ava

You’ve always had one rule: Never answer a Luke Hemmings text after midnight. All they did was get you into trouble — trouble that you didn’t need to deal with.

A couple years ago, you could’ve blamed it on youth. On the reckless pulse of an adolescent brain chasing a high only he could deliver. Sneaking around with one of the world’s most sought-after frontmen? That was a flex in itself — but that was just the surface. Luke Hemmings was so much more intricate than that.

But that’s exactly why you couldn’t have him. 

You couldn't have him — not really. Being with him was always a race against something: a tour schedule, a press cycle, the dark monologue in his own head telling him he didn't deserve you. It was a vicious rhythm — one minute he needed you like oxygen, the next he couldn't bear the sight of you. 

So you drew a line. Midnight. No exceptions.

Which is why, when your phone buzzed at 1:47 AM, you knew it wasn't some publicist-approved message filtered through three assistants.

Luke: You up

You stared at the ceiling of your apartment for exactly eleven seconds. Rules. That's what you told yourself. You had rules about this now. You were done with that life from years ago. Done being the one people fell back on. Done being the thing Luke Hemmings reached for at 2 AM when the tour bus got too quiet and his thoughts got too loud.

But if you were being honest with yourself?

You were never really good at following rules.

Y/N: depends 

You paused, contemplating turning your phone off and going to bed. But — as always — his text bubbles appeared again, in the same routine they always do: typing for a few seconds, then disappearing, then typing, then disappearing, then the message.

Luke: Depends?

Luke: Depends on what? 

Luke: I know you’re awake.

How could you ever respond to something like that? 

Before you could think of a response, Luke was typing again.

Stopped.

Started again.

Stopped.

The little bubble disappeared for so long you convinced yourself he'd come to his senses.

Luke: Can I ask you something?

Y/N: great opener.

Luke: Is the key still under the mat?

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard like it was wired to a bomb.

“Is the key still under the mat?”

You wanted to lie. You wanted to type no so fast your screen cracked. But the key was still there. Had been for years, through two different leases, through a dozen nights you told yourself you'd finally move it. You never did. Some habits weren't habits at all.

Y/N: that's a dangerous question to ask at 1 AM.

Luke: It's 1:49.

Luke: You’re stalling.

Luke: It's still there.

You bit the inside of your cheek. God, you hated how well he knew you. Hated how nine years and a thousand miles hadn't dulled that particular knife.

Y/N: you're in a different country, last time I checked.

Luke: Who said I was in a different country?

Your stomach dropped.

You sat up straighter in bed, suddenly hyperaware of the window — the way the city lights bled through the blinds, the way every shadow outside seemed a little too long, a little too deliberate.

You told yourself you were being paranoid. Luke Hemmings didn't just show up anymore. Maybe he would’ve years ago. But now? He had schedules, obligations, and a life that didn't include sneaking through your building at nearly 2 AM. Not now, anyways.

But then again, he'd always done the thing he wasn't supposed to do.

Y/N: luke.

Y/N: where are you?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Then disappeared. You could picture him perfectly — his crystal eyes scanning his phone with a quiet determination, chewing the inside of his lip the way he did when he was trying to decide how much truth to spill.

Luke: Outside.

Luke: Not your door. 

Luke: Down the street.

Luke: I don't know why I came here. 

Luke: That's a lie.

You exhaled slowly. Outside. He was outside. Not on your doorstep — not yet — but close enough that the air between you had suddenly shrunk to nothing.

Y/N: what do you want, Luke?

You typed it before you could stop yourself. Blunt. Borderline cruel. But you needed to hear him say it, needed to make him put the words in the open where you could examine them, dissect them, decide if they were the same old nonsense or something that actually meant something this time.

The typing started. Stopped. Started. Stopped.

Luke: I want to know if that key works.

Luke: I want to know if you'd let me use it.

Luke: I want to know if you're still the person who used to leave the porch light on for me.

Luke: And I want to know if you hate me for asking that.

Your throat tightened. The porch light. You'd forgotten you used to do that — a small, stupid ritual that you'd never admitted out loud. He'd noticed. Of course he'd noticed. 

Luke noticed everything except the bright red exit signs.

You stared at your ceiling again. Eleven seconds turned into thirty. Turned into a minute.

You were never good at rules.

Y/N: the porch light's been broken for two years.

A pause. You could feel his disappointment through the screen, even before he replied.

Luke: Oh.

Y/N: but the key still fits.

You watched the screen. Watched the three dots appear, disappear, appear again, disappear again. 

Luke: Can I come see you?

Luke: Just for a minute.

Luke: I swear I'm not here to mess with your head.

Luke: Okay maybe a little.

Luke: But not the way I used to.

You laughed despite yourself. Same Luke. Same infuriating, self-aware, absolutely devastating Luke.

Y/N: you have five minutes.

Y/N: and if you wake my neighbors, I'm telling them you're a burglar.

Luke: I'd make a very attractive burglar.

Y/N: five minutes start now.

Luke: I'm running.

Y/N: oh god.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Just two minutes passed before you heard footsteps at your front door.

The lock turned slowly, like whoever was on the other side was giving you one last chance to stop them.

You thought about it. You had zero obligation to that door. You had zero obligation to the man on the other side. You didn't wait hand and foot for Luke Hemmings, running towards his every beck and call.  

But something inside you pulled you towards that door.

It opened six inches before it caught on the pile of shoes you'd forgotten to move.

"Still can't keep an entryway clear," Luke said quietly.

And there he was.

It had been six years since you'd seen him in person — nearly seven since you'd touched him with any intention. 

The man that opened the door wasn’t the Luke Hemmings you’d grown up with. He looked different. Older. The baby fat that had clung to his cheeks in his early twenties was gone, replaced by sharper angles and a jaw that looked like it could cut glass. His hair was now a deep black, a stark difference from his usual bleach blonde you'd grown used to over the years. 

He looked expensive. He was wearing a designer leather jacket over a thin t-shirt, accessorized with Gucci sunglasses, high-heeled boots, a watch that had to have cost more than your rent, and an ostentatious amount of silver chains. The whole get-up was inappropriate for both the weather and time of day, but then again, Luke Hemmings had never been particularly good at dressing for anything other than the aesthetic.

But somehow, under all the glamour he was exuding, he looked absolutely exhausted. 

"You look like shit," you said.

It wasn't true. He looked devastatingly beautiful. But you couldn't admit that, and you needed to say something to break the spell of just standing there — staring into his ever-eluring blue eyes.

Luke's mouth quirked — that half-smile that had ruined you more times than you could count. "That's all you could come up with? It's been half a decade and you still can't conjure up a comeback."

"I'm just surprised you remember how to use a key. Tour buses don't really need those."

The half-smile flickered. Just for a second. But you caught it — caught the way his eyes dropped to the floor, the way his hand came up to rub the back of his neck.

"Can I come in?" he asked. "Or are you gonna make me stand out here and have this conversation with your welcome mat?"

You stepped away from the door, kicking your shoes towards the corner. Not because you wanted to. You knew you'd regret it either way, and at least this way you could control the narrative. At least this way he was in your space, on your terms.

Luke stepped past you, close enough that you caught the familiar scent of him — cigarette smoke and something darker, something that had always smelled like trouble. The smell clung to his jacket like a second skin. He paused, looking around like he was cataloging every change.

"New couch," he observed.

"The old one broke."

Luke turned to face you fully, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled too thin — one wrong move and it would snap.

His hand drifted to his jacket pocket, patting it absently. A nervous habit you remembered too well.

"I need a cigarette," he said abruptly, already pulling a crumpled pack from his pocket.

"Camel?" you asked, your voice carefully neutral.

"Obviously." He shook one out, pausing to look at you. "You're not going to lecture me?"

"What's the point?" You pushed off the wall and walked toward the back of the apartment. "You never listened before."

The back porch was small — barely big enough for two chairs and a dying plant you kept meaning to water. The city sprawled out below, lights flickering in the early morning haze. Luke followed you out, already lighting the cigarette before he even sat down.

"You quit, didn't you?" he asked, exhaling smoke into the night air. "Seven years ago."

"Six," you corrected, sitting down beside him. "And I’m still clean. Unlike some people."

