Vickie₊˚⊹ 𐂯

luke’s a good boy. really, he is. that’s why he doesn’t complain much when he spends the night bent over, on bruised knees, locked in a cage until morning. he’s got a shock collar around his neck and it’s got a tag on it that reads ‘bite risk,’ wrists cuffed together behind his back, and his mouth is stuffed full of a pair of underwear with duct tape over his lips and a muzzle attached to his head, covering his mouth. he doesn’t protest his situation. he’s quiet, until he’s taken out.

michael opens the door to the cage and tugs at the leash on the other end of the collar. luke whimpers, legs pained as they stretch out to lift him to his feet. he crawls out best he can and it’s pathetic. he stumbles a few times, until he finally stands. there’s a pleading look in his eyes as michael reaches to remove the muzzle and the duct tape, then the underwear from his mouth. saliva coats them and a string of it connects to his lips. drool drips down his chin and michael wipes it away.

“you did so good for me,” michael says. “didn’t make a sound all night.” luke doesn’t respond. he’s under a speech restriction. he doesn’t speak unless given permission. “you can talk, mutt.”

“what do i get?” luke asks, expectant. michael laughs and it’s dark, almost cruel.

“is that what you think— that you get something out of this every time?” michael queries. luke’s brows furrow together. he looks confused.

“please?” the blond pleads and he’s got that look in his eyes. the one he always gets when he’s desperate. it drives michael up the wall and sends him reeling. he needs more.

“oh, that’s good— start begging,” michael instructs, leash wrapped around his hand now to close the distance between them as he pulls luke closer. he drags him in until their faces are inches apart and luke is only a breath away.

“michael—” luke protests, just this once, because he’s already done the work. he doesn’t see why he should have to do more. michael’s got this charm to him, though. the way he looks at him like he’s something to be devoured sends a shiver up luke’s spine and makes him melt. he’d do anything for him.

“what do you want?” michael asks and luke knows that, once he does, he won’t get a second chance, so he takes a breath— a nervous, shaky one— and answers him.

“i want you to fuck me,” luke exhales. “please, i need it. i miss it, i miss you,” he whines.

michael sucks at his teeth, then places a hand on luke’s cheek and luke leans into his touch.

“isn’t that cute?” michael hums. “you miss me that bad.”

“yes,” luke admits. pouts, even. he’s not above stomping his foot, either. he’ll pitch a fit, if he has to. “i don’t think it’s fair.”

“don’t start getting an attitude with me,” michael warns, then follows the leash to its end, until he reaches the collar. he gives it a tug, then checks it to make sure it’s on well enough so that it won’t be coming off.

“my knees hurt, my back hurts, my throat is still sore from yesterday and the day before, you haven’t fucked me in a week— do i need to keep going?” asks luke, countering michael’s statement with brattiness just to make a point.

michael must not like that because the first thing he does is reach for the remote in his pocket and press a button on it to activate the shock collar luke is wearing. it’s only a minor shock, but luke still tenses.

“behave,” michael demands.

“fuck!” luke curses. he tugs at his wrists from where they’re cuffed together, as if it’ll free them and he’ll be able to take the collar off. to no avail, of course. he’s about to open his mouth to make another ill-mannered comment when he retreats, head lowered. there’s a quiet whimper and he looks to the ground, admitting defeat.

“your throat’s about to be even more sore today,” michael forewarns. he pulls at the leash and drags luke along with him to the bedroom, where he stops once he reaches the bed. he sits on the mattress and leaves luke standing in front of him. “go on, mutt. get on your knees.”

luke doesn’t listen. he doesn’t think michael’s earned a blowjob three days in a row, while he gets nothing, but demands, all week. looks like michael’s gonna have to make him.

“why should i?” luke questions michael, brows furrowed in frustration. he looks so cute when he’s mad, michael will give him that much.

“don’t start,” michael advises. luke doesn’t want to piss him off. “i can put you back in that cage.”

luke must not be too fond of that idea because he’s slowly sliding down to his knees, despite that they’re bruised, and adamantly looking up at michael from between his legs. michael takes the opportunity to lean back and pop the button on his jeans, then unzip his fly. he tugs himself free from his boxers and luke shuffles forward on his knees, mouth falling open as he waits for michael to make use of it.

michael doesn’t wait around. he shoves his cock into luke’s mouth without so much as a second thought. the warm, wet heat of it feels good around him.

“good boy,” he praises luke, then pets the top of his head. luke looks up at him, innocent blue eyes knowing this is the calm before the storm because soon enough michael is grabbing onto the back of luke’s head and forcing him down on his cock. he doesn’t stop. not until luke is gagging and choking. even then, luke gets lucky if michael lets up for even a second. he presses forward, until he’s buried inside of luke’s throat and luke’s face is turning red from the lack of oxygen. his throat is already bruised and sore and this is just making it worse. so much for the healing process. “c’mon, you can take it,” michael assures him, patting luke’s cheek. he pulls out to slap his cock against luke’s face, then forces it back into his mouth. this time, he thrusts in and out. he fucks luke’s mouth and uses it, until he’s sure luke is going to pass out. he can’t help himself. he just gets so eager. not to mention, luke is so willing. he always takes it so well. he never tries to push michael off or make him stop. of course, it probably helps that he’s handcuffed right now.

michael pulls at luke’s hair for extra leverage, by the way. it gets a garbled groan out of luke. he’d moan, but the cock in his mouth would just muffle it all. besides, it’s a little hard to do with how intensely michael is using his throat right now.

by the time michael stops, luke is gasping for air. there’s spit coating his lips and drool dripping down his chin. he coughs a few times, then tries to catch his breath. he’s red in the face, embarrassed to let michael use him so freely. the blush spreads to his ears and down to his chest and he just prays michael doesn’t notice to tease him because he can practically feel the heat radiating off of his face right now.

“you didn’t finish,” luke struggles to get out, voice raw and hoarse.

