[prettybuckybaby]

🫶masterlist🫶ao3🫶

[babylonradio]

imagine being loved by me — calum x luke [part 2]

MDNI—18+

After going Twitter-viral for his voice, Calum takes a job doing audio erotica. Luke does not want to listen to it. Not even a little bit.

READ PART 1 HERE

warnings: Bottom!Luke Hemmings. Top!Calum Hood. Romantic Comedy. Fluff. Humour. Friends to Lovers. Voice Kink. Eventual Smut. Michael and Ashton are super annoying but have good intentions<3. Drinking. LIGHT Angst. Set in mid-2025. Masturbation. Dirty Talk. Praise. Blindfolds. Nipple Play. Guided Masturbation. Anal Sex. Anal Fingering.

wc: 16.5k (9.2k in this part)

author's note: i hope this ch lived up to expectations :') i know that cliffhanger in ch 1 set up something big and i realllly tried to match up to it !! let me know what you think.

come find me on twitter!

this fic is also on ao3.

An hour later, Luke’s sat on his bed and glaring at his phone screen, where he’s finally purchased the fucking subscription to Wren. He flicks the case of his bluetooth earphones open and shut. A repetitive snap! in the silence of the room. 

A part of him doesn’t even want to find out. Another part, louder and more incessant, tells him to grow up and listen and finally figure out why everyone’s been acting so fucking weird. 

He makes a little pained noise in the back of his throat. He shouldn’t be doing this. He’d promised Calum. He’d been so loud about not listening to the story. 

He shoves his earphones on and presses play. 

The blurb plays, a short few sentences in Calum’s voice, and Luke’s already shivering. He processes the words. 

It hits him like a freight train. 

Calum’s reading a story for male listeners. 

And if that wasn’t enough of a heart attack, if it wasn’t enough to send him reeling, Calum’s love interest in the story, the character that’s meant to be the ‘listener’—is named Lucas.

Luke for short. 

Fuck. 

Oh, fuck. 

Luke’s nervous system might be giving out. He might be going into cardiac arrest. The walls are moving. Is his room always this hot? Shit. 

Shit. 

Luke’s brain is fried, scrambled beyond repair. Probably dripping cerebrospinal fluid out of his ears like a raw egg. He numbly registers the storyline as it begins, Calum’s voice clear and crisp in his ear, low and playful as he reads dialogue and speaks over background special-effects. 

It’s a silly plotline, something about Calum pretending to date his best friend (oh, shit) while the media speculates on and on about the two of them (oh, shit) and the Luke character struggles to conceptualize his feelings for Calum’s character (oh, shit).

By the end of the first recording, Luke isn’t really breathing. Not enough oxygen getting to his brain, blood saturated with the sound of Calum. The way his voice pitches up when he jokes, the way it takes on a rough edge as he flirts. The way he says ‘Luke,’ like he was thinking of the real Luke while recording. 

Shit. 

Motherfucking-piece-of-shit-oh-hell-Luke’s-going-to-die. 

By the end of the third recording, Luke’s sitting stock-still, staring at the wall, because—

Because—

“God, Luke,” Calum’s voice says, pitched low, heavy with arousal. “Look at you. So fuckin’ beautiful.” 

Luke squeezes his eyes shut. He’s hard in his pants. Oh, Christ. 

“You’re being so good for me, baby. I’m going to make you come so hard.” 

Luke might kill himself tonight. 

Calum’s voice is like silk. Like honey dripping from a silver spoon. 

“That’s right, love,” Calum murmurs, and Luke can hear the slight rasp, the shake of his breath. He’s palming himself before he realizes it. “Go on, make yourself feel good.” 

Luke’s hips jump. Calum gasps something urgent, and then Luke’s falling back against his bedsheet, head tipping into the pillow as he lets out an involuntary whimper. 

“I know, Luke,” Calum coos in his ears, and then Luke’s grasping himself through his jeans. “You’re aching for it, aren’t you?” 

Eyes squeezed shut, Luke’s lips part on a silent moan. He exhales, nods sharply. Yes, like Calum can hear him. Yes, god, I need you. 

Something hot builds in his belly as Calum groans. “Touch yourself, sweetheart,” he says, and Luke can almost imagine Calum—warm brown eyes fixed on him, dark with desire. 

Luke slips out of his jeans, wraps his hand around himself. 

“That’s it,” Calum’s voice says. “Just like that. Nice and slow.” 

Luke shoves his shirt up, passes his palm over his chest desperately. Hisses at the stimulation. In the silence of the room, he bites down on the hem of his shirt as he strokes himself. 

“Look at you,” Calum groans, and Luke gasps, squeezing himself. Pictures Calum watching him, open and wanting, just for him. “All spread out. So beautiful. This for me?” 

Luke flutters his eyes open. The bare ceiling looks back at him. His hand is slick over his shaft, pleasure building like a tight string at the base of his spine. Shame rears its head, hot and urgent. Calum is his best friend—he shouldn’t…he shouldn’t do this, right? 

And then Calum’s voice utters something like a breathy moan, and Luke pictures his face like that day at the recording studio. 

“Luke,” he moans, like he’s dying. Like he’s begging. 

“Spread your legs a little more, love,” Calum murmurs through his earphones. Luke does, until he feels the burn at the joints of his thighs, pretends it’s the weight of Calum’s hands pushing them open wider. Luke’s mouth floods with saliva. He’s soaking the fabric in his mouth, but he tightens his fingers around his cock, and nothing matters except for Calum’s voice. 

“Can’t think straight when you’re around,” Calum’s voice mutters. Luke can almost feel the brush of his stubble against his skin. His heart skips a beat, the sting sudden and painful. Does the real Calum feel this way? “God, I want you so badly,” he continues. His voice dips into something airy, something wet with desire. “Luke, do you hear me? I’ve wanted you since the day we met.” 

Luke’s back arches off the bed. There’s a sincerity in Calum’s voice that’s too…real, too honest to be manufactured. Luke can hear it in his voice. He lets himself hope Calum pictured him in that recording studio. 

“You need it, don’t you? Need me to touch you,” Calum groans. Luke whines, high-pitched and careless. His hand speeds up, the pleasure growing hotter, like wildfire. “Need to feel my hands on you.” Luke nods, tears gathering in his eyes from how close he is. 

“If I slide my hand down, just so…” Calum teases, and Luke can imagine the weight of Calum’s hand, slipping down Luke’s chest, down the slope of his ribs, down, down, where he needs him most. “...can you feel the way your breath catches for me?”

God, he’s close. Luke’s close. He’s about to finish to the sound of his best friend’s voice. Shame and guilt blend into urgent desire. He just wants to come. 

“I know you’re almost there, baby,” Calum says, and Luke can hear a smug grin upon his lips. Calum moans, a guttural sound, low in his throat. “Go on, love. Show me.” 

A low groan, like Calum’s right there, watching. “Come for me, Luke.”

Oh. That does it. 

Luke tips over the edge, flames shooting down his body as he finishes all over his belly, over his hands. It’s almost involuntary, a low moan of Calum’s name slipping past his lips, legs shaking, abs tight. 

The whisper of what this means. Of what it could mean. 

Luke shoots upright, rips the earphones from his ears and throws his phone across the bed, breathing hard. Shock rockets through him, alongside the reality of what he’s done as it slowly settles in against his will. 

He isn’t sure how long he sits there. Faintly, he can hear his earphones continue to play the track. Calum’s voice a low, muffled murmur in the silence. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Oh, god.” 

He cleans himself up quickly, refusing to even look at his phone.

Fifteen minutes later, he musters the courage to grab his phone and hit pause on the story, like disarming a bomb. 

Two hours later, he lies awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. He tries to turn his brain off, but it won’t shut up.

Luke, I’ve wanted you since the day we met.

Come for me, Luke. 

Luke. 

Luke. 

—

This is fine. Everything is perfectly fine and well and good. 

He listens to the story again the next night. 

Repeats a segment three times over when he picks up on the way Calum gasps, “Fuck, Luke, your lips feel amazing around me.”

He gets off to it, obviously. 

Twice. In a row. 

With hot, uncomfortable embarrassment simmering under his skin night after night, Luke presses play with his hand down his pants. He feels gross. He feels like a terrible friend. 

So, conveniently, he convinces himself it doesn’t have to mean anything. Calum’s voice is hot, right? Things can be hot and friends can be friends without making it weird. Even if said friend is moaning Luke’s name into a mic for the whole world to hear. 

—

“There’s new content of Calum on Wren’s instagram page,” Ashton says casually as he walks into the room. Michael follows after him. Luke fights not to roll his eyes, opting instead to continue figuring out this chord-progression he’s working on. He turns the volume on the amp down, though.  

“Thought you’d want to see it,” Michael says, waving his phone. 

“I’m working,” Luke grits, pointedly strumming his guitar. He’s in his home-studio. Michael falls into the bean bag to his left, Ashton beside him on the couch he’s seated on. 

It isn’t often that Luke regrets giving his house keys to his mates, but today might be one of those days. 

“So you don’t want to see it?” Ashton says, grinning like he’s winning a game. Bastard. 

Luke pauses. He clears his throat. “Um,” he says. “Why would I want to see it?” 

“Well,” Michael says, splaying his legs out. He nudges Luke’s amp, and Luke wants to kick him. “Because he mentioned you in it, maybe.” 

Luke freezes. 

“What?” 

Michael smiles, all smug. “See for yourself.” 

He unlocks his phone, and Luke’s hands are a little sweaty where they’re resting on the fretboard, but nobody’s noticed, so it’s fine. And anyway, he doesn’t even care. It’s natural to want to see stuff where you’re mentioned, right? Like, media safety or whatever. 

Michael hands Luke his phone, with Wren’s instagram page open. 

It’s a promotional video. 

Calum appears on the screen, dressed in a white button up with the sleeves rolled up. Luke’s mouth goes dry. 

The video starts with a clip of Calum tossing a cue-card at the camera, letting out a husky laugh as he says, “You guys just want to get me talking!” 

Luke blanks out for a moment, and when he zones back in, Ashton and Michael are leaning gleefully over his shoulder. Calum has his haversack in his lap, and a text overlay boasts, ‘What’s in Calum Hood’s bag?’ 

Calum goes through a few quick essentials: his phone, breath mints, cologne. Luke’s beginning to think Michael and Ashton were just taking the piss. He turns to ask Ashton exactly that, until— 

“Oh, and this…this isn’t really mine,” Calum says in the video, slightly surprised. 

Luke’s eyes find the screen again to see Calum tossing a little green cardboard box of something between his hands. 

He recognizes it instantly. 

“This is Herbal Tea,” Calum holds up the box. “For my—uh, bandmate. Luke Hemmings.” 

Luke gulps. Yeah, he’s seen that box before. A lot, actually. 

“Luke, he’s…he’s a vocalist, right? So he tends to strain his voice a lot, even in the studio,” Calum explains. “I carry this around for him. It’s, like, tea-bags, so we really just need a cup of hot water. Super convenient.” 

Calum looks down at the box, and something in his expression says he’s looking back on a fond memory. 

“Yeah, he tends to forget to take care of himself,” Calum says, and he seems lost in thought. “So I’ve gotta do it for him, sometimes.” Calum’s quiet for a moment. Then he snaps out of his daze and looks up at the camera. He blinks, then smiles. “Yeah. Herbal tea for Luke.” 

The video goes on for another thirty seconds. Luke sits through those thirty seconds, not really hearing a single thing. He’s too busy trying to calm the thrum of blood in his ears, the way his heart is skipping every other beat, painful in his chest. 

When the video starts looping around, he shoves the phone into Michael’s chest. 

“Okay,” Luke says, totally calm and definitely not losing his mind. “Cool.” Michael grins, wolfish. “Wanna watch it again?” 

“Turn it off and get out of my house,” Luke says. 

“We were just leaving,” Ashton nods solemnly. “We just wanted to drop in and check on you.” 

“I’m fine,” Luke says, too quick. He mentally facepalms. “Uh, why wouldn’t I be?” “No reason, “ Michael cuts in, looking disturbingly self-satisfied. “Cool video, right?” Luke stares. “Right.” 

“Right.” 

“Get the door on your way out.” 

“Spoken to Calum lately?” Ashton asks, faux-innocence dripping from his tone. 

Luke shakes his head. “No, I haven’t, now would you—” 

And because the universe hates him, and nothing in his life ever really goes his way, Luke’s phone chimes a notification at that exact moment. All three of them turn to look.

[Notification] 

Wren

Revisit Calum Hood’s newest story only on Wren! 

Silence. 

Luke’s face burns a hot red. 

He wills the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Maybe his guitar will short-circuit and he’ll die of electrocution. He’ll take anything, really. 

Ashton straightens and clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “You’ve certainly heard from Calum, then.” 

“Re-visit, eh?” Michael grins. “You been doing a lot of visiting Wren lately?”

Luke drops his head onto his guitar. “Please leave,” he murmurs, squeezing his eyes shut. Embarrassment rushes hot and urgent through his veins. 

There’s a moment of stillness, before Ashton and Michael are heading towards the doorway of his home studio, and Luke exhales, grateful that they’re actually leaving him the fuck alone. 

Michael turns at the last moment. 

“Hey, you’ve got moisturiser, right?”

Luke looks up, furrows his brows in confusion. “What—” “Friction burn can be a serious bitch,” Michael waggles his brows, eyes flitting pointedly to Luke’s crotch. 

Luke grabs one of his house slippers and throws them at Michael, but he and Ashton are already gone, joint cackles echoing down the hallway in their wake. 

His slipper hits the wall, and flops to the floor sadly. 

—

Luke ends up revisiting Calum’s story that night. 

—

Ivan Pavlov was a neuropsychologist known famously for his ‘Classical Conditioning’ experiments with dogs, where he taught them to salivate at the sound of a bell. 

Luke vaguely remembers the specifics of that experiment as he walks into the Studio and stops in his tracks at the sight of Calum, who smiles, all sunshine and rainbows, and says, “Hey, Luke. You look good.” 

So, as it turns out, spending every night of the past ten days listening to your best friend grunt and whisper and murmur and moan into your ear can cause involuntary bodily reactions. 

Luke spins on his heel and walks out. 

He ignores Calum’s calls of his name on his way out. 

He takes care of the situation in his pants with Calum’s voice blaring in his earphones. 

It’s hell. Or purgatory. Whichever is worse. 

—

It’s a problem. Obviously. 

Because Luke can’t stop fucking listening. It’s like a high, hearing Calum say his name that way, in all those recordings. Time stretches and folds, and Luke starts thinking in terms of ‘how much longer till I can go home and put my earphones in?’ 

And he’s thinking of Calum’s face, his hands, his lips, his fucking dick. 

And that’s new. Thinking of Calum’s dick. How it looks when he’s hard. How it would feel, how it would taste. Except Luke always cuts that train of thought off before he pops a vein or loses the ability to see out of one of his eyes or something. 

Through it all, he speaks to Calum just once, on the phone. 

It had been an accident, okay? He’d just gotten off the phone with his mom, and when the phone rang he had thought Mom was calling again for something, so he picked up without looking. 

“Hello? Luke?” Came Calum’s voice, and Luke had the split-second thought of ‘did I accidentally open Wren?’ 

But then he checks his screen and it’s Calum’s caller ID and Luke’s blood is frozen in his veins.

“Um,” Luke says, then clears his throat when his voice cracks. “Hi, Calum.” 

Calum exhales, and Luke can hear a touch of concern, a touch of relief in just that sound as it crackles over his phone. “Hey, mate. You doin’ okay?” 

Luke nods. Then, realizing Calum can’t see him, he says, “Yeah. W—uh, why?” 

Calum is silent for a moment. “Okay, good.” 

(“Good boy. So eager to please, aren’t you?”)

Luke clears his throat loudly. Then coughs when he chokes on a mouthful of air. 

“You’re sick?” Calum’s voice comes through, laden with concern. God, this—this method of communication with Calum is really, really bad for Luke’s sanity. He needs to get off his call, because his cock is stirring in his sweats. 

“Yeah,” Luke lies. “Drinking lots of tea. Um. Vocal rest too. So I should probably…not be on call.” 

Calum goes quiet. Luke’s heart wrenches as the silence stretches and stretches. He’s a terrible friend, isn’t he? A terrible friend and a terrible, perverted person. Oh, god. 

“Okay,” Calum says. His voice is small, defeated. Luke’s heart wrenches. “I’ll let the guys know. See you at the studio soon. I…I hope.” 

Luke purses his lips. His chest feels heavy. 

“Bye, Calum,” Luke manages. He hopes Calum can hear how sorry he is. 

A pause. 

“Bye, Luke,” comes the reply. Luke goes to disconnect the call.

Just as Luke pulls the phone away, a muffled, “I miss you. Get well soon.” 

And then the screen goes blank. 

—

Calum went to the aquarium last night. 

Luke knows this because when he turns his phone on in the morning, shamefully closing the Wren tab from last night, there’s a new text message waiting for him. 

[New Message] 

Calum 

This reminded me of you

Attachment: Video

Something warm blooms under Luke’s ribs. He folds his legs under him, drawing his blanket further up his body as he bites his lip. 

It takes him a moment to build the courage to open the video.

It’s an oceanarium tank. 

A wall of blue, sunlight dancing through the surface of the water, far above. Colourful ecosystems litter the sandy bed of the tank. Just out of frame, Luke catches sight of a gorgeous manta ray. His breath catches in his throat. 

Calum’s camera finds a school of fish as they flit past the front of the tank. They’re beautiful creatures, glimmering shades of silver and blue and green as they swim by. They seem to glow under the sunlight filtering through the water. It looks peaceful. 

The clip cuts off just there. 

Luke watches it over and over. Looks over the frame, for every little creature. Maybe for a glimpse of Calum in the reflection of the glass. 

This reminded me of you. 

When Luke finally manages to get out of bed, it’s because his doorcam has been going off for the past five minutes. 

He pulls on his robe and power-walks to his door, pulls it open with a frustrated tick in his jaw. 

There’s a takeaway tray of some…warm drink and a to-go bag on his doorstep. 

His heartbeat spikes. 

He steps past it and glances around, but his porch is deserted, and as is the street beyond. His front gate is closed too, so whoever dropped this off is a familiar, because—how else would they know the passkey? 

Warily, he picks up the bag and looks inside. 

Warm danishes. A note, folded up. 

Inside, in Calum’s neat handwriting: 

Ginger tea for your throat. Drink it while it’s hot. 

Baked goods because ginger tea tastes disgusting. 

Feel better :)

Luke folds up the note again and holds it to his chest, breathing deeply. There’s a sticky-sweet feeling in his throat, climbing up to curl around his tongue, like honey, fresh fruit.  He’s so warm, it’s like his bones are emitting a heat of their own. And Calum’s name is on his lips like a prayer. 

Standing there, barefoot on his own front porch while herbal tea cools on his doormat, Luke thinks he might be in love. 

Because Calum dropped this off on the way to the studio. And Luke’s house is not on the way there, but in the opposite direction. 

Calum came all the way to drop this off for Luke. 

Oh, Luke thinks. I’m in trouble. 

—

Two days later, the next episode releases, and Luke almost walks out of a grocery store mid-checkout when he receives the Wren notification. 

He listens to it that evening. And when he’s hard even before Calum’s completed the first line of the script, barely fifteen seconds in, he realizes he probably needs to do something about his situation.

So he calls Ashton and Michael over. 

“You’re telling me you Pavlov’d yourself into getting hard at the sound of his voice?” Ashton asks incredulously, cocking his head to the side, and Luke’s face flares hot and red. Behind Ashton, Michael’s leaning against the wall, clutching his belly as he laughs. 

“Stop fucking laughing at me,” Luke snaps at him, who only laughs harder. 

He looks back at Ashton. “This is your fault, by the way.” 

Michael straightens, wiping a tear. Luke has the urge to throw something at him. 

“How the fuck is this on us?” Ashton frowns, though his eyes are alight with humour. 

“If you’d just—if you’d just told me,” Luke says, and then he’s pacing up and down his living room, running his hands through his hair. “I wouldn’t have found out this way and then I wouldn’t be in this situation and—” 

“It’s not either of our faults that you’re a twisted pervert, mate,” Michael cuts in, voice high with laughter still. 

Luke’s flushed so red he might explode. “I’m not a pervert.” 

“You Pavlov’d yourself into getting horny at the sound of—” “I know that,” Luke bites out. “Help me.” 

Michael and Ashton stare at him blankly. Luke looks between them, pleading with his eyes because—this can’t go on for much longer. Calum’s going to start thinking Luke hates him. 

“He already does,” Ashton offers. Luke groans and buries his face in his hands. 

“If only he knew it was the opposite," Michael sounds far too smug. “That his stupid pervert best friend fantasizes about him and his voice and his…I don’t know. His hands? What do you think about, Lukey?”  

“Just kill me,” Luke says, muffled through his fingers. “I’m ready. I can take it.” 

Ashton sighs through his nose. Luke can tell he’s sharing some sort of look with Michael because the room is suddenly quiet. 

“Alright, mate,” Ashton says. “Y’know the deal with Pavlov and his dogs?” 

Luke looks up, drained altogether. “What the fuck does that have to do with—” 

“You noticed how Calum was acting weird around you a while ago, didn’t you?” Michael leans forward, gleeful. “When he couldn’t say your name properly and whatnot?” 

Luke nods, kind of confused as to where this is going.

Ashton says, “Classical Conditioning works both ways. Pavlov played into his own trap, mate.” 

“I bet he spent the rest of his life hearing doorbells and thinking he’s gotta go feed the dogs,” Michael grins. 

Luke squints at them. “Stop speaking in code.” 

Ashton’s laughing to himself now. “Luke,” he says. “Calum says your name while he’s saying all that horned-up bullshit.” 

“You know what that means?” Michael prompts. Luke doesn’t. He really does not know what the fuck that means. And he tells them so. 

“It means that while you’re busy perving out to his voice, Calum can’t say your name without thinking of the shit he’s said along with it,” Michael says. “Luke, he’s getting turned on just by saying your name.” 

Luke blinks. 

Oh, okay. Right. 

So. 

“I’m—” Luke starts, then stops, because he really can’t string together a sentence when his brain feels like it just short circuited his entire system.

Michael and Ashton are wearing shit-eating grins. Luke’s knees are like Jell-O. 

“I feel sick,” he says flatly. 

Ashton arches a brow. “Oh?” 

“I’m going to throw up,” Luke says. “And then I’m going to take a nap.” 

“Sweet dreams,” Michael sings, but Luke’s already disappearing into his bedroom. 

—

Luke wakes up early the next morning and calls in sick from their studio session. 

It’s his second consecutive week pulling out of work, so he calls Michael up to wrangle him into making a strong excuse for Luke. 

“You’re sick?” Michael asks, theatrically. Luke’s brows draw together. 

“Um…yeah?” 

Michael gasps, loud and dramatic. “That’s crazy. Second week in a row?” 

Luke rolls his eyes as Michael goes on. He pulls open his fridge and locates a bottle of orange juice. “Tsk, tsk, Luke,” Michael says. “You need to take better care of yourself, you know?” “Stop being weird,” Luke says, setting his phone aside on speaker as he pours the juice into a glass. 

“Weird?” Michael asks, faux-offended. He hears Ashton giggle in the background. “Why, I’m just looking out for you. In fact, all of us are.” Luke pauses. “All of you?” 

Far too self-satisfied and smug, Michael says, “Yeah, all of us.” Luke’s doorbell rings. 

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. He’s really not in the mood to deal with Michael and Ashton’s bullshit today. 

“Michael,” Luke starts carefully. “Please tell me you’re not outside my door.” 

“Me?” Michael replies, and Luke can practically hear his grin. “Oh, no, I’m not.” 

Luke relaxes. He downs his glass, then traipses past his kitchen island towards his front door.

“Calum is, though.” 

Luke freezes. 

He makes a noise akin to a wet cough. Or a seal choking on frozen fish. Something like that. 

He brings his phone to his face. 

“What?” he hisses. 

Michael only cackles. “Have fun!” 

And then the line disconnects, and Luke’s left standing alone, six feet away from his door, heart racing in his throat. 

The bell rings again. 

Luke thinks he could make a run for it, sneak out through his back door, but then—

“Luke?” Calum’s voice is muffled through the door. “I know you’re in there. Just—wanted to check in.” 

Luke stares at his door, hoping that if he stays still long enough, it’ll eat Calum or something. 

Calum rings the doorbell again. 

Oh, fuck it. 

Luke strides forward and opens the door. 

Calum looks—Calum looks good. He’s holding a paper bag of something (probably soup, because he knows Luke wouldn’t be eating if he was sick for real), his glasses lopsided on his nose as he gives Luke a once-over. Luke watches his lips part in slow-motion, like an out of body experience. He pales. 

Luke scrambles to speak. “What are you doing here?”

“You…you don’t look good,” Calum says, wearing a worried pout. He’s so fucking cute, Christ. 

Luke has to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth. “Thanks,” he croaks. “You look—great.” 

Calum bites his lip, tilts his head like he’s scrutinizing Luke. He really does look great, shirt stretched tight around his chest, trousers low on his narrow hips, sunlight dancing through his bleached hair like licks of flame. 

“Luke—” he starts, and immediately Luke’s traitorous mind takes a headfirst dive into the gutter. Calum’s voice in all those recordings flash through his mind, and it takes everything in Luke not to let out a nervous whine. 

Calum pauses. He frowns, trying to read his expression. 

Luke can’t fully meet his eyes. He tries to shake Wren-Calum’s voice out of his head and folds his arms, posture tense. 

And when he shifts his weight, clears his throat, glances off to the side like a guilty dog, Calum makes a pained little noise in the back of his throat. 

“You listened,” Calum says, breathless. “You listened, didn’t you? Shit, you listened, oh god. Fuck, okay, I’ll just—”

Luke’s flushing hot all the way down to his toes. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you said not to but—” 

“ —I swear, it’s not how you think, I could’ve asked them to change the script—” 

“ —I don’t know how it happened but I got off to it and I’m sorry—” 

“ —and I even…wait, what?” 

Hold on. 

Luke caught something there too. He’d be shaking with embarrassment just now if it wasn’t for…”You could’ve asked them to change the script?” 

Calum narrows his eyes. He licks his plump lips, wary. “Wait, Luke, you said—” “Later!” Luke interrupts, voice pitched up. His cheeks are burning but…he needs to know. He needs to know. “You could’ve asked them to change the script?” 

Calum is silent. Like, dead quiet. His throat bobs. “Yeah, I could’ve.” 

Luke grips the doorframe. His knuckles turn white with the force of it. God, please let this be—

“Why didn’t you ask to change it?” Luke asks. Small. Hopeful. 

Calum’s gaze flits to the ground. He takes a deep breath, then takes a step further up the porch. Luke doesn’t back away. 

“Because I didn’t want to,” Calum says. 

Luke holds Calum’s gaze. He’s wearing a tinge of red upon his cheeks, wonderful honeyed skin growing warmer and warmer under Luke’s eyes. 

“Are you upset?” Calum asks. 

“Why would I be upset?” Luke shoots back, and Calum looks away. 

“I just…I know it put you in a weird spot, and I know the optics—and you, uh. You avoided me for a while and I thought you were pissed off, and, like…all things considered, if you want some time apart—” 

“What?” Luke cuts in. “What? No. Calum, I—” 

Calum continues rambling. “No, I…I get it, I should’ve asked, or…cross-checked, or…” 

Luke tunes him out, because his pretty face is flushed a gorgeous pink, and he’s shrinking into himself and—watching this 6-foot-something man try to make himself smaller as he fidgets with his fingers and rubs at his forearm just does something absolutely irreversible to Luke’s psyche. 

“Calum,” Luke interrupts.

Calum pauses. Big, wet, brown eyes shifting to meet Luke’s own. “Yeah?” 

“Shut up.”

And then Luke’s reaching out to pull Calum in by the front of his shirt, and Calum lets himself be drawn in like gravity—even though he stumbles a little—and then Luke’s lips are on his. 

It’s messy. Not in a charged, wet and desperate way, but like a shaky exhale, a whimper, like finally. Calum’s lips are sweet against his own, hands moving to pull him in further by his waist. The soup-bag slips from his hands as Luke sighs into him, and Calum takes it as an invitation to lick into his mouth. It feels like electricity, like the tide coming in with a roar. 

He backs Luke into the house, then against the door as soon as it clicks shut behind them. The realization of I’m kissing Calum and Calum’s kissing me back and is that a remote in his pocket shoots around his skull, dizzying and frantic with the buzz of desire thrumming under his skin. 

Calum pulls away first. Luke chases his lips, until he realizes Calum isn’t about to step back. They breathe against each other, until Luke opens his eyes to find Calum already looking at him, the warm brown of his eyes swallowed by black. There’s a pretty pink flush high on his cheeks, and Luke’s probably worse. 

“You said—” Calum starts, then stops to catch his breath. Luke laughs, and Calum smiles. Until Calum’s hand is sliding under Luke’s shirt and along the hem of his sweats. 

“You said you got off to the recordings,” Calum murmurs, grinning. He presses a kiss at the corner of Luke’s lip when Luke tries to turn away and hide his face, groaning. 

“Look at me, Luke,” Calum says, and heat shoots through Luke at his words. It’s insane, having Calum speak into his ears for real this time. Just for Luke to hear. Calum cups his jaw to guide Luke to meet his eye. “You like the sound of my voice?” 

Luke turns his face, cheekily nips Calum’s palm. “You like saying my name.” 

“I’ve always liked saying your name,” Calum admits. Luke grows impossibly warmer still. 

He trails his hand down Calum’s chest, down his torso, to cup him through his trousers. He squeezes a little, and Calum hisses. 

“So you said it for the whole world to hear?” Luke chides. He rubs Calum through the fabric.

Calum drops his head into Luke’s neck as he shudders at the stimulation. “Thought of you the whole time, though.” 

Luke laughs into Calum’s skin, and then he’s dragging Calum towards his bedroom, where his bed is still undone, sheets soft with sleep. Calum kisses him in the doorway to the room, pressing him up against the wall again, and his fingers move over Luke’s skin like he’s something precious and delicate. 

“Say my name,” Luke gasps as Calum paints hickeys along his neck, backs him towards his bed. Calum chuckles, a low and throaty sound. 

“Luke,” he says. “Luke, Luke—you’re so beautiful. I can’t believe this is real.” 

Luke flushes a hot pink, lets Calum grip his hips, lets Calum hold him in place with those hands he’s spent hours thinking of while he strips Luke of his trousers. Luke falls back onto his sheets, and Calum’s towering over him as he pulls his shirt over his head, and Luke wants to lick every inch of wonderful skin that comes into view. 

“Fuck,” Luke says, breath catching. 

Calum’s grinning as he crawls over him, big hand sliding under Luke’s shirt to push it up and out of the way. His lips close around one of Luke’s nipples, and Luke moans loud enough to alert the neighbours. 

And then Calum’s free hand is sliding along the hem of his boxers, and Luke’s head is tipping back and he’s whining into the pillows. 

“Demanding,” Calum tsks. “So greedy for it, aren’t you?” 

Luke tugs his shirt off altogether, heart stuttering under his ribs. “D-don’t—” 

“Can I try something?” Calum asks suddenly, and the sunlight from Luke’s window slopes across his features, and Luke thinks he’s looking at an angel. He nods. 

Calum’s off him, then, crossing the room to Luke’s closet. He swings open the doors and looks through the shelves, and the domesticity of it all has Luke’s chest aching.

“Okay,” Calum says, when he’s found what he’s looking for. He turns around and he’s got one of Luke’s ties balled up in his hand. 

“What are you doing with that?” Luke asks, even as his pulse skyrockets. 

“You trust me?” Calum asks, grinning a little lopsided, and Luke wants to kiss him again. And because he’s allowed to, now, he does. 

“Yeah.” 

Calum beams. “Can I blindfold you?” 

Luke’s stomach swoops with arousal. “Can you what—?” 

“I want you to focus on the sound of my voice,” Calum says, voice dropping. Something warm shoots through Luke’s chest. “And the feeling of my hands on your skin.” 

Luke scoots up towards the headboard, folding his legs under himself. His skin burns with embarrassment. “Don’t use that voice on me.” 

Calum climbs atop the bed to kneel before him. He presses a chaste kiss to Luke’s lips, even as he smiles. “Thought you liked it?” 

“Not when you’re using it to get your way.” 

“Might have to get used to it, then.” 

“I hate you,” Luke tells him. He takes a moment of silent consideration, and Calum sits there patiently, smoothing his palm along Luke’s bare thigh. 

“Okay,” Luke says finally. “Blindfold me. But I want your fingers inside me now.” 

Calum snorts a laugh. Luke is painfully endeared. “Poetic.” 

“I’m a wordsmith.”

Calum shakes his head, fond, as he unrolls the necktie. He waits for Luke to meet his eyes, to nod yes, until he’s bringing the cloth up to his eyes. 

As soon as his vision cuts out, Luke understands what Calum meant. Not having the ease of his sight, all his other senses are magnified tenfold. He can hear his heart in his throat, but he can also hear every little shift that Calum makes atop the sheets, every shaky exhale. 

“How’s that feel?” Calum asks. Luke jumps, because his voice was closer than he’d anticipated. Calum chuckles at his reaction. The sound goes straight to his dick. 

Luke gulps. “Good.” “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay, baby,” Calum smiles, and Luke can’t breathe. Baby. Baby. 

“Lie back now, Luke,” Calum tells him, and Luke’s shaking with anticipation already, blood thrumming with too much adrenaline to string together a sentence. He complies easily. 

When Calum’s hand finds place on Luke’s thigh again, he startles. Goosebumps arise under Calum’s touch. Luke can barely breathe with how turned on he is. 

He feels the bed shift. Calum’s hands reappear at the waistline of his boxers.

“Can I?” Calum asks, and Luke can feel his breath fanning his lower-belly. He nods. 

There’s a low ‘fuck,’ in the silence that follows as Calum drags Luke’s boxers down his legs and off. Luke preens at the sound—at knowing he has the same effect on Calum that Calum has on him. 

“Here’s what's going to happen, baby,” Calum murmurs, and Luke knows he’s sitting on the bed still, but his hands aren’t on Luke anymore. “Pay attention, now.” Luke swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth. Calum continues. 

“You’re going to touch yourself.” Luke’s breath hitches. “You’re going to show me what you did all alone in your room, with my voice in your ears.”

Luke rushes to comply. His hand flies to his cock, hard and leaking between his legs, but Calum clicks his tongue. 

“Not just yet,” Calum teases. Luke whimpers, a broken and desperate sound. “Play with your chest.” 

Luke bites his lip. He’s slower with his movements this time around, waiting for Calum's instruction. When nothing comes, he passes his fingers over his chest. 

The stimulation is delicious—Luke’s always had sensitive nipples, but having Calum watch him now is an incredible high. 

He pinches one of his nipples gently, and bites his lip to keep from moaning. 

“How do you feel?” Calum asks. 

Luke exhales sharply. “Naked,” he says. “So fucking naked. And…warm. ‘S good.” 

“Yeah? Your hands feel good?” 

Luke nods. “But…yours would be—” “Don’t think you’re in much position to be making demands, baby.” 

Luke’s mouth snaps shut immediately. Calum laughs, and Luke shivers. 

“Keep going,” Calum tells him, so Luke rolls his nipples in his fingers, pinching and playing until he’s sure they’re red with use. His hands wander south, back arching. He squeezes his thighs together. 

“More?” Calum prompts. Luke moans just at the sound of his voice. 

“M-more. Please.” 

Calum hums. Luke expects Calum to touch him now, but when the feeling of his hands doesn’t come, he furrows his brows. He opens his mouth today something, but—

“Patience, Luke,” Calum says. 

Luke pouts. “I want—” “I know.” 

Reluctantly, Luke’s hands skirt around his erection. He trails his fingers across his skin, over his thighs. Arches his back and moans because he knows Calum’s watching. 

“So pretty, aren’t you?” Calum mutters. “Do you like it when I tell you what to do?” Luke nods urgently. His fingers press into his flesh. God, he wants to touch himself so badly. 

“Yeah?” Luke can hear Calum’s grin. His fingertips ghost along Luke’s hip. Luke tries to arch into the touch, but it disappears as quickly as it had arrived. “Spread your legs wider for me, Luke.” 

Fuck. 

Luke’s lips fall open and he moans like he’s dying for it. He hears Calum’s sharp intake of breath. Obediently, he parts his legs and waits. 

“Touch yourself,” Calum says, voice dripping with arousal. A rough, restrained sound. “Tell me what you thought about.” 

Immediately, Luke wraps his hand around himself and moans hotly. He pumps himself slowly, and it’s like his palm is burning. All his skin feels like it’s on fire, really, under Calum’s gaze. The blindfold makes everything feel sharper. He can’t run from the sensation.

“Calum,” he gasps. “Please—touch me?” 

“Talk to me, baby,” Calum urges instead.

 Luke bites his lip. 

“Your hands,” Luke manages. He licks his palm to wet it, and Calum moans lowly at the sight. He brings his hand back to his dick, twists his wrist on every upward stroke. “Thought about your hands…touched myself how you described in—the story.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes—hah,” Luke gasps. “You’ve—got such long fingers…thought about how they’d feel inside me…” “Fuck,” Calum groans, and the sound is so jarring that Luke has to squeeze himself at the base to keep from finishing on the spot. His back arches off the bed. 

“I pictured…being on m’knees f’you. Felt the weight of you on my tongue.” 

Then Calum’s hand wraps around Luke’s own on his cock, and he’s guiding Luke to jerk himself off in quick, rushed strokes. 

“Calum,” Luke gasps. “Ah, ah, Calum, I—” 

“Thought this is what you wanted?” 

Luke tries to loosen his grip, but Calum’s hands are larger than his own, and his hold is strong, and it’s beginning to ache a little bit. Luke turns his head to the side, shakes his head, tries to say something—

“What’s wrong?” Calum mocks, and the sudden switch-up has Luke struggling to get his bearings. “Too much? C’mon, gorgeous, we’re barely getting started.” 

“Cal—” “No more of that,” Calum says. “Go on, take it like a good boy f’me.” 

He’s shifting across the mattress then, settling between Luke’s legs. There’s tears gathering along Luke’s eyelashes already, but he doesn’t want to wet the necktie, doesn’t want Calum to know. 

Calum’s hold disappears around Luke’s on his cock. Sharply, he says, “Don’t stop, or I won’t let you finish at all.” 

Luke gasps, but obediently keeps stroking himself, albeit with a looser grip. If Calum notices, he doesn’t say anything. He slaps the outside of Luke’s thigh. “Open,” he orders.

Luke tries to spread his legs, but his muscles feel like jelly. Calum tsks, and anxiety spikes through Luke at the thought of disappointing him. 

“Wider,” Calum says, impatient. Luke complies, never stopping the movement of his hand. He moans as he feels his orgasm draw closer. 

A moment of silence, then—its like Luke can hear the sadistic twist in Calum’s lips. 

“Wider,” he snaps. He presses his hands to the inside of Luke’s knees and spreads him open still, until the burn nestles in the joints of his thighs, until Luke feels disgustingly exposed, all spread out for Calum, unable to hide. 

His cock twitches in his grip. He tries not to sob with it. 

Calum’s touch disappears. Luke hears a rustle, then a soft pop!, and then Calum’s finger, coated with lube, is prodding at his hole. He whimpers from the cold. 

“Shh, shh,” Calum murmurs. “I know, baby.” 

He pushes Luke's hand away from his cock. Luke whines in disappointment, and the wave of pleasure ebbs away sadly, his orgasm leaving him abruptly. Calum laughs at him. Luke glows a hot red, then whines as Calum’s finger presses into him. 

Luke had damn near driven himself insane at the thought of Calum’s fingers. 

Opening up to take them feels like heaven. 

Luke gasps and grinds down against Calum’s hand, tips his head back and whines when Calum brushes his prostate, then spends the next five minutes intentionally avoiding it. Luke can feel Calum’s eyes on him as he takes another finger, then another, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut to keep the desperate tears from slipping out and soaking his blindfold. It’s probably the most erotic situation Luke’s ever been in—blind while his lover looks on, unable to predict where he’ll touch next. 

“God, Luke,” Calum mutters when his fingers twist just so and Luke writhes against the sheets. “You’re a fucking vision.” Luke curls into himself at that. Tries to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. So he fists his hands in the bedsheets and holds on. 

And Calum’s cruel with it, with how he dances around where Luke really needs him, how he kisses and nips at his hips and thighs. 

“No more,” Luke gasps, when he thinks he might die just from being fingered. “N-no more, please, Calum—I can’t wait any longer, please.” 

Luke feels Calum’s fingers still inside him, and then there’s warm lips pressed to his own. Luke’s hands fly to cradle Calum’s face, to hold him closer, closer, slip his tongue into Calum’s mouth and run it along his teeth like he’s memorizing the shape of him.

Calum pulls away all too soon, and Luke slides further down the bedsheets because he knows this part, knows what comes next. 

"How do you want it?” Calum asks breathlessly, kissing down his neck, nipping at the skin long enough to paint a mark. 

Luke gasps a soft laugh. “Any way you’ll give it to me.” Calum groans, like he’s in pain. “God, Luke,” he says. “You’ll be the death of me.” 

And his hands are on Luke’s hips, grip bruising, and Luke’s exhaling, preparing himself, and Calum lines himself up—and Luke gasps like he’s been shocked. “Wait.” 

Calum freezes. “What’s wrong?” 

“I want to see you,” Luke says, reaching blindly for Calum’s hands, intertwining their fingers when Calum meets him there. “I want to see.” 

Calum huffs a fond laugh, then his fingers are wrapping around Luke’s blindfold, and the light meets his eyes like a flash of lightning.

The sight before him—oh, god. Luke will remember this forever. Calum, sitting between his legs, pumping himself slowly. Cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with desire. He licks his lips and grins when he meets Luke’s gaze. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” He cocks his head to the side. “Still with me?” 

Luke nods, and then he’s pulling Calum in by the shoulders. He lets himself spill all his whines and gasps into Calum’s ear as Calum presses into him, as Luke opens up inch by inch for his cock. Through the rush of mind-numbing pleasure, he registers Calum leaving a pleased kiss to his shoulder. 

“Okay?” He murmurs into the space between them. 

“You feel so good,” Luke smiles, eyes falling shut. 

“Yeah? Better than the recordings?” 

“Haven’t decided yet,” Luke teases, moaning low as Calum shifts, and begins moving. “Say my name again.” 

And Calum pulls all the way out, then pushes back in like he’s slotting home. 

“You take it so good, Luke,” Calum says deliberately, and Luke tips his head back against the pillows. “So fucking perfect. Look so pretty.” 

Calum sets a deep, slow rhythm with his hips, and Luke sighs with it, hands slipping on Calum’s skin where he’s trying to paint every divot into memory. 

Calum keeps it steady, slotting himself inside fully with each stroke, and he holds it that way until Luke’s writhing against the sheets, arching into his chest, little peas slipping past his lips. 

“Talk to me, baby,” Calum says, and the hitch in his breath betrays how much he wants this too, how badly he wants to pin Luke to the sheets and fuck him into the mattress. Instead, he nips at Luke’s earlobe and smiles. “How’s it feel?” 

Luke blinks through the haze of pleasure. “Feels—so good. So…” 

“Yeah? This what you wanted?” 

“Yes,” Luke whines. “Yes—you’re so…it’s everything—I always thought…” 

“Wanted you for so long,” Calum murmurs, and their faces are so close, noses brushing as Calum moves, as Luke takes it like he’s made for it. “L-long before that fucking contract, Luke—you need to know. I should’ve done this years ago.” 

Luke cradles Calum’s face. Peppers kisses across his nose. “I didn’t—understand. Ah…I thought I was dreaming it all up. And then you went and moaned my name into a mic and—”

“It was for you,” Calum shakes his head. His skin is hot, slick with sweat as he rolls his hips against Luke. “Thought of you. The whole time, it was your face in my mind. Your name on my lips.” 

Luke laughs, and Calum hisses when Luke clenches around him with it. “Sorry it took me so long,” Luke says. “‘M sorry I didn’t meet you halfway.” 

“I have you here now,” Calum says. He leans in to kiss Luke again, lazy and sweet. When he pulls away, it’s like he’s glowing. “‘S more than I could’ve asked for.” 

Luke feels it then—his heart swelling, like sunlight, like warm honey. Calum, here, now. Like he’d always been. 

“I want—” Luke says, suddenly. “Closer. Please?” 

Luke nudges Calum, and he goes pliantly, until Calum’s sitting with his back to the headboard, Luke in his lap. Luke wraps his arms around Calum’s shoulders, smiles against his lips. They’re pressed chest-to-chest, Calum’s hands on Luke’s waist as they make out languidly, all while Luke bounces and grinds down. 

Luke rolls his hips fluidly, barely rising off Calum’s cock before he’s sitting back down to press him deep. It’s hot, and wet, and Luke can barely breathe because Calum’s hands are all over, and he can’t remember what it was like to not be wrapped up in Calum like this. 

“God, I want you like this, forever,” Calum says, when he breaks apart. “Want to take you apart on my fingers, leave you wanting for hours. Want my cock in your mouth. Want to tie you to the bed and fuck you till you my name’s all that’s left on your mind.” 

Luke moans in response, clenching down impossibly tight, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Calum’s neck. 

“Calum,” he breathes, and then Calum’s planting his feet on the mattress to fuck up into Luke with a purpose. Luke lifts his hips and whines when Calum bites down on his lower lip. There’s this feeling, like electricity coiling over his skin, shooting up and down his spine, and Luke leans forward, closer to Calum, like he’s trying to mould into him.

Luke’s cock rubs between them, wet against his abdomen, and it’s all he can do not to cry into Calum’s skin as he moans into his ear, begs for more, more, harder— 

“Luke,” Calum says. “Luke, Luke, I—”

“Gonna come,” Luke manages. “Gonna come, Calum, please, there, there—” “Give it to me, gorgeous,” Calum tells him, panting as he drives himself up with fervour. “Come for me, Luke. I’ve got you.” 

Come for me, Luke.

It’s an odd memory to think of, just then, as the air is punched out of Luke’s lungs. He comes with Calum’s name on his lips, all over again, thinking of how a few weeks ago he’d been on this bed all alone, still finishing to Calum’s voice. 

His thighs shake with the force of it, and Calum fucks him through it. Luke bites his lip to keep from crying out loud, holds on to Calum for dear life. Calum kisses him then, the vigour in his hips stuttering, and then he’s emptying himself inside Luke barely a moment later. 

Luke stays there, Calum softening inside him, as they catch their breath, and then—a Herculean effort—he slips off Calum’s lap and curls into the bedsheets. 

Calum cards his fingers through Luke’s hair. “Was that…how you imagined?” 

Luke hums, stifling a yawn. “I don’t know,” he jokes. “Say my name again.”

Calum laughs, and the sound is a melody that Luke wants to bottle and store away forever. He looks up at the man. Calum—his Calum, now. He’s the most beautiful thing Luke’s ever seen. 

“Luke,” Calum says, indulgent, and it curls in Luke’s gut like fire. 

“Again.” 

“Luke.” 

“Again.” 

—

They stay in bed all day, change the bedsheets around noon, then mess them up again when Calum spills salsa from the nachos they’d called in for dinner. 

The next morning, they fuck again, slow and sleepy as first light slips into his room. Luke, still open and wanting; Calum, still giving and giving. Luke presses his cheek to the sheets, moans low when Calum wraps a hand around his cock, and finishes with a gasp. 

Afterward, Luke curls into Calum’s side and drums his fingers to the beat of his heart. 

Luke’s phone rings, and he frowns, reaching blindly for the screen and swiping to pick up. 

Immediately, Michael’s face appears, Ashton smushed up beside him. It’s—shit, it’s a video call. 

“Oh, fuck,” Luke murmurs, angling the camera away, but it’s too late. There’s a dramatic gasp from the phone. 

“You FUCKED!” Michael yells, and it’s loud enough to startle Calum awake from where he’d been dozing off. 

Luke brings the phone to his face and goes, “Shh!” 

“This is what you’ve been skipping writing sessions for?” Michael continues, even though he’s grinning like a madman. “To sleep with our best friend? Luke hemmings, you slut, I—” There’s a short scuffle, and Michael’s face disappears from view. Luke can still hear him yelling in the background as Ashton smiles at the camera. 

“Congrats,” he grins. “Is he as good in bed as he is in his Wren story?” 

Calum snatches the phone from Luke, and Luke splutters. 

“Fuck off,” Calum tells them. 

Luke watches Ashton shift the camera as Michael drapes himself halfway over his lap. 

“Michael says he’s happy for you,” Ashton says. 

“No, I don’t,” Michael whines. “I want to write music. Get your ass out of bed and get to the studio.” 

Luke chuckles, and Calum’s arm smooths over his waist. 

“We’ll be there in an hour,” Calum sighs. He goes to disconnect the call, when— “Wait,” Michael says suddenly, eyes wide. “Does this mean you’ll sneak off to make out now?” 

Luke and Calum share a look. Yeah, they probably will. 

Michael picks up on it immediately, even through a pixelated video-call. 

“Ashton,” Michael says. Luke watches him sit up and look at Ashton. “We can’t let them one-up us.”

Silence. 

Ashton clears his throat awkwardly. The camera moves again, and Luke laughs when he sees Ashton’s cheeks are red. 

“You wanna make out?” Michael asks seriously. 

“Um,” Ashton says, and his voice cracks. A pause. Then, “Okay?” 

Calum sits straight up, jostling Luke. “What?” 

Luke follows him up just in time to see Michael cheekily pluck the phone out of Ashton’s hand. 

“Mind your own business,” he grins. His eyes glimmer in excitement. “See you soon. Knock before you enter—for your own sake. Bye!” 

The line disconnects. 

In the quiet that follows, Luke laughs incredulously. Calum looks at him, eyes wide in amusement and confusion and—Luke can’t stop laughing. A smile, like the sun breaking through the clouds, spreads over Calum’s face, and then they’re both snorting into their hands. 

Afterwards, Luke heaves a sigh and falls back against the sheets. “Coffee?” he asks Calum. 

Calum smiles, because he knows Luke won’t be the one to go make it. 

“I’ll get some,” he says. He slips out of bed, pressing a kiss to Luke’s shoulder. Luke watches him go, shamelessly checking him out just because he can. 

Before he reaches the door, Luke calls his name. Calum turns, and Luke stretches like a cat, sprawled on his stomach, letting the sunlight catch the curve of his spine. He looks at Calum through his lashes. 

“When does the next episode come out?” 

—

READ PART 1 HERE

[michaelswldflwr]

INTRODUCING. . .PATCHING UP ALL THE HOLES (UNTIL WE BOTH FEEL MUCH BETTER)

a muke au

COSMETOLOGIST!LUKE HEMMINGS

27. diva. owns his own salon where he does nails, hair, and makeup. fun nails. shopping sprees. feminine and unapologetic about it. glitter. iced lavender lattes. lip gloss. pearls. legally blonde. petunia's daddy. out and proud. blondie. brat. major princess energy.

TATTOO ARTIST!MICHAEL CLIFFORD

28. looks mean, is a cinnamon roll. owns the tattoo parlor next to luke's salon. funky hair colors. covered in tattoos. stoner. bisexual. has a doberman named pika. late night taco bell runs. insomniac. gamer. incredibly talented artist. mostly does american trad. certified piercer.

in which. . .a late night hair dye session goes wrong, leading michael to make a stop at the salon owned by the pretty boy who works next door to him.

author's note: hehe hiiii guys :3 welcome to my new au! feel free to send asks about them! gonna post for them after i finish requests<3

[babylonradio]

imagine being loved by me — calum x luke [part 1]

MDNI—18+

After going Twitter-viral for his voice, Calum takes a job doing audio erotica. Luke does not want to listen to it. Not even a little bit.

warnings: Romantic Comedy. Fluff. Humour. Friends to Lovers. Voice Kink. Eventual Smut. Michael and Ashton are super annoying but have good intentions<3. Drinking. LIGHT Angst. Set in mid-2025. NO SMUT IN THIS PART.

wc: 8.3k

authors note: inspired by this tweet i made a while back. not sure when the next part will be out? maybe in a few days? i hope??

title is from ‘talk’ by hozier. also im sorry in advance for how this part ends! :3

anyway. inbox is open. come chat!

come find me on twitter!

this fic is also on ao3.

It starts with a text from Michael, like all the worst things do. 

[New message] NOT A Boyband!!!

Michael: 

EMERGENCY 

EVERYBODY COME OVER RIGHT NOW 

CODE RED CODE RED THIS IS NOT A DRILL 

Ashton:

?? 

Luke: 

what’s going on???

Predictably, Luke gets left on read. It’s probably the most ominous message he’s received since all the way back when the fucking Rolling Stones article came out. 

It’s an anxious twenty-minute drive to Michael’s place, especially because the noon traffic suddenly seems to grow a vendetta against him. He keeps checking his phone for more messages on their groupchat, but there’s nothing. Luke pointedly notes Calum’s lack of reply. 

When he arrives at Michael’s apartment, it’s with a grandiose slam of the door, loud enough that the hinges rattle. He looks frantically over the living room. 

Calum’s slumped against the corner of the couch, blushing furiously as he avoids eye contact. For a moment, Luke’s heart drops. He visualizes a repeat of the horrible Snapchat Leak incident. But then Michael’s pacing up and down, phone in hand, practically vibrating with excitement, and Luke thinks it really can’t be that bad if Michael looks fucking ecstatic. 

He gasps when he spots Luke. “Oh, good!” he says. “Sit! Sit, sit, sit, sit—” “What’s going on?” Luke presses, shoving his car keys into his trousers as he falls into the armchair across Calum, who’s still dreadfully silent. 

“Wait for Ashton,” Michael says in lieu of reply. Luke frowns.

“Calum?” Luke prompts, turning to face the man in question. “Calum, what—” “I have coffee and alcohol!” Ashton bursts through the door, a tray of takeout coffee in one hand, and a bottle of tequila in the other. “Which one do we need?”

“Marry me,” Michael says, as he skips over the couch to fall into Ashton’s arms. Ashton catches him, but just barely. The coffee tray tips at a dangerous angle. 

“Don’t you ever lock your door?” Ashton asks. 

“Hug me back, asshole.” “Michael,” Luke cuts in. “What happened? Why’d you call a Code Red?” 

Michael straightens. He clears his throat dramatically, and Luke immediately knows he’s in for some serious bullshit. 

“So,” Michael starts, and he folds his hands behind his back. Ashton sets his goodies down on a table by the threshold, slipping into the room to splay across the centre of the couch. 

“I was on Twitter this morning, as one does,” Michael continues. “And I happened to come across the trends page. As one does.” 

Luke isn’t following. By the look on Ashton’s face, he isn’t either. 

“How’s that—” 

“Now,” Michael raises his voice to speak over Luke. “I’m sure we all remember our dear friend and video-blogger Tara—alias Tarayummy.” 

Pointedly, he looks at all three of them, one by one. Calum looks up, frowning. He’s wearing a pretty pout. Luke doesn’t linger too long. 

Calum says, “Mikey, it isn’t even—” 

“No, shush,” Michael says. “So anyway, like I was saying. Tarayummy recently dropped a wonderful video prank calling all her friends.” 

Ashton sits up. “Uh, what’s this got to do with—” 

“You’d find out if you stopped interrupting me for two seconds, holy shit,” Michael groans. He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, exasperated. Then seems to give up on his dramatics. “Okay, she called Calum in the video, and somebody clipped that part of the video and put it on Twitter, and I woke up to nearly a million tweets about how hot Calum’s voice is. Jeez, you guys are no fun.” 

Luke blinks. 

The room devolves into silence as Ashton and Luke process what Michael said. Calum’s looking away, staring at a vase in the far corner of the room, arms crossed. 

“Hold on,” Ashton says. Already his voice is tinged with amusement. “What?” 

Michael grins like a kid on Christmas day. He opens his phone, begins scrolling through what Luke presumes is his Twitter feed. He clears his throat. 

“‘He sounds so sexy, I need to go eat the entirety of my front lawn,’” Michael reads. He sounds elated. Ashton barks a laugh, and Calum shifts uncomfortably. 

“‘Who is he and why is his voice doing something to me right now,’” Michael continues. “Someone else said—and wait for this one, guys—‘this video just got me pregnant with twins and they’re both named after their father, Calum Hood Voice Clip.’” 

“Mate,” Ashton says, reaching across to pat Calum on the thigh. “You’re viral for being hot. Again.” 

Michael goes on scrolling. “‘I’ve been playing this video on loop all day and I’m so fucking horny—’”

“Okay!” Calum cuts in. 

Luke laughs along. It’s an amusing situation, of course. To go viral for your voice is certainly…it’s not something Luke would’ve thought would happen to any of them. He watches Ashton giggle along to all the thirst tweets Michael reads off his phone. 

It’s slightly absurd, Luke thinks, for Michael to have called them over with such urgency only so they could partake in making fun of Calum. Dutifully, the man in question rolls his eyes and crosses his arms and huffs as they mock him. 

Later, when they’ve opened Ashton’s tequila bottle and agreed on day-drinking, Luke logs on to his Twitter dummy account. He doesn’t really know how to navigate the app because he hasn’t used it in so long, and it takes a few clumsy tries before he switches to the trends tab and finds that Calum is still trending. 

And then his fingers are slipping over the screen, and he stands in the middle of Michael’s kitchen, mortified, because the fucking video clip is blaring on full volume through his phone speakers. 

Ashton, Calum, and Michael stop from where they’re pouring their fifth round of shots, and turn to stare—Michael, with a barely concealed grin, like a Cheshire cat. Luke wants the ground to open up under his feet and swallow him whole. 

Luke scrambles to shut the app, mentally vowing never to open it again, but it’s too late. They’ve caught him in the act. 

His mind scurries for an excuse to make, until— 

“Actually,” Ashton says. “I haven’t seen the video yet. Can you play the clip properly, mate?” 

God bless you, Ashton Irwin. 

Calum flails. “Uh, you can listen to it la—” 

“No,” Michael says, grinning wider still. It’s almost creepy. Luke inches away from him. 

“Let's listen to it now,” he continues. “Lukey’s got it open too. I’m sure he’s curious.” 

There’s a pointed undercurrent of something to Michael’s words, and it makes Luke want to hurl something at his stupid pinstriped blond head. But Ashton’s looking at Luke like he’s waiting for him to play the godforsaken clip, so Luke breaks his vow to never open Twitter again, and switches back to the trends tab. Finds the video, unmutes, presses play. 

