summary: Some blurbs about being in a age gap relationship with our silver fox.
warnings: Age-gap relationship obvi.
a/n: Gimme that old man right now, like I need him.
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“Sweetheart!” Jack calls out to you from the living room. “We really need to get going now.”
“M’ready!” you yell back at him, spraying some perfume before giving yourself one last glance over in the mirror.
It’s date night.
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.
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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.
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: age gap (reader is mentioned as 23, rafe as 39), established relationship, older boyfriend!rafe, reader insert (no y/n), secret relationship, lying to parents, class differences, kissing, making out, groping, grinding, dirty talk, praise, alcohol (wine), domestic intimacy.
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: your first sleepover at older boyfriend!rafe’s house is full of tiny discoveries: a junk drawer, a half-finished cup of coffee, your favorite creamer in his fridge, and all the little ways he was already making room for you long before you ever walked through the front door.
𝑎/𝑛: genuinely by the time i finished writing and did my final proofread of this, i couldn’t help but giggle and kick my feet. i really don’t love the idea of writing fan fictions about real people, but some parts of this feels more like what i’d imagine drew to be like and less like canon rafe if he was older. he’s pretty soft here, but i love him this way. i hope you guys do too ♡
𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 8.4k
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 ♡
pairing: mature era mj x established girlfriend! reader
Summary: A palaeontologist six months into a secret life at Neverland finds herself lying awake beside the man she's fallen completely in love with, terrified of what the world will do to her when it finds out. What begins as a quiet fear spiralling into an argument becomes something far more intimate — a night that strips them both down to nothing.
word count: 6.3k
tags: smut, age gap, mutual masturbation, masturbation in front of a mirror, cumshot, yes u are a swallower (soz if u aint), teasing, mike loves your body and wants to see allllll of you, some slight domesticity at the start, MIKE IN HIS READING GLASSES WEYHEY,
authors note; based on this request. i hope u guys enjoy this ... first mature mike fic... kinda nervous. let’s pretend that in his late 40s mike was still living at neverland and that those fuck ass allegations never existed.
if there are any grave errors in this then u know it was a wee tired gal who wrote it.
₊˚ෆ
18+ MINORS DNU!
✩ 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗽 cast a soft yellow glow across the rumpled duvet. Michael sat propped against a mountain of glittery pillows, his reading glasses perched low on his nose, a thick, leather-bound book open in his slender hands.
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.
nanami kento; an older boyfriend was all what you needed
Before Kento, you used to think love was supposed to be a loud, volatile thing.
You thought it was measured in the sharp, dizzying spikes of adrenaline after a text left on read, the performative grand gestures that felt more like a stage production than a partnership, and the exhausting requirement to always be on, to be interesting, to be productive, to be small enough not to inconvenience anyone.
Then you hit your final year of college, and the world simply became too heavy to carry.
Between the crushing weight of graduation theses, unpaid internship applications, and the constant, suffocating background noise of family expectations, you had entirely run yourself into the ground.
You spent your days living on black coffee and adrenaline, your room a chaotic battlefield of highlighters and printed drafts, your chest permanently tight with the feeling that you were constantly lagging behind.
It’s a rainy evening when the damp wood of the college library finally expels you. You walk out of your final mid-semester seminar convinced you’ve failed entirely, your throat dry, your eyes burning from staring at academic texts for twelve hours straight.
You stand under the concrete awning of the campus building, watching the heavy rain turn the pavement into a dark, slick mirror.
Your first instinct is to pull out your phone and send a frantic, defensive apology. I'm sorry, I know you're busy at the firm, I can just take the train—
A pair of polished leather shoes steps into the perimeter of your vision.
You lift your head. Kento is standing there. He’s still in his charcoal-grey three-piece suit from his corporate office, his hair perfectly parted, a large, heavy black umbrella held steadily over his head.
The rain is dripping fiercely off the outer edges of the fabric, but his broad shoulders are entirely dry, his light hazel eyes fixing on your tired face behind his signature frames.
"Kento," you breathe out, your voice small, instantly defensive. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you wait. My seminar ran late and I—"
"I wasn't worried about myself," Kento cuts you off, his deep, baritone voice dropping into that steady, unyielding cadence that instantly grounds the air around you.
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.
she looks so peaceful curled up in my bed, breathing slow and soft, completely unaware of how much mommy wants her. i love slipping under the covers behind her when she’s already deep in sleep, pressing my body against her warm back.
my hand slides under her dusty pink shirt, gently cupping one soft breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until it tightens even in her dreams. i kiss the back of her neck, light little presses of my lips, while my fingers trail lower... slipping beneath the waistband of her sleep shorts.
she’s so warm and soft between her legs. even asleep, her body knows mommy. she gets wet so easily for me, slick coating my fingers as i gently stroke her pretty pussy. slow, lazy circles around her clit, never enough to wake her right away.
sometimes she makes the sweetest little sounds—tiny whimpers, soft sighs, her hips twitching faintly against my hand while she’s still lost in sleep. that’s when i get bolder. i slide one finger inside her, then two, fucking her gently while i whisper against her ear:
“shhh, baby... it’s just mommy. go back to sleep. let me take care of this needy little pussy.”
when she starts to stir, when her breathing changes and those sleepy moans get louder, i press my strap against her from behind, pull aside her shorts, and ease inside her. slow and deep. i fuck her softly while she’s half-asleep, one hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds, the other rubbing her clit in steady circles.
i love the moment she finally wakes up properly. confused, overwhelmed, and already so close, realizing mommy has been using her for who knows how long.