"Good for you." He took another drag, and you watched the way his fingers curled around the filter — the same way they always had, even when you were teenagers sneaking cigarettes behind the band’s tour bus. "One of us had to grow up."

He offered you the cigarette. An old ritual, one he'd never quite stopped performing.

"I don't—" You paused. It would be so easy. One drag. One moment of weakness. "I quit, Luke. I'm not starting again because you showed up."

Luke's mouth curved into that half-smile again. "Come on. One won't kill you."

You hated that he knew exactly what to say. Hated that your hand was already reaching out before your brain caught up.

Your fingers brushed his as you took the cigarette — deliberately, you knew. Luke Hemmings didn't do anything accidentally. The touch was light, fleeting, but it sent a shiver down your spine that you couldn't blame on the cold.

You brought the cigarette to your lips, inhaling, and the familiar burn hit your lungs like a betrayal. You coughed once, then again.

"Smooth," he said, watching you with something between amusement and satisfaction.

"Shut up." You handed it back to him, though your fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary. "Since when do you smoke this much?"

"Since the last album cycle." He took it back, inhaling slowly, letting the smoke out in a long, careful stream. "It's a problem."

"Everything is a problem with you."

He laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of him. "Fuck. You haven't changed at all, have you?"

"Neither have you." You watched the ember glow in the dark. "You're still showing up at my door at 2 AM asking questions you already know the answers to."

Luke was quiet for a long moment. The cigarette dangled between his fingers, forgotten.

"I didn't know where else to go," he said finally. "That's not — I mean it. I was on tour, and I was in this hotel room, and I couldn't breathe. I kept thinking about—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I don't know. I just got in a car."

He lifted the cigarette to his lips again, and the gesture was so familiar it ached — the way his eyes half-closed, the way his shoulders dropped just slightly as the nicotine hit. Seven years since you'd watched him do that, and nothing had changed.

Nothing except you. You'd quit. You'd moved on. You'd built a life that didn't revolve around Luke Hemmings and his emergency packs and his 2 AM confessions.

And now here you were, sharing a cigarette with him on your back porch like no time had passed at all.

"You should quit," you said quietly.

"I know." He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a second the exhaustion on his face was unbearable. "But some habits are harder to break than others." He paused. “Right?”

You scoffed, taking the pack off his bouncing leg and lighting your own. The city hummed below you: distant cars, a siren somewhere in the distance. The sounds of a world that didn't care about the two broken people on a tiny balcony.

"I'm not your therapist, Luke,” you said. "I'm not going to be your emotional support person. I'm not going to—"

"I know."

"—listen to you talk about how hard everything is and then let you disappear for another six years and—"

"I know." His voice was sharp, cutting through your rambling. "I know, okay? I'm not asking you to fix me."

"Then what are you asking?"

Luke stubbed out his cigarette on the railing, flicking it off the balcony. He turned to look at you, and in the dim light of the city, his eyes looked almost black.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I just…I needed to see you. I needed to remember you were real. That you still existed, that you didn't just—" He gestured vaguely. "Disappear."

"I'm not the one who disappears, Luke. That’s you."

"Okay." He nodded, accepting the blow. "Okay, fair. I did. I do. I'm not good at staying."

"You're good at running."

"You're good at pretending you don't care."

The words hit harder than you expected. You turned away, staring out at the city, the cigarette burning between your fingers.

"I never pretended," you said quietly. "I just got tired of being the one who cares more."

Luke moved. You felt it before you saw it: the shift in the air, the way he leaned closer, his presence overwhelming in such a small space. His hand came up, and you flinched — but he didn't touch you. He just took the cigarette from your fingers and stubbed it out beside his own.

"You're shaking," he observed.

"It's cold."

"It's seventy degrees."

You didn't respond. Because he was right — you weren't cold. You were something else entirely. Something that had been dormant for two years, waking up the moment you saw his face in your doorway.

"Why do you always come here?" You asked as you rose from the chair, crossing your arms tight against your chest in an attempt to make yourself smaller – a habit you’ve had forever.

Luke blinked. He looked genuinely confused, like the question didn't compute.

"You have friends. You have your band. You have a family. You have god knows how many therapists–”

“I have two.”

You scoffed. "You have so many people who would drop everything for you. So why do you always come here?"

Luke stared at you. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

"Because you always answer," he said finally.

Not an “I love you” or an “I miss you.”

You always answer.

Something cracked in your chest. You wanted to argue, wanted to point out that you'd been trying to not answer, that you'd been trying to build a life that didn't revolve around him, that you'd almost succeeded—

But you were here. On the porch at 2 AM. Smoking cigarettes you'd quit six years ago. Letting him in.

"I hate you," you said quietly.

"I know."

"I mean it. I hate you. I hate that you can just show up and I let you. I hate that I still have the key under the mat. I hate that I fixed that stupid porch light after it broke six fucking years ago, just in case you came back."

Luke's expression flickered — something raw and vulnerable breaking through the carefully constructed walls.

"The porch light," he said slowly. "You said it was broken."

"I lied."

"Why?"

"I don't know." You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Because I wanted you to think I'd moved on. Because I wanted to prove something. Because I'm an idiot who can't let go of you no matter how hard I try."

Luke crossed the space between you in two steps. His hands came up to cup your face, and you let him. You let him tilt your head up, let him look at you with that expression that always made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

"You're not an idiot," he said. "I'm the idiot. I'm the one who keeps leaving and then coming back. I'm the one who can't figure out how to stay. But you—" He swallowed hard. "You're the only thing that makes sense."

"That's not true," you mumbled, looking away from Luke and into the cityscape.

"It is." His thumb traced your cheekbone. "It's always been true. I just didn't know how to handle it."

"Luke…"

"Can I kiss you?"

The question hung between you. He was asking — actually asking. It threw you off balance.

"Why are you asking?" you managed.

"Consent,” he laughed, earning a soft smirk from you. “No, seriously. I'm trying to be better." His voice was rough. "I don't want you to think I'm just here to use you. Because I—" He stopped and shook his head. "Just tell me. Yes or no."

You should have said no.

You should have pushed him away, gone back inside, locked the door, moved the key, changed your number, done any of the things you'd been telling yourself you would do for the last six years.

But you were never good at rules.

"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, fuck, okay, yes."

And then he was kissing you.

It wasn't soft like you’d remembered. It was desperate — six years of absence poured into the way his mouth moved against yours, the way his hands tangled in your hair, the way he pulled you so close you couldn't tell where you ended and he began.

You kissed him back with equal ferocity, your nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer even as you told yourself to push him away. He tasted like cigarette smoke and something sweeter underneath, and you remembered how he kissed like he was trying to memorize every part of you.

"I missed you," he breathed against your mouth. "God, I missed you so much."

"Don't." You pulled back, gasping. "Don't say that. Don't make this—"

"Make it what?"

"Real. Don't make it real. You're going to leave anyway. You're always going to leave."

Luke's eyes — those sad, blue eyes that had always been your achilles heel — softened. "I'm right here."

"You’re a bad idea, Hemmings."

"I’m a good time, Y/L/N."

You shook your head, but you didn't pull away. His hands were still in your hair, and you were still pressed against him, and every logical thought in your head was being drowned out by the feel of him.

"You're going to leave," you repeated. "You're going to leave, and I'm going to be here, and I'm going to spend the next six years trying to forget you again."

"Then let's not think about that," he said. "Let's just have tonight."

"That's the same thing you’d always said."

"Because it's the only thing I know how to say." He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed. "I'm not good at this. I'm not good at relationships, or staying, or being what you need. But I'm here. Right now. And I want—"

He stopped. Swallowed.

"What?" you prompted. "What do you want?"

Luke opened his eyes. "I want you to tell me to stay."

It was the most honest thing he'd ever said.

“Fine. Stay,” you mumbled, gripping his jacket with full force.

You kissed him again — harder this time, more demanding. You pulled him inside, away from the porch and into the dim light of your apartment. The kiss didn't break until you reached the kitchen, and when it did, it was only because you needed to breathe.

“Fuck, Hemmings,” you groaned into his lips as he lifted you onto the countertop. Your wine glass from earlier tipped over, shattering on the floor. Neither of you stopped to clean it up. Neither of you stopped at all.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed against your neck. "Tell me to stop and I will."

But you didn’t. You pulled him closer by the roots of his hair, and the sound he makes is almost wounded.

