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itsmangonottango · 2 years

Note

babe- yes. nobody's stopping you. do it. oh your asking me who? harry. him and you like this in ootp/hbp. ootp were he's tired of everything and snaps at you, and or hbp were he unintentionally ignores you because of the book and you get tired of his 'strange' behavior and you snap at him for not being a good boyfriend- i'll leave it there, you finish it <3

Letdown Countdown

PAIRING: Harry Potter x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: When loving becomes tiring. || kinda based on this scene and this.

WORDS: 4.1k

WARNING(S): cursing, arguments, angst

A/N: lyn, baby, thank you for this request. i needed angst. i’m so sorry this took long but here it is jsjdiw i hope it’s what you had in mind ;)) || also experimenting with a different writing style kfjrieiw

[NAVIGATION] [MASTERLIST]

It’s ten o’clock in the morning.

It’s a good day. She sees the disheveled boy in the doorway, his eyes watching everyone in the room curiously and all logic goes out and her arms are around him, tears of relief streaming down her face as she laughs more to herself than to anyone in particular. He’s angry, his eyes filled with something far from tears — he is furious. Angry, even.

But it’s still a good day, it always will be if he’s within reach. It’s still a good day even when he’s mad. After all, he has every right to be; the luxury of feeling is what the world owes him if not the truth. She could only watch as he said everything he’s been keeping to himself.

It was hard to get him alone the next couple of days, but she finally had the chance on one late night when they both found themselves seated in the table, glasses of water right in front of them.

“You’re a year older,” she says, not wanting to throw him off with the same worried questions everyone’s asked the days before. “I think that’s cool.”

“It’s haunting, really,” he says with a laugh to relieve whatever tension sat between them. “Sorry I was a bit — you know — when I first came back.”

“A bit salty? Yeah, that’s alright,” she says as well, and soon the two laughed together. For her, it wasn’t hard to love Harry. Not when he looked at her in the way she had always wanted to be looked at; not when on the off chance that he does smile, he happens to be the only thing she wanted to see. “Sorry I didn’t write to you — not that I didn’t want to. We weren’t allowed to tell you much, you know.”

She looks at her wristwatch. Surprisingly, nine p.m. has long passed.

“I know, I'm sorry.”

Silence again. She reaches out to hurriedly sip on her glass of water, watching him through the glass end of the cup. He’s staring at the fireplace, seemingly oblivious to her gaze and so she sets down her glass and turns to him with a smile.

“Hey, what’s bothering you?”

He only shakes his head in response and tells her it’s nothing.

“Come on,” she says, digging her hands into her pockets. A lint comes out, and so she searches her other pocket. “Listen,” she starts again, “I’d give you a penny so I could say ‘penny for your thoughts’ and the next best thing would be ‘nickel for your thoughts’ but I only have a sickle so . . . sickle for your thoughts?”

That smile again.

“That surely sounds better than a dime for my thoughts and I normally don’t take prices for my worries but . . . I’ll take it.”

“Perfect,” she says, tossing the tiny coin she got from her pocket to the table. He puts his hand on the coin, sliding it off the edge of the said table and slipping it into his own pocket. “Shoot.”

He talked and she listened — it’s a good day.

She’s there for him, she always is.

Harry and [Y/N]. It’s always been this way for as long as she can remember. Despite the defeats they constantly face, she loves him just as she loves the first time they shared that knowing look in a room full of people. She loves everything, especially the day they became each other's on that one fated night of the Ball, young love being more than just young love. It is love; it is love whenever she catches him looking for no valid reason at all. Love is everything in between.

She loves that he constantly looks after the people around him. She loves that he's spontaneous, that you never know what he's going to do next. She loves that he's hers, just as she's his.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“How many dreams now?” she asks him.

“Eight, give or take.” Harry shifts in his seat, adjusting his glasses to have something to do. She knows it’s more than that.

“You have to keep taking Occlumency with Snape, you have to tell Dumbledore!”

“I always have to do things, don’t I?” he says, but he’s staring at the fireplace, eyes unfocused. There’s no answer to that. At least, none she could answer.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Maybe it's just a trick,” she says in panicked breaths as Harry rummages through his trunk for his cloak. He isn't so fond of this suggestion, and she knows it. “Harry, listen to me.” She reaches out to touch his wrist, but he only shakes it away.

