livingintheglitter

18 | 5sos fan

[l1vingintheglitter]

a sideblog for me to bookmark fics i like/want to read!

will be reposting 18+ writing so mdni!!

mostly gonna be 5sos things

tags i’m using:

#lrh - luke hemmings fics

#cth - calum hood fics

#mgc - michael clifford fics

#afi - ashton irwin fics

#hcs - headcannons

#smut

#fluff

#muke

#lashton

#cake

#cashton

#malum

#mashton

[chapbrinas]

nsfw boyfriend luke hemmings headcanons.

⋆ luke's an eater. he loves to dive between your thighs and loves how you taste even more. lots of sucking and tongue fucking. he doesn't ever have to bring his hands into play because he can make you cum with just his mouth. ⋆ luke's favorite position is missionary. he likes to keep eye contact during sex and you like being able to choke him and smack him around a little when he doesn't fuck you hard enough. ⋆ he's decently sized, enough for it to be a struggle to take at first. don't tell him that, though, because it goes straight to his head when you start talking about how he's "too big for all that!" he always has to bite back a smirk when you do. ⋆ he can be pretty submissive, yeah, but he likes to switch it up. some days he's your little boy toy... other days, he's in total control. it's almost a competition of seeing who's going to be in charge that round. sometimes, you let him win; sometimes, he lets you win. ⋆ he loves kissing, especially with tongue. he likes to bite and suck at your lip at lot and he's constantly moaning and panting into your mouth, never letting you pull far enough away to catch your breath. you just have to breathe him in until he's done with you. ⋆ humiliation and degradation... he likes to embarrass you and likes when you embarrass him. you both call each other out on trying to hide what you enjoy. "aw, you like that baby?" but you refuse to admit it. ⋆ luke likes when leash and collar him. it's his favorite thing when you pull at the leash while he's fucking you and drag him down so you're both up close and personal with each other and you grab him by the face and start telling him how he's not fucking you hard enough or deep enough. ⋆ he calls you pet names during sex. 'love,' 'baby,' 'sweetheart,' etc. it makes you melt every time. he knows this, too, so he does it on purpose to get a reaction out of you. ⋆ his favorite thing is when he's talking dirty to you and you squeeze his cock all tight while he's fucking you. he knows how embarrassed you get from dirty talk because you're constantly telling him to shut up, but he never listens because he can tell by the way you're pulsing around him that you like it. ⋆ luke's very whiny. he begs, pleads, and cries. you think it's cute, especially if he can actually muster up real tears, which he often does because you like to either tease him until he needs it right then and there or overstimulate him until he can't take it anymore.

[babylonradio]

three's a crowd — blond luke x michael x brunet luke

MDNI—18+

set during the 'take my hand' tour. michael walks into his hotel room to see an older, dark haired version of luke lounging in a chair. he calls his luke to help. they figure things out.

pairing: blond luke x michael x brunet luke

warnings: top!brunet luke. switch!michael. bottom!blond luke. pwp: porn without plot. smut. romance. mentions of/references to internalized homophobia. profanity. threesome. dirty talk. praise kink. degradation kink. selfcest. anal sex. anal fingering. blowjobs. teasing. exhibitionism. cucking. orgasm denial/edging. time travel elements. slightly? manipulative brunet luke. slightly ooc.

wc: 11.1k

authors note: this is my first time writing ANYTHING like this so be nice !! it gets better as the fic goes on trust me . also it's all pwp. set during tmh tour!!! timelines might be a little bit off but bear with me. enjoy <3

come find me on twitter! 

Luke is in Michael’s room. 

Well—scratch that. Luke was always in Michael's room. In fact, Luke had just left Michael’s room, along with Ashton and Calum, exhausted and tipsy from drinks after an incredibly successful tour stop.

Then who the fuck is this? Reclined easily in a plush chair in the corner of the hotel room, Not-Luke looks exactly like Michael’s luke: same eyes, same face, same sharp jawline. Only, this luke has dark hair. This luke is dressed in a blazer and jeans. This Luke is looking at Michael with something akin to boredom in his eyes, lined with smudged red-blue eyeshadow and framed by unkempt curls. 

What the fuck, Michael thinks. 

“What the fuck,” Michael says. 

Not-Luke sighs, as though irritated, and a shiver runs down Michael’s spine. In the chill of the room, he’s frozen in place, the low hum of the aircon matching the racing heartbeat in his throat. 

“Shit,” Not-Luke mutters under his breath. Michael feels out of his depth. Something warm curls through his gut at the expletive—specifically the sound of the expletive on Not-Luke’s tongue. 

He swallows it down. Instead, he says: “Who the fuck are you?” 

Not-Luke moves slowly, as though in a dream. He touches the bridge of his nose, ignoring Michael’s question. 

“What year is it?” He asks. 

On autopilot, Michael responds. “It’s 2023. Who the fuck are you?”

“You’re on tour?” 

“Hey, man, I d—” 

“Take My Hand Tour, right? How old are you? 28?” 

“Alright, whoever the fuck you are, I’m calling security,’ Michael says, finally getting his feet to move, crossing the room to pick up the telephone receiver on the bedside table. “They’ll take care of this m—”

“You look good.” 

Michael freezes, hand suspended over the dialpad. What the fuck.

He turns to look at Not-Luke. His mouth is dry, pulse racing, palms growing uncomfortably sweaty. 

Not-Luke hasn’t moved from his place, but his eyes are glued on Michael. He looks like his Luke—like some sort of crazily accurate impersonation of him, down to the colour of his lips, the fall of his shoulders, the unrefined grace of his posture, like a doe trapped in a too-large body. He had the same electric blue eyes. Ones that mesmerised Michael. Ones that he couldn’t look at too long without facing the weight inside him he was too afraid to examine. 

This Luke isn't clumsy though. Everything about him seems intentional. The light from the dim yellow lamp on the table beside his chair casts a shadow that cuts across his features. Michael’s eyes catch the stubble on his jaw. His fingers itch to touch. And when Not-luke shifts, something clicks. 

What the fuck. 

“You—you’re Luke,” he manages, words barely above a whisper, loud like a gunshot in the quiet room. 

A slow smirk spreads across Luke-Not-Luke’s face. Encouraging. Mocking. Michael can almost hear him purring, the silk of his voice whispering ‘well done’ into Michael’s ear. His tongue goes dry at the thought. 

“I am,’’ Not-Luke replies. “Thought I’d dreamt this whole thing up, actually. Didn’t think I’d get to live it again.” 

He offers no further explanation. Michael puts the telephone receiver back in place. 

‘What–how? How?”

Not-Luke sits up, rolling his shoulders. Michael watches the muscles in his neck shift. 

Greedy. He feels greedy. 

“Dunno,” Not-Luke says. “Why don’t you call your Luke over ‘n we can all have a chat, eh?” 

Oh. Right. Of course. 

Michael refuses to dwell too much on how he said ‘your Luke’. Instead, he picks up the receiver and dials the number for Luke’s room. 

It rings. Once. Twice. 

A soft click as his Luke picks up the call. 

“Hello?” A drowsy reply. Luke had probably gone straight to bed after leaving Michael’s room. A fond warmth rises in Michael’s chest. 

“Luke? It’s Michael,” he speaks softly, somehow keeping the panic, the urgency out of his voice. “Can you come to my room?” 

“Right now?” comes the mournful reply. “I just got to bed.”

Michael’s eyes flit across the room to Not-Luke, who is still watching him, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Along with something else. His legs are spread wide as he lounges on the chair. Michael briefly pictures himself on his knees in the space between those thighs. 

Not-Luke stares. All of a sudden, Michael feels like cornered prey. He pointedly looks away. 

“Please? It’s important.” 

A rustle of bedsheets on the other end as Luke sits up. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Just get here.” 

Silence. Then, a soft sigh. “Okay,” says Luke, “give me a few minutes, I’ll be over.” 

Click.

“He’s coming?” 

The voice comes from much closer than he’d anticipated. Michael flinches, hard. When he turns around, Not-Luke is standing in the middle of the room, hands tucked into his pockets. 

Michael’s first thought is, he’s so wide. 

His second thought is, fuck, I want him. 

“How long has the tour been on?” Not-Luke asks, casually, as though making conversation. There's an underlying tone of something that Michael can’t quite place. Yet.

“Uh…a few months?” Michael scratches at the skin on the back of his neck. A nervous tic. Not-Luke notices. 

“Nervous?” 

Michael scoffs out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, s’not every day an evil version of your band mate shows up in your hotel room.” 

A soft huff of laughter. Not-Luke takes a slow turn on his heel, observing the room. He takes measured steps as he begins walking around, trailing his fingertips over the desk, the pens, Michael's wallet sat upon the mantlepiece. For some reason, Michael can’t look away. 

“Don’t worry. I can play nice.”

Michael can feel the heat crawling up his cheeks. Why does this luke have such an effect on him? 

“Fuck off, mate.” Deflect, deflect, deflect. 

Not-Luke continues his exploration of the room, never making eye-contact. “Oh, I will. Soon. Jus’ got some business to take care of first.” 

Michael furrows his eyebrows. Business? What is he talking about? 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The brunet pauses. Looks at Michael with a sly smirk. “You’ll figure it out.” 

“You’re being weird.” Michael says instead. 

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re Luke, aren't you? I know you like I know myself.” 

The smirk grows. “I bet you do, baby.” 

Oh. Something sultry and warm curls in Michel’s belly. Baby.

Michael opens his mouth to say something—anything—when the doorknob rattles and his Luke bursts in. His blond hair is dishevelled, and he’s wearing sweatpants and a shirt that Michael is pretty sure belongs to him. Luke’s eyes come first to Michael, then shift to the stranger in his room. Those gorgeous blue eyes widen in something like fear. Then confusion. 

“What the fuck,” he says, looking Not-Luke in the face, who seems extremely pleased by this reaction. 

“There we go,” he says. “Bit late to the party, aren't you?”

“What the fuck,” Luke replies. He darts towards Michael, grabbing his forearm and tugging. Luke’s touch feels reassuring. Michael looks at him, but Luke is still staring at his doppleganger. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m you,” Not-luke replies easily. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Yeah, I am.” 

“What the f—” 

“Yeah, you’ve said that.” 

Michael can't help the huff of laughter that escapes him. He feels a bit dizzy, seeing two Lukes standing in his room. He’s pretty sure he’s had dreams about this situation. One luke behind him, one in front. One bouncing in his lap, the other on his tongue. Both of them, down on their knees, looking up at Michael as they—

“Mikey, snap out of it.” His luke is shaking his arm. Not-Luke is looking at Michael knowingly, like he can read his mind. For a moment, Michael is afraid he really can. 

His luke has a deep furrow between his eyebrows. Michael wants to smooth out the wrinkles there with his thumb, to tell Luke not to worry, that they’ll figure this out. Luke takes a step towards Not-Luke, Michael's arm growing cold as Luke's touch leaves him. 

“I’m calling security. I don’t know who the hell you are, but—” 

“Oh, shut up, Luke. We’re the same person. Use that pretty little head of yours. How do you think security would react to seeing two of us walk out of here when only one came in?” 

Luke narrows his eyes. “Don’t talk to me like that.” 

Not-Luke tilts his head, mocking. “C’mon, gorgeous, we both know you like it.” 

Michael can’t move. His head is spinning, but he's definitely into this, whatever it is. Luke’s back is to him, but Michael can see the tips of his ears turning red. From shame? Anger? 

“You don’t know anything about me.” He says, stepping closer still, standing taller. They’re almost face-to-face. Both of them are the same height, but Not-Luke has an air of arrogant confidence when he tilts his head up and looks down his nose at Luke. 

“Oh, I know everything about you,” comes the reply. “I know the lyrics you’re too scared to show anyone. I know those magazines you had hidden under your bed in your teens. I know that little folder you hide on your phone.” 

Not-luke leans in, voice low as he speaks into Luke’s ear. Luke, who is paralyzed with something, fingers curled into shaking, barely restrained fists. 

“I know the things you think about when you’re all alone,” His eyes flick to Michael. He gestures towards him with a tilt of his head. “About him.” 

The ground falls away from beneath Michael’s feet. All the air rushes out of his lungs, like his heart just dropped straight out of his ass. His face is so warm, he’s sure he’s bright red. 

Luke’s hands come up, and for a moment Michel worries about having to break up a fight, but Luke just shoves Not-Luke in the chest, hard. The brunet stumbles back, eyes sparkling sharply. His jaw flexes. 

“Don’t play dirty.” Not-Luke scowls. “Face up to your shit, asshole.” 

Luke is breathing heavily, a red flush bright on his pale cheeks. “I don’t need your advice. I don’t need words of wisdom from some washed up, rip-off version of me.” 

Not-Luke’s nostrils flare briefly. “Shut up,” he says through gritted teeth, and Michael’s worries circle back to breaking up a fistfight. 

“You think you’re better than me?” Luke mocks, taking a step towards Not-Luke. “We’re the same. What have you done differently? All my secrets are yours. Why don’t you own up to your shit?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Not-luke hisses. He steps closer and fists Luke’s shirt in his hand. The air in the room feels heavy. Michael can't breathe, but he can’t move either. His limbs are frozen in place, pulse racing as his mind tries to decide whether hes terrified or turned the fuck on. 

“Say it. Admit that something’s wrong. How you’re different. How much you're hiding. Admit all of it. Admit you’re—” 

“Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you.” 

A soft whimper cuts through the commotion, slipped involuntarily from Michael’s lips. Both the Lukes are so close, their noses almost touching, cheeks flushed red with rage. They freeze, and turn to look at him. 

Yeah, Michael thinks. He’s terrified and turned on. 

Not-Luke is the first to break the silence. A slow smile spreads across his lips. His eyes travel slowly down Michael’s body, then back up. When he makes eye-contact, his eyes are dark, the colour swallowed by his blown pupils.

“Oh, you like this, don’t you, baby?” 

Michael goes weak in the knees. Luke looks between the two of them, until realization dawns on his face. His flush deepens. 

“Use your words, sweetheart,” Not-luke’s grin grows predatory. Luke struggles in his grip, but his doppleganger holds fast to his shirt. 

But Michael’s words are stuck in his throat. His thoughts race. Oh god, he’s definitely dreamt about this before. 

“I know everything about you too, Mikey,” the nickname rolls off his tongue like a threat. “Enjoying the view, aren’t you?” 

Michael gulps. Not-Luke looks back at his blond counterpart. He leans in just slightly, until his breath ghosts over the other’s lips. 

“Bet you’ve thought about this. How badly you’d want to sit in the corner while I bend blondie here over that desk.” 

This time it's Luke who responds. A soft exhale of air, fluttering eyelashes, inaudible anywhere else but cutting the tension in the room like a knife. Not-Luke raises his eyebrows. 

“Or maybe against the wall?” 

Luke’s eyes fall shut as he catches his breath. Not-Luke leans in to stage-whisper to him. “We’d make it so good for Michael, wouldn’t we, Lukey?” 

Michael thinks he might faint. Or die. He’s positive his brain isn’t getting enough oxygen, but the positively debauched image before him is taking over all his senses. The world narrows down to just the three of them. 

“You want that, Luke? ‘Wanna put on a show for Michael? C’mon, baby—’’

All of a sudden, Luke's eyes are wide open. The dreamy, cloudy look in them is long gone. He tears out of Not-Luke’s grip and steps back shakily. 

“Shut up,” He says, voice cracking. Michael can see a thin sheen of frustrated tears lining his lashes. 

“Sh-shut up,” he tells Not-Luke. He looks at Michael, eyes wide, pleading for something Michael isn’t sure he could give him. 

“I’m not—I’m not gay.”

His voice breaks as he says those words, and Michael’s lungs contract so fast that it sends a stab of pain through his abdomen. The words echo strangely through his bones. Something inside him feels like it's cracking open, exposing something fragile to the world. He feels like he handed something precious to Luke—something Luke never wanted to begin with. 

But Not-Luke seems unfazed. He sighs, frustrated. The blazer slides smoothly off his shoulders and he tosses it towards the bed. Michael watches, frozen, as he tugs on the collar of the shirt and undoes the top two buttons. He looks at his counterpart, silent and still, and runs a hand through his hair, tongues his cheek, then seems to decide something. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Luke blinks. “‘Okay?’”

“Okay. Feel free to walk out then.”

Michael turns to Not-Luke, taking in his posture, loose, but his shoulders tight as though he were trying hard to feign disinterest. 

“What?” Michael says, and he has to clear his throat because the words don’t come out right. “What–why?” 

“Wait,” Luke cuts in. The colour in his cheeks has begun to fade, but there's sweat at the base of his throat despite the cool of the room. Michael distractedly thinks that he wants to lick it, but the strange pangs of pain in his chest make it difficult to move. “Wait, I’m not leaving without Michael. I’m not leaving him with you.” 

Not-Luke exhales, and the tension seems to draw out of him. The suave confidence returns as he backs slowly towards the bed and takes a seat on the edge. He ignores his double, instead looking at Michael through his lashes. He licks his lips. Waiting. 

Michael’s jeans are beginning to feel uncomfortably tight, which is really confusing because his chest simultaneously feels cracked open. 

He looks between his Luke and the other one. Nobody in the room moves, but Michael knows all the attention is on him. It’s getting warm under his collar. He speaks, then, carefully. 

“If I stay…” He starts. “If I stay…what will we do?” 

He knows already what they’d do. Deep down, he’s known it the moment he saw this other luke. He was willing it, subconsciously. But Not-Luke continues looking at him, debating something within himself. In the back of his mind, Michael begins to beg. 

Please. Please. 

Not-luke turns his body squarely in Michael’s direction, spreading his legs in a way that makes it impossible not to follow the line of his body. Down, down, down, Michael’s eyes travel. 

His eyes snap back to Not-Luke’s, who flashes him a smile. It isn’t a kind one. 

“Whatever you want.” Not-Luke says. 

“Anything?” 

“Anything at all.” 

“Mikey…” a warning, from Luke, still standing frozen a few feet away. 

Michael looks between the two. Somewhere, somehow, this is probably really unethical. But Michael wants Luke so desperately. Michael’s wanted Luke for as long as he can remember— catching his eye across the classroom in school, stifling his moans with his hand down his pants back when they were broke and sharing a bed on tour, drowning out the laughter of all Luke’s girlfriends whom he pretended he didn’t resent. He used to dream of waking up next to Luke, of watching the sunlight catch the flecks of gold in his eyes as they fluttered open. He ached so deeply, for so long, stranded in so much darkness as Luke’s life grew and unfolded around them, while Michael struggled to play catch-up with his secrets. 

So when Michael catches his Luke’s eyes—eyes that are pleading, saying something Michael cant—won’t—decipher, he makes a decision. If he can’t have his own luke, he’d take this alternative. This mystical, sharp-edged, dark haired version that seems to know and see and want just as much as Michael does. 

It hurt too much to be real. It was all probably a dream, anyway. Michael could indulge. Just one last time. 

And Not-luke is looking at Michael with something akin to hunger in his eyes. And he sees Michael make his choice before Michael gets a chance to say anything. And his thighs spread wider, and he leans back on his hands. The look on his face is predatory when he pats his lap. 

Michael has crossed the room before he even knows he’s moving. He straddles Not-Luke’s thighs, hovering above him. Strong hands glide slowly up the back of Michael’s thighs, taking the time to savour the tension in his muscles. Michael can’t look away from those eyes. 

A sharp inhale, across the room. The moment is broken. Not-Luke looks over Michael’s shoulder towards his blond counterpart, and Michael's cheeks burn. He can’t find it in himself to turn around. 

“You’re free to leave,” Not-Luke says. 

But Luke stays. Michael’s senses are on fire. Luke stays, unmoving, breath ragged.  

“Fuck you,” comes the response. 

Michael’s ribs feel like they’ve cracked open and it's hard to breathe. How will he live this down? If Luke leaves the room, he knows their friendship will be damaged forever. He wants to get off Not-Luke’s lap, away from those wandering fingertips. He wants to get on the ground before his luke and grovel, beg for forgiveness, pretend none of this ever happened. He can’t lose Luke. He can’t, he can’t, he—

“I’m staying.” 

A low murmur, saturated in shame, barely audible, but enough for Michael’s heart to drop. What? 

What? 

A moment of stillness. Then, Not-Luke's chest rumbles in laughter. His breath fans Michael’s neck. Goosebumps erupt on his skin. Michael can't look at his luke. Not yet. Maybe never again. 

“I’m staying,” Luke says, louder this time, with more conviction. 

“I’m not gay,’’ He repeats. “I won't leave you alone with him.” 

Michael doesn’t know who he’s addressing. He almost doesn’t want to know. But Not-luke looks at him, something akin to reverence in his eyes, and whispers in his ear low enough for it to stay between them. 

“You want him to leave, baby?” There’s a genuine question there, like he'd kick Luke out if Michael asked. 

But Michael won’t ask. This…could be all he’d ever get from his Luke. He’d savour every moment. 

He shakes his head. 

Michael feels Not-Luke’s smirk against his ear. 

“Yeah?” he says, “‘Wanna show him what he’s missing?” 

Michael can’t reply. He tries to hide his face in Not-Luke’s neck, but a pale hand slides up, up, up from his waist, gliding along his neck, pressing lightly down on his jugular as Not-luke forces Michael to turn his head to the side, to where Luke stands, motionless, staring, flushed down to his neck. Michael wants to find out how far the flush goes, but—

“Look at him,” Not-Luke says to Michael. “Y’like that he’s watching?” 

Michael tries to avert his eyes, but Not-luke’s grip is too strong. Michael wants to close his eyes, but he cant—he’s afraid this will all disappear once he opens them again. Instead he avoids looking at Luke’s face, looking anywhere but at the blond standing speechless in his hotel room, eyes dark. 

Because is there a tent in his sweats or is Michael imagining it? 

Not-Luke licks up Michael's neck, and—yeah, he should’ve known every version of Luke would need all his attention. He kisses slowly along Michael’s jaw and stops at a spot underneath Michael's ear, nipping and sucking until a bruise blooms underneath his lips. When he bites softly on his earlobe, Michael moans something unintelligible. 

“Luke…” 

Not-Luke’s grin grazes the skin of Michael’s neck, sensitive and painted in purples and blues. Behind Michael, there’s a soft “shit,” followed by the sharp sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Luke has probably found a place to sit, and Michael’s pride glows.. 

But Not-Luke doesn’t like Michael’s momentary distraction. He runs his hands down the sides of Michael’s legs and slaps his left thigh softly. 

“Pay attention,” he warns. Fuck. It draws a soft whine from him.

Not-Luke’s hands brush soothingly up and down Michael’s sides. His touch is warm, possessive. Michael feels small under the weight of his hands. 

“Hurts a bit, doesn’t it?” Not-Luke says, low enough for just Michael to hear. Michael knows what he’s talking about. He won’t acknowledge it, not yet. But Not-luke takes his silence as a sign to go on. 

“I know you want him,” Not-luke mutters. “He wants you too. Have patience, baby. Let it come to him.” 

It stings. “For how long?” He asks, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of his voice. 

Not-luke doesn't reply. His hands travel lower down Michael’s back and he palms his ass. Michael gasps lowly, and Not-Luke looks Michael dead in the eye as he says, “Make sure he keeps his eyes on you.” 

The warning tone of his voice goes straight to Michael’s dick. He doesn’t have any time to reply before Not-Luke grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in, and then they’re kissing. 

It’s immediately rough. Not-Luke doesn’t wait for Michael to catch up, teeth clashing against his as Michael arches closer. Michael gasps into the kiss, and the brunet takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth. His hands are wandering, exploring, seeing what makes Michael tick—Michael, who can’t believe he’s got some-version-of-Luke’s tongue in his mouth. It feels like breathing after being underwater for hours. 

Michael sucks on Not-Luke’s tongue, coy, and it draws a deep groan out of the man. He kisses like an animal, Michael thinks, like a starved man–not stopping to breathe, holding Michael and taking what he wants from him.

A stifled curse across the room causes the two of them to break apart, and Michael watches the line of spit connecting his and Not-Luke’s lips glint in the light as he pulls away. 

“Like what you see?” Not-Luke asks his lookalike. Michael turns to see Luke sitting stick-straight in the chair that Not-Luke was in earlier. His jaw is clenched, fingers curled into fists pressing down on the armrests. He’s looking straight at Michael. There’s a visible bulge in his pants. He seems intent not to acknowledge it. Michael’s mouth waters. 

While Michael looks at Luke, a million X-rated thoughts shooting through his brain, Not-Luke focuses his grip around Michael’s waist. It’s bruisingly tight, and Michael looks back down at him. Not-Luke spreads his legs wider, knees knocking against the back of Michael’s legs, forcing him to spread his legs as well. It burns his thighs. His back straightens on reflex. Not-Luke smirks up at Michael. 

Oh, Michael thinks. He’s making sure I’m putting on a show. 

Michael doesn’t want to think about what it means. He leans in again, reclaiming Not-Luke’s lips, who meets him where he’s at. He sucks on Michael’s bottom lip, and Michael moans lowly at the feeling. It’s all teeth and tongue again, and Michael can tell they’re both hard from it. From the tension. From being watched. 

Luke’s hands tighten around his waist when Michael’s hands come up to tug on the hair at the base of his neck. He hisses softly into the kiss, pulling Michael impossibly closer. The next time Michael groans into the kiss, Not-Luke’s hips buck up. In response, Michael grinds down into him, feeling his arousal through the jeans as they roll their hips in tandem.

