Boys Don’t Cry
✦ MDNI — 18+ Only ✦
✧ paining: luke hemmings x reader
✧ summary: running into the same man who rejected your demo with a lot of colorful words in rehab was the last thing you expected, especially not when you realize the beautiful mess that he is.
✧ warnings: rehab, substance abuse, mental health, love bombing, p in v, oral (f receiving), two unstable mfs, bta luke because im a whore, disgustingly needy and pathetic luke.
✧ word count: 5.7k
✧ title: no. 1 obsession — 5 seconds of summer
✧ author’s note: it’s actually so sickening how much i love this version of luke and hes so perfect and ruined and pathetic and UGH. i had this little encounter lingering in the back of my head ever since i crated luke and his tragic love life, and it’s about time i put pen to paper.
i hope you enjoy, even if you’ve never read my fic, and if by chance you do decide to check out my fic because this blurb enticed you to… i would sure appreciate it lol
anyways thank you to my sweet friend @souperbloom ur actually a life saver and the other half of my brain and i wouldn’t have finished this without ur help lol
Copyright © 2026 undersugarnights. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
It’s been one week of rehab and already you’re itching to get out. Not for the first time, you’ve found yourself in this similar but dreaded cycle of pretending you’re going to get better when everyone knows you’re one rejection away from ending up here again.
The routine drags, it’s always the same. Wake up, breakfast, get your meds, group therapy, individual therapy, lunch, art therapy, outside time, dinner, rec room, and bedtime. Rinse and repeat.
You’re starting to grow a little insane.
Right now, there’s a lull between breakfast and group therapy— which just means you’re waiting for your turn to get your head shrunken.
Raising your hand, you rub your eye hard enough that sparks of color burst behind your lids. Yes, the days drag, yes you can’t wait to get out, but sometimes the quiet moments were good enough to have your creative spark coming back to life.
Right now, you’re staring at a piece of paper with mindless lyrics scribbled in the lines with marker. Apparently, you’re not allowed pens in rehab— they could be used as a weapon, a tool to hurt yourself and others.
Truthfully it just feels like a sack of shit.
With a loud sigh, you pull back, letting your marker fall limply on the page. Your eyes dart around, watching the people you’re set to spend the next three weeks with— sort of, if they’re not about to be discharged.
Then your gaze lands on him. For a second, you don’t believe your eyes. He looks sadder than he does onstage and on the pictures shared around Twitter like sacred texts.
Plus he’s missing his signature lip ring.
Luke Hemmings isn’t what you would call a star. He’s part of a music duo with his best friend. The Neurotics. They’re the kind of band that most people don’t know, but the ones that know him make it loud.
They have a couple of sleeper hits, songs that just barely tease the mainstream but never quite land.
But that isn’t how you know of him.
A few months back, you sent a demo out to their manager of one of your songs. It’s not like it’s unusual for you to do that— after all, people buying your songs is how you make a damn living— but what really stuck is that Luke Hemmings himself turned the song down.
It didn’t exactly hurt, Emmy, their manager, had explained that he usually writes his songs with Ashton. Apparently he didn’t take very kindly to the label’s suggestion that they get handed a more palatable song to release as their own.
So yeah, seeing him in person is just as jarring as you could expect.
He doesn’t lift his gaze, eyes trained to the floor as he trails behind one of the workers. He looks a little lost, sporting a few days worth of stubble and pale as a ghost.
It’s no wonder he ended up in rehab of all places.
You doubt he even knows who you are, chances are he didn’t even see the name attached to the demo, he probably didn’t even listen to it.
Maybe you should be mad, maybe you should have some kind of apprehension towards sharing your healing space with him, but there’s something about the aura that clings to him that halts your train of thought.
He’s in rehab, that alone is enough of a scandal to make you reconsider making this poor guy’s life more complicated. You don’t care to keep up with the forums and the gossip pages that babble about him like they’re placed under a spell.
Luke is only nineteen but he looks older, maybe it’s the way this entire program strips you of any armor you use to hide the rot. You frown, feeling a mixture of pity and maybe even intrigue.