“that’s it, babygirl,” i whisper as i thrust deeper. “mommy couldn’t wait. you looked too pretty sleeping... i had to have you.”
i don’t stop until she comes for me, trembling, whimpering, still hazy with sleep and pleasure. meanwhile i hold her tight and tell her what a good, helpless little girl she is for mommy.
summary: 4 years have passed since the party of your first year, and you finally moved on from the asshole that left you all alone. But just when you finally thought you had control of your life, your new job at PTMC came with a surprise.
cw: Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ Material, Canon typical medical things, recreational alcohol use, Age Gap relationship, abuse of power dynamics, mentions of drug abuse, protected sex, oral sex (f! receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, enemies to friends to lovers???, healthy communication!
wc: 7.1k
this one is VERY conversation heavy! so there will be a lot of dialogue
TIMELINE:
pregrad events take place during s1 of the pitt, meaning Langdon is an R4. postgrad events take place during s2 of the pitt, Langdon is divorced and repeated his R4 year.
Fast forward 3 long, slow years later. You were finally an MS4. Things have changed a lot since the events of your first year in med school. You were happier (once you got over the whole Langdon ordeal), you weren’t a loser (there were other people like you) and you had made new friends. You met this other girl that your friend group recruited, her name was Victoria Javadi, she was a year below you, and her parents were doctors at PTMC. She was a child prodigy like you were. She was freshly eighteen, and was taking the world by storm. You had been rounding at the hospital at Carnegie Mellon, which brought up a lot of memories (mostly you staying with Kenzie after drunk injuries or things of the likes.) However, you liked being there. You had rounded with Peds, Neurology, OBGYN, Urology, and now ER. You found yourself closely aligned with emergency medicine. The high stakes, constantly busy work life was ideal for your adhd brain. You constantly needed something to do, and the ER did just that. There was never a dull moment in the ER, from colds to traumas, one could never guess what could come up that day.
You and Kim were together at Carnegie’s ER, and the other girls were scattered across the winds. Victoria was ‘fortunate’ enough to be at PTMC with her parents, which she constantly complained about. Part of you was grateful your parents were far away, and weren’t overbearing doctors with crazy standards who also worked at your workplace. You hadn’t thought much about your family since you left for college, and your friends made you think about reaching out. They were all close with their families, but you weren’t. You had a complicated past with your family, and you thought that you’d be better off alone. You had gotten this far without them, even when they were convinced you wouldn’t make it without them. You shook off the thought, you didn’t need anyone but yourself.
Your days were long, you were mostly in the hospital on full shifts, starting early and ending lateish. Most cases you got were mundane, nonspecific stomach pains or mild sport injuries, but every now and then you got your nonspecific case turned fatal. You’ve had stomach aches turned into appendicitis, abdominal aortic aneurysms, chest pain turned STEMI, all the fun, scary stuff. You weren’t one to cherry pick your cases, but to pick an urgent case every once in a while to keep things fun wasn’t so wrong, was it? You were about to clock out of a particularly busy shift, finishing up the last of your charting before heading back.
“25 yo male presented with 7/10 non specific abdominal pain, no hx, upon exam patient showed signs of rebound tenderness in the right lower quadrant at McBurney’s point, further workup ordered, radiology findings consistent with acute appendicitis, surgery consulted. Patient prepped for the OR at 14:22, care transferred.”
You then switched to another chart, rereading the findings and previous notes.
“32yo Female presented with acute cellulitis on right foot, no Hx, medications or allergies, boundaries marked with marker. Patient monitored, and infection spread within 30 minutes. Labs obtained, CBC, CMP, Lactate, chem, CRP, and cultures. Vitals unstable, consistent with Sepsis. Vanco and Keflex hung via IV, code SEPSIS initiated. Admitted to ICU for further monitoring.”
BP: 88/54
HR: 142
RR: 24
SP02: 97%
WBC 13000
You sighed, checking how many charts you had left. You had three charts left, luckily not needing too much detail. Charting would be the end of you, you were convinced. You knew you had to do it, but since the doctors had done most of it for you, it was more for the experience. In a few months, this would be you. A lot of charting, more responsibility, you couldn’t be more excited to graduate. But for now, back to charting so you could get home.
“14yo female presented with flu like symptoms: N/V x 3, febrile at 102.5, asthenia, general lethargy, decreased appetite. History obtained by mother: No prominent Hx, 1000mg acetaminophen given at 11:30am. day 2 of sx, sx worsened overnight. Patient was picked up early from school with fever yesterday, and woke up with higher temp despite tylenol given. Patient continues to feel unwell, not tolerating PO. Flu/Covid/Rsv/Strep test done, BG checked, CBC CMP obtained. Bicarb 15 BG 85, given 1L fluids, FLU A positive. Discharged on home care, sent 4mg Zofran use PRN, reinforced need to return if no urine output or still not tolerating PO after meds.”
