Simmer Down and Pucker Up

It's no secret that Michael Clifford likes girls.

No, scratch that, he loves girls. Much more than his band mates, definitely. He's like any other ordinary horny teenage boy, really, just that he's in a famous punk rock (but not at all) band which makes it "semi-okay" for him to be hooking up with any girl who's willingly throwing themselves at him.

Granted, that's making him out to be a much bigger twat than he actually is but he'd much rather be upfront about his rather unappealing habits of sleeping around – ever since the band proper took off – instead of lying about it and saying that he hadn't slept with any groupie just because he was horny and they were right there basically fucking offering their bodies to him.

He'd never been one to treat them like worthless trash, though. He made sure that they knew all he was offering and that their one night together would literally be just that – one night. Nothing more. For one night, he was theirs, but no longer than that.

The music in the club he's in is loud, pulsating around the room as sweaty bodies are seen grinding on each other, more than a few couples snogging and dry humping each other in the corners of the club – some even doing so right in the middle of the dance floor.

It's not like they give a shit. They're all probably hammered drunk and no one's looking, anyway.

Lights are flashing madly, too, in tune to whatever remixes of the top pop songs today that the DJ's decided to put on. One would think that he'd be used to the loud sounds and bright lights – since he is a musician whose band was geared more towards teenage girls – but he's really not and the sound's almost deafening and the lights are starting to hurt his eyes.

Michael is no where near drunk enough to soak all of this in, neither is he drunk enough to let random (and very most likely – homosexual) blokes grind up on him.

He's definitely not gay but he doesn't really care if they want to grind up on him or not. He's cuddling with his band mates almost every other night, anyway. Besides, everyone's a little gay.

And he's a lover, not a fighter. Applies to everyone – any sexual orientation and gender. Just don't expect him to be okay with one (who isn't a girl) initiating a proper snogging session with him. He likes girls far too much to be able to ever bat for the other team.

Michael eventually manages to slide past dancing and intoxicated bodies to get to the bar. He almost has to shout just so that the bartender can hear him. He just asks for a beer because he's strangely not in a mood for anything stronger. He's already had a couple of shots of Jack with Calum and another one of their mates – Calum being the only other band member to come with him since the other two were both, unfortunately, feeling under the weather – but that wasn't enough to get him as drunk as he would've liked to be so that he could shag a random girl and not feel as badly about it whilst (somewhat) sober.

His best mate's somewhere on the dance floor, hands placed on the hips of a very fit blonde clad in a short, tight and bright red dress. Michael can see the drunken smirk along his mate's lips before he's leaning down to start leaving a trail of (what looks like) sloppy kisses along the back of her neck. She's got her head tilted, then, eyes shutting in pleasure and Michael has to turn away; not because he feels like he's invading Calum's privacy. Nope. It's weird watching your best mate get all sexual and shit with a girl.

He's feeling a little bit like a proud older brother, though. Almost wants to whoop and shout a "yeah Calum!" from where he's sat over to the aforementioned male.

Michael's elbows are propped up on the bar behind him, long fingers wrapped around the beer bottle as his bright eyes scan the club. So many girls catch his eye and the only conclusion that he can come to is that hot girls in Sydney did exist. Maybe it's just because he'd never been to a club in Sydney before tonight but still – it's like fit girls in Sydney are rarer than... Something really fucking rare, okay.

And though there's an abundance of fit girls in the club, there's one in particular that he can't keep his eyes off of.

In all honesty, Michael doesn't even know why because there's really nothing that extraordinary about her. Yeah, she's pretty; yeah, she's in a short dress. But so is almost every other girl in there.

Plus, she's kind of far away that he can't even see her face. He knows that she's pretty, though. He could tell that much from where he's sat. Dark hair; half of which was pulled up by a ribbon of sorts, short black dress that's kinda sparkly looking and it's not one of those types that it looks like a second skin; emphasising the fact that her legs looked like they went on for days. She was in heels, too, and Michael had always had a thing for girls in heels.

Or maybe those weren't called heels. Whatever. He really didn't give two shits, honestly.

The girl happens to glance over in his direction then and he lets his lips curl up into a smirk. She smirks right back at him, raising an eyebrow subtly, and he tilts the bottle in her direction – as though proposing a toast – as he brings the bottle up to his lips. The alcoholic beverage slides down his throat and it tastes like cardboard. So bad, but so good at the same time.