“A trick?” he spats bitterly, facing her with a scowl on his face. “My godfather could die, [Y/N]. Think about it! He might be. . .” She knows what he's worried about. “I just need to check, alright? I need to check. I need to get to that fireplace now. What, I’m s’pposed to let seven days pass and be a helpless child? Just — for once, could you please just let me be? Can you do that just this once?”

She loves that he constantly looks after the people around him, loves that his loved ones are his topmost priority.

There's nothing else she could do, and so she nods. She wants to tell him to not do it, that she could see all the many ways this could go wrong, but she knows he has a clear idea of what he's getting himself into. “Okay,” she says under her breath. “But I want to help.”

He looks like he's about to argue, but he eventually gives in and nods, albeit hesitantly. She could've sworn she saw a shadow of guilt cross his face as they left the common room.

Then came the time for them to ride the thestrals. She could feel all the hair stand up on her neck, but she looks at him and a bit of her fear melts away. She’s beyond terrified, but she trusts him. They exchange a knowing look before leaving, and it was enough to give her the push.

She loves that he's spontaneous, that you never know what he's going to do next.

And they kick off the ground.

They were going to what could possibly be their own deaths, but he isn’t scared, so why should she be?

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It's a good day again. He's playing with her hands in the comfort of the Burrow as she talks about all the things they couldn’t fit in this different world. She kisses his hand in return, laughing at how his glasses rests askew on the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want to talk about the events that transpired months ago, and so they do not talk of what happened in the Ministry. He doesn’t want to, and she respects that.

She loves that he's hers, just as she's his.

Now they're in Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. She's walking down the shelves with him for a minute, and he's gone the next. It's okay, she says to herself. He's probably with Ron and Hermione.

She finds it surreal that they're in the same place they’ve always been in years before, only that they’re here for their sixth year. They become older and older but today is similar to their second year; for in the length of Great Hall, he's nowhere to be found, and she's not sure if he wants to be. The answer to this was answered some time later when Harry slipped in accompanied by none other than Professor Snape, who appeared to be taking pride in the pathetic attempt at furtive glances being thrown in the young boy's way. He then takes his seat next to Ron, appearing to be disgruntled.

Later that night, she asks him what's wrong, but he only shakes his head in response. She leaves him be.

On the surface, they're alright. Some may comment on the lack of what was once there, but they appear alright nonetheless; he walks with her shoulder up to shoulder from this class to another, exchanging curt and brief words with each other. We are alright, she keeps telling herself more often than she should. We’re alright.

“See? I told you you’re meant to be an Auror,” she tells him after finding out about his success. “You never listen to me, Potter.”

He just nods, but she doesn’t mind. His head’s on her shoulder, and who is she to complain? She strokes his hair gingerly, feeling his breathing on her arm. She lets her hand fall down to touch his, and she plays with five of his fingers.

They’re the only people in the Gryffindor common room, and possibly in the whole world for the only sound she could hear was the steady flickering of the flames. It’s a good night.

It’s their first class with Slughorn, and she watches curiously as he hands Harry and Ron secondhand books. She thinks about the Felix Felicis and how little she could make out of it. Harry seems to think otherwise; she tries to catch his eye in hopes of asking how he’s doing but he’s only focused on his own cauldron.

She watches him.

She watches as he grins in triumph over his prize. Hermione doesn’t seem pleased, and Ron is curious more than ever, and so is she.

She wants to ask him about the book, but knew pushing it any further wouldn’t end up well. They’ve been together ever since that lovely fateful night of the Yule Ball, but they’ve been friends long before; long enough to know he wants to be alone.

Harry comes back tired in every time he returns from Dumbledore’s office, a weight on his shoulders always heavier than the last time. Maybe it’s far too heavy for him to do so much as smile. She lets this slide as she walks with him side by side on their way to Potions again.

“Didn’t you get your new book today?”

“Hm? Oh, er — yeah. Right here.” He holds up the book to her eyes. She sees the yellowed paper edges of the book, but doesn’t bother to mention it. If he wants to tell her, he will.

Whenever that is.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“Sickle for your thoughts?” she asks, holding out a small coin during that dreadful night after the Katie Bell incident. Harry only shakes his head, staring at the fireplace. She drops the coin on the table, throwing a scowl at the book for Potions as she prepared to take her leave.

“Where’re you going?” Harry asks. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” she answers. “Just tired.”

