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Whats up fuckers,
This is Part 1 of 2
It has a little more plot than i usually post but it's still good. The smuts kinda scattered around.
Also Harry styles' cover of juice by Lizzo SLAPS.
enjoy Xx
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Original title: Ivegotnofuvkingidesguysiforgottowriteallthesethingsdown
Credit:
I can't remeber the person's username but CREDITS TO THEM.
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Ashton Irwin is going to kill his roommate. He thinks he should probably warn him, let him know of his demise in advance so he can get his shit together; create a will, arrange a funeral and all that. "Calum, I swear to God I am going to kill you!" He yells, voice carrying along the corridor. He knows that he’s been heard when the floorboards creak. Calum’s probably finding a hiding place- a wise choice. Ashton can be pretty mean when he's angry.
And he wouldn't actually kill Calum (he doesn't think so anyway), he's just a little pissed off. Or, well, maybe that's an understatement. It's just- it's unfair. It's super, super fucking unfair. Why do the God's treat him this way? What kind of sins did he commit in his previous life to deserve the luck he has in this one?
He had felt the whole day like things were finally coming up Ashton. He'd caught the earliest train and had got on for free, his professors had seemed happy with his performance at school, and best of all, he'd actually got that cute barista's number.
It seems obvious now that all these incidents were merely meant to lull him into a false sense of security, so now his pain would feel even worse in comparison. Ashton's entire existence has been a lie, essentially. Fuck.
Ashton has been going to the same coffee shop for three months now, all in an attempt to woo the cute blonde barista who'd served him the first time he’d gone. Sadly, fate had never quite played along, and Ashton had started to assume that he'd simply made up this gorgeous creation: when Ashton considered the ethereal, God-like beauty of this broad shouldered, blue eyed barista, this did seem like the most plausible option.
But today- today he'd been there and they'd chatted for at least ten minutes before Ashton realised he had to leave. He’d left with a smile on his face, a coffee in his hand and Luke's phone number, scrawled in blue biro on a paper napkin. "Call me?" Luke had said nervously, as if Ashton hadn't been stalking him for months on end.
He'd gone home, turned on the TV, discarded the napkin on a counter to come back to later before he proceeded to forget about it. An hour or two later Ashton remembered his promise and wandered from the living room into the kitchen to call Luke.
So here he was: staring at a napkin in his kitchen and yelling about homicide. The number was still legible, luckily: except for the last digit. He feels like crying- screaming, maybe- punching through the fucking wall. The phone number Ashton has coveted for three fucking months has been wiped away by his roommate’s inability to find a fucking coaster.
Luke's phone number either ends with an eight or a six- or maybe it's a three? He can't tell because of the fucking brown ring that borders the number and smudges the last blue digit behind recognition. Fucking Calum. He figures he might as well try all of the numbers, and if it turns out it’s not any then he'll repeat the three month process of waiting for a glimpse of the lesser spotted fucking barista.
Fuck it. He's got to try, hasn't he?
"Hi, Luke? It's Ashton here. Ashton Irwin?”
“Well, hello there Ashton Irwin.” And shit wow, okay, that's definitely not Luke.
The voice on the other line can only be described as sultry- this guy is practically purring his name. And well… it doesn't sound terrible. “Um, who’s this?” Ashton asks, tentatively intrigued.
“I’m whoever you want me to be, baby,” is the reply, and it's in the same sensual tone as before- so that's just their voice, then, which is quite weird. Ashton can practically hear the smirk through the telephone line. It's terrifying.
“I, uh- I think I've got the wrong number?” Ashton squeaks.
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Tell me, Ashton Irwin, are you looking to have the best orgasm of your life? Because I could give that to you, right now. Is that what you want, big boy?” Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He’s only gone and called a fucking sex hotline, obviously. Because his luck is just that spectacular.
“I’m, I’m- I’m gonna go?” It's not that the offer of ‘the best orgasm of his life’ isn't a promising one: in fact, Ashton would fucking love to have the best orgasm of his life.
Not like this, though. Not over the phone, not talking to some guy with an admittedly appealing voice and a dirty mouth, not when Calum is two rooms over.
“Oh come on, Ashy," they whine, “have a little fun with me! I promise I can make it worth your while."
“No, no thank you, perfectly fine as I am. Thank you for the offer.” Ashton is shaking his head, though he knows that the mystery voice can't see that.
“Well, when you change your mind you know who to call.” Ashton almost scoffs. Believe him, he won't be changing his mind.
“Yep, I’ll- I’ll bare that in mind," Ashton mutters.
