Gracies.wrld

[ambsos]

close friends ✮✮ a luke hemmings x reader fanfic

chapter one: meet the band

also available on ao3 & wattpad

taglist: @lovecarsgoingvroom, @ashwasneverhere, @logans-sweet-cherry-pie & @lovesickcaitx (comment or message me if you would like to be added!)

chapter one's content/trigger warnings: bullying, mentions of past abuse/toxic relationship

fic synopsis: Y/N is 5 Seconds of Summer's new social media manager. Fresh out of college at 22 years old, you landed the job after a successful internship working for Olivia Rodrigo's team during her junior year. You've been in love with 5SOS since you were 7 years old when the band debuted - so landing this job is a huge deal for you. You've always had the fattest crush on Luke, even trying to pierce your own lip at 11 to mimic him.

But you work for the band now. You can't let trivial tween dreams get in the way of your current ones. But, honestly, you're a mess right now - this is your first time away from her home in Massachusetts, you're coming off a messy breakup with her toxic (and lowkey abusive) boyfriend of 5 years, and you still struggle with recurring panic attacks that you've had since freshman year of high school. You need to lock in, though, as you're set to manage the band as they go on their sold out Everyone's A Star tour.

Everything's going good until one day in the dressing room where you accidentally walk in on Luke changing. You swear to professionalism, profusely apologizing and on the verge of crying, but Luke doesn't seem flustered. He seems completely the opposite.

What will happen between the two of you? What will happen to your job? How will the two of you feign professionalism, hiding a budding romance from the rest of the band, the crew - and most importantly - the fans?

word count: 3,724

You ran across the tarmac at LAX, your carry-on bumping against your hip with every frantic step. The California sun was already beating down on your shoulders, a stark contrast to the grey Massachusetts mornings you left behind just hours ago. At twenty-two years old, you were supposed to be settling into a comfortable routine, maybe working at a marketing firm in Boston, living in a cramped apartment with your college friends.

Instead, you were running late to meet your new boss — the manager of one of the biggest bands in the world.

5 Seconds of Summer.

You were the social media manager for 5 Seconds of Summer.

You had spent your entire childhood knowing them. That was the part you couldn't tell anyone. Not the whole version, anyway.

You could say you'd been a fan for a long time. That was normal. Plenty of people your age had grown up with the band. Plenty of people had discovered them in middle school, gone to a concert or two, had a favorite album, had embarrassing screenshots buried somewhere in their camera roll.

You could say all of that with a straight face.

What you couldn't say was that you had been seven years old when the band started and had spent most of your childhood treating their existence as a fixed point in the universe.

You'd been seven years old when they started; ten when they hit the “mainstream” in 2014. You were absolutely insufferable, prancing around with braces and awkward bangs and a desperate need to belong somewhere. And there they'd been — four Australian boys with too tight skinny jeans and too much hair, singing about heartbreak and wanting and everything that felt so far away from your suburban Massachusetts life. Luke Hemmings, with his ridiculous blonde curls and that voice that made you feel like you were the only person in the world, had been your first real celebrity crush.

You couldn't say that at eleven, after seeing a picture of Luke with a lip ring, you had decided that the only reasonable course of action was to pierce your own lip.

You had gotten as far as sterilizing a sewing needle before your mother found you.

You had spent the next twenty minutes crying in the bathroom while she explained, with the exhausted patience of a woman who had already raised one daughter through puberty and was apparently being punished by God for something she had done in a previous life, that you were not going to pierce your own face because a boy from Australia had done it.

You had lied and said you didn't even like him that much.

You were eleven.

You were a liar.

Hence the scar below your lip from when you tried a month later.

That girl felt like a stranger now.

The girl you were now had just escaped a five-year relationship with a man who made you feel small, who'd told you your dreams were stupid, who'd made you believe that you were lucky to have him. You'd spent months untangling yourself from Bobby Marrone — your toxic and honestly manipulative boyfriend who'd convinced you that nobody else would ever want you.

You'd left him three months ago. You'd packed your things while he was at work and driven to your sister's apartment and cried on her floor for an hour before you could even speak. And then you'd applied for this job — this impossible, stupid, incredible job — and you'd gotten it.

And now here you were. Running late. To meet the band you'd worshipped since childhood. Hoping desperately that you could keep your professional composure long enough to not make a complete fool of yourself.

The security guard at the private terminal entrance barely glanced at your ID before waving you through. You'd been cleared, vetted, approved — but still, you felt like an imposter as you pushed through the doors into the cool, air-conditioned interior.

"Y/N!" A woman's voice called out, bright and warm. You turned to see Ally Cremisi approaching, her auburn hair beautifully flowing down to her shoulders, her smile wide and genuine. She was the band's makeup artist and had been your primary point of contact for the past few weeks. You'd talked on the phone, exchanged emails, and you already liked her more than most people you'd met in the industry.

"Oh my god, you're here!" Ally pulled you into a quick hug, her perfume smelling like vanilla and something floral. "How was the flight? You look exhausted. Actually, no, you look good — you just also look exhausted. Which is fair. Long flight. Time zone. You're from Massachusetts, right? That's like, a whole different country basically."

"Salem," you confirmed, your voice coming out slightly breathless. "And yeah, the flight was... long. I didn't sleep."

"First night jitters. I totally get it." Ally looped her arm through yours and started walking, pulling you along like you'd known each other for years. "Okay, so we’re gonna drive to the label’s HQ, okay? The guys are all there. Well, not all of them. Calum left to get everyone food, Michael was playing something on his Nintendo, Ashton's doing god knows what, and Luke's—" She paused, her expression flickering slightly. "Luke's being Luke."

You swallowed. "What does that mean?"

"It means he's in a mood." Ally shrugged, her tone casual. "He's not mean, exactly. He's just... intense. And he's been weird lately. The black hair thing is new, and I think he's still figuring out how to feel about it. And he's been, you know, Luke."

You nodded like you understood. Like you hadn't been following Luke Hemmings since you were seven years old and knew exactly what Ally meant. He was intense. He was moody. He was the kind of person who felt everything too deeply and didn't know how to let anyone in.

It was nothing you hadn't dealt with before.

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The band room was bigger than you'd expected — all white walls and comfortable couches and a table covered in snacks and water bottles. There were decorations all over the place — from photoshoot posters to old merch and even a vinyl wall. It looked like paradise. 

Ashton was the first person you saw. He was sitting on one of the couches, his legs stretched out in front of him, his smile already forming as you walked in. You knew his face — of course you did — but seeing him in person was something else entirely. He looked older than his pictures. More real. The kind of handsome that felt approachable, like he'd make you feel like the most interesting person in the room.

"You must be Y/N!" He stood up and crossed the room in three quick strides, extending his hand. His grip was warm and firm. "I'm Ashton. Welcome to the chaos."

"Thank you," you managed. "It's really good to meet you."

"Likewise." His smile widened. "We've heard great things. The Olivia thing was huge."

You felt a flush of warmth at the recognition. "I mean, I was just an intern. But, yeah, it was a great experience. I learned a lot."

"Don't be modest. You saved their social media metrics, according to our manager." He laughed. "But seriously, welcome. We're excited to have you."

The door swung open and Calum walked in, takeout bags in his hands and a grin on his face. He was wearing a hoodie that looked three sizes too big, his untoned blonde hair falling across his forehead. "Oh, this is her?" He set down the food and walked over to you, his smile easy and genuine. "Calum. Heard you're the one who's gonna make us look good on the internet."

"I'll try my best," you said, shaking his hand.

"Don't try too hard. Some of our best content is when we try to do dumb shit."

"Is that what you call it?" Michael's voice came from the corner, where he was sprawled on a chair, his phone in his hands. He looked up, his red hair — red hair, because of course he still had colored hair — falling into his eyes. "I call it an average Monday in the office."

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Michael grinned. "I like her already. She laughs at my jokes. That's all I need."

The room felt warm, easy. Ashton was welcoming, Calum was relaxed, and Michael was chaotic in a way that made you feel instantly at ease. Three out of four. You were doing okay. You were doing actually good, and then someone said your name from the far end of the corridor and you turned around.

Luke was walking toward you.

You had seen pictures. Hundreds of pictures. You had watched this man perform for a decade across phone screens and laptop monitors and once from a real stage in Boston that you'd saved up for for four months. You had thought you were prepared for the reality of him.

You were not prepared for the black hair.

In person, it did something to his face that no picture had captured. Made his eyes look bluer, the deep, unsettling blue of a stormy sea. Made the line of his jaw sharper. Made him look older and impossibly, unconscionably good, and you were suddenly acutely aware of every single cell in your body in a way that was profoundly inconvenient.

His hair was pushed back, a few strands falling across his forehead. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans with expensive-looking sunglasses, looking as if he'd just walked off a magazine cover. You hated him for it. You hated him for being exactly what you'd imagined. You hated him for looking at you like you were just another person in a room full of people.

He walked toward you and then past you — actually past you, not stopping, before Ashton said, "Luke, mate, this is Y/N, the new—"

"Oh." He stopped. Turned back. He was holding a coffee and his phone at the same time. His eyes moved over you in the brief, faintly distracted way of someone who was still thinking about whatever had been on the screen.