“I’m tired, too,” he says in a tone she assumes is accusatory. “I just want a break from all of this but I can’t.”

She wants to say more, but doing so would make it all real. “I know, Harry,” she says. “I know.”

She’s about to leave but he stands up from the couch to wrap his arms around her and press a kiss on her hair. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” she says with a sigh, raising her hand to stroke his arm.

He doesn’t answer this question, possibly out of knowing it isn’t wise to do so, but she thinks it’s far from that. She knows he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but she lets him talk. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to, it’s okay.” It isn’t. She could tell him right now that she’s tired of this and everything else in between, but she doesn’t. Her lips tremble as she talks, as if this alone is the most tiring moment of her life. She breaks away from him, not looking him in the eye as she bid him goodbye. “Goodnight, Harry. Sweet dreams.”

She tossed and turned in her bed until four in the morning when she realized there’s no hope in trying to sleep.

She keeps her eyes glued to the ceiling, but this is all for naught. It turns out telling yourself everything otherwise is a waste of good time, for it does nothing to keep her thoughts at bay.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The days pass by quickly, and the only thing she finds herself doing is watching the three of her friends fall apart. Harry kept to himself, but never away from that book.

It’s alright, she tells herself for the umpteenth time. He needs space. But just how much does he need?

As Lavender Brown walks past, she couldn’t help but envy the girl. Her and Ron are always on each other’s faces, and although it isn’t pleasing to look at, she wishes to have what they have. She used to have that with Harry, maybe even better. Oh, for sure it was better, and it was always a good day.

When was the last time they talked?

No, she shouldn’t question anything. He’s just busy with his noble quests and all that.

She wouldn’t add up to his piles and piles of problems, and so she only silently glides into the couch occupied by none other than Harry himself, sitting down next to him. They’re staring at the fireplace as if it’s the only thing living in the world.

“Sickle for your thoughts?” she asks with a smile.

“Not right now,” he tells her, not even looking her way. He doesn’t see her eyes reddening, her throat locking, tears threatening to dance of their own accord down to her cheeks. He only sees her nod as she slips away once more, only this time he doesn’t call after her.

There’s no easy way to tell a story such as this: She cries; she cries for the young love she thought she had. She weeps for the fun they had. It’s death without a funeral, death of a love she had yet to learn. But then again, it’s only puppy love, is it not? Isn’t that what they call it?

The girl wipes her tears away.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

He’s running, sweat trickling down from his temple to his neck. He rushes to Ron, asking to borrow his book.

“Harry?”

He immediately stuffs Ron’s copy of their book for Potions inside his bag.

“Harry,” she says in an attempt to catch his attention.

“What now?”

She flinches, but she doesn’t stop. “What happened?”

“This spell, I tried it and — just — I can’t explain it!”

“Is this from your Prince guy again? Harry, I told you this was never—”

“Never a good idea. Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

“Harry,” she breathes, and Ron’s watching them uncomfortably. Harry doesn’t even spare her a look before leaving. He simply dashes out of the room, bag in hand, his cloak dancing behind him.

The next time he saw him was the night after Gryffindor won, and they were seated once again in the common room, just the two of them like always.

She’s doing an essay for Potions on the table.

“I just remembered it’s our anni—” He takes a seat across from her, and she immediately stands up, the chair creaking backward. He looks up at her with a confused expression.

She begins to pack her stuff: Her quill, her ink, her half-filled parchment paper, her—

“[Y/N],” he starts. “[Y/N], what’s wrong?”

She doesn’t respond.

Her wristwatch tells her it’s one in the morning. The number one; it’s quite possibly the saddest number to exist, not even zero itself could amount to how alone one is. To be nothing would be better than to be alone, and she was every bit as deserted as the number one is.

“[Y/N], what’s your problem? Tell me,” he says, following her as she begins to shut her bag close. He takes her copy of Advanced Potion Making from the table, for she seems to have forgotten about it. “[Y/N], you forgot your—”

She snatches the book from him. “I know.”

“What’s your problem? [Y/N], you’re making me look like a fool here. [Y/N], what? What do you want? What, you’re tired? You want out?” He continues to follow her, his voice raising. “Come on, tell me. Are you tired? Do you want to end this right now? Do you—”

“Yes!” she spats in a fit of anger, her eyes bloodshot. “Harry, I am very, very tired!”

