#babylonlibrary

Luke is in Michael’s room. 

Well—scratch that. Luke was always in Michael's room. In fact, Luke had just left Michael’s room, along with Ashton and Calum, exhausted and tipsy from drinks after an incredibly successful tour stop.

Then who the fuck is this? Reclined easily in a plush chair in the corner of the hotel room, Not-Luke looks exactly like Michael’s luke: same eyes, same face, same sharp jawline. Only, this luke has dark hair. This luke is dressed in a blazer and jeans. This Luke is looking at Michael with something akin to boredom in his eyes, lined with smudged red-blue eyeshadow and framed by unkempt curls. 

What the fuck, Michael thinks. 

“What the fuck,” Michael says. 

Not-Luke sighs, as though irritated, and a shiver runs down Michael’s spine. In the chill of the room, he’s frozen in place, the low hum of the aircon matching the racing heartbeat in his throat. 

“Shit,” Not-Luke mutters under his breath. Michael feels out of his depth. Something warm curls through his gut at the expletive—specifically the sound of the expletive on Not-Luke’s tongue. 

He swallows it down. Instead, he says: “Who the fuck are you?” 

Not-Luke moves slowly, as though in a dream. He touches the bridge of his nose, ignoring Michael’s question. 

“What year is it?” He asks. 

On autopilot, Michael responds. “It’s 2023. Who the fuck are you?”

“You’re on tour?” 

“Hey, man, I d—” 

“Take My Hand Tour, right? How old are you? 28?” 

“Alright, whoever the fuck you are, I’m calling security,’ Michael says, finally getting his feet to move, crossing the room to pick up the telephone receiver on the bedside table. “They’ll take care of this m—”

“You look good.” 

Michael freezes, hand suspended over the dialpad. What the fuck.

He turns to look at Not-Luke. His mouth is dry, pulse racing, palms growing uncomfortably sweaty. 

Not-Luke hasn’t moved from his place, but his eyes are glued on Michael. He looks like his Luke—like some sort of crazily accurate impersonation of him, down to the colour of his lips, the fall of his shoulders, the unrefined grace of his posture, like a doe trapped in a too-large body. He had the same electric blue eyes. Ones that mesmerised Michael. Ones that he couldn’t look at too long without facing the weight inside him he was too afraid to examine. 

This Luke isn't clumsy though. Everything about him seems intentional. The light from the dim yellow lamp on the table beside his chair casts a shadow that cuts across his features. Michael’s eyes catch the stubble on his jaw. His fingers itch to touch. And when Not-luke shifts, something clicks. 

What the fuck. 

“You—you’re Luke,” he manages, words barely above a whisper, loud like a gunshot in the quiet room. 

A slow smirk spreads across Luke-Not-Luke’s face. Encouraging. Mocking. Michael can almost hear him purring, the silk of his voice whispering ‘well done’ into Michael’s ear. His tongue goes dry at the thought. 

“I am,’’ Not-Luke replies. “Thought I’d dreamt this whole thing up, actually. Didn’t think I’d get to live it again.” 

He offers no further explanation. Michael puts the telephone receiver back in place. 

‘What–how? How?”

Not-Luke sits up, rolling his shoulders. Michael watches the muscles in his neck shift. 

Greedy. He feels greedy. 

“Dunno,” Not-Luke says. “Why don’t you call your Luke over ‘n we can all have a chat, eh?” 

Oh. Right. Of course. 

Michael refuses to dwell too much on how he said ‘your Luke’. Instead, he picks up the receiver and dials the number for Luke’s room. 

It rings. Once. Twice. 

A soft click as his Luke picks up the call. 

“Hello?” A drowsy reply. Luke had probably gone straight to bed after leaving Michael’s room. A fond warmth rises in Michael’s chest. 

“Luke? It’s Michael,” he speaks softly, somehow keeping the panic, the urgency out of his voice. “Can you come to my room?” 

“Right now?” comes the mournful reply. “I just got to bed.”

Michael’s eyes flit across the room to Not-Luke, who is still watching him, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Along with something else. His legs are spread wide as he lounges on the chair. Michael briefly pictures himself on his knees in the space between those thighs. 

Not-Luke stares. All of a sudden, Michael feels like cornered prey. He pointedly looks away. 

“Please? It’s important.” 

A rustle of bedsheets on the other end as Luke sits up. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Just get here.” 

Silence. Then, a soft sigh. “Okay,” says Luke, “give me a few minutes, I’ll be over.” 

Click.

“He’s coming?” 

The voice comes from much closer than he’d anticipated. Michael flinches, hard. When he turns around, Not-Luke is standing in the middle of the room, hands tucked into his pockets. 

Michael’s first thought is, he’s so wide. 

His second thought is, fuck, I want him. 

“How long has the tour been on?” Not-Luke asks, casually, as though making conversation. There's an underlying tone of something that Michael can’t quite place. Yet.

“Uh…a few months?” Michael scratches at the skin on the back of his neck. A nervous tic. Not-Luke notices. 

“Nervous?” 

Michael scoffs out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, s’not every day an evil version of your band mate shows up in your hotel room.” 

A soft huff of laughter. Not-Luke takes a slow turn on his heel, observing the room. He takes measured steps as he begins walking around, trailing his fingertips over the desk, the pens, Michael's wallet sat upon the mantlepiece. For some reason, Michael can’t look away. 

“Don’t worry. I can play nice.”

Michael can feel the heat crawling up his cheeks. Why does this luke have such an effect on him? 

“Fuck off, mate.” Deflect, deflect, deflect. 

Not-Luke continues his exploration of the room, never making eye-contact. “Oh, I will. Soon. Jus’ got some business to take care of first.” 

Michael furrows his eyebrows. Business? What is he talking about? 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The brunet pauses. Looks at Michael with a sly smirk. “You’ll figure it out.” 

“You’re being weird.” Michael says instead. 

“You don’t know me.”

“You’re Luke, aren't you? I know you like I know myself.” 

The smirk grows. “I bet you do, baby.” 

Oh. Something sultry and warm curls in Michel’s belly. Baby.

Michael opens his mouth to say something—anything—when the doorknob rattles and his Luke bursts in. His blond hair is dishevelled, and he’s wearing sweatpants and a shirt that Michael is pretty sure belongs to him. Luke’s eyes come first to Michael, then shift to the stranger in his room. Those gorgeous blue eyes widen in something like fear. Then confusion. 

“What the fuck,” he says, looking Not-Luke in the face, who seems extremely pleased by this reaction. 

“There we go,” he says. “Bit late to the party, aren't you?”

“What the fuck,” Luke replies. He darts towards Michael, grabbing his forearm and tugging. Luke’s touch feels reassuring. Michael looks at him, but Luke is still staring at his doppleganger. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m you,” Not-luke replies easily. 

“No, you’re not.” 

“Yeah, I am.” 

“What the f—” 

“Yeah, you’ve said that.” 

Michael can't help the huff of laughter that escapes him. He feels a bit dizzy, seeing two Lukes standing in his room. He’s pretty sure he’s had dreams about this situation. One luke behind him, one in front. One bouncing in his lap, the other on his tongue. Both of them, down on their knees, looking up at Michael as they—

“Mikey, snap out of it.” His luke is shaking his arm. Not-Luke is looking at Michael knowingly, like he can read his mind. For a moment, Michael is afraid he really can. 

His luke has a deep furrow between his eyebrows. Michael wants to smooth out the wrinkles there with his thumb, to tell Luke not to worry, that they’ll figure this out. Luke takes a step towards Not-Luke, Michael's arm growing cold as Luke's touch leaves him. 

“I’m calling security. I don’t know who the hell you are, but—” 

“Oh, shut up, Luke. We’re the same person. Use that pretty little head of yours. How do you think security would react to seeing two of us walk out of here when only one came in?” 

Luke narrows his eyes. “Don’t talk to me like that.” 

Not-Luke tilts his head, mocking. “C’mon, gorgeous, we both know you like it.” 

Michael can’t move. His head is spinning, but he's definitely into this, whatever it is. Luke’s back is to him, but Michael can see the tips of his ears turning red. From shame? Anger? 

“You don’t know anything about me.” He says, stepping closer still, standing taller. They’re almost face-to-face. Both of them are the same height, but Not-Luke has an air of arrogant confidence when he tilts his head up and looks down his nose at Luke. 

“Oh, I know everything about you,” comes the reply. “I know the lyrics you’re too scared to show anyone. I know those magazines you had hidden under your bed in your teens. I know that little folder you hide on your phone.” 

Not-luke leans in, voice low as he speaks into Luke’s ear. Luke, who is paralyzed with something, fingers curled into shaking, barely restrained fists. 

“I know the things you think about when you’re all alone,” His eyes flick to Michael. He gestures towards him with a tilt of his head. “About him.” 

The ground falls away from beneath Michael’s feet. All the air rushes out of his lungs, like his heart just dropped straight out of his ass. His face is so warm, he’s sure he’s bright red. 

Luke’s hands come up, and for a moment Michel worries about having to break up a fight, but Luke just shoves Not-Luke in the chest, hard. The brunet stumbles back, eyes sparkling sharply. His jaw flexes. 

“Don’t play dirty.” Not-Luke scowls. “Face up to your shit, asshole.” 

Luke is breathing heavily, a red flush bright on his pale cheeks. “I don’t need your advice. I don’t need words of wisdom from some washed up, rip-off version of me.” 

Not-Luke’s nostrils flare briefly. “Shut up,” he says through gritted teeth, and Michael’s worries circle back to breaking up a fistfight. 

“You think you’re better than me?” Luke mocks, taking a step towards Not-Luke. “We’re the same. What have you done differently? All my secrets are yours. Why don’t you own up to your shit?” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Not-luke hisses. He steps closer and fists Luke’s shirt in his hand. The air in the room feels heavy. Michael can't breathe, but he can’t move either. His limbs are frozen in place, pulse racing as his mind tries to decide whether hes terrified or turned the fuck on. 

“Say it. Admit that something’s wrong. How you’re different. How much you're hiding. Admit all of it. Admit you’re—” 

“Shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you.” 

A soft whimper cuts through the commotion, slipped involuntarily from Michael’s lips. Both the Lukes are so close, their noses almost touching, cheeks flushed red with rage. They freeze, and turn to look at him. 

Yeah, Michael thinks. He’s terrified and turned on. 

Not-Luke is the first to break the silence. A slow smile spreads across his lips. His eyes travel slowly down Michael’s body, then back up. When he makes eye-contact, his eyes are dark, the colour swallowed by his blown pupils.

“Oh, you like this, don’t you, baby?” 

Michael goes weak in the knees. Luke looks between the two of them, until realization dawns on his face. His flush deepens. 

“Use your words, sweetheart,” Not-luke’s grin grows predatory. Luke struggles in his grip, but his doppleganger holds fast to his shirt. 

But Michael’s words are stuck in his throat. His thoughts race. Oh god, he’s definitely dreamt about this before. 

“I know everything about you too, Mikey,” the nickname rolls off his tongue like a threat. “Enjoying the view, aren’t you?” 

Michael gulps. Not-Luke looks back at his blond counterpart. He leans in just slightly, until his breath ghosts over the other’s lips. 

“Bet you’ve thought about this. How badly you’d want to sit in the corner while I bend blondie here over that desk.” 

This time it's Luke who responds. A soft exhale of air, fluttering eyelashes, inaudible anywhere else but cutting the tension in the room like a knife. Not-Luke raises his eyebrows. 

“Or maybe against the wall?” 

Luke’s eyes fall shut as he catches his breath. Not-Luke leans in to stage-whisper to him. “We’d make it so good for Michael, wouldn’t we, Lukey?” 

Michael thinks he might faint. Or die. He’s positive his brain isn’t getting enough oxygen, but the positively debauched image before him is taking over all his senses. The world narrows down to just the three of them. 

“You want that, Luke? ‘Wanna put on a show for Michael? C’mon, baby—’’

All of a sudden, Luke's eyes are wide open. The dreamy, cloudy look in them is long gone. He tears out of Not-Luke’s grip and steps back shakily. 

“Shut up,” He says, voice cracking. Michael can see a thin sheen of frustrated tears lining his lashes. 

“Sh-shut up,” he tells Not-Luke. He looks at Michael, eyes wide, pleading for something Michael isn’t sure he could give him. 

“I’m not—I’m not gay.”

His voice breaks as he says those words, and Michael’s lungs contract so fast that it sends a stab of pain through his abdomen. The words echo strangely through his bones. Something inside him feels like it's cracking open, exposing something fragile to the world. He feels like he handed something precious to Luke—something Luke never wanted to begin with. 

But Not-Luke seems unfazed. He sighs, frustrated. The blazer slides smoothly off his shoulders and he tosses it towards the bed. Michael watches, frozen, as he tugs on the collar of the shirt and undoes the top two buttons. He looks at his counterpart, silent and still, and runs a hand through his hair, tongues his cheek, then seems to decide something. 

“Okay,” he says. 

Luke blinks. “‘Okay?’”

“Okay. Feel free to walk out then.”

Michael turns to Not-Luke, taking in his posture, loose, but his shoulders tight as though he were trying hard to feign disinterest. 

“What?” Michael says, and he has to clear his throat because the words don’t come out right. “What–why?” 

“Wait,” Luke cuts in. The colour in his cheeks has begun to fade, but there's sweat at the base of his throat despite the cool of the room. Michael distractedly thinks that he wants to lick it, but the strange pangs of pain in his chest make it difficult to move. “Wait, I’m not leaving without Michael. I’m not leaving him with you.” 

Not-Luke exhales, and the tension seems to draw out of him. The suave confidence returns as he backs slowly towards the bed and takes a seat on the edge. He ignores his double, instead looking at Michael through his lashes. He licks his lips. Waiting. 

Michael’s jeans are beginning to feel uncomfortably tight, which is really confusing because his chest simultaneously feels cracked open. 

He looks between his Luke and the other one. Nobody in the room moves, but Michael knows all the attention is on him. It’s getting warm under his collar. He speaks, then, carefully. 

“If I stay…” He starts. “If I stay…what will we do?” 

He knows already what they’d do. Deep down, he’s known it the moment he saw this other luke. He was willing it, subconsciously. But Not-Luke continues looking at him, debating something within himself. In the back of his mind, Michael begins to beg. 

Please. Please. 

Not-luke turns his body squarely in Michael’s direction, spreading his legs in a way that makes it impossible not to follow the line of his body. Down, down, down, Michael’s eyes travel. 

His eyes snap back to Not-Luke’s, who flashes him a smile. It isn’t a kind one. 

“Whatever you want.” Not-Luke says. 

“Anything?” 

“Anything at all.” 

“Mikey…” a warning, from Luke, still standing frozen a few feet away. 

Michael looks between the two. Somewhere, somehow, this is probably really unethical. But Michael wants Luke so desperately. Michael’s wanted Luke for as long as he can remember— catching his eye across the classroom in school, stifling his moans with his hand down his pants back when they were broke and sharing a bed on tour, drowning out the laughter of all Luke’s girlfriends whom he pretended he didn’t resent. He used to dream of waking up next to Luke, of watching the sunlight catch the flecks of gold in his eyes as they fluttered open. He ached so deeply, for so long, stranded in so much darkness as Luke’s life grew and unfolded around them, while Michael struggled to play catch-up with his secrets. 

So when Michael catches his Luke’s eyes—eyes that are pleading, saying something Michael cant—won’t—decipher, he makes a decision. If he can’t have his own luke, he’d take this alternative. This mystical, sharp-edged, dark haired version that seems to know and see and want just as much as Michael does. 

It hurt too much to be real. It was all probably a dream, anyway. Michael could indulge. Just one last time. 

And Not-luke is looking at Michael with something akin to hunger in his eyes. And he sees Michael make his choice before Michael gets a chance to say anything. And his thighs spread wider, and he leans back on his hands. The look on his face is predatory when he pats his lap. 

Michael has crossed the room before he even knows he’s moving. He straddles Not-Luke’s thighs, hovering above him. Strong hands glide slowly up the back of Michael’s thighs, taking the time to savour the tension in his muscles. Michael can’t look away from those eyes. 

A sharp inhale, across the room. The moment is broken. Not-Luke looks over Michael’s shoulder towards his blond counterpart, and Michael's cheeks burn. He can’t find it in himself to turn around. 

“You’re free to leave,” Not-Luke says. 

But Luke stays. Michael’s senses are on fire. Luke stays, unmoving, breath ragged.  

“Fuck you,” comes the response. 

Michael’s ribs feel like they’ve cracked open and it's hard to breathe. How will he live this down? If Luke leaves the room, he knows their friendship will be damaged forever. He wants to get off Not-Luke’s lap, away from those wandering fingertips. He wants to get on the ground before his luke and grovel, beg for forgiveness, pretend none of this ever happened. He can’t lose Luke. He can’t, he can’t, he—

“I’m staying.” 

A low murmur, saturated in shame, barely audible, but enough for Michael’s heart to drop. What? 

What? 

A moment of stillness. Then, Not-Luke's chest rumbles in laughter. His breath fans Michael’s neck. Goosebumps erupt on his skin. Michael can't look at his luke. Not yet. Maybe never again. 

“I’m staying,” Luke says, louder this time, with more conviction. 

“I’m not gay,’’ He repeats. “I won't leave you alone with him.” 

Michael doesn’t know who he’s addressing. He almost doesn’t want to know. But Not-luke looks at him, something akin to reverence in his eyes, and whispers in his ear low enough for it to stay between them. 

“You want him to leave, baby?” There’s a genuine question there, like he'd kick Luke out if Michael asked. 

But Michael won’t ask. This…could be all he’d ever get from his Luke. He’d savour every moment. 

He shakes his head. 

Michael feels Not-Luke’s smirk against his ear. 

“Yeah?” he says, “‘Wanna show him what he’s missing?” 

Michael can’t reply. He tries to hide his face in Not-Luke’s neck, but a pale hand slides up, up, up from his waist, gliding along his neck, pressing lightly down on his jugular as Not-luke forces Michael to turn his head to the side, to where Luke stands, motionless, staring, flushed down to his neck. Michael wants to find out how far the flush goes, but—

“Look at him,” Not-Luke says to Michael. “Y’like that he’s watching?” 

Michael tries to avert his eyes, but Not-luke’s grip is too strong. Michael wants to close his eyes, but he cant—he’s afraid this will all disappear once he opens them again. Instead he avoids looking at Luke’s face, looking anywhere but at the blond standing speechless in his hotel room, eyes dark. 

Because is there a tent in his sweats or is Michael imagining it? 

Not-Luke licks up Michael's neck, and—yeah, he should’ve known every version of Luke would need all his attention. He kisses slowly along Michael’s jaw and stops at a spot underneath Michael's ear, nipping and sucking until a bruise blooms underneath his lips. When he bites softly on his earlobe, Michael moans something unintelligible. 

“Luke…” 

Not-Luke’s grin grazes the skin of Michael’s neck, sensitive and painted in purples and blues. Behind Michael, there’s a soft “shit,” followed by the sharp sound of a chair scraping across the floor. Luke has probably found a place to sit, and Michael’s pride glows.. 

But Not-Luke doesn’t like Michael’s momentary distraction. He runs his hands down the sides of Michael’s legs and slaps his left thigh softly. 

“Pay attention,” he warns. Fuck. It draws a soft whine from him.

Not-Luke’s hands brush soothingly up and down Michael’s sides. His touch is warm, possessive. Michael feels small under the weight of his hands. 

“Hurts a bit, doesn’t it?” Not-Luke says, low enough for just Michael to hear. Michael knows what he’s talking about. He won’t acknowledge it, not yet. But Not-luke takes his silence as a sign to go on. 

“I know you want him,” Not-luke mutters. “He wants you too. Have patience, baby. Let it come to him.” 

It stings. “For how long?” He asks, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of his voice. 

Not-luke doesn't reply. His hands travel lower down Michael’s back and he palms his ass. Michael gasps lowly, and Not-Luke looks Michael dead in the eye as he says, “Make sure he keeps his eyes on you.” 

The warning tone of his voice goes straight to Michael’s dick. He doesn’t have any time to reply before Not-Luke grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in, and then they’re kissing. 

It’s immediately rough. Not-Luke doesn’t wait for Michael to catch up, teeth clashing against his as Michael arches closer. Michael gasps into the kiss, and the brunet takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth. His hands are wandering, exploring, seeing what makes Michael tick—Michael, who can’t believe he’s got some-version-of-Luke’s tongue in his mouth. It feels like breathing after being underwater for hours. 

Michael sucks on Not-Luke’s tongue, coy, and it draws a deep groan out of the man. He kisses like an animal, Michael thinks, like a starved man–not stopping to breathe, holding Michael and taking what he wants from him.

A stifled curse across the room causes the two of them to break apart, and Michael watches the line of spit connecting his and Not-Luke’s lips glint in the light as he pulls away. 

“Like what you see?” Not-Luke asks his lookalike. Michael turns to see Luke sitting stick-straight in the chair that Not-Luke was in earlier. His jaw is clenched, fingers curled into fists pressing down on the armrests. He’s looking straight at Michael. There’s a visible bulge in his pants. He seems intent not to acknowledge it. Michael’s mouth waters. 

While Michael looks at Luke, a million X-rated thoughts shooting through his brain, Not-Luke focuses his grip around Michael’s waist. It’s bruisingly tight, and Michael looks back down at him. Not-Luke spreads his legs wider, knees knocking against the back of Michael’s legs, forcing him to spread his legs as well. It burns his thighs. His back straightens on reflex. Not-Luke smirks up at Michael. 

Oh, Michael thinks. He’s making sure I’m putting on a show. 

Michael doesn’t want to think about what it means. He leans in again, reclaiming Not-Luke’s lips, who meets him where he’s at. He sucks on Michael’s bottom lip, and Michael moans lowly at the feeling. It’s all teeth and tongue again, and Michael can tell they’re both hard from it. From the tension. From being watched. 

Luke’s hands tighten around his waist when Michael’s hands come up to tug on the hair at the base of his neck. He hisses softly into the kiss, pulling Michael impossibly closer. The next time Michael groans into the kiss, Not-Luke’s hips buck up. In response, Michael grinds down into him, feeling his arousal through the jeans as they roll their hips in tandem.

Michael feels like he’s on fire. He’s strikingly aware of his Luke, across the room, his eyes following Michael’s every move as he squirms upon his counterpart’s lap. The thrill of it shoots down his spine, the taste of Not-Luke’s lips intoxicating. He wants more. 

“Please,” the word slips from Michael’s mouth. He doesn’t stop pressing down against Not-Luke’s hardness, chasing his own high as the brunet’s lips find his neck once again. He sucks on the mark he’d left earlier, and the dull sting sends a shiver through his body. “Please, please…L-Luke—”

“Yeah?” Replies the man under him. “Feel good?” 

He can’t get an answer out, instead chasing his own high. He feels so good. For a moment, he worries he’s going to spoil his favourite pair of jeans, but he can’t bring himself to care. He continues to rock against the weight underneath him. 

Not-Luke’s hands tighten around him, stopping his ministrations. Michael lets out an involuntary whine. 

“Don’t get greedy, now, baby,” Not-Luke chides him, teasing. 

“Please, Luke—” 

“Please, what?” 

Michael’s head is reeling. He felt so good, just a moment ago, and now it’s slipping away. 

“Please…more. More, I want–I want—” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. 

“Oh, you want?” Not-Luke laughs, mockingly. It sends a stab of hot shame through Michael’s gut. “Getting yourself off shamelessly in my lap like a whore…what about what I want, hm?”

Michael’s cheeks burn, warm and bright, and he looks down. Embarrassment shoots through his body. The patronizing lilt in Not-Luke’s voice makes Michael want to curl up and hide, but it also does something unspeakable for him.

“I’m-I’m sorry…” He says, because he feels he was expected to, and because he really is. He wants to feel good, but he wants to make Not-Luke feel good too. And across the room—he wants to make his luke feel good too. 

“Don’t be sorry, Mikey,” Not-luke grins, tapping his chin to make Michael look at him. “You need to learn to ask nicely. You want to be good, don’t you?” 

When Michael nods, Luke tsks. “Use your words.” 

“Please, Luke, you asshole—touch me.” 

Not-Luke laughs, satisfied. “Good job, baby. Well done.” 

But he makes no move to act on Michael’s wishes. In fact, he takes his hands off Michael’s body altogether. He leans back on his arms again, looking up at Michael, smiling. Along with his touch, the warmth leaves Michael’s skin too. For a moment, Michael worries he’s done something wrong. He huffs, frustrated.

A moment passes in silence. Then, 

“What do you think, blondie?” Not-Luke asks. Tilting his head, he looks over Michael’s flushed skin, then at the boy sitting still in the corner of the room. “Y’think I should give him what he wants?” 

Luke looks…frazzled. He barely registers that he’s been addressed. Clearly, he’d been struggling to keep his hands still, for they were now tensely latched onto the armrests. Michael admires his self control. 

Luke looks between Michael and Not-Luke, then gulps. 

“Wh-what?” 

Not-Luke rolls his eyes. He reaches for Michael, and Michael nearly sighs in relief, but he barely brushes his fingertips over the fabric of Michael’s trousers. It isn’t nearly enough.

“Michael,” calls the brunet. “I want you to ask him for permission.” 

There are twin sets of sharp inhales as Michael looks at Luke, whose cheeks seem to suddenly flood with a richer crimson colour. Michael searches Luke’s eyes for something—anything, any sign of discomfort, anything that indicates his disgust. But Luke's irises are swallowed by darkness, eyes wide as he takes in Michael’s every move. All three of them are hard as fuck, and Michael’s getting desperate. So he makes a decision. 

“Luke,” he starts, careful. “Luke, baby, won’t you let him touch me?” 

He hears the hitch in Luke’s breath from all the way over here. He leans forward, glides his palms up Not-Luke’s chest, never looking away from his Luke—so sweet, so beautiful, so desperately aching with want as he tries to stay still in his chair, avoiding eye contact because he's too flustered. 

“Look at me, gorgeous,” Michael coos, and Luke does, so obediently it makes Michael’s skin crawl. “Don't you want to see? His hands—your hands on me?” 

Luke gulps. Not gay, Michael thinks. Oh, I bet. 

Luke’s hands are shaking. Sparkling drops of sweat line his throat. 

Not-Luke seems to get impatient. He sighs pointedly, looking at Luke. Luke’s eyes flash towards him briefly, then he glances back at Michael. 

It’s almost unnoticeable. Michael wouldn’t have caught it if he weren’t watching every little movement Luke makes, but—there, slowly, hesitantly, a short nod. 

In a startling flurry of movement, Not-Luke flips them over so that Michael is lying on the bed, with both the brunet’s palms framing his head as he hovers over Michael. The air gets knocked out of him and Not-Luke begins trailing his index finger down Michael's neck, stopping at his collar. 

“Where should I touch?” he wonders aloud. He begins unbuttoning Michael’s shirt, methodically. Infuriatingly slow. Then the shirt is gone. The chill of the room catches up to him. He feels exposed under both Lukes’ rapt attention. 

The brunet places a hand over Michael’s neck, pressing lightly. Michael is sure he can feel his pulse racing, as Not-Luke asks, “Here?” 

His eyes glint, like he knows something Michael doesn't. He trails his hand down, leaving goosebumps on Michael’s skin in his wake. Once he reaches his chest, he tweaks one of Michael’s nipples. Michael’s back arches from the stimulation, moaning lowly. 

“Or here?” Not-Luke asks again. He pauses. When he doesn’t get a reply, he turns to face Luke. 

“Answer me,” he says. 

Michael looks at Luke as well. When their eyes meet, Michael notices Luke’s cock visibly twitch. Luke parts his lips, exhales, then speaks. 

“Lower.” 

A sinful grin erupts on Not-Luke’s face as his hand moves south. “Attaboy.” 

Michael’s hips jump in anticipation, and Not-luke tsks in response. He eases his index finger under the waistline of Michael’s jeans. “Eager, aren’t you?” he observes, licking his lips. 

He grinds his palm into the outline of Michael’s cock. Hard. Like punishment. A loud, broken moan rips from his lips. 

“Fuck,” Michael breathes. “Please. L-Luke…”

“Patience, sweetheart,” Luke says, and finally—finally—unbuttons Michael’s jeans. Michael rises on his elbows to help get them off, until he’s just in his boxers. There’s a growing wet patch on the front of them, and the outline of his dick is prominent. His skin grows warm with embarrassment. He’s the only one in the room undressed now. 

He’s planning on changing that. 

“Luke,” he says, and receives two “yeah?”s in response. He bites his lip to keep from laughing. He looks at Not-Luke, hands braced on the bedsheets between Michael’s knees. 

“You’re still dressed.” 

Not-Luke blinks. He shakes his head. With a light chuckle, “We’ll fix that problem later, Mikey.” 

He reached for Michael’s boxers and palms his erection. Michael’s head drops back as he groans. “M-more. Please. Pl—” 

“Take those off.” 

The voice startles both the men on the bed. They look towards Luke in the chair, who has a hand slapped to his lips, as though he can't believe he said those words.

Michael’s stunned expression shifts. He cracks a grin. Looking up at Not-luke, he says,“You heard the man.” 

Scoffing, Not-Luke curls his fingers into Michael’s waistband and helps get his boxers off. Michael’s length springs free, and he exhales as the cold hair hits his warm skin. He’s so turned on, he feels like he’ll explode. Across the room, a squeak, painfully obvious, barely masking Luke's arousal.

“Luke,” Michael says to the brunet alter. “Touch me before I do it myself.” 

Not-luke raises his eyebrows. Amused. “Didn’t know you were calling the shots here.” 

Michael narrows his eyes. He takes his left hand off the bed and reaches for his dick—

Not-Luke slaps his hand away. 

He taps Michael’s knees—a silent order for him to spread his legs. Feeling giddy and warm, Michael does. He expects Not-Luke to wrap a hand around his cock, but he forgoes it altogether. Michael whines, desperate for any kind of stimulation, and his knees fall closed instinctively. 

Luke lets out a soft gasp. Not-Luke forces Michael’s legs open. His hand, featherlight in touch, trails just past the base of Michael’s length, and when Michael feels the pressure of Luke's thumb against his perineum, he nearly blacks out from how badly he wants more.

“Such a pretty cock,” Not-Luke murmurs. Michael doesn’t think it's possible, but his blush deepens further. “If I had my way, I’d have you spread out on this bed for hours, jus’ to look at you.” 

“Touch it, then,” Michael says, and he means for it to come out as a demand, but it sounds like a plea instead. 

“Not just yet,” Not-luke replies. “Where’s your lube?” 

Michael’s lost. He feels on edge, skin damp and sticky with sweat. He barely manages to gesture towards the bedside table. Not-Luke’s touch disappears momentarily, but when he returns, Michael jolts as he feels a slick, cold finger prodding at his hole. He teases the rim for a moment, but chuckles when Michael whines in discontent. 

All three of them moan when Not-Luke sinks his finger in. He fingers Michael slowly, and Michael claws at the sheets desperately. “More,” he gasps.

“Gotta go slow, Mikey. Get you stretched out for me.”  

But Not-Luke obliges. He adds another finger, scissoring in and out of Michael as he gasps and writhes on the bed. He seems to be searching for something, but Michael can’t pay attention. Not-Luke’s fingers feel so big inside him, reaching so much farther than he himself can. Suddenly, Not-Luke crooks his finger a little, touching a spot deep inside, and a shot of pleasure rushes through him. Michael’s dick twitches, and he thinks maybe he’s died and gone to heaven. His jaw drops open and he moans loudly. 

“Luke.”

“There it is.” Not-Luke smiles. Michael can hear the satisfaction dripping from his lips. 