“got other plans, mutt,” michael says and it comes out of his mouth like a promise. he winks, then pulls luke to his feet and stands from the bed at the same time, but only so he can bend luke over the mattress and get behind him. he kicks luke’s legs apart with his foot and wedges his knee between his thighs so he can’t close his legs. “looks like it’s your lucky day. i’m gonna fuck you after all. you just gotta be a good boy and take it.”

luke bites his lip in anticipation. he buries his face in the blankets that are all piled up on the bed. he doesn’t know why he feels the need to shy away. not that he can. michael is so domineering when he gets like this that he won’t allow it.

“i’ll be good,” luke assures him, after he’s turned his head so he can talk freely without his words becoming muffled.

“i know you will,” michael chuckles. he doesn’t waste anymore time, either. he gets himself lined up with luke’s entrance, head pressed to luke’s tight rim, then pushes into him. the tip shoves past that first ring and luke squirms. he didn’t get any preparation and the most they’re using is spit, so it burns. the stretch hurts. it aches even worse when michael’s fully buried inside of him, but there’s something about the pain that makes luke dizzy. he’s dazed by it, seeing stars, and all around blissed out by that initial first few minutes of agony. michael knows he likes when it hurts, so he doesn’t bother being gentle. he pulls out, until only the tip is left inside, then thrusts right back in. he sets a steady rhythm and fucks him hard and fast right away. luke squeezes his eyes shut and he screams. he’d cover his mouth, but all he can do is pull at the cuffs around his wrists and hope they give way because— honestly— he’d like the opportunity to hide himself. fists clench tight and his shouts turn into hopeless whimpers. he’s desperately pleading, begging for michael to keep going.

“don’t stop— please— needed this so bad,” luke pants, words coming out hot and heavy. he’s breathless already.

“fuck,” michael groans, long and drawn out. “struggling already, mutt?” he says in reference to luke falling apart beneath him. michael doesn’t let up, despite this. he keeps going. really gives it to him. fucks him harder, deeper, rougher— anything he can. “just take it. i know you can take it.”

“hurts so fucking good,” luke moans; loud, shameless, and sinful. it is borderline fucking unholy the way it falls off of his lips; wicked enough to leave churches in shambles. michael’s touch corrupts him and he lets it. he’s desperate and depraved, eventually finding the strength somewhere to rock his hips back into michael’s thrusts so that he can fuck himself on his cock. they move in sync and there’s a cadence to it, well needed friction finding luke’s prostate with every other movement.

michael holds onto luke’s wrists. he knows luke can’t move his arms, even if he wanted to, but there’s something enticing about leveraging him to force him back with his grip.

“takin’ it so fuckin’ good for me, mutt,” michael rewards luke with praise. “you think you can handle goin’ a little harder?” he asks, but doesn’t give luke the chance to respond before he’s letting go of his arms and dragging him back by the hips. he holds them in place while he pounds into him, ramming into his prostate on purpose now. he’s consistent about it, too. he fucks him good, until luke is a sputtering mess of incoherent words and phrases.

“please— fuck— oh, god—” luke barely gets out. it’s all he can manage. he can’t think properly. there’s this building pressure in his stomach and it’s rising. he’s seeing white before he knows it, spilling anywhere and everywhere. thick, white cum leaks from his cock and he makes a mess on the bedsheets, shouting michael’s name over and over.

now that luke’s finished, michael doesn’t hold back. he holds him down and fucks him how he wants, focused only on himself. he chases after his own orgasm and luke’s thighs are trembling, entire frame shaking, while he gets used like some cheap toy and nothing more. he’s drooling again, head hanging in shame and a string of exceedingly loud moans tumble out of his mouth.

a few minutes later michael is following right behind luke. he’s filling him up, dropping a heavy load inside of him, and burying it nice and deep. he waits a minute before pulling out slowly, then pats luke’s ass and spreads him open to admire his handywork.

“don’t look—” luke squirms and tries to get away from michael’s prying hands. he’s feeling bashful, but michael holds him in place.

“let me see,” michael demands, then spanks luke hard. luke admits defeat with a yelp and goes limp, then michael opens him up. he looks at luke’s hole, observing the slight stretch and watching as his cum leaks out of it. his thumb spreads the rim apart and he chuckles darkly. “you look cute all stretched out, with my cum leaking out of you.”

“shut up, asshole,” luke huffs.

michael lets out a ‘tsk’ and spanks luke’s ass again, harder this time. he’s just manhandling him at this point, but it’s called for since luke wants to act like a brat.

the cuffs come off, finally, and michael brings luke’s wrists to his face to kiss the bruises forming around them. the collar is removed next.

“lucky you’re cute, mutt,” michael tells luke. “c’mon, we’re gonna go shower, then i’m making you food.”

“i don’t have to get back in the cage?” luke asks, sounding sincerely surprised.

“no,” michael laughs, then tugs luke closer to kiss the top of his head. “my puppy.”

you have this dirty little secret… well, a few, actually. you get off on pain, you like playing hard to get, you like being humiliated, and you like being degraded. calum’s just the man for the job, too. he’s got you wrapped around his finger with the way you’re bent over his lap right now. his hand comes down hard on your ass and you cry out. he doesn’t stop there, however, and spanks you again. he even does it again and again, until the skin is so red that it’s practically glowing and it stings so bad that you’re kicking your feet and tears are falling from your eyes. your body shudders in the aftermath and you let out a drawn out moan as he smooths his hand over both of your cheeks and admires his handiwork. you think he’s done, judging by the pause in lashings, but he’s just grabbing his belt from where it’s laid out next to him on the bed and folding it in half so he can whip you with it. it hurts worse than his hand, especially when he really strikes. tears fall involuntarily, you choke back a sob, and you swallow the saliva pooling in your mouth. your entire body shakes, but your legs are trembling something fierce. you’re pretty sure you’re gonna feel this all week and he’s hoping for it. he likes when you have little reminder of who you belong to.

after a few more hits, he stops. he makes sure both cheeks are perfectly bruised, then pries your legs apart so he can get a look at how wet you are.

