Awful Porn that is Undeserving of A Title

AN: Oh God, Layton fandom, what have you done to me.


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He woke up to a warm body ontop of him.

Hershel Layton was fairly popular with the womenfolk, but this was in fact somewhat of an uncommon situation for him.
He was unmarried, after all, and getting on in life. His days of girl-watching – had there ever been such a time? – were over.
In the precious gap of time between sleep and consciousness, he thought of last night.
Had he bought alcohol? Been seized with a sudden desire to try opium?

Of course he’d done no such thing.

His eyes eased open, slightly fearful of what they might take in. The room was still dark, fitting of the hour, and there were numerous unfinished puzzles strewn about the table. The stillness told him that Luke and Flora were still in their beds, sleeping that deep comfortable sleep that so snugly befits the under-thirties.

And ontop of the couch where he had been dozing...

Luke. Or, to be more specific, a Luke from a decade later. This boy was tall, limbre and immaculately dressed. He was also sitting on Layton’s torso, one knee either side,and the expression on his face was nothing less than… predatory?

He discarded that thought. Luke - his Luke, the Luke of this time – darted before his eyes, the very picture of wide-eyed innocence. Thinking of Luke and ‘predatory’ in the same sentence was inconceivable. The boy was naïve to a fault.

“Professor.”

His voice was hushed, maybe even to acknowledge that his younger self was asleep.

As difficult as it was to remain composed in a situation such as this, Layton could handle it. He was, after all, an English gentleman - stiff upper lip, old chap, and all that.

He blinked up into Luke’s shadowed face. “Luke, what are you doing?”
It was less a question than an masked imperative to get off the couch and go to bed.

Luke didn’t reply.
Layton became suddenly aware that he didn’t know where the boy’s hands were – at least until he felt their nimble presence at his stomach, where they started inching up the fabric of his shirt. He made what was decidedly a very ungentlemanly noise and squirmed backards into the cushions of the couch.

“I’m sorry,” Luke said quickly. There was a note of humility, and that was familiar. “It’s just… I…I haven’t…”

“Luke,” Layton tried again. His voice was wavery with a lack of conviction. “Go to bed.”

Luke’s fingers were still there, cool against the heated flesh of his stomach. This was, Layton decided, very poor form. Why, if anyone walked in – Flora, heaven forbid, or Luke himself – there’d be scandal. He’d be arrested.

“I don’t want to.”

How very deep his voice had become. Layton could feel a thread of fear sewing itself into his spine. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and if Luke was going to attack him…
He put that thought out of his head immediately. Luke was Luke, no matter what. The boy was infatuated with him. Wasn’t that the whole reason he was here, in the first place?

“I missed you,” he said softly. “When you…When you went away. It…hurt…”

His voice splintered and died in his throat. Where his words had been, an uneasy silence took their place.
Layton lay still, wondering where this was going. The boy was clearly distressed, but the boy was also lying ontop of him in a provocative manner – there weren’t really many appropriate courses of action to take, when you were a gentleman.Which Layton was. An English gentleman, who took women to dances and lectured about archaeology. He clung to his own image of himself, although he was fully aware it was unravelling fast.

"I just wanted..."

Why was he drawing closer? Luke's fingers were at Layton's shoulders, now. Their faces drew level; the boy really did have the most extraordinarily large eyes, though they were shaded a little by the half-light.

"...to..."

"Luke," Layton began, with no idea of how he was going to finish. Their faces were centimetres apart, and Layton could feel the gentle flutter of Luke's breath, playing across his face, becoming more laboured.

"...please..."

The youth suddenly darted forwards with fresh resolve. When he kissed him, Layton was too stunned and dismayed to do anything other than lie there, woefully conscious of the younger man's tongue and teeth and lips and his fingers pressing against his collar. And yet...

The attention was almost....pleasant. That was the most dismaying thing of all. He had a reputation to protect - a professor, a highly-respected member of English society. To imagine what would happen if he were caught in a compromising situation with his own apprentice... Even if this version of his apprentice was of age. He was still a boy, and therefore off limits.

Layton pressed his hands against the other boy's chest in a reluctant attempt to push him away. If he intended it to dissuade the boy from his efforts, it wasn't very effective; with a pleased little half-sigh, Luke broke apart from him and then redoubled his efforts. He even had the gall to close his eyes, like a woman in a Jane Austen novel. Not that Layton had read any.

He could end it. He could shove Luke away, hide in his office for the rest of the night.
He could just refuse to respond and wait for him to stop.
He could threaten him with potentially traumatising himself, by waking the younger iteration of Luke up.

Layton didn't do any of these things. Instead, he reached out with shaking hands towards the younger man's tie.

"This is." He swallowed. "Frightfully inappropriate."

"I'm not telling anyone." There was a sudden sardonic subtone to his voice that set him very much apart from his younger self. "I'm not an idiot. I'd get myself convicted."

The tie came loose and slipped to the floor, almost instantly forgotten. Then there were the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt - irritating, fiddly things - and once they were taken care of, he was able to gently push back the material so that the shirt and blazer fell back over Luke's shoulders.
Luke was decidedly unfeminine. As much as Layton willed himself to believe that this was almost like taking a woman to bed - almost, that would ease his conscience - he couldn't deny the reality of the broad shoulders, the pale outline of the boy's Adam's apple. The lack of breasts, if one were to be so crude.