You held out your hand.

He looked at it. He shifted the coffee to shake it, fumbled it slightly, didn't spill it, and looked mildly annoyed at himself.

"Luke," he said.

"Y/N," you said, and your voice was completely even, which was heroic.

"Right. Yeah." He nodded, already glancing back at his phone. "You did the — the Olivia thing."

"The Olivia Rodrigo tour, yeah."

"Cool." He said it without any particular inflection, the word doing the minimum required of it. There was a beat — the kind of beat where something was supposed to happen, a follow-up question, a welcome to the tour. Nothing.

You stood there.

He looked up again, slightly surprised you were still there, which — you had been there the entire time — and said, "Sorry. Sorry, there's a — thing. With the setlist." He gestured vaguely. "Welcome. It'll be good."

And then he walked away, coffee in hand, thumbing at his phone, and turned a corner and was gone.

You stood very still.

Every single thing you'd ever felt about Luke Hemmings — the twelve years, the safety pin you kept on your school bag, the terrible singing to Out of My Limit in your cousin's living room, the Boston concert where you'd held a sign — sat in your chest like a small, humiliated animal.

"He's—" Ashton started.

"Busy," you said, awkwardly laughing. "It’s fine. Totally fine."

"Just so you know, he's not always like that," Ally said, appearing at your side. Her tone was reassuring, but something behind her eyes suggested she wasn't entirely sure that was true. "Sometimes he's worse. But sometimes he's better."

"You're really selling this, Al," Michael said from his chair. "Y/N's gonna quit before the first day's even over."

"I'm not going to quit," you said, forcing yourself to smile. "This is a dream job."

And it was.

Even if the dream included Luke Hemmings looking through you like you were made of glass.

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The next few hours blurred into orientation — paperwork, introductions, a tour of the tour space that you barely paid attention to because you were too focused on not thinking about Luke's eyes and the way his shoulders filled out his t-shirt. You met the crew, learned names you immediately forgot, and tried to look professional even though your brain was running in circles.

You were twenty-two years old. Fresh out of college. Three months out of a five-year relationship with a man who'd made you feel like you were too much and not enough at the same time. And you were standing in a room full of people who had no idea that the girl with the badge and the clipboard had once cried in her bedroom because Luke Hemmings had gotten a girlfriend.

You had no time to be a teenager again.

You had no time to look at Luke Hemmings and see the boy from your bedroom wall.

Especially not when the man standing in front of you was apparently an asshole.

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You were halfway down the hallway toward the band’s room when you heard footsteps behind you and turned to find Luke walking in your direction again. This time, he didn't have his phone. He was just... walking. Looking at you. His eyes swept over you with the bored disinterest of someone who had already decided you weren't worth his time.

You kept walking. You had nothing to say to him.

"Y/N," he said, and you stopped. Turned. He was closer than you'd expected, and you had to look up to meet his eyes, which was annoying. He didn't step back. He just stood there, close enough that you could smell his cologne, close enough that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

His eyes dropped to your bag. Then back to your face. Then back to your bag.

You knew immediately what he was looking at. The patch. The bright red tally mark you'd sewn onto your bag six years ago, back when you were still young and stupid and hadn't learned to hide your fandom like something shameful. You'd meant to take it off. You'd told yourself a hundred times that you'd take it off. It wasn't professional. It wasn't appropriate. And yet, here it was. Betraying you.

You started walking again, hoping he'd just let it go.

"Nice patch," Luke said, his voice flat. Dismissive. Like he was commenting on a stain on your shirt.

You stopped. Calum was standing nearby, coffee in hand, looking between you with a faintly uncomfortable expression. You could feel his eyes on you, and you hated it. You hated that you were being put on display like this.

"Thanks," you said, your voice tight. You didn't look at Luke. You just wanted to get out of this hallway, out of this conversation, out of his line of sight.

"Didn't know we were hiring fans now." He said it like it was nothing. Like it was a casual observation, a joke he was making for his own amusement. But there was an edge to it, a sharpness that cut straight through you.

You looked up at him. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were cold. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't doing anything except looking at you like you were a child playing dress-up.

"I wasn't aware being a fan disqualified me from having a résumé," you said, forcing the words out. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Luke tilted his head, the movement slow and deliberate. "Didn't say it did."

"No, you just implied it."

"I said it was interesting." He shrugged, the motion lazy. "I didn't say anything about your résumé. But now that you mention it..." He let the sentence hang, his eyes drifting to the patch again.

You felt your face go hot. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." He took a sip of his coffee, his gaze flicking away from you like you'd already bored him. "Just that it's a little on the nose, don't you think? The new social media manager walking in with the band's logo on her bag. It's...cute."

Cute. He said it like it was a punchline. Like you were a joke he'd already figured out.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with supporting the band I work for," you said, your jaw tight.

"Supporting." Luke repeated the word like it was foreign. "Yeah. That's one word for it."

"What would you call it?"

"I'd call it what it is." He met your eyes again, and this time there was something sharper in his gaze. Something almost cruel. "You're a fan. You've been a fan for a long time. Probably since you were a kid. Probably since—" He paused, his eyes narrowing. "How old are you? Twenty-two?"

You didn't answer. You didn't have to. He already knew.

"Right," he drawled, nodding slowly. "So you would've been what, seven? Eight? When we started." He let out a short, humorless laugh. "That's not supporting the band. That's an obsession."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He stepped closer, and you had to resist the urge to step back. "You grew up watching us. You probably had posters on your wall, yeah? Saved up for concert tickets? Cried when One Direction went on hiatus because you thought we would too?" His voice was flat, almost bored, like he was reading off a list of things he already knew. "And now you're here, working for us, because you got lucky with an internship. And you think that makes you qualified."

"I am qualified," you said, your voice rising despite yourself. "I worked my ass off for this job. I didn't get it because I'm a fan. I got it because I'm good at what I do."

"Are you?" He raised an eyebrow, the gesture dripping with skepticism. "Or did you get it because our boss saw a cheap opportunity? Hired someone who would work for less because she'd do anything to be close to us?"

That hit. You felt it like a physical blow, your chest tightening and hands clenching at your sides.

"You don't know anything about me," you said, your voice shaking.

"I know enough." He took another sip of his coffee, utterly unbothered. "I know you're young. I know you're fresh out of college. I know you've got a patch on your bag that screams 'fangirl' louder than any résumé ever could. And I know that in six months, when the novelty wears off and you realize this is just a job like any other, you're going to quit. Because that's what fans do. They show up, they take pictures, they gush about how amazing it is, and then they leave when they realize we're just four washed-up has-beens who argue about stupid setlists and what takeout garbage we’re gonna eat."

You stared at him. You wanted to say something — anything — that would wipe that condescending look off his face. But the words wouldn't come. They were stuck in your throat, tangled up with the humiliation and the anger and the part of you that still remembered being seven years old and thinking Luke Hemmings was the most perfect person in the world.

That version of Luke didn't exist.

This version of Luke was standing in front of you, looking at you like you were nothing, and he was enjoying it.

"How long?" he asked, breaking the silence. "How long have you been a fan? Since you were seven? Eight? Longer?"

You could have lied. You should have lied. But something in his tone made you want to prove him wrong, made you want to show him that you weren't ashamed of who you were.

"Since I was seven," you said. "Happy now?"

He smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Yeah. Actually, I am."

"I was a child."

"Sure."

"I grew up."

"Did you?" His eyes flicked to your bag again. "Doesn't look like it."

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to grab that stupid patch and rip it off and throw it at his smug, stupidly handsome face.

Instead, you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

"You're an asshole," you said quietly.

Luke shrugged. "I've been called much worse, sweetie."

Sweetie. Oh god. 

"I'm sure you have,” you managed, despite your now racing heart.

"Look." He leaned in, close enough that you could see the faint flecks of silver in his blue eyes. "I don't care if you're a fan. I don't care if you've had a crush on me since you were in diapers. What I care about is whether you can do the job. And so far, all I've seen is a kid with a bag full of merch and a résumé that probably got fast-tracked because someone thought you'd be a good PR move."

"That's not—"

"It's exactly what it is." He cut you off, his voice cold. "And I'm going to watch you. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. Because if you screw up, if you let your little fangirl fantasy get in the way of doing your job, I'm going to make sure you're gone faster than you can say 'I'm sorry.'"

He stepped back, the space between you suddenly feeling empty. He took another sip of his coffee, his expression smoothing back into bored indifference.

"Welcome to the tour," he said. "Hope you survive."

And then he walked past you, his shoulder brushing yours hard enough to knock you off balance. You stumbled, catching yourself against the wall, and watched him disappear around the corner without looking back.

You stood there for a long moment, your heart pounding and hands shaking.

"Fuck you," you whispered, your voice cracking.

Calum was still standing nearby, looking at you with an expression that was half apology, half pity. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then closed it again and walked away.

You were alone.

You pressed your palms to your eyes and breathed. In. Out. In. Out.

You were going to be fine.

You had to be.

Because if Luke Hemmings thought he could break you, he had another thing coming.