Michael feels like he’s on fire. He’s strikingly aware of his Luke, across the room, his eyes following Michael’s every move as he squirms upon his counterpart’s lap. The thrill of it shoots down his spine, the taste of Not-Luke’s lips intoxicating. He wants more. 

“Please,” the word slips from Michael’s mouth. He doesn’t stop pressing down against Not-Luke’s hardness, chasing his own high as the brunet’s lips find his neck once again. He sucks on the mark he’d left earlier, and the dull sting sends a shiver through his body. “Please, please…L-Luke—”

“Yeah?” Replies the man under him. “Feel good?” 

He can’t get an answer out, instead chasing his own high. He feels so good. For a moment, he worries he’s going to spoil his favourite pair of jeans, but he can’t bring himself to care. He continues to rock against the weight underneath him. 

Not-Luke’s hands tighten around him, stopping his ministrations. Michael lets out an involuntary whine. 

“Don’t get greedy, now, baby,” Not-Luke chides him, teasing. 

“Please, Luke—” 

“Please, what?” 

Michael’s head is reeling. He felt so good, just a moment ago, and now it’s slipping away. 

“Please…more. More, I want–I want—” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. 

“Oh, you want?” Not-Luke laughs, mockingly. It sends a stab of hot shame through Michael’s gut. “Getting yourself off shamelessly in my lap like a whore…what about what I want, hm?”

Michael’s cheeks burn, warm and bright, and he looks down. Embarrassment shoots through his body. The patronizing lilt in Not-Luke’s voice makes Michael want to curl up and hide, but it also does something unspeakable for him.

“I’m-I’m sorry…” He says, because he feels he was expected to, and because he really is. He wants to feel good, but he wants to make Not-Luke feel good too. And across the room—he wants to make his luke feel good too. 

“Don’t be sorry, Mikey,” Not-luke grins, tapping his chin to make Michael look at him. “You need to learn to ask nicely. You want to be good, don’t you?” 

When Michael nods, Luke tsks. “Use your words.” 

“Please, Luke, you asshole—touch me.” 

Not-Luke laughs, satisfied. “Good job, baby. Well done.” 

But he makes no move to act on Michael’s wishes. In fact, he takes his hands off Michael’s body altogether. He leans back on his arms again, looking up at Michael, smiling. Along with his touch, the warmth leaves Michael’s skin too. For a moment, Michael worries he’s done something wrong. He huffs, frustrated.

A moment passes in silence. Then, 

“What do you think, blondie?” Not-Luke asks. Tilting his head, he looks over Michael’s flushed skin, then at the boy sitting still in the corner of the room. “Y’think I should give him what he wants?” 

Luke looks…frazzled. He barely registers that he’s been addressed. Clearly, he’d been struggling to keep his hands still, for they were now tensely latched onto the armrests. Michael admires his self control. 

Luke looks between Michael and Not-Luke, then gulps. 

“Wh-what?” 

Not-Luke rolls his eyes. He reaches for Michael, and Michael nearly sighs in relief, but he barely brushes his fingertips over the fabric of Michael’s trousers. It isn’t nearly enough.

“Michael,” calls the brunet. “I want you to ask him for permission.” 

There are twin sets of sharp inhales as Michael looks at Luke, whose cheeks seem to suddenly flood with a richer crimson colour. Michael searches Luke’s eyes for something—anything, any sign of discomfort, anything that indicates his disgust. But Luke's irises are swallowed by darkness, eyes wide as he takes in Michael’s every move. All three of them are hard as fuck, and Michael’s getting desperate. So he makes a decision. 

“Luke,” he starts, careful. “Luke, baby, won’t you let him touch me?” 

He hears the hitch in Luke’s breath from all the way over here. He leans forward, glides his palms up Not-Luke’s chest, never looking away from his Luke—so sweet, so beautiful, so desperately aching with want as he tries to stay still in his chair, avoiding eye contact because he's too flustered. 

“Look at me, gorgeous,” Michael coos, and Luke does, so obediently it makes Michael’s skin crawl. “Don't you want to see? His hands—your hands on me?” 

Luke gulps. Not gay, Michael thinks. Oh, I bet. 

Luke’s hands are shaking. Sparkling drops of sweat line his throat. 

Not-Luke seems to get impatient. He sighs pointedly, looking at Luke. Luke’s eyes flash towards him briefly, then he glances back at Michael. 

It’s almost unnoticeable. Michael wouldn’t have caught it if he weren’t watching every little movement Luke makes, but—there, slowly, hesitantly, a short nod. 

In a startling flurry of movement, Not-Luke flips them over so that Michael is lying on the bed, with both the brunet’s palms framing his head as he hovers over Michael. The air gets knocked out of him and Not-Luke begins trailing his index finger down Michael's neck, stopping at his collar. 

“Where should I touch?” he wonders aloud. He begins unbuttoning Michael’s shirt, methodically. Infuriatingly slow. Then the shirt is gone. The chill of the room catches up to him. He feels exposed under both Lukes’ rapt attention. 

The brunet places a hand over Michael’s neck, pressing lightly. Michael is sure he can feel his pulse racing, as Not-Luke asks, “Here?” 

His eyes glint, like he knows something Michael doesn't. He trails his hand down, leaving goosebumps on Michael’s skin in his wake. Once he reaches his chest, he tweaks one of Michael’s nipples. Michael’s back arches from the stimulation, moaning lowly. 

“Or here?” Not-Luke asks again. He pauses. When he doesn’t get a reply, he turns to face Luke. 

“Answer me,” he says. 

Michael looks at Luke as well. When their eyes meet, Michael notices Luke’s cock visibly twitch. Luke parts his lips, exhales, then speaks. 

“Lower.” 

A sinful grin erupts on Not-Luke’s face as his hand moves south. “Attaboy.” 

Michael’s hips jump in anticipation, and Not-luke tsks in response. He eases his index finger under the waistline of Michael’s jeans. “Eager, aren’t you?” he observes, licking his lips. 

He grinds his palm into the outline of Michael’s cock. Hard. Like punishment. A loud, broken moan rips from his lips. 

“Fuck,” Michael breathes. “Please. L-Luke…”

“Patience, sweetheart,” Luke says, and finally—finally—unbuttons Michael’s jeans. Michael rises on his elbows to help get them off, until he’s just in his boxers. There’s a growing wet patch on the front of them, and the outline of his dick is prominent. His skin grows warm with embarrassment. He’s the only one in the room undressed now. 

He’s planning on changing that. 

“Luke,” he says, and receives two “yeah?”s in response. He bites his lip to keep from laughing. He looks at Not-Luke, hands braced on the bedsheets between Michael’s knees. 

“You’re still dressed.” 

Not-Luke blinks. He shakes his head. With a light chuckle, “We’ll fix that problem later, Mikey.” 

He reached for Michael’s boxers and palms his erection. Michael’s head drops back as he groans. “M-more. Please. Pl—” 

“Take those off.” 

The voice startles both the men on the bed. They look towards Luke in the chair, who has a hand slapped to his lips, as though he can't believe he said those words.

Michael’s stunned expression shifts. He cracks a grin. Looking up at Not-luke, he says,“You heard the man.” 

Scoffing, Not-Luke curls his fingers into Michael’s waistband and helps get his boxers off. Michael’s length springs free, and he exhales as the cold hair hits his warm skin. He’s so turned on, he feels like he’ll explode. Across the room, a squeak, painfully obvious, barely masking Luke's arousal.

“Luke,” Michael says to the brunet alter. “Touch me before I do it myself.” 

Not-luke raises his eyebrows. Amused. “Didn’t know you were calling the shots here.” 

Michael narrows his eyes. He takes his left hand off the bed and reaches for his dick—

Not-Luke slaps his hand away. 

He taps Michael’s knees—a silent order for him to spread his legs. Feeling giddy and warm, Michael does. He expects Not-Luke to wrap a hand around his cock, but he forgoes it altogether. Michael whines, desperate for any kind of stimulation, and his knees fall closed instinctively. 

Luke lets out a soft gasp. Not-Luke forces Michael’s legs open. His hand, featherlight in touch, trails just past the base of Michael’s length, and when Michael feels the pressure of Luke's thumb against his perineum, he nearly blacks out from how badly he wants more.

“Such a pretty cock,” Not-Luke murmurs. Michael doesn’t think it's possible, but his blush deepens further. “If I had my way, I’d have you spread out on this bed for hours, jus’ to look at you.” 

“Touch it, then,” Michael says, and he means for it to come out as a demand, but it sounds like a plea instead. 

“Not just yet,” Not-luke replies. “Where’s your lube?” 

Michael’s lost. He feels on edge, skin damp and sticky with sweat. He barely manages to gesture towards the bedside table. Not-Luke’s touch disappears momentarily, but when he returns, Michael jolts as he feels a slick, cold finger prodding at his hole. He teases the rim for a moment, but chuckles when Michael whines in discontent. 

All three of them moan when Not-Luke sinks his finger in. He fingers Michael slowly, and Michael claws at the sheets desperately. “More,” he gasps.

“Gotta go slow, Mikey. Get you stretched out for me.”  

But Not-Luke obliges. He adds another finger, scissoring in and out of Michael as he gasps and writhes on the bed. He seems to be searching for something, but Michael can’t pay attention. Not-Luke’s fingers feel so big inside him, reaching so much farther than he himself can. Suddenly, Not-Luke crooks his finger a little, touching a spot deep inside, and a shot of pleasure rushes through him. Michael’s dick twitches, and he thinks maybe he’s died and gone to heaven. His jaw drops open and he moans loudly. 

“Luke.”

“There it is.” Not-Luke smiles. Michael can hear the satisfaction dripping from his lips. 

He screws his eyes shut. Good—its so good. He can hear Luke’s ragged breath from the chair he’s still in. He wants to hide his face in his shoulder, but he wants to look at Luke so badly. Wants to see the desire in Luke’s eyes. Wants to reach out, to touch those blond curls. 

He feels the warm weight of Not-Luke lean over him, his voice in Michael’s ear, his chains tickling Michael's skin. “Eyes open, baby. Gotta look at him. Make sure he’s watching.” 

But Not-Luke’s fingers inside him are relentless. Michael forces his eyes open through the haze of pleasure. He turns his head, meets the blond man’s eyes. 

Luke looks completely undone. Ruined altogether. As his brunet counterpart adds a third finger, continuing his assault on Michael’s prostate, the sounds spilling from Michael’s lips are downright sinful. He lets out low ah-ah-ahs as Not-Luke’s expert fingers stretch his walls open for him. The pleasure builds in the lower part of his belly. 

Luke watches, grip on the armrest so tense that Michael’s sure his hands will cramp over his guitar the next day. His eyes are fixed on where Not-luke’s fingers are working Michael open. The untouched tent in his sweats is no doubt painful, and Michael can make out a wet patch against the grey of the fabric where Luke is leaking. His mouth waters. He wants. 

Michael reaches for the blond.  “Luke—”

His words are cut off by a broken moan as Not-Luke twists his fingers. Michael sees stars. His back arches off the bed. Without warning, he comes all over his stomach. 

He lightly registers Luke's intake of breath, how he whines: “Michael.” 

Not-Luke fingers Michael through his post-orgasm haze, and when he pulls his fingers out, Michael feels strangely empty. When he meets the brunet’s eyes, something dark shines behind his lashes. Michael’s stomach drops. Not-Luke rises on his knees, rising above Michael, who feels frozen in place under the man’s piercing gaze. He looks down his nose at Michael as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. Michael’s eyes follow the path of his fingers, down, down, down, until the shirt falls open. 

“What,” says Not-Luke, his voice ice-cold and patronizing, “did I say about asking?” 

Michael gulps. The low timbre of Not-Luke’s voice, paired with the pinpricks of arousal—of fear—has Michael’s soft cock twitching in interest. Not-Luke crawls over him, careful with his hands, just barely touching Michael as he leans in. Michael closes his eyes, anticipating warm lips over his own, but the feeling never comes. When he opens his eyes, Not-Luke is there, smirking, so close, but not close enough. 

Eyes never leaving Michael’s, he calls across the room, “Luke.”  

The blond seems to snap out of a daze. “...hm?” 

“Come here.” 

Michael inhales so sharply he almost chokes. His eyes dart to Luke, still sitting still. He looks as though he can’t quite believe he heard right.

Tilting his head, he voices his confusion, “Wh-what?” 

Not-Luke ghosts his breath over the warm skin on Michael’s neck, then turns his head. “Come over here before I change my mind.” 

There’s a scraping of wood across the floor as Luke stands up from his seat, the chair nearly tipping over. Not-Luke slides off the mattress, standing up to meet his doppleganger. 

Standing there, hard as stone in his pants, Luke seems to get awkward. “Um—what, uh…where?” 

Not-Luke extends his hand, silently beckoning his lookalike over. Luke approaches with apprehension—eyes dragging over Michael still catching his breath—as he nears the bed. He raises his hand to put it in the brunet’s but seems to hesitate. 

Not-Luke doesn’t have the kind of patience Luke demands. He grasps Luke’s hand and tugs, spinning him around so his back hits the brunet’s chest with a dull thud. Michael’s breath gets trapped in his lungs as he looks up at both the Lukes, now eyeing him with twin looks of unadulterated, unfiltered desire. 

The brunet leans into the blond’s space, lips brushing his neck as he murmurs into his ear. 

“Look at him,” he breathes, eyes raking up Michael's chest. “He’s pretty, isn’t he?” 

Luke stares, blushing violently, curls drooping into his eyes from sweat. When he doesn’t answer in time, Not-luke roughly slides an arm around his waist. Michael watches his chest stutter with a sharp intake of breath as he seems to fall back into his alternate. 

“Go on, Lukey,” Not-Luke mocks. “Tell me how he looks. Tell me what you see.” 

Michael watches Luke lick his lips as his eyes trace the lines of cum along Michael's abs. “He’s pretty. He-he’s—” 

“Good,” says Not-luke, and he presses a kiss underneath Luke’s ear. Michael hears Luke whimper, revels in the sound. “But he’s been selfish today.” 

That gets Michael’s attention. He rises on his hands, ready to defend himself. “Wh-what—” 

Michael is cut off by a pointed glare. Not-Luke slides his arm low around luke’s waist. The blond’s breath is ragged as Not-Luke dips his fingers under the hem of the shirt and slides up, up, revealing Luke’s flushed pale skin. Michael nearly drools. He’s so turned on from the sight—his biggest wet dream, but instead there’s two of them, and somehow they both want him. 

Luke lets out a high-pitched whine and drops his head back on Not-Luke’s shoulder, who kisses his neck again, shushing gently. Michael watches his hand move under luke’s shirt and realizes he’s probably playing with his chest. 

Michael pictures Luke’s chest, nipples pinched raw, wet from his own mouth—and he wants to see. He wants to see so badly—so he rises from his place on the bed and reaches for Luke’s shirt but—

“Tsk,” sighs Not-Luke. “Those hands. So greedy, Michael.”

Michael stops in his tracks. He watches as Not-luke slides his hands back down and teasingly fiddles with the ties on Luke’s sweats. He watches Luke’s hips jump in response. 

“Please,” Luke says, voice cracking. 

Not-Luke chuckles, low, dangerous, threatening. 

“‘Not gay’, huh, baby?”

Luke ignores him, squeezes his eyes shut, and whines like a pornstar. “Please…please, I’ll—” 

“Tell you what, gorgeous,” Not-luke starts, his hands moving to Luke’s hips to stop him as he grinds unconsciously back against the brunet. “If you sit nice and pretty, and hold Mikey’s hands down for me while I fuck him, I’ll make sure to reward you soon, okay?” 

Luke’s eyes flit to Michael’s. Michael snaps out of the horny daze he’s in when he registers the words. “Wait, what?” 

Not-luke slides his fingertips down Luke’s arms and intertwines their fingers. He inhales deeply against the side of Luke’s neck, and when he looks at Michael, his eyes are hooded and dark. 

“Blondie here ‘s going to make sure you keep your hands to yourself, Mikey,” He says, tone patronizing, speaking slowly as though Michael had trouble understanding him. 

“No, but I want—” 

“I think I’ve had enough of what you want, actually.” 

He steps back from the blond, who breathes out like he’s finally remembered how to. Not-Luke guides him gently by the waist until he gets his bearings enough to find his place at the head of the bed. Michael stares, indignant. He almost wants to cross his arms and stick out his tongue like a child. Not-Luke walks back around to the foot of the bed, looming above Michael with his arms crossed. At some point in time, he must’ve rolled his sleeves up, and the sight of his tense forearms paired with the view of his chest through the unbuttoned shirt has Michael aching to reach out and touch. 

So he does. 

But Not-Luke grasps his wrist as he reaches out. He leans in, kissing the corner of Michael’s lips. 

“I don’t think I’ve been clear enough with you, baby.” 

He nips at Michael’s lower lip, and Michael exhales on a moan. 

“Or maybe you didn’t hear me right.” 

He pulls back, eyes dark. 

“But you’re going to keep your hands to yourself, or you won’t come for the rest of the night.” 

That does it. Michael gulps, because he wants to come—hell, he’s leaking already. He’s not sure he’d last the whole night. 

Not-Luke trails his hand down to Michael’s chest, and gently pushes him back so he’s laying on the bed. He crawls over him, mouth tracing wet kisses down the column of his throat. He takes Michael’s hands from beside him and guides them so they’re resting on the pillows above his head. 

“Keep them there,” He warns, and Michael huffs, but he heeds the command. He sits back on his knees, and nudges Michael’s legs open. 

Michael feels soft fingers touch his wrist. He meets Luke’s eye, sitting pretty and flushed and perfectly quiet beside Michael’s head. He opens his palm, lets Luke find his place, lets him intertwine their fingers together. A comforting warmth blooms in his chest. 

He’s distracted by a soft metallic clinking and looks over to see Not-Luke undoing the zipper on his trousers. The brunet knows he’s being watched by both sets of eyes, so he moves his fingers excruciatingly slow as his boxers come into view. Michael’s mouth floods with saliva and his dick twitches with desire when he finally sees the bulge Not-Luke is sporting. 

“L-Luke…” He starts, but the words get lost on his tongue when Not-Luke slides his boxers down far enough for his cock, hard and leaking with pre, to emerge. It’s big, flushed pink and heavy. Michael isn’t surprised to find that Luke’s dick is pretty like the rest of him. 

Michael unconsciously spreads his legs wide, and Not-luke finds his place between them. He slides his hands up Michael’s calves as he lines himself up with his hole. He strokes himself once, twice, teases the rim with his tip, and chuckles when Michael whines impatiently. 

“Y’gonna be good?” He grins. 

Michael opens his mouth to make a snide comment, but cuts himself off with a depraved moan when Not-Luke pushes in. 

Inch-by-inch, Michael feels like he’s being split open. His eyes roll back and he briefly registers his Luke’s moan and Not-Luke’s deep groan as the brunet finally bottoms out. 

So full, Michael thinks. So—big. 

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Not-Luke responds, and Michael realizes he said that last part aloud. Not-Luke waits for Michael to adjust around him, but when Michael starts squirming, he pulls out a little, and slams back in. Michael’s back arches straight off the bed. He tries to wrap his arms around Not-Luke, pull him closer, but Luke’s sticking well to his orders, and he can’t move his hands. 

“F—fuhhh…L-Luke—I wanna—” he gasps, and Luke leans in, teasing. 

“Didn’t catch that. Say again?” 

“M-more—’’ 

Not-Luke pulls all the way out, leaving just the head inside, and Michael mewls. He pushes back in, and holds the pace at an infuriatingly slow glide. He grinds and rolls his hips into Michael, whose mouth drops open as he sighs and gasps, gaze completely unfocused. Not-Luke trails his thumb across Michael’s lower lip, then down until he has a hand around his neck—not pressing down, just holding. Anchoring. 

“Look at him, Lukey,” Not-luke tells his counterpart through gritted teeth, hissing as Michael clenches around him under the attention. “Doesn’t he look beautiful? All fucked out, drunk on my—on your cock?” 

Michael feels the grip around his fingers tighten. He moans. 

“S’deep, Luke,” He breathes. “ ‘Can feel you—hah…so deep inside.”

“I bet you’ve dreamt about this, Mikey,” Not-Luke says. He’s fucking Michael slow, yes, but not gentle. Each time their hips come together, it's with a force, a controlled slap sound filling the room. “Tell me what your dreams were like.” 

Silence. Just the wet heat, the weight of Not-Luke’s cock, the pleasure building and building. When Michael doesn't respond, Not-luke gives a particularly harsh thrust. 

“Ah–!” Michael knows what he’s asking for. So, he parts his lips, and lets everything out—he’s too fucked out to care. He feels too good to worry. 

“I used, hah, I used to dream of you…d-down on your knees—backstage, after every show. Your lips around my c-cock, your eyes t-teary…I used to dream of licking—mmh, Luke!---licking the sweat off your neck—an-and bending you over tables in bars wh-when you flirted with anyone that…fuck, with anyone that wasn’t me,” while he talks, he can hear soft whimpers falling from the blonde Luke’s lips. He goes on, “I wanted to tie you up to the bed—t-tease you for hours with just my tongue—ah!---I pictured your face…when you…when you c-come—whether you’d cry, if you’d be l-loud…ah, Luke, more—please!”

But Not-Luke doesn’t change his pace. He pulls out slowly, thrusts in slower. And now that Michael is talking, he doesn’t want to keep his mouth shut.

“I wanted—I wanted to kiss you so badly,” He breathes, and he isn’t sure if the tears in his eyes are from the pleasure or the grief. “When…when we sat in comfortable silence on tour buses. When you—when you looked at me under stage lights and…how beautiful you looked. I wanted you so badly for s-so long—” 

“Michael,” the blond whispered, desperate. “Michael. I didn’t understand. I-I didn’t understand. I thought something was…wrong with me. For wanting you—I couldn’t—I thought—” 

“Please–” Michael says, through the pleasure. Through the ache, the longing. “Please…kiss me? Please?” 

And the blond looks up at Not-Luke, who seems lost in thought, and snaps out of it then. He’s surprised to see his blond counterpart seek permission—from himself, no less. He nods. Of course he does. 

Luke rises from his seat and crawls over Michael. He cups the man's face as he leans in. When their lips touch, Michael feels like he can finally breathe. Like he’d been locked out of some universal secret, and he’s finally been let in to it. He feels like he’s floating, the skies at his fingertips. 

Luke kisses so sweetly. So unlike his alternate. He’s shy, not yet sure where to put his tongue, so Michael takes control. It starts out slow, saccharine, as Not-Luke continues grinding into him, and he moans into Luke’s mouth in response. Luke takes it as a sign to deepen the kiss—he licks into Michael’s mouth with fervor. It's warm, wet, and before long they’re panting into each other's mouths. When they part for breath, Not-Luke’s voice chimes in. 

“Michael,” He says, and the man in question looks at him to notice the mischievous glint in his eye. “Don’t you think you should thank Blondie?” 

Michael blinks at him questioningly, until the meaning dawns upon him. His eyes flit downward to Luke’s boner. Yeah, he thinks, I wanna thank him really badly.

“You’ve been so good for us, Lukey,” Not-Luke continues. “You did everything I asked you. Don’t you want your reward, gorgeous?” 

Luke blushes deeply. He nods, shy, hesitant, and Michael twists slightly so he can get his hands under Luke’s sweats without Not-Luke pulling out. He briefly thinks of himself as greedy. That’s probably right. 

It’s a bit awkward in the position he’s lying in, and he feels fuzzy because this new angle has Not-Luke pressing against something inside him that feels mindblowingly good. He struggles with untying the string of the pants for a moment, then with tugging them down Luke's thighs. He huffs at Luke’s abject refusal to help whatsoever, and turns back over to snap at the blond—

Oh. 

Not-Luke’s got a hand cupped around Luke’s jaw as they make out with each other. Michael’s stomach swoops. He can see the wetness upon their lips, the stubble along Not-Luke’s jaw, how it scratches Luke’s pale skin. He sees the spit they exchange between them, the flash of writhing tongues. How Luke moans and sighs into the kiss. How Not-Luke smirks as his blond alter begs wordlessly for more. The scrunch in Luke’s eyebrows as his want, his greed grows. 

When they part, they’re breathing heavily. Luke leans in to go again, but the brunet stops him with a soft tug on his hair. Luke whimpers in response. Michael makes a mental note of that reaction. He’ll be jerking off to this image for months. 

“Fuck, baby,” Not-Luke says, breathless still, laughing lightly. “Slow down.” 

The sound of his voice, the vision of the two of them together, its what finally does it for Michael. He whines, low, and nearly comes on the spot. 

He’s stopped by a hand around the base of his dick. He protests loudly, but Not-Luke clicks his tongue pointedly at him. 

“Be nice, Mikey,” he warns. “Get Lukey off first and behave if you want to come that badly.” 

And Michael does. He does want to come that badly, but more importantly he wants to get Luke off. He twists to meet Luke again, who rises on the bed to get his sweats off and shifts to kneel at an angle more comfortable for Michael. His cock bobs in Michael’s face, and he licks his lips at the sight. He looks up to meet Luke’s eye. The blond is biting his lip, abs tense as though restraining himself. 

“So pretty, Luke,” Michael tells him. He thrives in the soft gasp it draws from the man. “What a fuckin’ view.” 

Before Luke can respond, Michael wraps a hand around him, an licks a wet stripe along the underside of his cock. Luke drops his head back, eyes falling shut. Michael is just about to take Luke into his mouth when a harsh thrust from Not-Luke has his eyes widening. He looks back accusatorily. 

The man in question grins, “Oh, don’t mind me.’’ 