And so on.
Once you finally wrapped up charting, and Kim wrapped up hers, the two of you left the hospital after a long week of work.
You and the girls were planning a night out at a local restaurant/bar. The plan was simple, you’d grab a few drinks, some dinner, and talk about the various tasks of the week. Your friend group tried to catch up at least once a week, considering you all worked in different departments at different hospitals, and barely saw each other much anymore.
So you went back to the dorm, shed the scrubs and hit the shower. You didn’t even want to think about the amount of fluids you probably had on your body at the moment. You shampooed your hair twice, making sure absolutely nothing stuck, then scrubbed your body down twice, especially arms. Once you were dry, you changed into the going out wear. You picked out a black top and a pair of jeans, with a chunky belt and jewelry. You fixed up your hair, letting it down after a long day of having it up, and did some basic maintenance makeup. Once you were done, Kim traded you for the space while you waited.
You studied up on your textbook while she got ready, reviewing your diseases and chemistry. It was all boring stuff you already knew, however you had to make sure your mind still remembered it all. Once Kim emerged from the bathroom, you grabbed your keys and headed out. You had to pick Victoria up, but besides her, everyone else had their car or was carpooling.
You started the engine, putting some music on and started the drive to Victoria’s place. You texted her:
——————
Vic Javadi
you: omw to get you
Vic: 👍
——————
You turned the corner onto her street, and you saw her standing outside her building.
“Get in!” You rolled down the window, and she got into the backseat of your car.
“Thanks for the pickup, my mom was offering to drive me, and I would rather die.” She sighed in relief.
“No problem! Let’s get going.” You already knew the way, so you turned the corner and drove to the restaurant. It was a small place, tucked away in a corner of the street, right where the street and avenue met. It was a cozy dive bar/diner where you guys frequent for your weekly debriefs. The owners were close with a lot of the med students, since it was close to the med dorms. You parked on the street over, seeming like it was particularly busy tonight. It was a Friday night after all.
The three of you entered, asked for Sara and they led you over.
“Hey guys!” Sara greeted, standing up for hugs. Everyone greeted one another and sat down at the table. Just in time, the waitress came by.
“Hi ladies, how are we tonight!” Everyone’s favorite waitress, Pearl, greeted you all. “Weekly catchup?”
“As always.”
“Awesome. What are we thinking of for drinks? Same old?” She flipped open her notepad.
“Yep.”
“One bloody mary for Sara, a coke and rum for Kristen, a moscow mule for Renee, and a strawberry daiquiri for Kim. A pepsi for Victoria, and a vodka cranberry.” She repeated, and you all agreed.
“I’m impressed, you remembered.” Kim chuckled.
“Well, you guys have been coming here for a year now, I would hope I would.” She shrugged.
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll be back with drinks, and we can get food orders down.” She turned and left, leaving the table to chat. The weekly catchups were mainly an excuse to get drinks, but you liked catching up on recent gossip and drama.
“So, anything new in paradise?” Sara asks.
“Unfortunately, not much. I had a sepsis patient today, so that’s always fun.” You responded.
“I had to consult surgery for a bottle up the rectum.” Renee shrugged, sipping her water.
“Who hasn’t?” Kim added.
“Is this normal?” Victoria asked.
“Extremely, i’m surprised you don’t know.”
“They probably don’t give MS3s rectum cases.” Kristin suggested.
“Probably not. They love giving it to MS4s though. And if it’s shallow enough, you gotta dig up there yourself. Sara chuckled.
“Oh god don’t remind me. That and breaking up shit with our hands." You groaned.
“Guys! We’re at the table.” Victoria interrupted
“We’re also med students. This is normal conversation.”
“I guess.” She sighed. At that moment, Pearl came out with drinks.
“Vodka Cran, Coke and Rum, Daiquiri, Mule, Bloody Mary, and the Pepsi.” She set them all down in front of you each. “And are we ready for food orders?”
“Yeah, wings for the table, a burger for Sara and Renee, a Caesar salad for Kim, a vodka pasta, and a quesadilla for Vic and Kris.”
“Alright! I’ll get that started.” Pearl turned, and went to put the orders in.
“Where were we?”
“breaking shit with hands, but I think we can move on from that.”
“Oh yeah. Let’s please.” Vic shuddered.
“So, anything fun that you guys got to jump on? Any procedures?”
“Nothing too fun, got to jump in on a few traumas.” Kim shrugged, sipping her drink.
“Per usual. They never give us too much fun.” Sara agreed.
“Most of us are doctors in a few months anyways, so we’ll live.” Kris added, and you all nodded. “Minus Vic.”
“You guys are leaving me all alone.” She rolled her eyes.
“Should’ve been a year ahead, be more of a genius.” You teased, and she gasped.
“Being bullied by a fellow child prodigy! The betrayal.”
“Never trust anyone, Javadi.”
“I won’t.” She rolled her eyes, but a clear smile was on her face.
“Alright kids, settle down.” Sara teased.
“We are not kids, thank you.” You scoffed.
“Javadi can’t even drink yet, and you are almost three years younger than us.
“God forbid a girl is smart, jeez.” Victoria rolled her eyes.
“Y’all are such haters.”