And immediately understands why someone would get turned on at the sound of Calum’s voice. 

They sit through the whole two minutes of runtime, Calum turning progressively redder. Ashton giggles into his drink, Michael watches for Luke’s reaction, and Luke puts on his best poker face. 

Later, when the sun is purpling below the horizon and they’re dizzy with alcohol, Michael calls them all Ubers to take them home. 

Luke drops into the back seat of his Uber, shoves his headphones on, and pulls up the video clip. He plays it on loop for the whole twenty minute ride back home. 

—

They thought the hype would die down. Luke assumed they’d get some traction, gain a few more fans, and then they’d fade back into obscurity like usual. 

Ben, their manager, always preaches the same ‘all publicity is good publicity’ bullshit, so Luke wasn’t too surprised when their PR team wanted them to ride the wave of attention. They posted a few tiktoks, each with Calum’s voiceovers, and Luke did not listen to them as he fell asleep, thank you very much.

All in all, the older fans were happy at the prospect of more content, and the newer fans were happy at the prospect of Calum’s voice. In the scheme of things, as they geared up for their next album cycle, things were looking good. 

That is, until Luke wakes up one day to a message on their group chat with their management team.

[New Message] 5SOS Management  

Ben Evans 

Conference today at 4 p.m. Attendance is expected from all! 

This is regarding Calum and our current PR campaign surrounding him. 

Ashton 

👍

Michael 

👍

Luke 

👍

Luke doesn’t hear from Calum until the conference that evening. Luke’s one of the last people to show up, and he enters the air conditioned conference hall with his head bowed sheepishly. He takes a seat beside Ashton, who nudges a coffee cup into his hand. Michael leans across from his seat on Ashton’s other side. 

“It’s got vodka,” Michael stage-whispers. “You’ll need it.” 

Luke scrunches his nose. And then he spots Caum, sitting closer to the head of the table. He’s flushed bright red, and Luke’s beginning to grow accustomed to this image. Ben’s beside him, whispering urgently into his ear as he shuffles through a pile of sheets. 

Luke feels a pang of pity for his friend. Calum never asked to blow up, extremely attractive voice or not. 

At a quarter past 4, Ben stands.

“Alright,” he says. Calum shrinks further down in his seat. As Ben drones on with formalities and greetings, Luke leans into Ashton. 

“Why isn’t he sitting with us?” Luke asks, glancing at Calum. 

Ashton gives him a look, like oh, you sweet child. “You’ll see.” 

Luke sits back, tunes back into Ben just in time. 

“...so, let's discuss the topic we’re gathered here for today,” Ben says. He lifts the pile of papers he’d been shuffling through earlier. “Calum has been offered a contract for a feature story with Wren.” 

Luke stares. Calum exhales, and it’s like Luke’s senses zero in on the sound. What the fuck is Wren? 

Jess, a friendly blonde lady from their PR team, pipes up helpfully. “Wren is an audio service. Calum would be narrating a story of approximately eight episodes, spread across weekly drops for two and a half months.” 

Right, well. That doesn’t really sound like something worth holding a conference meeting over, but Luke will let it slide. Not like he had much else to do, anyway. 

“We would…strongly suggest Calum takes the gig,” Their PR Head, Allen, says, even as he types into a laptop that looks something like two sheets of silver glued together. There’s a touch of sympathy in his voice. The words cast a hush over the room. It’s like everyone turns to look at Calum. Luke has a strong urge to rescue Calum from whatever oppressive weight everyone’s stares are placing on his shoulders. 

“Why wouldn’t he?” Luke asks, before he can stop himself. It’s only narration. Like a podcast, right? “Why is this something we’re discussing formally?” 

Michael snorts softly. Calum looks at Luke, big brown eyes wet with embarrassment. 

“Luke,” Calum says carefully. “Wren is an audio service…for adults.” 

Ashton clears his throat. “It’s—uh, it’s like—” 

“Porn,” Michael offers, and it’s like Luke’s heart stops and restarts within the span of three seconds. “It’s audio porn, basically.” 

“Audio erotica,” Ben corrects, pointedly. “Eight episodes.” 

Calum is quiet. Michael snickers softly into his hand, and Calum’s flush deepens. He feels Ashton shift sharply, and from the low moan of pain Michael lets out, he assumes Ashton probably nailed him in the shin. Good. 

“It’s a good deal,” Jess says. “With the wave of attention he’s already garnered, it’ll reflect well for our upcoming promo cycle. We’re drawing views in by the thousands already.” 

“Wren is a respectable service,” Allen adds. Still not looking up from his screen. Luke makes a mental note never to fuck with the guy. “They’ve worked with big names too. It isn’t just some sleazebag porn website.” 

Ashton whispers to Luke, “Take a shot every time somebody says ‘porn’.” 

Luke thinks he might need another bottle of tequila. 

He tunes out immediately. He thinks back to that Uber ride back home, when he listened to the clip of Calum from the Tarayummy video until he could recite his words by memory, point out every shift in tone, timbre, every little crackle of the phone connection. He thinks of the tiktoks with Calum’s voiceover narrations. 

Audio erotica. 

Porn. 

Oh, fuck. 

“We’ve put forth our suggestions and recommendations,” Allen says. “However, we’ll leave the decision to Calum. This has the potential to alter your public image. It’s your choice, ultimately.” 

Luke logs back into the discussion to catch the way Calum bites his lower lip. He’s quiet for exactly one minute—Luke knows, because he counted the seconds in his head. To stay calm. To keep from jumping up from his seat and leaving the room in a flustered rush. 

“I’ll do it,” Calum says. “It’s like any other podcast, right? For the band. Publicity.” 

Michael pumps his fists under the table. Luke considers throwing his vodka-coffee at him, before he remembers that’s actually one of his best friends.  

So Calum’s going to do audio porn. It’s fine. 

It’s fine, right? 

—

Calum catches up with them in the parking lot. 

“Don’t listen to it,” Calum tells them. “When it comes out, don’t listen to it.” 

“Aw,” Michael pouts. “But what if I need to get off?” 

Calum scrunches his nose. As does Luke. “Ew.” 

“Can’t believe I lived long enough to watch one of my best mates become a pornstar,” Ashton says, clapping Calum on the back. 

“I’m not a—I haven’t even signed the contract yet!” 

“Mate,” Michael says, awestruck. “People are going to be finishing to your voice.” 

Luke shifts on his feet. It’s an odd idea, difficult to conceptualize. He can’t imagine how it must feel for Calum. Is it scary? Is it like an ego boost? 

“Don’t be gross,” Calum tells Michael, who only grins. 

“Will you give us family discounts on the subscription?” Ashton teases. Calum makes a face. 

“Family discount? For porn? Ash, what the fuck.” 

“He just told us not to listen to it,” Luke offers. Calum gives him a grateful look. Michael throws an arm over Luke’s shoulder. It's an uncomfortable position, because even in his massive boots, Michael’s an inch shorter than Luke. 

“‘S alright, Luke,” Michael grins. “I’ll gift you the subscription. I know you’ll be first in line to listen.” 

“I won’t—” 

“I’ll be second in line, of course. I take my ‘best friend’ duties seriously, just saying. I want to hear it all.” 

“Surprised you can hear anything with your head that far up your ass,” Calum grumbles.

That draws laughter from his mates. Michael stumbles back theatrically, as though injured. “You wound me, Cal.” 

Ashton chuckles. “In all honesty, man,” he says to Calum. “If you don’t want us to listen to it, we won’t.” 

Calum smiles, relieved. Luke’s glad to see the tension leave his shoulders. Michael nods solemnly. 

“Twitter clips don’t count though,” he adds. 

“Just—promise you won’t listen, okay?” 

“Scout’s honour,” Michael says, flashing a mock three-finger salute. 

Calum frowns. “You were never a scout, dipshit.” 

—

The first episode releases two weeks later. Michael and Ashton listen to it immediately. 

[New Message] NOT A Boyband!!!

Michael 

CALUM 

giggling and kicking my feet 

Ashton 

Where have you been hiding that voice? Holy shit, man 

Michael 

in heat rn. dhmu 

Ashton 

Damn

Gonna be playing this on repeat all day

Michael 

luke u gotta get in on this mate i can feel his voice where the sun don’t shine 

[CALUM has left the group chat] 

[MICHAEL has added CALUM to the group chat] 

[MICHAEL has renamed the group chat to ‘HOODlums🥵’] 

Luke has to put his phone down after that. He knows Twitter is blowing up, because updates keep coming in on their PR team’s broadcast channel. The fans have received the Wren story with astounding enthusiasm. Calum’s voice is the lighthouse in the storm, and apparently everyone on the entire planet is a ship in search of shore. Or whatever. He can’t really be bothered to fix that metaphor. 

His vow to stay off Twitter is in shambles, though. He’s constantly on his dummy account. He keeps seeing people praise Calum’s story, alongside long-winded-borderline-love-confessions of how hot his voice is. He doesn’t even know what the storyline is. He won’t search it up, either—especially now that Ashton and Michael backstabbed Calum to go and listen to his story. 

He’s a good friend. He wouldn’t do that to Calum. 

(Well—also, he probably wouldn’t really recover from it if he listened to it. Calum’s voice…sounding like that…saying words like—)

Anyway. 

So even though he burns and aches and writhes internally with curiosity, and envy at how apparently everyone seems to have heard it except for Luke, he won’t listen to it.

It’s like a dull ache. A constant thrum. An earworm, even. Like a devil sitting on his shoulder, constantly taunting him. He wants so badly to abandon whatever promise he made to Calum. And with each tweet he scrolls past, each tweet asking in all caps ‘HAS LUKE HEARD THIS YET????’, he feels his desperate desire etch a little hole in his mind, one that’s constantly playing Calum’s voice on loop, wondering what he’d sound like when he’s whispering praise into a mic. When he’s telling the listener what to do. When he’s moaning and groaning and—

Enough. 

Luke needs to take a cold fucking shower. 

—

Luke tries to stay as far away from any shred of information about Wren and Calum’s story. So when the second episode comes out, Luke finds out in the middle of the street. 

On the way back from a coffee run, dressed in sweats and fucking house slippers of all things, he meets a small group of fans. They’re nice enough, only approaching him with a polite, reserved, “Hi, sorry to bother you but…are you Luke Hemmings?” 

Luke had smiled, obviously, because he’s not a monster and he actually likes his fans, so he’d been chatting with the gathering of four girls for a few moments, laughing and talking about new music and sharing band inside-jokes. That’s when the topic gets brought up. 

One of the girls, a tall brunette with grey eyes, steps up and asks, “Oh, have you or any of the band been listening to Calum’s story?” 

Luke freezes. He tries not t o make it too obvious when his grip tightens around his cup of iced espresso. 

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “Nah, not yet. Not sure I even want to, honestly.” 

He tries to laugh, make light of the conversation even as the air grows thicker with awkwardness. The girls blink up at him. The short blonde—Cassie, if Luke can remember their introductions correctly—smiles a little. “But…you do know what it’s about, right?” 

Before Luke can reply, Cassie’s other friend pipes up. “Like, you’re okay with it, right?” 

Luke’s brows twitch a little. “Of course I’m okay with it,” he smiles gently. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

A collective sigh from the group, like amusement, like relief. The conversation moves on. He spends a few minutes more, passing quips and teasing them and being teased back about new music. He knows they’ll probably share their exchange on Twitter later, so he’s careful with what he says. 

When he finally gestures vaguely towards the parking lot and gives them a feeble excuse about needing to get back, they’re graceful with accepting his farewell. He takes a few pictures, signs a few notebooks, and bids them goodbye. 

That evening, he receives a text from his PR officer, so he knows those fans have probably given their bit to social media, and the fans are eating it up. 

[New Message] 

Evan PR 

Good job on handling the Calum/Wren situation. 

Luke blinks. He didn’t know there was a situation to begin with. 

—

Inevitably, it comes up in interviews. 

They’ve started their promo cycle by the time the third episode comes out. They’ve teased the new lead single, and a little bit about their album. Michael’s hair is red now. Luke keeps telling him he looks like a fire hydrant. 

“So, Calum,” the interviewer starts, and sitting beside him, he sees Calum tense up in anticipation of the question. “You’re currently releasing a feature story with Wren…” Calum nods along, chuckling and humming along at all the right cues, and Luke almost relaxes, almost lets himself believe it’s smooth sailing from here, that he’s got nothing to worry about. 

“...and thanks to the, let's say, content of the story, certain speculations have been stirring among the fans. What’s your take on that?” 

Luke’s smile fades into something practiced rather than genuine as his mind begins to race. He’s got a billion questions, and they’ll all have to wait until the interview ends. What speculations? What is the content of the story? 

Calum only chuckles lightly, and Luke watches his media training kick in. 

“Well,” Calum says. “Wren and their writing team have really put into perspective the importance of exploring pleasure outside conventions, you know?” 

The interviewer smiles and nods politely. She brushes an invisible speck of dust from her skirt, and Luke’s heart is in his throat. 

“As consumers, we don’t like to look far outside the box when we’re exploring mediums like audio as an art form,” Calum continues. Luke wonders for a moment if he’s reading off a script, but there's no prompts or cue-cards in sight. 

“Because even voice-acting is an art form, right?” Calum goes on. “And art shouldn’t be contained or confined by what we expect. What we’re conditioned to see.” Damn. Damn. Luke’s really proud of Calum for this answer. Jeez, he makes audio porn sound like contemporary art.

“And,” Calum laughs. “Really, it’s just a script. I’m given a great amount of freedom to work with what they give me, but ultimately I’m just reading a story. It doesn’t need to mean more or less than just that.” 

Michael, from the seats behind them, makes some joke about Calum finally learning how to read. Ashton pats Calum’s shoulder in approval. Luke would too, but he’s stuck watching Calum, watching the way the warm lights of the studio catch the slope of his nose. He’s…he’s beautiful, in a way that screams quick wit and poise and charm and Calum. Luke looks on as the fill-light glints in his eyes, and worries that he might melt into his seat even as the cameras continue rolling. 

“Er, Luke?” 

He snaps out of his daze. Everybody’s looking at him, and it occurs to him that this was probably not the first time his name had been called. He flushes, shifts in his seat to cross his leg over his knee. 

“Uh, sorry,” Luke says, tugging at his collar. “What was that?” 

Calum meets his gaze. Tilts his head, like you good?

Luke smiles back, like I’m good. 

Even though he isn’t. Oh god, he really isn’t.

—

So—things are odd. 

Not in a noticeable, what-the-fuck-is-going-on, outright weirdness way, but more subtle. Like, Luke can’t tell what’s wrong, but everybody else seems not to notice that something is wrong altogether. Or, if they have noticed, they seem not to think anything is out of place. 

Or perhaps Luke is just going insane. It’s about time, honestly. 

Calum’s acting weird, is what the problem is. Not outright strange, because he can still hold conversations and make jokes and play along with their silly bits. But ‘weird’ in the sense that he pauses before entering any room to sweep his eyes over the place and check if Luke's there already. And if Luke is there, then he freezes for a single micro-second, staring like he can read Luke’s mind, before his face erupts in a light shade of red, and he either leaves or sits in the opposite corner of the room, like Luke has some contagious disease. 

He also can’t seem to say Luke’s name properly. Which is funny because, y’know, Luke’s name is monosyllabic. But Calum seems to stumble over the letters, like his mouth has forgotten the shape of his name. It hurts a little. Builds like a dull ache in Luke’s chest.

Calum hesitates when he talks to Luke, now. He looks a little afraid, a little conflicted. He looks at Luke like he’s glassware about to tip over the edge of a table. He still laughs along and talks like he always has, but there's a wariness in his eyes now. 

Luke can’t figure out why. When he looks at Michael in question, he only receives a knowing grin. So then he goes to Ashton. 

Who laughs in his face. 

“Have you heard his Wren story yet?” he asks instead, and Luke’s kind of upset that they’re deviating from the issue at hand. 

“No, but what does that have to do with—” 

“And you’re not even curious?” 

Luke frowns. “Of course I’m curious,” he says. “But he told us not to listen to it, and I’m not a shit friend like you or Michael.” 

Ashton just smiles at him. Like he can see right through Luke. All these fucking puzzling expressions and glances are really getting on Luke’s nerves. Why can’t he get a straight answer out of anyone? 

Why is Calum acting so weird? 

Why is Luke so affected by it?

—

“So how does the whole thing work?” Michael asks, falling onto the bean-bag in the corner of the room. They’re all at Ashton’s this time. Calum’s glaring daggers at Ashton’s lemon tree through the window, but he snaps out of it at Michael’s words. 

“How does what work?” he asks. 

Michael gestures vaguely at Calum. “The whole…voice porn show?” 

Luke throws a pillow at Michael before Calum gets the chance to. 

“It’s not—” Calum starts, but Ashton cuts in when he walks back into the room with a six-pack of chilled beers. 

“It is a porn thing, though,” Ashton says, setting the pack down on the coffee table. Luke immediately reaches for a can. He’ll need it if he has to get through this conversation. 

Calum frowns childishly, stretching his legs out on the coffee table. “Whatever,” he says. "You're all unsupportive assholes.”  

Michael reaches forward to pet Calum's ankle consolingly. “We love you and we support your vocal promiscuity,” he says seriously. 

Calum kicks at his hand, and Michael cackles. 

“Seriously, though,” Ashton says, and he’s reclined on an armchair too. “How does it work? Do they script out all the moaning and shit?” 

Calum flushes lightly. His eyes might’ve slitted to Luke for a moment, but Luke can’t be sure. 

“They give me directions, sometimes,” he says. “It’s not really directly in my script but—usually I just. They let me figure out what sounds right.” 

“So you’re in the booth repeating the same sentence in three different ways then?” Michael laughs. 

“Kinda,” Calum reaches for a can, and it hisses as he opens it. “It’s not as, like, sexual as you guys think. It’s a real gig, man. Like, professional shit.” 

Ashton hums disbelievingly. 

Calum frowns. “You could—come along sometime. See me work. Maybe you’ll believe me then.” 

Luke’s heart drops straight to his ass. Michael, on the other hand, sits straight up. “Really?” 

Calum shrugs. He looks at Michael, then Ashton. 

Ashton says, “You’re okay with that?” “I mean,” Calum replies. “You guys have heard it already, anyway.” 

He glances across the room at Luke, who fidgets uncomfortably under his gaze. Luke rubs his palms against his thighs, wiping the sweat he didn’t realise was gathering. 

“Um,” Calum huffs an odd little laugh. “Most of you have.” 

“I’m—” Luke’s talking before he realizes what he’s saying. “I’m coming along.” 

Calum’s breath hitches, and suddenly there’s a tension stretching between them, like the push and pull of the tide, like smoke, heavy and suffocating. Michael and Ashton are quiet. 

Calum says “Okay, Luke.” 

And his lips curve into a pleased smile, and Luke forgets how to use his hands. He thinks he’d be willing to change his name just to keep it on Calum’s lips forever. If Calum struggles to say ‘Luke,’ maybe he’d like ‘Lucas.’ Or ‘Bartholemew.’ Whatever. 

Luke says, “Okay.” 

And then Michael throws his stinky socks at Luke, yelling something about lovebirds and flavoured beer, and the moment is gone. 

—

The next time Calum’s due for a recording session, he sends a message to their groupchat, and that’s how Luke finds himself at a voice-recording studio at 11 in the morning. 

They’re introduced to the writer of the series, a slender lady with greying hair named Clara, who looks nothing like she writes audio erotica scripts for a living. Another lady with cropped hair, dressed in a business casual suit, accompanies Clara. She introduces herself as Abby, the director. There’s a recording and mixing engineer seated at a console that Luke recognizes from music production. They all make friendly conversation and talk about Calum and their new single until the director glances at her watch and decides it’s time for Calum to get in the recording room. 

Luke, Michael, and Ashton stand back as Calum picks up the script. He’s got a pair of headphones on, connected with all three members of the crew in the room, so Luke can’t really hear Calum’s side of the conversation. He can’t tell what Calum reads out either, which is completely fine by him. They watch him work through the glass. 

Michael, beside Luke, nudges him lightly. Luke looks to find him smirking. “So,” Michael says. “What do you think?” 

Luke looks back at Calum. “Uh,” he shrugs. “Looks pretty professional to me.” 

Abby murmurs something to Clara, then steps forward and speaks into the mic connected to her headphones. “Calum, can you say that last line again? With a lower baritone this time, thank you.” 

Luke gulps. In his head, he imagines Calum speaking in low tones, voice dipping into something sultry and warm. 

Ashton snickers into his hand. Luke snaps out of it to see Calum squinting, annoyed, through the glass. 

“It’s weird,” Ashton mutters to Luke. “I can see his face but I can’t tell what he’s reading out.” “We’ll know in two days when the episode drops,” Michael pipes in. 

Luke looks between his friends. “It isn’t weird for you guys to hear him moaning and shit?” 

Ashton shrugs. “Not…really?” 

“I’ve seen him butt naked, mate,” Michael says, and Luke feigns gagging. “Not much he could do that’ll faze me.” 

“We’re in this for the blackmail,” Ashton clarifies. 

Luke’s a little conflicted. On one hand, he’s seen the shit Michael and Ashton have been putting Calum through. Hell, just two days ago, Michael had traipsed into the studio, leaned over the back of the couch, and moaned lewdly directly into Calum’s ear. It startled the poor man so bad that he’d spilled hot coffee all over his jeans. 

On the other hand, he feels like an asshole for wanting to listen too. It’s not like…it’s not like Calum would be surprised by it. Like, two out of three of his best mates have heard it. Why not make it a complete set?

“Go back to line one, please,” Abby says. Calum, behind the glass, nods solemnly. “I want more implication on the name rather than the rest of the sentence. Let’s try a few versions of this.” Calum’s right. It really does look professional. Calum shoots Abby a thumbs-up, then closes his hand around the earmuff of the headphones as he reads from the script, presumably iterations of the same line. 

Ashton folds his arms. Michael yawns, trying to hide it behind his hand. Luke shares the sentiment. He can see himself getting bored. He wonders briefly if Calum would mind them leaving early. 

The light in the studio is kind to Calum, Luke realizes. It dips under the slope of his jaw, turns his silhouette into gold. His bleach-blond hair looks like licks of white flame. He’s pretty, Luke thinks. Shit, he’s really pretty. 

“Once more,” Clara calls into her mic. “I don’t like the way the sentence catches. Try replacing ‘your mouth’ with ‘your lips’.” 

Luke gulps. He can almost visualize the words. He’s beginning to take a guess at what part of the storyline Calum’s reading out. He turns to his mates, but they’re not paying attention. 

Michael pulls out his phone and opens twitter. He takes a quick snap of Calum, then goes to tweet something. His brightness is turned all the way up, and the blue light annoys Luke a little, especially when Ashton leans over to look and then to snicker into Michael’s shoulder at whatever he’s busy typing out. 

Luke brings his attention back to Calum. He’s focused on the script in hand. There’s a little furrow in his brows, and Luke wants to smooth it out with his thumb. Calum’s eyes flit between Abby and Clara, and the script. 

He pauses to take a deep breath. 

“Get a sip of water,” Abby says. “Let’s keep going, and we’ll take a break after this scene. I don’t want to get out of it just yet.” 

Calum says something back, and Abby and Clara laugh under their breath. Luke watches Calum as he uncaps a plastic bottle. His throat bobs as he takes a quick few sips, and Luke’s throat is a little dry all of a sudden. He’s mesmerized. 

“Good to go?” Clara inquires. Calum nods. 

He exhales sharply and shakes out his limbs before he puts the headset back on. He draws a breath in, and then he’s leaning into the mic. His lashes flutter, and his cheeks put on a low red tinge as he seems to just…breathe into the mic? 

Luke looks on, slightly confused, but he knows Calum must be doing something right because Clara and Abby watch him with rapt attention. 

It’s a moment of just this—Calum’s eyes falling shut, cheeks dipping into shades of red, licking his lips to wet them over and over. His eyes flit to Luke a few times, but he never holds Luke’s gaze for too long, as though he’s embarrassed by something. 

“Once more, please,” Abby calls. “A little breathy, if you can.” 

Luke can't seem to take his eyes off Calum as the man gulps, then seems to steel himself. He steps up to the mic again. His lips part upon whatever sound he’s making, eyes falling shut, cheeks flaring pink. His head falls back a little towards the end, and it hits Luke like lightning what Calum is doing. 

He’s. He’s fucking—he’s moaning. 

Oh fuck. 

Oh, shit. Fuck. 

All the blood rushes away from Luke’s head. He feels dizzy immediately, mind conjuring the sound of Calum whining and moaning and gasping into his ear. Fuck, his trousers are growing tight. 

He needs to go. He needs to leave. 

He makes a mad scramble for his things, swiping his wallet and keys off the coffee table. In his rush, he attracts the attention of everyone in the room. He straightens, blushing violently. 

“Um, I need to—” he stumbles over his words. “I need to go.” 

Through the glass, Calum’s confused look hits Luke like a truck. “Sorry,” Luke says to him, even though he knows Calum can’t hear. 

He throws a glance over his shoulder at Ashton and Michael, who seem equally puzzled. “Sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Luke leaves the studio without looking back. The door slams shut. He’s alone in the hallway to face himself, the world, and—his painful fucking boner. 

—

Two difficult days later, deep into the night, after a long stretch of avoiding Calum (and the rest of his band) like the plague, Luke tucks himself into bed and stares at the ticking hands of the clock as the seconds turn into minutes turn into hours. 

At some point in time, he’d downloaded the Wren app onto his phone. Opened it and navigated to Calum’s story. Hovered his thumb over the play button, waiting, waiting. 

He never pressed it. 

—

Luke’s mom asks him if he’s listened to the audio. He has to pull his phone away from his ear and stare at the screen for a moment, just to confirm that he’s talking to his own birth-giver and that he hasn’t accidentally fallen into an alternate dimension. 

“Mom,” Luke says, once he’s gathered his wits. “Why have you heard it?” 

“I haven’t!” his mom defends, and the touch of laughter in her voice makes Luke’s chest ache. He misses her terribly. “Just—heard things around the neighbourhood. I vaguely know what it’s about.” 

“Our neighbourhood is listening to Calum’s story?” 

“No,” his mother says. Then, contemplative. “Maybe?” 

Luke groans. “Everyone’s heard it,” Luke murmurs. He has to pinch the bridge of his nose to keep from snorting in incredulous laughter. “And everybody keeps asking me if I’ve heard it.” 

Liz hums a little, sympathetic to Luke’s misery. “Why don’t you?” 

Luke scrunches his nose. “First of all, because he asked me not to—” 

“He asked you specifically?” 

“ —and second of all, why are you asking me to listen to audio erotica? Mom, don’t be gross.” 

She laughs. It's a wonderful melodic sound, and sitting alone in his room, reeling from bewilderment and all the feelings that have been clawing at him for the past few weeks, Luke suddenly wishes he was back in Australia. 

“Baby,” Liz says. “I think you’ll be surprised by what you find.” 

Again, there’s that same churning anxiety. The confusion, rising to the surface uninvited. He has so many questions. He wants to go grab Michael or Ashton by the shoulders and shake them until they tell him why everybody keeps asking if he’s heard Calum’s story. They sure as hell seem to know something. He wants to curl into his mother’s lap, tell her everything, all these new sensations and thoughts and feelings he’s suddenly noticing within himself. He wants to check himself into a shabby inn, disappear for a week, have everything be back to normal when he gets back. 

“Mama, I don’t—” 

There’s a loud clatter in the background on Liz’s end. She sighs through her nose, then chuckles a little.

“Listen, sweetheart, I’ll have to call you later, okay?” She tells Luke. “The kids are—god only knows what they’re doing now.” 

Luke exhales, a little disappointed. “Okay,” he says, forcing a soft laugh. “Tell everybody I love them.” 

“Will do,” Liz replies. “I love you, okay? Do whatever you think is right.” 

“I will,” Luke says. “I love you.” 

When the call ends, Luke scrolls to the godforsaken Wren app on his phone. He stares at it for a moment. Contemplates deleting it. 

He doesn’t, though. 

—

The next time Luke sees Calum, it’s across a dimly lit bar that Michael dragged him to. It’s been two torturous weeks of avoiding Calum and ignoring calls and messages and slinking past Calum’s name when it comes up in conversation. 

He’d been moping. Or, at least, that’s what Michael had accused him of earlier that night. 

“You’re moping like someone just told you Santa Claus isn’t real,” Michael had accused, towering over Luke where he was clinging to the arm of his couch so Michael couldn’t bodily drag him. 

“Really,” Luke deadpanned. “And what about the Easter Bunny?” Michael narrowed his gaze. “Don’t sass me,” he’d said, waving his pointer finger before Luke’s nose. “We’re going to go out and get drunk. Get up.” 

And Luke had firmly refused, so Michael had taken his stinky socks off and chased Luke around his own house with them, until Luke swore he’d go out with him if he put the socks away. He can’t be blamed for giving in. Michael’s socks smell like getting tear gassed. 

Anyway, that’s how Luke found himself sulking in the corner of a bar, nursing a Tequila Sunrise, instead of sulking at home. 

Luke’s gaze flits around the room. Michael and Ashton are well on their way to getting drunk, and Ashton’s lost his top few buttons. Michael leans into him as he laughs at some dumb joke Andy makes. Really, Luke thinks, Michael’s a traitor for dragging him out of the comfort of his home and then abandoning him this way. 

Then, like second nature, Luke’s eyes find Calum. 

He’s talking to a pretty blond with streaks of glitter in her hair. She sips deeply from her beer as she speaks animatedly to Calum, who listens with a smile that says ‘I’m enjoying this conversation’ rather than ‘I need to find a way away from this lady.’ Luke feels a stab of something hot and angry—Calum should be talking like that to Luke. Not some random lady in a bar, drop-dead gorgeous or not. 

And Luke…Luke could be drop dead gorgeous, right? Luke could be anything Calum wants. 

But that’s a train of thought he’s not allowed to follow to a close. 

He takes another sip from his drink. And then Ashton appears beside him. 

“Enjoying yourself, loverboy?” Ashton grins. Luke has to fight not to roll his eyes. 

“I hate you,” he tells Ashton. “And I hate this. I want to go home.” 

“Michael says you can’t go home till you stop brooding.” 

Luke splutters. “I’m not—I don’t brood!” 

“Okay, well,” Ashton says pointedly. “You need to fix whatever your face is doing, because you’re not going to get laid tonight unless you stop looking like someone just ran over your dog.” 

Luke frowns. He doesn’t even want to get laid. “Don’t bring Petunia into this.” 

“Stop sulking,” Ashton says. Luke tries to—he really does. Consciously, he smooths out the furrow in his brow, pushes away the downturn of his lips. 

“Better?” Luke asks, but when he looks up at where Ashton’s supposed to be, he isn’t there anymore. Instead, it’s Calum. 

Luke’s heartbeat picks up, pulse thudding in his throat like a drum. His glass nearly slips from his grip.

“Um,” Calum offers. “You look fine?” 

Luke clears his throat, blinking hard. 

Don’t think about him moaning. Don’t think about him moaning. Don’t think about him moaning. Don’t—

“You okay, Luke?” Calum asks, leaning in a little to get Luke to look at him. His voice is low, like how he probably speaks into the mic. His tongue catches on Luke’s name, and it only serves to trap Luke’s breath in his lungs. “You look a little, um, red.” 

“It’s—” Luke gestures around vaguely. “It’s just the light.” 

Calum looks at him for a moment, silent. It’s odd. Luke’s known the guy for over a decade, and it’s never been as awkward between them before as it is now. 

“Okay,” Calum says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. He swirls his drink, something thick and gold. Luke watches the way his fingers close around the glass. Thinks about the way he’d gripped the headphones in the recording studio. Tries not to die. 

Calum clears his throat. “Um, you—” 

At the same time, Luke says, “So, how—” 

They cut themselves off. Luke laughs a little under his breath, a clumsy and forced sound. “You first.” 

The corner of Calum’s mouth twitches. He sets his glass on a table to the side. “You—uh…you disappeared. That day at the recording studio.” 

Luke freezes. God, he’d been hoping this would never come up. In retrospect, it was stupid not to have considered that Calum would ask why. Only, Luke didn’t think this through before, so now he needs to come up with a believable excuse, and fast. 

“Uh.” His brain supplies. He reaches blindly for something, anything. “I had an appointment at the. The fish…store.” 

Oh, he’s. He’s really got to start carrying duct-tape around for his fucking mouth. 

Calum stares at him blankly. “The aquarium?” 

Luke gulps. Sure, what the hell.  “Yeah.” 

Calum’s brows draw together in skepticism. Luke takes a large sip from his drink, then winces at the taste. He coughs. 

“You…left early to go to the aquarium?” Calum asks again, like he doesn’t quite believe it. Good man. 

Luke nods sharply. “Yes, I had—” he scrambles for more bullshit to spew. “It was an art direction thing. F-for the album.”

“Our album?” Calum arches a beautiful brow, and Luke feels he might swoon like an early European noblewoman. “Are you…are you sure you’re okay?” “Yep,” Luke says. Quick. Too quick. God, he’s really fucking this up exquisitely. 

Calum nods. He probably knows Luke is lying. Luke’s grateful that Calum doesn’t press for more. He doesn’t want to spill his guts in a sticky, dark bar at 11 p.m. on a weekday. He doesn’t really want to spill his guts at all, frankly. 

“Alright,” Calum says. He reaches for his drink. “I’ll—uh…leave you alone.”

“Yeah,” Luke murmurs, cheeks flaring hot. He feels a little pit open in his belly at the prospect of Calum feeling like Luke’s lying to him but—what else could Luke say? ‘Hey, the idea of you moaning into my ears keeps me up at night. Also, I can barely look at your face without seeing how you looked that day at the recording studio while you gasped into a microphone. No big deal, though. Hope we can still keep it chill between us.’

Yeah, fuck no. 

So Luke tucks his drink under his chin and gazes out woefully at the bar, loses track of Calum and Ashton and Michael, drowns himself in a series of Tequila Sunrises. 

Time slips by like sand in his grasp, the loud thrum of conversation and music fading into a pleasant hum as the tequila catches up to Luke. He sneaks off from his spot, in search of somewhere to sit. He finds an unoccupied booth somewhere to the side and collapses into it. Tries not to doze off on the spot. 

Against his better efforts, though, his eyes grow heavy. He’s nodding off, little by little, the bass blaring through the speakers lulling him into a lovely little nap—

Someone falls into the couch beside him, and he jerks awake. 

He has to squint a little to get his bearings, but then there’s a shock of red hair in his line of sight, and he groans. 

“Go away, Michael,” Luke murmurs, head tipping back to rest against the wall of the booth. 

Michael throws his arms over the back of the couch. Luke shifts a little as a second body joins them. Instinctively, he knows it’s Ashton. 

“I just want to sleep,” Luke complains. 

“Luke,” Michael says, and the sincerity in his voice immediately sobers Luke up. Fuck. 

He raises his head to see both Michael and Ashton looking at him, wearing expressions that are a cross between calculated and smug. Luke feels cornered, in some way. 

He gulps, because his tongue feels heavy. “What?” 

Ashton leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “What do you think about this whole audio porn thing?” he asks seriously. 

Luke would roll his eyes, but he’s got a building headache. “We’ve talked about this already,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care. It’s whatever.” 

“What do you really think, Luke?” Michael says. 

Luke makes an expression akin to a verbal ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’ 

“I just told you,” he says, slower this time, so Michael can keep up. “I don’t care.” 

Michael arches a brow. “You sure?” 

Luke fidgets. He feels caught, warm under the collar. “Y-eah, I’m sure.” 

“You hesitated.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Luke says. Childishly, because he had, in fact, hesitated. 

“We’re six episodes in now, right?” Ashton asks pointedly, and Michael nods. This whole thing is beginning to look terribly orchestrated. Luke narrows his eyes, suspicious.

“What’s your game?” he hisses. 

Ashton shrugs. “Just—surprised you aren’t freaking out more about this.” 

It occurs to Luke that Ashton and Michael probably think he’s finally sat down and listened to Calum’s story. They probably think Luke’s been holed up in his home because he’s actually heard it already, and…found something out, clearly. 

Okay, Luke thinks. I’ll bite. 

Michael says, “Like, I’m surprised this isn’t a bigger deal to you.”

Ashton nods. “We thought you’d talk it out with Calum today, but you clearly haven’t, have you?” 

Slowly, carefully, Luke shakes his head no. 

Michael slaps his thigh. “Yeah, I guessed as much,” he nods, solemn. 

Right, so. The reason this whole act looked so orchestrated to Luke was because Ashton and Michael are drunk. They’re not masterminds, they’re fucking floating. 

“It’s just—we thought you’d talk to him,” Ashton goes on earnestly. “And we’d have some kind of, like…announcement. By the end of the night.” 

Luke’s hands are shaking a little. Not from the alcohol, but because he feels like he’s on the verge of putting something together. Like he’s about to line up the stars with his hands. Like he’s about to find a missing piece to the puzzle that’s been eating him alive. 

“What are you talking about?” Luke asks, careful to enunciate his words.

Michael cocks his head to the side, and Ashton’s eyes grow wide. 

“You…don’t know,” Michael grins his cheshire-cat grin.

Luke has had just about enough. 

“Don’t know what!” he squawks, drawing the attention of a few people passing by their table. He’s too fucking agitated to care. “I don’t understand! Why does everybody keep asking if I’ve listened to it? Everybody and their mother—even my mother—knows about it, apparently! Calum told us not to listen! What’s so fucking special in that story? Why—why should I care?” 

He’s breathing hard by the time he’s done. Michael’s snickering into his hands. Ashton leans back against the cushions, crossing his knee over the other with the grace of a man completely sober. His lips curl into a knowing grin. 

“Because you’re in it, Luke.”

Luke blanches. 

“What?” 

—

[babylonradio]

if it feels like it's right, then it can't be wrong — ashton x michael x calum [part 2]

MDNI—18+

Michael and Calum decide they want to spend their summer before college trying to seduce their hot, older neighbour. Ashton entertains it, until it turns into something more.

READ PART 1 HERE

warnings: Top!Ashton Irwin. Switch! Michael Clifford. Bottom!Calum Hood. SMUT. Alternate Universe—Neighbours. Summer Romance. Age Difference (malum are 18/19, ashton is 28/29). Weed Usage. Smoking. Drinking. Sexual Tension. Mutual Masturbation. Dirty Talk. First Dates. Shitty Flirting. Shotgunning. Beach Bonfires. Skinny Dipping. Semi-Public Sex. Exhibitionism. Voyeurism. Orgasm Denial/Edging. Anal Sex. Anal Fingering. Manipulation if u squint.

wc: 24.3k (13.3k in this part)

inspired by: Mrs. All American by 5SOS

author's note: this was exhausting!! i hope u enjoy it because i cant write anymore ☹️ kinda hate this a little bit but i committed so much of my time to this that i cant scrap it </3

come find me on twitter!

“Hey,” Michael’s voice calls. There’s a touch of sobriety to his voice that has both Ashton and Calum turning to look. He leans back on his hands, in the way that drives Calum borderline insane. Michael smirks, blinking slowly. “Wanna go skinny dipping?” 

Calum’s cheeks grow warm immediately. His hands come up to cross consciously over hos chest. “Uh,” he says, intelligently. 

Ashton, on the other hand, scoffs incredulously. “Are you kidding?” 

Michael frowns playfully. “Why would I be kidding?” 

He stands up carefully and stretches his arms over his head. His shirt rides up, and Calum flushes further—which is funny because Michael’s about to get naked, and Calum can barely handle a strip of skin. 

And then Michael pulls his shirt over his head, and Ashton freezes in place. 

“Michael,” Ashton warns. “Watch yourself.” 

The gravelly edge in his voice sends something warm curling through Calum’s gut. Michael simply grins. “I’m hot,” he says. “I’m gonna take a dip. You’re free to join me.” 

He begins unzipping his shorts, and Calum has the strange urge to look away. He’s seen Michael naked before—hell, they jerked off together a week ago—but this is different. This is…too much. Intimate, in some way. Ashton, on the other hand, stares unabashedly. Calum watches Ashton’s throat bob as his eyes travel the length of Michael’s bare skin. He licks his lips. Calum mirrors him. 

Michael’s down to his boxers when Calum’s brain restarts. Yeah, he wants in on this. 

He fumbles, fingers shaking as he unbuttons his shirt. The wind kisses his skin like a warning. He shivers. It draws Michael’s attention, and he smiles, delighted, checking Calum out shamelessly as his shirt falls free. Calum hurries to take his clothes off, afraid to be the only one standing out before Michael slips into the water. He climbs up the shore to drop his clothes at Michael’s feet. 

Their eyes meet. Over Michael’s shoulder, Calum can see Ashton, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, a lovely dusting of pink high on his cheeks. He can feel the excitement climbing up his throat, the adrenaline rush that tells him he’s about to do something new, something reckless. Michael follows his line of sight and turns. He teases the waistline of his boxers as he speaks. 

“What’s wrong?” Michael teases. “Scared?” 

Ashton looks off to the side. “I’ll watch your clothes.” 

“Y’don’t have to,” Calum offers. “Nobody knows about this beach.” 

Ashton turns away. He clears his throat. “I’ll watch your clothes,” he repeats. 

Michael turns back to Calum, eyes alight, absolutely ecstatic. Calum can’t deny he feels the same. The high that comes with watching Ashton grow flustered is incomparable. 

And then Michael’s slipping his boxers off in one smooth motion, and Calum’s skin flares a hot red as he jogs into the water. Calum rushes to slip his underwear off as well, and Ashton’s still turned firmly away from them as Calum joins Michael in the water. 

The temperature hits him immediately. It’s a cool summer night, but the water is still somewhat warm—comfortable enough to swim around for a few hours, to fuck around until its intolerable. Michael’s giggling, and Calum can’t help but laugh along. 

They wade out into the water, careful not to stray too far from the pier in case the tide picks up unexpectedly. Michael’s having a blast, and Calum suddenly remembers this is his best friend in the world, and he’s presently etching a memory into his mind with every breath he takes. He relaxes his limbs, leaning back in the water enough to comfortably stay afloat and fix his eyes to the night sky. 

It’s a full moon. The stars are bright but scarce, and the sound of the waves lapping at his skin are like a lullaby. 

That is, until there’s water intentionally splashing in his face. He straightens to find Michael circling him like a shark, humming the Jaws theme as he draws closer and closer, playfully poking Calum in the ribs on occasion. Calum laughs every time Michael touches him, even though he feels hot all over immediately afterward. His touch lingers, phantom-like. 

Michael stops swimming circles, and treads water before Calum. He tilts his head a little bit, scanning Calum’s features with bright eyes. “Calum,” he says, and his voice suddenly makes Calum want to lean in and claim his lips. 

“Yeah?” he says instead. 

“You look blue,” Michael says. “In the moonlight. ‘S pretty.” 

Calum bites his lip, trying to will away the giddiness welling up in his throat, trying to will away the colour in his cheeks. He wants to say something cute back. Wants to draw closer, press his fingers into the curve of Michael’s hip. 

Instead he splashes water in Michael’s face. “You look like a vampire,” he tells Michael. 

Michael laughs, and it’s such a sweet sound. Calum would bottle it and carry it everywhere if he could. He looks away before he can do anything stupid, and spots Ashton sitting on the sand beside their clothes. 

He inhales sharply. Ashton firmly refuses to look in their direction. 

Michael follows his gaze. He smiles at the sight of Ashton. 

“He’s cute,” Calum murmurs. 

Michael hums. “He’ll give in, won’t he?” 

Calum wants to say yes. Calum wants to say I know he wants us. Calum wants to say he’s going to give us a chance. 

And he’s about to, when Michael draws back his attention. “Hey,” he says. “We’re okay, right?” 

Calum tilts his head, questioning. A cool blush blooms across Michael’s features. 

“Like,” he continues. “With…what we did. That day.” 

Realization. That day, when…they’d gotten off together. They hadn’t really talked about it. It was a sensitive topic, right? Time and place. 

And Michael’s time and place is apparently right now. 

Calum can’t quite meet Michael’s eyes, even as the memories of that day flash through his mind. “Yeah,” he smiles. “Um, I liked it.” 

“Yeah?” Michael says, and maybe it’s just the push of the waves, but Michael’s a bit closer now. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Because it was with you.” 

Michael smiles a little. “Y’wouldn’t do it with just anyone else?” 

“No,” Calum says honestly. “Not if it isn't you.” 

Michael’s cheeks are a pretty pink shade, and he’s close enough that Calum can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, even in the dark. His skin glows silver in the moonlight. He’s beautiful. Calum wants to remember this forever. 

“I wish—” Calum starts. “I wish we could stay here.” 

“Freeze the moment?” 

“Yeah. I like this,” Calum pauses. “I like you.” 

Michael smiles so wide that it’s probably painful. “I like you, too.” 

Calum smiles back. Then he sighs wistfully, glancing at Ashton, who looks away like he’s been caught doing something wrong when Calum spots him. “And I like him.”

“I know,” Michael agrees. And then his eyes flash, and Calum knows he’s scheming something. 

“Michael—” Too late. Michael’s already raising his arm out of the water and waving wildly, yelling for Ashton. 

“Ashton!” he calls, and Calum kind of wants to shrink away at his volume. “Ashton! Come take a picture of us!” 

“What?” Calum hisses. He whips his head towards the man in question. 

Ashton’s making an odd expression, like he’s in pain. Michael only grins wider. 

“I know you can hear me!” he shouts. “Come take a picture! Please?” 

It takes a moment of rapid consideration. Calum, even from far away, can see Ashton flash through all the possible ways this could go wrong for him. It makes him feel warm. Powerful, in some sense. 

Ashton finally stands, muttering something to himself as he grabs his phone from his back pocket and starts walking towards the pier. 

“Come with me,” Michael tells Calum, and he begins swimming towards the end of the pier. Calum follows suit. 

Ashton pauses when he reaches the end of the walkway. Calum looks up at him from the water, takes in the little furrow in his brow, the way his hands shake a little as he raises his phone. 

“Hey,” Michael tells him. “Sit. You’re too far away.” 

Ashton hesitates, but then rolls up his trousers and sits along the edge anyway. It isn’t a high pier, so his feet dip into the water when he does. He shivers a little, waving his legs around, splashing some of the water. 

“Take a picture,” Calum prompts gently. 

“Okay,” Ashton sighs and lifts the phone, aiming the camera at them. He bites his lip. "Smile.” Calum does. Michael swims a bit closer to him for the picture, limbs brushing his own as he treads water. The flash goes off, and Calum blinks away the sudden shock of the brightness against the dark.

Ashton turns the phone to them, and Calum can vaguely see himself and Michael smiling on the screen. Michael draws closer, though. Close enough, in fact, that he’s swimming just by Ashton’s feet, grinning slyly up at him. 

“What are you trying to do?” Ashton squints at him, setting his phone aside. 

“Nothing,” Michael says, but his voice catches at the tail end of the word, and he’s clearly up to something when he trails his hand up Ashton’s calf. 

“Michael,” Ashton warns. “Don’t.” 

“I’m not doing anything.” 

“Your hand is sliding up my leg.” 

“Dunno what you’re on about.” 

Calum has to laugh when Ashton bends over to swat at Michael’s hand—except Michael’s too quick, and Ashton realizes his mistake too late. Michael grabs his hand and pulls. Ashton’s off balance, caught off-guard, and he slips face-first into the water. 

“Oh, fuck,” Calum giggles, as Ashton resurfaces, bringing a hand up to wipe his face of the saltwater. He shakes his head. His hair sticks to his forehead, pretty lashes clumped together as he blinks his eyes open. 

Michael’s laughing. Ashton frowns, tugs him in with a playful arm around his shoulders and dunks him underwater. 

When he resurfaces, his cheeks are red, and even though he’s coughing, they come out in wheezing peals of laughter. 

“‘M sorry!” Michael coughs, grinning. 

“No you’re not,” Calum says, at the same time as Ashton snaps, “You’re not.” 

Michael bites his lip. “Yeah, I’m not.” 

Michael’s already in Ashton’s space, and Ashton suddenly seems to grow keenly aware of the younger boy’s nakedness. The flush on his cheeks deepens. Calum decides to play along as he draws further in as well. 

“The water’s nice,” Ashton says, in an effort to distract himself, maybe. 

“Isn’t it?” Calum smiles. He’s close enough that his legs brush against Ashton’s own underwater. “You could've been in here sooner.” 

“If you weren’t so scared of us,” Michael joins in. 

“I’m not scared of you,” Ashton frowns. Calum watches Michael struggle to be patient for Ashton to gather his words in the space between. 

“I don’t—” Ashton murmurs. “I don’t like where my mind goes when I’m around you two.” 

Calum’s grin widens. “Where’s that?”

“Nowhere good,” Ashton whispers. He meets Calum’s eyes, then Michael’s. His pupils are blown wide, eyes wet with a strange new vulnerability. Michael’s eyes are wide too, breath shaky with…something.

“I shouldn’t like this,” Ashton says, more to himself than to them. “I’m—this isn’t right. Right?” 

Calum’s breathing heavy now, too. His heartbeat is in his throat. Michael swims into Ashton, into his hold, and Ashton’s hand comes around his waist to support his weight—even in the water—like gravity. 

Michael’s arms go around Ashton’s shoulders, and their faces are so close. Michael’s eyes flit to Calum, hands reaching out, and Calum joins their little bubble effortlessly. He feels more than hears Ashton’s breath hitch. 

“You played along for so long,” Michael smiles. His nose brushes Ashton’s cheek as he speaks. “Why not a little longer?” 

Ashton’s quiet, so Calum leans in to him, murmurs into the curve of his shoulder. “This is good,” he says truthfully. “We’re good. Don’t be afraid of it.” 

Ashton’s lashes flutter. God, Calum thinks. He’s fucking gorgeous. 

Michael’s patient, now. More patient than Calum, even as Ashton’s silence wraps around all of them, folds into their breathing. There’s a heavy tension here, like trying. Like he’s meeting them where they’re at, almost. 

Michael draws away, smiling, shaking his head a little at Ashton’s confusion. Calum admires how easy he makes it look, how simply he says, ‘no pressure,’ without having to spell out the words. 

“I’m gonna get out,” Michael says. “‘S getting too warm for me.” 

Calum licks his lips as Michael glides through the water, back towards the shore, where their clothes lay in a pile on the sand. 

Ashton exhales. “He’s good to you,” he says. Like he knows it's true. 

Calum can’t help his smile. He meets Ashton’s gaze. “He could be good to us.” 

Ashton huffs a laugh, looking back to where Michael’s nearing the beach now, and all of a sudden Calum knows what’s going to happen, and he kind of thinks Michael is a bit of a genius and a terrible tease. 

Ashton watches, transfixed, as Michael rises out of the water. Calum notes the way his breath catches when Michael’s skin comes into view. The shifting muscles in his back, the soft slope of his waist. Lower still, to the dimples on his lower back. The perky round curve of his ass. His fucking legs. 

Calum would be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying the view. Ashton’s mouth drops open, then shuts when he catches himself. Calum’s already in his space again, chest brushing Ashton’s back, lips skimming the shell of his ear. 

“Pretty, isn’t he?” Calum smiles, lightly nipping at Ashton’s ear. 

Ashton gulps audibly. “He’s so fuckin’ pale.” 

“He is,” Calum agrees. He can’t help the way his voice drops, dips into something raw and sultry. “Makes it so easy to mark his skin.” 

Ashton’s jaw clenches. Calum’s legs entangle with his, and Calum’s leaning into him like he belongs, hands coming to rest on his shoulder, sliding low, down to his chest, lower still—

Ashton catches his wrist. “Careful,” he says, voice dangerously deep. The authority is back in his tone, but Calum wants to play a little bit more. 

“Why?” he pouts playfully. He flicks Ashton’s nipple from where his hand rests against his chest. 

“Calum,” Ashton squeezes his wrist. “Watch yourself.” 

“I don’t think I want to,” he smiles into Ashton’s skin. His eyes flit to the beach, where Michael’s watching as he gets dressed, smirking like he approves. “I think Michael likes the show.” 

Ashton’s dropping his head back and groaning, then, and Calum’s so shocked and turned on by the sound that it’s a wonder he doesn’t dip underwater immediately. Instead, he uses Ashton’s loosened grip on his wrist to move his hand across his chest, teasing his nipples through the wet cloth. 

“Shit,” Ashton grits. Then he’s moving away from Calum, and the water suddenly seems colder. He turns, and brings up a hand to cup Calum’s jaw as he draws him in. 

“Okay, baby,” he says gently, and Calum nearly melts as his breath fans his cheek. “Here’s what’s gonna happen.” 

Calum’s slowly growing hard underwater, which is horrible because he’s sure Ashton isn’t going to fuck him in the sea while Michael watches from the shore. 

“You’re gonna get out of the water and get dressed, right?” Ashton continues, ignoring Calum's wounded noise. “And then you’re gonna lead us back to the car, and we’re all going to go home. Understand?” 

Calum’s eyebrows draw together, heartbeat skipping. “W-why?” 

“Because,” Ashton smiles now, and it’s a little cruel. “I don’t like it when pretty boys don't behave.” 

Calum makes a sound, a mix between a moan and an almost-sob, from the back of his throat. Ashton laughs at him, and his dick twitches. 

“Please…” 

“When you act up,” Ashton continues. “You don’t get to ask for things. You get what I mean, don’t you, baby?” 

And even though it physically fucking hurts him, Calum nods. 

Ashton’s grip tightens around his jaw. “Words, Calum.”

Calum flails. “Y-es, sir.” 

Ashton smiles like he approves. “Good,” he says. “I want you out of the water now.” 

He lets Calum go, and—embarassingly—Calum sinks immediately. He inhales water, then comes up coughing to the sight of Ashton laughing to himself. He flushes violently. 

When he swims back to shore, trying to will his boner away, he thinks he’s going to suffer from blue-balls for the rest of his life thanks to that exchange. If Michael sees him hard between his legs, he thankfully doesn’t say anything.

—

The aftermath of that night on the beach is a quiet few days. Calum tells Michael what he and Ashton had talked about once Michael got out of the water, and Michael, shouldering immense guilt, got off to it for the two nights in a row. Calum’s almost afraid to step out of the house for fear of running into Ashton. Even at the mention of his name, his cheeks are flaring. 

“It genuinely isn’t a big deal,” Michael tells him, for what feels like the twelfth time that day, as he heaves a six-pack of beer into their grocery cart. It’ll be sunset soon, and they plan to spend the night getting drunk on shitty alcohol—which will inevitably lead to them talking about Ashton. Again. 

“Michael,” Calum says, eyes fixed on the handle of the grocery cart as he pushes it along the aisle beside his friend. He’s turning red again. He looks pretty, flushed pink like this. “You weren’t there. It was—he said I was misbehaving.” 

Heat pools in Michael’s gut at the thought of Ashton saying that to Calum. “It was hot,” Michael says. “That’s how he meant it, right? Like, super hot.” 

Calum squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “He’s so hot.” 

Michael’s about to say something, but then they’re drawing towards the end of the aisle and turning into the next one. He stops in his tracks, because speak of the devil. 

Ashton hasn’t noticed them yet, busy reading the label of a grain-pouch. Calum shoots Michael a look, panicked, and Michael grins, completely ignoring the embarrassment in his eyes. He reaches in and plucks the beers from the cart. 

Leaning against the nearest shelf, he lets out a low wolf-whistle. 

Ashton looks up at the sound. He follows the direction it came from, and his eyes land on them. He exhales through his nose. 

“Fancy seeing you here, old man,” Michael quips. He lifts the six-pack in his hand. “Thirsty?” 

Ashton looks away, and laughs to himself. “You guys just don’t know when to quit it, do you?” 

“Not when it comes to you,” Calum steps forward, even as his voice shakes a bit. The corner of Ashton’s lip twitches. He sets the grain pouch in his cart. 

“One drink,” he says. Michael whoops. 

—

They ring up their groceries together, and then Michael leads them round the back, in through the staff entry, along the back wall of the storage room, to a rickety old ladder that leads to the roof. 

They come out onto a dirty platform, one Michael and Calum have frequented often because it looks out onto the greenery leading out to the beach, and gives them a perfect view of the sunset over the sea. 

There’s already foldable lawn-chairs set out from their last visit up here, along with a tipped-over wooden crate with an ashtray atop it. Michael finds his lighter and picnic-mat underneath the crate while Calum drops the six-pack onto it. 

The sun is approaching the horizon by the time they set out the mat and settle into place. Michael plays classic rock over his phone-speaker, and Ashton shuts his eyes, humming along. Their cans open with joint hisses. 

It’s easy conversation. The familiar back-and-forth, like passing around a joke that lands just right. Like catching the tail end of someone's laughter with another quip. Like a story that falls into place atop another, and another still, until the sky is turning orange and pink and red, and the clouds are ballooning like they’re holding secrets within. 

Michael’s cracking open his second can when Ashton speaks. 

“Hey,” he says. His voice sounds faraway. It gets his and Calum’s attention. 

“What are we doing?” Ashton asks. 

That’s a silly question, Michael thinks. “We’re…drinking beer on a rooftop?” 

Ashton shakes his head. His pretty eyes catch the sunlight, skin turning gold. “I mean, what are we doing?” He gestures between the three of them. “What is this?” 

Calum sets his can aside and leans forward. “What…do you want it to be?” 

Michael’s heartbeat picks up in the space between Calum’s words and Ashton’s silence. 

It stretches and folds, time compressing itself into the stuttering beats of Michael’s pulse. 

“Don’t you—” Ashton’s voice catches. He refuses to look at either of them, eyebrows knitted. Calum looks past him, at Michael. Worried. 

“You aren’t afraid?” Ashton manages. His voice is small. Michael wants to find where it hurts and dig it out. 

“Why would we be afraid?” Calum’s so gentle with him. Michael almost wants to let Calum take this on, because he’s always been better at words. At kindness. At love. But—he wants this with Ashton, just as much as Calum does. 

Ashton fidgets with this sleeve. “If you…just want a quick fuck, I—” 

“No,” Michael cuts in. “We…we want all of you. Whatever you’ll give us.” 

Ashton meets his gaze, and there’s something so foreign, so heavy and vast in his eyes. Michael wonders how long he’s been bearing this weight, this fear, even as he went along with his and Calum’s plays. 

“You have college soon,” Ashton says. “You have places to go and to see.” 

Michael can see Calum’s pulse in his jugular all the way from here. He waits for Ashton to go on. 