Michael tries to respond, but he’s cut off by a moan as Not-Luke pulls out and aims his next thrust directly on Michael’s prostate. It’s distracting.

“Mikey, sweetheart,” Not-Luke mocks, “Y’won’t come until blondie here does, so I’d suggest you put that pretty mouth to use.” 

Michael moans as the brunet punctuates that statement with a particularly cruel roll of his hips. 

He turns back to Luke and spreads the precome from the head all over his cock. He savours the little sounds Luke makes and he wants to tease him for hours just with little kitten licks, but since his climax is dependent on Luke’s, he gets down to business.  

Michael takes Luke into his mouth in one go. He bobs his head slowly, swirling his tongue along the veins on the underside. He wraps his hand around the base that won’t fit in his mouth. 

Not-Luke puts his hands around Michael’s waist and fucks into him—hard. He takes on a brutal pace. The bedframe shakes slightly, and Michael is pushed further down on Luke’s cock. It triggers his gag reflex, and tears spring from his eyes as Luke above him whines from his chest. 

“Michae—aaaah—”

He pulls off slowly to rub his tongue against Luke's tip, gasping as Not-Luke angles his thrusts so that Michael can barely breathe through how good he feels. He takes luke into his mouth again. His hips jerk as his cock hits the back of Michael’s throat, and michael groans. Luke responds to the vibrations as they shoot up his length and swears loudly. 

“Mm, shit—you take it so good, baby,” Not-Luke says, and Michael glows under the praise. He hums in response, and Luke, above him, fists his hands in his own hair. Michael pulls off him and reaches for those hands, guides them to Michael’s head. He blinks up at Luke through teary eyes as his brunet counterpart continues slamming into him below. 

“Luke, you ca—hngh!---you can fuck my mouth, if-if you want.” 

Luke inhales sharply. Michael tries to smile encouragingly at him, and licks at the bit of spit and precome on his lip. 

“It’s okay,” he says. He drops his mouth open for Luke. 

Luke moans softly. He cards through Michael’s hair gently, and Michael holds his gaze as Luke enters his mouth. 

At first, Luke is hesitant, clearly afraid to do something wrong. Michael sucks softly as he waits, taking Not-Luke’s cock, feeling the coil of pleasure grow tighter and tighter. All of a sudden, Luke grips his hair and thrusts deeper into Michael’s mouth. He takes it pliantly, moaning and swallowing around Luke’s cock, reveling in the sounds he makes. 

“Mikey…ah, ah—y-your mouth…you’re so—please—” 

Sloppily, Luke tugs Michael up and down on his dick, gasping even as his hips buck into Michael, as he savours the wet heat of Michael's throat. Michael exhales through his nose, tries to loosen his jaw, slides his tongue along Luke’s length—he wants it to be good for Luke. His lashes are wet with tears as he looks up at the blond. He lets Luke fuck his throat. Lets the drool and precome slide down his chin. And he feels ecstatic.

Luke’s hips stutter as he moves, his whines and moans growing louder. Abruptly, he pauses his thrusting, tries to pull out as he gasps, “Michael, I’m going to—where do you want me?” 

But Michael chases the movement of his hips, hollows his cheeks. He bobs his head a little, drawing a sweet hiss from Luke as he blinks up at him through hooded eyes. Luke comes with Michael’s name on his lips, chanting it like a prayer. Michael swallows it all, winces slightly at the bitter taste when Luke pulls out, and smirks up at him as the remainder of the blond’s cum spills from the corner of his mouth. 

Luke falls back on the bed, curling around a pillow as he smiles at Michael, a dreamy look on his face. What a dork, Michael thinks fondly. 

But then there’s a hand brushing over his cock, and the thrusts that had slowed down earlier as he sucked Luke’s cock are back, and Not-Luke is leaning over him to claim his mouth roughly. “Didn’t forget about me, did you, Mikey?” 

Michael gasps as Not-Luke finds his prostate again. The brunet takes that as his sign to continue plowing into him—the same spot, over and over, until there’s tears in Michael’s eyes. He keeps the angle, giving it to Michael like he’s starved for it, thriving in the sounds Michael makes as he gasps and sighs and moans and sobs Luke’s name. 

“Fuck, you were made for this, baby,” Luke gasps. 

The hot coil in Michael’s belly is growing tighter and tighter as Not-Luke keeps up the unforgiving pace, greedy and glad to have all Michael’s attention back to himself again. Not-Luke brushes the hair from his forehead and trails his hand down to teasingly glide over Michael’s cock, weeping with desperation. His movements grow sloppier, and he moans lowly in Michael’s ear. Michael feels the tenseness in his muscles, knows he’s close, and just for the sake of it, he nips at Luke’s ear, licks up his neck and whines like a whore. 

“Hhhh—got a mouth on you, don’cha?” Not-Luke chuckles. He clenches at the gravelly sound of his voice, and Not-Luke groans in response. “Shit, Michael—”

Michael feels the muscles in Not-Luke’s back tighten, and he quickly pulls out, both of them moaning as he does. He pumps himself once, then comes with a spurt over Michael’s stomach. 

“Fuck, you’re a vision, baby.” Not-Luke breathes. Michael laughs in response, skin sticky and wet with cum and sweat. He’s acutely aware of the fact that he hasn’t come yet. His dick is painfully hard against his abdomen. He can feel eyes on him, but he wants to come so desperately, and—

“Mikey,” Luke says, tentatively. “You haven’t come yet…” 

There’s something in his voice that Michael can’t quite decipher. Something like awe, like desire, like an unsaid question. Regardless, Michael can’t stop the movement of his hand as it wraps around his hard cock, hoping to jerk himself off, feel some relief, and soon. 

A hand around his own on his cock stops him from going through with it. He whines, impatient, bordering on sorrowful. Not-Luke guides Michael’s hand away from his length, and Michael watches the brunet as he licks his lips, looking beyond Michael, at the blond seated on the bed behind him. 

“Beg for it, Lukey,” He says, and it clicks in Michael’s mind. Luke wants—

“Michael,” Luke breathes into his ear, and it startles the man so badly, the blood rushes straight to his head. He flushes deeply as Not-Luke laughs at his reaction. But the blond continues. 

“Michael,” he says. “L-let me suck you off.” 

“Aw,” Not-Luke tuts, “You can do better than that, can’t you?” 

And Michael has half a mind to tell the brunet to fuck off because all he wants right now is to cum. He’s so painfully turned on, he can barely breathe. 

“Michael, please,” Luke purrs. “Please, let me s-suck your cock—please, I’ll be so good. I want you in my m—” 

“Yes!” Michael says, voice cracking, because he might be crying. “Yes—please, just—” Luke and his counterpart quickly switch places, manhandling Michael so that his back is against Not-Luke’s chest, the brunet’s breath warm on his shoulder as he nudges Michael’s legs open so Luke can get a hand around Michael’s cock. Michael nearly cums on the spot when Luke licks shyly at his tip. His head falls back on Not-Luke’s shoulder. 

“Y’know how to?” the brunet asks Luke, who gulps. 

He smiles shyly. “How hard could it be?” 

Not-Luck chuckles, and the sound goes straight to Michael's dick. 

“Oh, he’s got jokes,” says the brunet. Michael groans.

Luke takes a breath. 

“Its okay. Go slow,” Not-luke smiles. “We’ve got all night.” 

This is beginning to piss Michael off, and he voices it. 

But then Luke licks up the slide of his cock, and the complaint dies on his tongue. 

“Good,” says Not-Luke. “Take it easy, baby.” 

Michael lifts his head from the brunet’s shoulder just in time to see Luke take Michael’s head into his mouth. The wet heat hits him like a freight train. He thinks he might explode. Luke swirls his tongue, and licks at the ridge of his head. 

“Stop teasing—” Michael grits out. 

“Ignore him. Use your hand around what you can’t fit in your mouth, gorgeous.” 

There’s a determined look in Luke’s eyes as he takes Michael deeper, head bobbing gently. He makes eye contact with Michael, tears slipping from his eyes. Oh lord—Michael isn’t going to last for long. The obscene sounds of slick spit and soft gagging fill the room as Luke takes him. He’s so warm, so wet, so willing. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and Luke hums. 

“Made for this—for sucking cock,” Not-Luke says. 

Michael can’t resist the jab: “What does that make you?”

In response, Not-Luke nips at his neck and pinches Michael’s nipples. He yelps. 

Luke’s tongue is magic. Michael feels like his soul is being sucked out of his body when Luke swallows around his cock. Luke pulls off him, stroking him as he dips lower to lick at Michael’s balls. 

“Fuck—Luke—” Michael gasps, and that’s all the warning Luke gets before Michael’s spurting hot ropes of cum across Luke’s hand and mouth. He whimpers at the feeling, at Luke as he strokes him through the aftershocks, at how Luke looks at him after, as he licks the cum off his fingers. 

“Y’did good, Mikey,” Not-Luke says, kissing down Michael’s neck and Luke wipes his hand on the bedsheets. “You look so good like this, covered in us.” 

Michael thinks he could blush from that, but he’s too spent and sleepy. He feels Not-Luke shift from behind him and falls back into the pillows. He vaguely hears the sound of a soft kiss, followed by a murmur and a melodic giggle. 

Not-Luke rises from the bed and pulls on his shirt while Luke crawls up to Michael and curls into his side, who wraps a noodly arm around him. The brunet simply looks at them for a moment, until Michael gets annoyed and blindly throws a pillow at him. 

“Get back in here, asshole,” Michael grunts, eyes falling shut already. 

Not-Luke laughs, a deep and genuine tune that reaches underneath Michael’s ribs and nestles somewhere warm. 

“Gotta get you both cleaned up,” he says, but he doesn’t move. He looks on, quietly, as his blond alternate smiles at him, reaches for his hand and tugs. He lets himself be pulled down, lands heavily on top of the two prone men. 

“Oof, you’re heavy,” grunts Luke. 

“I’m you,” comes the reply. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael snaps. “Go kiss about it or something. I’m trying to sleep.” 

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mikey?” 

Michael furrows his brows, but he knows the pink of his cheeks would betray him. Not-Luke laughs heartily, almost exactly in tune with his doppleganger. 

“Ugh,” Michael says, opening one eye to squint accusingly at the two men. “Creepy.” 

“Y’love it,” Blondie smiles. 

“Alright, sleeping beauty,” Not-Luke says, gesturing towards the attached washroom in the room. “Let me get something to clean you up before you’re snoring into tomorrow.’’

“I do not snore,” Michael says. 

“Kiss before you go?” Luke pouts. 

The brunet complies. He lifts Luke’s chin with a finger, and Michael expects him to leave just a short peck on the blond’s lips, but instead it's something longer, sweeter. Something lingering, like he was savouring it, committing it to memory. When he pulls back, Luke’s eyes stay shut for a moment, and when his eyes reopen, there’s a silence shared between the two that Michael can’t quite place. A shared understanding. An unknowable secret. 

When Not-Luke turns to Michael, his eyes are glistening, shining with something unsaid. Michael doesn’t understand. Not-Luke kisses him like he’s breathing him in, holding Michael in his palms, like he’s trying to tell him something he can’t put into words. It’s just the two of them alone in a bubble, glowing with warmth. It’s a slow kiss. Michael doesn’t want it to end. But before he knows it, Not-Luke’s pulling away. Michael chases him, but he’s already out of reach. 

Both the men on the bed watch the brunet as he straightens up. He avoids looking at them as he buttons his belt. It strangely feels like he’s saying goodbye, like he’s leaving, even though he said he’d be right back. 

“Join us when you’re back?” Luke asks, an odd sobriety in his tone. 

Not-Luke smiles. He begins taking small steps towards the washroom, deliberately moving slowly, looking over them as though he’s painting a mental picture. 

“You guys look good together,” he tells them. “I’ll see you in a few.” 

Saying so, he turns on his heel and walks through the doorway, and his footsteps echo until he’s out of sight. Then, silence.  

Neither of them move, gaze fixed upon the washroom door. There’s a wait. An anticipation for him to come back, to make a flirty comment, a snide joke. 

Nothing. 

“He isn’t coming back,’’ Luke says finally. 

“I—” Michael feels a weird sense of loss. “I liked him.” 

Luke wraps his arm around Michael’s waist, stroking softly. The feeling is comforting. Michael wants to melt into Luke. Stay in bed with him forever, legs entangled with the sheets, bodies sparkling with sweat, basking in the afterglow. 

Michael looks away from the door when Luke lays his head on Michael’s chest. He’s sure the blond can hear Michael's racing heartbeat. He exhales through his mouth. 

“Where do we go from here?” he asks. 

Luke is quiet for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” he replies. “I want you, like this and in every other way.  I didn't understand for a long time. I still…I still don’t. ” 

Michael has an arm around Luke. The room is bathed in warmth. They’re sticky with the taste of each other. 

“We don’t…we don’t need to have all the answers right now, do we?” Michael whispers. He wishes for a moment that he had Not-Luke to rudely guide him through all this. But the thought fades quickly. He wants this for himself. He wants to do it himself. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow?” Luke asks, and he looks up at Michael. His eyelashes glow golden in the lamplight. Michael is briefly reminded of a dream he’d had, once.

He leans down and presses his lips to Luke’s forehead. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I promise.”

They settle into comforting silence. Michael’s breath evens out, Luke sighing contentedly as he draws little patterns into the skin of his hips. He’s drifting off to sleep when Luke speaks again. 

“Mikey?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I ride you next time?”

-

[lrhreads]

Knock Knock - lrh

・❥・ MDNI ・❥・

✿ pairing: luke x fem!reader (first person pov)

✿ summary: As you're getting ready for your wedding with Luke you play a little game to spice things up ;)

✿ warnings: p in v, oral (f and m reciving), overstimulation, choking, multiple orgasams, fingering, dom!luke, teasing

✿ word count: 7.8k

✿ author’s note: this is to all my friends who pushed me to start posting my work instead of letting it sit in a goggle doc to collect dust. and a big thank you to the person who helped me set this blog all up i would be so lost without ur guidance.

i love to play around with my writing so this one is in first person pov, but i have others that are second person pov! also heads up there is probably a spelling/grammar error or two.

i absolutely looooovved writting this one and it's one of my fav so i hope you love it as much as i do:')

Copyright © 2025 lrhreads. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Part 1: The Four. 

(Luke's POV)

The First:

The suite smells like fresh linen, wood polish, and expensive nerves.

Sunlight pours through the tall windows, catching on the dust motes in the air, making everything feel a little cinematic– too bright, too sharp. I stand in the middle of it all, shirt hanging open, collar wrinkled from the way I keep tugging at it. My tie's already been thrown onto the back of the couch. Twice. Every time I go to get ready, I end up pacing again. Restless. Half-feral with anticipation.

The space is big–bigger than I expected it to be– with heavy curtains drawn halfway back, an antique mirror leaning against one wall, and a bar cart in the corner that none of us has dared to touch yet. The venue is some restored estate outside the city, all stone terraces and glass chandeliers, the kind of place you book when you want your wedding to feel like it might outlast time itself.

The others are here– Michael has his feet propped up on the coffee table, scrolling through something on his phone. Ashton is fussing with his cufflinks by the mirror like he's presenting an award, and Calum's sitting cross-legged on the floor, pretending to finalize his best man speech but mostly just throwing grapes at me every time I sigh. The room is full of noise, the kind of harmless chaos that usually calms me, but today it's static.

All I can do is miss her. Like an ache. Like a bruise under my ribs.

"You good?" Calum asks without looking up.

"Yeah," I replied.

"You've said 'yeah' fifteen times in the last half hour."

"Well, I meant it differently each time," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.

Truth is, I don't know what to do with myself. It's not cold feet. It's not even the pressure of the day. It's the fact that she's somewhere in this building, behind some closed door. Getting her makeup done, probably laughing with her bridesmaids, sipping something bubbly. Slipping into a dress I'm not allowed to see yet. And I can't see her. Can't touch her. Can't even hear her voice.

I am losing my goddamn mind.

Last night was the last time I'll have ever gone to bed without calling her my wife. And somehow that makes everything sharper today. Like I'm walking around with no skin.

I pace again, this time from the mirror to the windows, then back towards the arched doorway that leads to the suite's small lounge. The walls are all soft golds and creams, the ceiling high enough to echo. My reflection catches in the mirror— bare chest, half-done buttons, tattoos exposed, jaw clenched. I look like I'm waiting for a fight.

"She'll show," Michael says casually. "You know, unless she saw the group chat and changed her mind."

"If she leaves me at the altar," I say, without blinking, "I'm following her."

"Romantic and slightly terrifying," Calum says, tossing another grape.

Then– a knock.

It's light. Confident. Just once.

We all go still.

Ashton crosses the room and cracks the door open, only to grin and swing it wide.

Standing there, holding a plain white envelope, is one of her bridesmaids – dressed down, makeup half-done, hair clipped back, but smiling like she knows exactly what she's doing.

"What's this?" I ask as she walks up.

She places the envelope in my hands like it's fragile. "I was instructed not to say anything except: 'Don't open ahead, don't let the guys see, and don't drop it.'"

Then she spins on her heel and disappears through the suite door, leaving behind the faint smell of hairspray and perfume.

I look down. Thin envelope. Unlabeled. Whatever's inside has weight to it– not paper. A photo.

I slide a finger under the seal and pull it open slowly, like it might bite.

And there she is.

Curled up on our bed at home. My hoodie hangs loose around her shoulders. Her legs are bare. One knee tucked under her, the other stretched long. Her hair is a mess, soft around her face, and her smile is a quiet kind of dangerous– knowing, tender, intimate. Like she's not posing for the camera, just waiting for me to come to bed.

It hits me hard. Harder than I expected. I forget the room, the guys, the ceremony– everything.

I flip the photo over.

I wanted you to see me the way I feel when I think of you. Love you. Don't be late. 

My chest twists.

I sink onto the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror, elbows on my knees, photo in both of my hands. I run my thumb gently along the corner, careful not to smudge it. There's something about the curve of her smile in that photo– like she already knows what I'm feeling now. Like she's been feeling it too.

"She's insane," I say softly to myself.

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Insane like…'I should call someone? Or…"

"She sent me a photo." I can barely tear my eyes away. "A Polaroid. She's wearing my hoodie."

"Ohhh," Calum whistles. "We've entered the tease era of the day."

I flip the photo again and tuck it into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, right over my heart.

"No one else gets to see it."

It feels sacred. Not just the image, but the act. The intention. Knowing she wanted me to have this moment, before everything else. She wanted to remind me of what we already are, before all the guests and vows and photos.

"You're smiling," Ashton says quietly, walking over to me, patting my back. "You didn't do that once this morning."

I lean back and exhale. My chest feels looser, lighter.

"Yeah, she does that to me."

The Second:

I managed to finish buttoning my shirt. That's about the extent of my progress.

The tie's still untouched. My hands keep fidgeting with the cuffs, rolling and unrolling them like I forgot how sleeves work. Every few minutes, I catch myself glancing toward the door. Thinking maybe it'll knock twice this time. Maybe she'll just walk in wearing that hoodie in real life instead of tucked into the side of my suit jacket in Polaroid form.

I can't stop thinking about that photo. That look in her eyes. The way she somehow made our bed look like the most intimate place on the planet. The way she looked at me– even through the lens, even knowing I'd see it later.

She wrecked me with one picture.

The guys are still buzzing in the background— Ashton's reading some wedding trivia off his phone like it's the Oscars, and Michael and Calum are arguing about whether the band playlist should include one of our old songs. I'm barely listening. Everything in me is pacing, even when I'm sitting still.

Then it happens again.

Another knock.

Softer this time. Almost playful.

Michael beats me to the door, opening it with a knowing smirk.

Another bridesmaid stands there, this one holding an envelope between two fingers like she's handing off classified intel. "Round two," she says. "And don't act like you didn't like the first one."

I gave her a look. "You guys planned this, didn't you?"

"Don't shoot the messenger, Hemmings." She grins and slips away before I can say anything else.

This envelope's thinner, but somehow feels heavier in my hands.

I already know what's inside.

Still, my heart kicks like it's trying to warn me.

I tear it open, slower than the first time. Careful. A little afraid of what she's about to do to me again.

The photo slides into my palm.

Fuck.

She's sitting on the kitchen counter at home, legs bare and stretched out, laughing like I just said something that made her lose it. She's wearing nothing but my band tee– the old threadbare one, with the cracked logo, holes near the hem. The one. It's long enough to hang loose, but just barely. Her hair is messy again, wild and sexy in a completely unintentional way. One hand is behind her on the counter for balance. The other's holding a coffee mug— my mug. Her thighs are parted just enough to make me insane.

I flip the photo over…

For when you missed breakfast x 

I drag a hand down my face, biting back a groan. "I'm not going to survive today."

"That bad?" Calum questions, raising an eyebrow in my direction.

I don't respond. Just get up and start pacing again. This time with purpose. My blood is too hot now. I can feel it under my skin, all charged and restless. Like I'm burning from the inside out.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The photo isn't soft like the first one. It's more playful. Cheeky. She's saying 'I know exactly how to distract you, and I'm doing it on purpose' without saying it.

I slide the photo into the same pocket where the first Polaroid is. My chest feels tighter now. Not in a bad way. Just full. Heavy with a mix of love and need while also something lower— darker– twisting and swimming behind my ribs.

Michael watches me with a grin plastered across his face. "Is the second one better than the first?"

I glanced at him, eyes narrowed. "I'm not answering that."

"Which means yes."

"I said I'm not answering it."

I turned towards the window again, mostly to cool off. Resting my forehead against the glass and focusing on my breathing. Outside, the courtyard is being decorated. Flowers everywhere you looked. Chairs lined up perfectly. It all seemed so still compared to what was happening inside of me.

She's turning today into a game. A slow, teasing, perfectly executed form of torture. And I don't want her to stop.

The Third:

We've been moved from the groom's suite to what the planner called the "final prep lounge". It's quieter here, off to the side of the gardens, near where the ceremony will take place. A room nobody uses except the couple and whoever in the party needs a breather before they walk out in front of a hundred or so people.

It's got this old-world feel, bookshelves built into walls, dusty with old books that were there for aesthetic more than function. There's a velvet couch underneath a wide window overlooking the garden and a few chairs scattered around. Everything feels suspended in time. Numb with anticipation.

I can't stop messing with the cuffs of my suit jacket. I've been doing it for ten minutes straight. Nerves aren't new to me– hell, I've played in front of stadiums– but this feels different. Bigger, heavier.

Ashton is leaning in a corner, scrolling through his phone, claiming he is 'too antsy to sit'. Calum is messing with his tie in the mirror, mumbling something under his breath about needing a drink. Michael is looking through all the old books, trying to figure out which one is the oldest purely based on looks alone.

And then there's a knock at the door.

Sharp. Meaningful.

Cal opens it, and another one of the bridesmaids steps inside. She's glowing, like they all are today, but there's something mischievous about her smile. She walks straight towards me, heels clicking against the hardwood floors, and hands me a small, plain white envelope. Just like all others.

She doesn't say anything— just winks and then she's gone again.

I stare at it for a second.

My chest tightens.

By now, I know the game she's playing.

I tear the seal open. My hands aren't steady anymore. My fingers brush the edges of the Polaroid, and I already feel my blood stirring before I even see it.

When I do– fuck.

It's her, in our bedroom. Not staged, not artificial. Just her.

She's standing in front of the full-length mirror, backlit by the late afternoon sun. She's wearing black lace, barely wearing it. The kind that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Thin straps falling from her shoulders. A deep cut bra that lifts and exposes in a way that should be illegal. Matching bottoms that sit high on her hips, making her legs look even longer, even more sinful.

Her lips are parted, just a little. Like she'd been talking to the camera. Her eyes are locked on her reflection– and mine now. There's a rawness to it. A quiet heat. It's not the lingerie that undoes me– it's her expression. The way she is so completely herself in it. Beautiful. Bare. Powerful.

And the caption?

Don't drop this one in front of your mom. 

I swallowed hard. My throat is dry.

"Jesus," I mutter, low enough that only I can hear it.

My hands cover my mouth, rubbing across my jaw. My pulse is pounding. I glance over at the guys, half-afraid someone can read it on my face. What I just saw, what I'm thinking.

Ashton looks up from his phone briefly, notices something, but says nothing. Cal raises a brow, gives me a lazy grin. But the room's gone quieter now. They can sense a shift.

The teasing from earlier is gone.

Because this one– it's not just flirty. It's not cute or cheeky, it's intimate.

It's hers. For me.

I stare at the photo a little longer than I should. Thumb tracing the edges, careful not to smudge the image. I tuck it safely right where the other two are, over my heart in my jacket pocket.

Sitting down on the arm of the couch, I look outside at all the white chairs, flowers, and the aisle– attempting to steady my ragged breathing.

Every time I think I've hit the ceiling with how much I want her, she finds a new way to undo me.

And we haven't even made it to the vows yet.

The Fourth and Final: 

It's been twenty minutes since the last Polaroid.

I've been alone for ten of them.

The wedding planner told me to wait here until she came to get me and took the guys with her. "Just breathe," she said, like that's easy to do right now.

The last three polaroids weighed down my jacket pocket.

I haven't stopped thinking about it.

She's on the counter, in our bed, laughing like she owns the whole goddamn world.

She kind of does.

I rub my palms down the front of my thighs, trying to focus on anything but the way my heart won't slow down. I've been pacing the length of the room, over and over. Tie's done. Jacket's ready. Vows are in the pocket of my slacks, worn soft from how many times I've pulled them out, reread every word, re-memorized every breath.

Then I hear it— barely a sound.

A light knock.

I turn, expecting the wedding planner.

