#age gap relationship

Going to shoot pool at the bar was Frank’s idea of a fun, relaxing fortieth birthday celebration. Peter tried to talk him into dinner, trying out the new reclining theatre seats at the cinema—literally anything other than having to surround himself with old, angry drunks who cared far too much about some numbered balls on a table. You didn’t have any qualms with it, though. It was just another excuse for you and your boyfriend, Peter, to get out of your stuffy apartment, still not quite over the way your brand new AC unit broke ten days into the New York summer heat. 

Plus, no one really had any complaints when they watched you bend over the pool table, aiming your pool stick with careless precision after one too many beers. Peter’s eyes were glued to your ass, desperate to find out the color of your panties every time your tight-fitting denim skirt lifted in the back. 

Frank did all he could to not let his gaze wander, forcing his attention to stray every time he saw your ass perked up in the air when you arched your back over the side of the table. But every time you turned to him, frowning up at him with your big, round eyes, after missing your shot, it took every ounce of his feeble self-restraint to not melt completely. 

He’d always had a soft spot for you, but seeing you like this—with a hazardous amount of liquid courage pumping through his system and your short skirt barely fitting over the curve of your ass—he couldn’t tame the twisted desires that penetrated his mind.

“Frank,” you whined innocently, growing irritated that you were losing, missing your target for the nth time.

The muscle in his jaw tensed at your pleading tone, but he forced a cheeky grin. “I told you, darling. You can’t beat me.”

He was positioned on a bar stool, one leg propped on the rod between the legs of the stool, and the other lazily spread. His hands were resting on top of his pool stick when you caught the slur in his cocky tone.

Your eyes rolled, gaze sluggishly moving to your boyfriend, who was taking up the stool on the other side of the table that split him and Frank, sipping on his beer and chuckling at you. 

Shoulders sagging, you glanced back at Frank. “Well, can you help me?”

He nearly choked on his drink. “Help you?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, frowning over at the pool table. “Help me aim better.” 

Frank’s gaze shot to Peter, not necessarily looking for approval, just curious to know what his reaction would be. Tilting back the rest of his beer, Peter just swirled the empty bottle.

“I’m gonna go get another,” he announced nonchalantly, placing his hand on the small of your back as he passed between you and Frank. He eyed you softly, like he always did. “You need one, angel?”

You shook your head. “No, I‘m good,” you told him, nodding over at your bottle on the table that was still full. 

He nodded, effortlessly kissing your temple with a quick peck before carrying on to the bar. 

For a moment, you just observed him. The way he had a lazy stride, like there was something weighing him down with each footstep. His hair was growing out, curling at the ends in a way that made you want to tangle your fingers in it, and the T-shirt he was wearing was a little too tight around his biceps, the fabric bunching over the ridges of his muscles.

When Peter left the area, shimmying through the thick crowd to the bar, your longing gaze danced back over to Frank. 

“So—” you rested your chin on the tip of your pool stick, smirking up at him “—you gonna help me, or what?”

Frank licked his lips, pushing himself off his stool with a huff. He took one last long gulp of his beer before closing the space between the two of you. 

“Let me see this thing,” he said, voice gruff and lazy from the number of beers he’d downed. You let him take the pool stick from you, your eyes glued on his profile as he studied it. “Your problem’s your focus. You can’t let your eyes off your target.” The front of your body grazed his, the sharp outline of his belt buckle scraping your stomach, as he repositioned himself. “Here. Let me show you.”

You chewed on your bottom lip to simmer the excitement that coursed through your veins when he offered his guidance. 

His hand slowly moved to your back, gently nudging for you to return to your position against the pool table, the same position that had become permanently engrained in the back of his dark mind. 

Holding the pool stick at your side, you slowly slid the tip of it onto the table, slipping it between your fingers. In order to get a better view of the path needed to hit the white ball onto your striped number seven, your top half lowered to the table. 

Frank was right there with you, a reluctant inch separating him from your arched back. 

A snicker spilled out of you, registering his hesitance, but he ignored it. His thoughts were too busy trying to strengthen his self-restraint. 

“You gotta lower the tip. If you hit the top of the ball, it’ll spin against you,” he explained, voice gruff and too close to your ear. 

You raised the hand that was balancing the hilt of the stick, your tongue grazing your bottom lip in concentration. “Like this?”

“Uh-uh,” he grunted, head shaking. 

Huffing in frustration, your muscles sagged. “Can you just show me? I don’t get what you mean.”

You knew exactly what he meant, but your body was writhing in nervous flutters with him close, but not close enough to satisfy the craving you had. 

He exhaled heavily, standing up and leaning down over top of you. Achingly slow, his hands slid down your arms to guide your grip in the correct position. “Just like—” his hips dug into your backside, hand forcing its way into the grip you had on the stick “—that.”

“Oh.” You stifled your smirk. 

The move you made next was careless. Beneath him, you arched your back further, ass sticking up to where his hips were. 

A ragged breath came out Frank, his jaw screwed tight enough to splinter. “Don’t do that,” he breathed, a fragile warning. 

You giggled, smirking at the power you suddenly had over him. He wasn’t making any move to shift away from you. The small motion you added with your hips, pressing harder against his growing bulge, was just a taunt. 

“I saw you watching me,” you told him, voice barely above a whisper. 

When his dark eyes flashed to yours, you blinked slowly. 

The way you batted your lashes was enough to break the mental chains holding him back. He didn’t respond. 

He wasn’t able to deny the way he’d been silently haunting the corner of the pool room, eyes transfixed on you each time you bent over the side of the table, imagining what it would feel like for him to bend you over in front of him, having his way with you.

You bought your lips up to his ear. “Don’t worry, Frank,” you whispered. “I won’t tell.”

Frank’s thoughts spiralled, frozen and glued to you despite how wrong it felt. 

You were his friend’s girlfriend. You were half your age. It was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, he repeated in his head like a pointless mantra. 

He shook his head, forcing himself out of his own head, and loosened the grip he had on you. With shaky steps, he slowly backed off of you. 

Your head followed him, the same smirk eating away at your full lips that he couldn’t take his eyes off of. 

“That’s fine.” You sighed, returning your attention to the pool stick and then down to your target. “I think I got it now.”

Your back was still arched in a way that felt illicit, the curve of your spine making a shape Frank knew would forever be stuck in his deepest, darkest thoughts. Your skirt had rode up from where he’d been pressed against you and when you sunk back, fixing your aim just before shooting, he saw it. The swollen mound between your legs that was clung with red, lacey panties, leaving little to the imagination. 

It was barely a glimpse, he thought he’d made it all up in his mind for a moment. 

When the tip of your chalked pool stick slammed into the white ball, you bit down on your lip with apprehension, hoping you wouldn’t miss again. 

Peter walked back through the crowd with a fresh beer when the striped number seven ball clattered into the corner pocket, his attention immediately falling on his overly-enthused girlfriend. 

Guilt immediately crashed through Frank’s chest. He could barely look at Peter, knowing he had just felt the outline of his girlfriend’s curvaceous figure on his body, felt the softness of your skin against his calloused hands, drowning in the worst thoughts about you. 

“You make it in?” Peter asked you with a proud look on his chiseled features. His tongue sunk into his jaw, coughing out a laugh.

You nodded, jumping up and down with excitement. “Frank helped me.”

Frank’s heart hammered in his chest when Peter’s gaze met his. The younger guy just smirked at him, though, raising a curious brow. “Good man.”

There wasn’t a good thing about himself, Frank thought. 

He suddenly had a desire to suppress the awful things he was feeling, knowing another Corona wouldn’t do the trick. 

He huffed and told you and Peter, “I’m gonna get a drink,” before exiting the pool room in quick strides. 

But you caught the way he adjusted his hardened length when his back turned to the two of you.

When Frank eventually returned to the pool room, nursing an old fashioned and grieving his shredded dignity, Peter was sitting back on his stool, legs spread, peering over at Frank while sipping his beer with his arm slung around you from your standing position next to him. 

You tilted your head up at your boyfriend, whispering something Frank couldn’t make out from his distance. It wasn’t until he returned to his side of the bar table, setting his drink down and stuffing his wadded dollar bills into his wallet from paying the bartender, that he heard your small voice tell Peter, “he wants it, trust me.”

Frank’s eyes twitched, curious gaze flashing up to you and Peter, whose lips were smirking around the rim of his glass beer bottle at whatever his girlfriend was telling him. 

You inched away from Peter so you could see his face better. Your brows raised inquisitively, searching for approval. He tilted his chin, nodding with a soft smile. 

Peter slid off his stool, adjusting his grip on his pool stick before going over to the table. He was aiming for the solid number two, back turned to you and Frank, when Frank slid back on his stool with uncertainty running through his thoughts. 

Frank understood something had shifted while he’d been at the bar, but he just couldn’t figure out what it was. 

You made your way around the table cautiously, slowly stepping closer to Frank. 

When those big, round, puppy dog eyes of yours flashed up to him again, his chest heaved. It wasn’t until your hands fell on his knees—slowly crawling their way up his thick, muscular, jean-clad thighs—that he felt the closest he’d ever been to a cardiac arrest. 

“Wha—What are you doin’?” Frank asked, leaning as far back in his seat that he could, as if that would somehow mark him safe from the way he craved your wondrous touch. 

You grinned up at him, finger nails digging into the impenetrable muscle of his thigh. “It’s okay, Frank. Peter doesn’t mind.”

His brows stitched together. “The hell you mean?”

Ignoring his confusion, you slid your petite frame between his spread legs, hands moving from the tops of his thighs to his rock-hard abdomen, feeling the outline of his rigid, toned stomach beneath his T-shirt. 

With your eyes exploring along with your touch, you could feel his shaky nerves, the invisible currents of electricity coursing the warmth of his skin. 

“Do you like this?” you whisper, eyes flicking up to his dark, dilated pupils. “You like me touching you?”

Your name spilled from his lips, caught somewhere between a plea and a warning. 

He should have backed off, politely told you that you were taking it too far, warned you of how much chaos could ensue because of your reckless actions. But he didn’t. Because he did like it. He liked it so much, he exhaled through gritted teeth when your hand snaked up his chest further, your head tilting so your nose brushed his sharp jaw, lips grazing the smooth skin of his neck.

“This isn’t right,” he managed to say, resisting the urge to grab your waist and bring you closer to him. 

You pulled away just enough to look at him. “If it feels good, it can’t be wrong, Frank.”

Your small hands moved to his much larger ones that were resting at his side, guiding them to where you knew he wanted them to be. One placed on your waist, the other on your chest. 

You maintained eye contact with him the whole time as his warm palm pressed against the exposed skin of your chest, right above the hem of your tank-top. 

“Do you feel that?” you asked, hoping he could feel the rushing rate of your heart—an example of how badly you wanted him. 

He brought his bottom lip between his teeth, exhaling through his nose. His hand subconsciously tightened around your waist, sinking deeper into your skin. 

“Yeah,” he muttered just as some newfound sense of bravery overcame him. 

He moved the hand that was pressed to your chest, gripping yours and moving it to the bulge forming in his suddenly too-tight jeans. 

He cocked a brow. “Do you feel that?”

Your eyes dropped to his lap splayed before you, hand moving along the outline of his hardened dick. A curious moan vibrated in your throat, sizing him up. 

There was always something about Frank that enticed you. Always so closed-off and angry with the world. But the more time you spent with him—thanks to his friendship with Peter—you saw there was much more to him than that. 

His guarded walls broke slowly. It took him time to realize you weren’t a threat. You often helped stitch up his cuts when you found yourself at his warehouse by the harbor with Peter, knowing all too well how the two of them avoided hospitals like the plague. His lifestyle would scare most people, but it didn’t phase you. If anything, it just worried you the same way it did with Peter. The threat of something going wrong, something hurting either one of them, kept you up at night. 

It wasn’t until a couple months ago that something changed. Frank no longer looked at you as Peter’s little girlfriend, a risk personified, that knew too much about them. Instead, he started seeing you for what you were. Tough, quick-witted, a little too reckless for your own good. Fucking gorgeous.

He would pretend not to be phased when he would barge into your shared apartment with Peter, finding you on the couch in nothing but a big T-shirt and shorts that were short enough to be classified as panties. When you would purposefully brush your ass against him when shimming past him in the slim hall of his kitchen, he’d have to teach himself how to breathe again. 

The night he accidentally walked in on you getting out of the shower when Peter told him the bathroom was free, not knowing, he nearly lost himself. The sight of your naked body, your curves perfectly shaped before him, and the way you didn’t immediately rush to grab your towel and scream at him to get out. All of it resided in the back of his mind. 

He would think about you often, especially at night when he was restless and tossing back and forth in bed. Sometimes, at a weak point, he’d touch himself to the thought of you. Thinking of what you’d look like with your hands on him. 

It was all wrong, though, he knew that. 

He would never do anything to purposefully hurt Peter, despite their constant bickering and bullshit. You belonged to Peter, not him. But a creative imagination didn’t harm anyone. 

However, now that he had you in front of him, palming his dick in a way that he never could have imagined in his wildest dreams, his resilience was wavering. 

Peter’s solid number two ball fell into the pocket with what felt like an ear-piercing crash. It really wasn’t anything but a soft thud, but it felt like sirens going off in the back of Frank’s mind. 

Straightening his posture, Peter’s eyes moved to where you were standing between Frank’s legs. Something in the air thickens, no one making any move to stop what was happening, but no one urging it on either. 

Your hand grips his bulge, lips pursed with needy anticipation. “Do you wanna come back to the apartment with us?”

Frank’s dick twitched beneath your touch. “Us?”

The realization dawned on him the minute his dark eyes trailed over to Peter, who was watching the two of you with an odd fixation. One hand was propped on the edge of the pool table, shouldering his weight, while a faint smirk spread on his lips.

“He likes it,” you whispered to Frank, noticing his apprehension.

That kinky bastard, Frank thought. Of course.

Frank’s jaw muscle ticked when he looked back down at you, riddled with confusion but suddenly incredibly intrigued. “What exactly is it that he likes, darling?”

With your back still turned to Peter, you carefully pull yourself up on your tip-toes, lips moving to the side of Frank’s neck. Before pressing a sloppy kiss on the skin, you breathe out a quick, “This.” Your hand continues working his erection, desperately wanting him to get over his hesitation and understand your need for him. For both of them.

Your free hand takes his, bringing it down to the hem of your skirt between the two of you. You push his big hand under the denim fabric, telling him exactly where you wanted him without having to utter a word.

The second his fingers grazed the outline of your warmth, a shudder rolled through your body. The soft movement—the sharp breath against his skin—caused a barely audible grunt to escape his tight throat. 

He took his time, lowering his fingers agonizingly slow, until they were met with the damp, puddled patch of your arousal between your quivering thighs. It was a miracle you were still standing, completely losing your strength with his touch. 

A shallow breath came from his parted lips when he allowed himself to rub a gentle circle around the wetness, wanting so badly to know what you felt like beneath your drenched panties.

For a moment, he forgot Peter was still standing a few feet away from the two of you. He forgot the two of you were at a bar. He forgot it was his turn at the table. He forgot his own fucking name. He forgot everything. 

