The shift from the kitchen to the living room was a blur of hands tangling into Michael's clothes, and lewd promises whispered into his ear as Trevor guided him backwards with an eagerness that-if it hadn't already-spelled out exactly how long he had been wanting this to happen between them.

Quick fumbles were something Michael hadn't partaken in for some time. Even when paying for hookers, he'd always prided himself on being a gentleman and making sure they enjoyed themselves. In the moments before standing and finding himself lying against the couch, he pictured Trevor with his face pushed into the cushions and his ass in the air, demanding it harder, faster, more. The twitch his cock gave was an avenue of thought Michael wasn't quite ready to explore just yet-if ever.

The weight that settled into his lap was both familiar and alien to him. Where women were damp heat, and soft, pillowy thighs coloured with the eager marks of grasping fingers, Trevor was hard, heavy, and his thighs on either side of Michael pinned him in place like a vice. His cock lay against Michael's stomach, flushed and swollen. Over his shoulder, items of clothing formed a path upon the carpet.

The dress was not one of them.

That still stretched taught with every gulp of air Trevor took. A single strap had tumbled down his shoulder, and rested against the inked reminder of what Michael had done nine years ago. The hem of it blossomed around their hips, a peach rose.

Michael felt his stomach stir, a heat coiling up in the pit of him that left no room for denial.

He couldn't remember losing his own clothes in the rush to the couch, but he was looking down the length of his torso, broad and exposed, to stare at the way his dick sat large beneath Trevor's. His trousers hung around his ankles, his boxers a little higher up on his calves. He braced himself for the usual barbs about his weight, readied himself with a come-back about the inoffensive equipment Trevor was packing, but they never came. When Trevor ran his hands along his stomach to rest against his collar bone, the only thing Michael found on his face was a gentle quirk of his mouth that was the nearest to an honest-to-God smile he'd ever seen upon it.

A wash of juvenile spite clouded his thoughts, a defense against the guilt. Michael was half-way to wrapping his hand around Trevor, and telling him what a pathetic, useless fuck he was for hanging on to this for so long, and how dare he make this too about owing him-when the man leaned forward, rolling his hips against him.

Michael tossed his head back and groaned.

Lester had once joked that Michael and Trevor would end up either fucking or killing each other. Smug little bastard always had been good at reading people.

He covered his face as Trevor continued, his cheeks flushed and hot beneath his splayed fingers. The weight on his lap lessened a moment later, and for one horrifying second, Michael thought that maybe he was just going to be left like this as a belated act of vengeance, but then he was being being engulfed by warmth and fuck, nobody had ever gone down on him without his practically begging or paying for it.

Peeking through his fingers, Michael watched himself disappear into Trevor's smirking mouth. He caught his gaze and held it, even as his cheeks burned and his shame hit an all-time high. He tried not to think about Amanda, about how different she looked whenever she gave in and did this for him; her features twisted around barely concealed disgust.

Hunched over as he was between Michael's legs, one of his hands hidden beneath the dress as he worked himself, Trevor looked like he was enjoying himself. He pressed closer, his eyes slipping shut as he took him in deeper, wrapping his tongue around the length. Michael's hands flew to his hair, holding on. If he let go, he thought he might just break his back in two; he was too old to be writhing around like this.

The wet pop that filled the room was obscene, but not as obscene as the loss Michael felt when that wet heat left him to the chill of the air. He found Trevor's eyes, bright and amused, and fought to find his voice; he was not above pleading.

"T." he managed, voice high-strung and reedy in his desperation. "Come on, man."

"Hold yer horses there, cowboy." said Trevor, straightening up until he was kneeling over Michael's lap. The dress fell about his hips, the semi-transparent fabric colouring his strong legs pink. "Christ, you this selfish with Amanda? No wonder she left you."

The few choice words on the tip of his tongue slipped back into the depths of his stomach, tasting horribly like surrender. He'd fight and argue with him later, but right now he was more concerned with getting Trevor's mouth back around him.