[cassidyoccasionally]

anyone else freaking out about luke’s new tattoo??

[ambsos]

everything except exit signs

pairing. luke hemmings x female reader word count. 7613 synopsis. you've always had one rule: never answer a Luke Hemmings text after midnight. it was the only thing keeping you sane, the only boundary you'd managed to hold onto after years of being his emergency contact, his late-night call, his built-in therapist who also sometimes fucked him. but when he shows up at 2 AM with bloodshot eyes and the same brand of cigarettes from years ago, all your rules and morals go up in smoke — along with your resolve, your self-respect, and the last shred of distance you'd carefully constructed. after all, the two of you had always been experts at noticing everything about each other except the bright red exit signs. warnings. smoking (cigarettes), profanity, angst, toxic relationship dynamics, sexual content (hair pulling, degradation, spitting, dirty talk, slight choking), emotional manipulation, self-destructive behavior, slight power imbalance in relationship, mentions of past emotional trauma inspired by: iloveitiloveitiloveit by Bella Kay

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

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

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

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

So you drew a line. Midnight. No exceptions.

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

Luke: You up

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

But if you were being honest with yourself?

You were never really good at following rules.

Y/N: depends 

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

Luke: Depends?

Luke: Depends on what? 

Luke: I know you’re awake.

How could you ever respond to something like that? 

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

Stopped.

Started again.

Stopped.

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

Luke: Can I ask you something?

Y/N: great opener.

Luke: Is the key still under the mat?

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

“Is the key still under the mat?”

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

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

Luke: It's 1:49.

Luke: You’re stalling.

Luke: It's still there.

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

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

Luke: Who said I was in a different country?

Your stomach dropped.

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

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

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

Y/N: luke.

Y/N: where are you?

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

Luke: Outside.

Luke: Not your door. 

Luke: Down the street.

Luke: I don't know why I came here. 

Luke: That's a lie.

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

Y/N: what do you want, Luke?

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

The typing started. Stopped. Started. Stopped.

Luke: I want to know if that key works.

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

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

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

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

Luke noticed everything except the bright red exit signs.

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

You were never good at rules.

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

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

Luke: Oh.

Y/N: but the key still fits.

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

Luke: Can I come see you?

Luke: Just for a minute.

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

Luke: Okay maybe a little.

Luke: But not the way I used to.

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

Y/N: you have five minutes.

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

Luke: I'd make a very attractive burglar.

Y/N: five minutes start now.

Luke: I'm running.

Y/N: oh god.

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

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

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

But something inside you pulled you towards that door.

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

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

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

"You look like shit," you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"New couch," he observed.

"The old one broke."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everything is a problem with you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You should quit," you said quietly.

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

"Then what are you asking?"

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

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

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

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

"You're good at running."

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

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

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

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

"You're shaking," he observed.

"It's cold."

"It's seventy degrees."

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

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

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

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

“I have two.”

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

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

"Because you always answer," he said finally.

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

You always answer.

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

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

"I hate you," you said quietly.

"I know."

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

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

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

"I lied."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke…"

"Can I kiss you?"

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

"Why are you asking?" you managed.

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

You should have said no.

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

But you were never good at rules.

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

And then he was kissing you.

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

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

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

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

"Make it what?"

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

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

"You’re a bad idea, Hemmings."

"I’m a good time, Y/L/N."

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped. Swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're such a fucking poet."

"I mean it."

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

"Oh, I know exactly what to do."

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

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

"You're lying."

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

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

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

"I hate you."

"Tell me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you."

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

"Like what you see?"

"Don't flatter yourself,” you scoffed.

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

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

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

"I want you to shut up."

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

"Jesus," you breathed.

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

"No."

"Liar."

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard. "I thought about you—"

"Specifically."

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

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

"You."

His eyes darkened. "What about me?"

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

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

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

"Luke—" You gasped.

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

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

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck—yes—"

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

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

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

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

"I can't—I can't hold it—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell me you love me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

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

The silence that follows is deafening.

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

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

"Define okay."

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

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

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

"What's the problem?"

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

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

"That's not true."

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

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

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

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

"Then how did you mean it?"

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

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

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

"Then what are you asking?"

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

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

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

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

"Then don't make me cry!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then stop."

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

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

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

"Then why—"

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

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

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

"Then learn."

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

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

"What?" he breathed.

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

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

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

He was leaving. Of course he was leaving.

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke," you said softly.

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

It was ironic.  

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

You reached out and took the pack from his hands. 

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

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

"Really?" he asked, his voice small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a bad habit, of course. But loving him was one you couldn’t break, even if you tried.

[michaelcliffordsbabe]

Why is the first time I'm seeing this

[ro-writesstuff]

How would each of the 5sos boys react to reader getting caught staring at their hands?

take a look — 5sos

a/n: love this idea!! thank you for requesting <3

summary: how each band member would react to you staring at their hands.

cw: slight choking kink and a hand kink obvi

minors do not interact, all fics are 18+.

luke

it was a friday evening in, luke humming to himself and writing half coherent lyrics down in his notebook while you sat on the couch watching him. he promised that you would play a board game and have a drink once he finished the second verse.

this was the one time you wouldn't want him to, though.

luke was hunched over the dining table humming and scribbling. he's been at it for an hour, and despite his profuse apologies, you were genuinely okay with it.

the past twenty minutes he's been agitated at one particular line; luke knows he should probably leave it alone and come back to it in the morning, that always worked, but his stubbornness won himself over.

he keeps gripping the paper and pen in frustration, groaning at his unsolved lyrics, your eyes going wide at how hot it is.

“god fucking-."

“why-? ugh."

“damn it!”

your breathing almost halts as he slams the pen against the table, forehead gently hitting he cold countertop as he hears your voice asking if he’s alright-- the one that should sound sweet and innocent but has some kind of edge to it.

then he sees it.

that subtle look behind your eyes that says you want him to throw you against the wall and have you coming all over his cock, while he sucks on that sweet spot of your neck.

"seriously?"

"i can't help it, okay?"

ashton

a rainy day meant old movies on the couch and cuddles -- you didn't make the rules.

rain hammered against the windows of the apartment, while the bride of frankenstein (ashton's choice today), played languishly in the background of your tiny space.

you both were wrapped in a blanket, his eyes focused on the screen ahead, entranced by the film while yours were on him.

ashton's hands were roaming over you aimlessly, the sweet and caring way they always did, fingertips running abstract shapes and lines on your thigh.

they start to drum to the song accompanying the movie, and you try to keep your heart at a normal rhythm, but your eyes can't help but drift to his hands and long fingers that touch your skin.

ash pulls you closer, your lips pulling into a tight line as his hands draw dangerously close to the bottom of your shorts.

a small sound emits from your throat as his fingers brush the seam of the fabric. kill me. kill me now, you think.

he whips his head toward you, "what, something wrong?"

your stomach tightens at the question. it felt quite the opposite.

"nope, nothing. all good."

"darling, are you sure? you can tell me."

his voice drips with concern and it has no right to turn you on this much.

"fine! your stupid hands are turning me on," you bury your face into his chest, and you feel his hand slide into your hair.

he just laughs with a smug smile, "are they now?"

michael

you and michael had waltzed into a vintage store on your day off, not looking for anything in particular.

it was a fairly normal routine for you two, getting a coffee and chatting while perusing in multiple stores without ever wanting to buy anything.

but not today apparently.

you made your way over to a table with michael trailing behind you, your eyes landing on the merchandise for sale. buttons, old photos, board games, etc.

a red velvet box gets your attention with different sizes and metals, not really your style but definitely your boyfriend’s. gothic, silver, and cool.

then there it was:

a slender silver ring, with a detailed swirled setting around a dark, rich ruby gemstone that had an ‘m’ right in the center, made to look like a musical note.

michael was stood next to you, fingers flipping through a cart of vinyls and you couldn’t help but stare. his thick fingers brushed past each album with ease, going through a stack within seconds.

you swallow. hard.

he notices your lips slightly parted and eyes just slightly glazed over, a behavior you only do when you’re thinking about something naughty, and he catches on.

michael leans in and whispers against the shell of your ear,

“you want me to wear those and finger you until you cum all over them, don’t you princess?”

you almost scream, because how the hell did he just read your mind like that?

the cashier gives you a weird look.

you take a much needed breath, “not funny.”

“who said I was joking?” he shrugs.

you wave him off and he giggles, saying ‘i have a few at home’ and ‘which one is your favorite’ but you can’t hear him over the urge to either smack him or fuck him.

calum

you’d had a long day and after a shower you were met with calum preparing dinner.

you tried to help, but he insisted you didn’t, claiming you were ‘too pretty to dice a tomato’, throwing a kitchen towel over his shoulder.

then it started.

cal was chopping carrots talking about… you weren’t really sure but the way his fingers were curling around the knife and that fluid motion being way more sensual than it had to be made your mind wander so far.

but then it got worse.

he continued to work his way around the kitchen, reaching for seasonings in the cabinet, his fingers flexing just so to grab what he needed from the top shelf.

“y/n?”

“hmm.”

“which one did you want?”