"You want to know why I keep coming back?" he asked, pulling away just enough to meet your eyes. "Because no one else makes me feel like this. No one else makes me feel like I'm burning alive. You make me want to self-destruct in the most beautiful way."

"You're such a fucking poet."

"I mean it."

"So do I." You yanked him back in. "Shut up and kiss me."

The kitchen was too bright. He pushed you toward the hallway, through the living room, and into the bedroom. He pressed you into the mattress, and for a moment he just looked at you. Disheveled. Flushed. His thumb traced the line of your jaw.

"Look what you do to me," he murmured. "Look at what you make me."

"Luke—"

He kissed you like he's trying to prove something—maybe to you, maybe to himself. You kissed him back the same way. It was the kind of kiss you'd be embarrassed about if anyone else were watching.

"I've thought about this," he said between kisses. "Every night. I've thought about what you sound like, the noises you make…"

"Then you should—" You gasped as his teeth grazed your collarbone. "You should know what to do."

"Oh, I know exactly what to do."

His hands found your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. He guided you backward until your ass hit the bed, and then he was on top of you, covering your body with his.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he said. "I forgot how beautiful you are."

"You're lying."

"I never lie to you." His mouth found yours again, and the kiss was messy, all teeth and tongue and barely contained hunger. "I hold things back. I disappear. But I never lie."

When he pulled your shirt off, he tossed it somewhere across the room. Your bra followed. He was still fully dressed, and the power imbalance made you feel exposed.

"Tell me," he said, his lips at your ear, "tell me how much you hate this."

"I hate you."

"Tell me."

"I hate how you do this. I…I hate how you show up and ruin everything and I still—" you gasped as his mouth found your collarbone, "—I still let you."

The sound you made was a half-groan, half-sob — caught somewhere between pleasure and the sheer humiliation of wanting him this badly. His teeth grazed your collarbone, and you arched into him like a reflex you never unlearned.

"That's it," he murmured against your skin. "That's my girl. Always so fucking honest when you're falling apart.

"Look at you," he said, and there's something almost reverent in his voice, even as the words turn cruel. "Six years and you still spread your legs the second I show up. Pathetic."

You should push him off. You should slap him. Instead, your hips roll up against his thigh, and you hate yourself for it.

"Say it," he demanded, one hand sliding up to grip your jaw, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Say you're pathetic. Say you've been waiting for this."

"Fuck you."

"Wrong answer." He released your jaw and sat back just enough to pull his shirt off in one fluid motion. The leather jacket hit the floor; his chains clinked against each other as they settled across his bare chest. He's all lean muscle, sharp lines and tattoos you've never seen before.

"Like what you see?"

"Don't flatter yourself,” you scoffed.

"Too late." He leaned back down, his mouth hovering over yours, not quite kissing. "I've been flattering myself since the day I met you. You know why? Because you let me. You always let me."

His hand slid down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans. He didn’t pull them off. Just toyed with the button, tracing the edge of it like he had all the time in the world.

"Tell me you want it," he said. "Tell me you want me to ruin you."

"I want you to shut up."

He laughed snarkily before yanking your jeans down your hips so fast you barely had time to gasp. They caught on your ankles, and he didn’t bother to untangle them. He just pressed his knee between your thighs, spreading you open, and the rough denim of his jeans dragged against the thin cotton of your underwear.

"Jesus," you breathed.

"Not quite." His hand cupped you through the fabric, and your hips buck up against his palm. "But you can call me whatever you want if you say it right."

"Luke—"

"That's not what I want to hear." He pressed down harder, the friction maddening. "Try again."

You shaked your head, teeth clenched. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Wouldn’t let him win.

But then his fingers hooked into your underwear and pulled them aside. His ringed thumb found you exactly where you needed him most, and every coherent thought dissolved into static.

"There she is," he murmured, watching your face. "There's my girl."

His thumb circled you slowly, deliberately, and you were already embarrassingly close — six years of nothing and suddenly, your body didn’t care about pride or rules or any of the walls you built.

He laughed low and dark, pulling back just enough to look at you. "You're so desperate. You've been desperate since I walked in the door. I could smell it on you."

"Luke—"

"I could smell how much you wanted me. How much you needed this. You've probably been touching yourself thinking about me, haven't you? Imagining this."

"No."

"Liar."

"I—" You couldn’t even finish the denial before he pressed his palm against you, feeling how wet you already were.

"Pathetic," he said, but there's no cruelty in it. Just heat. Just hunger. "You're soaking through your panties, and you're going to tell me you haven't thought about this?"

"I thought about it," you admitted, barely a whisper. "I thought about it all the time."

"That's my girl." His fingers hooked into the waistband. "Tell me what you thought about."

You swallowed hard. "I thought about you—"

"Specifically."

"I thought about you fucking me from behind. I thought about you pulling my hair. I thought about you—" You stopped, embarrassed by your own honesty.

He stopped too, hand still resting on your hip. "What?"

"You."

His eyes darkened. "What about me?"

"I thought about you saying my name like you meant it. Like I was the only person in the world."

Something flickered across his face — too fast to name. Then it was gone.

"That's sweet," he said, but his voice was rougher now. "Sweet and pathetic and so fucking hot." Luke pulls off your panties before letting his fingers slide inside you. "You want me to say your name? You want me to remember who I'm fucking?"

"Luke—" You gasped.

"Because I'll remember." He curls his fingers, finds the spot that makes you see stars. "I'll remember every sound you make. I'll remember how you feel. I'll remember that you came on my fingers before I even took my pants off."

You arch into his hand, chasing more, and he watches you with something like satisfaction.

"You know what I thought about?" he asks, adding another finger. "I thought about you on your knees. I thought about you begging."

"Luke—"

"I thought about you telling me you needed me. About you admitting that no one else makes you feel this way." He's pumping his fingers faster now, and you can hear how wet you are, and you'd be embarrassed if you had the capacity for embarrassment right now. "And I thought about how good it would feel to make you come so hard you can't speak."

He doesn't give you time to respond. He slid out of his jeans and pushed into you in one sharp thrust, and the breath leaves your lungs in a broken sound. He's not gentle—not like he used to be—and you feel every inch of him, every place where you're stretched to accommodate him.

"Fuck," he groans, head dropping forward. "Fuck, I forgot how good you feel. I forgot how perfect you are."

He doesn't move for a long moment. Just stays there, buried inside you, letting you feel the weight of him. Then he pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, and your vision goes white.

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes—"

"That's right." He sets a brutal pace, each thrust punishing, each one driving you higher. "Take it. Take all of it. You were made for this. Made for me."

His hand finds your hair, tangling in it, yanking your head back. You can't see anything but the ceiling, can't think about anything but the way he's moving inside you.

"Look at me," he demanded. "Look at me when I fuck you."

You force your eyes open, and his gazewaswild—hungry and desperate and something else, something almost scared.

"God," he breathes. "I hate how much I need this. I hate how much I need you."

"Luke—"

"Shut up." He slaps your thigh, hard enough to sting. "Shut up and take it."

He pulls out, flips you onto your stomach, and pushes back in before you can catch your breath. The angle was deeper, harder, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle the sounds you made.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair again, pulling your head up, and the sting of it sent sparks through your entire body.

"Don't hide from me," he growled. "I want to hear you. I want to hear what I do to you."

So you stopped hiding. You let him hear everything — every moan, every broken plea, every time you said his name like it's the only word you remember.

His hand came down on your ass, sharp and sudden. Then again. Then again.

"You like that?" His voice was rough and absolutely wrecked. "You like being treated like this? Like you're fucking nothing?"

"Fuck—yes—"

"Of course you do." He spat on your back — right between your shoulder blades — and the wet heat of it made you shiver. "You're dirty. You're so fucking dirty for me."

He pounded into you harder, faster, and you felt the orgasm building again, coiling low in your belly.

"Please," you begged. "Please let me—"

"Not yet." His grip on your hair tightened. "You don't cum until I tell you."

"I can't—I can't hold it—"

"Yes you can." He slowed down, just slightly, just enough to keep you teetering on the edge. "You can do it. You're so good at doing what I say."

You whimpered into the pillow, and he laughed — dark and pleased.

"Look at you. So desperate. So pathetic. You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"Anything," you admitted, and the confession tastes like ash.

