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blindmagdalena · 1 year

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Don't Fret Precious (I'm Here)

Summary: 18+ 8.1k homelander x reader, f!reader, mild sublander, immoral reader, off-screen murder, blood, attempted assault (not by HL), cunnilingus, lite comeplay, penetrative sex, fingering, dirty talk, breeding kink, marking, mild pain play.

During one of his evening patrols, Homelander overhears the beginnings of an assault. By intervening, he not only becomes your personal hero, but falls into a whirlwind of infatuation and obsession with you, and the supposedly ordinary life you led before he happened across you.

thank you @mari-thesimp, whose prompt inspired this monster of a fic! 🖤 AO3 Link.

To this day, Homelander doesn’t know why you were alone in that alleyway that night: he never thought to ask, and by now, it’s an irrelevant detail. He just knows that it was in a shady side of the city, nowhere near your work or your home.

That was where he first heard you. You were screaming in this shrill, throaty way that reminded him of how women in the movies screamed. You were the perfect little Hollywood damsel, trapped down a dark side street by a man twice your size with a brutish smile and clear intentions. It was almost too perfect of a stage, and Homelander found he couldn’t resist intervening.

Sure, there weren’t any cameras, but maybe you’d give a couple interviews and boost his ratings.

“S’aright by me, I like it when they scream,” the goon told you, pulling at you with dirty, meaty hands. Homelander could smell his rotten breath from a distance. It must have been like chopped onions in your face, stinging your pretty eyes.

“What a coincidence,” Homelander said from behind the man, voice full and confident. He placed his hands on the man’s shoulders. “So do I.”

He tightened his grip until tendons popped and bones groaned under his strength. The man screamed twice as loudly as you had, relinquishing his hold on you. Clearly not comprehending the sheer danger he was in, the man tried to retaliate, lashing out with swinging arms and legs until Homelander finally let him turn around, at which point the severity of the situation dawned clearly in the man's eyes.

“Homelander,” He realized, tongue thick in his mouth, words heavy with sudden fear. “It’s not what you think,” he said. He was taller and broader than Homelander, but it hardly mattered. He was shaking like a leaf in his hold. “We were just playin’,” he said, sweat prickling along his hairline. Homelander twisted the brute down onto his knees, and angled him to the side, focusing on you now. You, who were staring at him with wide, watery doe eyes. It’s no wonder you were hunted down by a predator. You looked… delicious.

“Is that true, miss?” He asked you in his best discerning hero voice. “Do you know this man?”

The question was followed by a tense beat of silence. He held your gaze, only for his to drop and watch your lips form the simple word, “No.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” he said with a chuckle. Before the man could protest, Homelander made a fist, and struck the back of the man’s head with the bottom of it just hard enough to knock him out cold. The thug crumpled to the ground, and Homelander stepped over him to make his way towards you. He gave you a cursory check for broken or fractured bones, but aside from being disheveled, you looked unharmed, slumped back against the brick wall.

One interesting thing he took note of, however, was the small gun tucked into your purse. Why hadn’t you been reaching for it? Panic, he supposed. Perhaps, though you had thought preemptively to protect yourself, your pretty little head had emptied the moment there was any sort of tangible threat.

You were like a little rabbit. Born to be hunted.

“You alright, miss?” He asked, offering you his hand. You took it, eyes as wide as saucers, lips tilted in an awestruck little smile. It wasn’t anything he wasn’t accustomed to, but it was sweet nonetheless. You were sweet, as soft in his hands as ripe fruit. Just the same, it would take so very little to bruise such a delicate thing.

“I am now,” you answered breathlessly, taking a step closer to him, your hand lingering in his long after he’d helped you up. “That… You were incredible. More amazing than I ever imagined.”

Homelander’s brows lifted curiously. “You imagine something like this often?”

“Yes,” you admitted readily, surprising him. “I’ve had a lot of fantasies about you.”

He laughed breathlessly at that, throat clicking on a dry swallow. You were standing just a few inches from him, but your only point of contact remained your hands. One by one, you began to loosely intertwine your fingers with his, drawing his gaze down. He had met hundreds upon hundreds of fans during his career, but rarely were they brave enough to be so direct with him. “Wow, you are, ah… forward,” he said, feeling heat prickle along his collar.

“Is that a bad thing?” You asked. He felt hyper aware of the slow way you squeezed his gloved hand, the gesture strangely enticing.

“No, no,” he said, licking his lips. “Always good to feel wanted.”

You smiled at him. “Good.” With a gentle pull, you eased him down. He felt certain you were going to kiss him at that moment, but instead, you bypassed his lips and brought yours to his ear. “Because I want you. Very, very much.”

Your words, your voice instantly pooled heat low in his gut. He found himself breathing shallowly, leaning into the faint, sweet fruit smell of you.

When you drew back, your eyes met. You smiled, still squeezing his hand as you did. Your soft little breaths were warm on his lips. After a split second hesitation, Homelander kissed you. He kissed you again, and again, and again. He would kiss you many, many more times after that.

At first you were just a pretty little thing. A secret indulgence with sweet tasting lips, soft skin, and a seemingly endless propensity for adoration. You were removed from the blood and corporate grind of his day to day life. Before him, your life was simple, mundane, and predictable. It seemed like a lonely and bleak thing to him.

Perhaps that’s what made it so easy for him to become your sun, and coax your entire world into revolving around him. He saw his own loneliness mirrored back at him in your glossy eyes. To you, he is salvation. To him, you’re convenient.

Homelander particularly enjoys the way your breath catches with palpable excitement when he drops in on you unexpectedly. It doesn’t matter the time of day, be it midday or in the earliest hours of the morning, you welcome him with open, warm arms. Stepping into your comedically ordinary apartment is like watching The Wizard of Oz in reverse, wherein Dorothy retreats from the vulgar, brightly colored Oz to the quiet sepia of her humble little farmhouse.