“The best orgasm of your life, Ashton. Your entire life.” And God, the voice. It sounds like honey, like sin, like silk that Ashton just wants to drape over his body and like, suffocate in. This voice could tell him to walk off a cliff and he would probably do it.
“Uh huh. Okay. Bye bye now!” Ashton puts the phone down and tries to remember how to breathe.
That might have been like, the weirdest experience of his entire fucking life, maybe? And he's a student. He's seen some weird ass shit in his short lifetime.
He tries again. “Luke? Luke it’s-”
“The number you have dialled has not been-” Ashton hangs up.
Fucking Calum.
“Prepare to die, Hood!” Ashton yells, before he's jumping out of his seat and legging it down the hall into Calum’s room. The other boy is nowhere to be seen but there's a suspiciously human boy shaped lump under the bedcovers. Ashton dives on top of said lump, jabbing at it with his fingers.
Calum is wheezing and laughing, begging Ashton to end his assault.
“Never!” Ashton cries, but the air is punched out of his lungs as Calum pushes him off the bed. He lands on the hardwood floor, gasping and groaning from the force of impact. He's probably like, broken his back or something. Calum has killed him.
“Ash? Dude, are you good?” Calum asks, worry creeping into his voice. Still he doesn't get up, stays hidden beneath the protective barrier of quilts.
“Oh, fine and fucking dandy, Calum.” Ashton replies, still snarky even on his deathbed.
“That's good then.” Ashton glares at him. “So, who was that on the phone?”
Ashton goes bright red. “Oh, um. Nobody?”
Calum grins, but it's not like, a joyous smile. No, it's actually a little scary. “Who was it, Ash?” Calum’s voice is teasing and Ashton wants to punch his fucking face but also, he doesn't want to get off the floor? Laziness wins out. He manouvres onto his stomach and turns his face so he's not looking at Calum, but rather at the door.
“So I might have called a sex line," Ashton admits. He doesn't need to look at Calum to know that the other boy is rolling around laughing.
“Jeez Ash, I knew you were desperate but-”
“Shut up, no, it wasn't like that!” Ashton groans, considering throwing himself out of the window briefly as a less painful alternative. He turns to face Calum finally, still lying on the floor but now glaring up at the other boy. “Luke: barista guy," Ashton addresses the look of confusion in Calum’s eyes before he can even think of vocalising it. “Luke gave me his number, but you fucking used it as a coaster so I lost the last digit and I figured I might as well try them all. Well, apparently Luke’s number is one off from a phone sex line. And so… And so, yeah.”
“You didn't actually… You know. You hung up, right?”
Ashton buries his face in his hands. “Yes, yes obviously. No I didn't have phone sex while you were in the other room. Jesus, Cal.”
“Well what did you expect me to think?” Calum’s voice is a tad defensive, but he's fighting laughter so that he doesn't get physically assaulted again. Smart move.
“Irrelevant, Cal. You should just know that I'm not gonna fucking… jack off to the sound of another guy’s voice.” Ashton is ashamed that's a sentence he even has to articulate. He's even more ashamed that for a while, the prospect of it didn't sound terrible, but actually rather appealing.
“There’s no shame in it, Ash. I mean, when was the last time you actually got laid?” The fact that Ashton actually has to pause to try and remember speaks for itself. Calum bursts out laughing again when he sees Ashton’s perplexed face. He must look like a fucking goldfish, opening his mouth and then closing it as he realises he literally has no excuse. “You've been hung up on this ‘Luke’ for like, months on end at this point Ash. He likes you back, so you should just get on with it and fuck already.”
Ashton gets up, throws himself bodily on to the bed beside Calum. His voice comes out muffled from where his face is pressed into the pillows. “You don't think I want that?”
“Look. It's simple, Ash. You go back tomorrow, ask one of his coworkers for his number now that you know he wants to give it to you, and then you call him and ask him on a date. That's not rocket science, is it?” Calum’s hand has made its way to Ashton’s hair. He feels slightly like a dog, but doesn't really care because he quite likes it. It's soothing, or whatever. He's lonely, touch starved. Don't judge him.
He sighs. “Fine. Okay. I can wait like a week, right?”
~
Ashton can’t wait a week.
It’s three am and he’s- he’s fucking horny, dammit, and his own hand and a second rate porno doesn't sound too appealing. He’s lonely. It hits him, then. He’s got Calum, and that's it. And no offence to Calum, he's not exactly who Ashton has in mind when he's getting off. Or, not getting off. There is something, or rather somebody that he is starting to think about though. If he closes his eyes he can almost hear that voice. The guy from the phone, the sex line guy. The one who’d promised him the best orgasm of his life.