“uh, I don’t- either.”

he furrows a brow at your response but leaves it alone. a few minutes later he notices the change in tour breathing and practically sees you squeeze your thighs together.

the knife clatters against the granite counter as cal pieces it together. he crosses his arms, a smug as hell smile forming on his lips.

“are you staring at my hands?”

uh oh.

you felt your face heat and embarrassed fill your body like a teenager getting caught touching themself. “I- no?”

he wipes his hands and makes his way over to you, a hand sliding from the base of your neck, slightly squeezing.

“it was the tattoos, huh?”

“shut up.”

[actuallywiththeband]

like can i help you?

[lovelikelandslide]

Cause All these Bodies are Hoping to get Addicted to sound

warnings: threesome, established friendship, exploring sexuality, jealousy, pining, emotional vulnerability, FORCED PROXIMITY IF U MAY

word count: 4,340 words

pairing: michael clifford/luke hemmings/calum hood

a/n: ok so obviously inspired by the just kiss moment from this current tour, however I decided to set them on the joshua tree. why you may ask? BECAUSE I CAN.

WARNING! RPF CONTENT DONT LIKE DONT READ

Today was one of those days where Luke was just not feeling it, those days had been increasing lately. Maybe it was because they were on the final leg of the album, and that might have started getting them lazy, maybe there was something that made you slack off when the finish line was just visible, made it easier to put things off. Still, here they were anyway, supposed to be polishing the last few tracks and making the necessary changes, and Luke had spent the last hour scrolling aimlessly on his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the slightly dim studio.

It wasn’t like they came to the studio every single day, either. Sometimes, they’d just stay at the house and do literally anything but work, which had been the point of being out here in the first place. But today they were supposed to actually get shit done, and instead they had spent the last two hours just fucking around, half-working, distracted by the distance from home and the fact that Ashton wasn’t here to keep them on track.

Ashton had been the one keeping them on schedule, the self-appointed “vibe guy.” Luke often thought he was the glue of the group, maybe even the core of it. When he was around, things just flowed so well, but he had woken up earlier, saying he felt like shit, probably coming down with something, and had stayed holed up in his room all day. Calum had knocked on his door that morning, just to check, and Ashton had mumbled something about sleeping it off. They’d left him alone after that.

So it was just the three of them. Luke, Michael, and Calum. That was, unfortunately, a current problem for Luke.

The past few weeks had been weird in a way he couldn’t quite name. Michael and Calum had somehow gotten closer than ever, closer than Luke had realized was possible even for them. They’d always been tight, obviously, like the rest of the band, but something about being out here had pulled them even tighter, and Luke couldn’t stop noticing.

He watched them now from his chair near the console, the big couch across the room holding both of them like it was molded for this exact moment, Calum’s head resting on Michael’s shoulder, their legs tangled together, easy and familiar, while they scrolled through something on Calum’s phone and laughed softly at whatever they were looking at. 

Every time Michael’s hand drifted to Calum’s thigh, or Calum leaned in a little closer, that newly familiar sour taste rose in the back of Luke’s throat again.

He told himself it wasn’t a bad thing—they were his best friends. They were allowed to be close. But still, he hated it. Hated how left out it made him feel and hated how he kept catching himself watching them, wondering why it bothered him so much when there was nothing wrong with it.

His phone buzzed against his palms, the vibration strong enough to pull him out of whatever stupid spiral he'd managed to trap himself in.

Ash: you guys actually working or just pretending to

Luke let out a breath through his nose, in reliefm atleast Ashton could distract him for a minute.

Luke: Not even pretending

Ash: figures

Ash: don't let mikey convince u watching youtube counts as productivity

Luke: How are you feeling?

Luke snorted quietly to himself, shaking his head as he locked his phone. That, at least, sounded about right. If Ashton had been here, he'd probably be halfway through giving Michael a lecture about getting back to work while Michael dramatically insisted that whatever rabbit hole he'd fallen into was somehow "research."

He set his phone down beside him and rubbed at his face for a second, hoping it'd shake him out of whatever mood he'd been in all afternoon, or more so, all this time. It didn't.

Before he really thought about it, his eyes drifted across the room again.

Michael was saying something Luke couldn't quite make out from where he sat. Calum rolled his eyes, muttered something back, and gave him a shove with his shoulder. Michael barely reacted beyond shoving him right back, never even taking his eyes off the phone this time.

Luke looked away almost as quickly as he'd looked over. They'd always been like that. Honestly, all of them had.

Fifteen years of being practically attached at the hip had a way of getting rid of any weirdness about personal space. They'd shared hotel rooms, couches, bunks, hoodies, headphones, food, drinks, girlfriends—half the time they didn't even think before grabbing something that belonged to someone else. None of it had ever meant anything.

So why the fuck was his brain deciding to make something out of it now?

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, annoyed at himself more than anyone else, and pushed himself a little farther back into the chair.

The studio itself was quiet except for the low hum of the equipment and the occasional burst of laughter from their direction. 

Luke shifted in his chair, the cracked leather creaking under him. He initially thought it was just the isolation getting to him, they were out in the desert, not completely far from civilization, but far enough that the quiet could start messing with your head, coming from LA at least. 

LA... He missed home, and he was adamantly counting down the days so they could all return to their routines, never having to see the ongoing phenomenon that his bandmates had again. 

His phone buzzed again.

Ash: still shitty

Ash: miss me?

Luke: Yeah

Luke: Hold on tight cowboy

The string of thoughts that was currently running through his mind felt dumb and pointless. Ashton's text made him stand up, streched his arms over his head until his back cracked. He needed to move, needed to do something other than sit there and fry his brain off. 

He walked over to the mini-fridge and grabbed a beer. He popped it open with more force than necessary, only realizing it when the sound echoed through the room. He physically cringed at how loud it was.

He tried maintaining his cool still. “Want one?” he asked, not looking at them.

“Nah, we’re good,” Michael said, his voice relaxed.

Luke took a long sip, the cold liquid sliding down his throat, which didn’t help the heat creeping up the back of his neck. He walked over and leaned against the counter of the control table, watching them over the rim of his can. Calum had shifted, his head now in Michael’s lap, his long legs stretched out along the couch. Michael’s fingers were in Calum’s hair, absentmindedly playing with the strands, and the sight made Luke’s chest tighten.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Jesus, just kiss already,” Luke muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop himself. The second they left his mouth, panic set in. 

He quickly tried to play it off, rolling his eyes jokingly and adding, “Jeez, guys, haha.” like he hadn’t just said what he was thinking out loud.

Michael looked up, eyebrows raised, a slow grin spreading across his face. Calum’s head lifted too, his expression was more curious than surprised. 

“What?” Michael asked, tilting his head.

“What?” Luke mirrored him, in a desperate attempt to pretend he hadn't heard the words that came out of his own mouth.

Luke’s face grew hotter, and he quickly retracted. “Nothing. Forget it.”

But Michael was already leaning forward, his grin turning sharp. “No, no, say it again.”

Luke shifted his weight on the edge of the table, suddenly very aware of how quiet it had gotten. “I said… just kiss already. You two are basically on top of each other.”

Calum snorted, and Michael gasped in mock offense. Then Michael's hand shot out, he hesitated for a second, but eventually grabbed Calum's chin, and planted an exaggerated, loud, obnoxious kiss right on his lips—a cartoon smooch, with all theatrics.

"MWAAAH." Michael announced, pulling back with a shit-eating grin. "There. Happy?" Calum just rolled his eyes, wiping the back of his hand over his lips.

Luke couldn’t help but stare dumbfounded, his brain short-circuited. He had expected a denial or a laugh, not… whatever that was. It was a joke, or at least that's what he thought so. But the sight of it—Michael’s hand on Calum’s jaw, the way their lips had pressed together, even if it had been only for a second, it sent a strange, electric jolt straight down his spine. He realized how he hadn't said a word and forced out of himself a little-too-loud laugh.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Luke said, taking another swig of his beer to hide his face.

But Michael wasn’t done with him, at least not any time soon. He was still looking at Luke with a certain determination that had flourished mere seconds ago. “Yeah? You look a little flustered, Hemmo.”

Calum, who hadn’t interrupted their exchange, watched them with an amused expression and slowly sat up. “You know,” he said, his voice low and measured, “if you wanted to see a real one, you could’ve just asked more nicely.”

Luke’s breath caught. “I…” He started, but he couldn’t even get a full sentence out, instead, his grip on the table tightened.

Michael stood up from the couch, closing the distance between them in four slow steps. He stopped right in front of Luke, so close that he could see the faint stubble along his soft jawline, and the flecks of gold in his celadon eyes. 

“Well?” Michael murmured, his voice dropping as his gaze flickered between Luke’s eyes and lips. “You gonna ask?”

Luke’s heart was hammering dangerously against his ribs inside his chest, it was a frantic drumbeat he was sure they could both hear. He looked past Michael to where Calum remained still on the couch, watching them intently. He gave Luke an encouraging look at what he could decipher.

Luke swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I don’t… I’m not sure what you want me to say,” he managed to get out, his voice barely above a whisper. His mind was still trying to catch up, trying to figure out how the hell they’d gone from him making a stupid comment to this.