"I know." He sped up again, slamming into you with renewed force. "I know. That's why I keep coming back. Because no one else would let me do this. No one else would let me ruin them and still say please."

His hand slid around to your throat, pressing just enough to cut off your air. Not enough to hurt — just enough to remind you who was in control.

"Tell me you love it," he said. "Tell me you love being used."

"I love it," you choked out. "I love it, I love it—"

"Tell me you love me."

The words hit like a slap. You couldn’t breathe — not from his hand, but from the weight of the question.

"Tell me," he demanded, voice cracking. "Tell me you love me. Even though I don't deserve it. Even though I always leave."

"I love you." The tears came then — silent, hot, running down your face into the pillow. "I love you, Luke. I never stopped."

He made a sound — broken, almost a sob — and he pulled you up, pressing your back to his chest, his arm locked around your throat and his other hand gripping your hip. He fucked you like that, deep and slow, and the change in rhythm made you dizzy.

"I love you too," he whispered against your ear. "I love you and I can't stop coming back. I can't stop needing you. You're the only thing that makes sense."

"Cum with me," you gasped. "Please—please cum with me."

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

He counted down, and on three, you fell apart together — your body shuddering, his grip bruising, both of you crying out in the dark. He kept moving through it, dragging out every last wave of pleasure until you were oversensitive and trembling and begging him to stop.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Luke rolled off you, and you felt the absence of him like a physical wound. He lied beside you, staring at the ceiling, chest still heaving. Neither of you spoke.

"Are you okay?" he finally asked, and the question is so absurd you almost laugh.

"Define okay."

He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed, and there was a vulnerability on his face that you knew he never let anyone else see.

"I didn't mean to—" He stopped. Shook his head. "Yes I did. I meant every second of it. But I also—" He swallowed. "I didn't want to hurt you."

"You didn't hurt me." You stared at the ceiling. "You did exactly what I wanted. That's the problem."

"What's the problem?"

You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your chest ache. He looked young again — young and scared and desperate.

"The problem is," you said quietly, "I don't know how to stop wanting this. I don't know how to stop wanting you. Even when I know you're going to leave. Even when I know you don't really want me — you just want someone who makes you feel less alone."

"That's not true."

"It is true." You sat up, pulling the sheet around you. "You told me yourself. 'Because you always answer.' That's not love, Luke. That's convenience."

He sat up too, reaching for you. You flinched away.

"Don't," you said. "Don't touch me. Not right now."

His hand dropped. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how did you mean it?"

"I meant—" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I meant you're the only person who sees me. Who doesn't care about the fame or the money or any of that shit. You see the real me, and you still answer. That's not convenience. That's—"

"What? Love?" You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You don't love me, Luke. You love that I make you feel less broken. But I can't fix you. I never could."

"I'm not asking you to fix me."

"Then what are you asking?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes were glassy, and you realized he was close to tears.

"I don't know," he admitted, throwing his hands up in dramatic fashion. "I don't know what I'm asking. I just know I can't stop thinking about you. I just know every time I'm in a city that's close to yours, I have to physically stop myself from coming here. And tonight I didn't. Tonight I let myself need you."

You closed your eyes. The tears were coming again, and you were so tired of crying over this man. So damn tired.

"Please don't cry," he said softly. "Please. I can't handle you crying."

"Then don't make me cry!"

“I’m not trying to!” Luke whispered-yelled, his voice cracking. “I’m not trying to.”

The words hung between you like smoke, like the ghost of the cigarette you'd shared hours ago. His eyes were wet, and you couldn't look at them anymore — couldn't look at the way they made you want to forgive him for everything, for years of nothing, for showing up like this and expecting you to still be here.

You looked away instead. At the ceiling. At the water stain in the corner you'd been meaning to get fixed. At anything except Luke Hemmings, who was breaking you open again with nothing more than the truth.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," he said, voice raw. "That's the last thing I'd ever want to do."

"And yet here we are." You pulled the sheet tighter, wrapping yourself in it like armor. "Here we are. Again."

"I know." He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. "I know. I'm — I'm so fucking sorry. For all of it. For leaving. For coming back. For making you feel like this."

"Then stop."

He looked at you then, really looked, and whatever he saw made his face crumple.

"I can't," he whispered. "I've tried. I've tried so hard. I've been with other people. I've done the therapy. I've done the meditation and the journaling and all the shit they tell you to do. But I still—" He broke off, shaking his head. "There's still this part of me that's yours. That's always been yours. And I don't know how to turn it off."

You laughed, but it came out broken. "You think I don't know that feeling? You think I haven't spent six years trying to unlove you?"

"Then why—"

"Why do I keep letting you in?" You turned to face him fully, and the tears were streaming down your face now, hot and shameful. "Because I'm weak. Because you're the only person who's ever made me feel like I wasn't just floating through life. Because when you look at me, I feel seen in a way that terrifies me. Because even knowing how this ends — knowing you'll leave, knowing I'll be the one left behind — I still want you. I still want you so badly it makes me hate myself."

Luke reached for you again, and this time you let him. His hands found your face, thumbs brushing away the tears, and he looked at you like you were something precious, something fragile, something he couldn't bear to break.

"I don't want to leave," he said quietly. "I never wanted to leave. I just — I didn't know how to stay. I didn't know how to be what you deserved."

"Then learn."

The words came out before you could stop them, raw and desperate and so much more honest than you'd intended.

Luke's hands stilled on your face. His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for something — permission, maybe, or a sign that this wasn't a trap.

"What?" he breathed.

"Learn." Your voice cracked. "Stay. Figure it out. I'm not saying it’s easy. I'm not saying I'll trust you right away. Honestly, I don't know if I'll ever trust you again. But I'm tired of being the one who cares more. I'm tired of being the one who's always waiting. If you want this — if you want me — then you have to stay. No more disappearing. No more showing up at 2 AM when it's convenient. You have to be here. All the way here. Or not at all."

Luke stared at you. For a long, agonizing moment, he said nothing. His hands dropped from your face, and you braced yourself for the letdown — for the excuse, the apology, the careful way he'd let you down.

Instead, he reached for his jacket on the floor. You watched him pull something from the pocket, heart sinking. 

He was leaving. Of course he was leaving.

But he didn't stand up. He just sat there, shirtless and wrecked, holding a pack of cigarettes in his trembling hands.

"I threw these out," he said, staring at the pack like it had betrayed him. "In the car. Before I came. I threw them out because I knew you'd quit, and I wanted to—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I don't know. I wanted to be better for you. I wanted to show up and not be the same disaster I always am."

He opened the pack. Inside were the last three cigarettes, crushed and broken.

"I got another pack from the corner store on my way here," he admitted. "I smoked three before I even got to your building. I put on cologne to hide the scent but…" He laughed bitterly. "I still showed up smelling like them. I couldn't even give that up for you."

You watched him, heart pounding. He looked so small suddenly, so human, stripped of all his designer armor and expensive accessories. Just Luke. Just the boy who'd written you songs you never got to hear, who'd left you voicemails in the middle of the night that you never answered, who'd been carrying this weight for years and never knew how to put it down.

"Luke," you said softly.

"I'm trying," he whispered. "I'm trying so hard. I know it doesn't look like it. I know I keep fucking up. But I'm trying. I want to be better. I want to be the person who stays. I just—" He looked at you, eyes crumbled and wet, and you saw the seventeen-year-old boy who'd first kissed you behind a tour bus. The boy who cried in your arms on his eighteenth birthday because he was terrified of what was to come. The boy who sobbed to you at twenty-one years old over his messy breakup, begging you to stay. 

It was ironic.  

"I don't know how,” he cried. “I don't know how to be anything other than this."

You reached out and took the pack from his hands. 

"I can't teach you," you said. "I don't know how to be anything other than the person who lets you in. But maybe—" You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. "Maybe we can figure it out together. If you actually stay."

Luke looked at you like you'd just handed him something he'd been searching for his whole life.

"Really?" he asked, his voice small.

"Really." You took a breath. "But I mean it, Luke. If you leave again — if you disappear for another six years without a word — I'm done. There won't be a key under the mat. The porch light won’t be on. There won't be anything for you to come back to. Do you understand?"

He nodded, slow and solemn. "I understand."

