Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1972944.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      5_Seconds_of_Summer_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Michael_Clifford/Calum_Hood
  Character:
      Michael_Clifford, Calum_Hood
  Additional Tags:
      Shower_Sex, handjobs, Frottage, Mildly_Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-17 Words: 3199
****** if you just say the word ******
by asymmetric
Summary
     "Is this okay?" he asked.
     (in which the answer isn't yes and isn't no, and Calum can't say
     either of them)
Notes
     sssssssoooooooooo
     i attempted to write a straight up pwp, and then there was emotions.
     damn.
     things you should know: takes place while they are still in school,
     before the band really took off, so they are 15-16 ish here. it may
     feel dub-con at times because one character does not know what they
     want or what they are allowed to want.
     first fic where i didn't even mention the other boys. feels
     unnatural.
See the end of the work for more notes
There was water dripping into Calum's eyes from his bangs.
"Fuck," he said, and shook his head, blinking hard.
Michael's hand twitched skittishly at his hip, lifting off for a second and
then touching back down, lighter than before.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
Calum couldn't speak. He could feel the wet, alien touch of Michael's bare
chest against his back, could identify his nipples poking into his shoulder
blades. Michael's hips must have been tilted back though, because there was
nothing touching Calum's ass except the water streaming down it, dripping from
his body to the tile below. The lack of contact there felt jarring, and he was
torn between holding completely still and arching back until he hit something,
just so that he could tell if this was actually happening or not.
He held still.
His hand skidded on the shower wall and Michael's was suddenly there, his palm
pressing down on the back of Calum's hand, fingers falling into the spaces
between Calum's starfished ones. Calum opened his eyes—he couldn't even
remember when he had closed them—and stared at Michael's pale hand over his
own, tanner skin. Something that must have been fear surged hot in his chest
and he squeezed his eyes shut again, ignoring the prickle of water trickling
down his eyelids.
"Calum?" Michael said, and there was an uncertainty there that Calum recognized
down to his bones.
There was a shuffling sound and Calum's mouth dropped open when he felt
Michael's face press into the left side of his throat. He tipped his head to
the side automatically, opening himself up for more as if they were lying on
the couch watching tv together, and not standing naked in his shower. Michael
hummed something across his skin and nosed up the line of Calum's neck.
His mouth rubbed soft over where Calum's pulse was slamming, beating like it
was trying to burst free from his skin, and Calum jerked slightly.
"Calum?" Michael repeated. His mouth was hovering just beside Calum's ear now.
Calum could feel the heat of him all around him, even where they weren't
touching, and it made something swell inside him, a twitchy sort of
anticipation. "You need to say something."
"I can't," Calum choked out. Even saying that felt wrong—speaking broke the
illusion that this could be his imagination, that maybe he was just dreaming,
or making this up. His voice sounded small and weak, and he hated that he'd
used it, that Michael had heard him like that. He felt terribly uncomfortable.
He wanted to leave. To hide.
Michael drew back slightly, until Calum could no longer feel his chest against
his back, and Calum's whole body felt suddenly hollow and brittle, like Michael
was taking part of him with him.
"Should I go—"
"No!"
His voice sounded worse that time, and he sunk forward, leaning his forehead
against their overlapping hands, pinning Michael there with him.
"Okay," Michael said.
Calum breathed into the new silence between them, awkward and too loud. He
didn't know why he felt like this; Michael had started it, it was on Michael if
this became weird.
Michael slid his hand up from Calum's hip, long fingers, pressing into his
skin.
"You've got a lot of mud on your back," he said.
Calum snorted out a tight laugh.
"That's why I'm showering."
"I'm dirty too," Michael said, and his voice was lower than Calum had ever
heard it. "That's why we're showering."
(laughing together in the mud, football forgotten beside them, stumbling back
to Calum's house and peeling clothes off on their way up the steps, Calum's mum
yelling that they both had to shower before supper, Calum not closing the door
to the bathroom properly and Michael coming in to try and wash his chest with a
washcloth over the sink and jokes about "maybe I should just shower with you"
and "maybe you should" and then—this, this half touch, this sickly burn in
Calum's stomach)
"I'm not gonna do anything you don't want me to," Michael muttered. Water was
still spitting out around them, and Calum could feel the spray hitting the
portion of his back not blocked by Michael's body. He had been naked in front
of Michael before, but this was different.