“It’s because we love you.” Kim responded.
“Yeah yeah whatever.” You rolled your eyes. You knew it was true, they do love you. But it was always good to mess with them for a bit.
The group talked about various occurrences throughout the week, including cases, recent material, or any drama that needed catching up on. The food has arrived, and the girls shared stories over the greasy, but still delicious food.
“No, because tell me why the farmers are always the scariest cases. Especially when they say ‘their wife made them come in.’ Absolutely scary, because they’re always having the biggest fucking STEMI of their lives. I see a farmer come in with chest pain, I activate that code STEMI.” Sara shared, and you all agreed.
“No you’re so right, I live in fear of farmers, and I thank the lord their wives made them come in because if not, there would be a lot more dead farmers.” Kristin added.
“So true because tell me why they undermine their symptoms so much!” Victoria asked
“Like they have 10/10 chest pain and they’re shrugging it off like nothing. Give me that strength.”
“Oh, I had a farmer come in for a bullseye today, said it was nothing and that his wife was freaking out. Like sir, no!” You shared.
“Farmers are brave souls, and I wish we had more patients with their level of resistance, so that way we wouldn’t be flooded all the time!” Kim added, and you all agreed.
“No literally.” You nodded, waving your hand for the check. Pearl came over, already on hand.
“Alright yall, are we splitting?”
“No, my mom insisted on paying.” Victoria rolled her eyes, but you all were just fine with it (considering most of you were broke).
“Thanks Mama Javadi.” Kim smiled, and Victoria seemed embarrassed as she tapped it.
“Alright, you guys have a great rest of your night.” Pearl grabbed the receipt, and handed Victoria a copy.
“Thanks Pearl.”
“Bye!” She waved, and the rest of you got up and walked out. Everyone said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. You dropped Victoria off, then drove you and Kim back to the dorms. Once you arrived, you kicked your shoes off, changed into comfortable clothes and went straight to bed.
——————————-
A few months later was match day. It was the day every 4th year med student both dreaded and anticipated. It was the day that tells you your future, where you’re gonna work for the rest of your life. It was pretty intense, you could easily admit that. You were extremely nervous, you could barely sleep the night before, because you knew at around 3pm today you would get the decision that would alter your life. Match day was big, and you were praying for that ER Medicine match so hard. You wanted nothing more than to work in the ER, and you had spent four years solidifying that match.
Luckily for you, you had friends over at PTMC. You obviously had Victoria’s parents, but you also had your family friend Dr Jack Abbot over there. Your dad and Jack were in the army together, and then your dad moved away when he got back to civilian life, Abbot went to Pittsburgh, and lost connection and such. Growing up, when your parents were away, you’d stay with Jack if he wasn’t on deployment. In all honesty, you saw Jack as more of a father than your actual dad. He saw you like his daughter, you had a good bond growing up, and you reconnected when you came to Pittsburgh for college.
He was currently a night shift attending at PTMC, so he had decent say in your recommendations and whether they wanted you or not. Obviously, he wanted you to come join him, so he promised to write you a rec, and talked to your attending at Carnegie about writing you one as well. You knew you had a decent shot, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t shitting bricks at the thought of opening that email. Kim was shooting for an OBGYN residency, so she was nervous as fuck as well. Everyone was, but you felt like you were the most stressed of all. Which is ironic because you likely had the most shot to get what you want out of your entire group due to…circumstances and opportunities.
Regardless, you were nervous. Everyone knew what day it was, including hospital staff, so they were supportive. Everyone was cheering you on and supporting you, but oh god was it stressful. You felt like everyone’s eyes were on you, like you would be shamed if you didn’t succeed. This was the thing about being a prodigy, you’re so used to succeeding, that the idea of failure (or not meeting your own high expectations) was horrifying. You wouldn’t know what you’d do if you didn’t get the match in ER, you hadn’t thought that far yet. But on the plus side, there was a party tonight. The MS4 graduation party.
The same party that you had your virginity taken by a douchebag 3 years ago.
But this time, it was your graduation. It was time to celebrate you, and your friends (and the rest of your graduating class). Nobody else, you didn’t have to think about anyone, anything, nothing besides you, your match and your graduation. All moments led up to this, to the big event. The moment you’ve been waiting 8 years for. And nothing was going to take that moment away from you, not this time. You wouldn’t let it
So here you were, the entire friend group was together at Sara’s apartment, emails ready and family on the phone. You had been reaching Jack, but he said he needed a moment. There was a bottle of champagne ready, and everyone was nervously ranting to their families about how nervous they were, and their families were so supportive back it made your stomach ache. Your phone was still empty, no text from Jack, no call, nothing. He wouldn’t miss this for you, would he? You hoped not, he promised he would be there when you opened that letter. It was 2:55, five minutes until the email drop. You were pacing slightly, and Kim noticed.
“Hasn’t he called?”
“Not yet…he’s a doctor. Busy guy.” You waved it off, but deep down you were worried. But that was until you felt a vibration in your pocket. You quickly grabbed it.
ONE MISSED CALL FROM: Jack Abbot
“Fuck.” You quickly dialed him back, and he picked up.
“Hey kid, sorry it took me a bit. I was getting ready for work, but I have an hour before the shift.” He explained.
