prioritize healing.

But what happens when you don’t want to heal?

Luke steps into the laundry room, and the confusion on his face is as clear as day. He looks a little lost, a little nervous, like the adrenaline of slipping out of his room was finally starting to fade away.

“Hey,” you call, voice barely above a whisper.

His head snaps to you, and relief washes over his features. He walks up to you, toying with the sleeves of his hoodie. The lack of strings makes you want to roll your eyes.

“Hey,” he smiles. “How did you figure out about this place?”

You shrug, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sometimes a girl just needs some privacy,” you say, smirking slightly.

Luke’s pupils dilate a little at the implication, and he swallows thickly. “You’re crazy,” he huffs, but it’s affectionate. You’ve been insulted with the word enough times to tell the difference.

“You followed me here,” you poke his chest, reveling in the soft chuckle that escapes him.

“You asked me here,” he counters.

They both fall silent, but there’s no real awkwardness behind it. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing your features, drinking you in hungrily.

It makes your heart stutter.

“Isn’t it crazy how we both ended up here?” you muse, partially to give you a second to breathe beneath his gaze.

Luke purses his lips, weighing your words. “Eh, in general, sure,” he says, stepping between her legs. You can see the dusting of hair across his jaw, enough to make you shiver with the phantom sensation of it against your thigh.

“But I like to think there’s a reason why you happened to be here on my first ever rehab stint.”

You furrow your brows. “I don’t think that’s giving what you want it to give.”

Luke leans closer, breath ghosting over your lips, his nose brushing against yours. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, and you hold your breath in anticipation.

His hand cups the back of your neck and brings your lips together, and immediately you let out a breathless sigh against his mouth. His lips are a little rough but they move seamlessly with yours.

Your hands come up to his shoulders, traveling across the broad expanse as he kisses you deeper, tongue teasing yours. It’s a little intoxicating, the way he kisses, following your every movement like a starved man.

Luke’s hands find a home on your waist, pulling you tighter against him as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

He groans into your mouth when you nip on his lower lip, fingers digging into his shoulders like you can crawl into him at a moment's notice.

You roll your hips, barely grazing the hardness that’s beginning to grow apparent between you, months worth of mindless want bubbling out.

Your hands graze his waistband— then there’s a deafening bang echoing across the room.

“Fuck!” You yelp

The two of you spring apart, heart racing in your chest— this time from fear instead of want. Luke’s arms tighten around you, and your eyes dart around the room, scanning for the intruder.

Luke lets out a breathless laugh, and you’re incredulous. His head falls forward onto your shoulder, breath warm against your collarbone as his hands gently squeeze your hips.

“Shit— I’m sorry,” he stammers through a laugh, cheeks burning a bright crimson. “Kinda forgot where I was for a bit, accidentally kicked the dryer.”

Your heart still won’t settle, and fear sits uncomfortably in your stomach. The moment is ruined, that much is clear. You’re still clutching at his shoulder, but for an entirely different reason, breathing heavily as you will your brain to calm down.

“Jesus, you’re jumpy,” Luke grins, amusement lighting up his eyes. “Just relax, baby.”

You glare at him, and because your brain is too muddled with residual fear, you don’t let yourself linger on the pet name that fell past his lips so easily.

“Are you serious?” you hiss. “This is supposed to be my escape, I don’t want to kill that and my chances of getting laid all in one go.”

Luke raises an eyebrow, smiling wickedly. “Oh, so that’s what this is?” he asks. “I thought we were here to catch up on some Sunday chores.”

Now it’s your turn to blush, and Luke is still smirking when he leans his head against your shoulder again. You're a little stiff, aching to touch him but not quite sure how.

Tentatively, you raise your hand, letting your fingers skim along his hair, holding your breath to gauge his response. When he doesn’t stop you, that’s when you let them tangle.

His hair really is as soft as you imagined, which is impressive considering the shampoo they give out here doesn’t work magic on anyone.

When your nails scratch at his scalp, Luke lets out a ragged moan. You freeze, the noise lighting every neuron in your body on fire as your mind replays the sound.

Oh.

“You’re so—“ your breath catches, and suddenly everything isn’t funny anymore. You’re so aware of the places your bodies touch, skin brushing against each other, and the sudden realization that you want to hear that sound again strikes you like a bolt of lightning.

Never in a million years did you imagine Luke would be whimpering from getting his hair played with.

“Y/N,” he whispers. “I know you’re still scared, but fuck. I can’t think with you like this.”

You swallow. “Like what?”

“Touching me,” he lets his lips brush against the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, causing you to shiver. “Sitting there like you don’t know what you do to me.”

With sudden determination, your fingers tighten in his hair enough to yank his face to yours. The blue is almost entirely swallowed by the black of his pupils.

Then you’re kissing again, a mess of teeth, spit, and tongues. He moans into your mouth when you tug at his hair, his hands slip beneath your shirt to touch your bare skin.

The callouses drag against you, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You can feel the heat rising in your body, the ache that starts to bloom between your thighs.

Luke’s lips travel from yours to your jaw, making their way down to the sensitive parts of your neck. He nips at your pulse point, dragging a moan out of you that’s loud enough to make him still.

“You gotta be quiet,” he groans, just as affected by your noises as you are by his.

He pulls back, hands running up and down your thighs. Despite the fabric of your sweatpants, you can feel the heat of him as he creeps up to your waistband.

You lift your hips, letting him drag your pants and underwear off with a torturous pace. Your stomach clenches in anticipation, but he doesn’t let it faster because he’s kissing you again.