But no one's there.

Just something left just inside the door.

Another goddamn envelope.

My breath catches, I already know.

This one is quiet.

I grab it gently, like the air might shift if I move too fast, and sit down on the edge of whatever chair is closest to the door. My fingers are careful, reverent. I slide the photo out.

And everything stills.

She's bare.

Laid out in golden light, like she took this seconds after stepping out of the shower. Her back arched, legs tucked underneath her, and she had one hand on the mattress to hold herself steady. Her head is turned slightly toward the camera, toward me. Her hair was falling wildly down her back. Her eyes–

Fuck. Her eyes.

They're not playful. They're not soft.

They're something else entirely.

Open and unfiltered. Daring me to feel everything this moment is.

My throat tightens.

I press the heel of my palm against my chest, right over my tie, because I swear to god my heart's never beat like this before. It's her. All of her. Unapologetic, unafraid. This isn't just sex. This is trust. This is her saying; I'm yours. Now. Later. Always. 

And I feel it so deeply in my bones.

My hand shakes as I run it through my hair, the photo still held in my other hand like it's some kind of holy artifact. Sacred and private and mine.

No note. No words.

She doesn't need any.

I exhale slowly, jaw tight from how hard I'm clenching it. I'm seconds away from losing it completely. The way I want her right now, it's not calm. It's not polite. It's overwhelming. Fierce, like I could walk into the hallway and forget the whole ceremony just to find her. Just too–

I laugh under my breath, breathless and wrecked.

"Jesus, baby," I whisper, leaning forward. "You're really trying to kill me before I can even make it down the aisle."

I look up at the ceiling, breathing deep, trying to hold it together.

Not long now. I just have to make it a few more minutes.

Then she's mine. Fully, forever.

And so help me God.

Part 2: The Reception. 

(Her POV)

The reception is a blur of music, light, and heat. String lights sway above us like stars, and someone's spinning Fleetwood Mac again– third time tonight. The dance floor is all bare feet and laughter, the smell of champagne and sweat clinging to everyone like a second skin.

But none of it matters.

Not the music. Not the speeches. Not the cake I've ever tasted.

Because all I can feel is him.

He's across the room, talking to someone– I think a cousin, maybe a drummer. I don't know. I don't care. His sleeves are rolled up, the collar of his shirt open, and his tie hanging loose around his neck. And his jaw is clenched in the way it always gets when he's trying not to lose control.

I know that look.

I gave him that look.

And I haven't touched him in over an hour.

That's part of the fun.

Earlier, I'd been subtle. Fingers under the table. Whispers into his ear that made him twitch in his seat. Dancing with him so close, my lips brushed his throat while I silently reminded him of what I was wearing underneath my dress.

His breath had stuttered. I felt it. Right against my collarbone.

Now? Now I'm just watching him unravel.

He meets my gaze from across the room. I tilt my head slightly and take a slow sip of champagne, letting my tongue dart across the rim of the glass. Just enough to make his knuckles tighten on the drink in his hand.

Good.

He's trying to play it cool like always.

But I know him.

And right now, he's strung so tight I bet he'd break with one whispered word.

So I give him none.

I let the moment linger, then turn away and laugh at something Calum says, even though I didn't hear a word. My skin feels electric. Every inch of me is aware of him watching. Of the way this dress clings to my thighs. The way the slit rides higher when I move.

Eventually, I feel him behind me again– close, hovering. He doesn't touch, but I feel the heat of him like a hand against my spine.

"You're being evil," he says lowly, voice like gravel.

I don't even turn around. Just sip my drink.

"You're going to kill me."

"You'll die happy," I replied.

Before he can answer, someone shoves a Polaroid camera into my hand. "Last one of the night! Newlyweds, front and center."

I grin and grab his hand before he can think to resist. "Come on, rockstar."

He lets me drag him to the wall, where people have been snapping candid shots all night. It's covered with photos now— lipstick stains, someone mid-cartwheel. And ours is going to be nothing like theirs.

I turn and press my back to his chest. Guide his hand to my waist, then lower. Lower still.

He stiffens.

"Relax," I whisper, reaching for his other hand and sliding it gently across my collarbone, up to my throat.

"That's enough," he warns.

"Shhh," I mutter. "Just look at the camera."

He doesn't move. I feel his breath at my temple, warm and staggered.

Then I tilt my head. My lips brush against his jaw– just barely.

Click.

The flash blinds us both.

I grab the photo before he can. Shake it, watching the ghost of an image start to blossom.

He stays behind me, breathing heavily. His hands are still planted where they were in the photo, like he's trying to not haul me into the nearest dark hallway.

The photo develops slowly. When the image clears, I turn around to face him and hold it up for him to see.

He freezes.

His hand is still curled around my throat– not hard. Just there. Like a promise.

In the photo, his eyes are closed. My mouth on his skin. And I'm looking at the camera like I planned the whole thing.

Because I did.

"It's a good one, don't you think?" I asked, all sugary innocence.

He doesn't answer.

"You knew what it'd do to me," Luke finally says.

I smile.

"I've been trying to ruin you since this morning."

I slide the photo into his jacket pocket, where I can feel the other ones are.

Then I turn and walk away.

Barefoot. Back straight. My dress swayed around my legs like smoke.

I don't look back.

I don't have to.

I know he's following.

Part 3: The After.

(Her POV)

The limo door clicks shut, and we're alone again, finally. The noise of the reception fades behind tinted glass and closed windows, and it feels like I can breathe again– for a second.

Then I catch the way he's looking at me, like I lit a match and dropped it on a pile of gasoline. I glance out the window, pretending not to notice, but I let my hand slide over his thigh. Slow. Deliberate. Just above the knee.

He doesn't move. Doesn't even flinch.

But I feel the way he tenses under my touch. The muscle in his leg tightens, his breath catches, and when I steal a glance at him, his jaw is tight.

He's looking out the window, like he's trying to stay calm. Like if he looks at me, he'll lose whatever composure is left in him, helping him cling to his sanity all night.

I squeeze a little.

His head turns toward me.

"You really did that to me today?" His voice was rough, quiet as if someone else could hear him.

I don't look at him. Instead, I trail my fingers higher. Not enough to be obvious, just enough to provoke.

"You made it through the reception," I murmur, smoothing my dress over my legs like I haven't been just driving him insane for hours. "Barely."

His hand moves.

Not gentle or patient.

His palm slides under the hem of my dress's slit, up my thigh with a kind of reckless hunger I can feel in my teeth.

"You think you're in control right now?" he says.

I smirk. I don't answer.

But my body is already betraying me– heat pooling between my legs, heart pounding like it knows exactly what's coming.

His fingers stop right where lace meets skin. Just resting there. Waiting. Like he's daring me to react.

He leans in again. His breath was hot on my neck.

"Careful," he growls. "You're gonna find out what happens when I'm finally not playing nice.

The second we're inside the hotel suite, the facade cracks.

The door shuts with a violent click behind us, and his mouth is on mine before I can say a word. All tongue and teeth and raw, pent-up need.

I don't remember walking, but Luke's already pushing me backward, crowding me until I hit the door again. My back slams into it, and I gasp— not from pain. From the way he's touching me now. Like he's starved.

His hands are already on the zipper of my dress, tugging hard, clumsy and desperate. One hand cups my jaw as his mouth crashes into mine again, teeth scraping my lower lip.

"You've been fucking with me all day," he mutters against my lips.

He's not wrong.

I kiss him back just as hard, fingers threading through his curls, tugging until he groans. "Do something about it then," I dare.

And he does.

His hands slide under my thighs, and suddenly, I'm off the ground. Legs wrapped around his waist, back still pressed to the door as he holds me there like I weigh nothing.

I wrap my arms around his neck, breath ragged, as he grinds against me through layers of clothing. Every moment is frantic, fueled by hours of teasing looks and whispered innuendos.

"You don't get it," He mutters, voice strangled with restraint. "You don't get what you do to me."

He kisses down my throat, rough and hungry, like he's trying to brand me.

I lean my head back against the door, moaning as one of his hands slips beneath the lace between my legs.

He pauses, and when his thumb brushes over the soaked fabric, he groans against my neck. "Fuck."

I bite down on my lip and arch into his touch. "Still think I'm not in control."

He laughs, but it's dark. "Not anymore, you're not."

Then goes back to kissing down my throat. Sucking on my collarbone. Hard, and this time there's no teasing.

Just fire.

He drops to his knees. Just like that. In the entry of the suite, my dress bunched at my waist.

The carpet brushes the tops of his boots. He doesn't even blink.

"Are you serious?" I breathe, but it's more of a gasp than a question.

He looks up at me from between my thighs, blue eyes darkened past recognition, jaw set like he's ready to ruin me. One of his hands curls around the back of my calf, guiding it over his shoulder. The other hooks into the waistband of my panties– lace, black, deliberately chosen.

"You knew exactly what you were doing," he murmurs, and then—

Heat. Tongue. Pressure.

He doesn't ease in. Doesn't take his time. He licks me through the lace, firm and slow, until my knees actually give a little and I grab onto his shoulders just to stay upright. The grin he gives me then– crooked, smug, devastating– is all teeth.

He moves the lace aside. Bare skin, no more teasing.

And then he's back at it. Mouth sealed, tongue working in circles, maddening and slow and fucking perfect. My fingers tangle in his hair before even realizing it– tight and possessive, grounding myself.

"Oh my god–" I gasp, hips rocking against his face. He holds me steady with a firm hand under my thigh, pulling me in like he wants me to suffocate him.

The drag of his mouth, the obscene wet sounds, the way his stubble scrapes my inner thighs— it's all too much and not enough all at once. I can't even think. Can't breathe. My entire body arches towards him.

He moans into me, low and rough, like he's getting off on the way I fall apart.

And then he finds it. That exact spot. The one that makes me tremble.

He focuses there, lips tight, sucking just right– flicking his tongue until everything in me coils tight like a wire pulled too far.

"Don't stop," I choke out. "Luke— fuck, don't stop."

I grip the back of his head like I might float away if I don't anchor myself to him.

And then it hits.

Pleasure cracks through me, hot and binding. I cry out, thighs shaking against his shoulders, stomach tightening as my orgasm slams through me, fast and hard. He holds me steady through it, licking me through the aftershocks like he's determined to taste every second of it.

My vision swims. I'm panting, clutching his shoulders, legs barely holding me up.

Luke finally pulls back. His lips are slick. His mouth is swollen. He looks so proud. Wild and dangerous.

"One," he says, voice smug and confident, standing slowly like a predator who knows he's just begun. He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh before rising. Then his eyes meet mine.

"You're not walking tomorrow."

He lifts me off the door and carries me to the bed, standing me right beside it— his mouth already on my shoulder, my jaw, the corner of my lips like he can't stand the distance between us.

I expect the same kind of urgency that had me unravelling in his mouth a minute ago.

But no.

It's like now that he's tasted me, he wants to make the rest of this last.

He lays me down, careful, reverent. The room spins a little with how gentle his hands are. His eyes drag down my body over the dress I wore just for this, over the flushed skin that still hums from his mouth.

His hands find the zipper again.

He kneels in front of me, beside the bed, fingers ghosting along the line of my back as he pulls the zipper down– inch by inch, his mouth following, warm and open against my skin. He doesn't rush. Each kiss is a confession for him. A slow unravelling.

My dress falls in soft folds around me.

And then I hear it– a sharp inhale from his chest. A curse under his breath.

I glance down at him, heat prickling at my neck.

I'm in the same black lingerie from the third Polaroid.

The one that I'm sure made him dizzy.

The one I took, knowing exactly what it would do to him.

His voice is ragged when it breaks the silence. "You planned this. Every second."

I don't say anything. Don't have to.

He trails his fingers up the inside of my thigh. Presses a kiss on my hipbone. Then another, lower, warmer.

"You knew I'd lose it."

A kiss on my stomach.

"You knew exactly what this would do to me."

He moves higher, lips brushing the curve of my ribs, the underside of my bra. His hand slides to my back, unfastening it with infuriating slowness, like he wants to savour it.

I arch into his mouth when he kisses the side of my breast, his tongue flicking over the skin like he's claiming it.

But then he pulls back.

Stands.

And the air in the entire room changes.

The softness evaporates. What's left is heat. Control. A rawness in his eyes I've never seen before– something older, darker, starving.

"On your knees."

His voice was low and firm. There's no room for question in it.

My breath catches in my throat. He watches my process with his words. Watching me hesitate for one second too long.

"You made me wait," he says, taking off his shoes. Then his shirt. "You wore this little fucking set and left me sitting with those pictures. For hours. Thinking about this body. About that mouth. About what I'd do the second I got my hands on you."

He unbuttons his slacks, watching me like a wolf watching its prey.

"You don't get to play innocent now."

Heat pools low in my stomach.

I drop down to my knees slowly. He watches every move like it's sacred. Or sinful. Or both.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Right where I want you."

I look up at him through my lashes.

"You waited," I whisper. "I thought about it every night."

His breath stutters. His hand knots in my hair, pulling it back to make me look up.

"Say it again."

"I wanted this," I say bolder this time. "I wanted to make you lose control."

"You fucking did," he growls, eyes blazing. "You have no idea what you've done to me."

He strokes himself slowly in front of me, just enough to make my mouth go dry. Then he taps his cock against my bottom lip.

"You're gonna take all of it, baby. Every inch. No teasing this time. No games."

I open my mouth for him, and he throws his head back and groans like it physically hurts him to be touched.

"Look at me," he says, sliding in deep, hand tight in my hair. "Eyes on mine. You don't look away unless I tell you to."

I moan around him, already dizzy from the fullness, from the possessiveness in his grip, from the way his jaw clenches like he's seconds away from losing it.

He thrusts slowly at first, controlled.

Then harder.

Faster.

Dirty words pouring from his lips, one after another:

"Fucking perfect mouth–"

"It's like you were made for this–"

"Look at you– so fucking needy, choking on it like you love it."

His rhythm falters as he gets close, voice shaking with restraint.

But he doesn't let himself finish there.

One second I'm limp on the floor, wrecked from his mouth, the next I'm in his arms again– lifted like I'm weightless. He doesn't give me time to breathe.

My thighs lock around his waist as his mouth crashes into mine, open and hot and tasting like me. He walks me backward, gripping my ass, barely looking where he's going. The suite blurs past in streaks of gold light and shadows, until my back slams into the wall hard enough to make the mirror rattle.

I gasp, arms flying around his shoulders. "Luke–"

His mouth moves down to my neck, biting down just enough to make me gasp.

"You think I'm done with you?" he growls, grinding against me. "I haven't even started."

Then he's inside me.

No warning. Just one rough, brutal thrust that steals the breath straight from my lungs.

I cry out, nails scraping down his back. The wall is cold on my back, but his body is fire– his skin, his breath, his hands everywhere.

"Fuck," I gasp, clinging to him, legs tightening.

His pace is punishing, hips slamming up into me like he's trying to make a point. My head tips back and hits the wall again, a sharp thud. His hand comes up, fingers sliding over my throat.

"Keep your eyes on me." He demands, gritting his teeth.

I do– barely. His face and neck are flushed, jaw tight, blue eyes dark and locked on mine.

"Look at me when I ruin you," he says.

Then his hand tightens.

My eyes roll back. My body arches against his, and every nerve is on fire. The pressure on my throat makes everything sharper– every thrust, every sound, every pulse of heat between my legs.

"Fuck— Luke–" I choke out.

He growls low in his chest, voice filthy and worshipping.

"God, this fucking body. This cunt. All mine. You hear me?"

I nod, choking on a moan. "Yours– yours–"

He presses in harder, deeper, lip brushing my ear. "You made me wait. Dressed like a fantasy, touching me like it meant nothing. Then wore that fucking lingerie from the Polaroid. You wanted this."

I whimper.

"You wanted me like this. Didn't you?"

"Y-yes," I gasp.

Luke pulls out suddenly, and I almost collapse, but he doesn't let me fall. He turns me– spins me so I'm facing the wall, palms splayed out, bare chest pressed against the cold surface.

"Hands up. Spread your legs."

I do, shaking. I feel the rough drag of his chest to my back, his hand locking around my throat again as he lines up and thrusts into me from behind.

Deeper. Angled. Brutal.

I scream. There's no point holding it back.

He grabs a fistful of my hair, pulling my head back so my cheek's pressed to the wall.

"Louder," he growls. "Let them hear you. Let everyone know who's fucking you like this."

His other hand slides over my hip, down to where we're joined, fingers rubbing hard, fast, perfect. I saw something out that might be his name.

I'm close. Too close. I can feel it building again, like lightning coiled in my spine.

His hand in my hair is back on my throat. Tight.

"You want to come again?" he grits out. "Beg for it."

My mouth falls open. No words coming out. His head was fuzzy from his hand on my throat.

"Please," I manage. "Please, Luke– I'm so– fuck, I need–"

"That's it." He mumbles. "Come for me."

I shatter. Harder than the first time. It rolls through me in waves, hot and violent. Every nerve stripped bare.

He follows with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself inside me one last time as he finishes, hips stuttering, grip bruising.

We're both panting. Ruined. Feral.

"That's two," Luke says between breaths.

Then his arms wrap around me from behind, holding me up as my legs give out entirely. He carries me to bed, lies down gently, then pulls the sheets over us like he's sealing something sacred. His breath is still ragged when he kisses my bare shoulder.

My fingers drift over his chest. "Did you like the photos?"

He doesn't speak right away, just leans over the edge of the bed and reaches into his discarded jacket, pulls out one of them– creased, warm from being kept too close.

"This one," he says, handing over the fourth one I gave him, the one of me naked on our bed at home. "I nearly lost it."

My heart stutters. He adds, quieter, "Kept it over my heart."

I lean in and kiss him slowly. "I knew you would."

His mouth grazes mine in lazy, drugging kisses, when his hand slides lower— fingertips teasing, tracing, memorizing. His touch is less frantic than before, but no less consuming. Kissing me like he has all the time in the world, like there's nothing else outside this bed, this moment, and the heat reforming between my legs.

Luke's lips drag across my mouth, over my jaw, down my neck, and I let my eyes flutter shut. My pulse trips. He takes his time tracing over every part of me he hadn't before– soft grazes across my ribs, the dip of my waist, and then—

His hand slides lower, slipping between my legs, like he already owns the space. I shift toward him instinctively, but he plants a firm hand on my hip, holding me still.

"Easy," He mumbles against my shoulder, voice rough. "You'll take what I give you."

It should make me bristle. But it doesn't. It makes me ache.

His fingers move slowly at first— barely there. A soft, maddening tease that brushes where I want him more. I breathe through my teeth, every nerve lit and waiting. When he finally pushes two fingers inside, my hips lift off the mattress in a sharp gasp.

"Shit," I breathe.

"Keep still. Let me feel you." His voice is calm, measured. Dangerous.

I try. God, I really try to behave the way he wants— motionless and obedient under his hands— but I'm unravelling too fast. His fingers curl inside me, already knowing the exact spot that'll break me.

My back arches without permission, jaw slack.

"Please," I whisper. Not even sure what I'm begging for– more, harder, anything.

He kisses the corner of my mouth, still slow. "Please, what lovie?"

"I want you."

He doesn't stop moving his fingers, but his voice turns colder, commanding. "No. That's not what I asked."

I open my eyes. His gaze pins me in place, his thumb stroking over my clit until my entire body locks up with need.

"Tell me what you are. Say it."

My pride holds on for a second too long. And then he curls his fingers again, right there, and everything inside me contracts, my breath catching on a sob.

"Yours," I say, broken. "I'm yours."

His mouth crushes down on mine in a kiss that tastes like a reward— possessive, dirty, deep. "Good girl."

His pace doesn't change, but the pressure does. More controlled. More devastating. My legs shake. My hands claw at his back, arm, shoulder, anything I can hold onto as he fucks me with his fingers like it's the only thing that's ever mattered.

"That's it— my pretty mess, dripping all over my hand. You know what you're doing to me?"

Luke's words make me shake, whimper and plead for release even though I'm already so close I can hardly breathe.

And then I'm gone. Clenching around his fingers with a cry I can't hold back, thighs trembling, closing in on his hand, back arching off the bed as he works me through my orgasm until I fall limp against the mattress, spent and silent.

He holds me there, one hand splayed low on my stomach, his fingers still inside, claiming me.

“Three down, one to go.” 

He's on top of me now. Finally.

The weight of his body feels grounding, not crushing. Heavy in the best way— solid, real, like I could fall apart underneath him and nothing would escape the cage of his arms.

His hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking it slowly, like I'm not just something to touch, but something to be known. Memorized. Like he's collecting every moment we've made tonight and storing it somewhere he can reach.

I open my eyes and look up at him, and for a moment, neither of us moves.

His forehead rests against mine. Breathe shallow. Lips parted. Blue eyes locked on mine like they could hold me still. And maybe they do. I've never felt this quiet inside. Never felt this seen.

Then, in a voice like he's telling a secret he's never said out loud, he whispers, "You're my wife."

My chest stutters. I don't know if it's from the words or the way he says them.

Like a prayer, a promise.

Then louder, rawer, almost ruined, "You're my fucking wife."

And with that, he slides into me again.

No hesitation. No ramp-up. Just full, slow, relentless depth— like he knows exactly where I need him and refuses to give me anything less.

I gasp, legs tightening around him. One hooked over his hip. The other wrapped around his thigh, drawing him impossibly closer.

He stays deep, grinding instead of thrusting. Like the friction itself is enough. Like he wants me to feel everything. Wants to make sure I remember this even in dreams.

I whimper his name, again and again, and every time I say it, he groans like it's undoing him.

"You feel that?" he whispers, lips brushing against my jaw. "How fucking good you take me?"

I nod. Not able to trust myself to say anything.

He holds my face in one hand like I'm fragile, scared, something rare that he's been given exactly once and refuses to fuck up.

His other hand threads through mine, pinning it above my head on the pillow. Our fingers laced. His grip is unrelenting, steady. Like if he lets go, the moment will too.

"Look at me," he says.

I do. God, I do.

And I see it all.

The awe. The hunger. The helpless, wrecked affection he's never been good at hiding when we're like this— when nothing else exists but skin and need and the way we break for each other.

"Fuck—I love you. I love you," he says, almost like it hurts. "So much it scares me."

And then kisses me, full, soft, aching. As if we have all the time in the world, even if we don't. He can pour every unspoken word into my mouth, and I'll understand.

It's all heat and friction and sweat-slicked skin, but somehow still tender– his fingers through mine, our foreheads touching like we're trying to crawl inside each other and stay there.

I hold onto his jaw, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. He presses our foreheads together again, eyes fluttering closed.

We stay like that, building our highs together— slow and scared.

His name falls from my lips in a whisper, then again. Then louder.

He moves deeper, harder. Still holding eye contact. Still inside me like he's proving his vows with every stroke.

"Don't stop," I breathe. "Please— Luke, fuck."

"I'm not going anywhere, sweet girl," he promises me.

My body arches against him, lost in it. His hair falls into his eyes, and I reach up to push it back just so I can see him better. So I can memorize this.

His hand moves from my cheek to the back of my head, holding me to him as I fall apart beneath him. He doesn't let go. He doesn't rush. Just stays with me, inside me. Through every wave.

And when he comes, it's with a sound I'll never forget— like he's breaking open and finally, finally letting me in.

We finish together. Messy, gasping and clinging.

Name after name after name. His. Mine. Ours.

Like a spell cast in sweat, breath and skin.

Like there's no one else in the world but us.

We don't move right away.

“And that’s four.” He says breathless. 

He collapses onto me, bodies still tangled together, breath still short. His weight is solid, skin flushed and damp against mine.

I wrap my arms around him, legs still draped over him. His heartbeat thunders against my body.

We stay like that for a long time.

Eventually, he shifts, rolling us so I'm on top, sprawled across his chest. He kisses my shoulder, my temple, the corner of my mouth— soft, lazy kisses that feel like aftershocks.

His hand moves to my hair, combing through the strands slowly, like he's trying to soothe both of us back to earth.

His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, and his voice breaks the silence– wrecked but tender.

"You could send me Polaroids every day for the rest of my life…"

He swallows, chest rising beneath me. Finishing the sentence like it hurts.

"And I'd still never get used to you."

I smile against his collarbone. My lips brush his skin as I reply, sleepy and smug. "Good."

My fingers trail down the center of his chest, where I can still feel his heart hammering.

"Because I plan to keep ruining you."

He exhales a laugh– soft, disbelieving– and pulls me closer as if I'm somehow still not close enough.

Neither of us says it, but it's in the quiet, heavy air between us:

We were never going to be the same after this. 

And neither of us wants to be. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

[prayersgotothesky]

Lazy day w/ Luke . . .

in which Luke’s love language is physical touch ‹𝟹

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။|၊||၊|။||||။|။|•

❥ Peach Pit, Peach Pit

❥ ILYSB + Made in Hollywood, LANY

❥ Bitch, Allie X

❥ Pink Bubblegum, lavi kou

pinterest board

warnings: very smutty and fluffy, pet names, subby!luke

wc: 5.8k

Sunday, July 12, 2019

[10:36 a.m.]

It’s deep into the morning, the distant chirp of birds long past. You and Luke are tucked into each other, hidden away from the world under a mound of covers like you're the only two alive. You’re cozy, sleepy, shared warmth grounding you as you close your eyes again, stealing a few more seconds of bliss. Early, pastel yellow and young shades of pink stream through the window and paint the room, the walls, the atmosphere.