Michael studied him for a moment, then shrugged, casual. “I noticed you watching. Figured you might be into it.”

His Adam's apple bobbed. “You… noticed me watching?”

Michael nodded once, he was trying not to make a big deal out of it. “Yeah. You’ve been getting this look on your face lately whenever you’re alone with us. Like you’re pissed off at us but trying not to be. Didn’t take much to figure out the cause.”

“I don’t—” Luke started, then stopped. He let out a shaky breath and shook his head. “This is weird. You’re my friends. Both of you. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

Well, he reflected briefly in his head, it wasn’t like they hadn’t messed around with each other before, but that had been years ago, back when they were still figuring themselves out, and were practically high on hormones. Not to mention that it was the perfect age for experimenting.

Michael’s mouth twitched, not quite into a grin this time. “We don’t have to figure it all out right now. But you said it. ‘Just kiss already. ‘”

“So maybe stop pretending you don’t want to see what could happen next.” His mouth brushed Luke’s ear for a brief moment before retracting to his original position.

Luke’s stomach flipped. Every instinct inside of him screamed that this was a terrible idea, that he was about to ruin whatever both of them had going on, or worse, their friendship altogether, but his head had long since stopped calling the shots, and now his body had a mind of its own.

Michael caught the hesitation flickering across Luke's face, but the need beneath it was clear. He decided not to make him carry the weight of the moment alone, so he took the lead. Luke's hand was still clinging to the edge of the table, and Michael brushed his fingertips over the back of it before letting them glide slowly up Luke's forearm, a soft touch. Luke's gaze dropped to where their skin met, his breath catching.

When he looked back up, Michael had already closed the distance between them. They were merely inches apart now, and their gazes locked, Luke's lips already parted as his breathing had turned uneven. Michael searched his eyes one last time, then gently closed the remaining space between them and finally kissed him.

Michael’s lips pressed to his while Luke’s hand found Michael’s lower back without thinking, fingers pressing in and pulling him closer until Michael’s knee slid between Luke’s legs. The pressure of it made his hips twitch forward, the friction itself was barely anything, but it was enough to make Luke’s cock twitch harder in his jeans. His mind was a mess—these were his best friends, and here he was kissing one of them while the other watched—but the thought of it only made the heat in his stomach burn hotter. He kissed back, mouth opening under Michael’s, as a shaky moan slipped out of him.

Behind them, the couch creaked. Calum had finally stood, moving across to them. He stopped at Luke’s other side, close enough that Luke could feel the warmth radiating off him. Calum’s hand settled on Luke’s waist, his steady thumb stroking just under the hem of his shirt. “Let us take care of you.” Calum said quietly, voice low against his ear, while he kept focused on his skin.

Calum leaned in and kissed the side of his neck, his teeth grazing just enough to make Luke shiver, and the rocking from Michael's knee kept going, and it was starting to get to Luke. Moans kept slipping from his throat.

“Y’sound so good.” Calum murmured against his skin. 

The praise did something to Luke—twisted something tight in his stomach while making his cock throb harder. He’d heard filthy words before, but never from Calum, never while being pinned between both of them like this; it made his head spin.

Michael pulled back from the kiss just enough to look down, his gaze hot and intent. His hand, which had been gripping Luke’s hip, slid around to the front. His palm pressed flat against the hard, undeniable line of Luke’s erection straining against his jeans.

“Look at you,” Michael murmured, his voice a rough scrape of sound. “So fucking hard already. Just from us kissing you.” His fingers traced the length of him through the denim, a slow, torturous drag that made Luke’s hips jerk forward with a choked gasp.

Calum’s mouth was still on his neck, sucking a bruise into the skin there, but his hands were moving too. He popped the button of Luke’s jeans, the snap obscenely loud in the quiet room. The rasp of the zipper followed, a sound that seemed to go straight to Luke’s core.

He then pushed his jeans and boxers down his thighs. The cool air hit his flushed, aching cock, and Luke whimpered, a sound of pure, exposed vulnerability.

Calum’s hand wrapped around him first. His grip was firm and calloused. He gave Luke one long, slow stroke from root to tip, his thumb swiping over the wetness beading at the head.

“Fuck, Cal.” Luke gasped out, his head falling back. It was too much. It was everything.

“He’s beautiful like this,” Calum said, his voice low, and Luke realized he wasn’t talking to him, but to Michael. “So responsive.”

“I know,” Michael breathed, his eyes glued to the sight of Calum’s hand on Luke. He looked mesmerized, his own arousal evident in the tight line of his jaw, the flush on his neck. “Let me.”

Michael’s hand slid down to join Calum’s. Not to take over, but to join. His fingers brushed alongside Calum’s, their grips aligning, their rhythms syncing. It was two hands wrapped around him, two of his best friends working him in unison.

The sensation was indescribable. The double pressure, the slight difference in their grips, the shared intent—it overwhelmed Luke’s senses completely. He was panting a little punched-out moans falling from his lips with every stroke.

“Like this,” Michael murmured, his lips against Luke’s temple. He guided their hands, showing Calum a particular wrist twist on the upstroke that made Luke cry out, his knees buckling. “See how he likes that? Listen.”

Luke was beyond words. He was a live wire of sensation, strung tight between their bodies. The weeks of bitter jealousy were incinerated in this furnace of shared touch, replaced by a staggering sense of belonging. This was what he’d been aching for. Not to watch, but to be the focus. To be theirs.

“So good for us,” Calum growled, his own breath coming in ragged gusts against Luke’s neck. Luke could feel the hard press of Calum’s erection against his back, and the knowledge that he was doing this to Calum too, that he was pulling these sounds from him, made the coil in his gut wind impossibly tighter.

“Gonna come,” Luke warned, the words a strained, desperate plea. “I’m gonna—right now, please—”

“Yeah, come on,” Michael urged, his voice a hot, commanding whisper. “Let go. Show us.”

Calum’s hips pushed forward into the touch, and Luke could feel how badly he was straining. 

Luke came with a shattered, broken cry that tore from the depths of his chest. His hot release pulsed over their joined hand and as his body convulsed between them. They held him through it, their strokes prolonging yet making easier the waves of pleasure until he was oversensitive and trembling, only being held upright only by their bodies.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of Luke’s ragged, sobbing breaths in  a spent and blissfully blank.

Slowly, his own awareness returned. The newfound stickiness on his stomach, on their clasped hands. He blinked his eyes open, dazed.

Calum had brought his fingers close, examining the stickiness, and Michael caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Let me.” Michael said, voice low, and brought his hand up to his mouth. He licked a slow stripe across his palm, tongue warm and deliberate, cleaning off every trace of Lyke with a quiet hum.

Luke’s breath caught. “Jesus.” he muttered, voice rough. “You’re actually doing that.”

Michael looked up at him through his lashes, lips still brushing Luke’s palm. “Taste good.” he said simply, stealing a glance at Calum before returning to Luke. “Don’t you like the sight of it?”

Luke swallowed, throat dry. “No, I do.” he admitted.

A low hum of approval vibrated against his palm before Michael continued to trace the silhouette of Calum's fingers with his tongue meticulously. Luke watched transfixed, as the tip of Calum's index finger disappeared closed around Michael's lips, sucking gently before he released it with a soft, wet pop.

“Fuck.” Luke breathed again, nothing more than a ragged exhale.

Michael, who was still leaning heavily against Luke’s side, chuckled. “Told you he’s thorough.”

Calum gave a slight nod and tucked himself away with a wince, he was hard, the shape was way too obvious through his jeans. Michael noticed. His gaze dropped, then lifted to Luke’s face in a silent question.

Luke swallowed. The weeks of sour jealousy had burned away, replaced by something heavier and hotter. A new urge, he wanted to give back what he’d taken.

He turned in the narrow space, facing Calum now. Calum’s eyes were dark but soft, the same look he got when he desired something. Luke’s hands found the button of Calum’s jeans before his brain could argue. The metal was warm.

Calum’s breath hitched. “Luke—”

“Shut up.” Luke said, he didn’t mean for it to come out unkind, but it was… just urgent. He shoved denim and already wet underwear off. Calum’s cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking. Luke wrapped his hand around the base and felt it twitch.

He dropped to his knees on the worn studio rug. The fibers were rough against his bare skin. Michael moved in behind him, one hand settling on the back of Luke’s neck, thumb stroking the short hairs there.

Luke leaned in and licked a slow stripe from root to tip. Calum’s hand flew to Luke’s hair, not pushing, just holding. The taste was salt and skin and Calum.

Michael’s fingers tightened on his nape. “That’s it,” he murmured. “Get him wet.”

Luke opened his mouth and took Calum in hollowing his cheeks on the first downward slide. Calum’s thighs trembled. While Luke tried to set a rhythm, he was, certainly out of practice, still he tried to make it the most enjoyable for both, using his hand he worked what his mouth couldn’t reach, and every broken sound Calum made went straight through him.

Luke wondered if Michael could tell how badly he’d wanted this, maybe, beside the obvious, his body language had been betraying him, what if he had been acting like a needy bitch subconciously? and how long he’d been pretending he didn’t. 