“No worries. Jesus, Jack I’m nervous.”
“I getcha, it’s always nervewrecking to wait for things like this. But you’re super smart, I know you’ll place exactly where you want.”
“Thanks.”
“Deep breaths kiddo.” That's when you got a ping from the college. Match results are in.
“GUYS! ITS OUT!”
“Okay okay, three, two, one!” Everyone opened, and a lot of screaming erupted.
“HOLY FUCK I GOT IN!” Kim screamed for joy, her mom crying over the phone. “I GOT MY OB MATCH!”
“What about you kid?” Jack asked, as you nervously opened the email, and when you saw your match, you felt like you were about to cry.
Congratulations! Your match is: EMERGENCY MEDICINE AT PITTSBURGH TRAUMA MEDICAL CENTER - DAY SHIFT
“I DID IT!” You hugged Kim, and she hugged you back.
“Good job kid, I’m proud of ya. Where’d you match?”
“Day shift at PTMC!” You cheered, and you could hear the pride over the phone.
“Awesome job, kid. My good friend runs the day shift, I’ve told him all about you.”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe it.” Tears ran down your face, and you wiped them up. Meanwhile Sara popped the champagne.
“Did everyone get their dream match?” There were yeses all across the board. “We’re doctors!” Sara cheered, pouring everyone champagne.
“Go celebrate, kid. You’ve earned it. And I’ll be seeing you at work very soon.”
“Bye Jack, thank you.”
“I’m proud of you.” He said before hanging up. The rest of you gathered around one another and drank champagne.
—-------------------------
After the graduation party, you and Kim went to sign a lease at the apartment you both liked. You started building furniture, organizing your things, and making the apartment presentable. You used that period in between when your job started and classes ended, making sure everything was set and ready for you guys before your first days at work started. You both went shopping for better equipment, upgrading your stethoscopes and such. In the mail, you were also sent your ER issued zipup, which was the true sign of it being official. To say you were excited was an understatement, because you were basically counting the days down until your first day, and before you knew it, it would arrive.
A few weeks later, the day had finally come. The new freshly graduated med students started their residencies. You were already getting ready for work, awake bright and early to look good for it. You put your hair up in a claw clip, wore your ER jacket, and had a bag packed from the night before. You were beaming, basically bouncing out the door and into your car. You had your stethoscope around your neck, and were ready for your first day. PTMC was closeby, luckily for you, so the drive was short. The first thing you noticed was how much more spacious the ER was, it was huge.
“Can I help you?” A voice came from far away, a heavy accent. You looked around, and saw a middle aged woman with blonde hair looking at you funny.
“Yes! Hi, I’m-”
“Hey kiddo.” You heard a voice from behind you, which you realized was Jack.
“Hi Jack!” You hugged him.
“Who’s this, Dr Abbot?” The woman asked.
“This, Dana, is the girl who’s basically my daughter, the one I was telling you about? She’s your new resident.” He explained to the woman, who you now knew was named Dana.
“Oh! Come here sweetheart, I’ll give you the story.” She waved you over, and you followed. “First of all, here’s your badge, this is you, correct?” She held out a badge with your photo and name on it, the letters MD next to it still felt surreal.
“Yeah.” She then clipped it onto your jacket pocket. You followed her to a secluded hallway, where you saw a bunch of lockers.
“This is where you hold your stuff, your locker is any of these open ones.” You picked one out, and put your bag in it. “Then there’s the scrub machine, go change into your scrubs then find me. I’m Dana, I’m the charge nurse around here.” She explained, then walked back to the nurses station. You had the machine dispense scrubs for you, and then went to change. They were all black, plain and simple. You clipped your badge to your pant pocket, and then put your clothes in the locker before putting in your code. You returned to the nurses station, and Dana found you.
“Alright, so the nurses here are: Perlah, Princess, Donnie, Mateo, and Jesse.” She pointed each of them out, each of them giving you a wave. “Donnie is an NP so he can treat patients as well. Next, your fellow doctors. She grabbed a man by the sleeve, slowing him down. “This is your attending.”
“Hi, I’m Doctor Robinavich, but everyone calls me Dr Robby.” He greeted, plain and simple. “You’re Abbot’s girl, no?”
“Correct.” You nodded, and he took note.
“Welcome to the Pitt.”
“Next, you have your fellow residents, you have Dr Cassie McKay, Dr Mel King, Dr Trinity Santos, Dr Samira Mohan, and a fellow new grad, Dr Whitaker.” She pointed out the other doctors, who were all around the board, they gave waves.
“Hey Dana, uh Robby told me to ask you-” You looked at the guy, he had an MD badge, but his name wasn’t said. But you took one closer look, and…oh my god.
There was no way.
Brown hair, blue eyes. You’d recognize those eyes anywhere. There’s no way…it couldn’t be-
“Dr Langdon! Good to see you, dear, this is Dr Frank Langdon.”
“Nice to meet…you.” His eyes widened for a moment, but then looked away. He clearly noticed you, your name, the MD in your badge. He noticed it all.
“Uh huh, same goes.” You quickly responded.
“Anyways, here’s how it works around here. We have a board, I assign you patients. We have three wings, central, south and north. Our trauma bays are clearly marked, charting computers are here at the home base.” She started, pointing at the signs that said TRAUMA 1, 2 and 3.
