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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

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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. 

—

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.

🔪 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

── .✦

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.”

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. 

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?”