The worker drones on— probably about the schedule— and you watch steadily from your place in the corner. The marker and paper are long abandoned, as well as any creative incentive you had before.
This is much more interesting.
Luke nods along, chewing on the corner of his lip. He seems a little startled at first, and you think it’s because he’s probably not used to the lack of metal on his face. You can’t help but feel for him there, this damn facility owes you for all the repiercing you’re gonna have to do once you’re out.
You can’t help but lean forward on the table, curiosity winning and taking root. He’s pretty, a tortured soul as far as the eye can see, and maybe he’s just like you.
Finally, Luke is left to his own devices. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, almost like a teenager on their first day of high school assessing where to sit, most definitely deciding they hate everyone.
Your eyes flit back to your paper, and you force yourself to not glance up again. He needs to come to you on his own, and if you’re right about him, he will.
Nerves light up beneath your skin, and it’s almost better than doing a line. It takes everything in your power to keep your eyes trained on your messy scrawl, the one standing bright and crimson against the dull paper.
Everything in this damn place is dull.
You feel him before you hear him, that static in the air that raises the hair on the back of your neck. Your heart skips a few beats, and usually you wouldn’t be so nervous about talking to another patient, but he’s the closest thing to your everyday life you have here and no one here has any idea.
Luke takes a seat a few feet away from you, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. He has his guard up, and that will only make it more difficult on everyone.
“You gotta relax,” is the first thing you have said since last night's therapy, and your voice is raw enough to prove it. Talking here feels redundant, so you save it for therapy. “Nobody here is going to strap you down and subject you to electroshock therapy.”
He stiffens, blinking owlishly as if seemingly remembering he exists in other people’s perceptions, too. He turns his wide blue eyes to you, and it’s almost impossible not to melt.
“I thought that was outlawed,” Luke says dumbly.
“It was,” you agree, unimpressed. “So why do you act like it’s going to happen?”
He blushes— genuinely blushes. The crimson that spreads on the apple of his cheeks makes your chest tight, and he looks so sweet, so unlike that entitled rockstar you thought he would be.
“First day jitters,” he shrugs. “Not really used to being around addicts so sad… usually they’re on break from tour and hopping between models.”
You snort, caught off guard by his honesty and humor. He’s unusually endearing for a rockstar, but you don’t mind it at all.
“Y/N,” you offer, biting the back of your marker.
“Luke,” he says.
His name carries weight, at least for you. Still, the way he says it, so removed, almost ashamed, piques your curiosity. Leaning forward, you let some bitterness slip.
“I know,” you drawl. “You rejected my song.”
Luke freezes, recognition flickering over his features. It’s almost amusing how he pales so quickly. You want to feel bad, but watching him squirm is the most fun you’ve had since getting shoved into this place.
“Oh,” he breathes out. “I—I’m really sorry.”
You burst out laughing, hand coming up to cover your mouth. Luke still seems a little startled, but the way his pupils dilate at the sound of your amusement has your breath catching.
“You diva out a lot?” you ask, moving closer to Luke. He seems to relax a little, maybe it’s because he knows you’re not mad— at least not anymore— or maybe it’s something else.
The proximity is intoxicating.
His eyes narrow playfully. “I don’t really try to, no,” he laughs, a hearty sound in this miserable place. “I dunno, I’m sorry. Music is important to me, I just didn’t want to slap my voice over someone else’s work.”
He sounds so sincere that you feel your heart melt a little in your chest. Suddenly you’re overcome with a need to know everything that goes on in his brain, how everything clicks into place.
“It’s how I make a living,” you explain. “How I pay for this wonderful five star hotel.”
Luke snorts, pulling his sleeves over his hands. Your eyes instinctively trail the movement, catching the delicate and graceful length of his fingers.
“They took my fucking lip ring,” he grumbles. “Like, what the hell am I gonna do with that? Boof it?”
You wrinkle your nose in distaste. “You’ll use to chip away at the walls to escape,” you muse, suddenly chasing every flicker of amusement.