The only thing he could think of was the feeling of you this close to him, the delicate shape of your folds beneath your panties, the firm grip you had on his dick.

“Come on,” you whispered, pulling away from him slightly. You were reaching your breaking point. Your desire to feel more—to have more—was eating you alive. “Come with us.”

Frank’s lethargic vision shot to Peter, who made slow strides over to the two of you. Completely unphased by what was unfolding before him, he set his pool stick against the wall with the row of others and picked up his beer off the table.

Peter took a swig of it, then another, and looked over at Frank. “Don’t be a pussy, Frank.”

“Yeah, Frank—” you drawled, backing away from him with a cheeky grin, “—don’t be a pussy.” It sounded like a teasing jest, but it was pure desperation in your voice. 

Earning a chuckle from Peter, who reached out to grab your hand and drag you towards him, you fell into his grasp like it was second nature. His arm held you in, wrapped around your waist as the both of you studied Frank.

Frank dragged a hand down his face, trying to think about how he got himself in this position. 

“This is so fucked up.” His eyes darted over at Peter. “You’re okay with this shit?” he asked, still reeling in disbelief.

Peter tilted his head with a taunting expression on his face. “You mean am I okay with you touching my girlfriend like that?” His voice was sharp, almost accusing, but you knew he was messing with Frank. He was always messing with Frank. As soon as Frank’s expression hardened, your boyfriend coughed out a laugh. “Yes, Frank. I’m okay with it.”

Still simmering in Frank’s silence, your boyfriend pulled his wallet out of his pocket without disengaging the way he was holding you. “Don’t leave her hanging, man.”

Your index finger’s nail was between your teeth, biting down with a sloppy little grin on your face when Frank raked you over once more with his dark eyes. 

For a long moment, the two of you just stared at each other. You knew Frank was still trying to figure out if the two of you were pulling some evil little trick on him, but the way your heart was thumping with enthusiastic anticipation, you didn’t care.

All you wanted was for him to agree, so the three of you could go home and you could find some relief from the agonizing desperation pooling between your legs. 

It took five minutes, if that, for Peter to close out his tab and for Frank to get his shit together long enough to leave the bar. 

By the time the three of you walked out into the warm, mid-August night air, you debated having one of them hail a taxi so you could get back home quicker. But Frank and Peter had a weird thing with public transportation. They didn’t trust anyone, let alone some potentially ill-intented taxi driver. 

Some nights, when the streets were quiet and there was no one around to question it, Peter would swing you home with his organic web, laughing every time you burrowed your head into the crook of his neck or screamed when he got a little too fast with it. 

You wondered what Frank did to get places quickly. He had some big, armored truck once, but Peter told you he wrecked that during some eventful run-in with a “bad guy.” His words, of course.

Walking home was seemingly Peter’s motive this evening. One of his arms was lazily draped over your shoulder, his other hand was stuffed in the front pocket of his jeans. 

Frank walked a few steps behind you, matching your pace with precision.

You noticed him do that a lot. Whenever the three of you would walk the streets, Peter was always at your side, and Frank was always right behind you. 

Initially, you assumed it was his way of keeping you safe. It definitely was, but now you found yourself wondering if he just wanted to watch the way your ass shook when you walked. 

Frank had lit a cigarette from his crushed pack of Marlboro reds. He took a long drag, blowing a cloud of smoke that floated between you and Peter, causing your boyfriend to snap his head around with an annoyed expression. 

“Are you smoking?” he gaped, face scrunched. 

The older man shrugged, flicking ash on the concrete mid-stride.

Peter scoffed. “Since when do you smoke?” 

“Only do it in high-stress situations,” Frank told him with a comically calm tone.

You craned your neck to look back at him, laughing. “Awe, are you stressed, Frankie?” Your bottom lip poked out just to tease him, the streetlamp reflecting off your shiny lipgloss. 

Frank wanted to taste it. “A bit,” he grumbled. 

You slowly slipped yourself out of Peter’s grasp, causing both men to halt in their tracks. They always stayed extremely close when out in public. You never really thought about anything with them. What could possibly go wrong when New York’s beloved Spider-man and the man the news called The Punisher were at your side?

Turning on your heels, you reached out and grabbed Frank’s belt buckle. He was so tall compared to you, it was right within your reach. You intended to pull him into you, but he was completely immovable, the action only caused you to stumble forwards into him. 

Chuckling at your own actions, you peered up at Frank. “You don’t need to be stressed.”

“Yeah?” he tilted his head down at you, absolutely at a loss of willpower with you on him. “Why’s that?”

“Because—” laughter spilled out of you “—we’re gonna have so much fun.”

He blew out a cloud of smoke, angling it away from your face, and reeled.

He wanted to be hesitant. Hesitance would be a completely logical feeling. It would be entirely normal for him to feel a bit of apprehension about the plan you’d concocted to have them both, given that wasn’t something Frank had ever partook in.

But he wasn’t hesitant. Not anymore, at least.

Beyond his confusion regarding what exactly it was that he was getting himself into, it was complete and utter lust that coursed through him. Lust for you. 

He wanted you in all the ways he’d imagine when he was laying in bed at night, fucking himself with his own hand, or in the shower with his forehead pressed to the tile, picturing it was your pretty, glossy lips around his cock.

Peter could sense it. He wasn’t fucking stupid—he saw the way Frank always looked at you, like he wanted to devour you. He had just been waiting for it to all come to a head. 

He called it sharing. Sounded innocent and less vulgar that way. He liked sharing you, knowing it was him that you always chose. It was him that you were completely devoted to—always would be. 

You were hesitant when he’d talked about it one day, asking him, “Isn’t that cheating?” He’d laughed at you and countered with, “Not if I’m giving it to you, too, angel.”

There was some deep, dark part of him that sprung to life when you were being fucked by someone else, trembling with pleasure, and the only name you moaned was his. Because you were his.

Walking up the stairs to your apartment because the elevator was under maintenance for the third time this month, felt like a chore. But your footsteps were eager.

Both men were on your trail as you skipped up the echoing stairwell, their attention trained on the view they had up your skirt. 

“The red ones, angel?” Peter joked, playfully lifting the back of your skirt. “Must be a special occasion.”

Frank’s breath hitched in his throat at the sight, earning a taunting laugh from your boyfriend. Peter turned to the man next to him, smirking devilishly just as you swatted his hand away.

“You like what you see, old man?” Peter asked, nudging Frank’s side.

You briefly glanced back at him, curious to what his answer would be. He just rolled his eyes. 

“Playing hard to get, Frankie?” you probed, finally reaching your floor. 

He tilted his chin up, towering over you. “Never that, darling.”

Peter pulled the stairwell door wide and your gaze hung on Frank as you backed into the hallway. 

There wasn’t a single light on in the apartment when the three of you walked through. It was unbearably hot, very little airflow in the small place due to the broken AC failing to combat the summer heat. You kicked off your shoes, inching further into the apartment to flip on the lamp by the couch. 

Peter tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, raking a hand through his dark waves.

Frank had been inside your apartment countless times, but, for some reason, it all felt new to him. The colors on the thrifted rug in the living room seemed brighter, the humming of the refrigerator felt louder, and the smell was visceral. It smelled like the candle you always kept burning, the same one you’d bought Frank to keep at his place after stating it smelled “like death” one time.

But over all the vibrance, sounds, and smells, was the tension brewing. It was sharp enough to cut, weighing on your shoulders like a tangible object.

Peter rounded the couch, falling back on the center cushion. 

A second passed of more silence before he cocked his head up at Frank. He furrowed his brows. “You just gonna stand there like some creep?”

Frank rolled his eyes. “The fuck you want me to do, Pete? I just walked in the door.”

Your boyfriend shifted on the couch, finding a more comfortable view of you where you were standing in the center of the living room.

He tilted his head, ushering Frank to come closer. “Kiss her.”

Peter was a very matter-of-fact person. Usually, Frank was, too. There was a zero tolerance policy regarding bullshit in their friendship. 

But, for a moment, Frank genuinely thought Peter was bullshitting. 

“You just gonna watch, or some shit?” Frank asked him, unsure.

Your boyfriend’s head lulled back, laughter spilling out of him. “You think I’m just gonna sit back and watch you fuck my girl, like some cuck?”

Frank shrugged. “I don’t know what your freaky ass is into.”

The back and forth between the two of them was becoming unbearable. Your core was aching with an insatiable need. All the talk was causing you to fluster, growing desperate and needy.

It seemed Frank felt the same. In three quick strides, he was right up against you, peering down at you from his height.

“You want me to kiss you?” he asked you.

Your lips curled. “Amongst other things.”

It was like lightning. That was what it felt like when his lips crashed onto yours. It was soft at first, a slow, deep peck. He pulled away for half a second, studying your face, before colliding back with you. 

The second time his lips met yours, there was a newfound sense of hunger in his movements. 

His lips parted, tongue running along your lips, begging to get through so he could taste you. When you let him in, your tongues tangled around each other's. teeth grazing. 

It was a desperate kiss, sloppy and wet, but it had you completely folding. 

The minute your fruit-flavoured lipgloss met Frank’s tastebuds, he was lost. He was lost in the kiss, lost in you. God, he wanted to be in you. 

Your arms draped his shoulders, interlocking around his neck to force him down, keeping him as close to you as possible. His hands wandered about your body, reaching around to grip your ass. 

He pulled your skirt up without a thought, hands gripping the flesh of your ass with a throaty grunt. The skin was so soft and plump in his touch, he felt a shudder roll through his body.

His hands reached down to your thighs, picking you up off the floor with such effortless ease. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to the couch without breaking the kiss. 

Peter’s jaw was taut with tension, watching every move you made with such precision, it was borderline obsession.

He stood up, giving Frank the space to lay you down on the cushions. But your legs were still so tightly bound around him, it forced him down on top of you. 

You reached down to the hem of his shirt, silently begging him to remove it. 

In response, he broke the kiss, standing up off the couch to shrug it off, while you situated yourself on the couch. 

“You, too,” you said to Peter between shaky breaths, gesturing to his shirt.

Your boyfriend tore off his T-shirt in one swift motion, kneeling down to crawl on top of you the same way Frank had. 

Propping himself up with hands next to your head, he peered down at you and smirked. “You, too, angel.”

You rolled your eyes at his show. “You do it.”

Peter obliged, digging his fingers under the hem of your tank-top and lifting it over your head, leaving your top half completely exposed. You never wore a bra, especially when it was as hot as it was outside. 

Neither of the two men admiring the way your perky tits sat seemed to have any qualms about it. 

You took a second to eye the two of them, reeling over their tanned, muscular chests. Your brain lapsed over the sight of the hair trailing down Frank’s prominent V-line. You wanted so badly to see what he had under his pants. Analyzing his hardened bulge, your heartrate quickened. 

Both of them stood over you on the couch, shirtless and writhing in anticipation. 

Peter unbuttoned his jeans first, prompting Frank to follow suit. 

Frank thought undressing himself next to Peter would have been more uncomfortable. But neither of them thought twice about it, coming to the joint understanding that this wasn’t about them. It was about you. 

“Come here, angel,” Peter mumbled to you.

You complied, sitting up on the couch, and folding your legs beneath yourself. 

Sitting back on your calves, you watched with eagerness as Peter stepped out of his boxers. His painfully hard dick slapped his lower stomach during the movement, causing a puddle of desire in your needy center. 

He took a step closer until his shins met the couch, his cock right in front of your face. Your hands trailed up his bare legs until they reached his length, stroking it once in your hand before bringing your tongue to the hilt, giving it one, long lick up to the tip. 

“Yeah, that’s good,” Peter moaned, gathering your hair in his fist. “Show Frank how good you can suck my dick, angel.” 

The deepness of his voice rattled your nerves as you took him in your mouth. Your throat tightened around his tip, a gag tearing from your throat as you tried to take as much of him as possible. You continued bobbing your head, saliva dripping down your chin. What you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you worked in a matching rhythm with your sticky, wet hand. 

Peter’s eyes were stuck on you, watching your eyes water when he pulled your hair and pumped himself in your mouth. His jaw went slack, breathing ragged at the absolute pleasure you were giving him. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, pulling your hair harder, just like he knew you wanted him to. 

You pulled away from him, panting heavily, but still working him with your hand. Swallowing hard, your eyes shifted to Frank who was completely lost in the performance you were giving. 

Peter laughed, but it came out more like a moan. “Your turn, old man.”

Frank moved closer to the couch, his erection begging to break free of his tight-fitting boxers. You continued working Peter with one hand while the other worked to get Frank undressed.

He noticed your intent, pushing them off until they fell at his ankles. When his dick finally broke free, a deep moan tore from his throat. 

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of it. 

Peter had a big dick, there was no denying that, but Frank’s was a devious competitor. It was girthy in a way that had you concerned, but just as formidable in length. 

You wasted no more time. You wanted to feel him in your mouth. Really, you wanted to see if you could fit him in your mouth. 

Peter pulled away from your grasp around his saturated cock, giving you the ability to focus completely on Frank.

He watched you try to take Frank in his entirety, gagging when you neared the base of him. His eyes fixed on the way your throat tightened, knowing exactly how it felt when you did that. 

Frank’s fingers ran coursed through your tangled mess of hair, gathering it all up in a fist so he could see your face while you choked on his dick.

It was the most perfect thing he'd ever seen. 

The thought dawned on him suddenly—the reason why Peter always called you his angel. That was what you were. Some heaven-sent creature. 

Your lips suctioned around his girthy shaft, gripping onto his hips as he pumped himself in your mouth. Your eyes fluttered closed, tongue running circles around his tip each time you could reach it. 

“Holy… fuck…” Frank panted, tugging on your hair.

His teeth chattered, his nervous system pumping with adrenaline and something akin to pure euphoria. 

He wasn’t going to last long with your mouth around him, he knew that. He had dreamt of this moment for so long, he could barely trust that this was his true reality. He must have been dreaming, he’d thought.

He felt his release coming, it was so fast, he pulled out of your mouth with a pop and drew in a sharp wince. He had to halt his breathing for the longest moment, chest caved, in order to hold himself back from cumming all over you. 

You brought the back of your hand to your mouth, wiping the mess you’d become away. 

“Lay down, angel,” Peter said, leading you to slip off your knees and situate yourself on the couch, your back flush with the soft cushions. 

He climbed onto the couch at your feet, dick throbbing with desperation. Your eyes noticed the bead of pre-cum at his pink tip, wanting so desperately to lick it up. 

His hands moved to the waist band of your denim skirt, undoing the button and pulling the zipper down. “Lift up,” he instructed. 

Your hips bucked, giving him the space he needed to pull your skirt down. He brought your panties with it, slipping both off in one quick stride and discarding them on the living room floor. 

“Mm,” Peter sounded, gaze fixed on your exposed pussy. “Look at how wet we got her, Frank.” 

You were growing irritable. “Please touch me,” you pleaded, hands wandering to your tits, massaging the plump muscle and pinching your pebbled nipples. “Please.”

Peter’s fingers trailed your folds, smirking down at just how drenched they became from your arousal. It was pitiful, really, the way you were squirming against the couch, panting and quivering under his touch. 