He screws his eyes shut. Good—its so good. He can hear Luke’s ragged breath from the chair he’s still in. He wants to hide his face in his shoulder, but he wants to look at Luke so badly. Wants to see the desire in Luke’s eyes. Wants to reach out, to touch those blond curls. 

He feels the warm weight of Not-Luke lean over him, his voice in Michael’s ear, his chains tickling Michael's skin. “Eyes open, baby. Gotta look at him. Make sure he’s watching.” 

But Not-Luke’s fingers inside him are relentless. Michael forces his eyes open through the haze of pleasure. He turns his head, meets the blond man’s eyes. 

Luke looks completely undone. Ruined altogether. As his brunet counterpart adds a third finger, continuing his assault on Michael’s prostate, the sounds spilling from Michael’s lips are downright sinful. He lets out low ah-ah-ahs as Not-Luke’s expert fingers stretch his walls open for him. The pleasure builds in the lower part of his belly. 

Luke watches, grip on the armrest so tense that Michael’s sure his hands will cramp over his guitar the next day. His eyes are fixed on where Not-luke’s fingers are working Michael open. The untouched tent in his sweats is no doubt painful, and Michael can make out a wet patch against the grey of the fabric where Luke is leaking. His mouth waters. He wants. 

Michael reaches for the blond.  “Luke—”

His words are cut off by a broken moan as Not-Luke twists his fingers. Michael sees stars. His back arches off the bed. Without warning, he comes all over his stomach. 

He lightly registers Luke's intake of breath, how he whines: “Michael.” 

Not-Luke fingers Michael through his post-orgasm haze, and when he pulls his fingers out, Michael feels strangely empty. When he meets the brunet’s eyes, something dark shines behind his lashes. Michael’s stomach drops. Not-Luke rises on his knees, rising above Michael, who feels frozen in place under the man’s piercing gaze. He looks down his nose at Michael as he begins unbuttoning his shirt. Michael’s eyes follow the path of his fingers, down, down, down, until the shirt falls open. 

“What,” says Not-Luke, his voice ice-cold and patronizing, “did I say about asking?” 

Michael gulps. The low timbre of Not-Luke’s voice, paired with the pinpricks of arousal—of fear—has Michael’s soft cock twitching in interest. Not-Luke crawls over him, careful with his hands, just barely touching Michael as he leans in. Michael closes his eyes, anticipating warm lips over his own, but the feeling never comes. When he opens his eyes, Not-Luke is there, smirking, so close, but not close enough. 

Eyes never leaving Michael’s, he calls across the room, “Luke.”  

The blond seems to snap out of a daze. “...hm?” 

“Come here.” 

Michael inhales so sharply he almost chokes. His eyes dart to Luke, still sitting still. He looks as though he can’t quite believe he heard right.

Tilting his head, he voices his confusion, “Wh-what?” 

Not-Luke ghosts his breath over the warm skin on Michael’s neck, then turns his head. “Come over here before I change my mind.” 

There’s a scraping of wood across the floor as Luke stands up from his seat, the chair nearly tipping over. Not-Luke slides off the mattress, standing up to meet his doppleganger. 

Standing there, hard as stone in his pants, Luke seems to get awkward. “Um—what, uh…where?” 

Not-Luke extends his hand, silently beckoning his lookalike over. Luke approaches with apprehension—eyes dragging over Michael still catching his breath—as he nears the bed. He raises his hand to put it in the brunet’s but seems to hesitate. 

Not-Luke doesn’t have the kind of patience Luke demands. He grasps Luke’s hand and tugs, spinning him around so his back hits the brunet’s chest with a dull thud. Michael’s breath gets trapped in his lungs as he looks up at both the Lukes, now eyeing him with twin looks of unadulterated, unfiltered desire. 

The brunet leans into the blond’s space, lips brushing his neck as he murmurs into his ear. 

“Look at him,” he breathes, eyes raking up Michael's chest. “He’s pretty, isn’t he?” 

Luke stares, blushing violently, curls drooping into his eyes from sweat. When he doesn’t answer in time, Not-luke roughly slides an arm around his waist. Michael watches his chest stutter with a sharp intake of breath as he seems to fall back into his alternate. 

“Go on, Lukey,” Not-Luke mocks. “Tell me how he looks. Tell me what you see.” 

Michael watches Luke lick his lips as his eyes trace the lines of cum along Michael's abs. “He’s pretty. He-he’s—” 

“Good,” says Not-luke, and he presses a kiss underneath Luke’s ear. Michael hears Luke whimper, revels in the sound. “But he’s been selfish today.” 

That gets Michael’s attention. He rises on his hands, ready to defend himself. “Wh-what—” 

Michael is cut off by a pointed glare. Not-Luke slides his arm low around luke’s waist. The blond’s breath is ragged as Not-Luke dips his fingers under the hem of the shirt and slides up, up, revealing Luke’s flushed pale skin. Michael nearly drools. He’s so turned on from the sight—his biggest wet dream, but instead there’s two of them, and somehow they both want him. 

Luke lets out a high-pitched whine and drops his head back on Not-Luke’s shoulder, who kisses his neck again, shushing gently. Michael watches his hand move under luke’s shirt and realizes he’s probably playing with his chest. 

Michael pictures Luke’s chest, nipples pinched raw, wet from his own mouth—and he wants to see. He wants to see so badly—so he rises from his place on the bed and reaches for Luke’s shirt but—

“Tsk,” sighs Not-Luke. “Those hands. So greedy, Michael.”

Michael stops in his tracks. He watches as Not-luke slides his hands back down and teasingly fiddles with the ties on Luke’s sweats. He watches Luke’s hips jump in response. 

“Please,” Luke says, voice cracking. 

Not-Luke chuckles, low, dangerous, threatening. 

“‘Not gay’, huh, baby?”

Luke ignores him, squeezes his eyes shut, and whines like a pornstar. “Please…please, I’ll—” 

“Tell you what, gorgeous,” Not-luke starts, his hands moving to Luke’s hips to stop him as he grinds unconsciously back against the brunet. “If you sit nice and pretty, and hold Mikey’s hands down for me while I fuck him, I’ll make sure to reward you soon, okay?” 

Luke’s eyes flit to Michael’s. Michael snaps out of the horny daze he’s in when he registers the words. “Wait, what?” 

Not-luke slides his fingertips down Luke’s arms and intertwines their fingers. He inhales deeply against the side of Luke’s neck, and when he looks at Michael, his eyes are hooded and dark. 

“Blondie here ‘s going to make sure you keep your hands to yourself, Mikey,” He says, tone patronizing, speaking slowly as though Michael had trouble understanding him. 

“No, but I want—” 

“I think I’ve had enough of what you want, actually.” 

He steps back from the blond, who breathes out like he’s finally remembered how to. Not-Luke guides him gently by the waist until he gets his bearings enough to find his place at the head of the bed. Michael stares, indignant. He almost wants to cross his arms and stick out his tongue like a child. Not-Luke walks back around to the foot of the bed, looming above Michael with his arms crossed. At some point in time, he must’ve rolled his sleeves up, and the sight of his tense forearms paired with the view of his chest through the unbuttoned shirt has Michael aching to reach out and touch. 

So he does. 

But Not-Luke grasps his wrist as he reaches out. He leans in, kissing the corner of Michael’s lips. 

“I don’t think I’ve been clear enough with you, baby.” 

He nips at Michael’s lower lip, and Michael exhales on a moan. 

“Or maybe you didn’t hear me right.” 

He pulls back, eyes dark. 

“But you’re going to keep your hands to yourself, or you won’t come for the rest of the night.” 

That does it. Michael gulps, because he wants to come—hell, he’s leaking already. He’s not sure he’d last the whole night. 

Not-Luke trails his hand down to Michael’s chest, and gently pushes him back so he’s laying on the bed. He crawls over him, mouth tracing wet kisses down the column of his throat. He takes Michael’s hands from beside him and guides them so they’re resting on the pillows above his head. 

“Keep them there,” He warns, and Michael huffs, but he heeds the command. He sits back on his knees, and nudges Michael’s legs open. 

Michael feels soft fingers touch his wrist. He meets Luke’s eye, sitting pretty and flushed and perfectly quiet beside Michael’s head. He opens his palm, lets Luke find his place, lets him intertwine their fingers together. A comforting warmth blooms in his chest. 

He’s distracted by a soft metallic clinking and looks over to see Not-Luke undoing the zipper on his trousers. The brunet knows he’s being watched by both sets of eyes, so he moves his fingers excruciatingly slow as his boxers come into view. Michael’s mouth floods with saliva and his dick twitches with desire when he finally sees the bulge Not-Luke is sporting. 

“L-Luke…” He starts, but the words get lost on his tongue when Not-Luke slides his boxers down far enough for his cock, hard and leaking with pre, to emerge. It’s big, flushed pink and heavy. Michael isn’t surprised to find that Luke’s dick is pretty like the rest of him. 

Michael unconsciously spreads his legs wide, and Not-luke finds his place between them. He slides his hands up Michael’s calves as he lines himself up with his hole. He strokes himself once, twice, teases the rim with his tip, and chuckles when Michael whines impatiently. 

“Y’gonna be good?” He grins. 

Michael opens his mouth to make a snide comment, but cuts himself off with a depraved moan when Not-Luke pushes in. 

Inch-by-inch, Michael feels like he’s being split open. His eyes roll back and he briefly registers his Luke’s moan and Not-Luke’s deep groan as the brunet finally bottoms out. 

So full, Michael thinks. So—big. 

“Oh, we’re just getting started,” Not-Luke responds, and Michael realizes he said that last part aloud. Not-Luke waits for Michael to adjust around him, but when Michael starts squirming, he pulls out a little, and slams back in. Michael’s back arches straight off the bed. He tries to wrap his arms around Not-Luke, pull him closer, but Luke’s sticking well to his orders, and he can’t move his hands. 

“F—fuhhh…L-Luke—I wanna—” he gasps, and Luke leans in, teasing. 

“Didn’t catch that. Say again?” 

“M-more—’’ 

Not-Luke pulls all the way out, leaving just the head inside, and Michael mewls. He pushes back in, and holds the pace at an infuriatingly slow glide. He grinds and rolls his hips into Michael, whose mouth drops open as he sighs and gasps, gaze completely unfocused. Not-Luke trails his thumb across Michael’s lower lip, then down until he has a hand around his neck—not pressing down, just holding. Anchoring. 

“Look at him, Lukey,” Not-luke tells his counterpart through gritted teeth, hissing as Michael clenches around him under the attention. “Doesn’t he look beautiful? All fucked out, drunk on my—on your cock?” 

Michael feels the grip around his fingers tighten. He moans. 

“S’deep, Luke,” He breathes. “ ‘Can feel you—hah…so deep inside.”

“I bet you’ve dreamt about this, Mikey,” Not-Luke says. He’s fucking Michael slow, yes, but not gentle. Each time their hips come together, it's with a force, a controlled slap sound filling the room. “Tell me what your dreams were like.” 

Silence. Just the wet heat, the weight of Not-Luke’s cock, the pleasure building and building. When Michael doesn't respond, Not-luke gives a particularly harsh thrust. 

“Ah–!” Michael knows what he’s asking for. So, he parts his lips, and lets everything out—he’s too fucked out to care. He feels too good to worry. 

“I used, hah, I used to dream of you…d-down on your knees—backstage, after every show. Your lips around my c-cock, your eyes t-teary…I used to dream of licking—mmh, Luke!---licking the sweat off your neck—an-and bending you over tables in bars wh-when you flirted with anyone that…fuck, with anyone that wasn’t me,” while he talks, he can hear soft whimpers falling from the blonde Luke’s lips. He goes on, “I wanted to tie you up to the bed—t-tease you for hours with just my tongue—ah!---I pictured your face…when you…when you c-come—whether you’d cry, if you’d be l-loud…ah, Luke, more—please!”

But Not-Luke doesn’t change his pace. He pulls out slowly, thrusts in slower. And now that Michael is talking, he doesn’t want to keep his mouth shut.

“I wanted—I wanted to kiss you so badly,” He breathes, and he isn’t sure if the tears in his eyes are from the pleasure or the grief. “When…when we sat in comfortable silence on tour buses. When you—when you looked at me under stage lights and…how beautiful you looked. I wanted you so badly for s-so long—” 

“Michael,” the blond whispered, desperate. “Michael. I didn’t understand. I-I didn’t understand. I thought something was…wrong with me. For wanting you—I couldn’t—I thought—” 

“Please–” Michael says, through the pleasure. Through the ache, the longing. “Please…kiss me? Please?” 

And the blond looks up at Not-Luke, who seems lost in thought, and snaps out of it then. He’s surprised to see his blond counterpart seek permission—from himself, no less. He nods. Of course he does. 

Luke rises from his seat and crawls over Michael. He cups the man's face as he leans in. When their lips touch, Michael feels like he can finally breathe. Like he’d been locked out of some universal secret, and he’s finally been let in to it. He feels like he’s floating, the skies at his fingertips. 

Luke kisses so sweetly. So unlike his alternate. He’s shy, not yet sure where to put his tongue, so Michael takes control. It starts out slow, saccharine, as Not-Luke continues grinding into him, and he moans into Luke’s mouth in response. Luke takes it as a sign to deepen the kiss—he licks into Michael’s mouth with fervor. It's warm, wet, and before long they’re panting into each other's mouths. When they part for breath, Not-Luke’s voice chimes in. 

“Michael,” He says, and the man in question looks at him to notice the mischievous glint in his eye. “Don’t you think you should thank Blondie?” 

Michael blinks at him questioningly, until the meaning dawns upon him. His eyes flit downward to Luke’s boner. Yeah, he thinks, I wanna thank him really badly.

“You’ve been so good for us, Lukey,” Not-Luke continues. “You did everything I asked you. Don’t you want your reward, gorgeous?” 

Luke blushes deeply. He nods, shy, hesitant, and Michael twists slightly so he can get his hands under Luke’s sweats without Not-Luke pulling out. He briefly thinks of himself as greedy. That’s probably right. 

It’s a bit awkward in the position he’s lying in, and he feels fuzzy because this new angle has Not-Luke pressing against something inside him that feels mindblowingly good. He struggles with untying the string of the pants for a moment, then with tugging them down Luke's thighs. He huffs at Luke’s abject refusal to help whatsoever, and turns back over to snap at the blond—

Oh. 

Not-Luke’s got a hand cupped around Luke’s jaw as they make out with each other. Michael’s stomach swoops. He can see the wetness upon their lips, the stubble along Not-Luke’s jaw, how it scratches Luke’s pale skin. He sees the spit they exchange between them, the flash of writhing tongues. How Luke moans and sighs into the kiss. How Not-Luke smirks as his blond alter begs wordlessly for more. The scrunch in Luke’s eyebrows as his want, his greed grows. 

When they part, they’re breathing heavily. Luke leans in to go again, but the brunet stops him with a soft tug on his hair. Luke whimpers in response. Michael makes a mental note of that reaction. He’ll be jerking off to this image for months. 

“Fuck, baby,” Not-Luke says, breathless still, laughing lightly. “Slow down.” 

The sound of his voice, the vision of the two of them together, its what finally does it for Michael. He whines, low, and nearly comes on the spot. 

He’s stopped by a hand around the base of his dick. He protests loudly, but Not-Luke clicks his tongue pointedly at him. 

“Be nice, Mikey,” he warns. “Get Lukey off first and behave if you want to come that badly.” 

And Michael does. He does want to come that badly, but more importantly he wants to get Luke off. He twists to meet Luke again, who rises on the bed to get his sweats off and shifts to kneel at an angle more comfortable for Michael. His cock bobs in Michael’s face, and he licks his lips at the sight. He looks up to meet Luke’s eye. The blond is biting his lip, abs tense as though restraining himself. 

“So pretty, Luke,” Michael tells him. He thrives in the soft gasp it draws from the man. “What a fuckin’ view.” 

Before Luke can respond, Michael wraps a hand around him, an licks a wet stripe along the underside of his cock. Luke drops his head back, eyes falling shut. Michael is just about to take Luke into his mouth when a harsh thrust from Not-Luke has his eyes widening. He looks back accusatorily. 

The man in question grins, “Oh, don’t mind me.’’ 

Michael tries to respond, but he’s cut off by a moan as Not-Luke pulls out and aims his next thrust directly on Michael’s prostate. It’s distracting.

“Mikey, sweetheart,” Not-Luke mocks, “Y’won’t come until blondie here does, so I’d suggest you put that pretty mouth to use.” 

Michael moans as the brunet punctuates that statement with a particularly cruel roll of his hips. 

He turns back to Luke and spreads the precome from the head all over his cock. He savours the little sounds Luke makes and he wants to tease him for hours just with little kitten licks, but since his climax is dependent on Luke’s, he gets down to business.  

Michael takes Luke into his mouth in one go. He bobs his head slowly, swirling his tongue along the veins on the underside. He wraps his hand around the base that won’t fit in his mouth. 

Not-Luke puts his hands around Michael’s waist and fucks into him—hard. He takes on a brutal pace. The bedframe shakes slightly, and Michael is pushed further down on Luke’s cock. It triggers his gag reflex, and tears spring from his eyes as Luke above him whines from his chest. 

“Michae—aaaah—”

He pulls off slowly to rub his tongue against Luke's tip, gasping as Not-Luke angles his thrusts so that Michael can barely breathe through how good he feels. He takes luke into his mouth again. His hips jerk as his cock hits the back of Michael’s throat, and michael groans. Luke responds to the vibrations as they shoot up his length and swears loudly. 

“Mm, shit—you take it so good, baby,” Not-Luke says, and Michael glows under the praise. He hums in response, and Luke, above him, fists his hands in his own hair. Michael pulls off him and reaches for those hands, guides them to Michael’s head. He blinks up at Luke through teary eyes as his brunet counterpart continues slamming into him below. 

“Luke, you ca—hngh!---you can fuck my mouth, if-if you want.” 

Luke inhales sharply. Michael tries to smile encouragingly at him, and licks at the bit of spit and precome on his lip. 

“It’s okay,” he says. He drops his mouth open for Luke. 

Luke moans softly. He cards through Michael’s hair gently, and Michael holds his gaze as Luke enters his mouth. 

At first, Luke is hesitant, clearly afraid to do something wrong. Michael sucks softly as he waits, taking Not-Luke’s cock, feeling the coil of pleasure grow tighter and tighter. All of a sudden, Luke grips his hair and thrusts deeper into Michael’s mouth. He takes it pliantly, moaning and swallowing around Luke’s cock, reveling in the sounds he makes. 

“Mikey…ah, ah—y-your mouth…you’re so—please—” 

Sloppily, Luke tugs Michael up and down on his dick, gasping even as his hips buck into Michael, as he savours the wet heat of Michael's throat. Michael exhales through his nose, tries to loosen his jaw, slides his tongue along Luke’s length—he wants it to be good for Luke. His lashes are wet with tears as he looks up at the blond. He lets Luke fuck his throat. Lets the drool and precome slide down his chin. And he feels ecstatic.

Luke’s hips stutter as he moves, his whines and moans growing louder. Abruptly, he pauses his thrusting, tries to pull out as he gasps, “Michael, I’m going to—where do you want me?” 

But Michael chases the movement of his hips, hollows his cheeks. He bobs his head a little, drawing a sweet hiss from Luke as he blinks up at him through hooded eyes. Luke comes with Michael’s name on his lips, chanting it like a prayer. Michael swallows it all, winces slightly at the bitter taste when Luke pulls out, and smirks up at him as the remainder of the blond’s cum spills from the corner of his mouth. 

Luke falls back on the bed, curling around a pillow as he smiles at Michael, a dreamy look on his face. What a dork, Michael thinks fondly. 

But then there’s a hand brushing over his cock, and the thrusts that had slowed down earlier as he sucked Luke’s cock are back, and Not-Luke is leaning over him to claim his mouth roughly. “Didn’t forget about me, did you, Mikey?” 

Michael gasps as Not-Luke finds his prostate again. The brunet takes that as his sign to continue plowing into him—the same spot, over and over, until there’s tears in Michael’s eyes. He keeps the angle, giving it to Michael like he’s starved for it, thriving in the sounds Michael makes as he gasps and sighs and moans and sobs Luke’s name. 

“Fuck, you were made for this, baby,” Luke gasps. 

The hot coil in Michael’s belly is growing tighter and tighter as Not-Luke keeps up the unforgiving pace, greedy and glad to have all Michael’s attention back to himself again. Not-Luke brushes the hair from his forehead and trails his hand down to teasingly glide over Michael’s cock, weeping with desperation. His movements grow sloppier, and he moans lowly in Michael’s ear. Michael feels the tenseness in his muscles, knows he’s close, and just for the sake of it, he nips at Luke’s ear, licks up his neck and whines like a whore. 

“Hhhh—got a mouth on you, don’cha?” Not-Luke chuckles. He clenches at the gravelly sound of his voice, and Not-Luke groans in response. “Shit, Michael—”

Michael feels the muscles in Not-Luke’s back tighten, and he quickly pulls out, both of them moaning as he does. He pumps himself once, then comes with a spurt over Michael’s stomach. 

“Fuck, you’re a vision, baby.” Not-Luke breathes. Michael laughs in response, skin sticky and wet with cum and sweat. He’s acutely aware of the fact that he hasn’t come yet. His dick is painfully hard against his abdomen. He can feel eyes on him, but he wants to come so desperately, and—

“Mikey,” Luke says, tentatively. “You haven’t come yet…” 

There’s something in his voice that Michael can’t quite decipher. Something like awe, like desire, like an unsaid question. Regardless, Michael can’t stop the movement of his hand as it wraps around his hard cock, hoping to jerk himself off, feel some relief, and soon. 

A hand around his own on his cock stops him from going through with it. He whines, impatient, bordering on sorrowful. Not-Luke guides Michael’s hand away from his length, and Michael watches the brunet as he licks his lips, looking beyond Michael, at the blond seated on the bed behind him. 

“Beg for it, Lukey,” He says, and it clicks in Michael’s mind. Luke wants—

“Michael,” Luke breathes into his ear, and it startles the man so badly, the blood rushes straight to his head. He flushes deeply as Not-Luke laughs at his reaction. But the blond continues. 

“Michael,” he says. “L-let me suck you off.” 

“Aw,” Not-Luke tuts, “You can do better than that, can’t you?” 

And Michael has half a mind to tell the brunet to fuck off because all he wants right now is to cum. He’s so painfully turned on, he can barely breathe. 

“Michael, please,” Luke purrs. “Please, let me s-suck your cock—please, I’ll be so good. I want you in my m—” 

“Yes!” Michael says, voice cracking, because he might be crying. “Yes—please, just—” Luke and his counterpart quickly switch places, manhandling Michael so that his back is against Not-Luke’s chest, the brunet’s breath warm on his shoulder as he nudges Michael’s legs open so Luke can get a hand around Michael’s cock. Michael nearly cums on the spot when Luke licks shyly at his tip. His head falls back on Not-Luke’s shoulder. 

“Y’know how to?” the brunet asks Luke, who gulps. 

He smiles shyly. “How hard could it be?” 

Not-Luck chuckles, and the sound goes straight to Michael's dick. 

“Oh, he’s got jokes,” says the brunet. Michael groans.

Luke takes a breath. 

“Its okay. Go slow,” Not-luke smiles. “We’ve got all night.” 

This is beginning to piss Michael off, and he voices it. 

But then Luke licks up the slide of his cock, and the complaint dies on his tongue. 

“Good,” says Not-Luke. “Take it easy, baby.” 

Michael lifts his head from the brunet’s shoulder just in time to see Luke take Michael’s head into his mouth. The wet heat hits him like a freight train. He thinks he might explode. Luke swirls his tongue, and licks at the ridge of his head. 

“Stop teasing—” Michael grits out. 

“Ignore him. Use your hand around what you can’t fit in your mouth, gorgeous.” 

There’s a determined look in Luke’s eyes as he takes Michael deeper, head bobbing gently. He makes eye contact with Michael, tears slipping from his eyes. Oh lord—Michael isn’t going to last for long. The obscene sounds of slick spit and soft gagging fill the room as Luke takes him. He’s so warm, so wet, so willing. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and Luke hums. 

“Made for this—for sucking cock,” Not-Luke says. 

Michael can’t resist the jab: “What does that make you?”

In response, Not-Luke nips at his neck and pinches Michael’s nipples. He yelps. 

Luke’s tongue is magic. Michael feels like his soul is being sucked out of his body when Luke swallows around his cock. Luke pulls off him, stroking him as he dips lower to lick at Michael’s balls. 

“Fuck—Luke—” Michael gasps, and that’s all the warning Luke gets before Michael’s spurting hot ropes of cum across Luke’s hand and mouth. He whimpers at the feeling, at Luke as he strokes him through the aftershocks, at how Luke looks at him after, as he licks the cum off his fingers. 

“Y’did good, Mikey,” Not-Luke says, kissing down Michael’s neck and Luke wipes his hand on the bedsheets. “You look so good like this, covered in us.” 

Michael thinks he could blush from that, but he’s too spent and sleepy. He feels Not-Luke shift from behind him and falls back into the pillows. He vaguely hears the sound of a soft kiss, followed by a murmur and a melodic giggle. 

Not-Luke rises from the bed and pulls on his shirt while Luke crawls up to Michael and curls into his side, who wraps a noodly arm around him. The brunet simply looks at them for a moment, until Michael gets annoyed and blindly throws a pillow at him. 

“Get back in here, asshole,” Michael grunts, eyes falling shut already. 

Not-Luke laughs, a deep and genuine tune that reaches underneath Michael’s ribs and nestles somewhere warm. 

“Gotta get you both cleaned up,” he says, but he doesn’t move. He looks on, quietly, as his blond alternate smiles at him, reaches for his hand and tugs. He lets himself be pulled down, lands heavily on top of the two prone men. 

“Oof, you’re heavy,” grunts Luke. 

“I’m you,” comes the reply. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Michael snaps. “Go kiss about it or something. I’m trying to sleep.” 

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mikey?” 

Michael furrows his brows, but he knows the pink of his cheeks would betray him. Not-Luke laughs heartily, almost exactly in tune with his doppleganger. 

“Ugh,” Michael says, opening one eye to squint accusingly at the two men. “Creepy.” 

“Y’love it,” Blondie smiles. 

“Alright, sleeping beauty,” Not-Luke says, gesturing towards the attached washroom in the room. “Let me get something to clean you up before you’re snoring into tomorrow.’’

“I do not snore,” Michael says. 

“Kiss before you go?” Luke pouts. 

The brunet complies. He lifts Luke’s chin with a finger, and Michael expects him to leave just a short peck on the blond’s lips, but instead it's something longer, sweeter. Something lingering, like he was savouring it, committing it to memory. When he pulls back, Luke’s eyes stay shut for a moment, and when his eyes reopen, there’s a silence shared between the two that Michael can’t quite place. A shared understanding. An unknowable secret. 

When Not-Luke turns to Michael, his eyes are glistening, shining with something unsaid. Michael doesn’t understand. Not-Luke kisses him like he’s breathing him in, holding Michael in his palms, like he’s trying to tell him something he can’t put into words. It’s just the two of them alone in a bubble, glowing with warmth. It’s a slow kiss. Michael doesn’t want it to end. But before he knows it, Not-Luke’s pulling away. Michael chases him, but he’s already out of reach. 

Both the men on the bed watch the brunet as he straightens up. He avoids looking at them as he buttons his belt. It strangely feels like he’s saying goodbye, like he’s leaving, even though he said he’d be right back. 

“Join us when you’re back?” Luke asks, an odd sobriety in his tone. 

Not-Luke smiles. He begins taking small steps towards the washroom, deliberately moving slowly, looking over them as though he’s painting a mental picture. 

“You guys look good together,” he tells them. “I’ll see you in a few.” 

Saying so, he turns on his heel and walks through the doorway, and his footsteps echo until he’s out of sight. Then, silence.  

Neither of them move, gaze fixed upon the washroom door. There’s a wait. An anticipation for him to come back, to make a flirty comment, a snide joke. 

Nothing. 

“He isn’t coming back,’’ Luke says finally. 

“I—” Michael feels a weird sense of loss. “I liked him.” 

Luke wraps his arm around Michael’s waist, stroking softly. The feeling is comforting. Michael wants to melt into Luke. Stay in bed with him forever, legs entangled with the sheets, bodies sparkling with sweat, basking in the afterglow. 

Michael looks away from the door when Luke lays his head on Michael’s chest. He’s sure the blond can hear Michael's racing heartbeat. He exhales through his mouth. 

“Where do we go from here?” he asks. 

Luke is quiet for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” he replies. “I want you, like this and in every other way.  I didn't understand for a long time. I still…I still don’t. ” 

Michael has an arm around Luke. The room is bathed in warmth. They’re sticky with the taste of each other. 

“We don’t…we don’t need to have all the answers right now, do we?” Michael whispers. He wishes for a moment that he had Not-Luke to rudely guide him through all this. But the thought fades quickly. He wants this for himself. He wants to do it himself. 

“We can talk about it tomorrow?” Luke asks, and he looks up at Michael. His eyelashes glow golden in the lamplight. Michael is briefly reminded of a dream he’d had, once.

He leans down and presses his lips to Luke’s forehead. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I promise.”

They settle into comforting silence. Michael’s breath evens out, Luke sighing contentedly as he draws little patterns into the skin of his hips. He’s drifting off to sleep when Luke speaks again. 

“Mikey?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I ride you next time?”

“So, this guy Michael…” 

Luke’s got the tip of his pen between his teeth while he looks across the campus courtyard at the man in question. Michael strums an acoustic under the shade of a tree, all aesthetic and cool and untouchable with the way the breeze catches his dyed hair. Luke’s been paired up with him for his anthropology project, which would be fine, except.

Ashton, sitting on the wooden picnic table across from Luke, looks up from his notes. Calum stops sipping obnoxiously at his disgustingly sweet iced coffee. They follow the line of Luke’s vision to Michael. 

“Oh, Michael,” Ashton says. “He’s a good lad.”

“Hm,” Calum says. “Gay.” 

Ashton thwacks him in the back of the head with a rolled-up assignment. Calum snickers into his drink.

“Yeah, anyway, so. Michael,” Luke squints at the man on the lawn suspiciously. “He’s definitely a vampire, right?” 

Calum and Ashton share a look. 

“A vampire,” Ashton repeats.  “Yeah.” 

“Right,” Ashton nods, like he completely gets it. Then, “And I’m the Queen of England.” 

“Listen,” Luke hisses. “He’s so fucking pale, mate. Have you ever met an Australian that’s whiter than white?” 

“You’re whiter than white,” Calum says. He’s gone back to sucking at his straw. The cup is empty. Luke’s going to throw something at him if that irritating slurping doesn’t stop soon. 

“Thats not the point.” 

“What is?” Calum continues. “Do you sleep with a night light too? Need a cup of milk before bed?” 

“I’m kicking you out of the friendgroup.” 

Calum shrugs. “Ashton agrees with me. Don’t you, Ash?”

“Luke,” Ashton starts, and he’s making a face like he’s constipated. “Vampires aren’t real.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Yeah, well. Burden of proof.” 

“I’m gonna drop your textbook on your face while you sleep,” Luke tells him. He only half means it. Kind of. 

Thing is, Ashton’s right. And that sucks, because Ashton’s always right. He does need to prove it, because otherwise Calum and Ashton will be on his ass about that one time you thought a random classmate was an undead bloodsucking ghoul. 

He spares a glance at Michael again and watches him shrink away from the sunlight, plastering himself further against the tree trunk. 