“I don’t want to take something away from you,” Ashton says. “How do you know what you want if you haven’t seen the world yet?” 

“Ashton,” Calum starts. “We don’t need to see the world.” 

“We just want you,” Michael says. It scares him, to say something so big out loud. To crack his ribs open, bear his heart without hiding. “From the start. If you’ll have us.” 

“What will people say?” Ashton manages. Michael thinks he might scream. Calum bites his lip. His eyes are shining with emotion. 

“I don’t care what people say,” Michael says. He slips out of his seat and draws closer to set his hand on Ashton’s knee. He’s worried Ashton will flinch away, and his chest grows warm when Ashton only meets his eyes, trying to smile. 

“Michael,” Ashton says. “Baby, your reputation, in this town—” 

“I don't care,” Calum says. He stands, and the conviction in his voice is stark, like the first bolt of lightning in a rainstorm. “I hate everyone here. We’ll go away.” 

Ashton laughs, humourless. It’s odd, seeing such a gorgeous man, so full of life and confidence and arrogance and smooth charm—seeing him this way, like he’s on his knees, like he’s begging. 

“You can’t,” he says. There’s an air of finality in his voice that scares Michael terribly. Calum moves, comes to sit on the floor beside him, between Ashton’s thighs. 

“Please,” he says. “We don’t care what people think. This—we could be good together.” 

Ashton’s fingers tighten around his can, and he shifts, shrinking away from Calum’s touch. Michael watches it register in Calum’s eyes, watches his breath catch, hurt. 

God, it didn’t even fucking occur to Michael how all this must’ve felt for Ashton. All this fear, this feeling out-of-place, this selfless care for the way their lives would turn out. All this, just because a pair of teenagers fucked around a bit too much, got too invested.  

“I can’t do that to you,” Ashton says again. And then the chair scrapes as he stands, and he’s gone. 

—

Calum takes it really hard. His shoulder hurts from laying on the sofa all day, but he doesn’t feel like doing much else. Scrolling on his phone is like scrolling through miles of bullshit and misery and gloom. He doesn’t feel like eating or drinking. 

Michael isn’t faring much better. He’s been curled up on the loveseat since Calum walked into the room, awake even before him for the first time ever. He just frowns and stares into space and occasionally gasps like he’s thought of something, before it fades into silence again. 

They’re too far apart, Calum thinks. He doesn’t need the strings in his heart to be stretched further than they already are. 

He rises from his place, wincing as his shoulder protests, and crosses the room. He falls into place beside Michael on the little couch. Michael opens up his side like he’s been here before, and Calum curls into him. Limbs touching, counting Michael’s heartbeats, Calum feels marginally warmer again. 

“We fucked up,” Calum says. His voice sounds foreign to him, too small, too guilty.

“We didn’t fuck up,” Michael says, stubborn. Calum is quiet, because he knows he doesn’t need to say anything for Michael to know he’s sceptical. 

“We didn’t,” Michael insists. He tilts his head to rest it sideways against Calum’s. The weight is welcome. “He…everything about him said he wanted us too.” 

Calum sighs through his nose. Feels his diaphragm rise with it. “I miss him. I miss the stupid fucking flirting.” 

Ashton got lost in his head. That’s all there is to it. Calum wants to understand his perspective too, but—what does it matter how people see it? They have each other. Shouldn’t that be what matters? Shouldn’t that be enough? 

Michael laughs lightly, but it’s a dull sound. His heart isn’t in it. 

“Calum,” he says, after a silence. “I want to fix this.” 

Calum smiles. He’s picking at his fingernails, now. “I don’t know how to.” 

Michael sits up. It jostles Calum, so he moves to face Michael. There’s a kind of determination in Michael’s eyes that makes Calum giddy. 

“I know how,” Michael says. Calum waits for him to go on, but Michael purses his lips and plays with the fraying threads of a throw-pillow. 

“Um,” Michael starts. “It’s not…right. You might not like it.” 

Calum’s brows furrow. He cocks his head to the side, questioning. 

“It’ll get worse before it gets better,” Michael continues. “But I know he wants this too, he’s just…stuck in limbo, or something.”  

Before Calum can think twice about it, he’s reaching across to take Michael’s hand in his own. He smiles a little when Michael meets his eyes. 

“Okay,” Calum says. “Tell me.” 

—

Ultimately, Michael thinks, they’re doing the same thing they’ve been doing from the start. 

They give it another two days before they decide to do something. He misses Ashton terribly. Misses his stupid fucking face and his stupid beard and his stupid eyes and his stupid smile and his stupid—

Calum knocks on Ashton’s front door like he’s knocking at death’s door. Michael wants to take his hand, tell him to calm down, it’s just Ashton. 

It takes longer than it should for Ashton to open the door to them. When Michael sees his face, after nearly a whole week of sulking and silence, it’s like a knot unties itself in his chest. He exhales under his breath, relieved just at the sight of him. 

But Ashton doesn’t smile, even though Michael catches how some of the tension dissolves from his face. He waits for them to speak. His posture says he’s tired beyond words. 

“Hi,” Calum smiles. His voice is sweet. When Ashton doesn’t reply, Calum shifts on his feet, and continues. 

“We…wanted to apologize,” he says. “For that day on the rooftop.” 

“We’ve been pushing you,” Michael adds. “You weren’t ready, and we’ll take it back if…” 

“If?” Ashton asks. There’s a hitch in his breath as he speaks. 

Michael meets his eyes. “If you want us to, we’ll take it all back.” 

“We can—” Calum tries. “We can walk away, if you want us to.” 

Ashton is silent. Hope blooms underneath Michael’s ribs, fresh and warm. 

“Or…if you’ll let us, we want to make it up to you,” Calum continues, smiling more surely now. “Over drinks. As friends.” 

“Just friends,” Michael promises, even though he’d be lying through his teeth. 

He hears Ashton inhale, bite his lip in contemplation, in concern for whatever they’re planning. Some sadistic part of Michael thinks: Good. You should worry. 

The silence stretches. Michael and Calum wait, patient, for Ashton to find his footing. For him to realise he can’t say no because he doesn’t want to. And when Ashton’s resolve shakes, Calum takes a small step forward, into his space. 

“Please,” he murmurs, cheeks glowing a pretty pink shade from the proximity. “Just once. One drink?” 

Ashton scans his face. Michael knows Calum’s poker face is rock solid, unbreakable. He almost wants to laugh. If only his chest wasn't aching in anticipation. 

“Fuck,” Ashton says, more to himself than to them. “Shit, okay.” 

He steps back into his house. “Give me a few minutes,” he says, eyes downcast. “I’ll drive us.” 

The door shuts in their faces. Calum turns to Michael, smile so bright he’s practically glowing. And Michael thinks he might kiss Calum right there. 

—

Ashton’s jeep is fucking massive. Michael thinks he could probably sit Calum comfortably in his lap in the passenger seat. He navigates while Calum stares out the back window, down to a lesser-known bar they frequent near the beach.

Ashton scrunches his nose as they walk in, and Michael agrees, because the music really is far too loud. Calum doesn’t seem to mind, though, already nodding along to the beat as they search for a booth. Calum insists they sit closer to the bar, so they’ve got a good view of the dance floor as it slowly fills out. 

As expected, it’s awkward at first. Calum downs two cocktails, and Michael’s close behind. It helps take the edge off. The conversation flows easier. Ashton nurses his beer, easing up as the night goes on. 

Calum and Michael stray clear of making any sort of moves. They laugh and joke, but deliberately avoid flirting whatsoever. If this has to work, they need to make sure Ashton wants it badly enough to take the reins. 

Until, two drinks in, Calum sighs dramatically, and slams his glass down on the table. “I’m bored. I want to dance.” 

Ashton blinks, like he’s going to say something, but then Calum’s out of his seat and traipsing into the crowd gathered on the floor. The speakers are playing something catchy and drum-heavy, and Michael watches as Calum lets go immediately. 

It’s mesmerizing, the way he moves. He’s quick on his feet on an average day, but the way he dances always catches Michael’s attention. Like he knows he’s pretty. Like he holds the beat in his hips. Like he knows he’s being looked at—because he is. Michael glances sideways at Ashton. His eyes are fixed on Calum as he brings his bottle to his lips to sip deeply from it. 

“He’s drunk,” Ashton notes. His voice is heavy. Michael masks his grin by taking a sip of his own. 

“He isn’t,” Michael says. “He’s just happy.” 

Ashton’s eyes flit to his own in search of an explanation. 

“He’s been tense,” Michael says. “He should have this, no? He’s letting loose a little.” 

Ashton gulps. “Tense?” 

Michael nods. Calum throws his head back, laughing as an older lady on the dance floor takes his hand and playfully twirls him. He pulls her into a little two-step. Michael’s heart stutters at how carefree Calum looks. 

“He really wanted you to want him,” Michael continues, still watching Calum. “I did too.” 

He pauses. “I do.” 

“Michael,” Ashton says. His voice is strained. “I can’t. You know that.” 

Michael smiles, mirthless, because it inevitably stings. “You’re scared,” he tells Ashton. 

“For you,” Ashton stresses. “Scared for you.” 

Michael whips his head around. “Why? I’m not scared. Calum isn’t.” He can’t help the bite in his voice. “You’re a coward.” 

Ashton shoots him a look, like behave. Michael shakes his head. “No,” he says. “You don't get to do that.” 

“You’re lashing out,” Ashton says. There’s a ticking vein in his jaw. “Michael. You aren’t being fair.” 

Michael downs his drink in one go. “I’m gonna go join Calum.” 

Ashton’s brows draw together, and he goes to say something, but Michael’s already out of his seat. He refuses to look back at Ashton as he crosses over to Calum, who’s swaying his hips to a song, lost completely to the rhythm. 

Michael alerts Calum to his presence with a hand on the slope of his waist. Calum’s eyes come open, and he smiles as Michael crowds into him, pressing himself up against Calum. Calum’s flush against his chest, his hand coming up to pull Michael in by the neck. 

Michael smiles into the curve of Calum’s neck, tries not to groan at the punch of arousal in his gut as Calum basically grinds into him. 

Michael presses a barely-there kiss into Calum’s skin, traces a line up to his ear. “Is he watching?” he asks. 

Calum huffs, the sound heady with arousal. He blinks, and Michael feels him turn his head in the direction of their table, of Ashton. 

“Yeah,” Calum breathes. Michael slides his hand along the waistline of Calum’s jeans, fingers dipping under his shirt. “He looks upset.” 

“Yeah?” 

Michael nips at Calum’s earlobe, and—yeah, they’re grinding on the dance floor now. Calum exhales shakily, and Michael has a grip on his waist that’s definitely painful, but Calum only gasps like he wants more. 

Michael risks a glance towards Ashton, and his knees nearly give out at the sight. Ashton is—he’s glaring. His jaw is clenched, fingers tight around the neck of his bottle. His cheeks wear a low flush, but Michael can’t tell if it's out of frustration or arousal. In this light, the look on his face has heat coiling in his gut. 

Calum rolls bodily against him, and Michael has to turn his head into Calum’s shoulder to keep from being too loud. “Calum.” 

Calum gasps a laugh. “Michael,” he says. “He’s leaving.” 

Michael takes his time looking up. He spots Ashton, just as he disappears out of sight through the back door by the bar. His wallet and keys are still on the table, so Michael knows he’s coming back. 

“Mikey,” Calum says, looking towards the door through which Ashton left. “Should we…?” 

Michael pauses. He almost wants to say fuck it and stay here all night, pressed up against Calum while he gasps into his ear. On the other hand—this is what they’ve planned for. 

So he steps away from Calum, and takes his hand to lead him outside.  

—

Ashton just wanted a fucking smoke. Just ten minutes of silence before he had to go back inside and try not to blow his brains out from having to watch Calum and Michael beg for him, and then say no. He knows he isn’t the most virtuous person, but you’d think the universe would be willing to give him the length of one singular fucking cigarette. 

“Thought you said that isn’t good for you,” comes Calum’s voice, smiling. 

He looks to the entry of the alleyway he’s standing in, and spots two distinct silhouettes. He’d recognize them anywhere. 

Calum steps into the alley. Ashton takes another drag with shaky fingers. Fuck, he thought he’d hidden himself pretty well. The alley was hidden a ways down the end of the street, behind an unused dumpster and a pile of rotting logs. The road was deserted either way.

“If you’re looking to hide, this is a terrible spot,” Michael says, following behind Calum. 

“I don’t know why you’d care,” Ashton snaps. He’s bitter, and there’s only so long he can keep the poison from dripping off his lips. 

“Why wouldn’t we?” Calum asks. He’s drawing close. Ashton takes a step back to lean against the wall and shuts his eyes for a moment. He really can’t handle this right now. 

“You know how we feel, don’t you?” Calum continues. 

When Ashton opens his eyes next, Calum is barely a few inches from his face. Michael leans against the wall beside him, arms crossed, expression schooled. Ashton doesn’t know what’s happening. 

“I really don’t think we’re reading this wrong,” Michael starts, and Ashton’s heartbeat immediately picks up. “But stop him if this isn’t something you want, okay?” 

Stop…him? 

Ashton looks back to Calum, watches as he bites his plump lower lip upon a shy smile, and drops to his knees at Ashton’s feet. 

“I have a feeling you won’t, though,” Michael says, and Ashton can hear the smug grin in his voice. 

Calum’s hands go to Ashton’s belt, and his brain melts straight out of his ears. By the time he manages to get his systems back online, Calum’s already palming him through his trousers. 

“Calum,” he croaks, because his mouth has gone dry. “Calum, you don’t—you shouldn’t—” 

“I want to,” Calum says. It’s like there’s stars shining in his eyes as he looks up at Ashton from under thick lashes. “Please.” 

Ashton goes to protest, but then Calum wraps his hand around the outline of his cock, and Michael’s dragging him into a searing kiss with a hand on his jaw. 

Ashton moans into his mouth—it’s like a weight lifts off his chest as Michael kisses him, sucks at his bottom lip like a man starved. Ashton pulls him in, wrapping a hand around his waist, and Michael arches into him beautifully. He licks along the line of Ashton’s teeth, whining into him for more. Ashton nips at his lower lip and swallows the sounds he makes, etching the feeling of his lips against his own into memory. 

But then Ashton breaks away with a gasp when Calum drags him out of his boxers and wraps a dry hand around his cock. Michael’s pupils are blown wide, pretty pink lips glistening with saliva as he watches. 

Calum licks a wet stripe up his palm and takes Ashton in his palm again, pumping once, twice, licking his lips, waiting for Ashton to grow fully hard.  

“I wanted—” Calum gasps. “Wanted this for so long. Wanted to suck you off on your porch the first time I saw you.” 

Shit. 

Michael mouths along his jaw, down his neck. “Talked about you,” Michael says into his skin. “While we touched ourselves. About what we wanted to do t’you.” 

It’s like the world is swiped out from under Ashton’s feet. He pictures them, hands wrapped around themselves, whispering his name over and over. 

Calum wraps his lips around the head of Ashton’s cock and sucks. Ashton drops his head back against the wall and groans. “Shit, Calum,” he says.

Calum takes him further into his mouth, twisting his wrist just right over the size he can’t fit inside. His throat takes Ashton wonderfully, tight and warm and—Ashton’s back arches off the wall when Calum tongues along the ridge of the head of his dick. He moans, something like a prayer. 

Calum makes a dissatisfied sound, and Ashton feels Michael grin where he’s trying to mark a spot along Ashton’s jaw. 

“He wants you to look,” Michael says, and Ashton thinks he’s never been this attracted to anyone in his whole life. “He needs you to look. ‘S what does it for him.”

And Ashton does. He looks, and Calum hums deliciously around him, sending shocks of pleasure up his spine. 

“Look like sin on y’knees, baby,” Ashton says. Calum moans. He really does look incredible. Lips stretched wide, doe-eyes dark and wet with tears as he struggles to swallow Ashton down. “Made for sucking cock, weren’t you?” 

Michael’s playing with the top buttons of Ashton’s shirt. Ashton moves his hand from the boy’s waist, presses the heel of his palm into the tent in his trousers. He whines, high in his throat. 

“Gotta be quiet,” Ashton says. “Don’t wanna get caught, right, Mikey?” 

Michael tries to hide his face in Ashton’s shirt, but Ashton takes him by the jaw. “Look at me.” 

Michael raises his gaze to look at Ashton. He looks good like this, flushed red, hair mussed, cheeks squeezed between Ashton’s long fingers. Calum swirls his tongue, and Ashton’s hips jump as he hisses. He hears the sweet sound of Calum gagging softly. 

“Planned this, did you?” he asks, and Michael shakes his head, brows knitted. “No? You didn’t follow me out here to suck my cock?” 

He looks down at Calum, whose jaw goes slack as he tries to take more of Ashton. “Ah—mind the teeth, princess.” 

Michael’s hand comes up to wrap around Ashton’s and he moves it deliberately off his face. Guides Ashton’s fingers into Calum’s hair. 

“Pay attention,” Michael tells him, moving off the wall to go sit on his knees behind Calum. He spreads his thighs, so he’s flush against the younger boy. He kisses along the slope of Calum’s shoulder, wraps his hand around Calum’s on Ashton’s shaft. He places a gentle hand between Calum’s shoulders, whispering something that has his eyes falling shut as Michael pushes him to take Ashton further down his throat. 

Ashton savours the wet heat, the slick sound of Calum’s mouth moving over him, the way his cheeks hollow around him. Spit gathers in his mouth, then spills past, trailing down his chin, and the sight is so painfully erotic that Ashton worries for a moment that he’s going to finish on the spot. 

It’s a wet fucking dream—two of the prettiest boys he’s ever seen, on their knees for him. Looking up at him like he holds everything in the palm of his hand. Calum chokes, and his throat tightens. Ashton thinks he’s far too close to finishing, far too early in the night, so he uses the hand in his hair to tug him off. 

Calum coughs, but Ashton doesn’t let him catch his breath before he’s swiping the spit from his bottom lip with his thumb and pressing it into his mouth. Obediently, Calum licks and hollows his cheeks around the digit. Michael slides his arms around Calum’s waist and presses down on the outline of his cock. When Calum groans at the feeling, Ashton decides he’s had enough. 

“Get in the car,” he says. “Now.” 

—

As soon as he unlocks the car, Michael’s settling into the passenger-side seat and dropping the backrest all the way down. Calum climbs over him and straddles his lap immediately. 

Ashton watches, hand frozen on the steering wheel, as Calum grasps Michael’s face and kisses him like he’s trying to memorize the shape of his lips. The streetlight traces their outlines into something holy, and Calum gasps like he's breathing for the first time.

Michael moans into Calum’s mouth. Their lips meet like fire, like desperation. Calum grinds down at the same time as Michael’s hands slide up Calum’s thighs to palm his ass. Ashton can hear their breaths stuttering, all gasps and moans and sharp inhales. He catches a slip of tongue, the way Michael arches up to curve further into Calum’s body. 

Fuck, Ashton thinks. Fuck, he needs to get them home, he—he can’t sit here all night, and he sure as hell isn’t about to fuck them in a bar parking lot. 

It’s the most painful drive of his life. He keeps looking over, mouth going dry at just how absorbed the boys are in each-other. The way their hands travel over each other shamelessly, the way they bite and laugh and whimper. He counts his breaths, fixes both his hands on the steering wheel, and wills his boner to just wait a few minutes. 

He’s probably speeding. It’s just—Michael and Calum make for the hottest sight he’s ever seen, and they’re in the front seat of his car, making out, messy, desperate, wet. Calum keeps making these sounds, and Michael’s so eager with the way he presses into Calum. 

“Michael,” Calum gasps, as Michael licks and nips along Calum’s neck. “Michael, Michael, M—” 

“Shit,” Ashton grits, turning to see Michael slip his thumb past Calum’s lips. “Guys, can you—” 

“Eyes on the road,” Michael’s voice cuts in, grinning cruelly, smugly. Ashton grits his teeth. He can’t drive the car at a sane speed when he can see how they’re both hard and leaking, grinding into each other like they’re in heat. Like Calum’s prepared to undo Michael’s trousers right there and ride him in Ashton’s jeep. 

The image shocks him into sobriety just as he pulls into his driveway. It’s a clumsy rush to get out of the car, Michael pressing close as Ashton fumbles with his house keys and jams them home, shoving the door open. Michael drags Calum in after him, and the door isn’t even shut properly when Michael pins Calum back against it and immediately goes to attach his lips to the underside of Calum’s jaw. 

“Ah,” Ashton says, because he’s had just about enough. He plays nice when he crowds into Michael, then tangles his fingers in the hair along the base of Michael’s skull and yanks harshly. Michael’s head falls back with a moan. 

Ashton presses a kiss to the corner of Michael’s lips. “So fuckin’ greedy, Michael.” 

Michael mewls, eyes rolling shut—but Ashton tightens his grip and savours the sounds he makes. 

“Put these clever hands to use f’me, Mikey,” Ashton says, voice low. Michael bites his lip and nods. 

“Anything,” he breathes. 

Ashton grins into Michael's skin. “Go make me a drink, baby,” he says. 

Michael’s eyes snap open. “W-wha—” 

“Interrupted my drink back at the bar with your little dance number,” Ashton murmurs. “I think you owe me this, don’t you agree?” 

Michael’s cheeks flush a bright shade. Ashton lets go of Michael’s hair and tips his head towards the bar cabinet in the far corner of the room. “Whiskey on the rocks, please.” 

Michael inhales sharply as he steps back from Calum. “Yes, sir.”

Ashton watches Michael go, chuckling lowly when he trips over the corner of the carpet in his haste. Michael looks back once, flushing, and Ashton just arches a brow. Michael shakes his head, and walks over to the cabinet, looking through the shelves for the right bottle. 

Ashton turns back to Calum, who’s still leaning against the door, biting his lip, batting his eyelashes. “Hi,” he tries, shy. 

“Hi, gorgeous,” Ashton smiles. He takes Calum by the jaw and crowds him against the door to kiss him. Calum whines, and his arms go around Ashton’s neck to deepen the kiss. Ashton entertains him for a moment, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and sucking on it like he’s wanted for so long.

At that, Calum’s knees give out. Ashton grins against his lips as he pulls away. Calum makes a wounded sound and Ashton hears Michael’s grip slip on something with a soft clink. 

“Calum,” Ashton says, leaning in to press a line of kisses along his jaw and down the curve of his shoulder. One, two, three, four. “Strip for me, baby.” 

It takes a moment for the instructions to register. When his words sink in, he feels Calum stiffen, feels the air fill his chest as he gasps. Ashton can tell he’s immediately into this by the way his hips jump, highlighting the bulge in between his thighs. 

Calum whimpers softly as Ashton uses his teeth a bit on the last kiss he places, then meets his eyes. “N-now?” 

“When else?” Ashton grins. 

He steps back, lets Calum gather his wits, before the younger boy is walking past him, already tugging his shirt over his head. Across the room, Michael’s posture is stiff as he listens in. 

Ashton follows Calum to the middle of the room. Calum makes a little show of it, unbuckling his belt, shimmying his trousers down his hips. His beautiful honey skin is tinged red, even as he smiles, even as he bites his lip, even as he watches Ashton for his reaction. 

Ashton settles into a couch right in front of Calum, so he’s got a good, comfortable view. He spreads his thighs, careful to school his features, not letting much other than an amused smile slip out. He hears Michael tip an ice cube into his glass, and waits patiently for him to bring it to him. Calum’s down to his underwear, and Ashton thinks he might explode, because Calum’s already leaking, painting a wet patch into the fabric. 

Ashton cocks his head to the side. Deliberately, slowly, he trails his eyes up the length of Calum’s body. He licks his lips as Calum fidgets, glows red under the weight of his gaze. 

“Take those off,” he says, gesturing to Calum’s boxers. He taps his thigh expectantly, and Calum’s eyes go wide. “Then come here.” 

Shakily, Calum’s hands play with the waistband of his underwear. “Um,” he says. “Are you—” 

“Gonna say no to me, baby?” 

Calum’s eyebrows twitch. He shakes his head, and Ashton licks his lips. He pushes his thumbs into the waistband. Then, slowly, torturously, slips them down his legs. 

His cock bounces out, pretty and flushed, and rests against his tummy. Ashton registers a low moan, and follows the sound to see Michael, grip tense around a glass of whiskey as he watches the scene play out. 

Calum shrinks into himself a little, growing self-conscious under their gaze. Ashton’s grin grows lopsided. “Thought you wanted to be looked at?” 

Calum fidgets. 

“Come sit,” Ashton tells him, voice firm, gravelly. Calum snaps out of whatever daze he was losing himself in. He treads carefully towards Ashton, then puts his hands on his shoulders for support as he straddles Ashton’s thigh. Hovering just over it. 

Ashton slides his hand up the side of Calum’s leg. His cheeks flare, and Ashton knows he’s growing aware of being the only person fully undressed in the room. “Listen to me,” Ashton says. Calum’s eyes snap to him, wonderfully obedient. 

“I don’t want you getting lost in your head,” Ashton tells him. “When you’re here, I want you to feel it.” He places a palm against Calum’s diaphragm, how his breath stutters. “Feel that?” Ashton asks. “That hot embarrassment, right here?” 

Calum bites his lip, lashes fluttering. He nods sharply.

“Because we’re looking at you, baby,” Ashton says. “We’re looking, just like you wanted.”

Ashton’s hands fly to Calum’s hips, and he pulls him down on his thigh harshly. Calum lets out a high moan, grip tightening where his hands rest on Ashton’s shoulders. 

“So you’d better make it a good fuckin’ show for us,” Ashton continues, tucking a stray curl behind Calum’s ear. “And ride my thigh like you mean it.” 

He revels in the matching set of inhales that come from both boys. Calum catches his breath, but he’s going a bit too slow for Ashton’s liking. So Ashton uses his grip on Calum’s hips to grind him down against his jeans, flexing the muscles in his thigh as he does. Calum’s breath catches. “Ashton.” 

“Mikey,” Ashton says, instead of acknowledging the boy in his lap. “Join us?” 

Michael snaps to attention. The condensation drips over his fingers as he moves to hand the drink he made to Ashton. 

“Thank you, baby,” Ashton says, and Michael’s knees are visibly going weak. Ashton takes a large sip from the drink, savours the burn, then sets it aside for later.

Ashton looks back to Michael, tips his head towards the empty space beside him on the couch. Michael takes the hint, folds his leg under himself as he sits, close enough to watch the low light catch the glint of saliva on Calum’s lower lip. Michael leans in, presses a kiss to Ashton’s jaw. Ashton grins at the feeling. 

“C’mon, Cal,” Ashton says, bouncing the leg Calum’s seated on. “Work for it, princess.” 

Calum’s eyes are turned down, cheeks flaring a hot red as he shakes slightly with arousal, humiliation, desire. He starts moving his hips, in slow circles like he’s testing the waters, figuring out what feels right. There’s a low moan sitting upon his tongue, which turns into something louder when Michael reaches in and palms his neglected erection. 

Calum reacts immediately. “Ah…M-Mikey, I—” 

“Careful,” Ashton says, turning to murmur into Michael’s ear. “If he finishes like this, I’ll make sure you won’t come for the rest of the night.” 

Michael’s breath shudders. He loosely wraps his fingers around Calum’s cock, pumps him once fully. 

Calum hisses. “I want…my mouth—I…kiss me?”

Ashton can only laugh. He hikes his leg, matching Calum’s grinding. He whimpers. His nails dig into Ashton’s shoulders. Ashton’s grip on his waist tightens. 

“Give him what he wants, Michael,” Ashton says. 

Calum gasps, and then his hands are flying to fist the front of Michael’s shirt to pull him into a searing kiss. 

“Keep moving these fuckin’ hips,” Ashton growls, slapping Calum’s ass lightly. In response, Calum moans against Michael’s lips. 

The sight is sinful. Calum, grinding and rolling his hips on Ashton’s lap, while Michael takes the tip of Calum’s tongue in his mouth and sucks. Calum’s movements speed up, growing desperate, frantic. He’s nearing the edge, tears gathering along his lashes. 

“Yeah, take what you want, gorgeous,” Ashton murmurs, palm sliding up Calum’s belly, up to his chest to tweak one of his nipples. Michael’s hand tightens around Calum’s cock, and Calum’s eyebrows furrow in pleasure. He makes a wet, tortured sound. Ashton watches the muscles of his abdomen tighten as he draws closer to climax. 

“Michael,” Ashton says, like an order. Immediately, Michael pulls back, eliciting a pained whimper from Calum. 

“Making a mess on my jeans,” Ashton notes, and Calum’s rolling his hips harder then, as Ashton flexes his muscles again. 

“What would y’do if I made you get on the carpet and clean me up?” 

“Ash…Ashton,” Calum gasps. 

“Already cock-drunk, aren’t you?” Ashton says, smirking cruelly as Michael exhales shakily. “You’d do anything I’d tell you to, hm?” 

Calum nods, sharp and frantic, eyes still closed as he chases his high. Ashton’s hands go to palm his ass, egging him on. 

“Yeah?” Ashton asks again. 

“Yes, yes—anything, please!”

“Good girl, princess,” Ashton says. “So stop.” 

Calum falters. “W-what?” 

Ashton grips Calum’s hips to stop his movements. “I didn’t fucking stutter, Calum,” he says. “Stop.” 

“Wait, I’m—” Calum protests, but Ashton’s hold is strong. “I was so close, Ashton, Ash—” 

Ashton smiles, and it’s dripping with something sultry sweet and sadistic. “I don’t care, baby.” 

Calum whines, high pitched and broken as Ashton snatches him farther away from finishing. “Please, please, I—” 

Ashton cards a soothing hand through Calum’s hair, wiping the underside of his eyes, where tears begin to gather. He kisses the apple of Calum’s cheek to calm him. 

“Think he deserves it, Mikey?” Ashton asks, and it’s like Michael suddenly realises he’s actually here. 

Calum blinks his eyes open, looks for Michael, reaches for his hand. Michael takes it and kisses along his knuckles. It’s intimate, so sweet it almost makes Ashton’s chest ache. 

“He does,” Michael whispers, never taking his eyes off Calum. “Don’t you, Cal?” 

“Yeah?” Ashton’s grin widens. Calum arches into Ashton’s touch, and Michael looks between the two of them like he wants to crawl in-between. 

Ashton says, “My bedroom is down the hall.” 

—

It’s been over an hour since they moved to Ashton’s room, and Michael is so hard he thinks he might die. 

Ashton has Calum laid out on his bedsheets, three fingers deep with his hand wrapped around Calum’s cock, and Calum sounds like sin and salvation put together. It’s incredible what Ashton’s doing to him.  

“Ah…please, p-please! It hurts!” 

Michael’s fingers dig into the armrest of the chair he was shoved into when they walked into the room. Calum’s got these wonderful tears streaming down his face, lashes clumped where his eyes squeeze shut. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat. His cheeks are flushed like he’s been running a marathon. He hasn’t come once, and with the way Ashton jerks his cock, it’s gotta be some kind of record. 

He’s beautiful. There’s no way around it. Ashton’s been edging him to Mars, fucking him up and down on his fingers while he whines and begs and sobs. Calum arches off the bed each time Ashton plays with his prostate—which Ashton has been doing a lot. 

“C’mon, princess,” Ashton says, and Calum fists his hands into the sheets and groans like a wounded animal. “Shh, shh…you can take it, baby.” 

“I can’t, I can’t…please, Ash—Ashton.” 

“I know,” Ashton smiles, pressing a kiss against the inside of Calum’s knee. “You’re doing so well, gorgeous.” 

Michael can see how Ashton’s fingers are soaked as he pumps them inside Calum, how his pretty pink hole is flushed, how it takes those thick fingers with an obscene squelch each time. 

Calum turns his head into his shoulder. “Ah…I’m going to…please, I want to come, pl—”  

“Not yet.” 

He gasps, exhausted, and Michael wants to lick the sweat glistening across his chest. But he’s stuck in this stupid fucking chair, because Ashton told him to ‘sit, and watch, and be a good fuckin’ boy for me, okay?’

He’s so hard. His cock presses against the seam of his trousers, and even though he’s watching Ashton deny Calum over and over and over again, he thinks his own predicament is a kind of torture of it’s own too. Ashton won’t let him touch himself, eyes flitting to him each time Calum makes a noise that’s particularly pained. He wears a sadistic grin, and Michael’s heart drops straight to his ass. 

“So pretty, aren’t you?” Ashton asks aloud, glancing at Michael. Like he’s addressing him, finally. 

“Y-yes,” Michael breathes. He’s sure his pupils are dilated to black, and his fingers are cramping now. “God, he’s so fucking pretty.” 

And Calum’s gone. When he blinks his eyes open, they’re glazed over. He licks his lips, looking at Michael but not really seeing him. Ashton curls his fingers inside him, and Calum moans like it punches the breath out of him. Michael’s thighs clench. Those fingers must feel so fucking good. 

“No more,” Calum cries. “No more, please—I’ll finish, please, I can't do it!” 

“You can,” Ashton urges, hand sliding up to flick one of Calum’s nipples, and the wet moan he lets out has Michael nearly blacking out. 

“Michael,” Ashton says, properly acknowledging him. “What do you think?” Michael bites back the pleas that fight to fall from his mouth. His tongue is heavy with saliva. “Wh…um.” 

“Y’think he should cum?” Ashton prompts, clearly enjoying how both the boys are in the palm of his hand, writhing and begging to be fucked. 

“Yes!” Calum sobs. “Yes, please—pl—” 

Ashton pumps Calum’s cock harshly, and his hips jump. He frowns at Calum. “I didn’t ask you, princess.” He looks back at Michael, then looks between him and Calum. 

“Ask Michael,” Ashton orders Calum. “Ask him if I should let you finish, Calum.” 

Calum complies immediately. His eyes snap open, wet with tears, and Michael would give him anything he wants, but he knows Calum isn’t going to finish until Ashton lets him, no matter what Michael says. 

“Michael,” Calum says, and Michael’s cock twitches. He’s never heard Calum say his name this way, all broken and wanting. 

“Michael,” Calum says again. “Please, can I come? Please, I—I’ve been good, please…can I—please let me?” 

Michael’s shaking. He can’t fucking breathe, because Calum’s looking at him like he’d get on his knees to beg if he could. He looks at Calum, then at Ashton, who sits between Calum's legs, smiling like he knows Michael has no power. Smiling like he’s enjoying this. 

“Please…” Michael begs, then, and his voice cracks a little with how desperate he is. 

“What’s that?” Ashton mocks. 

“Please,” Michael says, louder. “I want…please, I want to—” 

“Yeah?” Ashton cocks his head. “Wanna touch?” 

Calum moans weakly. Michael licks his lips. He’s leaning forward in his chair, and he tries to sit back when he realizes what he’s doing but—but he wants. He wants and wants and wants. He nods, quick and jerky. 

“All that teasing,” Ashton tsks. “And y’can’t even take a few hours of edging, huh?” 

Michael’s blushing furiously. His cheeks are burning so much, it’s borderline painful. 

“You guys are such a cute pair, too,” Ashton continues. “You get off on watching, and he gets off on being watched.” 

Michael can’t breathe. Calum gasps a little when Ashton’s fingers twitch inside him. 

“I bet it hurts, not being able to touch,” he continues, and he begins fucking his fingers into Calum again, at a glacial pace. “I mean, I can fuckin’ see it hurts.” 

Ashton’s eyes flick to the painful boner Michael’s sporting, and he laughs. Michael’s so disgustingly humiliated, and so disgustingly turned on. God, he wants to be on the bed with them so badly. 

“Aw,” Ashton taunts, jutting his lower lip out. “Gonna cry?” 

Calum makes a little sound, babbles something incoherent, and when Michael’s eyes flit to the boy, he realises there’s hot tears gathering in his own eyes. From want, from pain, desire. 

“Poor baby,” Ashton pouts. “Little Michael, stuck watching his best friend get fingered open while he sits alone across the room.” 

Michael tries to gulp back the weight in his throat, but Ashton goes on. “Could you come from this? Just watching? Cream your pants like a virgin?” 

Michael inhales sharply. He shakes his head, no no no—

“Use your fucking words,” comes Ashton’s sharp reprimand. 

“No,” Michael says instantly. “No, I w-won’t. I want…I want—” 

And then Ashton’s pulling his fingers out of Calum—who whines a little at the feeling—and holding his hand out for Michael. Michael takes exactly two seconds to process what’s being asked of him, before he shoots out of the chair to take Ashton’s hand. 

Instantly, Ashton pulls him in, arms wrapping around his waist as he leans in for a kiss, which Michael obliges easily. It’s sweet, a jarring break from the scene Ashton had created for them, and Michael melts into him like coming home, arms going around his neck to pull him closer, closer. 

“Michael,” Ashton mutters into Michael’s mouth as they break apart to breathe. “You’re going to fuck him.” 

Michael lets out an involuntary whimper. Ashton steps back from him, and Michael takes the opportunity to look over at Calum, who’s sitting up on his elbows and staring unabashedly. When their eyes meet, Michael smiles little, lopsided. 

“Mikey,” Calum breathes, and Michael might just come right there from how wrecked his voice sounds. 

Michael slides his hands up Calum’s thighs, watches the goosebumps rise. “You won’t last more than a few minutes,” he says. He hears Ashton chuckle over his shoulder and swells with pride. 

Calum pouts “You’re talking.” “Shut up,” Michael says. 

“Shut me up,” Calum shoots back. So Michael crawls over him and kisses him. Calum’s hands twist in his shirt immediately, urging him to take it off as he whines into Michael’s mouth, and Michael complies. There’s warm hands on his hips, then, as Ashton unbuckles his belt, shoves his trousers low enough for Michael to free his cock. 

Michael pulls away from Calum and sits back on his knees, falling against Ashton’s chest behind him when the man pumps him, once, twice, whispering something filthy into his ear that Michael doesn’t fully register until Ashton nips at his earlobe. 

“I control the pace, okay?” Ashton murmurs into his ear. “No fuckin’ games, Mikey. If you go too fast, I’m putting you back in that chair for the rest of the night.” 

Michael shudders, anticipation and arousal curling low in his belly. Calum wiggles his hips impatiently, and it draws laughter from both Michael and Ashton, until Michael’s drawing in and pressing the head of his cock to Calum’s entrance. 

The whole room goes still. Calum whimpers, “Michael.” 

And then Ashton’s hand is on Michael’s hip, and he’s pushing into the tight, wet, wonderful heat of Calum. Michael’s breath gets punched out of him immediately, and his hands fly to grip bruisingly at Calum’s waist. 

“F-fuck,” he gasps when he bottoms out. Ashton smiles into his shoulder. 

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

Michael drops his head back on Ashton’s shoulder. 

“S’good…” Calum says, blinking rapidly. “Hah—I won’t last.” 

He clenches down on Michael, and Michael thinks maybe he won’t last that long either. Ashton reaches past Michael to stroke up Calum’s belly, and Calum smiles faintly at the touch. 

“It’s okay, gorgeous,” Ashton tells him. “You can let go when it comes to you.” 

Calum squirms. Michael begins to move. A slow pull, almost all the way out—because Ashton’s guiding him, holding his hip like a warning. Then, back, all the way in, at a pace so slow that Michael can feel every little twitch, every time Calum’s breath catches. 

“Harder,” Calum gasps. 

Michael agrees. He’s shaking with want, with how good it feels, and he turns his face towards Ashton. “P-please, I…” Ashton grins. “Yeah?” 

“I want to…f-feels so good, I’m…” 

Ashton kisses Michael’s shoulder. “No,” he smiles. “I think you can be patient.” 

There’s twin groans of torment, of desperation and disappointment that slip from Michael and Calum’s lips, like begging. Ashton only laughs. 

He keeps his hold on Michael, the same glacial pace, in and out over and over until Michael’s holding his breath from just how close he is. Calum keeps whining, clenching down around Michael with every stroke, and sandwiched between the hottest men he’s ever seen, Michael’s about to blow his load without warning like a prepubescent teen. 

“M-Michael,” Calum sighs, like he’s pained, and his hand searches blindly for something to hold on the bedsheets. “P-please, I’m going to…I can’t…more.” 

Michael’s hips jump. A sudden, involuntary snap of skin against skin, and Calum’s crying out like it’s all he’s ever wanted. Ashton tsks over Michael’s shoulder. 

“Getting too brave,” he murmurs. 

“Ashton—Ash, Ashton, Ashton,” Calum’s whining, chanting like a prayer. “Please, p-please, I want to cum, please, I want to—” “I know, baby,” Ashton replies. “Go on, make yourself feel good.” Calum exhales gratefully at the instruction. His hand flies to his cock, and then he’s crying as he jerks himself off slowly. 

“Fuck him nice and proper, Mikey,” Ashton breathes into Michael’s ear, low enough for it to stay between them. “I want him to finish on your cock.” 

Michael’s pulse jumps. Ashton’s hold on him disappears, and Michael takes it as the go-ahead to give it to Calum like he wants. His hips snap forward, and Calum’s babbling, saying something incoherent, interspersed with gasps of his and Ashton’s names. 

“More, more, more—” 

Michael angles his hips differently at every thrust, searching, searching, and when he finds that spot inside Calum, the boy’s eyes snap open upon a prolonged, high-pitched moan. 

“There,” he says. “Right there—please, Michael, more, more.” 

Michael complies. He’s so lost in the way Calum feels, too taken by the way his hips roll, the way his skin blushes, the way his lips glisten that—it shocks the life out of him when Ashton’s hand returns. Slicked up this time, and thumbing patiently between Michael’s cheeks. 

“Ashton,” Michael manages, his hips stuttering inside Calum.

“Hey, baby,” Ashton replies, casually, like he isn’t about to open Michael up while he fucks into Calum. 

“Ashton—wait, I—” 

“Don’t cum,” Ashton says, voice cool. He wraps an arm around Michael to hold him up as he sinks a finger into him. 

The feeling is jarring. Michael would’ve collapsed over Calum if it wasn’t for Ashton. Calum whines, a soft, wet sound. It’s too much, too much, fucking forward into Calum as he tightens around him, and back into the lovely, long fingers that Ashton’s pumping into him. 

It’s the best and worst few minutes of Michael’s life. Calum’s fucking himself down against him, because his brain has gone blank completely. Ashton’s fingers are so big, so thick. He can’t imagine how Calum took this for an hour. He can barely think straight, can barely cling to the edge as Calum grows louder and louder. Michael knows he’s going to finish because his movements are sharp, jerky, and he’s grabbing Michael’s hands off his waist to intertwine their fingers. 

“Let go,” Michael murmurs, and it draws Ashton’s attention. “Let go, Calum, we’re watching you, we’ve g-got you.” 

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” Ashton breathes. He’s two fingers deep, but he pauses to look over Calum as he shudders with an oncoming release. “You did so good, you deserve this. Come for us.” 

Michael thrusts forward once, harshly, and then Calum’s eyes are rolling back in pleasure, back arching wonderfully off the bed as his cock twitches, as he spills over himself, painting his belly and thighs. He’s never looked more gorgeous. Michael can’t breathe. 

He tries to stay focused, tries to fuck Calum through it, but that pleasure is building quickly in his lower belly, and the sight of Calum finishing on his cock is almost too much. 

Ashton adds another digit and curls his fingers cruelly, and it sends a shock of pleasure through Michael as he brushes his prostate. 

“Not done with you just yet, Mikey,” he says, and Michael’s really going to cry now. Calum groans lowly as he scoots away from Michael, pulling off of him as he does. He slides further up the bed and curls into a pillow, eyes fluttering as he blinks away sleep to watch. His skin is glowing. His eyes zero in on where Ashton’s fingers are inside Michael. 

“Please,” Michael says, because all he’s really done all night is beg. “Ashton, fuck me—fuck me.” 

“Yeah?” Ashton says, and his voice is gruff, heavy with arousal, restraint. “Want me to split you open on my cock?” He hears Calum’s breath catch. “Yes,” Michael gasps, eyes falling shut from how overwhelmed he is. Ashton’s lazy, almost sloppy with how he opens Michael up to take him, and Michael knows it’s finally getting to him—the waiting, the patience. 

“Please, Ash,” Michael says, because if he plays his cards right he could be bouncing in Ashton’s lap within the next few minutes. “I can take it, I want to feel you inside me—p-please, I’ll take it so good, I swear.” 

Ashton laughs into his skin, but it’s rough. He nips at his shoulder once, before his fingers are disappearing and Michael gasps from the sudden emptiness. Calum smiles, crawling over to sit before Michael. He winces as he moves, probably still sore and aching. 

“Odd, isn’t it?” Calum says, taking Michael’s face to pepper kisses over his skin. “Not having something inside?” 

Michael’s breath stutters upon a whimper. Ashton’s hands return, steadying as he holds his hip for support. The bed dips under his knee as he pulls in close behind Michael. He tries to turn his head, but Calum won’t let him. He’s grinning something sly and smug, and Michael wants to kiss that stupid look off his face. 

So he does. 

He leans in and takes Calum’s lips for his own. It’s sweet, slow and sensual with how Calum’s hands travel over his skin, and he almost disappears into it, until Ashton presses up against his hole. He pulls away from Calum with a gasp. 

“Relax, Mikey,” Ashton says. The hand on his hip smooths up and down his side, soothing. Michael exhales, and then Ashton’s pushing into him, and Michael’s already close to finishing. 

“Breathe,” Calum whispers from where he’s pressing kisses into Michael’s jaw. 

“‘S big,” Michael whimpers. Calum smiles, presses his hand into Michael’s lower belly, and all of a sudden the weight of Ashton inside him is amplified. 

“Feel it here?” Calum prompts. “Good, isn’t it?” “F-fuck, Calum,” Ashton says, His grip on Michael is bruising, and he bites lightly at his shoulder. “Stop talking like that, jeez.” 

Calum laughs—a light, playful sound. 

The discomfort of the intrusion fades, and Michael clenches down a little, urging Ashton to move. Ashton’s resolve crumbles. He pulls out almost all the way, lets Michael feel the phantom of his absence inside, then fucks up hard. Michael sees stars, and his cock jumps where it hangs uselessly between him and Calum. 

“So good,” Ashton murmurs. “God, you’re incredible. Gonna fuck you into the shape of me.” 

Michael moans loudly at the words. He can barely hold his weight up, upright only thanks to Calum, and the hot pressure of Ashton inside him. Ashton grinds his hips, and when he brushes that spot inside him, Michael nearly cries. 

“Again,” he gasps. “Again, more—Ashton, Ash, Calum—” 

Ashton’s quick to comply. He focuses his attention on that spot. Quick, rough thrusts, and the coil of pleasure builds and builds inside Michael, until Ashton swipes his hands over Michael’s nipples. The thread snaps, and Michael’s orgasm crashes over him like a wave. He comes all over himself, over the bedsheets, over Calum’s thighs, who only smiles like he’s proud. 

Ashton grits his teeth. “Yeah, just like that,” he says. “You’re so fucking pretty, Michael.” 

Michael whines weakly, and Calum pulls him down so he's on his hands and knees. It’s easier to hold himself up, and even though he’s sore, Calum’s kissing him sweetly on the lips, and Ashton’s gripping his hips, and he can’t help but think this is where he wants to be for the rest of his life. 

“Gonna feel me every time you sit down, baby,” Ashton gasps, and his movements are growing sloppy, frantic, rushed. Michael whimpers a bit from overstimulation. “So good f’me, for Calum, aren’t you?” Michael can’t reply, so Ashton’s sliding a palm up along his spine, and tangling a hand into his hair. “Say it, baby,” Ashton urges. 

Michael gasps at the sting of pain when Ashton tugs his hair. “All for you,” Michael babbles. “For you, please, give it to me, I want to feel you inside, Ash—” 

“Yeah, I know, sweetheart,” Ashton says. “Shit, look at him, Cal.” 

“So pretty, Mikey,” Calum murmurs into him. “So good, you’re taking it so good.” 

Michael whines, a broken sound. Ashton fucks into Michael, once, twice, and then he’s spilling inside. Michael waits to feel full, feel the wet heat, but Ashton was probably wearing a condom. Somewhere in his head, he knows this was a good thing, but right now he longs to feel Ashton drip out of him when he pulls out. 

Michael’s sapped of energy. As soon as Ashton steps back from him, he falls forward into Calum’s lap. Calum chuckles, carding his fingers through Michael’s sweaty hair. 

“Good?” Calum asks. 

“Can’t feel my fuckin’ legs,” Michael replies. He hears Ashton laugh. He thinks he blacks out for a moment, because when he comes to, there’s low murmuring somewhere above him,  and then he’s being rolled onto his back, and Ashton’s wiping between his legs with a wet cloth. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Ashton says, like it’s easy, like he doesn’t even have to think about it. “Both of you. Can’t believe this is real.” 

Calum bites his lip. Michael watches his cheeks fill with colour. “Thank you,” Calum says. “For this. For having us.” Ashton looks up to meet Calum’s gaze, then down to Michael. His eyes soften. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

With some effort, Michael props himself up on his elbows, and when Ashton finishes and sits back to keep the cloth side, Calum’s crawling over Michael to fall into Ashton, to kiss him desperately. Michael watches the way Calum melts into him, the way Ashton’s arms come around to hold him up like he’s always done this. 

“We’re good together,” Michael says.

Ashton breaks away from Calum, who pouts playfully as he glances between Michael and Ashton. 

Ashton looks at Michael. Smiles, like sunshine. “We are, aren’t we?” 

—

Summer draws to a close, like all good things do.

“I don’t wanna fucking go,” Michael pouts, knees drawn to his chest where he’s sitting on the porch steps of Ashton’s house. College starts in just over a week, and Calum can see how Michael’s been growing more and more agitated at the prospect. Plus, Calum’s parents will be returning from their cruise tomorrow, and then the sneaking around will start. 

Calum looks to where Ashton’s reclined in a lawn-chair, sipping from a glass of lemonade that may or may not have vodka in it. It’s a little exciting, honestly, having a secret. Ashton’s still iffy on the idea of people finding out, and Calum and Michael understand that it's for their own sakes, so they go along with it. 

“We don’t have much of a choice, Mikey,” Calum says, taking his sweaty sunglasses off his face and fiddling with the frame. He watches Michael sigh into his arms, like a child throwing a tantrum. 

“It just—it sucks,” he says, looking back at Ashton and Calum. Ashton sets his glass aside and leans forward, clearly interested to see where this is going. “We spent so long trying to make this happen, and now that we finally have you, we’re going off to college.” 

Calum…is beginning to see his point. He feels a pang of anxiety, a little bit of longing. Something irrational in his head says then let’s not go, but he’s not stupid and he knows Ashton wouldn’t like that, so he keeps quiet. 

“It’s alright, baby,” Ashton tips his head, smiling reassuringly. “We can facetime, right?” 

Michael quirks an eyebrow. “Sure you’ll be able to figure that out, old man?” 

“Don’t be a dick.” 

Calum’s chest is so warm. This, watching the two of them banter and flirt as he reclines in the shade of the porch—it’s more than he could’ve hoped for. He can’t help but think back to how this all started just the same, across the street on Calum’s porch. 

“So,” Calum bites his lip. “We’re really doing this? Long distance?” Michael’s brows draw together, like I wish it didn't have to be this way. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Ashton says. “All the time in the world, right?” 

Calum smiles at the jab, the little call-back to what Michael had said to him all the way back when. 

“I want us to work,” Michael says. His voice is small, and there’s something delicate and vulnerable there that has Calum’s breath catching. 

“We will work,” Calum says. Because they will. 

“But—with college—” “It’s only a few hours difference,” Calum cuts in. “And we’ll be back for all the holidays.”

“And…” Ashton tries. “Uh, if you want, I can come down to visit you guys when I can?” 

He pauses. Then he furrows his brows, tilts his head, and it reminds Calum of a puppy. 

“Wait,” he says. “Where are you guys going to college, anyway?” 

“Sydney University,” Michael says. He sounds sad, but then Ashton’s sitting straight up, and Calum’s heartbeat picks up at the alarm in his expression. Michael seems to share the sentiment. 

“Sydney? Like, USYD?” Ashton asks. 

“Yes?” 

“Oh,” Ashton says. “Oh.” 

“Ashton,” Michael says, and he sounds a little panicked, because his voice is pitched up. “What? What do you know?” 

Ashton looks between the two of them. He’s grinning wildly, and it would scare Calum a little if he wasn’t reaching for his hand and pressing a kiss into his knuckles just then. Calum flushes.

“I have,” Ashton breathes. “I have—a visiting professorship at USYD. Next semester.” 

Calum freezes. Michael, from his place on the steps, blinks. Once, twice. 

“What?” He gapes. 

“Oh my god,” Calum says. And then his mind is racing because—oh my god. 

“I’m—I’m having sex with a professor,” Michael grins. Calum snaps around to look at him. 

“Michael, what the—” Ashton starts, but then Michael’s shooting up from the porch to throw his arms around Ashton, and Ashton’s giggling into his neck as Michael settles into his lap like an overgrown puppy. 

“I…next semester?” Calum asks, still reeling. Ashton nods lightly. 

“Six months, then I’ll be there.”

“Oh my god.” 

Calum’s ecstatic. On cloud nine, even. He watches Michael pepper kisses on Ashton’s face, as Ashton laughs and laughs. 

The cicadas sing, the sun swelters, the warm breeze brushes Calum’s hair out of his face. He’s smiling so hard, his cheeks are burning. The ball of anxiety underneath his ribs unravels, slipping into something warmer, brighter. He feels lighter already, knowing they’ll all be properly together, again, soon. 

Until Michael gasps like he’s had an epiphany. 

“Oh my god, guys,” Michael says. “Classroom sex!” 

“Michael!” 

“Shut up, Michael.” 

—

READ PART 1 HERE

[badgirlsvevo]

Dying for a Little Bit of Your Attention (18+)

A/N: so unfortunately msg night 1 did irrevocable damage to my brain and this was the outcome (dare i say there were three outcomes and this is part one...) shout out to sav for workshopping this with me at like 2am every night <3 also i'm aware the lyric is "affection" dw :*

i haven't posted any writing in almost TWELVE YEARS.... so please be kind i do indeed still seek validation/approval LOL

tags: sub!calum x afab reader, no y/n, oral (f receiving), pw no plot (if u squint we can argue that there's a plot), degradation (kind of)

wc: 1.9k

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It had been a long week. The days full of appearances at pop-ups and the nights spent preparing for the upcoming double header. 

It fuelled him. She could tell. His confidence had grown exponentially over the past few years and she adored it, adored that cocky grin that would drop as soon as she was in front of him. 

Bare moments had passed since he had commanded the stage, and he was already on his knees in front of her. 

“Please?” He nearly whines, his hand resting on her hip as she leans comfortably against the vanity. 

She looks down at him. Cheeks still flushed from the adrenaline, curls damp and sticking to his forehead, plump lips forming into a slight pout – the one thing that always undid her. Her eyes drift back to his, “‘Please’, what?” 

The whimper that leaves him is obscene, unexpected from a man of his stature. 

“Please, touch me,” his eyes flicker down to her arms crossed firmly across her chest, “I’ve been so good, I-”

“Yeah?” 

He nods eagerly. 

“If you’ve been so good, why have you been acting like a slut on stage every night?” 

His breath hitches. His lips part and close as he tries to process her accusation all while trying to come up with an excuse, because she’s right. He has been acting up on stage, but he swears it’s just for her. All he wants is a little bit of her attention. 

“No, no,” he shakes his head furiously, “No, baby, please,” he tugs at the belt loop of her denims, “I haven’t, I swear. You know what happens to me when I’m up there. I just lose myself in the music.” 

The laugh that leaves her lips is cruel, but his excuse is pitiful. Almost comical. 

“Did you ‘lose yourself in the music’ when you got on your knees for Luke?” His eyes widen, but before he can spit out another excuse she continues, “When you made sure your skirt lifted up after every move? Or maybe when you-”

“Not on purpose!” He cuts her off with a whine. His grip on the waistband of her jeans tightening, seeking any form of stability to ground him before he loses it entirely and starts rutting into the air. 

“Had I finished speaking?” Her eyes bore into his.

“I’m sorry,” he winces, head dropping, “I’m sorry, baby. I just- it was all for you. I did it just for you, I promise…” his voice shakes as he continues, “I only saw you, only looked at you… Please…” 

He’s always so riled up after a show. Making him wait so long without any contact should be punishment enough. But she likes him on his knees too much. 

She finally touches him, her fingers gently carding through the damp curls. He shudders at the contact, body straightening, eyes still trained on the floor. She gives him a minute. When he still doesn’t move, her grip on his hair tightens ever so slightly, making him tilt his head up to look up at her. 

The sight is sinful. Eyeshadow smudged around his eyes, from sweat or tears, neither of them knows anymore. Lips bitten raw from trying to keep himself quiet for as long as possible while she reprimanded him. And that look in his eyes that was just as good as him begging for hours on end. 

“Poor baby,” she murmurs, his eyes fluttering shut as she gently scratches his scalp, “You did all that just for my attention?” 

He nods, subconsciously leaning further into her touch. His skirt hikes up as he moves, the exposed expanse of his inner thighs revealing the marks she’d left on him just days before. 

She tugs at his hair gently to bring him to his feet. His eyes follow her gaze to his thighs, heat flushing through his cheeks as he tries to pull the hem of his skirt lower. 

“Oh, don’t be shy now,” nudging his hand away with her knee, “That’s what you wanted people to see, hm?” 

He looks down, nodding timidly, his fingers toying with a stray thread on the tweed. “Wanted them to know I’m yours,” he mumbles. 

“Look at me,” she waits until his eyes are back on her, “You have ten minutes.” 

His eyes light up, hand shooting out to touch her before he stops abruptly. He needs to get permission first. 

“Can I? Please?” 

And with a curt nod his hands are on her, lifting her up onto the vanity as he immediately drops to his knees again. Eyes frantic, fingers fumbling with her jeans, shakily pulling them down before she can change her mind again. 

“Slow down,” she murmurs, her fingers finding purchase in his hair. 

He does as she says. Placing soft kisses from her ankles to the apex of her thighs, making the most of his allowance. Her breath hitches as he gently nips at her inner thigh, sucking gently on the thin skin. He takes his time, working on her other thigh before pulling back with a proud smile as he eyes his work. “Now we match,” he looks up at her through his dark lashes, pupils blown.

“Mm, we do,” her lips turn up to a soft smile, “Thank you, baby.” 

The blush travels down his neck as he squeaks out a meek “you’re welcome” before returning to the task at hand. 