"Come on, T." he tried again.

Trevor braced an arm around the top of the couch. He reached his free hand behind himself, wrapping his fingers around the base of Michael's cock, holding him, and began to ease down. Michael felt himself flush when he realized what Trevor was doing, then he was gritting his teeth and trying not to buck up when the first inch found its way inside.

He pressed himself back against the cushions, his hands flying to Trevor's thighs and digging into the hard flesh. His hips jerked of their own accord, but instead of gaining another inch, he lost one. Trevor pulled away with a startled grunt of discomfort, a look of murder on his face.

"I'm sorry!" said Michael quickly.

"You fuckin' will be!" snapped Trevor, his voice unsteady. "You do that again and you'll be swallowing your fucking teeth, bro." He slowly lowered himself another few centimeters, his face screwed up in concentration. Michael couldn't tear his eyes away from him, found himself staring at the way he sucked his lower lip between his teeth and worried at it. He considered reaching up, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him down, finding out how those lips would feel against his own.

Another inch and Trevor unwrapped his hand from around him, curling his fingers instead within the open collar of Michael's shirt. He arched forwards, groaning.

Michael tried to swallow his own desperate cries, but when Trevor finally seated himself, clenching around him, he couldn't help the whine that tore itself free.

Under his palms, Trevor's legs were trembling and clammy. He was overcome with another spike of guilt, but instead of following it up with spite, Michael found something softer. He lessened his grip, slipping one around to the small of Trevor's back, and wrapping the other around his length.

Trevor looked at him. Michael didn't think he'd ever seen him look so vulnerable, so broken. As if he was waiting for rejection, even now.

He gave a twist of his wrist, Trevor bit at his lip again, choking back whatever noise was trying to tumble free. Finding himself denied by the silence, he rolled his hips up into his tight grip. The answering clench around him had them both moaning.

"You-you ever think about me with the others?" The question hadn't supposed to sound so accusatory, Michael was simply curious to know how far Trevor's imagination had stretched during his trysts, but there was a sharp note in the breathlessness of his voice that sounded ridiculously like jealousy.

Trevor eased up a couple of inches, he said nothing.

"Ever pretend it was me fucking you?"

When he dropped back down onto his lap, Michael felt himself jerk up to meet him. His spine squealed, arched too taught. Trevor whined against his throat, blanketing Michael's torso with his own as he continued to roll his hips.

"Wh-what the fuck do you think?" he hissed, his words a damp puff of air on Michael's neck. "Your ego's big enough, Mikey, don't need me fattening it up even more."

"What about the women?" Michael continued. He fisted Trevor's prick, mirroring the desperation he felt. "You think about me when you're fucking them?"

The answering snort against his neck had Michael wishing he'd just kept his mouth shut and fucked him in silence. "Well," said Trevor, "the way their tits bounce around, it's tough not to think about you."

Michael surged forwards, pushing Trevor back until his top half met the couch. The dress fell about his waist, exposing him as Michael hoisted his legs up and pressed back in with a growl. "Fuck you." he spat, digging his nails deeper into Trevor's hips, even as his other hand found his length again.

"J-Jesus." Trevor gasped. His eyes were wide and alarmed, his mouth hanging open in a surprised O. Michael grabbed a fistful of his (no, no, it didn't belong to him) dress, and hauled him forwards.

"I don't bend that-" was all he managed to say before Michael covered his lips with his own. He tasted of cheap beer and even cheaper food, but it was honest and natural, and Michael wanted more of it. He wormed his tongue inside, fucking his mouth in a mimicry of each jerk of his hips against his ass.

He swallowed every cry Trevor failed to bite back, and worked him faster, desperate to see him come undone by his own hand.