“Look at him,” Luke insists. “He’s transparent. He’s literally white as a ghost—” “Oh, you believe in those too?” Calum snarks. Luke ignores him. “He’s a vampire. I’m telling you.” 

“And I’m a fairy! I’ve got a wand in my pants too. Wanna see?” 

Luke makes a face. “Keep your disgusting penis away from me.” 

“Not what your mom said last night,” Calum leans back on his hands. 

“Quickly, how much do you like your front teeth?” 

“Why, wanna lick ‘em?” 

“Calum,” Ashton pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t be a dick.” 

“I’m just saying!” Calum throws his hands up. The plastic cup goes flying from his grip and lands in the lap of some poor freshman, who looks up at the sky like this was her last straw. “If you want to make crazy claims, you gotta commit to it!” Calum continues. 

Luke folds his arms. “Fine. I’ll just—I’ll prove it.” 

“Prove…that Michael is a vampire?” Ashton tilts his head. He somewhat resembles a confused puppy. Luke would kick that puppy, in all honesty. 

“Yes,” Luke slams his laptop shut and stands up, staring into the distance with what he hopes is heroic determination in his eyes. “And then you’ll have to eat your words.” Ashton drops his head into his hands. Calum grins. “Alright,” he says, and there’s something malicious in his eyes. “Be my guest.” 

Luke flips him off, stepping over the bench of the table. He shoves his laptop into his bag and walks off without a word. He tries not to look back at Michael, because he knows his asshole friends are watching him go. 

“Ten bucks says he just wants to date the guy,” Calum stage-whispers, turning to Ashton. 

Ashton groans, exasperated. Then puts his hand in Calum’s outstretched one. “You’re on.” 

—

Admittedly, Luke doesn’t actually know a whole lot about Michael. Like, sure, they’re in the same class, but that's frankly the only course they share, and Luke didn’t even see him more than a few sightings around campus before this semester. And now they’ve got this project together. 

Luke’s in his 9 a.m. Anthropology class, zoned out despite being only fifteen minutes into the lecture. Who keeps a class this early on a Monday? The ugly white lights are too bright, and the sunlight streaks in awkwardly through the tangled blinds.  Most of the lecture hall is empty, and those who did show up are either hunched over recovering from hangovers, or dead asleep. 

Luke himself is somewhere in the middle ground. Laptop open before him, he scrolls up and down idly on a google search result for ‘Vampire Characteristics,’ not really registering anything he’s reading. And what the fuck does preternatural pallor even fucking mean, anyway? Just say ‘pale skin’. Jeez. 

The door slams open—loud enough for the entire class to jump, started. 

A low hum of discontented murmuring spreads over the room. Luke looks over at the door for the source of the sound, and spots a hunched-over Michael Clifford, hands resting on his knees as he heaves for air. Like he’s just run across the campus.  

“S-sorry I’m late,” he gasps.

The professor crosses her arms and frowns disapprovingly, saying something to him that Luke couldn't be bothered paying attention to, because the sunlight catches Michael’s hair as he stands up, and the red makes it look like it’s on fire. 

Michael stands in the doorway, looking bashful, rubbing the back of his neck until the professor is done chastising him. Then, he speaks. 

“So…can I come in?”

He’s shooed into the room, and he finds his seat somewhere closer to the front, and his head is kind of blocking Luke’s view of the board, but that’s not what gets to him. 

No, what gets to him are Michael’s words. Can I come in?

Vampires can’t enter a room themselves, right? They need to be invited in. Right?

Luke’s so ecstatic at finding his first bit of evidence, so determined to rub it in Calum and Ashton’s faces, that when he reaches for his phone to shoot a text on their groupchat, his grip stutters and the thing lands on the floor by his feet with a loud clatter. 

The class turns to look. Including Michael. Luke’s face flares at the attention, even as he murmurs a subdued “sorry…” 

But Luke’s gaze flits to Michael, who’s smiling to himself. Oh. 

—

Luke’s got a plan. As the class draws to a close, his knee bounces anxiously, because he needs to do this just right. No room for fucking up. 

Faintly, somewhere in the hallway outside, a tinny bell rings, and there’s a massive scuffle as everyone stuffs their shit into their carry bags and rushes to get out of the worst lecture on the planet. Luke waits until Michael stands, dusting off his jeans and slinging his leather haversack over his shoulder. Luke shoots up from his seat and rushes to follow, phone in his hand. 

See, Vampires don’t have reflections. So if Luke can just…see for himself that Michael doesn’t reflect on mirror surfaces, that’d be proof enough. But he can’t really shove a mirror in the guy’s face. That’s weird. 

So instead his phone front camera will have to do. 

“Michael!” Luke calls out. The man in question stops and turns, eyes falling on Luke. 

“Hey, man,” he replies. 

Luke waves his phone. “We’ve got that project together, right?” he says. “Wanna give me your number?” 

Michael’s lashes flutter. Not that Luke’s looking! Just that he’s got surprisingly pretty eyes and—anyway. 

“Um,” Michael says. “Yeah, sure.” 

Luke hands his phone over to Michael, front camera open. He rises on his tip-toes to look as Michael takes the thing, but Michael immediately turns the phone to the side when he notices the screen.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, shutting the app. His cheeks are dusted pink. Is that natural? Do vampires blush? “Your camera was on.” 

“Oh,” Luke says. Tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice. He didn’t even get to see. 

Michael brushes him off and types in his number. He hands the phone back to Luke. 

“I texted myself, so I’ve got your number now,” Michael tells him. 

“Cool,” Luke says, and it’s a little awkward. He fiddles with his phone. “I’ll…um—I’ll text you? We can meet up and work on it together?” 

Michael shoots him a friendly smile. “Sounds good,” he says. “See you around, Luke.” 

He turns and descends the stairway, never really looking back—which is good because Luke’s stuck in place, playing the way Michael had said his name on loop in his head. 

—

Luke texts Michael the address for his dorm. He figures he should test the theory a bit more. What’s the harm? 

Michael knocks at his door a bit hesitantly, just past six in the evening. He’s on time, which makes sense because the sun has started to dip, so he probably didn’t have to scramble for shade on the way over. Unlike with class that morning, when the sunlight had been bright and fresh. 

Luke opens the door, leaning all six-foot-three-inches of himself against the doorframe. He tries for casual, but his mother had always called him an elongated spindly deer, so. Do with that what you will. 

“Hi,” Luke says, smiling a little awkwardly. 

“You come here often?” Michael jokes, taking in the way Luke’s standing. 

“All the time,” Luke replies. “I practically live here.” 

Michael chuckles, shaking his head like he can’t believe Luke’s antics. It sends something warm swelling in Luke’s chest. A silence settles between them. Luke doesn’t move out of the way, because he can’t invite Michael in—Michael needs to ask. 

Michael shifts on his feet. “So, um…can I come in, or?” 

“Can you?” 

Michael blinks. “Can I?” 

“You can, but can you?” 

“What?” “What?” “Luke,” Michael stresses, and Luke’s breath hitches. “Can I please come in?” 

Luke blinks. God, it’s just—it’s the way he says Luke’s name. Something twists in Luke’s stomach, and he stands upright, making way for Michael to step in. As he does, he shoots Luke an odd look. 

Whatever, Luke thinks. I’ll get him next time. 

Michael heads to drop his bag on Luke’s desk, and all of a sudden Luke’s aware that he’s very alone, without having informed anyone else, in a room with a vampire.

Michael gets to work setting up his study material. Luke reaches for his phone and types a quick text in his groupchat with Calum and Ashton. 

Luke

i invited Michael over to study  

if i disappear you have permission to press charges 

Calum 

gay 

Ashton 

In your dorm? 

Luke 

yeah 

Calum 

why in your dorm 

Ashton 

Are you alone in your dorm with Michael right now

Calum

luke are u alone with michael 

luke

LUKE

—

The study session goes fine. Just fine. They end up going through the entire outline of their project and divide the work among themselves. Luke also learns that he has a lot in common with Michael. They both play guitar, and plan to get into music later on. They end up losing track of time talking about all their favourite bands. Conversation is comfortable, like they’ve been friends for years. 

And Michael doesn’t try to bite Luke once. A fact that Luke is completely okay with. And not disappointed at all. Not that he has any reason to be. Disappointed, that is. 

Calum and Ashton are extremely smug about all this information when Luke tells them about his study date with Michael—

“Study date, huh?” Calum smirks. Ashton snorts into his hand. 

“Yes,” Luke frowns. “Like—two people. Studying. On a date on the calendar. A study date.” 

“I’m gonna start a rumour,” Ashton says decisively. Luke kicks him in the shin. He hunches over in pain immediately. 

“Fuck you guys,” Luke says, walking backwards and away because he’s going to be late for class. “You’re both useless. I’m selling Calum’s bass.” 

He doesn’t stay long enough to hear Calum’s squeaked ‘hey, what the hell!’ before he’s turning and jogging towards the Sociology Department block. 

When he gets to class, Michael’s already there, settled into one of the rows further behind. He catches Luke’s eye and immediately lights up in a smile, so Luke takes that as an invitation to go over and sit beside him. 

Michael’s got one leg folded over the other, his laptop propped open in his lap and a travel mug of coffee set on the writing tablet desk. Condensation drips from it. 

Luke basically ran to class in the middle of summer, so he can’t really be blamed for what he says next. 

“Hey,” Luke pants, because he hates cardio so he’s still catching his breath from his sprint. “Mind if I have a sip of your drink?” 

Michael looks between Luke and his cup. He makes a face like he’s in pain. 

“Uh,” Michael says. “I don’t…think you’d like it much.” 

Luke gulps. The cup sits ominously on the desk between them. 

Oh. 

Oh.

He’s got blood in there, hasn’t he? 

Luke tries not to make a face. His hands itch to snatch the thing up and screw open the lid to confirm his conclusion. It sends a shiver down his spine—sitting next to a vampire that casually brings cupfulls of blood to class as a little snack. No matter how cute the vampire may be. 

Wait, what? 

“Sorry, mate,” Michael says, and he sounds genuinely apologetic, and Luke’s train of thought is derailed. 

“‘S alright,” Luke tells him on autopilot. And really, isn’t this a small kindness? Michael saved Luke from drinking blood. Or something like that. He even apologized. So doesn’t that make Michael a pretty cool vampire? 

Luke’s prepared to mull over his reasoning, but then the professor walks in, and he’s distracted when Michael’s knee nudges his own as he leans over to grab a notebook from his bag, and that’s that. 

—

Friday finds Luke, Calum, and Ashton occupying one of the many tables in the library hall. There’s a pretty pile of books stacked up beside Luke’s laptop, but he’s too busy squinting over the edge of his screen, through the space between Calum and Ashton’s heads, towards Michael. 

Michael’s seated two tables away, and Luke’s got a pretty clear view of the guy as he rolls up his sleeves—those tattoos, good lord—and throws his head back in silent laughter at something his friend says to him. Luke’s eyes zero in on his teeth.

More aptly, his fangs. His incisors are sharp. Sharper still than anything Luke’s ever seen before. That’s clear proof, right? And maybe they’re even longer, maybe they’re retracted into his gums, so when he feeds they drop down and—

“Hello? Earth to Luke Hemmings?” Ashton waves a hand in front of Luke’s face and he snaps out of his daydream  rumination of Michael’s vampire activities. 

Calum follows the direction of Luke’s gaze before he can snap his eyes away from Michael. When Calum spots the guy, his face spreads into the biggest shit-eating grin. 

“Like what you see?” he waggles his eyebrows at Luke. Luke goes to kick him under the table, but misses terribly. His toe slams against the leg of the table. He grunts in pain. The kids from the table adjacent to them shoot him a dirty look. 

“Sh-shut the fuck up,” Luke tells Calum. “I’m…observing.” 

“Yeah? Draw any bloodsucker conclusions yet?” Ashton arches a brow. 

“Or sucking of any other kind,” Calum pipes in. 

“Calum,” Luke shoots him a pointed look, because the table over seems suddenly super invested in their conversation. “I’m gathering evidence. Like, look at his teeth.” 

Both Calum and Ashton go to turn around, being extremely conspicuous about it, so Luke has to rush to hiss, “Not now!” 

Luke leans in, and as do the others, so now they’re gathered like they’re sharing some kind of secret. Which is technically true. The students on the table over have given up pretending they’re studying and are now straining to listen in. 

“His teeth,” Luke whispers. “Sharp. They’ve got points. They’re pointy, guys.” 

“Yeah,” Ashton nods. “Teeth tend to be that way.” “Not his teeth,” Luke shakes his head. “They’re fangs. They’re for drinking blood.” “Think about his teeth a lot, do you, Hemmings?” Calum smirks. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Calum only rolls his eyes. He nudges Ashton, who sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Luke, do you want to maybe think about why you’re—” 

“Mate, he was drinking blood.” 

Calum blinks. “What?” 

“I saw it,” Luke says. “I mean, I didn’t see it, but he had this tumbler full of something and when I asked for a sip he said I wouldn’t like what he was drinking. So, obviously, it was blood, right?” 

Ashton looks at Luke like Luke’s hit his head on something. “Why was your first thought blood and not, like, vodka or something?” 

“Who drinks vodka at a 10 a.m. class?” 

At that, Calum slides his water bottle off the table and into his bag. The liquid sloshes, and Luke now notices how it moves like it’s thicker than water. Oh, okay. 

Calum clears his throat. “Um, I wouldn’t know.” 

“Hey, can I have a sip?” Ashton nudges his shoulder. 

Luke shakes his head, trying to draw back to the very pressing issue at hand. “It doesn’t worry you guys that we’re classmates with a vampire?” 

“Why would it?” Calum says, passing his vodka-water-bottle to Ashton, who uncaps it and sniffs. “Considering vampires aren’t real.” 

“Calum, you’re my worst friend,” Luke tells him. 

“I love you, too.” 

“Okay, well,” Luke says, and he’s kind of jealous now that Ashton gets a sip and he doesn’t. “He also asked for permission before coming—” 

“Oh, he did?” 

“—coming into my room.” Luke glares at Calum, who looks far too smug for a guy that’s about to permanently lose a mate. “And he’s so pale. He’s so—” “Who’s pale?” The question comes directly into Luke’s ear, and Luke does not shriek like a teenager. His brain goes offline for a moment as he jumps, whipping around so fast that his neck cracks. 

Michael stands over him. He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder again. He looks past Luke and waves at Calum and Ashton. “Hey, guys. What are we talking about?” 

“Luke’s new set of kinks,” Calum offers, and this time when Luke kicks him under the table, he nails him right in the knee. He yelps in pain. 

Michael blinks. “Okay.” 

“He’s kidding,” Luke says, even as his cheeks flare a hot red. 

“Wait, don’t tell me,” Michael says. “You’re into feet.” 

Luke splutters. “I’m…no, wh—” 

Ashton’s laughing, open mouthed and loud, and they’re drawing the attention of the entire library now. Michael’s eyes light up. 

“Chill, Blondie,” he grins, and the hot embarrassment in his stomach melts into something fluttery and urgent as Luke watches Michael’s lips part in a smile. “I wanted to let you know I’m nearly done with my part of the project. I’ll send it over later tonight?” 

Luke can’t do much more than nod, biting his lip to keep from saying something stupid, like ‘hey, if you need any spare blood sometime—’ but then Michael’s tipping an imaginary hat in their direction, and slipping out of the library.

Ashton and Calum look overjoyed when Luke turns back to face them. Calum’s heaving giggles into his hand, and Luke hopes he chokes on his own laughter and dies. 

“So, feet, huh?” Ashton’s voice is high-pitched with mirth. 

“I’m gonna switch out your shampoo for hair-dye,” Luke says. See if he finds it funny then. 

“He’s gonna—he’s gonna text you tonight,” Calum sniggers.

“Shut up,” Luke says, and he slips further down in his seat and shoves his earphones into his ears. 

How the fuck did Michael sneak up on him like that? And did he hear any of their conversation? Oh, god. Vampires have superhuman hearing, don’t they? And…they’re really fast, and light on their feet. 

That must’ve been what happened. He must’ve used his powers to take Luke by surprise. Lower his defenses. Like hunting prey. Does he use these tactics when he’s out looking for someone to feed on? He’s got long limbs—like, just look at those legs. It must be so easy. 

And if—if the warmth of his voice, the whisper of his breath as he spoke dangerously close to Luke’s ear—if any of that lingers for longer than it should then…that’s just what vampires do, right? They have an allure. A dangerous pull. 

Luke can’t be blamed for being drawn in. 

—

It’s 3:08 a.m. when Luke gets Michael’s text. He’s distinctly aware that it’s the Witching Hour.

Michael 

hey i finished my work 

Luke 

why are you awake??

Michael 

why are you awake 

Luke 

i asked first 

Michael 

i’m jerking off 

Luke flushes violently at that one. He knows Michael’s joking but still. A vague image flashes through his head and he has to blink hard to get it out. Michael’s just so—vulgar. Luke tugs his blanket up to his chin, cheeks burning. 

Luke 

oh okay

Michael 

kidding 

u get riled up so easily 

its cute

Luke 

i’m adorable 

Michael 

hm 

will email u my work tmr morn 

gonna head out to blood bank rn 

Blood bank? 

What the fuck.

‘Blood bank’ as in the place where bags of blood are stored? Does this count as Michael coming out to Luke? Wait, is it still called ‘coming out’ if you’re revealing yourself to be a vampire? 

Luke 

you aren’t going to sleep?? 

also, blood bank? what are you, a vampire? 

Michael 

tryna ask if i bite? 

wouldn’t u like to know ;) 

Luke 

Michael. 

Michael 

ok jeez 

it’s an overnight cafe 

Oh. Okay, that makes sense. 

And then Luke has a strong urge to facepalm, because why would a vampire go to a bloodbank? It's not like you can walk into a dispensary and say, ‘hey, can I get a bag of blood?’

Luke’s eyes are falling shut already. He’s dozing off over his phone screen. Enough studying for today, he thinks. He shuts his laptop and slips further into his sheets. His vision kind of goes blurry around the edges, and his eyes are burning so bad that even though he fights to stay awake, his phone ultimately slips out of his grip. 

He doesn’t stay awake long enough to see Michael’s next text come through. 

Michael 

come with me sometime? 

By the time Luke wakes up the next morning and checks his phone, the message is gone. 

Michael 

[This message was deleted by the sender.]

—

Luke has had a revelation. An epiphany, even. A pioneering idea.

He digs through his closet for his lowest cut shirt. He’s talking like white V-neck, dipping down to the middle of his chest, falling over his shoulders like he’s trying to bring attention to his neck—which he is. Luke has pretty wide shoulders, so the shirt only serves to highlight his width. As he stands in the mirror, he takes note of how the fabric stretches over his chest, draws the eye up from his chest, up along his collarbones, up, up, up the line of his neck. 

It’s perfect. 

“Woah,” Calum says, as Luke meets them in the main block foyer that morning. “No bra today?” 

Luke frowns. Ashton tilts his head. 

“Why are you dressed like a slut?” he asks. 

Luke looks down at his shirt. Frankly, he didn’t really think of how he would look to anyone else. He wore it for Michael. 

Wait, like. Not for Michael, but more like…bait. To get Michael to look at Luke’s neck. If he can catch the man leering over Luke basically inviting him to bite, that’s as good as evidence could possibly ever get. Luke’s a genius.  

When he explains all this to Ashton and Calum, they share a pointed look. 

“You’re a whore,” Calum tells him seriously. 

“I’m a strategic mastermind,” Luke corrects. 

“I can basically see your nipples through the shirt, mate,” Ashton says. 

Luke strikes a shitty pose. “Do they look good?” 

Ashton makes a gagging sound, and Luke will decidedly take that as a compliment, thank you very much. 

Then he catches a flash of dyed hair somewhere behind Ashton, and looks to see Michael crossing the foyer, in conversation with a friend. Without thinking, Luke calls out to him. Ashton and Calum turn to look just as Michael locks eyes with Luke. 

“Michael!” Luke smiles at him, straightening his back. 

Michael raises his hand to wave, eyes flitting between him, Ashton and Calum. 

Luke watches with nothing short of glee as he then freezes in place, gaze travelling down the length of Luke’s frame, then up, snagging at the dip of his shirt. Even from a few metres away, Luke can see his eyes widen as they go straight to Luke’s chest, across his shoulders, then painfully slow up the line of his neck. 

He gulps audibly, cheeks flaring an almost concerning shade of red. Luke’s grin grows. Gotcha. 

“Um, I—” Michael squeaks, face beet red. He meets Luke’s delighted expression, then immediately struggles to make eye-contact whatsoever, eyes flitting everywhere but towards Luke. “I—uh! I have to…be somewhere! Nice t-to see you guys. Bye!” 

He curls into himself, looking straight down at his shoes as he briskly walks out of the foyer, leaving his friend behind to splutter confusedly as he looks between Luke’s friendgroup and Michael’s retreating back. 

Luke looks pointedly at Ashton and Calum as they snicker into their hands. “See?” 

Ashton sighs, bemused. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.” 

Luke blinks. “I think you mean intellectually gifted.” 

“No,” Calum shakes his head, still chuckling. “You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met.” 

“Weren’t you guys looking?” Luke pouts. “He basically just went full vampire in the middle of the hall.” 

“And you’re sure there’s no other reason why he’d turn red at the sight of you today?” Ashton prompts, raising an eyebrow in indication of Luke’s attire. 

Luke adjusts the hem of his shirt. “Well, yeah,” he says. “Why else would he?”

Calum rubs the hells of his palms in his eyes, groaning. “Luke.” 

“What?” 

Ashton slaps his palm to Calum’s shoulder, pressing his thumbs into the muscle there to massage the tension out. He begins guiding Calum away towards the stairwell to their morning class, leaving Luke standing there, confused and mildly annoyed. 

“Just,” Ashton starts, tone sympathetic. Or condescending. Luke can’t really tell. “Just think about why he reacted that way for a bit, okay?” 

That’s stupid, Luke thinks. I know why he reacted that way. It’s because he’s a vampire. 

No other reason. Obviously. 

Right?

—

Luke thinks that the problem really just lies in how he hasn’t properly presented his evidence to Calum and Ashton. Also that they just don’t seem to believe him, so he needs tangible proof. Something that he can point out to Calum and Ashton, something so undoubtable, so obviously evidence of vampiric ghoulishness that it has absolutely no plausible deniability. 

Like sunburns. 

Sure, Luke feels bad for plotting something that will see Michael in pain. But then he thinks about all those poor souls that Michael’s probably fed on, and tries not to think about how nice Michael is and how much Luke actually likes him—and then it’s a whole flurry of emotions that Luke can’t quite contextualize.

In retrospect, tangible proof could also just be something like Luke offering himself up for Michael to bite. To sink his teeth into his flesh. To drink from him, fully and sweetly. To mark Luke’s skin, leave a scar. 

But that makes Luke's belly flutter in a strange way, so he’s going to file that thought for later and maybe never think about it again! 

His plan is simple. 

Michael always dresses in long sleeved flannels and sweaters, which is obviously to protect his skin from the sun. In fact, Michael barely shows any skin, ever. So Luke would just have to force it out of him. 

They’re walking across the campus lawn, partly under the shade of the trees lining the path. The sunlight slips through the spaces between the tree branches, pools of gold dancing on the grass as the leaves shift with the breeze. Michael’s talking about the structure of the conclusion for their project, but Luke’s barely listening, because he’s looking at Michael’s exposed hands and wondering if the sunlight makes his skin itch. 

“Michael,” Luke says suddenly, curling into himself and rubbing at his arms like he’s trying to warm himself up. “It’s cold.” 

It’s not cold at all. It’s actually blazing hot, and Luke’s sweat is nearly soaking the back of his shirt. Michael knows this too. He looks around, eyes flitting across the grounds, where multiple groups of students fan themselves as they walk. 

“What?” 

“It’s cold,” Luke repeats, feigning a shiver for effect. 

“Um,” Michael looks confused. “Are you feeling sick?” 

“No,” Luke pouts. He rubs at his skin further. His fingers slip over the sweat at the crease of his elbow. “I’m just—I’m cold.” 

Michael’s stature grows awkward as he walks beside Luke, who exhales harshly like he’s absolutely freezing, visualizing a cloud of his breath before him as though it's winter. 

Luke sighs, and he hopes he doesn’t sound too dramatic. “I wish I had a sweater or something.” 

Michael stiffens.

Luke watches from his peripheral vision, smiling to himself as Michael looks down at his own cream sweater, biting his lip. All according to plan. 

Michael’s hand comes up to rub bashfully at his neck. “I would—” he offers. “Um, I would give you mine but I’m not really…wearing anything under it.” 

Luke has a brief image of Michael taking his sweater off, revealing the smooth, pale skin of his chest. 

His brain flashes an error message. Information processing interrupted. All systems offline. 

“Hng,” Luke’s mouth says. “Uh.” 

Michael catches his disorientation and leans closer, concerned. Luke picks up on a whiff of his cologne and it’s like being slapped in the face. With a bus. 

“Are you good?” Michael asks. 

Not trusting his voice, Luke nods. He can’t get the fucking image of a shirtless Michael out of his head. His face flushes impossibly red. 

“I’ll—uh,” Luke manages, voice cracking embarrassingly. “That’s okay! I wasn’t—wasn’t that cold, anyway.” 

Michael shoots him a puzzled look, brows furrowed. He looks like he’s about to say something, so Luke cuts in and asks something vague about their joint project to get Michael’s attention off of him. Michael starts rambling about urban gentrification and digitization, and Luke mentally logs out of the conversation completely. 

It’s fine. This is just…Michael’s vampire effects. Mind control. Voodoo shit. Obviously. 

—

Alright, so. Luke might’ve embarrassed himself immensely and failed catastrophically at making his point back there, but a wise person once said, ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

Ashton looks up from his notes. “I didn’t know you read Nietzsche." 

“What?” Luke says. “No, that’s Kelly Clarkson.” 

Ashton shakes his head. “Should’ve seen that coming.” 

Luke drapes himself over the table. They’re sitting in a deserted study hall, only a few students scattered around the room, hunched over their work and murmuring softly to each other.  

Calum’s got his laptop open, but he’s playing that silly dinosaur game on the browser with his internet turned off. His keyboard clicks loudly as he slams his fingers over it. 

“So now what?” Calum asks, eyes still glued to his screen. “Ready to admit your big gay crush?” 

“My what?” Luke tilts his head. 

Calum sighs. “Mate, you’ve been talking about him for the past month.” 

“Well, yeah. It’s an ongoing investigation, Cal. I’m gathering evidence.” 

“You’re gathering a sexuality crisis.”

“What does that even mean?” 

Calum shrugs. Then jerks. “Wait, shut up. I’m gonna beat my high score.” 

He leans impossibly closer to his laptop screen, tongue sticking out in concentration. Luke rolls his eyes. 

“So anyway,” Luke says. “I’ve decided to shift my focus.” Ashton looks up, brows raised in surprise. “Oh?” 

“Yeah,” Luke continues. “So, vampires are supposed to be undead, right—” 

Ashton groans exaggeratedly and thunks his head onto the massive book on the table before him. 

“—so he’ll probably be really cold to the touch. You know?”

Ashton whips up to look at him. Calum’s finger audibly slips on his keyboard. He looks at Luke, eyes wide. They share a panicked look, then lean in furtively towards Luke. 

“Luke,” Ashton says, voice barely above an urgent whisper. “Are you going to fuck the guy?” 

Luke reels. “What? No.” 

Wait, that’s actually—

Wait. No. 

Calum watches the thought process pass through Luke’s head, apparently visible on his face. He grins, eyes sharp. 

“Damn,” he says. “I’m not even mad you interrupted my game. This is gold.” 

Luke folds his arms, frowning. “I’m just going to…like, touch his arm or something.” Ashton huffs a laugh. “Whatever you say, man.” 

“You know what?” Luke says, standing up suddenly. He points at Calum, and at Ashton. “Fuck you, and fuck you too.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder, ignoring the way they’re shooting him looks that say they’re just barely holding back laughter. He storms out of the library in what he hopes looked more like a dramatic exit than a prepubescent tantrum. 

He’ll show them. 

—

Luke does not know how to show them. 

He’s been racking his brain over it. How can he get a solid assessment of the temperature of Michael’s skin without doing something extremely creepy? He can’t just grab his forearm out of the blue, or anything along those lines. He’d freak the guy out. And Michael barely has any other skin exposed anyway. 

It’s late evening as he mulls over this conundrum, the sun just barely above the horizon, casting a soft pink light. The shadows on the pathway stretch far, dancing as the evening breeze shifts. The last of the morning birds chirp mournfully as the day closes. He’s headed back to his dorm, prepared to drop into bed, stick his earphones in, and wrap up the last bits of his semester projects. 

He walks into the dormitory hall, and stops in his tracks. The hall is empty, all the couches and armchairs and tables vacant, save for Luke’s favourite loveseat, tucked comfortably against the back wall. The window overhead lets a touch of orange-gold fall upon the inhabitant of the sofa, who looks up when Luke enters.

“Michael,” Luke smiles, and his breath is suddenly heavy in his lungs because the fading sunlight casts a warm glow over Michael’s shoulders as he reclines back into the seat, laptop resting on his thighs. 

“Hi,” Michael’s lips part upon a smile. He bites his lip, an unfamiliar tension fading from his frame as Luke approaches him. 

Luke takes in the man. He’s clearly busy, working on something that has his brows fixed into  frown, skin underneath his eyes dark with exhaustion. He looks like he’s spent the past two nights awake. 

“Can I…join you?” Luke asks. Then pauses. He’s not sure why he asked that, really. 

But then Michael nods, looks at him like he’s grateful for the company, and then Luke’s slipping his bag off and settling into the space beside Michael. 

The thing is—the couch is small. It’s meant for two people of regular height, and Luke will graciously admit that both him and Michael are much beyond ‘regular height.’ 

And so their knees touch. So their elbows brush with every shift. 

Luke grabs a random book from his bag and opens it, barely processing the words because—well, because his theory backfired again. 

Michael is warm. Luke feels the heat of Michael’s body seep into his bones. His skin is on fire where it meets Michael’s. His cheeks burn, but he’s not sure why. Is this…this can’t be the vampire bit of Michael, can it? 

No, this is. This is just the Michael bit. 

Luke zones out over the pages of his book, losing himself to the comfortable silence. The click of Michael’s laptop keys, the way Michael’s shoulder grazes his own, the way they seem to angle towards each other like gravity. 

The light from the window fades. The warm yellow lights of the hall flicker on, and Michael sighs through his nose at something, and then Luke’s counting Michael’s breaths without stopping to wonder why. 

Luke flips mindlessly through the pages. Michael’s cologne wraps around him, and his eyes flutter at the scent as he tries to burn this moment into memory. Him, Michael—not the vampire, just the person—alone together, alone in silence, like a strange shared understanding, an exchange of consolation and comfort. 

All of a sudden there’s a warm weight against his shoulder. Luke stiffens. He turns in time to see Michael, pressed up against him, leaning his head on Luke’s shoulder as he dozes. 

Oh. 

Michael is so warm. He’s so—

Luke tries to hold still, to breathe as little as possible because he’s afraid to wake Michael. He shuts his book and puts it aside, cheeks flaring a vibrant red as he looks down at his hands, fiddling with his fingers to keep from startling Michael awake as he breathes—slow and deep and relaxed—against him. 

It’s strangely intimate. The room holds still, everything suspended in time, in space, as the world narrows down to just the two of them. Outside, a songbird calls for its mate. Somewhere, a bicycle bell rings. The couch seems to sink under Luke’s and Michael’s weight, trying to swallow them whole. 