Now the heat is really evident, your own hands slipping beneath his hoodie to feel at the soft planes of his stomach. He tenses when you run your nails down his navel, breath hitching.

“Wanna taste you, baby,” he gasps between kisses, desperation bleeding from his words. “Please, just let me taste you. I swear— I’ll make you feel so good. I need you on my tongue, Y/N, please.”

A sudden wave of self-consciousness hits you, and your lips still against his for a beat. He squeezes your hips reassuringly, and it’s like you just remembered you’re bare from the waist down.

Still, you nod, partly because you catch the way his lips swelled from kissing and suddenly the rush to your head kills any lingering self doubt. He looks fucked out, and you haven’t even touched him.

He drops to his knees without ceremony, pulling you closer until you’re on the edge of the dryer. His eyes are level with your core, thighs bracketing his head.

Luke licks his lips, bringing his fingers up to his mouth before placing them on your clit. He starts to rub slow circles, enough pressure to have your brain growing fuzzy around the edges.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and it’s low a bough that you know it wasn’t something he meant for you to hear. Still, the awe in his voice is evident before he’s diving towards you.

The second his tongue does its first lap around your clit, you gasp, arching your back at the sudden pleasure. He hums against you, eyes half lidded as he wraps his lips around you and sucks.

You’re breathing hard, thighs shaking at the slew of sensations that make it difficult to think. His hands grip your thighs, keeping them open to lap at you hungrily.

“Oh my god,” you mewl, in utter disbelief at the passion behind Luke’s movements. He moans against you, tongue working you over skillfully.

Your hands scramble for purchase on the dryer, little gasps leaving your lips with every flick of his tongue. You make the mistake of glancing down, and the sight is enough to make your breath hitch.

Luke’s hair is a mess, and you let your hands tangle in the strands. His eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration. The drag of his mouth, the way his plump lips wrap around your clit, the obscene sounds he pulls out of you, it’s almost too much.

Your hips rock against his face, chasing the feeling that’s beginning to unravel low in your stomach. His hand rubs over your thighs, reassuring and sweet all at once.

Then, you feel one of his fingers start to tease at your entrance, and somehow that whisper of a contact is almost everything it takes to send you over the edge.

You push his head away, legs clamping shut as you shake with the almost. Luke blinks at you, eyes hazy, but he doesn’t get a chance to protest before you’re dragging him up.

“Don’t wanna come yet,” you say, thumb brushing over his slick bottom lip. He’s breathing so hard, cheeks flushed and hair mussed, and he’s so fucking pretty it makes you want to cry.

You slip your finger past his lips, leaning forward until you’re a hair away. “Taste good, rockstar?”

His eyes flutter at your words, and he sucks at your thumb, nodding frantically. When you replace your digit with your own tongue, the lingering taste of you on his lips is dizzying.

Your hand slips past his waistband, wrapping around his thick length. He’s so warm, and the strangled moan that he lets out when you flick your wrist is delicious in every way.

Luke pushes his pants down enough to let his cock spring free, the salivating length standing proudly as you keep pumping your hand. Your thumb catches on the tip, spreading some of the beading precum across the head.

He hisses, hands shaking where they settle on your thighs. “Let me fuck you,” he gasps. “Let me feel how tight you are. Please, I’m so hard it hurts.”

You tighten your hand, his eyes fly open as he falls forward a bit. “F-fuck,” he whimpers, his grip tightening on you. “Please, I’ll do anything, please baby, just let me put it in.”

The way he says “please” has you growing dizzy, your own slick slipping down your entrance just at the thought of being stretched open by him.

Having had enough of teasing, you scoot closer, rubbing his tip over your folds slow enough to have the both of you gasping.

“Gonna fuck me good, rockstar?” you ask, breathless, a little cocky. “Gonna make me come so hard I’ll forget you rejected my song?”

He nods, eager, desperate, groaning when you start to circle your entrance with him. Just the feeling of the head of his cock nudging you open makes your legs shake, pleasure already sinking. You’re so sensitive.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moans. “I’m gonna come and I’m not even inside you, your pussy is so pretty baby, I need it, please just let me—“

He cuts himself off when you guide him in, and the two of you moan loud enough to make fear spark at the base of your spine. You cover your mouth with your hand, watching in awe as Luke bottoms out.

The stretch is divine, addictive, and it feels so fucking good. You shiver when he pulls away, only for him to slam back in hard enough to make the dryer shake.

Slowly he settles into a rhythm, and you wrap your legs around his waist, adding momentum to his every thrust. You’re biting your lip to muffle the sounds that escape you, and Luke isn’t faring any better.

His cock drags deliciously against your walls, hitting every perfect spot that has you biting down on his shoulder. Luke is a mess, groaning and whimpering.

Luke grips your chin, crashing his lips against yours in another filthy kiss. Neither of you have the coordination to keep it steady, lips brushing against each other’s with every thrust.

“Fuck—oh my god—fuck, you feel so good, I can’t— I can’t take it, baby, I can’t—” he’s starting to sound nonsensical against your mouth, at least he would be if you weren’t just as lost in it as he is.

“Just like that,” you whine. “Keep me nice and full rockstar, fuck, you’re so big. Feels so fucking good inside me.”

“Tell me it feels good,” he begs. “Tell me I’m making you feel so good.”

You shiver at the neediness in his tone, arms wrapping tighter around him as pleasure begins to blind you. “Making me feel so good,” you mumble. “Stretching me out so good, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

He lets out a noise, strangled almost, and his hands are slipping between the two of you. His thumb finds your clit, beginning to rub tight circles that have black spots spreading across your vision.