He noticed it. Hell, he could smell it. 

Ever since his arachnid DNA had started betraying him, attempting to dominate his human form, his senses had been heightened. In situations like this, it became worse. He could hear your heart beat like it was his own, make out the miniscule beads of sweat running down your temple, and smell your arousal. The sweet, salty scent had him folding under your intoxicating pleas. 

His fingers entered you unannounced. He gave your walls time to adjust around them, grunting at the wet sounds that filled the quiet room as your needy flesh suctioned him in. 

Frank moved to the couch, positioning himself on his knees above your head.

“Fuck, angel,” Peter moaned, pumping his fingers in and out of you. 

Your head tilted back, back arching off the couch at the all-consuming pleasure. Your hand reached up to Frank’s dick without thinking. You just needed to do something with your hands. 

He sat up on his knees, watching the faces you made as Peter fucked you with his fingers and the way you stroked his dick. 

“Yeah. Just like that, baby,” Frank muttered, gripping the back of the couch. “God, yes. Just… like that.”

Peter used one hand to continue pumping you, adding two fingers to your tight, drenched entrance. With the other, his thumb moved in gentle circles over your swollen clit. 

The overstimulation was too much. You felt your vision blurring, body twitching. Your legs clenched around Peter’s hand. 

“Uh-uh,” Peter warned. He moved his hand from your clit for less than a second, just long enough to drape one of your legs over his broad shoulder. “Keep those legs open for me.”

Your head dug into the couch cushion, your strokes on Frank’s cock becoming sloppy. 

“Oh, God,” you cried out, nails digging into the fabric of the couch. “I’m–I’m gonna—”

“Good girl,” Peter coaxed, not slowing his rhythm. “Cum for me. Show Frank how good you feel.”

His words were the last piece you needed to hit your release. Your jaw went slack, ragged pants escaping you. Your hips bucked against Peter’s hand as your orgasm flushed out of you. 

“Fuck—you look so good like that,” Frank mumbled, brows pinched together, teeth chewing at his bottom lip, as he watched you.

“So do you,” you chuckled, still quivering from your high that you were already to chase again. 

Peter pulled his fingers out of you slowly, immediately bringing them to his mouth. Watching him suck on your arousal like that was the most attractive thing you’d ever seen. You gasped at the sight.

“Fuck, Frank—” Peter sucked his finger once more “—you gotta taste her, man.”

Frank chuckled. “I got a better idea.” He sat back on his knees. “Turn my way, baby.”

Every muscle in your body felt like jelly. It was so soon after your orgasm, everything that touched your skin—the fabric of the couch, your hair falling down your back, Frank’s hands gripping your thigh—was enough to send you over the edge.

Turned around on the couch, Frank’s fingers dug into the skin of your exposed hips. With one swift movement, he pulled you closer to him. 

You didn’t give a second to adjust himself before your hand reached out and grabbed his throbbing cock as soon as you were close enough to do so. You aligned the tip of him to your quivering entrance. 

The second his sensitive tip touched the wetness of your folds, he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Let me see that mouth, angel,” Peter said, sitting up on his knees behind you. 

Your head fell back on the couch, chin tilting until his tip aligned with your swollen lips. You welcomed the way he slid through, immediately suctioning around him. You pumped the rest of him with one hand, the other gripped the couch. 

“Yeah, just like that,” he grunted.

Frank held your hips up, thrusting into you once. The movement tore a moan from your stuffed throat. 

“Fuck—You feel so good,” Frank stammered, reeling in the way your tight walls clung to him.

He pulled away slowly, but not entirely. He had just the tip in when he pounded into you again, reeling in the way you cried out in pleasure against Peter’s dick when he did it.

Peter watched the way Frank thrusted into you repeatedly. He couldn’t get enough of the way your body shook, squirming all over the place, with your mouth full of him. 

Your tits bounced the harder Frank pounded into you, each movement bringing you closer and closer to that high you so desperately wanted to reach again. You could tell he was there, too. You felt the way his thick length twitched inside of you. His head was lulled back, eyes screwed shut as he held you against him, angling and fucking you the exact way he always wanted to. 

You wanted so desperately to be able to see him. You wanted to see the way his chiseled chest was moving up and down with quick pants every time you clenched around his cock. You wanted to see the way he admired your swollen cunt every time he looked down, witnessing the wreckage he was giving you. 

“Faster,” Peter said, his tone gruff and eager from the way you were sucking him.

Frank’s eyes shot up to him. He didn’t stop his motions inside you when he tilted his head. “What?”

“Fuck her faster—rougher. It’s what she likes.”

You pulled your mouth off Peter’s dick, working him with your hand so you could finally get a glimpse of Frank. His eyes narrowed on your boyfriend, annoyed more than anything. 

“Come here,” Frank ordered, crooking his finger. 

He remained inside you as you sat up further on the couch. He reached out, grabbing you by the throat. It wasn’t a cruel grab. It was the most delicate way you’d ever been touched. You wanted it harder, though. 

The smirk that appeared on your mess of a face was a devilish one. 

Frank sat back on his calves, bringing you to straddle him with his hand still clung to your throat. 

“You like that?” Frank probed, squinting up at you as you grinded your hips. He was so deep inside you, you could feel the exact spot he was hitting in your core. “You like when I choke you like that?”

You nodded, biting down on your lip as your hips moved in circular motions on top of him. The friction it brought to your clit had you moaning incoherently, eyes rolling back in your head as squirmed in fast, desperate motions on top of him. 

“Say it. Say you like this shit,” Frank grunted through his gritted teeth, barely holding on.

Your head lulled back, eyes fluttering closed. “I like it, I lo—”

A gasp tore from your throat when his hands suddenly moved to your hips, lifting you and slamming you down on him unforgivingly. He had a desperate, hungry look on his face. 

“Holy… fucking… shit,” you panted, falling back on the couch, causing your back to arch and hips rise above your head level.

All of the blood was rushing to your head as he pounded into you relentlessly. 

He knew that Peter knew you better than anyone. Peter knew exactly what you liked, how you liked it, and where you liked it at. That was fine. 

Frank was just determined to give you more to like. 

He wanted to fuck you in a way that you were going to beg Peter to mimic the next time he had you all to himself. He wanted you to not be able to cum again without remembering the way he had you splayed out in front of him, becoming a flexible mess with his cock buried so deep inside you, it almost hurt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned again the second Frank’s fingers started working on your clit. “Yes, Frank. Just like that—Please.”

The moment Frank’s name slipped off your tongue, Peter sprung off the couch. 

“My turn,” he said, but it came out aggressive. 

Frank slowed inside of you. Part of him wanted to keep going. He wanted to be the one to make you cum all over his dick, but he knew better than to fuck with Peter like that—not when it came to you, even if his thoughts contradicted him.

When Frank slid out of you, you winced. The sudden emptiness was agonizing. 

Your eyes fluttered up to Frank’s, immediately seeing the way his features hardened when Peter picked you up, twisting you around so that your back was flush with his. 

Peter sat on the couch the same place he’d been before, allowing you to face Frank as he slowly inserted his pulsating length inside you from behind. 

You knew what he was doing. You knew he wanted Frank to see him fuck you in all the ways he knew you liked. Peter wanted Frank to see you come apart for him, forcing Frank to remember who you belonged to when it was all said and done.

Peter’s fist clenched around your hair, pulling you flush to him as he pounded in you with just the right kind of force. Your head fell back on his shoulder, back arched in a deviously seductive way. Your ass slapped against his waist everytime he thrusted deep inside of you, incoherent and muffled cries of pleasure spewing out of you the quicker he got. 

Frank sat back on the couch, legs spread before him.

With a great deal of effort, you lifted your head off of your boyfriend’s shoulder so that you could see Frank, gasping when your eyes immediately met his. 

He wasn’t watching the way Peter was fucking you—he wasn’t entertained by the way your tits were bouncing, or the way your ass was clapping against his friend’s skin. He was entertained by you. 

Your eyes honed in on him. Peter’s moans echoed behind you, but you couldn’t look away from the way Frank’s hand moved to his still-saturated cock, stroking himself and looking at you in a way that made you want to crawl on top of him. 

His nostrils flared, chest rising and falling as he pumped himself at a relentless pace. 

You kept your attention on him as your hand wandered to your clit, moving in quick motions over the swollen flesh. 

His stare was so intense, it felt like he was seeing through you. Combined with the stimulation on your clit and the way Peter was pounding into you, your release came quick. It was an entirely new high, watching the way Frank’s face scrunched as yours did, his fingers digging into the back of the couch as his cum squirted from the tip of his throbbing, slick-sounding cock.

You were breathless, permanently engraving the sight in your memory.

“Fuck, yes,” Peter moaned. Sitting back further on the couch and letting you ride him with your back still turned to him. His hand collided with your ass, drawing a breathy moan from your throat. “Doing so good, angel.”

Even with his release littering his flexed stomach, Frank’s eyes stayed on you. It was just taunting at that point. 

Peter sat up on his knees, forcing you down on the couch in an attempt to drive his dick further inside you. You kept yourself up on your arms, realizing you’d fallen right over Frank’s semi-hard dick. 

His tongue ran along his top row of teeth, wondering what Peter’s little angel was going to do next. 

Arching your back, giving your boyfriend the perfect angle to thrust into you with vicious momentum, you bowed your head dangerously close to the small puddles of Frank’s white cum.

When your tongue shot out, lapping up the salty remnants of his release, he drew in a sharp, piercing breath. 

“Oh, shit…” he drawled, watching you lick up and swallow his seed. 

Peter gripped your hips, nails digging into your skin as his thrusts became sloppy and untimed. 

He knew what you were doing. There wasn’t a thing you did that Peter didn’t catch.

“Come here,” he grunted, pulling your hair and forcing your back to collide with his rigid front again. 

He was getting pissed off, you knew that. 

You liked that.

Your head fell back on his shoulder again, his lips pressing to your flushed ear. “You’re mine,” he hissed, thrusts becoming just cruel. 

A smirk spread on your face.

“Tell him,” Peter demanded, bringing his hand to your throat and squeezing. “Tell him who you belong to.”

“You,” you managed to get out despite Peter’s grip threatening your airways. “I… belong to… you.”

He gripped tighter. “Louder.”

“I belong… to… you,” you said, nearly shouting as your vision spotted and walls clenched around him.

“Mm,” Peter moaned in your ear. “You gonna cum for me again, aren’t you, angel?”

You couldn’t manage a response, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

Peter laughed. “Watch her, Frank—I know you want to,” he taunted. “Watch her cum all over my dick.”

Frank did, of course. But he wasn’t worried about whose dick she was coming on. In that creative imagination of his, it was his dick inside you. Now that he knew what it felt like, there wasn’t anything holding him back.

A pleasured cry spilled from your lips, your body convulsing in Peter’s grasp. 

“Good girl,” he cooed, never once relenting. “You want me to fill you up now, angel?”

You nodded, every nerve in your body frazzled. “Please.”

Peter’s head dug into the crook of your neck, his teeth biting down on the delicate skin there in an attempt to hold back the guttural screams threatening to depart from him. It was an absolute miracle he had lasted this long inside you. He wanted to finish the second he entered you, but he wanted Frank to sit and watch him work you in all the ways he wanted.

Sharing was a kind way of putting it, he thought back. It wasn’t exactly sharing, what he was doing. He just wanted to show you off. He wanted the third person in the room with the two of you to watch how he took control of you, making you become completely undone for him. He wanted them to see what he could do to you—the ways he could fuck you, the pleasure he could give you. 

He wanted to watch them try, just like he had let Frank try. Then, he wanted them to watch him do it even better.

His teeth sunk in deeper as he pounded in you one last time before his warmth spread inside you. 

You felt the exact moment he came. The feeling was almost as good as your own release. 

He rode out his high, his cock twitching inside of you until there was nothing more he could release inside you. 

When he pulled out of you with a squelching sound, his gaze fixed on the sight of his cum leaking out of you. 

“God, I love that shit,” he mumbled. 

He slowly fell back on his calves, repositioning himself to where you could lay back against him, giving you time to collect yourself before he helped clean you up.

Your gaze immediately flashed to Frank when you rested back against Peter’s chest, squeezing your thighs together to keep from leaking all over the couch.

Frank was sprawled on the couch, one leg hanging off the edge and the other bent up, spread out shamelessly before the two of you. 

“You okay, Frank?” Peter asked, his tone returning to his usual, calm self. 

Frank coughed out a laugh and shook his head. 

“What?” Peter countered, smirking. “That not a good enough birthday present for you?”

“A card will do good next year,” Frank jested, combing a hand through his dark hair.

Peter hummed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You like to dress up whenever the two of you go out, while Jack loves the way you look whenever you do.. you stress him out every time by taking so long to get ready.

As you walk into the living room, Jack gets a glimpse of the dress you’re wearing and it immediately makes a warm feeling spread in his chest. You look beautiful.. you always do, but whenever you dress up like this it’s like you take your beauty to another level.

“Look at you..” Jack places a hand over his heart. “Gorgeous,”

A smile spreads on your lips as you see him look at you with nothing but adoration and love in his eyes. It doesn’t matter that he’s seen you dressed up a thousand times before, it takes his breath away every time you do.

“Let me get a picture of my girl,” he says before fishing his phone out of his back pocket.

You watch him squint as he looks at the screen while holding up his phone. It makes you want to chuckle every time you see him using his phone, there’s always something he struggles with.

“Nope, that’s the front camera.” he mutters before tapping on the screen. “There we go,”

You give him a smile as you look at his phone, causing an immediate smile to grow on Jack’s lips as well. He takes a few pictures before putting his phone away again.

“Man.. I sure got lucky,” he tells you before closing the space between the two of you and grabbing onto your waist.

“Don’t you forget it,” you send him a quick wink before feeling him press his lips against yours.

⊱✫⊰

“Fuck.. me,”

Jack watches you walk through the room, wearing a red set of lingerie. You barely have time to acknowledge him as you’re busy getting yourself ready to go out with your friends.

“This dress,” you hold up a black one. “Or this one,” in the other hand you’re holding onto a dark green one.

“Sweetheart.. I can’t focus on the color of anything right about now,” Jack speaks up, eyes taking in your half-naked body.

“Jack,” you groan, not having the time for him to be distracted like this. “You’re not helping.”

“Hmm..” he hums, not hearing a word as his gaze is burning onto your skin.

You roll your eyes at his actions before deciding yourself, picking the black dress and shoving yourself into it. The spell Jack was under is broken a little, making him more aware of the current situation.

“M’gonna work my entire shift with that image in my head.” he sighs before moving to sit on the edge of the bed so he could put on his prosthetic.

“Good,” you say after turning around to face him. “That way you know what will be waiting at home for you in the morning.”

“Yeah?” Jack arches a brow before standing up, giving himself a moment to adjust to the prosthetic before walking over to you. “Or it’ll be like last time,” he says. “You’ll be knocked out, snoring like a sailor, breath smelling like the take-out you always end up eating when drunk.”

“Alright,” you glare over at him. “That’s uncalled for.”