"So you are going to do something," Calum said, and if he sounded slightly
hysterical, he figured that was understandable in the circumstances.
Calum could hear it when Michael sucked in a breath, right next to his ear,
like he was steeling himself for something. Calum felt like he was standing on
the edge of a cliff, waiting for Michael's words to push him off. But a moment
passed and Michael didn't speak, just blew out a huff of air against Calum's
neck, as if he'd lost his nerve. For a second, Calum felt horribly let down.
And then Michael was rubbing his hand in circles on his back, lifting the mud
off of Calum's skin. He paused, fumbling with something on the shower shelf,
and when the hand returned, it felt slicker, probably covered in soap. Michael
was washing him, pressure firm and sure on his back. It wasn't what Calum had
expected—though he couldn't put into words what he had been waiting for—but he
widened his stance anyway, bracing himself and letting Michael scrub at him.
It was strangely peaceful for about half a minute, and then Michael's hand
started drifting lower and Calum remembered suddenly Michael shoving mud down
his shorts as they wrestled on the field. There was only room for two thoughts
in his head—fuck, he must look gross—and—fuck, Michael was going to touch his
ass.
Michael's hand paused at the small of Calum's back, his thumb tracing a slow
back and forth just over the top swell of his ass. It felt like all of the
nerves in Calum's body had been relocated there, to that path of skin Michael
was touching, and he desperately wanted to pull away, to say that it was too
much and just hide forever.
He didn't move.
Michael cleared his throat, and Calum squeezed his eyes shut even tighter,
silently begging that Michael wouldn't speak, wouldn't ask, would just do
something—
And then there was fingers spread across the right cheek of his ass, skin
amazingly warm and wet. The fingers flexed, digging into Calum's skin, and
behind him Michael actually groaned, the sound shocking a similar noise out of
Calum's throat, a whimper that he was instantly humiliated to have produced.
Michael's other hand pressed down harder on Calum's hand on the wall, as if he
was trying to slot their fingers together even tighter.
"You're covered in it," Michael said. His voice sounded distant now, dazed, and
his hand was moving as he spoke, stroking slow and careful over Calum's ass.
"Mud, it's all over you."
Calum didn't answer, but Michael didn't seem to be looking for one. His hand
just kept rubbing over Calum's ass, small circles, squeezing occasionally as if
he just liked the feel of it, and after a minute of Michael doing nothing more
than that, Calum couldn't keep up the tension in his body. The touch was too
soothing, and he sagged completely against the shower wall, letting himself
push backwards into Michael's hand. Michael's hand felt so large, covering half
of his ass without even trying, and the pressure of it was drugging, sending
warm waves of heat through Calum's body. Michael switched to the other cheek of
Calum's ass, gripping and pulling at it slightly until Calum could feel the
stretch, could feel himself being spread apart. He whined, and Michael let go,
letting his ass settle, and returning to the same, heat-making strokes over his
skin.
Calum's eyes weren't closed anymore; he blinked hazily down at the shower
drain, down at his feet and the brown traces of mud swirling away with the
water. He'd thought that asses were just for sitting and shitting and yet all
he could think about was the heavy, tingling feeling spreading through his body
from Michael's hand. He wanted to push back, wanted Michael to grab harder,
maybe wanted him to give him a little slap, just something sharp to jolt him
out of the daze he was sinking into.
He was so focused on his ass, so drowned in the sensation there, that it took
him a couple minutes of staring down his own wet body at the floor to notice
his dick, pink-tipped and swollen, sticking up eagerly in front of his belly.
He was hard, and Michael was just behind him.
"Shit," Calum spat out, and slammed his eyes shut again. If he didn't see it,
it wasn't really there. If he didn't see Michael, he wasn't there either and
none of this was happening.
"What?" Michael asked, and Calum had forgotten that his face was so close, his
mouth so close to Calum's ear. Was he close enough to see over Calum's shoulder
and down? Could he see that Calum had gotten boned up for him, like a stupid
little kid who didn't know how to control his cock? "Cal, what?"