“Anything you do, you present it to an attending, including tests, meds, everything. We also do treatment in triage if things are minor. Likelihood is you’ll work back here, maybe with a R2 or 3. If you’re free, get to charting, believe me the last thing you want is to be here overtime doing charting. Oh, and you might have Med students with you, not sure yet.” She suggested, and you nodded. “And last thing, be safe. We get some nutjobs here, so if anything feels unsafe, trust yourself and get help. We’re all here to help each other, okay?” She patted your shoulder.
“You’ll do great, kid.”
“Thanks.” You went to look for your name on the assignment board, and grabbed your designated IPAD. You were still baffled, THE Frank Langdon, was working here of all places? What luck you had. But you’d have to deal with that later, because right now called for learning about your patients.
You looked through the tablet, seeing mostly mundane cases, boarders, and it seemed you had two patients coming in to start. One was a 5 year old with flu like symptoms and shortness of breath, says she was satting low at triage so they sent her back, and a 37 year old man with a possible wrist fracture. By order of triage, you went to see the kid first.
Kelly Pierce - C10
Central 10. First case, you got this.
You put on a mask, and walked into the room.
“Hi, is this Kelly?” You turned to grab sanitizer, seeing Jesse already at bedside.
“She was satting at 88 on room air, gave her a mask.”
“Thank you Jesse.” You nodded at him, and he stepped out once she was settled.
“Alright, and I assume you’re mom?” You asked the woman who was holding the girl.
“Yep. Anna.”
“Nice to meet you both, sorry it’s under these circumstances, but I’m the doctor taking care of you today, what brought you in?” You opened the chart on the tablet.
“Yeah, so Kelly had been having a bit of a cough recently, and I wasn’t too concerned at first, but recently she’s been getting worse. The thing that made us come in was because she was having a hard time breathing, and sounded like she was wheezing.” The mom explained, and you wrote this down.
Chief Complaint: SOB
“Okay, before the wheezing, did she have any other symptoms, fever, runny nose, any signs of being in pain, stomach ache, headache, has she been eating less, less energetic than normal or anything that’s not usually her?” You asked.
“Yeah, she had came home from school with a low fever, the uh, nurse said to keep an eye on it.”
“Do you remember the number at all?”
“Yeah, like 100.7 or something. Nothing above 100.” She spoke, her words tired.
“Okay, anything else?”
“Yeah, she’s had a runny nose, she’s been eating less, and she’s had less energy than normal.”
“Okay, and are her vaccines up to date?” The mom nodded.
“Okay, do you mind if I take a listen?” You asked, taking your stethoscope off your neck. She shook her head, so you went ahead.
“Hi Kelly, this might feel a little cold.” You warned her before you took a listen to her lungs. “Big breath in for me.” She then inhaled as much as her little lungs allowed.
There was certainly some wheezing, you could hear it clear as day. “Once more.” You then listened to her heart, which was nice and strong.
“Okay mom, so I do hear the wheezing you’re talking about.” You continued with an abdominal exam, noting no pain. “Is she asthmatic at all?” You shone your penlight in her throat, checking for any signs of strep, which looked good. There was some redness, probably post nasal drip.
“No, I had asthma so we’ve had her checked for it.”
“Okay, so here’s my thoughts, mom.” You started, mentally preparing the list of possible diagnoses for this little girl. You took the mask off for a moment. “I want to see what her oxygen levels are without this so I can assess a baseline, and once she shows any signs of struggle, i’ll put it back on.”
So you waited, and for a moment she was fine. But then you heard the wheezing come on, and the monitor reflected that. You took a quick listen to it, hearing the wheezing clearer without the oxygen treatment. You put the mask back on.
“Okay, so I am a bit concerned here that she’s not able to breathe well on her own, so here’s what we think about in cases like these.” You sat down on the roller stool, making everything clear.
“With younger children, a common thing we see with these symptoms is something called RSV, Respiratory Syncytial Virus. I’m sure you’ve heard of it, because most babies get the vaccine early on because of how dangerous it is in babies.” You started, and she followed.
“Now, everyone can get RSV, adults, babies, but also kids her age. But it’s typically more concerning in kids under six because of its affect on the lungs. RSV typically can start out with cold symptoms, and it only really shows up when you start to have these scary symptoms. But, RSV can also develop into Bronchitis and Pneumonia, so I want to rule those two out. So here’s what I want to do for her.” You put down your tablet for a moment.
“I want to keep her on oxygen, and I want to run a few tests. First, I want to do a chest xray, because that will show if there is pneumonia or bronchitis. Secondly, I want to swab her for a bunch of viruses and infections. I want to check Strep, covid, flu A and B, as well as RSV. And finally, I want to do some basic bloodwork, check for any infections, or any other red flags. How does that sound?”
“Yeah, that’s fine, just please help her.”
“I will make sure she gets the best care, alright? I’m gonna go talk to my supervising doctor, he might come by and talk to you guys, and we’ll get this process started as soon as possible. She will need to change into a gown, so I’ll have a nurse bring one.” You stood up, taking your gloves off and throwing them out.
“Thank you.”