His fingers gently trace the developing bruises as he kisses along the lace trim of her panties, taking a deep breath of satisfaction as he finally reaches the spot he’s been thinking about all day. 

But she had told him to slow down. 

So his lips trail back up to her waist, nipping gently at the skin before leaving a mark on her hip bone. His touch is reverent, the disbelief of her allowing this clear as he shakily moves to the other end of her waist, starting to leave a bruise there too. 

“What are you doing?” She hisses, her grip on his curls tightening briefly. 

His brows furrow as he pulls back, resting his chin on her thigh to look up at her, “Nothing.”

“You’re teasing.” She huffs frustratedly. 

Curls fall in front of his wide eyes as he shakes his head in denial, “I’m not!” Quickly changing his tune when he sees the look in her eye, “I’m sorry,” he whimpers, nuzzling into the space between her thigh and stomach, “I’m so sorry. Just wanna make you feel good. May I? Please?”

Her eyes soften as his arms wrap around her waist, gripping onto her as if she’d slip right through his fingers if he let go even a little bit. 

“This could be your only chance to touch me tonight.” Her thumb gently pries at his lower lip as he pulls back with a frown, “You better make the most of it.”

He glances at the clock. He still has seven minutes. That’s enough time to pull out every reaction and sound he’s been dying to hear from her. She can see the gears shifting in his head as he refocuses, nipping at her hip bone again. This time, instead of sucking at the skin, he bites onto the lace dragging it down her legs in one swift motion.

“No teasing,” he reminds himself under his breath as he settles between her thighs again. 

His shoulders drop at the sight in front of him, relief flooding his body. He forgets where he is, who he is, as his lips latch onto her. 

Once he starts, he doesn’t let go. He can’t. His fingers dig into her thighs, holding her in place, sure to leave bruises along with the marks he had scattered earlier. He laps at her like a man starved, uncertain of when he’ll be allowed to have his next meal. But he knows he’s doing good. He can tell in the way her grip on his hair tightens, the way she arches to his touch, the way she bites the inside of her cheek to keep quiet. 

“Wanna hear you. Need to,” he pleads, his voice muffled against her, “Please, let me hear you.” 

He can feel her hesitate. He knows he’ll be punished for it later, but it’ll be worth it– so he gently scrapes his teeth against her clit. She gasps, her hips bucking up to his face. The grin she can feel between all the friction is absurd. She tugs his hair as a reminder, whispering breathlessly, “Watch it.” 

“Mhm,” he hums unapologetically, the vibration sending a chill up her spine. 

He doubles down on his efforts, damned if she leaves unsatisfied at his hands once the time is up. The soft mewls slipping through her lips become increasingly loud, gasping out a moan when he starts to suckle on her. His fingers dig deeper into her thighs, forcing them apart when she tries to squirm away. 

His eyes flicker up to her, tongue and lips never stopping, muffling a quiet, “Am I doing good?” 

She looks down at him in awe, his eyes wide and wanting as he desperately awaits her response. “So good,” she nods, her voice breathless, “Being such a good boy for me.” 

He groans against her, the throbbing pain between his legs sending his hips bucking into thin air at her words. This isn’t about him, but he can’t help himself when she continues to praise his efforts, voice strained from trying not to finish too fast. 

“So well behaved until you get on that stage.” 

He whimpers. 

“But you put on a good show.” 

“Only for you,” he moans against her, his knees buckling under the efforts of trying to hold himself back, “Always only for you.”

He nips at her clit, soothing it over with his tongue before suckling on it again, determined to send her over the edge. When her thighs start to tremble around him, he knows she’s almost there. He looks up at her, nose still buried deep, dick twitching as her lips part in a silent cry.

“Please,” he whines, voice muffled against her, “Need it so bad. Let me have it.” 

With one look down at him, she’s done. Back hitting the vanity mirror, eyes squeezing shut, scattering the makeup she put on him just hours before all over the dressing room floor. Hips rolling up to his touch, he continues to work her through it. Kitten licks to take as long as possible to clean her up before peppering soft kisses all over her flushed skin. 

Once he’s content with his efforts he sits back on his calves, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes crinkling as he smiles up at her, “Thank you.” 

She sits up to glance him over, chest still heaving as she catches up on her breath. Her gaze stops just below the hem of his skirt, seeing the evidence of his own satisfaction dripping down his thighs. “Did you–?” The amused look in her eyes sending heat flushing straight to his cheeks. 

“Didn’t touch, I promise. Just couldn’t help myself,” he murmurs sheepishly, eyes dropping to the floor. 

She laughs, fingers hooking into the collar of his tank to bring him up to her eye level. His hands warily rest on her thighs as he stands between them, lowering his face to hers. Carefully parting his lips with her tongue, she gently nips at his lower lip.

“Think you can be good until we get to the hotel?”

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[babylonradio]

bite me (please?) — michael x luke

college AU: luke is convinced that the guy he's doing his course project with is a vampire, and he's going to prove it. michael just wants to get through the semester.

warnings: NO SMUT. college AU. fluff. comedy/humour. bad jokes. mentions of supernatural (vampire) elements, but nothing graphic. profanity. getting together. everybody is a little ooc. not proofread.

wc: 8.5k

author's note: this was meant to be a silly 2k fic but then it turned into this. sorry about all my bad jokes and how EXTREMELY ooc everyone is. also suspend ur disbelief at luke's private-dorm-that's-kindof-an-apartment

come find me on twitter!

“So, this guy Michael…” 

Luke’s got the tip of his pen between his teeth while he looks across the campus courtyard at the man in question. Michael strums an acoustic under the shade of a tree, all aesthetic and cool and untouchable with the way the breeze catches his dyed hair. Luke’s been paired up with him for his anthropology project, which would be fine, except.

Ashton, sitting on the wooden picnic table across from Luke, looks up from his notes. Calum stops sipping obnoxiously at his disgustingly sweet iced coffee. They follow the line of Luke’s vision to Michael. 

“Oh, Michael,” Ashton says. “He’s a good lad.”

“Hm,” Calum says. “Gay.” 

Ashton thwacks him in the back of the head with a rolled-up assignment. Calum snickers into his drink.

“Yeah, anyway, so. Michael,” Luke squints at the man on the lawn suspiciously. “He’s definitely a vampire, right?” 

Calum and Ashton share a look. 

“A vampire,” Ashton repeats.  “Yeah.” 

“Right,” Ashton nods, like he completely gets it. Then, “And I’m the Queen of England.” 

“Listen,” Luke hisses. “He’s so fucking pale, mate. Have you ever met an Australian that’s whiter than white?” 

“You’re whiter than white,” Calum says. He’s gone back to sucking at his straw. The cup is empty. Luke’s going to throw something at him if that irritating slurping doesn’t stop soon. 

“Thats not the point.” 

“What is?” Calum continues. “Do you sleep with a night light too? Need a cup of milk before bed?” 

“I’m kicking you out of the friendgroup.” 

Calum shrugs. “Ashton agrees with me. Don’t you, Ash?”

“Luke,” Ashton starts, and he’s making a face like he’s constipated. “Vampires aren’t real.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Yeah, well. Burden of proof.” 

“I’m gonna drop your textbook on your face while you sleep,” Luke tells him. He only half means it. Kind of. 

Thing is, Ashton’s right. And that sucks, because Ashton’s always right. He does need to prove it, because otherwise Calum and Ashton will be on his ass about that one time you thought a random classmate was an undead bloodsucking ghoul. 

He spares a glance at Michael again and watches him shrink away from the sunlight, plastering himself further against the tree trunk. 

“Look at him,” Luke insists. “He’s transparent. He’s literally white as a ghost—” “Oh, you believe in those too?” Calum snarks. Luke ignores him. “He’s a vampire. I’m telling you.” 

“And I’m a fairy! I’ve got a wand in my pants too. Wanna see?” 

Luke makes a face. “Keep your disgusting penis away from me.” 

“Not what your mom said last night,” Calum leans back on his hands. 

“Quickly, how much do you like your front teeth?” 

“Why, wanna lick ‘em?” 

“Calum,” Ashton pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t be a dick.” 

“I’m just saying!” Calum throws his hands up. The plastic cup goes flying from his grip and lands in the lap of some poor freshman, who looks up at the sky like this was her last straw. “If you want to make crazy claims, you gotta commit to it!” Calum continues. 

Luke folds his arms. “Fine. I’ll just—I’ll prove it.” 

“Prove…that Michael is a vampire?” Ashton tilts his head. He somewhat resembles a confused puppy. Luke would kick that puppy, in all honesty. 

“Yes,” Luke slams his laptop shut and stands up, staring into the distance with what he hopes is heroic determination in his eyes. “And then you’ll have to eat your words.” Ashton drops his head into his hands. Calum grins. “Alright,” he says, and there’s something malicious in his eyes. “Be my guest.” 

Luke flips him off, stepping over the bench of the table. He shoves his laptop into his bag and walks off without a word. He tries not to look back at Michael, because he knows his asshole friends are watching him go. 

“Ten bucks says he just wants to date the guy,” Calum stage-whispers, turning to Ashton. 

Ashton groans, exasperated. Then puts his hand in Calum’s outstretched one. “You’re on.” 

—

Admittedly, Luke doesn’t actually know a whole lot about Michael. Like, sure, they’re in the same class, but that's frankly the only course they share, and Luke didn’t even see him more than a few sightings around campus before this semester. And now they’ve got this project together. 

Luke’s in his 9 a.m. Anthropology class, zoned out despite being only fifteen minutes into the lecture. Who keeps a class this early on a Monday? The ugly white lights are too bright, and the sunlight streaks in awkwardly through the tangled blinds.  Most of the lecture hall is empty, and those who did show up are either hunched over recovering from hangovers, or dead asleep. 

Luke himself is somewhere in the middle ground. Laptop open before him, he scrolls up and down idly on a google search result for ‘Vampire Characteristics,’ not really registering anything he’s reading. And what the fuck does preternatural pallor even fucking mean, anyway? Just say ‘pale skin’. Jeez. 

The door slams open—loud enough for the entire class to jump, started. 

A low hum of discontented murmuring spreads over the room. Luke looks over at the door for the source of the sound, and spots a hunched-over Michael Clifford, hands resting on his knees as he heaves for air. Like he’s just run across the campus.  

“S-sorry I’m late,” he gasps.

The professor crosses her arms and frowns disapprovingly, saying something to him that Luke couldn't be bothered paying attention to, because the sunlight catches Michael’s hair as he stands up, and the red makes it look like it’s on fire. 

Michael stands in the doorway, looking bashful, rubbing the back of his neck until the professor is done chastising him. Then, he speaks. 

“So…can I come in?”

He’s shooed into the room, and he finds his seat somewhere closer to the front, and his head is kind of blocking Luke’s view of the board, but that’s not what gets to him. 

No, what gets to him are Michael’s words. Can I come in?

Vampires can’t enter a room themselves, right? They need to be invited in. Right?

Luke’s so ecstatic at finding his first bit of evidence, so determined to rub it in Calum and Ashton’s faces, that when he reaches for his phone to shoot a text on their groupchat, his grip stutters and the thing lands on the floor by his feet with a loud clatter. 

The class turns to look. Including Michael. Luke’s face flares at the attention, even as he murmurs a subdued “sorry…” 

But Luke’s gaze flits to Michael, who’s smiling to himself. Oh. 

—

Luke’s got a plan. As the class draws to a close, his knee bounces anxiously, because he needs to do this just right. No room for fucking up. 

Faintly, somewhere in the hallway outside, a tinny bell rings, and there’s a massive scuffle as everyone stuffs their shit into their carry bags and rushes to get out of the worst lecture on the planet. Luke waits until Michael stands, dusting off his jeans and slinging his leather haversack over his shoulder. Luke shoots up from his seat and rushes to follow, phone in his hand. 

See, Vampires don’t have reflections. So if Luke can just…see for himself that Michael doesn’t reflect on mirror surfaces, that’d be proof enough. But he can’t really shove a mirror in the guy’s face. That’s weird. 

So instead his phone front camera will have to do. 

“Michael!” Luke calls out. The man in question stops and turns, eyes falling on Luke. 

“Hey, man,” he replies. 

Luke waves his phone. “We’ve got that project together, right?” he says. “Wanna give me your number?” 

Michael’s lashes flutter. Not that Luke’s looking! Just that he’s got surprisingly pretty eyes and—anyway. 

“Um,” Michael says. “Yeah, sure.” 

Luke hands his phone over to Michael, front camera open. He rises on his tip-toes to look as Michael takes the thing, but Michael immediately turns the phone to the side when he notices the screen.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, shutting the app. His cheeks are dusted pink. Is that natural? Do vampires blush? “Your camera was on.” 

“Oh,” Luke says. Tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He didn’t even get to see. 

Michael brushes him off and types in his number. He hands the phone back to Luke. 

“I texted myself, so I’ve got your number now,” Michael tells him. 

“Cool,” Luke says, and it’s a little awkward. He fiddles with his phone. “I’ll…um—I’ll text you? We can meet up and work on it together?” 

Michael shoots him a friendly smile. “Sounds good,” he says. “See you around, Luke.” 

He turns and descends the stairway, never really looking back—which is good because Luke’s stuck in place, playing the way Michael had said his name on loop in his head. 

—

Luke texts Michael the address for his dorm. He figures he should test the theory a bit more. What’s the harm? 

Michael knocks at his door a bit hesitantly, just past six in the evening. He’s on time, which makes sense because the sun has started to dip, so he probably didn’t have to scramble for shade on the way over. Unlike with class that morning, when the sunlight had been bright and fresh. 

Luke opens the door, leaning all six-foot-three-inches of himself against the doorframe. He tries for casual, but his mother had always called him an elongated spindly deer, so. Do with that what you will. 

“Hi,” Luke says, smiling a little awkwardly. 

“You come here often?” Michael jokes, taking in the way Luke’s standing. 

“All the time,” Luke replies. “I practically live here.” 

Michael chuckles, shaking his head like he can’t believe Luke’s antics. It sends something warm swelling in Luke’s chest. A silence settles between them. Luke doesn’t move out of the way, because he can’t invite Michael in—Michael needs to ask. 

Michael shifts on his feet. “So, um…can I come in, or?” 

“Can you?” 

Michael blinks. “Can I?” 

“You can, but can you?” 

“What?” “What?” “Luke,” Michael stresses, and Luke’s breath hitches. “Can I please come in?” 

Luke blinks. God, it’s just—it’s the way he says Luke’s name. Something twists in Luke’s stomach, and he stands upright, making way for Michael to step in. As he does, he shoots Luke an odd look. 

Whatever, Luke thinks. I’ll get him next time. 

Michael heads to drop his bag on Luke’s desk, and all of a sudden Luke’s aware that he’s very alone, without having informed anyone else, in a room with a vampire.

Michael gets to work setting up his study material. Luke reaches for his phone and types a quick text in his groupchat with Calum and Ashton. 

Luke

i invited Michael over to study  

if i disappear you have permission to press charges 

Calum 

gay 

Ashton 

In your dorm? 

Luke 

yeah 

Calum 

why in your dorm 

Ashton 

Are you alone in your dorm with Michael right now

Calum

luke are u alone with michael 

luke

LUKE

—

The study session goes fine. Just fine. They end up going through the entire outline of their project and divide the work among themselves. Luke also learns that he has a lot in common with Michael. They both play guitar, and plan to get into music later on. They end up losing track of time talking about all their favourite bands. Conversation is comfortable, like they’ve been friends for years. 

And Michael doesn’t try to bite Luke once. A fact that Luke is completely okay with. And not disappointed at all. Not that he has any reason to be. Disappointed, that is. 

Calum and Ashton are extremely smug about all this information when Luke tells them about his study date with Michael—

“Study date, huh?” Calum smirks. Ashton snorts into his hand. 

“Yes,” Luke frowns. “Like—two people. Studying. On a date on the calendar. A study date.” 

“I’m gonna start a rumour,” Ashton says decisively. Luke kicks him in the shin. He hunches over in pain immediately. 

“Fuck you guys,” Luke says, walking backwards and away because he’s going to be late for class. “You’re both useless. I’m selling Calum’s bass.” 

He doesn’t stay long enough to hear Calum’s squeaked ‘hey, what the hell!’ before he’s turning and jogging towards the Sociology Department block. 

When he gets to class, Michael’s already there, settled into one of the rows further behind. He catches Luke’s eye and immediately lights up in a smile, so Luke takes that as an invitation to go over and sit beside him. 

Michael’s got one leg folded over the other, his laptop propped open in his lap and a travel mug of coffee set on the writing tablet desk. Condensation drips from it. 

Luke basically ran to class in the middle of summer, so he can’t really be blamed for what he says next. 

“Hey,” Luke pants, because he hates cardio so he’s still catching his breath from his sprint. “Mind if I have a sip of your drink?” 

Michael looks between Luke and his cup. He makes a face like he’s in pain. 

“Uh,” Michael says. “I don’t…think you’d like it much.” 

Luke gulps. The cup sits ominously on the desk between them. 

Oh. 

Oh.

He’s got blood in there, hasn’t he? 

Luke tries not to make a face. His hands itch to snatch the thing up and screw open the lid to confirm his conclusion. It sends a shiver down his spine—sitting next to a vampire that casually brings cupfulls of blood to class as a little snack. No matter how cute the vampire may be. 

Wait, what? 

“Sorry, mate,” Michael says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic, and Luke’s train of thought is derailed. 

“‘S alright,” Luke tells him on autopilot. And really, isn’t this a small kindness? Michael saved Luke from drinking blood. Or something like that. He even apologized. So doesn’t that make Michael a pretty cool vampire? 

Luke’s prepared to mull over his reasoning, but then the professor walks in, and he’s distracted when Michael’s knee nudges his own as he leans over to grab a notebook from his bag, and that’s that. 

—

Friday finds Luke, Calum, and Ashton occupying one of the many tables in the library hall. There’s a pretty pile of books stacked up beside Luke’s laptop, but he’s too busy squinting over the edge of his screen, through the space between Calum and Ashton’s heads, towards Michael. 

Michael’s seated two tables away, and Luke’s got a pretty clear view of the guy as he rolls up his sleeves—those tattoos, good lord—and throws his head back in silent laughter at something his friend says to him. Luke’s eyes zero in on his teeth.

More aptly, his fangs. His incisors are sharp. Sharper still than anything Luke’s ever seen before. That’s clear proof, right? And maybe they’re even longer, maybe they’re retracted into his gums, so when he feeds they drop down and—

“Hello? Earth to Luke Hemmings?” Ashton waves a hand in front of Luke’s face and he snaps out of his daydream  rumination of Michael’s vampire activities. 

Calum follows the direction of Luke’s gaze before he can snap his eyes away from Michael. When Calum spots the guy, his face spreads into the biggest shit-eating grin. 

“Like what you see?” he waggles his eyebrows at Luke. Luke goes to kick him under the table, but misses terribly. His toe slams against the leg of the table. He grunts in pain. The kids from the table adjacent to them shoot him a dirty look. 

“Sh-shut the fuck up,” Luke tells Calum. “I’m…observing.” 

“Yeah? Draw any bloodsucker conclusions yet?” Ashton arches a brow. 

“Or sucking of any other kind,” Calum pipes in. 

“Calum,” Luke shoots him a pointed look, because the table over seems suddenly super invested in their conversation. “I’m gathering evidence. Like, look at his teeth.” 

Both Calum and Ashton go to turn around, being extremely conspicuous about it, so Luke has to rush to hiss, “Not now!” 

Luke leans in, and as do the others, so now they’re gathered like they’re sharing some kind of secret. Which is technically true. The students on the table over have given up pretending they’re studying and are now straining to listen in. 

“His teeth,” Luke whispers. “Sharp. They’ve got points. They’re pointy, guys.” 

“Yeah,” Ashton nods. “Teeth tend to be that way.” “Not his teeth,” Luke shakes his head. “They’re fangs. They’re for drinking blood.” “Think about his teeth a lot, do you, Hemmings?” Calum smirks. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Calum only rolls his eyes. He nudges Ashton, who sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Luke, do you want to maybe think about why you’re—” 

“Mate, he was drinking blood.” 

Calum blinks. “What?” 

“I saw it,” Luke says. “I mean, I didn’t see it, but he had this tumbler full of something and when I asked for a sip he said I wouldn’t like what he was drinking. So, obviously, it was blood, right?” 

Ashton looks at Luke like Luke’s hit his head on something. “Why was your first thought blood and not, like, vodka or something?” 

“Who drinks vodka at a 10 a.m. class?” 

At that, Calum slides his water bottle off the table and into his bag. The liquid sloshes, and Luke now notices how it moves like it’s thicker than water. Oh, okay. 

Calum clears his throat. “Um, I wouldn’t know.” 

“Hey, can I have a sip?” Ashton nudges his shoulder. 

Luke shakes his head, trying to draw back to the very pressing issue at hand. “It doesn’t worry you guys that we’re classmates with a vampire?” 

“Why would it?” Calum says, passing his vodka-water-bottle to Ashton, who uncaps it and sniffs. “Considering vampires aren’t real.” 

“Calum, you’re my worst friend,” Luke tells him. 

“I love you, too.” 

“Okay, well,” Luke says, and he’s kind of jealous now that Ashton gets a sip and he doesn’t. “He also asked for permission before coming—” 

“Oh, he did?” 

“—coming into my room.” Luke glares at Calum, who looks far too smug for a guy that’s about to permanently lose a mate. “And he’s so pale. He’s so—” “Who’s pale?” The question comes directly into Luke’s ear, and Luke does not shriek like a teenager. His brain goes offline for a moment as he jumps, whipping around so fast that his neck cracks. 

Michael stands over him. He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder again. He looks past Luke and waves at Calum and Ashton. “Hey, guys. What are we talking about?” 

“Luke’s new set of kinks,” Calum offers, and this time when Luke kicks him under the table, he nails him right in the knee. He yelps in pain. 

Michael blinks. “Okay.” 

“He’s kidding,” Luke says, even as his cheeks flare a hot red. 

“Wait, don’t tell me,” Michael says. “You’re into feet.” 

Luke splutters. “I’m…no, wh—” 

Ashton’s laughing, open mouthed and loud, and they’re drawing the attention of the entire library now. Michael’s eyes light up. 

“Chill, Blondie,” he grins, and the hot embarrassment in his stomach melts into something fluttery and urgent as Luke watches Michael’s lips part in a smile. “I wanted to let you know I’m nearly done with my part of the project. I’ll send it over later tonight?” 

Luke can’t do much more than nod, biting his lip to keep from saying something stupid, like ‘hey, if you need any spare blood sometime—’ but then Michael’s tipping an imaginary hat in their direction, and slipping out of the library.

Ashton and Calum look overjoyed when Luke turns back to face them. Calum’s heaving giggles into his hand, and Luke hopes he chokes on his own laughter and dies. 

“So, feet, huh?” Ashton’s voice is high-pitched with mirth. 

“I’m gonna switch out your shampoo for hair-dye,” Luke says. See if he finds it funny then. 

“He’s gonna—he’s gonna text you tonight,” Calum sniggers.

“Shut up,” Luke says, and he slips further down in his seat and shoves his earphones into his ears. 

How the fuck did Michael sneak up on him like that? And did he hear any of their conversation? Oh, god. Vampires have superhuman hearing, don’t they? And…they’re really fast, and light on their feet. 

That must’ve been what happened. He must’ve used his powers to take Luke by surprise. Lower his defenses. Like hunting prey. Does he use these tactics when he’s out looking for someone to feed on? He’s got long limbs—like, just look at those legs. It must be so easy. 

And if—if the warmth of his voice, the whisper of his breath as he spoke dangerously close to Luke’s ear—if any of that lingers for longer than it should then…that’s just what vampires do, right? They have an allure. A dangerous pull. 

Luke can’t be blamed for being drawn in. 

—

It’s 3:08 a.m. when Luke gets Michael’s text. He’s distinctly aware that it’s the Witching Hour.

Michael 

hey i finished my work 

Luke 

why are you awake??

Michael 

why are you awake 

Luke 

i asked first 

Michael 

i’m jerking off 

Luke flushes violently at that one. He knows Michael’s joking but still. A vague image flashes through his head and he has to blink hard to get it out. Michael’s just so—vulgar. Luke tugs his blanket up to his chin, cheeks burning. 

Luke 

oh okay

Michael 

kidding 

u get riled up so easily 

its cute

Luke 

i’m adorable 

Michael 

hm 

will email u my work tmr morn 

gonna head out to blood bank rn 

Blood bank? 

What the fuck.

‘Blood bank’ as in the place where bags of blood are stored? Does this count as Michael coming out to Luke? Wait, is it still called ‘coming out’ if you’re revealing yourself to be a vampire? 

Luke 

you aren’t going to sleep?? 

also, blood bank? what are you, a vampire? 

Michael 

tryna ask if i bite? 

wouldn’t u like to know ;) 

Luke 

Michael. 

Michael 

ok jeez 

it’s an overnight cafe 

Oh. Okay, that makes sense. 

And then Luke has a strong urge to facepalm, because why would a vampire go to a bloodbank? It's not like you can walk into a dispensary and say, ‘hey, can I get a bag of blood?’

Luke’s eyes are falling shut already. He’s dozing off over his phone screen. Enough studying for today, he thinks. He shuts his laptop and slips further into his sheets. His vision kind of goes blurry around the edges, and his eyes are burning so bad that even though he fights to stay awake, his phone ultimately slips out of his grip. 

He doesn’t stay awake long enough to see Michael’s next text come through. 

Michael 

come with me sometime? 

By the time Luke wakes up the next morning and checks his phone, the message is gone. 

Michael 

[This message was deleted by the sender.]

—

Luke has had a revelation. An epiphany, even. A pioneering idea.

He digs through his closet for his lowest cut shirt. He’s talking like white V-neck, dipping down to the middle of his chest, falling over his shoulders like he’s trying to bring attention to his neck—which he is. Luke has pretty wide shoulders, so the shirt only serves to highlight his width. As he stands in the mirror, he takes note of how the fabric stretches over his chest, draws the eye up from his chest, up along his collarbones, up, up, up the line of his neck. 

It’s perfect. 

“Woah,” Calum says, as Luke meets them in the main block foyer that morning. “No bra today?” 

Luke frowns. Ashton tilts his head. 

“Why are you dressed like a slut?” he asks. 

Luke looks down at his shirt. Frankly, he didn’t really think of how he would look to anyone else. He wore it for Michael. 

Wait, like. Not for Michael, but more like…bait. To get Michael to look at Luke’s neck. If he can catch the man leering over Luke basically inviting him to bite, that’s as good as evidence could possibly ever get. Luke’s a genius.  

When he explains all this to Ashton and Calum, they share a pointed look. 

“You’re a whore,” Calum tells him seriously. 

“I’m a strategic mastermind,” Luke corrects. 

“I can basically see your nipples through the shirt, mate,” Ashton says. 

Luke strikes a shitty pose. “Do they look good?” 

Ashton makes a gagging sound, and Luke will decidedly take that as a compliment, thank you very much. 

Then he catches a flash of dyed hair somewhere behind Ashton, and looks to see Michael crossing the foyer, in conversation with a friend. Without thinking, Luke calls out to him. Ashton and Calum turn to look just as Michael locks eyes with Luke. 

“Michael!” Luke smiles at him, straightening his back. 

Michael raises his hand to wave, eyes flitting between him, Ashton and Calum. 

Luke watches with nothing short of glee as he then freezes in place, gaze travelling down the length of Luke’s frame, then up, snagging at the dip of his shirt. Even from a few metres away, Luke can see his eyes widen as they go straight to Luke’s chest, across his shoulders, then painfully slow up the line of his neck. 

He gulps audibly, cheeks flaring an almost concerning shade of red. Luke’s grin grows. Gotcha. 

“Um, I—” Michael squeaks, face beet red. He meets Luke’s delighted expression, then immediately struggles to make eye-contact whatsoever, eyes flitting everywhere but towards Luke. “I—uh! I have to…be somewhere! Nice t-to see you guys. Bye!” 

He curls into himself, looking straight down at his shoes as he briskly walks out of the foyer, leaving his friend behind to splutter confusedly as he looks between Luke’s friendgroup and Michael’s retreating back. 

Luke looks pointedly at Ashton and Calum as they snicker into their hands. “See?” 

Ashton sighs, bemused. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.” 

Luke blinks. “I think you mean intellectually gifted.” 

“No,” Calum shakes his head, still chuckling. “You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.” 

“Weren’t you guys looking?” Luke pouts. “He basically just went full vampire in the middle of the hall.” 

“And you’re sure there’s no other reason why he’d turn red at the sight of you today?” Ashton prompts, raising an eyebrow in indication of Luke’s attire. 

Luke adjusts the hem of his shirt. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Why else would he?”

Calum rubs the hells of his palms in his eyes, groaning. “Luke.” 

“What?” 

Ashton slaps his palm to Calum’s shoulder, pressing his thumbs into the muscle there to massage the tension out. He begins guiding Calum away towards the stairwell to their morning class, leaving Luke standing there, confused and mildly annoyed. 

“Just,” Ashton starts, tone sympathetic. Or condescending. Luke can’t really tell. “Just think about why he reacted that way for a bit, okay?” 

That’s stupid, Luke thinks. I know why he reacted that way. It’s because he’s a vampire. 

No other reason. Obviously. 

Right?

—

Luke thinks that the problem really just lies in how he hasn’t properly presented his evidence to Calum and Ashton. Also that they just don’t seem to believe him, so he needs tangible proof. Something that he can point out to Calum and Ashton, something so undoubtable, so obviously evidence of vampiric ghoulishness that it has absolutely no plausible deniability. 

Like sunburns. 

Sure, Luke feels bad for plotting something that will see Michael in pain. But then he thinks about all those poor souls that Michael’s probably fed on, and tries not to think about how nice Michael is and how much Luke actually likes him—and then it’s a whole flurry of emotions that Luke can’t quite contextualize.

In retrospect, tangible proof could also just be something like Luke offering himself up for Michael to bite. To sink his teeth into his flesh. To drink from him, fully and sweetly. To mark Luke’s skin, leave a scar. 

But that makes Luke's belly flutter in a strange way, so he’s going to file that thought for later and maybe never think about it again! 

His plan is simple. 

Michael always dresses in long sleeved flannels and sweaters, which is obviously to protect his skin from the sun. In fact, Michael barely shows any skin, ever. So Luke would just have to force it out of him. 

They’re walking across the campus lawn, partly under the shade of the trees lining the path. The sunlight slips through the spaces between the tree branches, pools of gold dancing on the grass as the leaves shift with the breeze. Michael’s talking about the structure of the conclusion for their project, but Luke’s barely listening, because he’s looking at Michael’s exposed hands and wondering if the sunlight makes his skin itch. 

“Michael,” Luke says suddenly, curling into himself and rubbing at his arms like he’s trying to warm himself up. “It’s cold.” 

It’s not cold at all. It’s actually blazing hot, and Luke’s sweat is nearly soaking the back of his shirt. Michael knows this too. He looks around, eyes flitting across the grounds, where multiple groups of students fan themselves as they walk. 

“What?” 

“It’s cold,” Luke repeats, feigning a shiver for effect. 

“Um,” Michael looks confused. “Are you feeling sick?” 

“No,” Luke pouts. He rubs at his skin further. His fingers slip over the sweat at the crease of his elbow. “I’m just—I’m cold.” 

Michael’s stature grows awkward as he walks beside Luke, who exhales harshly like he’s absolutely freezing, visualizing a cloud of his breath before him as though it's winter. 

Luke sighs, and he hopes he doesn’t sound too dramatic. “I wish I had a sweater or something.” 

Michael stiffens.

Luke watches from his peripheral vision, smiling to himself as Michael looks down at his own cream sweater, biting his lip. All according to plan. 

Michael’s hand comes up to rub bashfully at his neck. “I would—” he offers. “Um, I would give you mine but I’m not really…wearing anything under it.” 

Luke has a brief image of Michael taking his sweater off, revealing the smooth, pale skin of his chest. 

His brain flashes an error message. Information processing interrupted. All systems offline. 

“Hng,” Luke’s mouth says. “Uh.” 

Michael catches his disorientation and leans closer, concerned. Luke picks up on a whiff of his cologne and it’s like being slapped in the face. With a bus. 

“Are you good?” Michael asks. 

Not trusting his voice, Luke nods. He can’t get the fucking image of a shirtless Michael out of his head. His face flushes impossibly red. 

“I’ll—uh,” Luke manages, voice cracking embarrassingly. “That’s okay! I wasn’t—wasn’t that cold, anyway.” 

Michael shoots him a puzzled look, brows furrowed. He looks like he’s about to say something, so Luke cuts in and asks something vague about their joint project to get Michael’s attention off of him. Michael starts rambling about urban gentrification and digitization, and Luke mentally logs out of the conversation completely. 

It’s fine. This is just…Michael’s vampire effects. Mind control. Voodoo shit. Obviously. 

—

Alright, so. Luke might’ve embarrassed himself immensely and failed catastrophically at making his point back there, but a wise person once said, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

Ashton looks up from his notes. “I didn’t know you read Nietzsche." 

“What?” Luke says. “No, that’s Kelly Clarkson.” 

Ashton shakes his head. “Should’ve seen that coming.” 

Luke drapes himself over the table. They’re sitting in a deserted study hall, only a few students scattered around the room, hunched over their work and murmuring softly to each other.  

Calum’s got his laptop open, but he’s playing that silly dinosaur game on the browser with his internet turned off. His keyboard clicks loudly as he slams his fingers over it. 

“So now what?” Calum asks, eyes still glued to his screen. “Ready to admit your big gay crush?” 

“My what?” Luke tilts his head. 

Calum sighs. “Mate, you’ve been talking about him for the past month.” 

“Well, yeah. It’s an ongoing investigation, Cal. I’m gathering evidence.” 

“You’re gathering a sexuality crisis.”

“What does that even mean?” 

Calum shrugs. Then jerks. “Wait, shut up. I’m gonna beat my high score.” 

He leans impossibly closer to his laptop screen, tongue sticking out in concentration. Luke rolls his eyes. 

“So anyway,” Luke says. “I’ve decided to shift my focus.” Ashton looks up, brows raised in surprise. “Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Luke continues. “So, vampires are supposed to be undead, right—” 

Ashton groans exaggeratedly and thunks his head onto the massive book on the table before him. 

“—so he’ll probably be really cold to the touch. You know?”

Ashton whips up to look at him. Calum’s finger audibly slips on his keyboard. He looks at Luke, eyes wide. They share a panicked look, then lean in furtively towards Luke. 

“Luke,” Ashton says, voice barely above an urgent whisper. “Are you going to fuck the guy?” 

Luke reels. “What? No.” 

Wait, that’s actually—

Wait. No. 

Calum watches the thought process pass through Luke’s head, apparently visible on his face. He grins, eyes sharp. 

“Damn,” he says. “I’m not even mad you interrupted my game. This is gold.” 

Luke folds his arms, frowning. “I’m just going to…like, touch his arm or something.” Ashton huffs a laugh. “Whatever you say, man.” 

“You know what?” Luke says, standing up suddenly. He points at Calum, and at Ashton. “Fuck you, and fuck you too.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder, ignoring the way they’re shooting him looks that say they’re just barely holding back laughter. He storms out of the library in what he hopes looked more like a dramatic exit than a prepubescent tantrum. 

He’ll show them. 

—

Luke does not know how to show them. 

He’s been racking his brain over it. How can he get a solid assessment of the temperature of Michael’s skin without doing something extremely creepy? He can’t just grab his forearm out of the blue, or anything along those lines. He’d freak the guy out. And Michael barely has any other skin exposed anyway. 

It’s late evening as he mulls over this conundrum, the sun just barely above the horizon, casting a soft pink light. The shadows on the pathway stretch far, dancing as the evening breeze shifts. The last of the morning birds chirp mournfully as the day closes. He’s headed back to his dorm, prepared to drop into bed, stick his earphones in, and wrap up the last bits of his semester projects. 

He walks into the dormitory hall, and stops in his tracks. The hall is empty, all the couches and armchairs and tables vacant, save for Luke’s favourite loveseat, tucked comfortably against the back wall. The window overhead lets a touch of orange-gold fall upon the inhabitant of the sofa, who looks up when Luke enters.

“Michael,” Luke smiles, and his breath is suddenly heavy in his lungs because the fading sunlight casts a warm glow over Michael’s shoulders as he reclines back into the seat, laptop resting on his thighs. 

“Hi,” Michael’s lips part upon a smile. He bites his lip, an unfamiliar tension fading from his frame as Luke approaches him. 

Luke takes in the man. He’s clearly busy, working on something that has his brows fixed into  frown, skin underneath his eyes dark with exhaustion. He looks like he’s spent the past two nights awake. 

“Can I…join you?” Luke asks. Then pauses. He’s not sure why he asked that, really. 

But then Michael nods, looks at him like he’s grateful for the company, and then Luke’s slipping his bag off and settling into the space beside Michael. 

The thing is—the couch is small. It’s meant for two people of regular height, and Luke will graciously admit that both him and Michael are much beyond ‘regular height.’ 

And so their knees touch. So their elbows brush with every shift. 

Luke grabs a random book from his bag and opens it, barely processing the words because—well, because his theory backfired again. 

Michael is warm. Luke feels the heat of Michael’s body seep into his bones. His skin is on fire where it meets Michael’s. His cheeks burn, but he’s not sure why. Is this…this can’t be the vampire bit of Michael, can it? 

No, this is. This is just the Michael bit. 

Luke zones out over the pages of his book, losing himself to the comfortable silence. The click of Michael’s laptop keys, the way Michael’s shoulder grazes his own, the way they seem to angle towards each other like gravity. 

The light from the window fades. The warm yellow lights of the hall flicker on, and Michael sighs through his nose at something, and then Luke’s counting Michael’s breaths without stopping to wonder why. 

Luke flips mindlessly through the pages. Michael’s cologne wraps around him, and his eyes flutter at the scent as he tries to burn this moment into memory. Him, Michael—not the vampire, just the person—alone together, alone in silence, like a strange shared understanding, an exchange of consolation and comfort. 

All of a sudden there’s a warm weight against his shoulder. Luke stiffens. He turns in time to see Michael, pressed up against him, leaning his head on Luke’s shoulder as he dozes. 

Oh. 

Michael is so warm. He’s so—

Luke tries to hold still, to breathe as little as possible because he’s afraid to wake Michael. He shuts his book and puts it aside, cheeks flaring a vibrant red as he looks down at his hands, fiddling with his fingers to keep from startling Michael awake as he breathes—slow and deep and relaxed—against him. 

It’s strangely intimate. The room holds still, everything suspended in time, in space, as the world narrows down to just the two of them. Outside, a songbird calls for its mate. Somewhere, a bicycle bell rings. The couch seems to sink under Luke’s and Michael’s weight, trying to swallow them whole. 

Michael’s hands rest on his thighs, his laptop screen dark. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and Luke’s eyes droop. He tilts his head to rest against Michael’s. His breathing slows, posture relaxing, the world fading into a dream, until—

“Yo, Luke!” 

Luke startles at the voice. Michael jerks awake. He looks around, sitting straighter. Luke suddenly feels cold as Michael draws away from him. Michael meets Luke’s eyes, face growing red immediately as he realizes he’d fallen asleep against him.

Luke looks for the source of the disturbance, finds Calum standing at the hall entryway, looking smug. He looks at Calum’s stupid self-satisfied smirk and tries to explode him with his mind. 

Michael’s already gathering his things. Luke tries to offer him a smile, but Michael’s in a rush and he won’t look at him. 

“Michael, I—” Luke tries, not even knowing what he’d say. 

“I have to…um,” Michael gestures vaguely at the stairwell up to the dorms, gripping his bag and laptop to his chest. “Yeah. See you around.”

“See you around,” Luke replies automatically, but Michael doesn’t stay long enough to hear it. He’s already halfway up the stairs by the time Luke registers he’s gone. 

He looks back at Calum, and if looks could kill.

 Calum holds his hands up. “I didn’t know he was asleep.” 

“Delete my number,” Luke tells him. 

—

It’s astounding how Calum’s still alive and breathing, considering just how many times Luke’s tried to kill him over the past week. 

Calum looks at Luke with the most shit-eating grin every time they pass Michael on campus. Ashton’s been let into The Couch Incident, as Luke’s been calling it, and now he’s also taken to grinning at Luke whenever Michael is around. Luke is seriously considering buying rat poison for his traitorous friends. 

As for how things are with Michael…Luke can’t really put it into perspective for himself. It’s a bit odd—both good and bad. 

Good because Luke and Michael will occasionally catch each others’ eye from across a room, and both of them will blush bright red. Luke seems to almost gravitate towards that spot on the loveseat in their dormitory hall. His heart races each time his phone dings a notification alert, because he keeps expecting to see a message from Michael. 

On the downside, it’s weird because despite all this, Luke’s barely spoken two words to Michael for the past week, because each time he tries, he thinks of The Couch Incident, and how his breath had fluttered in his lungs from Michael’s weight, his warmth. He knows, looking in Michael’s eyes, that he’s thinking of it too, and so their conversations consist of awkward stuttering and clumsy small talk. They’re too flustered to talk about The Incident altogether. Or about what it means. 

Luke’s conflicted. He can’t…be feeling this way around a vampire. He’s falling for Michael’s mind-control tricks, even though he knows it. Some part of him maybe even wants to fall deeper still, and despite all his hesitation, that part is beginning to win out over everything else. 

Calum and Ashton notice, obviously. And that’s how they’re here: on the same picnic table on the campus lawn where it all began. Luke’s eyes flit to that spot under the tree, where he’d seen Michael strumming his guitar. It’s unoccupied this time around, and the emptiness tugs strangely at Luke’s heartstrings. 

“Luke,” Ashton guides Luke’s attention towards him. “Mate, what’s the plan now?” Luke knows he’s referring to Michael. Calum leans on his elbows against the table, and Luke childishly frowns at him. 

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I haven’t finished my investigation yet.” 

Ashton sighs, but Calum clears his throat, a little awkwardly. 

“So, um,” he says conversationally, tracing the cracks on the wooden table with his fingertip. “Why don’t you just finish it?” 

Ashton opens his mouth to say something, but Calum nudges him, and some kind of understanding seems to dawn in his eyes. 

“You…uh…you got any more vampire tests left to run through?” Ashton prompts. 

Luke looks between them. He thinks of Michael.

Pale, pretty, tall Michael, with the lovely green eyes and the fresh pink lips and the calloused fingertips and the sharp fangs…and maybe Luke does have another test to run through. Something better. Something bigger. 

He steels his resolve and looks between his friends. 

“I’ve got…I’ve got one last card left to play.” 

—

He catches up to Michael after one of the classes they have in common. Michael’s shoulders are tense, even as he turns to meet Luke with a smile. Luke’s brain kind of melts out of his ears. 

“What’s up?” Michael asks.

Just spit it out, Luke tells himself. 

“You should come over to my dorm tonight!” Luke says, and it comes out high-pitched and loud. A small group of girls walking past them pause and look over, giggling. 

Michael’s cheeks take on a soft pink tint. “Uh.” 

“I mean,” Luke flails. God, he should've really thought this through. Rehearsed in front of the mirror or something. “I mean. I was thinking, like, pasta?” 

“Wait, I don’t—” “I can cook! I want to…I want to cook for you.” 

Michael smiles, cheeks flushing further. “Right, but, are you—” 

“If you’re busy, we could just—” “No, Luke, I’m not busy, but—” “Great!” Luke says. “So, like, seven tonight? My dorm?” 

Luke begins walking backwards, away from Michael before he says something stupid, or before Michael can change his mind or something. And he’s looking at Michael’s flushed cheeks, the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, how he bites his lip, and all of a sudden Luke realizes he forgot to actually ask the pivotal question. 

He stops in his tracks. 

“Oh my god,” he manages, thankfully still in earshot of Michael. “I was asking you out. I forgot to ask you out.” His cheeks flare hot as Michael laughs, and Luke’s eyes snag on his canines. 

“I did this all wrong,” Luke says, blinking fast. “Oh, this is horrifying.” 

Michael draws closer. “I’ll go out with you, blondie,” he says, grinning. “But you gotta ask me the right way.”

Luke knows he’s just teasing, but butterflies erupt in his stomach nonetheless. 

“Michael,” Luke says, drawing in a breath. “Can I take you out on a date?” 

“To your dorm?” 

“To my dorm.” 

Michael’s eyes are alight with amusement. With something like fondness. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.” 

—

When Luke lets Michael into his place that evening, he’s buzzing with anxiety and apprehension. He’s got a little kitchen island, where he serves Michael his best wine, and flits around the kitchen preparing what he hopes is his best pasta recipe to date. 

It’s good. It’s really good, in fact. Luke and Michael fit together like puzzle pieces, like stars orbiting each other. Luke’s heart is in his throat the whole time, because there’s a glowing warmth in his chest and he can’t stop looking at Michael, taking in the way his hands move as he speaks, the way he licks his lips, the way he throws his head back and laughs fully. 

Ultimately, Luke puts a plate of pasta before Michael, and sits opposite him with his own serving. It turned out wonderful, creamy and perfectly supple. Luke’s really proud of himself. 

“It smells amazing,” Michael says. “What’s in it?” 

Luke rests his chin on his knuckles, smiling. “Try it.” 

Michael arches an eyebrow. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you not to poison me,” he jokes. 

“Oh, I would never,” Luke plays along. 

Michael chuckles to himself, picking up a fork. He goes to take a bite, when Luke suddenly sits up straighter. He gathers his resolve, then decides: no better time than now. 

“Wait!” Luke exclaims, and Michael’s fork stops in the space between his plate and his mouth. “Before you eat, I have a few things I want to…um.” 

Michael shifts in his seat, setting the fork down and giving Luke all his attention. Luke wonders if he can tell how Luke’s heart is racing, how his pulse flutters when he meets Michael’s eyes. 

“If…” Luke starts. “If you ever need a helping hand with your…um. Y’know. I won’t tell anyone.” Michael flushes. “Luke, I…” he seems to struggle with his words. Then:  

“Thank you, really, but I’m openly gay.” 

Oh. 

“Oh,” Luke says. “I knew that.” 

He did not know that. 

“I was just saying,” Luke continues. “Like…ifyouwanttobitemeyoucandothat.” 

There’s a stretch of quiet as Michael processes the words. And Luke’s sure now that Michael can hear his heart beating. They stare at each other, and the silence is almost suffocating in its awkwardness, especially because Michael’s gone a little red. 

“What,” he says. 

Fuck.

Luke says,“You can bite me if you want.” 

Michael says, “What.” 

Luke’s tongue suddenly feels really heavy. 

“I just—I was just saying that I can keep your secret!” he goes on, even as his brain is telling his mouth to shut up shut up shut up. “I know you’re a vampire and—like! I respect it! It’s totally cool!” 

Michael is quiet for a moment, his eyes flitting between Luke’s own. 

“Why…” he starts carefully. “Why do you think that?” 

Luke blinks. “Well, the…you’re really pale. And…your teeth—” “My teeth?” 

“ —they’re really sharp! And how…when you came to my dorm the last time, you asked for permission. And…your tumbler, how you said I wouldn’t like what you were drinking…like—blood.” 

Michael makes a face like he’s in pain. Even as Luke speaks, he can hear just how silly he sounds, but his brain isn’t sending the right signals to his mouth because he can’t stop speaking. “And when I wore those…low cut shirts. You…my neck…” Michael’s cheeks flare a vibrant red. 

“Luke,” he says, and his voice is strangely high-pitched. “That day, I was—I was drinking vodka mixed with redbull.” 

Luke gulps. Oh, fuck you, Ashton Irwin. 

“And your shirt…” Michael clears his throat, fingers coming up to fiddle uncomfortably with his earlobe. “Um…you just—you looked really good in it. That’s…that’s why.”

Right. Okay. 

Luke looks down at his plate, blushing so hard his cheeks kind of burn from it. He kind of dies right there on the spot and then revives himself in under two seconds, which is a new record for him. 

Michael sits back a little and looks at Luke through knitted brows. 

“So,” he says. “When you did all that, you weren’t…flirting?” 

“Um, no, I was,” Luke bites his lip. “I was collecting evidence.” 

Michael exhales, and his eyes flash a mixture of confusion and amusement and…something else. Luke can’t breathe. Reality hits him like a truck. Michael isn’t a vampire. Luke just wanted him to be because he couldn’t explain his sudden intrigue in the man. 

“Luke,” Michael says, voice strained as he leans forward and squints into his plate of pasta. “There’s garlic in this, isn’t there?” 

Luke shrinks under the weight of Michael’s gaze, under his words, under the veil of his own stupidity. “Yes,” he manages, voice small. 

Michael huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t that technically be poisoning me?” 

“Well, are you a vampire?”

He can’t keep the bite out of his voice, but Michael takes it in stride. He stands up and crosses over to sit near Luke, so close that his knees brush Luke’s, and there’s that radiating warmth again. 

Michael leans in close. 

“No,” he says, sly grin parting his pretty lips. “But I can bite if you ask real nice.” 

Luke stills. 

Oh, this is it. I’ve died. I’ve died and gone to hell. 

He flushes all the way down to his toes. “Don’t—don’t make fun of me.” 

“Why would I do that?” 

“Because.”

Luke inhales sharply, turning fully to face Michael. “Because I really, really liked you for months and I looked for you in every room and I waited up for your texts—and I thought it was because you were an evil supernatural bloodsucking soul-eating ghoul.” 

Michael lets the words hang between them. His hand comes to rest on Luke’s knee, warm and grounding. “Well, you’re not wrong about the ghoul part.” 

“Michael.” 

Michael laughs, throwing his head back, bursting at the seams, and it’s such a gorgeous sight that Luke can’t help meeting him where he’s at, mirth spilling from his lips like honey. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Luke says. “Can you kiss me now?” 

“Mind the fangs, will you?” Michael mocks. 

Luke rolls his eyes and drags Michael in by the neck, pressing their lips together. Michael smiles against him, leaning in, pulling Luke closer with a hand on his waist. Luke runs his tongue along the line of Michael’s teeth, swallows his melodic gasp, and thinks: 

Thank fucking god for vampires. 

—

Luke 

so Michael is not a vampire 

i just really wanted to kiss him 

Calum 

@ Ashton thats 10 bucks 

Ashton 

Oh

Fuck vampires, mate 

—

[babylonradio]

let it all out — luke x ashton

MDNI—18+

ashton's unfounded frustration is throwing off the rhythm of the band. luckily, luke has a way to help. if only ashton would give in.

warnings: top!luke hemmings. bottom!ashton irwin. smut. banter. angry sex (kinda). first time bottoming. blowjobs. anal fingering. anal sex. hair pulling. hints of past ashton x luke. just a touch of ash's daddy kink. teasing. role reversal. crying during sex. restraints. orgasm delay/denial. begging. kinda ooc. basically both of them wanna dom and they fight it out. not proofread!

wc: 6.1k

request: lashton with both of them usually preferring to dom, but then they clash and try to get the other to sub to them and end of the story we get pathetic whiny crying sub ash?

author's note: this is all thanks to this video of ashton. just needed to see him crying icl. thank u anon for the request!! sooo sorry but im not happy with this at all :( it's not very good but!! atleast its out !! let me know what u think :3

also this is loosely based on a fic i read a while ago, but i absolutely can't remember what it was :( pls reach out if u know which one i'm referring to!

inbox n requests are open!

come find me on twitter!

It’s been a terrible day—a terrible week, even—and they’ve just wrapped on a photoshoot for some magazine, but Ashton’s got makeup all over his face now, and all he wants to do is get up to his hotel room, wash it off, and go the fuck to sleep. 

It’s been this way for the past week and a half. He can’t play right. It’s led to an odd frustration buzzing underneath his skin, inching outwards, until there’s a visible touch of tension, of underlying aggression in everything he does. He’s spent most of the past few days moping and sulking, and his bandmates have obviously noticed. Usually, they’d leave him to it, to vent out all his annoyance on his drum kit, but they’re all on the move now, and he won’t have access to his drums until rehearsal the next week. Instead he spent an hour at the gym this morning, but if anything, that only made him sore and irritable. 

He’s jittery throughout the elevator ride up to his room, and it earns him a dirty look from the old lady standing beside him, decked out in pearls or whatever. He ignores her. The doors are barely open before he’s shooting out of the lift, power-walking to his door, and swiping his card so hard it nearly snaps. 

Immediately, he’s slipping off his jewellery. He tosses the bracelets and rings onto the dresser. If they roll off and drop onto the carpet, that’s a problem for tomorrow. His skin is tingling, irritation crawling up and out from the base of his spine. His fingers feel raw, constrained, full of an anxious energy he can’t put a name to. 

He’s just about to tug his shirt over his head and throw it across the room when there’s a demanding knock at his door. He groans audibly, almost ignores it until it comes again, louder this time. He stomps across the room to tug the door open, childishly. 

“What?” he snaps, without looking at who it is. 

It’s Luke. He’s wearing a bored expression, no longer in his costume from the shoot. Instead, for some fuckin’ reason, he’s dressed in a button up and a loose tie. His dark hair catches the hallway light as he tilts his head, infuriating amusement glinting in his eyes. 

“Cal and Michael are going out for drinks,” he replies. “I told ‘em I’d go if you’re going.” 

“I’m not going," Ashton replies simply, and goes to shut his door in Luke’s face. 

But there’s something obstructing it. He looks down to see Luke’s stuck his foot between the doorframe and the edge of his door. He lightly shoves at the door, and steps in past Ashton with his hands in his pockets. Like he owns the place. It pisses Ashton off to no end.

“Luke—” Ashton starts, but Luke’s already in his room now, and if there’s one thing he knows about Luke, it’s that he can’t kick Luke out unless he goes willingly. 

“You’ve been a little tense lately,” Luke says. It’s an observation. He doesn’t imply anything, doesn’t offer anything. He strolls lazily to the minibar in the room, looking over the assortment of liquors. 

Ashton shuts the door and sighs. “Mate, I’m really not in the mood f—” “Whiskey?” Luke interrupts. It irks Ashton. His jaw clenches. 

“No.” 

“Suit yourself,” Luke shrugs. He tugs the bottle from the lineup and gets to work unscrewing the lid.

“What do you want, Luke?” Ashton grits, trying to keep the annoyance, the exhaustion out of his voice.

There's silence. Luke lets the question linger so long that Ashton questions whether he even heard. Then, 

“At our last rehearsal,” Luke starts, distracted with his fucking bottle of whiskey, like Ashton’s not worth his time. “You ripped the snare.” 

It’s not an accusation, but Ashton inhales sharply at the words. Yeah, he remembers that all too well. He’d been struggling to stay on beat, which was fucking embarassing because he’s half the rhythm section. The drumstick slipped from his hand, and his fist went straight through the skin of the drum. 

“What about it?” Ashton says, fighting the agitated blush as it creeps onto his face. 

“I don’t really know what's up with you,” Luke goes on, finally uncapping the bottle and measuring out a single. “But you’re throwing off the rest of the band.” Ashton knows Luke doesn’t intend to get on his nerves. He’s only looking out for their functioning as a team. They talk to each other in such plain terms often, especially when it’s important to their music, their performance. That knowledge doesn’t prevent Ashton’s fists from tightening in a foreign irritation, one he hasn’t really felt towards Luke before. The suave lilt of his voice, the relaxed curve of his shoulders all seem to suddenly be getting to Ashton. 

“I’m—” Ashton pauses to inhale deeply, to hold back from exploding. “I’m working on it.” 

“Try to speed up the process,” Luke says. His stubborn refusal to meet Ashton’s eyes is extremely aggravating. 

Ashton draws closer to Luke, if only to see over his shoulder, to see what’s taking him so fucking long to pour out a glass. He knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t trust himself to be thinking straight right now. All he feels is this sharp, stinging frustration. 

“What are you trying to say?” he manages, irritation evident in his voice. 

He hears the clink of ice falling into a glass. 

“Rehearsals are going to shit,” Luke says. “The tour starts soon. You need to be able to keep up.” 

Ashton steps closer. He’s nearly breathing down Luke’s collar now. 

“You think I can’t keep up?” His voice is lower, gravelly. Almost threatening. 

Luke seems unfazed. 

“Not what I said,” he says. God, he’s really getting on Ashton’s last fucking nerve. “But if you’re okay with playing mediocre music, then—” 

Ashton threads his fingers into Luke’s hair and tugs, hard enough to sting. His head falls back against Ashton’s shoulder, and he laughs upon a moan. 

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re mouthing off to—” 

“Thought I was being pretty clear, actually.” 

“Watch it,” Ashton warns. “Getting a bit too brave, aren’t you?” 

Luke only chuckles. His hand travels along the seam of Ashton’s jeans to cup him through his jeans. Palms him through the rough denim. Ashton hisses through his teeth at the feeling. 

Luke turns in Ashton’s grip to face him, eyes hooded, wearing a smirk. “Y’always this sensitive?” 

Ashton tightens his hold on Luke’s hair. Luke’s mouth drops open, a silent expression of pain. Still, he grins like he’s winning. 

“What’s this?” Ashton taunts, surprised. “Where’s the little Luke I used to bend over my lap back then?” 

Something like anger flares in Luke’s eyes. He pitches forward, fighting Ashton’s hold, to take his bottom lip between his teeth, and bites down. Ashton laughs, the pain satiating something in his belly. He leans into Luke, into his touch, and his fingers slip from his hair to tug at the tie around his neck as he licks into the younger man’s mouth. It’s an angry kiss, something primal and raw. Their teeth clash, breath mixing into groans as they push back against each other. It’s like fighting. Like being in love. Like fucking. 

Luke’s index finger goes around Ashton’s belt loop, and he pulls at it harshly. It briefly throws Ashton off balance. He pulls back. 

“Get on y’fucking knees,” Luke spits, eyes dark. 

Ashton bites back a laugh. “Aw,” he mocks. “Gonna put me in my place?” Luke’s jaw tightens, even as his palm comes to cup Ashton’s jaw. 

“Baby,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be begging for my cock by the time we’re done.” 

“That a challenge?” “It’s a promise,” Luke’s lips curl into a smirk. “Now get on your knees like a good boy, daddy.” 

It strikes a nerve. Ashton wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Luke has never—Luke doesn’t do dominance. He takes Ashton’s cock and cries around him and writhes and moans, he doesn’t…this is new. 

Ashton kind of wants to see where it goes. It’s funny, almost, how Luke thinks he can take charge. Ashton eases down to his knees, grinning up at Luke the whole time. He’ll let Luke have this. It’ll only make it twice as fun to put him back in his place later tonight. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, baby,” Ashton smirks smugly—condescendingly—up at Luke, who cards his fingers through Ashton’s hair. “But it isn’t going to work.” 

