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[startingl1ne]

Welcome to Startingl1ne!

this blog will not contain adult content

Luke 𑣲⋆ he/him. 4/4 lane. Michael leaning.

inbox is open. requests: open.

i. masterlist

ii. asks

iii. twitter / ao3

16+ warnings may apply.

Be sure to pay attention to all warnings & tags.

I will NOT write: non-con/dub-con, implied past rape/sa, incest, abuse/trauma, pedophilia, racism, transphobia, homophobia, death, detailed self harm/eating disorders, etc.

[startingl1ne]

Luke licking up his guitar except it’s not his guitar it’s Michael’s neck

oh yeah i’m so on this 🤤🤤

[startingl1ne]

send me fic requests in my inbox!

[startingl1ne]

The Space Between a Rock and a Hard Place — Michael x Ashton [Part 1]

16+

Ashton works at a record store, Michael streams Overwatch, but Michael has a secret he’s been hiding from Ashton for quite some time.

warnings/tags: streamer!michael clifford, cashier!ashton irwin, t-girl!michael clifford, alternate universe: roommates, anxious attachment, fluff to angst to fluff, body insecurity, arguments, internalised transphobia (?), self acceptance, reassurance, i don’t know how to tag, domestic (?), long-time lovers, past best friends to lovers, flirting

wc: 3.3k (i’ll try to write more in the future 🥹)

authors note: so many people seem excited to read this from twt im so excited!! i’ve had this idea for a while, i just never really knew how to write it out. there might be a few holes here and there, sorry! not proof read either

inbox is open!

come find me on twitter!

Michael and Ashton had known each other since 5th year (6th grade), and they’ve been attached at the hip ever since Michael tripped in the lunchroom in front of Ashton and spilled all his chocolate milk all over his white uniform.

Now, they had a small apartment right above the record store that Ashton worked at. When Michael and Ashton were looking at apartments and came across the one they were in now, the landlord only agreed to sell it if one of them decided to work at the record store below.

Ashton, the more physically motivated than Michael, decided to take the job. He made enough for monthly rent, but when Michael took notice of the fact that they ended up with barely enough money for basic needs after rent was collected, he decided to take advantage of his best skill—gaming.

Michael had been playing video games since he was 9, and he was very good at shooter-type games. He would play with his sisters a lot, and he was always competitive with them. Of course, because of this, Michael decided to start a streamer account on twitch.

What would be the quickest way to get popular and bring in that cash him and Ashton desperately needed, you ask?

V-tubing as a female model, of course!

This surely would not have any future impact on Michael Clifford as a person gender-wise.

—-

Ashton knew about Michael’s streaming. I mean, he kind of had to; it would be weird for Michael to start gaining tons of money out of nowhere with no explanation. What Ashton didn’t know, however, was that Michael streamed as a v-tuber, used a female model of himself that he designed himself, and used a voice changer to pitch his voice up.

Surely, those details, and not sharing those details, didn’t have any sort of connotation whatsoever.

Michael very much underrated what good gaming skills and a good looking model can do, because he was rolling in hundreds by the first week. He had a routine: wake up around noon, shower, eat, stream, log off around the time Ashton got home, eat, sleep, and do it all over again the next day.

It worked insanely well, too. Ashton was always gone by the time Michael woke up, but it gave Michael more time to stream. Ashton worked from 7am-4pm, and him and Michael ended up going to bed around 9pm.

Ashton never ended up questioning Michael’s streaming habits, nor did he go out of his way to find out about them. They had money, and Ashton didn’t see a reason to get in the way of how Michael was making said money.

That was until, a few months later, Michael started acting really weird.

He was starting to get a little more nervy around Ashton, holding himself back from saying certain things, or being overly cautious of what Ashton was watching on his phone.

Ashton didn’t understand it at all; never once had Michael been worried about him cheating, but this almost seemed like something more than that, and Ashton started to wonder if he should be the one worried about Michael cheating.

That worry disappeared less than a week later, because one day when Ashton came home and they were eating dinner together on their table..

“Is Walgreens still open?” Michael asked, eating away at his Chicken Katsu and taking sips of his strawberry milk. He was in his pink overwatch pj pants and a baggy white tee, an outfit he sported more regularly than not these days.

Ashton raised an eyebrow, it was about 7:30pm, Walgreens was usually open til around 9 at their location, though he thought it was really random of Michael to ask that out of nowhere.

“Uh, yeah, they don’t usually close til around nine,” Ashton replied, taking a bite of his own chicken katsu, “Did you need something?”

Obviously, Michael needed something. What reason would he have to ask if the convenience store was open if he didn’t need anything? Sometimes, Michael just thought Ashton was stupid.

“Yeah, of course I need something, Ash.” Michael muttered, rolling his eyes and scoffing slightly.

Ashton rolled his eyes back, shaking his head. “You know what I meant. What do you need? We can go after we finish dinner.” He offered, taking the last few bites of his food.

Michael bit down on his lower lip for a second, thinking, and then he spoke. “I was thinking of dying my hair pink, and I also wanted make up.”

Ashton didn’t pause at the mention of hair dye—Michael changed the color of his hair regularly—but it was the last part of his sentence that surprised him.

Makeup? Ashton knew that Michael would sometimes put eyeliner on his lower waterline, but the way it was worded made Ashton think he meant a little more than just eyeliner this time.

He didn’t push it, though; he just nodded, waited for Michael to finish his food, and then they got up together to walk to Walgreens. It was only a few blocks away, so it didn’t take that long, and as usual, Michael bolted over to the hair and cosmetics section.

It didn’t take long for Michael to meet Ashton back at the registers, but what Michael was holding in his hands surprised Ashton.

He was holding a whole pallet of bright eyeshadows, pale foundation and concealer, cool toned bronzer and contour, mascara, blush, and lipstick. Ashton’s eyebrows raised when he looked over at the products, but he decided not to ask about it.

If Michael had something to tell him.. he could do that on his own time. Ashton wouldn’t force a thing out of him, but he was definitely getting a little suspicious. Of course, Michael could’ve just been exploring self expression, but the way he looked so excited to be holding said products..

Well, Ashton definitely had some suspicions.

—-

Michael was playing a makeup tutorial on his phone while he waited for the hair dye to process in his previously blonde hair. Ashton was laying on the bathroom floor, mindlessly tapping away on his phone. Michael followed the tutorial perfectly, blending everything together with brushes instead of beauty blenders, and he was already very into this.

He originally didn’t think that makeup was going to be something that he was going to be able to pick up and get a hang of, but this tutorial was so easy to follow; he wasn’t having any trouble at all. He thought he’d freak out when he had to put that mascara so close to his eyeball, but he didn’t even flinch once.

It took him about 30 minutes to perfect the look he wanted, and by that time, his hair had finished processing. Michael washed the dye out in the shower by the sink, dried it, and styled it. He got Ashton’s attention by gently kicking at his leg, and when Ashton looked up at Michael, his eyes sparkled with something he’d never felt before.

Ashton sat his phone down, sitting up on the tile floor. He stared at Michael for a few seconds, causing the younger to flush slightly.

“You don’t like it?” Michael asked, frowning slightly.

“Don’t like it? Mikey, love, you look so pretty. I love it. I love you.” Ashton replied, eyes sparkling. He had never used the word pretty on Mike before, but the pink hair and matching makeup?

He wasn’t sure there was any other word to describe how Michael looked right now. Maybe gorgeous, stunning, perfect.

Michael smiled wide, his perfect canine teeth peaking through. He’d never been called pretty before, but coming from Ashton? He couldn’t help but feel like the word was made for him.

“Thanks..” Michael started, nervously rubbing his arm, “I kinda fucked up on the wings, but—”

Michael didn’t get a chance to finish nitpicking the work he’d done on himself because Ashton had gotten off the floor and pressed his lips against Michael’s lightly painted ones. Sure, Ashton got pink smudged on his lips, but this was Michael Clifford, his boyfriend of basically forever, that he was kissing; he couldn’t care less about what he was getting on himself.

“Shut the hell up, Mike. You’re stunning. I didn’t even notice that they were uneven.” Ashton muttered against Michael’s lips, one of his hands running through the freshly dyed hair.

Michael didn’t let himself talk back, Ashton would probably lecture him to hell if he did. He just kissed back and let Ashton mutter on about how pretty he was, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Michael actually let himself believe what Ashton was saying.

—-

Michael and Ashton were laying together on their shared bed, Michael mindlessly playing a video game on his phone, and Ashton scrolling through instagram reels.

Michael didn’t have the volume up on his phone, so he was audibly tuned into whatever Ashton had on his feed. Everything was normal, until Michael heard a familiar feminine voice coming from Ashton’s phone.

He tensed up immediately—that was one of his Overwatch clips off of one of his streams, his pitched up voice, that is. Michael knew it wasn’t odd that Ashton was getting one of his videos on his feed, he was a pretty popular Overwatch streamer, after all.

People mainly liked to watch him for who he mained: D.Va, Juno, and Tracer. He was really good with Juno, learning how to use her as soon as she came out, so a lot of people watched him for tips.

He had an aggressive style with D.Va, middle ground with Tracer, and a softer style for Juno. Ashton also played Overwatch every now and then when he had free time, so it wasn’t weird how he’d probably have that type of content on his feed.

The only thing that really worried Michael—would Ashton pay too much attention to the gaming style and figure out that this was him just from this video?

Ashton was very observant, so of course, being someone who was trying to get better at Overwatch himself, he paid far too much attention to the gaming style.

Ashton glanced over in Michael’s direction. He was still playing a game on his phone, but Ash noticed immediately that he seemed tense, like something was bothering him. It made Ashton raise an eyebrow, and he slowly started putting two and two together.

“Mike?” Ashton asked, keeping his eyes on Michael as the instagram video still played.

Michael let out a small breath. He wasn’t the best at keeping poker faces, but he’d try his best—he knew what was coming.

“Yes, love?” He responded, cocking his head to make eye contact with Ashton, making sure that his facial expression stayed neutral.

“Have you ever heard of CliffedTracer?” Ashton wouldn’t force anything out of Michael, he just wanted to see what he’d say. CliffedTracer was a huge streamer, more than 2 million followers, and it would be really weird for Michael, someone who plays Overwatch every day, to not know this name.

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, thinking for a second. “I’ve heard of her, yeah. Why do you ask?”

“I was just watching one of her clips, and I noticed that you and her have really similar gaming styles.”

Michael swallowed hard. Sure, their styles were similar but that didn’t really mean anything. A lot of people had similar styles throughout their mains.

“Yeah? I mean, she’s usually the person I’ll watch for gaming tips, so that’s probably why.” He responded, making sure his voice didn’t shake. He was getting nervous, and he begged that Ashton would just drop whatever this was and they could cuddle and go to sleep.

“Tips? Mikey, she literally has the exact same style as you with each of her mains, and you know what’s funny? She started streaming right around the same time you did.” Ashton narrowed his eyes. He usually never got mad at Michael, but he was just lying to his face for no reason.

Why would Ashton ever be upset that Michael streamed with a female model? Had he ever made Michael feel like he would judge him over something as small as gender identity? He didn’t think so, but he felt bad either way.

Michael frowned at Ashton’s words, crossing his arms to his chest and rolling his eyes. “A lot of people start streaming around the same time. Why the hell would I pretend to be a girl on the internet? That’s stupid, Ashton. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? I’m being ridiculous, Michael? Are you hearing yourself? You’re lying to my face about something so small, and you’re not doing it that well. The hair dye, the makeup, and now this? You’re hiding from me, and I don’t know why. If I have ever done anything to make you think that you can’t talk to me about shit like this, i’m sorry.”

Ashton was losing his patience. he just wanted Michael to be honest with him. All the evidence pointed to one thing: this streamer was Michael in disguise. He just didn’t understand why Michael couldn’t admit to that.

“You’re wrong, Ashton. I’m not lying to you. I’m not her, I don’t even know how that would make sense. I’m not even on her gaming level! You’re jumping to conclusions.” Michael huffed, turning away from Ashton and lying down on the bed.

That was the last straw for Ashton. Michael was going to deny the truth straight to his face and then turn away from him? Fine.

Ashton got off of the bed, grabbing his jacket off the floor. Michaels eyes followed his movements, panic suddenly setting it. Ashton put his jacket on and stormed out of the house angrily without even looking back at Michael.

Shit.

Michael suddenly couldn’t breathe properly. He sat up quickly in the bed, holding his arms tight to his chest. He didn’t realise he had an anxious attachment style until just now. Tears welled up in his eyes—was Ashton really going to leave him over this?

Michael didn’t think it was that big of a deal, but obviously, Ashton thought otherwise.

Michael couldn’t follow after Ashton, no way. He’d come back. He had to, right? Michael didn’t even register tears starting to pour out of his eyes, and he didn’t register falling asleep soon after.

He woke up to an empty bed, usual, but he started panicking all over again when he remembered what had happened the previous night. He couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, not even to stream, and he streamed everyday. He started crying again, and before he knew it, he was back asleep.

He woke up later in the day, around the time Ashton would be home, but he wasn’t there. Michaels lack of getting up was finally getting to him, and he needed water and food.

He got up, feeling dizzy, and went over to get a glass of water. He downed the whole glass in one sip, and as soon as it was in his system, he collapsed on the kitchen floor, hugging his knees to himself and starting to cry all over again. He didn’t register falling asleep that time either.

He woke up the next day, still on the floor. That meant that Ashton didn’t come home last night, either, because if he did, he’d set his anger aside and at least place Michael in bed. Michael sniffled. If he knew that hiding something as small as how he streamed would ruin him and Ashton, he would’ve told Ashton immediately.

He couldn’t take much more of this. With his knees up to his chest and his face buried in his knees, he didn’t register the sound of the front door lock clicking. He didn’t register footsteps walking towards the kitchen, or the panicked voice calling out his name.

—-

Ashton had finally decided to come home, three grocery bags in his hands full of food and other necessities. He didn’t expect to find Michael curled up on the kitchen floor, sobbing his eyes out. He knew it was wrong to leave Michael alone for so long, but he did it thinking that Mike would be able to go at least a day without him.

He was wrong, very, obviously wrong.

Ashton set the bags down on the table and rushed to Michael, shaking him awake. His face was full of concern. Michael looked paler than usual, his eyes were sunken in, and his hair was a little matted from lack of shower.

Ashton bit down on his lip, grabbing a cup of water and placing it in Michael’s hands. He drank it all in one gulp, Ashton filled the glass up again. Michael went through three whole glasses of water before looking at least a little able to function again.

Ashton gave Michael a sandwich he had picked up from the floor and watched him eat it like he hadn’t eaten in days—which he hadn’t.

When Michael finally looked like he wasn’t death’s reincarnation, he looked up into Ashton’s eyes, tears threatening to fall again.

Ashton places his hands on Michael’s cheeks, rubbing the skin underneath his thumbs before placing a gentle kiss to Michael’s lips. Michael kissed back weakly, one of his hands managing to grip at Ashton’s forearm.

“I’m so sorry, Mikey.. I shouldn’t have left you like that.” Ashton started, muttering against Michael’s lips.

Michael pulled away and shook his head, looking down at the tile ground in shame. “No, I should’ve been honest with you, but I was just so scared..”

Ashton let Michael explain in a ramble.

“It just— I don’t know. I guess I just felt more like me when I was her, and the thought of that scared me. I’ve been insecure about myself my whole life. My sisters would practice makeup on me, and i’d enjoy it. I always played as girl characters in video games, and I always ended up seeing myself in them in a way. I just.. I thought you’d might see me differently because of that. I don’t.. i don’t really know if I want to be a boy.”

Ashton listened as Michael hesitated and stuttered through his words. See Michael differently? He’d never do that. All this information was doing to Ashton was making him feel more in love. He understood the way Michael felt—not fully—and he loved him so much more for it.

“Michael, baby, I love you so much. Something like this would never change the way I see you. I love you for you, not because of the way you identify or the way you look. I fell in love with you because you know how to make me laugh, you know how to brighten up a room just by walking into it. You know all the secret ways to pull me out of the darkness. None of that could change because you identify differently, and i’d never think you’re weird for wanting to identify differently.”

Ashton’s voice dripped pure honesty, pure love. He’d be caught dead before he was caught loving Michael conditionally. Michael teared up on instinct, falling limp into Ashton’s arms.

Ashton held him tight, running his fingers through Michael’s beautiful hair. “You’re so perfect to me, Mikey, I hope you know that.” He muttered out, pressing a small kiss to Michael’s head.

Michael just hummed in response, he was too busy trying not to sob again to form a real response. He appreciated Ashton so much, and he was so glad that he was in love with someone like him. He wouldn’t trade this kind of love for the world.

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, i’m the one sitting on the dirty floor holding you.”

“..Whatever.”

[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

[babylonradio]

the concept of making ash cry has taken over my mind ...

[m5ra-sos]

No bc genuinely what was this about

[imaginaryboyfr]

God he looks too good in maroon 🫠🫠

[luke-hemmings-everyday]

day 109

[chapbrinas]

title: i'm the boss.

pairing: blond!luke (liberty spikes era) x brunet!luke (jet black era)

content warning and author's note: potentially dead dove content and i will be utilizing the tag to say that if you don't heed the warning now you have no right to be upset about what is present in the fic. boundary pushing, dom breaking, power play, gunplay, and forced russian roulette will be present.

summary: the general consensus is that the brunet is the more dominant personality. the problem is, he's always pushing it. the blond's had it with his shit. he snaps, and just so happens to have a gun on him when he does.

word count: 3,883.

the brunet likes to think he knows everyone’s limits. he likes to think he knows which buttons to press and which ones not to press. he likes to think he knows which boundaries he can cross and which ones he can’t. today, his little theory fell through.

the blond is standing across from him, gun in hand. he tilts his head to the side and runs ringed fingers through spiked hair. he’s laughing maniacally and it’s more than clear that there’s tension in the air. the brunet is standing across from him with his hands up, careful to not upset the blond further. frankly, the blond’s just about had it with all of the brunet’s bullshit, however, and he’s not putting the gun away. they’re going to settle this now, see, because the brunet has a bad habit of being condescending and demeaning— amongst other things— and the blond can’t take it anymore. he’s snapping.