“Of course.” You responded, heading out. You went to go find Robby, and when you did, you presented the case.
“Dr Robby, do you have a moment?”
“Yes, what can I help with?”
“Just need the okay on a case. 5 year old female presents with fever, cold like symptoms but prominent shortness of breath. Oxygen is at the mid 80s on room air, I have her on a mask right now.”
“What did your exam show?”
“Wheezing. No history of asthma, checked by her PCP.”
“Okay, and your thoughts?”
“Multi viral swab, Flu AB, Covid, RSV, Strep. Chest xray to rule out pneumonia, CBC and CMP to check for any other infection markers. All findings are consistent with RSV, but I need a swab to confirm.”
“Get onto it, you have my go ahead. And I’ll go check on her as well.”
“Central 10.” You told him, and you went off to put the orders in and chart. Once you had them in, you asked Princess for help.
“Hey Princess? Do you have a sec?”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“I need a multi viral swab and CBC CMP for Central 10, and I put in for a chest xray.”
“Yeah, I gotcha.” She went to grab the supplies, and you thanked her. You then went to chart, before checking in on your neck patient.
“Sorry about the wait Mr…Simons?”
“It’s alright.”
“So what brought you in today?”
“It’s the stupidest shit ever. I was fixing my car, and the thing holding it up fell on me.”
You were about to respond, and then you realized what happened.
“I-I’m sorry, the car fell on you?”
“Well, yeah. I was able to get out from underneath but…”
“It fell on your arm…? Or…?”
“Nah, on my body too.” He said so calmly, it scared you.
“Okay…if you’ll excuse me.” You stepped out, and then hauled ass to Robby.
“Robby, we need a trauma bay open right now!”
“What happened?”
“My guy with the broken arm? He just admitted his whole car fell on his body, and claims to be fine.”
“Ooh, that’s not good. Get him in trauma 1. Dana! I’m moving North 4 into trauma 1, we have a trauma!” You went to get him a wheelchair, and tried to explain.
“Sir, we just need to evaluate you for further injuries, can you sit down so we can move you?”
“I can walk.”
“No, please sit.” You spoke firmly, moving him into trauma 1.”
“37 year old male, came in with complaint of his wrist hurting, but upon further questioning admitted his car fell on him.”
“I’m not in-ah wait…fuck…ow.” He groaned, grasping at his chest. Everyone in the trauma bay just got a lot more serious. Everyone put on their trauma gear on and got to work. One of the nurses sheared his clothes, and you were on the EFAST.
“Good sliding on the left, and…no sliding on the right.”
“Alright, prep for a chest tube.” Robby told the room, and people started grabbing the tools for it. The meds were drawn, and you were tasked with helping Langdon with the intubation. You two worked in a silent rhythm as the intubation was made, and Robby did the chest tube.
“Output is good. Garcia is on her way. And ortho will take care of the ribs.” Robby stood up, and looked at you with approval. “Good catch.” He took off his trauma goggles and drape. Then a woman came in, looking ready for war.
“Yoyo! The party can start now.”
“Bitch I am the party. Who’s the newbie? Fresh grad meat?”
“Yeah I’m-”
“I’m Dr Garcia, i’m with surgery.” She introduced herself. “And this patient is now mine, later suckers.” She wheeled him out with the nurses.
“She’s cool. I like her.” You commented.
“Uh huh. Can I talk to you, real quick? Break room?”
“Guessing I don’t have a choice?”
“Nope.” He walked out, disposing of his trauma gear and entered the break room, and you followed. Once you two were alone, he broke the silence.
“So…”
“So what, Frank?”
“So, this is awkward.” He tapped his foot, jittery as always.
“No shit, you asked me here.”
“Right, okay. I’m gonna lay it flat here, I know what we had in the-”
“What we had??” You chuckled, trying to hold back the pent up anger you had at this man.
“Yes, our…relations.”
“What, you mean the part where you knowingly took my virginity and then fucking ran away never to be seen again?” You crossed your arms, leaning against the counter.
“Yes, and just our weird relationship in med school overall. I just want to apologize for that, for everything. I was…young and stupid.” He began, and as much as you wanted to scream at him for all the emotional pain he gave you, part of you wanted to hear him out.
“Clearly, we both were. Young, stupid and drunk.” You sighed, the memory wasn’t fond.
“And that’s not an excuse for what I did, because leaving you like that was horrible of me. It was hurtful, dehumanizing, and I totally get if you’re mad at me for it.” He continued, and you already noticed how mature he was being. Maybe people were able to change.
“But I do want you to know I’m different now.”
“Clearly, I’ve heard things about you and i’ve only been in this ER for an hour.”
“Okay, here. I’ll tell you everything that’s happened since med school.”
“Oh-you don’t owe me anything.”
“But I do. So let me. After med school, I became an ER doc here. I met a woman whom I loved very much, I got married, had a kid, tweaked my back, got addicted to benzos, got clean from benzos, then got divorced.” He summarized his life, and you were just shocked. “So, yeah my life isn’t as perfect as it was.”
Him? The goody two shoes womanizer, a drug addict?
“I-wow…I'm so sorry.” You didn’t know what to say in all fairness.