Michael’s hands rest on his thighs, his laptop screen dark. His chest rises and falls rhythmically, and Luke’s eyes droop. He tilts his head to rest against Michael’s. His breathing slows, posture relaxing, the world fading into a dream, until—

“Yo, Luke!” 

Luke startles at the voice. Michael jerks awake. He looks around, sitting straighter. Luke suddenly feels cold as Michael draws away from him. Michael meets Luke’s eyes, face growing red immediately as he realizes he’d fallen asleep against him.

Luke looks for the source of the disturbance, finds Calum standing at the hall entryway, looking smug. He looks at Calum’s stupid self-satisfied smirk and tries to explode him with his mind. 

Michael’s already gathering his things. Luke tries to offer him a smile, but Michael’s in a rush and he won’t look at him. 

“Michael, I—” Luke tries, not even knowing what he’d say. 

“I have to…um,” Michael gestures vaguely at the stairwell up to the dorms, gripping his bag and laptop to his chest. “Yeah. See you around.”

“See you around,” Luke replies automatically, but Michael doesn’t stay long enough to hear it. He’s already halfway up the stairs by the time Luke registers he’s gone. 

He looks back at Calum, and if looks could kill.

 Calum holds his hands up. “I didn’t know he was asleep.” 

“Delete my number,” Luke tells him. 

—

It’s astounding how Calum’s still alive and breathing, considering just how many times Luke’s tried to kill him over the past week. 

Calum looks at Luke with the most shit-eating grin every time they pass Michael on campus. Ashton’s been let into The Couch Incident, as Luke’s been calling it, and now he’s also taken to grinning at Luke whenever Michael is around. Luke is seriously considering buying rat poison for his traitorous friends. 

As for how things are with Michael…Luke can’t really put it into perspective for himself. It’s a bit odd—both good and bad. 

Good because Luke and Michael will occasionally catch each others’ eye from across a room, and both of them will blush bright red. Luke seems to almost gravitate towards that spot on the loveseat in their dormitory hall. His heart races each time his phone dings a notification alert, because he keeps expecting to see a message from Michael. 

On the downside, it’s weird because despite all this, Luke’s barely spoken two words to Michael for the past week, because each time he tries, he thinks of The Couch Incident, and how his breath had fluttered in his lungs from Michael’s weight, his warmth. He knows, looking in Michael’s eyes, that he’s thinking of it too, and so their conversations consist of awkward stuttering and clumsy small talk. They’re too flustered to talk about The Incident altogether. Or about what it means. 

Luke’s conflicted. He can’t…be feeling this way around a vampire. He’s falling for Michael’s mind-control tricks, even though he knows it. Some part of him maybe even wants to fall deeper still, and despite all his hesitation, that part is beginning to win out over everything else. 

Calum and Ashton notice, obviously. And that’s how they’re here: on the same picnic table on the campus lawn where it all began. Luke’s eyes flit to that spot under the tree, where he’d seen Michael strumming his guitar. It’s unoccupied this time around, and the emptiness tugs strangely at Luke’s heartstrings. 

“Luke,” Ashton guides Luke’s attention towards him. “Mate, what’s the plan now?” Luke knows he’s referring to Michael. Calum leans on his elbows against the table, and Luke childishly frowns at him. 

“I don’t know,” Luke says. “I haven’t finished my investigation yet.” 

Ashton sighs, but Calum clears his throat, a little awkwardly. 

“So, um,” he says conversationally, tracing the cracks on the wooden table with his fingertip. “Why don’t you just finish it?” 

Ashton opens his mouth to say something, but Calum nudges him, and some kind of understanding seems to dawn in his eyes. 

“You…uh…you got any more vampire tests left to run through?” Ashton prompts. 

Luke looks between them. He thinks of Michael.

Pale, pretty, tall Michael, with the lovely green eyes and the fresh pink lips and the calloused fingertips and the sharp fangs…and maybe Luke does have another test to run through. Something better. Something bigger. 

He steels his resolve and looks between his friends. 

“I’ve got…I’ve got one last card left to play.” 

—

He catches up to Michael after one of the classes they have in common. Michael’s shoulders are tense, even as he turns to meet Luke with a smile. Luke’s brain kind of melts out of his ears. 

“What’s up?” Michael asks.

Just spit it out, Luke tells himself. 

“You should come over to my dorm tonight!” Luke says, and it comes out high-pitched and loud. A small group of girls walking past them pause and look over, giggling. 

Michael’s cheeks take on a soft pink tint. “Uh.” 

“I mean,” Luke flails. God, he should've really thought this through. Rehearsed in front of the mirror or something. “I mean. I was thinking, like, pasta?” 

“Wait, I don’t—” “I can cook! I want to…I want to cook for you.” 

Michael smiles, cheeks flushing further. “Right, but, are you—” 

“If you’re busy, we could just—” “No, Luke, I’m not busy, but—” “Great!” Luke says. “So, like, seven tonight? My dorm?” 

Luke begins walking backwards, away from Michael before he says something stupid, or before Michael can change his mind or something. And he’s looking at Michael’s flushed cheeks, the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, how he bites his lip, and all of a sudden Luke realizes he forgot to actually ask the pivotal question. 

He stops in his tracks. 

“Oh my god,” he manages, thankfully still in earshot of Michael. “I was asking you out. I forgot to ask you out.” His cheeks flare hot as Michael laughs, and Luke’s eyes snag on his canines. 

“I did this all wrong,” Luke says, blinking fast. “Oh, this is horrifying.” 

Michael draws closer. “I’ll go out with you, blondie,” he says, grinning. “But you gotta ask me the right way.”

Luke knows he’s just teasing, but butterflies erupt in his stomach nonetheless. 

“Michael,” Luke says, drawing in a breath. “Can I take you out on a date?” 

“To your dorm?” 

“To my dorm.” 

Michael’s eyes are alight with amusement. With something like fondness. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d like that.” 

—

When Luke lets Michael into his place that evening, he’s buzzing with anxiety and apprehension. He’s got a little kitchen island, where he serves Michael his best wine, and flits around the kitchen preparing what he hopes is his best pasta recipe to date. 

It’s good. It’s really good, in fact. Luke and Michael fit together like puzzle pieces, like stars orbiting each other. Luke’s heart is in his throat the whole time, because there’s a glowing warmth in his chest and he can’t stop looking at Michael, taking in the way his hands move as he speaks, the way he licks his lips, the way he throws his head back and laughs fully. 

Ultimately, Luke puts a plate of pasta before Michael, and sits opposite him with his own serving. It turned out wonderful, creamy and perfectly supple. Luke’s really proud of himself. 

“It smells amazing,” Michael says. “What’s in it?” 

Luke rests his chin on his knuckles, smiling. “Try it.” 

Michael arches an eyebrow. “I’m putting a lot of trust in you not to poison me,” he jokes. 

“Oh, I would never,” Luke plays along. 

Michael chuckles to himself, picking up a fork. He goes to take a bite, when Luke suddenly sits up straighter. He gathers his resolve, then decides: no better time than now. 

“Wait!” Luke exclaims, and Michael’s fork stops in the space between his plate and his mouth. “Before you eat, I have a few things I want to…um.” 

Michael shifts in his seat, setting the fork down and giving Luke all his attention. Luke wonders if he can tell how Luke’s heart is racing, how his pulse flutters when he meets Michael’s eyes. 

“If…” Luke starts. “If you ever need a helping hand with your…um. Y’know. I won’t tell anyone.” Michael flushes. “Luke, I…” he seems to struggle with his words. Then:  

“Thank you, really, but I’m openly gay.” 

Oh. 

“Oh,” Luke says. “I knew that.” 

He did not know that. 

“I was just saying,” Luke continues. “Like…ifyouwanttobitemeyoucandothat.” 

There’s a stretch of quiet as Michael processes the words. And Luke’s sure now that Michael can hear his heart beating. They stare at each other, and the silence is almost suffocating in its awkwardness, especially because Michael’s gone a little red. 

“What,” he says. 

Fuck.

Luke says,“You can bite me if you want.” 

Michael says, “What.” 

Luke’s tongue suddenly feels really heavy. 

“I just—I was just saying that I can keep your secret!” he goes on, even as his brain is telling his mouth to shut up shut up shut up. “I know you’re a vampire and—like! I respect it! It’s totally cool!” 

Michael is quiet for a moment, his eyes flitting between Luke’s own. 

“Why…” he starts carefully. “Why do you think that?” 

Luke blinks. “Well, the…you’re really pale. And…your teeth—” “My teeth?” 

“ —they’re really sharp! And how…when you came to my dorm the last time, you asked for permission. And…your tumbler, how you said I wouldn’t like what you were drinking…like—blood.” 

Michael makes a face like he’s in pain. Even as Luke speaks, he can hear just how silly he sounds, but his brain isn’t sending the right signals to his mouth because he can’t stop speaking. “And when I wore those…low cut shirts. You…my neck…” Michael’s cheeks flare a vibrant red. 

“Luke,” he says, and his voice is strangely high-pitched. “That day, I was—I was drinking vodka mixed with redbull.” 

Luke gulps. Oh, fuck you, Ashton Irwin. 

“And your shirt…” Michael clears his throat, fingers coming up to fiddle uncomfortably with his earlobe. “Um…you just—you looked really good in it. That’s…that’s why.”

Right. Okay. 

Luke looks down at his plate, blushing so hard his cheeks kind of burn from it. He kind of dies right there on the spot and then revives himself in under two seconds, which is a new record for him. 

Michael sits back a little and looks at Luke through knitted brows. 

“So,” he says. “When you did all that, you weren’t…flirting?” 

“Um, no, I was,” Luke bites his lip. “I was collecting evidence.” 

Michael exhales, and his eyes flash a mixture of confusion and amusement and…something else. Luke can’t breathe. Reality hits him like a truck. Michael isn’t a vampire. Luke just wanted him to be because he couldn’t explain his sudden intrigue in the man. 

“Luke,” Michael says, voice strained as he leans forward and squints into his plate of pasta. “There’s garlic in this, isn’t there?” 

Luke shrinks under the weight of Michael’s gaze, under his words, under the veil of his own stupidity. “Yes,” he manages, voice small. 

Michael huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t that technically be poisoning me?” 

“Well, are you a vampire?”

He can’t keep the bite out of his voice, but Michael takes it in stride. He stands up and crosses over to sit near Luke, so close that his knees brush Luke’s, and there’s that radiating warmth again. 

Michael leans in close. 

“No,” he says, sly grin parting his pretty lips. “But I can bite if you ask real nice.” 

Luke stills. 

Oh, this is it. I’ve died. I’ve died and gone to hell. 

He flushes all the way down to his toes. “Don’t—don’t make fun of me.” 

“Why would I do that?” 

“Because.”

Luke inhales sharply, turning fully to face Michael. “Because I really, really liked you for months and I looked for you in every room and I waited up for your texts—and I thought it was because you were an evil supernatural bloodsucking soul-eating ghoul.” 

Michael lets the words hang between them. His hand comes to rest on Luke’s knee, warm and grounding. “Well, you’re not wrong about the ghoul part.” 

“Michael.” 

Michael laughs, throwing his head back, bursting at the seams, and it’s such a gorgeous sight that Luke can’t help meeting him where he’s at, mirth spilling from his lips like honey. 

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Luke says. “Can you kiss me now?” 

“Mind the fangs, will you?” Michael mocks. 

Luke rolls his eyes and drags Michael in by the neck, pressing their lips together. Michael smiles against him, leaning in, pulling Luke closer with a hand on his waist. Luke runs his tongue along the line of Michael’s teeth, swallows his melodic gasp, and thinks: 

Thank fucking god for vampires. 

—

Luke 

so Michael is not a vampire 

i just really wanted to kiss him 

Calum 

@ Ashton thats 10 bucks 

Ashton 

Oh

Fuck vampires, mate 

“Something’s missing,” Calum says for the fourth time, as their Moving Along mix comes to an end over the studio speakers.

Luke drops his head into his hands and groans. It’s touching their sixteenth consecutive hour locked in their recording and production studio, almost 11 in the night, and everyone’s exhausted. The room is littered with tissues and water bottles and empty packets of chips. A slice of cold pizza sits alone in a cardboard box on the couch. Michael has been complaining about a ringing in his ear for the past hour. And Calum’s about to start ripping his hair out strand by strand, because he just can’t figure out what’s not right with their final mix of Moving Along.

“Mate,” Michael sighs, “If you say that one more time, the next thing you’ll be missing is your front tooth.” 

Ashton huffs a laugh from where he’s reclining on the couch. He’s got an arm thrown over the backrest, phone in hand as he ignores his bandmates in favour of scrolling through Instagram or something. His thighs look good. Calum shakes his head. 

“Y’don’t get it,” Calum frowns. “It feels empty—”

“It’s got everything!” Luke exclaims. “It’s—we’ve been here since morning, Cal. I’m tired.” 

“Go home, then,” Calum crosses his arms. Fuck them. They don’t respect Calum’s artistic vision. 

“Your artistic vision is wearing Coke-bottle glasses, buddy,” Michael snaps. Calum didn’t realize he’d said any of that aloud, but hell if he’s taking it back anytime soon. 

“If you would just get y’head out of your ass for a s—” 

“Alright!” Ashton interjects loudly from the couch. He draws the attention of the room as he stands up and brushes off his trousers. 

“I think we’re done for today, boys,” He says, looking pointedly between Michael and Calum. Luke sighs, relieved, and immediately starts gathering his things. 

“Nah, I’m staying back,” Calum declares stubbornly. Michael shoots him a drained look from where he’d been scooting his chair towards his laptop. Calum stares. Without another word, Michael gives in. 

“Whatever,” Michael says. “Lock up when you’re done. Text me if you figure out the phantom missing piece or…whatever.” 

Ashton tosses Michael his wallet from under one of the couch pillows. Together, Michael and Luke head out, Luke’s arm thrown over Michael’s shoulder. 

“G’night, guys,” Luke calls back. “Good luck.” 

And then they’re gone, the door falling shut behind them as the sounds of their footsteps disappear down the hallway. 

Calum turns to Ashton. “You’re not leaving?” 

Ash stretches his arms over his head and yawns. His shirt rides up a little, revealing tan skin and his happy trail. Calum’s mouth waters. He looks away quickly. 

“Not until you do,” Ashton says. “It’s late, ‘won’t leave you alone.” 

“Aw,” Calum cracks a shit-eating grin. “It’s okay. I’m a big boy. I’ll handle myself.” 

Ash just chuckles softly. 

“Alright, big boy,” He says, and something about the way those words roll off his tongue have Calum’s toes curling. “Let me know when you’re done yelling into the void over that song.” 

He falls back onto the couch, reclines with a sigh, and takes his bottom lip between his teeth as he unlocks his phone. Calum can’t stare too hard without being obvious about it, so he turns back to the mixing console, pulls on the headphones, and hits play on Moving Along. Again. 

—

It takes all of half an hour before Calum is exasperatedly tugging the headphones off and groaning. He rolls his shoulder, agitated and tense, and looks over the timeline. Everything is in place. Everything sounds perfect. Not a note out of place, and yet…there’s something he can’t put his finger on. Something that would make the song complete. Something buzzing around in his head, too fast for him to catch, too loud for him to ignore. 

And then suddenly there’s warm hands coming around his shoulders, gently massaging the muscles there, pressing warm fingers into the knots along the base of his neck. Immediately, his head lolls back, and he moans softly under his breath at the relief. 

“Ash,” he sighs. He could’ve imagined it, but those hands freeze for a second as he does. 

“Feel better?” Ashton asks, voice heavy with…something. 

“Yeah,” Cal says. “Thank you.” 

“Time t’ wrap up?” 

Calum hesitates. He glances at the timeline. He doesn’t even need to play the song out loud anymore, it's ringing in his ears. He’s tired and frustrated. 

“Right,” he says. “Let's go.” 

He saves the track file. Ashton helps him dump their day’s mess into the trash and lock up the studio. The lights flicker shut, and Calum’s exhaustion finally catches up to him as they walk to the parking lot outside. 

“Wanna get a drink at my place?” Ashton offers into the night air. Calum looks at the man. Traces the curls falling over his forehead with his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “I’ll crash in your spare room?” 

Ashton hums in agreement. “We can brainstorm over a few beers if you’re up for it.” 

Calum is up for it. Calum’s always up to staying awake with Ashton, chatting into the late hours of the night with the buzz of alcohol shooting through his veins. He voices his agreement. 

— 

Calum is settled into Ashton’s sofa, condensation from his chilled beer dripping over his fingers, when Ash presses record on his voice-memo app and sets his phone on the table between them. 

This isn’t out of the ordinary for them. As a band, they like to sit together and talk about their creative process, and having a recording of their brainstorming sessions helps them keep track of their decisions when they’re actually in the Studio. Calum doesn’t mind. They did agree to talk over drinks, so. 

“So,” Ashton starts. He leans back against the backrest of his seat and stretches his legs out. “What’s the problem with Moving Along?” 

He takes a swig from his own bottle as Calum sighs in response. There’s an acoustic guitar in the loveseat beside him, so he sets his beer down and reaches for the instrument.

“I don’t know,” Calum says, picking gently at the strings. “I don’t…I can’t figure out what’s missing.” 

“Why d’you think something’s missing?” 

“I don’t know,” Calum repeats. He digs his index finger into the guitar string, hard enough for it to sting. “The track feels hollow. Like there’s space to put something else in, but I can’t figure out what it’s asking for.” 

The tension is back in the line of his shoulders, the curve of his spine. He feels the furrows between his brows like a heavy weight, pulling him down headfirst into a chasm of disappointment and discomfort. Again and again, he’s always falling back into it. 

“It's—I feel like it could be better,” he says. His fingertips are turning red against the guitar fretboard. “It’s a good song but…I don’t want it to be incomplete. I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s weighing me down and I feel like I can’t move on until this is done and—”

“Hey,” Ashton prompts softly, and Calum’s eyes rise to meet him. Ash gestures towards where his fingers meet the strings. “Don’t do that.” 

Calum lets out a shaky breath. “I…I just…” 

His fingers are locked around the guitar. His breath feels heavy in his lungs. He loves this—he does. He loves how he lives, loves spending his time scribbling lyrics onto any surface that’ll have him, turning the shades of all his emotions into poetry. But when he gets like this…he feels small. Inadequate. He wants to make something beautiful, but he wants it to be right too. For it to fit in. For it to be complete before the whole world sees it. 

But when he looks up, Ashton’s moved from his place to come sit near Calum. Their knees brush. 

All of a sudden, Ashton is so close. His eyes are so warm, filled with concern that Calum put there. God, he wishes his hands would let go of this guitar. He wishes he could let go. For just a while.

And Ashton’s carding his fingers through Calum’s hair. Calum, who leans into the touch, whose eyes fall shut like they’d been waiting for just this moment. Then Ashton’s palm finds Calum’s cheek, rests along the line of his jaw. Brushes against his cheekbone. 

Calum opens his eyes. They flit down to Ashton’s lips, then back up to those eyes. Whirlpools of hazel. Like looking-glass, Calum sees himself reflected in them. Sees the line between his eyebrows, the mess of his hair. The black of his eyes. 

Ash reaches for the beer set on the table between them, never looking away from Calum. 

He brushes his thumb against Calum’s bottom lip, and Calum parts them slightly, exhaling. 

“Fuck,” Ashton mutters. The sound lands somewhere low in Calum’s belly, curling into a ball. 

Ash brings the lip of the bottle to Calum’s lips. Tips it slightly. Watches him. 

Calum drinks. 

Eyes never leaving Ashton’s, Calum sips deeply from the bottle, the bitter taste curdling all the miserable words on his tongue. It spills a little from his lips, down his chin, drawing a trickle down the side of his neck. He swirls the taste around his mouth. Memorizes the sight of Ashton’s pupils dilating. 

“Swallow,” Ashton breathes. Calum does. 

Ashton inhales sharply, eyes following the bob of Calum’s throat. The rise and fall of his chest. 

He leans in, and Calum’s breath catches. His heart drops into his stomach as Ash’s breath ghosts his lips, instead to nose his way down the column of Calum’s throat. 

The sticky-sweet rivulet of alcohol. 

Ashton licks at his collarbone. Laps up the taste. Trails his tongue back up along Calum’s neck. Calum tilts his head, inviting. His eyes fall shut as he gasps lowly. He’s hard as all hell in his jeans.

“Calum” Ashton murmurs, lips just so close to Calum’s—but not close enough. 

“Calum,” he says again. “Let me take the weight off your shoulders.” 

Calum can barely breathe. 

“Let me make it go away,” Ashton says—begs—his lips just brushing Calum’s own as he speaks. “Fuck, please—let me make it better.” 

So Calum kisses him. 

Ashton melts into the kiss. He exhales like he’s breathing for the first time as his hands immediately go around Calum’s waist. The guitar slips from his hands in Calum’s hurry to climb over into Ashton’s lap. He cups Ashton’s face with both hands, barely breathing. Ashton’s hands go up and down Calum’s sides, exploring, reveling in the way Calum shivers in response. 

Calum licks underneath the line of Ashton’s teeth and Ash groans so deeply that the vibrations travel straight down Calum’s spine, to the painful bulge he’s sporting. He presses down into the man’s lap, catches the shape of Ash’s cock and grinds into him incessantly. They part for air. Calum whines when Ash’s eyes flutter open. 

“Calum,” Ashton sighs, as though he can’t believe what's happening. “Fuck, baby, look at you.” 

Calum just kisses along Ashton’s jaw as he continues rolling his hips. Ash’s hands come up to palm his ass and he arches into the touch. He nips at Ashton’s earlobe, grinning when he earns a whispered string of curses in response. 

“Y’fuckin’ minx,” Ash accuses, but his voice is gravelly with how turned on he is. “Want it so bad, don’t you?”

Calum inhales. He’s sure he’s ruined his underwear already. Ashton rolls his hips upward and Calum blacks out for a moment. He slaps Calum’s ass lightly, chiding. 

“Still with me, princess?” 

The nickname flusters him more than it should. “D-don’t call me that.” 

“No? Takin’ what you want from me without asking… grinding on my lap like a bitch in heat…don’t think you’re in much place to be making demands.”

Fuck. 

“Keep talking and see where it gets y–ah,” Calum says, intending to sound commandeering, but the end of his sentence dissolves into a hushed moan when Ashton grinds upward just as Calum presses down. 

“Didn’t catch that,” Ashton grins, eyes glinting, and Calum kind of wants to slap him. But he’d probably be into that. Freak.

“F–fuh…fuck you,” Calum says, even as Ashton guides his movements up and down on his lap. 

“That’s the plan, baby.”

Calum fists his hands in the front of Ashton’s shirt and drags him in for a kiss. He sucks at Ashton’s bottom lip, nips at them hard enough to sting a little. Ash only chuckles into the kiss, his hand moving lower to pop the button on Calum’s jeans and reach in to palm at his erection. He hisses. 

“All this for me?” Ashton asks, stroking Calum through his underwear. Calum’s head falls into the crook of Ash’s shoulder. 

“Yeah?” Ash mutters into Calum’s ear. “Gonna use me to get yourself off?” 

“I’m gonna put my dick in your mouth if you don’t shut the f–” 

Ash pushes past Calum’s underwear to grasp his cock fully. He squeezes gently, looking Calum in the eye as he grins. His hand is dry, so it hurts a little. It shuts Calum up.

Ash lets go of Calum’s shaft and brings his hand up to Calum. 

“Spit,” he orders. 

Calum looks at him. Really looks. How the moonlight from the window behind him frames his curls into a halo. How the flush on his cheeks dips down past his unbuttoned shirt. How his hands are so big, so kind even despite all that strength. 

So he takes Ashton’s hand in his own, and watches for Ash’s reaction as he brings the man’s fingers into his mouth. 

Ash’s breath hitches. 

He sucks gently at the digits, swirls his tongue around until they’re moist with spit. Hollows his cheeks, meeting Ashton’s dazed look with a sly one of his own. 

“Shit,” Ash says. 

“I’ve got lube,” Calum replies, bringing Ash’s fingers out of his mouth, licking his lips at the string of saliva between them. 

Ashton lets out a surprised chuckle. “Y’got lube on you right now?” 

Calum flushes. It’s not like he carries it around, it’s just…it happened to be in his bag. 

When he tells Ashton this, he chuckles and leans in to peck Calum’s lips sweetly. 

“Go get it, then, gorgeous?” 

Calum’s a little chuffed about getting off his very comfortable seat in Ashton’s lap, but Ash guides him off with hands wrapped around his waist, so really, he can’t complain. Ashton helps him find his footing on the floors, and as Calum turns to go hunting for his bag, his eyes fall on the coffee table.

Ashton’s phone. 

Still recording. 

He freezes. His eyes widen, breath dropping out from his lungs. Ash catches the look on his face, follows his line of sight. 

“Oh,” Ashton says. 

“Um,” Cal ventures, “Think it got all of that?” 

A wicked, predatory grin spreads over Ashton’s face as he meets Calum’s eyes. “I hope it did.” 

Calum gently shoves his shoulder. “Fuck off.”

In response, Ashton gently taps Calum’s ass. “Jus’ go get the stuff, Cal.” 

And Calum’s still hard and leaking in his unbuttoned jeans, so he complies. Traipses across the room and goes digging into his haversack. When he finds the little bottle, he lets out a little ‘aha!’, and turns to smile at Ashton, whose hooded eyes are fixed on him, drunk on the vision like he’s painting a picture in his head.

Calum swallows the saliva pooling in his mouth. “Bedroom?” 

Ashton snaps out of his daze. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, standing to pocket his phone. “Bedroom.” 

It takes them longer than it should have to get to Ashton’s room. They kept stopping to make out against walls, tables, lean against doorways, giggling like teenagers. Once or twice, Calum trips over a carpet or something, and Ashton laughs at him even as he catches him before he falls. Somewhere, Calum thinks that Ashton has always been like this—a steadying force, a guiding light. 

They fall into bed together, Calum cackling when Ashton tickles him as he traces a line of kisses down his belly. Mouths at the outline of his cock. He drags Calum’s jeans and underwear down painfully slow, uncapping the lube and pouring it over his fingers. Towering over Calum, he licks his lips. 

“I’m gonna make sure you feel me for days,” he grins. 

Calum hums. 

“All bark, no bite,” he says, even as his stomach turns with anticipation and his cock twitches against his abdomen. 

“Shut the fuck up before I put that pretty mouth to some good use.” 

Calum parts his lips to make a snark rebuttal but it turns into a soft whimper when Ash’s cold fingers circle his rim, just teasing. Never giving him what he wants. 

“Shit, Ash,” Calum breathes. “Please.” 

“Gonna have to do better than that, baby,” Ashton smiles, almost pushing inside, but drawing away when Calum grinds his hips down.

“Ashton,” Calum says. “I thought—I thought y’were gonna take care of me.” 

“Oh, I am,” Ashton says, pushing his index finger past the ring of muscle, watching as Calum’s brows furrow in a moan. “I’m taking real good care of you, angel.” 

And Calum should've known—he should’ve known. Ashton fingers him open slowly, intentionally, over half an hour, catching every little sound he makes. Watches as Calum worries his lip, squeezes his eyes shut, grapples for something to hold on the bedsheets. Kisses his hip when Calum writhes at the feeling of Ashton’s fingers against his prostate. Shushes him gently when his eyes fill with tears from being teased. 

“Ashton,” Calum gasps, when he’s three fingers in. Calum is starting to believe his heart is going to stop if Ash doesn’t get his cock inside him right now. 

“Yeah?” Ash responds, all innocent like his fingers aren’t making obscene sounds inside Calum. 

“Fuck me.” 

“Aw,” Ashton coos, condescending. “Thought you wanted me to take care of you.” 

“Putting your dick inside me would take care of me,” Calum breathes, eyes locked on the ceiling because he thinks he’ll come on the spot if he looks at Ashton right now. Ashton scissors his finger cruelly in response, and Calum gasps. 

“Oh my god, Ash,” Calum whines. “Please. Please, please, f—” 

Ashton pulls his fingers out. 

Calum feels empty almost immediately. He rises on his elbows just in time to catch the gorgeous sight of Ashton pulling his shirt over his head. He tosses it to the side and unbuckles his belt. Calum sits up to help, hands shaking. It makes Ashton laugh. Just before Calum can tug the offending garment fully off, Ash grabs his phone out of the trouser pockets. 

He unlocks it. Calum watches curiously as Ashton taps on the screen for a moment. The phone chimes softly, and Calum recognizes the sound. 

“Why are you making a voice memo?” he asks. 

Ash doesn’t reply. He sets the phone on the bed and pushes his trousers all the way off. He leans in to kiss Calum, crawls over him as he joins him on the bed. Calum spreads his legs to make space for Ash, and they both hiss as their cocks brush against each other. Ashton conjures a condom from somewhere, rolls it on without detaching their lips. 

Ashton grinds down onto him and Calum sighs into his mouth, all wet and slick with the taste of cheap beer and lust. Ashton’s hands go around his hips again, grip so tight that it’s sure to leave bruises. 

Then Calum’s sight is pivoting and all of a sudden Ashton is underneath him and he’s on top. 

Ashton laughs at the bewildered look on Calum’s face. 

He brackets his hands behind his head. His biceps flex as he does, and Calum is momentarily distracted. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen, angel,” Ashton grins up at Calum. “You’re going to fuck yourself on my cock. You’re going to take what you want from me, and you’re going to be loud about it.” 

Calum flushes. He tries to curl in on himself, but his thighs are bracketing Ashton’s hips, and the delicious pressure from Ash’s hard-on is making him borderline delirious. 

“Don’t get shy on me now,” Ashton chides. “C’mon, darling. I wanna hear you sing f’me.” 

“God,” Calum breathes, rising on his knees so he can reach under himself for Ash’s cock. ‘Y’piss me off.” 

He takes Ash in his hand, pumps him a few times. Inhales deeply, because he knows Ash is big, knows it's going to punch the breath out his lungs. 

Ashton soothingly drags his hands up and down Calum’s thighs as he waits, muttering encouragement and praise. It makes him blush deeply. 

Calum lines himself up, traces his rim with the tip. Ashton hisses, hips tense with the effort of holding still as Calum begins sinking down. 

It’s like being split in two, Calum thinks. Ashton is so—big. 

“Breathe, Calum,” Ashton reminds him, and Calum does. 

He goes slow, inch by inch until his ass is snug against Ashton’s lap. Ashton is so patient, so gentle with him. He waits, even as Calum’ eyes trace the lines of tension in his shoulders, as feels it underneath his hands in Ashton’s abs. 

When the discomfort finally fades, Calum rises just a bit, and drops back down. They both moan at the feeling. Ash’s hands fly to Calum’s hips, then upwards, fingers tracing patterns into his skin. 

“So tight,” Ashton grits. “Fuck, y’look beautiful.” 

Calum whines in embarrassment. “Shit, I feel…” he brushes his hand against his belly, where he feels it. “I can feel you so fucking deep inside.”  

“Calum,” Ash breathes, as Calum rolls his hips. “Don’t talk like that, jeez.” 

Calum rises up on his knees, almost all the way off, and drops down fully. His eyes fall shut in pleasure. When he opens them, Ash is biting his lips, looking down at the point where his cock disappears inside Calum. Calum’s mesmerized by the look on his face, until Ashton suddenly gasps like he’s realized something. 

He looks across the bed, reaches for his phone, still recording the voice memo. 

“Ashton,” Calum says. “What are you doing?” 

Ashton ignores him. Places the phone nearby, then grins up at Calum. Conspirationally. 

“Calum,” Ash says. He sounds giddy. “Baby, what’s the beat on Moving Along?” 

Calum blinks. 

“What?” 

“What’s the beat on—” “No, I heard you. Why?” 