Here, his only care in the world is the gentle coo of your voice in his ear. Your heart is a steady, soothing rhythm. The first night Homelander found himself in your bed, he was surprised you didn’t accept him as a trophy fuck the way so many others liked to. Instead, you had stilled his greedy hands, and settled them around your waist. You slowed him. At the time he assumed you were still shaken from your encounter in the alley, but even then, the choice had seemed calculated.

You have a way of making him wait. Making him crave. You held him through the night, fingertips tracing patterns along his scalp, hands cupping his face, touching him as if you were trying to commit every detail of him to memory.

He was enraptured. He still is.

It’s what brings him back to you night after night after night.

Tonight, you’re awake when he slips in through your sliding glass door. It’s always unlocked for him. He would scold you for it if you didn’t live several storeys off the ground. To this day, he cannot shake the image of you as a vulnerable creature, watery eyed and terrified in that dark alleyway. It feels good to hear the skip of your heartbeat at the sound of your door opening, only for your breaths and pulse to calm at the sight of him.

It soothes his frayed nerves. The rest of the world is full of vicious ingrates who love him when he serves them, but who continuously prove themselves eager to tear him apart at the slightest provocation. Not you. Never you.

“My hero,” you sigh as he sinks into your arms. You never ask him about what’s going on in the news. This place–the warmth of your embrace–is a sanctuary from the noise of it all. “I missed you,” you tell him. You always do. He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling the familiar smell of you. His hands settle on your hips, neediness spilling through in the way he grips you, twisting the fabric of your clothing in his grasp. Homelander doesn’t respond right away, choosing instead to brush his lips along the bare skin of your neck, following the line up to your ear. You tilt your head, giving him greater access. You’re always giving more and more of yourself. You’ve done nothing to dissuade him of his possessive thoughts, the ones that whisper he is owed every breath and inch of you. If anything, he could swear you stoke his fires knowingly.

“Are you okay?” You ask gently, coaxing him to look at you with your hand on his cheek. He complies, pulling back just enough to meet your stare. You cup either side of his face, stroking his skin with your thumbs. The sound of your thumb pads catching against the faint bit of stubble on his face is soothing, like scratching an itch deep in his ears. “What do you need?”

“You,” he answers at last, leaning closer.

“You have me,” you say. He can feel your smile against his lips when you kiss him. “Forever. And always,” you say, punctuating each sentiment with a kiss. “What else do you need?”

“Nothing,” he says, voice sinking beneath the weight of his building desire, the heat of it radiating through his body in slow waves. “Not a goddamn thing. I don’t… I don’t need anything or anyone but you,” he whispers, clawing more purposefully at your clothing now, resentful of the barrier they create between him and the warmth of your skin. Too many things that have kept him away from what he desires, what he deserves. Your cheap cotton blend clothes won’t be among them. “Me neither,” you breathe, guiding his hands up your sides, helping him to strip away your shirt. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. All I’ve ever needed.”

Your words drip like sweet nectar. He swears he can taste the heaven of them on your lips as he kisses you. He follows the imaginary drip of it from your lips to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck. He relishes the low moan you give. You push your hands into his hair, wringing a matching note from the back of his throat with the way you grip it. More, he thinks, insatiable. Give me more.

His gloved hands slide down your sides, mapping out the curves of your body as he has a hundred times before. His thumbs hook on your pants, and he pulls those down, too. He smiles at your bare skin beneath, leaning in to press a kiss to your pelvis, just above the thatch of hair there. “No panties?” He rumbles, helping you step out of your pants.

“I was hoping you’d come,” you say through a smile, hooking your leg over his shoulder, hand braced in his hair. He nuzzles in, lips brushing against your already sensitized clit. He gives a tonal sigh, opening his mouth to inhale the musky-sweet smell of you, his tongue snaking out to glide from your velvety, slick cunt to the gently throbbing nub of your clit. He closes his lips around it, opening his eyes halfway to meet your gaze from between your legs. He’s pleased to see you already staring down at him, admiring him openly. You’re flushed with heat, pupils blown wide. He purrs for the way you smooth his hair back with your fingers, his eyes falling shut so he can focus solely on the taste of you. He cups your ass in his hands and lifts you onto his mouth, hitching your other leg up over his shoulder as well.

Homelander holds you up and drinks greedily from you, coaxing your sweet wetness with slides and thrusts of his tongue, panting into the welcoming heat of you. Drool and slick coat his mouth in equal measure, dripping down his chin, wetting him so thoroughly he can almost pretend it’s sweat. As if he could exert himself. As if he were anything less than a god putting the light of heaven into the space between your thighs.

His favorite part is the way your pussy clenches around his tongue every time he pushes it into you, knowing you’re aching for more. For him.

“Nnngh, baby,” you moan, locking your ankles behind his back, rocking your hips. He squeezes your ass, egging you on. He can almost taste your swelling climax. He moans into you, meets the sway of your hips with eager dives of his tongue. “I’m–hahh, ahh, oh, there, there, mm, baby, you feel so good, m’gonna come,” you moan, prompting him faster, deeper, riled up by every aching praise that falls from your lips.

You pull his hair sharply when you come, and his eyes roll back into his skull with it. He revels in the way you smother him, literally and figuratively. Since the beginning, your affection, your attention, has been an endless, all-consuming thing. There was a time that he believed there would be no one who could stomach the depths of his emptiness, and yet here you are. With him, you form an ouroboros. Neverending mutual consumption.