“why don’t you put that away?” the brunet suggests with a smile that’s all too aware of his situation, but one that could still dial it back on the smugness.

“get on the ground,” the blond says.

“let’s talk about this,” the brunet lets out a nervous chuckle.

“get on the fucking ground,” the blond tells him again, voice low and serious as he cocks the gun. he was in the middle of enjoying a cigarette and he intends to finish it. he takes a drag off of it, then taps the ashes off to the side. they fall to the ground without care or concern.

by now, the brunet is on his knees. he can feel his heart pounding in his chest. he’s never experienced anxiety like this before. he’s also never had a gun pulled on him before. first time for everything.

“happy?” the brunet asks. “now what?”

“i can see i’m gonna have to adjust that fuckin’ attitude of yours,” the blond mutters, gun placed beneath the brunet’s chin. he leverages the gun to lift the brunet’s head so that he’s forced to look up at him, then reaches to remove the sunglasses the brunet is wearing and tosses them aside. he wants to actually see the look in the brunet’s eyes when this next part comes. “you always think you’re god damn untouchable, don’t you? i’m gonna prove you wrong. open your mouth.”

“what?” the brunet asks, stunned.

“you heard me,” the blond answers. “open up your fucking mouth,” he growls, then jerks the brunet’s jaw open before he shoves the barrel of the gun past the brunet’s teeth.

by now, the brunet looks terrified. that cool, calm, and collected demeanor is nowhere to be found. meanwhile, the blond has this wild look in eyes that are normally so bored with the world; something that says he’s enjoying this.

“better,” he says when the brunet gives in and his jaw goes slack around the gun. he looks up at the blond through horror stricken and widened baby blues. he’s in shock, heart racing and adrenaline pumping. his hands are still raised, like he’s afraid to make any sudden movements. he’s trembling. there’s a loaded gun in his mouth and he’s not sure what’s coming next.

“you look pathetic like this,” the blond laughs some more, then shakes his head in disbelief. “but it’s a good look for you, i like it.”

the brunet would scowl, argue— anything, but he’s fighting back tears. he’s scared. his hands slowly drop from where they’re raised in the air and they land on his knees.

the blond continues to puff on his cigarette, before he eventually finishes it off and throws the butt of it on the ground and puts it out beneath his shoe. when he’s done with that, he runs his fingers through the brunet’s curls and gives them a harsh tug before he shoves the barrel of the gun deeper down his throat. he pushes it further and further, until the brunet chokes and gags— he doesn’t stop, until spit covers his lips and drool coats the outside of the metal. he even guides the brunet’s head along the gun, forcing him to work back and forth along the barrel.

“uh huh… suck on it, baby— just like that,” the blond murmurs, condescension in his tone. his tongue is pressed to his inner cheek, jaw slightly open as he watches in awe. he bites down on his lower lip to stifle a laugh, then finally pulls the fun from the brunet’s mouth. a string of spit connects from the tip of the barrel to the brunet’s swollen, pink lips and he’s blushing so bad that the rosy colored tint has spread up to his ears and down past the v-neck of his button-up. he pants softly, brows knitted together as he glares daggers up at the blond who just can’t seem to help himself from grinning.

the blond pauses for a moment. he looks down, then takes note of the crimson glow spread across the brunet’s skin. he glances elsewhere and notices the way the brunet’s fists are balled up tight, then remarks the lack of protest. albeit, there is the loaded gun. great motivation for keeping a person in check, but… something’s off. all signs point to pent up frustration.

“do me a favor,” the blond says, then his foot nudges itself between the brunet’s thighs before he even gets the command out. “spread your legs,” he demands, only to press the front end of his boot against the brunet’s lap before he has time to react.

there’s no verbal objection. the brunet merely shudders and grasps at the blond’s leg. he keeps his head tilted downward and absolutely refuses to match the blond’s gaze. this whole situation is humiliating.

“no way,” the blond chuckles. he scratches his temple with the end of the gun, then points it back at the brunet again. “you want it, right? of course you do,” he nods his head, as if things are starting to make sense.

he moves his foot and his boot rubs over the brunet’s arousal, but the brunet manages to muffle whatever sound attempts to escape him— granted, not without consequence. he does end up rolling his hips forward, jaw tightening as he curses under his breath.

“sadomasochistic freak— you’re a sick fuck, you know that?” the blond calls him out on it.

“six syllables— that’s a big word for you,” the brunet replies, snide and pompous.

“you need to learn when to shut the fuck up,” the blond sneers. he whips the brunet across the face with the back end of the pistol without a second thought. it leaves a large bruise across his cheek, along with a fresh cut. blood pours from the wound, down the side of his face, and the blond considers— just for a moment— how pretty the brunet would look with his face all beat up.

“you need to learn to control your temper,” the brunet retorts. there’s a whimper somewhere in there, between the hit and the retaliating statement. the brunet’s rage is hidden behind a deep breath. his head is reeling, ears ringing as his vision doubles.

the blond doesn’t reply. he thinks: whatever, essentially. the brunet’s the one getting off to this. although, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t half hard right about now. seeing the other look so pathetic is really doing it for him, so he gets his belt undone. his hands pop the button on his jeans, then unzip the fly. his pants loosely hug his hips, boxers peeking out, and the brunet just stares at him— dazed, anticipating what’s to come.

instead of saying anything, the blond grabs the brunet by the back of the neck and shoves the brunet’s face right into his crotch. his cock rests against the brunet’s uninjured cheek and the brunet reaches for the blond’s hips to steady himself. he’s just lucky that, at this point, the blond has withdrawn his foot from between his thighs. he’s more focused on pressing the head of his cock against the brunet’s lips and pushing past them so that he can bury himself in the warm, wet heat of his mouth.

“oh, fuck,” the blond groans, then shoves deeper on instinct. it’s like he just can’t help himself. he doesn’t just force his way in all at once, though. no, he wants to enjoy this, so he gradually works his way through the motions. he thrusts in and out of the brunet’s mouth. slow, just the first few inches, occasionally pulling out to slap his cock against his face or to tap it against his tongue. that last part takes some working up to. the brunet acts all stubborn about getting his mouth open, but— eventually— his jaw goes slack and he sticks out his tongue when he’s told to.

the brunet learns to breath through his throughout the whole thing. either that or he holds his breath when he has to. it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes the blond starts thrusting a little too deep and he can’t get enough air into his lungs. it’s not until the blond starts to do it on purpose that there’s a problem. the blond shoves past the limit of what he can handle, the brunet starts to choke, and the blond decides to savor the moment by continuing his movements so that he can keep listening to the brunet struggle around his cock. he never gives him the satisfaction of just pulling out to let him breathe or simply burying it down his throat so he can find some sense of stability. he teeters him on the edge, until the brunet gives a harsh shove at his hips to let him know he’s had enough and finally the blond responds by letting him have all of it. he shoves the brunet’s head down on his cock until he’s taking every inch of him. he doesn’t stop— not until his lips are wrapped around the hilt, balls pressed against his chin as his nose gets buried in the lower half of the blond’s happy trail.

the brunet grapples with not being able to breathe, but the blond helps him along. well, sort of.

“oh, no—” the blond grins. a breathy laugh escapes him. he pats the brunet’s cheek and gives the back of his head an extra shove to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas about trying to pull away. the brunet just squeezes his eyes shut momentarily, then blinks back tears as eyes begin to water from having his throat stretched out and attempts to whine judging from how everything constricts around the blond’s cock, earning a groan. “gonna have to learn. y’know, like how you taught me.”

don’t think for a second, by the way, that the blond isn’t taking this as a teaching opportunity. for all the times the brunet held him down a little too long— it’s his turn now. he waits until the brunet is red in the face to draw his hips back. even then, he doesn’t move. not until he’s blacking out around the corners of his vision.

“fuck, you have no idea how satisfying this is,” the blond moans, elated. the brunet’s grip at his hips weakens and hands slowly slide down the blond’s thighs as he starts to pass out. that’s when the blond pulls out. “get a good breath in ‘cause i’m not done with you.”

the brunet jerks away, gasping for air and coughing violently. he grasps at his throat, then wipes the spit from his mouth once he’s regained his composure. he parts his lips to speak, but obviously that was the wrong move because it just gets his mouth stuffed full again. the blond shoves his head right back down. he makes him take every inch one more time around. the head of his cock hits the back of the brunet’s throat and he knows his voice will be hoarse after this, especially with how rough and careless the blond is being.

the brunet tries to look tough. he does his best. it’s kind of difficult when he’s getting his face fucked and there’s drool to show for it. the messier, the better. the blond kind of likes the fact that it’s all over his mouth and dripping down his chin right now… especially when he starts rammining it in, hard and deep— barely pulling out and letting himself stay immersed in the warmth of the brunet’s mouth. he just fucks his throat for a while. he gives him breaks when needed, but— for the most part— he makes him take what he has to offer.

eventually, the blond’s head tips back and his face scrunches up. he can swear he’s close. he can feel it building up. he doesn’t want to be done, though. hips stutter to a halt and he takes a deep breath, slowly pulling out of the brunet’s mouth.

the brunet doesn’t look too happy. he was hoping the blond would finish up soon. that, and his own frustration is getting the better of him and he absolutely refuses to touch himself during this.

“what else do you want?” the brunet rasps.

“hm?” the blond hums. “oh,” he ponders a thought, then laughs like it’s obvious. “‘c’mere,” he says, only to grab the brunet by the collar of his shirt so he can drag him to his feet. he shoves him around, until he’s almost bent over the arm of the couch. the brunet side steps the dilemma and stands upright.

“you’re out of your mind,” the brunet deadpans.

“just bend over,” the blond says expectantly.

“are you fucking crazy?” the brunet laughs, then shifts uncomfortably. he avoids eye contact. “listen, it’s been fun. you’re not fucking me.”

the blond unloads the gun and places it in his back pocket as a peace offering. for whatever reason, the brunet accepts. he bends over the arm of the couch, but not without a grumble.

“i’ve got another one, just so you know,” the blond says as he steps behind him. the brunet rolls his eyes while the blond peels him out of his pants. suddenly, he feels all too exposed. he’s never been bent over in front of anyone before. he feels out of place and quickly goes to stand upright, only to get shoved back down. the blond’s got him pinned, but he doesn’t make any sudden movements. he gives the brunet a chance to really change his mind.

instead, he buries his face in the crook of the brunet’s neck and slides up against him. he lets his cock sit between his cheeks, then grinds forward a few times, until the head catches against the brunet’s entrance. the brunet is just about to say something about, but the blond’s already buried every inch he has to offer him without a second thought, and all the brunet can do is spread his legs, scream, and take it.

“you’re okay,” the blond tells him and his faux sympathy is so bad that it’s almost sad he even made the attempt. easy for him to say, he’s balls deep, sighing happily and kissing the brunet’s shoulder before standing upright to grab him by the hips. he’s getting ready to move… meanwhile, the brunet can only wince. he’s teary eyed, whole body tense and entire frame trembling. his muscles flex and clenches up tight around the blond’s cock, causing the blond to groan.

the brunet grinds his teeth. it’s not an easy fit. the blond barely gets it all in without a little struggle. he’s big and thick. the stretch burns and it’s overall just painful, until he adjusts. the blond gives him some time to. he waits for the go ahead— whatever that looks like— then thrusts.

neither of them are the type to care about this being the brunet’s ‘first time,’ so the blond isn’t entirely gentle. he pulls out to the tip, then shoves back in and repeats the process a few times. it’s enough to make the brunet’s eyes roll back… especially when the head brushes past his prostate at just the right angle. they slowly work their way up to a rougher pace. the brunet is already dizzy. the blond can tell he’s not gonna last, but he doesn’t care. he’s mostly focused on himself.

“fuck, fuck— oh, fuck,” the brunet pants as a shaky hand reaches back to rest on the blond’s thigh. he can feel his cock throbbing hard, trapped between the arm of the couch and his stomach. the blond fucks him and it hurts so good he didn’t even know it was possible. he thrusts and thrusts, searching for something inside him that’ll make him see stars. he feels the brunet tense when he rams into it, then focuses his thrusts in the direction of that sweet spot just to make him fall apart.

“you’re so fuckin’ tight,” the blond mumbles and the brunet moans loud in response. “yeah, you like that?” he asks, hips rocking forward as he rams into him. he slows down sometimes, just to keep things from ending too fast, then speeds them right back up.

“don’t talk—” the brunet demands. the blond obviously doesn’t listen.

“takin’ me so fuckin’ good,” the blond mutters and his hands grip tight at the brunet’s hips, until fingers press bruises into the skin and nails leave crescent shaped imprints. he picks up the pace, pounding him rough and deep. “who knew you liked getting fucked like a slut, huh?”

“please, stop talking—” the brunet begs him this time, but his cock jumps in excitement and he feels himself getting closer every time the blond says something. it’s like every word pushes him nearer to the edge.

“well, don’t fuckin’ worry, ‘cause i’m gonna fill you up like one, too,” the blond promises, forcing his cock in deeper and deeper, until he’s barely pulling out while he fucks him. the brunet’s hips sputter and attempt to arch away, like it’s too much or he can’t take that much at once, but the blond holds him in place and makes him, until he’s slack jawed and strings of moans are erupting from his chest.

the brunet can feel his orgasm fast approaching. he reaches down to wrap a hand around himself, squeezing fingers around the base of his cock to hold off the release, but he just ends up rutting into his palm until the heat in his gut pools over and he spills all over his hand. he cums hard, panting heavily and whimpering in the process.

the blond’s hips yield to a stop momentarily. he takes the opportunity to catch his breath and regain his stamina, then pulls the tired brunet’s arms behind his back and holds them together at the wrists with one hand while another hand tangles itself into pretty, dark curls and holds his head against the couch cushion. he starts moving again— harder, faster, and rougher than before. it’s obvious his focus has shifted. instead of pushing them both towards something, he’s just using him. the brunet seems to be getting off on it, regardless. he moans like he is, anyway. the blond goes like that for a while, until he unloads inside of him. he’s shaking, hips barely able to keep up with the pace he’s set by the time he gets close. he can feel it coming fast and he just needs to bury it deep and make the brunet take it, so he does.

“don’t—” ‘cum inside’ is what the brunet goes to say, but it’s too late. the blond’s already finished and the brunet’s response is too slow. he sighs heavily in annoyance, but the flush on his cheeks tells another story.

the blond lets go of the brunet and moves to pull out. he’s not gentle. it doesn’t matter. his hands find their way to the brunet’s ass and he spreads him open, then watches as his cum leaks out of him.

“whore,” the blond snorts, then fixes his pants and turns to leave.

“wait—” the brunet calls out and it gets the blond’s attention, enough for him to turn back around. “you’re seriously just going to leave me here?” he asks, but it’s a ruse. he’s waiting for the right moment to strike.

“uh, yeah,” the blond scoffs. “i’m not your keeper.”

“fine,” the brunet stands to his feet and straightens out. everything feels amazing right now, but he knows he’ll be sore tomorrow. “just one thing,” he says, then spins around to face the blond, after he’s pulled up and fixes his own jeans. it’s all the dignity he’s getting. he’ll go clean up in the bathroom in a second.

for now, he steps forward and an arm goes around the other, causing the blond to step back, but it’s too late— the brunet’s already reached for the gun in the hidden holster in the back of his jeans. the brunet slams the gun against the side of the blond’s head hard enough to send him kneeling, then he crouches down next to him. he caresses the gun along the blond’s jawline on the opposite side of his face before turning his head towards him. the blond has never looked more furious.

“drop it,” the blond says through his teeth, knowing damn well the brunet’s never been able to drop anything when power dynamics come into play.

“one more game,” the brunet insists, unloading a few bullets from the gun. he leaves one in— just one— then gives the chamber a spin. “you know what comes next, right?” he asks, a sinister grin spread across pearly whites. he looks demented. the tables have turned and the blond’s not having fun anymore. when the brunet plays for power, he always overdoes it. “here, i’ll even go first.”

the brunet presses the gun beneath his chin, then—…

“don’t!” the blond shouts, but the click comes. he looks scared shitless. his heart’s in his throat, beating fast.

“look at that, you do care,” the brunet turns the gun on him, finger on the trigger.

“enough!” the blond scrambles, whole body tense. “i get it, i won’t fuck with you anymore.”

the brunet pulls the trigger. another click, another empty chamber.

“guess we both got lucky,” the brunet chimes.

“fuck!” the blond throws his hands up, tears coming to his eyes. “do not fucking pull that trigger again, i swear to god— i’ll do whatever you want, i promise.”

“you promise?” the brunet pretends to be enticed, only to load up another bullet in the chamber and give it another spin. “what do you think the odds are this time?” he asks, straight faced. all the playful sadism has disappeared. he just looks cruel now.

“i’m sorry! is that what you want? fucking shit!” the blond yells.

“oh, an apology,” the brunet finally smiles. he pats the blond’s cheek, wiping away some of the tears that have begun to fall. “yeah, that’ll do,” he says, then hands the gun back and licks the tears from his thumb. he knows the blond won’t do anything with it. “maybe next time you’ll remember your place,” he mutters, then turns on his heel and disappears down the hall. "i'm the boss."

[souperbloom]

not dead yet. [A.I.]