The heat starts to boil over, faster by the second with every thrust of Luke’s hips. You clench around him, desperate to savor every drag, every movement, just to draw out the inevitable.

“You’re doing so good baby,” you gasp, pressing down on your lower stomach to feel the way he pushes against you. “So fucking big. Does it feel good to be inside me baby?”

He nods, and you can barely keep your head on straight as the pleasure builds. You’re getting closer teetering the edge of release, and then Luke leans forward and bites your neck.

You come with a cry, body convulsing against Luke as you ride out your high, waves of pleasure shaking you to the core, relaxing and contracting your muscles until your ears ring.

“Fuck,” he drags the word out, licking over the spot he just sank his teeth into. “Just like that— given to me, let me make you feel good.”

Your body melts, and you cling to him as he chases his own high. His hips are erratic, pistoning into you with the kind of determination that makes your stomach flip.

“You’re so tight,” he gasps. “Wrapped around me like you’re gonna kill me, fuck. Tight—shit, you’re so tight, so wet, fuck, I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

Your nails scratch at the nape of his neck, lips brushing against his skin. “Come for me,” you urge, voice hoarse from moaning. “Paint me all pretty baby.”

Luke gasps, pulling out quickly. His fist wraps around his cock, the flushed head already on the edge of bursting. He pumps fast, cursing under his breath.

Then he’s coming, white ribbons landing on your thigh, your exposed stomach. “Shit, holy shit Y/N,” he’s moaning your name, barely intelligible as pleasure consumes him.

When he finally comes down, he’s cradling your face in his hands, pressing a kiss to your lips. It’s sweet, lingering, and you’re both still breathless from before.

Your legs feel weak, and when you finally part, your breath fans his lips. His own is minty, a residual from brushing his teeth before he was supposed to be in bed.

“That’s kind of crazy,” you muse, nudging his nose with your own.

Luke pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “What is?”

You smirk, watching as Luke reaches for what seems to be a pillow cover. Carefully, he wipes at the mess left in your skin, the release that clung to you like a sin. He’s so gentle, sweet, and attentive.

“The fact that you fucked the first girl who was nice to you at rehab,” you joke, lifting his chin so that your eyes are level.

Luke smiles faintly, caressing your arm with a featherlight touch. He looks at you, a little breathless, eyes taking in every detail.

“Y/N,” he whispers. “I’m really sorry I turned down your song the way I did.”

You freeze, the sincerity in his words making your breath stutter. You can’t bring yourself to say anything worthwhile, so you just wait.

“I didn’t listen to it,” he confesses. “I didn’t want to. I just wanted the requests to stop, so I lashed out. It worked, yeah, but it wasn’t fair. Your talent doesn't need to be shadowed by my ego.”

You feel tears threaten to spill, the memory of the strongly worded rejection letter still fresh in your mind. It makes sense, the words that were written on the page didn’t match the sweet boy standing between your legs.

“It’s okay,” you answer shakily. “I promise.”

He brushes his lips against yours again, a sweet little kiss that means more than the entire night put together. Carefully, he helps you back into your clothes, straightening his own in the process.

You finally slip off the dryer, unsteady on your feet from the absolute depravity of the last hour. You’re chest to chest with Luke now, craning your neck to look at him.

He’s so fucking tall.

“When we get out of here,” he starts, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’ll make it up to you. We’ll write a song together."

You bite your lip. “Okay.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

come chat in my inbox i miss you !!!

Ashton Irwin isn’t a fucking an idiot, and he’s tired of being treated like one.

He makes his way up a building he knows entirely too well, jaw clenching as his mind unravels with unsettling speed. He’s trying to keep his head on straight, truly, but there has never been a rational thought in his head when it comes to you.

It started two days ago with a passing comment from Ashton’s friend Max. The same friend who’s producing their album. The same friend who’s been listening to all of his rants about one particular person.

“I saw Y/N leave with Luke,” he mentioned casually, a few hours deep into mixing a song that felt like it wasn’t going anywhere.

Ashton, who had been twirling a drumstick, froze completely. His head snapped up, blinking as if what he’d just heard couldn’t be real.

“Really?” He forced his tone to stay even, despite the fact that he knew, deep down, that something was very, very wrong. He kept his gaze trained on the soundboard.

Max only shrugged. “She seemed upset after you guys talked,” he continued. “Saw her and Luke leave. Thought it was weird for him to leave a party early.”

It was, for the most part. Luke never missed an opportunity to get shitfaced and fawned over. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to take you home. Ashton knew about the friendship, and Luke would always let him know when he was hanging out with you.

But this time, he never texted. There were no calls, no warnings. Luke hadn’t even mentioned a word about it. So Ashton sank back into his chair, changed the topic, pretended to be unfazed.

But his mind was already running.

Now it’s been two days of nonstop wondering. He’s texted Luke, seen him, tried to bring you up, and every time Ashton swears he sees something in his face. A flicker of guilt. Of horror, maybe.

He’s not stupid, but maybe he’s gullible. Luke is his best friend, has been for years. Ashton has given up everything for him time and time again. Surely Luke would never think of touching you.

The argument between the two of you is still fresh in his mind. The look on your face as you begged for an answer, egged him to stop acting like he would rather die than be seen with you.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. The feelings that held his heart are strong and dangerous. The kind he hasn’t let himself feel in over a year. The kind he thought he would never feel again.