Luke is hot and shirtless behind you, long arm draped over your waist, keeping you as close as humanly possible. Your head feels as though it’s full of lead, like you haven’t slept in weeks. You question your hazy dream-state when you feel a solid, pressing sensation on your lower back. As you shake off the remnants of sleep, you know he’s grinding his bulge into your supple body, sluggishly slow.

Your body’s on fire, but you burrow further into the sheets. He’s dampening his boxers, leaky and already spent— how long has he been awake and whorish? Is he awake at all? It’s not unusual to be pulled from sleep by a dreaming, sweaty Luke who fucks himself against you, whether it be your thigh, belly, back; the mattress.

Your suspicions find resolve in the way his noises— small, soft, needy— claim your senses. His curls brush the back of your neck; his lips are close to your ear, whimpering. The sounds vibrate off your skin, and leave your bottom lip to tremble: you love him needing you. He presses a chaste kiss on your shoulder, breathing out, “love you, baby,” and it’s so fragile your left to wonder if it was even meant to fall on your ears. Maybe, it was an affirmation to the universe, a promise never to be questioned nor broken. Sweat soaks into the collar of your shirt, it’s his and worn.

His wide hand rests low on the soft pudge of your belly, pinky and ring finger veiled beneath your thin panties. They’re, along with his own, the only thing separating your skin from a rutting cock. You press your hips backward, ass cradling his throbbing length. His boxers are two-tone, darkened by his pre-cum. You can feel the milky dampness where your bodies connect. Listlessly, you flip over. One of your legs slip in between both of his; you find his eyes. They’re blue, glassy, clouded with a need so familiar to you. His bottom lip is pouting. He's whining, embarrassment framing his features as he drops his forehead to meet your shoulder.

“Love you, Lu,” you mumble, words muffled.

You bring your hand down, clasping it over his bulge and offering him a few rubs. You already know he’s close, short gasps leaving his lips. His breath ghosting over your shoulder sends a shiver down your spine. You drag your hand from his balls to the head of his cock, squeezing with intent. He grinds onto your press with as much force as he can.

Without even dipping your hand into his boxers, he lets out a particularly sharp groan and his mouth falls slack. Saliva drips onto your bare shoulder, he’s blissed out and his body feels like it’s on fire. You hear him hiss, sucking in his drool and smearing white cum all on the inside of his boxers. It’s sticky; you work him through it from the outside of his confines and, seeping through the fabric, it coats your fingers.

“Sloppy,” you tsk, “clean me up,” and he’s letting your digits press into his wet mouth, ridding them of his messy cum with a tongue. As he does this, he absentmindedly releases a slur of words, repeating and sugary…

iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou

[11:46 a.m.]

A pancake lands back onto the warm pan with a dull splat. It’s perfectly brown. Luke’s upon you again, dizzy with intent and a hunger that demands more than just the food you're preparing. Desire, deeply seated in his soul and tormenting until met with compliance. It seems to be one of those days where Luke whines and moans more than he talks. He gets like that sometimes: insatiable. He gets lazy, indulgent, only wanting to lay around and fuck until the hills swallow the sun, washing the world of light. You sate him when he gets like this, and he always makes sure to please you.

“You're being greedy today, aren’t you, baby?” You turn your head to the side slightly, his profile coming into view as he has his arms wrapped around you from behind. He squeezes you, hands outstretched with your flesh filling the spaces between his fingers.

You’re met with a mere nod.

Through his shorts, your ass is greeted with his half-hard cock. Again. You push back ever so slightly, removing the pancake from the pan and adding it to the stack on the plate beside you.

“Can we at least eat our very-late-breakfast first?” You ask. He shakes his head, untamed curls scratching at your shoulder with the quick movement.

“Okay then, if you just can’t wait,” you coo, faux pity and mockery accenting your words, “but I’m finishing these, Luke,” you finish, slightly more stern.

And it’s all the permission he needs to hook his fingers into your sleep shorts and panties and tug. The chilly air of the kitchen meeting your bare skin sends a chill down your spine. The warmth of his chest pressed against your back, however, wards it off almost instantly. He removes the last of the fabric shielding his now fully hard dick from your slick, expectant cunt.

“Thank you,” he replies just above a whisper, and he marks it with his first, deep thrust that has your knees threatening to give out. In order for him to get a better view of your ass and the way the skin ripples when his hips snap to meet it, he uses a free hand to bring the hem of his shirt up to his mouth, biting down and instanting letting his drool seep into the fabric. He moans around it, sucking in short breaths. He whines out muffled praises, small thank you’s that announce every thrust. His knees bend, allowing him to fuck up into you even deeper and with more force. It causes the first groans to fall from your lips, raspy and prolonged.

You pour the last of the pancake batter on the pan, hands shaky. He pistons his cock in and out of you at a persistent, quick pace, chasing his nut and whining.

“ah, fuck— use me,” you urge him, jutting out your jaw as it hangs open. Your hands grip onto the edge of the marble countertops, knuckles blooming white with the intensity.

He must still be sensitive from the morning, as it takes just a few more careless, disorganized presses against your cervix for him to be thrown over the edge. He cums buried inside you, filling you up perfectly. He’s huffing against the shell of your ear, his gentle disposition soothing. His release pools and froths at the base of his dick, still lodged deep inside your form. You feel the drip of it down your inner thighs; it's sticky and the mere caress of it, along with his unmoving dick in which you clench around, pushes you to follow. Your orgasm forces your eyes shut and rips a high moan from your throat. Luke slumps feeble behind you, both arms thrown hazardously over your shoulders as he comes down. He’s practically using you to hold himself up, which helps no one as your legs tremble all the same, but still brings a grin to your lips. He slips out of you, only a byproduct of his softening dick and not his efforts. He’d probably warm his cock inside you for the rest of the day if you’d let him.

“Luke, m’getoffplease,” you giggle, shaking your shoulders listlessly to get the giant man to stop clinging to you like a lifeline. He leaves a chaste kiss on the top of your head, towering over you, before obliging. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he rasps.

And he’s finished just in time to flip the last pancake!

… It’s a little burnt, but oh well; he'll have to eat that one.

[1:13 p.m.]

The heat feels sweltering and Luke has you utterly exhausted. You’re perched on the back patio, light beaming down on your skin as you laze around on a cushioned lounge chair. The sun kisses your face, warming the superficial parts of you whilst digging beneath. Your shirt pools where your thighs connect to your hips, your knees bent and perked. To combat the heat, a brightly-colored popsicle rests between your lips, red and cherry-flavored. You let your tongue drag from the base of the popsicle to the peak, collecting the drips of liquid sugar. Your tongue and lips are already stained a vibrant shade of red.

The back door can be heard clicking open, then the shuffling of Luke’s feet. You hear it close.

“Are you doing it on purpose?” He asks, accented voice audibly forcing back a whiny groan. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of loose shorts hung low on his hips.

“Doing what on purpose?” You ask, batting your eyelashes and tilting your head to the side. Your tone is saccharine-sweet.

Dropping to his knees beside your chair, he rests his chin on your kneecap. He grumbles, “making me horny again.” His long arms wrap themselves around your legs, hugging as your calves touch the back of your thighs. He’s pouting, bottom lip pushed out slightly, cheeks rosy from the heat and your allure.

You suck the sugary sweet cylinder one last time, flavor bursting on your tongue causing you to hum, before positioning it down in front of his face. He obliges, letting his lips close around the top and releasing a similar sound. You push it forward slightly without warning, filling his mouth. The red liquid pools on the corners of his mouth and it brushes the back of his throat. You remove it, hastily putting it back in your own mouth and doing the same. He laps at the sweet liquid that covers his lips. Then, he presses a lingering kiss on your knee, then the top of your thigh. He persists, his lips sinking further down your leg. The location of the kisses are marked by a slightly sticky, red residue.

“No, I think you’ve done that yourself,” you finally answer. And it’s semi-honest. You didn’t have the intention of drawing him out back with the way you wore just his t-shirt and a pair of small, lacy panties and basically gave the popsicle a blowjob, but now that he’s here your insides are twisting with want. You're still a bit worn out from earlier, however, so, “I’ll let you eat me out?” You offer casually, giggling and breathless.

“Out here?”

“Yes, out here,” you mark your words with a lick of the melting popsicle, content with your position basking in the sun like a cat.

He raises his eyebrows, “but it’s so hot; I can already feel my back burning.”

You just laugh, “fine then,” you straighten your legs, resulting in his arms falling away from your body.

“Wait— wait, quit,” he mewls while crawling up onto the bottom of the long chair. His knees dig into the cushion; you draw your legs up, making room. He places two large hands on the front of your calves, urging you to spread your legs. You comply, revealing your panties and positioning your hips forward, bringing your core closer to his face.

“Me quit? You’re the one being lazy,” you tease.

“Mmmsorry,” he protests meekly, pressing his nose against your clothed slit, followed by his lips. He hums, the vibrations rippling through you. The closeness and the way he laps at you over your underwear has your folds sticky, slick already dampening the fabric. He hooks his pointer finger into your panties, moving them to the side, then runs his middle finger down your slit. His finger glides up and down your folds with ease, pursuit aided by your arousal. “Oh, fuck,” you marvel, breathless, grinding your hips down into his touch. At that, he seems pleased, grinning to himself, then blinking up at you, countenance adoring and hazy. A primordial, merciless want builds low in your abdomen, brought upon by his press and those eyes that look at you like you hung the moon; you buck your hips, bringing yourself forward, demeanor becoming impatient. His grin just widens, a wheezy laugh slipping through the gap in his lips.

“I know, lay back,” he instructs with a large hand splayed over your belly, urging your body to deflate until your back meets the chair. His skin feels like fire against your own. His digits work to push your (his) shirt up, revealing your tits, nipples flushing and peaked. You pull the fabric the rest of the way off with one hand, grateful for how your body cools with the lack of coverage, while he tears your panties off. Your other hand grips onto the wooden popsicle stick like a vise, the red, sugary runoff slowly dripping onto your hand: a single droplet runs down your forearm, leaving a trail of ruddy liquid. You do your best to gather the drips with your tongue. Luke’s eyes never leave your face.

He moves to grope at your chest, kneading and rolling your nipples between his thumb and pointer finger. Then, flattens his thumb over the bud and massages slow, dizzying circles; the whole fleshy shape moves with the motion. With his eyes, nothing but reverence and that soft baby blue making its home inside them, still locked onto yours he presses an open-mouthed kiss just under your navel, tongue just barely brushing your skin. He repeats the movement only slightly lower, eyes never leaving yours, only blinking slowly. A bead of sweat rolls down your temple.

You can hardly stand it, “Luke, please,” you pant. You can feel every breath he takes, every inhale and exhale, against your blazing flesh. The heat feels tangible, your brain hazy and skin briny. Finally, he stoops his head, pressing his tongue flat against your bare pussy. Your body jolts, back arching off the solid material behind you.

He soon falls into a rhythm, tongue dipping down and pushing into your entrance, then moving up again to rub against your clit mercilessly.

In order to muffle your noises— whines deeply embedded in your chest that claw at your throat and squeaky moans that melt in the heat of the air— you fill your mouth with the coolness of the popsicle. Sugar pools in your mouth, the chill standing in stark contrast to the thick, warm air that lays in a blanket across the earth and his tongue that moves in effortless, perfect circles and swirls.

A single bead of red slips down your chin; you watch as his long arm moves in toward your face, thumb swiping the liquid from off your face. You offer him the last of the red ice that hangs off the stick, holding it just above where he’s working his tongue through your folds. He pulls off of you with a pop, gazing at you through his eyelashes as he takes it into his mouth. He feels the coldness coat his tongue and slowly dissipate, leaving a red, frosty sheen behind. He gingerly takes the now empty stick from you, tossing it mindlessly to the side. Then, he expeditiously sucks your clit back into his mouth as if it’s his life source. The icy luster upon his tongue meeting your searing heat sends a shock wave up your spine, forcing your hips to shake and body to writhe under his touch. His hand on your stomach stills you, keeping your body in position for him to continue his hounding.

He’s completely lost in it, tongue flicking back and forth and vibrations from his moans aiding his efforts. His eyes roll under his eyelids, which flutter slightly. You can look just past his head to where his back muscles flex and shoulder blades pinch.

“Holy shit, that feels…” you're cut off by your own moan, breathy and helpless. “M’gonna cum, yeah, god, Luke…”

Your fingers card into his silky blond curls, clinging to him and tugging. You cum and it rolls through you in waves, back arching off the cushion and vision narrowing. But, his tongue and mouth is unwavering, working you through your orgasm and then some. With every new strip he licks across your most sensitive nerves, pleasure shoots through you, down your legs, through your belly. His name falls from your lips in broken fragments, fruitless efforts to get him to ease up. You’re growing oversensitive, but it’s like he’s in his own world as he consumes you.

You use your hand in his hair as leverage, hauling him backward with a particularly hard yank. As he disconnects from your swollen pussy, a string of saliva follows his lips. The look on his face leaves you winded: his pupils have engulfed the light parts of his eyes, his cheeks are tinted rosy, his bottom lip coated in you as it hangs limp.

“You’re so, so,” he trails off, trying to shake the lust still fogging up his mind, “good. Taste so good.”

You sit up, legs still shaky and abdomen quivering. You take his cheek into your palm, stroking your thumb across the balmy skin. You grin down at him, “you’re so, so, too.”

That’s when the first one falls, fat and heavy right against his forehead.

Then, another big droplet on your forearm.

It’s the kind of rain that pours in buckets, the clouds seeming to weep. The raindrops fall fast but not hard, almost feeling fuzzy as they make contact with your skin. The water’s warm, but cooling against the harsh, humid air and your searing limbs.

You both scramble, giggling and wheezy as the dewdrops tumble from the sky. It coats your scalp; you run for the door, slinging it open and turning to see Luke a few paces behind.

“I gotta grab your clothes!” He shouts, voice drowned out by the downpour. You watch him fumble about, locating the shirt and your underwear, now soaked through.

You squeal, bouncing on your heels as you hold the door open for him, “hurry!” You giggle, a sweet, flowery noise that he mimics instantly. Small droplets fall onto the hardwood floor below, the back door still perched open as he quickly moves inside. As soon as his body is fully positioned inside, you slam the door and the sound of the rain becomes a hushed, monotonous babble.

His shorts cling to him; tiny dewdrops cling and shine on his chest and shoulders. You can’t help but marvel, just staring all wide-eyed. Your eyes travel down on their own accord, stopping and hovering on the mouth-watering outline of his bulge.

He shakes his head like a dog, water droplets flinging from his loose curls across the room, some landing on your still-naked body, sending a shiver down your spine. “Luke!” You squeak, bringing your hands up to shield yourself from his thrashing. He ignores your faux protests, laughing and asking, “whatcha looking at?”

“You,” you tell him, finally dropping your hands and noticing how his eyes devour your bare form.

“You’re hard.”

He adverts his gaze, face and chest coloring deeply.

“And you’re pretty,” he counters, causing your skin to match his in tone: warm pink.

A deep sense of affection blooms in your chest; you open your arms, beckoning him. He drops your clothes down beside him and closes the distance quickly, warm skin meeting warm skin. You hop, Luke holding you up with ease, then spinning you in a circle as you giggle. You leave a kiss on his damp shoulder, then just let your lips sit there, smiling into the skin.

[4:47 p.m.]

You're sprawled out on the couch, scrolling mindlessly online.

Luke’s meant to be writing, but…

his socked feet patter about; you hear them leave his in-home studio and make their way into the living room.

“Whatcha doing?” He asks, sugary, sinking into the cushions by your feet.

You give him a pointed look over the screen of your laptop, “nothing much; what happened to writing?” You grin slyly.

“Maybe I need inspiration?”

“Inspiration, huh?”

He nods, pulling one of his perfectly-Luke smirks, the right corner of his mouth perched up higher than the left and his teeth daring. He brings his hand up, palm coming to lay flat on the back of your laptop, pushing it closed gently. It snaps together with a clack. He picks it up, placing it gingerly on the floor beside the sofa.

Apparently, inspiration to him comes in the shape of your lips.

You let your legs fall open, knees far apart, allowing Luke to card in between them. His chest is splayed against your stomach; you have to bend your neck down slightly in order to meet his lips. You claim his bottom lip, sucking it into your mouth. With his own neck craning upwards, he lolls his head to the side, allowing your velvety tongue to dip into his wet mouth. He meets it with his own, both muscles moving in tandem, working to drive the two of you crazy. He grows eager, hungry, closing his lips around yours faster and clacking your teeth together in the process. You let your jaw fall slack, allowing him to fervently lap into your mouth, tracing your teeth, feeling and tasting your now complacent tongue. Your saliva pools and he seems to purr, swirling his tongue around your own and gathering the taste.

He’s a writhing, fragile mess, rutting into the couch and muttering obscenities into your mouth. He implores you, the only thing clouding his mind is lust and what it would feel like to be buried inside you again…

Let me, please

It— it'll be quick, mm, I'm already close

Just your mouth, fuck, driving me fucking crazy

I think I'm addicted to you, everything about you…

your core yearns for him, if you buck your hips up at just the right angle, ah, you can grind your needy heat against his toned stomach. However, making him wait causes the next time to be all the more desperate and riveting, and you know this isn’t the last time today he’ll beg you to spread your legs for him, so you just suck your teeth, pulling back from the space in which both you share deep, close breaths.

“Shh, Lu, baby. I promise… I’ll let you fuck me,”

At that, he draws back, glossed-over blue eyes finding yours and blinking ferociously. He nestles his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Later,” you add.

He groans, whiny and spent, and limply flops down onto you. You snicker, bending slightly to place a long kiss on the top of his head. He breathes out in response, arms tightening around your waist, head laying sideways on your chest.

“You’re evil,” he grumbles, lacking intent, because subliminally he knows you’re right: the more pent-up he is, the better he fucks.

[8:32 p.m.]

You’re sitting on the floor with your legs tucked under you, Luke doing the same before you, with a spread of takeout in between your bodies.

The rain had picked back up again about an hour ago. Persistent summer showers. Still, rain hits the earth lamely, slowly and quietly puttering. The droplets had been dwindling for a while, small noises creating a calming song that seemed to put the world at ease. It certainly did you; you felt utterly pleased with your perfect boyfriend sitting in front of you, watching water droplets chase each other, eventually morphing together, on the window adjacent. You’re home, more than physically— emotionally, satisfaction deeply rooted in your heart, hands, the tips of your fingers and toes.

The living room smells of Chinese takeout; the subtle buzz of a shitty movie hums in the background. The room is bathed in a warm, dim light that floods in through the large window. The sun is setting, the source of the muted hue. Light reaches in through the clear glass, condensation from the humidity hugging it, like fingers, casting rays across the hard-wood floor and the side of Luke’s face. He kinda looks like an angel, despite all the greedy, lust-filled sin.

“This is better than that other place,” he mutters around his fork, speaking while chewing a piece of chicken thoughtfully. You agree with a hum, taking a bite of your own out of one of the copious amounts of boxes overflowing with food.

“Even the rice is better,” you add, raising your eyebrows at the taste.

He laughs, but opens his mouth inquisitively, silently motioning for you. You roll your eyes, lacking any bite, and pick up another small pile of sticky white rice on your fork, bringing it to his mouth and watching his pink lips close around it. He swallows, then nods, looking slightly shocked. “It’s like— fluffy, like really good, what the fuck?”

You giggle in response, eyeing him as he gets a huge mouthful on his own fork. He chews and gulps it down quickly, suddenly acting like a man starved.

“Babe, It’s just rice!”

“This, this is the best rice I’ve ever had.”

I'm glad I recommended trying a new place this time, you think to yourself, pleased.

[9:00 p.m.]

Warm water cascades down over your back, relaxing your muscles.

Luke’s behind you, humming a random song you can’t place.

He places an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of your neck, pulling back just barely, letting his nose remain on skin. The space nurses a steamy film; everything feels light and fuzzy. His shallow breaths can be felt on the back of your neck.

It's familiar, domestic: there’s no need to speak, only the rhythmic sound of the shower spray hitting the floor and Luke’s angelic hums filling the room.

His hands claim your skin; he places them on the small of your waist and offers a gentle squeeze, then slides them upwards over your shoulder blades. He massages your shoulders and the grove where they meet your neck leisurely. Your head lolls slightly, exhaling slowly at the welcomed, modifying pressure.

His lengthy arms reach out from behind you, coming into your vision. You watch as he grabs at the shampoo bottle and fills his palm. Then, his hands make their home in your hair, rubbing the soapy liquid across your scalp and through the strands. It smells of vanilla and something floral. You feel his calloused fingertips and tenderness.

Soon, you’re being turned around by grounding, wide hands and your cast under the spray, dewdrops clinging to your soapy hair and willing the suds down the drain.

You whip around, turning at the waist, and get some shampoo of your own.

Your now shampoo-filled hands find your way into his silky blond curls, massaging and tugging slightly. Due to his height, your arms extend with the effort. He takes a breath with fluttering eyes. You help him to rinse the soap away, fingers intertwined and you both giggle breathlessly. You’re face to face; you press a kiss to the side of his mouth. Before you can fully pull back, his lips capture yours. You can feel the underlying heat and desperation within it. You loop your arms around his neck and he bends down, deepening the kiss. His tongue brushes yours, everything wet and slick and warm.

Your bodies fall flush: your chest is pressed against his and his dick, clinging to his belly and leaking, rubs against your navel. Both his hands sink into the flesh of your ass, fingernails nipping. It’s amusing how evidently he’s been all pent-up, waiting for this.

Breaking the kiss, you breathe into his mouth: “you’re already hard.”

“I want you all the fucking time,” he tells you, unable to control his babbling. “M’right here, I’m right here, baby,” you murmur, lips brushing his in the process.

“Please, make me cum,” he implores quietly, kneading the skin under his grip in a needy, rough manner. You're only capable of fervent, repeated nods. The water rushing over you is calming and seems to drown out the rest of the world; it’s just you and Luke. You're the only thing that matters: his hands work with want and necessity and reverence all at once.

His hands travel from your ass to the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up into his arms. He takes a few steps, stopping when your back hits the shower wall. His hands wrapped tightly around your waist hold you in position as well as your thighs bracketing his waist, your ankles crossed behind him.

He brings one of his hands down and palms his cock, pumping himself a couple times before lining himself up with your damp, eager entrance.

“Kiss me, please?” you ask, needing to feel him all over, needing him in every way possible— closer than close. Immediately, his lips close around your own. You kiss him back to the best of your ability, mouth falling slack when the blunt head of his cock finally pushes into you. The stretch is perfect and makes your insides ache and twist with desire. Once you get used to the sensation, familiar yet something that always leaves you panting and trembling and deliciously full, you suck his bottom lip between your own. Your tongues dance around one another and just feel.

Once he’s buried to the hilt inside your form, he lets out a prolonged, sharp moan, in which you return in shallow huffs and cries.

Shortly, lewd sounds of skin meeting skin along with noisy groans and whines mix with the casual roar of the shower’s spray. He pistons his hips in and out of you relentlessly, grazing your g-spot with precision.

With only his hips and the squeeze of your thighs holding you in place, his hands leave your waist; instead, he paws at your chest, paying extra attention to your peaked nipples. They bounce inside his grip with every thrust.

His brain seems to short-circuit— he’s all pussy-drunk and spacey.

Luke slumps forward, forehead connecting to your shoulder. Your hips chase the friction; you fuck yourself against him, abdomen bucking forward. He makes noises close to your ear, urging you and praising.

Pausing his moans, his mouth locks onto your neck. His teeth can be felt biting down ever so slightly, movements that are remedied up by the dull press of his tongue. He sucks a line across your clavicle, littering the area with little pink and red bruises.

As the snaps of his hips grow sloppy and languid, you practically watch as the cogs turn inside his mind. He reaches above you, removing the detachable showerhead from the wall. He adjusts it quickly, the stream transforming into one much more forceful.

He draws back, making room between your bodies to position the spray directly over your clit, continuing to slam into your pussy.

“Holy sh…shit, that’s insane, don’t stop,” you cry out in broken fragments, legs left to tremble and chest heaving, breathing sporadically.

Each time he pulls out, the stream rushes over the base of his cock as well as your swollen clit, pushing you both closer to ecstasy-filled release.

“Cum— ah,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “cum with me, baby,” and you do. Your orgasm steals the air from your lungs; you feel his dick pulse and twitch inside you, coating your walls, white and sticky. Punched-out groans leave his lips; you will yourself to breathe deeply, coming down.

As he slips out, his cum drips out of you, feeling sticky on your inner thighs and folds.

Luke locates a nearby washcloth, sweet blue eyes still half-lidded and cloudy, and cleans you up, gingerly swiping the fabric across your thighs and core, still sensitive.

He places a chaste kiss to your cheek, grinning dumbly under your gaze.

Your legs meet the floor, wobbly like that of a fawn. You crash into his solid chest and he remains unmoving, arms only coming up quickly to steady you and hold you close.

He only pulls away to rinse the washcloth and rehang the showerhead, shutting it off in the process.

“I love you,” you purr while tucking yourself into his side and letting him guide you both out of the shower.

“I love you, too,” he replies softly; then, walks over toward the bathroom cabinet in search of two fresh towels.

“Luke! They’re everywhere,” you laugh, eyeing yourself in the mirror and acknowledging the hickeys displayed all across your skin. You can’t help but push your fingers into them, liking the way it slightly stings. It’s a physical showcase of his love; the ache is tangible hunger.

He wraps a towel around you from behind, holding you close against his chest with his arms. He plants a kiss on the top of your head.

Your eyes lock in the condensation-clad mirror.

“Sorry about that,” he says, voice fond and clearly exposing how much he enjoys the sight.