🔪 Ashton x fem!reader (AU)

in which Ashton is a wanted criminal, and you’re his safe haven — in more ways than one.

a/n: trying something new with this one! heavy content warnings and a fresh new trope. surely this is what the fans wanna see :)

huge love and hugs to my bby @undersugarnights — who is largely the reason why this fic exists. my motivation and favorite brainstormer. thanks for your endless amounts of patience with me <3 couldn’t have done it without u! xoxo

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!!!! dirty talk/pet names (ashton calls you pigeon), fingering, KNIFE/BLOODPLAY, (subsequently) mentions of blood/minor injury, unprotected pnv, creampie, porn with a decent amount of plot, straight up fiiiilthy shit.

wordcount: ~7.2k

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THE RETURN OF ROBIN HOOD:

LOCAL BANKS TO INCREASE SECURITY FOLLOWING A FOURTH SMALL SCALE ROBBERY IN UNDER A MONTH. SUSPECT IS STILL AT LARGE.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

You toss the TV remote between your palms as the headline that you’d just damned scrolled across the screen. Nothing about these headlines and their fanfare surprised you anymore. In fact, you thought they could’ve been a little more creative.

A huff escapes your lips as the news anchor bores you half to death, rambling on about how local bank owners should take note of the descriptors that characterize this wanted and dangerous criminal.

The suspect is said to only strike when disguised. But not in anything ridiculous like a chicken costume or a pair of fishnet tights. The disguise in question was actually rather tasteful, and enough of a signature to keep them from being mistaken for anyone else.

Your eyes hung low, unamused as the police sketch graced the screen— an image of what was believed to be the suspect, up close and personal.

Shaggy black curls that spilled out of a tied-up black bandana, with another identical one covering the lower half of his face. Deeply set, almost dead looking eyes that the police took the liberty of drawing with the least amount of character imaginable. You wince at the inaccuracies, the TV remote now resting on your chest as you watched the rest of the story unfold.

You imagined it was hard to get a good idea of what this man could possibly look like after following his every move through grainy security cameras. But you hadn’t the mind to empathize with those pig bastards, nor step into their shoes. The pit in your stomach was never the result of feeling bad for a cop.

Bang bang bang.

The storm door of your grandfather’s wooden cabin rattled violently, right up until your hand was resting on the door knob.

When you swing it open, that knot that formed in your stomach suddenly dissolves.

“Robin Hood? Really?”

Tired, yet somehow still vibrant green eyes shoot you a lazy glance, the cool night breeze blowing wind through floppy black curls, “It’s better than the Bandana Bandit. Left a note this time and everythin’. What am I without a signature?”

He asks you the question as if you were stupid— his body slumped lazily against the door frame with a black fabric bag slung over his shoulder.

“A guy in green tights that rides around on a horse?”

“Yeah, and fuckin’ kills rich dickheads to give their fortunes to the less fortunate. Duh.”

You cross your arms, ignoring his snark, and take a moment to admire just how rugged he looked in the moonlight. Leather jacket taut against his broad shoulders, dark wash jeans wrinkled, and stained with motor oil. It took longer than you planned to really take him all in.

“Just gonna stand there, Pigeon? Or are you gonna let me inside?”

Your head cocks to the side, gaze steady and searing, “Why do they always sketch your eyes to look so…lifeless?”

He chuckles, body language stiff, and still leaning towards wanting to be inside already, “Each city draws me differently, sugar. That’s just the way it is.”

“Well, I think that’s silly. Your eyes are practically disco balls right now,” you comment, slowly backing up to gesture for him to follow.

“You flatter me, Pidgey,” he brings his fingers up to point at himself, “But these bad boys are too tired and have seen way too much shit to be shimmering like you say.”

You don’t even get the chance to process his presence before his hands are on you and truthfully, you never really do.

You’d known Ashton since high school. Forgetting about him for a while, then reconnecting with him after swiping right on him on a dating app. A random night where you felt like maybe a little company would do you better than being locked up in an outdated cabin in the woods.

Unfortunately, that same ‘random night’ ended with six nails in your tire, and a trip to the ER due to a blood pressure spike that felt like you were having a heart attack. After all was said and done, you prayed to whatever God there was that you were never in another situation that forced you to see Ashton again.

But the cycle kept repeating.

Despite the initial messy run-in —in which he likely needed a new identity afterwards— he never seemed satisfied by the risky life he lived. Whether it was sticking up corrupt pharmaceutical companies and stripping them of everything they’re worth, or going on month-long bank-robbing sprees to donate the earnings ever so graciously to charity, he was always back for more.

He lived for the thrill of the chase. He lived for the danger. He was simply insatiable.

And so, rather than attempting to talk sense into a man who juggled with hand guns and tossed money out of the car window for pure enjoyment, you simply promised to just— be there.

No matter what or when, you somehow always were.

When he needed another getaway driver, or to sharpen up his knife collection, you were his golden girl. Though you hadn’t much experience in a life led by crime, you picked up a thing or two in your time. You weren’t oblivious, and you certainly weren’t stupid.

If Ashton ever needed a place to crash, be it a day or a month, your door was always open. You just wished his choice of career wasn’t so… fickle when it came to that sort of thing. Housing a vigilante who you may or may not have had the hugest crush in the world on seemed to be doing numbers to alter your brain chemistry.

“Pigeon, you with me?”

You were so lost in your own train of thought that you’d completely forgotten where your mind actually was. Ashton’s hands were planted on your hips, the black cloth bag once draped over his shoulder was now spilling out on the floor. Stacks of one hundred dollar bills graced your carpet like land mines as Ashton walked you backwards towards the wall.

“Would you laugh at me if I said I kinda’ missed you and your dumb face?”

Ashton’s mouth slides into a devilish smirk, his nose barely grazing yours just as your back hits the wall with a thud.

“You know I’ll always come back.”

His words shoot down your spine like a bolt of lightning. Sincerity was rare, coming from him— which is why you just assumed there was nothing behind those words at all.

“Yeah,” you chuckle, throat dry, “only when you need somethin’.”

“Thought that was part of the deal.”

Before you get the chance to reply, Ashton’s lips come crashing into yours. He sucks in a deep breath when the two of you collide, his hands unsure of where to rest as he tastes you for the first time in quite a while.

Your body goes limp in his arms as he holds you— he’s practically the only thing keeping you upright at this point. You feel as though you have no choice but to lace your hand through his thick curls, tugging ever so gently at the roots that were scribbled messily on your TV screen in charcoal just minutes ago.

It was true that Ashton came to you only when he needed something, but you weren’t as bothered by it as you make it out to be. You enjoy hearing his stories, knowing that he’ll always end up back here eventually, and wishing him nothing but the best in his endeavors.

When you don’t hear from him, you don’t really panic. You know that he’s out there somewhere, that signature midnight blue Corvette revving as he splits down backroads like a banshee.

“You seem distracted tonight.”

His gravelly voice breaks the spell. Ashton was looking at you now, his eyes searing bullet holes into your cheeks.

“Hm? No, I’m not, I just— a lot on my mind I guess.”

“That sounds a lot like a distraction to me. What’s bothering you?”

It truly was harder to focus on just one part of his face the closer he neared, but not because of his intimidating stare or the smell of cigarettes that clung to his jacket like it were made to be that way. You weren’t scared of him, and that was partially the reason why he kept you around.

The weight of his body leaned up against yours was the only thing you were feeling right now.

“Nothin’ bothering me. Just— happy you’re here, is all. Happy you’re not dead.”

Ashton hums in delight, viridian eyes flicking to gold for nearly a second as he finishes your sentence.

“Yet.”

A broad hand cups your chin, giving your cheeks a gentle squeeze. The eye contact makes you want to crawl out of your skin— you hated your body for being so reactive.

“Right. Not dead yet. and hopefully not soon, asshole.”

“You never know.”

Your head was begging you to shut him up with a kiss. The loosely titled “partner in crime facade” had finally faded— as you were now entranced by his grip on your face and the feeling of his knee wedged between your legs. Ashton stares at you for a moment, before dipping down to nip at your neck.

You wished for a warning, yet had no complaints as a moan flew past your lips. Your hand clutched the nape of his neck for dear life as he suckled at your skin, already feeling the desperate shock waves shooting right down to your core.

“Ash, fuck,” you whine, your hand now tucked into the collar of his jacket, the leather cool against your knuckles.

“Whatdaya’ need, Pigeon?”

You stammer; speechless, almost dizzy. His hand was pressed against your hip, fingertips digging into the soft flesh exposed above your sweatpants. The scent of his cologne was almost intoxicating, momentarily bringing you back to the night you met him. You shake yourself out of it, drawing your eyes back into his.

“You.” Your answer was simple.

“Mmmh,” Ashton hums, low and gravelly, reaching up again to hold your chin, “you need me? To what? Scratch your back? Change the smoke detector batteries?…Or fuck you ‘til you’re drunk off my cock?

Despite the lump in your throat, you scoff, “Don’t flatter yourself, Robin.”

Ashton’s eyes narrow, his face nearing closer and his lips ghosting yours. Your breath hitches as the hand that once cupped your face was quickly shoved into your panties.

You gasp, his slender fingertip showing all of your cards as it laps up the arousal between your folds with one swipe. He pulls it out of your pants, and holds it in front between your faces.

The juices dribbling down his fingertips mocked you.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The hazel in his eyes is mostly swallowed by the sheer size of his pupils, dark and hungry as he studies the slickness that coats his fingers. Slowly, he moves them apart, eyes glinting in satisfaction as the sticky arousal shines in the light.

When his eyes meet yours again, they burn through you like lasers, and he brings his fingers up to his mouth. Wrapping his plush lips around his digits, he lets out a pleased moan at the taste of you, eyes fluttering shut with bliss.

“Can’t play coy with me when I’ve got you wet like this, Pigeon.”

Without much of a thought, or any semblance of a word, you pull him back into you, the taste of your own pitiful excuses lingering on his tongue as he swipes it across your teeth.

You hum into his mouth, your body rolling, aching, to be closer to him. His hand slides back down into your sweats with no questions asked, his fingers continuing their slow drawl and pulling moans out of you like they were mining for gold.

“We have a lot of fun together, don’t we?” Ashton coos, the words jumbling together into one long sound as his fingers remained relentless.

“Y— fuck, we do.”

“Mhmm. Like that first time I called you up, just days after the night we met again, when I needed my getaway driver…”

Your brain short circuits— the combination of Ashton’s low voice vibrating against your lips and digits chipping away at your patience against your clit was getting to be too much. You couldn’t help but sigh and melt into the wall when he speaks.

“…We had so much fun that day, Pidgey. You were nervous as all hell, shakin’ like a damn’ baby deer. First day jitters, maybe. I still couldn’t tell ‘ya.”

“Ashton,” your voice is weak when you warn him, but your threat was empty, and the menacing smile that slid across his face told you he knew that.

“Shh, baby, I’m talking,” he tuts, leaning closer until his lips brush the shell of your ear. His fingers keeping steady between your legs, now pumping in and out at a maddening pace.

“God, I fucked you senseless that day. ‘Surprised you knew your left from right after that. Remember how you rode me then? How tight this pretty little pussy squeezed me, and milked me dry… Do you remember what happened next?”

You whine in protest, body jolting each time his long fingers reach that sweet spot, “Oh fuck you— you’re doing t-this on purpose.”

“C’mon. Tell me what happened. Tell me how good I fucked you.”

Your mind is suddenly transported back to that day. The second time you were ever an accessory to one of Ashton’s heists. Adrenaline was high, nerves were pumping. And the only thing the two of you could think about during your stakeout— was each other.

You’d gotten past the formalities quickly. Getting to know each other on a deeper level had flown completely out of the window as your hands were like moths to a flame, tracing and memorizing each and every dip and curve of one another. You remember exactly how his signature leather jacket felt pressing against your bare chest, how cool it was to the contrast of that hot summer day. He had gotten you so riled up that you’d felt as though you had no other choice but to let him take you in the driver’s seat.

In front of a bank. In broad daylight. Right before he went in and threatened every soul in Willow Creek Credit Union with their life.

Back to reality, your body shuddered as you were now dangerously close to your orgasm spilling over the edge. His fingers worked tirelessly, his snarky face remaining as he continued.

“I left you filled— to the fuckin’ brim. And you just sat there n’ watched me rob a god damn bank with my cum dripping down your legs. Your eyes were practically beggin’ me t’ fuck you, Pidgey. Can’t get that picture outta’ my head…”

“Ashton, please.”

Less of a warning, more so begging this time, you moan his name like a song.

You remember exactly what was running through your mind that day, too— how desperate you felt clawing over the center console as he kissed you goodbye. How weak your knees were, and how they buckled as you slid over into the driver’s seat after he’d left you spent and empty. The feeling of his hot cum dripping down your thighs towards your knees as you watched through the windshield with your hands clutching the steering wheel. You wondered how on Earth you’d pull yourself out of your Ashton-induced haze, and sober up enough to be a successful first time getaway driver.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, orgasm teetering on the edge. Your back stung against the chipped paint on the wall as Ashton made it a point to moan, yet again, into your ear.

“Nice and wet for me. Just how I like it. You wanna get fucked, don’t you?”

“I’m so fuckin’ close, Ash, please. Please don’t stop.”

“What was that bank called again, sugar? The one I fucked you out in front of?”

“Agh, fuck—” you hiss, your body stiffening as you just about reach your peak with your nails practically digging holes into his flesh, “I—I can’t— fuck, Ash!”

“Ahh, I’m sure you remember. Just don’t got the strength t’ tell me now,” Ashton chuckles, a grunt soon followed, “Baby’s first stickup, how could she forget?”

Your eyes were screwed shut, though you could hear his cheeky smile. It was just enough to send you over the edge. Stars flooded the backs of your eyelids as you suddenly went limp in his broad arms.

Of course, he was right there to catch you.

“Atta girl. You sure know how to make a man work for it,” Ashton puffs, scratching the back of his neck with a free hand as you both attempt to collect your breath. The throbbing between your thighs was inescapable— you were nowhere near satisfied yet.

“It’s one of my specialities,” you say, breathing in sharply when Ashton’s hands travel to cup your face and catch you completely off guard with their tenderness.

“Special Agent Sexy,” he snarls, fucking up the moment like always, top lip curled like an old timey mobster. A face that made you want to tense up and run off like a threatened cat.

“Aaand you ruined it. Buh-bye.”

You feel him harumph as you spin away from him, beelining towards the kitchen to make the two of you something to drink. His hands hit his sides loudly, dramatically, almost intentionally annoyingly.

“You used to be fun. What happened to that?”

Ashton knew how to push your buttons. But when to push them? That was left up for debate. He always seemed to catch you at the worst moments, especially after he made you cum.

“Life got tough, and far too real. You should know.”

Ashton starts to speak again, but his words are cut short by the whirring of a 10 year old coffee machine. He smacks his teeth in frustration, loud enough to still hear him while in the kitchen.

“Y’know, one of these days I’m gonna get ya’ a new Keurig. Your shit’s so old. My coffee always ends up tasting like the bottom of a boot.”

“It’s not my fault you take your coffee with no cream or sugar,” you defend your decrepit Keurig, patting the top of it as it chugged along and dripped noticeably burnt coffee into a mug.

“Black coffee’s an acquired taste, Pidgey. Nobody on this planet wants to drink seven sugar cubes and a half gallon of creamer besides you.”

You roll your eyes; if liking your coffee light and sweet was a crime, you’d be doing 40 to life.

Ashton always seemed to nitpick the parts of you that never really mattered to anyone else. Hell, they never really mattered to you, either. But you supposed that getting in the mix with a devilishly good looking, unbelievably smart vigilante douchebag would call for some psychoanalysis here and there.

You feel his body nearing after he’d taken off his jacket, black cowboy boots tapping on the tiles while you wince to yourself at the fact that he hadn’t taken them off and left them at the door. His coffee was left at the side of the machine, the handle out-turned and ready for him to grab. Yours was just about finished sputtering into your favorite red mug.

“Ignoring me?” his voice from behind spooks you.

You shake your head, soft laughter barely leaving your throat while your eyes stay trained on those last few drops of coffee. But he got the memo, sliding beside you to lean onto the counter with his elbow. You can’t help but glare at him, that smug smile painted back onto his face.

“Where’s the button that makes you less insufferable?” you ask.

Teasing. Not really.

“Gotta find it,” he shrugs, taking his coffee in one of his hands and gesturing down to his belt with the other, “be my guest.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“And you fuckin’ love it.”

Silence encompassed the kitchen as Ashton’s words reverberated against your skull. It was like he shouted them out into a long hallway, and your brain was the wall they bounced off of before they fluttered into the abyss.

Hearing Ashton use the word love made your stomach hurt. You didn’t even think a man of his nature and demeanor could even comprehend the weight it held.

Did you love Ashton? No, you didn’t think so. You didn’t think he was around enough to fall to the point of no return. He was, in turn, around enough to fuck you to the point where your legs trembled for days. Enough of a reminder of him to keep his essence burnished onto your mind.

Surely your feelings—or feelings in general—were just as confusing for him as they were for you. The both of you had chosen your own paths to isolation, with each other as your safe haven. The only real difference being that Ashton had a distraction. A life led solely by heart-crushing and thrill-seeking; not to mention the fact that the two of you were nowhere near exclusive.

You, on the other hand, chose to be stuck in a dilapidated family heirloom that you unconditionally adored. Though you loved the peace and quiet of your grandpa’s cabin, it left far too much time for you to sit and think.

You’re caught off guard by the feeling of a broad arm snaking around your waist from behind, the scent of cigarettes and woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a vine.

“Why’re you so spaced out? Did’ja cum too hard or somethin’?”

Ashton buries his face into your neck and you groan in turn, just the thought of him saying something so crude making you annoyed. You lay your palm flat against his forehead and push him away.

“First you bully my poor old Keurig and insult the taste of my coffee, now you’re all up on me like a cat in heat— make up your mind, dude.”

Your tone isn’t serious in the slightest, but your grip on that coffee mug after feeling the presence of the hard on in Ashton’s jeans was.

“Mmmh, not feeling good. ‘Think I’m sick.”

“Yeah, sick in the head.”

