── .✦ mirror mirror
pairing: mature era mj x established girlfriend! reader
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.
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