Before he knows it, Ashton’s reaching for the phone on his bedside table and calling the same number.
“Hi, my name is Michael and I’m here to give you the best orgas-” so the voice has a name, then. Michael. For some reason, Ashton was expecting like a Brad or a Chase- Michael doesn't really sound like the name of a sex worker.
“This is Ashton Irwin!” Ashton interrupts. Michael laughs under his breath- Ashton assumes at his awkwardness, which is understandable.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call, Ashy. I knew you would break sooner or later.” And God, it's everything. It's the suggestive tone and the teasing lilt and the way his voice fluctuates from low and silky to high and angelic and- if Michael’s voice is turning him on, there's no way Ashton’s gonna last.
“Yeah, well, I- I, uh. I wanted to talk to you.” Ashton admits.
“Okay. Okay, then let’s talk. Did you have a certain topic in mind, or?” Michael’s sarcastic now, teasing him, but it's lighthearted and for some reason it makes Ashton feel at ease.
“Maybe. I was thinking that you might do a lot of the talking?” Ashton is hoping that his obvious inexperience is endearing rather than embarrassing.
“But if I'm talking then what are you going to be doing?” Michael’s voice is almost sinfully innocent, a real contradiction in terms. He fucking knows what Ashton’s gonna be doing.
“You know what though, Ashton? I think I might be good at that. I have a feeling that this conversation might be different to the ones I usually have. Before we start, are there any sort of kinks that you want working into this? Do you have any fantasies?”
Ashton is still bright red. “I guess, uh, I guess there is this one thing.”
“Don’t be shy, Ash,” Michael says, weirdly gentle, which is not a quality Ashton would expect from a sex worker. But then Michael’s voice regains the sensual, sultry tone Ashton is used to hearing, and the moment (of tenderness?) is lost. “I want to make this good for you, Ashton, so you have to tell me what you want.”
“I like to be called… And you can't laugh at me. I like being called Daddy?” Ashton is mortified to even be saying it out loud.
“Daddy," Michael tries it out for size, “I think I can manage that. So tell me, Daddy, have I been a good boy? Or do you think I’ve been naughty?” And fuck, Ashton might cum after like three seconds. It sounds… Michael sounds like all of his fucking wet dreams come to life. He really fucking likes this Daddy thing. “Are you hard right now, Ashton?”
“I, I, uh-”
“Have you been hard the entire time?” Ashton’s silence is correctly taken as an affirmative. “You have, haven’t you? I bet you haven’t stopped thinking about this, about me, all day. I've been thinking about you, Daddy. Every person that called, I was hoping they were you. Thinking about you when I was getting them off. What have you thought about, Ashy? What’s got you all hot and bothered?” Jesus fuck.
“Fuck; fuck, Michael.” He's not too articulate at the best of times, and especially not now, not when he's already this worked up. His hand is already heading downwards and he's palming himself over his boxers, trying to stave off his inevitable orgasm for as long as he can.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking about. I was thinking about your cock, Daddy," Michael whispers, like it’s a secret only Ashton is meant to hear. Ashton inhales deeply and grips himself a little firmer, using his thumb to trace over the head of his cock where he can feel it through his boxers. “What you would taste like, how it would feel to have you in my mouth..." Ashton groans, low and guttural in his throat. He puts the phone on speaker beside him, gives up to the feeling of pure lust that's overcome him with every word Michael has said. He might not survive the night at this rate.
Michael sighs so hard it sounds kind of like a moan and that brings Ashton back to reality. “God, it's all I've been thinking about for hours now, sucking your dick. I want to taste you so badly, Ashton, need to know if you’d taste as good as I’m imagining.” Michael sounds like he's confessing, and even that is hot. Ashton decides on the spot to just go all out, pull down the frankly intrusive boxers and just get his hand on himself because… Because fuck it.
Michael continues, voice breathy and a little higher pitched, almost whiny now in this desperate, needy, fucking hot sort of way. “And... And maybe you’d get so carried away, so caught up in the feeling that you’d start to fuck my throat. Would you like to do that, Daddy? Would you want me to choke on your big, thick cock?” Ashton is slowly stroking himself, working his body the way he knows he likes but his hand stutters at Michael’s filthy question. He moves his hand faster, increases the amount of his length he touches with each stroke and uses his thumb to tease the slit.
“Fuck, yeah, babe, want that so badly,” Ashton grits out.
“Are you touching yourself, Ashton?” Michael asks, voice curious in an almost innocent way.
Ashton nods and moans again at the feeling of relief starting to seep into his veins. He feels euphoric already and this has barely begun, “yeah, yeah I’m touching myself.”