Homelander laps at you until your shivering body goes lax, and you slide down into the strength of his arms. You kiss him, heedless of the mess you’ve made of his mouth, hands clumsily working to open the top of his suit. “Take me to the bed,” you tell him. The authority in your voice sounds effortless, despite the reedy quality your orgasm has given it. “I need you inside me.”

I need you. The words echo in his ears on a loop like a broken record that he never wants mended. He stands with you secure in his arms, licking your own taste into your mouth as he walks. He sets you down gently, but he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise. He wants to see the evidence that you are as changed by him as he is by you.

He shrugs his top off. Before it even hits the ground, you’re slipping your hands up beneath the hem of his undershirt, purposefully skating his ticklish sides with your fingertips, surprising a giggle out of him. The shirt comes off of his head with a flourish, mussing his hair into a splay of blonde locks. You smile at one another, secretive, as if this intimacy between you is something stolen.

Homelander often behaves as though it is. More times than not, this happiness feels like borrowed time. Like something he is owed, but was never supposed to have. It leaves him feverish for it, clawing at every second of it he can get his hands on.

You help divest him of his pants next, metal belt hitting the ground with a thud. He steps out of his boots, and back tight into your space, grazing his teeth tantalizingly along the line of your neck before he sucks a dark mark just beneath your earlobe.

Your sigh of pleasure is music to his ears. His own breath catches when your hand slips between his legs, grasping his aching cock. You give a couple of leisurely strokes, but the tunnel of your fist is so loose, he knows you’re teasing him. He thrusts needily against you. “Sshhh,” you hush, guiding him to the bed. “Sit.”

He does, dropping onto the edge of the bed with a bounce, lips parted, breathing his excitement in shallow huffs. Initially, you confuse him by turning your back to him, but he catches on quickly when you put your hand on his thigh, and lower yourself slowly into his lap. He takes hold of your waist reflexively, aiding your descent. His grip on you flexes at the first glorious, wet press of your cunt against the throbbing head of his cock.

“Slow,” you remind him, your own excitement turning your voice thin and airy. Homelander grits his teeth, caught somewhere between impatience and dread. He’s not sure he’ll last long, not with the taste of you so fresh on his tongue and the hot, drenched pull of your body sucking him in. He wants to slam in and flee all at once, caught paralyzed in the middle.

Luckily for him, you’re wholly in control. You grip his wrists and sink down slowly, tipping your head back with a moan as you take every inch of him, settling fully in his lap. Homelander keens, pressing his face between your shoulder blades. You’re so tight and wet, it makes his head spin. The throb of your body alone could make him come, he’s certain of it. Your heart beat is a drum in his ear, one he can feel every pulse of in the velvet walls of your cunt.

“Please,” he moans, adjusting subtly. Even that makes his balls ache.

“I have you,” you assure him, reaching back over your shoulder. You push your hand into his hair, guiding him to rest his chin on your shoulder as you massage his scalp with your fingertips. He wraps his arms around your waist, fighting the desperate urge to slam up into you, to break you apart and spill into the deepest parts of you. There is such violence in every part of him. It would be foolish to think it would not bleed into his love.

Instead, Homelander remains perfectly still, panting into the crook of your neck while you grip his hair, grounding him. “I love you,” you sigh, to which he screws his eyes shut, exhaling a rough little noise. “It’s okay. I want you to feel good. I want you to fill me up. Give me all of you,” you murmur, reaching down between your legs. You cup his balls in your palm, gently massaging them as you begin to lift, but only barely, fucking yourself down on his cock in deep, sharp drops.

“You’ll do that for me, right, baby? Always make me feel so good. Let me feel you come,” you coax, voice too sweet for the wicked way you seduce him. His balls are tight in your grasp, heavy, his cock weeping precome that’s lost amidst the wetness of you.

Still, he holds back. He adjusts himself to take hold of your breasts, massages them until you moan. He kisses the mark he left on your neck, teases your skin with sharp teeth. He almost bites down when you squeeze his balls, making him jerk up into you with a keening moan.

“F-fuck, mm, like that, do that again, baby,” you urge, tightening your grip on his hair while you continue to fondle his balls, eager to feel them unload inside you. In the midst of it all, he’s rapidly coming undone. Your tone breathy and low in his ear, you moan, “My sweet, perfect boy.”

Homelander chokes on his own sharp inhale, baring his teeth as something primal overtakes him. He locks his arms around you and in one, two, three, four sharp thrusts, lets out a guttural moan alongside the sweltering rush of relief and pleasure that erupts throughout his body. You make all kinds of sweet noises alongside him, surprised every time by the sheer force of his release.

The two of you rest like that, your body slumped back against his, his arms encircling you, keeping you pressed tight to his chest.

You’re spent, but he isn’t finished with you. He doubts he ever will be. You and your ordinary little life are unremarkable in every possible way, yet he clings to you now as though it is your strength that keeps him upright. For a long time, Homelander had believed the crux of his divinity was his distance from humanity. Now, he’s not so sure.

Never has he felt more like a god than he does with your words of worship furling sweetly within him, your body enveloping him in the warmth of your reverence.

Somewhere along the line, though Homelander finds himself unable to pinpoint when or where, your presence in his life shifted from something convenient to something he needed.

It would scare him if he wasn’t so convinced you need him twice as badly. It compels him to ensure you never forget it, to show you that there will never again be anyone or anything in your life that changes it, enhances it the way he has. The more he needs you, the more you must need him.

It’s what drives him to eventually lift you from his lap and lay you on the bed, to nestle between your legs and lick up the mess he’s made of you. Eating his own come out of you tastes like possession, like familiarity, like love. Your moans, even muffled by the press of your inner thighs to his ears, are divine. He slips his fingers into your dripping cunt both for your pleasure and to push the spill of his come back inside, sucking on your clit while you rock against his fingers.