“Once again, no fun.” Ashton’s words thrum against your earlobe as he leaves a gentle kiss in their wake. You want to feign annoyance, tell him that his coffee will grow cold and end up tasting more like mud than the sole of his old cowboy boot. But you remain motionless, letting Ashton’s subdued breathing and occasional neck kisses put you in a trance.

Despite your own body betraying you, with Ashton’s hands already sliding down past your waist to your hips as he plants a wet, open mouthed kiss on your jaw, you clear your throat.

“Oh sure, says the guy who threatens people for pure enjoyment’s sake. Sounds like loads of fun. I’m sure you’re a catch at parties.”

Ashton’s mind was clearly elsewhere; his hands were massaging soothing circles against your hips, up towards the small of your back as you spoke, your words leaving your mouth and bouncing off of his head like it were made of rubber.

“There are other ways to have fun.” His retort was simple. An obvious attempt at shutting you up.

You couldn’t help but melt even further into his palms, letting them work their way towards the band of your sweats. He was still kissing you, despite his inability to ever let you get the last word in.

“What, like fucking other girls?”

And suddenly, everything stopped.

The breathing, the humming, the mindless traipsing of hands; it all came to rest. You breathe out shakily, as if doing anything more would crack the wall of tension that somehow materialized in a matter of moments. Ashton’s body tautened behind your shoulder, the swell of his chest pressing into your back.

You hear his dark chuckle, the sound as riveting as it is infuriating. Then you feel the flex of his muscles, the way his hold on you tightens, and the telltale flick of a blade.

Cool metal kisses the bottom of your throat, sharp enough to have you drawing in a shallow breath. Panic pricks your skin, but the sickening thrill that runs through you is almost more horrifying.

“Nuh-uh, pidgey,” he tuts, warm breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Better watch that mouth. Bad girls get their throats slit.”

You’re still paralyzed, the sting of Ashton’s pocket blade being something that you were more familiar with than you’d like to admit. A smile spreads across your face as his other bicep, sans weapon, tightens around your waist. He had you in a death lock, another move of his you were well acquainted with.

“Yeah?” you challenge Ashton’s empty threat, adrenaline rushing through your veins as the knife remains deathly still, “and good girls get eaten out, I hope.”

When Ashton’s body moves to pull you closer, enough to give you a jolt, a cold flash of fear washes over your spine; a stark contrast to the flash of heat and pressure between your thighs. He somehow always knew what worked for you.

Fear and arousal? Hand in hand.

“Oh baby,” he draws out the pet name, letting it linger on his tongue, heavy and sweet like honey, “good girls get fucking devoured.”

You giggle, almost too sweetly for the severity of the situation, and Ashton is as receptive as ever. His pulse was beating out through his skin, you could feel its gentle rhythm tapping against his wrist, against your shoulder.

“Mmmh,” a sound other than laughter finally leaves you, toying with him, “what else?”

“They get spoiled. Rotten. Treated so damn’ good that they forget who they are n’ where they came from.”

You open your mouth, a witty reply sitting at the edge of your tongue, yet all bets are off when the knife suddenly slips down.

“And, if they’re lucky…” he begins, that sudden movement seeming less accidental now, “they get fucked ‘till they can’t move for days. You won’t be able to breathe without remembering how deep inside I was.”

His words echo in your mind and you shudder, the promise he makes feeling heavy on your chest. Almost as heavy as the weight of his arm holding you still with the sharpest, most prized knife in his collection.

In that moment, in some extremely morbid and fucked up way, you felt special.

“Big talk,” you mask your sudden stomach ache with bravado, feeling microscopic beneath his hold, “you’re still all bark and no bite, Robin Hood.”

“You really think so? I’ve got a fuckin’ blade to your jugular and you’re calling my bluff. You are— unbelievable.”

Ashton’s grip tightens; it's slight, but noticeable. You feel the pressure on your abdomen becoming more prominent when he presses down, swirls of arousal coming to fruition with the mere sound of his voice. It was embarrassing, to say the least.

“C’mon Pigeon, haven’t I taught you anything? Show me how to get yourself out of a mess like this.”

With his instruction, you close your eyes. Ashton had taught you how to disarm someone— but it was months ago, and duly proceeded with some of the steamiest shower sex you’d ever had.

“Get out? Of this?” you laugh, his hold on you unwavering, “No shot. Not in hell.”

“Just try it. Promise I’ll be careful,” he murmurs into your hair, placing a kiss atop your head as he lifts his pinky from the knife, “Pinky swear.”

With a sigh, and not much sense left, you start off slow. Your hands grab onto his bicep, making sure not to tug on him too abruptly as to not slice your neck open. Ashton’s stance is strong, natural confidence and pure lust keeping him planted on his feet.

“Use that pretty head,” he encourages you, his soft voice an oxymoron in itself.

“M’tryin’.”

Everything else after that moment was a blur. Once you managed to spin yourself around, keeping your arteries intact and leaving Ashton momentarily stunted, you were suddenly, somehow, right back where you started. A blade pressed to your neck once again.

Only this time, you were facing him, your fronts pressed together and all of the air knocked out of your lungs.

“What the hell, Ash?!” you squeal, breathlessly, damning yourself for sounding so weak.

“I said I’d be careful, not go easy.”

A sly smile appears on his face, and you wanted nothing more than to slap it right off. The countertop dug into your back as he chuckled condescendingly, this new position much more uncomfortable than the last.

You huff out a frustrated breath. There has to be a way out of this, some kind of trick you can pull that would be enough to catch him off guard. His eyes burn into yours, and you bite the inside of your cheek.

Your hands shoot out to grip the knife handle, using the momentum to push it out of his grip with your knuckle. It’s not ideal, definitely not any kind of move he’s taught you before, but the absurdity of it seems to catch him off guard.

His grip falters, and for a second you feel the blade loosen enough for you to swoop in and take. You try to do just that, but Ashton is quicker— so much quicker. He catches the blade between his fingers, a small hiss leaving his lips as he pulls his hand and holds it away from you.

That’s when you see the bright bead of fresh blood, dropping down his hand, down his wrist, until it hits the floor with a plop.

“Ash, holy shit I—I’m so—“

Your words are caught off by him gripping your chin, tight enough to command. He studies his bloodied hand, the same one that still clutches the knife. He lets go of your face, switching the blade to the other hand.

Then, he reaches out again, bloodied thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He lets out a growl, something primal and lustful that has you growing dizzy in seconds.

“You did always look like a fucking dream in red.”

When Ashton leans in for a kiss, it isn’t rough and sloppy like you expect. His lips press against yours deliberately, tongue licking into your mouth and attempting to savor the taste of you. You hum into him, the knife still present in his hand yet discarded at his side.

“Ash,” you mumble, knocking noses with him, “D’ya want a bandaid or somethin?”

“Mmh, no,” he replies, barely audibly, wrapping both arms around your waist and rolling his pelvis into your hips. His pace is intoxicating, kissing you like you were the last person on Earth and the taste of your tongue was the only thing keeping him alive.

The kiss grows more primal, and raw, Ashton dipping you backwards and overtaking your body as the blade of the knife is now pressed against your back, aligned with your spine. You gasp at the prick of cool metal through your tee.

“Take this fuckin’ shirt off before I shred it up.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” you breathe, pulling away to look down at the cracked college graphic screen printed on the shirt, “I’m tired of seeing this shit in the laundry, anyway.”

Without hesitating, you feel the tug of fabric against your front, and hear the sound of tearing cotton. The shirt falls off of your shoulders, landing on the floor with a soft fwup.

Ashton takes a moment to admire your bare top half, his breathing shallow and wanton. He discards the knife on the counter behind you, letting you prop yourself against the lip of it with your hands.

“Like what you see?” you muse, his eyes leaving smoke in their burning trail.

“More than like,” he swallows, taking that injured hand and raising it between your bodies. He hesitates, glancing down at the dried blood trail down to his forearm, before reaching out to you with a still bloodied palm and wrapping his fingers around your neck.

You sigh into his hold, his index finger and thumb pressed against the pressure points that make you just the right amount of lightheaded. That smile on his face never faltered— he loved seeing you this way.

Helpless, wanting, bloodied.

“Wanna’ fuckin’ ruin you, Pigeon. Mark you up n’ let everyone know you’re mine.”

You stay back and let his eyes continue to roam, his body language a tell-tale sign that the sight of his own blood smeared across your neck and chest was getting him more worked up than you’d ever seen before. His eyes darkened, that familiar sage green flicking emerald.

His hand anoints your chest with the last of the fresh blood and suddenly, you were the only two people on Earth. There was something eerily intimate about this; you wished you’d had more of the mental capacity to explore this new outlandish and primal feeling, but the situation at hand left no room for you to even breathe. Ashton’s lips were on you again, this time with his thumbs looped onto the band of your sweatpants in an attempt to rip them off of you.

Your fingers flew to his belt, undoing it sloppily and with enough fervor and greed to fuel a jet engine. A sigh barely escapes your lips and tangles with his as he manages to step you out of your sweats and leave you completely bare.

“No panties…‘figures.”

“You always preach easy access,” you giggle, lacing your fingertips through the clipped curls at the base of his neck, “‘thought I was doing us both a favor.”

Ashton’s next movements are hasty— he’s lifting you, practically tossing you to sit on the countertop and instructing you with his eyes to wrap your legs around his waist. He shimmies out of his jeans, kicking them off to the side and reaching down to peel the shirt off of his slick torso. When he takes a breath in, it’s sharp, almost pained, the fabric of his tee coming into contact with his fresh wound and painting one of his signature white tees crimson.

You watch his every move with glassy eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you observe the way he deals with the pain. He is so laser focused on you; not wanting to make you wait any longer for what he’d promised you just minutes ago. His lips curl in concentration as he reaches down to pull his cock up and out of his briefs.

“Jesus.” You couldn’t help but let the expletive slip, surely Ashton didn’t mind.

He glances up at you, amused, still in a daze after the stare he was holding to your bare tits. “Tell me how ‘ya really feel,” he jokes.

“Hmm. Pretty,” you hum, the compliment mindless, reaching down between your bodies to give his cock a gentle and encouraging stroke. You feel it strain between your palm and fingers, the tip already glistening with pre-cum before he even got the chance to feel you wrapped around him.

Ashton may tease you for your responsiveness, and how the simplest thing could get you going, but he sure as hell was guilty of the same.

“I’m pretty? S’that what you’re sayin’?” Ashton's bottom lip catches between his teeth, a sweetness in his eyes that never usually comes around, unless for a moment like this. He takes his cock from your hand, his fingertips brushing against yours and motioning for them to be elsewhere. You sigh as he lines himself up with your entrance, gaze unwavering, staring you down and effectively nailing you to the marble.

“Yeh,” your voice is clipped, breathless, halted by the sensation that’s yet to come, “Think you’re real’ pretty, baby. My pretty, pretty boy.”

With that, Ashton is sinking into you. You let out a loud mewl as he dips in, immediately pulling out only to plunge himself right back, to the hilt. The sensation is overwhelming— you’re digging your nails into his back and squeezing his hips with your calves tight enough to keep him still for a moment.

Ashton leans forward with a licentious grunt, knocking his forehead against yours, his cock buried the deepest it can be with the only thing not shared between you was the timing at which you were breathing. Sage green irises rapidly searched for yours, non-injured palm taking your face in a fistful to squeeze.

“Fuck me, I’d be your pretty boy any day of the week, Pidgey girl.”

His lips slam into yours, and his hips pick up slack. He’s fucking into you hard, fast, wrecklessly. The same way he chose to go about his every day. To navigate this thing he calls life.

The sounds of your arousal echo against his front, ricocheting across the kitchen; though your moans harmonizing with Ashton’s were just too loud for you to notice.

“Oh my God,” Ashton mutters, cock throbbing, hips spasming. Your eyes are pinched shut to chase your own high, clenching your pussy around him just enough for him to notice.

“Ashton—” you bumble, your words practically unintelligible, “fuck me, Ashton. Feels so fuckin’ good, baby. Harder, please—”

As his dick continuously bucks to hit that sweet spot that drove you up the wall, his hands kept you stable by the backs of your thighs. The blood on his palm had since dried, the look in his eyes searing bullet holes into yours as he fucked you senseless. You toss your head back, writhing in pleasure, your nails clawing into his back deep enough to leave gashes and scars.

“I’m so close, Ash, please—” you moan, your head tossed back, “help me out here, baby, fuck!”

With a groan of acknowledgement and a particularly rough thrust, Ashton’s sliding his hand between your bodies to attach his index finger to your clit. He rubs in quick circles, faster, faster, faster until the pace of it lines up just right with the rhythm of his hips.

He lets out another moan, his face buried into your neck, lips just barely brushing against your earlobe before he speaks:

“Cum again for me, Pidgey. Cum all over this fuckin’ cock like a good girl, yeah? Fuck baby— whose pussy is this?”

“Yours, Ash— oh my God, please. S’all yours. Everythin’s yours… I’m yours.”

And just like that, you were coming again, at the hands of a man that cut you out of your shirt with a pocket knife and knocked on your door with a bag full of blood money slung over his shoulder. You collapse onto him, the residual aftershocks occasionally jolting your body as the last of your orgasm is spent at the expense of Ashton’s fingertips.

He finishes in tandem, cock twitching as he leaves you full, and jaded. He takes a moment before sliding out of you, your face coming to a pinch as the sensation of his cum dribbling out of you hits faster than you expected.

“Shit,” Ashton finally utters, his forehead slick with sweat, curls rearranged to his forehead haplessly. He guides you to stand back onto the kitchen floor, keeping his arm out in the event that your legs were too trembly to hold you upright.

“Shit, indeed,” you chuckle, the air in your lungs but a memory as you lace your arms around his neck. Ashton’s still gazing down at you, at your bruised up, bloodstained neck and chest, at the way your hips and thighs were flushed scarlet due to the sheer force of his grip.

“Did a number on ya’ didn’t I?” Ashton comments, overly self aware yet somehow still tender as he swipes a rogue lock of hair away from your face. The two of you standing naked and entangled in this kitchen happened more often than one would think.

“People are gonna think you tried to murder me in here,” you tease languidly, interrupted by him stealing one last peck from your lips.

“I’ll tell ‘em you fucked me, fled, n’ left me in my underwear. Would probably end up with me gettin’ arrested and you on the news as some sorta hero.”

“As if I would even dream of ratting you out.”

You scoff at the accusation, the ever present wetness between your thighs getting harder to ignore. You shift uncomfortably, and Ashton notices, reaching behind you to swipe a dishcloth from the counter. He extends it to you, the faintest of smiles present on his face.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t be throwin’ out accusations like that,” he chuckles, finding his underwear in the haphazard pile of discarded clothes and stepping into them, leaving you still indecent and leaned up against the counter. He offers you his bloodsoaked shirt without question,

Silence passes over you and Ashton, but it isn’t tense, nor uncomfortable. It’s a knowing silence, one that’s complimented by the way you’re untroubled by the amount of blood that had dripped all over your sweats after he sliced his hand open with a switchblade.

He was half dressed, as were you, simply coexisting in the bloody afterglow.

“Y’know, I’ve got a suitcase full’a money in the trunk,” Ashton blurts. You were now sitting on the counter, watching him as he finished his coffee that had since, undoubtedly, turned cold.

“Yeah?” you quiz, eyebrows raising in intrigue.

“Mhm. Wanna count it with me? Maybe if you’re good, I’ll fuck ya’ on it. Wolf of Wallstreet style.” His eyebrows waggle, and you just roll your eyes; you couldn’t bear to gaze lovingly at that mess of black curls and terribly timed jokes any longer.

“I genuinely hope I never see you again, sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay. Imagine if Bonnie said that to Clyde?”

“She’d have been a smart lady,” you chuckle, hopping off the counter and stepping closer.

Ashton’s hand finds your hip instantly, the other still holding his mug. He gazes down at you with a placid smile and right then, everything was right in the world.

“She’d have been smart for it, sure. Not t’ mention they’da both made it out alive. But— where’s the fun in that?”

You shoot him a crooked smile; one that screams what you’re feeling without needing to say a word.

“Oh, so now the deputy sheriff of the fun police cares about fun, huh?”

His lips purse, agitated, yet bewitched by the way you just so effortlessly put him in his place. You plan to retort, but are interrupted by Ashton scooping you into his arms and putting you back into a headlock.

How? You hadn’t a clue.

“You’re under arrest, sweet cheeks, for a crime only punishable by letting me hit it from the back. On a pile of money. That you also gotta’ count.”

With not an ounce left of care in the world, you fall back against him, looking up at him from being backed against his broad chest, “In your goddamn dreams, Robin Hood.”

[babylonradio]

kissing lessons — ashton x luke

MDNI—18+

BLURB: luke hasn't had his first kiss yet and he's sick of calum and michael teasing him for it. so ashton makes him an offer.

warnings: top!ashton irwin. bottom!luke hemmings. smut. romance. fluff. first kiss. soft yearning. in love!ashton irwin. praise kink. dry humping. grinding. coming untouched. coming in pants. not beta read. not proofread.

wc: 1.7k

authors note: anon requested an ash fic in my strawpage on twt and i couldn't stop thinking about this concept. ughhh i think he's so hot. this was completely freewritten with no plotting whatsoever so if it sounds silly u know why. enjoy <3

come find me on twitter! 

#thinking about virginal 19-year-old Luke Hemmings who hasn’t even had his first kiss yet. He’s sick and tired of being teased by Michael and Calum, and it gets to him so much one evening that he snaps at them and storms out of the common living area. He walks into his room to find Ashton lounging on the large double-bed, scrolling through twitter or something, probably. Luke ignores him, but he’s loud about being upset as he falls right into his side of the bed and curls up, shoulders tense.

Ashton watches it all. He’d heard Calum and Michael's teasing giggles from the other room, as well as part of Luke’s yelling response before Luke came in, so he knows something’s happened, but not exactly what it was. He observes Luke as he sulks, and switches his phone off with a sigh. 