Every time Calum’s hips twitched forward, Luke felt a small, vicious satisfaction that he was the one pulling those sounds out of him, he felt incredibly proud. He wanted to be good at this, and he wanted Calum and Michael to remember it. He also wanted Michael to watch and be turnt too. He liked that he finally wasn’t on the outside anymore, he wanted to be part of this often—no homo though.

Michael stayed right there, his calloused hand never leaving Luke’s neck, the other already working his own jeans open. The slick sound of Michael stroking himself while he watched Luke suck Calum off filled the rest of quiet space. Luke could feel how Michael’s eyes burned on him, hot and heavy, and it made him take Calum deeper until his nose brushed the soft hair at the base.

“Fuck—Luke—” Calum’s voice cracked. His fingers flexed in Luke’s hair. “Your mouth, god—”

Michael’s breathing had gone ragged. Luke could hear the wet slide of his fist, the occasional bitten-off curse. Knowing Michael was getting off on the sight made something hot curl low in Luke’s stomach.

He pulled off just long enough to breathe, spit connecting his lip to the flushed head. “Want you to come,” he said, voice hoarse, looking up. “Want to taste it.”

Calum groaned. “Luke stop dirty talki—fuck, I’m close—”

Michael’s hand left Luke’s neck to grip himself harder, strokes turning fast. “Do it,” he urged. “Come down his throat.”

Luke took Calum back in and sucked hard. Calum came with a broken sound, pulsing hot across Luke’s tongue. Luke swallowed it all. Michael followed seconds later with a low curse, his release spilling over his own fist.

Luke pulled off slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and Calum’s hand slid from Luke’s hair to his jaw, thumb stroking over his cheekbone.

They stayed like that for a few moments—Luke resting on his knees between them, the three of them catching their breath in the studio while the desert heat pressed against the windows.

Inside Luke’s head, everything was still spinning. He could taste Calum on his tongue, could feel the ghost of Michael’s hand on the back of his neck, could hear the way both of them had sounded when they came. Weeks of watching them from across the room, weeks of that sour twist in his chest every time Michael’s hand drifted to Calum’s thigh or Calum leaned in too close—it was all gone. Replaced by this. By the solid weight of Calum’s hand on his jaw and Michael’s quiet breathing behind him and the knowledge that he wasn’t as lost anymore.

He’d spent so long convincing himself that he was just making something out of it, that he was just left out, just missing the easy way they moved around each other, their usual shared bromance. It was silly, because it had never been that simple. Somewhere along the way, wanting what they had had turned into wanting to be part of it. It had been this. Wanting to be between them instead of watching from afar. Wanting to feel Calum’s cock twitch against his tongue and hear Michael’s low, approving sounds while he stroked himself to the sight. Wanting to be the reason they both came apart.

Luke swallowed again, his throat still tight from swallowing Calum down. His own cock was half-hard again, spent but interested, and the realization that he could want more, that they could give him more, made his stomach flip. He looked up at Calum, then turned his head to look at Michael, and found both of them watching him with the same soft, wrecked expression.

“You good?” Calum asked, as he reached and offered him a water bottle that had been abandoned from before.

Luke nodded. His voice came out rough reaching for it. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Calum’s hand stayed on his jaw, his thumb stroked slow. “You know, this.. thing we have, we don’t even know ourselves what it is” he said, echoing Michael’s earlier words. “But we’re here. If you want this. Be part of it.”

Luke’s chest tightened. He did want this. He was so down bad it scared him a little, but not enough to make him pull away. Not enough to make him go back to watching from across the room.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Calum’s hip, breathing in the scent of him, letting the solid presence of both of them anchor him. Michael’s hand stayed on the back of his neck. For the first time in weeks Luke felt like he could actually breathe, free from his own made up misery.

This was what he’d been aching for. To be here and to be theirs.

[ambsos]

everything except exit signs

pairing. luke hemmings x female reader word count. 7613 synopsis. you've always had one rule: never answer a Luke Hemmings text after midnight. it was the only thing keeping you sane, the only boundary you'd managed to hold onto after years of being his emergency contact, his late-night call, his built-in therapist who also sometimes fucked him. but when he shows up at 2 AM with bloodshot eyes and the same brand of cigarettes from years ago, all your rules and morals go up in smoke — along with your resolve, your self-respect, and the last shred of distance you'd carefully constructed. after all, the two of you had always been experts at noticing everything about each other except the bright red exit signs. warnings. smoking (cigarettes), profanity, angst, toxic relationship dynamics, sexual content (hair pulling, degradation, spitting, dirty talk, slight choking), emotional manipulation, self-destructive behavior, slight power imbalance in relationship, mentions of past emotional trauma inspired by: iloveitiloveitiloveit by Bella Kay

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

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

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

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

So you drew a line. Midnight. No exceptions.

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

Luke: You up

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

But if you were being honest with yourself?

You were never really good at following rules.

Y/N: depends 

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

Luke: Depends?

Luke: Depends on what? 

Luke: I know you’re awake.

How could you ever respond to something like that? 

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

Stopped.

Started again.

Stopped.

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

Luke: Can I ask you something?

Y/N: great opener.

Luke: Is the key still under the mat?

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

“Is the key still under the mat?”

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

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

Luke: It's 1:49.

Luke: You’re stalling.

Luke: It's still there.

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

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

Luke: Who said I was in a different country?

Your stomach dropped.

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

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

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

Y/N: luke.

Y/N: where are you?

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

Luke: Outside.

Luke: Not your door. 

Luke: Down the street.

Luke: I don't know why I came here. 

Luke: That's a lie.

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

Y/N: what do you want, Luke?

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

The typing started. Stopped. Started. Stopped.

Luke: I want to know if that key works.

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

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

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

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

Luke noticed everything except the bright red exit signs.

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

You were never good at rules.

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

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

Luke: Oh.

Y/N: but the key still fits.

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

Luke: Can I come see you?

Luke: Just for a minute.

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

Luke: Okay maybe a little.

Luke: But not the way I used to.

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

Y/N: you have five minutes.

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

Luke: I'd make a very attractive burglar.

Y/N: five minutes start now.

Luke: I'm running.

Y/N: oh god.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

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

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

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

But something inside you pulled you towards that door.

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

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

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

"You look like shit," you said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"New couch," he observed.

"The old one broke."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Everything is a problem with you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You should quit," you said quietly.

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

"Then what are you asking?"

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

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

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

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

"You're good at running."

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

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

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

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

"You're shaking," he observed.

"It's cold."

"It's seventy degrees."

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

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

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

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

“I have two.”

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

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

"Because you always answer," he said finally.

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

You always answer.

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

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

"I hate you," you said quietly.

"I know."

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

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

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

"I lied."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke…"

"Can I kiss you?"

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

"Why are you asking?" you managed.

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

You should have said no.

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

But you were never good at rules.

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

And then he was kissing you.

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

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

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

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

"Make it what?"

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

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

"You’re a bad idea, Hemmings."

"I’m a good time, Y/L/N."

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped. Swallowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're such a fucking poet."

"I mean it."

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

"Oh, I know exactly what to do."

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

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

"You're lying."

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

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

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

"I hate you."

"Tell me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck you."

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

"Like what you see?"

"Don't flatter yourself,” you scoffed.

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

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

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

"I want you to shut up."

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

"Jesus," you breathed.

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

"No."

"Liar."

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

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

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

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

You swallowed hard. "I thought about you—"

"Specifically."

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

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

"You."

His eyes darkened. "What about me?"

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

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

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

"Luke—" You gasped.

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

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

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, yes—"

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck—yes—"

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

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

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

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

"I can't—I can't hold it—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Tell me you love me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

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

The silence that follows is deafening.

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

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

"Define okay."

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

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

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

"What's the problem?"

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

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

"That's not true."

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

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

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

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

"Then how did you mean it?"

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

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

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

"Then what are you asking?"

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

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

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

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

"Then don't make me cry!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then stop."

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

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

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

"Then why—"

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

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

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

"Then learn."

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

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

"What?" he breathed.

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

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

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

He was leaving. Of course he was leaving.

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

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

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

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

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

"Luke," you said softly.

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

It was ironic.  

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

You reached out and took the pack from his hands. 

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

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

"Really?" he asked, his voice small.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a bad habit, of course. But loving him was one you couldn’t break, even if you tried.

[actuallywiththeband]

like can i help you?

[actuallywiththeband]

he’s so photogenic 🥰🥰

[pinklimodriver]

Oh to experience Luke Hemmings for the first time again

[crosshatch-sos]

📺🛋️

[dingus-dinglebird]

i think luke hemmings is my spirit animal? like whatever he is i wanna be that

[maladaptivejen]

Yes. Yes, he is.

[leonsgfpost]

Synopsis: Fucking raw for the first time with your boyfriend!

Tags: RE2!Leon x Fem!Reader, established relationship, smut, fingering (f receiving), pull-out method (please don't do it), unprotected and messy sex, Whiny Leon, mentions of pregnancy (not much), silly nicknames and more!