Luke seems a little breathless, a pink blush lingering on his skin. He’s smiling, and it’s just as soft as everything else about him. There is a strange sort of familiarity that clings to the air between you, the kind that makes your brain go haywire with possibilities.
Maybe he’s just like you.
“What brings you in?” you ask, because you can’t help the curiosity that nags at your brain. You’re not supposed to ask this to anyone, you’re not supposed to be making friends, either.
Rehab is full of shit anyway.
“Overdose,” he explains plainly, shrugging like he’s recounting what he had for breakfast. “My manager put me in here. Think it’s time I get my shit together.”
You hum. “What else?”
Luke blows out a puff of hair. “At the hospital they diagnosed me,” he continues. “Borderline personality disorder. How about that?”
“Aw, baby’s first diagnosis,” you coo, and Luke playfully rolls his eyes at you. “Me too. Though I’ve lived with it a little longer.”
He tilts his head. “Does the name help?”
You snort. “Not in the slightest,” you mutter. “It makes me feel crazier. But hey, at least you know how to find your community.”
Before Luke can reply, someone’s already calling for group therapy, herding the patients down the corridor to the salon where they usually meet. He’s already looking at you, side eyes searching for instruction.
Groaning, you push yourself off the chair, looking back at Luke. “C’mon,” you say. “Time to sit and hear everyone trauma dumping for an hour.”
He gets up and the two of you make your way over to the group. You feel his hand brush against yours, an electric sort of contact that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
You hug your notebook close to your chest, biting your lip to keep your smile at bay.
You and Luke take a seat, and he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Eventually, everyone gets situated and the therapist comes in.
She’s a nice lady, her name is Artie, always smelling like roses and speaking like a self-help book that you’ve grown to loathe. She gets everyone started by greeting them, talking in a cadence entirely too bright for the place.
Luke is zoning out, his blue eyes glazing over as Artie drones on about twelve steps and accountability, and honestly, you’re more concerned with watching Luke.
His fingers twitch in his lap.
Carefully you uncap your marker, slowly enough that nobody hears the click. You do the same when ripping the paper.
You think you’ll be able to keep in your pants for 30 days?
You know well enough the things that are said about Luke, the whispers between breathless giggles from girls who think fucking rockstars is a personality trait. The Neurotics are not known for being angel boys, after all.
Carefully, you nudge your hand against Luke’s, hard enough to draw his attention. You push the paper onto his hand, and he catches with nimble fingers. His eyes stay trained ahead until he’s unfolding the note in his lap.
He laughs quietly under his breath, smirking slightly as he shakes his head in disbelief. When he turns his head to you, you know exactly what he’s thinking.
You can’t hide your smug look as you lean a little closer. “It’s not allowed,” you whisper. “Bad for morale, encourages toxic behaviors or whatever.”
“Is that really the worst vice to have in this place?” he mutters back, eyes flickering down to your lips and sending heat down your spine. “Because—“
“Y/N,” Artie clears her throat, drawing your attention back to the meeting. Annoyance sparks beneath your skin, but you meet her eyes anyway. “This is—” she looks down at her chart, flipping a page before she looks up again, “—Luke’s first day. Remember we’re here to work on ourselves.”
You bite your tongue, a sudden wave of possessiveness surging through you. Choking it down, you stay stubbornly quiet.
“Well now that we’re on you, Luke,” Artie sighs. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”
He stiffens, almost like a deer caught in the headlights. His eyes meet yours, and there’s a glint in them you haven’t seen before, a sort of heat that matches your own.
That’s enough indication for you to know that you’re in trouble.
Luke drones on a half assed story that you know isn’t real, he seems like the type to never take his own wellbeing seriously, and you love that. Carefully, you scribble something down on another torn piece of paper.
Meet me in the laundry room after lights out.
—
You have only been at the facility for only a week, but you already managed to figure out the way the staff works in a matter of hours.
The laundry room is mainly empty at his hour, which is exactly why you told Luke to meet you here. This is the place where you stay writing for hours, graced by the sliver of moonlight that slips past the window and somehow manages to light most of the room.
It’s nice to have some privacy sometimes.