Jack chuckles and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you closer. “Have fun.. be safe, if anything’s wrong call me.”

“I will,” you say, smiling at him before leaning in and pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

“What do you say when guys hit on you?” he asks, one hand moving down to rest on the curve of your ass.

“I say..” you look up at him through your lashes. “I’ve got a boyfriend at home who’s an ex-vet and will kick your ass.” you tell him. “Also, he's super old so you’re not my type anyways.”

Jack breaks into a laugh as you add that last line, shaking his head softly before looking back in your eyes.

“Atta girl,” he mumbles before giving you one more kiss.

⊱✫⊰

“Where are my goddamn glasses?”

Jack is walking around your shared apartment, newspaper in one hand and cup of coffee in the other.

You look over at him from the kitchen where you’re making breakfast for the two of you. Amused at how stressed he is about the fact he can’t find them. You need to hold back a laugh when you spot them buried in his salt and pepper curls.

“Aww, grandpa can’t read the newspaper without his glasses.” you tease.

“Don’t start,” Jack turns his head to give you a warning look. “I swear.. I just had them..” he murmurs before taking another look around.

You chuckle before moving yourself from behind the kitchen counter and walking up to him. “You’re a step away from me putting you in a nursing home,” you tease before you grab the glasses out of his hair.

“They were on your head, were you put them like five minutes ago.” you tell him, looking up into his eyes.

“Oh,” Jack furrows his brows, slightly concerned that he genuinely forgot they were there.

You put the glasses on, making sure they’re sitting right behind his ears. “There you go,” a smile rests on your face before you lean in to press a soft kiss against his lips.

“Hmm,” Jack smiles as you pull back and look into his eyes. “No need for a nursing home when I got myself a sexy woman at home who aids me.” he tells you.

His words make you chuckle, rolling your eyes before watching him pucker his lips as he wants another kiss. You lean in and give him a soft peck before taking a step back.

“Need to get back to my eggs,” you tell him before moving to the kitchen again.

⊱✫⊰

“This is so sad,” you pout your lip as tears burn in your eyes.

You’re currently watching The Notebook with Jack, it’s late at night and you’re curled up beside him on the couch.

“Baby..” Jack turns his head and checks up on you. “Are you actually crying?”

“Yes,” you sob as you sit yourself up some more, unable to stop yourself from letting tears roll down your cheeks.

“It’s just a movie,” Jack tells you, moving to grab your hand in his to try and comfort you.

“I know that,” you sob before turning to look back at the screen where the elderly couple Noah and Allie have both just died, holding hands as they lay together in bed. “It’s just so sad,”

Jack can’t help but be amused a little as he watches you cry, he thinks it’s adorable how emotional you can get from time to time. He pulls you into his side, holding you close and pressing a kiss on the top of your head. “S’okay, sweetheart.”

“No,” you sob. “It’s not.” you look up into his eyes as tears burn in yours. “I just realized you’re going to die before me and then I’ll be all alone.”

That tugs on Jack’s heart strings.

“Sweetheart.. no,” he pulls you into his lap so he could hold you even closer to him. “Don’t think like that.”

“But that’s how it’s going to be,” you cry as you rest your head against his shoulder, feeling his big arms wrapped around you.

Jack presses another kiss on the top of your head as he holds you close to him, feeling a little helpless in this situation as he realizes that’s eventually how it’s going to be. It hurts him to think about it.

“Why do you have to be so goddamn old, huh?” you scold him softly, giving a slight nudge against his chest which makes him chuckle.

“Hey,” Jack grabs your chin between his fingers, so he could make you look up into his eyes. “I promise I won’t die that quickly.”

“You can’t promise me that.” you tell him, looking up at him with sad eyes.

“I know..” Jack sighs softly, thumb brushing over your cheek to wipe away some tears. “But I can promise to love you every day until I do.” he says.

Those words make a soft smile tug on your lips, they go straight to your heart. “Yeah..”

Jack smiles as he watches your eyes light up again. “My sweet girl,” he mumbles before leaning in and capturing your lips in a kiss.

a/n: if you ended up loving this, would you want more???? Let me know!

Likes or reposts are always appreciated. Comments even more, I love hearing you guys.

Also, requests are open :)))

your phone buzzes on your desk at 4:56 PM.

you're halfway through folding laundry when the vibration makes you freeze, a t-shirt dangling from your hands. you pick it up expecting a text from a friend, but your stomach drops the second you see rafe's name.

Pack a bag.

you stare at it. read it twice. three times. your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don't ask what for. you don't ask where or why or how long. you just know.

are you serious

three dots appear. disappear. appear again.

Very.

oh god. your heart is actually racing now.

you press your phone to your chest and let out a breathless laugh that's half excitement, half panic. you want this so badly your hands are shaking. but the thought of lying to your parents makes something twist in your stomach. you glance at the time. 4:59 PM. if you're going to do this, you have got to move fast. there's a really big chance that you can't pull this off. an even bigger chance that your mom shuts it down. but you're willing to try.

it takes you twenty minutes to come up with something believable. a trip to the mainland last minute with stella from your old sociology class. her friend bailed. you'd be back tomorrow evening. that's believable, right? you practice it four times in the mirror, watching your own face for tells. you look nervous and giddy. way too fucking giddy. you try again, aiming for casual, but casual isn't happening.

you pull your duffel bag out from under your bed and start packing, grabbing a change of clothes and the cute pajamas, the ones that don't look like you're trying too hard, your toothbrush and deodorant and phone charger. your hands hesitate over your underwear drawer, but you grab a matching set, just in case, and shove it to the bottom of the bag where your mom wouldn't see it if she happened to glance inside. god, that would be embarrassing.

downstairs, you can hear the tv on in the living room, your dad's low voice asking your mom something about dinner. you zip the bag shut and stand there for a second, staring at it. this is actually happening.

your mom is easier to convince than you expected. she's loading the dishwasher when you come downstairs, duffel bag slung over your shoulder. "hey, so stella from one of my old classes just texted. her friend bailed on this trip to the mainland and she asked if i wanted to go. i know it's last minute, but—"

your mom glances up, wiping her hands on a towel. "tonight?"

"yeah. she could come pick me up now. i'd be back tomorrow afternoon or so..."

she looks at you for a long moment, and your heart hammers against your ribs. please don't ask more questions. please don't look closer.

"stella... from college?"

"yeah."

"and you'll text me when you get there?"

"of course." immediately.

she smiles. "okay... have fun, sweetie. be safe. and text me when you get there, okay?"

the ease of it almost makes you feel worse. "i will. thanks, mom." you kiss her cheek and head for the door before she can ask any more questions, before the lie can show on your face and ruin everything.

by 5:30 PM, you're standing on the corner a block away from your house, duffel bag at your feet, phone clutched in your hand. the sun is starting to dip lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. the neighborhood is quiet. a dog barks somewhere in the distance. you shift your weight from foot to foot, your leg bouncing slightly. you check your phone. 5:31. then 5:32. what if he doesn't show up? or what if he changed his mind? what if—

then you see it—his black truck, pulling up beneath the shade of the oaks, windows tinted dark. relief crashes through you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. you'd recognize it anywhere. you grab your bag and hurry down the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder once, twice, before yanking open the passenger door and climbing inside.

the cool air hits you immediately. the ac is cranked high, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with his black ice scented car freshener. the leather seat is cool beneath your thighs. the door closes with a solid thunk.

rafe is leaning back in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. he's wearing a linen button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. he looks casual. so unfairly casual.

he doesn't pull away from the curb yet. instead he just looks at you. his eyes move down your face to your hands gripping the bag, then back up. his mouth curves into a smirk.

"look at you," he murmurs, his voice low. "sneakin' away like a little criminal."

heat floods your cheeks instantly. you drop your bag to the floorboards and fumble with your seatbelt, trying not to meet his eyes. your fingers feel clumsy, uncoordinated. he's watching you. "i'm not—"

"no?"

you freeze. he's still watching you, that smirk fully formed now.

"checkin' over your shoulder like that?" he says, tilting his head slightly. his eyes drop to your hands where they're fumbling with the seatbelt, then back to your face. "trembling."

"i am not trembling."

"yeah, you are."

you bite your lip, fighting a smile. he's impossible. "c'mere," he says, and his voice drops, and you don't hesitate. you lean across the console and kiss him, hard and desperate. the leather of the seat creaks slightly beneath you. you can taste the faint hint of coffee on his mouth. your fingers find his shoulders and for a second you forget why you were even nervous.

you lean in again, throwing your arms around his neck, peppering soft, quick kisses along his jaw. he smiles against your skin. you kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then back to his lips, and he's making a low sound in his throat, his hands coming up to cup your face.

"hi," he says against your mouth, teasing.

you pull back just far enough to look at him, your face flushed. "hi yourself," you murmur, and he grins before kissing you properly again, deeper this time.

when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. his hand smooths down your back, his thumb tracing small circles against your spine.

"been waitin' all day for that," he murmurs against your lips.

you pull back just enough to look at him, your face flushed. "yeah?"

"yeah." his eyes are dark. "you?"

"maybe," you say, trying to play it cool, but he sees right through you. he always does.

he starts to protest, but then his eyes are catching on your hair falling across your shoulder and his hand moves, tucking it back behind your ear. his fingers linger there for a second, warm against your skin.

"what?" you ask, breathless.

"mm, nothin'." he's still looking at you like he lost his train of thought, but then he blinks. "you smell good."

"rafe—"

"you do." he's laughing now—quiet, rough. 

you bury your face in the crook of his neck, embarrassed, and he wraps his arms around you properly, his hand smoothing up your back. you feel him smile against your hair.

"alright," he says after a moment, and his hand slides down to your waist, squeezes once. "sit back before your neighbors see something they shouldn't."

you obey reluctantly, buckling yourself in, and he's still watching you with that amused expression. he shifts the car into drive, one hand returning to the wheel while the other finds your thigh, his palm warm against your skin.

the neighborhood disappears behind you, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.

the drive starts familiar, your neighborhood with its modest coastal cottages and beach box houses. rafe's hand stays on your thigh, his thumb tracing absent patterns. god, his hands are huge. after a few minutes, he glances over at you.

"you're quiet," he says.

you bite your lip, staying silent for a moment. "i lied to my mom."

"figured. what'd you tell her?"

"just... a really elaborate lie. about going to the mainland with stella. she believed me immediately and i guess now i feel—" you exhale shakily. "kinda guilty?"

his hand squeezes your thigh gently. "want me to turn around?"

"no," you say quickly, maybe too quickly. the thought of turning around makes your chest clench. and he smiles, like he already knew that would be your answer.

"then stop worryin' about it."

"easy for you to say."

"sweetheart." his voice is patient. "you're twenty-three."

"yeah," you mutter. "but you're thirty nine."

he doesn't argue with that. he just keeps driving, his hand warm on your leg. you watch the scenery change outside the window, the neighborhoods becoming progressively nicer. after a moment you reach down and lace your fingers through his. he glances at you again, something soft crossing his face, and brings your joined hands up to brush a kiss against your knuckles.

"you nervous?"

"a little," you admit. your stomach's been in knots since you got in the truck.

"yeah?" he says, his mouth curving slightly. "good. means you're gonna hold onto me the whole drive."

you roll your eyes but you're smiling now, heat creeping up your neck. you look out the window and watch as the landscape begins to shift. the houses get bigger, set farther back from the street. gated communities with brick columns and wrought iron. the kind of places where you definitely don't belong.

"wait," you say, sitting up straighter. "this is where you live? like, this area?"

"further north," he says.

"of course you do," you murmur, and he laughs—low and genuine. that's where almost all of the wealthy people live. the absolute northernmost area of the island.

"what's that supposed to mean?"

"nothing. just..." you gesture vaguely at the massive houses passing by. "very you. very well off person who has everything figured out."

"very me," he repeats, smirking. "that an insult?"

"no. i just mean—" you're fumbling now. heat is creeping up your neck. "you probably have like a… a fountain, or something don't you?"

he doesn't answer, which is answer enough. you groan and cover your face with your free hand.

"oh my god. you do."

"came with the house," he says, and there's that edge again, like he was waiting for you to notice.

"rafe. nobody's house just comes with a fountain."

"mine did."

you're laughing now, and his hand tightens on yours. the streetlights get fewer and farther between. the trees grow taller, older, spanish moss dripping from the branches. you watch it all pass through the tinted window, hyperaware of the way his thumb is tracing circles against your palm.

"how much further?" you ask after a while.

"ten minutes."

your stomach flips. ten minutes until you're actually at his house. ten minutes until this stops being theoretical. you nod and look back out the window, biting the inside of your cheek. the road narrows. suddenly there are no more houses at all—just dense forest on either side.

"rafe?"

"yeah?"

"is it... big? your house?"

he glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. "figured you'd see for yourself."

"that's not an answer."

"you'll see in a minute."

"that's not reassuring," you mutter, and he laughs again, his hand leaving yours only to slide higher up your thigh. your breath catches slightly.

"you think too much," he says.

"no i don't."

"yeah, you do." he glances at you. "can hear it from here."

you huff, but you're smiling. "well, excuse me for being a little nervous about seeing where you live for the first time. seems like it deserves a reasonable amount of overthinking."

"why?"

"because—" you falter, searching for the words. your heart is actually pounding now. "because i've never been to your house before. because i don't know what to expect. because—"

"hey." his voice is lower now, and his hand squeezes your thigh. "s'just a house."

"yeah... with a fountain."

"i told you, it came with—"

"i know what you said," you interrupt, grinning despite yourself. "i'm just saying... it doesn't sound like just a house. it sounds like a place where people like me don't really... fit."

he's quiet for a moment. then the trees break, and you see it: the ocean, dark and endless, the last of the sunset turning the water to gold.

"oh," you breathe.

rafe's hand tightens on your thigh. "almost there."

you can't look away from the water. you've always known he had money. you'd have to be blind not to notice the car, the watch, the way he never looks at a price tag. but knowing it and seeing it are two different things.

he turns onto a private drive, oyster shells crunching under the tires. the forest opens up into something softer. sea grass and palmetto palms and flowering bushes you don't know the names of. it feels impossible to believe that there's a spot in a place like this for a girl like you.

"you alright over there?" he asks quietly, his eyes still on the road but his hand finding your thigh again.

you nod, not trusting your voice. your throat feels tight.

and then you see it. his house rising up ahead, low and modern with clean lines and huge windows that catch the last of the light. white siding, dark wood, a wraparound porch. there's a fountain in the circular drive.

you sit there, staring. this is his house. he actually lives here.

"told you," he says. "came with the house."

you let out a breathless laugh, but you're already unbuckling your seatbelt, already climbing out. the air smells like salt and jasmine and moss. the ocean is louder here.

rafe's already beside you, taking your duffel bag from your hand. "c'mon, baby."

he unlocks the front door and you follow him inside, and your breath catches. the space opens up in front of you: vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, furniture that looks expensive but lived-in. warm wood floors beneath your feet. the kitchen is all marble and stainless steel, and the entire back wall is glass.

but that's not what makes you stop in your tracks.

it's the sneakers by the door. one tipped over on its side. the heel scuffed. the coffee mug on the side table—there's still liquid inside it. cold by now, probably. the book left open on the arm of the couch, pages down. the spine is creased, well-loved. a hoodie draped over the back of a kitchen chair, slate grey. mail stacked on the console table. a ceramic bowl filled with keys. coins scattered among them. a receipt folded in half.