Fear clutched at him, kept him grounded, kept him from doing the one thing he knows you deserve. Being honest.

He’s not on a mission to be honest right now. He’s on a mission to stifle that voice, that incessant, grating thought that maybe he’s just been betrayed by the person he loves most in the world. He’ll do anything to exist without the suffocating fear that he’s lost it all.

So his fist rises against the door, ready to knock, ready to prove that if someone is lying, he’ll know.

Because he’s tired of being treated like an idiot, and only idiots keep loving the person who drives the knife in deeper.

—

The bathwater is warm against your skin, the sweet aroma of rose-scented bath salts clinging to the air. In your hand is a glass of wine, your eyes trained on the crimson liquid like it might evaporate if you blink too much.

Bubbles cling to your skin, popping softly with each movement. Soft music fills the air, anything but The Neurotics, and you hum along.

This is all an elaborate distraction, a ploy to keep you from checking your phone maniacally every minute. Luke’s silence has weighed heavily on your chest, sitting like a thorn in your side that you just can’t shake.

It’s been a week since you last saw Luke. A week since he bent you over your couch, turned your idea of revenge on its head, and made you question just how far you were willing to go to avenge a broken heart.

The warmth of him sleeping beside you still lingers, even if the next morning Ashton was warming the same spot, claiming the same skin he didn’t even know his best friend had less than twelve hours earlier.

You clench your jaw, sinking deeper into the water. You didn’t mean for it to go this far, for your heart to get this tangled in a mess that only seems to grow by the second.

All you wanted was for Ashton to choose you for once in his miserable life.

You still do.

There’s a knock on the door, faint enough that you consider not getting up to answer it. The water is warm, safe, loosening muscles that seem to stay stubbornly stiff.

Closing your eyes, you try to focus on your surroundings again, try to shove every thought of Ashton and Luke out of your mind.

The knock comes again, louder, more insistent. Almost frantic. You groan, jaw clenching as you sit up in the tub. Glaring at the door, you hear it again.

“Wait a damn second,” you yell, shooting up from the tub and grabbing the nearest towel. You dry off as best you can, then snatch up a robe and slip it over your shoulders.

You storm out of the bathroom, angrily wrapping the tie around you and knotting it tight at your waist. The wet smack of your feet against the floor fills the empty space, and you almost laugh.

Stopping in front of the door, you crane your neck to peer through the peephole. Standing there is Ashton, jaw clenched, annoyance barely contained.

That makes two of us, asshole.

You turn the lock and whip the door open, hip popped, nostrils flaring as you brace yourself for whatever insanity Ashton is about to spew to justify wasting your time.

“What?” you snap.

For a moment, Ashton looks thrown. Still, he recovers just as quickly. He leans against the doorway, flashing that same infuriating smile that’s ended with your clothes on his bedroom floor more than once.

His eyes rake down your body, taking in the robe keeping you decent, the wet strands of hair clinging to the nape of your neck.

Your face heats before you can stop it. He always has this effect on you.

“Been a minute since I saw my favorite psycho,” he grins easily, pushing off the doorway and into your apartment like he’s been there a million times before. He has, which is deeply irritating.

You pivot on your heel and slam the door shut, watching as Ashton drops into the couch without ceremony. He looks at you with something dark swirling in his hazel eyes, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Wanna explain why you almost kicked down my door?” you snap, staring at him expectantly.

Ashton schools his expression, a smooth, easy grin sliding back into place. “Can’t I come say hello to my favorite psycho?” he asks, leaning forward until his elbows rest on his knees.

His dark hair has grown longer, sandy roots starting to show. The contrast is striking, making his already sharp features even more devastating.

“You haven’t said anything to me in days,” you reply, your tone struggling to stay even. Your head is a mess, but Ashton’s attention still feels like a laser burning straight through you.

He makes it hard to think, especially when your heart is already threatening to beat out of your chest.

Ashton stands, that dark look crossing his eyes again. He crosses the room in a few quick strides, brushing past you as he heads for the kitchen.

Blinking, you gather your thoughts. He’s acting strange, like he’s waging a war against himself. Hesitantly, you trail after him.

He’s already opening your fridge, eyes scanning the contents with visible annoyance.

“You seriously don’t have beer?” he mutters.

You stiffen, crossing your arms defensively. “It’s fattening,” you grumble, lifting your chin. “Not all of us have a caloric intake that consists of fermented grains.”

Ashton shakes his head, grinning again. “That’s why you’re always so miserable,” he shrugs, turning back to you and slowly closing the distance.

You take an involuntary step back, but your heart is already hammering. His grin doesn’t reach his eyes. His dimples feel sharp instead of endearing.

“That’s why you’re always fucking around,” he continues. “Who was it this time, Y/N? Trying to make it hurt? Make some dumb point you know is only going to dig you deeper.”

Ashton doesn’t know about Luke. That much is clear. If he did, he would’ve made it known by now. He would’ve stormed in and raised hell.

But he’s onto you. And if you’re not mistaken, that darkness in his stare is jealousy.

Your breath catches. There’s no way it actually worked. There isn’t a universe where a dumb decision made in the clutches of heartbreak does something like this.

But here he is, standing in front of you with barely concealed fire in his eyes.

So you lift your chin and plaster on your best smirk. “Aw, is the big bad wolf jealous?” you coo, reaching out just enough to trail a finger down his chest.

His eyes narrow, jaw clenching. He backs you into the counter, the cold marble biting through the thin silk of your robe. Still, you don’t deter.

You keep looking at him.