"I'm not going to fix you. I can't fix you. If you need help, you have to get it somewhere else. I can be your partner — maybe, eventually — but I can't be your only lifeline. I almost drowned being that for you once. I can't do it again."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know. I'm not asking you to fix me. I just — I want you to be here while I figure it out. If you can. If you want to."

You stared at him. Six years. Six whole years of convincing yourself you were over him, that you'd moved on, that you didn't still think about him every time you heard his broken voice on the radio. Six years of building walls, and here he was, dismantling them with nothing more than that broken voice.

"I want to," you admitted, and the words felt like letting go of something you'd been holding for too long. "I want to. I'm terrified, and I don't know if this will work, and I don't know if I can ever fully trust you. But I want to try. God help me, I want to try."

Luke moved then, pulling you into his arms so fast you almost fell. He buried his face in your hair, and you felt his shoulders shake.

"Thank you," he whispered against your skin. "Thank you. I won't — I promise I won't waste this. I promise I'll try. I promise."

You held him back, and for a moment, you let yourself believe it. Let yourself believe that this time could be different, that the two of you could somehow figure out how to be something other than a disaster waiting to happen.

It was stupid. It was probably the stupidest thing you'd ever done. But you were never good at rules, and Luke Hemmings had always been your exception to every single one. Maybe that's what loving him had always been: mistaking every broken rule and exit sign as another invitation to keep going.

The next time they were seated together, she inched closer, just enough for her thigh to brush against his. He looked over to find her checking her nails, no sign that she’d felt the contact too. 

When they found themselves in line at a café during a short break, her fingers casually traced the tattoos on his bicep while she went on about coffee beans. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what she was doing and he’d let her have her fun for now. 

By her fifth attempt (her hand had traveled a little too far up his leg under the table at her work dinner), he was hanging on by a thread. Glancing down at her nails tracing over the seams of his jeans, he leaned down close enough so only she could hear, “What are you doing?” 

She smiled up at him, the picture of innocence, tilting her chin up to kiss his cheek, “Nothing.” 

He gawked at her as she gently squeezed his thigh, fingers brushing against the tent in his pants that hadn’t had a chance to slacken since she had started her game. Her hand was a permanent fixture on him for the rest of the night, ignorant to the ache he was enduring.

The drive home had been a nightmare for him. She’d taken down her hair, her palm still finding its way to his thigh. It truly was a miracle he kept the car on the road when she leaned over to kiss his neck. His white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel made her laugh, pursing her lips with a smile when he glared at her from the corner of his eye.

It really was all in good fun. Until they finally made it back to the apartment.

Sighing in relief after taking her heels off, she settles on the edge of the bed. The absolute torture she’d put him through long forgotten as he approaches her.

“What are you doing?” She eyes him warily as he languidly descends to his knees.

“Exactly what you were doing all day,” his eyes never leave hers as he mockingly repeats her words from earlier, “‘Nothing’.” 

“Okay, wait,” a nervous laugh escapes her, “That’s not fair–”

“No?” His hands trail up her thighs, lifting the skirt of her dress. “You seemed to think it was pretty fair to get me hard, and keep me hard, the whole day.” 

“That obviously wasn’t on purpose!” 

He raises his brows, fingers toying with the waistband of her panties.

“Sure, I believe you,” holding back a smile when she visibly relaxes, “I guess this isn’t on purpose either, then.” 

The sound of lace ripping echoes through the room, her jaw dropping in shock. She struggles to piece together words, her eyes flicking between the scraps of her underwear on the floor and his indifferent state – breath already ghosting over her skin. 

“Calum, what the actual f–”

“I’ll get you a dozen more,” his voice is gruff against her, lips trailing kisses all the way up to the apex of her thighs. 

Eyes on her like a hawk, he catches every hitch of her breath, every tense muscle, as he pauses right at her core. She whines when he pulls away, the amused look in his eyes almost making her regret every decision she’s made today. Almost. 

“You were awfully mouthy today,” he murmurs, his fingers moving to loosen her grip on their sheets, “And these beautiful hands were wandering a little too much.” 

She watches as he intertwines their fingers, continuing to speak on her behaviour, “In front of everyone, with absolutely no shame. That’s fucked up, babe.” 

Looking back at his face, she sucks in a sharp breath finding his heated gaze already on her. 

She scoffs, trying to play it cool, “Sorry for trying to have fun.” 

“Oh, you wanna have fun?” The corner of his mouth turns up to the slightest smirk, the dangerous spark in his eyes making her stiffen, “Let’s have fun.” 

He untwines their fingers, one of his hands engulfing both of her wrists to hold them in place. 

“You move, I stop. You mouth back to me, I stop. Understood?” 

“Ye–” She stops herself with an abrupt nod. 

Smiling proudly at how quickly she’s catching on, he kisses her knee before spreading her legs wider. It’s his turn to take his time and he moves slow, his glacial pace already making her restless.

Messing with her was fun. She was too easy to rile up – easier than Calum. 

His touch is featherlight as he works his way up, kisses few and far in between until he’s finally made it back to her core. Laughing lightly when he sees how wet she already is, his breath ghosts over her, sending a chill up her spine. 

Starting with light kisses along the seam of her folds, he hums contentedly at her scent finally invading his senses. His eyes flit up to hers, not wanting to miss a single reaction. Finding her brows furrowed and eyes squeezed shut, he frowns. 

“New rule,” he murmurs, the vibration nearly making her squirm, “Eyes on me. Close them, I stop. Look away, I stop.” 

She opens her eyes, narrowing them as her lips part to retaliate – but she knows better. So she simply nods. 

The way she can feel him smile against her is obscene, but he doesn’t give her too long to think about it. 

His tongue carefully licks up the dribble of arousal, eyes boring into hers as his nose nudges her clit before wrapping his lips around it. He hesitates when her breath hitches, but proceeds with his worship. Drawing slow patterns around the nub, he watches her intently as he starts to suck gently. 

When she gasps and curses under her breath, he pauses momentarily – just to goad her. Grinning when it works and she starts complaining, he pulls back to look up at her. 

“Are you kidding?” She cries breathlessly, eyes wild, “You can’t fault me for making noises! I didn’t even say anything, Calum. You are being so unfair right now–”

He hums with a nod, “Is this not a perfect example of you mouthing back?” Doing nothing to hide his cocky smile once realisation dawns on her face. 

“You’re a dick.” 

“One that you want, and one that you’re going to keep quiet to get.” His grasp on her wrists tightens briefly, “Can you do that for me? Or would you prefer to argue about technicalities?” 

She glares at him. Huffing and pursing her lips shut, urging herself to relax under him again. 

He’s kind enough to pick up where he left off, his lips latching onto her immediately. Forcing her eyes open to see the determined look in his, she bites her cheek to refrain from causing any more interruptions.

The relentless suction of his lips and pressure from his tongue are quick to send her hurtling towards her orgasm. She has half a mind to bite down on her lip to keep her mouth shut in preparation for finally getting what she wants. But when he nips at her clit, any semblance of control leaves her, hips bucking up towards his assault. 

He pulls back immediately, removing all contact. 

The whimper that leaves her is pitiful. In any other circumstance he would feel bad, really. But it’s only fair he gets to have some fun too. 

“Still bored?” He grins, lips glossy from her. 

If looks could kill, Calum would be six feet under. Possibly deeper.

She refuses to speak up this time, hoping it’ll bring his mouth back on her quicker. Adjusting his fingers to the pulse point of her wrists, he waits until it slows down before returning to his feast. 

He doesn’t hold back this time, lips adhered to her like she’s his only source of oxygen. His tongue travels lower, finally delving inside her while his nose continues to bump her clit. Groaning at her taste, his free hand spreads her thigh further apart in a desperate attempt to get as much and as close as possible. 

He’d almost forgotten about the throbbing ache in his pants, but he can feel the damp spot from his leaking cock grow. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s finished just from going down on her, but tonight he wants his first release to be in her. So he doubles down on his efforts, refusing to think about himself before she has at least one orgasm. Alternating his attention from her weeping cunt to her clit, he hums contentedly at how well she’s behaving. 

He swears he had no intention of cutting her off a third time. Until her phone rang. 

“Pick it up.” 