It’s not romantic, it’s not erotic, but the pins and needles still swim beneath your skin. You’re biting your nails, a habit you swore you dropped years ago but somehow the prospect of being alone with Luke brings it back out of retirement.
It’s been too long since you’ve been touched, and you can’t explain why your brain seems to have fixated on Luke the way it did. Maybe it’s his pretty pink lips, the dreamy eyes just haunted enough to make anyone swoon, or the messy dark blonde hair you just know would feel like heaven beneath your fingers.
But you know it’s none of that.
Finding someone so similar to you feels like a gift the universe handed you after a load of bullshit. If he shows— you don’t know how that will make you feel.
The dopamine rush at the thought is enough of a hint.
Maybe it’s the fact that if he shows, you’ll finally get his approval. The rejection of the song hurt, it sent you into a week long bender and a spiral of thoughts you’d kill to never have again.
It’s difficult not to take it so personally when someone who bleeds emotion through melodies seemingly sneered at your work.
Luke doesn’t seem like an asshole, not the way you imagined, at least. His talent is plentiful, but the ego is lackluster.
Still, if he caves in, if he feels that strange connection that has been plaguing you since he first spoke, it would heal that little part of you that lost it after the song was scrapped.
Taking a steadying breath, you hop on top of one of the drying machines, humming a melody under your breath. It doesn’t have a body, just a feeling.
Just a vague impression of Luke.
You hear the soft patter of footsteps against the floor and freeze, holding your breath as a reflex. It’s not that this place is a prison, exactly, it’s just run like one. You understand that it’s safety, that on paper everything that is being done to prioritize healing.
But what happens when you don’t want to heal?
Luke steps into the laundry room, and the confusion on his face is as clear as day. He looks a little lost, a little nervous, like the adrenaline of slipping out of his room was finally starting to fade away.
“Hey,” you call, voice barely above a whisper.
His head snaps to you, and relief washes over his features. He walks up to you, toying with the sleeves of his hoodie. The lack of strings makes you want to roll your eyes.
“Hey,” he smiles. “How did you figure out about this place?”
You shrug, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Sometimes a girl just needs some privacy,” you say, smirking slightly.
Luke’s pupils dilate a little at the implication, and he swallows thickly. “You’re crazy,” he huffs, but it’s affectionate. You’ve been insulted with the word enough times to tell the difference.
“You followed me here,” you poke his chest, reveling in the soft chuckle that escapes him.
“You asked me here,” he counters.
They both fall silent, but there’s no real awkwardness behind it. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing your features, drinking you in hungrily.
It makes your heart stutter.
“Isn’t it crazy how we both ended up here?” you muse, partially to give you a second to breathe beneath his gaze.
Luke purses his lips, weighing your words. “Eh, in general, sure,” he says, stepping between her legs. You can see the dusting of hair across his jaw, enough to make you shiver with the phantom sensation of it against your thigh.
“But I like to think there’s a reason why you happened to be here on my first ever rehab stint.”
You furrow your brows. “I don’t think that’s giving what you want it to give.”
Luke leans closer, breath ghosting over your lips, his nose brushing against yours. Your heart beats erratically in your chest, and you hold your breath in anticipation.
His hand cups the back of your neck and brings your lips together, and immediately you let out a breathless sigh against his mouth. His lips are a little rough but they move seamlessly with yours.
Your hands come up to his shoulders, traveling across the broad expanse as he kisses you deeper, tongue teasing yours. It’s a little intoxicating, the way he kisses, following your every movement like a starved man.
Luke’s hands find a home on your waist, pulling you tighter against him as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
He groans into your mouth when you nip on his lower lip, fingers digging into his shoulders like you can crawl into him at a moment's notice.
You roll your hips, barely grazing the hardness that’s beginning to grow apparent between you, months worth of mindless want bubbling out.
Your hands graze his waistband— then there’s a deafening bang echoing across the room.
“Fuck!” You yelp
The two of you spring apart, heart racing in your chest— this time from fear instead of want. Luke’s arms tighten around you, and your eyes dart around the room, scanning for the intruder.