“What, you think I’m not? I lost people I love, [Y/N]. This whole thing is bigger than us whether you like it or not — I DON’T. You think we could have a normal relationship in a normal world? Think again!”

“This is the problem with you — you never want to let people in because—”

“Because I feel responsible for them, [Y/N]! Don’t you see? They’re throwing this Chosen One crap on me and expect me to save everyone and if I can’t, I’m the bad guy. And my friends! You, Ron, Hermione — every single person I know isn’t safe! And I hate that I can’t do anything about it, now will you please just. . .”

But she’s not listening anymore. She only watches as he continues on talking until she couldn’t take it anymore. She raises her hand, slapping him across the face.

It was silent once more.

"You don't see this working out, don't you?" she breathes out.

She loved that he constantly looks after the people around him. She loved that he's spontaneous, that you never know what he's going to do next.

She hiccups, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She doesn’t know what to say, and her lips are talking on its own accord. “Why can’t you take care of yourself for once? Why do you always have to be the stupid hero? What, you can’t ask me how I’m doing, can’t remember what this day means to us but this!” Laughing mirthlessly, she waves the book in front of him and begins to hit it against the couch beside her repetitively. “You always have time for this — stupid — fucking — book! This stupid prince of yours! Now look where it got you!”

She throws the book onto the floor stomping on it as she cried. She doesn’t care if she looked like a mere child throwing a tantrum. She’d been holding this back long, long ago.

“That’s your book,” he says, pointing it out as he puts his hand up to his cheek.

“Of course it is, because you just had to hide your own, don't you? Because it’s so precious to you!” She couldn’t breathe.

She leaves her items on the floor and storms to the couch, her hands obscuring her face. It was silent for a long while.

“Are you tired?” he asks, gently this time.

She nods, sniffing.

“Do you want out?”

“Harry,” she chokes out, her breath hitching. “I feel like” — she coughed — “I feel like I’m wasting my time on this. Like it’s more of a chore than something I want to do.”

“You don’t love me anymore?” he says under his breath, still not moving from the spot from which she had slapped him. He's not sure if he wants to know.

She wipes the tears from her face, turning around from her seat to look at him. She looks back down on the floor. Merlin, she must be looking like a mess right now.

“I love you, Harry,” she says. It doesn't help that this is the first time she's ever told him this, and looking down on the floor in an attempt to avoid him doesn’t make it any easier. “I love you more than anything I’ve ever loved, but I’m just so tired. I loved that you're mine and I'm yours but Merlin's beard, nothing has ever been this tiring before. I’m tired of telling everyone we know that everything is well, tired of assuring myself that every time we see each other maybe by some miracle you’d try a little bit harder — just a little bit — but I'm just tired of. . .everything.”

“Are you tired of me?”

She doesn’t answer, but he has a feeling he knows the answer to this. He watches her curiously as her back shudders from the crying.

“Do you want to end this now?”

She’s doesn’t answer again, and he takes her silence as a yes.

"Do you want out?"

"Please, just go," she says in between her sobs. "Please go."

“Consider it done.” He bends down to fix her stuff on the floor and with one last look at her, he swallows the lump forming in his throat, making his leave, leaving her alone until she fell asleep with the dancing flames emanating from the fireplace her only company for the night.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It's her turn to walk down the aisle and as she does so, she makes sure to not look at the groom's Best Man who, on the other hand, couldn't tear his eyes away from the girl approaching his end. He thinks of how different things could've been. . .

She stands not so far away from where Hermione will stand, and across from her is Harry himself. For once, she's glad Ron is tall enough to obscure him from view, but she keeps her eyes trained to the arch nonetheless, waiting for Hermione to walk in in a dainty and beautiful white dress. The Burrow's still, the tall grass dancing along.

Hermione walks the length of the dolled up lawn of the Burrow. It's a good day; everyone wears smiles on their worn out faces, for all the events that had occurred a while back has taken its toll on them, but here they all stand.

By the time Hermione reached the end, [Y/N] kept her eyes glued to Hermione this time, more than happy for her best friend.

Later at the reception, music played and as per request from the groom's mother, one of Celestina Warbeck's songs. All the people stood up to dance except for a pair in a certain table, both parties of which shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

And a sudden thought occurred to her: Maybe, just maybe, one doesn’t have to be a sad number. Their eyes meet for the first time in a long time, and it’s one of a kind; the now is not as unfortunate and bitter as it once was.