[1:32 a.m.]

You stir, bringing your form closer to Luke’s. You pepper kisses all over the back of his neck and shoulder blades. He's pulled from a dreamless sleep, body too heavy for haste movement. Slowly, he turns his face toward yours, expecting. The space under the comforter and blankets between your bodies is a furnace. He feels weak from the heat and his earlier, relentless indulgences.

“Bad dream,” you breathe into the skin of his neck, “hold me, please?”

His warm, broad frame wastes no time scooping you up. You're engulfed in him; his scent fills your nostrils, his skin touches yours at what feels like every possible point. He’s spooning you; your head is tucked under his chin. The backs of your thighs are resting atop the front of his own plushy, wide ones. His hand paws at your stomach, tracing loving, comforting circles on the skin.

“Can I make my baby feel good?” He whispers: tentative, gentle, searching.

You nod, needing a distraction as well as his comfort: his comfortable, skilled hands and his nurturing praises.

He places long, open mouthed kisses to the grove between your shoulder and neck as he glides his fingers under your panties. Then, through your folds. Almost immediately he brushes your clit and begins massaging adoring, affectionate circles around it. You whine, quiet noises that are met with his own murmurs and hushes…

shh, sweet girl

I’ve got you

how’s that feel?

His touch wards off any lingering, haunting images derived from your dreamscape, causing you to sigh contentedly and sink into a pool of ecstasy.

Soon,

your orgasm rolls through you. It’s not the usual tidal wave that crashes with a blistering intensity; rather, it’s a passionate, consoling wave that laps at the shore, lulling you to sleep.

[badomensbaby]

above the law. lrh

pairing: luke hemmings x fem! reader

summary: luke's so sick of his assistant, you, talking all the damn time. he finally does something about it.

warnings: 18+ only. minors DNI. smut, thigh-riding, unprotected sex, verbal degradation, rough bj, slightly dubious consent, office sex, cum-swallowing, cursing.

word count: 4,173

a/n: i wrote this originally back in early 2023 as an au using one of my wattpad original characters. through some editing, i've decided to change the pov and post it here! i hope you enjoy x

feedback and constructive criticism welcome. requests are open!

Copyright © 2024 badomensbaby. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hemmings, get your head out of your ass for once and finish this goddamn deal."

The curly headed blonde's eyes snap away from the project he's currently in the middle of, various folders scattered amongst his desk, drowning him in useless paperwork all for a stupid fucking merger.

"The fuck do you think I'm doing?" Luke grumbles under his breath, snapping the Bolton file shut and tossing his overly expensive fountain pen on top of the mess he's created. Ashton Irwin, one of three named partners, stands with his arms crossed in the doorway of Luke's corner office, an unamused expression on his face.

"I think you're trying to do all this shit on your own instead of utilizing your associate, that's what I think," the honey blonde scoffs, thick brow raising, "Where's Y/N anyway? You send her across town for your stupid coffee again?"

"No," Luke's quick to defend, though it is the easiest way to get you out of his eyesight for a little while and focus, "I've got her on the Mansfield settlement."

"The Mansfield- that's Mike's case, idiot," Ashton shakes his head, "What's the deal, Luke? You really hate Y/N that much?"

A sigh of exhaustion leaves Luke's lips, head cocking back as he stares at the ceiling. "She's just chatty," he says vaguely, "Can't get a single fuckin' thing done 'cause she won't shut up."

"She's your associate, Luke, stop pawning her off on Mike or he'll swipe her out from under you."

"Good," he forces out a low chuckle, meeting the man's eyes, "He can have her."

"Don't say things you don't mean, you know she's one of the best associates we've got." Luke's eyes roll at his boss' words, sitting up straighter in his desk chair.

"Whatever," he mumbles softly, not willing to admit your brain is undeniably better than half the fucking people he's met. "Can I get back to work now?"

A defeated sigh escapes Ash's lips, "If I don't see Y/N in here working with you I'll make sure to send Calum your way."

"Calum?" the curly haired boy's nose wrinkles, shaking his head, "That's like giving me a fucking puppy, Ash, literally useless."

"Your call." he responds, a little smirk on his lips before pulling Luke's office door shut behind him. A groan leaves Luke's throat at this, the urge to rip every last blonde ringlet from his head at the idea of spending the remaining afternoon going over these stupid files with you.

Regardless of the fact that you’re distracting, which he'll never admit aloud, he shoots you a vague text requiring your presence in his office, no more than twenty minutes from now.

And of course, your dainty little wrist began knocking on the dark wooden door of his office precisely twenty-three minutes after he'd sent the text, only fueling his annoyance. A curt "come in" leaves his lips but his eyes remain on the file, instead of the sinful black dress on your curvy frame.

Tasteful and tightly fit, your fingers instinctively tug at the material resting on your mid thigh, a worrisome look on your features. For as long as you can recall, Luke's always teased you about your wardrobe, especially the bright colors and silken skirts.

"You're late," his tone is flat, hand scribbling away at the paperwork he's nearly memorized already, "I swear to god if you say some bullshit about the elevator again-"

Luke's words die in his throat as he lifts his head, eyes landing on the tight fabric on your frame, hugging every fucking dip and curve of your body. You meet eyes, yours widening, worried you’re going to be lectured again. Was your dress too plain, too boring?

The sweetheart neckline alone almost makes Luke lick his lips, stifling the urge to say something far, far more inappropriate to his associate. "Doesn't matter," the blonde rushes out, "We're gonna be here all night. Preorder from Machi's while you're at it."

"Okay," is all you say, walking closer to his desk, the click of your heels echoing Luke's ears as you bend over, just slightly, grabbing his desk phone and beginning to dial.

After nearly four hours and neither had made a miraculous discovery, a whine of agony leaves your throat, sat across the moderately sized office, snapping yet another useless file folder shut. "Luke,"

"What?" he rasps, tearing his eyes away from the file, meeting your eyes, his own filled with annoyance. "Don't tell me you've got nothing, Y/N."

"There's honestly no reason why Bolton should be merging with Daniels," you sigh out, running a hand through your hair, "Seriously, it's like Pampers merging with Microsoft, they have no interest in one another."

"Christ," Luke mutters under his breath, jaw tensing as you continue to ramble useless information, "Do you ever shut up?"

Mid-sentence, your lips snap shut, a warmth spreading across your cheeks. "Sorry," you respond softly, and Luke almost feels bad for being so curt, but god you never close your fucking mouth. "Did you find anything?"

A huff of air leaves Luke's nose, "Maybe," he says, twirling his fountain pen between his fingers, leg bouncing aimlessly as he scans over the documents for the umpteenth time. "But you keep fucking talking and it's throwing me off."

"Sorry."

"Damnit, Y/N," his curls bounce slightly as he shakes his head, rifling a hand through them, glancing over at your position on the small sofa, dress slightly ridden up your smooth thighs. "Come here, let me show you something."

Hesitantly, you toss the file on your lap onto the cushion, standing and making your way over to Luke's desk, oblivious to the fitted material of your dress riding a bit higher than intended. Luke swallows thickly, attempting to keep focus on the file in his hand. As you lean over slightly to see what Luke's underlined, his eyelids fall shut, the smell of your perfume annihilating his senses.

"But that means-" you cut yourself off, lower lip tucked between your teeth, palms flat on the corner of Luke's desk, "This isn't about combining their companies, is it?"

"No," Luke finally says after a moment, slowly blinking his eyes open, "But we need to convince the judge it is."

"That's impossible, Luke, it's clear they're only doing this for-"

"I know, just figure it out, Y/N."

"That'll take all night," you whine softly, "I'm not sleeping in the office two nights in a row." Luke's teeth grit together at your response, frustrated and fed up with your goddamn attitude.

"If you can't do it I'll find someone who can," he cranes his neck to meet your eyes, narrowed and darkened, "You wanna whine about a few more hours be my guest, but you're not doing it here."

"But-"

"Jesus fucking-" he abandons his pen with a thud, rubbing the palms of his hands against his tired eyes, "I seriously have never met someone so goddamn annoying. All you fucking do is whine and complain and talk my fucking ear off," Luke rambles lowly, "You wanted to be an associate, so be a goddamn associate and shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you."

You stand upright, embarrassment washing over your features, attempting to remain composed as tears threaten your eyes. It's not a secret that Luke's always harbored some sort of annoyance toward you, but he's never spoken to you in such a vile manner before. You swallow the thick lump in your throat, fists balled at your sides. How dare he say those things to you?

"You're an asshole," you say, voice wavering slightly, "You're always a dick to everyone. Nobody's ever good enough for you. I wanted to be an associate to learn and do what I love, not be talked to like a child."

"The fuck did you say to me?" Luke counters with a raised brow, ringed fingers slowly rolling up the sleeves of his fitted black dress shirt. "I think you forget who you work for. Not Ashton, not Michael, definitely not Jessica. You work for me, Y/N, and if you want to keep your fucking job I think you owe me a goddamn apology."

Luke's eyes flicker between yours and the hemline of your little black dress, the skin of your thighs soft and tempting as he widens the distance between his legs, splayed open. "Come here," he says, a bit quieter this time, though he's fucking seething internally, he can't deny how fucking hot it is talking down to the you. Hesitantly, you step closer, stomach swirling with uneasiness.

"You don't wanna go through those files? Fine," Luke forces out a low chuckle, "But I've got work to do and I'm not gonna let you get in the way of that. So what you're gonna do is sit right here," he taps on his clothed thigh, "Shut your fucking mouth and make yourself cum on my thigh."

"What-"

"You heard me."

"Luke, I-"

"It wasn't a question, Y/N. And so help me god if you complain or make a fucking sound you're more than welcome to leave."

For the first time, you’re speechless. Standing so close to the man you swear hates you with every fiber of his being, asking you to make yourself cum on his thigh, you can't help the clench of your own thighs at the thought. Sure, you’ve had those kinds of thoughts about the tall blonde, but never did you imagine his request.

"So? What'll it be?" Luke asks impatiently, a thick brow raised as he grabs his pen, clicking it profusely, leaning back in his chair.

Wordlessly, and swallowing your pride, you step closer, slowly lifting your leg over the blonde's thigh, his foot firmly planted on the small rug beneath him. His eyes almost widen, as if he didn't expect you to comply, and he stifles a grunt when your warm center meets the fabric of his slacks. He can feel how fucking wet you are through the thin material of your underwear, your dress sliding a bit further up your thighs, almost exposing yourself to him.

"Alright then," Luke clears his throat, leaning forward slightly to grab the Bolton file, relaxing in his desk chair. "Get to it."

With her heart rattling in her chest, you grasp the armrest of Luke's chair to ground yourself, filled to the brim with shame. Are you really going to do this? You can still back out, you don't need to show Luke how pathetic you are, fucking leaking on his slacks just from his crude words. You don't even register the rock of your hips against his thigh until a soft moan slips from your lips, catching Luke's attention, his eyes briefly flickering to you.

And fuck is it hot. Your eyes slowly flutter shut as your hips roll in slow motions, the friction from the fabric forgotten, sensitive clit throbbing from your movements. Luke's jaw tenses, tearing his eyes away from the tempting sight, his cock twitching in his slacks.

Shame and embarrassment are out the window as you near your first orgasm, the explicit images of things you’ve only dreamt of unfolding behind your eyelids. You can only fucking imagine how Luke's fingers would feel inside you, the things he'd say as he's bottoming out inside of your tight heat. And it's suddenly overwhelming as you clench pathetically, throbbing against his thigh and your own legs shaking as you finish. "Fuck-"

Luke's eyes widen, biting hard at the inside of his cheek to keep his composure, the sound of you falling apart on his thigh sending a jolt straight to his aching cock. He wants nothing more than to bend you over his desk and fuck the daylights out of you until you’re drooling and forgetting your own goddamn name.

Reality comes crashing down as your orgasm passes, ragged breaths leaving your parted lips. Did you really just make yourself cum on your boss' thigh? "Luke-"

"Do it again."

"What?" You ask breathlessly, straightening your back, "You- you want me to do it again?"

"What did I say about shutting that pretty mouth of yours, Y/N? If I tell you to do something, do it," he scoffs, acting as though the sight of you cumming didn't turn him on even more, "If you're pathetic enough to do it once I'm sure you'll have no problem doing it again."

Your sensitive clit throbs helplessly as you swallow, white-knuckling the armrest and rocking your hips yet again. The swollen nub continuously brushing Luke's slacks has you choking down whimpers and whines, fearful of Luke's reaction to you making noise. Though, the idea of what he'll do if you don't comply lingers in your hazy mind.

The intermittent bounce of Luke's leg isn't doing you any favors either, little uh uh's leaving your parted lips.

You’re fucking drenched, the thin fabric of your lace underwear doing nothing to keep your arousal from coating Luke's thigh as you roll and rock your hips a bit quicker, your second orgasm creeping up on you, your head tossing back when a low, drawn-out whine leaves your lips, cumming for the second time like a pathetic whore.

And Luke fucking loves every goddamn second of it.

Attempting to calm yourself down from your release, thighs still trembling, Luke tosses the file onto his desk. He hadn't read a damn word of it anyway, not when you’re grinding your pretty little cunt against his thigh like a slut.

Suddenly embarrassed, your cheeks flush a deep crimson shade as you realize what you’ve done. You’ve soaked the fabric of Luke's slacks with your release, your own goddamn boss. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"Don't say another word," he firmly cuts you off, "Get on your fucking knees."

"Why-"

"I'm honestly so fucking tired of listening to you, Y/N," Luke's tone lowers, a scoff leaving his lips, watching as you scramble to the floor. "Gonna shut you up, make good use of that stupid fucking mouth of yours."

Catching sight of the wet patch on his slacks, he nearly groans, ringed fingers fumbling with his belt buckle in record time, desperate for the release of his achingly hard cock. You seem to catch on, widened doey eyes flickering up to Luke's, your hands neatly folded in your lap. Luke pulls his slacks down just enough to allow his length to be exposed, not wanting to show an ounce of vulnerability to you. You don't deserve a sweet intimate moment, you deserve to be fucking ruined.

"Open your mouth," he grunts, hissing as he grasps the base of his cock, your lips parting slowly, the blonde stepping forward and guiding the tip past your lips. "Wanna see you choke on my cock."

He doesn't give you a moment to register his words before he's thrusting fully into your mouth, tip poking the back of your throat and a choking sound emitting from your lips. You scramble to grasp at the backs of his thighs to keep yourself steady. The sight of your sparkly lipgloss coating his cock is so fucking intoxicating and he wonders why he hadn't thought of it sooner.

Using his hands to grasp your hair quite roughly, he continues to fuck into your mouth at a degrading pace, not allowing you to adjust to the forceful movements. Choking and gagging sounds fill the otherwise quiet room, spit dribbling from your lips. "Yeah, you like choking on my cock, Y/N? So much better than hearing you fuckin' talk."

Your nails dig into the fabric of his pants, a grunt leaving Luke's lips as his hips continue thrusting his cock into your mouth. You can barely take all of him, the base nearly untouched. "All you're fuckin' good for, hm?"

And suddenly he's removing himself from your mouth, chest heaving from how fucking wrecked you already look, the small tears pooling your waterline smudging the mascara you'd put on. "As much as I wanna watch you swallow for me," he heaves out, "I wanna feel that pretty fuckin' pussy of yours."

A pathetic whimper leaves your lips, clenching around nothing as you remain on your knees before him, a string of saliva connecting your swollen lips and the reddened, aching tip of Luke's cock. "You want me inside you?" he asks.

You have no words, honestly, the burn left behind in your throat from Luke's forceful thrusts halts you from speaking. Instead, you nod. "No, I want to hear you fuckin' say it, Y/N. I'm not an asshole."

"Yes," you weakly respond, "I want you."

"Good. Take that fuckin' dress off while you're at it."

Your shaky and frail fingers grasp the hemline of your dress hesitantly, eyes flickering between his leaking cock and his firm gaze, pulling the fitted material over your head and tossing it aside. Now sat in nothing but a pair of soaked, white lace panties and your heels, Luke's eyes fall on your bare breasts. "So fuckin' pretty."

"Luke-" you whimper quietly.

"Shut up," his hands reach beneath your arms, pulling you to your feet. Luke reaches around you, large hand swiping the array of documents off of his desk, sending them to the floor with a thud. You release a soft gasp when your bare backside meets the cool wooden desk, "Can't say I've never thought about this."

Luke's hands fall to your hips, gripping the skin roughly, and guiding you down until your back is flush with the desk, legs spread pathetically, displaying your clothed core to him. "God, you're so fucking soaked it's pathetic," he laughs lowly, shaking his head, and trailing a finger along the dampened material, coated in your previous orgasms and current arousal. He sends a soft smack with the back of his hand to your swollen clit, causing a whimper to leave your lips. "You'll let me have you any way I want, huh?"

"Luke-"

"Don't talk, I already know the answer," he raises your legs so your heels are resting on the edge of the desk, fingers ghosting the inside of your thighs teasingly, "Because here you are, spread out on my fucking desk like the whore you are."

"Please-"

"God, you just can't listen, huh?" his hands retreat from your skin, fumbling with his necktie, folding it into a neat little square. "I said I don't wanna hear you, Y/N." leaning over you, the tip of his cock pressing against your clothed core, he forces the folded tie between your lips, gagging you. "There, much better."

Luke works quickly to pull the pathetic excuse for underwear down your legs, tossing them alongside your dress on the floor. His cock twitches at the sight of you, fucking glistening and leaking just for him. He trails two fingers up your wetness, slicking his cock with your arousal, and prodding the tip against you. "Look at me," he says, hovering over you, hands on either side of your head. Hesitantly, you meet his eyes, your own widening, "Wanna watch you take my fucking cock."

You look so fucking pretty all gagged up for him. Running his tongue along his lower lip, he roughly juts his hips forward, instantly bottoming out and a muffled scream leaves your lips at the stretch. The tears that brimmed your eyes previously begin to fall, feeling so full, "Fuck," he hums lowly.

He rocks his hips a few times, watching as your eyes practically roll back into your head. And god does that make him so fucking proud, staring at you as drool slowly dribbles from yourr lips. He halts, roughly tugging the tie from your mouth, fingers gathering the spit and shoving it between your lips. "Don't be messy," he tuts, before placing the tie back, "Already fuckin' droolin' like a whore and I'm barely getting started."

Luke retracts his cock, hands grasping at your hips and flipping your body, the sound of your stomach colliding with the wooden desk echoing through the room. "I don't wanna look at you," he says, palming the skin of your backside before smacking the smooth flesh. He realigns himself with your entrance, one hand splayed on your bare back to hold you in place.

Roughly thrusting inside once again, the moans and muffled choked sobs barely reach Luke's ears, too fucking entranced by the feeling of your tight little cunt taking him so well. "This," he rocks his hips forcefully, "Is fuckin' mine. Anytime I goddamn want it, you're gonna give it to me."

You scramble to grab the opposite edge of Luke's desk, white knuckling it as he forcefully pounds into you, so fucking deep and quick you can barely breathe. "Such a tight fuckin' cunt," he groans, fingernails scraping along your back, "Taking my cock like a good fuckin' slut."

Instinctively you clench around him, eliciting a deep borderline growl from Luke's throat, hand previously raking down your back finding your hair, fisting the strands between his fingers and yanking you backwards until you’re halfway to his chest. You rest your palms flat on the desk, eyes pinched shut in pleasure while he continues fucking into you at an unruly pace.

"Clench again for me," he moans out, feeling the muscles in his stomach tighten, his orgasm slowly beginning to build. You comply, your thighs trembling, clenching as hard as you can. "Fuckin' god," Luke tosses his head back, eyelids fluttering shut in pure bliss.

You choke out another moan around the tie in your mouth, unable to warn the blonde of your third orgasm that's quickly approaching as he continuously pokes the perfect spot so fucking deep inside you’re nearly a drooling mess. The hand not entangled in your hair grips one of your breasts roughly, sending you over the edge in a series of muffled cries. Tears stream down your cheeks, cunt tightening around Luke yet again, the blonde hissing as he feels your release coat his cock, the slick sound of his thrusts growing louder.

"Fuckin' milkin' my cock like a whore," he spits out, grip tightening on your hair as he pulls you closer, thrusting into you impossibly harder. You can't fucking think, you’re a dizzy mess and can hardly form a thought. You can't even feel the drool pooling from the edges of your lips. "Gonna fill up that sweet little cunt of yours and make you mine."

Luke pulls you flush to his chest, your head lolling against his shoulder. Though he isn't one for kissing, he doesn't hesitate to graze his teeth against your exposed neck, sinking them into the supple flesh as his hips begin to stutter, groaning against your neck as he releases inside. You wince at the rough bite on your neck but you’re too spent to care, leaning fully against him as he rocks through his orgasm.

You’re in a daze when he pulls out of you, nearly falling against the desk, the blonde quickly reaching for you to keep you upright. Though he's smug and feeling overly satisfied for ruining you, a swirl in his stomach tells him he needs to make sure you’re alright. He pulls the tie from your mouth, not commenting on the drool spilled from your lips. "Y'okay?"

You can't fucking speak.

Luke's brows furrow with worry, hand delicately grasping your jaw and searching your hazy eyes. Pupils blown out just like his, fresh tears lingering on your cheeks. "Oh, baby," the pet name falls from his lips effortlessly, "C'mon."

Tucking his softening cock into his pants and guiding you away from his desk and towards the couch, he plucks your heels from your feet. Though he'd never in a million years consider aftercare, he's stripping his button down from his broadened frame and slipping your arms inside, buttoning it to cover your exposed body. "Luke," you toss your head back onto the plush couch.

"Hm?" he hums softly.

"I need to- need to clean up," you rasp quietly, a hint of a blush on your cheeks, head reeling from the soreness between your thighs.

"That's what m'here for," he coos sweetly, though the smirk of his lips has you swallowing thickly. His ringed hands trail along your warm and flushed skin, parting your trembling thighs, the sight of his release slowly dribbling out of your sweet cunt nearly has his cock stiffening in his slacks again. "Mm, such a pretty wrecked little pussy."

A gasp leaves your lips as he leans forward, nose brushing your lower stomach, tongue gathering his cum from your sensitive folds. Lapping up every fucking drop, Luke straightens himself out, reaching a hand towards your swollen lips and parting them with his thumb. You’re beyond confused as he tightly grips your jaw, before spitting the contents into your own mouth. Swiping any remnants from his own lips, he narrows his eyes. "Fuckin' swallow."

Clasping your pretty lips shut, you comply, feeling a stir in your stomach when your eyes meet, and swallow.

"My good fuckin' girl."

[archangest]

make it filthy.

pairing. jet black rockstar!luke x rockstar!reader

summary. from wearing one of his shirts as your outfit on stage and the two of you dyeing your hair black together to messy makeouts and not-so-subtle touches when no one was looking, sharing the stage with Luke was harder than you expected.

warnings. +18. mdni. EXPLICIT CONTENT. smut. oral sex (m receiving). fingering. pussy slapping. mouth spitting. denegration. choking. dirty talk. angst. muke allegations. yearning. situationship final boss. lip ring!luke. chirophilia. praise. throat fucking. dom!luke. masturbation. use of explicit words. avoidant attachment style. friends slash bandmates with benefits. obsession. petnames. alcohol and weed use.

wc. 6,1k.

now playing. smut by jutes.

The air hung thick inside the arena, the bass nothing more than a dizzying hum, seeping beneath every pore without permission, untamed, relentless, the vibration settling somewhere deep in your bones. Your fingers were trained in the play of the four metal strings, the chords of “SMUT” a familiar melody in a final encore. Countless days filled with rehearsals, the kind of practice now second nature, sweaty, frantic bodies driven by the way Echo Fever moved under the red stage lights.

The burn of alcohol coursed through your veins along a path that by now felt familiar, settling easy, sinking deep through your system, merging with the usual buzz of being the bassist in an alternative rock band with the same boys who had seen your best and your worst–playing arenas, living on the road; you had been made for this.

The dizziness was indulgent, welcome, your eyelids fluttering shut in slower, heavier blinks, your body so surrendered to the moment that every cell obeyed before the thought could even form; hips restless to the music, swaying back and forth in time with the subtle guidance of your fingertips, the allure almost effortless.

“Make it filthy ’cause i love when you treat me like a slut.” The final words dissolved into obscene murmurs as they slipped past Luke’s lips–parted, far too close to the microphone; blue irises nearly swallowed by black, drowned in your gaze.

The guitar chords were intoxicating, loud in the way they spoke to you. Luke’s fingers moved with a kind of mastery your eyes couldn’t help but follow, lingering in stares you swore were subtle, far too hypnotized to register anything beyond the vulgarity of his digits dancing over the metal strings. It resonated through every fiber of your body, and still, the final point always settled between your legs; that same familiar pressure that built whenever you paid too much attention to the sin that was Luke Hemmings’ existence.

And Luke knew, far more than you wished he did the effect he had on you–how your throat went dry when you swallowed, how your gaze never quite held his, always drifting to his hands or his mouth, how your breath caught sharp in your chest the second his hand rested, even briefly, on your waist as he passed by, how shivers tore down your spine when he murmured into your ear; fleeting, visceral doses of the obsession you fed him so willingly.

The line blurred somewhere along the way, you couldn’t quite remember when your reality began to orbit the way he kissed you, the way his hands wandered your body with a kind of hunger that made you believe you could be something more; he was convincing on his knees, the same lips that went down on you were the ones that kept you full of lies.