He loses himself to the fantasy playing behind his eyelids, imagining that this time, the seed takes. That it makes a mother of you. His baby growing in your belly, fattening up your breasts and making you glow with the radiance of it. You would carry the child of a god with incomparable grace, heavy with the weight of his legacy. You’d be bound to him beyond pretty words and carnal embraces. A baby would be his gift to you, and you would accept it without question, he assures himself.

Your cunt spasms around his fingers, pulling him back to reality. He fell so deep into his own bliss, he nearly forgot what he was doing. His eyelids flutter open, dazed and utterly at peace between your legs. Your orgasm hits his tongue beautifully, rhythmic thrums that have you clenching your thighs tight on either side of his head, arching up into his mouth. He slows the thrust of his fingers, licking you leisurely through the aftershocks, until you eventually relax and give his hair a gentle tug, prompting him to crawl obediently up the length of your body.

You kiss him with hunger. He leans back slightly just to see if you’ll give chase. He’s pleasantly surprised when you do, following his lips and pulling him greedily back down into your arms, bringing him flush to your chest. You hitch your legs over his hips, arms sliding around him, holding him like you have the strength to keep him there.

Someday, perhaps, he’ll come to terms with the power you have over him.

“I love you,” you whisper. The sentiment unspools around him and ties loose knots around his every muscle, soothing him until his weight rests fully upon your body. He nestles in between your breasts, brushing his lips along the swell of one. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, voice soft. He feels utterly lost to this marriage of sex and intimacy, secure enough to relax, to let go of the impulse to hold you tightly in place. He knows you will not try to leave him, try to reduce sex to a transaction to be completed and disregarded. It feels good to slip his arms loosely around you, and hold you with the knowledge that he need not fight to keep you.

Instead, it is you who holds on tightly. You entangle your fingers in his hair and cross your ankles over his back, locking him in place. It adds a kind of giddiness to his smile to, for once, be the one clung to.

More and more of Homelander’s day begins to revolve around you. When he isn’t with you, he’s thinking of you. He wakes to your text messages. He gets through the flash and pomp of his day to day life for the sake of returning to your arms. He grows increasingly territorial over his time, irritable when his position in the world forces him to be gone from you longer than his typical schedule calls for.

It’s a difficult feeling to describe. He’s never had something to look forward to outside of the validation of being Homelander.

It begins to manifest in frustration. He’s twice as curt with his responsibilities and those who assign them.

“You’re getting sloppy,” Stan Edgar warns him after a particularly messy incident. “I don’t care what you do in your personal time, or who you do it with,” he says. Homelander’s gut clenches. The words are too pointed to be anything other than a threat. “But here, on my time, you will perform as expected. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Homelander answered through his teeth, hands locked tight behind his back, beneath his cape, where the world couldn’t see the subtle way they shook.

That night, in your creaky bed, he fucks you missionary–simple, intimate, face to face–and begs to hear your approval.

“More,” he pants desperately, one hand gripping the headboard, the other in a tight fist against the bed, above your shoulder. “More, fuck. Please.”

“My hero,” you croon, cupping his face in your hands, breath hitching with every slow, deliberate thrust of his hips. “They don’t deserve you. They don’t know how good they have it. How good you are,” you say, your words a soothing balm against his scorched ego. “Mm, even now, you’re making me feel so good. I love you so much, I wish you were all mine, only mine,” you say, drawing him down into a messy kiss.

“Only yours,” Homelander echoes through a broken moan, fucking into you harder, faster. He doesn’t miss the way you flinch at the pace, but you don’t tell him to stop. Instead, he feels you clench down hard around him, lips parting on a silent gasp.

“Only mine,” you repeat like an encouragement, wrapping your arms around his neck. Your headboard is slamming loudly against the wall now, each beat of it a step closer to the climax building between you. If you give a fuck about your shitty bed or the thin dry wall behind it, you give no indication of it. Instead, your eyes are locked completely on his, oblivious to the world around you.

He wants to lose himself in that stare.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m–”

An out of place bang against the wall abruptly knocks Homelander out of his delirium. He looks up, and hears a voice on the other side of the wall holler, “Some of us are trying to fucking sleep!”

Homelander bares his teeth, and without a thought, his eyes flare crimson. Two high intensity laser beams cut straight through your wall and into the adjoining apartment. Deafening silence follows. Homelander blinks the light away, staring for a long few seconds at the two holes before he looks down at you, uncertain of what he expects to see. Shock at best, horror at worst.

While your eyes are wide, it’s neither of those he sees.

“Don’t stop,” you tell him breathlessly, thrusting up against him. You look wild with it, heart pounding with adrenaline and arousal in equal measure. Not an ounce of fear. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He obeys immediately, driving into you so sharply it knocks the wind from you. He doubts you’ll ever hear from that neighbor again.

Homelander comes harder than he ever has before. He leaves you tender to the touch from the force of his thrusts, fucked raw. He offers apologies, but you don’t accept them as they’re spoken. Instead, you guide him down to kiss the marks his passion has left on you. Even then, he recognizes that it is not reconciliation you seek. You’re showing him his work, appreciating the canvas he has made of your body.

“Never apologize for this,” you tell him. “For leaving me with so much. It keeps you with me even when you’re away from me.”

For that alone, he would fuck you a dozen more times. It makes him want to sink his teeth into you, leave you with something more permanent. It makes him ache, wishing you could do the same. He never desired the capacity to be wounded until you taught him the beauty of bleeding for love. He finds himself viciously envious of the bruises blossoming on your skin in the shape of his touch. He imagines you idly pressing on them through the day, remembering with that dull ache how thoroughly he had fucked you.

“I wish you could do this to me,” he admits feverishly, tracing the pattern of his hand bruised onto your hip.