“Yeah, a lot. But…I'm clean now, I've matured, and I just wanted to explain and clear everything. Because look, I abandoned you because I made a stupid choice, and I never forgave myself for it. Nobody deserves that, especially you.” He sighed, it was clear he was being honest, and you appreciated that.
“Well, I’m glad you realize that.”
“And now that we’re gonna work together, I want everything to be clear. I want our relationship to be professional, and I knew leaving those stones unturned would make that difficult, hence why I’m talking to you about it.”
“I appreciate it, Frank. I really do.” You looked up at him, still slightly skeptical. You got a moment to really look at him, and you realize that he’s barely aged. Four years later and he still looks 27. Still good, still…hot. You didn’t like it. It reminded you of the unfond memories, even if the sex was good.
“So, are we good? Or at least good enough to continue with our lives?”
“Yeah, yeah we’re good.”
Oh, good you two were.
————————————
Turns out, Frank Langdon still doesn’t mind them younger. It seemed like he got off on the power dynamic between the two of you, the senior resident and the new grad. Just like he got off on it in med school.
In the first few months of your working at PTMC, fate had brought you two back together in slow ways. Started with being paired up in traumas, to then being on cases with each other, then things shifted. You fell back into that playful dynamic you two had in med school, only you two were doctors now. The casual banter and easy flow of your friendship grew with time, and what could you say?
Old habits die hard.
And that’s how you ended up in Frank Langdon’s apartment on a Friday night.
It started off innocently, a bottle of wine and catching up, nothing wrong there. But a few glasses of wine in, and with a small push, the two of you didn’t need much to end up in a tangle of limbs on the couch. He pulled you on his lap, holding your hips with the same grip he did that first time years ago, with that same need.
“You promise you won’t ditch me this time?”
“You can stab me personally if I do.” He kissed your collarbone. God the way he looked at you, like you were the only woman in the world. You always liked that about him, he had a way of making you feel special, even though he was an asshole in school. You could tell he felt guilty, because he was tripping over himself trying to prove himself to be a better person.
“I will hold you to that, Doctor Langdon.” You tilted his face up, and went to kiss him again. The way he kissed you now was so different to how it used to be, this time you felt appreciated. He took his time with you, nothing felt rushed or out of place, everything felt right. He felt right, even if you knew it wasn’t.
“May god strike me down.” He kissed down your neck, to your collarbone, he unclipped your bra from behind with fingers of practiced ease. “God, how did I mess up so bad?” He muttered, kneeling down and picked you off the ground with ease. He held you with your legs around his waist as he carried you into his bedroom. He placed you down gently, slipping your pants down your legs, leaving you bare in nothing but your panties. He slipped his shirt off, still taking good care of his body, it seemed.
He climbed onto the bed, his hands spreading your knees apart. “Let me take care of you. I’ve learned plenty about taking care of women since med school.” He spoke softly, settling himself between your legs.
This was new.
You let it happen, you let him slip your panties off, you let him curl his fingers inside you, and you let him eat you out like he had been starved for years.
You’d give him one thing, he did get pretty good. The head he was giving you was probably the best you’ve gotten (not that it was saying much but…it was really good.) His fingers curled in just the right way that made you see starts, and his tongue did just the right motion to give your clit the stimulation it needed. He had you right where he wanted, and you didn’t want to be anywhere else.
“You’re so gorgeous like this.” He praised, and you just curled your fingers around his hair more.
“Please-oh fuck…don’t stop.” And he didn’t, he kept his pace that same, slow yet deep pace that made you want to melt. He was knuckle deep in you and his tongue was working overtime, and he looked sexy as fuck doing it. He would play a game of edging where every time he noticed you were getting close, he’d slow down just to drag it out. He loved that he had power over you, but he loved more that he didn’t even need to use it to get you like this.
“Frank…come on, please.” You whimpered, begging him for release. And he just hummed, speeding up just slightly. When you came, you came hard, your orgasm crashing over you.
“Fucking gorgeous.” He muttered, kissing your thigh before coming up. He then stood up for a moment, taking his pants off. Once he had them aside, he wasted no time in rolling a condom on and grabbing your legs. He held your legs over his shoulders, and his hands on your hips. He thrusted into you deep, each hit to your cervix a reminder, an apology, and a confession. He wanted you to forgive him, and maybe this was the final step to completing that forgiveness.
There was something about Frank Langdon that made you realize how much a person can change, how maybe he was the right person, just at the wrong time.
Maybe. The thinking was for another time, right now, you’d allow yourself this moment of pleasure. So you locked back into reality, the reality that was him, being with him.
“Frank-fuck…”
“I know, baby, me too.” He said in between pants, his hips making deep, purposeful movements. The way he fucked you was so different from in the past, he paid attention now. He noticed your little faces and mannerisms, and he adapted. This time, he cared. Really cared, this time. He was focused on making you feel good, and not just himself. The new version of Frank Langdon was one you liked, one you could get used to. So when you came, he came with you. And for a moment, time stopped. For that moment, you and him were breathing in perfect sync, just basking in the afterglow.
“I’m here to stay, baby. I promise.” He muttered.
And this time? you believed it.
———————————————————————
sorry the smut wasn’t as detailed, i wanted to focus on their dynamic more :)