"oh wow," you whisper.

rafe's leaning against the doorframe, watching you. "what?"

"i don't know... you actually live here."

"well, yeah."

"no, i mean—" you gesture at the mug, the book, the shoes. "like you woke up here this morning. you drank coffee. you left a book on the couch. you're just... you exist here."

"yeah, baby." he's grinning now. "i live here."

you turn in a slow circle, taking it in. the throw blanket on the couch, worn smooth in places. the record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you can see the edges of the album covers, the colors faded from sunlight. the way the light hits the kitchen island. there's a pen on the counter, uncapped. a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet. the handwriting is unmistakably his—sharp, efficient, organized. there's a small framed photo on the mantle.

it's a much younger him and an older woman. she has his eyes.

"your mom?" you ask, not turning around.

"yeah," he says from behind you. "that's her."

you nod. you're standing in a photo of his life, looking at a photo of his mother, and something about it makes your chest feel tight. you don't know why exactly.

you wander into the kitchen, running your fingers along the cool granite. you open a cabinet without thinking and find glasses that are neatly stacked. you close it quickly, then you open another one. plates. another. bowls. you find a drawer filled with what looks like chaos: takeout menus, rubber bands, batteries, a phone charger with a frayed cord, business cards held together with a rubber band.

"this is a disaster," you say, gesturing at the chaos.

"yeah, well." he leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "that's where the random shit lives."

he has a junk drawer. like a normal person. and somehow that makes him feel more real.

you keep exploring, walking over to the refrigerator. there are photos held up with magnets. you pull open the fridge. it's surprisingly well-stocked. fresh vegetables, eggs, butter, a few bottles of expensive wine. there's a bottle of your favorite creamer on the second shelf.

"...is this mine?" you ask quietly, reaching for it.

he glances over from where he's started pulling things from the pantry. "hm?"

"the creamer."

"yeah."

your hand goes still. he bought this. he went to the store and bought the specific creamer you like and put it in his fridge knowing—knowing—that you'd eventually open this door and see it.

you don't say anything else. just put it back and close the fridge. your hands feel a little shaky. he just keeps moving, setting things on the counter. olive oil. garlic. a package of fresh pasta. basil in a small pot on the windowsill. he planned this. he really planned this.

"you're gonna cook?" you ask, wandering back over to the island, trying to sound casual.

"thought i'd make dinner." he's already pulling out a cutting board. "that alright with you?"

"yeah, i just—" you climb onto one of the barstools. "i didn't know you cooked."

"i don't really," he says, starting to chop garlic. "at least not all the time."

"so what, do you doordash?" you ask.

he stops chopping and looks at you, one eyebrow raised. "doordash?"

"i don't know." you shrug, smiling sheepishly. "i just thought you maybe had people bring you food or something."

"what am i, ninety?" he says flatly, going back to the garlic.

"you're almost forty."

he stops. looks at you again, his expression something between offended and amused. "that's rude."

you smile, and can't help but giggle. "i've been waiting to use that."

he shakes his head and goes back to chopping, but there's a small smile on his face. "old man," you mutter, and he flicks a piece of garlic at you without even looking.

you laugh again, ducking, and he pours you a glass of wine without asking. he slides it across the counter and you take a sip. it's cold and crisp. you watch him work, the knife against the board, the way he moves through the space like he's done this a thousand times. his forearms tanned and flexing. you take another sip of wine. stop staring.

the smell of garlic hits you suddenly, sharp and pungent, and your mouth waters. he's stirring something, and the pan hisses when he adds more ingredients. the smell becoming richer.

"so you cook couple times a week then?" you ask, genuinely curious now.

"yeah," he says, not looking up from what he's doing. "relaxes me."

you put that away for later. you take another sip of wine and notice him glance at you, then back at the stove.

"how long have you lived here?" you ask.

"couple years."

"do you like it?"

"yeah." he doesn't elaborate.

you wander away from the counter, drawn to the bookshelf in the living room. you run your fingers along the spines. cookbooks, mostly, but also novels you recognize, a few nonfiction titles about business, some memoirs. there's a small ceramic bowl on the shelf, filled with shells and smooth stones. you pick up one of the shells, turning it over in your hands. it's worn soft at the edges. 

"you collect shells?" you call out.

"hm?" he appears in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand. "nah. just stuff i find."

you put it back and keep browsing. you find a photo album wedged between two books and pull it out, but you don't open it because that feels too invasive. there's a record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you read the titles, trying to piece together who he is. old soul records sitting next to indie rock sitting next to classical. it doesn't match what you expected.

"you comin' back over here or you gonna take inventory of my whole house?" he calls out.

"just getting to know the place," you call back. you head back to the kitchen anyway, perching on the barstool again.

he's stirred the sauce, added something else. the kitchen smells incredible. your stomach rumbles, and he glances at you, his mouth curving slightly.

"almost ready," he says. "grab some plates from that cabinet." he nods toward one on the far side of the kitchen.

you hop down and pull out two plates, setting them on the counter beside him. he plates the pasta with ease, and without thinking, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "thank you, rafe." you murmur.

he looks momentarily stunned, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he catches your chin with his free hand and tilts your face toward his. he kisses you properly, soft and warm before handing over the plate.

steam rises from it. you take a bite before you even sit back down, and make a small sound of approval without meaning to.

"not bad for a guy who survives on doordash, huh." he says, settling onto the stool next to you.

you laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "i didn't say you survive on doordash. i just—"

"you absolutely implied it."

"okay, fine. i thought you did. clearly i was wrong." you take another bite. "this is actually really good."

he takes a bite of his pasta, watching you. "you taste wine with this?" he asks, nodding at your glass.

"not yet," you take another sip of the wine. the flavors pair perfectly. "oh. wow."

"hm," he says, like that was the obvious choice all along, and goes back to eating.

you eat in comfortable silence for a while. it's easy, and you find yourself leaning slightly into his space, your knee brushing his under the counter. he doesn't move away. if anything, he shifts closer. his hand finds your lower back at one point, stays there for a moment while he reaches for his wine glass with the other, then moves away. he feeds you a bite of his pasta with his fork, watching you carefully as you taste it. your face flushes.

"this is really good," you say after a few minutes, your voice slightly smaller than before.

"you already said that."

"i know. but it is. like, genuinely."

he glances at you, then back at his plate. you watch him for a second, then go back to your own food. there's something intimate about eating together like this, sitting close in his kitchen, the ocean visible through the massive windows behind you.

when you're finished eating, you start to stand, reaching for his plate, but he catches your wrist gently.

"leave it," he says.

"rafe, i can—"

"sweetheart, just leave it."

you hesitate, then sit back down. he stands, rounding the island to rinse his hands in the sink. he leaves the plates where they are, just washes his hands and turns back to you.

"you wanna go for a walk?" he asks.

you look surprised. "now?"

"why not?"

you glance at the plates, then back at him. "the sun's almost gone."

"i know." he's already moving toward the glass doors that lead to the deck. "come on."

you follow him, and he doesn't wait for you to grab shoes. you slip off the barstool and just follow him outside. the air hits you immediately, cooler than this afternoon. salt-laced and clean. the sky is still holding onto the last traces of daylight, deep blue fading to violet at the horizon. the ocean sounds different. louder.

"oh my god," you breathe, stopping to look around. "this is—rafe, this is insane."

"you think so?" he says, and there's that slight curve to his mouth. he's watching you, not the view.

"you just— walk out here whenever you want?"

"pretty much."

you shake your head, laughing. the privilege of it is almost absurd. "you're so lucky. the beach back home is always packed with tourists."

"you can come here whenever you want," he says, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you like he's imagining you here, coming back, making this a habit. "you know that, right?"

"really?" you ask, your voice softer now.

"yeah, baby. any time."

you walk a little further, the water getting closer. the sand is soft and still warm from the day, giving slightly under your weight. it's quiet out here. just you and him and the sound of the ocean.

"wait," you say suddenly, stopping. "do you swim out here?"

he huffs a laugh. "mm, sometimes."

"at night?"

"yeah."

"that's terrifying."

"nah." he tugs you closer, his arm sliding around your waist. "it's peaceful. we should sometime."

"it's dark," you counter, but you're grinning now, leaning into him. "what if there's like a shark or something?"

"wouldn't stand a chance against me."

you burst out laughing, shoving at his chest. "you're ridiculous."

"i'm serious." he's grinning too now, catching your hand before you can pull away completely. "what— you think i'm lettin' a shark get you?"

"oh my god, stop—"

but he's already pulling you in, kissing you mid-laugh. his hand cups the back of your neck, and you melt into it immediately. his other hand finds the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. he tastes like salt and wine. when he pulls back you're both smiling, both a little breathless.

he kisses you again, softer this time. "hi," he murmurs, teasing.

you pull back just enough to look at him, feeling heat creep up your neck. "hi," you say sheepishly, and he grins before leaning in to kiss you again—quick pecks along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

you're still catching your breath when he pulls back to look at you. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, slow enough to make your stomach flip.

"jesus..." he murmurs, almost to himself. "look at you." the way he says it makes your cheeks heat up.

"c'mere."

"i'm already here."

"not close enough."

heat floods your face and you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do when he looks at you like that? he smiles into it immediately, both hands gripping your waist as you melt against him. when you finally pull back, he's still looking at you with that same expression.

"what am i gonna do with you, huh?" he murmurs.

you pull back and look out at the water. the last of the sunlight is turning everything gold. the wind picks up, and you shiver slightly. your bare feet are cold against the sand.

rafe doesn't say anything. he just pulls off his zip up and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest. it's warm from his body, and it swallows you—the sleeves falling past your wrists, the hem hitting mid-thigh. you wrap it around yourself and breathe in. 

"alright," he says, taking your hand. "let's go back in before you freeze."

you follow him back up the beach, your fingers laced with his. when you reach the deck you notice your shoes still sitting there by the door. right next to his, like they belong there.

the warmth of the house wraps around you when you step back inside. the dishes are still on the counter. he's already moving past that, gesturing toward the couch. "c'mere, baby."

he picks up the remote and scrolls through something on the tv. a movie flickers to life on the screen, but you're not really watching. you're watching him. the way he moves. the way he tosses the remote onto the coffee table like he's done it a thousand times. he settles beside you on the couch, and you don't hesitate. you shift closer immediately, tucking yourself against his side. his arm comes around you properly, his hand settling at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your ribs. the cotton of his shirt is soft beneath your palm. you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. it's faster than you expect.

"better?" he asks.

"much," you say.

he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. you turn slightly and catch his lips properly, and he makes a soft sound before pulling back. his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin there, and he's kissing you again before you can take a full breath.

this kiss is different. slower. he takes his time, pressing his lips to yours once, twice, then deeper—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you open for him. when he licks into your mouth, your stomach clenches and heat pools low between your thighs. you make a small sound against his mouth and he groans, pulling you closer.

his hand tightens on your neck—not rough, but firm. his other hand finds your waist and he's pulling you toward him, and you're moving without thinking, your knee sliding up onto the couch cushion.

suddenly you're half in his lap, your hands gripping his shoulders. he pulls you the rest of the way, adjusting you so you're straddling him properly. the kiss turns messy. his tongue slides against yours and he tastes like the wine from dinner, like salt air, like want. you press yourself against him and feel the hard line of his cock between your thighs where you need him most

his hands grip your hips and he pulls you tighter against him, harder. his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, and you whimper into his mouth, clenching around absolutely nothing.

"yeah?" he asks, and his voice is rough. "you like that?"

you nod, but it's not enough. you pull back just slightly, still straddling him, still breathing hard. your eyes meet his and for a second neither of you moves. you can feel the slight dampness between your legs, the way your panties are starting clinging to you. god, you're already wet for him and he hasn't even hardly touched you.

"please," you whisper, and your voice comes out small and broken and completely helpless. "i need you."

he watches you for a moment, and you can see him fighting it. fighting himself. and you're trembling slightly, still twitching against him, your hips moving in these tiny involuntary circles because you can't help it. you need friction. you need him.

"fuck, baby—" he pulls you back down, kissing you harder now, messier. like he's trying to devour you.

"need more," you whine against his mouth, the words coming out breathless and desperate. he groans into your neck, kissing along the line of your throat, his hands shaking slightly.

his free hand slides down your back, past your waist, and grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. you can feel exactly how much he wants you. the strain of his jeans, the hard heat of him pressing right where you need it most.

"please—" you say it against his mouth, just that one word, and he groans like you've actually hurt him.

for a moment it feels like it could go either way. like he could just keep going, like he could bend you over the back of this couch and—

but then he stops.

it's sudden enough that it takes your breath away. his hands still. his kiss gentles, though he keeps his mouth on yours for just a second longer. then he pulls back, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing is ragged.

"hey—" he says quietly. "look at me."

you're already looking at him, but he reaches up anyway and cups your face with both hands, his thumbs settling on your cheeks. he tilts your chin up slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. up close like this, you can see exactly how much restraint this is costing him. his pupils are blown, his breathing heavy, a flush creeping up his neck.

"gotta be good for me, alright?" he says, and his voice is rough. rough in a way that makes your stomach clench. "can you do that? be patient for me?"

be patient? wait? you're not sure you can sit here and not combust. you nod, but your eyes are already tracking down to his mouth. to the way his lips are swollen from kissing you, the slight shine on his mouth. you want to lean in and taste him again so badly your whole body aches with it. your hips shift slightly, just an inch, testing—

"look at me," he repeats, not unkindly, and you snap your gaze back to his immediately, but it takes actual effort. like your body doesn't want to listen to anything but the pull toward him.

"good girl," he murmurs, and the praise hits you somewhere deep. his thumbs trace your cheekbones, gentle now, tender. "we're gonna do this right. but not tonight, yeah? tonight you're just gonna sit with me."

you nod again because you can't speak. because you're trembling slightly, something hot buzzing just beneath your skin. and he's holding your face like you're something precious and the contradiction of it—the softness and the absolute control—is making you dizzy. some part of you is thinking how long you can actually wait before you lose your mind.

he kisses your forehead, then releases your face. his hand finds your waist instead and settle there.

"c'mon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. then your temple. then the corner of your mouth. his breathing is still heavy. "sit with me."

but when you shift to move beside him on the couch, he pulls you back into his lap instead. his arms wrap around you from behind, anchoring you against his chest. you can feel him beneath you, still hard, but he's resting his chin on your shoulder like this is enough. like just holding you like this is enough for right now.

the movie plays on. you're not watching it. you're not even pretending to watch it. you're hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies. his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, his hands occasionally drifting lower before he catches himself. his breathing is steady now, but you can feel his heartbeat. fast, still affected by what just happened between you.

after a while, he presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "you okay?" he murmurs.