You’re quiet for a moment. “Maybe I can,” you say, causing him to pick up curiously. He watches you cover his hand with your own, and bring it to his forearm. His brows furrow slightly. He looks to you for an explanation, but you’re focused intently on wrapping his own hand around his arm, your fingers lined up with his. “Squeeze,” you tell him.

Understanding dawns. Licking his lips, Homelander flexes his grip on his forearm. At the same time, you kiss him, squeezing your hand tight over top of his. “Harder,” you say. He obliges, squeezing until pressure builds into a more alien sensation: pain. His instinct is to stop, to shy away from it, but before he can he feels you cup your hand between his legs, grasping his barely-hard cock. He gives a startled little moan into your mouth, and his hand retightens on his arm.

“Good boy,” you say wickedly, stroking his cock in slow, firm pulls. “Nice and tight. I want you to remember me, too.”

“I will,” he rasps, folding in against you. “I will, I will, fuck, hhahhh…” he moans, taken apart not only by your touch, but the ease and eagerness with which you fulfill his every wicked thought. Is there any part of him you will shy away from?

He makes a sound somewhere between pain and pleasure, his skin discoloring around the press of his fingers, swelling up between them. At the same time, his cock fills out steadily with your every stroke. The pressure of it is not unlike the grip on his arm, a gradually building sensation that he wants to shy away from as much as he wants to dive into head first. The contrast, the contradiction of it, is intoxicating.

“So good for me. You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” You ask, smiling fondly. He nods fervently, refusing to relinquish his grip while you’re still squeezing his fingers down tight. He never could have fathomed that pain might feel like love.

“Yes, yes, anything,” he grits out, the tips of his fingers beginning to tingle. He lets out a rough breath when you begin to pump him faster, firmer, before he comes hard into the narrow tunnel of your fist, hips jerking while he dutifully maintains the painful, vice-like grip on his arm. You stroke him through it, milking him so thoroughly of his orgasm that he nearly misses when you loosen your fingers over his hand, and prompt him to release his hold.

Once the skin settles, what Homelander is left with is a throbbing ache, and the unmistakable outline of his grasp imprinted in the burst vessels of his arm. He stares down at it, dumbstruck for a long moment. He has known pain, he’s even known injury, but never like this. He’s still coming down from the euphoria of his release, unable to process what he’s looking at, when your hand slips over top of the bruise, settling nicely into the shadow of it. You press it gently, and though it doesn’t hurt per se, it is different. Strange. It makes his stomach flip unfamiliarly.

“How does it feel?” You ask, tipping his chin up to kiss him.

“Weird,” he answers, distractedly reciprocating.

“How do you feel?” You continue, helping to settle you both down into bed, pulling the covers over your naked bodies.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“That’s okay,” you say, voice dripping over him like honey, warm and sweet. You lift his arm and turn it, kissing each sprawling line of the bruise he inflicted on himself. The mark he has given himself in your stead. No one has ever… “Do you like it?” He asks, hating how small his own voice sounds.

“Yes,” you sigh, looking at him, your cheek pressed lightly to the palm of the bruise. “Very much.”

Slowly, he smiles. “Kinda fucked up.”

You smile, too. “Good.”

The bruise lingers for several days. For as indestructible as he is, once the damage is done, his body heals at an uncomfortably human rate. It would set his teeth on edge if not for the fact that this mark reminded him that he is yours. He finds himself touching it absently during his day to day, thumb pressing into the fabric of his suit while he zones in and out at various meetings and interviews.

Every day he has it, it reminds him of where he’d rather be.

That same territorial irritation that got him in trouble with Stan Edgar returns tenfold. Every job and press conference feels more arduous an endeavor than the last. The flash of the cameras sting his eyes more than ever, their questions like endless needles pricking his eardrums. Their mindless adoration feels so shallow, it barely registers anymore.

He just wants to be done with it all.

It’s this headspace that leads Homelander to fucking up the worst he has since he was a goddamn teenager.

The flight back to your apartment feels longer than it ever has. Most of the blood and viscera either dries down or flakes away, but every inch of his exposed skin feels tight and itchy with it. He can feel it caked in his hair, too.

He should return to the tower. There will be press. There will be speeches. There will be a cleanup job that sees him at the center stage.

He should return to the tower he tells himself again and again.

But he wants you.

Your balcony door welcomes him, unlocked as always. He hesitates briefly, staring at his glove. The color of it would mask the blood if not for how dark it has turned. His stomach churns as he steps inside. He wishes the bruise had not faded, that he could press on it now and feel the dull, aching assurance of your love.

He has kept this animal inside him far from you. It’s time to see whether or not you’ll withstand the blood-soaked bite of it. Whether or not you meant it when you said give me all of you.

Homelander steps inside. It’s late, nearly 11:00, but he knows you’re awake. He can hear tinny music playing from your phone, reverberating off the bathroom wall. He can smell the lavender of your bubble bath even over the copper tang of blood in his nostrils.

His stride through your hallway is uncharacteristically slow, footfalls heavy. He hears the water of your bath slosh, and then the music goes silent. “Homelander?” You call, trepidation in your voice. It churns his gut to hear, even if he knows it’s the unusual cadence of his steps you’re reacting to. He knows he sounds like a stranger. Part of him feels like one. He should have showered, washed away the filth until he was your hero again, shining brightly and walking as if the weight of the world did not sit upon him. He still doesn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to do that.

An awful, warped part of him wants you to see the bloody mess hiding underneath. His throat is tight, twisted up in sickly anticipation. He does not answer your call. He wonders if you’ll scream when you see him. Another slosh of water, followed by the slap of your bare feet against your bathroom floor. He makes his way to your bedroom, listening to the quicken of your heart.

Answer her, he tells himself. You’re scaring her.