Ash tilts his head. He just looks at Calum, waiting for him to let himself into whatever scheme Ashton’s cooking up. When Calum doesn’t get it, Ash thumbs along Calum’s inner thigh, watching the goosebumps rise. 

“Use that pretty head of yours, angel,” He says. “What d’you think we’re doing here?” 

He gestures vaguely towards his phone, recording this whole conversation. 

It clicks. 

Ashton watches the realization dawn on Calum’s face.

“So, tell me, Calum,” Ash grins up at him, “What’s the beat on Moving Along?” 

Calum bites his lip. “I know.”

“Oh?” Ashton says, long fingers grazing Calum’s dick. “Then bounce.” 

 And Calum does. 

He starts moving with intention, grinding and rolling his hips, trying to find the right spot. Ash’s hands go to his ass, holding him for leverage while he fucks upwards into Calum. He uses his thighs, working himself up and down on Ash’s cock, he starts riding him properly. 

“Feel so good on my cock, baby,” Ashton grits, rising to chase Calum’s lips. Calum’s hands go around Ashton’s shoulders, the new angle reaching even deeper. Hard and leaking against Ashton’s stomach, Calum lifts himself again and again, up and down, like music. Ashton thrusts into him, searching, and Calum whines when he brushes against his prostate. 

“Shit—there,” Calum gasps. “There, there, there.”

“Yeah? Right there?” Ashton leaves open-mouthed kisses along Calum’s collarbone, hands traveling across his back, memorizing every inch of Calum’s skin. “C’mon angel, work for it.”

The room fills with the slick sound of Calum opening up to take Ashton. He bounces in Ashton’s lap, whimpers and gasps like he’s putting on a show. He feels drunk on the feeling, impaled on Ash’s cock like this is everything he’d needed all along. 

“The—fuck, the bed,” Ash gasps a laugh. Calum registers the soft creaking of the bedframe and smiles into Ashton’s shoulder. 

“S’okay,” he whispers. “Wouldn’t be my first time.” 

He feels Ashton twitch inside him at that and mewls at the feeling. But he’s getting tired, his movements slowing down, and Ashton can tell, so he flips them over gently, pulling out in the process.  He hovers over Calum, taking in his flushed face, the sweat on his brow, the messy hair. 

“Shit, y’look wrecked,” he mutters. “Taking me so good, angel. I wanna bend you over every day.”

He sits back on his haunches, trails his hands down and hooks them under Calum’s knees. When he pushes in, he brings Calum’s knees up and folds him in half. 

Ashton’s hips are merciless, fucking Calum further up the bed, the wood creaking in warning. Calum reaches upward blindly, takes hold of the headboard, holds on for dear life as Ashton aims his thrusts directly at his prostate. 

“You’re so fucking perfect, fuck,” Ashton bites into Calum’s shoulder, and Calum whines, clawing down Ashton’s back. He hisses, wincing at the sting, but he doesn’t let up on his pace.

“Yeah, mark me up, baby,” He breathes. Calum clenches down around him and Ashton groans at the feeling. 

“Ashton, I’m gonna—” ,

“Yeah,” Ash agrees. His movements grow sloppy, little droplets of sweat dripping from his curls. “Yeah. Fuck, c’mon, gorgeous.” 

Calum shuts his eyes, loses himself completely to the pleasure building in his belly. The pornographic noises of Ashton’s hips slamming into him. The bed, creaking so loudly now, thudding against the wall. His cock weeping, trapped between their bodies as they rut into each other. 

“Make a mess f’me, Calum,” Ash nips at his ear. “Soak my cock. Come for me, angel.” 

The coil in his stomach tightens. He gasps, reaching blindly, and finds Ashton’s hand somewhere beside his head. Instantly their fingers interlock. It's as easy as breathing. He’s so close to the edge. 

“Come for me, baby, c’mon, wanna see you—” 

He bites against Calum’s neck again, and Calum comes all over his stomach with a broken shout of his name. He arches beautifully off the bed, fingers tightening around Ashton’s. Ashton fucks him through it, nips at his sensitive skin, and Calum just takes it, gives himself completely to Ashton, until his movements falter and he drops his head, groaning deeply as he empties himself into the condom. 

He collapses on top of Calum, who giggles. His hands come up to stroke at Ashton’s hair. Ash turns into his neck, peppers kisses there. They’re exhausted, but Calum feels like he’s floating on cloud nine. 

“Hey,” Calum whispers into his shoulder, smiling. 

“Hi, baby,” Ashton replies, voice tender as he crawls off Calum and lies on his side. As he pulls out, Calum whimpers at the stimulation, but Ash pulls him across the bed by his waist and kisses him lazily. 

“Y’were so good,” Ashton whispers into his mouth, and Calum can’t help his shy smile. He sighs softly as Ashton’s warmth leaves him when Ashton climbs off the bed to get a wet cloth and clean them up. Calum watches him go, checks him out shamelessly as he bends over to loosely tug on his trousers. He clumsily wolf-whistles, only to get flipped off in response. 

He rolls over and starfishes across the bed, sighing, loose-limbed, feeling light and giddy. Something pokes him in the hip, so he reaches for it and pulls it out from under him. 

Ashton’s phone. Recording still. 

He laughs incredulously. He ends the recording and saves the file. Then, pausing only a second to consider it, he sends it to himself. 

When Ashton comes back, Calum‘s tossing the phone at him. 

“Found your missing piece?” Ashton asks, catching it with a smile.  

“Maybe,” Calum says. But he knows the next morning he’s going to overlay this to the track timeline and find that it feels complete. 

For now, he lets Ashton clean him up, press kisses and praise into his skin. They fall asleep like that, barely under the covers, tangled in each other. 

—

The next morning, Calum gets to the studio early and uploads the voice-memo from last night. He mixes it into the timeline until it sounds just right. 

When he plays it for the others later that day, they can’t tell what’s different, but they like it. He catches Ashton’s eye, blushes slightly at the wolfish grin on his face. 

And if—maybe, if he’s left in a gentle sigh, a muttered ‘fuck, Calum,’ somewhere on the track where he’d be the only one to hear it…well, that’s nobody’s business but his own. 

Michael Clifford considers himself to be an altogether brave person. He thinks that’s a justifiable claim to make about himself, considering he just got off his first ever headlining tour with the band. Also, that time a few months ago when his hair was on fire. He survived it though. 

So, all things considered, Michael thinks he’s pretty brave—which is what he’d been thinking about when he walked into his hotel room and slipped his converse off only to look up and see a mirror image of himself lounging on the window-seat. 

Immediately, he plasters himself back against the door, heartbeat thrumming in his ears like a drum-beat. 

“What the fuck,” he says, because what the fuck. 

The clone, doppleganger, alien—whatever, turns to meet his eye and smiles languidly, like he’d been expecting this to happen. Like its normal to have an identical fucking twin of yourself just hanging out in your room. 

Well…that’s wrong. It isn’t an identical twin. He looks like Michael, but older. His features aren’t soft like Michael’s own. The guy has red hair too, but longer, fresher. He’s dressed in a black tank, and Michael can see they’ve got identical armband-tattoos too. His boots are massive. Michael briefly wonders how he even lifts his fucking feet. And then he opens his mouth and talks. 

“Hey, Michael,” he says, and he sounds exactly like Michael too. His voice has a deeper timbre, something that makes Michael vaguely aware of his own voice, high-pitched and squeaky to his own ears. But that’s not something Michael’s worrying too hard about right now. 

“What the fuck,” Michael says again, reaching blindly for the door-handle and wiggling it, even as his feet are frozen in place and his breath is caught in his lungs. “What the fuck.”

Other-Michael stands up, hands out, placating, and takes a step towards him. Michael jerks so hard that his head slams against the door. 

“Listen, I know this is—” 

“Don’t take another step,” Michael throws his arm out. “Don’t fucking—don’t move.”

To his credit, the clone stops. Michael notices how he’s a little taller, how he stands like he’s sure of himself. 

“What the fuck is this?” Michael breathes. It’s surreal looking at himself like this…a walking, breathing iteration that simply tilts his head now, eyes crinkling in amusement. 

“What’s going on?” Michael says again. “What the fuck—what are you?” 

Other-Michael grins. “I’m you,” he says. 

“The fuck you are,” Michael grits out. His knees are kind of going weak, but the adrenaline shooting through his veins should let him get at least a few clean hits in if this…thing decides to kidnap him, or something. 

“I am,” Other-Michael says simply, as though it explains everything. 

“Y’look—you look nothing like me,” Michael says, his eyes traversing the other’s frame. There's a definition to him that Michael doesn’t yet have. He knows he’s still losing the last of his baby fat but this version of him seems more chiseled, more put together, more comfortable in his body, simply by the way he moves. 

“I look exactly like you,” Other-Michael corrects, taking another step closer. Michael presses himself into the door again, so he stops. “Jeez, mate, calm your tits. M’ not gonna attack you or something. Pretty sure there’s some fuckin’ quantum laws against that, or whatever.” 

“Quantum l—what the fuck are you talking about?” 

“Uh,” Other-Michael says. He seems to struggle with the words for a moment. “How do I say this…” 

Michael waits for him to gather his words. Not because he’s patient—he’s famously not—but because he’s too fucking scared to say anything other than ‘what the fuck.’ 

“So, I'm you,” Other-Michael says, gesturing between them. “But like, from the future.” 

What the fuck? 

“What the f—” Michael starts.

“No, yeah, you’ve said that already.” 

“From th—what?” 

“I don’t actually know how it happened,” his clone explains. “But it happened to me when I was your age too. I don’t remember it much, though. I thought it was a dream.” 

Is it a dream? Michael thinks. Subtly, he tries to pinch himself. It hurts. Fuck, this is real. 

“Look, I’m probably going to be stuck here for a while. Are y’gonna spend the whole time plastered to the door?” 

Michael wants to tell him to shove it where the light doesn’t shine. But if this guy is really just an older version of him, he should prove that. 

“Tell me something nobody else knows,” Michael hisses. 

Other-Michael sighs, shifts his weight to one leg and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dude, c’mon—” 

“Jus’ fuckin’—just do it, man,” Michael says. 

He watches as his alternate rolls his eyes, then considers what to say. 

“Okay, fine,” he says. “Remember that time mom found the magazine under our mattress in London?” 

And that should’ve been enough, but he kept going. 

“—and then we blamed it on Calum, so she flipped it open to the first page where we’d written our fuckin’ name on it for some r—” 

“Okay!” Michael exclaims, blushing at the memory. It had been the most mortifying experience of his life, probably. He’d only written his name there because Calum kept stealing his magazines and that shit cost money, okay? “Okay, I get it, we’re the same person, jeez.” 

He peels himself off the wall, and Other-Michael smiles encouragingly. But Michael doesn’t move. He eyes the other man suspiciously. 

“Can you like…” he gestures to the window seat vaguely. “...go sit over there or something?” 

“Why?” Other-Michael grins. “Scared?” 

“No—” yes. “—just go sit there, asshole.” 

Other-Michael laughs. It’s creepy, seeing himself make that sound.

“‘Kay, I’ll go sit in the corner,” he says, raising his hands disarmingly, even as he strolls lazily back to his seat. 

Michael watches him closely, wary of any sudden movements. He understands now that they’re the same person, in theory, but he barely even trusts himself right now—he’ll be arsed if he trusts a future version of himself. He’s basically a stranger with a familiar face.

Other-Michael falls into the seat like he owns the place. He looks at Michael, slightly exasperated, still trying to be patient, and tilts his head toward the chair opposite him. 

Michael doesn’t want to go sit that close to him. But he’s a brave guy, so—stiffly—he makes his way across the room and sits, stick-straight in the chair.

Other-Michael looks at him incredulously. Bites his lip, holding back a laugh. 

“What’s so fucking funny?” Michael snaps. 

“Why’re you so fuckin’ scared of me, mate?” Other-Michael laughs. 

Michael flushes, anger and shame painting his pale skin red. “S’not every day you meet the older version of yourself ‘n he turns out to be an asshole that dresses like he’s homeless.” 

Other-Michael looks down at his getup, offended. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” 

“You look like you dug ‘em out of the Depop lost-and-found.” 

“This…these are designer!” Other-Michael says, and Michael stifles a laugh. “And this is my stage wardrobe, you piece of shit.” 

Michael’s eyes widen. Stage? 

“You’re still making music?” 

Other-Michael scoffs. “Mate, I’m not geriatric. I’m only ten years older than you.” 

“Y’look older.” 

“Fuck off! ‘S your fault. Take better care of your skin.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Michael crosses his arms. “Tell me about the future.” 

Other-Michael looks extremely pleased with himself when he says, “Don’t think I’m supposed to. Some Meta-bullshit. The matrix. Whatever.” 

“Okay, what colour do I dye my hair next?” Michael asks. 

“Figure it out,” comes the reply. 

“Does Luke get taller than me?” 

“Shut up.” 

“How far back is your hairline—” 

“Okay, y’know what,” Other-Michael stands up suddenly. “I’m gonna make us a drink. I fuckin’ need it if you’re gonna keep talking.” 

Other-Michael heads to the minibar in the corner of the room and takes two glasses. He pours Michael his drink of choice, all the right proportions without him even needing to ask. It’s kinda cool. But Michael wouldn’t tell him that. 

When he comes back, he hands Michael’s glass to him. Their fingers brush as Michael takes it, and it sends a tangible zip of something warm down the length of his arm. He’s sure the other man felt it too, but he doesn’t react. Michael doesn’t know why, but it makes his stomach tie itself into knots. 

“So,” he clears his throat when Other-Michael is settled in place again. He takes a long sip from his drink, throws his head back, groaning softly in appreciation. Michael looks up the line of his throat, then catches himself doing it and looks away. What the fuck? 

“Um, rough day?” Michael asks. 

Other-Michael throws his arm over the back of the seat and laughs lightly. “Y’ don’t even know.” 

“Did you play a show?” 

Other-Michael pauses, deciding whether or not he should say something, then seems to decide in favour. “Yeah, I did.” 

“You did?” Michael says, and his voice cracks a little because—what does that mean? Just him? Not the rest of the band? What happens? Do they break up? They…they wouldn't. Would they? They’d talked about making music until they were too old to. Maybe…oh god, do they kick Michael out of the band? Are they on bad terms? Is—

“Hey,” Other-Michael says, voice soft like he can read Michael’s spiral on his face. He reaches out, just brushing Michael’s knee, but it gives him comfort still. “Hey, look at me. We played a show today. Me and the band.”

Michael swallows. He meets the older man’s eye, searches them for any hint of deceit, but there’s nothing. He looks at Michael with such…adoration. So much kindness. It makes him uncomfortable. He doesn’t deserve that grace. 

Quickly, he looks away. Shifts so that he isn’t in Other-Michael’s reach anymore. He clears his throat, and the moment has passed. 

“Tell me about…tell me about the band,” he says. 

Other-Michael scans his expression for a moment before giving in. He falls back into his seat with a tired sigh. “Nope,’ he says, popping the ‘P’. 

Michael frowns. He leans forward, swirling his drink in the glass. “What kind of music do you make now? Does our sound change?” 

Other-Michael shoots him a sideways grin. “Why don’cha get in the Studio and figure it out?” 

“Fuck, mate, give me something to work with,” Michael pleaded. “Do we win anything big? Do we win a Grammy?” 

Other-Michael barks a laugh. 

“Not that I know of,” he chuckles. “But I don’t give a fuck. You’ll learn not to care either. The people that like our music don’t care about that shit.” 

“How many albums do we have out?” “Do the math yourself.” 

“What’s our next album called? What’s the lead single?” 

“It’s called ‘Eat Shit’ and the lead single is ‘Stop Asking Questions.’”

Michael bites his tongue to keep from cussing this guy out. He’s sure there’s a ticking vein in the line of his jaw, but Other-Michael just seems to find the whole ordeal hilarious. 

“You’re an asshole,” Michael tells him. 

Other-Michael looks him in the eye, taking his own sweet time to reply as he sips from his glass, smirking. 

“Got it from you,” He says finally. 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

Other-Michael arches an eyebrow. His eyes flit down Michael’s frame. He doesn’t reply, but Michael feels oddly warm under the collar all of a sudden. 

He takes a large swig from his glass to get rid of the feeling. Winces at the burn. Pointedly looks at anything but his doppleganger. He watches the table-lamp bathe the room in an intimate yellow. How the light falls over the furniture, creating soft shadows. Pretends he can’t hear the second set of breaths, the shifting of fabric. Pretends he can’t feel those eyes on him. 

“All done asking questions?” comes Other-Michael’s voice, annoyingly self-assured and light with amusement. 

Michael takes a moment to gather his words before answering. He’s getting pissed off at how vague his counterpart is being, and he can’t tolerate the satisfaction on his face each time he spews another bullshit answer to Michael. 

“You don’t wanna give me a straight answer,” He snarked. 

“I thought ‘straight’ wasn’t your thing.” 

Michael whips around so fast, he hears his neck crack softly in his ears. A furious blush rises to his cheeks, the heat seeping from his bones. Something hot, angry and ashamed—guilty—blooms along his knuckles. He catches Other-Michael’s eye. He’s staring intently at his younger version, all traces of his playful humour gone from his face.  

“‘S not a bad thing,” Other-Michael says carefully. He lets the words hang in the air, lets them soak into Michael’s skin, find his beating heart and suffocate it. “It's okay, Michael.” 

But Michael doesn’t want to face it. Doesn’t want to talk about it yet. Instead he downs his drink quickly and blinks through the bitter heat in his throat.

“You—” he gestures to the older man. “You look different. Little changes.” 

Before he can stop himself, he reaches forward, wraps his fingers around the other’s wrist and tugs him up. He drags him to the large mirror that occupies the length of the massive wardrobe doors, until they're standing side-by-side. 

Looking in the reflection now, Michael can see the subtle differences between them. 

“You’re taller,” Michael says, unable to drag his eyes away from the inch-or-two that his lookalike has on him. 

“You’ll get there,” Other-Michael smiles. He tilts his head, follows the line of Michael’s body in the mirror with his eyes. His hand goes up, almost unconsciously, to touch his own armband. “Mine looks aged.” 

Michael looks at it, and sure enough, Other-Michael’s tattoo looks older, faded a little into the man’s skin—whereas his own is darker, not-yet tainted by time.

“It doesn’t look bad,” Michael says into the silence of the room. “Looks better on you, anyway.” 

There’s an odd tension in the room. The air feels heavy with something unsaid. Michael’s shoulder brushes against his counterpart’s and his breath hitches. 

“Look here,” Michael demands, turning to the older man. Other-Michael complies, shifting to face him, and they’re suddenly so close. 

“Y’got stubble,” Michael says, voice low in the space between them. “Need to shave.” 

His hand goes up, like he meant to trace the slope of Other-Michael’s jaw, but—he hesitates. Is this okay?

Is this too much? 

His counterpart doesn’t seem to have those qualms. He stops Michael before he spirals. 

He tilts Michael’s face up with a little tap under his chin and his fingertips find the scar beside Michael’s eye, where he’d burnt himself on stage. Michael inhales sharply at his touch. 

“This scar…” Other-Michael breathes. “Mine’s faded. I remember how it hurt.” 

Michael’s eyes flutter briefly, before he catches himself. Forces air into his lungs. Whatever he’s feeling flitting around in his belly, it needs to go. It needs to leave him alone. 

“Y’got your wrinkles to hide it now,” he snarks, trying to hide the tremor in his voice. Trying to diffuse the tension. 

But Other-Michael sees right through him. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, guiding Michael to look back into the mirror again. He moves behind Michael, trails a featherlight touch down from his shoulder to his forearm. Goosebumps rise on Michael’s skin. The lookalike turns his face into Michael’s neck, catching his eye in the mirror. “All this talk just ‘cause you can’t tell me to my face that y’think I’m cool, huh?”

Michael feels frozen in place, unable to fight the heat that shoots down his spine, lighting up his face in a gorgeous shade of pink. “N-no, I just—” 

“It’s okay,” Other-Michael says, his breath fanning Michael’s skin. He seems to be taking some sick pleasure from Michael’s embarrassment. “Admit it, Michael.” 

Michael’s heart is beating in throat. He can barely hear himself think over the blood rushing through his ears. He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t breathe. 

“No, I…” he starts, but he can’t find anything to say. “I just…I’m not…” 

Michael shies away from his reflection, eyes turning to the floor as his counterpart traces the curve of his waist, never touching, just hovering. Something in the way he looks at Michael is soft. Reverent. “Yeah?” 

And yet Michael feels like cornered prey when Other-Michael steps fully into his space. He brings a hand around Michael’s chest, brings him to raise his chin, makes it so that he can’t avoid looking into the mirror. 

“You just—” Michael’s voice breaks, blinking quickly as he looks at Other-Michael in the reflection. The sickly sweet vulnerability cracking his chest open. “You’re so…you’re…and-and I feel like—”

“Baby,” the older man breathes into his ear, eyes meeting his own. “You’re already fuckin’ perfect.” 

Michael’s throat closes up. He won’t cry. He won’t. 

But he’s feeling a flurry of emotions, none of which he can put a name to. For one, there’s a hole in his chest big enough to feel like he’s going to collapse into it. At the same time, Other-Michael’s pupils are blown wide, his touch electric on Michael’s skin. Michael’s jeans are uncomfortable, tight against the chub he’s sporting. 

And Other-Michael keeps talking. 

“You’re so fucking cool, Mikey,” he says, nosing the line of Michael’s shoulder, and suddenly Michael wants it. He tilts his head so Michael has better access, lets his eyes fall shut on the gasp he breathes when he feels Other-Michael press a kiss into his skin. 

“Ah—”

“So pretty,” Other-Michael mutters, pressing another kiss further along his neck. “If only y’knew.” 

The older man’s hands find Michael’s waist, his touch warm and grounding, and Michael melts into the shape of his body. 

“Can’t get enough of you,” Other-Michael nips at his earlobe and Michael honest-to-God whimpers, earning a chuckle in response. “Shit, the whole world wants to bend you over.” Michael’s chest clenches painfully at his words, hips jumping unconsciously. 

“They won’t though, will they?” his lookalike continues. “Nah, this is all f’me, isn’t it?” 

Michael can only hold on for dear life at the way his voice reverberates through his bones. Other-Michael’s hand slides down to cup him through his jeans. He squeezes, hard enough to be painful. Michael hisses. 

“I asked you a question, baby,” Other-Michael’s voice is husky, a dangerous edge to it that sends a thrill through Michael’s body. 

“Ah—shit, it’s for you,” Michael gasps, hand shooting up to loop around his counterpart’s neck, to pull him closer. “All f’you.”

“‘S what I thought,” the man smiles. “Open your eyes. I want you to see.” Michael can’t. He can’t. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, tries to hide his face in the older man’s neck. 

“Ah ah,” Other-Michael tuts. “C’mon, pretty, I asked so nicely. Don’t want me to get mean, do you?” 

Michael shakes his head in reply. 

“Words,” Other-Michael reminds him. 

“N-no,” Michael breathes. He forces himself to open his eyes. 

The sight that greets him in the mirror is…embarassing. He’s flushed a bright shade of red, nearly matching the colour of his hair. Held up almost entirely by the other man’s hand around his waist, Michael can see his hands are shaking. 

“Fuck,” he says.

“Yeah,” Other-Michael agrees in his ear. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Michael doesn’t reply. Won’t. This—Michael won’t let his lookalike have this. 

The steadying warmth around his waist disappears and Michael nearly stumbles. Other-Michael steps back from him. Michael turns to see him walk backwards and fall onto the bed. He spreads his thighs. The view is so inviting. Michael can’t look away. He licks his lips. 

Other-Michael tips his head to the side. Looks at Michael through his lashes as he checks him out shamelessly, worrying his lower lip upon a smirk. Under his heated gaze, Michael feels exposed. Vulnerable. It's like the man can look right through him, unravel all his secrets if he wanted to. Uncomfortable, Michael fidgets with the hem of his shirt. 

Other-Michael leans back on the heels of his hand. 

“Strip.” 

Michael gapes. 

“W-what?” 

Other-Michael meets his gaze. 

“I said strip,” he says simply. His eyes travel brazenly across Michael’s frame. He knows he has Michael’s undivided attention—Michael, desperate to please, despite his bravado. Other-Michael grins, pats his thigh. “And come meet me here when you’re done.” 

Shit. 

Michael shifts his weight. Shit, this is really happening. 

Other-Michael watches, unmoving from his place. He’s patient with him, but Michael knows himself, knows his generosity will run out soon. He kind of wants to test the limits. 

He forces himself to be still, stand tall, ignore how warm he feels as Other-Michael sighs heavily though his nose. 

The seconds pass, heavy like honey dripping down Michael’s spine. He pretends not to notice the tick in his counterpart’s jaw, how his eyes narrow ever-so-slightly.

“Didn’t hear me?” Other-Michael asks. Patronizing. 

“I did,” Michael replies. 

“Hm,” the man says. “Don’t think you understand who’s in charge here, Mikey.” 

“Why don’t you set an example for me, then?” 

Other-Michael chuckles. There’s an undercurrent of something dark there—something raw, burning. 

“Baby,” he says. “Either y’do what I ask, or you can fuck yourself on this bed all alone while I watch from across the room.” 

That gets Michael’s attention. 

“Fine,” he gives in. “Fine, okay.” 

Michael’s trembling hands find the hem of his shirt. He goes to tug it over his head when—

“Wait.” 

Michael does. 

“Turn around.” 

His hands fall to his sides. “What?” he asks, not sure he heard correctly. 

“I want you to watch yourself,” Other-Michael tells him. “Want you to look in the mirror when you take it all off, knowing who you're doing it for.” 

Michael’s ensuing blush is furious. He turns slowly on his heel and finds his eyes in the mirror. His attention flits to the man watching him, how he smirks like he’s won their little game. 

Michael bites his lip, focusing on the sting to overcome his embarrassment. He slowly tugs his shirt up and over his head, avoiding the mirror as the chill of the room meets his bare skin. His hands move to the button of his jeans when Michael’s voice draws him out of it. 

“Asked you to do something, Mikey,” he says. 

Michael knows, but he can’t bring himself to look into the mirror. He doesn’t want to look at his skin, flushed in the dim light of the room. Doesn’t want to see how his pupils are blown wide, his lips pink from being bitten. 

“Baby,” Other-Michael prompts. “Look up? For me?” 

Michael’s stubborn. Chin firmly lowered, he works the button of his jeans, draws the zipper down. The sound is loud in the quiet room. 

“Michael.”

There’s a demand hidden in the lilt of his voice. 

Fine. Fuck.

He drops his hands with a sigh. Forces himself to lift his head. 

He knew to expect what he saw, he just didn't expect to look so dishevelled, so gone completely to his counterpart’s whims. He doesn’t want to like how he looks, but he catches sight of Other-Michael as he admires Michael in the mirror, and his eyes shine with something like reverence. Like divine light. Like he’s looking at the personified image of beauty, not just at Michael. 

The butterflies erupt in his stomach at the devotion in his expression. It changes the way he sees himself. Makes him feel like something pretty. Something worthy. Something deserving of that look. 

“So beautiful…” Other-Michael murmurs, like it wasn’t meant to be for anyone else’s ears. “Fuck, can’t believe you look like this. Can’t wait to take care of you.” 

Michael whines low in his throat.

“Gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he says. Michael watches him lean forward, elbows on his knees as he licks his lips. “Gonna fucking ruin you.” 

Emboldened, Michael exhales, tension tightening his muscles because he knows what comes next. He hooks his hands over his jeans and boxers, drags them down his legs in one go, and steps out of his clothes. 

Immediately, he picks up on Other-Michael’s sharp inhale. 

Michael’s half-hard—there’s no hiding it. He can see himself chubbing up as he watches Other-Michael drop his head and groan, laden with desire. He takes a moment, and Michael’s blush travels further down his chest. When the older man looks up, he tongues his cheek, eyes traversing the length of Michael’s body. It’s like lightning shooting up his spine. His heartbeat races, his skin tingling, aching to be touched. 

“C’mere, gorgeous,” Other-Michael says, spreading his thighs wider. He extends his hand, beckoning. “Come greet me?” 

Michael complies. He turns towards the bed, puts his hand in his lookalike’s, straddles his lap. It’s humiliating, being fully naked in Other-Michael’s lap, while the other still dons all his clothes. At the same time, it's thrilling. He has the man's undivided, wholehearted attention. 

Other-Michael’s palm finds purchase on Michael’s hip. His touch is warm, and yet Michael shivers as he slides his hand up, up, up, flicking Michael’s nipple with his thumb as he goes. Michael moans lowly. 

“Shit, don’t tease,” Michael utters. 

Other-Michael’s lips part in a shit-eating grin. “Oh, I know you’re into it.” 

Michael frowns playfully. He places his hands on his alternate’s thighs, behind him, and leans back, baiting him to look down Michael’s body, find his dick, now fully hard between them. 

Other-Michael sees through it. He takes his hands off Michael altogether, chuckling. Puts his fingers around Michael’s jaw, pulls him in. 

“Fuckin’ slut,” he accuses. “I know all your little tricks.” 

Michael shoots him a cheeky grin. He leans in, wraps his arms around the other’s neck. Hover his lips just close enough. Waiting for permission. 

“Not yet,” Other-Michael whispers into the space between them. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Michael’s lip. “Patience.” 

Michael won’t let it deter him. He kisses along the older man’s jaw, savouring the prickle of his stubble. He finds the spot under his jaw that Michael’s all-too-familiar with and sucks. Revels in the sweet moan it earns him. 

“Ah—y’got lube?” Other-Michael asks, stroking down Michael’s spine, down to the place Michael needs him most. 

Michael gestures toward the bedside drawer. His counterpart wraps an arm around Michael to hold him in place as he reaches for the drawer and rummages through it. When he finds the little bottle, he grins. 

“Turn around for me?” Other-Michael whispers, breath tickling Michael’s cheek. Blindly, Michael complies. He rises from his doppelganger's lap, turns to find his eyes in the mirror. His breath hitches. He knows this part all too well. 

Other-Michael moves further up, to the centre of the bed, spreading his legs to make space for Michael to sit between his thighs. Michael does. He whimpers softly as the older man’s arousal presses into his hip. With Michael’s bare back pressed to the other’s chest, the man brings a hand around to slide his palm along Michael’s skin. He traces a path down from his neck, his chest, his belly, until he wraps his hand around Michael and squeezes. 

Michael throws his head back, grateful for any kind of stimulation at all, but then the grip disappears. Instead his hand travels further south, to where Michael’s thighs are clamped shut. 

He strokes Michael’s thighs sweetly for a moment. 

“Spread your legs, gorgeous,” he murmurs. 

Michael blushes. He shakes his head. “The…the mirror…” “I know,” Other-Michael says. “Want you to see how beautiful you look when you’re coming undone.”

Michael isn’t too convinced, but Other-Michael is nudging his legs apart, and then Michael can see himself in the mirror as he’s completely exposed to the room. 

“Look at you,” Other-Michael groans, voice laced with something like awe. “Pretty boy. You’re built like a fuckin’ wet dream.” 

The bottle of lube is uncapped with a soft pop! that echoes through the room, through Michael’s bones as he shakes with anticipation. Other-Michael coats his fingers. With his other hand, he plays with Michael’s chest, flicking and pinching his nipples between his fingers. 

Michael jumps at the first touch of the other man’s fingers around his hole. He traces the rim, teasing, and Michael whines in discontent. 

When he finally sinks a finger in, Michael moans deeply, his head lolling back on the other’s shoulder. 

But Other-Michael isn’t having it. His hand slides up to wrap around Michael’s neck, squeezing just enough to get his attention. 