"yeah,"

"good." another kiss, this time to the sensitive spot behind your ear. you feel it shoot straight down your spine. his hand tightens on your waist. he doesn’t make it easy.

you sit like that for a while, existing in this space between wanting and waiting. his breathing eventually steadies, but his hands don't stop moving, tracing patterns on your ribs, your waist, your back.

eventually, you shift position slightly, turning so you can rest your head in his lap. his hand immediately finds your hair, fingers threading through it gently, stroking from your crown down to the ends. you have no idea what's happening on screen anymore.

"mm, you're gettin' sleepy," he says after a while, his fingers still moving through your hair.

"'m not," you murmur, but your eyes are already closing.

"no? cuz it looks like it."

"but i'm awake," you protest, but your words are soft, slurring slightly.

his fingers keep moving through your hair, up and down, up and down, a small, knowing smiling playing on his lips.

"c'mon, baby," he says softly. "let's get you to bed."

you want to argue, but you're too tired. so you just nod, and he helps you sit up, his hand steadying you. your legs are a little unsteady. the darkness wraps around you. your bare feet are cold against the hardwood floor. but his hand is warm against the small of your back.

the bedroom is at the end of the hall. when he pushes the door open, you stop in the doorway for a second. clean lines, dark wood furniture, a massive bed with crisp white sheets. there's a watch box on the dresser, a book on the nightstand, a pair of his shoes by the closet door. it smells like him.

"bathroom's through there," he says, nodding toward a door on the far wall. his hand is still on your back.

you nod and cross the room. the bathroom door is slightly ajar, and when you push it open, the light flickers on automatically. it's beautiful. all white marble and clean glass. you step inside, your bare feet cold against the tile, and that's when you see it.

a toothbrush. sitting on the counter beside the sink. in your favorite color.

you freeze. your hand hovers over the counter. it's just a toothbrush. just plastic. but he bought this. he put it here. your eyes move to the folded fabric beside it. silk pajamas, soft and expensive. your size. you reach out and touch them, the material slipping through your fingers like water.

there are bottles lined up near the shower. you pick one up, turning it over in your hands. light and floral. the scent hits you immediately—something that reminds you of the perfume you wear on special occasions.

your hands are shaking slightly when you set it back down.

you hear him before you see him. his presence fills the doorway. when you turn, he's leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you.

your throat tightens.

he pushes off the doorframe and crosses to you slowly. his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest. you can feel the warmth of him. his chin rests on the top of your head.

"the toothbrush," you say. your voice sounds small. "the pajamas. the shampoo."

"yeah," he says simply.

"how long ago did you buy those?"

he's quiet for a second. "while," he says finally. "been thinkin' about you stayin' over for a bit."

you turn around in his arms to face him. his eyes are soft, patient.

"so you've been planning this," you say.

"yeah." he doesn't sound apologetic.

you've never had anyone be this thoughtful. this intentional. your ex-boyfriends never remembered how you took your coffee. never planned for you. never looked at you like you were something precious. something they wanted to keep.

"you okay with that?"

"yeah," you whisper. "yeah, i'm okay with that."

he kisses your hair once, soft and tender before letting you go. "go get ready," he murmurs. "i'll be in bed."

you nod and he leaves, and you're alone again with the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shampoo that smells like you.

you change into the silk pajamas (they fit perfectly, of course they do), and brush your teeth with the toothbrush he bought. when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are bright.

when you step back into the bedroom, he's already under the covers, propped up on one elbow. the lamp on his nightstand casts everything in warm gold. he's shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. for a second you just stand there.

his eyes follow you as you cross the room like he's taking his time appreciating the sight of you in pajamas he bought for you. in his room. in his house

"c'mere," he says, and you slip under the sheets beside him.

for a moment, you're not sure where to put yourself. your hands hover awkwardly.

then he huffs out a quiet laugh and his arm reaches across the space between you. he pulls you against his chest without hesitation, his hand splaying wide across your back. your bare skin meets his warmth, and you suck in a breath.

"there," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you—soft and slow and deep. once, twice. his hand slides up into your hair, tilting your face toward his. you make a small sound against his mouth, and he pulls you closer, his chest pressing against yours. deeper. like he's trying to commit the feeling of you to memory.

when he finally breaks the kiss, he's breathing harder. 

"goodnight, sweetheart." he whispers, and his voice is rough.

"goodnight, rafe." you murmur back, settling against him, your cheek pressed to his chest. your bare hand rests over his heart. you can feel it racing. his arm wraps around you properly now. you can feel his chin rest against the top of your head. his hand moves slowly up and down your back. he's still awake. still aware.

you're hyperaware of how little you're wearing. how close you are.

eventually, your breathing evens out, and you drift off like that—wrapped around him, his hand on your back, the sound of the ocean through the window.

you wake up slowly and for a second, you forget where you are. the ceiling isn’t quite right. the angle of the sun is wrong. then you remember. you're in his bed.

you turn your head, and he's right there. still asleep. his face is turned toward you on the pillow, one arm stretched out between you. his breathing is slow and even. his mouth is slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. his hair is messy, falling across his forehead. without his usual intensity, he looks younger. softer.

you've never seen him like this. the morning light catches on the stubble along his jaw, which is thicker this morning than it was last night. you want to reach out and touch him, but you're afraid to wake him.

slowly, carefully, you reach out anyway.

your fingers hover over his face for a second before you let them settle against his jaw. the stubble is rough under your fingertips, coarser than you expected. you trace the line of it, feather-light. his skin is warm. you move higher, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.

your fingers move to his temple, then his hairline, smoothing back the strands that have fallen across his forehead. you let your hand rest there for a moment, your palm against the side of his face.

and then it hits you all at once.

you're in love with him.

your heart kicks into overdrive, your hand still on his face, and you can't breathe. you're completely, irrevocably in love with him. this man who bought you a toothbrush and silk pajamas weeks ago. who remembered how you take your coffee. who kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. who's been planning to have you here all along.

he stirs.

it's small at first—just a shift in his breathing. then his eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, and he's looking right at you.

his mouth curves immediately.

"caught you," he says, his arm sliding around your waist. he pulls you closer.

heat floods your face. "no," you say anyway, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"no?" he repeats, his eyes sharper now. then he leans down and kisses you before you can deny it again. 

"mornin'," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.

"good morning," you say back.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand still on your back, his eyes dark. "what's goin' on in that head of yours?"

you shake your head. "nothing."

his eyes narrow slightly. his thumb traces slow circles on your skin—bare skin. 

"mm."

he studies you for another moment, then leans down and kisses you again—deeper this time. slower. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. you kiss him back, your fingers curling into his shoulder, and he makes a low sound. when you look at him, there's that slight curve to his mouth. but his eyes are darker than before.

"c'mere," he murmurs, and he's pulling you up to straddle his lap without breaking eye contact. his hands steady you at the hips, and then they move—sliding up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist beneath the thin silk. his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts and you suck in a breath.

"you're okay?" he asks.

"more than okay,".

he kisses you again, and you let yourself sink into it. your hands find his bare chest, his skin warm and solid beneath your palms. you can feel his heartbeat racing. his hand slides up your back, and suddenly the only thing between you is silk and the awareness of what's happening. the way your body fits against his. the way his hands know exactly where to touch you.

when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. "i want—" you start, and then you're not sure how to finish that sentence.

"i know," he says quietly. "but not yet. wanna do it right with you." you reply with a nod, even though what you want right now has nothing to do with right.

he brushes a strand of hair from your face. "c'mon," he murmurs. "let me take care of you. coffee?"

“yes please.”

he moves to get out of bed, and you follow the shift, adjusting slightly as he sits up, your legs still tangled with his. he disappears for a moment, and then you hear the soft pad of his footsteps in the hallway, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood.

when he appears in the doorway again, he's holding a mug in one hand—the same blue one from yesterday—and a small plate balanced in the other. still shirtless. still rumpled. his hair still falling across his forehead.

he sets the mug carefully on the nightstand. the plate follows, and then he just stands there for a second, looking at you. his gaze feels intimate, like he's looking at something that belongs to him.

"you look good in my bed,"

your face heats, and you're smiling sheepishly. "rafe—"

he sits on the edge of the mattress, and you shift closer without thinking. his hand finds your hair automatically, smoothing it back from your face. he stops, his hand stilling in your hair. his eyes move over your face.

you glance over and watch as steam curls lazily from the rim of the mug. you can smell it from here—rich and warm and sweet, exactly how you like it.

"still can’t believe you remembered the creamer," you murmur.

"’course i did." it's not a question. his hand slides down to cup your jaw. "c'mon. sit up."

you push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, and reach for the mug. it's warm in your hands. you take a sip, and it's perfect.

he doesn't ask if it's okay. he just watches you, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the sheets, his thumb moving in that slow rhythm. but his eyes don't leave your face.

you take another sip, and his mouth curves slightly.

"what?" you ask.

"nothin'." but he's still watching you.

you set the mug back on the nightstand and reach for the toast, breaking off a corner. you take a bite, and you wrinkle your nose slightly.

"oh, so that's how we're doing this," he says, and there's amusement in his voice. "you're gonna judge my old man breakfast?"

"i'm not judging," you say, but you're grinning. "i'm just observing. burnt toast and coffee. very... vintage of you."

he leans back slightly, his hand still on your thigh, and gives you a mock offended look. "vintage?"

"sorry, i meant to say geriatric."

"geriatric," he repeats, shaking his head. "you're callin' me geriatric while you're sitting in my bed eating the breakfast i made you?"

you bite your lip, trying not to smile. "when you put it like that—"

"so what does that make you?" he asks, leaning closer. his hand drifts higher on your thigh. "you're the one who likes old men, so what's that say about your taste?"

heat floods your cheeks. "my taste is clearly terrible."

"terrible, huh?" he's grinning now, that cocky smirk on his face. "you seemed to think my taste was pretty good last night on the couch."

"rafe—"

"what?" he says innocently. "i'm just sayin'."

you throw a pillow at him, and he catches it easily, laughing. but then he tosses it aside and leans over, kissing you softly. when he pulls back, he's still smiling.

"finish your breakfast, baby. before it gets cold," he says, his hand giving your thigh one last squeeze before he stands up and heads to the bathroom.

you watch him go, your heart still racing, and take another bite of the burnt toast.

he comes back a little while later, showered and almost dressed, and the morning light catches on the water droplets still clinging to his hair. you're still in bed, cradling the empty coffee mug, watching him move around the room.

"you alright?" he asks, pulling on a black tshirt.

"yeah," you say, and you mean it.

he bends down and kisses the top of your head, his hand lingering on your hair for a moment. "you have to be back soon?"

“i told my mom this afternoon.” the reminder of reality crashes down like cold water. you don't want to leave.

"mmm.” he says quietly, like he can read your mind, "you could text her. tell her you're stayin' another night."

your heart jumps for a moment, then another wave of reality hits you. "not sure that i’d be so lucky."

"worth a shot, yeah?" he sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "i want you here."

your throat tightens.

"i know," you whisper.

for a second, you let yourself imagine it. another morning. another cup of coffee. another night falling asleep with the windows open and the ocean just outside. he studies your face for a second before leaning in to kiss you again, slow this time. his thumb brushes your cheek when he pulls away.

"alright," he murmurs. "we'll worry about that later."

you nod. later can wait a little longer.

𝑎/𝑛: EEEEKKKKKK i love them so fucking much i can’t. i love love. i want to be love.

i’m willing to bet at least a few of you were wondering where a lil special something was… and trust me, i get it LOL. but i really wanted to focus on the emotional aspect of their relationship and make sure their weekend together paid off emotionally, rather than risk having that swallowed up by smut. before i even started writing, i knew i wanted the heart of this chapter to be reader realizing she’s completely in love with him.

that being said… i am planning to write a yummy smutty bonus that’s basically an alternate ending to stay a while. 🤭 so stay tuned!!!

please let me know what you guys think via comments and reblogs! pls pls pls feel free to send asks and requests as well! i promise i don’t bite ♡

He wore a pair of crisp, sky-blue cotton pyjamas, the top buttoned neatly to the throat. Michael was old school like that.

Without the stage makeup, the sharp of his cheekbones were softer, the famous cupid's bow of his lips relaxed but still a little pouty. He was so focused on the book, in front of him that he hadn’t realised your eyes were on him. The kids were finally in bed, and the Santa Barbra Valley was quite literally an oasis of pure and utter silence.

You lay on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching him, the sound of your pulse in your ear. The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:17 AM.

For six months, this had been your secret universe, Neverland, the kids, your research. Access to all the books you could ever want; because Michael wanted them too.

It hadn't been the fame that made you fall. You'd grown up with him on MTV like everyone else, had your own version of him blu-tacked to some adolescent wall in your head. But that person and this person were barely related.

This one read your work irrigation manuals for pleasure to better understand you and got genuinely despondent about your losses.

you were used to failed dates and one night stands that didn’t work out, so when Michael came around all dashing and interesting, you hadn't stood a chance of getting away from his gravitational pull.

He was a beyond perfect boyfriend; allowing you into intimate spaces with his kids, being soft with you romantically, cooking you dinner - albeit, not very fancy dinners — but it was what you both loved. The lack of care or pretence. His heart was always in the right place.

There would however, always be 12 dozen beautiful deep red roses on the counter in the main kitchen at Neverland for you, when you came home from a dig.

✧˖°.

Earlier that evening you'd been cross-legged on the library floor surrounded by plaster casts and field notes, a Triassic vertebra balanced in your palm; genuinely quite stressed about work… and the unraveling situation you found you could not control with Michael.

He could sense your stress and when he'd appeared in the doorway in his socks, two mugs of chamomile in hand, you felt your shoulders drop considerably.

"Is that bone from something that could have eaten me?"

You looked up. He was already looking at the bone with genuine concern.

"Probably not," you said. "It's a herbivore."

He looked quite petulantly disappointed that it wasn't some ravenous, crazed creature. He handed you your mug anyway and dropped down onto the floor beside you, crossing his legs, the chamomile balanced carefully in both hands while he peered at the vertebra like it might do something.

"How do you know it's a herbivore?"

"The teeth mostly. And the shape of the jaw."

"But you don't have the jaw."

"No."

"So you're guessing then?" He smirked at you, the smile lines around his mouth pronounced and feather fine.

You looked at him. "I'm inferring. From evidence we have collected, the context…. It's different."

He made a face that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced but was willing to let it go, and reached for one of the plaster casts.

He turned it over slowly in his long fingers, studying it from every angle, and something about the way he held it and how he reached up and pulled his reading glasses down from where they'd been pushed up on top of his head, settling them onto his nose, made your heart squeeze in your chest.

His eyes behind the lenses went enormous. Soft and dark and completely ardent, blinking down at two hundred million years of bone like it owed him an explanation.

He always touched your work like that. Like he'd been told what it cost you to bring it home. He was so fascinated by everything you did, and he usually asked such deep and intrinsic questions about it too; the conversation very rarely lingered on himself, he always flipped it around on you.

"What's this one?"

"Femur. Juvenile. About two hundred and twenty million years old."

He was quiet for a moment, genuinely sitting inside that number.