“let me see,” calum demands and you don’t listen. you try to keep your legs closed, but he manages to part them. you whine, face burning bright and hot; up to your ears, down to your chest, and over your shoulders. you tell him ‘no’ several times, but you never mean it. it’s more of a declaration of embarrassment than a demand for him to stop. you’re just shy. “that’s my girl,” he says to you, after you’ve given in. you’re soaked, inner thighs glistening with the mess. he swipes a pair of fingers through your folds, then spreads you open.

meanwhile, luke is standing across from the both of you getting it all on video. it’s recording, but it’s also broadcasting. you’re live.

“everyone can see how much of a slut you are,” calum tells you, then waves for luke to come over. “get a close up of this,” he says to luke, who zooms the camera in on your cunt so the world can see. calum laughs when you protest because it’s always fun to watch you squirm, as if you don’t secretly enjoy every second of this. the belt becomes makeshift bondage and calum uses it to bind your wrists behind your back. you won’t be needing your hands.

“yeah, but don’t worry. it’s a pretty cute pussy. everyone thinks so,” luke informs you after checking the comments. you always did like to be shown off, even if it does make you want to curl into a ball and hide. you’re even doing it now. your head is ducked down, out of sight and away from the camera. calum readjusts you so that luke can get a shot of your face. “don’t worry about the crying, folks, she loves it,” the blond lets everyone know.

calum sets you down on your knees on the ground and starts getting his pants undone. his fly is unzipped, then his boxers are pushed down, and he pulls his cock free. he grabs you by the leash you’re wearing and jerks you forward.

“open your mouth, sweetheart,” calum insists, but, like always, you make this difficult. you put on a show because he enjoys this just as much as you do. he likes having someone to manhandle and boss around. that’s why, when the smack across the face comes, it doesn’t take you by surprise. it’s not too hard, but still hard enough to hurt. “do what i fucking tell you to do.”

you bite your lip, then tug it between your teeth and finally open your mouth. he rewards you with a pat on the cheek, then drags you forward by the back of your neck and shoves his cock right into your mouth. there’s no time to adjust, so you’re already gagging and choking around him. he just laughs as he watches you struggle, tears streaming down your face as you accommodate the large intrusion. he doesn’t give you time to manage anything before he’s placing his hands on either side of your head and holding it still so he can fuck your face. thrusts start off slow and shallow. he’s nice enough to give you that much, but the pace quickly picks up and your lips are swollen and covered in spit before you know it. he’s halfway down your throat. it takes one final shove and he makes it fit. you can’t breathe and he doesn’t let you pull away to try. he holds you down for a minute or two, until you’re on the verge of passing out. the corners of your vision go black and he lets up, leaving you gasping for air and coughing. there’s this bruising sensation in the back of your throat that tells you your voice is going to be hoarse for a while. he’s not done with you, though. he pulls you right back over to see if you’ll handle it better a second time around. you do. there’s not nearly as much straining. you take it, until saliva trickles down your chin and your eyes burn from crying. he stops just before he’s about to finish, hand wrapped around the base of his cock like he needs to catch himself. he takes a deep breath, then tries to steady his breathing. looks like he was getting pretty worked up.

“c’mere,” calum calls for you, and you shuffle over on your knees. he gets up from where he’s sitting and gets down on the ground with you, shoving your head to the floor. “hips up,” he instructs and you’re too out of it to put up much of a fight. the lack of oxygen for a minute there still has you lightheaded. you lift up your hips and spread your legs without so much as being told. he rewards you with some light praises. “good girl. how’s my princess want it?” he asks, knowing damn well you don’t like to answer. you turn your face away from the camera again and he grabs you roughly, forcing you to look at it. “go on, tell them how you like it.”

you swallow thickly, ignoring the bruising sensation in your throat, and answer him. you tell it to the camera: you like it rough and hard, until you’re screaming. you wanna hurt.

“there we go. that wasn’t so hard, was it?” calum runs his fingers through your hair and kisses your temple briefly. it’s a small moment of tender love and care that keeps your mind from falling apart when you let him push your limits.

luke’s off to the side still, continuing to hold the camera. he’s watching intently, too.

“she can do better than that,” luke suggests. he grabs you by the face and points the camera at just you. “do it again,” he adds. you whimper and attempt to jerk away from him, but he’s got a good grip on you. “no, no,” luke reprimands you. “tell them how you like getting your pussy fucked. tell them who you belong to..”

you glance over to calum like you expect him to do something, but he doesn’t. he’s waiting to see that you’ll listen, so you do. you speak up and say word for word that you like getting your pussy pounded until you can’t walk for days and that your pussy belongs to calum and luke. it’s a long winded ramble, until they shut you up.

that’s when luke sets the camera aside. he gets it stabilized so that it’ll catch all of you in the frame, then waits for calum to lay down and pull you on top of himself so that he can get behind you. uh oh, you hadn’t exactly planned for this. they’re gonna stuff you full and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

neither of them get you read. they don’t open you up, there’s no preparation. they figure you can take it. you whimper out a ‘wait,’ but it’s too late. calum’s already lined himself up and pushed right into your cunt. he shoves his way in, until the head of his cock hits your cervix and your jaw drops. you let out a long, drawn out moan. it hurts so fucking good and there’s more where that came from. you don’t really start to struggle, until you feel luke pressed against that tight rim of muscle. he’s using lube, at least. still, he doesn’t go slow. not exactly fast, either, but quick enough for it to be so painful that your entire frame jerks and every muscle in your body tenses up. it fucking burns. they’re both stretching you out, walls squeezed between them. you feel so full. you shout, call him an asshole, a bastard, and tell him he’s a jerk. he responds with a hum and a few kisses to your neck that make up for it. regardless, you’re crying again. your chest is slightly heaving and you can feel sweat rolling down your thighs. your legs shake as you try to adjust to the feeling of being filled completely, and eventually you come around, but not before they start to move. they don’t give you a chance to catch your breath before they’re thrusting in unison. in, then out; hard and fast. your body can’t take it. you scream. neither of them let up. calum’s hand just goes for your throat and squeezes tight.