Good, answers another thought. It’s time to know, once and for all, what she’s truly made of. To know whether or not all good things come to an end. She should be scared.

Homelander listens to you move from your bathroom to the soft carpeting of your bedroom, hears the hushed, quick way you begin to rummage about. He stands in front of your bedroom door, one blood crusted hand resting on the doorknob. He hesitates for a second, in which everything goes quiet, save for the shallow sounds of your breath, and the quick, rain-drop pattering of your heart.

He opens the door. He barely registers the gun in your hands–or the sharp, focused look in your eyes–before you fire. The sound of it rings almost painfully loud in his ears after he had been listening so intently to the race of your pulse. He blinks several times, glancing down at the bullet wedged between the carved musculature of his suit.

“Homelander,” you gasp, lowering the gun. Since the first day he met you, he knew you owned it. He just didn’t expect you to be any good with it, not after the way you failed to defend yourself with it. Had you been practicing? He can’t remember ever smelling gunpowder on your hands. He plucks the bullet from the chest of his suit, examining it. That shot would have killed a man. You didn’t hesitate long enough to even recognize who stood before you. You knew precisely what you were doing.

“You didn’t answer me,” you say. Gone is that keen killer stare. Your eyes are wide, mortified. He watches you register the state of him, taking in his expression, the blood. You haven’t moved an inch. Why haven’t you come to him yet? He drops the bullet to the ground, and extends his hand out to you.

“C’mere,” he says, voice low.

You look at his hand, but you hesitate. The surge of anger it ignites within him is white hot, making his gut churn violently. “Come here!” He snaps. Your eyes shoot back up to meet his gaze. He can’t read the expression on your face, which only adds kindling to the flames of frustration and anxiety burning him up from the inside out.

He wants to grind himself deep into the marrow of your bones, find sanctuary in the hollow of them. Your body, your mind, your soul, which you have emptied into a haven made for him alone, has become the greatest solace he has ever known. The notion that you might deny him now–might deny him ever–is more horrifying a thought than he can bear.

The handful of seconds it takes before you begin walking feel like hours. Your steps are tentative, like a deer navigating the underbrush silently so as not to disturb the wolves. You look so much like you did that very first night: like you were made to feel the sharp teeth of a predator.

You slip your lavender fresh hand into his bloody one. He closes his gloved fingers around it, gentle with you despite the thrumming tension in his body. He can feel the corners of his mouth twitching with it, his breaths shallow. For once, it’s his own heart thundering in his ears.

“Sshhh,” you hush softly, barely a breath. His brows furrow, dried blood cracking apart on his skin. You lift your free hand to his face, palm lightly ghosting along his jaw. He cups your hand in his and turns his head to push fully into it, lips pressed to your palm, eyes falling shut. He can’t stomach that unfamiliar look on your face.

“I didn’t… they weren’t supposed to be there,” he begins to explain, readying a contingency plan. An explanation you’ll believe. Something to say that will make your face recognizable to him again. However, before he can continue, the press of your thumb to his lips quiets him.

“It’s okay,” you say, coaxing him from his downward spiral. “I don’t care.” “What?” He doesn’t like the sound of that.

“I don’t care what you did,” you clarify, squeezing his hand in yours. Slowly, you begin to pull him down, towards you. “I don’t care whose blood this is.” Just as you had that very first night, you bring your lips to his ear. “You are all I have ever cared about.” Goosebumps erupt across every inch of his skin. He lets go of your hand and wraps his arms around you, sinking down against you in sheer relief for the way you slip your arms around his neck, fingers carding up into his hair, matted as it is with blood. He exhales roughly, squeezing you too tight. He can hear it in the strain of your breath, your chest compressed to his, but you don’t fight him. You endure him.

That alone is more than anyone else has managed.

Over your shoulder, Homelander stares at the gun resting atop your bedside table. For the first time, he wonders who truly ensnared who.

Drawing back, he takes hold of your jaw in both hands and kisses you desperately. If you mind the taste of blood, you give no indication of it, opening for his tongue and meeting him readily with yours. “I thought you would–I thought you were–” Fuck, even as his pulse steadies, he can’t get the words straight, can’t get them off of his tongue.

“I’m here, I’m here. I wasn’t,” you manage to say between the fervent presses of his lips, sounding as relieved as he feels. It’s as if you’ve heard his thoughts. “I love you. I love you.”

A treacherous little whimper crawls up the back of his throat, but he chases it with a groan. He takes his hands from your face to your arms, itching to feel every inch of you, to remind himself that it’s all real. That you’re real.

“Come with me,” you say. I will. Anywhere, he thinks. You step backwards, and he follows. At some point, the towel slipped from your body. Your damp skin has become a canvas of bloodied impressions ranging from his hands to the texture of his suit. Piece by piece, you begin peeling away the soiled suit from his body. He lets you work, though he cannot keep his hands from you, particularly once you remove his gloves. He pushes his hands into your wet hair while you unbuckle his pants, kisses you hungrily while he steps out of his boots.

It is a maddening thing, to be loved when you are at your most unloveable.

The bathwater sloshes over the edges as you both sink down into it, all tangled limbs and devouring kisses. The blood stains the soapy lavender pink while your hands leave messy crimson handprints on the ceramic tub. You straddle his lap, and with wet hands, begin working his blood crusted hair wet and loose. Leaning in, Homelander settles his hands on your ribs and kisses a trail down the valley between your breasts, turning his head to lap and suck at your right nipple.

You encourage him with a low moan, nails dragging along his scalp. You cradle his head to your chest, retaliating by rocking your hips slowly down against his, pinning his stiffening cock between your bodies. “Listen to me. There is nothing you could do that would drive me away,” you tell him, punctuating your words with sinuous slides of your hips, wringing tight, needy little moans from him. Your own voice is breathy, the pitch of it gradually climbing. You reach down between your bodies, and take a firm hold of his cock, steadying it until you can sit astride it, and slowly sink back down.