"It's nothing," Calum gasped out. Michael's hand was moving again, sliding from
his ass around his hip to the front, so fast that Calum couldn't tell him to
stop, or warn him of anything.
"You've got mud everywhere, Cal," Michael said nonsensically, because—mud, who
was thinking about mud. "You're covered, you're—"
Michael's knuckles bumped against the base of Calum's dick and Calum gasped,
bones going liquid. He was going to collapse, he was going to throw up, he was
going to jizz all over the shower wall—and Michael wasn't moving away. He was
tucking his face into Calum's shoulder and sliding shaking fingers around
Calum's cock, holding him in a loose fist. He squeezed slightly.
"Fuck, Michael," Calum blurted. "Mikey."
Michael was breathing open-mouthed against his shoulder, quick and shallow, and
his hand twitched like he wanted to move, but couldn't seem to remember how.
"Is this—," he started, voice thick. "Cal, is this—"
Calum couldn't get his mouth to open and tell Michael a yes or a no, because
neither of those were right, neither of them fit the clusterfuck of feelings
warring in his head and body. But, god, they had come this far, and he took his
free hand and wrapped his fingers around Michael's, adjusting his grip and
pulling both of their hands up his cock in a clumsy stroke.
"Yeah," Michael said, and he was circling his thumb over the head of Calum's
dick, like he knew just how Calum liked it. "Fuck."
When Michael started jacking him for real, Calum had to let go, his hand
slapping up against the shower wall beside their clasped left hands, bracing
himself. Michael wasn't playing around, sliding his fist fast over Calum's
prick, twisting his wrist on each stroke, and it felt better than anytime Calum
had ever touched himself, better than he could've ever imagined. Calum couldn't
stop his hips from moving, from fucking up into Michael's hand, and he could
hear himself distantly, making a continuous stream of sound, hurt noises
punched out of his chest with every squeeze of Michael's fingers around his
prick.
"Fuck, shut up," Michael mumbled into his shoulder. He was dragging his mouth
over Calum's skin there, wet and warm. Everything was wet, everything was slick
and hot and Calum shuddered when Michael started playing with just the head of
his dick, fingers fondling over it like it was a toy. "Your mum's gonna hear
you."
There was no reason that should've made everything in Calum's body tighten with
awareness, but it did, and he bit down on his lip frantically, feeling his
cheeks burn with heat. He'd been starting to drift away on the feeling of it
all, starting to forget who and where they were. But he was in his shower at
home and his best friend, a guy, was touching him, and they could get caught.
There was a "stop" building in his throat, but when he opened his mouth, all
that came out was a strangled, "Mikey."
"Told you to shut up," Michael groaned, and then there was skin pressed all
along Calum's back, Michael finally stepping forward and plastering them
together.
Calum's eyes shot open and he could see it now, see Michael's hand wrapped
around his swollen cock, swallowing him up, pale fingers rubbing over the
flushed pink head. The sight of it was surprising and jarring, Michael's hand
too obviously male, all of it too vivid and real, but he couldn't focus on that
because he could feel Michael behind him.
He could feel the span of Michael's chest, his ribs, his shoulders, the soft
mound of his belly. He could feel one of Michael's feet pressed against the
inside of his, their legs rasping together. And he could feel what had to be
Michael's cock, a strange, hot pressure against his ass. It felt thick and
bizarre and Calum froze, heart pounding. He felt like he was caught between
fight or flight, unsure if what he needed was escape or more contact.
Michael pushed his hips forward clumsily, cockhead skidding over the curve of
Calum's ass, and drew his fist up Calum's dick at the same time, grip tighter
and more confident than before. Calum sighed out and relaxed into it, unable to
do anything else.
"Fuck," Calum said, and rubbed back against Michael, feeling stupid, but
wanting to help. He could feel a sort of stickiness at his ass, where Michael's
cock was riding his cleft, and he could picture it, Michael's prick gleaming
wet and wanting, leaking everywhere. He wanted to see it suddenly, and somehow
that was the weirdest thing that had happened yet, the idea that he actively
wanted to see his best friend's cock.
They were falling into a rhythm, Michael thrusting against him and Calum
pushing back to meet it and then up into Michael's fist. Michael started to
press little kisses all along Calum's shoulder and neck, sloppy and quick like
he couldn't help it, just had to have his mouth on him, and god, Calum
remembered seeing Michael do that with old girlfriends, casual and possessive.