A hand twisting against the folds of his shirt, and a leg hiking up around the small of his back was all the warning Michael got before Trevor was spilling over his fingers. He clenched as he spasmed under him, his body a soft vice that worked Michael towards his own precipice. Michael saw him through it, taking everything he had, even as Trevor's groans turned from pleased to annoyed. "Michael" he keened.

Michael supposed, in hindsight, he'd probably be embarrassed about coming at the sound of Trevor's voice and the sight of his dick in his hands, twitching against the dress, but as he spent himself, he felt nothing but gratitude and an intoxicating nothingness that swept like liquid fire to every inch of him.

He collapsed against him, smiling at the huffed grumble of annoyance he got in response. Trevor was slick and cool in his palm, and he could feel himself softening inside him, but he barely had the motivation to keep his eyes open, let alone move.

It was only when he felt a fist slap against the crown of his head that he managed to look up. Trevor looked positively debauched, his hair had rucked up against the cushions and stood on end, and the marks of his scars had practically vanished beneath the flush of his cheeks. His mouth had set into a grim line that Michael didn't quite understand; he looked tightly wound, ready to spring.

"Get the fuck off o' me." he demanded, wriggling under him for emphasis.

Michael didn't move. "I will," he said, keeping his tone light, "just gimme a minute, man." His laughter was met with a scowl and a sharp nudge to his ribs.

Not wishing to give Trevor reason to start fighting with him again, he slipped out of him with a grunt and sat back, trying not to look at the state he was in below the waist. Trevor was on his feet in an instant, storming towards the kitchen on unsteady legs.

"It's been fun, Mikey." he called, his voice tight and hard, "But I got shit to do and all that. Got a business to run." Michael heard him turn the tap on, the rush of the water drowned out the heavy footfall of his boots and the clattering of his hands as he rummaged through drawers. He reached down to the floor, collecting a discarded sock and wiped himself off. He pulled his pants and trousers back up before approaching the kitchen.

"You going already?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. He searched about the mess Trevor had made. "Thought you were making us breakfast, bro."

Trevor whirled around, looking unsure of himself. "Isn't this the part where you kick me out?" he asked.

The sudden understanding hit Michael like a punch to the gut, and for a long, long moment, he couldn't think of a single thing to say. Trevor must have seen something on his face that looked like admission because he was sneering and stomping by him in a blur of colour before Michael found his wits again and grabbed him by the arm.

Before he found himself with a mouth full of broken teeth, he said, "I'm not kicking you out."

Trevor looked unconvinced.

"Look," he tried again, "I'm tired, OK. I'm sick to fucking death of arguing, man." He brought his hands up, hoping to look as non-confrontational as possible (although judging from Trevor's behaviour whenever he opted to be diplomatic about these things, it might not have been a good idea), and continued, "If you want to stay, that's-that's fine with me. Just, just do what you want. I'm too tired to stand here and argue with you."

It was as much of a 'thank you' as he was capable of giving. He turned away, too tired to climb the stairs to his bed, and moved instead back to the couch. It stank of an ungodly amount of things when he let himself fall back into it, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

A moment later, the weight sank again at the side of his head. He glanced up, immediately wishing he hadn't when he was greeted with a rather intimate view of Trevor's ass as he climbed over him. Michael hooked his hands into the armrest, holding himself steady as he was unceremoniously shoved back several inches whilst Trevor made himself comfortable between the back of the couch and Michael's stomach.

"The fuck are you doing?" asked Michael, more amused than annoyed.

Trevor looked back at him from over his shoulder, his brows arched high, "Doing what I want." he said, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. Michael watched him turn back around to face the cushions, trying not to laugh.

Hours later, he would wake up to find his arm held tight around Trevor's waist, and he would keep it there.

A/N: Welp, that's it for this one, guys. I plan to write more of them in the future because, good God, I love them so much and they're a lot of fun to write. Thanks for the all the faves/reviews/follows, seriously, I didn't expect that! And, yeah, hope you enjoyed it!

Pssst, their relationship is so angsty that I just, I needed to have some fluff there at the end.