“hurts, don’t it? feels good for us, that’s all that matters,” calum groans, then his head tilts back against the floor. he’s in heaven and so is luke. meanwhile, you’re coming apart at the seams. you’re writhing, struggling against them while they hold you down. you don’t want them to stop, that’s your favorite part: that they don’t. you haven’t said the safeword, yet.

calum brushes past your g-spot and earns a good shout. it’s involuntary, but he picks up on it and angles his hips so that he can do it again. you’re pulling at the makeshift cuffs around your wrist, thin sheet of sweat covering your body now, and you swear you’re getting fucked stupid because you notice that you start to let it happen. you don’t struggle as much, then not at all. you can’t help but drool. it leaks out of your mouth, over your lip, then drips onto calum’s chest. there’s a long string of nonstop moaning and they take a look at each other, then high five. something about getting you to this point is an accomplishment for them.

“enjoying yourself?” luke asks, then gives you a reach around. digits find their way to that sensitive bundle of nerves between your thighs and he circles it with the pads of his fingers. he massages it carefully, until he remembers that you like it rough, then he rubs in harsh motions to really provide you with the friction you need. you’d move your hips to ride them both if calum didn’t have such a strong grip on them and wasn’t holding you in place so all you can do is take it.

this tightness gathers in your lower abdomen and you can feel pressure building up, until it’s too much and you’re pushed over the edge. your orgasm hits you and you’re trembling. neither of them approve.

“did we say you could cum?” luke queries, and you blame him. he’s the one who got you off, so it’s all his fault. he just scolds you for not taking fault. “bad girl, you know better,” he criticizes. all the while, they’re still fucking you. your cunt is reeling with how sensitive it feels and you just can’t take it, but you have to. what’s worse is: now, they’re really going to give it to you. calum pounds into you from below and luke rams into you from behind. they fuck into both of your holes until they’re bruised and sore. luke’s hand still toys with your clit; only, he stops on occasion to keep you from cumming again. it’s beyond frustrating. you keep getting close, only for your orgasm to be ruined. you kick your legs and they tighten their grips on you to hold you in place.

“shut the fuck up and take it like a good girl,” calum growls, and you let out the brattiest whine they’ve ever heard in their lives, then pout about how luke isn’t giving you what you want. “hey, listen,” he begins. “i don’t care about that. okay, baby ? i just wanna get off and you’re nothing but a toy for me to use, so why don’t you let luke do what he wants and behave?” he says in between thrusts. he knows you get off on being talked down to. it’s almost enough to have your climax hitting you again. you’re so turned on that you beg him to keep talking you through it and promise you’ll be good if he does. “yeah—? you want me to talk you through it, huh? you want me to tell you how you’re such a whore and that’s all you’re good for,” he speaks and his face scrunches. he’s getting close. luke is, too, so he finally stops torturing you. you cum hard and fast the second time, after all that built up tension finally dissipates.

a couple more swift movements and they both follow in behind you. thick, white ropes of cum get buried deep inside you and you shudder at the sensation.

they pull out slowly. fun’s mostly over, so they don’t want to risk hurting you anymore. both their arms go around you and they shower you in kisses. they press kiss after kiss to your cheeks, your forehead, your temples, and the top of your head. they’ve got enough stamina for another round, but they’d rather not wreck you completely… even if it would be fun. there’s a slight smile on your lips as you ask if you did good.

“you did amazing, sunshine,” luke tells you as he cuts the camera off and ends the stream. you forgot it was still going. all those people just watched you get turned into an utter mess. calum undoes the belt from around your wrists and the collar from around your neck and the first thing you do is reach your hands to cover your face so you can hide.

“hey, none of that. let’s get you cleaned up,” calum insists, then lifts you into his arms and takes you into the bathroom where he wipes you down, then runs you a hot bath. luke joins the two of you soon enough, but he takes the shower since you can’t all fit in the tub together.

Backstage at a 5 Seconds of Summer show is exactly how anyone imagines it to be. There’s a lot of teasing—a plethora of creative dick jokes that you pretended weren’t as funny as they actually were.

You’re in your brother’s dressing room now, frantically scrubbing away at a stain on your shirt. The stark orange-red of the marinara stain only seems to spread the more you scrub, and you feel tears of frustration start to brim in your eyes.

Another thing that’s unfortunately too common backstage at one of the shows is falling victim to Michael’s lackadaisical attitude toward the world around him. Most of the time, he likes to pretend you don’t exist, and the other half, you end up being an unfortunate casualty of his pranks.

Today, Michael had the brilliant idea to throw a slice of pizza at Calum, who dodged it, barely batting an eye. However, it was you standing right behind him—with lackluster reflexes.

Then, the unfortunate incident happened.

Michael thought it was the funniest thing, bursting into laughter, doubling over and near tears at your startled yelp. The white blouse you wore was one of the few nice items of clothing you owned, and now it was ruined by a bright red stain that would probably never come off.

Biting the inside of your cheek to contain your huff of frustration, you keep scrubbing at the stain with a damp paper towel, but to no avail. The mess only grows, the stain expanding and being joined by small pieces of paper.

You huff, drop the fabric, shut your eyes, and force yourself to take a deep breath.

The door to the dressing room swings open, and Ashton prances in with an easy grin. “Hey,” he greets. At the sight of your furrowed brows and frown, he stops mid-step. “What’s got you on the verge of a breakdown now?”

You let out a frustrated groan, your throat suddenly tight. There’s no reason to cry, but the frustration—paired with the fact that you somehow always end up being Michael’s collateral—feels like the final straw.

Wordlessly, you point at the stain on your shirt, which seems to have doubled in size. Ashton blinks, tilting his head as he studies it.

“That’s a gnarly stain,” your brother whistles. “Whatcha do to get that?”

Another wave of anger surges through you. “Existed around Michael, apparently.”

Ashton chuckles to himself, scratching the back of his neck as he glances around the room. “You’re making that so much worse,” he sighs. “Just change into something else. Trust me.”

You cross your arms over your chest, looking at Ashton with an incredulous expression. “I don’t have a ride back to the hotel,” you start, taking a step closer to him. “And I don’t have a change of clothes. So tell me—are you trying to play fairy godmother here?”

Ashton rolls his eyes, turning on his heel as he rummages through the room. He’s a year older than you, but sometimes it feels like you’re the more mature one.