It was almost unconscious when you drifted closer to him on stage, an impulse too strong to swallow; a few curls clung to your forehead, your gaze locked on the only star you followed, fingers insatiable against the bass, a smile you couldn’t contain aimed solely at him. Luke smiled back as if he weren’t responsible for the heat thrumming through your entire body, his frame angled just slightly toward you as he shifted to make space at the mic, a silent invitation.

Face to face, it was like nothing else dared to exist. You lifted onto your toes just enough to reach the microphone, the height difference forcing you closer, your voice melting into his in a harmony you both knew people would be talking about long after the show ended.

“Come fuck me like you hate me, eyes rollin’ in your head, blackout…” The lyrics slipped easily from your lips, that deep blue rooted so far inside you it took extra focus not to mess everything up.

The spark that ignited whenever you sang to each other burned hot enough to start a fire, eyes locked, unable to look away from the flames you became on stage. The rumors that followed your names only grew stronger in moments like these, whispers spreading when you showed up wearing one of his shirts as your outfit for the night, when you both appeared with black hair at the same time, when your mouths hovered far too close as you shared a microphone; details that never went unnoticed by the fans. You indulged in those assumptions as if somewhere in them you might find your truth; at least in those words, he belonged to you.

“You guys look fucking hot sharing a mic like that. Speaking my truth right now, i feel like– crazy sexual tension coming off you. You should just fuck already. But like– don’t fucking ruin the band or anything, that’d be awkward as fuck and i’d hate having to meet new people to start over.” Michael’s voice carried through the backstage halls, honesty and alcohol sitting heavy on his tongue. Of course, he didn’t know, no one did except the two of you.

“You didn’t seem worried about ruining the band when you had your mouth around my–“ Luke slung an arm around the redhead’s waist, walking alongside him, pulling him closer.

“We were teenagers! The band wasn’t even a real thing yet! Give me a fucking break, dude!” Michael shot back, more exasperated than he could hide, hands moving wildly as he gestured toward his head. Ashton’s laughter bled into yours as the two of you watched the same banter that somehow always followed them.

“Mmmm, i don’t know about that, but i mean… i’m down if you are. Bet you’re way better at sucking dick now than you were back then, with all that experience and shit…” Luke turned toward him, that same boyish smirk playing at the corners of his mouth that make your head spin. Maroon spread across Michael’s cheeks instantly.

“Come on, Hemmings, leave Mikey alone!” You cut in before even realising, quick steps carrying you into the band’s dressing room.

“Ohhh, Mikey…” he teased, finally relenting; Michael’s muttered insult dying on his lips when Luke pressed a quick kiss to his temple, hands already pushing the lead vocalist away.

Like a dog on a leash, Luke obeyed, hands raised in mock surrender before dropping onto one of the leather couches, head falling back, manspreading like the fucking whore he was.

The post-show adrenaline lingered like the smoke currently slipping from between Ashton’s lips, his fingers busy as he passed the joint to Luke. This was the part where you all caught your breath, gossiped about whatever you’d noticed in the crowd, get high as fuck, and just soaked in the comfort of each other before heading out to some local bar, getting wasted and dancing until you blacked out, already itching to do it all over again the next day; the routine Echo Fever followed religiously on tour.

The euphoric chatter of your friends blurred into white noise in your ears. You remained standing, the high from the performance still alive under your skin, the dampness of your underwear now far too noticeable for you to sit without rubbing pathetically against the cushions; especially with that asshole making no effort to hide the way his gaze dragged down your body, over the black lace, the garter tights hugging your thighs; you could’ve sworn you saw him spread his legs just a little wider in response.

“You gonna stand there like a haunted ghost or are you gonna sit and smoke with us?” Michael asked, sass dripping from his tone.

Suddenly, you were hyper-aware of every pair of eyes on you. “Honestly, i’m feeling kinda sick– i think the alcohol hit harder than i realised and all that moving around on stage doesn’t help, you know how i get,” you said, the excuse not entirely a lie. “I’m gonna head to my dressing room. Need to focus before i actually throw up and you guys can’t shut the fuck up for more than one minute, sooo. Don’t forget me here. I’m out. Peace, bitches.”

Your words hung in the air as you turned, steps quicker than necessary as you made your way to your dressing room–you knew exactly what you were doing when you insisted on having one to yourself.

The padding swallowed your body in a comfortable embrace, you’d barely sat down before your legs parted on their own, the small pair of shorts you wore under Luke’s shirt already discarded, forgotten somewhere on the floor. Your head fell back against the leather, the ceiling spinning as your hand slid over your own throbbing need, a low hiss slipping past your lips at the faintest contact through the fabric. The material only amplified the torture you were putting yourself through.

Oh, look at me, i look like fucking Lucifer, i look good wearing eyeliner, i have a sultry slutty voice, i’m tall, i’m really fucking good at playing guitar and, not shockingly, i’ve got a really huge dick.

Oh, fuck you, Luke Hemmings.

So what if his name was the one falling from your lips in heavy breaths as your touch circled your clit? So what if you imagined his fingers on you moving with the same precision, the same intensity he used on his guitar? He could go fuck himself.

“M–…Mmpf, L–…Luke…” His name shaped itself on your lips like a prayer, two fingers sinking deeper into your heat, the image of him, whoring himself out on stage like the rockstar he was born to be, burning into your eyelids every time you blinked.

Second night of the tour and you were already here, shaking under your own stroke, calling your bandmate’s name like it might save you from the obscenities your mind kept projecting onto him.

Your body twisted, hips lifting off the couch just as that fucking knock echoed through the dressing room. Always the same pattern, you’d recognize it from vibrations alone if you had to.

No fucking way.

Your body went still for a second, fingers slipping out, legs unsteady as you pushed yourself up. Your movements bordered on impulsive as you made your way to the door, wiping your fingers against the fabric of the same shirt–his shirt–that you kept tugging down over your thighs.

“What?” you snapped, tone impatient, irritation bleeding into your voice as you yanked the door open.

“You wanna know what’s not adding up?” Luke didn’t wait for an invitation before stepping in like he owned the place, forcing you to take a few steps back as he invaded your space like a storm without warning, the door clicking shut behind him. “Every time you feel sick from drinking, you smoke, because following that weird logic of yours, it helps you with the nausea, so… why didn’t you–“

Fingers curling around the black tie beneath his leather jacket, you tugged him toward you before he could keep running his mouth, shutting him up the only way that ever seemed to work.

Luke’s hands wasted no time finding your waist, one sliding up into your hair, fingers digging into the strands at the nape of your neck as his lips fell into the same rushed rhythm yours set.

It felt like you were one kiss away from snapping something with how eagerly you devoured him, your hands crawling along the curve of his waist while his came up to cradle your face, the backs of his thighs hitting the edge of the vanity, you all over him.

“Tell me, when you wear my shirt on stage… is that you trying to make me yours? Your way of staking a claim or do you just like giving them more to talk about?” he murmured, voice rough, lips greedy as they traced along your jaw, open-mouthed bites marking their way down your neck.

“I bet you love reading those comments…about how i can’t take my eyes off you on stage, how obsessed i must be. Is that what you get off on, baby?” his grip tightened in your hair, holding you steady as his teeth dragged against your skin.

A dark little laugh ripped through your lips, your head tilting slightly to the side, an offering–oh, if only he knew.

“Gotta show who holds the leash,” you drawled, fingers curling sharply at his waist. “But it’s not for them, no, not for them,” that same smirk pulled at your lips as your hand slid up into his curls, tugging without restraint until his eyes met yours. “It’s for your fucking groupies. They need to know their place.” Your hand closed around his throat, firm, just enough to make a point.

On his face, you find the same depravity that stares back at you in the mirror. His pupils dilate the second he gets a taste of what he’s always craved, that same hunger to be wanted, feeding off you like some fucking vampire.

“Baby’s first time getting jealous, aw.” He cooed, blue eyes gleaming with the kind of perversion written all over his expression at the feel of your hand wrapped around his throat. Of course the fucker would enjoy it.

A cynical scoff is the only sound that leaves you, that same arrogant smirk mirrored right back at him. “Jealous? How could i be jealous when i know they don’t get wet for you like i do?” The honesty is raw, too real, but you couldn’t give a fuck right now; your grip tight as you hold him in place, your body pressing closer until you’re chest to chest, your chin tilting up just enough for your eyes to lock onto his.

Luke’s breath catches in his throat, blue blown wide and fixed on you, lips stubbornly refusing to give you anything but that same fucking grin that makes you want to paint him red with your mouth, chew him bones and all. You weren’t naive to think this sudden control surprised him, he pulled the strings; you were just another piece in his dollhouse.

The air in your lungs felt thinner by the second, the yearning spreading through every pore of your sweat-slick skin–and it didn’t go unnoticed by him. “That’s what you were up to? Is that why you ran off to lock yourself in here? Got baby all worked up?” Your eyes remained on the way his lips moved, lingering on the lip ring he liked to toy with between his teeth.

Your faces were close enough for his tequila laced breath ghost over your skin. You swallowed hard, unable to stop the way your rapid blinking gave away the composure you were trying so hard to hold onto. Luke didn’t need much effort to pull your hand away from his neck, the control shifting in the bat of an eye.

His palm was broad enough to cover your entire throat, grip tight, but never enough to take the pleasure out of it. His height loomed over you as your steps faltered backwards. “Your pussy gets wet just from me singing while looking at you? Fuck, baby…you’re needier than i thought.” Your lower back collided with the cushioning of the same couch you’d been touching yourself on just minutes ago, thinking about him, calling his name.

The words got lodged in your throat, too caught off guard to manage any kind of eye contact with him. That’s when Luke seemed to notice your shorts, abandoned on top of the carpet, the cocky smirk on his lips only growing now that he had the confirmation he needed without you having to say a word.

You expected it to feed his ego even more, expected his teasing filling the room again, expected that same arrogance sitting in his gaze–but instead, his hand grew heavier around your throat, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that felt almost devoted. No performance, no games; just tongue, teeth, saliva, and the sharp, addictive drag of his lip ring.

Your hands were eager at his waist before slipping down to his ass, palms filling with his flesh as you pulled him closer. Luke’s touch climbed back up to your face, holding you with a gentleness that made you question what your skin was made of, his lips avid as they sealed against the corner of your mouth, your chin, your jaw. You squeezed his ass again, ripping a gasp out of him. “Let me take care of you… i can fuck you way better than your fingers ever could, i promise.” He rasped, breath hot as his mouth brushed against yours, body pressed so close to yours that you could feel just how uncomfortable he was in his pants.

Your fingers wrapped around his wrists where they held your face, your eyes locking onto his, pulling him in. Steady breath was no longer a thing between you two. “I want yours… i want you to fuck me with your fingers, please… like you play your guitar.” Your voice came out smaller than you expected, a slight furrow in your brows as your gaze flickered between his lips and his eyes.

Luke leaned back just enough to let his eyes trace every feature of your face. “Yeah? Is that what my girl wants?” His voice was sinful, low and velvety, settling deep between your thighs, his thumb brushing gently along your cheek.

My girl.

The words sank into you, further than they should have, even knowing it was just a moment, even knowing it was lust sitting heavy on his tongue. Eyes slipping shut in a blink, a small nod coming with it, you believed you were his girl.

Luke was quick, steeped in impatience, his mouth devouring yours as if he hadn’t fed in days, tongue dragging against yours, palms roaming down your body to your thighs, the snap of your garter against your skin bleeding into the sounds of your kisses and gasps as his fingers caught in the lace his eyes had been so eager to study before.

His hands were large as they closed around the flesh of your thighs, lifting you up as if you weighed nothing to him. In one frantic, careless motion, your back collided with his chest just as his met the cushioned surface, positioning you in his lap, his bulge perceivable where it pressed against your ass.

Your torso arched forward in thick breaths, anticipation spreading through your nerves just as heat pooled low in your stomach. His digits moved between the gap of your thighs, red blooming along the inside of your skin from the pressure of his grip before his touch reached the dampness of your panties. The sharp tremor of your body over his at the slightest contact was more than enough for something to cut through his teeth in a wolfish grin, chest rising and falling just as heavily as yours.

His lips hovered near your ear, his voice no more than a rough whisper. “This wet for me and keeping it all to yourself, baby? You’re so fucking greedy.” Your eyes fell shut at once, lips parting as if already pleading for whatever Luke was willing to give.

The length of his fingers was long, pressing with precision as they slid over your, still covered, soaked cunt, the tip of one of his digits teasing just enough as it mimicked a slow thrust at your entrance, the drenched fabric dipping with it. One of your hands dropped to his thigh, seeking something to hold onto in the thickness of it.

“You can’t even make it through a show without fantasizing about my fingers touching you like this, can you? You’re so pathetic, so fucking needy for me.” The same hand hooked into the waistband of your panties, the fabric tugged just enough to press against your clit.

Your hips pushed up greedily, chasing more of that friction, restless in their need, your head tipping back slightly to rest against one of his broad shoulders as broken, soft murmurs slipped past your lips.

Luke’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in quiet disapproval. “Nuh-uh. You stay still. You take what i give you.” You could come just from hearing that voice in your ear, you were sure of it. “S-…sorry, i just–“ The words died in your throat, weak, dragged out.

“You just what, baby? Want me to finger you breathless? Want me to play with your pussy the same way i play my guitar?” His hand slipped beneath the fabric, set on skin-to-skin contact. The tip of his digit was light, agonizing in its slow, unsteady glide over your clit before sliding through your slick folds, the pressure dizzying as it edged your entrance.

Your teeth were sunk into your bottom lip in a naive attempt to hold back the urge to grind against his touch, pleas threatening to rip from your throat with the same urgency that needy sounds broke past your lips–nothing coherent, but it was all you could manage to give him.

“Use your words,” he rasped, giving your pussy a light slap. “F–...fuck–“ It ripped out of you without warning, your hips bucking up insatiably. Luke almost choked on his breath. “You like that? You like your pussy getting slapped? God, you’re something else.” A whimper spilled from you, your pelvis twitching upward again. He slapped your core once more, drawing another whimper from you. “Such a filthy little thing. Say what a filthy girl you are, baby.” His teeth caught on your earlobe, tugging just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Y–...yes, f–…fuck, i’m so filthy– only...only for y-..you, Luke, only ever...f-..for..you– i can’t–...i can’t even be too close to you on stage or i–“ Your babbling was cut off by a sharp moan when, without warning, Luke pushed two fingers inside you.

“Keep talking,” he urged, lips parted in shaky gasps against your ear, his gaze fixed on the way your pussy swallowed his fingers, sinking deep into your gummy walls as they tightened around them.

“S–...shit, or i…i get so...f–…fucking wet a–and it’s...it’s so...so embarrassing...” The words were forced out, your voice breaking as the stretch overwhelmed your nerves. The pad of his thumb didn’t hesitate to press against your clit and fuck, Luke knew exactly how to keep a rhythm–not as fast as you wanted, as you needed, but enough to keep your bottom lip nestled right in between the rows of your teeth so your moans wouldn’t carry past the dressing room.

Your head sank further against his shoulder, Luke’s free hand finding its way beneath your shirt, eager as it slipped into your bra to grope one of your breasts. “Is this how you imagined it? F–…fuck, look at it.”

You obeyed, the hand resting on his thigh digging deeper into his flesh as your gaze met the obscenity of his fingers, knuckle-deep, pumping with the same mastery you watched on stage into the slick heat of your cunt. Your mind could have never conjured something like this, and even as the weight of your eyelids begged you to give in, your eyes stayed locked on the way Luke fucked you.

The cadence of his movements grew more urgent, wet sloshes and the sound of your needy moans now muffled against the back of your hand filling the room, the scent of your cunt thick in the air. “Look how fucking hungry your pussy is, keeping my fingers inside, clenching around them like it can’t get enough of being fucked like this.”

The hand beneath your shirt moved between your breasts, your flesh disappearing into the span of his palm, the cold metal of his rings pressing against your skin in a shiver-inducing kiss. With every thrust, every squeeze, every filthy word breathed into your ear, your body answered with more frenzy, the high continuing to carve its way through your nerves, the end so clear low in your stomach. You were so close, you could almost taste it.

“I bet this tight little pussy can take one more, can’t it, baby? You’re doing so good for me, getting fucked like this in my lap, your fucking bandmate–“ His voice pushed at your limits, the friction at your clit stopping the moment Luke slid a third finger into you, a sharp cry tearing from your chest, your body still edgy over his lap–hips jerking upward, pelvis desperate to follow his thrusts, torso arching forward.

“Loud much, aren’t we? Keep this up and the boys are gonna hear you, is that what you want? You want the whole band knowing their bassist likes getting fucked like a filthy little slut?”

By now, Luke’s voice was nothing more than noise you tried to follow under the buzz ringing in your ears, his words only feeding the pressure coiling under your skin. One of your hands covered your mouth, your vision hazy with tears pooling at your lash line.

His movements grew sloppier with every second, a mess of how your slick slipped down your body, dragging between your cheeks, staining the couch with your juice. “I’m gonna–please, Luke, i’m gonna cum–“ Your voice came muffled against your palm, your head sinking into his shoulder just as your thighs, your whole body, began to tremble.

“That’s it. Soak my fingers like the good girl i know you are.”

And you did.

Calling his name against your hand, your thirsty walls pulsing around his fingers, your thighs shaking, tears slipping down your cheeks as your eyes squeezed shut so tightly stars burst behind your eyelids, every fiber of your body twisting in a pleasure only he could pull from you–it didn’t matter how many groupies you took to bed, didn’t matter how many times you told yourself you didn’t care about him or what he did to you; no one made you come like Luke.

You knew it. He knew it.

Nothing was as obscene as the sheen on his fingers as they slipped out of your cunt, your walls clenching the empty at the loss of him, the ruined fabric of your underwear settling back into place. “You okay, baby? Can you open your mouth for me?” Luke’s voice was softer now, sweetness lining its edges.

Your mouth parted without question, too deep in exhaustion and bliss to even consider holding onto any pride. “Ah, that’s it. That’s my girl. Taste yourself, baby. Taste how good i made you feel.” Your lips closed around his fingers–long, deep; filthy, marked. Your taste spread across your tongue without restraint, a moan slipping out of you around them.

“F–...fuck, come here.” Luke manhandled you until you were now facing him, straddling his lap, your legs settling on either side of his hips.

Sensitive and overstimulated, but not hesitant as you dragged your covered cunt over his bulge, the silky from your underwear responsible for the stain forming against the fabric. Luke’s gaze dropped to where you moved, sucking in a breath through gritted teeth, the curve of his lips curling into a satisfied smirk–you could see his dimples so clearly now.

One of his hands slid through your curls, carefully brushing away the strands stuck to your sweat-kissed forehead. “Still with me?” he rasped, voice laced in something intimate.

“Mm-mhm.” The sound was soft, doe eyes locked on the embodiment of Lucifer in front of you, the air still scarce in your lungs, but easier to draw in now.

“Good.” His thumb dragged gently over your lower lip before he captured it with his own, slower this time, savoring the taste of you.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, your chests moving in sync, your hand turning slippery as it moved down to where he throbbed, your hips lifting slightly against him. He groaned against your mouth, his knuckles tightening in your hair, you let out a quiet giggle.

“I want you in my mouth. Please, Lu, can i?”” The murmurs came out charmingly against his lips, your hand stroking him in a slow, steady glide.

“You wanna put that pretty mouth to use, baby? You sure?” The words slipped between heavy breaths, dazzling blue fixed on you, searching for any trace of hesitation.

Your certainty showed when your knees hit the floor in one fluid motion, glassy eyes lifted to him as his legs spread wider, his hips jerking up instinctively. Your hands were hurried–both of you knew it was only a matter of time before Ashton or Michael knocked on the door, the arena growing emptier by the second, fewer instruments left to pack away–adrenaline ran through your veins just as easily as your palm wrapped around Luke’s cock; thick and heavy, his pretty flushed tip leaking pre-cum over your fingers.

“Fuck, Lu.” It slipped out before you even realized it, your thumb working to spread the sticky wetness over the swollen head. Luke shuddered at your touch, hypersensitive, his gaze dropping to where you knelt between his legs, tension running through him as his body leaned toward you.

“See how hard you make me, baby? Yeah, this is all for you. You’re gonna take the whole thing, aren’t you, sweetheart? Gonna make me cum so fucking good you’ll feel me on your tongue for days.” One of his hands slid into your curls, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, controlled.

Your head moved in a quiet nod, blinking up at him through your lashes, too far gone to put together a sentence, completely brainless when it came to that cock. You started with your tongue, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, a string of spit connecting your lips to his head, letting him feel the drag of your heat, the suction, the quiet greed lurking beneath it as you savoured the faint salt from his skin. The sound that tore from Luke was rough, drawn out, his eyes falling shut for a long blink, teeth catching on his lip ring.

You were intent, eager to take him into your mouth when he stopped you with a sharp pull to your hair, the thumb of his free hand brushing carefully over your bottom lip.

“Open.” The command was clear, direct, his sins stripped bare in the way his blue dripped over you.

Once again, you obeyed without hesitation. The same hunger that had once hone its teeth into your bones curled back into something pleased as Luke spat into your mouth, blunt, profane, his saliva pooling on your tongue.

“Swallow.”

He didn’t have to say it twice. You made a point to swallow before the command even fully settled, eyes locked onto his the entire time.

The smile that spread across Luke’s face was satisfied, proud. His back sank against the couch again, his hand still firm in your hair, his hips lifting in a silent instruction you already knew by heart how to follow.

The moment your lips stretched around his head–willing muscles working to take him inch by inch, pushing until your throat threatened to close around him, your palm covering what wouldn’t fit–Luke gasped like he’d just stepped off stage; his eyelids heavy, already fucked-out, lips parting like he was on the verge of confession.

Your pace wasn’t slow–no, not now. Your head moved in a steady up-and-down, guided by his grip, now tighter in your curls, teary eyes fixed on the only man you could ever worship. It was messy, obscene, saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth, enough to spill down your chin, dripping onto his balls as tears glossed over your flushed cheeks. You could barely breathe, almost gagging around him every time Luke’s hips thrusted upward, chasing a control he’d already lost.

“F–...fuck– look at you, baby, taking me so deep– so fucking good for me. Not much different from my groupies now, h-..huh?” His words broke apart between drawn-out whines spilling from his lips as he fucked into your throat, your eyes now rolling back. “but, s–...shit, i swear, that fucking throat’s gonna r-..ruin me for anyone else– it’s like it was made for my cock.” A wolfish grin tore across his teeth, his Adam’s apple exposed, bobbing as he let his head fall back against the couch.

Your grip was firm on Luke’s thick thighs, your nails digging into his skin, the sting only feeding to his pleasure. You pulled back for a second, lips swollen and slick with saliva and pre-cum like it was your new gloss, your hand pumping fast, the wet sound filling the dressing room, blending with Luke’s sweet, broken sounds. Fuck, your pussy was already dripping again, just from having him like this, just for you, your name was all he could manage in cracked gasps.

When your mouth took him again, Luke tried to behave for a few minutes that felt like torture to him, but it was pointless–he liked the profaneness of it, the sounds you made when he fucked into you with just enough precision to make you choke, his tip dragging deep along your throat, the muffled moan that came from deep within you when he used you like this, the wrecked, devoted look in your eyes that he knew you only gave to him.

“Fuck– f–...fuck– you’re so fucking pretty like this, baby, oh fuck– so g–...good– that mouth ‘s so fucking good f–...for me– i–…i can’t—” The praise spilled out involuntarily, nothing but broken babbles, his eyes locked on your kneeling figure like you were something sacred as he came hard down your throat, fucking into your mouth in small, desperate thrusts before pulling your head back with a loud pop, his cock twitching against your lips as the last drops smeared across your tongue.

Your blinks were quick, fluttering as you swallowed everything down, proudly. Your eyes were red, eyeliner smudged and blurred, lashes dark and damp from tears now drying on your cheeks, your chin still messy with saliva and cum before Luke–panting, half-lidded eyes–ran his thumb over it, wiping you clean with tender care before slipping his finger into his own mouth, cleaning it off.

Your throat burned, your knees felt numb, your jaw would ache for days, but God, it felt worth it when you noticed the way his eyes fell on you, like he was trying to carve that image of you into the walls of his mind forever. The earlier hunger in his gaze softened, something quieter replacing it, that boyish smirk curling back onto his lips.

“You okay? Did i take it too far?” There was no trace of that cockiness in his voice now, his hands careful as he helped you back up before your legs could give out and you ended up dropping beside him on the couch.

Your hand dragged across your chin, your cheeks, unsteady fingers brushing the corners of your eyes. “I’m–” You had to cough once before your voice came back. “I’m fine.” The small laugh that followed was awkward, almost shy.

Reality crept back in quietly, settling into the air, your awareness suddenly too sharp as it sank back into your bones. This was the part where you both pretended it hadn’t been anything, like this was a normal way to spend time between two friends. God, you needed more alcohol, sobriety wasn’t welcome right now.

Luke had already fixed his pants, even picked up your shorts from the floor and placed them beside you on the couch. His gaze fell on you like it was trained to, the sudden shift in the mood not going unnoticed by him. Your name left his lips in a slow, sweet drawl, his hand settling at the nape of your neck, guiding your face closer to his in a way that made you want to crawl under his skin.

“You did so, so good for me.” His finger slipped one of your curls behind your ear. “I know we say a lot of nonsense during sex, but fuck, no one does it like you. I swear.” His forehead rested on yours, your eyes following Luke’s as they closed for just a second, just a breath.

You didn’t know how to put it into words, how you wanted your body to be his, how you could feel his heartbeat in your head, how you wanted to mold your skin into his, how you wanted him to kiss every scar away, how you wanted him to be yours, yours, only yours, how you wanted to tear his chest open with your own hands and settle inside his heart.