“Yeah?” Luke tilts his head. Ashton gasps harshly when Luke presses the sole of his shoe into his crotch. “Then why are you hard?” 

Ashton’s heart races, cheeks flaring in embarrassment as he grasps at Luke’s ankle, trying to get him to take the pressure off. When Luke doesn’t budge, Ashton slides his hand further up and cups Luke’s dick, squeezing hard enough for it to hurt. Luke winces, inhaling sharply. 

“What about you?” Ashton mocks. “Y’like having me on my knees like this? Fuckin’ freak.” 

Luke moves his foot from Ashton’s lap and leans in close. He grabs Ashton by the jaw, hard enough to force his lips open. Immediately, he shoves his thumb into Ashton’s mouth, tracing the line of his gums. 

“Open wide, princess,” Luke says. He pushes his thumb further, pressing down on Ashton’s tongue, forcing his mouth open. Unhurriedly, he unzips his trousers and pulls himself out. Hard and leaking, the tip flushed a pretty pink, Ashton’s mouth waters at the sight. 

He presses a faux-gentle kiss to Ashton’s cheek, then nips at his ear. 

“Mind the fuckin’ teeth,” he says, before feeding himself fully into Ashton’s mouth. 

Immediately, it’s a struggle. Luke doesn’t give him time to adjust, to catch his breath. His cock hits the back of Ashton’s throat, and he gags, tears springing to his eyes. Ashton brings his hands up to grip the back of Luke’s thighs, to try to control the pace—but Luke only chuckles under his breath. 

“Too much for you already?” he says, mock-pity dripping from his tongue. “Aw. What happened to all that bravado?” 

Luke uses his grip on Ashton’s hair to tug him up and down over his cock. Spit gathers in Ashton’s mouth, dribbles down his chin as he glares up at Luke. His throat tightens every time Luke pushes a bit too far, and he’s struggling to breathe from his nose. He tries to say something, to push Luke away, but his hold is incessant. 

“What’s that?” Luke laughs. “Can’t hear you. Too busy gagging on my cock, aren’t you, princess?” 

Ashton swirls his tongue, trying to open up his airway, but Luke just drops his head back and groans deeply. 

Fuck, it pisses Ashton off—to be used like this, to be looked down at, to be talked to the way Luke’s talking to him. It’s humiliating. His face is flushed—from anger, shame. Lack of oxygen. 

“God, you take it so good,” Luke bites his lip. “Who knew it was this easy to get you to shut the fuck up?” 

Ashton groans something low and threatening around Luke, and it only eggs him on. His pace increases, fucking into Ashton’s throat with a desperation that steals the air from his lungs. Ashton chokes, chin soaked with spittle. He tries to focus on catching his breath, on inhaling through his nose. 

But there’s a fuzzy glaze to his thoughts. The stretch of his jaw feels strangely relieving, and he presses the heel of his hand against his own erection, blinking through the tears. 

“Shit,” Luke says, and the tears gathered on Ashton’s lashline slip down his cheeks involuntarily as he tries to meet Luke’s eyes, tries to convey how fucking scared he should be for how Ashton’s going to return the favour. But Luke’s blind to the heat in Ashton’s gaze. “Look so good with my cock down your throat.” 

His thrusts grow desperate, and Ash can tell he’s close from the way his balls tighten, the way his gasps turn into something more frantic. 

He curses under his breath, and Ashton scrabbles for grip along his trousers as Luke leans into him, Ashton’s nose pressed to his belly as Luke comes down his throat without warning. 

He pulls out almost immediately, and Ashton gasps for breath. Luke’s cum splatters from his mouth, and he turns to the side to spit it out—but Luke takes hold of Ashton’s jaw again, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Swallow.” 

Ashton’s eyes shine with tears, with a sullen disdain for Luke that he hasn’t felt in years, along with a burning arousal that circles low in his stomach. He pants, lips shut thanks to Luke’s hold on him as he glares dagger at the smirking man. 

Two can play this game. 

Ashton moves quickly, swiping a leg under Luke so that the man loses his balance. He lands harshly on the carpet, in a way that undoubtedly hurts. Before Luke can get his bearings, Ashton crawls over him, pressing him down to the ground with a hand on his sternum. Luke chuckles up at him, but Ashton can feel his heart racing underneath his palm. 

He claims Luke’s lips, pinning him to the carpet as he parts his lips, lets Luke taste himself as he passes his climax into the other’s mouth. He pulls back, wiping the residue from his chin as Luke stares, wide-eyed, up at him. “How’s it taste, sweetheart?” 

Luke goes to protest, to rise on his elbows, but Ashton covers his mouth with a hand. 

“Thought I was supposed to be ‘begging for your cock’?” Ashton pouts. “Bit full of yourself, no?” 

Luke frowns at him, clearly trying to speak, but Ashton adjusts his grip. “I’m tired of hearing your fuckin’ voice, actually,” he says. 

Instead, he shoves his leg between Luke’s thigh, putting his other hand on Luke’s hip to press him down. Luke drops his head back, and Ash moves his hand down to unbutton Luke’s shirt, hiking his knee higher. 

“Yeah?” Ashton prompts. “All fucking smug until I get my hands on you, huh?” 

“Fuck you,” Luke spits. 

“That’s the plan.” 

Luke bites his lip, and Ashton wants to lick up the line of his throat. His hips jump, rolling down against Ashton’s leg. His cock is chubbing up again between them. 

“Look at you,” Ashton tuts. “Grinding on my thigh like a fucking slut. Gonna give in so easily? Let me win? Pathetic.” 

Luke bucks up again, hard, and his leg finds Ashton’s neglected cock. The sudden stimulation has him moaning, his defenses momentarily dropping. Luke takes advantage of the moment to flip them over, manoeuvring them so that Luke’s straddling Ashton’s thighs. 

Ashton’s hands immediately go to Luke’s hips. “Not opposed to this view,” he grins. “Have you bouncing in my lap by the end of the night.” 

Luke laughs, not with, but at Ashton. His hands grip Ashton’s wrists, pin them above his head with surprising strength. 

“Shoved my dick down your throat and you’re still talking,” Luke says, hands sliding under Ashton’s shirt, up, up, up. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name.” 

“I’d like to see you try.” 

“Shut the fuck up for once, and maybe you will.” 

Luke tugs Ashton’s shirt over his head, and leans in to make out lazily with him as he brings it up and off—except when Ashton tries to put his hands on Luke again, he realizes he can’t. 

“What the fuck,” he says, tugging at the restraints around his wrists. “Did you just—” 

“Nice and tight, isn’t it?” Luke grins. He’d somehow used Ashton’s shirt to tie down his hands. Ashton tests the give, but the knot holds tight. 

But then Luke is kissing down Ashton’s chest, undoing the buttons on his trousers. 

“Keep your eyes on me,” Luke tells him, tugging Ashton’s trousers down along with his boxers. Ashton’s hard, leaking already as he’s exposed to the cold air of the room. 

“If you wanted to suck my cock, you could’a just asked, baby,” Ashton grins. 

Luke meets his eyes, smiles like he’s got a terrible secret, and suddenly Ashton’s stomach is swooping in anticipation. In something like anxiety, fear. 

“Who said anything about sucking your cock?” 

His head disappears between Ashton’s thighs. 

“What are you—” 

He’s cut off by his own gasp as a wet tongue licks over his rim. Immediately, his thighs try to close over Luke’s head, but the brunet puts his hands under Ashton’s knees and spreads him open further. A violent red tinge rises to his cheeks. 

“Luke,” Ashton breathes. “Luke.” 

Because he can’t find anything else to say—because he’s ashamed, enraged, so fucking turned on he can’t see straight. 

“Yeah, say that again,” Luke says, sitting up. He grins at Ashton, but there’s no humour, no kindness in his eyes. “With feeling this time.” 

Ashton seethes. He wants to spit at Luke, get out of these fucking restraints around his wrists, remind Luke who’s really in charge. But Luke is looking at him like he’s prey, and suddenly Ashton feels very cornered.

Luke’s finger is rubbing loose circles around Ashton’s rim, spreading the wetness there as it seeps into his skin. It’s like a threat, the almost-pressure. Ashton nearly flinches away. 

“God, you’re—” Ashton says, fighting the heaviness of his tongue. “You’re going to fucking regret this.” 

Luke presses into Ashton—barely past the first knuckle, just a taste of what’s to come. But it's dry, and the pad of his finger is rough. It stings faintly. Ashton bites back a surprised gasp. 

“I am?” Luke questions, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Gonna make me pay? With your hands tied down? Your hole swallowing my fingers like it’s begging for it?” 

Ashton blushes furiously. He can’t bring himself to answer. 

“Or,” Luke continues. “You could always tap out.” 

He shrugs conversationally, like he isn’t easing his finger inside Ashton. Tap out. 

Yeah, fuck no. Ashton’s many things, but he’s not a fucking quitter. Especially with the brunet gloating like he’s winning a race. He stays silent, because he won't give Luke the satisfaction of a reply. 

Luke laughs under his breath nonetheless. Ashton keeps his eyes firmly fixed to the ceiling. 

Luke inches his finger further inside, and it nearly punches the air out of him. It's a foreign feeling, and even with just one finger Ashton feels full. He bites his tongue, overwhelmed. 

“So fucking tight,” Luke says, awestruck. Ashton steels his resolve, tries not to move at all, tries not to show Luke how much his touch affects Ashton. “Nobody ever touch you down here?” 

Ashton’s face burns. He looks to the side, resolutely avoiding eye-contact. 

“Ah,” Luke says, the arrogance in his voice evident as he speaks. “Poor Ashton’s never had a good hard fuck?” 

He leans in to pinch Ashton’s nipple, and the shock is so sudden that Ashton involuntarily whimpers. Luke laughs at the sound, even as Ashton internally curses. 

“I’ll be nice, princess,” Luke mocks. The nickname is pissing him off, but more than that, it’s going straight to his head. He’s turned on beyond belief, all his senses on fire as the blood rushes to his cock, as his mind zeroes in on Luke’s finger, unmoving inside him. 

Luke twists his finger, and Ashton shuts his eyes, exhaling shakily. He grits his teeth, his neglected cock throbbing between his legs. 

“Could fuck you dry,” Luke proposes, simply as though it doesn’t immediately scare the living daylights out of Ashton. “Make it hurt.” 

Ashton’s eyes fly open, and he meets Luke’s gaze, trying not to give away how fucking terrified he is of the idea. Arousal pools hot and urgent in his lower belly, and it’s confusing because all he wants is to pin Luke to the wall and fuck him like punishment, but his body responds to his touch with electricity. 

“I won’t though,” Luke says, drawing his fingers out. “Because I’m real fuckin’ nice, aren’t I, Ash?” 

“You—f-fuck—” 

“Nah, you wet my cock so well with your pretty lips,” Luke goes on. “I think you deserve a reward.” 

Luke coats his fingers in lube from a little packet he conjures from his pocket. Ashton’s entire body is burning up, his muscles tight with restraint. Luke’s finger nudges at his hole again, and Ashton drops his head back when Luke sinks in till the knuckle. He tries to remind himself that he doesn’t want this—that he’s on top, he keeps control, he holds it all together. 

But Luke’s fingers are pumping in and out of him, and he knows he’s clenching down hard, but something inside him is pulsing and he needs Luke to reach it, to coax it out. Already, his cock is weeping against his belly, and Luke’s finger is stubbornly refusing to brush up against his prostate, exploring everywhere but where Ashton needs him. 

“Something wrong?” Luke grins. “You’re looking a little under the weather.” 

“Sh—shut the fuck up,” Ashton spits. 

“Out of steam already?” 

Ashton opens his mouth to bite back, but Luke curls his finger up sharply, simultaneously wrapping his lips around the head of Ashton’s cock and sucking. His hips buck up, further into that wet heat, but Luke pulls away almost immediately. His finger brushes against Ashton’s prostate, teasing, and his head spins.

“Luke, I’m gonna…” Luke massages Ashton’s walls, his hand coming to wrap around Ashton’s dick. He strokes in quick pulls, and it’s too much, it’s too much. Ashton’s head spins, his back arching as he thrusts into the grip, so near to it, almost there—

“Ah, I’m so close, keep going—” 

And then Luke’s grip tightens around the base of Ashton’s cock, and he takes his finger out altogether. The burn is hot, bright, as Ashton’s pulled back from the edge of his climax. He breathes heavily, blinking at the ceiling. His mind clears. 

“Fuck,” he says, catching his breath, and because he can’t help himself: “Shit, I taught you well, huh?” 

Luke’s hand pumps his length twice, and the smirk is evident in his voice. “Gonna fucking ruin you.” 

Ashton laughs breathlessly. “I’d like to see you try,” he snarks. “Been waiting for a challenge all night.” 

He’s lying. Of course he is, but Luke can’t know just how deeply he’s been getting under Ashton’s skin.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, princess,” Luke says sweetly, but his voice is heavy with arousal. Ashton turns his head, chuckling into his shoulder. 

Luke’s finger returns with a renewed fervour. Ashton gasps, inhaling upon every moan that threatens to spill from his lips, but Luke’s relentless. 

When he adds a second finger, the stretch is gorgeous. Ashton’s back arches lightly. Luke immediately scissors his fingers inside Ashton. He feels exposed, looked at, far too splayed out. 

“Fuck, I want—”

“I think you’re forgetting you’ve got no power here,” Luke murmurs. The filthy squelch of his fingers fucking into Ashton fill the room. He avoids his prostate altogether, straddling Ashton’s legs to splay his other hand over Ashton’s chest, playing with his nipples. 

Already, Ashton is close again. Maybe it’s because he was dragged so suddenly away from it earlier, maybe because Luke’s hands are just that good, but Ashton’s vision is growing fuzzy around the edges. He blinks through it, laughs awkwardly at Luke’s words. 

“Yeah?” Ashton gasps. “So why are you—ah…rutting against my thigh like a bitch in heat?” 

Luke freezes, his subconscious thrusts against Ashton’s leg stopping altogether. Ashton laughs, unabashed, mocking. He tugs slightly at the ties around his wrists. 

“Jus’ say the word,” Ashton promises, “And I’ll give it to you so good you’ll feel me for da—” 

Luke twists his fingers cruelly. Ashton moans, high pitched and embarrassing. The pressure builds and builds, quicker, more desperate. Luke spreads his fingers, driving them into Ashton, alternating between aiming for his prostate and massaging his walls. Ashton plants his feet against the carpet, thighs shaking as he grunts and gasps, drawing closer to the edge, building, rising, growing—

Luke’s fingers disappear.

His approaching orgasm ebbs away like a sad little wave, and he whines—a pathetic sound, as he thrusts up, chasing the edge as it leaves him, too far out of reach. The coil in his stomach aches now, the sting of being denied for a second time sharper. 

He collapses back, brows knitted in frustration, and he registers the tears that have gathered along his lashes. His skin is tingling.

“Gonna give in to me?” Luke coaxes, stroking Ashton’s thigh placatingly. “Gonna let me take care of you?” 

Ashton gathers his wits, exhales through the haze of agitation. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Thats the plan,” Luke grins, mimicking Ashton’s earlier words. 

Immediately, Luke thrusts three fingers in. The pain is sharp, shocking, but it fades into something divine. 

“Shit,” Ashton moans. “Oh—fuck.” 

It’s impossible to think straight. Luke aims his fingers directly at Ashton’s prostate—quick, sharp stabs of stimulation, and Ashton rolls his hips, grinding down onto Luke’s fingers, tears gathering in his eyes again. 

“Ah—harder,” he gasps, and he hears Luke’s amused exhale. 

He can’t hear himself anymore, all his focus fixated on finishing, on chasing the high, tipping over the edge. His skin is on fire, his wrists burning as he struggles against the knot. Luke’s fingers are so good, so hot and fast inside him. The way he twists his twist, curls his fingers and presses into Ashton until he’s seeing stars. 

And every time Ashton feels it building inside of him, Luke’s fingers slow down, pull away, aim just past his prostate. It has Ashton’s breath hitching, his hands curling into fists, nails pressing crescents into his palms. 

Luke’s other hand comes to play with Ashton’s cock, and the stimulation is so jarring, like sparks along his skin—Ashton whines, frantic, and he’s so close. He turns his head into his shoulder to hide the tears—he’s so close. He’s on the verge of begging, all he wants is to finish, the pleasure blinding, hot and ice-cold at the same time. 

“L-Luke—” 

He’s trying to hide it, trying not to let Luke know how close he is to coming, but the brunet is rubbing incessantly at Ashton’s prostate, the grip of his other hand around Ashton’s shaft is so right, and he feels it then, the approaching wave, the blissful heat, the coil unfurling in his belly, and just when he’s on the cusp of it—

Luke pulls away. 

Ashton mewls. 

His shoulders shake as he chokes on his gasps, his mind fuzzy, thoughts scrambled. He feels entirely unraveled, shaking desperately, the muscles in his entire body aching with tension, with frustration at being dragged away from something so close, but just out of reach. 

“C’mon, princess,” Luke shushes him, palm traveling soothingly up and down the sensitive skin of his thigh. Ashton almost shrinks away from the touch, but Luke speaks again. “Feels good, doesn’t it? To get out of your head f’once? Focus on just how you feel?” 

“Sh-hut—d-don’t…” 

“Give in to me, baby,” Luke continues. Ashton tries to blink past the tears, but they’ve already slipped down his cheeks, and he burns with shame that Luke can see him like this, that Luke knows how it feels. 

Ashton can’t reply. Won’t. 

So Luke’s fingers thrust inside of him again, and Ashton’s back immediately arches. Again, there’s a foreign aggression to his pace, and Ashton’s barely recovered from his previous go, so his orgasm is already creeping up to him, his cock twitching, the muscles in his belly tight with anticipation. He can’t breathe, he can’t feel anything but the heat of his orgasm, the anxiety of being denied again because— 

He won’t last. He can’t…he can't let it be taken away from him again—he wants it so bad, and…he’s been so good, he’s listened to Luke, he’s cried nice and pretty for Luke’s fingers, he’s taken them so well, he—

Luke's touch disappears. 

Ashton sobs.

Luke’s touch is featherlight as he traces a finger up and down along Ashton’s cock, and the tears are falling freely now, his wrists aching from how badly he wants to reach out, to touch, and he’s heaving wet sobs, whimpering from the stimulation, little noises of protest, of plea. 

“Luke,” he gasps. “More.” 

Luke smiles. “There it is.” 

His touch withdraws altogether. Ashton whines because he’s worried Luke’s just going to leave him here for the rest of the night, wet and wanting and aching. But there’s a sound like a plastic wrapper opening, and then Luke’s hands are on Ashton’s thighs, spreading them open farther. The ache in his joints is delicious. 

There’s a weight, pressing against Ashton. Luke lines himself up, but just before he sheathes himself in, he stops. He looks at Ashton, reaching for him to tenderly wipe the tears from his cheeks. 

“Luke,” Ashton murmurs, and his voice is wrecked, broken. His lashes are clumped with tears as he blinks at Luke sitting between his thighs, just fucking teasing Ashton’s hole without doing anything.

“Beg,” Luke says, voice hard. 

Ashton exhales, cheeks burning. His mind is detached, but his skin is wet-hot, his muscles shuddering, and Luke’s almost inside him, he’s so close. 

Ashton tries to take Luke in himself by pressing his hips down, but Luke stops him with an iron grip. 

“Beg for it, Ashton,” Luke says. And, fuck—fine. 

“Please,” Ashton mutters, voice small, ashamed. He can’t meet Luke’s eyes. 

Luke grinds his hips forward, and his tip catches the rim of Ashton's hole. Ashton shudders, whimpering at the feeling. 

“Didn’t catch that,” Luke smiles, almost mercilessly. “Get fuckin’ loud. ‘Please’ what?” 

“Please fuck me,” Ashton gasps, but it isn’t enough. Luke slaps the outside of his thigh, chiding. 

“Shit—please fuck me, Luke,” Ashton says, closing his eyes to the humiliation. His voice shakes. 

“Yeah?” Luke prompts. He rolls his hips in intervals, and Ashton mewls at the feeling each time. Ashton’s gone fully, he just wants to come, and he’s not above begging. Not anymore.

“Fuck me,” Ashton gasps. “Please? Please…please, I just want to come, I just want—I want to come on your cock, Luke, I—” 

Luke pushes into Ashton in one persistent push, not stopping until his hips are flush against Ashton’s ass. The stretch is incredible, and Ashton feels so full, like a missing puzzle piece is falling into place inside him. 

“So fucking tight,” Luke grits, grip iron-strong on Ashton’s hips. 

Ashton can just hold on, pleas and incoherent words spilling from his lips as Luke draws out all the way, painfully slow. The emptiness returns, and Ashton shivers at how suddenly cold he feels without Luke inside him. 

Luke pushes in, a slow glide, slotting himself inside Ashton fully. Ashton’s mouth drops open in a high-pitched whine as Luke’s cock brushes against his prostate. He’s been near the edge for so long, he won’t last with the way uke’s moving, teasing and steady and slow. 

“Luke,” Ashton gasps. “Please, more, more.” 

Luke laughs. “Fucking greedy,” he says. “You’ll take what I give you.” 

Ashton’s head falls back against the carpet and his voice cracks upon a yelp when Luke pulls out, only to grind his hips inside again. He fucks Ashton deep, making sure he feels every inch, every bit of Luke’s cock that has him babbling with pleasure. 

There’s tears of frustration in his eyes. He knows he’s cried off all the makeup from their shoot earlier that day, and they only serve to make the tracks stand stark underneath his eyes. Luke rolls his hips into Ashton, and Ashton moves, trying to meet every thrust, trying to coax Luke to move faster. 

“Please,” he moans. He blinks at the ceiling, voice ragged, gone to the pleasure. 

Every time Luke aims at that spot inside Ashton, he shivers, letting out a garbled, shaky whimper. He can’t do much else but take it, let Luke have his way, take his own sweet time. 

“Touch me,” Ashton begs. “Luke…I—please, touch me.” 

Luke’s hips snap harshly into Ashton, tearing a wet gasp out of him. 

“I don’t know if you deserve it, baby,” Luke pouts. “You’ve been so bad today.” 

It stings. Not just Luke’s words, but the rejection, the teasing—the knowledge that he’s so close but he won’t get what he wants until Luke wants it too. He cries out, arms straining against the shirt holding him down. He’s saying something, but he can’t tell what it is, too lost to chasing what he wants. 

“No, I—I was—” But he doesn't have the words. It’s too much and not enough, his skin sensitive, sticky with sweat. Luke’s movements are corrupting his thoughts, all he can focus on is the steady push and pull, the angle of his cock.

Luke suddenly thrusts in hand. His hold on Ashton tightens, and his pace goes from a glacial slowness to a hurried, frantic one. His hips piston harshly into Ashton, abusing his prostate, and Ashton cries, sobs, mewls. 

“Thats it,” Luke coaxes. “Take it, baby.” 

Ashton writhes under him. Luke reaches down and plays with the head of his cock, and Ashton’s gone, he’s gone—

“All that pride,” Luke says, his voice winded. “All that bravado, but you’re just a slut for cock, aren’t you?” 

Ashton can barely hear him. But Luke takes his jaw, turns him so that he meets Luke’s gaze through a teary haze. “Answer me.”

“I am,” Ashton responds immediately. “I am, I am—all f’you…for your cock, Luke, I—” “That’s right,” Luke nods, and the sweat from his hair drips onto Ashton’s skin. “All you needed was a good fuck for y’to get that stick out of your ass, huh?” 

He fucks into Ashton without pause, never letting him catch his breath, chasing his own orgasm. 

Ashton is hiccuping through his tears, digging his nails into his hands as the pressure builds again, loud like a screaming in his ears, Luke relentless in his movements. 

Luke, terribly, horribly, slows his pace again, and Ashton’s eyes fly open. His hands scrabble for something to hold on to.”Please!” he cries, uncaring to how fucking embarassed he feels, because all he wants is to finish, to feel good. “Please let me, please I was—” “What do you say?” 

“I don’t know,” he says. He can’t think straight. Luke’s still got a hand around his dick, and its all too much, he can’t feel anything but the blinding pleasure, the desire to come. 

“Then you won’t come,” Luke says simply, hammering his hips into Ashton again. “No,” Ashton gasps. “Please, Luke. Please, I’m…oh, god.” 

He can’t think. He can’t…his mind is overheated, distracted, overheated by all the sensations creeping over his body. He searches blindly for an answer, and the fog clears, and—

“Thank you.” 

Luke smiles, like Ashton’s got it right. His grip tightens on Ashton’s cock, and he strokes him quick, matching his thrusts to the flick of his wrist on Ashton’s shaft. Ashton’s still speaking, the words lost to him as he spews some rendition of thanks, of apology, of plea. It’s sweaty, hot, and Luke’s hips stutter, and Ashton clenches down because he knows he’s right there, he’s right there—

He sees stars. He can’t get any air into his lungs, and he throws his legs out, arching his back as he comes, spilling all over his belly and chest. He feels it down to his toes and he shakes from the force of it, whimpering as Luke fucks into him a few more times, until he’s bending over Ashton and emptying himself into the condom too. They stay like that, breathing in each-other’s gasps, counting breaths. 

It takes him a while to come back, to open his eyes, and when he does, Luke’s still there. The brunet cards his fingers through Ashton’s hair as he wipes with a wet cloth between his legs. Ashton winces at the feeling, still sensitive. 

“How do you feel, baby?” Luke asks, meeting Ashton’s eyes. The snark, the arrogance from earlier is all gone, replaced instead with a tender earnestness. 

Ashton can’t help a smile. “Feel so fucking good…like, floaty.” 

A pause. 

“Can’t feel my legs.” 

It draws a laugh from Luke. Ashton’s never felt this way in his life. Like he’s lying on a cloud. Like he’s melting into the floor. He’s so relaxed. All his stress, frustration, worries are gone, leaving behind a sore, satisfied ache in his muscles. 

“You did that on purpose?” he asks Luke, as the brunet discards the cloth and crawls up to lie beside Ashton until he’s ready to stand.

“Worked, didn’t it?” 

“Asshole.” 

“I know,” Luke grins mischievously.  

They sit in silence for a while, Ashton counting Luke’s breaths, matching them to his own. 

“So,” Luke says, conversationally. There’s an undertone of something to his voice. “What you said back there…about me ‘regretting all this’...same time tomorrow?” 

Ashton wants to shove at Luke’s shoulder, but his limbs are jelly. He rolls his eyes, exhausted, exasperated. “Oh, fuck me.” 

Luke licks his lips, amusement glinting in his pretty blue eyes. “If you insist.” 

—

[babylonradio]

play stupid games, win stupid prizes — michael x calum [part 2]

MDNI—18+

calum moves into a new apartment, but the walls are really thin. also, his new neighbour is annoyingly loud

READ PART 1 HERE

warnings: streamer!michael clifford. teacher!calum hood. alternate universe: neighbors. romance. comedy. fluff. sexual tension. flirting. (bad flirting. sorry). eventual smut. pranks/prank wars. meet-cutes. mutual pining. light dom/sub. dom!calum hood. sub!michael clifford. mutual masturbation. voyeurism. calum has a thing for being called 'sir'. anal sex. anal fingering.

wc: 25.3k (13.3k in this part)

author's note: posted this in two parts bc it was too big for one post 🤭

inbox is open <3

come find me on twitter!

Everything goes to shit immediately. 

Calum obviously doesn’t sleep that night. He stays up, taking the longest cold shower in history, after which he paces up and down again, freaking the fuck out. He thinks a few times maybe he hears something from Michael’s apartment, but it’s really just the building settling or something. 

He thinks of calling Luke and spilling his guts, but when he reaches for his phone, it's out of charge. He plugs it in, and half an hour later, when he checks it, he learns its half-past one in the morning. And then when he sits with the thought for a while he realizes he can’t fucking tell Luke what he heard without having to also tell him that Calum was perving on his neighbour. And Calum would never live something like that down. 

So instead he eats half a loaf of bread—the only thing in his fridge that won’t come right back out again—and decides to finish correcting the essays he’s collecting from his students. He gets about halfway through before he starts nodding off. 

The earliest morning birds are chirping by the time Calum sets his pen down and drops his head into his arms. The sun isn’t up yet, so Calum tries to get at least a few hours of rest before he has to be up for work. 

Except the second his head hits the pillow, he’s hearing Michael’s voice. Seeing Michael, spread out on his bedsheets, whining and moaning into his hand as he pumps two fingers in and out of himself. Calling Calum‘s name. 

The image shocks him so bad, he sits straight up in bed. He’s chubbing up again, but he refuses to acknowledge it. It’s an uncomfortable walk to the washroom, where he splashes cold water on his face and forces himself to discard the memory of Michael’s voice as he comes apart. How he’d said Calum’s name so sweetly. 

Fuck.

The rest of Calum’s day predictably trash. He feels like a walking corpse, going through his routines numbly, because all he can think about is his name on Michael’s tongue. During his lectures, he’s so completely out of it that he puts on a documentary film for the class and zones out over a book. Which he realized later he’d been holding upside-down. 

At lunch, Calum trips over nothing in the teacher’s lounge. Luke looks at him like he’s insane—which Calum might as well be, because even seated across the most unappealing, boring pile of messy notebooks that demand his immediate attention, Calum’s thinking of Michael. 

All he wants to do is go home and sleep. He thinks maybe if he sleeps well enough, he’ll wake up tomorrow to learn that all this had just been a terrible dream. His evil neighbour would turn out to be an ugly, disdainful old man with bunions. He never heard Michael call his name as he came all over himself. All of it was just a nightmare. 

But nothing ever goes Calum’s way. 

He speed-walks the way from the bus stop to the building, jams his finger repeatedly into the elevator call-button like it’d make the lift come any faster, and nearly sprints through the hallway into his apartment. He was desperate to get some sleep, but worse than that, he was terrified to run into Michael. 

He falls into bed comfortably that evening. There was not a peep from the other apartment. Calum knows Michael’s home because he heard him come in, following which he shoved balls of cotton into his ears and retired to the corner of his apartment furthest away from the shared wall. 

But Calum can’t sleep. No, he stares at his ceiling, listens to the hum of the aircon. His heart is in his throat. It was around this time yesterday that he’d heard Michael, and somehow his brain registered the event as a high-threat situation, because the adrenaline pumping through his blood has his fingertips thrumming with energy. The cotton balls in his ears only amplify the silence on his head, the sound of the blood pumping through his veins. He tugs them out. 

Big mistake. 

Calum hears it then. 

Michael—across the wall. Touching himself. Doing god-knows-what to draw those sickly sweet, wicked moans from his lips. 

Again, he gasps like the first time. He whines, moans, whimpers through gritted teeth. Calum can almost see his lips, bitten raw, abused. He wants to replace Michael’s teeth with his own bites. He wants it to be his own hands, rather than Michael’s, that are making him feel so good. He wants to see Michael writhe and cry as he takes Calum’s cock—

Calum’s hard again. 

He sighs. Goddammit. He should've expected this. 

—

It’s torture. 

Almost every night. Every fucking night. Of the whole week.  Michael must be pent up as all hell, because there’s really no other way to explain it. And it’s driving Calum up the wall because—it’s giving him blue balls. Calum listens, ashamed and yet shameless, as Michael plays with himself every night, and every time he gasps Calum’s name, it’s another hard-on in Calum’s trousers. 

He’s mortified. But Calum’s gone over a week now, popping boners every night without so much as daring to even adjust himself in his pants. He’s afraid to touch himself. That would be—wrong. It would be an invasion of Michael’s privacy. It would be morally irredeemable. Calum wouldn’t do that to Michael. 

Michael doesn’t seem to have any reservations, though. He whines Calum’s name unabashedly, uncaring that the sound might carry through the wall. Calum might be making it up, but it’s like he gets louder, more desperate, more pornographic with each passing day. Calum’s having a hard time blocking it out. 

It’s almost funny. First it was the livestreaming. Now it’s Calum’s own personal hell. 

Those fucking sounds are taking over his mind. He’s thinking of Michael constantly. He goes through his days on autopilot, simultaneously dreading and anticipating getting home, because Michael will be there, across the wall, singing Calum’s name on the edge of a gasp, a moan, a whimper. 

The next day at work, during a free lecture, he slouches to the teachers’ lounge, dragging his feet miserably as he collapses into the seat beside Luke. He drops his head so hard on the desk that the sound startles Luke, and the old Miss Amari across the room. 

“Mate,” Luke says, poking Calum with a pencil. He doesn’t react. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Calum groans in response. It sounds like wind whistling through a corpse. Luke tells him so. 

“Jus’ kill me,” Calum murmurs. His nose is painfully smushed against the table, but he doesn’t have the energy to move. “Just do it. I’m ready. It’s my time.” Luke shoots him a look akin to one he’d give a slug as it creepy-crawled over his best shoes. 

“Calum.” he prods Calum in the rib. It usually works, because Calum’s freakishly ticklish. But Calum barely feels it this time. He just sighs through his mouth. He’s miserable, and he knows he looks pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Calum,” Luke says. “You look like you swallowed someone’s grandma’s ashes.”

Calum lifts his head a little, only to drop it against the desk again. “I might as well,” Calum gets out. “I might swallow poison while I’m at it.” 

“Tragic,” Luke tuts. “I’ll write out your obituary.” “Don’t make fun. I’ll take you down with me.” He tries to disappear into the desk. If he squishes up against it hard enough, maybe he’ll melt into it. 

Luke looks on. He keeps shooting Calum these pitiful looks. Eventually, he puts away the attendance register he was working on and scoots his chair over to Calum. He nudges him in the ankle. 

“Hey,” Luke says. “I don’t know what the fuck’s up with you, but you can tell me over drinks tonight.” 

Calum sits up, frowning. He does desperately need a drink, but—

“It’s a school night.” 

“Oh my god,” Luke rolls his eyes. “You’ll live.” 

Calum goes to drop his head back on the desk but Luke catches the back of his collar. Scruffs him like a cat. 

“Besides,” he says, voice lower now, like he’s sharing a secret. “I want you to meet someone.” His cheeks have a slight pink tinge. Calum’s eyes widen in recognition. 

“Oh,” Calum gasps. “Oh.” 

Luke turns away. “Don’t fuckin—” 

“Luke Hemmings, you secretive whore,” Calum accuses. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Luke blinks at him. “Because,” he enunciates. Calum feels patronized. “Every time I tried, you’d bring up your fucking neighbour again.”

Oh, right. 

Calum’s neighbour. 

The occurrences of the past week flash through Calum’s mind. Like a migraine. He groans dramatically and drops onto the desk. 

“There, there,” Luke pats his back placatingly as he gets back to his work. “I’ll text you the address.” 

—-

When Calum walks into the place Luke asked to meet, the first thing he spots is the massive bar counter. He’s headed for it, straight through the dancefloor like a buffoon, when someone steps in his way, and he walks face-first into the guy’s back. 

He lets out an oof! involuntarily. The guy turns around, and Calum’s ready to get into his first bar-fight of the evening when—

“Calum!”

Calum blinks. 

It’s Ashton. 

“Ashton!” Calum breathes. “I mean—Ash. What are you doing here?” 

Ashton tilts his head at Calum, perplexed. He kind of looks like an overgrown, super beefy puppy. “Luke didn’t tell you?” 

“Luke didn’t tell me wh—oh,” the realization comes to him in the silence between two songs over the club stereo. Ashton is the guy Luke wants Calum to meet. 

An arm lands around Calum’s shoulders and he looks to see Luke. Blond, grinning, tipsy Luke, who’s already making heart-eyes at Ashton. 

“You’ve met!” he yells, directly into Calum’s ear. Calum winces at the decibel of his voice. 

Calum looks between Luke hanging off of him, and Ashton, who smiles fondly at his boyfriend, and thinks: 

This is going to be a long night.

“I need a drink,” Calum mutters. Ashton picks up on it. “I’m on it!” he says, over the buzz of the crowd. Meanwhile, Luke’s already tugging at Calum’s sleeve. 

“We’re going to talk,” Luke tells him. “About whatever’s got you so down in the dumps.” 

“I’m not down in th—” “You’ve looked constipated for the entire week,” Luke replies. “Either we leave here with seven cocktails in your system, or a laxative. Which is it?” 

Calum rolls his eyes. He lets Luke weave him through the crowd. It’s a surprisingly busy bar, especially for a week night, but Luke seems to know his way around. He leads them into a little circular table on one end of the club. 

“So,” Luke says, resting his chin in his palm. “What’s bothering you?” 

Calum sighs. He considers telling Luke everything, but first he has a few questions of his own. 

“When did…you and Ashton?” he asks. 

Luke’s face breaks into a dreamy smile. 

“I took his number that first day,” Luke says. “We texted a bit back and forth and then a week later he asked me out.” 

Calum smiles. He’s happy for Luke. The guy deserves someone who’ll love him for the way he is. God knows Luke’s had terrible experiences in the past. “I’m happy for you,” Calum tells him.

“I really like him…” Luke trails off. Then, as though coming back to his senses, he snaps upright. “Don’t change the subject. What’s the matter with you?”

Calum wants to tell him. He really, really does, but he’s afraid Luke’s going to make fun of him. If the roles were reversed, Calum would do the same. Plus, it’s not an easy story to narrate out loud. Calum’s so deathly ashamed of himself, and so terribly pent up that he’s afraid he’d word-vomit all his feelings towards Michael right there, and Luke would be left reeling. 

And yet…this is Luke. His Luke. His best friend. They’d seen the best and worst of each other. Maybe…maybe Luke would get it. After all, this can’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened in their entire friendship, can it? 

So Calum takes a deep breath, and spills his fucking guts. 

He tells Luke about the elevator ride with Ashton, their conversation about Michael. How Calum watched Ashton unlock Michael’s door and step in. How he freaked out and spiralled until Ashton eventually left. The ensuing silence. And then…Michael. How he listened in even though he shouldn’t have. How he sat there, picturing it all. How Michael called out Calum’s name. 

How it’s been this way for a week, and it’s getting to a point where Calum can’t close his eyes anymore without seeing Michael, without hearing him. 

And when Calum is all done talking, he looks at Luke, waiting for him to say something. Anything at all. Maybe for Luke to say he understands. Hopefully not that Luke thinks Calum is a disgusting pervert. 

But Luke blinks at Calum slowly, like a cat. Then, he throws his head back, and cackles. 

What the fuck.

Calum furrows his brows. “What’s so funny?” 

But Luke just continues laughing, like Calum’s made the world’s most hilarious joke. There’s genuine tears in his eyes as he holds a finger up, gesturing for Calum to ‘wait a minute’. He gasps and chokes on his own heaving laughter, all while Calum sits frozen across from him, arms crossed defensively. Of all the reactions Calum had predicted, this certainly wasn’t in his cards. 

“Luke,” Calum grits. “Stop laughing.” 

Luke clutches his belly, wheezing. He sounds a bit like a dying cat. 

“What’s so fucking funny?” 

And when Calum sits in silence for another whole minute, Luke still giggling and snorting into his hands, drawing the attention of people around, Calum flushes down to his chest. 

“I’m—I’m leaving,” he mutters. This is—this was a bad idea. Calum knows it now. Calum also knows never to trust Luke with a secret again. 

As Calum rises from his seat, Luke waves desperately at him, like he’s asking Calum to wait, but he can barely speak through his gasping snickers. Calum turns to grab his wallet off the table when Ashton returns, slamming three beers down on the table and turning to grin at him. 

Luke finally catches his breath. “I’m—I’m laughing because this whole thing is funny,” he says, wiping the tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. 

Ashton hands Calum a bottle as he slips into his seat beside Luke. Calum just stands there, numb. The condensation from the bottle drips down over his fingers. 

“Calum,” Ashton calls, and Calum meets his eyes. Ash smiles like he knows something Calum doesn’t. That look is beginning to piss Calum off, but then Ashton continues. “Michael’s known this whole time that you were his neighbour.” 

And suddenly it's like the world drops out from under his feet. 

He falls back into his place on the couch. “What.”

Ashton nods. “He saw you move in,” he says. “Your very first day in. He freaked the fuck out about having a hot neighbour.” Calum thinks maybe he needs to chug all three bottles of alcohol on the table. Effective immediately. 

“But—” he starts, then stops. There’s so many things flitting around in his head. So many pieces coming together. “But the—the livestreaming. All those fucking pranks. The…this past week…”

Ashton laughs. Luke looks absolutely ecstatic. A nearby table goes quiet, as though they’re listening in. 

“He did that shit knowing it was you,” Ash says, matter-of-factly. “He’s a stubborn fuck. You know this, don’t you?” 

And Calum does know. His heart is beating loudly in his ears. He can barely think. 

“Why?” Calum asks. He has so many questions. So many things he needs to sort out. 

“He’s…” Ashton seems to struggle to find the words. Under the table, Calum is tapping his foot impatiently. Luke only smiles knowingly, taking a swig from his bottle. “Michael doesn’t like making the first move. He likes getting what he wants, but on his own terms. He was hoping all those pranks would make you go talk to him, instead of him having to come ask you out.” 

Calum considers this. Lets Ashton’s words sink in. 

Michael knew Calum was his neighbour all along. 

All those silly pranks. The notes. Michael, looking exhausted over his ‘side hustle’. Michael, telling Calum he was buying batteries for a cheap amazon order. Michael, avoiding getting into the elevator with Calum. Michael, who fucked with Calum knowing who was on the other side of the wall. 

Michael, calling out Calum’s name with his hand around his cock, knowing Calum would hear. 

Oh, okay, Calum thinks. 

He stands up suddenly. “I think I’m going to go figure some things out.” Luke raises his bottle in cheers. “Have fun, loverboy.” 

Calum flips him off. He downs his bottle. He disappears into the crowd. 

In the taxi ride home, Calum thinks about everything he’s just learned. He feels a bit angry at first. Michael basically fucked with Calum’s head for no reason. But then the hot anger simmers into something else. Something warmer, smoother. Just under the surface. 

For so long, Calum was playing with only half the cards. Now that he’s got the whole set, he’s planning on raising the stakes. Michael’s not the only one with tricks up his sleeve.

Two can play that game. 

— Three days down the line, Calum’s hit with an incredible stroke of luck. He walks into his building lobby just in time to see a flash of dyed hair enter the elevator, and the doors begin to fall shut. 

He strides across the floor, calls out a firm, “Hold the lift, please.” 

And Michael does, if only because he didn’t know it was Calum asking. 

As soon as Calum steps into the lift, his eyes find Michael’s. Michael’s face grows red, in recognition, in guilt. In shame. Maybe, in arousal. 

Calum backs into the corner of the elevator and leans against the railing lazily. Michael, meanwhile, stands stock still, refusing to move. His back straightens. He looks pointedly straight ahead, and he doesn’t say anything to Calum. So Calum stands back, relaxes against the elevator wall, and lets his eyes drag up the length of Michael’s body. He knows Michael can feel his eyes on him. In the silence, he can hear Michael’s breath as it stutters from his lungs.

Calum clears his throat conversationally. 

“Been sleeping well lately?” he asks, voice dripping in innocent curiosity. With morbid satisfaction, Calum watches Michael stiffen. 

The elevator doors fall shut. Trapping them both together, in the suffocating tension. 

“Yes,” Michael replies, still facing away, then coughs a little when his voice comes out raspy. “Yes, I have.” 

“Hm,” Calum shrugs to himself. Crosses his arms. “Can’t say the same, really.” 

Calum lets the words linger uncomfortably, until Michael takes the bait and replies. “Why…why’s that?” 

Calum grins. He watches Michael’s lashes flutter. 

“Trouble with the neighbour again,” Calum replies. His voice is low, husky. It folds into the air in the lift. Gets under Michael’s skin. 

Michael’s gaze falls. He fiddles with the rings on his fingers, but doesn’t respond. Calum audibly hears him gulp. 

Calum straightens up, and Michael watches his movements from the corner of his eye. 

“He’s just so loud,” Calum tells him, the lilt of his voice dripping with suggestion. “Especially late at night.” The air is thick. Saturated. Michael stays still, forces himself not to move as Calum takes a step closer to him. 

“Walls are thin, y’know?” Calum breathes. 

Michael’s eyes squeeze shut. Tension lines his shoulders. His hands shake slightly, with the effort of holding back, of keeping his breath steady. Calum’s grin grows cruel. 

The elevator signals they’ve arrived on their floor. Calum steps further into Michael’s space, until his breath is fanning the hair at the base of his neck. He watches goosebumps arise on Michael’s skin. 

“Relax, Mikey,” Calum whispers to him. “You sound pretty when you cry f’me.” 

The doors open, and Calum steps back. He watches Michael let out a relieved breath. 

Calum steps past him and out into the hallway. As he goes, he lets his fingertips graze Michael’s waist. He looks over his shoulder. Slowly, deliberately, he licks his lips upon a devilish smirk, meeting Michael’s gaze. 

The doors close on Michael’s flustered face. Calum chuckles. 

That’s 1-0.

Calum sleeps well and smug that night, because the apartment next door is quiet for once. 

—

Calum’s distracted at work the next day, buzzing with energy and anticipation at his plans for later tonight. He goes through his lectures in a daze, eyes flitting to the clock every five minutes, counting down the seconds in his head. If his students take note of his dizzy agitation, they don’t mention it to him. Luke keeps shooting him these smug looks, but Calum ignores him. He’s got better things to worry about. 

He has to leave later that day because of a mishap between two of his seniors, but ultimately it all ends well, and Calum’s off the clock by six p.m. Boarding his bus, he's nearly vibrating in his seat, fingers tapping away anxiously at the plastic armrest, which has a few people shooting him odd looks. He doesn’t care. 

He basically power-walks up to his apartment. Doesn’t run into anyone on the way there, which is good because he’s so anxious he might snap at them.

Once he’s inside, he forces himself to relax. For about half an hour, he sits at his kitchen table, meditating, getting all his excited energy out with each exhale. He puts on his favourite playlist and turns it up while he settles into a warm shower, letting the tension flow out of his muscles. His heart flutters in his chest at the thought of Michael, who should be getting home soon. 

When he gets out, he dresses in a comfortable pair of sweatpants. He forgoes his shirt. For what he’s got planned—if it works—he won’t need his shirt at all. 

Like clockwork, Calum’s ears perk up at the telltale click of Michael’s key sliding into place, the door opening and shutting behind him. Everything is going according to plan. 

Calum waits. Bides his time until the clatter of Michael going about his chores has died down. 

He settles into the plush cushions of his couch, where he knows the sound carries. 

Slowly, he slips his hand under his sweats. He squeezes himself, just testing the feel of himself under his palm. He drops his head back against the headrest and hisses through his teeth. 

After over a week of cockblocking himself, Callum feels like he deserves to savour this. He pushes his pants lower, just enough to get his hardening cock out. He licks his palm, wraps a hand around his base and strokes once along the length of his shaft. 

The stimulation is delicious. He allows himself to moan, a low sound under his breath. 

In the dim light of the doom, Calum coaxes himself until he’s fully erect, worrying his bottom lip as he tries not to give in and chase a quick release. He gathers the precome leaking from his tip and smears it down his cock, his eyes falling shut at the feeling. 

He lets his imagination have free reign. Pictures Michael sitting between his thighs, stroking him teasingly slow, licking his lips in anticipation. At last, his mouth falls open, and he moans loudly. 

There’s a muffled crash from across the wall, and Calum knows Michael has heard. 

He smiles to himself, twisting his wrist just the way he likes, fist curled tightly around himself. 

“Yeah, just like that, baby,” he murmurs, just loud enough. Pointedly picturing Michael’s hands in place of his own. 

“Fuck,” comes Michael’s voice, soft like he’d been trying to stay quiet. Like it slipped out against his will. 

Empowered, Calum continues. He imagines going over to the other’s apartment. Imagines slamming Michael against the closed door, taking him against every surface in the fucking room. He groans, a deep rumble from within his chest. 

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit, you're so fuckin’ good f’me.” 

He works up a steady rhythm, using his precome as lube, biting his lip. Would Michael use his spit? Would he lick along the veins on Calum’s cock? Ask politely for a taste, look at him through tears because he wants it so bad? “I know you’d beg for it,” Calum says, because he knows Michael’s listening. “Ah—take me so nice.”

He tightens his grip, squeezing his head at every upward stroke. He gasps, moans, putting on a show for Michael, the way Michael had been doing for the past week. 

“F-fucking—think about you all the time,” Calum moans. “On y’knees. Sitting pretty for me. Taking whatever I give you like a good girl.” 

His hips buck up into his fist. He can almost feel it: the phantom touch of Michael’s lips, the scratch of his nails against Calum’s thighs as he opens wide for him, takes him down his throat like he’s made for it. 

“Mmmn, fuck, you’d be so easy, wouldn’t you? I’d make it so good for you, sweetheart.” 

Calum flicks his wrist, stroking himself faster, savouring the pressure, the vision of Michael in his head—

“F-fuck, Michael—” 

A door slams open and shut across the wall. Calum startles so hard, heart jumping to his throat. And then there’s a sudden pounding at his front door, and Calum’s laughing to himself because this is exactly what he’d expected.  

He tucks himself into his sweats, still hard. He takes his own sweet time, wiping his hands and pushing his glasses up his nose. 

Michael’s still banging on his front door when he tugs it open. Calum smirks at the violent blush lighting his cheeks. He leans against the doorframe, letting Michael take a moment to look down the length of his body. Michael’s eyes trail down his chest, where a bit of sweat gathers in the valley between his pecs…down his abs…down to his hips , where his dick tents his sweats, straining against the fabric. 

Michael’s eyes snap back up. He points accusingly at Calum. “Y-you…” 

“Michael?” Calum asks innocently. “Is there anything you need at this late hour?” 

Michael bites his lip, trying and failing to meet Calum’s eyes. “You…you’re…this isn’t fair.” 

Calum crosses his arms, brow quirked in amusement. “What’s not fair?”

Michael squints at him. The colour travels further down his neck, dipping under his shirt. Calum licks his lips. 

“I know what you’re doing,” Michael takes a shaky breath. “I kn-know what you’re doing, and—” 

“And?” 

Michael gulps. God, he looks fucking pathetic. Standing at Calum’s doorstep, fidgety and stuttering, skin glowing a bright shade of red. Calum almost gives in. 

“And…” Michael trails off. He takes a little step back as Calum leans into his space. Calum derives a sick satisfaction from it. 

“Did you need anything, Michael?” he asks, and there’s a touch of authority in his tone. Calum’s in charge now, and it’s about time Michael gets that into his head. 

Michael looks away. “Um,” he breathes. “N-no.” 

“No?” 

“Y—no, I don’t need anything.” 

Calum pulls back. Tilts his head and smiles patronizingly at Michael. “Good.” Michael turns away to return to his apartment. Then, seemingly rethinking it, turns back to Calum. He clears his throat, but his voice sounds small. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, cheeks burning. 

“You’re sorry?” Calum prompts. Michael inhales, meets his eyes. 

“I’m sorry, sir.” 

Ah, he’s learning. 

Calum smiles, satisfied.

“Good,” he says. “Now go on off to bed, Mikey.” 

—-

The next week is uneventful. Calum works very hard to keep it that way. 

The next time Calum meets Michael in the lobby, he’s friendly, but keeps his distance. Michael can barely make eye-contact. 

It’s good. It’s easy. It puts Michael on edge. Michael will be expecting something from Calum now, and Calum won’t give it to him until Michael’s fucking begging for it. 

“Have—have a good day at work,” Michael says to him, the playful, teasing glint gone from his eyes. A genuine warmth replaces it now, and an underlying ache of desire. 

“Thank you, Mikey,” Calum replies, because he knows the nickname would trigger the memories from that night. It works, because then Michael’s flushing up to his roots. 

This is their routine. In the mornings, if they meet, Michael wishes Calum a good day. In the evenings, if Michael streams, he keeps the volume down. He’s ashamed, now. He knows his place, now. 

Calum’s not a monster. He doesn’t touch himself every night. In fact, Calum doesn’t touch himself at all. On occasion, though, he’ll squeeze himself or palm himself, and let his eyes fall shut, his mouth fall open to the pleasure. Michael’s apartment is always very quiet afterwards. 

Calum becomes increasingly conservative with the attention he gives Michael. Over the week, their formal greetings go from a few sparse words to Calum brushing past Michael with a hand on his waist, or even just a friendly wave. The disappointed, flustered rage on Michael’s face keeps Calum going for the whole day. 

But then Finals start at school, and Calum is flooded with work. 

He has students staying back hours after class to clear doubts and ask questions, which means he doesn’t get time to finish up his own workload. He stays up late at night, loses track of time as he pours over textbooks and looks over his students’ study notes, busy setting and rechecking paper and correction patterns. 

He walks around like a ghost, drained of any social and emotional capacity. All he can spare for Michael is an occasional tired smile. He sees Michael’s concern etched into his cheeks as he smiles back, always almost-reaching out to talk, to comfort Calum. Maybe just to spend their silences together. To share space. Coexist. And Calum finds that he wants that with Michael, more and more with each passing day. 

There’s just so much work. Calum’s days begin to blur into just school, his desk at home, and his bed. In all the grey, the only colour he sometimes finds is in Michael—in the dye of his hair, in the pink of his lips, the glint of his jewellery, the green of his eyes. 

Except Calum is exhausted. Too exhausted to reach out and talk to the man. All he does is scribble away, and check and recheck notes, and sink into the dull throb of pain as his neck and back protest in response to all those hours spent hunched over. 

He knows, in two weeks, once all the examinations are over, the papers will be sent out for grading, and then he’ll be free. Next week, while his students are away on their school-issued study break, Calum will take advantage of all the free time he gets.

It’s late at night on a Thursday that Calum finally caves and decides to have a smoke. If for nothing else, then to have a few minutes of silence. 

He’s out on his balcony, leaning against the railing, cigarette pinched between two fingers. There’s a pleasant breeze, and the sounds of the city are almost melodic in their thrum. The lights seem so far away, stretching out for miles ahead of him until they disappear into the smog of the horizon. It’s serene. Peaceful.

Calum brings the cig to his lips. 

“Hey, handsome,” comes a playful voice, somewhere to his left. Calum turns to find Michael stepping out into his own balcony, wearing a fond smile. “Fancy seeing you out here.” 

Calum exhales the smoke before smiling back. 

“Hi, pretty,” he says, then almost backpedals because the nickname wasn’t meant to slip out. Except it brings a warm glow to Michael’s cheeks as his eyes flit over their view. He comes over to lean against the railing of his own balcony.  

The wind carries the faint scent of Michael’s cologne over to Calum. In the darkness, under the faint moonlight, Michael’s skin seems to glow. The image before him is just like Calum had wanted—to share silences with Michael. To share space, comfortably. 

“You’ve been busy,” Michael observes. His eyes follow a couple, far below, as they stroll along a street, before turning a corner and disappearing. 

Calum takes another drag before replying. “Work has been crazy,” he sighs. 

Michael looks at him. “Tired?” 

Calum lets his head drop. “Exhausted.” 

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, and his voice is so sweet, so genuine. “I wish I could help.” Calum shakes his head, meets Michael’s gaze and smiles. “You’re helping right now.” 

It draws a melodic laugh from the man. 

They fall into a comfortable silence. The breeze whistles, rattling the glass doors of their balconies gently. Far below, flower petals from a tree catch the wind and drag across the sidewalk. The moon dims and glows as the clouds pass before her, and Calum sips deeply from his cigarette, eyes closed to the world. 

“I’m…” Michael starts. “I’m sorry. About everything.” 

Calum opens his eyes. He raises a brow, turning to the other man. Michael fidgets with the sleeves of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have done…all of that,” he goes on. “I know the sound bothered you, and I kept it up still. The…um, the pranks too. Some of them—some of them weren’t okay.” Michael flushes. Calum knows they’re both thinking of ‘The Speaker Incident.’ 

Michael clears his throat. “They were all stupid,” he says, shaking his head. “I just…I guess I just wanted you to talk to me, and I was childish about it. I’m sorry.” Michael takes a deep breath, like he’s trying to get out the words that are stuck in his chest. 

“I should’ve been braver,” he says, cheeks burning. He can’t bring his eyes to meet Calum’s. “I should’ve done something else, but I was stupid because—because I really, really like you, and I still want something with you.” 

Michael looks at Calum, a worried frown marring his beautiful features. “If you’ll have me,” he adds, self-conscious. 

Calum breathes in the night air. He puts out his cigarette, tosses it to the side. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Calum says. “I shouldn’t have…acted the way I did.” 

Michael smiles. Understanding. Warm. 

“It’s okay,” he breathes. “I guess we were both stupid.” 

He tilts his head, like they’re sharing some kind of secret, and chuckles under his breath. Calum’s chest aches at the sound. His heart flutters. 

Oh, he thinks. I’m absolutely fucked for this guy. 

Michael looks out at the city again, and the breeze ruffles his hair a little. 

“I should…probably get back inside,” he says. “It’s getting late.” “Yeah,” Calum says, even though he really wants to say no stay please lets talk forever let me make you laugh again stay stay stay—

“Goodnight, Calum,” Michael says. He slides his balcony door open and steps in.

“Michael,” Calum says, because really, he’s waited long enough. He’s fucked around long enough. And now that they’ve finally had this conversation, told each other the truth, what more is left to do? 

Michael pauses. Meets Calum’s gaze. 

Calum looks at him, at the hopeful shine of his eyes, the way his fingers tighten around the doorframe. 

“I’ll pick you up at seven tomorrow,” Calum tells him. “Dress nice.” 

Michael’s face splits into the most beautiful smile. 

“Okay,” he says, unable to hide his relief, his excitement. He closes the balcony door, but pauses to look back at Calum before he disappears into his apartment. 

Calum thinks, I might be in love. 

—-

Calum knocks on Michael’s door at seven o'clock on the dot. Michael swings the door open with the biggest smile on his face, and Calum has to resist the urge to pounce on him right then and there. But he doesn’t. No, he’s got a plan. 

The date goes wonderfully. Calum takes Michael to a place with warm lights and fantastic liquor. They talk for hours, forgetting the food on their plates, laughing and smiling and flirting like they’d been this way for years. Calum wants to stay there forever, watching the light catch Michael’s eyes, the whisper of mirth on his lips, the way their fingers intertwine as though coming home. 

They go out for ice-cream after. Michael picks something exotic and tangy. Calum wants to lick it from his tongue.