“Told you to watch, baby,” he whispers, lips grazing Michael’s ears. He keeps his hand there, around Michael’s neck—a warning, a reminder—as he begins fucking his finger in and out. Michael whimpers, eyes fluttering. 

“What a fucking view,” Other-Michael mutters, and Michael’s eyes snap to their reflection, to his hand as it moves inside him. “Can’t take my eyes off you.” 

Michael whines as his alternate punctuates each word, reaching deeper and deeper inside him. He didn’t know his own fingers could feel this good. He swallows around nothing, whines, “More.” 

“Let me hear you, gorgeous,” Other-Michael smiles into his skin. “Got such a sweet voice, don’cha?” 

Michael almost doesn’t reply, but—he remembers his instructions. To use his words. 

“Fuck—yeah,” he breathes. “Yes. More, please.” 

“Such talented hands too, don’t you think?” the man goads as he eases another finger inside Michael. Pumps them in and out, torturously slow. “So quick on that guitar. So good inside you.” 

“Yeah…shit,” Michael gasps as Other-Michael twists his wrist sharply. “Yes, fuck—please.” 

“Fuck, baby,” Other-Michael groans against him. “Y’don’t even know, do you?” 

He opens Michael up, and Michael watches every bit of it with flickering attention. Those fingers make lewd noises as they work him open, slick and wet, filling the room, fuelling Michael’s embarrassment, his desire. 

“So pretty, even when y’think nobody’s looking…” Other-Michael scissors his fingers, and Michael gasps. His hand flies to the other’s wrist. He chuckles in response, presses a soothing kiss to Michael’s shoulder. 

“Y’know what the other boys think of you?” 

Michael’s heart drops. His eyes snap to meet his alternate’s, who’s already looking at him, smirking. 

“They think about you when they’re alone, Mikey,” he smiles, dangerous, teasing. Enjoys how Michael’s breath quickens, how his abs tighten. “Think about—how stunning you look on stage…these fuckin’ thighs, these legs. Your eyes. ‘N those pretty lips…how badly they wanna put you on your knees. Shut you up, get rid of this cute ‘tough-guy’ act.” 

Other-Michael nips lightly along Michael’s neck, and Michael tips his head to give him access. Begging for more as he speeds up his fingers, curling them, searching. 

 “...how y’look bouncing on those little toys you’ve got hidden away. When you think you’re being quiet.” 

Michael thinks he might die. 

“Please…” he gasps, breathless. Desperate. 

Other-Michael simply adds a third finger. Michael’s gaze falls to where they meet, how he opens up so pliantly for the other’s touch. He’s so hard, dick bouncing against his stomach as Other-Michael’s fingers pump inside him. Tears rise to his eyes. 

“I think you can take some more,” Other-Michael shushes. “C’mon, baby, prove yourself to me.” 

Michael shakes his head, hand tightening around his counterpart’s wrist. “Please…please, I—” 

He turns his head away from the mirror. He tries to blink away his tears as he uses his other hand to bring Other-Michael’s face to his own. “Kiss me? Please?” 

Other-Michael blinks down at him, amusement crinkling his eyes. 

“Aw,” he mocks. “Since you asked so nicely—”

He barely gets the words out before Michael’s crashing his lips against the other man’s. His fingers continue moving inside Michael as he groans against Michael’s lips. Michael takes the opportunity to lick into the older man’s mouth. Other-Michael brings his hand to cup Michael’s jaw, using his hold on his younger counterpart to guide him, deepens the kiss further. He smiles at the ensuing moan. 

Other-Michael changes the angle of his fingers, touches a spot deep inside Michael that has him jolting. He breaks the kiss, hips chasing the other’s fingers. “Fuck!” 

“Yeah?” Other-Michael prompts. “Give it to me, baby.” 

His fingers are incessant inside Michael as he grazes his prostate over and over. Michael writhes and moans in his grip. The coil in his belly tightens. Other-Michael peppers kisses over his shoulder as he nears the edge. 

“Shit, I…I’m—”

“Come for me, Mikey,” Other-Michael breathes. “Make a mess. Soak my fingers.” 

Michael’s eyes flutter shut. His balls tighten, and his back arches as he comes, painting his belly in streaks of white, all while his alternate whispers praise into his ear. 

He collapses back into the older man, body lax as he moulds into the shape of him. Other-Michael strokes Michael’s arms soothingly. 

“So pretty,” he says, pressing a kiss to Michael’s temple. “You’re so good, baby. So beautiful when you come.” 

Michael’s eyes are shut, but he smiles at those words. Other-Michael moves from underneath him, letting him melt into the bedsheets. He moves between Michael’s thighs, kisses down Michael’s abs, then licks. 

Michael’s eyes shoot open. His breath quickens. 

“Eyes on me,” Other-Michael calls. 

Michael rises on his elbows, looks down his chest to watch as his alternate licks up the come along his stomach, all while he maintains eye contact with his younger self. He kisses up the line of Michael’s body as he crawls over him, and leans in to find his lips. 

Michael’s hands come up to cradle the other’s face. Michael tastes himself on the other’s tongue as they make out, taking their sweet time. Other-Michael grinds down against him, and Michael’s soft cock twitches in interest. 

When he pulls away, his eyes twinkle with something Michael recognizes, because he’s worn that look before. The one that says he’s up to something. 

“Hi, beautiful,” Other-Michael licks his lips. “Think you can give me another one?” 

“What—” 

He cuts himself off with a moan as Other-Michael’s hand wraps around his soft cock, and he gives him a quick stroke. Already, somehow, Michael’s getting hard in his grip. 

“Hands and knees, sweetheart,” Other-Michael instructs as he takes Michael’s bottom lip between his teeth. “Want you to get a good look in the mirror while I stretch you out on my cock.” 

Michael’s sensitive, but he wants to be good. He wants to do what he’s told, wants his older counterpart to be so nice to him. On shaking limbs, he moves so that he’s on his knees, palms pressed flat against the mattress, facing the mirror. 

“Yeah, just like that,” Other-Michael purrs, voice smooth as silk. “Shit, I could keep you like this all night.” 

Michael moans, eyes fluttering shut until he remembers what he was asked. 

“Good girl,” his doppleganger breathes, noticing Michael’s efforts. Michael’s breath hitches. 

“Yeah, I know, baby,” he says, and Michael bites his lips as he watches the man undress in the mirror. His movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s teasing. Michael exhales harshly when he slides his jeans and boxers down, finally—finally—freeing his erection. 

“Y’ wanna be called pretty, don’t you?” Other-Michael pouts mockingly. He meets Michael’s eyes in the mirror. “Wanna be told you’re doing a good job. Want to be treated all soft, don’cha, princess?” 

Michael whines like a pornstar. 

Other-Michael strokes Michael’s hip as he pumps himself slowly, thumb brushing over the tip. He hisses. “Want it so bad, don’t you? So fuckin’ eager for me.”

“Please,” Michael breathes. He clenches around nothing, shaking as he waits. 

Other-Michael smirks. He teases the tip of his cock around Michael’s rim, and Michael resists the urge to push back against him, to get him inside. 

“So fuckin’ pretty, god,” Other-Michael groans, reverent. Michael grips the bedsheets. 

The head of his cock breaches Michael’s entrance slowly, and the both moan in tandem. Other-Michael places an iron grip around Michael’s waist, using him for leverage as he pushes himself inside, inch by inch. Michael watches, enthralled, as his expression shifts in the mirror, as he holds back groans of pleasure. 

And then he’s buried himself to the hilt. He holds still there, waiting for Michael to adjust, waiting for the sting to subside. He brushes his knuckles down the knobs of Michael’s spine. Kisses the base of his neck.

“M-move,” Michael tells him finally. 

His hips begin to move, slow and drawn out, and Michael clenches around him, drawing a gasp from the man’s lips. He angles his cock differently each time, taking on a ruthless pace, and Michael can’t draw his eyes away from the mirror, how the older man bites his lip, hisses in satisfaction. How Michael’s eyebrows furrow. How he whimpers in response to each little twitch, each shift inside him. 

Then he brushes against Michael’s prostate, and Michael almost collapses against the bed. He drops his head forward, moans deeply. But Other-Michael isn’t having it. He grips Michael’s hair, forces him to look up. 

“Look how pretty y’look, baby,” he tells Michael. “You take it so well.” 

“M—Michael,” the younger man gasps. It earns a chuckle from his doppleganger. He uses his grip on Michael’s hair and his waist to pull him up to his knees, so that his back is pressed to Other-Michael’s chest. 

“Yeah?” he whispers into Michael’s ear, and Michael can hear the smirk upon his lips. “What’s it like moaning your own name? Knowing I’m making you feel this good?” 

His hips are relentless. He fucks into Michael mercilessly, nipping and biting whatever skin he can reach, all while Michael trembles, holds on to the arm around his waist for support. His eyes are glued to the mirror, his cock bouncing, untouched, as Other-Michael moves against him. They look surreal—like art, like magic, wrapped up like this, fully in tune with each other. 

The sound of his skin slapping against Michael’s fills the room. Each thrust is brutal, sending stars dancing in Michael’s vision. 

“God, you’re perfect,” Other-Michael murmurs. “So fuckin’ beautiful. You’re everything. Worth it all.” 

His words send something warm shooting through Michael’s blood. They hit hard, for some reason, like being kicked square in the chest. Tears spring to his eyes. 

“D-don’t—” he starts.

“Look at yourself, princess,” the older man interrupts. Michael does. He glances at himself in the mirror, all flushed and sweaty. Other-Michael keeps hitting that spot inside Michael, and he’s drawing closer to the edge, his expression betraying the unrestrained pleasure blinding him. He lets out soft ‘ah-ah-ah’s as Other-Michael’s hand travels down to play with his cock. 

“Hell, anyone would be blessed to see you like this,” the lookalike continues. “You’re a dream, baby. You’re incredible. So fuckin’ talented. So important. Irreplaceable. You’re fucking perfect.”  

Michael’s vision blurs with tears. He doesn’t know where they’re coming from. Other-Michael’s words nestle deep underneath his ribs, and an uncertain warmth erupts through his bones. 

“M-Mikey, I’m—” 

“Gonna come for me?” Other-Michael says, low in Michael’s ear. “Gonna milk my cock?” 

Michael sobs. The older man’s hand is persistent on his cock, drawing Michael closer as he tortures that spot inside Michael. 

“Fuck, baby, let me hear you,” Other-Michael gasps. “Make a mess f’me, you deserve it.” 

Michael’s moans grow louder, eyes falling shut as the knot in his stomach tightens and finally snaps. Waves of pleasure crash over him as he comes, streaking the bedsheet in white, painting Other-Michael’s hand. 

He melts back into the older man, who uses his hold on Michael to guide him gently back down on the mattress to lie on his back. Michael presses into sheets, spreads his legs so that Other-Michael can slip back inside. He watches the mirror, watches the man’s expressions as he kisses down Michael’s chest, caressing the skin of his hips. 

“Pl-please,” Michael begs. There’s tears staining his cheeks, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

Other-Michael’s thrusts are slow at first, then grow in intensity, skin slapping against Michael’s as his movements grow messy, unrestrained, desperate. Michael pulls him in, scratches down his back as the overstimulation builds. He clenches down around the other man, earns a pleased moan in response. 

“Inside,” Michael whispers. “Please…please—fill me up.” 

Other-Michael groans at his words. “You’re everything, baby. Can’t get enough of you, like this.” 

His hips falter, he buries himself inside Michael, finding Michael’s hand, intertwining their fingers as he spills inside Michael. Michael groans, low in his throat, at the feeling. 

For a moment, Michael lets himself sit in the afterglow. Other-Michael kisses his forehead.

When he starts to move, Michael grabs his arms. 

“Where are you going?” he demands. 

“I’m just—baby, I’m still inside of you.” 

“Don’t care. S’hot. Stay.” 

Other-Michael chuckles. 

“Just…I’ll be right back, okay?” he promises. “I’m gonna get us cleaned up, then I’ll be right back.” 

Michael winces as the other man pulls out. He shivers at the feeling of the cum dripping out of him, but Other-Michael watches, mesmerized. 

“Damn,” he says. Staring. 

Michael blindly reaches for a pillow and throws it at him. 

Laughing, Other-Michael raises his hands in surrender. He disappears into the washroom and returns with a warm cloth to help clean up. After everything is done, he joins Michael in bed. Puts an arm around him as Michael tries to curl into the older man’s frame. 

They lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, Michael resting his head on the other’s chest as he plays with Michael’s hair. He listens to the heartbeat, wills it to sync with his own. 

“Hey,” he breathes into the room. “Tell me about yourself.” 

The other man’s hand stills in his hair.

He contemplates the request. Then mutters a soft, ‘fuck it.’ 

“I’m…things are good,” Other-Michael says. “The band is doing good. People still love us. We make good music.” 

Michael hums in response. Other-Michael tells him all sorts of things. He tells Michael about the boys. About how the band is doing, how they’re at their best, making music they love, travelling the world. About how he made a solo album. How he even kissed a guy on stage—

“You did what?” Michael sits up.  

Other-Michael laughs. “Yeah, it wasn’t a big deal. I did it thrice.” 

“Thrice?” 

The older man finds this hilarious. He probably knows how Michael’s heartbeat is racing at the thought. How his fingertips are buzzing with energy.

Michael looks at this version of himself, this man that resembles him in every way that matters. This man that comes from the future, tells Michael stories about things he didn’t know were possible for him. Things he didn’t know he was allowed to have. 

Michael suddenly…feels tired. He slips back into his place on Other-Michael’s chest, curls around him, tangles his legs with the man. 

“You’re happy?” he ventures. He isn't sure he wants to know the answer. 

He hears Other-Michael’s smile when he speaks. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m happy.”

Silence. 

Other-Michael idly draws patterns into Michael’s skin. Breathes in and out, matching his breath to his younger self’s. 

“Things get better,” he whispers. 

Michael is quiet. 

“They do,” Other-Michael continues. “They get better.” Michael isn’t tearing up. He isn’t. 

“You’ll be okay,” the older man tells him. “It feels like shit right now, but you’ll be okay, baby. I promise.”

Michael sniffles. He doesn’t want to believe those words, but the tension ebbs out of his muscles. 

He finds Other-Michael’s right hand, traces his middle finger to the ‘X’ tattoo inked there. Compares it to the fresher ‘X’ on his own right hand. Other-Michael indulges him as Michael fidgets with his fingers, intertwines their hands and brings the older man’s hand to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to the back of his palm. Like I’m sorry. Like thank you.

Michael shifts slightly, until he’s comfortable, and shuts his eyes, trying to lull himself to sleep to the sound of his lookalike's heartbeat. Other-Michael exhales, bringing his palm to stroke down Michael’s back. 

“When you wake up tomorrow, I’ll be gone,” Other-Michael tells him. 

Michael smiles, eyes closed still. “It’s okay. I’ll still feel you.” 

He brings his hand to rest over his heart. “Here,” Michael says. 

Then he moves his hand lower, rests it over his lower belly, smirking. “And here.” 

Other-Michael laughs, pinches his hip. Watches Michael yelp. 

“Don’t fuckin’ tempt me into a third round,” he says. 

Michael sticks his tongue out at the man, which devolves into giggles as Other-Michael takes to tickling him. 

And Michael thinks, as he looks at this beautiful, older version of himself, that maybe he’ll figure things out. Eventually. 

It’s been a terrible day—a terrible week, even—and they’ve just wrapped on a photoshoot for some magazine, but Ashton’s got makeup all over his face now, and all he wants to do is get up to his hotel room, wash it off, and go the fuck to sleep. 

It’s been this way for the past week and a half. He can’t play right. It’s led to an odd frustration buzzing underneath his skin, inching outwards, until there’s a visible touch of tension, of underlying aggression in everything he does. He’s spent most of the past few days moping and sulking, and his bandmates have obviously noticed. Usually, they’d leave him to it, to vent out all his annoyance on his drum kit, but they’re all on the move now, and he won’t have access to his drums until rehearsal the next week. Instead he spent an hour at the gym this morning, but if anything, that only made him sore and irritable. 

He’s jittery throughout the elevator ride up to his room, and it earns him a dirty look from the old lady standing beside him, decked out in pearls or whatever. He ignores her. The doors are barely open before he’s shooting out of the lift, power-walking to his door, and swiping his card so hard it nearly snaps. 

Immediately, he’s slipping off his jewellery. He tosses the bracelets and rings onto the dresser. If they roll off and drop onto the carpet, that’s a problem for tomorrow. His skin is tingling, irritation crawling up and out from the base of his spine. His fingers feel raw, constrained, full of an anxious energy he can’t put a name to. 

He’s just about to tug his shirt over his head and throw it across the room when there’s a demanding knock at his door. He groans audibly, almost ignores it until it comes again, louder this time. He stomps across the room to tug the door open, childishly. 

“What?” he snaps, without looking at who it is. 

It’s Luke. He’s wearing a bored expression, no longer in his costume from the shoot. Instead, for some fuckin’ reason, he’s dressed in a button up and a loose tie. His dark hair catches the hallway light as he tilts his head, infuriating amusement glinting in his eyes. 

“Cal and Michael are going out for drinks,” he replies. “I told ‘em I’d go if you’re going.” 

“I’m not going," Ashton replies simply, and goes to shut his door in Luke’s face. 

But there’s something obstructing it. He looks down to see Luke’s stuck his foot between the doorframe and the edge of his door. He lightly shoves at the door, and steps in past Ashton with his hands in his pockets. Like he owns the place. It pisses Ashton off to no end.

“Luke—” Ashton starts, but Luke’s already in his room now, and if there’s one thing he knows about Luke, it’s that he can’t kick Luke out unless he goes willingly. 

“You’ve been a little tense lately,” Luke says. It’s an observation. He doesn’t imply anything, doesn’t offer anything. He strolls lazily to the minibar in the room, looking over the assortment of liquors. 

Ashton shuts the door and sighs. “Mate, I’m really not in the mood f—” “Whiskey?” Luke interrupts. It irks Ashton. His jaw clenches. 

“No.” 

“Suit yourself,” Luke shrugs. He tugs the bottle from the lineup and gets to work unscrewing the lid.

“What do you want, Luke?” Ashton grits, trying to keep the annoyance, the exhaustion out of his voice.

There's silence. Luke lets the question linger so long that Ashton questions whether he even heard. Then, 

“At our last rehearsal,” Luke starts, distracted with his fucking bottle of whiskey, like Ashton’s not worth his time. “You ripped the snare.” 

It’s not an accusation, but Ashton inhales sharply at the words. Yeah, he remembers that all too well. He’d been struggling to stay on beat, which was fucking embarassing because he’s half the rhythm section. The drumstick slipped from his hand, and his fist went straight through the skin of the drum. 

“What about it?” Ashton says, fighting the agitated blush as it creeps onto his face. 

“I don’t really know what's up with you,” Luke goes on, finally uncapping the bottle and measuring out a single. “But you’re throwing off the rest of the band.” Ashton knows Luke doesn’t intend to get on his nerves. He’s only looking out for their functioning as a team. They talk to each other in such plain terms often, especially when it’s important to their music, their performance. That knowledge doesn’t prevent Ashton’s fists from tightening in a foreign irritation, one he hasn’t really felt towards Luke before. The suave lilt of his voice, the relaxed curve of his shoulders all seem to suddenly be getting to Ashton. 

“I’m—” Ashton pauses to inhale deeply, to hold back from exploding. “I’m working on it.” 

“Try to speed up the process,” Luke says. His stubborn refusal to meet Ashton’s eyes is extremely aggravating. 

Ashton draws closer to Luke, if only to see over his shoulder, to see what’s taking him so fucking long to pour out a glass. He knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t trust himself to be thinking straight right now. All he feels is this sharp, stinging frustration. 

“What are you trying to say?” he manages, irritation evident in his voice. 

He hears the clink of ice falling into a glass. 

“Rehearsals are going to shit,” Luke says. “The tour starts soon. You need to be able to keep up.” 

Ashton steps closer. He’s nearly breathing down Luke’s collar now. 

“You think I can’t keep up?” His voice is lower, gravelly. Almost threatening. 

Luke seems unfazed. 

“Not what I said,” he says. God, he’s really getting on Ashton’s last fucking nerve. “But if you’re okay with playing mediocre music, then—” 

Ashton threads his fingers into Luke’s hair and tugs, hard enough to sting. His head falls back against Ashton’s shoulder, and he laughs upon a moan. 

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re mouthing off to—” 

“Thought I was being pretty clear, actually.” 

“Watch it,” Ashton warns. “Getting a bit too brave, aren’t you?” 

Luke only chuckles. His hand travels along the seam of Ashton’s jeans to cup him through his jeans. Palms him through the rough denim. Ashton hisses through his teeth at the feeling. 

Luke turns in Ashton’s grip to face him, eyes hooded, wearing a smirk. “Y’always this sensitive?” 

Ashton tightens his hold on Luke’s hair. Luke’s mouth drops open, a silent expression of pain. Still, he grins like he’s winning. 

“What’s this?” Ashton taunts, surprised. “Where’s the little Luke I used to bend over my lap back then?” 

Something like anger flares in Luke’s eyes. He pitches forward, fighting Ashton’s hold, to take his bottom lip between his teeth, and bites down. Ashton laughs, the pain satiating something in his belly. He leans into Luke, into his touch, and his fingers slip from his hair to tug at the tie around his neck as he licks into the younger man’s mouth. It’s an angry kiss, something primal and raw. Their teeth clash, breath mixing into groans as they push back against each other. It’s like fighting. Like being in love. Like fucking. 

Luke’s index finger goes around Ashton’s belt loop, and he pulls at it harshly. It briefly throws Ashton off balance. He pulls back. 

“Get on y’fucking knees,” Luke spits, eyes dark. 

Ashton bites back a laugh. “Aw,” he mocks. “Gonna put me in my place?” Luke’s jaw tightens, even as his palm comes to cup Ashton’s jaw. 

“Baby,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be begging for my cock by the time we’re done.” 

“That a challenge?” “It’s a promise,” Luke’s lips curl into a smirk. “Now get on your knees like a good boy, daddy.” 

It strikes a nerve. Ashton wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. Luke has never—Luke doesn’t do dominance. He takes Ashton’s cock and cries around him and writhes and moans, he doesn’t…this is new. 

Ashton kind of wants to see where it goes. It’s funny, almost, how Luke thinks he can take charge. Ashton eases down to his knees, grinning up at Luke the whole time. He’ll let Luke have this. It’ll only make it twice as fun to put him back in his place later tonight. 

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, baby,” Ashton smirks smugly—condescendingly—up at Luke, who cards his fingers through Ashton’s hair. “But it isn’t going to work.” 

“Yeah?” Luke tilts his head. Ashton gasps harshly when Luke presses the sole of his shoe into his crotch. “Then why are you hard?” 

Ashton’s heart races, cheeks flaring in embarrassment as he grasps at Luke’s ankle, trying to get him to take the pressure off. When Luke doesn’t budge, Ashton slides his hand further up and cups Luke’s dick, squeezing hard enough for it to hurt. Luke winces, inhaling sharply. 

“What about you?” Ashton mocks. “Y’like having me on my knees like this? Fuckin’ freak.” 

Luke moves his foot from Ashton’s lap and leans in close. He grabs Ashton by the jaw, hard enough to force his lips open. Immediately, he shoves his thumb into Ashton’s mouth, tracing the line of his gums. 

“Open wide, princess,” Luke says. He pushes his thumb further, pressing down on Ashton’s tongue, forcing his mouth open. Unhurriedly, he unzips his trousers and pulls himself out. Hard and leaking, the tip flushed a pretty pink, Ashton’s mouth waters at the sight. 

He presses a faux-gentle kiss to Ashton’s cheek, then nips at his ear. 

“Mind the fuckin’ teeth,” he says, before feeding himself fully into Ashton’s mouth. 

Immediately, it’s a struggle. Luke doesn’t give him time to adjust, to catch his breath. His cock hits the back of Ashton’s throat, and he gags, tears springing to his eyes. Ashton brings his hands up to grip the back of Luke’s thighs, to try to control the pace—but Luke only chuckles under his breath. 

“Too much for you already?” he says, mock-pity dripping from his tongue. “Aw. What happened to all that bravado?” 

Luke uses his grip on Ashton’s hair to tug him up and down over his cock. Spit gathers in Ashton’s mouth, dribbles down his chin as he glares up at Luke. His throat tightens every time Luke pushes a bit too far, and he’s struggling to breathe from his nose. He tries to say something, to push Luke away, but his hold is incessant. 

“What’s that?” Luke laughs. “Can’t hear you. Too busy gagging on my cock, aren’t you, princess?” 

Ashton swirls his tongue, trying to open up his airway, but Luke just drops his head back and groans deeply. 

Fuck, it pisses Ashton off—to be used like this, to be looked down at, to be talked to the way Luke’s talking to him. It’s humiliating. His face is flushed—from anger, shame. Lack of oxygen. 

“God, you take it so good,” Luke bites his lip. “Who knew it was this easy to get you to shut the fuck up?” 

Ashton groans something low and threatening around Luke, and it only eggs him on. His pace increases, fucking into Ashton’s throat with a desperation that steals the air from his lungs. Ashton chokes, chin soaked with spittle. He tries to focus on catching his breath, on inhaling through his nose. 

But there’s a fuzzy glaze to his thoughts. The stretch of his jaw feels strangely relieving, and he presses the heel of his hand against his own erection, blinking through the tears. 

“Shit,” Luke says, and the tears gathered on Ashton’s lashline slip down his cheeks involuntarily as he tries to meet Luke’s eyes, tries to convey how fucking scared he should be for how Ashton’s going to return the favour. But Luke’s blind to the heat in Ashton’s gaze. “Look so good with my cock down your throat.” 

His thrusts grow desperate, and Ash can tell he’s close from the way his balls tighten, the way his gasps turn into something more frantic. 

He curses under his breath, and Ashton scrabbles for grip along his trousers as Luke leans into him, Ashton’s nose pressed to his belly as Luke comes down his throat without warning. 

He pulls out almost immediately, and Ashton gasps for breath. Luke’s cum splatters from his mouth, and he turns to the side to spit it out—but Luke takes hold of Ashton’s jaw again, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Swallow.” 

Ashton’s eyes shine with tears, with a sullen disdain for Luke that he hasn’t felt in years, along with a burning arousal that circles low in his stomach. He pants, lips shut thanks to Luke’s hold on him as he glares dagger at the smirking man. 

Two can play this game. 

Ashton moves quickly, swiping a leg under Luke so that the man loses his balance. He lands harshly on the carpet, in a way that undoubtedly hurts. Before Luke can get his bearings, Ashton crawls over him, pressing him down to the ground with a hand on his sternum. Luke chuckles up at him, but Ashton can feel his heart racing underneath his palm. 

He claims Luke’s lips, pinning him to the carpet as he parts his lips, lets Luke taste himself as he passes his climax into the other’s mouth. He pulls back, wiping the residue from his chin as Luke stares, wide-eyed, up at him. “How’s it taste, sweetheart?” 

Luke goes to protest, to rise on his elbows, but Ashton covers his mouth with a hand. 

“Thought I was supposed to be ‘begging for your cock’?” Ashton pouts. “Bit full of yourself, no?” 

Luke frowns at him, clearly trying to speak, but Ashton adjusts his grip. “I’m tired of hearing your fuckin’ voice, actually,” he says. 

Instead, he shoves his leg between Luke’s thigh, putting his other hand on Luke’s hip to press him down. Luke drops his head back, and Ash moves his hand down to unbutton Luke’s shirt, hiking his knee higher. 

“Yeah?” Ashton prompts. “All fucking smug until I get my hands on you, huh?” 

“Fuck you,” Luke spits. 

“That’s the plan.” 

Luke bites his lip, and Ashton wants to lick up the line of his throat. His hips jump, rolling down against Ashton’s leg. His cock is chubbing up again between them. 

“Look at you,” Ashton tuts. “Grinding on my thigh like a fucking slut. Gonna give in so easily? Let me win? Pathetic.” 

Luke bucks up again, hard, and his leg finds Ashton’s neglected cock. The sudden stimulation has him moaning, his defenses momentarily dropping. Luke takes advantage of the moment to flip them over, manoeuvring them so that Luke’s straddling Ashton’s thighs. 

Ashton’s hands immediately go to Luke’s hips. “Not opposed to this view,” he grins. “Have you bouncing in my lap by the end of the night.” 

Luke laughs, not with, but at Ashton. His hands grip Ashton’s wrists, pin them above his head with surprising strength. 

“Shoved my dick down your throat and you’re still talking,” Luke says, hands sliding under Ashton’s shirt, up, up, up. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name.” 

“I’d like to see you try.” 

“Shut the fuck up for once, and maybe you will.” 

Luke tugs Ashton’s shirt over his head, and leans in to make out lazily with him as he brings it up and off—except when Ashton tries to put his hands on Luke again, he realizes he can’t. 

“What the fuck,” he says, tugging at the restraints around his wrists. “Did you just—” 

“Nice and tight, isn’t it?” Luke grins. He’d somehow used Ashton’s shirt to tie down his hands. Ashton tests the give, but the knot holds tight. 

But then Luke is kissing down Ashton’s chest, undoing the buttons on his trousers. 

“Keep your eyes on me,” Luke tells him, tugging Ashton’s trousers down along with his boxers. Ashton’s hard, leaking already as he’s exposed to the cold air of the room. 

“If you wanted to suck my cock, you could’a just asked, baby,” Ashton grins. 

Luke meets his eyes, smiles like he’s got a terrible secret, and suddenly Ashton’s stomach is swooping in anticipation. In something like anxiety, fear. 

“Who said anything about sucking your cock?” 

His head disappears between Ashton’s thighs. 

“What are you—” 

He’s cut off by his own gasp as a wet tongue licks over his rim. Immediately, his thighs try to close over Luke’s head, but the brunet puts his hands under Ashton’s knees and spreads him open further. A violent red tinge rises to his cheeks. 

“Luke,” Ashton breathes. “Luke.” 

Because he can’t find anything else to say—because he’s ashamed, enraged, so fucking turned on he can’t see straight. 

“Yeah, say that again,” Luke says, sitting up. He grins at Ashton, but there’s no humour, no kindness in his eyes. “With feeling this time.” 

Ashton seethes. He wants to spit at Luke, get out of these fucking restraints around his wrists, remind Luke who’s really in charge. But Luke is looking at him like he’s prey, and suddenly Ashton feels very cornered.

Luke’s finger is rubbing loose circles around Ashton’s rim, spreading the wetness there as it seeps into his skin. It’s like a threat, the almost-pressure. Ashton nearly flinches away. 

“God, you’re—” Ashton says, fighting the heaviness of his tongue. “You’re going to fucking regret this.” 

Luke presses into Ashton—barely past the first knuckle, just a taste of what’s to come. But it's dry, and the pad of his finger is rough. It stings faintly. Ashton bites back a surprised gasp. 

“I am?” Luke questions, sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Gonna make me pay? With your hands tied down? Your hole swallowing my fingers like it’s begging for it?” 

Ashton blushes furiously. He can’t bring himself to answer. 

“Or,” Luke continues. “You could always tap out.” 

He shrugs conversationally, like he isn’t easing his finger inside Ashton. Tap out. 

Yeah, fuck no. Ashton’s many things, but he’s not a fucking quitter. Especially with the brunet gloating like he’s winning a race. He stays silent, because he won't give Luke the satisfaction of a reply. 

Luke laughs under his breath nonetheless. Ashton keeps his eyes firmly fixed to the ceiling. 

