mirror image — 2015 michael x 2026 michael
MDNI—18+
2015 red hair michael x 2026 red hair michael
when michael walks into his room to find a version of himself thats nearly a decade older, he's got a few questions. only, the night doesn't end quite as he'd expected.
warnings: top!2025 michael. bottom!2015 michael. smut. humour. drinking. banter. insecure!2015 michael. (kinda) sad!2015 michael. closeted!2015 michael. softdom!2025 michael. time travel elements (underexplored). selfcest. age gap (10/11 years). dirty talk. praise kink. body worship. hints of polysos. feminization (if you squint). come eating (sorry). canon compliant (?). reassurance. mirror sex. anal fingering. anal sex. unprotected sex (wrap it before u tap it kids).
wc: 7.3k
author's note: to put the timeline into perspective, this is set somewhere around dec 2015, after the end of rowyso tour. both michaels have red hair. HOWEVER in case of inconsistencies, suspend ur disbelief!!!
i think i had the most fun ever writing this. probably because i'm a michael lane lol. also if i wasn't already going to hell, this one would do it. enjoy!!
anyway. requests are open if u want <3
come find me on twitter!
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.
—