It’s just the two of them in the table, but it’s comfortingly familiar. He stands up from his seat to occupy the vacant chair beside her.

“Sickle for your thoughts?” he asks, a nostalgic smile playing on his lips.

“That sounds better than a dime for my thoughts and I normally don’t take prices for my worries but I’ll take it.”

He tosses a tiny coin on the table. She puts her hand over it, pulling it over the edge and holding it out in front of herself. “This isn’t a sickle,” she tells him, showing him the nickel.

“Well, ‘Nickel for your thoughts’ doesn’t sound right anymore because I got too used to the first one.”

“Me too,” she says. “I got used to it, too.”

“Well? I paid you a Nickel. Where’s my purchased thought?” he teases, and they’re both laughing just like they just did not so long ago. Just as they’re used to the sentiment of the Sickle, they’re used to each other; seeing the other smile, making the other smile, just. . .each other.

“Well, I was just thinking about how lonely it is to simply sit among a busy crowd."

He stands up, adjusting his tie as he did so. He then offers his hand to her. “Er — dance?” he says, quoting what he'd said long, long ago at the Yule Ball.

“Dance,” she replies, taking his hand without a second thought, and they just danced just like everyone else. From a distance, they'd only notice the main stars of the day — the groom and the bride. But between Harry and [Y/N], they're the only people once more. Nobody says anything, and both did not mind the other's company.

They don't speak of the times they almost lost each other, nor of the time they gave up on what they had, no. Because right now, as far as anyone's concerned, the only thing to say is that it's a good day — better, even.

And hopefully there'd be more to come.

A/N: kvlsjlvjwwo omfg finally finished this!!! i hope y’all paid attention to the numbers hAHAHAHAHA u can kinda tell i rushed the ending i’m sorry

Taglist: @gingerale2017 @maybanksslut @hey-there-angels @mrzweasley @gwlvr @booksarealwaysbettersworlds-blog @greenlyblue @henqtic @badass-yn @meiitanoia @gaycatlord-stuff @awakendevildays @crazy-beautiful @mistress-riddle @adoreyou976 @catching-the-train-to-hogwarts @rowena-ravenclaws-diadem @sfdlm

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itsmangonottango · 2 years

Text

SKSKDKDKFKRJXKK IM DYING

Vanity Van

Pairings: Matthew Gray Gubler x Reader

Summary: You visit Matthew on set and he gives you a detailed tour of his vanity van.

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Semi public sex. Mentions of exhibitionism, degradation and namecalling (slut, whore,), slapping, slight edging, teasing. lemme know what i missed, im really sleepy lol.

A/N: I usually don't write smut about real people but I just HAD to write this. Call me a hypocrite.

Masterlist | Navigation

You'd been dating the infamous face behind the character of Spencer Reid for a while now, the show was growing popular and the teasing of your friends about it getting worse.

Even the thought of it made you blush as you drove to the set, the address Matthew had texted you after convincing you to come see him some time.

You'd been eager but hesitant. The thought of meeting his colleagues - that were close to each other as good as 'family' as he'd once referred them with - made you nervous enough to try and turn the offer down a few times. The same questions whirled in your stomach, what if they didn't like you?

But you knew you had to do it someday, now you had grown too comfortable in your relationship with your boyfriend, the bond between you had gotten strong as the days passed into months, and now a good half a year.

And with the closeness came the sex.

Mindblowing sex. All the time. You two were basically inseparable ever since you'd had your first time together about three weeks ago. Now with the beginning of the sexual part of your relationship, it was hard for either of you to keep your hands to yourself.

That was also becoming a part of the problem with meeting his colleagues. How were you ever supposed to keep yourself from jumping his bones in front of his friends when he was dressed as Spencer Reid? You fought yourself from closing your eyes at the thought of the suit he'd worn this morning, careful not to get yourself into a car crash.

Then you bit your lip in panic with the realization of the skirt you had decided to wear today. Matthew had a thing for you in skirts, and you knew that, and somewhere between daydreaming about your morning where you'd successfully convinced Matthew in for a quickie right before he left for work, it had completely left your mind that you were going to visit him in the presence of the crew members.

You swallowed the nervousness and parked your car in the parking lot, quickly shooting a text to Matthew to inform him of your arrival.

Not minutes later, the figure of your tall boyfriend summoned beside your car, pulling the door open for you and helping you get out. You giggled, holding onto the hand he'd offered, "My Prince Charming." You hated chivalry with every ounce of feminism in you, yet something about Matthew doing it made you giddy.