Show me. Show me you want me. I know you do.

“You’re so full of shit,” he mutters. “You know what I am? I’m bored, Y/N. Bored of you pulling the same crap over and over again. Crazy isn’t as desirable as you think.”

You purse your lips. “You could’ve fooled me,” you shoot back with a sly grin, because you know Ashton. He’s just like you when it comes down to it. Scared. Vindictive. Jealous.

His hands plant on the countertop on either side of you, caging you in. His eyes blaze as he glares down at you with searing intensity.

“You like me crazy,” you say. “You like me losing my shit for a scrap of your attention. Admit it.”

His eyebrows lift, and he smiles with all his teeth. It feels like a warning.

“Who did you fuck?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Ashton is quickly losing his patience. You can see it in the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, the way he looks like he’s one word away from punching a wall.

You can’t help it when your hands are already on his belt, working it open with ease. His eyes flash.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snaps, but he doesn’t make a move to stop you.

Grinning, you meet his eyes. “What you came here to do?” you repeat, cocking your head. You smile, an innocent flash of something lethal that doesn’t reach your eyes.

His hands are on your waist in a second, and he lifts you with ease before dumping you unceremoniously onto the counter.

You gasp, your robe loosening enough to slip dangerously low on your shoulder, and Ashton’s eyes drink in the exposed skin hungrily.

“You think you’re funny?” he hisses, his hand slipping beneath the robe, hot against your thigh. His rough hands are no stranger to you, but you still shiver at the contact.

Your nipples harden beneath the robe, pressing against the thin fabric. You can’t even pretend Ashton doesn’t affect you. The way he moves, the way he looks at you.

“The funniest,” you answer breathlessly.

Ashton chuckles darkly, gripping your chin. “You won’t be laughing for long,” he spits, patting your thighs roughly.

You gasp as his hand inches closer to where you’re already aching and wet. Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter, chest rising and falling fast.

Then he runs his finger through your folds, circling your clit with cruel precision.

“All that mouth on you and you still get like this for me,” he mutters. “You really expect me to believe you’re not a pathetic little cockwhore?”

His fingers slip inside you, pumping relentlessly. You moan, head falling back as his fingers curl expertly. His hand tightens on your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his.

“Don’t look away now,” he barks. “Eyes on me if you want to come.”

You blink through heavy lids, hips grinding helplessly against his hand.

He smirks slightly, curling his fingers again, keeping a delicious rhythm. Your thighs part, but you match his intensity.

“You think you’re gonna get me to talk?” you pant, your mind going hazy from the sensation of Ashton’s ministrations. “You just couldn’t wait to claim me for the night to appease your fragile little ego.”

He leans forward, leering and dangerous. “You fucked someone else,” he repeats slowly. “You’re too smug. Too okay with me being gone. You did something.”

Your thighs are shaking, and his thumb begins to circle your clit slowly. You freeze, a gasp tearing from your throat as the pleasure spikes tenfold.

“Maybe I just wanted—” your breath hitches as his pace picks up, cutting you off with a moan. “A better orgasm.”

The memory of Luke’s desperate whines, the way he kissed you, the softness in his hands flashes through your mind.

Then Ashton surges forward with a growl, lips crashing into yours. It’s a mess of teeth and heat, his tongue slipping into your mouth and sending a shiver down your spine.

His lips are hot against yours, kissing you with burning intensity. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and you bite his in return. He groans, the sound pulled deep from his throat.

“You wanna play that fucking game,” Ashton says between kisses. “Fine. I’ll play that game. I’ll just have to make sure that cunt of yours is too sore to even think about anyone who isn’t me.”

His words make you dizzy as he pulls his hand away. You whimper at the loss, breathing hard, brows knitting as you look at him.

Ashton looks down at his fingers, spreading them to watch the way your slick clings to them. It’s obscene, the way his pupils dilate as he lifts his hand toward your mouth.

“Clean up,” he instructs, his other hand dropping to palm himself through his jeans.

You look up at him through your lashes, slowly lowering your mouth until his fingers rest on your tongue. You suck lightly, making sure to clean every trace of your mess from his skin.

When he pulls his hand back, he doesn’t waste time, untying the flimsy knot at your waist and pushing the robe from your body.

You’re naked now, thighs spread, hands braced behind you as you stare at him in open challenge.

Still, every nerve in your body is begging for his touch.

His chest is heaving, and he presses his hand to your cheek, still damp with slick and saliva, before kissing you hard. You can’t stop the moan that escapes you, kissing him back just as fiercely.

“You’re gonna tell me who it was,” he says again, his hand dropping from your cheek to wrap lightly around your throat. “You’re gonna tell me whose cum I’m about to fuck out of you.”

He punctuates it by finally unbuttoning his jeans, the sound of the zipper sliding down ricocheting off the kitchen walls.

You grin, dazed with pleasure but still smug. “You know the rules,” you laugh. “No one comes inside. That’s a boyfriend privilege.”

Nobody but Luke.

The thought almost makes you freeze, your smile fading just a fraction. Ashton catches it, because of course he does, his eyebrow lifting like he’s finally found the answer he was looking for.

Then he’s gripping your legs, hauling you down from the counter without ceremony. He spins you around, bending you over until the cool marble presses against your bare chest.

“Boyfriend privilege this,” he mutters. “Boyfriend privilege that, but you still let me spread those pretty legs whenever I want.”

He leans forward again, breath warm against your ear as he licks your earlobe. You feel the head of his cock trail along your entrance, teasing, always close enough but never quite what you want.