Note: Finally a post from my fav boy!! I love men who whine, sorry lmao😋

Leon's hot lips feverishly traced your neck, savoring every inch of your body as his fingers thrust inside you, pushing against that spongy spot of yours. The noise was obscene, you were so wet you could have been mistaken for a water park.

"Right here, huh?" he asked breathlessly, kissing one of your burning cheeks. You just nodded frantically, lifting your hips toward him. It was one of those times when a late-night date at some restaurant ended with your boyfriend undressing you the moment you stepped out the door of your small shared apartment.

You were sprawled on the creaking bed beneath you, feeling Leon's hips push his erection against your thigh, trying to find some relief.

"Sorry, baby—" he murmured breathlessly, pulling his fingers away from your center so he could hurriedly start pulling down his pants. "I-I can't wait, I need to be inside you." He whispered with a small, breathless giggle, his free hand reaching down to rummage almost roughly in the nightstand drawer by the bed for a condom.

But an idea crossed your mind. Tonight had been special, you'd had a good time, and you needed to feel him more closer. So...

"No, wait..." You said, reaching for his hand. "Let's —Let's try raw." The words tumbled from your lips, swollen from all the kisses, as you looked at him with those bright eyes he could never say no to. And you felt his body freeze for a split second. You two had never done it raw before.

"What?" he asked, confused, as if you were telling some silly joke. "Babe... I don't think it's a good idea." he finally said, but his eyes were already drifting down to your expectant pussy as if it were calling to him. Drawing him in like gravity.

"What if I get you pregnant? I don't earn enough to have a baby, I barely got into the station and—" He'd already started rambling awkwardly, thinking of all the possibilities. All you could do was roll your eyes, laughing.

"Leon, baby... I'm take pills." you reassured him, running your fingers through his unfairly soft hair. "You can also just pull out before come." you murmured, arching your back impatiently as you felt his tip brush against your clit. Fuck, you wanted to feel him raw, and the mere thought of it was making his head spin.

It took him half a second to change his mind, nodding slowly. "Okay, j-just this once." he whispered to himself, unable to suppress a silly grin. He took his cock, which was dripping because of you, to guide himself. He started with small, tentative touches, setting both of their nerves on edge.

"You're so wet, baby." He groaned softly, his voice husky. He straightened up a little more, forcing you to open your thighs completely around him so he could see the exact moment the bulbous tip of his cock caught at your entrance. He hadn't even put it in yet and his brain was already spinning.

"Just put it in—!" you moaned, lifting your hips to try and take him. "I'm working on it—!" He said, his voice cracking, unwilling to admit he was afraid he'd come as soon as he felt you with nothing around him. He buried his face in your neck as his hips began to thrust, not wanting you to see him make any faces, fucked up with pleasure.

"God, god." He whined, feeling his thick cock pass the first ring of your wet walls, which seemed to suck him deeper and deeper. He trembled slightly above you, giving the first experimental thrust. You were in fucking heaven, feeling every vein and the way the head of his dick sank deeper until—

"S-Shit. Sorry, sorry..." he murmured, pulling out of you hurriedly. His cheeks were pink, his brows furrowed, and he was already sweating. "I almost came, holy shit." He groan, almost whimpering, burying his sweaty face in your shoulder. His breathing was just as ragged as yours, trying to collect his thoughts. His cock twitched, as if complaining about being pulled away from your warmth.

"It's fine, baby—just fuck me." You moaned impatiently, wrapping your arms around his neck. You barely registered when he thrust his completely wet cock back inside you. Leon thought he'd never been this hard, pounding you against the mattress with an uneven, desperate rhythm.

Leon's eyes were rolling back, his mouth agape from the effort of trying not to come too quickly. The way your walls were squeezing him tightly had you both moaning so loudly that the entire floor of the old building could probably hear you two.

His hands were gripping your hips, pulling you closer to find each of his thrusts. The sound of his heavy balls slapping against your ass resonated so loudly in the most depraved way.

It was too much, the way his cock explored every corner of your pussy and how his pelvis slammed against your sensitive clit with each trembling thrust, that you didn't have time to say anything. You simply came all over his cock, in a messy way, soaking you both.

That was it.

"I'm coming, I'm coming—hmm." He managed to stammer, pulling out his cock, dripping with your fluids, and starting to desperately fuck his fist, moaning loudly and pathetically. Tsk, noisy boy.

Thick strands of semen dripped onto your stomach, marking you in the most primal way. His body collapsed on top of yours, crushing you for a few seconds, not caring about the sticky mess he made between you.

"Can—oh, fuck. Can I do it inside now?" he begged breathlessly, grinning, completely drunk. You were going to scoff, but you were just as messed up as he was.

Oh, and guess who got noise complaints the next morning? Yep, you guys.

Ughh, i got way too inspired for this!! i need this man soo badly rn🫠 (pleasee ignore any errors)

Support is always welcomeᡣ𐭩

(💌) bye, bye!

[midnightcrw]

When are you going to have kids?

Pairing: Husband! Leon S. Kennedy x Wife! Reader

Summary: No matter what you do, people keep asking you when you're going to have a child, and it's starting to take its toll.

a/n: This is about RE: Requiem Leon, as I'm currently obsessed with it. The reader is around the same age as Leon. This is very self-indulgent, I posted the reason for it as well.

It was always the same thing.

No matter how old you were, whenever you got a boyfriend or when you got married, the same questions would always come up.

"Do you want kids?"

"When are you going to have kids?"

"Why don't you want kids?"

The questions were so tiring that you could have started banging your head against the wall. It was as if the things you had accomplished didn't matter, or as if your choice over your own body needed to be given a reason for.

Ever since you were a teenager, you had known that you didn't want children. It's not that you despise them, you just don't want any.

And for some reason, nobody understands that.

Even your family and friends started asking when you were going to have a baby with your husband, as if having children were the only reason for getting married.

Slowly, it was starting to get to you.

Wherever you looked, there were babies with their happy parents, enjoying themselves, while you felt like there was something wrong with you.

Why can't you just be like them? Why can't you just want a child and make Leon happy?

Sometimes you'd catch yourself looking in the mirror and pulling your top up slightly to see what you'd look like pregnant - would that make you more desirable?

It's not like your husband doesn't love you. He does. In fact, he loves you very much.

Not a day went by without him complimenting you and showing you affection, but maybe it was all just an act. Perhaps he was just waiting for you to give in, and maybe he had changed his mind after all.

Before you got married, you made sure to have all kinds of talks. Especially when it came to having kids, and you were both glad to be seeing eye to eye. You had no interest in having children and just wanted to enjoy each other's presence.

But each day you were getting more and more exhausted. Sometimes you were so exhausted that you wouldn't even be able to respond, and you would find yourself ignoring others. Inside your mind, questions were giving you a headache.

And today... Today was horrible.

Everyone knows that Leon S. Kennedy is married to you. Yes, the golden boy of DSO is married to a failed agent who stepped down because she was foolish enough to get injured years ago. Now she's too afraid to start again as an agent - how pathetic.

Back then, you and Leon were one of the most talked-about agents. You were selfless, caring, smart and strong. While Leon's reputation improved, yours worsened simply because you gave up and took a desk job at DSO.

And if there's one person who hates you, it's Blaire - currently one of the best agents around, who has also been on missions with your husband.

No matter what time of day, she would find a way to ruin it for you. She would come into your office cubicle just to wind you up, and she was really good at it.

Today, however, her words hit you particularly hard, as you clearly remembered the moment, even though hours had passed.

You heard a knock on your cubicle, and that's how it started.

Turning around and looking behind your shoulder for a second to catch a quick glimpse, and after seeing that it was Blaire, you moved your head forward again to focus on the documents you were reading.

A couple of seconds passed, and you started to feel uncomfortable because you could feel her staring at you.

Huffing quietly, the blonde woman pulled out a spare chair and sat down beside you. She crossed her right leg over her left as she leaned back in the chair.

"Still boring as ever." she said quietly, but loud enough for you to hear as you curled your right hand tightly around your pen.

You couldn't focus on the words in the document. "Leon and I were on a mission. DSO booked us a really nice place to stay."

You closed your eyes for a moment before opening them and turning your chair around to make eye contact with her.

Blaire is a beautiful woman - that's a fact. She has long blonde hair, seductive green eyes, plump lips, and curves that could make anyone turn around to stare.

You're usually not the jealous type either. If your husband is that easy to have, they can have him. But you knew he only wanted you, and he was very vocal about his dislike of her.

You and your husband know that she wants him, following him wherever he goes. Coming way too close to him, putting a hand on his arm while he steps away with a glare.

But you were vulnerable. Having already been worrying a lot lately, she definitely managed to pick the worst possible day to make you worry even more.

"He's quite handsome, you know." She smirked as she leaned forward, never taking her eyes off you as you gripped the chair's handle tightly, your nails digging into it, while she continued, "A husband like that would surely make a woman want to stay in bed with him. It's surprising that you two still don't have a kid."

She giggled in a grating way that made you wince. "Or maybe he's disgusted to be with you." She looked you up and down, and you unconsciously leaned back to make yourself look smaller.

"You know," she said, abruptly leaning closer to you so that you couldn't move away from her breath on your face. "If you don't give him a child, someone else surely will." With that, she stood up and smiled at you - though it was definitely not a kind smile - and finally left.