Matthew let out an airy laugh, pulling you toward him now that you were standing on your full length, "My princess," He winked.

You found your back to the side of your car, successfully pinned between your boyfriend's frame. A blush crept up your cheeks, both from your position and the nickname he'd used, and your palms pushed on his chest to move him back.

He frowned slightly, mostly because of the frustration growing in him that you had just refused to put out. You kept his hand in yours, caressing the back with your thumb and seemingly smoothening his frown, "Not in public," You whispered, reassuring him from his worries.

Soon you had met with the rest of the cast between intervals of their shooting, surprised with how they'd welcomed you with open arms. You found yourself giggling with Paget and Shemar that had easily lived up to the title of 'best friends' as Matthew had labelled them when talking about them in the past.

Your boyfriend, on the other hand, looked tensed, not in the old fashioned, worried manner, but a different kind of tense. Now you were no profiler like the characters the actors around you had played for years on end, but you were, after all, his boyfriend who had seen this expression on his face countless times now.

The same darkening lust that swirled in his eyes. And somewhere, it flickered the same lust in you. Your four membered audience had started to disperse, breaking off as lunch had begun to be served.

You'd brought Matthew some homemade lunch with you, but that was not the first thing in either of your minds. He thought he was slick but you caught him eying your skirt before they raked up your figure, "Let me show you around," He said, innocently.

Yet, the first stop he brought you to was his vanity van. His name was written in bold letters on a piece of paper stuck to the door. He pushed it open, letting you climb up the two stairs that lead up to the glorious inside of his van.

Your eyes curiously looked around at the furniture and the easter eggs he kept around, but he had different plans. Twirling you around with his hand on your waist, he drew you close to him as soon as he had shut the door close.

You gasped but it was swallowed by Matthew, his lips locking on yours. "Been waiting for this all this while," He mumbled quickly before capturing your lips again.

He led you backward until you hit the couch placed somewhere to the wall, letting your body lay on the leather, his figure not far behind as he hovered closer.

His hands slipped to trail over your skirt and yours flew to his shoulders, pushing the suit jacket off of them in a haste. He smirked.

"You know how hard seeing you in this skirt makes me?" He asked and before you could begin to even for an answer, he was climbing further on top of you, knees now firmly planted on either sides of your lower half, and dug his hips on yours.

You gasped, his covered length hard on against your pelvis. You whimpered, bucking your hips to let his erection sit exactly where you wanted him the most.

He smirked, wrapping a hand around your neck and dipping his head to your face so your lips grazed against each. The subtle taste of coffee lingered in his breath that was enough to intoxicate you.

His grip tightened and his patience shortened. His palm hurriedly pulled your skirt down your legs, eagerly spreading them wider to see what waited for him under it.

His finger ran over the sem of your panties, sliding past over to your clothed cunt. "Soaked." He scoffed, letting his digit slightly dip in your folds.

You shuddered under him, your own fingers digging on his shoulders from the shirt he was still wearing. His tie hovered over your face which reminded of his sword chain that he tucked under his shirt that would hover over you similarly, making you only more eager to get rid of his shirt.

You made quick work in loosening his tie then unbuttoning shirt so desperately that you didn't notice Matthew had stopped all actions and was staring at you with a smug face.

When his shirt slide past his shoulders, revealing his chain, only then did you notice him staring, making you blush. "Desperate, aren't you? Yeah? Don't worry baby, I'll give you what you need."

He didn't wait any longer, shedding his pants and the remaining of your clothes being your tshirt and your innerwear, the latter of which he didn't forget to admire, mumbling a, "Look so pretty in these," before getting rid of them.

Now you were both naked, his fist pumped his cock while his eyes raked over your figure splayed under him, at his disposal. You whimpered, "Please-" You stuttered.

"Please what, baby?" He cooed, pouting at your whining form. "You want it? Is this what you're begging for?" He ran the tip of his cock along your folds. You nodded your head. "Then use your words."

Your lip trembled as you tried your best to string words perfectly to get you what you'd been wishing for. "Please please- I want your cock-" You bit your lip when Matthew teasingly pushed the head inside your entrance, "Want it so bad," You continued with the hope that your words were doing the trick.