“Ashton,” you whine, gritting your teeth as you try to grind down on him.

He licks a line up your neck, sucking at the skin just below your pulse point. “No,” he says darkly. “You don’t get to beg unless it’s for forgiveness.”

His words make you ache, desperation building by the second.

“Who,” he repeats, slowly enunciating each word, “did you fuck?”

You blink, tilting your head to the side. “I’m not talking.”

Ashton shrugs, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth. “That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll just have to fuck it out of you.”

Then, without another word, he thrusts in.

You gasp, your back arching as your body adjusts to his size. He’s so warm, so big, filling you like nothing else ever could. His groan reverberates through you, but his eyes never leave yours.

“So fucking tight,” he grits out. “Always taking me so well. Bet nobody fits like I do. Nobody stretches you out like I do.”

He starts moving his hips, delivering delicious thrusts that send shivers racing through your body. Your toes curl against the floor, cheek pressed to the counter.

His hands grip your waist, tight enough to bruise as he picks up the pace. Your body jolts with every drag of his cock, your thighs shaking before you can stop it.

“You’re gonna tell me,” he whispers. “You’re gonna tell me, or you don’t come. Simple as that.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you, loud and cruel, cut short by a moan when Ashton hits that perfect spot inside you.

“You’re scared,” you gasp, rocking back into him. “Scared somebody fucked me better than you did. Scared I won’t come running back to Daddy Ash for more.”

His hips snap faster, and you whimper, eyes threatening to roll back. He leans forward, chest pressed to your back, each intoxicating groan spilling hot against your ear.

“You know nobody knows this pussy better than I do,” he says easily. “Maybe I’ll pin you down and remind you what I can do with just my mouth.”

His hand snakes around your torso, slipping between your thighs until he finds your clit. He rubs steady, firm circles in time with each devastating thrust, and before you know it, your moans are filling the apartment.

“So fucking wet for me,” he groans. “Squeezing me like that— fuck, you’re so greedy, Y/N. You expect me to believe you get like this for anyone else?”

Ashton pulls back until only the tip of his cock remains inside you, then slams back in relentlessly. Heat floods your veins, your stomach tightening. Your hands reach out helplessly, searching for anything to anchor you to reality.

“Fuck,” you whine. “That feels so good— don’t stop.”

“Ah, there she is,” Ashton grins, biting your earlobe. “Needy as always, dripping down my cock. My messy little thing. Mine.”

His fingers speed up, and you’re teetering on the edge before you can even process it. Ashton grips your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes over your shoulder.

“Who was it?” he repeats. “Tell me, and you come.”

You writhe against him, grinding your hips back. “Can’t— can’t remember,” you smirk, barely forcing the words past your moans. “Gonna have to check the list.”

Ashton groans, then stills his hand on your clit.

“Fine,” he grits out. “You wanna act dumb? I’ll fuck you dumb.”

He pulls out of you completely, leaving you empty, clenching around nothing. Your mind is a mess of pleasure and him. Ashton and his rough hands, his deep hazel eyes, the intoxicating dimples that could get him out of anything.

Your heart stutters.

Ashton spins you around, lifting you until you’re back on the counter. Your legs spread involuntarily, already aching to have him again.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs, his pinky sliding through your folds, light enough to feel but nowhere near steady enough to sate the hunger inside you. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever fucking seen. I could have my mouth on it all day.”

You shiver as he leans forward. For a moment, you think he’s going to do just that, eat you out until you’re crying, but then he spits directly onto your clit.

“Shit,” you gasp.

Ashton pulls back, eyes dark. “Who was it?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you reach down between your thighs, spreading yourself open for him. “Thought you were gonna make me beg for it?”

He slaps your pussy, a sharp smack that makes your thighs tremble. “Oh, baby,” he shakes his head. “I’m gonna make you cry about it.”

Ashton wraps his hand around his cock and runs it through your folds again, letting it catch on your clit. You whimper, watching with rapt attention as he only dips the head in.

It’s just enough of a stretch to feel, and you watch as he slowly presses in a little more before pulling back out. He’s teasing you, driving you insane.

“God, I can feel you sucking me in already,” he mutters. “You want it all, baby? You want all of my cock?”

You bite your lip, whimpering. There’s no point hiding it, so you nod. Words won’t come, but Ashton sees the desperation well enough.

“I should leave you like this,” he growls. “All needy, begging to be stuffed full of me. You gonna talk now?”

You clench around him deliberately, smug. His breath hitches, and before you can blink, he’s sinking back inside you. Ashton may think he has the upper hand, but at the end of the day, he’s just as desperate for you as you are for him.

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusting forward, his forehead dropping to the crook of your neck. “You’re so fucking bratty.”

You arch, hooking your leg to pull him closer. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, blending with the growing cacophony of moans.

His hand finds your clit again, picking up right where he left off, circling until your eyes roll back and soft sounds spill from your lips.

“Who was it?” he repeats, jealousy dripping from his voice now, no longer bothering to hide it. “Why do you always do this?”

You freeze for half a second, but you don’t linger on the words. Your orgasm is already building, so intense that the edges of your vision begin to go dark.

“Y/N,” he moans, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. You cry out, hands gripping his biceps until your nails bite into his skin. He doesn’t let go.

“I’m close,” you sob. “Please don’t stop, Ash. Don’t fucking stop.”

He pistons his hips into yours, driving so hard you slide up the counter with each thrust. His hands hold your thighs open, and you can see perfectly where he slides in and out of you, your slick clinging to his length.