Luke lets out a breathless laugh, and you’re incredulous. His head falls forward onto your shoulder, breath warm against your collarbone as his hands gently squeeze your hips.
“Shit— I’m sorry,” he stammers through a laugh, cheeks burning a bright crimson. “Kinda forgot where I was for a bit, accidentally kicked the dryer.”
Your heart still won’t settle, and fear sits uncomfortably in your stomach. The moment is ruined, that much is clear. You’re still clutching at his shoulder, but for an entirely different reason, breathing heavily as you will your brain to calm down.
“Jesus, you’re jumpy,” Luke grins, amusement lighting up his eyes. “Just relax, baby.”
You glare at him, and because your brain is too muddled with residual fear, you don’t let yourself linger on the pet name that fell past his lips so easily.
“Are you serious?” you hiss. “This is supposed to be my escape, I don’t want to kill that and my chances of getting laid all in one go.”
Luke raises an eyebrow, smiling wickedly. “Oh, so that’s what this is?” he asks. “I thought we were here to catch up on some Sunday chores.”
Now it’s your turn to blush, and Luke is still smirking when he leans his head against your shoulder again. You're a little stiff, aching to touch him but not quite sure how.
Tentatively, you raise your hand, letting your fingers skim along his hair, holding your breath to gauge his response. When he doesn’t stop you, that’s when you let them tangle.
His hair really is as soft as you imagined, which is impressive considering the shampoo they give out here doesn’t work magic on anyone.
When your nails scratch at his scalp, Luke lets out a ragged moan. You freeze, the noise lighting every neuron in your body on fire as your mind replays the sound.
Oh.
“You’re so—“ your breath catches, and suddenly everything isn’t funny anymore. You’re so aware of the places your bodies touch, skin brushing against each other, and the sudden realization that you want to hear that sound again strikes you like a bolt of lightning.
Never in a million years did you imagine Luke would be whimpering from getting his hair played with.
“Y/N,” he whispers. “I know you’re still scared, but fuck. I can’t think with you like this.”
You swallow. “Like what?”
“Touching me,” he lets his lips brush against the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder, causing you to shiver. “Sitting there like you don’t know what you do to me.”
With sudden determination, your fingers tighten in his hair enough to yank his face to yours. The blue is almost entirely swallowed by the black of his pupils.
Then you’re kissing again, a mess of teeth, spit, and tongues. He moans into your mouth when you tug at his hair, his hands slip beneath your shirt to touch your bare skin.
The callouses drag against you, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You can feel the heat rising in your body, the ache that starts to bloom between your thighs.
Luke’s lips travel from yours to your jaw, making their way down to the sensitive parts of your neck. He nips at your pulse point, dragging a moan out of you that’s loud enough to make him still.
“You gotta be quiet,” he groans, just as affected by your noises as you are by his.
He pulls back, hands running up and down your thighs. Despite the fabric of your sweatpants, you can feel the heat of him as he creeps up to your waistband.
You lift your hips, letting him drag your pants and underwear off with a torturous pace. Your stomach clenches in anticipation, but he doesn’t let it faster because he’s kissing you again.
Now the heat is really evident, your own hands slipping beneath his hoodie to feel at the soft planes of his stomach. He tenses when you run your nails down his navel, breath hitching.
“Wanna taste you, baby,” he gasps between kisses, desperation bleeding from his words. “Please, just let me taste you. I swear— I’ll make you feel so good. I need you on my tongue, Y/N, please.”
A sudden wave of self-consciousness hits you, and your lips still against his for a beat. He squeezes your hips reassuringly, and it’s like you just remembered you’re bare from the waist down.
Still, you nod, partly because you catch the way his lips swelled from kissing and suddenly the rush to your head kills any lingering self doubt. He looks fucked out, and you haven’t even touched him.
He drops to his knees without ceremony, pulling you closer until you’re on the edge of the dryer. His eyes are level with your core, thighs bracketing his head.
Luke licks his lips, bringing his fingers up to his mouth before placing them on your clit. He starts to rub slow circles, enough pressure to have your brain growing fuzzy around the edges.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and it’s low a bough that you know it wasn’t something he meant for you to hear. Still, the awe in his voice is evident before he’s diving towards you.