On the walk home, Michael’s hand finds Calum’s, and the memory etches itself into place. Under streetlights, under stars, Calum’s shoulder brushes Michael’s, and he feels like he can finally breathe. 

When they get home, Michael leans against his door, biting his lip shyly. They’re standing far too close together, and Calum’s fingers are buzzing with anticipation. 

Michael’s hand finds Calum’s collar and he pulls him in. Calum goes willingly. All alone in that hallway, Calum kisses Michael, sweet and lingering. He breathes Michael in, tastes the tip of his tongue, memorizes the way his body curves into Calum’s. Michael moans, licks into Calum’s mouth, deepening the kiss, desperate, wanting—

With an enormous effort, Calum pulls away. He stays close, nearly speaking into Michael’s lips. 

“It’s late,” he says. 

“Mm,” Michael responds, distracted as he chases Calum’s lips. Calum stops him with a hand on his lip. 

“I have to be up early tomorrow,” he smiles. It’s a lie. It’s Saturday tomorrow. 

But the disappointment on Michael’s face is immediately evident. It makes Calum’s knees weak, the way he pouts up at him. 

Calum steps back from Michael, and all the warmth leaves him immediately. God, it’s an effort not to take Michael right there in the hallway with the way he’s looking at him so invitingly. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, pretty,” he tells Michael. He moves to unlock his door. 

Michael gulps. “Oh,” he says, voice small. Almost hurt. “Okay.” 

He watches as Calum opens the door to his apartment and pockets the keys. Calum smiles tenderly at Michael, even as he shuts the door in his face. 

Calum waits by his door, listening intently as Michael stands there for a moment, then unlocks his own door and steps in. 

It’s funny. Calum steps back from his door, grinning to himself. He unbuttons his shirt, smiling like an idiot, because he’s teased Michael for so long now. Let Michael have a little taste through that kiss, then took it all away. 

Michael must be—frustrated. Pissed off, even, and rightfully so because to him, it probably looks like Calum led him on only to leave him high and dry. Calum expects Michael to crack any moment now. Either he’d stand there, pressed against his door, getting himself off with his shirt held up between his teeth, or—

There’s an impatient pounding at Calum’s door. 

Ah, there it is. 

Shirt still half-undone, Calum waits a few moments, just to torture Michael a little. He swings open his door. 

Michael stands there, cheeks flushed, brows furrowed because he’s upset. It’s a cute look on him, as he looks Calum over, then lunges at him. 

His hands go around Calum’s shoulders immediately, pulling him in, and Calum catches him by his waist. The door shuts loudly as Calum presses him back into it, and Michael captures his lips. 

“You—fuckin’ tease,” Michael accuses, as he nips at Calum’s bottom lip. He’s insatiable. The kiss is hungry—violent, almost, in how messily Michael sucks at Calum’s tongue, moans into him, grinds his hips against the other man’s. 

Calum laughs into the kiss. Michael draws him impossibly closer, one leg coming up to wrap around Calum’s thigh, to press him further into himself. His hand goes down Calum’s chest, fingers exploring the bare skin. 

Calum’s painting small, biting kisses down Michael’s neck, and Michael turns his head to give him better access. His teeth scrape dangerously along Michael’s jugular, and the man lets out a high-pitched whine. 

“Fff—Calum,” he gasps, nails digging into Calum’s shoulder. Calum only chuckles into his skin. “Calum—” 

“Yeah?” Calum calls, busy tracing a path down to his collarbones with his lips. When Michael tugs at his sleeve, Calum knows he’s asking for his attention. He pauses. 

Michael looks down at him, uncertainty bleeding into confidence in his eyes. “You…” he licks his lips. “You’re going to let me suck your cock.” 

Calum’s belly swoops, his heart skipping like ten beats in a row. Fuck. He really wants that, but…not yet. 

Calum tilts his head, grinning up at Michael. “I am?” 

Calum’s hands creep up to find purchase on Michael's hips as the other man fumbles. “Y-yes,” Michael breathes, clearly struggling to pay attention. “You are.” 

“Hm,” Calum tilts his head. He comes up to press a quick kiss to Michael’s lips before using his grip on his waist to spin him around. Michael gasps, hands coming up to find support against the door. Calum crowds him into the wall, licking along the line of his shoulder and nibbling at a spot under his ear. Michael whines. 

“I think,” Calum starts, drunk on the taste of Michael’s skin. “I ought to teach you a thing or two about manners, hm?” 

Michael bites his lip, trying and failing to keep his little noises hidden. When he doesn’t reply, Calum trails a hand up from Michael’s bellow, up his throat, and settles his hand there, squeezing just enough to get Michael’s attention Michael’s eyes flutter shut and his head falls back on Calum’s shoulder. 

“What do you say, Michael?” Calum breathes, lips brushing his ear. 

“Y-es, sir,” Michael gasps. His fingers curl into fists, scrabbling for something to hold on to against the door. Calum presses one last kiss to Michael’s neck, then steps back altogether. Michael’s knees nearly give out, but he catches himself. Supporting his weight, he turns to meet Calum’s eyes. 

He looks—he looks fucking ruined already. Skin flushed and warm, pupils blown wide, lips bitten and raw. He takes Calum in. Calum, who stands tall, arms crossed, looking down his nose at Michael. He exhales through his mouth. He can’t wait to take Michael apart, piece by piece. 

Calum gestures towards the corridor leading further into his apartment. 

“Go find my room,” he says. “I want you naked on my bed when I get there.” 

Michael hesitates for just a moment, before a sly smile parts his lips and he pads confidently towards Calum’s room, tugging his shirt up and over his head as he goes. He looks over his shoulder, gauging Calum’s reaction as the skin of his torso comes into view. Calum entertains him, letting his eyes trail appreciatively down his back. 

Michael finds Calum’s room, pushes past the door and disappears out of view. Calum gives him a few minutes, generously. The apartment is so quiet, but Calum can hear his heartbeat as it pounds against his ribcage. His skin is crawling, blood thrumming as he tries not to fidget with excitement, anticipation. He knows Michael’s stripping just one wall over. Michael’s stripping for him. 

It sends a zip of energy up his spine. He’s going to break Michael down until he’s fucking sobbing, until he’s begging for Calum’s cock—and then some. It’s a little sadistic, sure. But Calum never claimed to be nice. 

The minutes stretch out into eternity. Calum knows he’s waited much longer than it would take for Michael to get his clothes off. But he revels in the wait, in the desperate itch of impatience in his bones. Michael will be squirming, belly turning as he tries to piece together what happens next. 

Calum gives in.

It’s a lazy stroll, unhurried and aimless, down to his room. He walks through the doorframe, and lets his eyes just barely flit over Michael. 

His breath catches in his lungs. 

The moonlight dances across Michael’s skin in the dark room. He sits at the edge of the bed, thighs spread, already half-hard. Michael’s cock is, like the rest of him, predictably pretty. Flushed pink, it sits untouched between his legs, even as his shoulders shake in restraint. He wants to be good, Calum can tell—because Michael’s hands are fisted tight beside him. He’s looking straight down, cheeks on fire, but he’s aware of Calum when he walks in. 

Intentionally, Calum doesn’t look too long, hides the arousal in his eyes. He walks across the room, to his dresser. Basically ignoring the fucking incarnation of Venus sitting on his bedsheets. 

“You know the colour system, Michael?” Calum asks, back turned as he looks through the top drawer. He finds what he’s looking for and pockets it. Then crouches to open his bottom drawer. 

Michael nods—then, realizing Calum can’t see him, clears his throat. “Yes.” 

“Good,” Calum says. “I have a few rules for you before we start. Is that okay?” 

Michael is quiet this time. He stays silent, until Calum locates the item he’s seeking in his drawer and hides it in his palm. He turns and meets Michael’s gaze expectantly. 

“We speak when spoken to, Mikey,” Calum tells him. Michael’s eyes fall away, and he flushes. 

“Yes,” he murmurs. Then, catching himself, “Yes, sir.” 

Calum lets him sit there, silent and uncomfortable once he notices just how undressed he is compared to the fully-clothed Calum. How exposed he is. How much Calum can see. Softly, he mutters, “I don’t like rules.”

Calum chuckles. The sound clearly gets under Michael’s skin, for he shifts a little on his thighs. Tries to draw his legs closed. Calum crosses the room again, not looking at Michael, not giving him the attention he needs. 

“You’ll need them tonight if you want me to fuck you, pretty,” Calum replies. He hears Michael’s sharp intake of breath. 

Calum drags the chair from his desk to the centre of the room. Sets it so that it’s facing Michael on the bed. 

“Now,” Calum says. He looks at Michael fully, checking him out as Michael’s skin heats under his gaze. It settles the man, though. He needs the attention. “I want you to use your words tonight.” 

Calum approaches Michael. As he stands over him, Michael’s gaze moves up to meet his eyes. Calum cups his cheek gently. 

“If you want something from me,” Calum tells him, voice gentle, coaxing. “You’re going to ask for permission. You’re going to say ‘please’.” 

Michael’s eyes flutter. 

“I won’t give you what you want unless you ask real nice, okay?” he continues. 

Michael nods. Calum lets this one slide because Michael’s still learning. He’ll catch up. Calum will make sure of it. 

“I don’t like to be disappointed, Michael,” Calum says, thumb tracing Michael’s lower lip. “You know that, don’t you?” 

Michael meets his eyes. “Yes, sir.” 

“And if you disappoint me, what do you say?” 

Michael bites his lip. He pauses, considering—but that’s okay. Calum can wait. He wants Michael to figure it out for himself. 

“That…” Michael ventures. “That I’m sorry.” 

Calum smiles. “Very good.” 

Michael exhales through his nose, relieved at Calum’s approval. Calum’s hand finds its place around Michael’s neck again. Just feeling him out, never applying pressure. He feels Michael’s adams apple bob as he swallows deeply. 

“And when you feel good,” Calum tells him, voice low, barely above a whisper. “I want you to thank me.” 

Michael makes a noise low in his throat. Calum leans in, breath fanning Michael’s cheek. The other man chases Calum’s lips, but Calum holds him in place. 

“I need you to understand something,” Calum murmurs, eyes fixed on Michael’s lips because he can’t look away. 

Michael hums. 

“You’ve gotta understand none of this is for you, baby,” Calum says, and Michael’s eyes snap open to meet Calum’s. They’re dilated, green devoured entirely by the black of his pupils. He licks his lips as Calum continues. “Everything that happens tonight is for my pleasure. ” 

Michael’s eyebrows quiver. He moulds into Calum’s touch, but then Calum is pulling away. He lays out the things he’d recovered from his dresser onto the bed. 

“Am I understood?” he says, voice firm now. 

Michael nods, quick and desperate. “Yes,” he gasps. “God, yes.” 

Calum presses one last kiss to his lips, just barely brushing, before he steps back and falls into the chair he’d pulled out earlier. Michael’s eyes fall onto the items laid out beside him. 

A bottle of lube. And a bullet vibe. 

His face flushes. He turns to Calum, who stretches out his legs lazily. Michael’s eyes catch the bulge in his trousers before they come up to his face. 

“You’re not going to—?”

“Me?” Calum laughs, loud and mocking. “Oh, no, baby.” Calum rests his knuckles against his temple, supporting himself with an elbow along his armrest. He looks at Michael through a smirk. 

“After all your teasing?” Calum goes on. Michael’ eyes widen, fist tightening around the little bottle. “Fucking yourself while I could hear, whining my name like a whore…I don’t think you’ve earned my touch just yet, sweetheart.”

Michael folds into himself, thighs pulling shut. He falls back onto the bed, looking between Calum and the bottle in his hands. Calum leans forward, resting his hands on his knees. 

“Michael,” he calls softly, and Michael looks at him immediately. So obedient. It brings a smile to Calum’s lips. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?” 

Michae bites his lip. “I do.” “Then touch yourself, pretty,” Calum says. “Show me what you did across that wall.” 

“But I want—” “I don’t care what you want,” Calum says, sitting back. “You’re gonna work for it, aren’t you? Not gonna touch you until you cry nice and pretty f’me.” 

Michael still looks like he wants to disagree. He unbuttons his shirt all the way, watching as Michael wets his lips, following the movement of Calum’s fingers. He goes as far as undoing the button of his trousers, but that’s all he’ll let Michael have at the moment. Sitting shirtless there, he rolls his shoulders. 

“Lean back for me, baby,” he murmurs. He watches as the command in his voice sinks into Michael’s skin. Michael slides further up and leans back against the headboard of the bed. He slides his legs open, looking to the side as he does, cheeks stained red. The blush travels further down his chest. 

Calum’s mouth goes dry. 

“I…I’m—” Michael can’t seem to get the words out, stuttering as he struggles to relax, to adjust to how vulnerable he is, how he’s at Calum’s mercy right now. 

It makes Calum’s chest grow warm, arousal gathering low in his belly. Good. 

“I know,” he shushes, condescending. “Embarassing, isn’t it? All spread out like this, for me to look at?” 

Michael nods. 

“Words, Michael,” Calum says, sharper now. “Tell me how you feel.” 

“I feel—” Michael cuts himself off. “I feel…open.” 

“Y’like being looked at?” 

“Yes, sir.”

Calum hums. “Go on,” he prompts. “Put on a show for me.” Michael pauses, hesitant. Then, he uncaps the bottle in his hand. Slicks up his fingers. 

“Can I?” he pleads, and his voice is so sweet. 

“Go ahead,” Calum consents. 

Michael sinks his index finger knuckle deep, all in one go. He drops his head back against the headboard, eyes falling shut. A reverberating moan slips from his lips. Calum’s eyes are locked on his slick hole, how he slowly pumps his finger in and out. 

“What do we say?” Calum prompts, even as his voice is low, heavy with desire.

Michael clearly struggles to register Calum’s words, but when he does, he fumbles through the words. “Th-thank you, sir, ah—” 

“Tell me what you thought about,” Calum breathes. “Across the wall, all those days.” 

Michael bites his lip upon a moan. “Ah-ah,” Calum tuts. “Commit to it, baby. Let me hear you.” 

Michael’s so fucking obedient, he lets his lips drop open and whines obscenely.

“I thought about you,” he gasps. “Your—your hands’ around m’waist. Thought about sucking you off in that fuckin’ grocery store.” 

Calum’s pants suddenly grow extremely uncomfortable at the image of Michael, taking him down to the base in one of the aisles of the grocery store. Michael gasps as he curls his finger, drawing Calum back. 

“I thought of…sitting on your cock while y’worked,” Michael breathes, eyes fluttering open. “Would you bend me over your desk? Fuck me…ah—against that wall between us?” 

“Anything you want, gorgeous,” Calum replies, transfixed. The world disappears, everything coming down to just him and Michael and the distance separating them. He can see how the resistance disappears while Michael fucks himself. “Add another finger.” 

“Shit,” Michael pants, pushing another finger inside himself. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” 

His fingers stutter clumsily inside himself, pace unstable as he loses himself to pleasure. Calum commits it all to memory, biting his tongue as he takes in how Michael writhes against the headboard. Michael’s fingers thrust in and out of himself, hips jumping as he grinds down onto himself. 

“How do you feel, princess?” Calum asks. He wants to know. He wants Michael to feel his absence, not just be aware of it. Wants Michael to know it could be Calum’s fingers instead, but it won’t be until Michael gives in completely.

“So good,” Michael whines. “So full, but—y-your hands—sir—” 

“Yeah? Want me to come over there, stretch y’out on my fingers? 

“Yes…fuck—” 

“Y’fingers just don’t reach, do they? Need someone to open you out nice and wide, fuck up against that spot inside?” 

“P-please—” 

“There we go,” Calum grins. “Now you’re getting it, baby.” 

Michael’s back arches, his whines growing more and more desperate as he increases his pace. Calum stretches out to pick up the forgotten vibe from the foot of the bed. He tosses it gently, so that it lands where it’d get Michael’s attention. Michael pauses his movements, eyes flitting between the toy and Calum, perplexed. 

Calum tilts his head, mocking Michael’s confusion. “Use that pretty head, Mikey,” Calum smiles. “Turn it on. I want you to hold it against your cock.” 

Michael’s knees draw in, as though withdrawing from the viberator. “N-no, sir…I—” 

“No?” Calum pouts mockingly. “Maybe I should use it f’myself then. Get myself off right here and leave you all fucked out on my bed. What do you think?” 

Michael’s brows draw together. He’s so pink and perfectly flushed, sweat glittering along his milky skin as it catches the light. “I’m sorry,” Michael whispers, upset, ashamed. 

Calum tsks. “Prove it to me,” he says. “Turn it on. Use it.” 

Michael complies. Calum nods his approval when Michael sets it to the lowest setting and presses it to his shaft. He shudders, the muscles in his abdomen tightening. Slowly, almost fearfully, he begins pumping his fingers again. 

“Ah…” 

His toes curl into the bedsheets. Sweat lines his collarbone, the low hum of the vibrator fills the room, paired with the slick sound of Michael’s fingers inside himself. The muscles in his whole body are tense. He looks like a fucking dream. 

“Shit, baby, look at you,” Calum breathes. He sees rather than hears Michael react to his words, in the way his spine curves, the way his eyes flutter, the way his pace stumbles as he opens himself up. “So fuckin’ pretty. So perfect for me. What a vision.” 

Michael bites the inside of his cheek, eyes shut as he shudders through the stimulation. 

“Gonna fuck you so good, Mikey,” Calum tells him, and it elicits a melodic whimper from the other man. “Shit, you’d take it so good for me, won’t you? Soak my cock like you were made for it.” 

Michael curls his fingers inside himself. “Hng—sir…I—” 

“Turn it all the way up, pretty girl,” Calum says. He catches the way Michael’s lashes flutter at his words, both in shock and in shame for how much he likes it.

“I can’t.” Michael gasps. 

“Turn it up, Mikey,” Calum repeats. Michael frowns, sweat gathering on his brows. His hands shake as he pulls the toy away, turning it to the highest setting. Nervously, he looks at Calum. Calum leans further back in his seat, folding his arms. He spreads his thighs, intentionally guiding Michael’s gaze down his body. Michael’s lower lip parts in a shaky sigh. 

He presses the vibrator down on himself. Immediately, his hips buck up. He chokes on a moan. “Calum.” 

Calum’s cock twitches in his trousers. He adjusts himself unsubtly. The vibrator is loud—almost louder than the moans and curses spilling from Michael’s lips. His fingers still inside himself. 

“Keep fucking yourself, princess,” Calum tells Michael, but he’s gone completely. Tears gather along his lashes. “I can’t,” Michael gasps. “I can’t…ah—it hurts, it hurts, please—”

“You can handle it, baby, can’t you?” Calum urges. “For me?” 

Michael mewls, a high-pitched, wet sound. His grip tightens around the vibe as he slowly starts moving his fingers again, almost slipping out multiple times. His back arches clean off the bed, hips jumping erratically. Calum knows he’s getting overwhelmed by his own touch. He opens his eyes. His gaze is unfocused and his lashes are wet. 

“Add another finger,” Calum orders, authority heavy in his voice. 

Michael cries out, frustrated, on the verge of tears. Both his hands shake, unsteady as his hips grind up into the vibe, as his fingers twist inside himself. Painfully slow, he adds a third finger. The stretch makes him hiss, and his face scrunches up in pleasure, in discomfort. 

He thrusts his fingers in a slow, deliberate, prolonged drag. Nearly immobile with pleasure, Calum watches as the precome dribbles down his flushed cock. 

It’s barely a few minutes until he’s clenching down around his fingers, shoulders shaking in pleasure as he whines and mewls and whimpers, lips slick with spit, eyes red with unshed tears. Calum smiles sweetly. 

“Gonna cum?” he asks. 

Michael gasps, breathing shallow and uneven as he haltingly pumps his fingers. “Yes.” 

“Yeah?” Calum presses. “Gonna make a mess? Fall apart for me?” 

Michael’s nearly sobbing now, tears slipping freely down his red cheeks. 

“Yes,” he whines. “Yes, yes, please, fuck—” 

“Stop.” 

Michael’s eyes fly open. He meets Calum’s gaze, steady in contrast to the way Michael shudders in pleasure. He’s so fucking close. He’s nearly there, he just…“N-no, pl—” 

“Stop now, Michael,” Calum says, his voice dangerous, like a warning. The command is there. Michael is supposed to obey. Those were the rules. It’s all for Calum. 

Michael makes a frustrated sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob. His fingers curl deeply inside of him, the toy buzzing loudly against his shaft. He whines, eyes falling shut as he squirms, the pleasure overwhelming him. His thighs shake, and he gasps Calum’s name over and over. And then he’s coming, streaking his belly in ropes of white, the room filling with the broken sounds of his orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave. 

He collapses back against the pillows, sapped of energy. He catches his breath for a moment, before he notices the silence. Before he notices that Calum gave him an order, and he disobeyed it. 

“Feel good?” comes Calum’s voice. Michael sits up on shaking limbs to meet his eyes. Calum reclines lazily against his chair, like he didn’t just watch the hottest fucking scene unfold before him. He schools his expression, looks Michael over with languid disinterest. 

He knows his gaze will sting. It’s meant to. 

“I—” Michael starts. 

“I should just leave you here,” Calum says. 

“N-no, I…” 

“What?” Calum mocks, sitting up. “I was so nice to you, wasn’t I? Letting you touch yourself when I could’ve just used you to get myself off and left you hard and wanting.” 

Michael shifts uncomfortably. He knows he’s disappointed Calum. “‘M sorry, sir.” 

“Yeah? You’re sorry?” Calum pouts, condescending. “That’s not gonna cut it, sweetheart.” 

Michael looks away. “‘M sorry for…coming without permission.” 

“Yeah?” 

“For…for not listening. For being bad.” 

Calum tilts his head, catches the glint of tears along Michael’s lashes. “Aw,” he nearly fucking laughs. “Gonna cry f’me?” 

Michael sniffs. He shakes his head. 

“No?” Calum says. He sighs dramatically. “I’m almost insulted y’don’t trust me to get you off. Don’t think I can get you there, baby?” 

Michael meets his eyes. 

“Could’ve bent you over that balcony out there, have the whole city hear just how good I can give it to you…if you’d just waited,” Calum continues. He hears Michael’s breath catch. 

“No, that doesn’t sound right,” Calum shakes his head. “Maybe I could’ve let you ride my face…make a mess all over those pretty thighs?” 

Michael whimpers. The sound cuts through the air, goes straight to Calum’s cock. 

“How do you think I should punish you, Michael?” Calum asks. It’s a trick question. He wants to see if Michael’s been paying attention. 

Michael’s hands fist the sheets. He bites his lip, cheeks flaming. “That’s not…f’me to decide, sir.” 

Calum smiles, pleased. “Good.” 

The tension ebbs out of Michael’s frame, just from that simple word of approval. God, he’s so fucking desperate for it. Even though he’s ashamed, Calum can see him chubbing up between his thighs. Calum’s going to fucking destroy him. 

“Crawl to me, Michael,” Calum says. 

Michael’s head jerks up. “What?” 

Calum sighs through his nose, irritated. “I won’t say it again.” 

Michael hesitates for barely a split second, before he’s sliding off the bed and onto the ground. It’s humiliating, and that’s exactly what Calum wants from him. His cheeks are burning, the flush travelling down his neck as he grovels on his hands and knees, across the room, to come sit between Calum’s thighs. 

He looks up at him through wet lashes, lips pink, mouth watering already. Calum cups Michael’s face, and the man leans into his touch. Calum knows now that Michael wears mascara, because it smudges across his cheek. Fuck. 

With his thumb, Calum wipes away a stray tear. 

“What’s this?” he smiles. “Thought you said you could handle mean?” 

Michael frowns. “I can.” 

“Michael, sweetheart,” Calum laughs. “Y’couldn’t even handle a bullet vibe.” 

Michael flushes, looking away, blinking fast. 

“I should fuck your face for the way you acted tonight,” Calum tells him, and Michael inhales sharply, eyes snapping to the outline of Calum’s cock. His pupils dilate in anticipation. Eager. 

“But I have a feeling you’d enjoy that, won’t you?” Calum continues. His thumb traces Michael’s bottom lip, pressing down slightly. Michael takes him into his mouth, licking the tip of his thumb. 

“Asked you a question, baby,” Calum reminds him. Michael lets him go with a wet pop. 

“Please,” he says. His voice is deep, sultry with arousal.

“Hm,” Calum feigns consideration. Then, “Beg for it.”

Michael rises to the task immediately. He brings his hands to slide along Calum’s thighs. Looks up at him sweetly, licks his lips. Fuckin’ slut, Calum wants to say. Tempress. You know what you do to me, don’t you?  

“Please let me suck your cock,” Michael breathes, voice dripping in seduction. “Please, sir?” 

It’s an effort to keep the bored look on his face, to keep his posture relaxed, to keep his muscles from tensing under Michael’s touch. 

“I’ll make it so good for you,” Michael stresses. “I’ll take you so deep, make a mess—just the way you like.” 

He leans in, mouths wetly at the outline of Calum’s dick in his trousers. Calum has to force himself not to move, not to buck up against him.

“Don’t you want to know?” Michael goes on, eyes hooded. “What it’s like? Want me to choke on it? Take you down to the base, memorize the taste of you?” 

Calum holds his breath without realizing it. Michael nips at the zipper of his trousers. 

“Please, sir? Wanna taste you. Wanna feel you in my mouth.” 

“Shit,” Calum gasps. “Fuck, go on, baby.”

Michael’s fingers shake as he tugs Calum’s zip down. Calum lifts his hips so that Michael can pull his trousers down, just enough to reach for Calum’s cock, to pull him out, exposing his hard-on to the low chill of the room. 

Michael sits back on his haunches as Calum’s cock bounces against his abdomen. He’s painfully hard—has been since the first moan Michael let spill from his lips, nearly half an hour ago. 

“Shit,” Michael says, staring unabashedly. “This…y’won’t fit.”

It goes straight to Calum’s ego. He smirks, unashamed. “We’ll make it fit, won’t we, princess?” 

Michael gulps. He reaches for Calum, goes to wrap his hands around the base but Calum stops him with a click of his tongue. 

“Put your hands behind your back,” Calum tells Michael. “Gonna fuck that pretty mouth. Shut y’up for once.” 

Michael complies. Calum’s sweet with him with how pliantly he goes. Calum tucks stray strands of Michael’s hair behind his ear, even as Michael’s lips part, how he loosens his jaw and sticks his tongue out, trying to hide the excited glint in his eyes. Tease.

“Tap my thigh twice if you want out,” Calum tells him. He presses the tip of his cock to Michael’s mouth, spreading the precome over his lips, before he feeds himself into Michael’s mouth completely. 

Michael takes him like a champ. He chokes quietly when Calum hits the back of throat, eyes falling shut. Calum strokes his cheek to get his attention.

“Look at me,” Calum instructs. “You take your eyes off me, I’ll stop.” 

Michael moans around him, and the vibrations are delicious. Calum threads his hand into Michael’s hair and tightens his grip. Slowly, he rolls his hips in and out, watching the tears gather in Michael’s eyes as he struggles to take him. The spit as it dribbles past Michael’s lips, slips down his chin. 

“Shit, made for this, weren’t you?” Calum groans. 

Michael tries to nod, but his breath hitches, throat closing. The wet heat draws Calum in further. He uses his hold on Michael’s hair to tug him up and down on his cock, hissing every time Michael groans. His mouth feels like heaven. 

“That’s my good fucking girl,” Calum breathes, as Michael swirls his tongue, hollowing his cheeks as he tries to take more of Calum. Tears slip down his face. Calum’s pace steadily increases. He moves his hand from Michael’s hair to his throat, feels it bulge as Calum fucks his mouth. He presses down lightly, if only to feel Michael panic, the way his eyes go wide, his throat constricting. 

It draws a laugh from Calum. “Look perfect on your knees,” Calum tells Michael, as the man struggles to keep his eyes open. “Should keep you under my desk all day, cock buried down these pretty lips.” 

Michael licks slyly around the ridge of Calum’s cockhead. A string of curses spill from Calum’s lips as the movement of his hips grow rougher, faster, more desperate. The wet sounds of Michael as he chokes around him fill the room, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. 

Calum feels the hot coil of pleasure tighten in his belly. Without warning, he pulls off from Michael. The other man gasps, heaving as he catches his breath. He coughs as Calum strokes his cheek. “So good for me, baby,” Calum praises. “Can’t wait t’be inside you.” 

Michael keens. “Please, sir.” 

His voice is deliciously hoarse, wrecked completely as he begs so pretty on his knees for Calum to fuck him. 

Calum guides him up from his knees, meets him halfway with a kiss so gentle, it clearly takes the other man by surprise. Michael responds in fervour, hands travelling mindlessly over Calum’s skin as Calum grips him by the hips, walks him back till they hit the edge of the bed. Calum nips at Michael’s lip, pushing gently so Michael falls back onto the bed. 

Michael rises on his elbows, licking his lips as Calum rids himself of his trousers and boxers. Calum wraps a hand around himself, pumping himself lazily as he looks down at Michael, waiting to split him open, to devour him. 

“Want me to fuck you?” Calum mocks, watching Michael spread his legs, arch his back invitingly. “Stretch you out, see how this pretty hole takes me?” 

Michael whimpers. “Please,” he breathes. “Shit, I need it. I need it.” 

 He slides further up the bed as Calum gets his knee on the edge of the bed. He wraps his palm around Michael’s ankle, traces a teasing palm up, up, up to high inner thigh. Calum crawls over him, kissing where his hand has stopped, then further along Michael’s chest, taking one of his nipples into his mouth and sucking gently. 

Michael’s hand drags up Calum’s back, into his hair. He fists his hand into the hair at the base of Calum’s neck and Calum hisses at the string. Michael drags him up, claiming Calum’s lips for his own. 

Calum finds the line of Michael’s jaw as they make out lazily. He sets his hand there as he pulls away, coaxes Michael to look at him.

“Open your mouth,” he breathes into the space between them. Michael does, brows furrowing in confusion. 

Unashamed, Calum spits on Michael’s tongue, guides his lips shut. “Swallow.” 

Michael’s eyes flutter. It makes Calum laugh as he draws back to shit on his knees. 

“Look at you,” Calum says. “Laid out like a whore, just begging f’me to fuck you.” 

“C-Calum,” Michael gasps. 

“I know, baby,” Calum says, teasing at Michael’s hole, abused but still loose. He slides two fingers in, curls them up just so, and Michael’s eyes are rolling back into his head. “But I think I’ll take my time, no? And you’ve waited so long. Hold on for a bit, Mikey.” 

Michael bucks up into his hand. Calum pulls out, lubes his fingers up before thrusting them back in. He’s just…trying to make sure Michael’s open enough for him, but the way Michael writhes at his mercy is an enormous pro. 

Calum brings his other hand to play with Michael’s chest. Michael immediately arches into his touch as Calum pinches and twists and teases his nipples. He’s so fucking responsive, it’s driving Calum insane. 

He fucks with Michael for a bit longer, easing another two fingers in, enjoying the way Michael shudders and gasps. When he’s had enough, Calum slips on a condom and lines himself up. Just at the touch of his tip to Michael’s entrance, the man is whimpering, already grinding down. 

Calum holds Michael still by a firm grip on his waist. Michael opens up so easily for him. The tight, wet heat is almost too much for Calum, and he digs his nails into Michael’s skin. In response, Michael clenches down, whining. 

When he bottoms out, it's with a barely-there gasp. Michael groans, eyes falling shut, fingers grappling for purchase on the bedsheets. They hold still for a moment, waiting to adjust and it’s so fucking good, Calum knows he won’t last long. They’ve both been on edge for far too long, and Calum’s just waiting to give Michael what he’s been asking for. 

Eventually, Michael starts squirming, and Calum takes it as his sign to move. 

It’s a slow drag as he pulls all the way out, allowing Michael to feel the emptiness where Calum's supposed to be, until he’s whimpering. Calum slams his hips back, burning himself to the hilt, and he moans at the feeling. It’s so fucking—hot and tight and slick. 

“S-sir,” Michael gasps, as Calum does the whole ordeal again. He goes slow—as slow as he can without bucking his hips forward into Michael, with the way his hole flutters around him, wanting, waiting, aching. 

He picks up the pace, and the sound of their skin slapping fills the room. Calum thrusts into Michael at a brutal pace, hard and fast, and Michael just takes it, slipping further up the bedsheet with each time Calum’s hips meet his ass. There’s sweat gathering along Michael’s bare chest. Calum slides his right hand up, all the way from Michael’s belly, up, up, until he’s got Michael’s throat underneath his palm. 

He squeezes, careful, just enough for Michael’s breath to stutter. He gasps, something raw and wanting, and his hand flies to Calum’s wrist. 

“Gripping me so fucking tight,” Calum grits, the pleasure overwhelming. “Gonna milk my cock, yeah? Show me what you’re really good for?” 

Michael’s eyes roll back again, and he bites his lip. The hand that’s not locked around Calum’s wrist moves, slowly and unsubtly towards his own leaking cock, abandoned between them. Calum watches, lets him get close enough to his aching shaft, then grabs his wrist harshly, pinning it instead to the mattress above Michael’s head. 

Michael’s eyes squeeze shut, and he openly sobs, turning his head to the side. Calum leans over him, nosing at the line of his jaw, nipping gently as he slows the movement of his hips to a tortuous, slow grind. 

“I know you weren’t going to touch yourself, were you, baby?” Calum breathes into Michael’s skin. Michael mewls, shaking his head. 

“Good,” Calum says. “You’re gonna come on just my cock today, or not at all.” 

Michael’s eyes fly open. “Sir, I—” “What?” Calum pouts, kissing the corner of Michael’s lip. “Don’t think you can do it? C’mon, sweetheart, work these fuckin’ hips. Let’s play.” 

Michael responds almost immediately. It warms Calum’s skin, just how compliant, how eager, how obedient Michael is. He lifts his hips, meeting Calum’s thrusts with a slow roll of his own. 

Calum leans over him, bringing his hands around Michael’s thighs to press them wide, to fold him in half. The new angle has him fucking into Michael harsher, deeper. 

Suddenly, Michael’s eyes go wide. He gasps, broken, wet, urgent, his hands flying to scratch down Calum’s back as Calum touches something inside him. He tightens around Calum, deliciously, coaxing Calum to slam into him. 

“There!” Michael sobs. “There, there—please!” 

His eyes are fixed to the feeling, glazed with tears and unfocused. Calum knows what he’s hit, and he keeps the angle, taking an unforgiving pace as he gives it to Michael hard, taking in the gasps and broken-off moans he lets out, the way his nails dig into Calum’s shoulders. Michael squeezes him like he doesn’t want to ever let go. Calum hisses, tightening his hold on Michael’s thighs, painting bruises into his skin that are sure to show up tomorrow. 

“Feel so good, princess,” Calum presses down on Michael’s belly, feels the shape of himself as he pistons in and out. Michael chokes at the feeling. “Can feel myself right here. Gonna fuck you into the shape of my cock.” 

“Sir, I—I can’t—I’m going t—” “Hold it f’me, pretty,” Calum tells him. His pace is unrelenting, Michael gasping little ah! ah! ah!s of pleasure every time Calum fucks into him. 

Michael brings his hand to his lips, bites at his knuckles. 

“Y-you’re so big,” he gasps. “It’s—sir, I w-won’t make it.” 

“Thirty seconds,” Calum tells him. “Then I want you to come when I tell you.” 

Michael shakes with the effort, his noises more punctuated as he struggles now. Calum’s close too, nearing the edge, sweat dripping from his hair onto Michael’s flushed skin. Michael’s clenching down on him just right, stealing the breath from his lungs. His movements grow harsher, more desperate and fractured. 

“Shit, Mikey,” he gasps. “Keep doing that, I’m—” 

Michael whines. It echoes through the room, punctuated by the sound of their skin meeting, the way he reaches blindly for Calum, pulls him in, wants him closer. 

“Now, baby,” Calum says. “Give it to me. Let go, c’mon.” 

On command, Michael makes a high keening sound, clenching down hard, He moans, shaking so violently, Calum has to press hand palm to Michael’s sternum to hold him down as he thrusts a few more times. Michael sobs, crying as his cock spurts ropes of cum across his chest. 

“Fuck,” Calum gasps, and then his vision goes white, Michael’s scent, his touch the only thing grounding him as he presses in deep and spills into the condom. Michael shudders, groans weakly at the feeling. 

It takes Calum a minute to catch his breath, and then he’s pulling out, tying off the condom and collapsing beside Michael on the bed. Michael seeks him out immediately, curling into him even as he winces at the movement. He presses a kiss to Calum's shoulder, and Calum throws an arm around him, even as he pants. 

He hadn’t expected to lose himself so quickly. But Michael just…seems to have that effect on him. He feels wrecked, ruined altogether for anyone else. 

He strokes the skin of Michael’s hips, sliding up to trace the ridges of his ribs. Michael shivers at the feeling. 

“How do you feel, baby?” 

“Mmm,” Michael hums, eyes falling shut. “Floaty.” 

Calum presses a kiss to his temple. 

“I was good?” Michael asks. 

“So good,” Calum murmurs back. “So pretty, so obedient.” 

Michael smiles to himself. Calum stays there with him, whispering praises and memorizing the feel of his skin until Michael dozes off. Then, carefully, he extracts himself and draws out a warm bath. He cleans Michael up with a wet cloth, and it rouses him. He blinks blearily at Calum. 

Calum only chuckles. “Wanna join me in the bath?” Calum asks, and he knows Michael will say yes.

Michael pouts, refusing to move, even though he wants in on the bath. Calum just hooks his arms under Michael and lifts him up, carries him to the bathroom while Michael giggles, hides his face in Calum's chest. 

They stay in the bath, Michael sitting between Calum’s legs, talking and laughing until Michael comes back down. 

The water’s cooling around them as Michael leans into Calum and fiddles with his fingers. 

“What are we, now?” he asks, hesitant, almost afraid. He doesn’t turn to meet Calum’s eyes, so Calum kisses his shoulder tenderly. 

“I want you in every way you’ll have me,” he replies. 

And Michael smiles. And Calum’s gone. 

—

Of course, the first thing Luke says to Calum when he finds out is a loud screech: “I fucking told you so!” 

They’re sitting across from each other in a pseudo-luxury restaurant somewhere downtown, because they’re all on measly salaries. Michael cackles, leaning into Calum as Calum resists the urge to lunge across the table and throttle Luke. Ashton, beside him, is snickering into his hand. 

“I hate all of you,” Calum frowns. But he squeezes Michael’s hand under the table. 

Ashton reaches across the table for the menu. “Sorry we were late,” he says, because it’s half past noon and they were supposed to meet nearly forty-five minutes ago, outside Luke’s house. But Luke had texted last minute that they’d meet Michael and Calum directly at the restaurant.

Michael squints suspiciously at them. “You were fucking, weren’t you?” 

The menu slips from Ashton’s hand, but Luke’s grin widens. “Oh, I like you.” 

Michael winks cheekily at him. Calum pinches him. “Hey—ow!” 

“Don’t fall for his tricks,” Calum tells Michael. “He’ll lure you in with promises of friendship and fuck you over when it comes down to it. Also, he’ll drink all your tequila.” “So that was one time—” 

“It was the expensive shit, Luke!”

“Your mom’s the expens—” “Hey!” 

Michael and Ashton are cackling. Their table is getting odd looks from the other guests. Across the room, the bartender’s eye twitches. 

“Oh,” Michael wonders aloud. He turns to Calum. “I never…asked you how you found out. That I was your neighbour.” 

Calum looks at Michael, and wonders why he’d ever waited so long to do something about how he felt for the man. Neighbour or not, he should’ve asked Michael out long ago. And—

“Oh, I told him,” Ashton chimes in. 

Michael’s neck nearly cracks with how suddenly he jerks to glare at Ashton. Luke is laughing in the background, and it’s beginning to annoy Calum how much enjoyment he’s deriving from all this. Michael stares at Ashton. “You what.” 

Ashton shrugs. “I mean, it was really j—” 

This time, Michael really does lunge across the table. 

Yeah, Calum thinks. That’s my fucking boyfriend. 

And the rest is history. 

Like, literally. Michael and Ashton make it into the local newspaper. 

—

READ PART 1 HERE

[peachesndreamz]

Encore • Michael Clifford

18+ • MDNI

I’m baaack!

Not sure how often I’ll be posting, but I’ll definitely be writing as much as I can!! Please leave me any and all ideas you come up with because who knows when creativity’s gonna strike lmao.

I loved writing this one, it’s a bit different than my usual style bc the reader is a more dominant character, but I thought I’d give it a try! Let me know what you think! LET’S ROLL

—Peaches xx

**MATURE CONTENT AFTER CUTOFF**

~*~*~*~*

TW // degradation, handjob (m receiving), unprotected p in v sex, oral (f receiving), bondage, pet play, (i think that’s it lmk if i missed anything)

The lights are blinding in that way that makes you feel untouchable.

Your fingers curl around the neck of your guitar, the wood warm from the heat of the stage, the roar of the crowd vibrating through your bones. Sweat clings to your spine, your hair sticks to your cheek, and you swear the bass is rattling your heartbeat out of rhythm.

Final leg. Final city. Final night.

And they are losing their damn minds.

You don’t need to look at the front rows to know the signs are there. They always are.

CLOSE THE TOUR WITH A KISS

LITERAL POWER COUPLE

HES IN LOVE WITH YOU Y/N

You pretend not to see them, focusing your energy in adding little riffs that make the fans scream louder.

Michael—per usual—pretends to be annoyed by them. Rolls his eyes, shakes his head, points at the ones that make him laugh.

It’s all part of the bit.

He’s takes the mic off the stand, grinning like he didn’t just spend the last ninety minutes dragging the crowd through every emotion known to man. His hair is damp and clinging to his forehead, eyeliner smudged just enough to look sinful instead of sloppy. Rockstar beautiful. Cocky as hell.

Magnetic in the way you always notice but always ignore.

He tips the mic stand forward, slotting the mic back into it as he leans into the crowd. “Alright, alright,” he laughs, breathless. “You’re gonna make my ego explode if you’re gonna keep screaming like that, Los Angeles.”

The crowd screams louder.

You roll your eyes and adjust the guitar strap on your shoulder. Typical Michael.

He scans the front row, squinting dramatically. “Wait—wait—what’s this?” He reaches down and grabs a neon poster from a fan. Reads it. His brows lift, slow and theatrical.

Then he looks at you.

Oh god, what now?

“ ‘Last night means you gotta play “Say It Again”, right?’ ” he says, voice dripping with faux innocence. He tilts the sign so the crowd can see. The reaction is immediate—pure chaos. People jumping. Phones shaking. The pit practically imploding.

Your stomach flips.

That song.

That reckless, neon-lit love song that lives in the space between almost and already too late. Michael wrote it last year while the band was taking a little break in London. The verses blur the line between confession and provocation. Because who better than Michael to disguise feelings with double entendres and guitar solos.

And oh that fucking solo.

You have only played this song live a couple times. Why? Because it wasn’t written to be played live like this. It makes your hands ache and your pulse race. It’s really hard to nail without drilling it. And of course Michael fucking brings it up now. Mid-performance.

Michael turns fully toward you now, eyes glinting under the lights. “What d’you think?” he asks, sweet as sin. “You wanna steal my show?”

You stare at him, narrowing your eyes. That annoyed little smirk tugging the corners of your mouth. He knows you can’t say no in front of a crowd like this. Fucking damnit.

You step up beside him, mic just close enough to hear your voice. “So you’re admitting they come to hear me now?”

The crowd howls.

He laughs, shaking his head. “See? This is what I deal with every night. One compliment and it goes straight to her head…”

You shake your head and roll your eyes at him. “Oh get over yourself, Clifford.”

He meets your gaze for half a second too long.

Then, softer—just for you—

“Play it then, show-off.”

Your heart stutters.

The lights dim. The opening chords ring out. The crowd doesn’t stop screaming.

They recognize the intro immediately—because of course they do—and the scream levels become deafening when Michael throws a shit-eating grin your way. He struts back toward the center of the stage, mic in hand now, free from the stand, like he owns the world and the stage is just where he lets people watch.

He sings the first verse with that smug, devil-may-care energy he’s famous for—just gravelly enough to drop panties in the nosebleeds. He’s ad-libbing a little, tossing in lazy yeah’s and a couple slurred give it to me’s just to keep the crowd swooning. You see it happen in real time—one wink and a whole row practically falls apart.

You hate how good he is at this.

Your fingers are already locked into the rhythm, muscle memory taking over as you keep one eye on the fretboard and the other on the chaos. He commands the attention, but they know this song is yours. They’re waiting for your solo. You can feel it building like thunder behind the lyrics.

Still, Michael’s eating it up.

He’s circling the stage now, loose and confident, singing into the crowd like he’s flirting with every last person there. And then, he pivots.

Back toward you.

You don’t need to look up to know he’s coming. You can feel him. Heavy boots. Heavy gaze. He’s circling you now.

“Tell me,” he sings, smirking, “what’s a guy like me supposed to do with a girl like you?”

The crowd erupts.

You keep playing. Stone-faced. Cool. Unbothered.

He leans closer. Drops the mic low and sings the next line directly at you, voice low and syrup-slick:

“How am I supposed to keep my hands to myself, baby?”

The scream that follows is seismic.

He’s trying to break you. You can see it in the twitch of his lip, the way his lashes dip just before he grins like he’s winning. Like he always wins.

Your response?

You raise a brow, lick your teeth to keep from grinning, and keep on strumming.

“Oh, come on,” he laughs into the mic, stepping just behind you now. “Gimme somethin’”

You toss your hair, add a little riff and shift your stance. All while never missing a note.

You mouth “Get a grip” while rolling your eyes at him, your fingers still busy keeping up with the song. That earns another wave of chaos from the crowd.

Michael clutches his heart like you’ve just run him through. “Brutal,” he groans to the audience, playing it up.

You roll your eyes yet again, but the grin finally cracks. Just a little.

He sees it. Of course he does.

“There she is” he whispers away from the mic, victorious.

You glance over your shoulder with a smug smile on your face as your fingers dance effortlessly across the strings.

He steps away with a laugh, throwing his head back, dragging the mic with him. And as the lights shift, your solo comes into focus—spotlight narrowing, the band dropping low behind you.

The song builds as he sings the verse right before you take over the bridge.

The crowd starts to buzz because they know what’s coming.

Michael turns toward you, already grinning, already smug. His mic lifts to his mouth as he walks backwards across the stage—like he can’t wait to hand you the spotlight. His voice echoes through the venue, smooth and low:

“Give it up for (Y/N), Los Angeles!”

The scream that follows is bone-rattling. And maybe in a very self-absorbed sense, it calms your nerves to hear the crowd going wild just for you.

You smirk, fingers already sliding into position. You’ve only done this solo a couple times live. But the fact that Michael basically challenged you to do it mixed with the fans screaming your name? Yeah. You’ve got this.

You bend into the first riff—sharp, biting, sexy. It slithers through the arena, melting into a spell you’ve mastered by now. You don’t miss a note, don’t miss a beat. Your hips shift with the rhythm, legs wide, grounded, powerful.

No one’s breathing.

And Michael?

Michael is acting up.

He paces closer, mic loose at his side, head cocked like he’s studying something he might die for. He’s not shocked. Not even a little. He’s hungry. Watching you like you’ve got him on a leash you don’t even realize you’re tugging at.

He mouths something to the crowd—something cheeky you can’t hear—and then, with a theatrical roll of his eyes, drops to his knees beside you.

Showmanship. Performance.

That’s what it’s supposed to be.

But his eyes? They betray everything.

Pupils blown wide. Bottom lip caught between his teeth as he grins a little too wide. That little twitch in his jaw like he’s trying not give himself away too much.

You laugh.

Not because it’s funny. There’s nothing funny about how the way he’s looking at you is affecting you. Because this is all pretend. All to boost the speculation. All platonic.

At least you both pretended to. But fuck, the way he’s watching you. How his eyes flicker from your hands to your lips, then back to your eyes. It’s all too reverent, too sinful. Too goddamn hot.

So you release some tension with even more performance. Obviously.

Your hand leaves the neck of your guitar for half a second—long enough to reach down and fluff his hair like he’s your favorite pet. It’s a casual thing. Teasing. A playful way to keep the power in your corner and give the fans something to clip.

But the second your fingers slide through those sweaty locks—

You hear it.

A low, rough whisper, just off-mic.

“Oh, fuck me.”

He says it like a reflex. Like he didn’t mean to. Like you’ve just committed a sin and he needs a minute to survive it.

You pull back immediately, smirk twisting into something dangerous. Something very much not platonic at all.

He plays it up for the fans—arms out, leaning back on his knees, tongue poking out like you’ve just murdered him live on stage.

The final chords ring out, reverberating through the arena like aftershocks. The crowd is still screaming—hoarse and euphoric, drenched in sweat and glitter and adrenaline.

Michael stands center stage, grinning like a maniac because he practically just serenaded the entire city and signed their shirts on the way out. He tosses his pick into the crowd, waves, paces a little with the mic in hand, letting the roar settle just enough.

Then he starts his little routine for the very last time.

“LA, you’ve been incredible tonight! Now for the last time, make some noise for Andy on drums!”

Thunderous applause.

“Give it up for Nate for shredding that bass!”

The crowd obliges, wild as ever.

“And show some love to our tour manager, who’s job I’ve definitely made harder and harder. Dave—love you, man!”

You huff a laugh as you towel off, standing at your spot like you’re not still burning alive from thirty seconds ago. You can feel your fingers tingling, your heart still tap-dancing against your ribs. And your skin—fuck. Still humming from the way he looked at you on his knees.

But you don’t have time to spiral. Because here it comes.

Michael turns, already smirking, already milking it like he does every damn night. But now it’s the last one, so you just know he’s gonna be extra dramatic.

“And of course…” he starts, letting the sentence hang in the air like fog. “Saving my favorite problem for last…”

You raise a brow at him, half-warning, half-daring.

He ignores both.

“…arguably the best part of this whole circus. The only person alive who can outplay me, outshine me, and outsmirk me all in one set.”

The crowd goes insane.

You pretend to be unimpressed, crossing your arms like you’re not actively blushing.

He keeps going. “She makes the guitar sing, makes the crowd scream, and makes it very hard for me to keep things professional—ladies and gentlemen, make some noise for the prettiest lead guitarist, (Y/N)!”

Michael bows dramatically toward you, one hand pressed to his chest like he’s just offered up his soul. You give a small bow back, trying to look chill about it—but it’s impossible when he’s still watching you like that.

Soft. Sweet. And fucking starved.

You shake your head, stepping forward to take your final bow with the rest of the band, waving at the fans like nothing’s been permanently short-circuited in your nervous system.

But as Michael jogs toward the wings, tossing a sweaty towel into the crowd and blowing a kiss at someone in the front row—he glances over his shoulder at you.

Eyes darker. Jaw tight. Smile loaded.You’re barely offstage when the heat hits you.

Not the lights. Not the crowd.

Him.

Michael’s footsteps trail behind yours, boots thudding against the concrete like he doesn’t know how to slow down anymore. Like his whole body’s still running on the high of the show—and you.

You sling your guitar off and hand it to a tech with barely a glance, towel already in your hands, dragging sweat down the back of your neck. Your shirt clings to your spine. Your lips are dry. And you are achingly aware of the weight behind you.

You don’t have to turn around to know he’s close.

Way too close.

“Y’know, if I didn’t know better,” he says, voice low and still rough from the set, “I’d say I think you were trying to kill me out there.”

You keep walking, down the narrow corridor that leads to the dressing rooms, pretending like you can’t hear how close his breath is to your shoulder. “You’ve got fans throwing bras at you every night, Mikey. I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“Oh, no, no.” His chuckle curls down your spine like smoke. “They’re not the ones who had me on my knees not five minutes ago, (Y/N).”

You stop walking.

That was your mistake.

Because the second you pause, he’s there—right behind you, chest brushing your back, just enough to make you burn. His hand comes up and grazes your arm, feather-light. Not grabbing. Just reminding you he’s right there.

“Are not talking about it?” he asks, softer now. “That little moment we had?”

You turn, slow, towel still in your hands, mouth sharp. “That moment was for the crowd.”

“Bullshit,” he says, grinning, eyes already dragging down your face to your lips. “They didn’t get to see the way your hands were shaking after that solo.”

You scoff, trying to sidestep him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But he moves too, blocking your path, tilting his head. “Right. So fluffing my hair and making me beg was just part of the act, yeah?”

Your jaw clenches. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Even as your thighs squeeze together. Even as your core pulses at the memory of him—mouth open, eyes dark, worshipping you in front of a sold-out arena like you were the fucking altar.

You try again to get past him. He doesn’t let you.

This time, his hand lands on your waist. Not rough. Not tight either. Just enough to still you.

His voice is quieter now, darker. “You can pretend all you want, pretty girl. But I know you. I know what I saw while you were playing that song… That wasn’t acting”

You swallow hard.

He steps closer, crowding you gently into the wall—still not touching you beyond that one hand, but it’s enough to make your head spin.

“And I know,” he murmurs, “what I felt when you touched me. Also not acting.”

And the look in his eyes now? That isn’t for the fans. That’s for you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, leaning in so close his nose nearly brushes your ear.

You don’t say a word. Because you don’t want him to stop. Your breath catches just for a second. That’s all it takes.

His mouth is a whisper away, his fingers warm against your waist, and the moment hovers there—that unwritten rule of never crossing the line begging to be broken.

You jerk back, quick and sharp, like you’ve just come up for air.

“Careful, rockstar...”

It’s not loud. Definitely not angry. Just the last bit of your composure finally pushing through the haze.

You step to the side, putting space between your bodies before your brain gets fully shut down by your hormones. You don’t even look at him. You just start walking again—faster this time—because if you stop, if you think, you’ll end up doing something really fucking stupid.

“C’mon, (Y/L/N)” he calls after you, voice low and tight. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, Mikey?” you throw over your shoulder. “I’m not one of your fucking groupies, I’m good.”

But he’s not buying it. Not for a second.

He catches up, boots heavy, energy heavier. And this time, when he reaches out, he doesn’t let you slip away.

His fingers wrap around your wrist—rougher but not enough to hurt. Just enough to halt your next step. Enough to make your breath hitch again.

“Cut the shit, pretty girl” he says, quieter now. “You don’t get to walk away when you know I’m right.”

You glance at him, already glaring. “About what?”

He takes one slow step closer, his thumb brushing against the inside of your wrist now—where your pulse is pounding. His eyes are all fire and focus and that maddening, aching restraint.

“That wasn’t pretend and you know it.”

You try to speak. To cut him off. But he leans in, eyes locked on yours, voice dropping to that exact register that ruins your self-control:

“The way your hands shook when I got close. The way you laughed—it was nervous, baby, don’t lie to me. You felt it.”

You hate how warm your skin goes. Hate how easily he can see it. You hate even more that you know he’s not done.

“And I know you’re scared,” he continues, soft and persuasive and fucking lethal. “’Cause once we cross that line? We can’t take it back...”

His fingers tighten just slightly on your wrist. Enough to make your knees wobble.

“But tell me—” his smile goes crooked, boyish, filthy. “—aren’t you dying to know what I’d do on my knees without the crowd there?”

Your heart slams in your chest.

He leans closer again, this time to whisper right against your ear. “I swear to God, let me have you once and I’ll make it worth it… Celebrate our last show...”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Because fuck him, he’s getting to you. And then—his lips skim the shell of your ear as he adds, breath hot and ruined—

“But not in a goddamn hallway. Come with me.”

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you like he’s already got your thighs around his waist. Like the only thing between you and total destruction is the two steps to that door.

You should say no.

“Don’t make me regret this, rockstar”

That’s what you chose to say, your feet already following him closely.

The walk to the dressing room is purposeful. Borderline speed walking, but you keep pulling back to slow him. The last thing you wanna look is desperate… even if you are.

Well—no, desperate is an understatement. Your skin feels hot. Chest tight. Every step echoing with don’t do this—but your legs don’t listen.

Michael’s hand is still wrapped around your wrist, loose now, but not letting go.

Not until he has you alone. Because he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the optics of what’s happening. He’s Michael Clifford.

People stare. A couple crew members glance up, heads swiveling, eyebrows raised. They know what they just saw onstage. They’re definitely flagging this right now.

Michael doesn’t even flinch. He flashes them that cocky grin, the one he always wears when he’s being a menace. As if dragging you down the hall like this is just another post-show ritual.

He even tosses out a wink and a casual, “G’night, fellas,” to some roadies walking past, like he’s not seconds away from devouring you.

You feel insane. Like you’ve left your body somewhere in catering and now you’re just heat and hunger and noise. And yet, you play off his energy. You pretend that you’re not being dragged away. Like no one knows what you’re about to do… but it’s crystal clear.

This is a mistake. A terrible idea. But maybe if you just get it out of your systems… Maybe you can still come back from this? I mean it’s just you two finally putting the game to rest… Totally healthy—

The door swinging open pulls you out of your thoughts. You both step in.

Click. He locks it.

And suddenly—he’s right there.

An inch from your mouth. Breathing hard. Eyes wild. Hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting not to grab you.

His voice is low, wicked, and smug as ever when he says, “So… we finally doing what everyone’s been begging us to?”

Way to kill the mood.

You roll your eyes, lips already curling. Because you can’t help that condescending tone he naturally brings out in you. “Because suddenly you’re so good at doing what you’re told… You wanna treat, puppy?”

That stops him. His grin drops. Just for a second.

His hand snaps forward and curls at your waist, pulling you in hard enough to steal your breath. His mouth crashes into yours like the last thread of his control just snapped.

There’s nothing soft about it.

It’s not a test. Not a tease. It’s a full-body surrender. All teeth and tongue and groaning heat. He kisses you like he’s starved. Like he’s been waiting for permission and now that he’s got it, he’s gonna take everything.

You gasp into it, arms flying up around his neck. He doesn’t waste a second—spinning you and immediately pressing you hard against the door like he’s staking a claim.

Your back hits wood. His hips slam into yours.

And you feel it.

That hunger. That months-long ache wrapped in tension and banter and backstage near-misses.

He growls against your mouth when your fingers tighten in his hair. His thigh wedges between your legs, and your body moves without permission—grinding down, chasing the friction of your body against his.

You break apart like it hurts.

The kiss ends with a gasp—yours, his, maybe both. Youre not quite sure.

You don’t even know where his hands are anymore. Somewhere between your hips and your ass, gripping hard enough to bruise, but right now all you can process is the way he’s looking at you.