"Two hundred and twenty million," he repeated softly, more to himself than to you. He set it down gently. "And we're sitting here worrying about tabloids."

You laughed before you could stop yourself and he looked pleased — a little startled by it, like your laugh was a thing that still caught him off guard.

He stayed. Asked questions for nearly two hours, working through your field notes. he clearly had nowhere else to be and genuinely wanted to understand.

At some point he'd stretched out on his side on the rug, head propped in his hand, reading your annotations upside down and asking whether the scientist who'd disagreed with your dating method was being professionally jealous or just wrong.

"Both, probably," you'd said.

"Mm." He'd nodded gravely. "I know that feeling."

You'd been about to say something when small feet appeared in the doorway.

Prince stood there in his Star Wars pyjamas, eight years old and entirely unrepentant about the hour, holding a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire against his chest like it was going to grow wings and fly away.

"Daddy."

Michael turned his head. "Buddy, it's late—"

"You said you'd do the voices for the characters."

"I have company, baby."

"You did the 'maybe' face when you said it. The maybe face means yes."

You pressed your lips together very hard to try stop from laughing. Michael sat up and gave you a look that clearly communicated that he did not appreciate you finding this funny.

"The maybe face," he said flatly, not fully understanding Prince's made up concept.

Prince padded across the library and deposited the book in Michael's lap with a funny nonchalance that did not belong to a kid at that age. "Voldemort needs to be scary. Last time you made him sound like a good guy”

"He's a complex villain and I—"

"Daddyyyy” Prince whined.

Michael picked up the book. Looked at you expectantly, clearly wanting you to get him out of this scenario; that would likely last into the small hours of the night; Prince never fell asleep fast.

"Okay," he huffed, standing, and Prince immediately took his hand. As he passed to walk out of the door, he pressed a chaste kiss to the top of your head, warm and brief, there and gone before either of you had to overthink the softness of it. The domesticity.

Their voices disappeared down the hall. You could already hear Michael attempting something considerably more threatening than a butler.

You had sat for a moment listening to them with a small smile on your face, the chamomile tea stale and cold beside you.

✧˖°.

He’d come back into the bedroom later that evening with a soft smile on his face, clearly happy he’d been able to do that for his son. 

You had already climbed back into bed and lay there in the dark with the weight of all of your thoughts sitting heavy on your sternum; six months of a life you hadn't planned on, settling over you like sediment.

He had come so out of the blue, a whirlwind, well and truly. All grins and soft murmurs about how ‘pretty you were’ and that he ‘needed to take you out and learn more about archeology’. 

There were long conversations that stretched until dawn about lost cities and starving children, about music as a healing force, about the joy of him being able to grow his own fruits and vegetables without anyone there to interrupt him now, and how he couldn’t have ever had that before if it weren’t for Neverland. He loved the slow life now, there was no more touring or extravagant stress on his body, just peace.

You'd connected in a way that felt predestined, two oddly-shaped puzzle pieces from different boxes that somehow fit. He called you his "mirror soul."

But outside these gates…

"What if the fans find out?"

The words left your mouth quickly and quietly, like word vomit. Michael's finger, tracing a line of text, stilled. You inwardly rolled your eyes that he was trying to read such a stiff book at this hour; but this was Michael and he quite literally would read anything.

He didn't look up immediately. He slowly closed the book, using a velvet tassel to mark his place, and set it aside on the nightstand.

He took off his glasses, folded them neatly, and turned his head towards you. His dark eyes were almost amber in the lamplight.

"Then… they find out," he said, his voice a low, melodic rasp used only for these private hours.

A gentle smile touched his lips. "—and I want them to. I'm tired of hiding you away," He said, his hand slid over the covers to lightly touch yours that lay balanced on your side.

"You deserve to be shown off, to be in the light"

You pushed yourself up to sit, pulling your knees to your chest and your hand away from his.

The oversized MIT sweatshirt you wore swallowed you whole.

The silence stretched long enough to become its own kind of rebuttal to his sweet proposed gesture. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, but you could hear the slight emotional waver.

"Do you want to be with me, Y/N?" The question came out, no accusation in it yet, just something careful and exposed sitting underneath the words.

He was looking at you with intense, pleading eyes and you could see him doing the thing he did when he was bracing for impact; a stillness that moved through his whole body, like he'd drawn himself inward. Likely waiting to hear something he already suspected was coming.

"Because sometimes I feel like I am the only one who — " he stopped. Pressed his lips together. And then started again.

"I need you to tell me honestly. Because if this isn't what you want—"

"Michael, that's not what I—"

"Then what?" He snapped.

and there it was, just briefly, the hurt surfacing before he could smooth it back down. He shifted against the pillows, and the lamplight caught the angle of his jaw, tight with the effort of staying composed.

"Because I have been patient, and I have been careful to keep you out of the papers, and I have tried to give you every reason to feel safe here, and still you talk about this," He gestured between you both, exasperated. "like it is something you are waiting to escape from. Like I am something you are waiting to get away from."

"I'm not," you said, and the firmness in your own voice surprised you. "I promise you, I am not."

He looked at you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted, the hurt receding just slightly, making room for confusion. "Then why do you keep—"

"Because they'll eviscerate me." The fear tumbled out now, cold and slick, and once it started you couldn't seem to stop it.

"They'll find my academic records, they'll find pictures from my high school days and make fun of me, they'll call me a gold-digger, a nobody, they'll — they'll say I'm too plain, too ugly for you."

Your hands, curled up in the sleeves of your sweater, came up to the sides of your face.

"Your fans, they have an image of you. It's celestial. And I'm just a person really. Just a regular person. They'll find out how much older you are than me and they'll eat it up, and they'll get between us and cast doubt in your mind that maybe I am not the one—"

True tears started to brim in your eyes of the thought of being rinsed through in the tabloids, just like Michael had been most of his adult life.

The tension completely left his body at that point, his eyes no longer casting an accusatory and pained look. You looked up and found him watching you with an expression you hadn't seen before — it wasn’t hurt or guarded, something much softer and a little undone, like he'd been handed back something he thought he'd lost.

He understood now. It hadn't been about him at all.

His usually easy smile was settled in a patient line. He had listened until you ran out of breath, until the only sound was your shaky inhale. It was his turn now to make a point.

"C'mere," he said, a firm request, cutting off your spiral into despair. His voice had dropped another octave, an authority you'd only glimpsed in flashes before.

It was the voice of the man who commanded stadiums, not really the gentle soul who read bedtime stories to his children.

This was Michael in his late forties, a king in his own kingdom, and he was done with this ugly narrative that the press were constantly spinning about his celebrity.

You uncurled yourself and moved to the edge of the bed beside him. Instead of pulling you into an embrace, he took your face in both his hands. His palms were warm, his touch infinitely gentle, but his grip was unyielding.

"Look at me," he whispered. "Really look. Do you see a celestial being? Or do you see a man?"

You rolled your eyes and tried to pull out of his grasp but he held your face tighter.

"A man…" you said, moping.

"Uh-huh. A man who needs prescription glasses to read, who loves bad sci-fi movies, who gets nervous before going to the dentist? You see me. And I see you. The most beautiful, brilliant, confounding woman to ever walk into my chaos. And I will not let you speak about her that way."

He released your face and stood up in one fluid motion, extending a hand. "Get up."

"Michael… its late, where could we possibly be going?" You reluctantly whined and gave him your hand.

"Up. Now." The command was soft, but absolute.

You took his hand. He led you across the deep-pile carpet, to the far wall of the master suite, which was dominated by a magnificent, floor-to-ceiling antique mirror in a gilded frame.

He let go of your hand and, with a surprising strength and energy for almost 2am, began pulling large, decorative pillows from a nearby chaise lounge, arranging them in a semi-circle on the floor directly before the glass.

"Sit," he instructed, nodding to the pillows.

Feeling a confusing mix of vulnerability and a strange, thrilling charge, you sank down onto the cushions, sitting cross-legged. You were facing the mirror, your reflection wide-eyed and small in the sweatshirt.

He came behind you, a soft and oddly sweet vision in his blue pyjamas, and knelt close, his knees framing your hips.

You could feel the heat of his body through the thin cotton. He placed his hands on your shoulders, his gaze locking onto yours in the mirror.

"You see her?" he murmured, his lips beside your ear. His breath was warm, the air moving the hair beside your ear, tickling you slightly.

"That's the woman I fell for. Look at her."

You tried to look away, but his hands tightened slightly. "Look."

You met your own gaze. You saw the anxiety, the fear, and most importantly how lost you looked.

"She is a humanitarian," he whispered, his voice a sensual, rolling cadence. He began a slow, deep massage of your shoulders. "Her hands have touched artifacts thousands of years old. They've also held the hands of orphans in Nairobi. She has a mind like a diamond; precise, brilliant, and tough." One of his hands slid down your arm, his fingers tracing the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

"She has a laugh that sounds like wind chimes near a beach town. She argues with me about the socio-political and… pretty much debates in circles around me." He laughed warmly, and you felt the vibration of it against your back. It was always a welcome sound, his laugh. Laced with innocence that made your heart swell.

"Hell, I think you're the only one to ever be able to tell me i am wrong to my face"

His other hand left your shoulder and came around your front, splaying possessively over your lower belly, pulling you back snugly against his chest.

You could feel the firm plane of his torso, the steady beat of his heart against your back. His voice never wavered, a hypnotic, intimate sermon. He was so good at this, you'd fallen into his clutch now. He'd speak at charity galas and award ceremonies, calling attention to incredibly important causes with grace and ease. He always knew the right thing to say. All that wit and emotional intelligence, still intact under the cruel paradox of fame. The more it demanded of him, the more it took. Yet, here he was. Still here, and still trying; and with you.

"And this body…" he breathed into your ear, changing the subject. He nipped your lobe gently with his teeth. A sharp, sweet jolt went through you.

"This body is a masterpiece. It's strong. It carries her across dig sites and through laboratories."

His hand on your belly slid lower, pressing down through the thick fabric of your sweats and the sweatshirt. "It houses a fire of ambition that matches my own."

His fingers found the seam of your sweats, dipping beneath the waistband. They didn't dive lower, just rested there, a hot, promising weight on your pubic bone. Your breath hitched and your head fell back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.

"Eyes open, baby," he coaxed, his teeth grazing your earlobe again. "Watch. Watch me worship you."

You forced your eyes open. In the mirror, you saw the intimate tableau: you nestled back against him, your cheeks rosy.

Him, looking over your shoulder, his expression one of fierce, concentrated adoration. His famous features were set in lines of absolute certainty. His smile reached his eyes, and the lines there were accentuated in the lighting of his bedroom; adorable. Proof that he had smiled so much throughout his life and had lived so thoroughly.

His hand began to move. He rubbed slow, firm circles over the front of your sweats, the heel of his palm applying perfect pressure right over your clit. The fabric was a frustrating barrier, but the motion, combined with his words, his teeth on your ear, was overwhelmingly potent.

"They don't get to have an opinion," he said, his voice thickening. "They can have me when I put myself out there. But when I want to be private I will. I get you always, because you're mine… and no one else's"

He paused briefly, his eyes finding yours in the mirror, his breath quite shallow.

"-- And right now, I can feel my girls heat through two layers of clothing." He punctuated the statement by grinding his palm down harder, and a broken moan escaped you.

"And its so warm, and wet for me," You felt your hips gyrate slightly, without you even meaning. Your body just naturally gravitated to the pleasure, seeking more.

"That's it," he praised, his own breathing starting to deepen. "Yeah" his voice was breathy and low.

"Let me hear you. It's only me here with you, let yourself feel good."

His other hand came up to your chest, sliding under the bulk of the sweatshirt and your thin camisole beneath.

His cool, elegant fingers found your bare breast, cupping its weight, his thumb sweeping back and forth over your nipple until it peaked into a hard, aching point.

He pinched it gently, rolling it, and you arched against him, a whimper caught in your throat.

"See how beautiful you are?" he murmured, watching your reactions in the glass.

"See how you come alive? That's my doing. Why should we deny ourselves of this just because some journalists said so? No one else can have an impact on this."

The mixture of sensations were a driving delirium in your brain. The deliberate, rhythmic pressure through your sweats, the expert play of his fingers on your breast, the hot whisper of his words and the sharp little bites on your ear and neck. You were panting, your hands gripping his thighs where they bracketed you.

"Off," he commanded softly, his hand leaving your breast to hook into the waistband of your sweats and your panties beneath. "Lift up for me."

In a daze, you raised your hips. He peeled both the sweats and your simple cotton panties down your thighs in one smooth motion, leaving you bare from the waist down, the cool air a shock against your feverish skin. You felt yourself start to flush again realising you had not even bothered shaving. You gave him a helpless look in the mirror and he rolled his eyes and tutted.

"Aw c'mon now, you know i prefer you this way" the sound of his voice in your ear sent tingles shooting down your spine, making your cunt wetter. You could see your entrance glistening in the mirror, courtesy of the spotlights above you.

"So perfect f'me, so natural", he peppered kisses down your neck and back up again to your ear, the skin there now raised with goosebumps. "-- the way its meant to be"

He tossed the garments he'd been holding aside without a glance, his attention fully returned to the mirror.

His arm came back around you, his hand no longer hindered by fabric. His fingers, long and knowing, slid through your slick folds with a low, appreciative hum that vibrated through your back.

"So slick," he breathed. "So ready for me."

You were so wet for him that you could hear yourself, you didn't even bother look at what he was doing with his hands, the sensation already lighting a fire in your stomach.

He slide his his middle and ring fingers into you slowly and gently, the base of his hand now pushing at an angle against your clit. You let go of the breath you were holding and threw your head back. His free hand that had been roaming came up to hold your neck.

"Mm i love seeing you like this, how you respond to my touch" his hand gently left your neck and and pulled your face to a position where you could see yourself in the large ornate mirror again.

He gave you a shy little smile and continued on. The scene in front of you was obscene, and so diabolically dirty. He pulled his fingers out of you and a glistening string of wetness trailed away with it. You briefly eyed his face to see his reaction to this; his eyes drooping lightly, lustful and his bottom lip under painful pressure from where his teeth where digging into it.

He found your clit, already swollen and throbbing, and began to circle it with a torturously slow, wet precision, smearing around your arousal.

His touch was confident, dominant, leaving no room for insecurity or thought.

It was pure sensation, orchestrated by him. Your moans became continuous now, a low, desperate string of sounds—"Ohgod, oh, thatssogood, p-please…"

You watched, mesmerized and exposed, as his fingers worked you in the mirror. You saw your own face, eyes dark with pleasure, mouth slack.

his face also reflected, etched with an efficacious mix of love and lust, his eyes glued to where his hand disappeared between your legs. The visual was as arousing as the physical touch, a feedback loop of escalating need.

"I'll continue since you said please, m'girl", feigned innocence in his low voice,

Driven by a surge of boldness, you reached one hand back, fumbling behind you. You found the firm swell of his erection in his pyjama pants.

He was so hard for you, straining against the pale blue cotton. You palmed him through the fabric, and a ragged, guttural groan was torn from his throat, his rhythm faltering for a second.