Luke inches his finger further inside, and it nearly punches the air out of him. It's a foreign feeling, and even with just one finger Ashton feels full. He bites his tongue, overwhelmed. 

“So fucking tight,” Luke says, awestruck. Ashton steels his resolve, tries not to move at all, tries not to show Luke how much his touch affects Ashton. “Nobody ever touch you down here?” 

Ashton’s face burns. He looks to the side, resolutely avoiding eye-contact. 

“Ah,” Luke says, the arrogance in his voice evident as he speaks. “Poor Ashton’s never had a good hard fuck?” 

He leans in to pinch Ashton’s nipple, and the shock is so sudden that Ashton involuntarily whimpers. Luke laughs at the sound, even as Ashton internally curses. 

“I’ll be nice, princess,” Luke mocks. The nickname is pissing him off, but more than that, it’s going straight to his head. He’s turned on beyond belief, all his senses on fire as the blood rushes to his cock, as his mind zeroes in on Luke’s finger, unmoving inside him. 

Luke twists his finger, and Ashton shuts his eyes, exhaling shakily. He grits his teeth, his neglected cock throbbing between his legs. 

“Could fuck you dry,” Luke proposes, simply as though it doesn’t immediately scare the living daylights out of Ashton. “Make it hurt.” 

Ashton’s eyes fly open, and he meets Luke’s gaze, trying not to give away how fucking terrified he is of the idea. Arousal pools hot and urgent in his lower belly, and it’s confusing because all he wants is to pin Luke to the wall and fuck him like punishment, but his body responds to his touch with electricity. 

“I won’t though,” Luke says, drawing his fingers out. “Because I’m real fuckin’ nice, aren’t I, Ash?” 

“You—f-fuck—” 

“Nah, you wet my cock so well with your pretty lips,” Luke goes on. “I think you deserve a reward.” 

Luke coats his fingers in lube from a little packet he conjures from his pocket. Ashton’s entire body is burning up, his muscles tight with restraint. Luke’s finger nudges at his hole again, and Ashton drops his head back when Luke sinks in till the knuckle. He tries to remind himself that he doesn’t want this—that he’s on top, he keeps control, he holds it all together. 

But Luke’s fingers are pumping in and out of him, and he knows he’s clenching down hard, but something inside him is pulsing and he needs Luke to reach it, to coax it out. Already, his cock is weeping against his belly, and Luke’s finger is stubbornly refusing to brush up against his prostate, exploring everywhere but where Ashton needs him. 

“Something wrong?” Luke grins. “You’re looking a little under the weather.” 

“Sh—shut the fuck up,” Ashton spits. 

“Out of steam already?” 

Ashton opens his mouth to bite back, but Luke curls his finger up sharply, simultaneously wrapping his lips around the head of Ashton’s cock and sucking. His hips buck up, further into that wet heat, but Luke pulls away almost immediately. His finger brushes against Ashton’s prostate, teasing, and his head spins.

“Luke, I’m gonna…” Luke massages Ashton’s walls, his hand coming to wrap around Ashton’s dick. He strokes in quick pulls, and it’s too much, it’s too much. Ashton’s head spins, his back arching as he thrusts into the grip, so near to it, almost there—

“Ah, I’m so close, keep going—” 

And then Luke’s grip tightens around the base of Ashton’s cock, and he takes his finger out altogether. The burn is hot, bright, as Ashton’s pulled back from the edge of his climax. He breathes heavily, blinking at the ceiling. His mind clears. 

“Fuck,” he says, catching his breath, and because he can’t help himself: “Shit, I taught you well, huh?” 

Luke’s hand pumps his length twice, and the smirk is evident in his voice. “Gonna fucking ruin you.” 

Ashton laughs breathlessly. “I’d like to see you try,” he snarks. “Been waiting for a challenge all night.” 

He’s lying. Of course he is, but Luke can’t know just how deeply he’s been getting under Ashton’s skin.

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth, princess,” Luke says sweetly, but his voice is heavy with arousal. Ashton turns his head, chuckling into his shoulder. 

Luke’s finger returns with a renewed fervour. Ashton gasps, inhaling upon every moan that threatens to spill from his lips, but Luke’s relentless. 

When he adds a second finger, the stretch is gorgeous. Ashton’s back arches lightly. Luke immediately scissors his fingers inside Ashton. He feels exposed, looked at, far too splayed out. 

“Fuck, I want—”

“I think you’re forgetting you’ve got no power here,” Luke murmurs. The filthy squelch of his fingers fucking into Ashton fill the room. He avoids his prostate altogether, straddling Ashton’s legs to splay his other hand over Ashton’s chest, playing with his nipples. 

Already, Ashton is close again. Maybe it’s because he was dragged so suddenly away from it earlier, maybe because Luke’s hands are just that good, but Ashton’s vision is growing fuzzy around the edges. He blinks through it, laughs awkwardly at Luke’s words. 

“Yeah?” Ashton gasps. “So why are you—ah…rutting against my thigh like a bitch in heat?” 

Luke freezes, his subconscious thrusts against Ashton’s leg stopping altogether. Ashton laughs, unabashed, mocking. He tugs slightly at the ties around his wrists. 

“Jus’ say the word,” Ashton promises, “And I’ll give it to you so good you’ll feel me for da—” 

Luke twists his fingers cruelly. Ashton moans, high pitched and embarrassing. The pressure builds and builds, quicker, more desperate. Luke spreads his fingers, driving them into Ashton, alternating between aiming for his prostate and massaging his walls. Ashton plants his feet against the carpet, thighs shaking as he grunts and gasps, drawing closer to the edge, building, rising, growing—

Luke’s fingers disappear.

His approaching orgasm ebbs away like a sad little wave, and he whines—a pathetic sound, as he thrusts up, chasing the edge as it leaves him, too far out of reach. The coil in his stomach aches now, the sting of being denied for a second time sharper. 

He collapses back, brows knitted in frustration, and he registers the tears that have gathered along his lashes. His skin is tingling.

“Gonna give in to me?” Luke coaxes, stroking Ashton’s thigh placatingly. “Gonna let me take care of you?” 

Ashton gathers his wits, exhales through the haze of agitation. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Thats the plan,” Luke grins, mimicking Ashton’s earlier words. 

Immediately, Luke thrusts three fingers in. The pain is sharp, shocking, but it fades into something divine. 

“Shit,” Ashton moans. “Oh—fuck.” 

It’s impossible to think straight. Luke aims his fingers directly at Ashton’s prostate—quick, sharp stabs of stimulation, and Ashton rolls his hips, grinding down onto Luke’s fingers, tears gathering in his eyes again. 

“Ah—harder,” he gasps, and he hears Luke’s amused exhale. 

He can’t hear himself anymore, all his focus fixated on finishing, on chasing the high, tipping over the edge. His skin is on fire, his wrists burning as he struggles against the knot. Luke’s fingers are so good, so hot and fast inside him. The way he twists his twist, curls his fingers and presses into Ashton until he’s seeing stars. 

And every time Ashton feels it building inside of him, Luke’s fingers slow down, pull away, aim just past his prostate. It has Ashton’s breath hitching, his hands curling into fists, nails pressing crescents into his palms. 

Luke’s other hand comes to play with Ashton’s cock, and the stimulation is so jarring, like sparks along his skin—Ashton whines, frantic, and he’s so close. He turns his head into his shoulder to hide the tears—he’s so close. He’s on the verge of begging, all he wants is to finish, the pleasure blinding, hot and ice-cold at the same time. 

“L-Luke—” 

He’s trying to hide it, trying not to let Luke know how close he is to coming, but the brunet is rubbing incessantly at Ashton’s prostate, the grip of his other hand around Ashton’s shaft is so right, and he feels it then, the approaching wave, the blissful heat, the coil unfurling in his belly, and just when he’s on the cusp of it—

Luke pulls away. 

Ashton mewls. 

His shoulders shake as he chokes on his gasps, his mind fuzzy, thoughts scrambled. He feels entirely unraveled, shaking desperately, the muscles in his entire body aching with tension, with frustration at being dragged away from something so close, but just out of reach. 

“C’mon, princess,” Luke shushes him, palm traveling soothingly up and down the sensitive skin of his thigh. Ashton almost shrinks away from the touch, but Luke speaks again. “Feels good, doesn’t it? To get out of your head f’once? Focus on just how you feel?” 

“Sh-hut—d-don’t…” 

“Give in to me, baby,” Luke continues. Ashton tries to blink past the tears, but they’ve already slipped down his cheeks, and he burns with shame that Luke can see him like this, that Luke knows how it feels. 

Ashton can’t reply. Won’t. 

So Luke’s fingers thrust inside of him again, and Ashton’s back immediately arches. Again, there’s a foreign aggression to his pace, and Ashton’s barely recovered from his previous go, so his orgasm is already creeping up to him, his cock twitching, the muscles in his belly tight with anticipation. He can’t breathe, he can’t feel anything but the heat of his orgasm, the anxiety of being denied again because— 

He won’t last. He can’t…he can't let it be taken away from him again—he wants it so bad, and…he’s been so good, he’s listened to Luke, he’s cried nice and pretty for Luke’s fingers, he’s taken them so well, he—

Luke's touch disappears. 

Ashton sobs.

Luke’s touch is featherlight as he traces a finger up and down along Ashton’s cock, and the tears are falling freely now, his wrists aching from how badly he wants to reach out, to touch, and he’s heaving wet sobs, whimpering from the stimulation, little noises of protest, of plea. 

“Luke,” he gasps. “More.” 

Luke smiles. “There it is.” 

His touch withdraws altogether. Ashton whines because he’s worried Luke’s just going to leave him here for the rest of the night, wet and wanting and aching. But there’s a sound like a plastic wrapper opening, and then Luke’s hands are on Ashton’s thighs, spreading them open farther. The ache in his joints is delicious. 

There’s a weight, pressing against Ashton. Luke lines himself up, but just before he sheathes himself in, he stops. He looks at Ashton, reaching for him to tenderly wipe the tears from his cheeks. 

“Luke,” Ashton murmurs, and his voice is wrecked, broken. His lashes are clumped with tears as he blinks at Luke sitting between his thighs, just fucking teasing Ashton’s hole without doing anything.

“Beg,” Luke says, voice hard. 

Ashton exhales, cheeks burning. His mind is detached, but his skin is wet-hot, his muscles shuddering, and Luke’s almost inside him, he’s so close. 

Ashton tries to take Luke in himself by pressing his hips down, but Luke stops him with an iron grip. 

“Beg for it, Ashton,” Luke says. And, fuck—fine. 

“Please,” Ashton mutters, voice small, ashamed. He can’t meet Luke’s eyes. 

Luke grinds his hips forward, and his tip catches the rim of Ashton's hole. Ashton shudders, whimpering at the feeling. 

“Didn’t catch that,” Luke smiles, almost mercilessly. “Get fuckin’ loud. ‘Please’ what?” 

“Please fuck me,” Ashton gasps, but it isn’t enough. Luke slaps the outside of his thigh, chiding. 

“Shit—please fuck me, Luke,” Ashton says, closing his eyes to the humiliation. His voice shakes. 

“Yeah?” Luke prompts. He rolls his hips in intervals, and Ashton mewls at the feeling each time. Ashton’s gone fully, he just wants to come, and he’s not above begging. Not anymore.

“Fuck me,” Ashton gasps. “Please? Please…please, I just want to come, I just want—I want to come on your cock, Luke, I—” 

Luke pushes into Ashton in one persistent push, not stopping until his hips are flush against Ashton’s ass. The stretch is incredible, and Ashton feels so full, like a missing puzzle piece is falling into place inside him. 

“So fucking tight,” Luke grits, grip iron-strong on Ashton’s hips. 

Ashton can just hold on, pleas and incoherent words spilling from his lips as Luke draws out all the way, painfully slow. The emptiness returns, and Ashton shivers at how suddenly cold he feels without Luke inside him. 

Luke pushes in, a slow glide, slotting himself inside Ashton fully. Ashton’s mouth drops open in a high-pitched whine as Luke’s cock brushes against his prostate. He’s been near the edge for so long, he won’t last with the way uke’s moving, teasing and steady and slow. 

“Luke,” Ashton gasps. “Please, more, more.” 

Luke laughs. “Fucking greedy,” he says. “You’ll take what I give you.” 

Ashton’s head falls back against the carpet and his voice cracks upon a yelp when Luke pulls out, only to grind his hips inside again. He fucks Ashton deep, making sure he feels every inch, every bit of Luke’s cock that has him babbling with pleasure. 

There’s tears of frustration in his eyes. He knows he’s cried off all the makeup from their shoot earlier that day, and they only serve to make the tracks stand stark underneath his eyes. Luke rolls his hips into Ashton, and Ashton moves, trying to meet every thrust, trying to coax Luke to move faster. 

“Please,” he moans. He blinks at the ceiling, voice ragged, gone to the pleasure. 

Every time Luke aims at that spot inside Ashton, he shivers, letting out a garbled, shaky whimper. He can’t do much else but take it, let Luke have his way, take his own sweet time. 

“Touch me,” Ashton begs. “Luke…I—please, touch me.” 

Luke’s hips snap harshly into Ashton, tearing a wet gasp out of him. 

“I don’t know if you deserve it, baby,” Luke pouts. “You’ve been so bad today.” 

It stings. Not just Luke’s words, but the rejection, the teasing—the knowledge that he’s so close but he won’t get what he wants until Luke wants it too. He cries out, arms straining against the shirt holding him down. He’s saying something, but he can’t tell what it is, too lost to chasing what he wants. 

“No, I—I was—” But he doesn't have the words. It’s too much and not enough, his skin sensitive, sticky with sweat. Luke’s movements are corrupting his thoughts, all he can focus on is the steady push and pull, the angle of his cock.

Luke suddenly thrusts in hand. His hold on Ashton tightens, and his pace goes from a glacial slowness to a hurried, frantic one. His hips piston harshly into Ashton, abusing his prostate, and Ashton cries, sobs, mewls. 

“Thats it,” Luke coaxes. “Take it, baby.” 

Ashton writhes under him. Luke reaches down and plays with the head of his cock, and Ashton’s gone, he’s gone—

“All that pride,” Luke says, his voice winded. “All that bravado, but you’re just a slut for cock, aren’t you?” 

Ashton can barely hear him. But Luke takes his jaw, turns him so that he meets Luke’s gaze through a teary haze. “Answer me.”

“I am,” Ashton responds immediately. “I am, I am—all f’you…for your cock, Luke, I—” “That’s right,” Luke nods, and the sweat from his hair drips onto Ashton’s skin. “All you needed was a good fuck for y’to get that stick out of your ass, huh?” 

He fucks into Ashton without pause, never letting him catch his breath, chasing his own orgasm. 

Ashton is hiccuping through his tears, digging his nails into his hands as the pressure builds again, loud like a screaming in his ears, Luke relentless in his movements. 

Luke, terribly, horribly, slows his pace again, and Ashton’s eyes fly open. His hands scrabble for something to hold on to.”Please!” he cries, uncaring to how fucking embarassed he feels, because all he wants is to finish, to feel good. “Please let me, please I was—” “What do you say?” 

“I don’t know,” he says. He can’t think straight. Luke’s still got a hand around his dick, and its all too much, he can’t feel anything but the blinding pleasure, the desire to come. 

“Then you won’t come,” Luke says simply, hammering his hips into Ashton again. “No,” Ashton gasps. “Please, Luke. Please, I’m…oh, god.” 

He can’t think. He can’t…his mind is overheated, distracted, overheated by all the sensations creeping over his body. He searches blindly for an answer, and the fog clears, and—

“Thank you.” 

Luke smiles, like Ashton’s got it right. His grip tightens on Ashton’s cock, and he strokes him quick, matching his thrusts to the flick of his wrist on Ashton’s shaft. Ashton’s still speaking, the words lost to him as he spews some rendition of thanks, of apology, of plea. It’s sweaty, hot, and Luke’s hips stutter, and Ashton clenches down because he knows he’s right there, he’s right there—

He sees stars. He can’t get any air into his lungs, and he throws his legs out, arching his back as he comes, spilling all over his belly and chest. He feels it down to his toes and he shakes from the force of it, whimpering as Luke fucks into him a few more times, until he’s bending over Ashton and emptying himself into the condom too. They stay like that, breathing in each-other’s gasps, counting breaths. 

It takes him a while to come back, to open his eyes, and when he does, Luke’s still there. The brunet cards his fingers through Ashton’s hair as he wipes with a wet cloth between his legs. Ashton winces at the feeling, still sensitive. 

“How do you feel, baby?” Luke asks, meeting Ashton’s eyes. The snark, the arrogance from earlier is all gone, replaced instead with a tender earnestness. 

Ashton can’t help a smile. “Feel so fucking good…like, floaty.” 

A pause. 

“Can’t feel my legs.” 

It draws a laugh from Luke. Ashton’s never felt this way in his life. Like he’s lying on a cloud. Like he’s melting into the floor. He’s so relaxed. All his stress, frustration, worries are gone, leaving behind a sore, satisfied ache in his muscles. 

“You did that on purpose?” he asks Luke, as the brunet discards the cloth and crawls up to lie beside Ashton until he’s ready to stand.

“Worked, didn’t it?” 

“Asshole.” 

“I know,” Luke grins mischievously.  

They sit in silence for a while, Ashton counting Luke’s breaths, matching them to his own. 

“So,” Luke says, conversationally. There’s an undertone of something to his voice. “What you said back there…about me ‘regretting all this’...same time tomorrow?” 

Ashton wants to shove at Luke’s shoulder, but his limbs are jelly. He rolls his eyes, exhausted, exasperated. “Oh, fuck me.” 

Luke licks his lips, amusement glinting in his pretty blue eyes. “If you insist.” 

Michael has a problem. It started with his screen-time. 

To be fair, spending six hours scrolling on twitter despite having an extremely busy schedule would inevitably have backfired on him. And it has. 

The tour has been going well. More than well, actually. The band’s fanpages are more active than ever. The promotions are great. They just announced an Asia leg. They’ve played Start Over three nights in a row (something that Luke is loudly ecstatic about). All things considered, you can’t really blame Michael for wanting to keep up with his twitter timeline, to see what the fans are liking. 

It’s just. The fans are liking…odd things. 

Sure, it’s not surprising to see thirsty tweets about themselves. Hell, all four of them have got that one ‘double-munch’ tweet memorized. Michael knows his band members are attractive. But lately, it’s been crazy. Michael can’t scroll two tweets without seeing something that prompts him to put his phone down and take a deep breath in. 

And that’s what brought Michael to his predicament. 

@ bleedblonde  [IMAGE]  idk what they’re singing about i’m looking at the beefy sweaty drummer in the tank top 

@ jaeyunnlover Ashton Irwin can you put me in a headlock? It’s for science. 

 @ xuvisions bang me like you bang those drums 

@ streetwisecth [VIDEO] His arms are diving me crazy

@ kay67sauce  i wanna lick the sweat off those big arms like a popsicle stick 

@ cliffordhrts @.Ashton5SOS pin me against the wall with ur arms

@ jetblackpizza  what does he bench?? and can he bench me next???? 

Michael knows Ashton’s buff. In their teens, Ashton used to drag him to gyms where Michael would sulk on a bench and try not to stare while Ashton did bicep curls or whatever the fuck. Ashton is a drummer, naturally he’d have muscular arms. He carries the rhythm of the band in his hands. You can’t do that with little noodle arms. 

So Michael knows. That’s his best mate, of course he knows. 

But—um. Lately he can’t seem to keep his eyes from straying. 

It wasn’t as bad at first. He blames twitter for it, honestly. 

Ashton would show up to rehearsal in shirts that stretched across his biceps, and Michael would sneak a glance. Lick his lips, then turn away. When Ashton sweat through the shirt, he’d pull it off and play in a tank. Sometimes shirtless. Michael would tell himself not to stare. It was all fine, until the tour started and Ashton decided his wardrobe should consist of just that one ‘Emotional Junkie’ low-cut muscle tee, and Michael could see everything. He’d do his best to stay focused during the show, ignore the itch to turn around and watch the sweat drip down Ashton’s arms. Then he’d get off stage. Breathe a sigh of relief. 

And then he’d open twitter, and his self control would go to shit. 

Because now, not only does Michael have to face Ashton in person, but he can’t avoid the man online either. There’s pictures and videos everywhere. Of the way his skin glistens under the spotlight. How his muscles flex as he plays. His deft fingers, spinning the drumsticks as he takes it out on his drumset. Of the sweat as it trickles down the side of his face. As it drips from his hair into his eyes. His thighs bouncing as they work the kickdrum, clad in tight leather. How he bites his lip when he’s focused. How the flimsy shirt barely leaves anything to the imagination. 

Yeah, Michael’s fucked. 

— 

“Mate, this is the third time around,” Calum sighs, exasperated. “What are you doing?” 

They’re at soundcheck. They’re playing Munich tonight, and Michael can hear the fans buzzing with excitement outside as they wait to be let in for the Press Conference. Michael’s got his guitar looped around his neck and they’ve been trying to soundcheck Chest. Keyword: trying. 

Luke’s looking at him from over his sunglasses. He’s frowning in a way that makes Michael want to tell him his hair looks stupid. Again. 

“Mikey, give us something to work with here,” Luke says. “We’re running late, man.” 

“Shut up,” Michael mutters. “I keep fucking up on those last few notes.” 

He is trying, honest. But his fingers feel like they’re locking up on the fretboard, and he keeps slipping because…well, Ashton’s stripped his jacket off and he’s commanding the drumset in a fitted black tank-top. He’s sweating already, and the way the light is catching the curve of his neck is making Michael kind of thirsty. 

Michael glances back at Ashton as he bends over to pick up a towel to dab at his neck. Calum walks to the front of the set and picks up a water bottle to sip from. He slurps obnoxiously, eyes narrowed at Michael like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. He follows Michael’s gaze to Ashton, then back. 

“Y’want a break?” Luke offers kindly. 

Calum isn’t feeling so generous. 

“Something’s up with you,” He says, voice laced with suspicion. 

“Get off his case, Cal,” Ashton pipes in from the back. Michael’s breath catches slightly at the sound, but he hides it well. At least he thinks he does, until he looks back at Calum, who’s got a glint in his eye that makes Michael’s palms sweatier than they already are. 

And then he grins, like he’s joined the dots. And Michael’s heart drops straight into the Devil’s lap. 

“You’re distracted,” Calum accuses, smiling, but there’s nothing kind on his face.  

Michael gulps. But he forgot to step away from the mic-stand, so the sound echoes through the stadium. He flushes. His eyes flash to Ashton, who looks confused, and Calum picks up on that too, the bastard. 

Luke looks between the two of them. He looks a bit silly, because the glasses on his face have gone askew. “What?” 

“You’re distracted, aren’t you, Mikey?” Calum says, approaching Michael. It’s making him nervous. He takes a tiny step backwards. 

“No,” he says, too quickly. Fuck. “Just—uh, late night yesterday.” 

“Yeah? What were you up to?” Calum sounds downright evil. Michael’s contemplating just how much water he should pour onto the guitar in his hands for him to get electrocuted, when Ashton speaks.  

“What the hell is going on?” 

“I think,” Calum says. “Michael here’s been really out of it today because he’s got something on his mind.”

“Cut it out,” Michael grits. His voice doesn’t carry enough conviction, though, and Calum’s self-satisfied grin widens. 

“Mate, what—?” Luke starts. 

“Tell us what’s bothering you, Mikey,” Ashton says, and his voice is so grounding that Michael makes the mistake of meeting his eyes. A droplet of sweat trails down the side of his temple, all the way down his neck, into the depths of the tank. Michael licks his lips.  

“Um, I—” His mind scrambles for an excuse but he comes up blank. Across the stage, Calum’s tapping his leg, looking extremely smug. He tilts his head in Ashton’s direction. 

“Yeah, Mikey, tell us,” his voice is laced with condescension. Michael wants to knee him in the balls. See how he likes wearing skirts on stage then. He looks at Luke, who—bless him—looks genuinely concerned. Luke is his best mate, truly. Luke would help Michael smother Calum in his sleep tonight, wouldn’t he?

He looks off the stage, and the stage manager and his assistant are standing there, looking simultaneously bored and mildly impatient. He tightens his grip around his guitar. 

“What’s on your mind, Michael?” 

And—listen. Michael could have come up with a whole list of lies. Their fanbase knows them for being liars. He could’ve pushed the fact that he didn’t get sleep the night before. He could’ve said he had a headache. He could’ve said he needed a second look at the music sheets, or that the spotlight was too bright, that his in-ears weren’t working properly…just some bullshit that would get the attention off of him—except at that exact moment, Ashton crosses his arms, and Michael can clearly see his biceps bulging and the sweat shimmering around his defined forearms. And his stupid brain latches on to the sight, and his stupid mouth opens, and Michael says, “Arms.” 

Everything freezes. Like, the whole world stops in its tracks and turns to stare at Michael. Calum’s smug look has dissolved into something painfully punchable. Luke’s snickering into his hand. The stage manager and his assistant have gone beet red, speaking in hushed tones, and—Ashton. 

Ashton’s grin is sharp and catlike. Wicked and dripping with a kind of self-satisfied arrogance. He’s looking at Michael with a Cheshire smile, and Michael suddenly feels all too exposed under his gaze. He briefly fantasizes about the stage splitting open under his feet and swallowing him whole. 

“Um! I mean—!” 

A staff member jogs in from the main entry and signals that they need to start letting fans in. Michael all but rips the guitar off his shoulders and hands it to someone without looking. He disappears backstage without turning to check whether his bandmates are following. 

He can hide in the bathrooms until it's showtime, right? 

—

So, the thing about hiding in a bathroom when you’re the star of the show is: it isn’t possible. 

He’s only been in the cubicle for five minutes—during which his brain started acting up again, and so he opened twitter, which was obviously a bad idea—when there’s a light knocking at the locked door, followed by hushed giggling. 

“Y’on twitter, Mikey?” Comes Calum’s voice, clearly holding back laughter. 

“Don’t accidentally retweet Ash’s big juicy arms on the band account, okay?” Luke says. 

“Shut up,” Michael calls back, and he curls into himself. 

“Come out, mate,” Calum says, laughing. “We’re just fucking around.” 

“It’s okay if you want Ashton to choke you out! We’ve all been there!” Luke says. The bit clearly hasn’t ended for him. 

“We have?” 

There’s a smack! sound, followed by Calum going, ‘ow, the fuck?’

Michael would crack a smile, except he’s absolutely mortified still. He hangs his head between his knees and tries to will himself into disappearing. 

There’s silence. He would almost believe they’re gone, but then Luke speaks again. 

“Can’t hide in there forever, man.” 

“Go away,” Michael tells them. "I'm trying to turn into a toilet or something.” 

“I don’t want a toilet for a guitarist,” Luke pouts.

“Actually, is the toilet seat up or d—” 

Michael groans just as Luke interjects, “Shut up, Cal.”

“Hey, man,” Calum sighs. “It doesn’t have to mean anything. Ash has objectively huge arms.”

“That’s the problem,” Michael whines. Then decides maybe he should shove his head in the toilet, because there’s a short silence where he can hear the cogs in their brains turning as they join the dots.  

“Oh,” both of them chorus. 

“So it’s not just arms, it’s Ashton’s arms,” Calum laughs. “That’s gay.” 

“You’re gay,” Michael frowns. 

“You wanna lick Ashton’s arms!” 

“You sucked me off in high-school!” 

“We’re running late for the conference, guys,” Luke sighs. Michael can’t see him, but he can imagine Luke’s pinching the bridge of his nose. “Come out, Mikey. You can just pretend it slipped out or something. Ogle Calum’s arms. It’ll be fine.”

“I will not ogle Calum’s arms—”  Michael says, offended. 

“What’s wrong with my arms?” Cal asks, also offended. 

“You have great arms too, Calum,” Luke says. 

“Aw, thanks, mate,” Calum replies. 

Michael hopes he dies in this bathroom cubicle. But then Luke starts talking again.

“Just come out. Ash is too smart to fuck with you in front of the fans, and I sit between you both, anyway,” he offers. 

“And,” Calum adds. “Once we’re off stage again you can hide for as long as you want.” 

Michael knows he needs to come out sooner or later. And the offer to hide after the Press Conference is over sounds really appealing. He’ll just have to make sure to avoid Ashton before they’re on stage. He needed some time alone before the show anyway. For…reasons. 

So he sighs, dusts his trousers off, and unlocks the cubicle door. 

— 

Five hours later, Michael stumbles off stage high on adrenaline and buzzing with energy after an incredible show. The crowd had been amazing, their energy feeding into his. Looking back the past few hours, Michael did have a few complaints—how Ashton kept giving him smug looks across the table at the pre-show Press Conference, how he’d leaned over Michael, rested his hand on the back of Michael’s chair in the dressing room. How he looked Michael up and down every time they stepped backstage mid-show. How he’d slid his arm around Michael’s waist as they said their goodbyes to the crowd finally. Worst of all, how during the show, Michael had gotten so flustered by the pull of Ashton’s black tank-top across his chest that he’d lost track of his guitar and stood awkwardly before his mic-stand, singing the words on autopilot. 

“What’s this, the…fourth time they voted Start Over?” Luke says, and Michael snaps out of his thoughts as the four of them gather in the dim lights of the green-room hallway. 

“It’s sweeping the votes, mate,” Calum says. “I wanna play Chest next.” 

He opens the buttons near his collar and rolls his sleeves up, fanning himself. Behind him, Ashton’s got a towel draped over his shoulder, another in his hand as he wipes his sweat. Michael watches him catch the droplets along his shoulder and tries not to stare. Tries not to picture his tongue there instead. 

“Yo, earth to Michael,” Calum says, waving a hand in front of his face. 

“Wh–um, what?” Michael says, and even in his own voice he can hear his distraction. 

Ashton looks up and catches his eye at the same time as Calum says, “I said, drinks tonight?” 

“I’m in,” Luke says. “I need tequila in my system.” “You always need tequila in your system.”

“And?” 

Michael cuts in. “I’m out tonight. Tired.” 

Luke frowns at him at the same time that Calum turns to face him and waggles his eyebrows out of Ashton’s field of view. Michael’s eye twitches. 

Luke turns to Ashton. “Ash? You in?” 

Ashton’s quiet for a moment. Michael watches as he pulls the towel from his shoulder and drapes it over his arm. It tugs at his tank and Michael catches a sliver of skin along his hip. 

“Nah,” Ashton says, but he isn’t looking at Luke. He looks at Michael. With intention, he follows the line of Michael’s body down, down, down. “Got something else to do.” 

He turns and walks off. They watch him go. Michael’s frozen in place, breath caught in his lungs. 

Calum leans in. “He means you, by the way.” 

That does it. He cackles as Michael lunges at him. Luke stands back as Michael catches Calum square in the belly, with no real heat. Oof, Calum goes. 

“This is your fault—” Michael starts. 

“You’ll be thanking me when you get laid—” “Ladies,” Luke sighs. “Can we do this when we’re drunk off our faces, please.” 

Calum blows Michael a kiss as he drapes an arm over Luke’s shoulder. They start together towards their dressing rooms. 

“See ya later, size queen,” Calum singsongs. Michael reaches down to pull off his boot and throw it at the man. 

“Use protection!” Luke says. The two of them snicker like they’ve made an extraordinary joke. Michael cusses them out loudly as they disappear down the corridor. 

—

Michael’s on his phone in his dressing room—not on twitter, really—when there’s a knock at the door. He doesn’t get much of a chance to turn when the door opens, and just because it’s not like he’s had terrible luck all day anyway, Ashton walks in. The door creaks shut ominously behind him.  