Michael’s panting. Chest rising like he just ran a mile, eyes blown wide. His lips are swollen—your crimson lipstick smeared across his mouth like a damn trophy. There’s a tiny scratch blooming red on his jaw where your ring must’ve caught him. He looks drunk. Already wrecked.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, head tipping back like he’s about to slide to the floor again. “You might actually fucking kill me.”

You laugh.

Not a cute giggle, not some flirty little performance.

You laugh because look at him.

Michael Clifford—rockstar, asshole, arrogant little shit—currently staring at you like you just ruined his fucking life with your mouth alone. His fingers twitch like he needs to touch skin, like he doesn’t know where to grab first. And god, the way he’s panting? Almost whining?

It’s pathetic. It’s sexy. It’s so goddamn fun.

“You always get like this when a girl kisses you back, Clifford?” you tease, still a little breathless yourself.

He narrows his eyes, like he wants to protest, but he’s still recovering. You watch his gaze flicker down to your lips again—like he needs more—and that’s when you say it.

“Easy there, puppy.”

His whole body reacts again.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. He just freezes—for a single beat. His jaw tenses, like he’s trying to stay composed, like that one word did something to him he wasn’t prepared for.

“Oh,” you murmur, eyes lighting up. “Oh. That’s what does it, huh?”

“I am literally begging you” he says, dead serious, voice rough. “Don’t test me right now.”

You fist your hand in the front of his shirt, yank him forward, and kiss him again. Because you need this too. And because seeing him like this? Desperate, needy, pliant under your touch?

Consequences be damned, you’re definitely not stopping now.

This time, when your mouth crashes into his, he groans—deep and guttural—and you swear you feel him twitch against your thigh. Your fingers slide into his hair again, tugging harder now, and his whole body shudders.

“God, fuck—baby,” he gasps, half-choked between kisses.

You smile against his mouth.

“Good boy.”

His hands are everywhere now. Shaky. Clutching. Tugging at the hem of your shirt like it offended him. Like the fact that you’re still wearing it is personally driving him insane.

“Off,” he mutters, lips dragging over your jaw. “Please—fuck, I need—just—off.”

You laugh again, breathless but composed. Too composed, considering the way he’s practically grinding against your thigh like a teenager who just discovered what friction feels like.

“Use your words, rockstar.”

He groans—growls, almost—fingers fumbling at the bottom of your shirt, finally managing to yank it over your head with a curse and a huff. His eyes rake over you like he’s seeing something he’s only ever been allowed to dream about. Like he might drop to his knees again just to thank you.

“You’re so mean to me,” he mumbles, mouth dragging down your throat as his hands roam. “But fuck, I need you.”

“So needy, baby…” you mutter in his ear, nails scratching his head.

He doesn’t answer. Too busy sucking bruises into your collarbone. Too busy rubbing himself against you like he can’t help it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes out as his mouth explores the swell of your chest, the side of your neck, then back to devouring your mouth.

You let him have it. For now. Let him kiss and groan like he’s never going to get another chance.

Because the way he’s rutting against you—hips desperate, cock hard through those black jeans, chasing friction like he needs it to breathe? Priceless.

You lean in, lips brushing his cheek ever so slightly, voice syrupy-sweet.

“Aww,” you coo, dragging your nails down his back. “Is this how my puppy says thank you?”

His hips jerk.

“Oh my god, you gotta stop that.” he gasps, forehead thunking against your shoulder.

You grin, cruel and lovely, tilting his chin back so he’s forced to look at you—face flushed, lips swollen, pupils wrecked.

Your fingers slide to his belt with precision. No fumbling. No hesitation.

Just the metallic click of the buckle, the soft shift of leather as you undo him—slow enough to watch the way his chest rises, sharp and stuttering, like he’s bracing for a hit.

You cup him through his jeans. Because you want to feel what this has done to him. What you’ve done.

His mouth drops open, just slightly. His hips twitch beneath your touch.

You tilt your head, amused. “This all for me, Mikey?”

He exhales something between a breath and a laugh—tight, strained. “Could be for the crowd.” Poor idiot thinks he can regain control.

Cute.

You squeeze. Gently. Deliberately. He lets out a quiet, broken sound.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “that’s what I thought.”

You drag his belt fully from the loops, watching the way he watches you—eyes hungry, jaw tight, already falling apart and pretending he’s not.

Then, with a soft push, you guide him backwards.

“Sit down,” you say while walking him towards one of the chairs near the vanity.

He hesitates. Not because he doesn’t want to—oh, that much is obvious. But because your voice sounds different now. No faltering, like you just know he won’t refuse.

He sits.

The dressing room feels suddenly too small. The lights too dim. The air too thick with everything you’ve both been trying not to touch all tour.

You straddle his lap, one knee pressing between his legs, belt still in your hands. You lean in close—nose to nose, breath to breath—and wordlessly begin to tie his wrists.

Not to the chair. Just to each other.

A suggestion of power. A promise.

He watches you work, eyes wide and darkened now, lips parted just slightly. You could almost believe he’d behave if you couldn’t feel the way his thighs tremble beneath you.

When you finish the knot, you trace a fingertip down his throat, smiling faintly at the way he swallows.

“No hands,” you whisper.

His smirk falters.

“No mouth,” you add, a little softer.

And when you shift in his lap—slow and cruel, grinding once against him—he groans, biting it back like it cost him.

You settle, still fully clothed from the waist down, just perched atop him like a ruler on a throne.

“Should’ve known,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed, head tipping back. “A girl can’t be like that onstage without being a freak in bed.”

Your lips brush his ear.

“And yet,” you hum, “you’re sitting there, perfectly obedient.”

He huffs a laugh—sharp, wrecked, breathless. “You’re very convincing, pretty girl…”

You smile.

“Oh you’ve got no idea.”

Your fingertips drag along the waistband of your pants, slow and deliberate. You don’t rush—not for him, not for this. The fabric glides down your hips, pooling at your ankles with a soft whisper. You step out, slow and unbothered, watching the way his eyes devour the curve of your thighs.

His wrists flex in the leather loop behind the chair, like he forgets he gave up his hands.

“Fuckin’ show off, as always” he rasps, voice hoarse. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You smirk—because he’s right. And you haven’t even really started.

The red, lacy bra you’ve been sporting comes off next, slow. You unhook it and let it slide down your arms like silk, letting him see the full arch of your body as you stretch. You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

Then the matching panties—drenched now, and you know it. You hook your thumbs in and peel them down, keeping eye contact the entire time.

Michael lets out a quiet, strangled groan. His thighs spread wider, just a little, cock visibly straining beneath denim he can’t fucking get off himself.

You pause, letting him sit with it. Basking in the sight of him like this.

The man that’s usually he’s all swagger and noise. Sharp tongue, smug eyes, always two seconds away from making things a joke? He’s currently undone.

Breathing hard. Jaw clenched like he might lose it if you keep teasing him. His cock twitches beneath his jeans, aching for relief, his fingers tightening in the looped belt like he’s seconds from begging.

Not a crowd. Not a fantasy. Just you—eyes sharp, mouth soft, taking your time, making him mad.

And fuck, if the power of it doesn’t go straight to your core. You can feel the arousal slick between your thighs, hot and heavy and wanting—but not desperate.

Not like how he is right now.

You walk over slowly, each step measured, and his eyes follow like he’s starved.

Then you kneel.

Right in front of him.

His breath punches out of him, chest rising like he’s in pain. “Jesus.”

You palm him again, this time with purpose, and he jerks. You watch him, all flushed skin and twitching muscle, completely at your mercy.

“This what you need, huh?” you murmur, fingers dragging over the button.

He nods too fast. “Please.”

You hum, pleased. Unbutton. Unzip. Tug his jeans down his thighs.

He springs free—hard, leaking, aching for you. The groan he lets out when the air hits him is filthy.

“God, you’re…” he starts, but the words don’t land. He’s too far gone.

You wrap your fingers around him—slow, warm, just enough pressure—and his head thumps back against the chair.

You wrap your hand around him—tight, just shy of too much—and his hips jerk into your palm like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.

“Shit,” he hisses, head pressing back, fists clenched in his lap. “Fuck, that’s—”

You stroke once. Long. Cruel.

Then pause at the tip, thumb dragging over the bead of precum there, slow enough to watch his lips part.

He breathes like he’s in pain. Like this is heaven and hell, all at once.

You smile.

“Awfully quiet now,” you murmur, hand moving again, lazy and teasing. “Where’d all that attitude go, rockstar?”

He tries—he tries—to scoff, but it dies in his throat when you twist your wrist just right at the base. His thighs twitch. His breath stutters. He’s so fucking hard it must hurt.

Still, he finds a scrap of defiance. “Y-You’re just lucky you tied me up,” he pants.

You let out a soft laugh and tighten your grip—slowly pumping him with a firm, mean rhythm that makes his whole body seize.

“Lucky?” you echo, voice sharp with delight. “Oh, Mikey…”

You lean in, tongue flat against the head of his cock for just a moment. Not a kiss. Not a lick. Just a taste.

He gasps—whines—and you pull back before he can even process it.

“Lucky would be letting you fuck my throat,” you whisper, stroking faster now. “This? This is control.”

His breath is shaky, hands flexing uselessly behind his back.

“Look at you,” you coo, tilting your head. “Usually so smug… And now you’re just my desperate little mutt.”

He shudders.

You can see him fighting it—trying to keep his edge, trying not to fold. But your hand is moving faster now, grip just shy of cruel, squeezing at the base, dragging slow near the top. You watch the way his jaw tenses. The way his thighs strain. The way his hips can’t stay still.

He’s breaking.

And fuck, is it beautiful.

“You love this, don’t you?” you whisper, leaning in. “Being put in your place.”

Michael groans—raw and low, helpless in the way that makes your thighs clench. “Fuckin’ menace,” he grits out. “God, you’re so—fucking hot like this.”

You smile against his skin. “Good boy.”

Your hand does not let up. It’s a steady, deliberate rhythm—tight and practiced, just rough enough to keep him on the edge of bliss but never quite push him over. And every time his hips jerk forward, desperate to chase more, your other hand presses down on his hip, pinning him firmly in place.

“Nuh-uh,” you say sweetly. “Stay still.”

Michael groans—frustrated, wrecked, twitching under your touch. His fingers flex behind the belt binding them. You can see the muscles in his thighs clench, see the vein in his neck throb.

“Jesus fuck,” he hisses through his teeth. “You’re—ohmygod You’re the worst.”

You smile. “Watch it, Clifford”



Your grip changes just slightly—slower now, more pressure. Just enough to make his breath catch in that broken, ruined way you’ve become addicted to.

He’s close. You can feel it. Every twitch of his cock, every choked moan, every trembling breath is screaming it.

And just as he starts to unravel, hips starting to falter—

You stop. Not completely. Just… enough.

Still stroking him. Still teasing. But never letting him fall.

Michael gasps like he’s just had the wind knocked out of him.

“No,” you say calmly, voice like velvet and fire. “You don’t get to cum until I say you can, puppy.”

His head snaps back, jaw slack with disbelief. “You’re joking.”

Your fingers tighten, just enough to make his cock throb helplessly in your grip.

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

He groans—long and tortured, hips straining against your grip like he wants to argue, wants to defy, but he can’t. He physically can’t pull away from what you’re doing to him.

“Oh, come on, (Y/N)” he pants, voice breaking. “I’ve been—fuck, I’ve been hard since your fuxkin’ solo, I—”

You lean in, mouth ghosting over his ear.

“I know,” you whisper. “That’s why this is so fun.”

He whimpers.

Actually whimpers.

And then tries—tries—to pull it back together, to glare, to keep some sliver of dignity.

But your hand doesn’t stop. And his voice?

Just shattered fragments of what it once was.

“I—fuck—I could’ve had anyone tonight,” he groans. “But I’m here… tied up… getting tortured.”

“Poor thing,” you click your tongue, fake pity making you pout at him mockingly. Your hand’s stroking him slow again, watching his thighs tremble. “You’re gonna cry about it, baby?”

“I hate you,” he moans, head falling back, lashes fluttering.

“No, Mikey,” you purr. “You hate how much you like this.”

He’s twitching in your hand now. Thighs trembling. Jaw slack.

And the cocky little fucker finally breaks.

“Please,” Michael gasps, the word ripped from his throat like it cost him something. “Please, baby—I’ll be good, I swear. I won’t finish, I won’t—just let me be inside you. I need—fuck, I need to feel you.”

Your hand slows. Not stopping—never that. Just drawing it out, savoring the sight of him: flushed, desperate, bucking uselessly into your fist like he’d trade his whole soul to come right now.

You tilt your head, eyes lazy, lips parted.

“Was that begging?”

His head drops forward, hair sticking to his forehead. He looks wrecked.

“If you want me to fucking kneel again, I will.” he pants. “You want my credit card? My fuckin’ house? I’ll put it in your name, I don’t care. Just—fuck—just ride me, pretty girl.”

“Oh,” you murmur, releasing him with a slow drag of your palm, “so now you remember your manners.”

His head hits the back of the chair like he’s praying.

As for you, you can’t deny it anymore—you’re soaked. You’ve been throbbing with every twitch of his hips, every ruined moan, every failed attempt at holding it together.

So you stand back up and swing a leg over him, then the other, straddling his thighs.

And when you reach between you to line him up—press the head of his cock against your dripping cunt—his breath snaps.

“You gonna behave for me, puppy?” you whisper, rocking your hips just enough to tease, not enough to take him.

Michael’s hands are still tied, his chest heaving, pupils blown wide.

“Baby,” he groans, voice cracking, “I’ve never wanted to behave more in my fuckin’ life.”

You give him a wicked little smile. Then, you drop onto him in one smooth, soaked, slow slide.

The sound he makes is not just a moan. It’s a confession. It’s relief, and disbelief, and worship all in one broken breath.

You bottom out, hips flush, walls pulsing around him as his entire body shakes beneath you.

“Fuck,” he rasps, head falling forward, lips at your collarbone. “You feel—God, you feel so good—”

You roll your hips once. Hard. Purposeful.

He grunts like he’s been edged for a year and is finally being fed. Because he has.

You don’t move. Not yet.

Not even after you’ve sunk down onto him, deep and pulsing and perfect. He’s inside you—finally—and you can feel how badly he needed this. How hard he is. How desperate his cock twitches inside you, like he’s scared you’ll take it away.

Michael moans through gritted teeth, head back, lips parted. “So fuckin’ tight—”

“Shhh,” you interrupt, leaning forward until your mouth brushes his ear. “I didn’t hear a thank you yet, rockstar.”

He groans—deep, frustrated, feral. “I— what?”

You smile. Start to roll your hips once—slow, cruel, dragging over every inch—and he shudders so violently you feel it in his thighs.

“I mean it’s the least you could do, c’mon be good for me…”

His eyes open—glazed, wide. His jaw works like he wants to be smart, wants to sass. But the way you squeeze around him just then? The way your fingers slide through his hair, so sweet while your hips stay still? He folds.

“Thank you,” he breathes, chest rising with the effort. “Thank you for letting me feel you. F’letting me inside this perfect little pussy, baby.”

You hum, pleased, hands trailing down his chest. “Good boy.”

He whines, and the sound goes straight to your core. You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, almost sweet—and start to move.

Long, slow rolls of your hips at first. Grinding down in deep, endless waves that have his wrists flexing against the belt again, mouth open in silent praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, nipping his jaw. “You like being this good for me?”

He nods furiously, moaning against your throat. “Yes, fuck—yes, baby, please don’t stop.”

Your rhythm quickens.

Every bounce, every drag, every slick sound of your bodies colliding pulls a new sound from his chest. You feel drunk on it—on the way his head tips back when you squeeze him just right, on how his whole body chases your pace like he’s being led.

“You’ve needed this for months,” you whisper, voice tight with pleasure. “All that flirting, all that talk—and now look at you.”

He moans. “Fuck—yes. Needed this. Needed you.”

You lean back, letting him see the full picture—your body moving over him, your lips parted, eyes on him like he’s yours to devour.

And when you untie his hands mid-ride and guide them up to your hips, your rules—he gasps like you’ve just granted him something sacred.

“Don’t get greedy” you warn, breathless.

He nods. Hands trembling, staying exactly where you placed them.

As your ministrations keep going, your rhythm, your filthy words, your hands scratching and claiming as they please, it becomes clear: He’s so close.

Too close.

You can feel it in the way his hands grip your hips—trembling, tightening, like he’s holding on for dear life. The way his thighs tense beneath you, body shaking with the effort not to come. Not yet. Not until you say.

But you’ve been watching him unravel for weeks.

And now, with you bouncing on his cock, walls fluttering around him, your nails dragging down his chest and your lips parted in something close to a smile—he’s done for.

“F-fuck,” Michael gasps, voice ragged. “Fuck, baby—I’m not—I can’t—”

You clench around him—hard.

His mouth drops open, eyes wild.

“Don’t,” he groans, broken, wrecked, panting like he’s burning alive. “Baby—fuck—stop, I’m gonna—I’m gonna fuckin’ cum—”

You slow down. Grind. Squeeze. Move your hips in cruel, perfect circles that make him writhe underneath you.

His hands twitch uselessly on your thighs, his head slamming back against the chair. “Y’gotta—fuck, get off, I’m gonna bust inside if you don’t—baby please—”

You lift off him just in time.

He chokes on a moan, and then—he’s gone.

He fists his cock as it jerks in the open air, twitching violently. He spills across your thighs, your stomach, gasping your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

Thick. Hot. Messy.

He groans through it, one arm thrown over his face, the other shaking against your hip as he empties every last drop onto your skin.

You watch this obscene work of art unfold.

Amused. Pleased.

And when he finally catches his breath, chest heaving, eyes still glassy? You tilt your head.

“Well that’s pathetic, puppy,” you say, calm as ever. “I wasn’t even done.”

He lets out a wrecked, wheezing laugh, one hand dragging down his face.

“Fuck you,” he mutters.

You’re smiling, still seated in his lap, sticky with his release, your thighs streaked with evidence of just how little control he has when it comes to you.

He’s definitely trying to look less wrecked, but he’s blinking slow, dazed. Spent. The high still clinging to him in the form of half-lidded eyes and flushed skin.

You trail one finger through the mess on your stomach, then lift it slowly to his lips—not offering it. Just watching him watch you.

“Came so fast,” you murmur, mock-pity in your tone. “You must’ve been real desperate.”

He groans, head tipping back. “Jesus.”

You tilt your head, feigning sweetness. “And after all that waiting? All that teasing? All the shit you pulled onstage… You’d think you’d be able to last a little longer, no?”

He narrows his eyes at you. Still defiant. Still him. But the damage is done.

“I mean…” you sigh, dragging your fingers across your slick thigh. “I thought about letting you finish inside me, Mikey... But that’s for guys who can control themselves.”

His jaw flexes. Just once.

You continue, soft and syrupy. “And now I’m all worked up, soaked, and all for nothing… but don’t worry, puppy. I’ll figure it out myself.” You pat his cheek and start to get off him. Like that’s the end to this whole rendezvous.

That gets him. Because no. That’s not it.

You see the flicker in his eyes—the shift from shame to challenge.

“Let me eat you out,” he blurts, breathless, eager.

You pause, blinking at him, all sweet surprise and slow-drawn curiosity.

“Oh?” you say, with the barest hint of mischief. “Generous, are we?”

Michael beams. So fucking proud of himself, still panting a little.

“Yeah,” he says, like he just won the fucking Nobel Prize. “I mean—what else am I supposed to do? You’re dripping, pretty girl. That’s my responsibility.”

You hum, trailing your finger across your still-wet thigh like an afterthought. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

Something flickers in his gaze.

A second passes. And then it hits him. His grin twitches. His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Wait a minute,” he says slowly, eyes scanning your face. “You played me.”

You keep your expression neutral, but there’s no hiding the glint in your eye.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He stares. You smile wider.

“You said— and you showed me— I—,” he says, as he puts everything together, voice rising just slightly. Like his brain just turned back on after everything they did. “And I fell for it so quick…”

You drag your thumb over his lower lip and coo at him. “Mm. You looked so smug I didn’t want to ruin it.”

Michael lets out a disbelieving little scoff, jaw dropped, then tips his head back and laughs. Loud. Wrecked.

“You’re unbelievable,” he groans, licking his lips. “And you know what? I don’t even care.”

You raise a brow, amused. “No?”

He leans forward, eyes locked on yours, voice low and confident now—finally catching his wind again. “You think I wouldn’t beg for the chance to get on my knees for you again? You’ve been dripping down my cock for twenty minutes and you’re surprised I wanna taste you?”

You roll your eyes as you back toward the couch, wiping the stickiness from your thighs, when he slides off the chair and drops to his knees.

It’s fluid. Effortless. Like that’s where he was meant to be.

He kneels between your legs, panting lightly, still flushed from his orgasm. And even though his hands are free now, he doesn’t reach for you. He just looks up—cocky and reverent, all in one breath.

“You should put the belt back on.”

Your brow lifts. “Oh?”

He shrugs, grinning like he’s being generous. “I don’t need hands to make you cum for me. My mouth does all the work anyway.” Then he winks. Fucking cocky bastard.

You smile slow—delicious and knowing—and step forward, letting his breath hit your inner thigh as you lean down and grab the belt.

Loop it behind his back. Pull his wrists together. Tie him up again.

“Mm. I see the little mutt likes his leash.”

His smirk falters—just slightly. You see it. That flicker of something in his eyes. Something that’s not ego. Need.

He likes this.

Being bound. Being looked down at. Being under you. And you’re not about to deny him that.

Once his wrists are secured, you step back again and sit—spreading your legs slowly, casually, watching his eyes darken as your slick folds glisten under the low light.

He licks his lips and then immediately dives in. No teasing. No warm-up. No hesitation. He leans in and feasts like he’s starving.

His tongue drags through you with filthy precision, firm and flat, then swirling around your clit with maddening focus. It’s obscene—the slurps, the groans, the way he fucking moans against you like you’re the one feeding him.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tug gently, and he groans louder. His tongue dips inside you, then drags up again, circling, sucking, licking, like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

He’s right—he doesn’t need hands.

You throw your head back, hips arching toward him. “Fuck—Mikey—don’t you dare stop.”

He hums against your clit like he’s proud. Like this is his victory.

You look down at him, hands tied, mouth wet, eyes locked on you as he eats like a man possessed.

Tongue slick and strong, not just wild, but focused—grinding tight, precise circles around your clit one second, then licking up every drop of arousal with a hunger that borders on madness. He shifts, tilts his head, moans into you like he’s trying to live inside you.

Your thighs tremble around his face. And he fucking loves it.

You glance down, hair damp, breath ragged, and he’s looking back at you like a man in worship. Pupils blown wide, tongue still moving—lips soaked, chin messy, arms flexing behind his back where they’re bound tight.

His mouth is doing things your brain can’t even process correctly. Little flicks of pressure in just the right place, then flattening again, then that subtle pull of suction that sends your hips jerking forward on instinct. You ride his face shamelessly now—grinding down, moaning, chasing the edge with no apologies.

He groans beneath you, like your desperation is the only thing keeping him alive.

“Mikey,” you pant, gripping his hair, “You’re just a dirty fucking mutt, hm?”

He moans against you.

“Such a good little puppy, for me” you breathe, voice cracking as your thighs twitch. “Begging for me... Licking me like it’s your job.”

He’s panting through it, tongue fucking relentless now. Lost in it. Loving it. You can feel the sounds he’s making against your clit—desperate, feral, like he can’t spend a second apart from you.

“My good boy,” you gasp, just as your orgasm starts to build—slow at first, then blistering. “Fuck—Michael—don’t stop. So good baby—”

His whole body shudders. Of course he doesn’t stop.

If anything, he doubles down—tongue working faster, firmer, dragging you toward the edge like it’s his divine fucking purpose. His wrists flex behind him like he forgot he was bound for a second. His moans echo against your cunt. And his eyes?

Obsessed. Because he can feel it. He can taste it. You’re right fucking there.

It hits you like a tidal wave—sharp, sudden, and completely consuming.

Michael groans against your cunt as your thighs seize around his head, his tongue still working, relentless, possessed. Your hips grind down with no rhythm now, no control, chasing every last pulse of it as your orgasm breaks over him.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the scream that rips from your throat, eyes wide, head thrown back. The world blurs. Your body shakes. And all you can hear is the slick, obscene sound of him devouring you like he’s been starving.

He doesn’t stop. Not even as your whole body trembles. Not even as you sob a breath and yank at his hair, grinding your release into his face.

He moans through it—loud, filthy, desperate.

And fuck, if he isn’t close again himself. So close he has to shift his hips away from the floor to keep from rutting into the air. His cock’s twitching, leaking, untouched—but the way you ride his face? The way you lose yourself on his tongue?

It almost pushes him over again.

You’re panting now. Wrung out. Your hand still gripping his hair, his face slick with you, eyes glassy and dazed and proud.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, finally pulling back, thighs trembling as you collapse onto the couch behind you. “You—fuck.”

He leans back on his knees, still breathless, lips shiny, jaw flexing like he’s not sure if he wants to smirk or worship.

You’re both wrecked. Sweaty. Sticky. Stunned.

The dressing room’s quiet now, save for the echo of your ragged breathing.

Tour’s over. The act is over.

But you’re still breathing like the stage lights never shut off. Still trembling, thighs damp, arms heavy, head spinning.

You finally reach for his wrists, tugging at the belt looped tight behind his back. His skin is red where the leather bit into it—pressure marks flushed across him like a necklace of ownership.

He flexes his fingers when you loosen it. Rolls his wrists.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the faint burn. “That stings.”

You glance up at him, lazy and amused. “Regrets?”

Michael smirks, already rubbing the tender skin. “You kidding? Best pain I’ve ever felt.”

You toss the belt to the side, lean back into the couch with a soft groan, and let your eyes shut for just a second.

He stretches beside you, muscles stiff, mouth still damp. He looks wrecked in the most satisfying way—hair a disaster, lips kiss-bruised, chest blotchy with heat and sweat.

He shifts, glancing over at you. Then shrugs, all faux-casual as he says, “So… we should do this again sometime.”

You blink over at him. Lift one brow.

“Which part? The show or the part where you made a mess on my stomach and then begged to be leashed again?”

Michael gives you the laziest grin imaginable. “Yes.”

[blowingbarnes]

Ruin The Friendship

Pairing: Brother's Best Friend!Bucky x Reader Word count: -- (updating as I go) Warnings: friends to lovers, cheating tropes (like repeatedly, but bucky does not cheat on you), SMUT, p in v, oral (m&f), fingering, tears, angst, public sex, childhood friends to lovers, slow burn but also not?, loss of virginity, creampie, mutual pining, yearning, miscommunication. Summary: Bucky and you make a pact to get married to each other if you don't find anyone by the time you're 35. It never ruined your friendship, just every other romantic relationship. +fran: every time I get angsty and emo, I think of this fic, so I decided to stop being a pussy and write it.

All fics can be read on their own or as parts of a story!

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ Should've Kissed You Anyway (You're 18, Bucky is 20)

Your prom date ditches you, and Bucky, ever the gentlemen, offers to take you. He gives you the full senior prom experience even though, he's your brother's best friend and you crush for the past decade.

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ Not That I Miss You, I Don't (You're 20, Bucky is 22)

When they told you not to get drunk with low battery on your phone, you didn't take anyone seriously. Bucky's number is the only one you remember by heart, not your boyfriend's.

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ 'Tis The Damn Season (You're 23, Bucky is 25)

Bucky unexpectedly spends Thanksgiving break with your family. And he has a plus one.

݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁·ꕤ The 1 (You're 25, Bucky is 27)

Your engagement party is supposed to be joyful, celebrating a big milestone. Then why is it the butterflies in your stomach only bloom when you get dragged into a closet with Bucky?

More to be added...

[cap10wilson]

i’m not falling for sambucky divorce propaganda

[prettybuckybaby]

do u know what actually genuinely sometimes there is nothing better than being alive

[prettybuckybaby]

turns out i was manic being alive still fucking sucks lads xoxox

[prettybuckybaby]

PLOT TWIST: i think deep down i am just really lonely actually i am so alive when i am with people

[mcrdvcks]

be my, be my baby

summary: Now that the team knows you and Bucky are married, they learn very quickly about your strange marriage. word count: 8.9k+ pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: here is the long awaited part 2 to electric touch! (i hope i live up to the expectations😭) i had a lot of fun writing this, it's a bunch of fun little scenarios of the team learning about your marriage - which is... unconventional to say the least warnings/tags: takes place after thunderbolts*, domestic thunderbolts, bamf!reader, grumpy x sunshine (bucky is sunshine), reader is "brooding" and "cold", bucky is a lover boy, drinking alcohol, smut, slight sub!bucky, slight dom!reader, punishment, but not like punishment punishment, oral (f!receiving... and through the underwear), just the tip, a little bit of biting, slight switch!bucky & reader, bucky is a giver, unprotected piv, creampie, needy!bucky, yelena is a little shit

“If I find out who isn’t cleaning the lint out of the dryer, I will kill you,” you spoke, staring blankly at the team sitting in the common room.

John immediately raised his hands defensively. “Not me—I always clean it.”

Ava shrugged lazily. “I don’t do laundry here.”

Yelena glanced suspiciously toward Alexei. “Dad?”

Alexei frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “Dryer makes lint? I thought that was feature.”

Bucky snorted, clearly amused. “Alexei, it’s not.”

You narrowed your eyes at Alexei. “It could start a fire.”

Alexei’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh. This explains strange burning smell.”

Bob looked alarmed. “There’s a burning smell?”

Yelena groaned dramatically. “Dad. Seriously?”

Alexei shrugged, grinning cheerfully. “Sorry. Next time, no fire.”

You sighed heavily, turning toward the hallway. “Just clean the lint trap.”

“Will do, sweetheart,” Bucky called playfully after you.

You paused briefly, glaring over your shoulder. “Barnes, you’re still on thin ice.”

He smiled warmly. “Noted.” You disappeared down the hall without another word.

Yelena turned, raising a brow at Bucky. “She really is charming.”

Bucky chuckled softly, eyes affectionate. “Yeah, I know.”

John shook his head, voice dry. “Barnes, you have weird taste.”

Alexei nodded approvingly. “Is good taste. Y/N very scary, very effective.”

Bob looked thoughtful. “Maybe you could remind everyone about the lint trap with a sign.”

Ava snorted. “Yeah, ‘clean lint trap or Y/N will murder you.’”

Bucky smirked faintly. “Might actually work.”

Yelena glanced toward the hallway again, sighing softly. “Honestly, I’d believe her.”

Alexei grinned cheerfully. “Good motivator! I clean lint right now.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said dryly, shaking his head as Alexei rushed enthusiastically toward the laundry room. “At least someone listens around here.”

---

You walked quietly into the kitchen, pouring yourself a cup of coffee without a word. Bucky glanced up from his seat at the counter, eyes lighting up slightly. "Morning, sweetheart."

You hummed noncommittally, sipping your coffee.

John groaned quietly. "Do you two ever stop flirting?"

You raised a brow at him, face blank. "We aren't flirting."

Yelena rolled her eyes dramatically. "Right. You just stare deeply into each other's souls every five seconds."

Bucky snorted softly. "That's not flirting. That's basic affection."

Ava sighed heavily. "I hate to see what you two actually think flirting is."

You exchanged a subtle, meaningful glance with Bucky. His lips curved faintly. "Trust me," you muttered dryly, looking back at Ava, "you haven't."

"Is threat or promise?" Alexei asked curiously from the table.

"Both," you replied flatly.

Bob smiled hesitantly. "I think it's nice."

Yelena waved him off. "You're too innocent for this, Bob."

Bucky stood casually, moving toward you and lightly touching your lower back. "Come on. Let's give them space."

John scowled. "See? Right there! Flirting."

You stared at him blankly. "Barnes touched my back. How scandalous."

Bucky shook his head slightly, guiding you toward the hall. As soon as you both were out of sight, he leaned in, voice low. "Wanna give them a real show?"

You smirked faintly, eyes glinting. "Absolutely."

"Perfect," he murmured softly, leaning in close. "Can't wait."

You gave him a small, dangerous smile. "They asked for it."

Bucky chuckled warmly. "We'll make them regret it."

You raised an eyebrow calmly. "Guaranteed."

---

The next morning, you walked calmly into the kitchen, wearing one of Bucky’s oversized shirts and shorts that barely peeked from beneath it. The team was already scattered around the kitchen, drinking coffee, half-awake.

Bucky immediately looked up from his coffee, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his lips. “Damn, sweetheart. You wear that better than I do.”

You didn’t reply verbally, instead stepping smoothly toward him, pressing your hand lightly to his chest. You leaned down, brushing your lips softly against his cheek before casually whispering, just loud enough for the others to hear, “missed you in bed.”

Bucky’s grin widened, his metal hand sliding slowly around your waist. “Sorry, doll. Early morning training.”

John nearly choked on his coffee. “Oh, come on!”

Yelena’s mouth twisted in clear disgust. “Really? It’s barely seven.”

You turned slowly, settling comfortably into Bucky’s lap. You reached casually for his coffee cup, taking a slow sip. “Problem?”

Ava shook her head irritably. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You arched an eyebrow calmly. “This is flirting. Yesterday was not.”

Yelena sighed loudly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We take it back. Stop.”

Alexei looked up curiously, clearly confused. “I see no issue. Couple seems happy.”

Bob smiled shyly. “It’s sweet.”

John gestured dramatically toward you both. “They’re being obnoxious!”

You took another slow sip from Bucky’s mug, eyes perfectly neutral. “You specifically requested clarification.”

Bucky squeezed your waist gently, smiling up at you affectionately. “Just giving the people what they want.”

“We definitely do not want,” Ava muttered flatly.

You leaned closer, whispering softly in Bucky’s ear, fully aware everyone could still hear. “Apparently, we’re making them uncomfortable.”

He chuckled quietly, pressing a lingering kiss to your neck. “They’ll live.”

Yelena groaned dramatically, standing abruptly. “Come on, Bob. Let’s go train. Far away.”

Bob glanced uncertainly at you both, following obediently. “Okay.”

John shook his head, leaving the kitchen quickly. “This is torture.”

Alexei remained seated, completely unbothered. “You two continue. I have popcorn.”

You rolled your eyes faintly, sliding smoothly from Bucky’s lap. “Show’s over.”

Bucky pouted dramatically. “Already?”

You shot him a pointed look. “Barnes.”

He smiled warmly, eyes crinkling. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

“Gross,” Ava muttered, finally stalking out after the others.

Bucky watched them leave, smiling faintly. “I think our work here is done.”

You hummed softly, taking another sip of his coffee. “For now.”

---

Someone—Alexei—suggested that the boys have a boys' night out while the girls stay in and “gossip.” You stared blankly at Yelena and Ava, a bottle of vodka and six shot glasses on the coffee table in front of all of you.

“Are we expecting guests?” you asked dryly, nodding toward the glasses.

Yelena smirked, pouring the first shots. “No. These are backups.”

Ava took hers, glancing at you. “Don’t look so excited.”

“I’m thrilled,” you replied flatly.

Yelena raised her glass. “To Barnes somehow convincing you to marry him.”

Ava raised hers as well. “A true miracle.”

You sighed, lifting your own glass. “Sure.”

Yelena downed hers instantly, eyeing you sharply afterward. “Okay. Start talking. When did this whole… you-and-Barnes thing happen?”

You shrugged lightly, sipping your vodka. “Years ago.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“New York,” you replied blankly.

Yelena squinted suspiciously. “How?”

“We met. We dated. We got married.”

Ava stared at you, clearly unimpressed. “Incredible storytelling skills, Y/N.”

“Did he propose?” Yelena asked, pouring herself another shot.

“Yes.”

Ava groaned loudly. “Details, Y/N!”

You took another slow sip, voice neutral. “He got on one knee and asked.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes, slamming down another empty glass. “You’re impossible.”

---

At the bar, Alexei eagerly placed fresh drinks in front of John and Bucky and slid a soda toward Bob. “Now, Barnes—how did you and our scary friend fall in love?”

Bucky smiled softly, looking thoughtful. “It was gradual. She’s… different, you know? Quiet, guarded. Took a while before she let me see beneath that. Then it was like I couldn’t imagine a day without her.”

John stared at him skeptically. “You’re telling me the woman who threatens murder over lint traps won you over by being quiet?”

Bucky chuckled warmly. “Trust me, there’s a lot more under the surface.”

Alexei nodded enthusiastically. “How did you ask for marriage?”

Bucky’s smile turned warm, eyes brightening at the memory. “We went for a walk in Brooklyn. I took her to our favorite spot near the bridge, got down on one knee, told her how much she meant to me, and asked. She actually smiled.”

John snorted. “I don’t believe you.”

Bucky laughed, shaking his head fondly. “I swear, it happened.”

Bob smiled shyly. “That sounds romantic.”

“It was,” Bucky agreed softly. “She’s amazing.”

Alexei clapped loudly. “Barnes, you old softie! I like this story.”

John rolled his eyes. “I still don’t buy it.”

---

Back at the Watchtower, Yelena was pouring her fifth shot, eyes slightly glazed. Ava was sprawled comfortably on the couch, nursing her own drink. “Wedding,” Yelena slurred, pointing dramatically at you. “What about the wedding?”

You took a careful sip from your own glass, completely unaffected. “Lake. Upstate New York.”

Ava raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Who was there?” Yelena demanded loudly.

“The Avengers,” you replied simply.

Ava stared blankly. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “And your dress?”

“Princess gown,” you deadpanned, voice perfectly even. “Big skirt, lots of sparkle.”

Ava snorted loudly, dissolving into giggles. “Yeah, right.”

Yelena laughed, shaking her head dramatically. “Now I know you’re lying.”

You calmly sipped your vodka again. “Believe whatever you want.”

Yelena pointed at you accusingly, swaying slightly. “You’re funny, Y/N. You pretend not to be, but you are.”

“Sure,” you said flatly.

Ava smiled lazily, slumped further on the couch. “Princess gown. That’s hilarious.”

Yelena nodded emphatically, pouring another shot shakily. “Almost got us there.”

You shrugged, voice dry. “Almost.”

---

“You too, huh?” Yelena asked, rubbing her forehead as she walked into the kitchen, seeing Walker with his head in his hands.

John groaned quietly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Ava walked in after Yelena, looking half-dead. “I doubt anyone could.”

Bob glanced around hesitantly. “Did anyone else… hear things?”

Alexei nodded, completely unaffected. “Ah, yes. Barnes and Y/N were very active last night.”

John scowled deeply. “It was nonstop.”

Ava grimaced. “Very loud.”

Yelena sighed irritably, pouring herself coffee. “We need soundproofing. Immediately.”

At that moment, you walked casually into the kitchen, Bucky trailing just behind you. All eyes turned instantly, staring pointedly. You paused, eyebrow raising slowly. “What?”

Yelena narrowed her eyes accusingly. “You both had fun last night, I assume.”

You glanced at Bucky, confused. “What?”

John waved his hand irritably. “Don’t play dumb. We heard you two.”

Ava nodded firmly. “We heard everything.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed deeply. “Wait—what exactly did you hear?”

Alexei grinned widely, completely shameless. “Lots of grunting. Heavy breathing. Banging sounds.”

You stared blankly at them, slowly processing. Then, abruptly, you laughed—a sudden, genuine laugh that stunned everyone into silence.

John stared openly. “Did she just… laugh?”

Ava looked equally shocked. “That was terrifying.”

You shook your head, smiling faintly. “We weren’t having sex.”

Yelena looked skeptical. “Then what the hell were you doing?”

Bucky sighed deeply, rubbing his face tiredly. “She woke me up at 2 am because she couldn’t sleep. We rearranged the bedroom.”

Silence again. Then Alexei snorted loudly, clearly amused. “You move furniture at night instead of sex? Strange married life.”

Bob smiled shyly. “That’s kind of sweet.”

John shook his head irritably. “It’s still annoying.”

You shrugged lightly, pouring your coffee calmly. “Maybe next time we’ll actually have sex. See if you prefer that.”

John grimaced immediately. “No. Definitely not.”

Ava sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’d rather listen to the furniture.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Just warn us next time.”

Bucky chuckled softly, looking fondly toward you. “We’ll see.”

You glanced toward him briefly, voice dry. “No promises.”

John sighed again, clearly resigned. “I hate it here.”

Alexei grinned broadly. “I love it here. Very exciting every day.”

---

You slipped quietly into the dark closet, pulling the door almost closed behind you, leaving just a thin sliver of light. Exactly five minutes later, the door opened again, and Bucky’s silhouette filled the frame. He stepped inside smoothly, shutting the door fully and sealing you both into darkness.

“You couldn’t pick somewhere a little roomier?” he murmured softly, hands finding your waist effortlessly.

“You’re complaining?” you replied evenly, sliding your fingers into his hair.

“Not at all,” he whispered against your lips, pulling you flush against him. “Just observing.”

You didn’t respond, capturing his mouth firmly instead. He pressed you carefully back against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other slipping beneath your shirt. Your breathing deepened, mingling together in the tight, quiet space.

His lips moved down your neck, teeth gently grazing your skin. “How long do we have?”

“Fifteen minutes,” you whispered breathlessly.

Bucky smiled against your collarbone. “More than enough.”

Suddenly, bright light flooded the closet as the door swung open abruptly. “What the hell?” John demanded, recoiling dramatically at the sight of you both tangled together.

Bucky turned slowly, sighing irritably. “Walker.”

John stared incredulously. “Why are you—why are you in the cleaning closet?”

You pushed Bucky back slightly, straightening your clothes smoothly, face carefully blank. “Clearly, for the privacy.”

John shook his head, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That’s weird.”

You stepped forward calmly, brushing past him without another glance. “I’m done here anyway.”

John glanced back at Bucky, eyebrow raised skeptically. “Closet, Barnes? Really?”

Bucky just smirked slightly, adjusting his shirt. “It has its charm.”

John groaned loudly. “Disgusting.”

You walked away without looking back, irritation clear in every step.

---

Later that night, Bucky leaned comfortably against the kitchen counter, pouring coffee. Yelena glanced at him suspiciously. “Closet, Barnes?” she repeated, looking entirely unimpressed.

He chuckled softly. “She picks the locations. I just follow instructions.”

Ava raised an eyebrow. “You have instructions for this?”

Bucky shrugged, smirking faintly. “Once a week. Always in a different spot. She texts me exactly five minutes before—in code.”

Bob looked fascinated. “Why in code?”

“Because she’s paranoid,” Bucky replied easily. “And because she enjoys watching me struggle.”

Alexei laughed heartily. “Ah! Mystery and romance. Very good.”

John shook his head, still irritated. “I still don’t understand why a closet.”

Bucky sipped his coffee, smiling faintly. “Because she’s full of surprises.”

Yelena sighed deeply, rolling her eyes. “You two are ridiculous.”

Bucky just smiled quietly, eyes drifting toward the hall, already wondering where next week would take him.

---

You stood silently in front of the fridge, staring blankly at the empty shelf where your leftover slice of cheesecake had been sitting all day. You closed the fridge door, turned slowly, and moved toward the living room, where the team was sprawled out comfortably watching some pointless TV show. "Who ate it?" you asked flatly, stopping behind the couch.

Everyone turned simultaneously to look at you, blinking in confusion.

"Ate what?" Yelena asked carefully.

"My cheesecake," you said, eyes slowly scanning the room. "It was in the fridge."

John raised his hands immediately. "Not me. You scare me."

"Didn't touch it," Ava said, completely unconcerned.

Alexei shook his head innocently. "I learn lesson after dryer incident. No touching Y/N's things."

Bob shifted nervously, eyes wide. "I didn't even open the fridge today."

Your gaze settled on Bucky, who suddenly looked far too interested in the TV screen. "Barnes," you said slowly, voice dangerously calm. "Where's my cheesecake?"

Bucky cleared his throat awkwardly, eyes flicking briefly toward you. "Cheesecake?"

You stepped around the couch slowly, eyes locked onto his face. "My cheesecake. The last slice. The one you watched me carefully wrap last night and say, and I quote, 'I'm saving this for tomorrow.'"

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Oh, uh… that cheesecake."

Your jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah. That cheesecake."

He smiled apologetically, attempting charm. "I didn't realize it was that important to you."

"Barnes," John said dryly, "you're digging your own grave."

Yelena nodded. "Just apologize and offer to buy more."

You tilted your head slightly, eyes still on Bucky. "It was important enough that I wrapped it carefully and said out loud that it was mine."

Bucky winced slightly. "Sorry, doll. Really."

You stared at him silently for a long moment, then turned on your heel and walked out without another word, leaving tense silence behind you.

Bucky groaned softly, dropping his head back against the couch. "Shit."

John shook his head solemnly. "Nice knowing you, man."

Alexei chuckled, amused. "Barnes, maybe sleep with eyes open tonight."

---

A few hours later, you were quietly sitting cross-legged on the bed, scrolling absently through your phone when the bedroom door opened slowly, revealing a cautious-looking Bucky.

You didn't look up.

He stepped quietly into the room, closing the door gently behind him. "Still mad?"

You didn't respond, gaze still fixed on your phone.

He moved slowly toward the bed, voice carefully gentle. "It really was an accident. I genuinely didn't realize you'd care that much."

Your eyes flicked briefly toward him, cool and unreadable. "You didn't think I'd care about something I deliberately set aside?"

He sighed softly, dropping down onto the edge of the bed beside you. "Okay, yeah, that was dumb. I'm sorry."

You stared at him for a long moment, clearly unimpressed. "Apology noted."

He reached out carefully, gently touching your knee. "I'll buy you another cheesecake."

You raised an eyebrow slowly. "You'll buy me two."

"Three," he offered immediately, lips quirking slightly.

You narrowed your eyes, still cool. "Four."

He chuckled softly, gently sliding his hand further up your thigh. "Fine. Four cheesecakes. Whatever you want."

You finally set your phone aside, watching him evenly. "And?"

He tilted his head, eyes amused. "And… what?"

You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked onto his. "Apologize properly."

He smiled faintly, leaning in to brush his lips softly against yours. "I'm very sorry," he murmured gently, slowly deepening the kiss.

His hand slid higher, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown, fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of your underwear. He shifted, lowering himself slightly, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, slow and deliberate.

Then he tried to tug your underwear down. Your hand shot out fast, fingers wrapping around his wrist. "Leave them on," you said flatly.

He froze, head lifting slightly. "...What?"

You tilted your head, deadpan. "You want to apologize? Do it through fabric."

He blinked, mouth parting, and you watched the flush crawl up his neck like a slow burn. "...You're serious?" You stared at him. He swallowed. "Okay. Yeah. No, that’s... fair."

You leaned back against the pillows again, arms folding behind your head, gaze steady on him. "You shouldn't have eaten my cheesecake."

"I know," he mumbled, already kissing down your stomach. "Big mistake."

"Massive," you muttered.

He grinned against your skin. "You’re gonna hold this over me forever, aren’t you?"

"That was the last slice," you said darkly.

He nodded solemnly, hands spreading over your thighs, lifting them just slightly as he shifted between them. "I deserve this."

"Yeah," you muttered as he kissed the inside of your thigh. "You do."

He didn’t say anything else. Just pushed your legs wider, settled in, and started slow—open-mouthed kisses against the thin cotton, tongue pressing against the damp spot already forming. He groaned softly, fingers digging into your hips.

You exhaled sharply, eyes falling closed. "You’re not taking them off," you reminded, voice low.

His voice was muffled. "Wouldn’t dare."

His mouth worked over the fabric, patient, reverent, the friction maddening. You twitched beneath him, hips rolling slightly, and he just groaned again, hands holding you still.

"Fuck," you whispered, breath catching when his tongue circled deliberately over the same spot, again and again, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted through the fabric.

He pulled back just long enough to say, "You still mad at me?"

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling. "...Yes."

He smirked. "Good." Then he ducked back down, licking harder.

You bit your lip, biting back a sound, hands twitching where they were clenched in the sheets.

He was grinning against you now. You could feel it—obnoxious, smug, and cocky. But his tongue moved with purpose, with desperation, with apology. "Four cheesecakes," he breathed, hot against you.

"Five," you rasped.

He nodded, lips dragging slow and filthy across the soaked cotton. "Five. And I’m never eating your shit again without asking."

His mouth stayed pressed to the soaked cotton, tongue flattening and dragging slow as molasses across your clit, so relentless it made your back arch involuntarily. He was determined—like a soldier on a mission. His fingers dug into your thighs, thumbs rubbing idle circles against the soft skin just to soothe, but nothing about his mouth was gentle.

“Mmmph,” he groaned into you, the sound fucking obscene. The vibrations shot through you, sharp as a knife edge. You bit your lip hard, eyes fluttering shut, chest rising faster.

When his teeth grazed just barely over the fabric, you hissed. “Bucky—”

He pulled back just enough to breathe, chin slick, lips shiny, pupils blown to hell. “Yeah, doll?”

You stared down at him, your voice flat. “You're not taking them off.”

He smirked, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Didn’t plan to. I’m just gettin’ creative.” Then he leaned in again, tongue flicking the edge of the wet patch like he was teasing a wound.

Your head thunked back against the headboard with a low growl. “Then stop fucking around.”

He chuckled. "Yes ma'am."

His mouth sealed to your cunt again, tongue pressing hard right through the fabric, and you gasped—hips jerking before his arms locked you in place. He sucked over your clit like he was starving, tongue moving under the barrier, trying to get every drop. You felt the heat surge deep in your core, coil tight and fast, snapping like a tripwire.

“Ah—fuck—” Your thighs twitched in his grip, toes curling, back arching as your orgasm punched through you without warning, hot and sharp and fast. “Jesus—”

He didn’t stop. He kept licking, kept grinding his mouth into you like he wanted to wring every last shudder out of your body. You slapped the headboard behind you, fingers scrabbling for anything to hold.

"Goddamn it, Bucky—"

He finally pulled back, panting, mouth wet and eyes wild. "Still mad at me?"

You blinked down at him, your voice dry. “I hate you.”

He grinned, dragging his tongue over his lower lip. “That’s fair.”

You shoved his shoulder. “Move.”

"Move where?"

“Off the floor, you idiot.”

Bucky let himself be manhandled up onto the bed, his expression smug. You straddled him, still in your underwear, still flushed and breathing heavy.

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes trailing over you with heat. “So… still five cheesecakes, right?”

You didn’t answer. Just shifted, sliding up his thighs until your soaked underwear brushed the thick line of his cock through his sweats. His breath hitched. “Ohhh,” he murmured, eyes dragging up to your face. “So that’s how we’re playing it.”

You ground down slow, dragging your cunt along the length of him with maddening friction. “You wanna apologize? Start here.”

Bucky groaned low, fingers gripping the sheets, jaw tight as you rolled your hips again—dragging yourself along him, the wet cotton of your underwear catching perfectly over his cock.

“Fuck, baby…” he muttered, hips lifting into you. “That’s not even fair…”

You shrugged, moving again. His cock twitched under you, hard and pulsing, and you just kept going, using him, teasing yourself, grinding down like you had all the time in the world.

His voice dropped, rough and coaxing. “C’mon. Just the tip.”

You paused, eyebrow lifting. “You think that line still works on me?”

He grinned. “We’re married. I don’t need lines. I just need you to move those pretty little panties to the side.”

You stared at him. He held your gaze, cocky but not pushy, like he knew you'd give in eventually. You exhaled, dragged your underwear to the side slowly, and sat back down—just enough to line him up, just enough that the head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance.

Bucky cursed under his breath, hands flying to your hips. “Shit. Just like that—don’t move yet—fuck.”

You shifted slightly, and the tip slipped in. You both inhaled sharply.

“Jesus, you’re warm,” he breathed, eyes fluttering half-shut. “Just let me—”

You tensed when he pushed an inch deeper. “Bucky—”

“I know,” he whispered, voice tight. “I know, just—fuck, just a little more.”

You felt the stretch as he eased in slow, inch by inch, until you were nearly full and your breath stuttered in your chest. “I said just the tip,” you muttered, nails digging into his chest.

He gave a sheepish, breathless laugh. “Baby, I’m sorry—I got greedy. You’re just—fuck, you’re so good.”

You opened your mouth to snap something, but then he bucked his hips up, slow and deep, and you gasped, thighs trembling. “I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured, hand sliding behind your neck to pull you down, lips brushing your jaw. “I’ll fuck you nice, yeah? Just let me—”

He surged up again, and your protest turned into a moan, your hands flying to his shoulders. “Fuck, Bucky—”

“Yeah,” he breathed, eyes blazing now. “That’s it, doll. That’s what I wanted. Been thinking about you all night.”

His hands gripped your thighs, guiding your movements as you started to ride him in earnest—slick, filthy sounds between you, the wet drag of your cunt around his cock making his head drop back with a groan.

You leaned forward, panting, chest brushing his. “You think this fixes it?”

“No,” he rasped, lifting his hips into you hard. “But it’s a start.”

You bit his shoulder, just enough to make him hiss. “You’re an asshole.”

Bucky grunted as your teeth sank in, low and sharp, and his hands clenched around your hips like he was holding back a groan.

"Yeah," he muttered, voice rough against your ear, "I know."

Then he flipped you. Fast. Smooth. Like he’d been thinking about it for a while. One moment you were on top, grinding down with full control, the next your back was pressed to the mattress and his weight settled over you, thick and hot and deep inside. His hands framed your face like he was scared you'd vanish if he blinked.

You blinked up at him.

His mouth was parted, breath ragged. "Let me."

You didn’t say anything. Just stared, waiting.

He leaned down, kissed your throat. "Gonna make it up to you, promise." His hips rolled into you slow, deep, like he was trying to learn every sound you made from the inside. He cursed under his breath.

"God—you're so fucking wet," he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. "Felt like heaven even before I was inside. Now it's—shit—"

You exhaled through your nose, fingers digging into his back. “You're stalling.”

That got a growl out of him. One of his hands slid down between your bodies—his vibranium one, cold at first, then warming quick from contact—pressing flat against your stomach as he fucked in deeper.

"Feel me right there?" he murmured, nose brushing yours. "Right where I belong."

"Talk less," you snapped.

He bit back a grin, lips dragging down your neck. "Yes ma'am."

And then he got serious. His rhythm changed—harder, slower, the kind that made your toes curl and your thighs twitch involuntarily. His human hand slid down your leg, hooking under your knee, pressing it up toward your chest.

You gasped when he hit deeper.

"There we go," he muttered, mouth grazing your collarbone. "Right there. That it?"

You didn't answer. Couldn't. Your nails dug into his shoulder and he moaned when you clenched around him.

His vibranium hand moved again—between you now—thumb dragging down to rub you slow, firm. Perfect pressure.

“Fuck—”

“Shh, I got you,” he breathed, kissing your cheek, your jaw, his thumb never stopping. “Let me take care of you, baby. Just let go for me, yeah?”

You hissed through your teeth when he thrust deeper, thumb circling faster.

“I can feel it,” he whispered, hips snapping, breath hot against your ear. “You’re close. Come for me. Right now. Please.”

Your breath caught. Your legs shook. You grabbed the back of his neck and arched hard against him—

“Fuck, Bucky—”

"That's it—fuck, that's it, there you go—"

You shattered beneath him, tight and pulsing, and he didn’t stop moving, just kept fucking into you with a low groan, arms shaking, trying not to come too soon.

His hips kept driving into you, deep and slow, your walls still fluttering around him in the aftermath of your orgasm. His breath stuttered against your neck, jaw clenched so tight you could feel the tension in every part of him.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasped, voice rough, almost pained. “You feel so good when you come… fuckin’ squeezing me like that, shit—”

You didn’t say anything, just slid your hand up to grip his hair and tugged hard.

Bucky groaned, eyes fluttering shut, his cock twitching deep inside you. “Please,” he rasped. “Let me make you come again. Wanna feel it again. Wanna feel you break on me.”

You dragged your nails down his back, slow and deliberate, and his hips stuttered. “You’re so fucking greedy,” you muttered.

He nodded against your throat, lips brushing the skin there. “Yeah. For you. Always.”

His vibranium hand slid back between your legs without hesitation, thumb finding your clit like he was born for it. The pressure was perfect—firm, relentless—and the real hand tightened on your thigh, holding it high, spreading you wider, deeper.

"That's it," he whispered, watching your face now, eyes desperate. "C’mon, doll. Give me another. Want it so bad—"

You grabbed his jaw, forced his gaze to stay locked on yours. "Make me," you ordered.

Bucky let out a strangled sound that was half-moan, half-growl, and then he was grinding into you harder, thumb never letting up, hips moving with exact, perfect control. "I will," he swore, voice shaking. "I'll fucking wreck you if you let me. I’ll make you come so hard you forget your own name. Please let me."

You didn't reply, just held his stare, teeth digging into your bottom lip when the pressure started to climb again. Fast. Too fast.

"God, you’re perfect," he groaned, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheekbone, your jaw. "So fucking perfect like this, underneath me, letting me take care of you—fuck—please come for me, baby, please—"

You gasped, head tipping back as your second orgasm slammed through you, sudden and brutal, making your whole body tense, your back arch up off the mattress.

Bucky’s eyes rolled back. “Oh, fuck—yes, yes, baby, just like that—goddamn—”

You were still pulsing around him when he finally let go, hips snapping hard one last time before he buried himself deep and groaned, loud and raw, like it was being torn out of him.

“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, voice breaking, whole body shaking as he came inside you, hands gripping you like he’d fall apart otherwise.

You were both breathless, sweat-slick and trembling, tangled together like the only thing anchoring either of you was the other.

He finally slumped over you, chest heaving, lips brushing your collarbone.

"Apology accepted?" he mumbled against your skin.

You didn’t answer.

He lifted his head slightly, blinking blearily down at you. "...Still mad?"

You grabbed his chin again, hard, and kissed him—slow, rough, deep. You bit his bottom lip on the way out, and he whimpered into your mouth. Then you exhaled and muttered against his mouth, “I’m thinking about it.”

Bucky grinned like he’d just won the goddamn lottery. “I can work with that.”

---

You stared into the kitchen cabinet, mentally checking off your list. Tea, honey, cough drops, ibuprofen…

Yelena leaned against the counter beside you, squinting suspiciously at the pile of items already gathered on the countertop. "Are you building a chemical bomb?" she asked dryly.

You slowly turned your head toward her, giving her an utterly blank look. Yelena met your gaze, unblinking. After a long pause, you finally spoke. "Barnes is sick," you said flatly.

Yelena blinked once, then snorted. "Sick? He sneezed. Like, twice."

"Three times," you corrected evenly. "And he coughed."

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. "It's called allergies."