You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding and reached into your handbag for the small mirror you always carried with you.

Looking at your reflection, you started to feel a heavy feeling in your chest and a tightening in your throat.

There are so many other women who are more attractive than you, and you still don't understand how he could have chosen you out of everyone.

You had wrinkles, and grey hairs were starting to appear as time passed.

Back then, you looked forward to getting older and seeing what you would look like in the future. Now, however, you can barely stand to look at yourself.

'Does Leon even like looking at me?' You asked yourself this throughout your shift, grinding your teeth together whenever you felt close to tears.

Being at home was good, you were able to relax a bit - but you soon realised that there was no escape.

Your mind was jumping to stupid conclusions, making it seem as if something was wrong. You could just lie in bed staring at the wall, hoping to finally fall asleep.

Hours passed, however, and rest never came, until you heard the door open and there he was, Leon.

He'd had a meeting today - an exhausting one, as you could see from the tired look in his eyes - but seeing you still awake made him raise an eyebrow.

"Couldn't sleep, baby?" he asked softly. His voice gave you goosebumps, as it always did, and he slowly took off his clothes to get into bed.

You forced a small smile, happy that it was dark enough for him not to notice. "I was thinking about the documents from work. Difficult case."

He nodded in understanding. Having finally taken his clothes off, he was now only in sweatpants. He lay down next to you in bed and turned around to face you.

"Workaholic," he whispered jokingly, getting a quiet laugh out of you. You gave him a soft slap on the chest, and he let out a fake sound of pain.

"You've taken worse hits," you said, he smiled lazily at you before he leaned forward and pressed a kiss on your forehead, making you relax a bit.

"You're quite strong," he responded, making you roll your eyes at him while he slowly leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss against your lips.

It started out softly, with only a chaste kiss on the lips at first, as if you were the most delicate thing, scared to hurt you. But once you moved your lips, Leon put a hand around your waist and pulled you tighter against him, and you started making out.

You didn't always have the time to enjoy each other's company, so on nights like this, you wanted to spend every second together.

When your husband bit your bottom lip, you gasped softly into his mouth as his tongue entered your mouth, pulling you even closer until you were lying on top of him.

Moving your legs to straddle his waist, you laid your hands on his chest, while he rested one hand on your waist and moved the other to the nightstand.

In the quiet room, all that could be heard were the quiet noises of you two kissing, followed by the sound of a wrapper as Leon started ripping it open.

You'd usually be excited, it's not like you didn't want him - you did, badly. But all you could hear were Blaire's voice and everyone asking why you weren't pregnant yet.

So, you slowly placed a hand on Leon's hand, which was opening the wrapper. This made him pull away slightly to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide and he was breathing heavily as he leaned his forehead against yours. "Something wrong, baby?" He stroked your cheek with his free hand while your heart beat rapidly in your chest and you weren't really able to look into his eyes.

"We don't have to do anything. Having you beside me is more than enough," Leon continued, pulling his hand out of yours to put the condom on the nightstand.

You sighed softly, then found the courage to speak up "We should try without it. I don't want to make you feel restricted."

Hearing this, Leon furrowed his eyebrows and suddenly pushed himself up so that he was sitting with the headboard against his back. He positioned you comfortably, ensuring you were still straddling his lap.

Leon was now focusing on your face. You started to feel nervous, silently cursing yourself for saying that and knowing he could tell something was wrong.

Using condoms had never been a problem before. Your husband always enjoyed himself, so it had never been an issue.

Slowly, he put his hands on your face and made you look at him. He had a concerned look on his face. "Tell me what's wrong," he said. His tone was gentle, leaving room for you to dodge the conversation if you weren't ready yet.

You inhaled shakily and felt the corners of your mouth tremble slightly. Feeling embarrassed, but also wanting to tell him what the problem was, you finally gave in.

"I just don't know what's wrong with me," you said, the first sob breaking out as tears started running down your face. Leon pulled you closer by your waist, gently rubbing the side of your thighs as he listened attentively.

"I... I just can't do it anymore. Everyone always asks the same fucking question, and I feel like I'm going insane. I don't want kids - you know that, and I know that - but ever since we started dating, and especially after we got married, people have been pressuring me to have kids." You balled your hands into fists and continued in a trembling voice, "I feel like I have to give you a child. What if you leave me if I don't? Am I a terrible-"

Before you could continue, Leon pulled you into a tight hug, cutting you off mid-sentence as you gave in completely. You wrapped your arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. He let you stay in that position until you had calmed down a bit.

Once your sobs had stopped, your husband pressed a kiss onto your neck and asked, "Can I see your face? Is that okay?" You nodded slightly and pulled back a bit so that you were looking at each other again.

He wiped a couple of tears away, starting to talk "You're not obligated to give me anything. Your body is your choice, and there is no need for a justification."

"But-"

"No, let me speak." The voice was slightly stern, but not angry. It made you bite your lip while he continued, "I don’t want kids either. That hasn’t changed. Whatever people are saying to you, forget it. The only person I want is you. The idea of being with someone else? It doesn't even cross my mind. You keep me grounded more than you realise. Without you, things would feel pretty damn empty. So, whoever has been putting that idea in your head, don't listen to them. And the next time someone tries, tell me, alright?"

You nodded and he leaned forward, leaving a quick kiss against your lips. "I love you, and that's not going to change."

"I love you too," you whispered back, and you two lay down again. His arms never leaving your body as he pulled you tightly against himself, and you were finally able to sleep.

You knew that this wouldn't be the last time, but with Leon by your side, things would get better because you two had always faced everything together.

[aphrahdite]

𓏲 ✉️ྀི ׂ 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝓵𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝓴𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝓵𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦 .

leon lay next to you, his breathing humming in your ear as you rest on his chest, his fingers lazily running over your hip where a sliver of skin between your shirt and shorts was exposed. his attention was on the television - some old movie playing in the background - while yours was on him.

you eventually look up at him, taking in his features as he continues to stare at the screen. he had always been good-looking, but you thought it impossible for someone to get even more attractive the older they got.

he could feel your gaze on him, you hadn't been paying much attention to the movie to begin with, and he looks down at you with a small lopsided smirk. "what're you looking at, baby?"

his hand that was tracing across your skin moved up, fingers coming to brush a piece of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your earlobe.

"have you ever thought about getting a new haircut?" you ask casually, but there was a means to it.

he raised an eyebrow, amused, at the question. it wasn't at all what he was expecting to hear from you. after all, he knew you loved his hair.

"a new haircut…?" he repeated. "no… i haven't given it much thought. why?"

you reach up to brush the hair from his face now, revealing the parts that are always hidden away by it, "i just want to be able to see all of you."

his smirk softens into something more tender, and he turns his face just enough to press a slow kiss against your palm.

"you want to see all of me? wrinkles and all?" he murmurs, voice rough with affection.

"wrinkles and all." you affirm without even a second of hesitation.

he let out a quiet scoff, even more amused now, and touched at the same time.

"baby, i'm going grey. you don't want-"

"shh-" you pinch his cheeks gently, causing his lips to pout a little. god, he looked so adorable. "i said wrinkles and all. i meant it." you give him a quick peck before pulling back away.

he couldn't help but let out a low laugh, the sound rumbling through his perfectly sculptured chest. you had always been able to disarm him, specifically when it came to his self-deprecation as he got older. it was no wonder he was so damn in love with you.

"you're too good to me, you know that?" he murmured, his voice rough but tinted with a sheen of vulnerability.

"no." you shake your head firmly. "i just know what you need. the same way you always know what i need."

your hands wander back up to brush the hair from his face as you look at him. really look at him.

he watches as your eyes trace over his features. it was as if you could see right through him, laying bare all the things he kept buried just below the surface. you always saw him, even when he tried his best to hide.

his hand moved, coming to hold your wrists, his thumbs lightly tracing over your pulse points. "what am i gonna do with you?"

it was a quiet question, spoken almost more to himself than to you.

he didn't deserve you. you could argue all you wanted against that, and he knew you would, but to him, it was true. he was so broken, so whethered compared to you.

you could have anyone, someone without scars or trauma or age lines. and yet here you were, with him.

"love me forever. hopefully." you eventually answer, that soft little smile he loved so much pulling at the corners of your mouth.

god, he was a goner for that.

a quiet scoff falls from him, his hands now moving to pull you onto his lap. he wanted you closer. always closer.

"i'll love you until the day i die," he said, his voice low and full of conviction, "and even after that, too. probably still annoy the hell out of you as a ghost."

"oh, i know you will," you chuckle softly, arms wrapping around his neck.

he hummed in response, the deep, growl-like one that always sent shivers up your spine, as his hands moved to rest on the bare skin of your waist once more. his grip was firmer now, almost as if he was trying to keep you tethered to him.

"you're stuck with me, sweetheart. no backsies."

you press your lips gently against his, "i wouldn't have it any other way."

𝓵𝐨𝐨𝐤𝓲𝐧𝐠 𝓯𝐨𝐫 𝓶𝐨𝐫𝐞 .ᐣ bookshelf taglist form guidelines