That's his boy, Ashton thinks, he can’t let him be upset all on his own. 

“Lukey,” he starts, voice gentle and sweet, like he’s trying to coax a baby doe. “What’s the matter?” 

Luke doesn’t reply, so Ashton crawls over and lays beside him, pressed up against the younger boy because he knows Luke wouldn't say no to cuddles even if the world was ending. He wraps an arm around Luke's waist, presses his lips to Luke's pulse and asks again. 

“What happened, Lukey?” 

Luke stays silent. Ash knows he’s buzzing with energy, dying to turn over and tell Ashton everything, so he waits. He can be patient. Especially when it comes to the youngest boy. 

Eventually, Luke huffs. 

“It's embarrassing,” he mutters. Ashton can hear the pout on his lips. He wants to kiss it better, wherever it hurts. 

“You can tell me,” Ash says. “I won’t be mean. It's okay.” 

There’s a silence wherein Ashton just listens to Luke breathe, until he begins shifting in Ash’s arms to turn over. Their noses are nearly touching now. Luke won’t look Ashton in the eye, but that’s okay, because Ashton’s rubbing little circles into the skin of Luke's hips and it seems to help dissolve the tension in his muscles. There’s a bright flush on his cheeks and a flustered furrow in his brows. Ashton wants to smooth out the crease with his thumb. Until Luke feels better. 

“I haven’t…” he starts.

His voice is so low, Ashton has to lean in. His breath ghosts Luke’s collarbone as he does, and goosebumps arise there. 

“Ash—I haven’t…I haven’t had my first kiss yet,” Luke whispers. His voice is heavy with shame. Ashton pulls back. 

He…he doesn’t quite understand. Who wouldn’t want to kiss Luke? Luke, with his plush lips. With his sweet dimples, his blonde waves, his eyes like ripples of sunlight. His lip ring—Ashton had spent many a night picturing himself nipping at Luke’s lip ring. 

But this isn't about him. It’s about Luke. Luke, whose breath is growing quicker with each passing moment of Ashton’s silence. 

“Hey…” Ashton says. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of people your age haven’t—” “I know, but—but you had! And Cal and Mikey keep making fun of me for it, and it’s not like I don't want to, it’s just—” And there’s a sheen of embarrassed tears in his eyes and Ashton's stomach turns because he won’t let Luke cry over this. He won't.

Ashton cups Luke's face and shushes him gently. 

“It’s okay, baby,” Ashton says. He hears Luke's breath catch at the nickname. “Hey, it’s alright.” 

Luke breathes in tandem with Ashton for a moment. He still can’t look Ashton in the eyes. The low hum of the aircon surrounds them. They’re alone in the room, curled around each other, suspended in space and time. 

Until Ashton opens his stupid mouth. 

“Luke, if…if you want, I could show you.”

For a moment, Ashton regrets it. Prays to every god he knows to take back the words. But Luke finally looks at him. His eyes are so blue. So deep and emotive. Ashton can read his thoughts through them. He’s always admired the vulnerability Luke wears in his eyes around him. Like Luke’s handing him something precious. Trusting him not to break it.

“Sh-show me?” He asks, breathless. “How…would that work?” 

Ashton looks at Luke. Really looks at him. Follows the line of his nose down to his cupid's bow. His lips. Ashton wants—so badly. But this needs to be Luke’s decision. 

“Baby,” Ashton says, and it comes out like he’s begging for it. “Can I kiss you?” 

Luke is quiet. Ashton understands. This would be a difficult decision. Something that Luke would want to mull over. And Ashton would give him the space he needs. All the time in the world. Ashton would wait forever. 

But then Luke nods. And then Ashton’s tightening his grip around Luke’s waist, and leaning in to kiss him. 

Luke’s clearly inexperienced. Ashton takes the lead. It’s a slow kiss, sweet, gentle, and Luke falls apart under Ashton’s touch. He lingers, bites at Ashton’s lips like he’s trying to freeze the moment. Gasps like he can’t believe he’s here. Moves like he wants to rearrange himself into the shape of Ashton’s mouth. They pull apart and draw together like art, like music, finding a rhythm between themselves where the taste of Luke’s lips and the sighs slipping from his mouth crawl underneath Ashton’s ribs, nestle themselves there like notes on a piano. 

Then Ashton grazes Luke’s bottom lip with his tongue, and Luke parts his lips and whines like a bitch in heat. Ashton licks into Luke’s mouth like he’s dying for it. Luke’s hands fist his shirt, pull him in, wordlessly beg for more—and Ashton would give him everything. Ashton would give him anything. 

And before long Luke’s body is arching into Ashton’s, soft whimpers and moans filling the room. Ashton can’t breathe. He can’t pull away. He’s afraid if he opens his eyes he’ll wake up from this dream. 

But Luke is so pliant. So soft. Willingly giving in to Ashton’s unsaid wants and needs. So tenderly whining when he wants more. Between kisses, Luke whispers. 

“Ash,” he says. “Ash, more.” 

Ashton can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “Yeah, gorgeous? More?” 

Luke nods. His eyes are still shut, as though he’s scared to open them, but Ashton doesn’t mind. He watches his eyelashes brush the top of his flushed cheeks, admires the shine of spit on his lips that Ashton put there. 

“‘Gotta use your words, baby,” Ashton prompts. “Tell me what you want.” 

Luke bites his lip. It occurs to Ashton that maybe Luke doesn’t quite have the words for what he wants yet. He finds it so endearing that his heart clenches painfully. 

“I want…I want…” 

Ashton chuckles lightly, and Luke furrows his brows as he looks up at him. He lifts his chin, silently demanding. Ashton obliges. He kisses Luke again. Lets Luke take the lead, pulls away when Luke does. 

The younger man’s pupils are blown wide. He shifts, and Ashton knows where this is going when Luke rises from the bed and straddles Ashton’s lap. They’re both hard in their jeans—Ashton’s been this way for a while, but he was afraid to scare Luke away. And now Luke is on his lap, pert ass settled directly over the bulge Ashton’s sporting. 

Ashton runs his hands up the sides of Luke’s thighs as the younger man leans in for a kiss again. This time, Ashton bites down on the lip-ring, and smiles when Luke moans. And when Luke starts grinding down against Ashton, he swears he’s looking at the silhouette of an angel, rubbing himself off against the outline of Ashton’s cock. 

He grasps Luke’s waist, tight enough to bruise. Luke shuts his eyes, sighing as though the pain is doing something for him. 

“Yeah, baby?” ash breathes. “Gonna get yourself off on my lap?” 

Luke drops his mouth open and whines. Ashton hikes his legs up so Luke slides further along Ashton’s cock and rolls his hips upwards. Luke’s thighs tremble as he rocks back and forth in Ashton's lap, the front of his sweats stained something dark. Ashton’s mouth waters. 

Luke’s biting his lip, brows furrowed like he’s holding back his voice. Ashton reaches out and softly plucks Luke's bottom lip from between his teeth with his thumb. 

“Y’sound so pretty,” he says. “Don’t hold back, baby. Let me hear it.”

“Ashton,” Luke whispers, and his fingers curl into the front of Ashton’s shirt. “Ashton.’’

Luke hasn't stopped the roll of his hips yet. Ashton’s cock weeps in his pants, and he feels like a fumbling teenager from how embarrassingly close he already is. Luke writhes in his lap, gasping and stuttering Ashton's name like a prayer. As his movements grow sloppy, Ashton places his hands on Luke’s ass and guides his movements down against his cock. 

“That’s it, sweet thing,” Ash praises, and Luke keens, flushed bright red down past his neck and below the neckline of his shirt. Ashton wants to follow the path of that flush with his tongue. 

Ashton senses the way the muscles in Luke’s stomach tighten, the way his movements grow desperate, faster in how closely he’s chasing his own release, and it goes straight to Ashton’s dick. He places his feet flat on the mattress and uses his grip on Luke to roll his hips up in tandem with Luke’s movements. 

“So good, Luke. You gonna come in your pants, baby? Make a mess for me?” 

“Ash—Ashton, I’m…I’m close—” 

“Let go, beautiful. I’m right here. Let go, let me see it.” 

And Luke does. And its beautiful. His eyes screw shut and his lips part in an obscene moan. His shoulders shake with pleasure and he hangs on to Ashton for dear life as he paints his sweats a darker shade. Ashton, who holds on. Ashton, who wouldn’t ever let go. Ashton, who just came in his pants like a prepubescent teen, because the most beautiful man he’d ever seen was getting off on his lap. 

Luke collapses onto Ashton’s chest. Ashton’s hand comes up immediately to stroke Luke’s hair and whisper sweet praise into his ear that makes the boy giggle softly, even as his eyes are falling shut. 

They’ve made a mess of their underwear. They’d probably have a lot to explain if Calum and Michael walked into the two of them like this later on. But for now, Ashton thinks, as Luke dozes off in his arms, he’s content. 

-

[babylonradio]

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

MDNI—18+

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

pairing: blond luke x michael x brunet luke

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

wc: 11.1k

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

come find me on twitter! 

Luke is in Michael’s room. 

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

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

What the fuck, Michael thinks. 

“What the fuck,” Michael says. 

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

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

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

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

“What year is it?” He asks. 

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

“You’re on tour?” 

“Hey, man, I d—” 

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

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

“You look good.” 

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

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

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

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

What the fuck. 

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

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

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

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

‘What–how? How?”

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

Greedy. He feels greedy. 

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

Oh. Right. Of course. 

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

It rings. Once. Twice. 

A soft click as his Luke picks up the call. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Please? It’s important.” 

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

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

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

Click.

“He’s coming?” 

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

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

His second thought is, fuck, I want him. 

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

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

“Nervous?” 

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

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

“Don’t worry. I can play nice.”

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

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

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

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

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

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

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

“You don’t know me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m you,” Not-luke replies easily. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Yeah, I am.” 

“What the f—” 

“Yeah, you’ve said that.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or maybe against the wall?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not—I’m not gay.”

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

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

“Okay,” he says. 

Luke blinks. “‘Okay?’”

“Okay. Feel free to walk out then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please. Please. 

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

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

“Whatever you want.” Not-Luke says. 

“Anything?” 

“Anything at all.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you,” comes the response. 

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

“I’m staying.” 

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

What? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shakes his head. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Luke…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please, Luke—” 

“Please, what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment passes in silence. Then, 

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

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

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

“Wh-what?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Answer me,” he says. 

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

“Lower.” 

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

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

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

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

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

He’s planning on changing that. 

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

“You’re still dressed.” 

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

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

“Take those off.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not-Luke slaps his hand away. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Luke.”

“There it is.” Luke smiles. Michael can hear the satisfaction dripping from his lips. 

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

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

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

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

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

Michael reaches for the blond.  “Luke—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come here.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” Luke says, voice cracking. 

Not-Luke chuckles, low, dangerous, threatening. 

“‘Not gay’, huh, baby?”

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

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

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

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

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

“No, but I want—” 

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

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

So he does. 

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

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

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

“Or maybe you didn’t hear me right.” 

He pulls back, eyes dark. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y’gonna be good?” He grins. 

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

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

So full, Michael thinks. So—big. 

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

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

“Didn’t catch that. Say again?” 

“M-more—’’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Michae—aaaah—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luke takes a breath. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop teasing—” Michael grits out. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oof, you’re heavy,” grunts Luke. 

“I’m you,” comes the reply. 

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

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

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

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

“Y’love it,” Blondie smiles. 

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

“I do not snore,” Michael says. 

“Kiss before you go?” Luke pouts. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing. 

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

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

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

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

“Where do we go from here?” he asks. 

Luke is quiet for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he says. “I promise.”

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

“Mikey?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I ride you next time?”

-

[undersugarnights]

Stripped To The Bone

MDNI — 18+ Only ✦

✧ pairing: michael clifford x irwin!reader

✧ summary: after finally having had enough of your brother’s bandmate and his relentless bullying, you decide to put your foot down. sort of.

✧ warnings: super heavy degradation, kinda bully michael, slapping, restraints, gags, thigh riding, filthy ass dialogue, p in v, fingering, overstimulation. idk if i’m missing anything?

✧ word count: 5.4k

✧ title: hatefuck — motionless in white

✧ author’s note: PUT YOUR PITCHFORKS AND TORCHES DOWN PLEASE!!! i know this IS a democrazy (see what i did there)… but to be fair i may or may not have jumped the gun on the poll and started the michael fic when he was winning, so…

that being said pls don’t fret i WILL be writing for my sexy beast of a man (2015-16 luke) sometime after i finish writing chapter 10 for bite the apple! send in requests pls pls PLEASEE

a special thank you to my sexy yummy wife (you know who you are) for picking my brain about this and thrusting me deep into a michael lane. also thank you to souperbloom for helping me plot this and giving me all these filthy ideas

also another thank you to my friends for throwing so many filthy dirty nasty things to include in this. i love every single one of yall.

lastly, for the two anons that requested this, i hope this is what you imagined :)

so yea it takes a village to write one of these blurbs. not ai. bitch.

anyways, if you’re reading bite the apple on wattpad, chapter 8 is now yours! i post every tuesday

oki tell me what u think BYE

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

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Backstage at a 5 Seconds of Summer show is exactly how anyone imagines it to be. There’s a lot of teasing—a plethora of creative dick jokes that you pretended weren’t as funny as they actually were.

You’re in your brother’s dressing room now, frantically scrubbing away at a stain on your shirt. The stark orange-red of the marinara stain only seems to spread the more you scrub, and you feel tears of frustration start to brim in your eyes.

Another thing that’s unfortunately too common backstage at one of the shows is falling victim to Michael’s lackadaisical attitude toward the world around him. Most of the time, he likes to pretend you don’t exist, and the other half, you end up being an unfortunate casualty of his pranks.

Today, Michael had the brilliant idea to throw a slice of pizza at Calum, who dodged it, barely batting an eye. However, it was you standing right behind him—with lackluster reflexes.

Then, the unfortunate incident happened.

Michael thought it was the funniest thing, bursting into laughter, doubling over and near tears at your startled yelp. The white blouse you wore was one of the few nice items of clothing you owned, and now it was ruined by a bright red stain that would probably never come off.

Biting the inside of your cheek to contain your huff of frustration, you keep scrubbing at the stain with a damp paper towel, but to no avail. The mess only grows, the stain expanding and being joined by small pieces of paper.

You huff, drop the fabric, shut your eyes, and force yourself to take a deep breath.

The door to the dressing room swings open, and Ashton prances in with an easy grin. “Hey,” he greets. At the sight of your furrowed brows and frown, he stops mid-step. “What’s got you on the verge of a breakdown now?”

You let out a frustrated groan, your throat suddenly tight. There’s no reason to cry, but the frustration—paired with the fact that you somehow always end up being Michael’s collateral—feels like the final straw.

Wordlessly, you point at the stain on your shirt, which seems to have doubled in size. Ashton blinks, tilting his head as he studies it.

“That’s a gnarly stain,” your brother whistles. “Whatcha do to get that?”

Another wave of anger surges through you. “Existed around Michael, apparently.”

Ashton chuckles to himself, scratching the back of his neck as he glances around the room. “You’re making that so much worse,” he sighs. “Just change into something else. Trust me.”

You cross your arms over your chest, looking at Ashton with an incredulous expression. “I don’t have a ride back to the hotel,” you start, taking a step closer to him. “And I don’t have a change of clothes. So tell me—are you trying to play fairy godmother here?”

Ashton rolls his eyes, turning on his heel as he rummages through the room. He’s a year older than you, but sometimes it feels like you’re the more mature one.

“Aha!” he cries, waving a shirt in the air like a truce flag. “See? You can wear this one!”

You raise an eyebrow, walking over to him slowly. You eye the fabric dangling from his fingers suspiciously, like it’s bound to burst into flames at any second.

“That’s a muscle tee,” you say slowly. “But it’s not yours.”

Ashton freezes. “It could be.”

“I don’t wanna wear your clothes.”

“Why not?”

You pause, pursing your lips. “Because you’re… you.”

Your brother lets out an indignant squeak, leveling you with a glare that has as much threat as a newborn baby’s. “It could be,” he huffs, then hesitates, biting his lower lip. “But it’s not.”

Narrowing your eyes, you step closer. “Whose is it?” you ask.

“It’s Michael’s,” Ashton shrugs, tossing the shirt at you.

You scramble to catch it, your fingers just barely snagging the corner before it hits the ground. “You want me to wear his shirt?” you echo, incredulous. “You know, most guys tend to be a little more… weirded out by their sisters wearing their bandmate’s clothing.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Ashton turns to the door. “It’s his fault your shirt got ruined,” he calls over his shoulder. “The least he can do is let you borrow one in the meantime. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

“But he hates me!” you whine, but the complaint falls on deaf ears as the door shuts behind him. You rub your eye with your knuckle hard enough to see colors, annoyance prickling your skin.

Fine. You’ll wear Michael’s shirt. If the asshole has a problem with it, he can take it up with Ashton later.

The fabric is soft beneath your fingertips, the colors slightly faded but surprisingly clean. It smells faintly of old cologne, worn at the edges. It might be a loose fit, but you can make it work.

With a dejected sigh, you grip the hem of your soiled shirt and pull it over your head, letting it fall carelessly into a heap at your feet.

Just as you’re about to slip the new shirt over your head, the door to the dressing room swings open.

“Fuck!” you yelp, scrambling to press the fabric to your chest. Your heart races, adrenaline flooding your veins as you turn to face the intruder.

Michael stands frozen in the doorway, his expression irritatingly unimpressed. His gaze flicks from the shirt clutched against your chest to the glimpses of bare skin.

“Dude, I’m changing,” you hiss, cheeks burning.

Michael snorts, turning away. “Not that impressive, don’t worry,” he mutters. “Why the hell do you have my shirt, anyway? You obsessed with me or somethin’?”