For the first time, Luke's conviction seemed to falter. "Am I ugly?"

"N-...No." His voice was oddly disconnected, as if he were dreaming. "Just...very male."

Luke smiled. He actually smiled. "Good."

Layton's shirt was treated in the same manner as Luke's; quickly over the head, knocking his hat off in the process. Luke paused for a moment. His eyes were even wider than usual.

"What." Layton abandoned all decorum and frowned. "What's wrong?"

"You just have a normal head under that thing? That's disappointing. Flora and I made bets about what you were hiding under it."

Somehow, mentioning Flora in the current context seemed more disturbing than the act they were committing - had almost committed - itself.

Layton snorted and flicked one fingertip neatly under the brim of Luke's cap, so that it flew off onto the seat behind him. "Likewise."

Luke pouted horribly, but left the cap where it was.

The clock ticked on the mantle. In a few hours the sun would emerge over the horizon, and Flora would pad into the front room to brush her hair in front of the mirror. The alarming closeness of the daily routine (and the contrast between lying here with Luke half-naked on top of him) seemed to kickstart him into action, in that he moved a little closer and tangled his fingers in the boy's hair. He'd told Luke a million times to learn the use of a hairbrush to apparently no avail.

"Thank you." Luke closed his eyes again, and rested his chin upon his teacher's shoulder. "Just...while I'm here, please..."

Layton unfastened the clasp of the young man's shorts, his breathing coming quicker, now, quicker and more violently. They were pressed together so closely that it felt he could breathe Luke in, and all the time he was aware of his conscience screaming about 'moral boundaries' and 'violation of trust' and 'what would Luke think if he walked in on this during his youth?'. Would the presence of this older Luke somehow cause his younger self irreversible trauma? Time travel was so very confusing. In fact, it reminded him of a-

"Now," Luke pleaded urgently. He pressed his hips upwards into Layton's own. Layton supposed Luke had matured in much the same way he had. Paying too much heed to your intellectual pursuits could leave you stunted and alone when it came to companionship.

Yet as much as he might empathise, Layton had no idea to go about these things. He was well-traversed in most walks of knowledge, but how a man laid with another man (dear God, he was virtually a boy) was not one of them.
Thankfully Luke was seemingly prepared to substitute his teacher's lack of knowledge with his own. Layton had no idea where he had managed to learn about this sort of thing. In fact, he didn't particularly want to know.
He shivered as the boy slid down the length of his body, only coming to a halt when his knees rested upon the carpet. His fingers deftly worked at the catch of Layton’ trousers, and then…and then…

“Ah…!”

Luke’s mouth was like velvet. Was this what he’d been missing out on? Surely it was illegal to experience decadence like this, even if it had been a girl in Luke’s stead. He gripped the cushions of the sofa with increasingly slippery fingers, his breath coming in short, furious bursts.

“L-…L-“

Luke made a smug sound in the back of his throat and continued. It was the sight of him more than anything, his eyes closed, brown hair tousled over his face as he moved up and down. He was being torturously slow, and Layton didn’t know if he was doing it on purpose or not anymore.
As Luke moved upwards again, Layton saw the hint of a smirk – or as much as his present situation would allow – on his face.
He was doing it on purpose.

“Luke,” he strained through clenched teeth.

Luke stopped. “Yes?”

“Being a tease isn’t befitting of an English gentleman.”

“Neither is letting your apprentice perform oral sex on you,” said Luke, “but I suppose we all have our off days.”

Where had he picked up this…this audacity?
Luke resumed at his previous pace. Layton threaded his fingers through the boy’s hair and tugged a little, as if to urge him on – nothing.

There was nothing else for it.

“Please.”

Luke swallowed around his length with some difficulty. His eyes were peeking out through the strands of mousy hair, twinkling – and then he began to speed up.
Faster, faster, faster. Layton swallowed to himself, anything to clog the flurry of moans and pleas and guttural noises that were fighting to come out.

“I…I can’t…”

Luke made a growling noise at the back of his throat – one that had a most interesting effect on the task at hand, and Layton felt his eyes roll back into his head – that suggested that Layton shouldn’t bother worrying about whether he could or could not, and should simply hurry up and do it.

The thing that pushed him over the edge was Luke falling first. His normally composed face was flushed with heat; Layton watched as he slid one of his hands past the gentle curve of his belly and began to touch himself.
His eyes were closed. His hair was ruffled. In that small snapshot of action, Luke was the embodiment of sexual urge.

Layton came.

He closed his eyes during, less because of the intensity (though that certainly wasn’t lacking) and more because the sight of Luke reaching his own release would probably be enough to drive a man to nymphomania.
Instead, he contented himself with listening to the shallowness of his apprentice’s breathing, the pause, the gasp, the silence that accompanied the afterglow.

After a few minutes of this stillness, Layton trusted himself enough to speak.

“Flora will be here soon.”

“Of course.”

They set about tidying the room, and life could proceed as normal.
As normal as it ever got, anyway.