She doesn’t acknowledge him at first, thinking she’s hallucinating his words and the ringtone in her current state of mind-numbing pleasure. Blinking back to reality when he slows down to sloppy kisses and lets go of her wrists. Her brows furrow in confusion. 

“Sorry?” 

“Pick up the phone.” 

The laughter dies in her throat at his unwavering gaze. He’s being serious. 

“No. Absolutely not. We’re in the middle of this and you’ve fucked me over twice already and,” she glances at her phone, “It’s my colleague. She probably just wants to gossip about the dinner, which can wait until tomorrow.” 

“Mhm,” he nods, licking her clean before sitting back on his thighs with that stupid smile, “Wasn’t a question. You didn’t seem to mind when you were feeling me up at dinner tonight, so pick up the damn phone.” 

The look in her eye makes it clear she’s taking note of his ridiculous behaviour for later. But he doesn’t care. He loves their back and forth too much. 

She picks up the call. Moving to cross her legs, she looks back down when she feels an obstruction. He’s shouldered himself between her thighs. 

“What the hell are you doing?” She hisses, hand cupping over the phone while she tries to simultaneously pay attention to her coworker’s story of who got a little too drunk and exposed whatever menial secret. 

He grins, nipping gently at her inner thigh as he whispers, “Focus, babe.” 

Not so much furious as she is frustrated, she does her best to ignore him in hopes that he’ll be content with his current position. But they both know better than that. 

His fingers start tracing her lips, puffy from his lengthy worship, her breath hitching at his delicate touch. Watching her reaction as he gently presses down on her swollen clit, his smirk is devious when she loses her train of thought. 

“R-Right, yeah, I noticed that too,” she quickly recovers, giving him a warning glance, but he couldn’t care less. 

Developing a sudden interest in anatomy (he’d argue he’s always had an interest in her anatomy), his fingers continue to toy with her. His eyes light up when he eventually spreads her lips open, the glistening view one he’ll never be able to get enough of. 

“You were so confident at dinner,” he whispers, blowing cool air on her burning skin, “Wonder what they’d think if they saw you like this.” 

A quiet sound escapes her, clearing her throat to cover it up as her colleague continues to yap on the other end. 

“Oh,” he laughs lightly when she clenches around nothing, the amusement clear in his voice, “Are you enjoying this?” 

Her cheeks flush bright red, mouthing a ‘fuck you’ to him before redirecting her attention back to the call. 

Fingers circling her dripping entrance, his middle one pushes through. Her hand flies to her mouth to silence her gasp, but it’s too late. He can faintly hear the person on the other end asking if everything’s alright. 

“Yeah!” She laughs nervously, “I just can’t believe he said that to you. And then what happened?” 

Her hand moves to his shoulder, trying to push him away as she squirms under his ministrations. He takes it as a challenge. 

Slowly slipping in his ring finger too, his mouth is back on her. “Squeezing me so tight,” he chuckles against her, “I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart.” 

Attempting and failing to keep her breathing in check, she bites down on her hand when his fingers curl up. The calloused tips brushing against the spongy spot that has her momentarily blacking out. 

“Fuck,” she gasps under her breath. “I’m so sorry. Going to have to call you back tomorrow.” Before she can hear a response, her phone is tossed haphazardly across the bed. 

Her hands move to his hair, fingers tugging at his curls, “You’re a piece of fucking work.”

He hums passively, grinning as he nips at her clit, “Learned from the best.” 

Finally satisfied with how much he’s teased her, he pulls out all the stops. He’s all tongue and teeth, fingers dextrously stretching her out for him as the amalgamation of his spit and her release pool under her. 

The combination of her moans and the lewd sounds of his fingers pistoning her hole have him right on the edge. He curves his fingers again, suckling on her clit as she starts to convulse around him. “That’s right,” his voice is low against her, “There we go. Think you’ve put up with enough to deserve this.” 

A final brush against her G-spot has her seeing stars, crying out as her grip tightens on his hair, hips rolling up as he works her through it. He keeps licking at her, tongue flattening to take as much as he can while his fingers slow down. 

She falls back on their bed with a groan, whimpering when he eventually removes his fingers to suck them clean. 

Her ears perk up at the clink of his belt buckle hitting the ground. Sitting up on her elbows to eye him as he speaks up, “Got one more for me?”

Her eyes flick down, mouth watering at the sight of his cock springing up, the blush pink tip already leaking. 

“Were you not planning on that after everything you put me through?”

Smiling at her near pout, he’s on her immediately. Nuzzling into the crook of her neck as the length of him brushes along her slit, coating him in her release. “Of course,” he kisses up the column of her throat to murmur against her lips, “My good girl deserves it.”

Her pupils dilate at his words, and he knows there’s no point in dragging this along any further. He reaches between them to line himself up with her entrance, tongue gently parting her lips, “Okay?”

She nods eagerly, kissing him back. No longer interested in entertaining his payback, she pushes forward to take him in. Groaning at the pressure of her enveloping his tip, his hands grip onto her hips, pushing her down to the mattress as he breaches her in one smooth thrust. 

The sound that leaves her sends his hips stuttering even deeper. Her hands move to grab onto his biceps when he pulls out, leaving just the bulging head inside of her. Hesitantly detaching their lips, they both sneak a glance between them. The sight has him cussing under his breath, her walls fluttering around him in a desperate attempt to draw him back in. 

He takes in a shaky breath, trying to pace himself, knowing full well he won’t last as long as he wants to if he gives in to her. “I can’t– need to slow down, babe. Might finish too soon–”

“Good!” She whines frustratedly, words tumbling out in attempts to convince him to just let go, “You’ve made me wait long enough, you said I deserved it, this isn’t fair. Please don’t hold back, can take it all, I promise–”

Her pleas are broken off by a loud moan when he rams back into her. He’s careful, slow, but each thrust is harder than the last, his cockhead kissing her cervix at every return. 

“Still such a mouth on you,” he grunts breathlessly, his grip on her waist bruising, “Gonna have to fuck it out of you, hm?”

“Yeah, whatever,” she gasps, rolling her hips up to meet his advances, “Just don’t stop.” 

He can’t help the laugh that escapes him, leaning down to kiss her, “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

True to his word, he’s unforgiving with his actions. Hands drifting down to her legs, his thumbs deceptively brush under her knees before carefully hiking her thighs up. Her breath catches at the new angle, eyes fluttering shut as she clamps down on him, feeling him move against every ridge of her walls. 

“Fuck,” he gasps into her mouth, faltering at the pressure. “Need you to cum with me, need to feel you around my cock,” he chokes out, “Been such a good girl, think you can do that for me?” 

She mewls a wordless agreement, nails clawing at the muscle of his arms when he reaches down to pry at her clit. The rough pad of his thumb has her keeling over almost immediately, gripping him like a vice, draining him of everything he has to give. 

His hips jerk as he empties himself inside of her. Unrelenting with the friction on her overstimulated bundle of nerves, he’s eager to edge her towards another orgasm before she can come down from the high of the current one. 

“Cal–” she sobs, writhing under him, the feeling of his throbbing length heightening every sensation two-fold, “‘s too much.” 

“Didn’t want me to stop, right?” He grunts when she pulses around him, waiting until she nods to continue, “Then I think you can take one more.” 

Picking up the pace again, he doesn’t let up until his name is the only thing on her lips and she’s a limp mess against the mattress. He slows down his working of her clit, hips coming to a tapered stop as she whimpers. Finally letting go of his arms, he only now notices the sting of her nails in their wake. 

“Still with me?” He murmurs, placing gentle kisses along her jaw, his lips absorbing the salt of her tears.

She hums as her eyes struggle open to look at him. 

“Did so good for me,” he smiles softly, “Took me really well, sweetheart. Wanna see?”

She nods, mustering up what limited strength she has left to move up to her elbows. Her breath hitches at the scene between them. He’s nearly flush against her, about an inch of his base peeking out where the evidence of both of their satisfaction gathers in a milky ring. 

Hesitantly reaching down, her fingers trace where they connect, looking up at him when he hisses at the touch. She moves to where she stretches around him, letting out a shaky sigh at the contact on her sore folds.

“It’s okay. Lie down,” he gently brushes her hair back, voice low and soothing, “I’ll take care of her.”

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.

boy moodboard!

also happy birthday to luke!! xo

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

Ashton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now? People are actually listening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

Just a friend.