Ashton wanders into the room as though he’s never been in here before. He hasn't changed from his stage outfit yet. He stands in the centre of the room, hands in his pockets, looking everywhere but at Michael. For a moment, Michael worries he’s done something to upset him. 

He pockets his phone and stands. 

“Is everything okay, Ash?” he asks into the silence of the room. There’s a soft yellow light from the corner lampshade that falls on Ashton’s skin in a way that makes him glow gold. 

Ashton is quiet for so long that Michael thinks maybe he didn’t hear him. He opens his mouth to speak again, when—

“Y’tell me, Mikey.” His voice is low, almost dangerous. Goosebumps erupt on Michael’s skin. 

“What…um—” “Been avoiding me since soundcheck today,” Ashton says, and he isn’t facing Michael, so he can’t tell whether his shoulders are tense in anger or disappointment or…something else. 

Michael processes Ashton’s words and feels a blush crawl up his neck. “Um…so—that’s. Uh, because…what-what I said—” 

“What did you say, Mikey?” Ashton turns to face Michael fully now. Meets his eyes. The gorgeous hazel of Ashton’s eyes are swallowed by something dark. “Remind me?” 

Michael gulps. He’d honestly do anything but relive the single most horrifying moment of his entire friendship with Ashton, but the look on Ash’s face is kind of scaring him. At least, that’s how he explains the sudden tightness of his jeans. 

“I…I said…about your…” 

“Hm?” Ash says, and he begins stalking closer to Michael, who’s a little freaked the fuck out so he takes just as many steps backwards. 

“About my…?” Ashton prompts, punctuating each word with a step closer. 

Michael’s back hits the wall. He feels like cornered prey. 

“Ab-about your…um…arms, and…” 

“And?” Ashton asks, and he’s standing right in front of Michael now. He lifts his hand and rests it against the wall beside Michael’s head. He’s got nowhere to run. “Just my arms?” 

Michael’s getting a little distracted. Ashton is so close. His breath fans Michael’s cheeks. He can see the colour in his eyes, swallowed whole by his pupils. Ashton starts trailing his other hand lightly against Michael’s hip, the hem of his jeans. Michael tries not to look at Ashton’s lips. 

“No,” Michael whispers. 

“No?” 

“N-no, not just. Not just your arms.” 

Okay, so this is actually happening.

Ashton tilts his head, flits his eyes toward Michael’s lips. He slips his finger under Michael’s shirt at his hem. His touch sends lightning up Michael’s spine. 

“It’s…” Michael breathes. “You’re so…it’s your arms and…your hands and your thighs and t-that fucking tank top, you’re—you just—you’re so—”

“‘S that what it is?” Ashton says, and his voice has got a playful lilt to it that sends the blood away from Michael’s brain and down south. 

And then Ashton’s in Michael’s space, taking up all his senses as his hand slides up Michael’s bare waist, as his breath ghosts Michael’s lips. 

“Y’ seem distracted, Mikey,” Ashton says, and his name rolls off Ashton’s tongue like a warning. 

“You’re distracting me,” Michael whispers back.

Ashton smiles. Then he kisses Michael. 

Michael’s knees give out almost instantly. 

Ashton’s hands go around Michael’s thighs and he lifts him up.

“Ashton,” Michael gasps, hands immediately going around Ashton’s shoulders. The man in question smiles against Michael’s lips. 

“What? ‘Thought you liked this shit.” 

Michael’s arms come away to explore the way Ashton presses up against him. He feels Ash’s arms up shamelessly, gasping into the kiss.

Ashton kisses him like he’s a starved man, like he needs Michael like air. It’s wet, and urgent, and impatiently rushed. He parts his lips and moans when Ash takes his bottom lip between his teeth, and Ash takes the opportunity to lick into Michael’s mouth. His fingers dig into Michael’s ass, groaning desperately in approval. 

Michael revels in the feeling of Ash’s hands on him. He’s so fucking strong. Michael’s mind goes completely blank when Ashton sucks at the tip of his tongue and laughs throatily when Michael whines in response. Michael’s so fucking turned on he’s going to die. He wants—

“Ashton,” Michael gasps when Ash draws away from his lips to trail wet kisses along his jaw. 

Ash nips at a spot under Michael’s ear and Michael swears he sees God.

“Ash,” Michael says again, and Ashton only rumbles softly, already sucking a bruise under Michael’s jaw. 

“Ashton, I need—” 

Ash grinds upward against Michael’s ass, and it shuts him up immediately. Fuck. 

But—but Michael’s stubborn. He gets what he wants. He isn’t about to let this wet dream break his stubborn streak. 

“Ashton,” he breathes. “Fuck—Ashton, let me down.” 

Ash pulls away. The breath returns to Michael’s lungs, then squeezes back out at the concerned look on Ashton’s face. He lets Michael down, and takes a step back. 

Michael yearns to be back in his arms again, but Ashton says, “S-sorry, did I overstep? I thought…I shouldn’t have—” Michael’s heart drops. 

“No,” he says, and the sound jerks Ash out of whatever spiral he was going down. “No, no—no, of course not, shit.”

Ashton stares at Michael, dumbstruck. There’s a furrow in his brow as he tilts his head, inquisitive. Michael finds it adorable. And anyway, there isn’t much he could say to explain what he was going to do next, other than to actually do it. 

Michael reaches for Ashton’s hand and intertwines their fingers. He tugs until they’re pressed against each other, and Ashton hisses as the shape of his erection brushes Michael’s hip. Michael spins them, slams Ashton against the wall, and drops to his knees. 

Ashton’s breath hitches. 

“Ash,” breathes Michael, from under his lashes. He licks his lips in anticipation. “I’m going to suck your cock.”  

Ashton drops his head back against the wall. Michael’s hands shake as he undoes the belt, pops the button of Ash’s trousers. Pushes the jeans just low enough. 

Ashton is…pretty. He’s hard, leaking, beautiful, and Michael’s first thought is to wrap his hands around the base because he’s so thick. His mouth waters. 

Michael makes sure Ashton’s looking right at him as he takes him into his mouth. Slowly. Deliberately. He swirls his tongue around, breathes through his nose. He savours the stretch of his jaw as he takes it deeper. 

“Fuck, Mikey,” Ash breathes. “Y’look like a fuckin’ dream.” 

Michael moans around Ash, watches as the vibrations clearly catch the man by surprise. He curses under his breath. The weight of him feels divine on Michael’s tongue. He inhales through his nose. He wants more. 

Slowly, intentionally, Michael begins to move. He moves his hand around Ash in tandem as he bobs his head, savouring the taste, the sounds Ashton makes, the look in his eyes—half lidded as praise spills from his lips. 

“So pretty,” he says. “Always wanted to see you like this—on your knees, my cock down your throat.” 

It only spurs Michael on. His eyes water, split dribbles down his chin. He works Ashton like he’s begging for it. He wants to know what Ash looks like when he comes. What he tastes like. What sounds he makes. 

Michael’s lips are stretched wide around Ash. His hips make shallow thrusts, and Michael lets him, swallows around him. Ash’s hands find their way into Michael’s hair, and he moans when Ash closes his fist and tugs. 

He fucks into Michael’s mouth with purpose. Michael traces the underside of his tip with his tongue. He paints a picture of Ashton in his mind, hands tangled in Michael's hair, skin flushed, light catching the stubble along his clenched jaw like worship. 

God, he’s so big. Michael’s lips stretch deliciously, glistening and slick. He knows he’ll feel the ache in his jaw for days. He can’t wait. 

“Made for this, weren’t you?” Ash says, and Michael flushes deeper. “Pretty pink lips like those…jus’ made for sucking cock, huh?” 

Ash’s movements grow faster, harsher, more frantic. Michael traces his tip, feels it hit the back of his throat. His mascara is probably streaking down his cheeks from the tears. His knees are bruised. He wants to stay down here forever. 

But then all of a sudden, Ashton pulls him off. He leans down to kiss Michael again. Tastes himself on Michael’s tongue. Nips at his swollen lip. 

When he pulls away, Michael is mesmerized. Ashton glows in the light of the room. His smile is radiant. 

There’s spit gathered on Michael’s chin, and Ash uses his thumb to gently wipe it off. He traces Michael’s bottom lip with that thumb, catches the spit on the pad of his finger. Then, slowly, pushes it back into Michael’s mouth. 

Instantly, Michael wraps his lips around the appendage and sucks, licks, hollows his cheeks as he looks at Ashton, who moans with his chest. 

“Sly little thing…y’always get what you want, don’cha Mikey?” 

And Michael tries to reply, but Ashton pushes his thumb deeper. He presses it down on Michael’s tongue. Watches as Michael gags softly. 

“Saw the way you looked at me,” Ashton says, a sadistic satisfaction dripping from his words. “Shamelessly checking me out like a fuckin’ perv…couldn’t even keep those pretty hands on your guitar f’me, could you?” 

When Michael doesn’t respond, Ashton presses his finger into his throat, hard enough for Michael to choke. 

“Asked you a question, baby.” 

Michael shakes his head frantically, eyes watering still. Ash takes his finger away from Michael’s mouth, and Michael coughs. His voice is sore, raspy as he speaks: “I wasn’t…I wasn’t—” 

“Y’ weren’t looking?” 

From on his knees, with Ash leering patronizingly down at him, Michael doesn’t think he’s been harder in his entire life. 

“I…”

“Cat got your tongue?” Ash tuts. It goes straight to Michael’s dick. “Guess I’ll have to fuck it out of you then, won’t I?” 

Michael’s stomach swoops. Ash sweetly cards his fingers through Michael’s hair, then catches the hair at the base of his neck. Leads Michael back up. 

When Ashton kisses him this time, it isn’t kind. He’s mean about it, teeth clashing, biting harshly at Michael’s tongue. He spins Michael by his belt loops so that Michael is facing the wall, kisses down Michael’s neck, and all he can do to hold on is to scrabble weakly at the wall for support and chant Ashton’s name like a prayer. 

Ashton parts Michael’s legs with a pointed tap on his thigh. Michael’s so hard it hurts. 

Ashton puts both his hands on Michael’s hips, and Michael wants so badly to look because he knows Ashton’s hands look so nice, so big on his skin. He leans in close, nips at Michael’s ear, smiles as he undoes the clasp on Michael’s belt and tugs them down over the curve of his ass. 

“Fuck,” he murmers, “Look so good like this…bent over and desperate for me.”

Ashton trails a reverent palm down Michael’s spine, catches the ridges of his shoulder-blades, presses his thumb into the dimples on Michael’s back. Michael arches, bending further, desperate—inviting. 

“Patience, baby,” Ashton says, even as his hand travels lower, catches Michael’s rim. “Got any lube on you?”

Michael nods feebly. “Dressing…dressing table drawer.” 

Ashton chuckles. “Stay right here. You’re a vision.” 

Ashton’s warmth briefly leaves Michael. He looks over and follows Ash with his eyes as the man crosses the room and goes fumbling in the dressing tables. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns back and his breath audibly catches. His eyes trace a path down Michael’s body—Michael, who feels incredibly exposed, standing here with his legs parted, leaning against the wall, spine curved like he’s been asking for it for years. And maybe he has. 

“God,” Ash mutters. “Aren’t you just a sight to behold…shit, I’d take a picture if I could.” 

Michael whines in embarrassment. Ashton laughs, punctuating the sound with slow steps as he comes back to Michael. Like it's written into his bones. 

“Can you imagine?” Ashton says, popping the cap of the bottle of lube and coating his fingers. “How would the fans react to knowing you’d spread your legs for me if I was a little mean to you?” 

Michael draws in a breath harshly as Ashton circles his rim with a slick finger. 

“Look at you,” Ash breathes, leaning in close as he eases a finger in. “Clenching around nothing like a whore…” 

Michael presses his forehead to the wall as Ash starts a slow rhythm inside him. 

“Think I’ll keep this to myself for now, though.” 

Michael moans when Ashton slides another finger in smoothly—quick, easy. Too easy. Ashton’s fingers still inside him. He hears Ashton inhale, the realization as it catches up to him. 

“Michael, did you—?” 

Michael tries to hide his face. He squeezes his eyes shut, looks away. Bites his lip to keep from whimpering because he’s so embarrassed at being caught but he wants more, so much more. 

“Mikey,” Ash says, voice commanding his attention. “Did you finger yourself already?” 

Michael doesn’t answer. Tries to will himself into disappearing. So Ashton brings his palm down harshly against his ass. “Answer me, please, baby.” 

Michael exhales. Nods imperceptively. 

“When?” 

He exhales. “Before…the show.” 

There’s a soft ‘fuck.’ 

Then Ashton twists his fingers inside Michael and brushes against something that sends sparks up Michael’s spine. His knees buckle, and Ashton presses up against him to hold him up. Between the wall and the weight of Ashton behind him, Michael loses track of his thoughts altogether. 

“Who knew you were such a slut?” Ash smirks cruelly into Michael’s ear. “Did ya’ think about me? Picture my hands in place of yours?” 

He takes a brutal pace with his fingers, scissoring his fingers, pressing against Michael’s prostate with each stroke. 

“Yes,” Michael breathes. “Yes—yes, fuck! Ash—”

Ashton adds a third finger. Michael savours the stretch, clenches down as Ashton hisses. Grinds his hips back unconsciously—but then Ashton puts a bruising grip around his hip, stopping his movements. 

“Don’t get greedy,” he warns. “Y’ already got enough before the show, didn’t you? This is for me.” 

When Ashton starts fucking his fingers into Michael again, he deliberately avoids the spot where Michael needs him most. He twists his wrist, curls his fingers, massages Michael’s walls…but avoids Michael’s sweetest spot. Michael quickly grows impatient. 

“Ash,” Michael begs. “Ash, Ash, Ashton—please, I’m ready, please—” 

Ashton pulls his fingers away abruptly. Michael immediately feels empty. He clenches around nothing, wiggling his hips impatiently as he listens to the crackle of a condom wrapper rip, as Ashton slides it on, lubes himself up. 

The next thing Michael registers is the press of Ashton’s cock against his hole. But he doesn’t do anything else…just teases the rim, presses in just enough to be agonizing. 

“Beg for it, Michael.” 

And Michael does. 

“Fuck, please…Ashton—give it to me, I need you so bad, please, I need…” 

“Mm?” Ashton mocks. Michael pushes his hips out, but Ashton pulls away altogether. 

Oh, for fuck’s sake. 

“Ashton,” Michael says, and he’s proud when his voice only shakes a little. He looks over his shoulder to make eye contact with the man. “Fuck me.” 

Ash grins wide. “There’s my girl.” 

He presses into Michael in one quick stroke. They both groan in unison as Ashton bottoms out, and Michael’s sure he’s seeing stars behind his eyes. He’s so thick—the stretch is both painful and wonderful. Michael will be feeling it for days. 

“Fuck,” Michael grits.

Ashton stays still. He strokes gently up and down Michael’s sides, catches his nipple and tweaks it gently as he waits. Kisses the base of Michael’s neck. “You okay, baby?” 

Michael stays still and silent, lets his body learn the shape of Ashton. A minute or two passes just like this—a liminal space of some odd intimacy as they wait to carve into each other. Eventually, the pain begins to ebb away, and it starts to feel good. 

“M-move,” He breathes. 

Ashton wastes no time. He pulls out all the way, agonizingly slow, and fucks back in harshly. Michael chokes on a moan. He grinds his hips, chest pressed to Michael’s back. Michael is sure Ashton can hear his racing heartbeat. 

“So tight, fuck,” Ash mutters into his skin. “You feel fucking amazing.”

He takes on an agonizingly slow pace. Michael can feel the press of Ashton’s forehead between his shoulder blades as he watches the place where they meet, like he’s memorizing the sight. 

“Ashton, more,” Michael says, fingernails scratching at the wall. Ashton’s so close to where Michael needs him, but not quite. “Harder.” 

Ashton laughs breathlessly. He pulls out, and slams back in harshly, drawing a gutteral moan from them both. 

His hips are relentless, then. His hands find their place in a bruising grip around Michael’s hips. Michael knows he’ll find the marks of Ash’s fingers there tomorrow. 

“Shit,” Ash stutters out. “Gonna—fuck you into the shape of my cock.”

“Ah—Ash, p-please—” 

“Every time you sit down, you’ll feel me,” Ash says, bringing his fingers to Michael’s belly to press down, “Right here.” 

The room fills with airy gasps and groans and whines—a kind of primal melody that Michael wants etched into his skin. His body temples as Ashton fucks up into him, breathes into his neck. His skin felt hot with electricity. His legs threatened to give out. 

Ashton noticed. He trailed a hand down Michael’s thigh and found purchase under his knee. He lifts Michael’s leg up to hold him up, and his hips find a new angle that tortures that spot inside him. He gasps, head falling back against Ashton’s shoulder. 

“Fuck, right there,” Michael says, and he’s completely gone. The only thing he can feel is Ashton—permeating all his senses, his mind blinded by pleasure, by the sounds filling the room, the sounds spilling from his lips. 

“Shit, let me hear you, Mikey,” Ash breathes into him. His movements are merciless. Every thrust knocks the breath from Michael’s lungs as he presses up against the wall and just takes it. 

“C’mon, baby,” Ashton kisses under his ear. “That all y’got?”

His thumbs press into the skin of Michael’s leg as he speaks, but his voice is breathy. His composure is shaken. Like he’s given in completely to the please. Each snap of his hips, the pull and push of their bodies as they move together, brings Michael closer to the edge. He’s gone completely, surrendering himself fully to Ash—to use him for his own pleasure, to hold him up with his own weight. To worship his skin, the sweat lining his neck, as though they’d been here before. 

And Ashton can tell. 

“You gonna come for me?” Ashton growls into Michael’s ear. “Gonna milk my cock? Make a mess? Go on, baby.” 

His breath is ragged as he reaches around to wrap a hand around Michael’s cock. Michael sobs, exhaling wetly as Ashton tugs once, twice, swirling the precum around Michael’s tip. 

“Do-don’t stop—” He gasps. 

“Yeah? Let go, Mikey,” Ashton says, twisting his wrist just so as his movements grow sloppy inside Michael. “Let me see you—put on a show f’me. C’mon, sweetheart.” 

With one final slap of Ash’s hips against his own, Michael clenches harshly around Ashton, whining his name as he comes. He paints the wall, Ashton’s hand, loses touch for a moment as he gives in completely to the blindingly hot pleasure. The tight coil as it unfurls. 

“So pretty when you cum,” Ashton says, kissing his cheek softly, and Michael expects him to stop, but he doesn’t. 

Michael’s forehead falls against the wall as Ashton continues rolling his hips up into him. He plants open-mouthed kisses along Michael’s shoulder, muttering praises and adoration into his skin. 

“You’re so deep inside,” Michael gasps, cock jumping with overstimulation. “Ashton.” “Feel like sin around me, Mikey,” Ashton sighs. “Can’t think of anything else when you’re around—can’t believe I get t’see you like this.” His movements are frantic, desperate as he groans into Michael’s ear, chasing his own release. His cock throbs inside Michael, who whines as he begs for it. 

“Give it to me?” Michael says. “Ashton—give it to me, I want—I want it so bad—” 

And he does. 

With a deep groan, Ashton slams into him, and spills into the condom. Michael feels it all—the way he twitches, the wet heat of the condom filling out. Michael cries out at the feeling. 

They stay there for a moment, breathing hard, soaking in the reality of what just happened. Ash’s hands stay planted on Michael’s hips as he lets Michael down from his hold and pulls out carefully, both of them wincing as he does. 

Michael’s feet aren’t as steady as he thought, because he feels the ache immediately as Ash’s warmth leaves him, and he stumbles, sagging back into Ashton. Ashton catches him with an arm around his chest. 

“Fuck,” Michael curses. “Shit, I’m sore.” 

Ashton chuckles. “Told ya, you’d feel me for days.” Michael flushes. “Shut up, asshole.” 

Ash only laughs, even as he guides Michael to the couch and helps him clean up with wet-wipes and a towel. Michael’s limbs feel like pool noodles, so he just lays around pouting and ordering Ashton around. Ashton gets annoyed pretty quickly. 

“Mate,” Ash says, “Either you do it or I do.” 

That shuts Michael up. But not before he gets another jab out. 

“Don’t ‘mate’ me, you just had your dick up my ass.” 

Ashton laughs. Michael’s a weak, weak man, so he takes in the crinkle of his eyes, the shape of his lips as they part in mirth. The way the light kisses him like a lover. 

He’s also a pervert, though, so he trails his eyes down, down, watching the ripple of Ash’s muscles, the way his tank shifts just enough for Michael to get a front-row view of his chest. Fuck.

“Eyes are up here, Mikey,” Ash quips. 

Michael frowns. “Shut up and kiss me.”

Ash grins. He leans in, sweetly finds Michael’s lips and kisses him like he could stay here forever. Michael smiles against him, finds the back of his neck and pulls him in deeper. Ash sighs, satisfied, tired, and rises from his place to crawl over Michael. 

Michael’s about to waggle his eyebrows and say something half-serious-half-joking like, ‘wanna go for round 2?’ when the dressing room door slams open with a bang!

They spring apart, but Ash is still bracketing Michael on the couch, so they’d be caught anyway. 

And Michael has the worst luck, so standing in the doorway are none other than his asshole bandmates. 

They look around the room frantically before their eyes land on Michael and Ash. A slow, smug grin spreads across Calum’s face. Luke just sighs. 

“We thought someone was fucking dying,” he explains. 

“Turns out it was jus’ you two going at it like rabbits,” Calum snickers. 

Michael wants to throw a shoe at his stupid face, but Ash slides a placating palm down the curve of his waist. 

“Thought y’guys were out drinking?” Ash asks. Calum ignores him. 

“Did you use protection?” 

Michael groans at the same time as Luke scruffs the back of Cal’s shirt like a cat and tugs. 

“We’ll leave you to it,” Luke grins, and he at least has the decency to look apologetic. 

They disappear into the hallway as Luke drags Calum away, but not before he can call back, “No sex on the tour bus!” to which Michael replies: “Go fuck yourself!” 

Ashton only laughs like he finds the whole situation funny. Michael frowns at him, so he shrugs. 

“Could’ve been worse,” Ash says. “They could've come in ten minutes earlier.” 

“Ashton.” 

And even as Ashton’s shoulders shake with laughter, and Michael cusses him out under his breath, Michael looks at him and thinks:

Yeah, we’re definitely having sex on the tour bus. 

#thinking about virginal 19-year-old Luke Hemmings who hasn’t even had his first kiss yet. He’s sick and tired of being teased by Michael and Calum, and it gets to him so much one evening that he snaps at them and storms out of the common living area. He walks into his room to find Ashton lounging on the large double-bed, scrolling through twitter or something, probably. Luke ignores him, but he’s loud about being upset as he falls right into his side of the bed and curls up, shoulders tense.

Ashton watches it all. He’d heard Calum and Michael's teasing giggles from the other room, as well as part of Luke’s yelling response before Luke came in, so he knows something’s happened, but not exactly what it was. He observes Luke as he sulks, and switches his phone off with a sigh. 

That's his boy, Ashton thinks, he can’t let him be upset all on his own. 

“Luke,” he starts, voice gentle and sweet, like he’s trying to coax a baby doe. “What’s the matter?” 

Luke doesn’t reply, so Ashton crawls over and lays beside him, pressed up against the younger boy because he knows Luke wouldn't say no to cuddles even if the world was ending. He wraps an arm around Luke's waist, presses his lips to Luke's pulse and asks again. 

“What happened, Lukey?” 

Luke stays silent. Ash knows he’s buzzing with energy, dying to turn over and tell Ashton everything, so he waits. He can be patient. Especially when it comes to the youngest boy. 

Eventually, Luke huffs. 

“It's embarrassing,” he mutters. Ashton can hear the pout on his lips. He wants to kiss it better, wherever it hurts. 

“You can tell me,” Ash says. “I won’t be mean. It's okay.” 

There’s a silence wherein Ashton just listens to Luke breathe, until he begins shifting in Ash’s arms to turn over. Their noses are nearly touching now. Luke won’t look Ashton in the eye, but that’s okay, because Ashton’s rubbing little circles into the skin of Luke's hips and it seems to help dissolve the tension in his muscles. There’s a bright flush on his cheeks and a flustered furrow in his brows. Ashton wants to smooth out the crease with his thumb. Until Luke feels better. 

“I haven’t…” he starts.

His voice is so low, Ashton has to lean in. His breath ghosts Luke’s collarbone as he does, and goosebumps arise there. 

“Ash—I haven’t…I haven’t had my first kiss yet,” Luke whispers. His voice is heavy with shame. Ashton pulls back. 

He…he doesn’t quite understand. Who wouldn’t want to kiss Luke? Luke, with his plush lips. With his sweet dimples, his blonde waves, his eyes like ripples of sunlight. His lip ring—Ashton had spent many a night picturing himself nipping at Luke’s lip ring. 

But this isn't about him. It’s about Luke. Luke, whose breath is growing quicker with each passing moment of Ashton’s silence. 

“Hey…” Ashton says. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of people your age haven’t—” “I know, but—but you had! And Cal and Mikey keep making fun of me for it, and it’s not like I don't want to, it’s just—” And there’s a sheen of embarrassed tears in his eyes and Ashton's stomach turns because he won’t let Luke cry over this. He won't.

Ashton cups Luke's face and shushes him gently. 

“It’s okay, baby,” Ashton says. He hears Luke's breath catch at the nickname. “Hey, it’s alright.” 

Luke breathes in tandem with Ashton for a moment. He still can’t look Ashton in the eyes. The low hum of the aircon surrounds them. They’re alone in the room, curled around each other, suspended in space and time. 

Until Ashton opens his stupid mouth. 

“Luke, if…if you want, I could show you.”

For a moment, Ashton regrets it. Prays to every god he knows to take back the words. But Luke finally looks at him. His eyes are so blue. So deep and emotive. Ashton can read his thoughts through them. He’s always admired the vulnerability Luke wears in his eyes around him. Like Luke’s handing him something precious. Trusting him not to break it.

“Sh-show me?” He asks, breathless. “How…would that work?” 

Ashton looks at Luke. Really looks at him. Follows the line of his nose down to his cupid's bow. His lips. Ashton wants—so badly. But this needs to be Luke’s decision. 

“Baby,” Ashton says, and it comes out like he’s begging for it. “Can I kiss you?” 

Luke is quiet. Ashton understands. This would be a difficult decision. Something that Luke would want to mull over. And Ashton would give him the space he needs. All the time in the world. Ashton would wait forever. 

But then Luke nods. And then Ashton’s tightening his grip around Luke’s waist, and leaning in to kiss him. 

Luke’s clearly inexperienced. Ashton takes the lead. It’s a slow kiss, sweet, gentle, and Luke falls apart under Ashton’s touch. He lingers, bites at Ashton’s lips like he’s trying to freeze the moment. Gasps like he can’t believe he’s here. Moves like he wants to rearrange himself into the shape of Ashton’s mouth. They pull apart and draw together like art, like music, finding a rhythm between themselves where the taste of Luke’s lips and the sighs slipping from his mouth crawl underneath Ashton’s ribs, nestle themselves there like notes on a piano. 

Then Ashton grazes Luke’s bottom lip with his tongue, and Luke parts his lips and whines like a bitch in heat. Ashton licks into Luke’s mouth like he’s dying for it. Luke’s hands fist his shirt, pull him in, wordlessly beg for more—and Ashton would give him everything. Ashton would give him anything. 

And before long Luke’s body is arching into Ashton’s, soft whimpers and moans filling the room. Ashton can’t breathe. He can’t pull away. He’s afraid if he opens his eyes he’ll wake up from this dream. 

But Luke is so pliant. So soft. Willingly giving in to Ashton’s unsaid wants and needs. So tenderly whining when he wants more. Between kisses, Luke whispers. 

“Ash,” he says. “Ash, more.” 

Ashton can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “Yeah, gorgeous? More?” 

Luke nods. His eyes are still shut, as though he’s scared to open them, but Ashton doesn’t mind. He watches his eyelashes brush the top of his flushed cheeks, admires the shine of spit on his lips that Ashton put there. 

“‘Gotta use your words, baby,” Ashton prompts. “Tell me what you want.” 

Luke bites his lip. It occurs to Ashton that maybe Luke doesn’t quite have the words for what he wants yet. He finds it so endearing that his heart clenches painfully. 

“I want…I want…” 

Ashton chuckles lightly, and Luke furrows his brows as he looks up at him. He lifts his chin, silently demanding. Ashton obliges. He kisses Luke again. Lets Luke take the lead, pulls away when Luke does. 

The younger man’s pupils are blown wide. He shifts, and Ashton knows where this is going when Luke rises from the bed and straddles Ashton’s lap. They’re both hard in their jeans—Ashton’s been this way for a while, but he was afraid to scare Luke away. And now Luke is on his lap, pert ass settled directly over the bulge Ashton’s sporting. 

Ashton runs his hands up the sides of Luke’s thighs as the younger man leans in for a kiss again. This time, Ashton bites down on the lip-ring, and smiles when Luke moans. And when Luke starts grinding down against Ashton, he swears he’s looking at the silhouette of an angel, rubbing himself off against the outline of Ashton’s cock. 

He grasps Luke’s waist, tight enough to bruise. Luke shuts his eyes, sighing as though the pain is doing something for him. 

“Yeah, baby?” ash breathes. “Gonna get yourself off on my lap?” 

Luke drops his mouth open and whines. Ashton hikes his legs up so Luke slides further along Ashton’s cock and rolls his hips upwards. Luke’s thighs tremble as he rocks back and forth in Ashton's lap, the front of his sweats stained something dark. Ashton’s mouth waters. 

Luke’s biting his lip, brows furrowed like he’s holding back his voice. Ashton reaches out and softly plucks Luke's bottom lip from between his teeth with his thumb. 

“Y’sound so pretty,” he says. “Don’t hold back, baby. Let me hear it.”

“Ashton,” Luke whispers, and his fingers curl into the front of Ashton’s shirt. “Ashton.’’

Luke hasn't stopped the roll of his hips yet. Ashton’s cock weeps in his pants, and he feels like a fumbling teenager from how embarrassingly close he already is. Luke writhes in his lap, gasping and stuttering Ashton's name like a prayer. As his movements grow sloppy, Ashton places his hands on Luke’s ass and guides his movements down against his cock. 

“That’s it, sweet thing,” Ash praises, and Luke keens, flushed bright red down past his neck and below the neckline of his shirt. Ashton wants to follow the path of that flush with his tongue. 

Ashton senses the way the muscles in Luke’s stomach tighten, the way his movements grow desperate, faster in how closely he’s chasing his own release, and it goes straight to Ashton’s dick. He places his feet flat on the mattress and uses his grip on Luke to roll his hips up in tandem with Luke’s movements. 

“So good, Luke. You gonna come in your pants, baby? Make a mess for me?” 

“Ash—Ashton, I’m…I’m close—” 

“Let go, beautiful. I’m right here. Let go, let me see it.” 

And Luke does. And its beautiful. His eyes screw shut and his lips part in an obscene moan. His shoulders shake with pleasure and he hangs on to Ashton for dear life as he paints his sweats a darker shade. Ashton, who holds on. Ashton, who wouldn’t ever let go. Ashton, who just came in his pants like a prepubescent teen, because the most beautiful man he’d ever seen was getting off on his lap. 

Luke collapses onto Ashton’s chest. Ashton’s hand comes up immediately to stroke Luke’s hair and whisper sweet praise into his ear that makes the boy giggle softly, even as his eyes are falling shut. 

They’ve made a mess of their underwear. They’d probably have a lot to explain if Calum and Michael walked into the two of them like this later on. But for now, Ashton thinks, as Luke dozes off in his arms, he’s content.