Instead, you said the first thing that came to mind, attitude and cynicism curling on your tongue:

“God, you’re so obsessed with me.”

[prayersgotothesky]

Can’t you see? (l.h.)

⭑ pairing: childhoodbestfriend!luke x fem!reader

⭑ summary: You’d follow Luke Hemmings anywhere. Even to Los Angeles.

⭑ tags: friends to lovers, fluff + smut (unprotected p in v, oral m and f receiving, making out), getting together, time jumps

⭑ word count: 5.4k

⭑ listen to: Start Over

⭑ a/n: This is a request fill! Thank you anon for your submission, I hope I did it justice! Thanks for reading. This is based on the song “Start Over”.

You were 8 when your first pet died, Sir Finsalot. It was a bright yellow beta fish who you swore had the capacity to love you back.

It was then, as you stood beside Luke over Sir Finsalot’s tiny grave in your backyard, that you felt a thread of your soul reach out and attach itself to a thread of his.

“No worries,” he said your name in a sweet, tender voice, “that little fish is in a better place now.”

His accent was so heavy back then.

Your tears fell hard and fat, and seeped into his shirt as you sobbed against his shoulder.

He rubbed your back with a chubby hand.

A singular small tear fell down his flushed cheek; a cheek that was plump with youth and slightly freckled.

He didn’t like watching that little fish die, but he couldn’t bear seeing, and feeling, you cry.

⏱︎ ˎˊ˗

You were 13 the first time he knocked on your window after dark.

He’d turn down your street, beat-up converse snuffing against the asphalt of the suburb. He lived on the next block over and committed every streetlight and crack in the road between your house and his to memory.

Even under the veil of night, he’d find his way over. He’d tap on your window in a rhythm you committed to memory.

Sometimes, he confessed at 14, on the particularly warm nights when you left your window ajar he’d wait to wake you with his tapping. Instead, he’d watch you and listen intently to your steady breathing and occasional rustling. He told you sometimes you snore. He implored you to not think him strange.

You didn’t; rather, you flushed.

But that first time, he crawled through your window and silently took a seat on the edge of your bed. You asked him if he was okay. He just shrugged, and the both of you stayed up for hours, sometimes in silence, sometimes playing a stupid game, sometimes spilling secrets in hushed tones.

Ever since then, on those late, warm summer nights, it became a pattern. The rhythmic tapping, then the growing together.

⏱︎ ˎˊ˗

You were 27 when you moved to Los Angeles, California.

You told yourself it was because the job opportunity was too good to refuse. You told yourself it was because getting out of Australia was something you always knew you wanted. However, as much as those are true, you’d follow Luke Hemmings anywhere; and that, even if it existed subliminally in the folds of your brain, was the soul, primordial reason.

Once his career took off, you held a resentment and a juvenile sense of betrayal toward his leaving. But as you grew, you understood. It was never about you, it was about him. And you were always the one telling him he needed to put himself first more often.

Over the years he’d kept in touch, your friendship ebbed and flowed. You, as well as he, tried to sever that thread just to ease the pain of distance. You both had tried relationships, had passions and goals that were purely your own, but that thread, that thread was made of something immortal.

And it pulled you to the other side of the world with him— for him.

However, once you were there, it wasn’t a divine togetherness you felt. Really, sometimes it felt like you were still miles away.

But slowly, you both learned how to fit each other into your new life. A person of the past you hold special, deep, shaping memories with isn’t so easy to realize once they’ve met the figure of Time.

When you first saw him again, he was a man. A broad, important human who was so unfamiliar yet still so himself. The little boy with chubby hands and slightly freckled cheeks.

⏱︎ ˎˊ˗

You were 28 when things felt normal. He was your friend and sometimes, when you saw him late at night, it really did feel like you were back in that suburb. But other times it was still hard, because there was so much unspoken between you two.

You'd have never admitted it to yourself then, but you're in love with him.

And the longer you stayed here, in this city, and had to experience him as something less than how you needed him, the harder it got to breathe. You knew he noticed that terrible, impending asphyxiation, but neither of you knew how to cross that threshold. You told yourself after all the life he’s lived, what would make him choose someone as mundane as you? His complacency had driven that notion.

One time Luke had told you: music dug around in his brain and pulled out everything he couldn’t articulate.

There was a certain week, a certain day, a certain slot in time in which you fully and finally digested his words.

Enter:

At the beginning of the week you return from a business trip, and by the end you open your phone to a notification.

[ 1 new voicemail ]

[ Lukeee 💌 ] :

The static of his voice on the other line: “Hey, I know you're probably busy today, but I’m gonna be in the studio tonight finishing up something I’ve been working on for the new album, and,” his voice sounds uncharacteristically nervous, considering he’s speaking to you, “I kinda wanted to show you. If you can make it, maybe come around 6? I sent you the address. Also, when I was babysitting that fucking cat of yours last week, it shit all over the foyer… I, like, tried to clean it up, but— I don’t know— just, if you see any stains on the rug, I’m sorry! It’s his fault, not mine!”

So,

you're pulling in and shutting off your car, throwing your keys into the cup holder and expecting a rather short visit. Which is unfortunate, because you love Luke and his band’s music; you're extremely excited to hear the new song, and, really, you just love being around Luke. Finding time to see each other is hard. That stands true even living in the same city, though it has made it significantly easier and possibly been one of the best decisions you’ve ever made. He’s one of your best friends. Friends. You mull over the word and shrug at the bitterness of it. You search for something to shove in its place, nothing quite feeling right.

. . .

The heavy door clicks behind you and, looking into the room, you see the stretching, vast span of Luke’s back sitting in front of a screen. He’s wearing bulky headphones over his ears that have a curled, thick wire plugging into the computer opposite. You smile to yourself, admiring his state of lonely peacefulness before you’re forced to pop the bubble enclosing him. Your heart lurches— his soft, bleached curls, the thin, worn cotton of his shirt, the way he sways to the music in his headphones— it’s enough to remind you of why you moved all those miles in the first place.

The room is bathed in an orange light, the hue reflecting off all specular surfaces and manifesting a warm, beckoning atmosphere.

The bubble bursts: you take a few steps and connect both your hands with his broad shoulders, shaking them lightly. He flinches and spins, neck bowing and shoulders rising in an inessential and endearing manner. As he turns, his hand pushes his headphones down and they slide to hang around his neck. His lustrous eyes meet yours; his bottom lip rests apart from his top.

“Hi,” you breathe, almost feeling as though loud words or haste movement might upset the particles making up the room.

He just smiles with closed lips, “you made it, hi.”

“Of course I did. I have to tell you if the songs shit or not,” you tease, to which he responds with a sarcastic huff that morphs into a wheezy laugh.

“You know, I appreciate that. Can always count on you,” he jokes, although there’s a deep truth there you both know exists.

You bare your teeth in a smirk.

His expression shifts into one more sincere, “okay, but, seriously, tell me about your day. I mean, you were gone for a week and… it’s been almost a week since then,” he trails off.

You beam at that, easily falling into a retelling of your trip and your day thus far.

He receives it with intent, head cocked to the side and eyes wondrous even when listening to the moments you almost don't mention because they seem so mundane.

. . .

Soon,

he’s standing up beside you, removing the headphone's chunky wire from where it’s inserted into the computer. He shifts from his left foot to his right. He seems tense, which is weird because this isn’t the first time he’s shown you unreleased music. It’s become sort of a habit, really, but something about this time feels different in a way you can’t explain.

You search for his eyes, but they're staring directly at the screen as he presses play.

The sound floods the room and your eardrums; it’s a pretty, calming resonance.

The first verse emerges and manifests in the beauty of Luke’s voice.

I know every light on your street…

I could find my way over with my eyes closed…

I know every sound when you sleep…

Watching you is the only thing that I know…

Your heart seems to lurch as you digest the lyrics and tone of reverence and nostalgia in which they’re sung.

A tear threatens to prick the corner of your eye.

The track bleeds into the chorus, and you sniff, not daring to look over at Luke.

Your tears falling hard on my shoulder…

Don’t leave, I don’t wanna start over…

Can’t you see? I’d do anything for you…

Don’t leave, I don’t wanna start over…

The tear falls in a pearly bead down your cheek. Luke sniffs and rubs at the back of his neck.

“It’s… really beautiful, Luke,” you breathe, wiping the uniform tear away, as the song continues on into the second verse,

Chasing things that I can’t replace…

You lean forward, hands bracing the desk; he shifts behind you, resting his balmy hand on your shoulder.

Wishing every face that I see was like you…

Tell me if it’s slipping away…

Might not see the reason to stay, but I do…

Alongside the melody, you can hear his breath as he leans in close. From his position behind you, his chin stoops to rest on your shoulder, “thank you.” His tone is bashful, and even though you can’t see his face, you know his eyes are flicking downwards and the words are pushing past a tiny grin.

A short burst of air leaves his mouth, pushing past his plump, flushing lips and playing against the side of your face. The hair on the back of your neck bristles, but you devour your nerves and melt into his form: lower back falling flush with his groin, head falling backwards to connect with his collarbone, the backs of your thighs press into the front of his, plushy and warm. It shouldn’t feel so natural, but it does. It does when you feel his quick, rhythmic heartbeat on your back. It does when his stubble grazes your temple.

The chorus repeats, the boys’ voices melting together in a practiced perfectness.

Your tears falling hard on my shoulder…

Don’t leave, I don’t wanna start over (start over)…

Can’t you see? I’d do anything for you (anything)…

Don’t leave, I don’t wanna start over…

A large, searing hand gingerly grasps your hip, offering a shaky squeeze full of question and an endearing apprehension that reminds you that this is still your Luke. His right hand mirrors his left, and he’s spinning you around slowly. You nod fervently, at nothing really, you just need him to know you want this, you want everything he has to offer you in any and whatever way; all those questions that rest in his touch and hide inside his eyes, you need him to know, are met with an indisputable yes. And you know where it’s all going; the inevitable seems obvious. The passion that’s always been there is finally coming to fruition, materializing into something tangible that can be heard, seen, but most importantly and pressingly, felt. You feel him trail his fingers over your flesh, massaging the skin at your hips that’s under his touch. You see his eyes and how they speak to you void of sound, you see how he takes a step backwards, sitting down with his hips pushed forward onto the chair behind him.

Oh, I don’t wanna start over…

Oh…

You feel yourself moving without a single thought: a step, another, and you're right in front of him. With haste and determination, a determination and rapidity that nurses clumsily, coarse movements and coats his features in a sheen of feralness, he places both hands on your ass and tugs you in. You aid him— silent albeit your shaky breaths and his own that slip from his jaw that’s hanging slack, emphasizing the poutiness of his bottom lip, and the squeak of the chair under the weight of both your bodies— knees pressing down beside both of his thighs and body lowing to straddle him.

He’s staring directly into your soul, eyes only ever leaving yours to take in your body from top to bottom as it moves to eclipse his own. His eyes are soft and gentle and so, so blue; however, that does nothing to negate the burning intensity and desire inside them that’s designated all for you. You blink deliberately, swallowing the nerves that come rushing back because what the fuck? Luke, your Luke, your childhood best friend since forever is underneath you and panting like a dog all for you. Finally.

Just as your eyes open again and you're met with his unmoving, dilated pupils the song slides into a quieter melody. You focus back in on the music, Luke’s voice on the track goes quiet and soft…

Your tears falling hard on my shoulder…

Don’t leave I don’t wanna start over…

As the lyrics float around the room and ghost over your ears you hear Luke’s voice accompany them in perfect harmony, starting as a hum and escaping as a low, perfect symphony— the only thing missing: a sweet Cherub with its golden harp and nimble fingers to strum over the thin strings. He stops almost as soon as he starts but what you heard drowned the room in intimacy and spurred the butterflies in your stomach to motion.

You bring your hand up from where it rests on his chest and clutch the side of his face, palm pressed against his stubble-chad cheek and fingers near his ear, slightly brushing his soft bleach-blond curls. You offer a tow, drawing his eyes back to yours, and once your senses are filled with nothing but him, you lean in and press your forehead against his as if it's magnetic. You yearn to press your lips against his and finally feel his touch, sedating the curiosity you’ve always carried with you and easing the hot-white pressure and tension in your chest, so much so that your hips rock forward on their own volition. However, you have to know, “Lu…,” your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, it's breathy and choked yet reverent, “please, say it, tell me,” you watch the corners of his mouth perk up ever so slightly, “tell me what it's about.”

Can’t you see? I’d do anything for you…

He blinks, his lashes brushing his cheekbone for a moment, “you,” he responds faintly, cementing your notion. “I wrote it about you. I, I don’t want anyone else. I don’t think I could ever feel this way— or have anything like this— with anyone else. I think it’s always been you, even when we both try to move past it or forget… you feel it too, don’t you?”

You nod frantically before he’s finished rambling, he’s speaking everything you're thinking into existence.

You begin to reply, but he shushes you, bumping his nose against yours in a delicate nudge.

“I’d never give up— that’s why I’m still here, in this city,” is the last thing you're able to exhale before he cuts you off and swallows your words in a kiss.

Don’t leave I don’t wanna start over (over)…

When the distance finally dissipates, you pour everything you have into the movement of your lips against his; you're trying to wordlessly convey your feelings for him because they’re just too much, too overwhelming, to articulate. It’s always been Luke, and you can tell by his lips it’s always been you, too. Everything but the feeling of his passion stroking yours ostensibly softens, the world physically melting away from your senses. That is, everything but the beauty of Luke’s voice still streaming through the computer as the track replays. The synths and airy quality of the sound facilitates the background falling into nothingness; there’s a cloudy, dream-like haze in the studio that intensifies your sole focus on the man beneath you. Your hands make their home on the splay of his broad shoulders that strain against the vintage fabric of his t-shirt.

The kiss starts slow and tentative, solely due to the way you memorize each other and the shock of touching something that seemed just out of reach for so long. Your lips close around his and his close around yours gently; his hands clutches your hips one last time before they shift lower, groping your ass and squeezing, the flesh filling out the gaps between his long fingers. When he does, your mouth drops open in an involuntary moan, allowing his tongue to dip into the wet, warm space and meet the velvet muscle of your tongue. Feeling the intrusion makes you shudder with want and a release of pent-up crave. You accept it graciously and easily, the slide of your tongues abetted by saliva. Despite the nerves and waves of incredulity rolling through you, you can’t deny the level of comfortability you feel in his presence.

You take your tongue across his teeth, feeling the ridges and stoops that form delicious ivory valleys. He hums, impatiently flicking his own muscle into your mouth, your teeth clacking in the process.

The kiss works you both into a frenzy within short minutes, the once tender and exploratory press releasing into a fiery, punishing pull and push of tongue and spit.

Your tears falling hard on my shoulder…

Don’t leave, I don’t wanna start over…

Your core begs for him and you let it beg. It weeps, slick seeping into your underwear. The sensation drives the push of your hips; through your clothes, you feel his chubbed up cock. You nuzzle his bulge with your own burning heat, warm melting into warm and forging a furnace, flames lapping at your spine.

A choked noise claws around in his throat. He places a hand on your thigh, settling your form, “are—“ he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth then releases it with a wet pop, its spit-slick and red and swollen and makes you grin evilly, “are you sure? I’m really,” you shift in his lap again, and he groans around his words, “I’m really fuckin’ dying here.”

“Yes, I’m sure, it’s long over due—I need you to fuck me, mm, now.”

“Here? I mean, fuck, I want to, God I want to, but I want it maybe a bit more—“ Special? Overrated. You cut him off with a searing kiss and all his inhibitions melt away.

“I want it now, Luke, please?”

He nods fervently, stopping to peck your lips repeatedly. It makes you giggle and blooms a confidence in your chest; you sit up, Luke positioned eye-level to your chest, and pull your shirt off over your head slowly. His blue, shiny eyes drop to devour you. His hands stir on their position on top of your thighs, you tell him: “take it off.” And he does, he unclasps your bra expeditiously and it tumbles to the floor. The change in temperature peaks your nipples; you gasp, bottom lip hanging slack and eyes flicking up to meet Luke’s blue. He shares the same visage, and his fingers trail up your sides and eventually grasp your tits, massaging and groping. Little moans fall from your lips.

“You sound so pretty, look so pretty, so pretty…” he murmurs, seeming as if he’s in his own world with you as the center of its universe.

“Luke, can I—?” You ask, voice thick and needy as you slide from the chair onto the floor in front of him. Your knees press into the floor hard enough to bruise.

Can’t you see? I’d do anything for you…

Don’t leave, I don't wanna start over (over)…

“Anything, anything you want, baby,” he pants.

Oh, I don’t wanna start over…

The post chorus bleeds out into nothing, then, after a beat, the song clicks to repeat once again. It’s set off by a hum, and the newly familiar melody rouses.

You stare up at him as if his body is an alter. Your hands inch up his thighs, and your face follows. His bulge looks heavy and mouth-watering through the cloth encasing it. With a hot, open mouth, you lean forward and press into it. Your lips close around his cock through the fabric, drool leaking and changing the material a shade deeper. You shift to pressing kisses over his hard-on for the sake of hearing more of those shaky inhales and exhales he releases from his open mouth. He twitches his hips and you can feel him stir inside his pants.

Feeling as though you’ve teased him enough, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his pants and boxers, offering a tug. He lifts up, allowing them to be pulled down his thighs. His dick springs out, jutting out proudly from his pelvis. Your eyes widen— there’s a pretty vein running along the bottom that meets with his pink, flushing tip and frenulum.

“Such a nice dick… all hard for me, baby,” you blink up at him, eyelashes fluttering, “and you’re fucking leaking.”

He full on whines in response, bucking his hips, cock swaying slightly with the movement. You palm him tenderly and begin working him, wrist twisting everytime you pull downwards. Your efforts are aided by the pre-cum seeping from his slit; a bead rolls down the side, dripping onto your hand as it continues to jerk him off. He sucks in a breath through closed teeth when you direct the head of his cock to your lips, closing the plushy lines of flesh around it and sucking.

You need the way you worship him physically to reflect how you’ve worshipped him emotionally for years. You have to be good for him; it’s as if he reads your mind, “holy shit, your mouth, feels so good… your lips,” he babbles.

The corners of your mouth perk up around his length, looking so damn pleased. Spit froths where your lips are connected to him, and you begin to bob your head up and down; you take him as far as you can manage down your throat. It’s sloppy as your throat and lips close around him like a vise and your hand twists around the base, sometimes dipping down to grope at his balls. Listening to his perfect, melodic whimpers sends pleasureable, intoxicating waves throughout your body, core yearning for him so fiercely it seems to ache.

You finally come up for air, sucking in a short breath, before jamming his thick cock down your throat over and over again.

In divergence from his otherwise yielding demeanour, his fingers card through your hair fiercely, hauling you up from your position between his legs, demanding: “if you kept that up for much longer, I would’ve came down your throat, baby,” he places a kiss on the corner of your mouth as you lean over him, then your cheek, “I need to be inside you, fucking now.” That has you reeling, pliant under his fingers as he stands, and spins you around as if you're weightless.

He murmurs, mere inches away from your ear, “bend over,” but before you can even move on your own volition, he presses his palm to your lower back and folds your body over the desk. Your cheek and chest press against the cool wood; his hand on your back keeps your ass positioned in the air. He digs his pointer and middle finger into the waistband of your pants, giving a tiny pull of inquiry. You grind your hips backwards impatiently in response, making your want and allowance tangible.

He peels the last of your clothes off, beautiful bare skin on display and cast amber under the orange hue of the room.

His husky voice fills your senses: “You don’t know how many times I’ve pictured this— your ass out just like this, just for me, you’re fucking,” he moves a leg in the space between yours and pushes them apart, “pussy spread— for me. Oh my God.” His tone reflects a deep-seated desire and adoration; your heart swells with knowing and surety that, after all these years, is the most important thing imaginationable. However, you can’t fight the embarrassment filling your chest that forms under his so blatant and genuine reverence.

“L—Lu, stop,” your mumble, cheeks coloring deeply, to which he replies with a small laugh.

“Mmm’no,” he says, a smirk touching his lips. Your face only turns a deeper shade of red when he uses his fingers to delicately pinch then spread your labia. “M’fuckin’ obsessed with you.” That swell returns in full force.

His vast palms and long fingers run up and down your back, creating goosebumps in their wake. At that moment, his whisper ghosts over the shell of your ear and chills run down your spine: “I’m sorry I waited.” Simultaneously, without warning, the blunt head of his cock breaches your entrance; the stretch is foreign but delicious, so much so it wrenches a whine from your throat.

“It's okay, it’s okay, baby,” you ramble, hushing him and breathing deeply. “This is— fuck, you’re so big.”

You hear a noise scramble then die in his throat.

Then, he bottoms out and feels your clenching around him. He takes a grounding breath; he asks if you're okay, if he can move. You nod quickly, knuckles balled up and blooming white.

He sets a slow, steady pace, pulling all the way out until the head of his cock has your hole taut, then pressing back and stroking past your g-spot.

Once your moans set a constant pace at the thrust of his hips and your ass pushes back to greet his every drive, his thrust turns punishing.

Your legs tremble and knees threaten to buckle under the force of him, the weight of his dick landing inside of you.

Your song is still making its home in the room, lapping at your eardrums until you can only focus on the tranquil, lovely sound; it numbs your brain into a concentration set on the hounding of his cock. Your eyes flutter shut, crossing intensely beneath your eyelids, and tongue lolls out from your parted, glossy lips. You pant and so does the man looming behind you, fucking you seneless.

“Ah— I’m so, so close, Lu. I don’t—i can’t…” you babble.

“Touch yourself, let me watch you cum.” Despite his tone matching yours in the way it’s wrecked and scratchy, his words are grounding.

The sound of skin meeting skin acts as a backtrack to the song floating around the room as it starts to repeat once more. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve heard the intro by now, really.

Obediently, your arm lodges itself underneath your form and your fingers find your clit with ease. You rub in perfect circles, the dual stimulation releasing a stream of ecstasy into your veins that whites out your vision and rips a recurrent shake and silent moan from your abdomen.

You might be imagining the way he hums along to your song.

“Oh, oh. Yea, I’m right there, prettybaby, right there.”

A few more strokes, a few more rubs, and you unleash a particular squeaky moan, then cum. You cum all over his dick and continue to rub and rub, drawing out every last quiver and contraction of your clit. The force of your orgasm coerces him to follow: one of his hands is splayed across the groove between your shoulder and neck, the other pressing your back further into its arch. He uses his vise-like grip on your flesh to haul your form back onto his dick as he cums deep inside you, milking every last drop. His body, shiny and salty with a sheen of beaded exhaustion, folds over yours. He shed his shirt at sometime you never even registered; you feel his damp skin slide against your own. He kisses the back of your neck and all across your shoulder blades, breathing out sweet praises over the span. A single thrust, a fleeting groan from both your chests, and he slips out with lewd squelch, softening. Your liquids mixed with his cum drip from your core, coating your inner thighs and folds.

Right beside your ear his voice comforts you. How he manages to be so right for you, you’ll never know.

“You were perfect, baby, I… I love you. I’m so in love with you. I wish I had the fucking balls to go about this differently, but I— you,” “shh, I know, I know, we can talk about it, but I kinda feel gross right now,” you beam, even though he can’t see it, and wish you could look upon his face. As if reading your mind, he scoops you up in his arms and flips you over. As he does so, his fingernails dance over your sides in a practiced manner, eliciting rapid giggles to fall from your mouth at his tickling, “Luke, stop,” a laugh, “shit!” You bat his hands away playfully and he relents.

Once his gorgeous, sharp features come back into your view, everything eases. You both share a personal, intimate smile; it kinda makes you wanna cry. Again. You notice his attention flick down to your still-naked body and where you're all sloppy, a product of shared affection. He stoops down, knees meeting the floor and face falling level with your pussy.

You look down at him, blue meeting your eyes and blinking slowly as he swipes his tongue across your clit.

“Fuck— m’so sensitive.”

He hums, committing his focus to the mess he left behind. He licks you clean of his cum and your remaining slick, being gentle around your ball of nerves. You watch him with a lazily, lopsided smile, “come here,” you demand.

And he does.

He comes close and captures your lips in a kiss; it tastes salty and of something supremely Luke. The hunger wanes, but the passion remains.

He locates your clothes, pulling your panties up your legs as you lay on the desk, spent. Next, he tenderly dresses you in your pants and hoodie, then he does himself. It's done silently, comfortably; finally, you reply to his earlier prattling, “I’m so in love with you, too. You knew that.” His eyes sing.

Shortly, he’s sitting in the plushy chair with you nestled on top of his lap.

After a beat, he breaks the silence, finally digging up the old ghosts you’ve always buried to ignore.

“When I left— I felt like I left you behind, you know that.” You nod, carding your fingers through his silky curls, scratching at his scalp. “I guess, in the song, I imagined you speaking to me. But also, please stay— stay in LA with me. I know it’s been weird… but this has to work with you…,” he trails off.

“Luke, I know why you did. You had to leave. That place suffocated you. Please,”

He cuts you off, needing you to know: “you were my air.”

You give him a devoted look, “It wasn’t enough, baby. And that’s okay. Besides, I knew the boys would take care of you.”

“I fucking love you,” he says, placing kisses anywhere he can find purchase on the side of your face, “quit it!” you laugh, “m’serious, you’re perfect, you’re—“ “I love you, too.”

⏱︎ ˎˊ˗

You’re 29 when you move in with Luke Hemmings, and have everything you’ve ever wanted.