Your eyes narrow as you swallow down your embarrassment. “Can you go five minutes without being an absolute dick to me?”

To his credit, Michael actually turns around. Once his back is to you, you quickly pull the shirt down over your frame.

“Can I turn now, or are you gonna keep crying?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his exasperation.

Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the couch. “Fine,” you sigh. “And for the record, I’m wearing your shirt because you ruined the one I already had on. Payback.”

When Michael turns around, his eyes find you. They widen—almost imperceptibly—as he takes in the sight of his shirt on your body. His jaw clenches, but whatever moment of weakness that was vanishes as quickly as it came.

Traitorously, your heart flutters at the realization.

For as long as you’ve known him, Michael has been nothing but a thorn in your side. Sometimes he barely acknowledges your existence, and other times he acknowledges it way too much. 

And every single time, your breath catches when those jade green eyes land squarely on you. Maybe it has some psychological explanation— the way your stomach tightens when he talks down to you with that lazy drawl, but yet you can’t help the way your body responds to his mere existence. 

The sliver of attraction is enough for every single one of his jabs to cut deep. 

“Still think it’s cause you’re a freak,” he shrugs, throwing himself down on the sofa with a soft groan. He’s avoiding looking at you, it’s obvious by the way he keeps his state fixated on a dilapidated part of the wall. 

You don’t move, crossing your arms so tightly around your chest you’re sure you’re about to suffocate. 

“Wait no,” he snaps his fingers, sitting up slightly. He leans on his knees, a smirk curling on his pink lips. His red hair is confined by a snapback, few stray strands standing out from beneath it. “I’m not Calum, so maybe you aren’t obsessed with me after all.”

You sputter, eyes going wide at the permanent smirk on his face. He leans back against the couch, arms draped over the top, one leg crossed over the other— the perfect picture of apathy.

“I never said I liked Calum,” you snap, patience wearing thin as you step forward. “You took that and ran with it. I was drunk and wondering if Ashton would have much of a say about me hypothetically liking one of his bandmates.”

Michael hums. “Tomato, tomahto,” he grins, tilting his head. His eyes glint with mirth— that beautiful green, entirely too intense for someone so infuriating.

You watch, annoyingly mesmerized, as his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. The action is thoughtless, but it still sends a shiver down your spine and a thrill through your bones.

“Why do you hate me?” you ask, shrinking slightly under the weight of your own admission. “I’ve done nothing to you in the years I’ve known you— and yet just the fact that I breathe seems to send you over the edge.”

The smirk on Michael’s face falters for a moment before he pushes himself off the couch. When he stands at full height, he towers over you.

“Have you ever met someone so grating that no matter what they do or say, you just want them to shut the fuck up?” he asks, his eyes flicking down your body. For a second, his pupils widen. “It’s nothing you did. It’s just you.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” you gasp, affronted.

Michael huffs, shaking his head. He looks amused—like your outrage is just another joke for him to toy with. Still, after years of passive-aggressive jabs, of always being the punchline, of being ridiculed by the one person you actually want, something in you finally snaps.

“God, you’re so insufferable,” you bite out, hands trembling at your sides. “You think because girls want you—because they scream your name and throw themselves at you—you can just treat me like I’m a piece of shit.”

“Girls do want me,” Michael says easily, lowering his head as a soft chuckle escapes him. The brim of his snapback grazes the sliver barbell in his eyebrow—the one that somehow makes every smirk, every look, even more intoxicating. “You want me.”

You let out a strangled scream. Michael looks unbearably smug, gazing down at you as he revels in every second of your unraveling. Every nerve in your body is lit up—ready to spark at the slightest provocation.

Then you step closer, tilting your chin up until your eyes lock. The breath catches in your throat, your heart stuttering in your chest when you find him already looking at you.

Up close, you can see the faint dusting of hair along his jaw, the exact shade of pink that colors his lips. He’s beautiful, wielding his looks like a weapon—and you’re so willing to get cut it’s almost pathetic.

When your gaze flicks down to his mouth, reason slips away. Pure impulse drives you forward, and before you know it, your lips are pressed against Michael’s.

The kiss is brief—just a brush of lips before the weight of reality comes crashing down. You inhale sharply, jerking back like the contact burned you.

Your stomach churns, embarrassment flooding your skin as your throat tightens. You scramble for an excuse, a joke, a comeback—anything—but your mind is a blank slate.

“I—” you start, but the word dies in your throat.

Michael’s eyes darken, and he exhales a low, amused breath. “I knew you were obsessed with me,” he growls, gripping your chin before crashing his lips back onto yours.

His mouth is hot against yours, and you let out a startled gasp that’s quickly swallowed by him. He nips at your bottom lip, drawing it between his teeth with a soft, deliberate suck as his other hand finds your waist.

Your knees threaten to give out, but you clutch at his shirt, holding yourself upright. Slowly, your lips move with his—matching the same desperate, hungry rhythm you’ve been dreaming of for years. 

His hands grip your hips as he backs you against the wall; you hit it with a soft thud, just as Michael’s hand comes up to grip your neck.

You inhale sharply, eyes blinking wide as he pulls away from you. You’re both breathing heavily, his lips kiss-swollen and pink, slightly wet from you.

“So, who knew that was the only way to shut you up,” he growls, dipping his head to kiss a path down your jaw. His lips leave behind a trail of fire, and your head swims. “Should’ve figured it out sooner—could’ve saved me a couple of headaches.”

His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, the calloused digits leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver, biting back a moan—your entire body responds to him like a live wire.

When he reaches the clasp of your bra, he undoes it with a skilled flick of his wrist. The fabric falls to your waist, and Michael doesn’t waste any time taking it off you.

The muscle tee’s arm cutouts are so wide you’re barely covered, and when his large hand returns to your waist, you shiver in anticipation.

“Please.” The word is a gasp, nearly lost in the intensity swirling between the two of you. Michael’s hand rises slowly, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“Poor baby,” he coos. “So desperate to be touched. Do you make a habit of being this pathetic, or is this just a ‘me’ special?”

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for, but the pressure between your legs—and the overwhelming fact that Michael Clifford is kissing you, touching you—is enough to leave you gasping.

You bite your lip, holding back a whimper as his hand finally cups your breast, thumb brushing over your pert nipple. A zap of pleasure races down your spine, and you let out a small mewl.

“No,” Michael tuts. “If you’re gonna embarrass yourself, might as well commit. Be loud—wanna hear you.”

This time, he pinches your nipple, hard enough to make you cry out in a hazy mix of pain and pleasure. You’re trembling in his arms as his lips return to yours, hips rutting into yours mindlessly.

Abruptly, Michael pulls away. You whine at the sudden loss of contact, your head still spinning as you blink yourself back into reality.

Michael walks backward until he’s seated on the couch again, eyes alight with challenge. There’s intent in them—mischief that never really leaves.

He smirks. “Strip.”

Blinking, you fight the urge to cross your arms over your chest. It’s cold, and every drag of Michael’s shirt against your already sensitive skin feels overwhelming.

“Wh-what?” you stammer, breath catching.

“You heard me,” he drawls. “Strip. Everything but the shirt. Then come here.” He taps his thigh expectantly, and the self-assured nature of the motion makes you dizzy all over again.

Shakily, you reach for the button of your jeans and undo it with ease. Michael’s eyes follow your every move, drinking you in like a man starved.

When your zipper slides down, the sound is deafening. Slowly, you hook your fingers into the waistband of your jeans and underwear, peeling them down your legs until they pool at your feet.

You kick them aside, suddenly grateful that Michael’s shirt is long enough to keep you modest. When you glance back at him, you catch the slight shift in his expression—his composure faltering ever so slightly.

You tread carefully toward him, straddling his thigh like he told you, but hover just above it.

“You’d do anything I tell you to, hmm?” he taunts, his hand flying to your waist. Without warning, he forces you down, your bare core brushing against the rough denim of his jeans.

You gasp, hands shooting to his shoulders for support.

“Ride my fucking thigh,” he hisses. “Desperate little thing—work for it. Not touching you until you cry for it.”

“Michael—”

He cuts you off by grinding your hips down, the friction against your clit sharp and intoxicating. You moan, and he grips your face again.

“Don’t talk. Good sluts don’t speak unless they’re asked to.”

You nod, inhaling shakily as you begin to move your hips just like he wants. Each drag against the fabric feels like heaven—but it’s not enough. Your clit is swollen, aching, throbbing with the need for release.

Rolling your hips, you dig your fingers into Michael’s shoulder. He lets out a hiss but doesn’t stop you—one hand gripping your hip, bunching the shirt around your waist so he can see the mess you’re making on his leg.

It’s his other hand that makes you dizzy, trailing up your spine with reverence, rubbing gentle circles—spurring you on. You moan, eyes fluttering.

“Michael—”

He tightens his grip on your hip. “You better make yourself come,” he whispers, the command hitting your skin like ice. “Otherwise you don’t get my cock—not until you shut up and cry pretty for me.”

You whimper, hips moving faster.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Be the pathetic little thing I know you are, soaking my jeans like a needy whore—is that what you wanted, hmm?”

He leans closer, his lips catching on your collarbone. “You’re kind of pretty when you do what you’re told,” he hums, the hand on your hip sliding up to push the shirt higher and expose your chest.

When his lips wrap around your nipple, your mind goes blank. You gasp, grinding harder. The pleasure coiling in your stomach grows with every movement, and when his teeth sink into your skin, you scream.

“You’ll just let me do anything I want, huh?” he smiles—an almost sweet expression. His lips are soft, kissing the tender skin between words. “All that fucking talking—all of that just for some attention.”

You’re getting closer; you can feel the heat building, reaching every nerve in your body and painting it with Michael. He’s fully dressed, looking up at you with something like awe in his eyes.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, lifting his head. He catches your chin, coaxing you to look at him with a gentle knuckle. “Gonna beg all nice and pretty?”

“Mikey—” you sob, the frantic rhythm of your hips picking up. “Please, I wanna come, just wanna be good for you—”

“Oh, look at that,” he muses. “So eager for me to talk to you like this. So eager to fall apart on my lap.”

His thigh flexes, the muscle tensing just enough to give you the stability you need. In a matter of seconds, your breath stutters, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as pleasure slams into you.

You scream, convulsing against his thigh as every wave of your orgasm crashes over you. You’re a gasping mess, babbling nonsense, your ears ringing with the force of it.

Your chest heaves with every breath as you slowly lift yourself off his thigh. Your legs feel weak, the world almost too bright around the edges.

“Look at that,” Michael says, almost lazily, glancing down at the wet spot darkening the black denim. “What a mess. All that from grinding on my lap? God, you’re such a dumb slut, huh?”

He chuckles, slipping his hand between your thighs. When his fingers find your slick, you let out a hiccuping breath. He collects some of your release, the fluid glistening on his fingers.

“All it took was one orgasm and now you’re brainless,” he tuts, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean. His breath hitches at the taste. “Do you even have a thought in that little dumb brain of yours? Or are you just cock-drunk?”

You swallow. “No,” you rasp, voice hoarse. “Just want you to fuck me stupid.”

“Oh, baby,” Michael grins, slipping his hand between your thighs again. “I fuckin’ plan to.”

He flips you without warning, your back landing on the couch with a soft thud. He hovers over you, silver chain dangling above your face like a threat.

“But first,” he murmurs, brushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your face, “I want you to thank me. I didn’t have to make you come, y’know? Could’ve just fucked you—used you like the hole you are to me. But I was so nice.”

His fingers wrap gently around your neck—delicate, almost tender—but the intention is unmistakable.

“Say thank you, Y/N,” he urges. “Say, ‘Thank you for letting me come on your thigh like a pathetic whore.’”

The words are humiliating, so demeaning that under any other circumstance, you’d spit in Michael’s face and tear him down without blinking. But something stops you—the heat blooming in your belly again, the way his thumb softly caresses your jaw.

“Thank you,” you say slowly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “For letting me come on your thigh like a pathetic slut.”

His hand snakes between your legs, two fingers teasing your entrance. “Already wet again?” Michael smirks. “Of course you are. You’re pathetic.”

You whine, but it isn’t long before he plunges his fingers inside you. Your back arches off the couch as he curls them, hitting that perfect spot that turns your brain to static.

“Who knew dumb little things like you had such pretty little cunts,” he hums, his thumb circling your clit. “All swollen and dripping, and I’ve barely even touched you.”

Faintly, you hear the clink of a belt buckle being undone. You blink through the haze, trying to focus past the overwhelming pulse of pleasure from his hand.

He’s thrusting his fingers in and out of you fast, his thumb keeping perfect rhythm on your clit. With his other hand, he works his belt free from the loops, pulling it out in one smooth motion that shouldn’t look as devastatingly hot as it does.

“Keep fucking yourself on my fingers,” he says.

It takes a few seconds for the command to register in your brain, but then your hips begin to move, picking up the pace as Michael drops his hand. Every pump of his fingers is intoxicating, his free hand roaming your leg, his head dipping occasionally to kiss your overheated skin.

Somehow, that seems to affect you more than anything else.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks. “Want me to stretch you out, see how this greedy cunt swallows me whole?”

You nod.

Michael withdraws his fingers, and the sudden loss is so jarring your body goes cold. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he walks over to your discarded pants and untangles your panties from them.

You blink, body spinning with the possibilities. Michael walks back to you, crouching until your faces are level. His pupils are blown wide, and a faint flush colors his cheeks.

He leans in, catching your mouth in a kiss so tender it steals the air from your lungs. Your hand rises to cup the back of his head, fingers threading into the red strands.

He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours for a beat. “Open your mouth, princess,” he whispers, breathless.

You obey, anticipation curling through you. Gently, Michael lifts your discarded underwear and stuffs it into your mouth.

The act is surprisingly tender, but still, you’re stunned. You gape at Michael as he stands above you, carefully undoing his jeans.

“Look at how pathetic,” he murmurs, leaning down just enough to catch the hem of your shirt and lift it slightly. His finger traces the planes of your stomach, drawn tight with excitement. “Laid out like a whore, practically begging me to do something.”

You whimper, the sound muffled and catching in your throat as he withdraws his hand. He tugs down his jeans, followed by his underwear, until he springs free.

The thick length of him is enough to make your eyes threaten to roll back in your skull, but you stay carefully still.

He wraps a hand around himself, pumping lazily as he circles you like a predator, waiting to strike. When his thumb brushes over the tip, he lets out the most delicious little hiss—one that you feel all the way down to your toes.

You almost whine when he lets go of his cock, picking up the belt he left forgotten on the couch. He wraps the studded leather around your wrists, snug enough that you can’t fight it.

“You’re gonna lay there and take this fucking cock like useless hole you are for me,” he climbs onto the couch, lowering himself enough to tease. 

Michael nudges your legs apart, exposing your slick core. You’re clenching around nothing, drenched in desperation as you wait for him to do something. 

He leans over you, one hand braced on the couch cushions beside your head. Carefully, he drags the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, groaning. 

“God all it took was for me to be mean to you, and you're already a fucking mess,” he toys with your entrance, the only sign of him being affected is the slight rasp beneath his words. “My fucking mess to do as I please with. Isn’t that right?”

You nod, lifting your hips as you desperately search for some kind of release. 

Michael doesn’t waste any more time, thrusting into you fully with a harsh snap of his hips. You cry out, back arching off the couch at the brutal stretch, the sound muffled behind the fabric stuffed in your mouth.

He pulls back just enough for you to feel the unbearable emptiness—only to slam back inside with a filthy moan that makes you groan past the gag. Michael’s eyes flutter as he sets a brutal pace, hips snapping into yours with purpose.

“Gripping me so fucking right,” he grits. “It’s all you’re good for—milking my cock. God knows you don’t have the brain for anything else.”

He collapses over you, nosing along the side of your jaw. “Look at you,” he pants. “All ruined, all spread out for me, taking my cock like you’re meant to. Bet you’d let anyone do this, hmm?”

When he shifts angles, hitting that devastating spot inside you that sends your vision to static, all his filthy words only push you closer. You clench around him involuntarily.

Michael growls and yanks the belt tighter, using it as leverage to drag you down on him harder. Each thrust rocks the couch, your breasts bouncing with every sharp snap of his hips.

“You don’t even look human,” he mutters, sweat slicking his brow. “Just something for me to fuck and throw away. Isn’t that right?”

He punctuates the cruelty with his thumb pressing to your clit. One leg jerks in response, the tight, filthy circles he rubs making the pressure inside you mount unbearably.

His hips piston against yours, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room. One hand presses to your lower stomach, and the weight of it makes you choke on a moan.

“Can feel myself here,” he groans. “Bet that’s why you’re so needy. Never had your pussy stretched properly.”

You’re close—so close—body shaking, nerves shot, the build-up like fire licking beneath your skin. You sob behind the gag, the edge creeping nearer with every relentless thrust.

“Gonna come for me?” he asks, his thumb moving faster in tandem with his hips. “Gonna do the only thing you’re good for and soak my cock?”

You manage a shaky nod, tears slipping down your cheeks as your orgasm barrels toward you like a freight train.

“Cry all you want, baby,” he growls. “I’m not stopping ‘til you’re dripping with me.”

With one sharp thrust, he pushes you over the edge.

Your legs lock around him, your hands pulling against the belt as your orgasm rips through you. The studded leather digs into your wrists, the sweet medley of pain and pleasure only heightening every wave of release that crashes over you.

Your blood feels like molasses in your veins, and you heave for breath. The fog behind your eyes begins to clear, and slowly, you come back to yourself. But Michael doesn’t stop.

You’re oversensitive, still twitching from the aftermath of your orgasm. Fresh tears blur your vision, and Michael grips your chin.

“You’re not done until I say you’re done,” he grunts.

He lets go, his hand caressing your cheek—then suddenly slapping it. The sting lands like ecstasy, and you clench around him.