“Aha!” he cries, waving a shirt in the air like a truce flag. “See? You can wear this one!”

You raise an eyebrow, walking over to him slowly. You eye the fabric dangling from his fingers suspiciously, like it’s bound to burst into flames at any second.

“That’s a muscle tee,” you say slowly. “But it’s not yours.”

Ashton freezes. “It could be.”

“I don’t wanna wear your clothes.”

“Why not?”

You pause, pursing your lips. “Because you’re… you.”

Your brother lets out an indignant squeak, leveling you with a glare that has as much threat as a newborn baby’s. “It could be,” he huffs, then hesitates, biting his lower lip. “But it’s not.”

Narrowing your eyes, you step closer. “Whose is it?” you ask.

“It’s Michael’s,” Ashton shrugs, tossing the shirt at you.

You scramble to catch it, your fingers just barely snagging the corner before it hits the ground. “You want me to wear his shirt?” you echo, incredulous. “You know, most guys tend to be a little more… weirded out by their sisters wearing their bandmate’s clothing.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Ashton turns to the door. “It’s his fault your shirt got ruined,” he calls over his shoulder. “The least he can do is let you borrow one in the meantime. Trust me, it’ll be fine.”

“But he hates me!” you whine, but the complaint falls on deaf ears as the door shuts behind him. You rub your eye with your knuckle hard enough to see colors, annoyance prickling your skin.

Fine. You’ll wear Michael’s shirt. If the asshole has a problem with it, he can take it up with Ashton later.

The fabric is soft beneath your fingertips, the colors slightly faded but surprisingly clean. It smells faintly of old cologne, worn at the edges. It might be a loose fit, but you can make it work.

With a dejected sigh, you grip the hem of your soiled shirt and pull it over your head, letting it fall carelessly into a heap at your feet.

Just as you’re about to slip the new shirt over your head, the door to the dressing room swings open.

“Fuck!” you yelp, scrambling to press the fabric to your chest. Your heart races, adrenaline flooding your veins as you turn to face the intruder.

Michael stands frozen in the doorway, his expression irritatingly unimpressed. His gaze flicks from the shirt clutched against your chest to the glimpses of bare skin.

“Dude, I’m changing,” you hiss, cheeks burning.

Michael snorts, turning away. “Not that impressive, don’t worry,” he mutters. “Why the hell do you have my shirt, anyway? You obsessed with me or somethin’?”

Your eyes narrow as you swallow down your embarrassment. “Can you go five minutes without being an absolute dick to me?”

To his credit, Michael actually turns around. Once his back is to you, you quickly pull the shirt down over your frame.

“Can I turn now, or are you gonna keep crying?” he asks, not even bothering to hide his exasperation.

Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the couch. “Fine,” you sigh. “And for the record, I’m wearing your shirt because you ruined the one I already had on. Payback.”

When Michael turns around, his eyes find you. They widen—almost imperceptibly—as he takes in the sight of his shirt on your body. His jaw clenches, but whatever moment of weakness that was vanishes as quickly as it came.

Traitorously, your heart flutters at the realization.

For as long as you’ve known him, Michael has been nothing but a thorn in your side. Sometimes he barely acknowledges your existence, and other times he acknowledges it way too much. 

And every single time, your breath catches when those jade green eyes land squarely on you. Maybe it has some psychological explanation— the way your stomach tightens when he talks down to you with that lazy drawl, but yet you can’t help the way your body responds to his mere existence. 

The sliver of attraction is enough for every single one of his jabs to cut deep. 

“Still think it’s cause you’re a freak,” he shrugs, throwing himself down on the sofa with a soft groan. He’s avoiding looking at you, it’s obvious by the way he keeps his state fixated on a dilapidated part of the wall. 

You don’t move, crossing your arms so tightly around your chest you’re sure you’re about to suffocate. 

“Wait no,” he snaps his fingers, sitting up slightly. He leans on his knees, a smirk curling on his pink lips. His red hair is confined by a snapback, few stray strands standing out from beneath it. “I’m not Calum, so maybe you aren’t obsessed with me after all.”

You sputter, eyes going wide at the permanent smirk on his face. He leans back against the couch, arms draped over the top, one leg crossed over the other— the perfect picture of apathy.

“I never said I liked Calum,” you snap, patience wearing thin as you step forward. “You took that and ran with it. I was drunk and wondering if Ashton would have much of a say about me hypothetically liking one of his bandmates.”

Michael hums. “Tomato, tomahto,” he grins, tilting his head. His eyes glint with mirth— that beautiful green, entirely too intense for someone so infuriating.

You watch, annoyingly mesmerized, as his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. The action is thoughtless, but it still sends a shiver down your spine and a thrill through your bones.

“Why do you hate me?” you ask, shrinking slightly under the weight of your own admission. “I’ve done nothing to you in the years I’ve known you— and yet just the fact that I breathe seems to send you over the edge.”

The smirk on Michael’s face falters for a moment before he pushes himself off the couch. When he stands at full height, he towers over you.

“Have you ever met someone so grating that no matter what they do or say, you just want them to shut the fuck up?” he asks, his eyes flicking down your body. For a second, his pupils widen. “It’s nothing you did. It’s just you.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” you gasp, affronted.

Michael huffs, shaking his head. He looks amused—like your outrage is just another joke for him to toy with. Still, after years of passive-aggressive jabs, of always being the punchline, of being ridiculed by the one person you actually want, something in you finally snaps.

“God, you’re so insufferable,” you bite out, hands trembling at your sides. “You think because girls want you—because they scream your name and throw themselves at you—you can just treat me like I’m a piece of shit.”

“Girls do want me,” Michael says easily, lowering his head as a soft chuckle escapes him. The brim of his snapback grazes the sliver barbell in his eyebrow—the one that somehow makes every smirk, every look, even more intoxicating. “You want me.”

You let out a strangled scream. Michael looks unbearably smug, gazing down at you as he revels in every second of your unraveling. Every nerve in your body is lit up—ready to spark at the slightest provocation.

Then you step closer, tilting your chin up until your eyes lock. The breath catches in your throat, your heart stuttering in your chest when you find him already looking at you.