“Did you fuck him?” he grunts. “Did you fuck Luke?”

You’re smiling, grinning ear to ear, watching his composure fracture the second Luke’s name leaves his mouth. Fear shines bright in his eyes, even as he keeps fucking you with feverish intensity.

A sick kind of satisfaction unfurls in your stomach. “That would hurt you, wouldn’t it?” you whisper, leaning forward to grab his face, pulling his lips down to yours.

He kisses you angrily, but his mouth moves with hunger. You moan into him, and with one final thrust, stars burst across your vision.

You come with a cry, riding out waves of pleasure that shake your body, unraveling you from the inside out. Your eyes squeeze shut, and all you feel is the weight of Ashton against you.

He’s panting, moaning, hips growing sloppy with every thrust. He’s close. You know it.

“Admit it, Ash,” you whisper. “Admit you love me.”

He pulls away, his cock slipping free easily. His hand wraps around himself, jerking over the edge with the most intoxicating little whimpers.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he cries, spilling across your stomach, the sound rumbling low in his throat. White ribbons cling to your skin, painting you with the evidence of his desire.

You’re both panting, bodies still pressed together as the sweat on your skin slowly begins to cool.

You reach out, grabbing a paper towel and wiping the mess from your stomach. It’s a lot, enough to make you feel smug.

“Did you fuck him?” Ashton repeats, his voice hoarse from all the moaning. The fight he carried earlier is gone, replaced with something smaller, more dangerous, enough to make you stop in your tracks.

He cares. He really does fucking care.

“Do you love me?” you snap back, sliding off the counter. When your feet hit the floor, you lose your balance, catching yourself on the edge of the marble.

Ashton doesn’t move to help. He looks frozen in place. “Don’t start,” he warns.

Then you see red.

You snatch the robe off the floor, sliding it over your arms and wrapping it tight around your waist. “Fuck you,” you shout. “It’s always the same bullshit with you. Why does it cost you so much just to be honest?”

“You’re not answering the one question I’m asking,” he snaps back, jaw clenched. “You always play these fucking games with me, but you still expect me to be transparent.”

You choke out a laugh, disbelieving and heartbroken. “God, why do you always do this to me?” you say breathlessly, pressing a hand to your forehead in a desperate attempt to ward off the headache building there.

“I love you!” You pivot on your heel, eyes blazing. “You know I do, but you always push me away. What’s stopping you now, Ashton? When are you finally gonna stop lying to yourself?”

He shakes his head, not listening. You can tell. His eyes are wide, his mind probably spiraling with a thousand questions. You know him too well.

“Did you fuck him?” he roars. “That’s all I want to know, but you can’t even look me in the eye long enough to tell me.”

Your mouth snaps shut. The memory of that night is still fresh. The intense blue eyes. The desperation barely hidden in his voice.

For one night, you actually felt wanted.

For one night, Ashton wasn’t on your mind. It was Luke. 

For one night, Ashton wasn’t on your mind. It was Luke.

“No,” you lie, keeping your voice steady. “I did not.”

Ashton looks at you in silence, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Your heart pounds dangerously fast in your chest, and you don’t even know what you’re hoping for.

An end to the cycle, maybe.

“I gotta go,” he mutters, running a hand through his dark curls before turning toward the door.

You stay rooted to the floor, watching him walk away in a familiar dance you’ve grown sick of. It’s always the same. And God, the pain never stops.

“You coward!” you scream. “You’re gonna regret ever walking away, Ashton Irwin. I’ll make sure of it. You’re gonna hate ever having met me.”

—

Ashton grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other rubbing at his jaw. There’s a tension he can’t seem to shake, a hovering thought he’d been sure an answer would be enough to quiet.

But now he has it. He got what he wanted, so why can’t he quell the nagging feeling that there’s still more?

Nights in Los Angeles are usually loud, but tonight the roads are empty. Everyone seems holed up in their homes, hidden away with their lovers as another day comes to an end.

All Ashton has waiting for him is a cold apartment and a few drinks.

He doesn’t know why he can’t bring himself to say it, why he can’t give you what you really want. There’s no explanation, if he’s being honest. Nothing that excuses the way his throat tightens whenever he tries to untangle the mess in his head.

He sighs, coming to a stop at a red light. He has no real reason to believe Luke would ever betray him like that. Suddenly, the paranoia that’s been circling his mind feels like a stupid overreaction.

Luke probably forgot to text him. Maybe he got too caught up in the drama that dealing with you usually brings. Ashton can’t exactly blame him. Your feelings can get… overwhelming.

I love you.

Ashton exhales, continuing his lonely drive home.

His phone buzzes in the cup holder, cutting through the suffocating silence. He almost ignores it, but then he catches your name out of the corner of his eye.

He picks up the phone, squinting at the screen.

Y/N — 11:20 PM

Message sent with invisible ink.

He’s still driving, but he’s never been a careful person. Unlocking the phone, he taps the notification.

Oops.

That’s all it says. Three images are attached.

Ashton taps the first one.

The knife drives deeper into Ashton’s chest as he realizes that he is, after all, a fucking idiot.

You’re sitting on top of someone, legs spread, the proof of your betrayal unmistakable. White slipping out of you. A hand spreading you open.

Luke’s hand. Ashton would recognize those tattoos anywhere. The Nirvana smiley face. The chipped red polish on his nails.

His ears ring, and he nearly swerves off the road. His hand shakes violently as he swipes through the other photos, one by one.