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

Just friends. Right.

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

You’re starting to reach your limit.

And Ashton? He’s starting to push it.

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

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

He said it was casual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing except Luke.

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

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

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

And the worst part? Luke deserves it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink up through watery lashes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much for keeping it together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

Luke takes that as permission to keep going.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

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

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

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

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

Deadly, but adorable.

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

Your throat goes dry.

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

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

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

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

But he’s also Ashton’s person.

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

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

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

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

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

You like to pretend it doesn’t bother you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luke shrugs. “You look good in red.”

“Proof?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if you don’t always feel it.

If ever.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Liar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

It’s all falling into place too perfectly.

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

But layered underneath all of that?

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

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

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

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

It’s not weird having Luke here.

Not really.

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

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

It had definitely been a day.

But tonight is different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Do you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luke swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“I was gonna ask you to fuck me.”

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

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

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

“You don’t mean that,” he whispers.

“I want you so bad.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, Luke pushes you off of him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck,” he breathes, barely audible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then his lips seal around your clit and he sucks.

And all bets are off.

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

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

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

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

And then you see them.

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

Your breath catches.

But you don’t look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a second. Then a third.

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

Your breath catches in your throat. Holy shit.

Luke has a Jacob’s ladder.

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

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

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

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

Then you wrap your hand around him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not gonna last. Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every time, the answer was no.

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

You’d never let Ashton do that.

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

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

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

You nod.

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

“Fuck, baby, gonna come—”

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

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

And the perfect weapon.

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

“Luke,” you whisper.

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

You snap the photo.

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

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

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

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

He probably never will.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

Maybe he should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then kissed you stupid.

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

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

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

Luke is entirely too precious.

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

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

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

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

This one’s just for you.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

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

"You alright?"

"No," he grumbles, letting his head drop onto his arms as he all but collapses over the table, his dark curls falling all over the place. His body heaves with a sigh. You can't help but smile at how dramatic he gets.

"What is it, then?"

You walk over to him, burying a hand in his hair to scratch lightly at his scalp, and he sighs again. It sounds more appreciative this time. He says something, but his head is still buried in the fabric of his shirt, and you can't make out a single word. Carefully pulling at his hair, you make him pick his head up, an unreadable expression on his face. He gulps, audibly, before repeating himself.

"Can't get my eyeshadow right. Won't blend."

"Aw," you coo at him, lifting his face up higher with your finger under his chin. You study the make up on his face, immediately seeing where he was struggling. "Want me to help?"

His doe eyes speak for themselves.

You grab the eyeshadow pallette he'd been handling and the brush that would probably be a little more helpful than the one he'd been attempting to use, before motioning for him for sit up straighter. You just watch him, blinking up at you, for a moment, taking in his absolute beauty, his charm, everything about him that makes it so hard to concentrate on the task at hand. Then you try to get to work.

It's awkward. The angle is weird and the light doesn't quite work. You've never done someone else's make up before. You try to bend down to get more eye-level with the issue but then it's just his baby blue eyes staring right back at you and somehow that just makes it worse. So you make him tip his head back a little more but then everything just seems weird. You huff out a breath of annoyance.

Luke puts a stop to it.

In one swift motion, he grabs onto your hips, pulling you down onto his lap, making you straddle him, his hands coming to rest on your waist then. It takes your breath away, just for a moment, how close you are. His thighs against your ass. His arms lazily resting on top of your legs. His face right in front of you. You want to move in, smash your chests together until there's no breathing space left, but you resist.

Instead, you go back to the task at hand. It's easier this way; you're at the right angle, you're close enough. You're still blocking the light from the mirror behind you, but you make do. Nothing could get you to get back up again now. You blend his eyeshadow until you know he'd be satisfied with it, then go over with glitter, more than he would usually use, but you love the way his eyes sparkle in tandem with it and you can't hold back.

You're so focused on the task at hand that it takes you finishing it to realise a number of things.

Your heart is beating out of your chest. His breathing has become unsteady. You have move closer and closer, bit by bit, his face almost against yours. His hands are digging into your skin so harshly it might leave a bruise.

"All done," you whisper. "Pretty boy."

Luke gasps, his hands dragging you even closer on his lap.

"I think…" His eyes trail down your face until they settle on your mouth. "I think I want to try some lipgloss."

The invitation is clear enough that you don't hesitate. But you take your time all the same. Your eyes drift over his features, beautiful under the partially obstructed light, baby blues following your every move, lips slightly parted as your hand comes to rest on the side of his neck. You lean in, slowly, cautiously, until he grows restless underneath you. Then you put your lips on his, firmly, but just once, before pulling back. His lips now coated in your gloss.

Luke looks up at you with such innocent eyes, with such need for more, that you simply can't resist, your body lighting up and coming alive. Dragging him closer by the hand on his neck, you kiss him, fully this time, and he returns the sentiment, kissing you like a man starving, hands moving to your lower back to hold you steady, the slightest gasp escaping his mouth and inviting you to explore more.

You feel him underneath you, a twitch first, then steadily growing. There's heat between your own legs, a tightening knot in your lower stomach, a rising need.

You only part when you need to catch a breath. His face has reddened and you're sure yours isn't far off either. He inhales, on the verge of saying something, when you hear the door open behind you, a high-pitched 'Oh okay' in what can only be Michael's voice, and the door closing again.

"Fuck," Luke mumbles, letting his head fall onto your shoulder. His arms envelop you, hugging your torso close to his, and the slight movement of your hips has you shifting against his growing need, eliciting a low groan. "The things I'd do to you if I could get you undressed right now."

"Why can't you?" you tease.

"Mikey literally just walked in on us," he chuckles, but all it does it press your body harder against his.

"What if we did something we didn't need to get undressed for?"

He lifts his head, looking up at you through his lashes and you're about to melt.

"Surely you can't go on stage like this."

This time, you grind down on him on purpose, roughly moving against his hardness and he moans so, so sweetly that you know there's no way you're going to leave here without making him come.

"Yeah?" he pleads. "What are going to do about it?"

You repeat your motion, sliding perfectly on his laps, rubbing against his cock again and again. You've never been so glad he decided against his jeans today. The fabric of his trousers are thinner, give more room, and when you look down between your bodies you can see an almost perfect outline through the layers. It makes you want to get on your knees and tear his clothes off, but the rational part of your brain stops you.

Not here, not now.

"How is this?" you ask instead, pushing down on him again, feeling him against you so thick and long, you're sure your panties are soaking already. "Think you can get off for me like this?"

Luke's moan is less contained this time and you grab onto his head to angle it your way, pressing a silencing kiss to his lips.

"Talk to me, Luke."

You're already making a mess out of him. You can see it in the glaze in his eyes, in the frantic way his hands are scrambling for purchase on your body, how his hips are starting to meet yours halfway, rubbing himself against you.

"Yes," he sighs under his breath. "Yes, please, I can, just—"

"Just what, hm?"

You continue to ride him, watching how you're hitting all the right spots as he starts losing his composure.

"Can I touch?"

"Do it, baby boy."

His hands are on your breasts immediately, another deep groan escaping his throat as he kneads the flesh, getting lost in the sensations of you on him. He's buckling up into you as you try to keep some resemblance of a rhythm but you can tell he's getting closer. Closer to losing control.

"Come on, Luke. Come for me. Let me see how your pretty face falls apart. Don't even need me to touch you. Don't even need my hands or my mouth. So pretty, so desperate for anything at all. So hard for me. Come for me, Lu."

He does, then. He wants to bury his face in your shoulder, but you pull him back by the strands of his dark hair, making his head fall back instead, mouth open, eyes screwed shut. Silent moans on his tongue as he ruts against you, twitching until he's spent.

Luke is beautiful. Tangled curls and flushed cheeks. His eyes open slowly and you can't deny him another open-mouthed kiss. When you move away a little, getting some distance between the two of you, you can see the stain he left in his trousers, the dark material even blacker where he came, visual proof of your ministrations.

"Think you might need to change before stage," you giggle.

His gaze follows yours, taking note of the state of his trousers, then letting his head fall backwards again with a laugh.

"The things you fucking do to me."

"Yeah?" You perk up, peppering several kisses along his exposed neck. "Tell me all about it in the hotel when you get off stage?"

He grabs you again, squeezing your sides, holding the back of your head to press his mouth against his.