Michael takes that as a green light to do it again, slapping you once more. Your back arches off the couch, and you're still crying. The cool tears trail down your overheated skin in stark contrast.

He releases the belt, your arms dropping limply at your sides. But he doesn’t slow—his hands slide under your thighs, pushing your knees to your chest.

This new angle makes everything deeper, sharper. You haven’t stopped crying, but you haven’t stopped moaning either. Michael’s spurred on by the sound of your slick, by the way your cunt flutters around him.

A choked sob escapes you, and despite the overstimulation, you feel it building again—another orgasm curling in your belly like fire.

“That’s right,” Michael growls. “You’re gonna come again for me. Bet I don’t even need to touch your clit, huh? Bet you can come just from my cock like a good little whore.”

He grins down at you, eyes wild and shining. The tears have started to pool beneath your head, soaking the couch. Your skin is slick with sweat, your whole body trembling, but the pleasure only builds.

“There she is,” he breathes. “My dumb little thing. Just needed to be fucked stupid, isn’t that right? Needed someone who actually knows what to do with you.”

Your hand shoots up to grip his arm, nails digging into the taut muscle of his bicep. He doesn’t flinch. His thrusts grow more erratic, but every one still finds that devastating spot inside you.

“Come for me,” he urges, voice going sweeter, coaxing. “C’mon, be good f’me, baby. Come for me so I can fill this pretty pussy up the way you need.”

And finally—you break.

The world drops out from beneath you, leaving only the white-hot spiral of your orgasm tearing through you. You wail around the gag, body shaking violently beneath him.

Michael’s hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged moan. “Oh, fuck. You feel so fucking good,” he groans, head dropping. “Gonna come—shit—”

The strangled moan that claws out of his throat is the only warning you get as Michael empties himself inside you. He keeps up the shallow thrusts, twitching as you wring him dry.

You’re both shaking now, sweaty and high on adrenaline. For the first time, your mind starts to clear. Panic spikes when the weight of the situation settles in—when you catch sight of your discarded shirt and pants.

Your cheeks heat, and you’re about to scramble for a response when there’s a sharp rap at the door. “Stage in fifteen,” someone calls.

Michael freezes, looking down at you for a moment. “Fuck,” he curses, scrambling to get off you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ashton is so gonna beat my ass if he finds me here.”

He lets out a hiss as he slips out of you, hastily pushing off the couch as he hops back into his skinny jeans. He tucks himself into his pants without preamble, scanning the room for anything he might’ve missed.

When Michael’s eyes land on you, you half expect him to make a mean quip or just ignore you. Instead, you’re surprised when he leans forward, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your lips, and hands you a half-empty water bottle.

He looks down at the plastic bottle, a little sheepish. “Uh, I’ll find you after the show,” he says, pulling his belt back through the loops as he gets up.

When Michael reaches the door, he turns back to you. “Sorry I can’t help much, but, uh—” he picks something up from the floor and throws it at you. “Yeah. Okay, see you.”

He shoots you an awkward smile before slipping out the door. You sit up, wincing slightly. Your body is tender from the events of the day, raw in the best of ways.

Part of you is a little smug, too—satisfied after seeing the sudden shift in Michael. Gone was the vindictive, sharp-tongued guitarist who seemed to have girls falling at his feet at every turn.

The only thing left was the fading façade—revealing the obsessed, but almost adorably flustered boy beneath the mask. You didn’t miss the subtle tenderness in his actions, and for a second, you wonder how the aftermath would’ve played out if he hadn’t had to be brisked away.

You shake your head, feeling the sticky mess of your releases beginning to seep out of you. When you grab whatever it was Michael had thrown at you to clean up, your eye catches on a bright red stain.

Your ruined shirt.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

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[chapbrinas]

title: happy birthday, taylor (written for a mutual.)

pairing: luke x reader ( afab; feminine language. )

content warning and author's note: this is not necessarily a dead dove fic in my mind, but i will be utilizing the tag to say that if you don't heed the warning now you have no right to be upset about what is present in the fic. boundary pushing, slut shaming, and toxicity will be present.

summary: luke is playing video games with his friends. they all overhear you touching yourself. he decides to pay you a visit.

word count: 5,068.

you’re sprawled out on the bed, legs spread apart, and your hand is between your thighs. you’re two fingers deep in your own cunt and so fucking close to the edge that you can feel it coming. you’re panting hard, sweat is rolling down your thighs, and your wrist is getting tired. you’ve been at it for a while, edging yourself so that it’ll feel fucking amazing when you finally feel that orgasm hit. you think you’re just about to reach the end of things and add a third finger, really hammering them deep to reach that sweet spot behind your walls while your other hand works over your clit… when the door swings open and you curse loudly, wishing you had locked the goddamn thing.

“what the fuck?!” you shout, then move to cover up with the topsheet. a ruined orgasm and you’re completely exposed with luke standing there in the doorway, refusing to move from his spot and provide you with some decency.

“whoa,” luke tuts out a laugh. “yeah, i thought i heard you in here,” he adds, then crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame to observe you for a moment. “no, no… don’t stop on my behalf,” he says and your heart skips a beat.

“very funny,” you reply and you’re hiding beneath the bed sheets so he can’t see you. you’re beyond embarrassed. your face is bright red and you can’t feel your cheeks. “you can go now! don’t you have— i don’t know— a fucking video game to get back to?” you speak, words rushed together with nervousness. that’s all luke does. he’s always in his room, gaming with friends.

“see, i would but you kind of interrupted,” luke points out, then walks over to the bed and sits down next to you. he pulls the sheets from over your head and you turn away, refusing to make eye contact with him. you can’t stand that he’s looking at you right now. your entire body feels hot and there’s this thought you have to shove down that says you wish he would touch you and finish you off. “i can hear you through the walls,” he says. “everyone can,” he laughs and by ‘everyone,’ he means his friends heard you through his headset. “thought i’d come in here and see what you were up to. gotta tell you, i was not disappointed.”

how humiliating… especially because you’re sure you said his name a few times. although, you tried your best to muffle it when you did.

what’s more embarrassing is that you’re still coming down from everything. you were so worked up and that doesn’t just go away with a few minutes of distraction. if anything, you’re dying to get back to it.

“well, if you could just leave now—” you say to luke, hand reaching to form a wall between you and him so that you can’t catch him staring at you in your peripheral vision.

instead of listening to you, luke’s pulling the topsheet back a little more. for some reason, you let him. your breath catches in your throat and you hesitantly turn your head to face him. the two of you make eye contact and you watch as his gaze deviates from yours to look you over once the bed sheets are removed completely.

fuck, okay. this is really happening.

“spread your legs. i wanna see what i’m working with,” luke says, and you only squeeze them tighter together. he slips a hand between your legs and pries them apart, anyway. “don’t be so shy.”

“l-luke!” you sputter, but you don’t counter his decision with any protest. you just grip the sheets beneath you in anticipation, heart skipping beats in your chest from all the attention.

luke’s never been shy, but he notices you are. guess that’s why he’s giving demands. he wants to watch you squirm and see how much you can take. he pushes your buttons, waiting to reach the limit.

“yeah, just like that. good girl,” he praises, as if you listened and didn’t do the exact opposite of what he requested. “now, let me see,” he makes another demand. “open yourself up for me.”

you know this game. you know every demand he makes is going to be harder to listen to than the first one. it makes you wish you had just done what he said before, when he told you to do it. you realize you can’t let him do everything, so you do as you’re told. you reach your hands down and use your fingers so spread your folds apart. he laughs whenever he sees just how wet you are.

“oh, yeah. i bet it’s tight, too,” luke smirks and you can feel your clit throbbing in response to his words, desperate for some kind of friction.

“luke, please—” you begin, but he stops you by getting a hand between your thighs. he’s not timid like you are. he’s touching you already, taking what’s his like you’re just another thing he owns. a pair of fingers press into you and you slump against the headboard, legs spreading further apart. your reaction is almost instinctual. it’s like your body was made for his hands to explore.

“yeah, like i said… tight,” he says, and he’s been staring between your legs a little too long now. it’s making you sweat and he can tell you like the attention so he doesn’t stop. he watches as he moves his fingers in and out of you, then keeps watching when your hips lift off the bed as the pads of his fingers brush over that sweet spot. you moan like you can’t help it.

he just grins. you can’t stand it. he’s got a smile that compliments his whole face. his stupid, perfect face. you wanna slap that smug smirk off of it because he’s enjoying this too much.

a third finger gets added and you notice the stretch. his hands are bigger than yours, so it makes sense. it feels good, too. he’s filling you up with each thrust of his hand, pushing them deeper, until they’re down to the knuckles and he has nothing left to fit. it feels so damn good that your pussy pulses around his fingers and he teases you for it.

“oh, i felt that,” luke says and you just mewl in response. you’re too busy rocking your hips like some needy little slut, trying to get off.

“please— don’t stop,” you beg and it makes his dick twitch in his jeans to hear you sounding so filthy. he clenches his jaw and you can see the physical reaction he’s having to watching you get off. it fills your stomach with butterflies and makes your chest feel all warm. something about luke finally noticing you is just so rewarding.

he removes his fingers and you object with a whine and a hushed ‘no.’ you don’t wanna beg him again, but you’re chanting out ‘please, please, please’ and then some. he’s not gonna leave you hanging like that. he gets between your legs and crawls down, until his face is right in front of your cunt and leans forward to give it a lick. he flattens his tongue out, then drags it through your folds and savors it.

“you taste so fucking good,” he says and his words are muffled against you. he licks into you again and again, until he’s burying his tongue so deep that you’re seeing stars. he fucks you with it, pulling your legs over his shoulders in the meantime. you dig your heels into the bed on either side of him and lift your hips up, riding his face the second you get the chance. he only stops you so he can pull his tongue out to rub it over your clit. lips close around the sensitive bundle of nerves and he gives it a hard suck, then switches back to eating you out.

by the time luke pulls back, his mouth is covered in your juices. they’re dripping down his chin and he’s wiping it all away with the back of his hand.

“this is gonna be a tight fit,” he warns you and you get a little nervous, but you hardly care. you want it so bad you’re shaking.

luke pops the button on his fly, then unzips it. his pants get pushed down just enough that he can reach into his boxers and pull his cock out. he’s rock hard and pretty fucking big. you thought he was just bragging like guys always do, but he meant it.

he shifts so that he’s on top of you again, then lines himself up with your entrance. the head of his cock pushes in and you can already feel him stretching you out. your jaw goes slack as he sinks into you and you let out a long, drawn out moan.

“oh, god,” you moan, arms over your head and hands gripping the pillow behind you. you roll your hips to fit in those extra few inches that just don’t seem to want to go in, even if it’s slightly uncomfortable. you figure you’ll get used to the feeling. this isn’t a moment you can pass up, so you wanna take it all.

luke lets you get adjusted, but he doesn’t wait around either. he’s not exactly patient once he’s inside you. he starts off slow, sure, but things quickly build up. he’s holding onto you and thrusting hard and fast. fingers press bruises into your hips and nails leave crescents across the skin. you can’t help but shout when he brushes past your sweet spot with his cock. that’s when he angles his hips just right to ram into it again. he wants to see how loud you’ll get, so he keeps pounding. he’s splitting you open and all you can do is take it. between the two of you, there’s a full on mess. you’re drenched and it sounds filthy every time he slams his hips forward. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room and you’re in a daze. your eyes are glazed over with lust and there’s spit collecting at the corners of your mouth as saliva pools in your mouth. you swallow it down and quietly beg him to keep fucking you, even though he’s shown no signs of stopping. he just grins and keeps going. he thinks it’s cute.

“needy little thing,” he grunts out, then hits at your core. your hips jolt and you yelp in response. a whine follows shortly after and he does it again just to see how your body tenses up. your expression twists as pain mixes with pleasure and your pussy tightens around him. his hips stutter and his eyes nearly roll at the feeling of you gripping him tight.

meanwhile, you’re muttering phrases ‘fuck me’ over and over again and it’s getting to him. he likes hearing you talk dirty.

“open your mouth,” luke demands and you listen. he grabs you by the jaw and spits right into it, then shuts it for you. you swallow his spit without being told and it aches between your thighs when you realize how much that just turned you on. it doesn’t help that he kisses you and doesn’t let you get a breath in until you’re turning away from him. even then, he chases after you. your lips crash together and he’s got his tongue halfway down your throat within a few seconds. he only stops when he needs to catch his breath. you’re both left panting into each other’s open mouths and he’s grinding into you as warmth builds up in the pit of his stomach.

his hand moves between the two of you and he finally gives you what you’ve been needing. he touches you, then rubs over your clit. fingers circle the pink bud and he gets you off until what’s building up inside of you comes pouring out and you hit your climax. you cum hard and he fucks you through it so good that your vision goes white. he slaps your pussy a few times when it’s over, then pulls out so he can flip you over and shove back in. you don’t even care that he’s still going, not when you feel this good.

luke gets you face down and ass up, knees beneath you to hold your hips in the air. your legs are spread a decent amount, but not so much that you slouch towards the bed. just enough that when he rocks you back onto his cock your ass shakes a little. he spanks you and your only reaction is to moan like you love it because you do.

your cheek is pressed into the sheets. you can feel your face getting hot knowing he’s watching himself thrust in and out of you, so you turn your head to hide away in the blankets. fists clench tight as he fucks you with deep, shallow thrusts. he’s barely pulling out when he thrusts back in, making sure you feel every inch of him. a few more pushes and he’s meeting his release inside of you. it’s hot and sticky, but he fills you up to the brim and you don’t complain. you’re officially fucked stupid, unable to think. drool soaks the blankets you’re biting down on and he gives your ass one more smack before pulling out. this time, he leaves a nicely sized handprint on your cheek. you give a full body shudder and he shakes his hand out from the sting.

your hips lower and you lay down, finally moving your head so you can breathe again. you feel so full that it takes a minute before you feel comfortable rolling back over and sitting up.

“you can go now,” you say, as if your dignity will be spared somehow if you pretend you didn’t just let him make a mess of you.

luke fixes his pants, then sniffs and wipes a thumb across his nose to scratch an itch. he just leans over to kiss your cheek before leaving, then heads out without saying much. he’s even nice enough to shut the door behind him.

you curl up and hide your face in your knees, embarrassed to think about how awkward it’ll be when you see him next.

the next time you’re alone with luke, it’s just as awkward as you think. well, for you, it is. sure, you’ve seen each other around the apartment, but only while you’re both hanging out with friends or on your way in and out. you haven’t actually been alone together.

you avoid eye contact. you can’t look at him without feeling your heart skip beats or your face flushing red.

“so,” luke says. “does it have to be this tense just because i fucked you?”

“shut up,” you reply instantly. you didn’t think he’d bring it up. you thought it’d be a one and done kind of deal where the two of you just never speak about it again.

“is this the part where you pretend you don’t want me to do it again?” he shifts his weight, then turns towards you and leans into your space. “‘cause if you want me to fuck you again, you can just ask.”

“i didn’t say anything like that,” you point out, but your body feels hot because his eyes are wandering over it, checking you out. “maybe you’re the one who wants to fuck me.”

“hold on,” luke raises his hands to his defense. “i catch you touching yourself after you’ve said my name a few times and you’re trying to spin this on me?” he just laughs and shakes his head. “i’m afraid that’s not how this works.”

“well—” you speak, but he interrupts you by placing a knuckle beneath your chin and lifting your head. he wants you to look him in the eyes.

“tell me what you want,” he says and you feel weak. you’d be lying if you said he was wrong. you do want him to fuck you again. it’s so bad that you’ve gotten off to the idea multiple times since it’s happened. you’ve thought about him everywhere. in bed, in the shower, in the car. you can’t even pay attention at work because you’re thinking about luke fucking you. there’s so many things you want that you don’t even know what to ask for. he can almost sense it, too. it’s in the way you hesitate, like your mind is plagued by thoughts. “that bad, huh?”

“please, be quiet,” you say quickly, words rushed together and voice a bit higher than normal.

“wow, okay,” luke cocks his head to the side and laughs off what he takes as a compliment. “i’m flattered, really,” he says to you. “do you have a little crush on me?”

you don’t know what to say. you look like a deer caught in the headlights. you stumble over your words immediately and make an attempt at denial.

“this isn’t high school,” you finally manage, but that’s not good enough for him. still, he won’t press the matter. he’s gotten all the information he needs out of you.

“how ‘bout this… when you think of something, shoot me a text and i’ll be there,” luke offers and you think he’s fucking insane for it. he could’ve said more, but he doesn’t want to spoil you, so he keeps the offer simple and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he ditches you to go have a smoke on the balcony.

you finally relax when he leaves. your body’s never felt so tense before. you’re leaning against the counter in the kitchen like it’s the only thing keeping you standing. luke is full of himself and you just gave him a hundred more reasons to be.

you don’t text him that night, nor the next. not even the one after that. not for sex, at least. you try to play the waiting game to see if he’ll ask to fuck you first. unfortunately, it seems luke is really good at that game because he doesn’t ask you for months. it’s driving you crazy. being near him makes you feel like a ticking time bomb that’s about to explode. you’ve lost sleep over him and you’ve also lost count of how many times you’ve spent getting off to the thought of him. was he right, do you have a crush on him or was the sex just that good? you knew before that the answer was ‘yes’ to the former, but now you’re in denial about it because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right.

finally, everything just builds up and becomes too much. you don’t know what’s worse, the days he doesn’t acknowledge you and makes you feel unwanted or the days he teases you with an offhand comment and leaves you desperate for more. the final straw, though— what really makes you mad is that you have to find out from his friends that he mentioned the sex to them. you don’t know if you’re hurt or not, but you have some questions.

“what the fuck, luke?” you come in yelling and slam the door behind yourself.

“what’s your problem?” he looks up from where he’s drinking a beer on the couch. he’s obviously confused. he shouldn’t be. he knows why you’ve been acting so crazy. he knows it’s because you like him so much. need turns to bitterness in the end.