The second his tongue does its first lap around your clit, you gasp, arching your back at the sudden pleasure. He hums against you, eyes half lidded as he wraps his lips around you and sucks.
You’re breathing hard, thighs shaking at the slew of sensations that make it difficult to think. His hands grip your thighs, keeping them open to lap at you hungrily.
“Oh my god,” you mewl, in utter disbelief at the passion behind Luke’s movements. He moans against you, tongue working you over skillfully.
Your hands scramble for purchase on the dryer, little gasps leaving your lips with every flick of his tongue. You make the mistake of glancing down, and the sight is enough to make your breath hitch.
Luke’s hair is a mess, and you let your hands tangle in the strands. His eyes are closed, brows furrowed in concentration. The drag of his mouth, the way his plump lips wrap around your clit, the obscene sounds he pulls out of you, it’s almost too much.
Your hips rock against his face, chasing the feeling that’s beginning to unravel low in your stomach. His hand rubs over your thighs, reassuring and sweet all at once.
Then, you feel one of his fingers start to tease at your entrance, and somehow that whisper of a contact is almost everything it takes to send you over the edge.
You push his head away, legs clamping shut as you shake with the almost. Luke blinks at you, eyes hazy, but he doesn’t get a chance to protest before you’re dragging him up.
“Don’t wanna come yet,” you say, thumb brushing over his slick bottom lip. He’s breathing so hard, cheeks flushed and hair mussed, and he’s so fucking pretty it makes you want to cry.
You slip your finger past his lips, leaning forward until you’re a hair away. “Taste good, rockstar?”
His eyes flutter at your words, and he sucks at your thumb, nodding frantically. When you replace your digit with your own tongue, the lingering taste of you on his lips is dizzying.
Your hand slips past his waistband, wrapping around his thick length. He’s so warm, and the strangled moan that he lets out when you flick your wrist is delicious in every way.
Luke pushes his pants down enough to let his cock spring free, the salivating length standing proudly as you keep pumping your hand. Your thumb catches on the tip, spreading some of the beading precum across the head.
He hisses, hands shaking where they settle on your thighs. “Let me fuck you,” he gasps. “Let me feel how tight you are. Please, I’m so hard it hurts.”
You tighten your hand, his eyes fly open as he falls forward a bit. “F-fuck,” he whimpers, his grip tightening on you. “Please, I’ll do anything, please baby, just let me put it in.”
The way he says “please” has you growing dizzy, your own slick slipping down your entrance just at the thought of being stretched open by him.
Having had enough of teasing, you scoot closer, rubbing his tip over your folds slow enough to have the both of you gasping.
“Gonna fuck me good, rockstar?” you ask, breathless, a little cocky. “Gonna make me come so hard I’ll forget you rejected my song?”
He nods, eager, desperate, groaning when you start to circle your entrance with him. Just the feeling of the head of his cock nudging you open makes your legs shake, pleasure already sinking. You’re so sensitive.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he moans. “I’m gonna come and I’m not even inside you, your pussy is so pretty baby, I need it, please just let me—“
He cuts himself off when you guide him in, and the two of you moan loud enough to make fear spark at the base of your spine. You cover your mouth with your hand, watching in awe as Luke bottoms out.
The stretch is divine, addictive, and it feels so fucking good. You shiver when he pulls away, only for him to slam back in hard enough to make the dryer shake.
Slowly he settles into a rhythm, and you wrap your legs around his waist, adding momentum to his every thrust. You’re biting your lip to muffle the sounds that escape you, and Luke isn’t faring any better.
His cock drags deliciously against your walls, hitting every perfect spot that has you biting down on his shoulder. Luke is a mess, groaning and whimpering.
Luke grips your chin, crashing his lips against yours in another filthy kiss. Neither of you have the coordination to keep it steady, lips brushing against each other’s with every thrust.
“Fuck—oh my god—fuck, you feel so good, I can’t— I can’t take it, baby, I can’t—” he’s starting to sound nonsensical against your mouth, at least he would be if you weren’t just as lost in it as he is.