With your mouth at his ear, panting noisy little breaths, you whisper, “I would kill a dozen, a hundred more men if it made you mine.”

What do you mean more?

The thought doesn’t linger long. It’s impossible to focus on anything other than the molten hot clench of your cunt seizing all around him, swallowing him up like it was made to. Homelander slides his hands to your hips and takes a tight hold, meeting the roll of your body with sharp thrusts up. “Nnngh, aah, fuck, I love you–I’m–fuck, I love you, you’re so–so fucking perfect,” he growls through his teeth, dull nails biting crescent marks into your skin while he holds you, pulling you down into every jagged, desperate snap of his hips. Each deep thrust knocks a noise from you, has you gripping his hair tight. Without leverage, all you can do is take it, your moans growing louder and louder, your pussy squeezing him tighter as he fucks you with inhuman precision. Homelander picks up his pace, dying to feel you come for him when he’s like this, messy with the worst parts of himself and wholly at your mercy, whether you know it or not.

“C’mon,” he grits out, though where he means to have authority in his voice, it comes out like a plea. “Come for me. Wanna feel you come on my cock. F-fuck, please, let me–let me feel you,” he says, trailing off into a moan before he buries his face between your breasts, flexing fresh bruises into your skin while you prettily pant and whimper in his ear from the sheer force he fucks you with.

“I will, I–I–” That’s as far as you get before you come, before you double over against him and scream his name loud enough for your entire apartment complex to hear. It tips him right over the edge with you, has him crying out as he arches his back, flooding his release deep into your tight, quivering pussy, thrusting weakly through the aftershocks.

By the time the two of you settle down against one another, your breaths calmed, the majority of the bathwater is outside of the tub. The night air is cool on your naked bodies, but you’ve never been cold in Homelander’s arms. He traces absent patterns on your skin while you recover, your thighs still shaking.

“We should shower,” you say eventually, a slight slur to your tone. It makes Homelander smile. He loves feeling, seeing, and hearing all the ways in which he has ruined you. “Let me finish washing you.”

“Can you stand?” He asks. It’s an earnest question. “Carry me there,” you say.

He stares at you warmly, the corners of his eyes crinkled with the width of his smile. “ ‘Kay.“

The shower is slow, less frenzied. You lather shampoo into his hair, washing away the remnants of what had come before this. You work body wash into his skin until he smells like coconuts instead of blood and viscera. He nuzzles into your touches, kisses you whenever the impulse strikes. There is no way to describe the unparalleled feeling of sharing space with a body that not only welcomes your touch, but also houses a heart that loves you. Once the two of you are sufficiently towel dried, the two of you settle into your familiar creaky bed. You draw the covers up over your bodies, and he draws you into his embrace, kissing the top of your head. He intertwines his fingers with yours, absently rubbing your skin with his thumb, his mind drifting.

“Say,” he begins eventually, stirring you from your near slumber. “The night we met… What were you doing on that side of town, down that alley?” His voice is low, curious.

There’s a pause. He can’t see your face like this, while you’re nestled into the crook of his neck, but he can hear your heart clear as day.

“I was looking for you,” you answer eventually, pulse as steady as a metronome.

At that, he smiles. “I love you,” he whispers, squeezing your hand.

“I love you, too,” you answer, your own smile audible in your sleepy voice. “And I always will.”

Don't fret precious I'm here Step away from the window Go back to sleep Lay your head down child I won't let the boogeyman come Counting bodies like sheep To the rhythm of the war drums Pay no mind to the rabble Pay no mind to the rabble Head down, go to sleep To the rhythm of the war drums

#homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #IT'S DOOOONE AAAA #i can't believe how long this turned out lmao #anyways i am exhausted please enjoy #smut #dark fic #my writing

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bro-atz · 8 months

Text

absence makes the heart break

in which: san broke your heart when he suddenly left you, and just when you've finally moved on, he reappears in your life in a way you couldn't even fathom in your wildest dreams

pair: san/afab!reader (ft. wooyoung/afab!reader)

word count: 8k

content: a lot of angst, fluff, a lot of smut, break up sex, one last time sex, romantic sex, taboo sex, sofa/couch sex x2???, raw sex x3??? (remember to wrap up irl pls), heart break, opportunistic infidelity, love triangle???, completely consensual!

author's note: tbh i'm definitely evil for writing this, but i'm in my villain era so let's break some hearts hehe... i og just wanted this to be a "the one that got away" trope, and then my fingers just took me on a wildly different journey, so here we are... don't kill me pls and thx ily xoxo thank you choy @chokchokk for the idea hehe

tag list: @k-hotchoisan apply for the permanent taglist here!

You and San had been dating for two years— the two of you met right after graduating from college and clicked almost immediately. After one year of dating, he moved into your place, and after two years, things changed suddenly.

You got home from work one day to see all of San’s suitcases by the door. You looked around and saw that pretty much all of his personal belongings were no longer in their spots. You stared at the place in shock— what the fuck was going on? There weren’t any problems in your relationship that you could think of, and San didn’t show any signs that he was unhappy in the relationship. The two of you even talked about having a kid for crying out loud.

“San?” you called out into the apartment. “What’s going on?”

There was no response. You walked around the apartment and looked for him, only to find him in the bedroom. He turned to look at you, and you immediately saw his red, teary eyes. He had been crying.

“Y/N, you’re home early,” he said softly.

“San, what the hell is going on? Why are all of your things by the door?” you asked, your own voice starting to waver.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore… I think we should break up.”

“W-what? San, I don’t understand—”

“I wrote it all in the letter…” San stated as he pointed to the letter on the bed. “I didn’t think you’d come home so soon. I was hoping to slip out while you were at work.”