Next is your face. That beautiful fucking face Ashton has fallen asleep imagining, now painted with Luke’s come. It’s filthy, the look in your eyes. Wide. Intoxicating. Staring up at his best fucking friend.

Ashton barely manages to pull over, chest tightening as he gasps for air, ears still ringing. The betrayal cuts so deep he can barely think, barely see past the third photo.

You again. Your chest. Luke’s hands greedy on your breasts. His face nuzzled into your neck, that small, dopey smile Ashton wants to rip clean off with his bare hands.

He doesn’t think before dialing your number, breath coming in ragged pulls.

When you answer, there’s silence. Just for a moment.

“You lied,” Ashton croaks. “You fucking lied.”

You hum. “Now you decide to care?” you sneer. “Now that you’ve seen your best friend was inside me. Filled me up all fucking night.”

A beat.

“Guess what, Ashton?” you add softly. “He gave a shit.”

Words fail him for what feels like an eternity, his throat closing every time he opens his mouth, over and over again, but nothing could ever come close to describing the pain of this betrayal.

His fucking brother. And the person he’s in love with.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spits, heart hammering so hard against his ribs he swears it’s about to rip clean through his chest. “What the fuck is genuinely wrong with your head, you fucking psycho?”

Your breath hitches. “How dare you call me that,” you snap. “How dare you even get mad at me. You know exactly why I did this.”

A choked sound tears out of him, not quite a sob, not quite a scream, but ugly and raw all the same. The realization settles in, heavy and suffocating.

“Fuck,” he whispers helplessly. “You let me go down on you. You sick fuck, you had me over the next morning. You did it on purpose.”

You stay silent, and that only fuels him.

“You wanted me to love you, Y/N?” he snarls. “You think I’m ever gonna feel anything for you other than hatred?”

Ashton squeezes his eyes shut. They burn as tears well despite his efforts to stop them. He sees Luke. The gentle smiles. Every hour spent holding his hand in a hospital room. Every visit to rehab. Every excuse he ever made for him.

All of it was in vain. Every fucking bit of it.

A voice echoes in the back of his mind, one he knows too well, one of the many casualties of Luke’s selfishness.

I hope he doesn’t fuck you over again. That he gets over himself. That maybe one day he’ll do half the shit for you that you do for him.

“You want an answer?” he gasps, a wet chuckle tumbling out of him. “I loved you. I really fucking loved you. I was trying to figure it out. Trying to figure out how to let myself love again. But you just couldn’t wait, could you?”

Anger. That’s all he feels.

Hot tears stream down his face, and he stubbornly wipes them away with the back of his hand. You used him. You used Luke. And he was stupid enough to fall for it.

Painfully fucking stupid. But Ashton can’t say much about that. He fell for you first. He fell for you knowing. He always fucking knew.

“You’re so fucked up for this,” he shakes his head, like maybe he can dislodge the anger, like maybe he can ignore the way his heart feels like it’s being pierced by a million daggers. “You know this is revenge porn, right? God. Do you even know if he was sober?”

“Fuck you,” you spit, your voice wavering for the first time. “You can’t just cling to the moral high ground with your fucking teeth. You used me, Ashton. Used me to bury your heartbreaks, your shame, your own fucking trauma. I love Luke. I would never—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Ashton sobs. “Shut the fuck up. You’re selfish, you’re fucked in the goddamn head, and I never want to see you again.”

Your breath hitches, a sob filling the silence. “Ashton,” you gasp. “Wait, just—”

“I don’t want to hear you,” he snaps. “I don’t want to hear whatever shitty excuse you’re gonna come up with. You’re fucking evil, Y/N. I hate you.”

His throat tightens, but he can’t stop. “You— you fucked him,” he stutters. “You fucked him and you lied to my face about it. Then you sent me pictures like it was some kind of goddamn joke. Like you don’t already know I was on my knees for you.”

You’re crying. That much is clear. Your voice trembles when you speak. “You fucked so many people,” you argue weakly. “And I just let it happen.”

“Not recently,” Ashton hisses. “God. Not for months. Not when you were all I thought about.”

He’s shaking, streetlights blurring as he stares at them, like maybe they’ll make everything disappear. Like maybe, if he wishes hard enough, he can erase the entire night from existence.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he whispers, his voice breaking despite his best efforts. “I’m such a fucking idiot. Oh my god.”

“Ashton—”

He shakes his head, even though he knows you can’t see him. Bile crawls up his throat, and the longer he listens to you, the more his chest burns.

Ashton hangs up without hesitation, cutting you off mid-sentence. He barely manages to get his car door open before he’s leaning out and emptying his stomach onto the street.

He retches again, throwing up nothing but bile, and still it’s the least painful thing happening to him. He slumps back against the seat, breathing hard.

Cars pass by, every single one oblivious to the state of his mind, to the way his body shakes with sobs he can barely keep contained.

With unsteady hands, Ashton closes the door and grips the steering wheel. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But he’s pulling back onto the road before he can talk himself out of it.

He knows Luke’s address by heart. Every light on his street. Every crack in the pavement. He could get there blindfolded.

Or heartbroken. Eyesight wrecked by tears.

His phone buzzes beside him. Again. And again. And again. There’s nothing you could say that would fix this. Nothing that could ever make it better.

All that’s left is to look into the eyes of the person Ashton loves most in the world and scream.

God knows he’s going to do a lot more than that. And his heart isn’t ready for the kind of devastation waiting for him inside Luke’s apartment.

Ashton Irwin is a fucking idiot.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

if you love me go read bite the apple on wattpad thanks.