You ignored her, calmly collecting your armful of tea, medicine, and honey. "He's sick."

Across the room, John glanced up from the couch. "Did Barnes actually get hurt or something?"

"No," Ava said blandly from her chair. "He has a slight sniffle. Now Y/N thinks he's dying."

"He's not dying," you replied calmly, pausing at the hallway. "He's sick. There's a difference."

Alexei chuckled loudly from his seat. "You take good care, Y/N. Barnes very delicate."

Bob smiled gently. "Should we check on him later?"

You stared blankly at him. "Absolutely not." With that, you vanished down the hallway, arms still full.

---

You nudged the bedroom door open carefully, stepping inside to find Bucky sitting on the bed, looking perfectly fine aside from slightly messy hair. He glanced up, eyebrows lifting at the pile of items you were carrying. "What's all this?"

"You're sick," you announced flatly, placing everything neatly on the bedside table.

Bucky blinked, clearly confused. "I coughed like twice, doll."

"Three times," you corrected again, placing your palm gently against his forehead. He smiled faintly, rolling his eyes, but leaned into your touch anyway.

"You feel a little warm," you murmured, carefully pulling your hand away.

He sighed, shaking his head. "I'm literally fine."

You gave him an unimpressed stare. "You're taking medicine. And drinking tea."

Bucky chuckled quietly. "Or what, you'll force-feed me?"

You gave him another slow, steady look. "Yes."

He smiled softly, clearly amused but deciding not to push it. "Fine."

You poured him a cup of tea, stirring honey into it calmly before handing it to him. Bucky took a sip, shaking his head with faint amusement. "You know," he began lightly, "you're kinda cute when you're fussing."

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "Drink your tea, Barnes."

He smiled warmly, leaning back comfortably against the pillows. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."

You sat carefully beside him, arms crossed, watching until he drank at least half the tea. After a long silence, he glanced at you with a slight smirk. "You gonna keep staring at me like that?"

"Yes," you replied evenly.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head again. "I'm really okay, doll."

You ignored him, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair off his forehead gently. "Just shut up and let me take care of you."

Bucky sighed, but his eyes softened. "Alright. But I'm really not that sick."

"Shut up," you repeated calmly.

He laughed quietly, but settled back further into the pillows, clearly deciding to humor you for now.

Satisfied, you reached over to the bedside table, calmly handing him two ibuprofen. He took them without protest, eyes crinkling in quiet amusement. "Anything else, nurse?" he teased gently.

You gave him another steady stare. "Sleep."

He chuckled softly, obediently closing his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

You watched carefully until his breathing evened out, the tension in your shoulders finally easing slightly. Quietly, you reached out, carefully brushing your fingers along his cheek. "You're an idiot," you murmured softly.

He didn't respond, already drifting peacefully.

You sighed gently, settling back comfortably against the pillows beside him, silently watching over him anyway.

---

The kitchen was alive with quiet morning chaos. Yelena sat perched on the counter, lazily peeling an orange. Alexei and Bob were at the table, hunched over a puzzle like it was a high-level mission. John nursed a black coffee with an expression like he hated being alive, and Ava scrolled through her tablet, earbuds in.

You were standing near the stove, sipping from your mug and keeping mostly to yourself, as usual.

Bucky breezed in behind you, freshly showered, hair still a little damp. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, and murmured softly, “Love you, sweetheart.”

You didn’t look at him, just gave a neutral hum, calm and flat. “Don’t forget your knife. You left it on the bathroom sink.”

He smirked faintly, unfazed. “I got it.”

He gave your waist a soft squeeze and slipped out without another word. A beat of silence passed before Yelena narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger toward you dramatically. “You never say it back.” You didn’t respond, and just took another sip of your coffee. “No, seriously,” she said, sliding off the counter and walking closer. “He says it, like, all the time. And you just… ignore it. Or change the subject. Or give him directions about weapons.”

“Bucky knows how I feel,” you said flatly.

“That’s not the point,” she insisted. “You don’t say it back.”

Ava looked up from her tablet. “She’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say ‘I love you.’”

Bob blinked slowly, clearly distressed. “You don’t love Bucky?”

“She does,” Alexei said cheerfully. “She just shows it by keeping him alive. Very romantic.”

John chuckled, voice dry. “I’m just impressed Barnes doesn’t seem to care.”

“Or notice,” Ava added, raising an eyebrow.

Yelena smirked suddenly, eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief. “Let’s make a bet.”

Everyone perked up immediately.

“Go on,” John said warily.

Yelena grinned, turning toward you. “You start acting like him. All clingy and affectionate. Tell him you love him, kiss him on the cheek, hold his hand, all that. We’ll see how long it takes before he notices you’re doing it on purpose.”

You stared at her blankly. “That’s stupid.”

“Which means you’re doing it,” she replied smugly. “Everyone in?”

Bob raised his hand nervously. “I think Bucky will be happy. He might cry.”

“Two days,” Ava said, stretching. “He notices in two days.”

“Five,” Alexei guessed. “He notices in five.”

John shook his head. “Nah, he doesn’t notice at all. Guy’s completely blind to affection. He’ll just think she’s finally caved.”

Yelena looked at you expectantly. “Well?”

You sighed, finished your coffee, and set the mug down. “Fine.”

Ava blinked. “Wait. Really?”

You shrugged, walking toward the hallway. “If I’m going to make all of you shut up, might as well commit.”

“Try smiling too!” Yelena called after you. “For extra shock value!”

You raised a hand behind you without turning around, a middle finger casually extended. The group collectively laughed. Bob looked equal parts excited and nervous. Alexei was already drawing a tally chart on the whiteboard for the bet.

John muttered into his coffee. “This is gonna be weird.”

Yelena just grinned wickedly. “This is gonna be fun.”

---

It was a few hours later, mid-afternoon, and the team was scattered throughout the Watchtower common area again—some half-working, some definitely not. You wandered in casually, phone in hand, and spotted Bucky at the kitchen island, assembling what looked like a very questionable sandwich.

You approached quietly, standing beside him. He glanced at you with a small smile, clearly not expecting much more than a grunt or maybe a snide comment. Instead, you reached up, cupped his face with both hands, and leaned in to press a soft, deliberate kiss to his cheek.

“I love you,” you said casually, voice light.

Bucky froze mid–bread placement. His eyes flicked toward you, brows pulled in slightly. “…You okay?”

“I’m great,” you replied smoothly, brushing your fingers across his jaw like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You look handsome today.”

He blinked. Hard. “…Okay,” he said slowly. “Thanks?”

You smiled—actually smiled—and gave his arm a light squeeze before walking off toward the couch without another word.

Across the room, Yelena choked on her water, coughing violently into her sleeve, John’s head whipped around like he’d just heard a gunshot, Ava paused mid-scroll, Bob audibly gasped, and Alexei muttered something about “strange wind today.”

Bucky watched you sit down, still looking faintly baffled. He shook it off, returning to his sandwich. “Okay,” he muttered to himself. “She’s just in a weird mood.”

Behind him, Yelena was already marking one line under the Day 1 tally chart.

---

It was later that evening, just after dinner, and the team had migrated to the common room. Bucky was sprawled on the couch, legs up, lazily flipping through a worn paperback. You sat nearby, feet propped on the coffee table, arms crossed, as usual.

Ava was in the corner with her headphones. Bob and Alexei were locked in another intense round of chess, and John was pretending not to watch over their shoulders. Yelena was watching you with the intensity of a predator tracking prey.

You waited a few seconds before casually getting up and walking toward Bucky. He glanced up, half-expecting you to make some dry comment about his book or the state of his posture. Instead, you leaned over and gently tugged the book from his hands, closing it without a word. He sat up, confused, and before he could ask what you were doing, you slid right onto his lap.

Everyone froze.

Even Alexei abandoned his chessboard.

Bucky blinked, completely thrown off. “Uh… hi?”

You rested your arm around his shoulder, pressed a kiss to his temple, then said calmly, “Missed you today.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, like his brain was rebooting. “We were literally together for most of the afternoon.”

You shrugged. “Still.”

He stared at you, clearly processing. “Are you… feeling okay?”

“I’m perfect,” you replied, voice soft.

Then, just to twist the knife, you tangled your fingers with his and laced them together on his lap—just like he always does to you when he’s being annoying and affectionate. Bucky narrowed his eyes slightly, head tilting. “…Okay, now I know something’s up.”

You blinked at him innocently. “I can’t love my husband?”

“I mean, yeah, but—” he cut off, squinting. “Since when do you say stuff like that?”

“Since now,” you said smoothly.

Yelena snorted from the armchair, trying—and failing—to disguise it as a cough. Ava slowly raised a single eyebrow. Bob was practically vibrating. Alexei whispered, “plot twist.”

Bucky looked between you and the rest of the room, clearly sensing something was going on but not quite sure what. “Right,” he muttered. “This is fine. Totally normal.”

You leaned in again, kissed his cheek, and murmured, “Love you, baby.”

Bucky stared at you like you had just declared war on gravity. “…I’m calling Sam,” he muttered.

You smiled faintly, settled back in his lap like you belonged there—which, to be fair, you did—and glanced toward Yelena.

She was holding up two fingers silently.

You gave her a barely-there smirk. Let the games continue.

---

It was later that night. Most of the lights in the Watchtower had been dimmed, and the common area was washed in the soft blue glow of the TV no one was really watching. You were curled up next to Bucky on the couch—next to, not just near, which was already suspicious.

You let your head rest lightly on his shoulder, fingers brushing his knee in a slow rhythm, and then leaned in, lips brushing just below his ear. “You look tired, baby,” you said quietly. “You want me to wash your hair for you later?”

Bucky turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed.

You stared back, innocent. “I’m gonna take a shower,” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just dropped another bomb. You stood up, kissed his forehead, and walked out of the room without another word.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he stood up, stretched once, turned to face the rest of the room, and said, flatly, “okay. Who poisoned her?”

The team froze.

“Or brainwashed her,” he added, pointing. “Walker?”

John looked offended. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Then who’s trying to body-swap her?” Bucky continued, not missing a beat. “Because that—” he gestured down the hall where you’d just disappeared— “is not my wife.”

Alexei opened his mouth.

Bucky held up a hand. “Nope. I love her. I love her. I love every sarcastic, terrifying, emotionally unavailable part of her. I didn’t fall in love with someone who calls me baby and offers to wash my hair on a Wednesday night.”

Yelena clapped a hand over her mouth.

Ava cracked first. “Okay, okay—it was a bet!”

John groaned. “Goddammit, Ava.”

“I knew it,” Bucky said, exasperated but mostly amused, rubbing his face. “How long did you think it’d take me to notice?”

“Minimum was two days,” Yelena muttered.

“I said five,” Alexei chimed in proudly.

Bob raised his hand. “I said never. Sorry.”

Bucky held out his hand. “Pay up.”

“What?” John frowned.

“You all lost,” Bucky said, already deadpan and halfway to smirking. “I noticed before two days. And I know there was money involved.”

Yelena groaned but reached into her pocket. “Ugh, fine.”

One by one, they all handed him bills. Bob looked like he didn’t want to participate, but even he dug out a few crumpled notes. Bucky accepted the pile without flinching.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room.

---

You were finishing brushing your teeth when you heard the soft knock—followed by the door cracking open.

Bucky stepped inside, holding a wad of folded bills in one hand. “I figured out the bet,” he said, calm as ever. “Apparently I’m very observant.” You raised a brow, clearly unbothered. He tossed the cash on the bathroom counter. “So I’m taking you to Coney Island tomorrow.”

You blinked.

His lips tugged up in a soft smile as he leaned casually against the doorframe. “And you’re not allowed to act weird and lovey the whole time, because that’s my thing. You just get to stand there looking scary while I win you plushies.”

You stared at him for a beat, then rolled your eyes. “Fine.”

He grinned. “Love you, sweetheart.”

You smirked slightly. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

He winked. “Too late.”

---

The next morning, the team was gathered in the kitchen, half-asleep. Bucky strolled in like he hadn’t just robbed them all the night before, casually sliding his arm around your waist as you stood beside the fridge. “Morning,” he said brightly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

You were wearing a dark green sundress. Soft, strappy, flowy. And silent. Every head turned. The room collectively froze.

John choked on his coffee. “Is that—?”

“—a dress?” Yelena finished, blinking rapidly.

You adjusted the strap without looking up. “Yeah. Problem?”

“No,” Ava said slowly. “It’s just… unexpected.”

“Looks good,” Bob offered kindly, eyes wide.

Alexei raised his mug. “Color of war. I approve.”

Bucky, grinning like he’d won the lottery, clapped his hands once. “Alright, team. While we—” he gestured between you and himself, “—are off having a very well-earned day at Coney Island, you are going to clean the tower.”

John immediately protested. “Wait, what?”

“Team bonding,” Bucky said cheerfully. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re serious?” Ava asked, eyebrows raised.

“Deadly.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “Walker, Bob, Alexei—kitchen duty. Dishwasher, floor, counters. Top to bottom.”

“Not fair,” John grumbled, grabbing a sponge.

“Yelena, Ava,” Bucky continued, turning to them with a smirk. “You’ve got windows. Inside and out.”

Yelena squinted. “All the windows?”

“Every single one,” you said blankly, sipping your coffee.

“Cool,” Ava muttered. “This is abuse.”

“You’ll live,” Bucky said, already guiding you toward the door. “Don’t forget the hallway floors!”

---

An hour later, Yelena and Ava were upstairs with a bucket of water and zero motivation, grumbling as they passed through the hallway. Eventually, Yelena slowed in front of your door. She looked around. “No one’s watching,” she said, grabbing the handle.

“We’re supposed to be cleaning,” Ava said halfheartedly, but followed her in anyway. What they found stopped them in their tracks. “...What the hell,” Ava whispered.

The room was soft. Soft. Candles on the shelves. Warm fairy lights draped above the bed. Throw pillows. A fuzzy blanket folded perfectly at the end of the mattress. It was like a Pinterest board collided with a bookstore in fall.

And the photos—there were dozens. On the desk, taped to the wall, propped on dressers. One of them caught Ava’s eye first.

It was a wedding photo.

You were in a massive princess-style gown. Glittering skirt. Sweetheart neckline. Hair done up. Bucky in a black tux, smiling down at you with the softest look imaginable.

Behind you both?

Every single Avenger.

Yelena squinted at it. “...That’s real.”

“I thought she was joking,” Ava whispered. “That night with the vodka. I thought she was messing with us.”

“Same,” Yelena muttered. “She said it with a straight face. I figured it was sarcasm.”

Ava leaned in closer. “She looks... happy.”

Yelena looked at her. “She looks terrifying.”

“That is her happy,” Ava clarified.

Another photo—smaller, older. You and Bucky in front of a bridge, clearly in Brooklyn. You’re sitting on the hood of a car, his arm around you, your hand in his.

“Okay,” Yelena said slowly. “Maybe they are gross and in love.”

Ava crossed her arms, glancing around the room again. “It’s weird.”

Yelena pointed at the bat-cat plush. “That’s new. Barnes must’ve caved at some carnival.”

John stuck his head in the doorway. “Barnes doesn’t spend twenty bucks on stuffed animals.”

Alexei ambled in behind him. “Looks handmade. Maybe he stole it?”

Bob picked it up carefully. “Glow-in-the-dark eyes. Cool.” He flipped the tag. “No price.”

“Great,” Yelena muttered. “Mystery doll.” Her gaze shifted to the sketches pinned above the desk. “And when did Y/N start a fashion line?”

Ava touched one of the mission-gear designs. “These are good.”

John lifted the sundress sketch. “That’s the one she wore this morning.”

Alexei whistled. “She makes her own combat suits and dresses? Multitasking queen.”

Bob set the plush down. “So… she sews in secret?”

“Explains the needles I keep finding,” Ava said.

Yelena tapped a separate drawing—sleek black tac-suit with red accents. “This would look sick on me.”

John smirked. “Ask nicely. Maybe she’ll let you borrow it—after she murders us for trespassing.”

Ava grabbed the plush again, squinting. “Something’s off. Bucky didn’t buy this.”

“Then who did?” Bob asked.

Alexei snapped his fingers. “Secret admirer!”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Barnes would’ve burned the tower down.”

Ava flipped the plush over. A tiny embroidered ‘PP’ sat under one wing. “Initials?”

“Pepper Potts?” Bob offered.

“Pepper sends Stark-tech, not plushies,” Yelena said.

John stepped back. “Whatever. Let’s bail before they get back.”

"Wait!" Yelena said, holding up a smudged notebook she'd grabbed from beside the desk. "This has more."

Ava narrowed her eyes. "Y/N’s sketchbook?"

Bob immediately looked nervous. "We probably shouldn’t—"

Yelena already had it open, flipping through. "Too late."

John crossed his arms. "What is it? More dresses?"

Yelena tilted the notebook to show the page. "That's me."

They all leaned in. Sure enough, a detailed sketch of Yelena in a tactical outfit took up the left page. Black vest, reinforced pants, sleek holsters, high boots. The right page had her in a fitted trench coat and wide-legged pants, stylish but still practical, with sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Notes were scribbled in the margins. Fabric types. Zipper placements. A few faint stars.

Ava leaned closer. "Wait. That's me."

The next set of pages showed Ava in two variations—one combat-ready with a reworked SHIELD-style jacket and lightweight gear, and the other in an oversized blazer and boots, holding a coffee cup with a scowl on her face. Both were captioned lightly in small, precise handwriting. Ava: structured / minimalist. Mood: constantly annoyed.

John let out a soft laugh. "She got that right."

Yelena turned the page again. "Oh my God."

Bob blinked. "What?"

"Alexei," she said, holding it up. "In a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts."

Alexei grinned proudly. "Is good look. Classic."

The next page had him again, this time in reinforced armor, but with a faint note at the top: He’s gonna ignore the weight distribution anyway, so make it fun.

"She thinks I do not notice that note," Alexei said, squinting. "I do."

John reached over. "Let me see mine."

Yelena handed him the sketchbook. He raised an eyebrow at the drawing. "Okay… that’s me. Tactical, obviously. And this—" he pointed to the opposite page, "—is a hoodie and cargo pants?"

Ava peered over his shoulder. "With dog tags. And fingerless gloves. What are you, a streetwear catalog?" John rolled his eyes but kept flipping.

Bob found his own sketch and blinked. "Oh."

It was soft. Literally. A cable-knit cardigan, dark jeans, and boots with his hair swept back. He looked like a grad student. The caption read: Bob: cozy nerd. Bookstore vibes. May cry if yelled at (true).

Ava smiled. "Okay, that’s accurate."

"There's one of each of us," Yelena said, still flipping. "She’s made outfits for all of us. Combat and civilian."

Alexei was nodding along, thoroughly impressed. "She is team mom. Team mom with knives."

Bob looked at the sketches taped to the wall again. "Some of these match the ones in the book."

Yelena paused on a new page. "Okay. This one’s blank, but it has my name at the top."

Ava leaned over. "‘Yelena – formal.’ She’s planning something."

John frowned. "Like what? A gala mission?"

"God, I hope not," Yelena muttered. "I’ll set something on fire."

Alexei was still examining the walls. "She never shows us this. All this time, she hides it like secret spy craft."

"Because she doesn’t want us in her business," Bob said quietly.

Yelena shut the notebook, careful now, and set it back exactly where she found it. "We should go."

"No shit," John muttered. He headed for the door.

Ava glanced around one more time. "The wedding dress wasn’t a joke."

"Nope," Yelena said, deadpan. "Princess gown. Confirmed."

They filed out, one by one, back into the hallway. Bob looked guilty, Alexei looked proud, and John looked vaguely stressed. Yelena closed the door behind them with a soft click.

John sighed. "Alright. We say nothing."

"Nothing," Ava agreed.

Bob nodded quickly. "Absolutely nothing."

Alexei shrugged. "I say she should make me suit for next barbecue."

Yelena elbowed him. "Shut up, Dad."

They started walking, quiet for a beat. Then Yelena muttered, "still not over the dress."

Ava shook her head. "I think I need a drink."

i've actually been writing a few other oneshots for this series- i've even wrote a oneshot about you and bucky first meeting (also a fix-it for civil war... it's also 20k+ words and will be split into two parts but that's besides the point)

anyways, i don't really know what to call the series/masterlist - should it just be electric touch or something else? on ao3 i have it listed as grumpy x sunshine as a placeholder, but i don't really like it. if you have any ideas, please, please, please let me know! and if you want to see any scenarios post/pre-thunderbolts you can send in an ask!

[prettybuckybaby]

do u know what actually genuinely sometimes there is nothing better than being alive

[prettybuckybaby]

turns out i was manic being alive still fucking sucks lads xoxox

[danysdaughter]

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 7.7k words

summary | bucky’s really not the club type, but one night of teasing and grinding leads to him worshipping you in an alley and begging to fuck you full the second you’re home. you make him plead for it—hard—before finally letting your needy, subby Sargeant get what he wants.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), unprotected sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (f!recieving), submissive!bucky barnes, breeding kink, praise kink, desperate sex, begging, reader has bucky on a leash (metaphorically…for now), dirty talk, bucky barnes loses all dignity and loves it

a/n | these two are my pookies, based on these three requests, 1 , 2 & 3

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

you don't need to read the previous parts to read this one

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs ᴘᴀʀᴛ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

“Do we have to go?”

His voice came from behind you, low and already sulky, as you leaned over the vanity applying your lip liner with practiced ease.

You didn’t even flinch. Just kept going, eyes locked on your reflection, the tiny smile tugging at your freshly glossed lips betraying you.

“No,” you said casually, popping the cap back onto your pencil. “I have to go. You, my dear, decided to martyr yourself for the cause.”

Bucky groaned—loudly—from where he was sprawled on the edge of the bed, already dressed but looking like he was one minor inconvenience away from peeling his black button-up off and sinking back under the covers.

“You said it was just drinks.”

You turned, finally facing him, one hand propped on your hip. “It is just drinks. For her birthday. At a club. With music. And people. You know—civilization?”

He gave you a flat look, but it dropped the moment his eyes swept over your dress.

Sequins.

Black.

Tight in all the right places.

And short. So short he could see the edges of your sheer lingerie underneath when you turned back around.

“You’re gonna cause an international incident in that thing,” he muttered.

You caught his reflection in the mirror—jaw tight, eyes dark—and smiled slowly as you spritzed perfume behind your ears.

“I haven’t even worn heels yet, Sarge. You haven’t seen the full offense.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “This is torture.”

You snorted. “You could’ve stayed home.”

“I tried to. You guilted me.”

You turned to him again, walking over slowly—deliberately—until you were standing between his knees. He looked up at you like you were something dangerous. Something divine.

You leaned down just enough for your cleavage to barely brush his cheek.

“I said, I was going. I never asked you to come.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I know.”

You ran your nails through his hair, teasing. “But you just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“Couldn’t let you out in this alone,” he murmured, hands sliding up your thighs. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You watched his fingers twitch where they rested on your thighs—like he wanted to grab you, drag you down onto his lap, keep you there. But he didn’t. Not yet.

So you leaned down instead, just enough for your lips to brush his.

Soft.

Gentle.

Barely there.

And Bucky? The man preened under it. That low grumble of irritation in his chest softened into something else entirely—something warm and needy, his hands trailing slowly up the backs of your thighs as he angled up to chase more.

You kissed him again. A little firmer. A little longer.

“Just an hour,” you whispered against his mouth.

He groaned, forehead tipping against yours.

“And then,” you added, letting your fingers slide through his hair again, “you get your reward.”

His eyes fluttered open. “What kind of reward?”

You peppered kisses across his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“The very good kind,” you murmured.

He leaned in, trying to catch your lips in a deeper kiss—hungry now, desperate to steal more—but you pulled back at the last second with a wicked little smile.

“Hold that thought,” you said, turning toward the closet. “I need my heels.”

Bucky let out an honest-to-god whimper as you walked away, that tiny black dress riding high on your thighs.

────────────────────────

The bass throbbed through the floor, through your heels, up your spine. Bodies pressed together on the dancefloor, all glitter and sweat and perfume—but you were the main event.

You and your two girlfriends owned the center like it was a spotlight.

Arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, drinks in hand, hips swaying in perfect sync as you danced, laughed, twirled like the music was playing just for you.

Your black dress caught the strobe lights like a mirrorball—sparkling every time your hips rolled to the beat, the sequins clinging to your curves in a way that made even strangers pause mid-step.

And from the shadows, Bucky watched.

Sat at the edge of a booth, drink in hand, jaw tight, legs spread wide and metal fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass. He didn’t blink often. Didn't move.

Just sat there like a statue, half in shadow, tracking every motion you made with the eyes of a sniper and the patience of a wolf.

Someone bumped into his table.

He didn’t look away from you.

Another guy brushed past you and your friends, maybe a little too close.

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

His grip on the glass tightened.

And you? You felt it.

You turned just slightly, gave him a smirk over your shoulder as your hips rolled in a slow, mocking figure eight—your friends hyping you up as you dropped low between them and came back up laughing.

You winked at him.

He looked like he was going to combust.

Eventually you wove your way back through the crowd, hips still swaying to the beat, the hem of your dress riding dangerously high with every step. The heat of the club clung to your skin, and your smile—lazy, knowing—was aimed straight at him.

Bucky barely moved when you stopped in front of him.

Just tracked your every step like a laser. That unreadable expression carved into his face.

But his drink?

Untouched.

“Drink break,” you said sweetly, plucking the glass from his hand without asking. You took a slow sip, then bent slightly, placing your free hand on his chest as you leaned in close. “Why’re you sulking, Sargeant?”

“I’m not sulking,” he muttered, deadpan.

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended, “I’m just not… into this kind of thing.”

“The alcohol or the dancing?”

“The… everything.”

You laughed, soft and low, before casually sliding into his lap like it was your throne. One arm hooked around his neck, your body warm against his, glittering and flushed from the heat of the dancefloor. He tensed beneath you—his hands hovering, not quite touching, not yet.

“C’mon,” you whispered in his ear. “Just one dance. I’ll be good.”

He snorted. “You’ve never been good.”

You grinned, kissing the corner of his jaw. “You love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Just groaned softly as your hips shifted on his lap, as you leaned in like you were about to kiss him—then pulled back just before your lips touched.

“I’m going back out,” you said, slipping off his lap. “But don’t worry.”

You met his eyes again, that familiar heat flaring between you.

“You’ll know where to find me. Since you’ve been staring like a stalker all night.”

And with that, you turned and sauntered away—back into the lights, the music, your friends. Your hips swaying with every step.

You didn’t need to look back to know his eyes were still locked on you.

Like they always were.

And Bucky tried.

He really fucking tried.

He stayed glued to the booth like it was the only safe zone in this sensory-overloaded club. Kept his eyes on you and his drink in hand, willing himself to just breathe.

But then—he showed up.

Some guy in a too-tight shirt and too-slick smile, sliding up behind you like he had a right to. Too close. Too casual. His hand brushed your lower back as he leaned in to say something, and you didn’t even notice—still laughing, still dancing with your friends, too caught up in the song.

Bucky’s glass cracked in his hand.

He was on his feet before it even hit the table.

It took him two seconds to cross the floor.

He shoved through the crowd like it didn’t exist, tunnel vision locked on that asshole brushing too close to you.

And then—contact.

Bucky’s hand shoved the guy back with a sharp, practiced force that was just shy of breaking ribs. The stranger stumbled, eyes wide, hands up in defense.

“Back. Off.” Bucky’s voice was low, deadly.

The guy didn’t argue. Just disappeared into the crowd.

You blinked, spinning around at the sudden shift in energy, music still pounding in your ears.

Your eyes lit up.

“Hey!” you beamed, throwing your arms around his neck like you’d summoned him with pure willpower. “Look who finally came to dance.”

He was still fuming. Still buzzing with adrenaline.

But your smile—your soft, clueless smile—hit him like a bucket of cold water and a blowtorch at the same time.

You pressed against him, still moving to the beat, your hands sliding into his hair.

And he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

His hands found your waist like he needed something to anchor him.

The music pulsed around you, deep and filthy. A rhythm you knew in your bones. And Bucky?

He stood still.

Tense.

Hands resting on your hips like he was afraid to move. Like if he touched you wrong, he’d wake up from this.

You leaned into him, letting your back press flush to his chest as you rolled your hips to the beat. His breath caught—sharp and quiet—right next to your ear.

“I don’t…” he began, his voice rough, uncertain. “I don’t know what to do here.”

You smiled, wicked and soft all at once.

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmured, pressing back harder against him. “Just follow my lead.”

You reached behind you, grabbing his wrists and guiding his hands lower—over your hips, across your waist, until they were resting right over your thighs, right where that tiny scrap of dress ended.

“There,” you whispered, “isn’t that better?”

He groaned under his breath, fingers tightening just slightly.

You kept moving, grinding slowly against him, the curve of your ass brushing the growing bulge in his pants with every roll of your hips.

“You feel that?” you murmured, turning your head just enough for your lips to brush the shell of his ear. “That’s how much you want me right now. In the middle of a fucking club.”

He exhaled hard.

You smiled.

“Still don’t know what to do?”

His hands trembled on your body. You could feel how hard he was behind you. How desperate.

And he was letting you lead. Letting you take him apart.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter now—desperate, barely restrained, fingers pressing into the bare skin exposed by your dress. You kept dancing, rolling your hips slow and smooth, rubbing back against his cock like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Bucky? He was dying.

You felt the shudder run through him. Heard the ragged inhale as his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his mouth right by your ear.

“Baby…” he murmured, his voice cracked and low. “Please. Let’s go. I need—fuck—I need to get you alone.”

You hummed, soft and nonchalant, like he’d asked what song was playing.

“Mm? In a bit,” you replied, still swaying with the beat, still teasing him with every curve of your body against his. “It’s my girl’s birthday.”

“I don’t care,” he groaned, pressing closer, his cock hard and throbbing against your ass. “You’ve been driving me fucking insane all night.”

You turned your head just enough to glance back at him, lashes low, lips curved.

“Oh? You poor baby.”

“Please,” he whispered, hands sliding back up your waist, gripping your sides like he might lose it if you didn’t say yes. “I’ll do anything. Just—just please.”

You looked ahead again, letting the music wash over you, pretending not to notice how close he was to snapping.

And god, you glowed under his begging.

You kept moving, kept teasing, kept dancing—until he finally growled low in your ear, a sound full of warning and surrender.

“I swear to God—if you don’t come with me now…”

You smiled.

Victory, sweet and slow, dripping off your lips.

You finally turned in his arms, cupping his flushed face, and kissed him once—deeply—before murmuring against his mouth:

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t speak.

Just grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd like a man possessed.

You expected him to drag you to the car.

To fumble for keys with shaking hands, speed through traffic like a man on fire, and toss you onto the bed the second the front door clicked shut.

What you didn’t expect?

Was for him to yank you down a side alley the second you stepped outside the club.

“Bucky—what the fuck—?”

The night air hit your skin, sharp and cool, your laughter bubbling out from your lips as your heels clicked on the pavement, stumbling a little as he hauled you behind him with single-minded purpose.

“Hold on,” you laughed, “are we not going home—?”

But he didn’t answer.

Didn’t speak.

Just turned the corner into the shadows between two brick walls, pressed you against one of them like a secret, and dropped to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widened.

“Wait—are you serious—? Bucky—get up—”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to tug him upright, but he wasn’t budging.

Not even a little.

He looked up at you like he was seeing the sun for the first time—flushed, pupils blown wide, hair wild from the walk, lips parted in reverence and desperation.

“I’ve waited all night,” he said, voice rough and raw. “You—you were dancing like that, touching me like that. Whispering in my ear like I’m yours to tease.”

He slipped his hands up your thighs, his palms hot, steady.

“I need to taste you.”

You blinked, speechless.

And then—he lifted one of your legs and gently, so gently—hooked it over his shoulder.

Your dress rode up in the process, barely hiding anything anymore.

“Bucky,” you breathed, eyes wide, “we’re literally outside—”

“No one’s here,” he said, almost pleading. “I’ll be quick.”

He kissed your thigh, slow and reverent, just above the edge of your panties.

“Please,” he murmured, voice trembling. “Let me have you.”

And god help you—

You didn’t have it in you to say no.

He started slow.

Mouth pressing against your soaked panties, breathing you in like he’d finally found air. The wet heat of his tongue licked right over the thin fabric, and you shuddered, one hand flying to the brick behind you for balance, the other curling in his hair.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re really doing this…”

He hummed against you, a sound that vibrated through your core and made your legs go weak.

His hands were locked tight around your thighs, holding you open, steady, as he mouthed through the lace—licking broad, heavy strokes from bottom to top, pausing to suck gently over your clit even through the fabric.

“You taste—” he groaned, voice muffled. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

You bit your lip, hips bucking just slightly toward his face. “Yeah? That what you wanted, Sarge? Wanted me dripping while you knelt like this?”

He growled. A sound that came from somewhere low.

Then his fingers found the edge of your panties and tugged them aside—no patience, no preamble—just that same determined hunger in every move.

And then?

Skin to skin.

His mouth latched onto you—hot, wet, perfect—tongue dragging slowly up your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision. He was thorough, like he was mapping you with every lick, every flick, every groan.

Your head tipped back against the wall, breath hitching hard.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you gasped, “yes—yes—”

He moaned against you, and that was the end of your self-control.

Your hips started moving, slow at first, grinding softly against his face as his hands spread you wider, anchoring you down. His tongue fucked into you, deep and greedy, then came back up to suck hard on your clit—and it was too much, too good.

“Good boy,” you whispered breathlessly, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him right there. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

He didn’t stop.

He feasted like you were his last meal.

Like he’d go down praying between your thighs if it meant dying with your taste on his tongue.

And you let him.

Your breath came in broken little gasps, legs trembling as you leaned harder into the wall for balance, your hips rolling forward, chasing his tongue.

He groaned into you again—louder this time—as if he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you melted for him.

His tongue thrust into you again and again, slow and deep, then faster, like he wanted to fuck you with it alone. He alternated between that and lapping up everything you gave him—soaked, messy, dripping all over his mouth and chin.

And you just… let go.

“Fuck—Bucky—fuck, that’s it—baby, just like that…”

Your praise spilled from you in shaky moans, every word making him groan again, his mouth sucking harder, tongue circling your clit with more pressure, more purpose.

“Such a good boy,” you gasped, voice breaking. “So hungry for me—fuck, look at you—”

He moaned, louder, like the words pushed him closer to the edge right along with you.

Then you felt it.

The cold press of metal fingers sliding along your folds.

You barely had time to brace before two slipped inside—deep, smooth, and slick from your arousal. The stretch made you cry out, head snapping forward to stare down at him.

He looked wrecked.

Mouth glistening, jaw working, eyes wild with need as he watched his fingers sink into you.

He thrust them deep once, twice—then curled them just right, tongue flicking over your clit as he built a rhythm.

You nearly screamed.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, clutching his hair. “Fuck, Bucky—yes—your fingers—so deep—don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

You were everything. Right here, above him, dripping down his wrist, moaning his name like it meant salvation.

And he was going to make you come apart for him.

Right here in the alley.

Where anyone could hear. Where you were already too far gone to care.

You were trembling now—your thighs shaking where he held them, your body arching off the wall as your moans got higher, faster, more desperate.

“Bucky—fuck—baby, I’m gonna—I’m close—”

His fingers didn’t stop.

That metal hand, cool and slick, thrusting in and out of you with precision. His tongue—hot and greedy—worked your clit in tight, perfect circles, and all you could do was hang on, your hand fisting in his hair as your body spiraled toward release.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” you gasped, hips bucking. “So good—fuck, baby, just like that—don’t stop—you’re making me come—you’re making me—”

And then it hit.

Hard.

Your whole body locked up, then shattered—waves of pleasure crashing over you so sharp it left you breathless, crying out his name as your walls clamped around his fingers, your thighs squeezing tight around his head.

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t even slow down.

He moaned into you like he was the one coming, like your orgasm turned him on more than anything else in the world.

He kept licking. Kept devouring.

His fingers slowed inside you, easing through your spasms as his mouth dragged through every drop of your release, his tongue lapping you clean like he couldn’t stand to waste a single drop.

When you finally opened your eyes, chest heaving, he was still there between your thighs—his mouth swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with hunger and reverence and something that looked like worship.

You reached down, cupped his face, breathless and wrecked.

“You are…” you gasped, voice hoarse, “so fucking dangerous, Sarge.”

He grinned. Didn’t disagree.

────────────────────────

The ride to Bucky’s apartment was a blur.

You were still reeling—floaty, lightheaded, drunk off your orgasm and vodka and the way he’d looked at you after licking you clean like you were dessert. Slumped in the passenger seat, one heel kicked off, legs parted, dress ruined and crooked.

And Bucky?

White-knuckling the steering wheel.

Silent.

Focused.

His jaw clenched like the only thing keeping him from pulling over and fucking you in the backseat was his last shred of sanity.

He didn’t even wait for the car to fully stop before he was out, coming around to your side, opening the door like a man possessed.

“C’mon,” he muttered, reaching for you.

You blinked at him, dazed.

Then giggled. “I can’t run in these heels, Sarge.”

He sighed. One of those long-suffering, deeply unamused sighs that came from the soul.

And then?

“Up.”

“What?”

“Up. Jump on.”

You blinked again.

And then started laughing—delighted, drunken, giddy.

“Wait, are you—are you giving me a piggyback ride right now—?”

He didn’t respond.

Just turned around, crouched down a little.

“Get your ass on my back or I swear to god I’ll throw you over my shoulder and deal with the neighbors staring.”

You snorted, heels finally coming off as you clumsily clambered up, arms around his neck, thighs around his waist. He stood like you weighed nothing, started walking fast, muttering under his breath the entire way.

“You get me hard enough to explode and now I’m a goddamn Uber.”

“You love me,” you murmured, nuzzling his neck.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

The stairwell echoed with the soft thump of Bucky’s boots, your breathy laughter, and his increasingly frustrated muttering.

He had one arm locked under your thighs, the other gripping your leg where it wrapped around his waist. Your chest pressed tight to his back, your lips everywhere.

“God, you’re heavy when you’re smug,” he grumbled, voice tight.

You bit down softly on his earlobe.

He groaned, staggered slightly.

“You love it,” you whispered, voice hot against his skin. “I’m your smug little problem.”

His breath hitched.

“I should’ve left you in that alley,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time now. “Should’ve walked away the second you climbed into my lap in that damn club.”

But his hand squeezed your thigh as he said it. His pulse was pounding.

You laughed, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “Yeah, but you didn’t. You followed. You always follow.”

He reached the landing of his floor, adjusting your grip with a grunt as you started kissing down the side of his neck.

“Keep doing that,” he warned, “and I’m gonna fuck you right here in the hallway.”

You smiled against his skin.

“And that would be a punishment for who, exactly?”

He growled, low and dangerous, and finally reached his door—slammed his key into the lock with barely-restrained aggression, the door clicking open just in time to keep him from putting a hole through it.

He set you down just past the doorway, and the second your feet hit the floor, you laughed.

Bright. Teasing. Unapologetic.

And then you ran.

Not far—just a few steps down the hall, barefoot now, your ruined dress swinging with every step, giddy and high off the power humming between you.

You heard him groan behind you. That low, broken sound of a man barely holding it together.

“C’mon, baby,” he growled, already following. “Don’t play with me.”

You looked back over your shoulder, flashing him a grin so smug it could start a war.

“Who’s playing?” you called, half-laughing. “You looked like you needed a little cardio.”

“Oh my god,” he groaned again, but there was that glint in his eye—wild, hungry, so in love with you it almost hurt.

He picked up speed.

You squealed, turning into the bedroom just as he lunged and caught you—arms wrapping around your waist, dragging you back against his chest with a growl.

You were still laughing when his mouth found your neck.

Still grinning as his hands roamed your body like he was claiming it from memory.

Bucky wasn’t smiling. He was starving.

“Enough games,” he murmured into your skin. “I’ve waited.”

He held you from behind, arms locked around your waist, lips brushing your neck as you caught your breath, still laughing, still high off the chase.

“You promised me a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and wrecked, his hips pressing flush to your ass. “For getting through the night.”

You arched a brow, smirking over your shoulder. “Did you really get through the night, though?”

He groaned, full of mock betrayal and pent-up need.

“I chased you. I carried you. I knelt for you in an alley.”

“Mm,” you hummed, feigning thought. “Yeah, okay, you almost earned it.”

He sighed.

You didn’t have time to blink before his hand slid down your front—gripped the front of your dress at the seam—and ripped it in half.

The fabric tore with a loud, satisfying rip, split clean down the middle, falling off your shoulders like it’d offended him personally.

You gasped, spinning in his arms, eyes wide. “Bucky—this was new!”

He just looked at you—lips parted, breathing heavy, pupils black.

“Oops.”

You smacked the back of his head.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smirked, hands already smoothing over your now-exposed body like you were his favorite secret.

“You look better without it anyway,” he said, voice a rasp.

He didn't toss you—didn't throw you down with brute strength.

No.

Bucky guided you.

Hands on your waist, eyes wide and desperate, he backed you toward the bed like it was a shrine and you were the altar.

When your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he gently pushed—and you let yourself fall back, grinning up at him, lingerie still clinging to your body in scraps, skin glowing, mouth parted.

He stood there, looming and wrecked, chest rising fast.

“Please,” he whispered, voice thick. “Can I… Can I have you now?”

Your brows lifted, lips curling into something warm and hungry.

“Oh, baby,” you said softly, sweetly, fingers tracing down your own stomach. “That depends. Are you gonna be good for me?”

He nodded, breath hitching. "Yes. Yes. Anything.”

You tilted your head. “Then take your clothes off.”

He obeyed immediately.

Button after button, dragging his shirt off like it burned, revealing scarred skin, that muscled chest, arms flexing with every frantic movement. His belt came undone next, pants shoved low on his hips, breath ragged as he kicked them away—desperate to be bare for you.

And you?

You stayed exactly where you were—lounging back on your elbows, legs slightly parted, eyes dragging slowly over every inch of him.

“Look at you,” you murmured, voice syrupy, teasing. “So eager. So pretty.”

He flushed—full body flush, from chest to cheeks—but didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

He crawled up the bed with a kind of reverence—his hands on either side of your thighs, his mouth parted, eyes locked on you like he couldn’t believe you were real. His cock hung heavy between his legs, flushed and leaking, brushing your inner thigh with every slow, deliberate movement.

You just grinned.

Waiting for him.

Arms out, legs open, back arched just slightly—every inch of you a welcome.

When he reached you, you reached up and curled your fingers into his hair, gently pulling him down until his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Sweet.

Then deeper. Hungrier.

He groaned into your mouth, one long, low sound that vibrated against your tongue—and you felt it, the heat of his cock pressing into the thin barrier of your panties, grinding instinctively as his hips rocked forward.

You gasped into him, but didn’t pull back.

Didn’t stop.

Your lips brushed his as you whispered against his mouth, your voice low and sultry:

“You feel that? That’s how much I want you too, baby.”

He moaned again—nearly broke, shuddering above you like the sound of your voice alone could make him come.

“Please,” he whispered, hips twitching against you. “Please let me—please—”

You kissed him again.

Tugged your panties to the side.

And whispered, “Now.”

He lined himself up, hands shaking where they held your thighs, forehead resting against yours as he breathed—slow, ragged, trying to hold on.

“Go on, baby,” you whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. “I want you in me.”

His hips rocked forward.

Just the tip.

And the sound that tore from his throat—broken, raw—made your body clench.

He sank deeper.

Inch by inch.

His eyes fluttered shut, his mouth falling open as he finally filled you—completely.

“Ohh, fuck,” he gasped, barely able to speak. “You’re—shit, you’re so warm—so tight—God—”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, your voice like velvet.

“You feel that, baby? That’s your reward. You earned this.”

He nodded, forehead still pressed to yours, utterly wrecked.

“You make me feel—fuck,” he choked. “You make me feel so good, you—shit, you’re squeezing me—”

“Because you fit perfect,” you whispered, hips rolling up to meet him. “This pussy’s yours, Sarge. It’s been waiting for you.”

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

And when you whispered, “You gonna fill me up, huh? Gonna come in me nice and deep like you want to?”—

His entire body shuddered.

“Yeah,” he panted. “I want—I want to make you mine. I wanna see you dripping with me, I wanna—fuck, I wanna keep it there.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied.

“Then start moving, baby,” you murmured. “Make me take it.”

And he did. Shaky. Overwhelmed.

But desperate to please.

He started moving slowly at first—so slow, like he didn’t want to break you. Like every inch of your body was something he needed to savor, to remember by heart.

The drag of his cock inside you was maddening, thick and perfect, your walls fluttering around him with every pull and push.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his voice wrecked, forehead pressing harder to yours. “You—God, you’re so wet, you’re pulling me in, I can’t—fuck.”

You rocked up to meet him, hands on his back, fingers dragging down the muscles there as you cooed softly in his ear.

“You were made for this, baby,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin. “Made to fuck me slow like this. Fill me up ‘til I’m leaking.”

He whimpered again—and his hips stuttered.

Your praise drove him forward, made him lose that tentative rhythm and thrust deeper, a little harder, burying himself to the hilt with a strangled groan.

“That’s it,” you murmured, breath catching. “Just like that. You feel that stretch? Feel how full I am?”

His arms trembled.

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna fill me with your cum, huh? Make sure it takes?”

“Yes. God, yes. I want—” he swallowed, voice cracking, “—wanna see you all fucked out and messy. Want it dripping out of you, baby, wanna push it back in.”

You clenched around him, hard.

And he shuddered.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered, nipping his jaw. “My sweet little mess. You’re gonna come so deep, aren’t you?”

His breath hitched. His thrusts grew sloppier, more frantic.

“Yes. Please—please let me—fuck, I need to, I can’t—”

You squeezed him tighter with your legs, your cunt gripping him greedily as he kept thrusting, faster now, hips slapping against yours with sticky, wet heat.

He was close.

You could feel it—every tense muscle, every desperate sound from his lips, every trembling push of his cock into your soaking heat.

But you weren’t letting him finish yet.

Not until he begged. And he would.

His rhythm had unraveled.

What started as controlled, careful thrusts had turned into something messy, frantic—his hips slamming into yours with that wet, sinful sound, cock driving deep like he needed to be as far inside you as possible.

You took every inch, every needy push, eyes rolling back as you moaned for him—louder now, no longer teasing, but genuine, wrecked, completely overtaken by the stretch and the heat and the desperate sound of his voice.

“You feel so fucking good,” he panted against your throat, his voice cracked and pleading. “I can’t—I’m so close—please, I can’t hold it—please—”

You tightened your legs around his waist, gripping him closer.

“You wanna come, baby?” you gasped, mouth brushing his ear. “You wanna fill me up?”

“Fuck, baby—please,” Bucky gasped, panting against your shoulder as his pace faltered, cock twitching inside you. “I’m gonna—I need to—please let me come in you, I want it so bad, I need to—”

He groaned, a deep, strangled sound that vibrated through your entire body.

You cupped his face with both hands, guiding his forehead to yours as your hips bucked up to meet every desperate thrust.

His thrusts picked up again—rougher, deeper, slamming into you over and over, the head of his cock grinding against your most sensitive spot until your vision blurred.

You clawed at his back, your legs shaking, voice breaking with every ragged gasp.

“That’s it, baby,” you cried. “Fuck—Bucky—I’m gonna—I’m coming—”

Your body seized around him, orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave—tight, intense, devastating. Your walls clamped down on his cock, pulsing, gripping him so tight it knocked the breath from his lungs.

That was it.

The final push.

His whole body shuddered.

“I need to, please, I need to—fuck, I need to come inside you, I wanna fill you so bad, please—please—”

You cradled the back of his head, pulled his face down to yours until your mouths were almost touching.

“I want it, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice passionate and tender all at once. “I want all of it. Fill me up, baby. Give it to me.”

And that was it.

He let out a broken, devastated sound—deep from his chest—and his hips stuttered, slammed into you one last time as he came hard, pulsing deep inside, buried to the hilt.

You felt it.

Hot, thick spurts pulsing into you, over and over, as he moaned your name like it was the only word he remembered. His arms wrapped tight around you, holding you flush to him as he pumped every last drop deep inside you.

You clenched around him on purpose.

He shuddered, crying out again, grinding into you even after he’d emptied himself—like he didn’t want a single drop to escape.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just collapsed on top of you with a shaky breath, his face tucked into the crook of your neck, arms still tight around your waist like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

His cock still nestled deep inside you.

Still pulsing, softening slowly, but not leaving.

You stroked your fingers gently down his back, feeling every tremor still rolling through him, every heartbeat pounding fast beneath his skin.

He was warm. Heavy. Completely undone in your arms.

And you held him like he was something precious.

He nuzzled into your neck, breath hot and uneven as he whispered, finally, “God. That was… fuck.”

You smiled against his hair, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on his spine.

“You earned it, baby,” you murmured. “Took your time, was so patient for me…”

“Barely,” he said with a breathless laugh, his lips brushing your throat. “I almost came the second I got in.”

“I know,” you teased, grinning. “I could feel it.”

He groaned again, embarrassed, and you kissed the side of his head.

You could feel his come already starting to slip out around him, warm and messy between your thighs—but neither of you moved to change that. You just stayed tangled, his body heavy over yours, his breathing slowly evening out as he melted against you.

After a few long, quiet moments of breathing each other in, Bucky finally lifted his head.

His eyes were still hazy, blue and heavy with something soft—something loving. He looked down at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Slow.

Deep.

His mouth moved over yours with no rush, no heat this time—just something tender, raw and honest. You held the back of his head, fingers carding through damp hair as he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was grateful for you.

For every second. It went on for minutes. No words.

Just lips brushing, tongues tangling lazily, the sound of your breaths mixing in the dark.

And when you finally pulled back, lips swollen, still catching your breath, you blinked up at him and murmured—

“…I need to get this fucking bra off me.”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh, forehead dropping to yours, his voice rough with affection.

“Let me,” he whispered, fingers already moving.

His fingers were warm and careful as he unhooked your bra, sliding the straps down your arms slowly like he was undressing a painting.

You let out a long, relieved sigh the second it came off, tossing your head back against the pillows.

“God, finally,” you muttered, stretching beneath him. “That thing was threatening my circulation.”

Bucky chuckled, soft and low, kissing your shoulder as he tossed it somewhere over his shoulder.

And then—reluctantly—he shifted.

You felt the drag of his cock as he slowly pulled out, a quiet groan rumbling from his chest at the sensation. Your body clenched at the loss, already slick and messy from everything he’d left inside you.

“Shit,” he murmured, still breathless, running a hand through his hair as he sat back. “I’ll get something—hang on.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and warm, watching as he padded out of the room ass naked—every muscle in his back moving with purpose.

He came back a minute later with a warm, damp cloth and knelt between your legs like it was routine, like he’d done it a hundred times. Which to be fair, he did.

He was quiet, careful—his touch gentle as he cleaned you up, wiping away the slick mess he’d left behind like you were something fragile.

You watched him with a lazy grin, your body heavy, boneless, your hair a wild halo against the pillows.

“God,” you murmured, one hand flopping over your stomach, “look at you.”

He glanced up, brow furrowed. “What?”

You smiled wider, all teasing affection. “Subby Bucky, kneeling at my altar after trying to breed me in half.”

He flushed instantly.

“Don’t—” he started, already flustered.

“Oh, no, it’s too late,” you purred, wiggling your hips a little just to see him twitch. “You were begging, baby. On your knees in an alley. And then what—filling me up like it was your life’s purpose?”

He groaned, dragging the cloth down your thigh with exaggerated care, not meeting your eyes.

“You’re gonna make me hard again.”

You snorted. “I’m gonna make you embarrassed, Sergeant Breeder.”

He gave you a look—half shame, half smitten.

Then leaned up and muttered against your inner thigh, “Keep talking like that and I’ll show you what round two looks like.”

You arched a brow, still grinning. “Is that a threat, Barnes?”

He kissed your thigh again, soft and slow.

“It’s a promise.”

You watched him finish cleaning you, tossing the cloth aside and crawling back up beside you on the bed, still flushed, still naked, still… so soft.

And you? Still grinning.

“Jesus,” you muttered, eyes flicking over him. “You really are the most obedient little breeding bitch I’ve ever seen.”

He groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.

You snatched it away.

“I mean it,” you teased, leaning on your elbow to poke at his chest. “You beg so sweet. You come like it’s your life’s mission. I swear, if I told you to knock me up, you’d probably salute.”

“Would not,” he mumbled—but it was weak.

You raised a brow. “Would too,” you shot back. “You’d be like, ‘Yes ma’am, anything to serve the cause—’”

“Stop.”

“And you know what’s next, right?”

He blinked. “What’s next?”

You shrugged casually. “Pegging.”

He frowned, sitting up slightly. “…Pegging?”

You stared at him for a beat—deadpan.

Then burst out laughing, flopping back onto the bed as your shoulders shook.

“Oh, baby,” you wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“I’m a hundred and six.”

“Exactly.”

He scowled, but it only made you laugh harder, dragging him down into your arms as you nuzzled into his neck, smug and stupidly in love.

He shifted beside you, still grumbling under his breath, and rolled off the bed, stretching that broad, bare chest in the soft moonlight.

“I’m gonna go clean up,” he muttered.

You rolled to your back, arm flopping over your face. “Cool. While you’re up—make me something. I’m starving.”

He paused in the doorway, turning just enough to give you that squinty little look of disbelief.

“You just called me a ‘breeding bitch’ and now you want me to cook for you?”

You didn’t even lift your arm. “I’ll let you fuck me again after.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

────────────────────────

Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared.

Hair damp. Shirtless. In boxers.

With a plate of perfectly arranged avocado toast in one hand, a glass of ice water in the other, and his laptop tucked under his arm.

You blinked up at him from the bed, instantly suspicious. “Why the laptop?”

He handed you the toast first.

“Because,” he said, settling next to you, “I wanna know what pegging is.”

You barked a laugh, nearly choking on your toast. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“No, seriously—you don’t. Your 40s brain will combust.”

He looked at you, dead serious, already flipping the screen open. “You said you’d tell me when I was older.”

You reached out to slap the laptop closed, but he dodged, brows furrowed in focus as he typed.

“I’m begging you,” you said through another wave of laughter, “don’t press play. Just read the definition.”

But it was too late.

He clicked the first link.

The sound kicked in immediately—moaning, skin slapping, a woman's voice cooing praise—and Bucky froze.

You took a casual bite of your avocado toast, eyes never leaving his face.

He was staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

Brows drawn.

Lips parted.

A single line of tension in his jaw as he watched a woman, in full control, pegging a man who was practically melting beneath her.

You chewed.

He blinked.

Still watching. Still furrowed.

You took another bite.

And that’s when your eyes drifted down—beneath the covers. To the very obvious tent in the blanket over his lap.

You choked.

“Oh my god,” you cackled. “You’re hard?”

His head whipped toward you, horrified. “No—”

You laughed harder, mouth full. “Don’t you dare lie, Sargeant Submissive.”

“I didn’t mean to—” He fumbled, slamming the laptop shut so fast it made the toast on your plate jump. “It’s not—that’s not what I—”

You collapsed sideways into the pillows, crying from laughter, still holding your toast.

He sank back with a groan, covering his face with both hands.

“…I hate you,” he muttered.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek.

“No you don’t.”

“…Unfortunately.”

You settled back into the pillows, plate on your lap, watching him with that lazy, shit-eating grin still plastered across your face. Bucky sat rigid beside you, eyes slightly glazed, still red from embarrassment, the laptop now firmly closed and shoved off to the side like it might bite him.

Then—

“Why do guys… like that?” he asked, cautiously, eyes flicking to you.

You shrugged, nonchalant. “Because it feels good?”

He blinked.

You licked some avocado from your thumb, casually adding, “Men have their G-spot in their asshole, babe.”

Bucky just stared.

And you, without missing a beat, muttered under your breath, “Honestly, just more proof that all men should be gay.”

“What?”

You looked up, blinking innocently. “Hm?”

He narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” you said, biting into another piece of toast.

After a moment, he turned to you again—still clearly thinking about everything you’d just said. His brows were pulled together, eyes searching yours, voice quiet.

“…Do you like that kind of stuff?”

You shrugged, totally unbothered. “I wouldn’t say no.”

He blinked.

You smirked, chewing on your last piece of toast like you hadn’t just dropped that casually.

“It’s a real turn-on,” you added. “That’s why girls like gay porn.”

His confusion deepened. “Wait—what?”

You rolled your eyes, clearly about to educate him. “It’s more real, Buck. Guys in gay porn actually look like they’re into it. Normal straight porn? It’s usually made for the camera. Half the time the girls are just faking it.”

He looked horrified.

“…Faking it?”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Yes. You think every pornstar comes just from two minutes of jackhammering and zero foreplay? Please.”

He sat back like you’d just shattered an entire belief system.

“That’s… really depressing.”

You nodded solemnly. “Welcome to womanhood, Sergeant.”

You watched him sit there, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted, eyes darting from the closed laptop to your plate to anywhere but your face.

He looked like a man staring into the void.

So naturally, you leaned in, pressed a slow kiss to his cheek, and murmured right at his ear—

“Do you want me to peg you, Bucky?”

His entire body went still.

Like you’d just dropped a live grenade in his lap.

He didn’t answer immediately—but he also didn’t pull away.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t sputter out a denial.

You tilted your head, amused. “Not a no.”

Still, silence.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you grinned, nosing at the sharp line of his jaw.

“You’re thinking about it,” you sang softly, placing a soft, teasing kiss right beneath his ear.

“No, I’m not,” he muttered—but it was way too quick, too defensive, and you could feel the way his body tensed under your touch.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered with a smirk, lips brushing his neck, “we really need to talk about your kinks.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

You were still snickering softly against his jaw, your hands trailing lazy patterns over his chest, ready to land one more teasing blow—

Until Bucky suddenly grabbed you.

With a groan of pure defeat, he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and physically turned you to face away from him, spooning you like it was a tactical maneuver.

“Okay,” he grumbled against the back of your neck. “You’ve had your fun. Sleep now.”

You barely bit back a laugh, your body shaking with it.

“Is that an order, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned, already burying his face in your shoulder. “And no more pegging talk before bed.”

You grinned, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fine,” you whispered. “But tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow, I pretend none of this ever happened.”

Your smile only widened.

“Sure you do.”

And his only reply?

A long, exhausted sigh—followed by the quietest kiss pressed to your shoulder as he finally, finally, relaxed around you.

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do u know what actually genuinely sometimes there is nothing better than being alive