BoyxBoy One Shots ✔

Half A Decade - Lashton Smut

-i also liked this smut, so i decided to post it. idk im getting tired of writing my own one shots, i feel they don't turn out good. so, im just going to keep posting them from ao3-

Full Title: half a decade under the influence

author: maitale

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"Luke," he says, standing distant as though they're strangers. They're not and Luke can't remember back to a time when they ever have been. Ashton is everybody's stranger but Luke's now, and there is a fleeting chill up Luke's spine for the duration of the heavy pause after Ashton says his name. "This is the last time."

Luke doesn't quite know why, but he thinks of smoky, creaking old piano recordings he'd heard long ago while visiting his grandparents, the kind with coughs but maintains a timeless, excessive sort of beauty he's too ignorant to truly understand. It's weird, really, because he can still hear the thrum of heavy bass from the club echoing in his ear, the tasteless techno crap with no soul or purpose, spitting on everything Luke's trying to accomplish with his own music. He loves it, though. Loves the beat and the pounding in his ears as he dances with strangers and his blood turns to alcohol.

"Did you hear me, Luke?" Ashton says, tugging off his leather jacket, letting it drop to the hotel floor. "This is the last time. I mean it this time."

In the clutching sunset and lack of artificial light, Ashton is now his pretty mirror-image but for the trembled force in his hands. Ashton's hands spread Luke's flat against the bed, and Luke moans delightfully when, looking like a star, Ashton is tantalisingly slow over smooth white buttons, horribly clever over hardening nipples and piano-key ribs and ivory-smooth hips.

He stops him, though, just like the first time; he wants to keep his shirt on. Ashton, somewhat lost in the dull light, is about to mention the fact that Luke has been walking around with his chest on display, exposing the dip of his sternum, but he silences himself. He's never made Luke feel uncomfortable and he's not about to start. He re-buttons Luke's shirt back to its original state, sits back, takes off his own t-shirt without any qualms.

The colour of Ashton's skin, warm-tanned-gold from the summer sunshine, makes Luke look and feel half-dead but he ignores this and just lets himself go because this is the last time.

Ashton is so attentive, so hot when he's moving down the length of Luke, peeling of his jeans, muttering something about poor circulation. Luke thinks he might be right, feeling lightheaded and weightless. When his legs are free, he pulls them up, brackets Ashton between them. He wants to keep him there, keep him this close forever, but he can't because he loves him better than that.

"Ash," Luke pants, sitting up slightly, shoving his hands clumsily down the back of Ashton's jeans, trying to get them off. When this fails, he gropes Ashton's backside, pushes him down onto him, pressing them together. "Please."

Ashton, for his part, nods, beer-singed mutterings unintelligible as he backs away, pulls down his jeans and boxers. Luke reaches for him straight away, using his frame—when did that happen? Ashton thinks, flat on his back—to switch their positions from before. This is the last time, not the first time; Luke's not some lanky, world-wary sixteen-year-old blond boy with crippling self-esteem issues that lets Ashton dictate everything they do. No, somewhere between the first and last time, Luke grew up, became a man as he writhed and cried and pleaded for Ashton, for more, for fuckyesjustthereiloveyousomuch.

Ashton looks up and sees Neptune in Luke's eyes, ablaze as he examines a scar on Ashton's abdomen, as he plays like some dazzling, silent melody across Ashton's ribs, rocking himself against Ashton's muscular thigh. There's the collective blush, the white hands and tan arms and red face, all marked by cold, callused, long fingers ghosting past Luke's cheekbones to the back of his neck. Fingertips swirl in damp blond curls and Luke arches down, hard as fibreglass but more fluid, more effortless and helpless as Ashton hesitates, then moves to meet him. Their mouths are hot and no-one is in charge because tonight is not the time for that, and the corners of Ashton's lips jump as Luke's sweaty, pathetically small hand slips against his cock. It's quick, as though unintentional, but the whine echoing in Luke's mouth and the patterns Ashton's hands draw over Luke's clothed shoulder blade and right cheekbone show it isn't unappreciated, not in the slightest.