"is this really turning you on, Michael?" you managed to gasp, squeezing him gently.

In the mirror, you saw his eyes slam shut for a moment, his jaw tightening.

When they opened, they burned with a new, hungrier fire. He increased the pace of his fingers, then now sliding inside and out at a rapid pace, curling just so. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Y-yeah, God —," he gritted out, his composed, sensual narration cracking under the strain of his own desire.

"And it's not enough. Touching you like this… watching you… it's heaven, but it's not enough."

He withdrew his fingers suddenly, making you whine in protest. He brought them to his lips, never breaking eye contact in the mirror, and slowly, deliberately, sucked your taste from them.

The act was so blatantly carnal, so far from the shy, boyish figure of public imagination, it stole the air from your lungs.

He didn't let the moment at the mirror linger. The charge was too high, the need too direct. With a soft groan that was more command than sound, he stood, pulling you up with him. Your legs were unsteady, but his arm had a strong hold around your waist, guiding you the few steps back to the edge of the vast bed.

"Here," he murmured, his voice already thick with intent.

He sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled you to stand between his spread knees.

The sky-blue pyjamas were a stark, innocent contrast to the dark hunger in his eyes.

"Riiiiight here, baby."

His hands went to your bare waist, and tugged at the hem of the thick sweatshirt you were wearing.

"Let's get this off," he said sweetly.

The cool air of the room kissed your bare skin on your legs, but the heat of his gaze was enough to keep you warm.

"Arms up." You obeyed, and he pulled the sweater and the thin camisole over your head, leaving you utterly exposed before him. You felt quite silly in this moment, and very…observed. In the past, the sex had mostly been in the dark, you feeling shy and uneasy about your imperfections. Michael was lean, petite, but strong and very beautiful. You were not always sure you lived up to that level of…perfection.

You knew deep down and rationally that no one was perfect and even he struggled at times, his weight fluctuating and his vitiligo… but he still had such a presence, an aura that preceded his natural and physical beauty.

He let out a long, slow breath.

"My God."

A violent wave of shyness crashed over you. You crossed your arms over your chest, wanting to shrink, to hide. He caught your wrists gently but firmly.

"No," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "No hiding. Not from me. Not ever." He guided your hands down to your sides, then leaned forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your belly. His hands slid up to cradle your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp.

"I want to see the pleasure on your face when it happens. And I want you to see it on mine. We're not hiding anything tonight" He said, his features soft.

"I am not willing to hide you anymore, either."

He laid back on the bed, propping himself up on the mountain of pillows, his legs still hanging off the side. He beckoned you with a curl of his finger.

"Come here. Sit on the bed, facing me. Show me how you touch yourself."

Trembling, you climbed onto the bed, kneeling a few feet from him. The lamplight painted your skin in gold, highlighting every tremor.

You couldn't look at him. Your gaze dropped to the rumpled duvet.

"Eyes on me, baby," he coaxed, his voice a sensual rasp. He was already working on the buttons of his pyjama top. He shrugged it off, revealing the lean, pale plane of his torso. It was mostly pale with a sprinkling of darker little vitiligo patches; a beautiful painted galaxy on his skin.

He then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his bottoms.

"C'monnn, keep looking at me."

You forced your eyes up as he pushed the blue cotton down his hips. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed a deep, ruddy dark pink at its tip. A prominent vein ran along its length, and a clear bead of fluid welled at the slit. As much as it was cliche, he really was breathtaking. An intimate masculine sight.

He took himself in hand, giving one long, slow stroke from base to tip, a low hiss escaping his teeth.

"See what you do to me? How much I have been strainin'" he swallowed slightly, his mouth clearly dry. "This is all yours."

He began to stroke himself quite delicately, you observed, but not without showcasing rhythm.

His fist moved with a soft, wet sound, his thumb smearing the pre-cum over his swollen tip.

"Your turn," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Touch yourself. Let me see you do it."

Your hand felt like a stranger's as you brought it down between your legs. The first contact of your own fingers on your slick, swollen flesh made you jerk. You touched your clit, a feather-light circle, and a shaky sigh escaped you. You tried to look away, your cheeks burning.

"Please look at me though," he said, his voice gaining a ragged, desperate edge. His strokes on himself sped up slightly.

"I want to see it in your eyes. I want to see the second it feels good. C'mon, m'girl. For me."

You met his gaze. The intensity there; the love, the lust, the sheer want…it was as if he were getting on his knees and begging from the ground for this.

You pressed harder, circling your clit with more purpose. A soft moan built in the back of your throat.

"That's it," he encouraged, his own breathing deepening. He shifted, spreading his legs wider, giving you a full, unobstructed view of his hand working his cock.

The sight was mesmerizingly lewd. You could see the way his legs tensed in pleasure, and how he worked his body to try get himself further to the precipice; his movements becoming slightly uncoordinated.

"Yeah, just like that. You're so wet for me. I can hear it. Let me hear you moan, too."

You did. A low, continuous whimper started as you fell into a rhythm, two fingers sliding through your own arousal before returning to circle your clit. You were panting, your free hand clutching at the duvet.

"Use your fingers inside," he guided, his voice hoarse. "Imagine it's me. Curl them a lil'. Ahh… just like that."

He quickened the motion on himself, his fist twisting on the upstroke, his hand angled in the perfect way that could nudge him closer to his peak.

He was fucking his own hand now, his hips lifting off the bed to meet each stroke. His hair was falling in his face, no longer silky and straight at the front where his real hair was peaking out, it looked soft, wet and coiled.

"You see how hard you make me? You see how bad I need you? How much I crave you? I'm gonna come so hard for you, baby. But I need to see you. I need to watch you come for me first."

You were so close hearing him talk this way. It wasn't that he wasn't always dirty, he most definitely was.

The fever pitch within you was tightening, burning. The visual of him — the man you'd really grown to adore, on his back, jerking himself off with desperate, hungry strokes while he watched you pleasure yourself, was the most insane aphrodisiac imaginable.

But the vulnerability was overwhelming. As the first flutters of your orgasm began to spark, you tried to turn your head, to hide your face in the crook of your arm.

"NO." The word was a cracked, desperate plea. He stopped stroking himself, his hand stilling, gripping the base of his cock tightly, the veins on his pale hands standing out.

"Please. Look at me. Please. I need your eyes. It's the only thing that–" he looked down at himself and started to slowly but surely pump his cock in his hands again "… ahh… it's the only thing that makes it real. Don't hide from me. Let me in."

The raw, broken need in his voice shattered your last barrier. You turned your face back to him, your eyes swimming with tears of overwhelming sensation and emotion. You held his needy gaze.

Not all of the dirtiness of the situation, but his need, that's what sent you right off of the edge.

With a cry out loud of "fuck", you came.

Your body bowed and jittered, your fingers working frantically as waves of intense, pulsing fulfilment racked you. You held his eyes through it all, watching as your climax reflected in his; a mirror of lust and ecstasy.

The sight of you coming while holding his gaze destroyed him.

"Fuu–!" he spluttered, cutting himself off before he could yell out much more; his hips moving off of the bed, and his legs straight and tense with concentration. His hand became a blur on his cock, his strokes short, brutal, and frantic.

"Your--Mouth. Open your mouth. Now. Gonna give it to you. Take it. Swallow it!"

You were dazed, submissive, floating on the aftermath. You crawled forward on your knees, your lips parting obediently just inches from the throbbing head of his cock.

He didn't wait. With a final, guttural shout — "AHH-GOD! I love–" …he came.

The first powerful jet hit the back of your throat, hot and salty. The next pulses painted your tongue, filled your mouth, thick and copious.

He kept stroking himself through it, muttering "thats it m'girl" milking every last drop, his body trembling violently. 

Those two words sat in your chest, lodged like a wooden stake, splinters and all. 

“I love” — and then nothing. 

Swallowed back down in the chaos of it, gone before you could be sure of what you'd heard. You tried to hold onto the present moment, the heat of him, the weight of the room around you, but your mind kept snagging on it, turning it over like one of your fossils. 

He had never said it. Not once in six months. And maybe he hadn't said it now either. Maybe it had been nothing. Maybe the wanting of it was making you hear things that weren't there.

His eyes were screwed shut in intense release, but then they flew open, locking onto yours as he fed his release into your mouth, ensuring you saw the utter, vulnerable surrender on his face.

Despite the come in your mouth, and how it dribbled over your lips and chin, he smirked and said something you were really not expecting and had never heard before from him in this context. He was usually quite old school.

"Kiss me," he panted, his voice wrecked. "please."

You did. The act was profoundly submissive, deeply intimate. He must have been able to taste himself on your lips.

Spent, he fell backwards deeper onto the bed, his softening cock resting against his belly. He was breathing like he'd run a marathon, sweat glistening on his chest. He reached for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.

"Damn that's taking more out of me nowadays than i thought," he whispered, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.

He pulled you down, into what you expected to be another kiss, but instead moved to rest your head on his sweaty chest, right over his pounding heart. He wrapped his arms around you, his hands finding somewhere to hold on your body, the way they always did, as he already knew the shape of you by heart.

"Y'hear that pounding? Genuinely that's how you make me feel, always" he murmured, the bliss of the intimacy evident in his voice.

You turned your head and looked up at him through your eyelashes, completely dumfounded by the entire outcome of the evening. 

The question was still there, quiet and persistent, curled up and pressing around your heart. You weren't going to ask him. You weren't ready to know the answer, and you suspected, from the way he'd swallowed it back down, that neither was he.

As the clock flickered over to the 3am mark, he spoke again more quietly; "i need them to know you, Y/N. how special you are."

You nodded solemnly, not exactly thrilled about the situation, but it meant that you wouldn't have to be so careful anymore, and that you could begin living a life that truly was in the light, and not as much in the shadows.

The silence of the valley returned and all you could smell was him, musky and a bit sweaty with a powdery aftershave peaking through.

This evening proved you had sacred proof of a trust that maybe no headline could ever touch.

He steps closer, slanting the large umbrella until you are entirely enclosed within his space, the clean scent of cedarwood and expensive starch instantly neutralizing the damp smell of the campus. "I was worried about you. Let’s get you out of the cold."

He doesn't ask how the exam went. He simply takes your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulder, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the straps with an easy, effortless strength that tells you he’s been waiting to do it all day.

When you get to his car, the passenger side is already warm, the heater set to a perfect, comfortable temperature. Sitting in the cup holder is a hot container of the specific ginger-pork soup from the deli near his apartment.

"I figured you would be hungry," he murmurs, closing your door gently before walking around to the driver's side.

You sit there as the car pulls out into the city traffic, the windshield wipers clicking a rhythmic, soothing pattern against the glass.

You look at the soup, then down at your own hands, and before you can even process the sudden, overwhelming relief of being taken care of, a hot tear slips down your cheek, followed by another.

Kento doesn't slam on the brakes, nor does he offer a clumsy, panicked speech. He simply keeps his left hand steady on the steering wheel, while his right hand moves across the center console, his long, warm fingers wrapping completely around your trembling hand. He squeezes once, a solid, anchoring pressure that lets you cry until the highway opens up.

"You worked hard," he says softly into the quiet car. "That is more than enough."

..............

The apartment is always quiet. Kento’s home is a reflection of the man himself, minimalist, organized, and deeply intentional. There are no dishes left in the sink, no loud televisions blaring, no unpredictable shifts in temperature. It is a sanctuary.

But the habit of being a burden is a hard thing to unlearn.

An hour later, you’re sitting on the edge of his plush cream sofa, your fingers nervously picking at the hem of one of his oversized navy sweaters.

He steps out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs of barley tea. He sets them on the table, his eyes instantly tracking the tense, curled-up posture of your shoulders.

"I can clean the kitchen," you say quickly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I know I’m bothering you by staying over on a weeknight when you have that audit tomorrow. I'll get up early so I'm not in your way—"

He doesn't answer immediately. He slowly drops to one knee on the dark wood floor right in front of you, bringing himself down to your eye level.

He reaches up, his large, cool hands gently capturing your wrists, uncurling your frantic fingers from the sweater fabric and holding them steady within his palms.

"Who taught you," Kento asks, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, heavy seriousness that makes your breath catch, "that existing requires an apology?"

You freeze, your lips parting but no sound coming out.

"You are not a project, Y/N," he says softly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against the inside of your wrist.

"You are not a chore that needs to be managed before I can rest. You don't have to earn kindness with me. Your presence in this space is entirely permitted, at any hour, under any condition."

The silence that follows is thick, but for the first time in months, it doesn't feel heavy. It feels like a space where you are allowed to simply take up room.

As the final semester bleeds into winter, you begin to realize that Kento’s love isn't something he speaks; it’s something he executes with a quiet, terrifying efficiency.

He is the man who always waits in the idling car until he hears the click of your apartment deadbolt before he drives away into the midnight fog.

He is the man whose glove compartment is a curated survival kit for your chaotic schedule, containing your specific brand of painkillers, spare hair ties, a portable charger, and the exact honey candies you like when your throat is dry from presentations.

You find yourself falling asleep everywhere around him.

You fall asleep in his home office while he’s quietly reviewing legal briefs, your head resting against his spare desk. You fall asleep thirty minutes into movie nights, your cheek pressed against his broad shoulder. You fall asleep in the car before he even exits the parking garage.

And he never wakes you.

Every single time, you wake up hours later to the realization that you’ve been lifted with a smooth, iron-clad carefulness and tucked securely into his bed.

The lights are always dimmed, the ambient temperature adjusted, and his heavy charcoal winter coat is always draped over your shoulders if you’ve fallen asleep on the move.

One evening, after a grocery run where you had mindlessly thrown three separate bags of sugary snacks into the cart out of pure stress, you look down to find him quietly adding fresh berries, spinach, and a high-end iron supplement beside your items.

"You'll thank me later," he murmurs, his face entirely serious as he checks the expiration date on a carton of milk.

"Probably," you laugh softly, leaning your head against his upper arm for a split second, feeling the immense, solid warmth of him.

Later that night, you’re sitting on the living room rug, your legs stretched out under his low table, watching him read a financial journal under the soft amber light of the floor lamp.

He’s wearing his reading glasses, his shirt collar unbuttoned by two notches, his large hand rhythmically turning the pages with a slow, deliberate slowness.

You look at the quiet room, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the total absence of chaos in your mind.

You used to think love was supposed to be exciting, a series of high-stakes dramas and reckless fires that left you burnt out and breathless.

But as you look at Kento, you realize that excitement is a young, unstable thing.

What you actually needed was this. You needed the quiet hours. You needed the certainty that someone was holding the perimeter so you could finally close your eyes.

"Kento," you call out quietly.

He doesn't look up immediately, but his hand pauses on the edge of the page. "Yes?"

"Nothing," you whisper, sliding down further against the couch cushions, a small, breathtakingly content smile touching your lips. "Just... thank you."

A very small, nearly imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth behind his journal. He adjusts his glasses, his voice dropping into that low, protective rumble that makes your whole world feel safe.

"Go to sleep, Y/N. I’ll wake you when it’s time."

Thank you for reading till last. I'm working on another fic right now, that's why I almost forgot to post here.