Up close, you can see the faint dusting of hair along his jaw, the exact shade of pink that colors his lips. He’s beautiful, wielding his looks like a weapon—and you’re so willing to get cut it’s almost pathetic.

When your gaze flicks down to his mouth, reason slips away. Pure impulse drives you forward, and before you know it, your lips are pressed against Michael’s.

The kiss is brief—just a brush of lips before the weight of reality comes crashing down. You inhale sharply, jerking back like the contact burned you.

Your stomach churns, embarrassment flooding your skin as your throat tightens. You scramble for an excuse, a joke, a comeback—anything—but your mind is a blank slate.

“I—” you start, but the word dies in your throat.

Michael’s eyes darken, and he exhales a low, amused breath. “I knew you were obsessed with me,” he growls, gripping your chin before crashing his lips back onto yours.

His mouth is hot against yours, and you let out a startled gasp that’s quickly swallowed by him. He nips at your bottom lip, drawing it between his teeth with a soft, deliberate suck as his other hand finds your waist.

Your knees threaten to give out, but you clutch at his shirt, holding yourself upright. Slowly, your lips move with his—matching the same desperate, hungry rhythm you’ve been dreaming of for years. 

His hands grip your hips as he backs you against the wall; you hit it with a soft thud, just as Michael’s hand comes up to grip your neck.

You inhale sharply, eyes blinking wide as he pulls away from you. You’re both breathing heavily, his lips kiss-swollen and pink, slightly wet from you.

“So, who knew that was the only way to shut you up,” he growls, dipping his head to kiss a path down your jaw. His lips leave behind a trail of fire, and your head swims. “Should’ve figured it out sooner—could’ve saved me a couple of headaches.”

His hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, the calloused digits leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver, biting back a moan—your entire body responds to him like a live wire.

When he reaches the clasp of your bra, he undoes it with a skilled flick of his wrist. The fabric falls to your waist, and Michael doesn’t waste any time taking it off you.

The muscle tee’s arm cutouts are so wide you’re barely covered, and when his large hand returns to your waist, you shiver in anticipation.

“Please.” The word is a gasp, nearly lost in the intensity swirling between the two of you. Michael’s hand rises slowly, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast.

“Poor baby,” he coos. “So desperate to be touched. Do you make a habit of being this pathetic, or is this just a ‘me’ special?”

You’re not even sure what you’re begging for, but the pressure between your legs—and the overwhelming fact that Michael Clifford is kissing you, touching you—is enough to leave you gasping.

You bite your lip, holding back a whimper as his hand finally cups your breast, thumb brushing over your pert nipple. A zap of pleasure races down your spine, and you let out a small mewl.

“No,” Michael tuts. “If you’re gonna embarrass yourself, might as well commit. Be loud—wanna hear you.”

This time, he pinches your nipple, hard enough to make you cry out in a hazy mix of pain and pleasure. You’re trembling in his arms as his lips return to yours, hips rutting into yours mindlessly.

Abruptly, Michael pulls away. You whine at the sudden loss of contact, your head still spinning as you blink yourself back into reality.

Michael walks backward until he’s seated on the couch again, eyes alight with challenge. There’s intent in them—mischief that never really leaves.

He smirks. “Strip.”

Blinking, you fight the urge to cross your arms over your chest. It’s cold, and every drag of Michael’s shirt against your already sensitive skin feels overwhelming.

“Wh-what?” you stammer, breath catching.

“You heard me,” he drawls. “Strip. Everything but the shirt. Then come here.” He taps his thigh expectantly, and the self-assured nature of the motion makes you dizzy all over again.

Shakily, you reach for the button of your jeans and undo it with ease. Michael’s eyes follow your every move, drinking you in like a man starved.

When your zipper slides down, the sound is deafening. Slowly, you hook your fingers into the waistband of your jeans and underwear, peeling them down your legs until they pool at your feet.

You kick them aside, suddenly grateful that Michael’s shirt is long enough to keep you modest. When you glance back at him, you catch the slight shift in his expression—his composure faltering ever so slightly.

You tread carefully toward him, straddling his thigh like he told you, but hover just above it.

“You’d do anything I tell you to, hmm?” he taunts, his hand flying to your waist. Without warning, he forces you down, your bare core brushing against the rough denim of his jeans.

You gasp, hands shooting to his shoulders for support.

“Ride my fucking thigh,” he hisses. “Desperate little thing—work for it. Not touching you until you cry for it.”

“Michael—”

He cuts you off by grinding your hips down, the friction against your clit sharp and intoxicating. You moan, and he grips your face again.

“Don’t talk. Good sluts don’t speak unless they’re asked to.”

You nod, inhaling shakily as you begin to move your hips just like he wants. Each drag against the fabric feels like heaven—but it’s not enough. Your clit is swollen, aching, throbbing with the need for release.

Rolling your hips, you dig your fingers into Michael’s shoulder. He lets out a hiss but doesn’t stop you—one hand gripping your hip, bunching the shirt around your waist so he can see the mess you’re making on his leg.

It’s his other hand that makes you dizzy, trailing up your spine with reverence, rubbing gentle circles—spurring you on. You moan, eyes fluttering.

“Michael—”

He tightens his grip on your hip. “You better make yourself come,” he whispers, the command hitting your skin like ice. “Otherwise you don’t get my cock—not until you shut up and cry pretty for me.”

You whimper, hips moving faster.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Be the pathetic little thing I know you are, soaking my jeans like a needy whore—is that what you wanted, hmm?”

He leans closer, his lips catching on your collarbone. “You’re kind of pretty when you do what you’re told,” he hums, the hand on your hip sliding up to push the shirt higher and expose your chest.

When his lips wrap around your nipple, your mind goes blank. You gasp, grinding harder. The pleasure coiling in your stomach grows with every movement, and when his teeth sink into your skin, you scream.

“You’ll just let me do anything I want, huh?” he smiles—an almost sweet expression. His lips are soft, kissing the tender skin between words. “All that fucking talking—all of that just for some attention.”