“you told michael!” you say to him, fists clenched at your sides after you’ve put your bag down on the table in the kitchen. “seriously, you couldn’t keep your mouth shut? who the fuck else did you tell?”

“ashton and calum,” luke answers honestly, standing to his feet so he can walk over and have a proper conversation with you.

you just look at him like he’s stupid, but you shouldn’t be shocked. luke is like any guy you’ve ever met. he has times where he’s a total asshole, so you don’t even know why you like him so much.

“something wrong?” luke asks, then takes another drink from the bottle he’s holding.

“yes,” you tell him, but you don’t know where to start. how do you say this is all because you tried playing the long game with him and it’s your own damn fault for all the tense interactions and anger that’s built up? you wouldn’t have cared if you had found out a month ago that he told his friends, you’re just looking for something to be mad about.

“what is it?” he asks.

“did your mom drop you on your head?” you question him and he scoffs.

“okay,” he laughs in an attempt to brush off the insult. “you either need a drink or you need to get laid. which is it?”

“…don’t tell anyone else,” you say, and you mean it. he rolls his eyes, though.

“i won’t tell anyone else. why is it such a big deal?” luke looks down at you, then sets his beer next to your bag after he finishes it off.

“they’re gonna think i’m a slut,” you respond with a frown, arms crossed over your chest.

“and, what, you think you aren’t?” he asks and the question catches you off guard. you try to keep in mind he’s been here all day and you saw multiple other drinks on the coffee table, but you’ve never wanted to slap him so badly before. “because i didn’t have to take a crowbar to those legs to pry them open or anything,” he adds.

your jaw drops. how he can treat you like any other girl he’s fucked is beyond you. it makes you feel so small. you thought the two of you were closer than that, but, now that you really think back on it, maybe it was all in your head.

“you’re just saying that to hurt my feelings,” you retort and inwardly curse yourself as a lump forms in your throat and tears form in your eyes.

“are you seriously about to cry?” luke sighs, then reaches for you. you jerk away by stepping back, but he grabs you by the hips and drags you back anyway. you get lifted onto the counter, next to everything, and he positions himself between your legs. he knows if he’s a little sweet to you, you’ll forget all about this. he never does say he’s sorry, though. “look, that’s my bad. i shouldn’t have told them,” he begins, then presses his lips to your ear. you can smell the alcohol on his breath when he speaks. cigarettes linger in his clothes and you want to pull him closer just to inhale his scent, but you don’t. “should’ve seen their jealous faces when i told ‘em, though.”

suddenly, the room feels ten degrees hotter. the idea that all of luke’s friends want a go at you is enough to make you blush.

“w-what did you tell them?” you ask, just out of curiosity. you swallow the tight feeling in your throat and wipe away the tears that fall over your cheeks, drying your eyes.

“i told them that pussy was tight and your ass shakes perfectly when you get fucked from behind,” luke supplies you with an answer and you nearly choke. he just grins. his hand slips into the front of your shorts and he gets a feel of how wet you are with his fingers. your breath gets caught in your chest and you stifle a moan when he starts to finger you. is that really all it takes to shut you up? you feel a little pathetic, you must admit, but he’s the sleazy one here so you don’t know why it gets to you the way it does. “i also told them you didn’t complain when i came inside you. i told them how you bounced on my dick just to make sure it all fit. i told them how cute you are when you try to hide and pretend you don’t like getting slutted out.”

“oh, my god— okay, enough,” you say and luke stops. he pulls his fingers free from your cunt and removes his hands from your shorts. that’s not what you meant, so you whine when you feel empty again.

“c’mere,” luke steps back, beckoning you over as he reaches a hand out. you take it and hop down from the counter. he’s licking your juices off of his other hand and your knees nearly buckle when you notice.

he takes you over to the couch, where he sits down and busies himself with getting his pants undone.

“get on your knees,” luke tells you and you scramble to the floor. you’d say he has no idea how many times you’ve thought about him using your mouth, but he does. that’s why he’s doing this.

he pulls himself out, then tugs you forward. you get to work by taking him into your mouth and bobbing your head. you move up and down on his cock until you can fit about half of it into your mouth. that’s more than what you usually get. it’s not enough for him, though, because he’s shoving your head down and making you take more. you gag, then choke on it. you can feel yourself getting turned on by his roughness, so you squeeze your thighs together and try to ignore it for the time being. he lets up on his grip when he thinks you can handle it on your own, then thrusts in and out of your mouth and throat. you know you’re gonna sound hoarse tomorrow. his cock hits the back of your throat over and over again and it starts to bruise. spit is dripping down your chin and your lips are swollen from sucking him off. you look up and his face twists, eyes shut tight, as he nears the edge. a few more thrusts and he’s cumming down your throat. he pulls out and lets the other half of his orgasm finish on your face.

“good fucking girl,” luke groans and tries to catch his breath. you stand to your feet and await further instructions. he pulls you into his lap and his hands smooth over your sides, then holds onto your waist and he kisses you. you swap spit. he can taste himself and you can taste the beer he just had, coupled with the taste of his cum. he unbuttons your shirt and shoves it off, then gets your bra unfastened and tosses it aside. your shorts go next, and he’s too lazy to bother getting you out of your panties so he just pushes them to the side when he wants to slide into your cunt. you break away from the kiss with a gasp and you’re immediately bouncing on his cock. you’re soaking wet by now and you need the tension fucked out of you, so you don’t wait for it.

luke just leans back against the couch and lets you have your fun. you ride him up and down, until your legs go numb and your movements start to stutter. by then, you’re panting hard and grinding down on him, just trying to get some stimulation against that sweet spot. your hand is between your thighs and you’re rubbing at your clit, desperate to get off.

“and you didn’t wanna look like a slut?” luke laughs, rubbing a hand across his chest. “you’ve done a damn good job of it,” he continues, then pulls you down when he thrusts up.

“fuck— right there,” you moan when he hits over your g-spot. you ignore the insult, but it stirs something inside of you and makes you grip him tighter.

“yeah, right here?” he asks, then hits it again. you nod your head quickly and he continues. he doesn’t stop. he fucks into you hard and fast, then keeps going until he’s balls deep inside your cunt. he’s practically hitting your cervix with every other thrust and, just like every other guy, he’s watching your tits bounce while he fucks you. you notice and reach for your chest to give them a squeeze. his cock is throbbing inside of you and the sight only makes it worse.

luke ends up grabbing hold of your hips so he can lift you up and toss you onto the couch, where he crawls over top of you and pushes right back in. he fucks you just like before, steadily building up speed until his hips are moving so fast that it’s getting hot and sticky between your thighs as your soaked pussy drips around his cock.

“you’re so fucking wet,” luke teases.

“all your fault,” you tell him and your hands reach for his face so you can pull him in for another kiss. he gladly returns in, then breaks away so he can press open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. he sucks a few marks onto your skin so you’ll remember this later, then starts grinding into you like he does when he’s getting close. his fingers find your clit and he starts getting you off, rubbing over it to provide you with the friction you need to cum.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” luke growls into your ear and it’s enough to make your eyes roll back and send you over the edge. your orgasm hits you hard enough to make you shout, entire frame trembling as he continues to use you for himself. it takes a few more minutes, but luke finishes. he fills you up and makes a complete mess of you. he fucks you through his orgasm and his cum is spilling out of you by the time he pulls out. it’s gonna leave stains on the couch, but you can’t think about that right now. your head is swimming and you can still feel your cunt throbbing from where it’s been thoroughly fucked.

luke fixes his pants and, just like last time, he leaves you there to clean yourself up.

“hey, same time next week?” he jokes, but you’re gonna take him up on that offer. “i’ll be in my room,” he says, then pats your inner thigh and walks off to his room.

[chapbrinas]

title: double vision.

pairing: brunet!luke x blond!luke.

content warning and author's note: this is not necessarily a dead dove fic in my mind, but i will be utilizing the tag to say that if you don't heed the warning now you have no right to be upset about what is present in the fic. selfcest will be present.

summary: luke decides to fuck himself, literally.

word count: 2,160.

the brunet had never given much thought to whether or not he’d fuck himself. he’s got an ego on him, that’s for damn sure, but he wouldn’t say it extends that far. that is, until the blond version of him is staring him in the face and he’s left tongue tied.

it doesn’t take long for them to figure out that neither of them are much for conversation. not right now, anyway. they’re both so focused on each other that they skip the small talk and go right for the hands on approach before either of them has the chance to change their minds. neither of them stop to question the logistics of it; the how’s, the why’s, and the what’s of it all. they just know what they need and that they need it now. it probably helps that they’re both drunk and high. that means that this is something that they can make sense of in the morning.

for now, the brunet is kissing the blond rough and hard. it’s rushed. there’s no set pace at first. it’s all tongue and teeth, until they find a steady rhythm where they can both go at each other without interrupting the other’s flow. they’re left panting into each other’s mouths with spit connecting them as they break away from each other just to get a breath in.

the blond is the first to whine. he makes it obvious he wants more. it’s evident in the way he reaches for the back of the brunet’s neck and pulls him back in. the brunet declines, however, and swipes a thumb over the blond’s lower lip to collect some of the spit before he gets an idea.

“open your mouth,” says the brunet and the blond gives him a questioning look, but does it nonetheless. the brunet waits until he’s been obliged to cup the side of his face and spit directly onto his tongue. he guides the blond’s jaw shut. “now swallow.”

the blond doesn’t need to be told twice. he does as instructed, tongue shyly peeking out afterwards to lick over his lips just so he can savor the taste of what’s left of the brunet.

“good boy,” the brunet hums, caressing the blond’s face. the blond leans into his touch, but it doesn’t last. not before the brunet is getting the blond’s pants undone and tugging them down his legs so he can toss them aside. they fall to the floor. the brunet’s shirt goes next, then his pants get unzipped. they don’t even bother to get completely undressed before they’re all over each other again, lips crashing together and tongues dragging against one another as they lick into each other’s mouths.

the blond has held it together thus far, but he’s getting dizzy off of just a few kisses. he can’t hide the sounds that get caught in the back of his throat or the rush he feels coursing through his system. he wants more and he’s anticipating it, especially when the brunet shifts between his thighs and grinds his hips forward to rut into him. it’s steady and it doesn’t stop. the blond can feel the blood rushing to his face, flush spread out across his cheeks and up to his ears. he groans and eventually matches the tempo that’s been set, his own hips dragging upwards to get a feel of the friction he so desperately needs.

“you’re a fucking tease,” the blond whimpers. he opts for biting at the brunet’s throat to get his attention. it must work because the brunet is cursing under his breath as if the little bit of friction between them isn’t enough. the blond looks at the brunet as he pulls back and begins to get undressed. the brunet’s leather jacket is already on the floor. his shirt and jeans find their way next to it, then his hands hurriedly begin to strip the blond of his own clothing.

the blond is quick to drag the brunet down for another kiss, hungry and eager for more. he can’t just wait. he needs this now.

“so impatient,” the brunet mumbles into the kiss, chastising the blond. the blond can feel his heart flutter in response, cock twitching restlessly against his stomach. the brunet wraps his hand around it and gives it a stroke; up, then down. the pad of his thumb rubs over the head and he pauses to work at the most sensitive areas of his arousal with just his fingers.

a mewl gets stuck in the blond’s throat, but it eventually claws its way out. the brunet just grins.

“c’mon—” the blond begs. it’s not the kind of begging the brunet wants to hear, though.

“would that be your way of saying you want more?” asks the brunet, fully expecting an answer. “because you can do better than that.”

“please,” the blond whimpers— pleads. he needs this and he’s willing to look pathetic if it means it’ll get him what he wants. “please, please, please— give it to me.”

“was that so hard?” queries the brunet as he caresses the blond’s cheek. the gentle touch turns into a mocking pat, then a harsh smack and the blond groans in response when a shudder runs down his spine as a stinging sensation takes over the right side of his face. his cock jumps at the casual cruelty, then does it again when the brunet wraps a hand around his throat and squeezes tight. meanwhile, his free hand remains gripped at the blond’s arousal. he’s jerking him off quickly and efficiently, watching as the head leaks pre-cum and makes a mess all over his palm. “answer me.”

“mm— n-no—” the blond sputters, voice catching. he’s all breathy, moans filling the room as a skilled hand works him over.

“want me to fuck you?” the brunet asks.

“god, please— i want you to fuck me so bad,” the blond admits and it feels filthy to say that he wants his doppelganger to be the one doing it, but he does.

more and more, the brunet’s hand picks up speed. he’s got a steady pace going and, at this rate, the blond won’t last. he stops just before he thinks the blond is about to blow his load, anyway. he can tell that’s the case by the way the blond digs his heel into the bed and lets out the most pitiful complaint he can muster up.

that’s when the brunet pries the blond’s legs apart. he doesn’t tell him what to do this time— doesn’t give him any instructions or warnings. he just does it for him. he spits onto his fingers and his hand slips between the blond’s thighs, digits pressing against that tight ring of muscle so they can push past the rim and enter him. the blond hisses as fingers enter him. the stretch burns when there’s only spit. it’s not as bad as it could be. he knows it’ll be worse when they actually get down to the act, but it’s a pain he’s willingly anticipating.

the brunet keeps it at two fingers, for now, and slowly works them in and out. he searches for something, then curls them inside of the blond when he finds it. the ends of his fingers brush against the blond’s prostate and the blond arches off the bed, hips shaking as the brunet brings his hand to his hip to hold him in place. he grounds him to the mattress and doesn’t let up. he keeps giving the area special attention, until the blond is needy and writhing, panting and desperate to get fucked.

“enough!” the blond shouts in frustration. “more, please— god, i need more.”

the brunet laughs and removes his fingers, then flips the blond over and slots himself somewhere behind him, between his legs. he doesn’t waste any time getting the two of them lined up. he presses the tip against his hole, then pushes into him with one single thrust. the blond yelps, but bites down on the pillow in front of him to muffle it.

“no, no—” the brunet begins. “you’re gonna let me hear you,” he says, then grabs a fistful of the blond’s hair and forces his head to the side. he wants to see that beautiful face and all those pretty reactions while he’s busy taking cock. “c’mon, baby,” he tells him, voice barely above a whisper. “lift your hips up for me and show me how much you like this.”

as embarrassed as the blond is— and he is embarrassed, absolutely humiliated, it’s written all over his face— he does as he’s told. he lifts his hips up, knees beneath him for support. he’s face down, ass up, while the brunet gets ready to rail into him. god, he can’t feel his cheeks.

the brunet chuckles, getting repositioned. he pushes in those last few inches, until he’s completely bottomed out, and he can see it in the blond’s face that it’s uncomfortable. he’s big and thick and it hurts a bit, but he’ll get adjusted. the brunet’s nice enough to give him time to accommodate, actually. he waits until the blond’s expression relaxes, then thrusts. he only releases the grip he has on his hair when he decides he can trust him to behave.

the blond stays in position, like a good boy. he even spreads his legs a little more. he takes it, hips stuttering, until they find it in them to move in sync with each thrust. they get a nice rhythm going and, soon enough, he’s practically fucking himself on the brunet’s cock. the brunet’s got both his hands on the blond’s hips, fingers pressing bruises into pale skin and nails leaving crescent shapes as he drags them across hide, guiding him back with every movement.

“oh, fuck— fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” the blond begs. “do not fucking stop— please, god, don’t stop,” he continues and he rambles. he goes on and on, mumbling about how bad he’s needed this.

“yeah?” the brunet asks. “you like that?” he continues, then adds a particularly harsh thrusts that makes the blond’s body jolt and leaves him seeing stars. the brunet takes control for a moment. he holds him still, strong grip around his hips, then fucks into him rough and hard. the blond shouts, but it’s nothing short of masochistic delight as the brunet rams into him at a brutal speed, really giving it to him. “fuck, baby, just take it,” the brunet pants out. he doesn’t think about how bad it might hurt. he just gives it to him. doesn’t seem to matter, however, because the blond doesn’t appear to have any gripes. even with his struggling, shaking, and all his whining, he’s taking it in stride. his hands tangle into the sheets on the bed for some sort of purchase and his feet dig into the mattress, twisting on their heels as toes curl in response. his thighs are trembling, hips quivering, and he can barely keep up. he gasps out moans, breath hot and heavy against the pillow beneath his head and eyes screwed shut. if the brunet doesn’t let up on that sweet spot, he’s going to cum soon.

“too much—” the blond whimpers. he’s so overstimulated that tears prick his eyes. he just can’t help himself, his hips have to drop down to grind against the bed. the brunet has no problem following, fucking him into the mattress— hard and deep, barely pulling out now.

“no, no, no— you can take it, you can take it,” the brunet promises and he’s getting pretty close to the edge himself. “you’re gonna take it,” he grunts.

all the blond can focus on is how mind numbing it is every time the brunet drives his hips forward. the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room and it’s so fucking sinful.

it’s not until the blond is borderline rigid that the brunet realizes he’s done for. his orgasm hits him hard. all it takes is a few more harsh thrusts, along with him humping the bed at just the right angle, and he’s finished. he’s left lying there, gasping for air, sweat beading on his skin as hair sticks to his forehead. the brunet isn’t fair behind him, either. he buries himself deep inside the blond, then unloads when his release finally catches up to him.

he pulls out slowly, if only for being decent. the two of them lay there and struggle to catch their breath for a moment. they’re both a mess.

“same time next week?” the brunet inquires. he’s already catching himself and standing to his feet to pull his pants on so he can button them and zip the fly.

“…sure,” the blond lifts himself on his elbows and looks at the brunet, watching as he walks out the door. the brunet doesn’t leave without giving him a two finger salute and a wink.

[welsh-catgirl]

transparent kokichi ouma sprites! [spoilers]

imgur gallery: http://imgur.com/a/hL21z

all sprites under the cut~ 

spoiler warning, beware!

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