“I want to touch myself too, Daddy. Thinking about you has made me so hard, I need to touch myself; please, let me. Am I allowed? Can I please, please touch myself?”
Ashton simply groans at that. Jesus fuck, Michael wants his permission. Is asking for Ashton’s fucking permission to touch his own dick. Jesus, that's so hot. “Yeah, of course baby boy, you can touch yourself. Not too much though, don't want you coming yet. Daddy needs you to hold off.” And okay, where the fuck is that coming from? Ashton can't dirty talk. Or, well at least he never has before. Jesus, this is like an out of body fucking experience. He's been possessed by the ghost of like sex workers past, or something.
Michael moans. “Thank you, Daddy. Feels so good, I’ve been aching for so long.” Michael stops talking and for a moment the only audible sound is the obscene slapping of skin on skin and the both of their broken moans. “God, Daddy, I want to go lower. Can I go lower? Can I open myself up just for you, Daddy? For your cock?”
Ashton is nearly crying. Fucking hell, Michael is going to kill him. Like actually, literally, end his life. He picks up his pace even more, if that's possible, spitting on his palm to make it easier- the precum leaking from his tip is definitely helping, too. “Yeah, yeah, finger yourself for me baby.”
Michael moans and it's loud and high pitched and so pornographic that it should sound forced- it doesn't. It sounds fucking hot, next level hot, so hot Ashton has to squeeze the base of his dick a little tighter than is pleasurable just to keep from blowing right then. “It feels so good, Daddy, so warm and wet and tight. I’m taking my finger so easy, Ash, just swallowing it up. Do you want to fuck me, Daddy? Ruin me with your cock? I need that too, Daddy, need you to fuck me, fill me. I need another finger, Ash.Please, Daddy, let me have another."
“Yeah, use two.” Ashton chokes out. He can feel warmth building in his stomach, can feel sunshine lighting up his veins.
Michael whimpers. “I still need more, Daddy. I need you, need your cock. I bet you would fill me up so good, fuck me so hard I would still feel you a week later.” There's another moan, and this one sounds almost pained. “Oh fuck, Daddy! Daddy, I found it!”
“Good boy, you're doing so well for me, Mikey.” Ashton is so fucking close it’s unreal, can feel his whole body vibrating with it. His tongue feels swollen, eyelids heavy. His wrist is starting to hurt with how quickly he’s moving it. He’s so slick with precum that his hand is just gliding over his stiff prick, the only friction coming from how tight his grip is.
Michael is chanting now, incoherent as he touches his prostate with his fingertips over and over. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! Need to cum, Ash, please let me cum.” Michael begs.
“Let go, baby, come for me. Come for Daddy.” Ashton groans, and it’s the scream of his name that sends him over the edge and he's blacking out with bliss, spilling over his hand and onto his stomach.
Ashton is brought out of his reverie by a low, tinny chuckle. “That was fun, Ashton. Or should I call you Daddy?”
Ashton rolls his eyes. “No, you shouldn't. It was fun. Did you actually-?”
“Uh huh.” Michael replies, and he sounds smug. Ashton can imagine the smirk on his face- not that he even knows what Michael looks like.
Fuck, Michael could be a sixty year old pervert. “Hey, Michael, if you don't mind me asking, how old are you?”
“Why do you want to know, baby? Thinking about romancing me? Making this a real thing?” Ashton almost laughs out loud.
“I was just wondering whether a seventy year old got me off.” Michael laughs at that, and it's nice, wholehearted laughter. Michael’s got a cute laugh, like a giggle. That's a weird train of thought, one Ashton shouldn't really be pursuing.
“Not seventy. I’m 20, actually.”
“Okay. That's relieving then.” Ashton can't help but smile into his phone. He probably looks a dick, sat in the dark and grinning like an idiot but he doesn't really care.
“Now. I hope you're not expecting any more secrets from me, Ashton. Not if I’m getting nothing in return.”
“You wouldn't call that orgasm repayment?” Ashton asks, teasing back.
“Not if I got you off too. That's a transaction, Ash. Orgasm for an orgasm. So, I need a secret of yours in return." Michael hums, obviously thinking for a moment. "Was that the best orgasm of your life?” He asks, finally.
Ashton simply coughs in response. “Good night, Michael.”
“Night night, Ashton. And if you ever fancy another… Conversation… Well, you know who to call.”
Ashton hangs up, exhales a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. Well fuck.
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I hope you all have a good Christmas.
I'm getting my hair bleached white new years eve 😳✌
Merry Christmas,
Byeeeee Xx