My eyes fluttered open, gracing me with Luke’s half-open mouth. Even with drool pooling up at the corner of his mouth, the sunlight behind him made him look like a work of art. His messy curls were glowing a dark brown color this time, the dye fading out with time.

I rolled over, sighing as I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 8:58 AM. I paused for a second, waiting for the sounds of our children screaming like the gremlins they are. But no, all I heard was Luke’s breathing next to me. Surprising.

I sat up and stretched my arms upward, letting out a big yawn before I began our day. I was already mentally checking off the schedule in my head. Grocery shopping, piano lessons, school projects, answering texts I’ve been putting off… Ugh.

I sighed defeatedly as I began to roll out of bed, Luke’s arm outstretched towards me as he pulls me back into bed. I giggled, turning over to see his half-opened eyes, icy blues hiding behind drooping eyelids.

“Where ya going?” He asks in his low and gruff morning voice.

“We gotta go grocery shopping, help with baby boy’s project, the princess has a piano lesson today, I probably should call my mom back and… Ugh, the house is a mess and I really need it cleaned before Cal gets here to watch the kids.” I listed off, dragging my hands down my face as I felt all the pressure build up.

“Oh, c’mon. Calum doesn’t need a clean house to watch the kids,” Luke brushes off and I immediately squint my eyes at him. He knows better than that. If Calum is going to watch our kiddos tonight, he deserves a clean house to stay in before they make a mess all over again.

“Luke, please. You know he does. The man’s an angel, it’s the least we can do. I don’t know, maybe let’s just cancel date night. Cleaning the house is just another thing to do and there’s no time… It’s already 9 in the morning.” I sigh. He immediately frowns, bringing his hand to the side of my face as his thumb strokes my cheekbone.

“You’ve been so excited to check out this new restaurant though, darling. You deserve it. Look at you, you’re mom of the year handling all of this. Just relax and rely on me too. C’mon baby, you know I’m here.” He assures me softly. I can slowly feel my shoulders drop as I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding.

Luke pulls me in even closer so my face is pressed against his chest as he holds me tightly. His large hands cradled me, one hand gently petting my hair as he kissed the top of my head. Yeah… Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. I yawned, feeling myself get sleepy all over again.

“Mmm… You know, I had a really weird dream.” Luke mentioned out of the blue.

“Yeah? What about?”

“I was old. And bald. It was kind of horrendous. But you were gorgeous and so I picked up our dog and put her on my head and told you that it was my hair because I didn’t want you to think I was ugly.”

“And did I think you were ugly?” I asked, trying to keep my composure.

“I dunno. I woke up. Would you have thought I was ugly?”

“No… No, not at all.” I said through snickers. He pulled back with a pout.

“You’re laughing! You’d think I’d be ugly with our dog as my hair, don’t you?” He huffed and I couldn’t help but laugh even harder.

“Nooo. You're always handsome to me. But when you get to that balding stage, just shave, will you? Please don’t use our dog as a wig. Your buzzcut era was kind of cute.” I answered.

“Fine… But what do you think my dream meant? I’m clearly not balding right now, I have such luscious hair,” he brags, overexaggerating a hair flip which made me roll my eyes playfully.

“Probably didn’t mean anything. Though your hair is kind of fading into this brownish color,” I pointed out, running my hands through his curls.

“Hmm… Maybe I’ll redye it.” He mumbled to himself, burying his face into the crook of my neck. My hand dropped down to the nape of his neck, gently massaging it.

“Really? I miss your blonde.” I said, gently pulling at the ends of his hair in the way I know he likes.

“Then I’ll go back to blonde. Eventually. Hopefully the black keeps fading into a nice brown color.” He replies through a yawn.

Before I could respond my stomach seemed to want to be a part of the conversation too, growling so loudly Luke could hear it. He laughed, throwing his head back before looking at me.

“Is my pretty lady hungry?” Luke asked, pushing back my hair so it wasn’t draped over my face.

“Yeah… I need breakfast. Stat.” I pouted.

“I’ll go make some then,” he offered. He kissed my forehead (because we don’t do morning breath in this household) before climbing out of bed and pattering into the hallway.

After he left the bed it immediately got cold from the lack of body heat. I didn’t want to be left alone in the room and I should probably get the day started too… So I also got out of bed, shrugging on one of his hoodies because the mornings were always too cold no matter what season.

“Awww, you look cute.” Luke smiled as I came downstairs.

“Thanks! Got it from this really expensive store. It’s called my husband’s pile of clothes on the floor,” I teased, turning on the speaker.

“Ha. Ha. Just for that, you’re playing my playlist now,” He grinned and I just sighed dramatically. Not that I minded though, of course the musician had good music taste. I put his playlist on shuffle.

The sounds of waves against the shore filled the room before being accompanied by a guitar strumming and other instruments humming in the background.

“How many special people change? How many lives are living strange? Where were you while we were getting high?” Luke sang softly as he whisked up pancake batter in a bowl.

I just watched him because, what else do you do when an angel is being presented to you? Especially when he’s singing along to a soft song under the glow of the morning sun that’s rising all too fast. I leaned against the kitchen counter, swaying side to side.

He continued to sing, sometimes just humming if he really needed to focus like when he poured the batter into the frying pan. Once he finished that task he turned to me, gently grabbing my hand and pulling me in to slow dance.

“Someday you will find me, caught beneath the landslide…”

“In a champagne supernova in the sky.” I sang along with him. A little offkey admittedly but he still smiled, grinning from ear to ear.

As the pancakes sizzled and the birds chirped we stayed there for the rest of the song, my arms on his shoulders while his wrapped around my waist. The world turned into background noise and for a moment it was just him and I, the kitchen becoming our stage.

“‘Cause people believe they’re gonna get away for the summer,” I sang as we swayed side to side.

“But you and I, we live and die. The world’s still spinning ‘round,”

“We don’t know whyyyy,” we both sang together before laughing and letting Liam Gallagher sing the rest.

“Stop siiingiiiiinggg…” Our daughter began to whine out of the blue. I spun my head around to see her in her pajamas, holding her stuffed animal close to her chest.

“Oh, sweetheart. You’re awake. I’m sorry, did mommy and daddy wake you up?” Luke asked, crouching down and opening his arms up for her to run into. She skipped over to him and he immediately picked her up.

“No, I was already up playing with my dollies.” She answered. Aw, what an angel. I kissed her forehead before petting down her bedhead.

“Daddy, something’s burning.” Our son said, also out of the blue. Jesus, do these kids just teleport or something? Luke hands her over to me before running to the stove and groaning at the charred pancakes.

“Yeeep. Sorry guys. Let’s try this again. Thanks for telling me, bud.” Luke smiled, ruffling our son’s hair as he began to redo the pancakes. I put down our daughter since I could tell she wanted to run around and I needed to do chores anyway.

“Okay, well I’m gonna get started on the dishes, darling.” I said to Luke as our kids were wildly running around the kitchen island.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll do it. Don’t get your pretty little hands wet,” He replies.

“But your hands are prettier, so I’ll do it.”

“My hands have callouses, darling. I’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll do it.” I challenged him back, scooting closer with a grin on my face as I looked up at him.

“No, I’ll do it.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Nope. Can’t have your pretty little hands getting all wrinkly and having you stand all morning by the sink. Not even gonna let you lift a finger.” He says, sealing it in with a kiss on my forehead.

“Ewwwww!!” Our kids shouted in unison. We both turned to look at them, laughing at their little voices expressing such big disgust.

“Stop flirting!” Our daughter demanded.

“Yeah, get a room!” Our son agreed.

“Oh, you two. But I love your mom so much. What’s wrong with that?” He asks, pulling me in for a hug. I hug him back, overexaggerating my sigh as I melt into his touch.

“Yuck!” They both said before running away upstairs. Kids…

“Alright, well I gotta go get them ready for the day.” I said, kissing his cheek. He gently spanks my ass once I turn around. He flashes a cheeky grin the moment I look back at him.

“We should make another one, y’know.” He suggests while wiggling his eyebrows.

“Luuuuu!” I scolded him immediately. “We agreed on two.”

“I’m kidding. You’re just so gorgeous, I can’t help it.” He responds with that smile of his that shows off his pearly whites. It gets me every time.