He stayed silent, slowly rocking his hips back and forth - in mere inches - to fuck your hole with just the tip. Your nails dug onto his back, "More..." You whispered.

He laughed, stopping his movements altogether to pull a whine out of you. "Isn't this what you wanted, hun? You got my cock as you begged for." His face was lit up in mischief, the tip still buried inside you, throbbing.

You gave up your protests, wordless whines leaving your lips but pursed them shut when his palm connected your cheek, leaving behind a stinging pain. You looked up at him with tears brimming your eyes - he'd slapped you before during intercourse and had always managed to leave you even needier, even now - and he grunted, letting his hips buck slightly deeper, "Stop with the whining, use your words or I'll leave you here all desperate and needy without my cock to satisfy. Pathetic slut."

You sobbed, trying with your words again, "Matthew, please fuck me," You knew how much he loved his name on your tongue yet you still shrieked when he lurched inside you, bottoming out, satisfied with your answer.

He rocked his hips, filling you to the brim each time before pulling out completely, leaving you empty for minuscule seconds before he was slamming back inside of you with full force.

You screamed, and that seemed to please him. "Fuck yeah, scream for me, let everyone know owns your little slut pussy," He grunted in your ear, planting kisses along your neck.

You continued screaming with the force of his thrusts pinning you to the couch. You felt his lips wander lower and your hands found his hair as a grip to support yourself.

You nipped hickeys over your collarbones, travelling even further below to the swell of your breasts that were pretty much slinging back and forth each time Matthew filled you up with his cock. One of his hands found your right breast at the same time as his mouth latching onto your left one.

His lips caught your tit, sucking on it before swiping his tongue over it, flicking it between his wet muscle. His hand squeezed your other boob, toying with it like leverage as he fucked you harder.

He began nipping at your breasts too, leaving a trail of hickeys behind as he raised his face up towards you, laying on you and quickening his pace, your chests pressed together.

You wrapped your shaking legs around his waist, mouth gaping at how good this angle felt, your walls clenching instinctively around him.

"Oh my god-" Matthew groaned, his cock squeezed deliciously by you, "Keep doing that, milk my cock like the good whore you are," His voice dripped in the pleasure that was written all over his face. You were torn between closing your eyes and relishing in your own pleasure or watching his face twisting in lust.

"Oh baby, fuck, 'm gonna cum so hard in you. You're gonna cum with me, okay?" It was more of an order than a request and you nodded with relief because you knew he wouldn't let you cum without permission anyway.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes," You chanted, falling dangerously close to your release. You clenched tighter around him, nails scratching along the expanse of his back.

He tipped his head back, eyes closed in ecstasy, "Fuck. Cum for me," His voice quivered just as much as his cock twitched in you, perched perfectly against your sweet spot that was the final push to your orgasm.

You came with him, moans resembling yelps leaving both of your mouths as you relished in your highs, his warm cum flooding you and you incessantly squeezing him.

His thrusts faltered slowly, still rocking back and forth before coming to a stop. His head was buried in your neck, and your hands were cradling it. Your chests rose and fell together, still pressed into one.

He sighed dreamily, head perking up to look at you, a smile splayed on his face just as dreamy as if sprinkled with the giddiness of aftersex.

You couldn't help but to shoot him a smile back, pulling him further into you to cuddle into him. His mouth opened to say something you never knew what he had meant to say.

For the door swung open and Matthew scrambled to drape his shirt over you before pulling a blanket to cover you two, followed by a 'Ah!' and your gaze met with the back of Shemar's head, his hands brought up in surrender.

A good few seconds passed in silence with the only sound being the rustling of your shirt that you rushed to put on, then Shemar broke the silence with a shaky, "What the fuck."

You giggled, now fully dressed along with Matthew fully covered, "You can turn around," You smiled sheepishly.

"Nah, I'm good. I just came to say that the director said that they're ready for you and they're waiting for you," He said, his voice was light, obviously hinting that he was joking but he was already climbing down the steps.

The air lightened and Matthew let out a laugh. "It was you who barged in, not us!" He joked back at the man walking away.

"My bad bro, my bro!" Shemar scoffed lightly, pushing the door close behind his back and disappeared.

The two of you broke off into laughter, free from any awkwardness. Maybe coming down here wasn't that bad of an idea after all.

A/N: my last post didn't really do well so that bummed me out ;-; which is why I've been slightly less active but I hope this one does well! Keep supporting your artists, yall.

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