You’re getting closer; you can feel the heat building, reaching every nerve in your body and painting it with Michael. He’s fully dressed, looking up at you with something like awe in his eyes.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, lifting his head. He catches your chin, coaxing you to look at him with a gentle knuckle. “Gonna beg all nice and pretty?”

“Mikey—” you sob, the frantic rhythm of your hips picking up. “Please, I wanna come, just wanna be good for you—”

“Oh, look at that,” he muses. “So eager for me to talk to you like this. So eager to fall apart on my lap.”

His thigh flexes, the muscle tensing just enough to give you the stability you need. In a matter of seconds, your breath stutters, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as pleasure slams into you.

You scream, convulsing against his thigh as every wave of your orgasm crashes over you. You’re a gasping mess, babbling nonsense, your ears ringing with the force of it.

Your chest heaves with every breath as you slowly lift yourself off his thigh. Your legs feel weak, the world almost too bright around the edges.

“Look at that,” Michael says, almost lazily, glancing down at the wet spot darkening the black denim. “What a mess. All that from grinding on my lap? God, you’re such a dumb slut, huh?”

He chuckles, slipping his hand between your thighs. When his fingers find your slick, you let out a hiccuping breath. He collects some of your release, the fluid glistening on his fingers.

“All it took was one orgasm and now you’re brainless,” he tuts, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean. His breath hitches at the taste. “Do you even have a thought in that little dumb brain of yours? Or are you just cock-drunk?”

You swallow. “No,” you rasp, voice hoarse. “Just want you to fuck me stupid.”

“Oh, baby,” Michael grins, slipping his hand between your thighs again. “I fuckin’ plan to.”

He flips you without warning, your back landing on the couch with a soft thud. He hovers over you, silver chain dangling above your face like a threat.

“But first,” he murmurs, brushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your face, “I want you to thank me. I didn’t have to make you come, y’know? Could’ve just fucked you—used you like the hole you are to me. But I was so nice.”

His fingers wrap gently around your neck—delicate, almost tender—but the intention is unmistakable.

“Say thank you, Y/N,” he urges. “Say, ‘Thank you for letting me come on your thigh like a pathetic whore.’”

The words are humiliating, so demeaning that under any other circumstance, you’d spit in Michael’s face and tear him down without blinking. But something stops you—the heat blooming in your belly again, the way his thumb softly caresses your jaw.

“Thank you,” you say slowly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “For letting me come on your thigh like a pathetic slut.”

His hand snakes between your legs, two fingers teasing your entrance. “Already wet again?” Michael smirks. “Of course you are. You’re pathetic.”

You whine, but it isn’t long before he plunges his fingers inside you. Your back arches off the couch as he curls them, hitting that perfect spot that turns your brain to static.

“Who knew dumb little things like you had such pretty little cunts,” he hums, his thumb circling your clit. “All swollen and dripping, and I’ve barely even touched you.”

Faintly, you hear the clink of a belt buckle being undone. You blink through the haze, trying to focus past the overwhelming pulse of pleasure from his hand.

He’s thrusting his fingers in and out of you fast, his thumb keeping perfect rhythm on your clit. With his other hand, he works his belt free from the loops, pulling it out in one smooth motion that shouldn’t look as devastatingly hot as it does.

“Keep fucking yourself on my fingers,” he says.

It takes a few seconds for the command to register in your brain, but then your hips begin to move, picking up the pace as Michael drops his hand. Every pump of his fingers is intoxicating, his free hand roaming your leg, his head dipping occasionally to kiss your overheated skin.

Somehow, that seems to affect you more than anything else.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks. “Want me to stretch you out, see how this greedy cunt swallows me whole?”

You nod.

Michael withdraws his fingers, and the sudden loss is so jarring your body goes cold. You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching as he walks over to your discarded pants and untangles your panties from them.

You blink, body spinning with the possibilities. Michael walks back to you, crouching until your faces are level. His pupils are blown wide, and a faint flush colors his cheeks.

He leans in, catching your mouth in a kiss so tender it steals the air from your lungs. Your hand rises to cup the back of his head, fingers threading into the red strands.

He pulls back, resting his forehead against yours for a beat. “Open your mouth, princess,” he whispers, breathless.

You obey, anticipation curling through you. Gently, Michael lifts your discarded underwear and stuffs it into your mouth.

The act is surprisingly tender, but still, you’re stunned. You gape at Michael as he stands above you, carefully undoing his jeans.

“Look at how pathetic,” he murmurs, leaning down just enough to catch the hem of your shirt and lift it slightly. His finger traces the planes of your stomach, drawn tight with excitement. “Laid out like a whore, practically begging me to do something.”

You whimper, the sound muffled and catching in your throat as he withdraws his hand. He tugs down his jeans, followed by his underwear, until he springs free.

The thick length of him is enough to make your eyes threaten to roll back in your skull, but you stay carefully still.

He wraps a hand around himself, pumping lazily as he circles you like a predator, waiting to strike. When his thumb brushes over the tip, he lets out the most delicious little hiss—one that you feel all the way down to your toes.

You almost whine when he lets go of his cock, picking up the belt he left forgotten on the couch. He wraps the studded leather around your wrists, snug enough that you can’t fight it.

“You’re gonna lay there and take this fucking cock like useless hole you are for me,” he climbs onto the couch, lowering himself enough to tease. 

Michael nudges your legs apart, exposing your slick core. You’re clenching around nothing, drenched in desperation as you wait for him to do something. 

He leans over you, one hand braced on the couch cushions beside your head. Carefully, he drags the tip of his cock through your soaked folds, groaning. 

“God all it took was for me to be mean to you, and you're already a fucking mess,” he toys with your entrance, the only sign of him being affected is the slight rasp beneath his words. “My fucking mess to do as I please with. Isn’t that right?”

You nod, lifting your hips as you desperately search for some kind of release. 

Michael doesn’t waste any more time, thrusting into you fully with a harsh snap of his hips. You cry out, back arching off the couch at the brutal stretch, the sound muffled behind the fabric stuffed in your mouth.