The thought of Michael treating him like...like someone he had a crush on, like
a girl, made something flare deep in his gut, and his right hand flew off the
shower wall and groped backwards, landing on Michael's thigh and gripping hard,
pulling them together tighter.
"Calum," Michael breathed, kissing at his jaw. "Calum, jesus."
Calum tipped his head back, closing his eyes again, and let Michael skim his
lips up his cheek. Michael was shaking against him, standing on his toes to
reach forward, the two of them pressed flush against each other. Calum's left
hand was numb from being leaned on for so long, from being crushed under
Michael's weight.
He was going to come. He could feel it building in the base of his stomach,
mounting like fear, could feel his body tightening, his prick growing fatter.
Michael's hand was tight around his cock and this was all too overwhelming for
him to hold on for much longer. He'd never had sex before—god, this was sex, he
was having sex with Michael—
He dropped his head back down and opened his eyes as he came, watching himself
shoot up his belly and all over Michael's hand. He could hear himself making
sounds like he was crying, fucking up into Michael's fist again and again, and
Michael was swearing into his ear, low and intent.
Michael stroked him through it, his fingers covered in sludgy come, and he
didn't let go until Calum was flinching, oversensitive, his dick slowly
softening, still bright red like it couldn't quite go down all the way.
Michael's hand went to Calum's hip, without even washing the come off, holding
him in place so he could rut harder against him.
Calum was floppy and useless in the wake of his orgasm, his entire body feeling
heavy and delicious. He wanted to stretch like a cat in a sunbeam and go to
sleep, quickly, before reality returned, before he had to face what had just
happened, but Michael was still hard against him, so he pressed his flushed
cheek to the cold shower wall and let Michael move him where he wanted. There
was something he liked about it, about Michael just using him, fucking against
him while he couldn't even get hard for it, and it made him move again, thrust
back against Michael's cock.
Michael moved his head from Calum's shoulder, pressing his forehead to the back
of Calum's neck, and Calum realized that he was watching himself slide over
Calum's ass, fuck between his cheeks. The thought made something hot surge
through him, mortification and and something like pride mixing until he
couldn't tell the difference between the two. Another minute of this and he was
going to get hard again, he realized. He liked this, liked the feel of
Michael's dick against him, liked Michael's hands on him, liked Michael's
breath against his back.
"Cal, your fucking ass," Michael slurred, slow and delirious, and Calum thought
he was going to explode of embarrassment. "Your ass, it's so—"
"Shut the fuck up, Michael," Calum said desperately, and suddenly Michael's
fingers were biting into his hip and he was crying out, loud and ridiculous,
his cock twitching against Calum's ass, warm wetness spreading on the skin,
trickling slowly down. Michael kept fucking his hips forward for another
minute, riding it out, sliding through his own jizz until Calum was sure it had
to be smeared all over his ass, until he felt like he was covered in it.
Michael was shaking when he collapsed against Calum's back, flattening him
against the shower wall, his damp, softening cock still pressed to Calum's ass.
It was kind of gross now, but Calum didn't say anything. He didn't know when
their left hands had slipped apart, but his was hanging at his side now,
feeling weirdly sore, and Michael had both arms wrapped around Calum's stomach,
holding them together. It was nice, ridiculously so, and familiar. Michael had
always been clingy, of course he would be clingy now.
The rushing sound in Calum's head was quieting down, and Calum could hear the
water still spraying out behind them. There was a creeping feeling of unease
lurking in the back of his mind, pushing forward into the calmness, and he shut
his eyes, focusing on Michael's arms around him, trying not to think.
Michael shifted, like he was going to draw away, and panic flared in Calum,
thicker and more vivid than anything he'd ever felt. His hand flew up, wrapping
around Michael's over his stomach.
"Stay," he said. It was the first thing he'd been sure of since Michael stepped
into the shower. "Stay, Mikey."
Michael pressed his mouth to the back of Calum's neck, soft and gentle. Calum
blinked hard. His eyes were wet, but his bangs weren't dripping anymore.
"Okay," Michael said.
End Notes
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