“Just like that,” you whine. “Keep me nice and full rockstar, fuck, you’re so big. Feels so fucking good inside me.”
“Tell me it feels good,” he begs. “Tell me I’m making you feel so good.”
You shiver at the neediness in his tone, arms wrapping tighter around him as pleasure begins to blind you. “Making me feel so good,” you mumble. “Stretching me out so good, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”
He lets out a noise, strangled almost, and his hands are slipping between the two of you. His thumb finds your clit, beginning to rub tight circles that have black spots spreading across your vision.
The heat starts to boil over, faster by the second with every thrust of Luke’s hips. You clench around him, desperate to savor every drag, every movement, just to draw out the inevitable.
“You’re doing so good baby,” you gasp, pressing down on your lower stomach to feel the way he pushes against you. “So fucking big. Does it feel good to be inside me baby?”
He nods, and you can barely keep your head on straight as the pleasure builds. You’re getting closer teetering the edge of release, and then Luke leans forward and bites your neck.
You come with a cry, body convulsing against Luke as you ride out your high, waves of pleasure shaking you to the core, relaxing and contracting your muscles until your ears ring.
“Fuck,” he drags the word out, licking over the spot he just sank his teeth into. “Just like that— given to me, let me make you feel good.”
Your body melts, and you cling to him as he chases his own high. His hips are erratic, pistoning into you with the kind of determination that makes your stomach flip.
“You’re so tight,” he gasps. “Wrapped around me like you’re gonna kill me, fuck. Tight—shit, you’re so tight, so wet, fuck, I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”
Your nails scratch at the nape of his neck, lips brushing against his skin. “Come for me,” you urge, voice hoarse from moaning. “Paint me all pretty baby.”
Luke gasps, pulling out quickly. His fist wraps around his cock, the flushed head already on the edge of bursting. He pumps fast, cursing under his breath.
Then he’s coming, white ribbons landing on your thigh, your exposed stomach. “Shit, holy shit Y/N,” he’s moaning your name, barely intelligible as pleasure consumes him.
When he finally comes down, he’s cradling your face in his hands, pressing a kiss to your lips. It’s sweet, lingering, and you’re both still breathless from before.
Your legs feel weak, and when you finally part, your breath fans his lips. His own is minty, a residual from brushing his teeth before he was supposed to be in bed.
“That’s kind of crazy,” you muse, nudging his nose with your own.
Luke pulls back, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “What is?”
You smirk, watching as Luke reaches for what seems to be a pillow cover. Carefully, he wipes at the mess left in your skin, the release that clung to you like a sin. He’s so gentle, sweet, and attentive.
“The fact that you fucked the first girl who was nice to you at rehab,” you joke, lifting his chin so that your eyes are level.
Luke smiles faintly, caressing your arm with a featherlight touch. He looks at you, a little breathless, eyes taking in every detail.
“Y/N,” he whispers. “I’m really sorry I turned down your song the way I did.”
You freeze, the sincerity in his words making your breath stutter. You can’t bring yourself to say anything worthwhile, so you just wait.
“I didn’t listen to it,” he confesses. “I didn’t want to. I just wanted the requests to stop, so I lashed out. It worked, yeah, but it wasn’t fair. Your talent doesn't need to be shadowed by my ego.”
You feel tears threaten to spill, the memory of the strongly worded rejection letter still fresh in your mind. It makes sense, the words that were written on the page didn’t match the sweet boy standing between your legs.
“It’s okay,” you answer shakily. “I promise.”
He brushes his lips against yours again, a sweet little kiss that means more than the entire night put together. Carefully, he helps you back into your clothes, straightening his own in the process.
You finally slip off the dryer, unsteady on your feet from the absolute depravity of the last hour. You’re chest to chest with Luke now, craning your neck to look at him.
He’s so fucking tall.
“When we get out of here,” he starts, pressing his forehead against yours. “I’ll make it up to you. We’ll write a song together."
You bite your lip. “Okay.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
come chat in my inbox i miss you !!!
also, this is belle’s eyes you’re reading through. she dies. SORRYYY