He pulls back just enough for you to feel the unbearable emptiness—only to slam back inside with a filthy moan that makes you groan past the gag. Michael’s eyes flutter as he sets a brutal pace, hips snapping into yours with purpose.

“Gripping me so fucking right,” he grits. “It’s all you’re good for—milking my cock. God knows you don’t have the brain for anything else.”

He collapses over you, nosing along the side of your jaw. “Look at you,” he pants. “All ruined, all spread out for me, taking my cock like you’re meant to. Bet you’d let anyone do this, hmm?”

When he shifts angles, hitting that devastating spot inside you that sends your vision to static, all his filthy words only push you closer. You clench around him involuntarily.

Michael growls and yanks the belt tighter, using it as leverage to drag you down on him harder. Each thrust rocks the couch, your breasts bouncing with every sharp snap of his hips.

“You don’t even look human,” he mutters, sweat slicking his brow. “Just something for me to fuck and throw away. Isn’t that right?”

He punctuates the cruelty with his thumb pressing to your clit. One leg jerks in response, the tight, filthy circles he rubs making the pressure inside you mount unbearably.

His hips piston against yours, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room. One hand presses to your lower stomach, and the weight of it makes you choke on a moan.

“Can feel myself here,” he groans. “Bet that’s why you’re so needy. Never had your pussy stretched properly.”

You’re close—so close—body shaking, nerves shot, the build-up like fire licking beneath your skin. You sob behind the gag, the edge creeping nearer with every relentless thrust.

“Gonna come for me?” he asks, his thumb moving faster in tandem with his hips. “Gonna do the only thing you’re good for and soak my cock?”

You manage a shaky nod, tears slipping down your cheeks as your orgasm barrels toward you like a freight train.

“Cry all you want, baby,” he growls. “I’m not stopping ‘til you’re dripping with me.”

With one sharp thrust, he pushes you over the edge.

Your legs lock around him, your hands pulling against the belt as your orgasm rips through you. The studded leather digs into your wrists, the sweet medley of pain and pleasure only heightening every wave of release that crashes over you.

Your blood feels like molasses in your veins, and you heave for breath. The fog behind your eyes begins to clear, and slowly, you come back to yourself. But Michael doesn’t stop.

You’re oversensitive, still twitching from the aftermath of your orgasm. Fresh tears blur your vision, and Michael grips your chin.

“You’re not done until I say you’re done,” he grunts.

He lets go, his hand caressing your cheek—then suddenly slapping it. The sting lands like ecstasy, and you clench around him.

Michael takes that as a green light to do it again, slapping you once more. Your back arches off the couch, and you're still crying. The cool tears trail down your overheated skin in stark contrast.

He releases the belt, your arms dropping limply at your sides. But he doesn’t slow—his hands slide under your thighs, pushing your knees to your chest.

This new angle makes everything deeper, sharper. You haven’t stopped crying, but you haven’t stopped moaning either. Michael’s spurred on by the sound of your slick, by the way your cunt flutters around him.

A choked sob escapes you, and despite the overstimulation, you feel it building again—another orgasm curling in your belly like fire.

“That’s right,” Michael growls. “You’re gonna come again for me. Bet I don’t even need to touch your clit, huh? Bet you can come just from my cock like a good little whore.”

He grins down at you, eyes wild and shining. The tears have started to pool beneath your head, soaking the couch. Your skin is slick with sweat, your whole body trembling, but the pleasure only builds.

“There she is,” he breathes. “My dumb little thing. Just needed to be fucked stupid, isn’t that right? Needed someone who actually knows what to do with you.”

Your hand shoots up to grip his arm, nails digging into the taut muscle of his bicep. He doesn’t flinch. His thrusts grow more erratic, but every one still finds that devastating spot inside you.

“Come for me,” he urges, voice going sweeter, coaxing. “C’mon, be good f’me, baby. Come for me so I can fill this pretty pussy up the way you need.”

And finally—you break.

The world drops out from beneath you, leaving only the white-hot spiral of your orgasm tearing through you. You wail around the gag, body shaking violently beneath him.

Michael’s hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged moan. “Oh, fuck. You feel so fucking good,” he groans, head dropping. “Gonna come—shit—”

The strangled moan that claws out of his throat is the only warning you get as Michael empties himself inside you. He keeps up the shallow thrusts, twitching as you wring him dry.

You’re both shaking now, sweaty and high on adrenaline. For the first time, your mind starts to clear. Panic spikes when the weight of the situation settles in—when you catch sight of your discarded shirt and pants.

Your cheeks heat, and you’re about to scramble for a response when there’s a sharp rap at the door. “Stage in fifteen,” someone calls.

Michael freezes, looking down at you for a moment. “Fuck,” he curses, scrambling to get off you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ashton is so gonna beat my ass if he finds me here.”

He lets out a hiss as he slips out of you, hastily pushing off the couch as he hops back into his skinny jeans. He tucks himself into his pants without preamble, scanning the room for anything he might’ve missed.

When Michael’s eyes land on you, you half expect him to make a mean quip or just ignore you. Instead, you’re surprised when he leans forward, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your lips, and hands you a half-empty water bottle.

He looks down at the plastic bottle, a little sheepish. “Uh, I’ll find you after the show,” he says, pulling his belt back through the loops as he gets up.

When Michael reaches the door, he turns back to you. “Sorry I can’t help much, but, uh—” he picks something up from the floor and throws it at you. “Yeah. Okay, see you.”

He shoots you an awkward smile before slipping out the door. You sit up, wincing slightly. Your body is tender from the events of the day, raw in the best of ways.

Part of you is a little smug, too—satisfied after seeing the sudden shift in Michael. Gone was the vindictive, sharp-tongued guitarist who seemed to have girls falling at his feet at every turn.

The only thing left was the fading façade—revealing the obsessed, but almost adorably flustered boy beneath the mask. You didn’t miss the subtle tenderness in his actions, and for a second, you wonder how the aftermath would’ve played out if he hadn’t had to be brisked away.

You shake your head, feeling the sticky mess of your releases beginning to seep out of you. When you grab whatever it was Michael had thrown at you to clean up, your eye catches on a bright red stain.

Your ruined shirt.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