Michael pulls the bottle away from his lips, letting his tongue dart out to lick off any beer that might've been left on his lips and she gives him a half-smile that has Michael immediately smiling back. Not smirking. Smiling. Proper smiling. Because her half-smile is more adorable than it is sexy and her's telling himself that she's not the type of girl that he'd go after for a one night thing but he can't help himself because the dimple that makes indents in her cheeks when she smiles makes him feel like a terrible person if he didn't smile back.

Then she's turning back to her friends because they were laughing, then she was joining in on the laughter before they're all dancing again. Singing along to the songs playing, just because. Throwing her hands up in the air and waving them around whilst jumping around and just generally seeming like she's having the time of her life and Michael's eyes are transfixed onto her.

He feels like a right creep, but he can't help it. There's just something about her that makes him want to watch her.

"Mate," Calum slurs, seemingly popping out of nowhere as he's stumbling on his feet and then launching himself onto Michael for a hug. Calum's always been a happy and horny and, simultaneously, cuddly drunk. Michael just accepts the hug, stabling his friend by holding onto the younger's elbow with a light laugh. "'ve got a ladeh and she's pretteh," he beams at the boy with the reverse skunk hair.

"Alright, go Calum," Michael whoops softly with a light laugh. "What are you doing here talking to me, then?"

"Dunno," he shrugs then. "Thought I'd tell yah," then he's frowning, narrowing his eyes and pouting his bottom lip. "Can't find Danny so I can't tell him about her." Danny being the other bloke that they'd come with.

Michael laughs, gently shoving Calum in the shoulder, "Go show your lady a good time, then, mate."

"I..." Calum sighs, "I love you, man," he sighs again so dramatically and he says it so seriously that Michael has to laugh because that only means he's really fucking drunk.

"Love you, too, mate," Michael chortles before he's placing his hands on Calum's shoulder to turn him towards the direction of the same blonde that he'd seen Calum dancing with earlier.

Michael's alone again after that and he's pretty sure that Danny was gone, too. He's sipping on his beer slowly, eyes scanning the club once more as he looks for more fit girls and/or the one that had caught his eye in the first place. Only this time, he's broken out of his 'scanning' by a gentle nudge to his shoulder. He turns to look at whoever had nudged him, eyes widening before he covers it up with a coy smirk.

"You alri'?" She asks, and if he had to imagine her voice before, he would've never guessed she was fuckin' English. She's smiling, dimples making an appearance and he literally cannot help but smile back.

And holy fuck, she's prettier up close.

Eyes large and a dark brown colour, cute nose, perfect, perfect lips. He's almost staring at her lips and licking his own before he realises that no, attacking someone with a kiss was morally (and very likely – legally) incorrect.

"Yeah," he eventually replies, taking another swig of his beer. "You?" He asks back once he's swallowed the liquid.

"M'great," she smiles. "Dance with me?"

Michael doesn't dance. He can't dance. He doesn't like dancing. But he's nodding, placing his bottle on the bar and then letting her smaller hand slip into his as she pulls him out onto the dance floor.

The brunette pulls him out onto the middle of the dance floor and Michael really doesn't think twice about wrapping his arms around her waist once she's stopped walking. He turns her so that her back is to his chest and they're doing what every other couple is doing – him grinding on her instead of proper dancing.

They're in a club, anyway. Doesn't matter that they're not properly dancing.

She brings an arm up so that it's resting on the back of his neck and the other goes atop his own. Then he's bravely leaning down to brush his lips against the shell of her ear and she shivers underneath him that he almost groans out of pleasure.

Like he's said before, there's something about her. He doesn't know what, but it's like she's the only one to actually legitimately catch his eye to the extent that he can't look away – even though he hadn't even spoken a word to her.

The brunette turns in his arms then and he's a bit startled from the sudden movement. She's got her arms wrapped around his neck – she's not that much shorter than him but she is in heels, so. Michael lets his arms stay locked around her waist as he smirks down at her, because she's looking at him with a mischievous grin that he has no idea of the meaning behind but he likes that grin.

"You know..." she starts to say, her voice at a normal tone and Michael's only able to hear her because they're literally chest-to-chest. She leans in to his ear then, blowing out a breath against his skin that has him shivering, "I've been wanting to kiss you since I saw you at the bar."

She's barely able to pull back before he's lifting a hand away from her waist to cup her cheek and then he's desperately slotting his lips in between hers like he'd been wanting to do since he saw her up close. And her lips are so warm and soft against his own that he wants to kiss her till he can't breathe, then he'll pull back to take in some air before he'll be swooping down to kiss her once more.

Because God, this was one of the best kisses that he'd ever had and it was just a kiss but he was already hooked. The taste of her lips was enough to keep him there forever. In other words, Michael Clifford was screwed – without even having screwed the girl whose name he didn't even know.