“Why?!”

“I have to go home for a while. I don’t know how long, and there’s a lot of things I have to work through, so I don’t feel right being in a relationship where I can’t give you the attention you deserve. I’m sorry, Y/N…”

“Sannie, I can help you! That’s what relationships are all about—”

“No, you can’t. You have a life here, Y/N. I can’t just expect you to drop everything just to be with me… Even if we try long distance, I know that you can be there for me, but I won’t be able to be there for you. You deserve to be with someone who can reciprocate, and that person is just not me right now.”

San walked past you and out of the bedroom, but you caught his arm before he could go any further. Hot tears rolled down your cheeks as his back faced you.

“San,” you cried. “Don’t do this… Please… I love you so much. Don’t break up with me.”

You hugged San from behind. At first, he was motionless, but he eventually turned in your arms and hugged you back. He hugged you tightly and dropped his head, his lips by your ear. You heard his voice crack slightly as he whispered, “I love you, too, Y/N. I love you so, so, so much…”

“We don’t have to break up,” you mumbled into his chest. You leaned back and looked into his eyes as you said, “Let me be there for you. We’ll go through it together, and I promise I’ll be there for you even if you can’t be there for me. We can make it work! I’ll just come visit you in your hometown every other weekend.”

“But that’s not fair to you, Y/N… You’d be putting in so much effort, and I wouldn’t be able to do that at all. Then, you’d grow to resent me for not putting more effort into our relationship. I’d rather break up with you now because I can’t stand the idea of you breaking up with me because you hate me.”

“I won’t hate you, San. I love you. I will always love you… We don’t know how the future will turn out! I’d rather stay together and be hopeful.”

“Y/N, I have to go, and I don’t know how long I’ll have to be gone for…” He pulled himself out of your embrace. He cupped your cheeks and wiped the tears staining your cheeks. “This is how it has to be.”

You place your hands over his and hold onto him. When he moved his hands away from your face, you immediately held onto his shoulders and pulled him, your lips meeting his. Your hand rested on the back of his neck and on his shoulder as you kissed him passionately, tears still rolling down your cheeks. His arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you into him. The two of you kissed and held onto each other desperately as you re-entered the bedroom.

San sat on the bed while you straddled him. You ran your fingers through his hair and clutched his roots as you felt his tongue dive further into your mouth. His fingers slipped under your blouse and held onto your waist, his cold fingers sending goosebumps down your spine. When his nails brushed past the small of your back to move to your bra and unhook it, you moved closer to him, a muffled moan leaving your lungs. San released your lips, a thin string of saliva connecting your tongues. The string broke when San moved his head down, his nose brushing against your jaw as he targeted the skin on your neck. You leaned your head backwards as breathy moans escaped your body.

You gripped the collar of San’s sweater and pulled upwards, indicating to San that you wanted him to start stripping. He moved away from you slightly to do so, messing up his hair and revealing a white tank top, which he promptly removed to reveal his defined chest and broad shoulders. Even with his messy hair covering his eyes, you could still see the sorrow in them. His lips were slightly parted as he looked up at you, practically begging you to kiss him; and when you brought your lips to his, he kissed you passionately and desperately, which you loved but at the same time did not want him to do so because it meant that he really was going to leave.

San helped you out of your blouse and pulled your bra off almost immediately so his hands could cup your breasts. He planted his lips on one of your breasts and sucked hard, making you hold onto his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as his teeth nibbled on your nipple. You gasped loudly when his fingers tugged on your other nipple.

While San got busy with your breasts, turning you on to the max, you unconsciously gyrated your hips on his lap. Your panties were getting incredibly wet, and San was getting harder by the second, making you grind on him even more. San moaned lightly when you pushed your waist against his, his hands moving from your breasts to your ass. He sucked your other breast while slipping his fingers past the waistband of your pants then sliding your pants downwards.

Wordlessly, the two of you removed your pants when you stood up for a brief moment. The second the two of you were completely naked, you straddled him once more, his dick pressing against your clit and stomach. Neither of you said a single word as you held his dick delicately in your hands, adjusting the both of you before sitting down, his cock filling you up. San’s hands held onto your ass as you began to move, his hands assisting you. You moved slowly at first, allowing you to lock lips with the man you loved.

Whimpers, moans, and groans echoed in the room the more you bounced on San’s dick. At some point, he leaned backwards, his back pressing against the bed. Your chest pressed against his as you continued to fuck him, his hips bucking upwards to thrust his penis further and harder into you. You gasped and bit back cries as you felt him rub against your g-spot repeatedly, bringing you to orgasm. Shortly after, you heard San grunt loudly as he slammed your waist against his, his cock trembling inside you as he came. He remained inside you as the two of you rested and caught your breath.

That moment lasted only seconds before San turned you over so that your back was pressed against the bed. He moved your legs upwards so that your calves rested on his shoulders, his dick still deep inside you. He moved slowly and gently at first, and he was still sitting upright. You held your arms out for him, and he lowered himself, your hands immediately moving to hold the back of his neck so you could get yet another taste of his sweet lips. He moved to his elbows while you wrapped your legs around his waist, allowing him to move faster and harder.

San kept up a slower tempo at first, but he slammed his waist into yours repeatedly, your ass stinging a little because of the impact. The pain immediately subsided the more you kissed him, though, until you felt a tear slip out of your eye. San lips left yours as he moved upwards slightly, the two of you gazing at each other. San’s eyes were also misty from what you saw. More tears slipped out of your eyes the longer you stared at San’s face. He wiped the tears from your eyes, but that didn’t stop you from crying, which made him start crying, too. You felt one of his tears land on your cheek, but before any more could fall, he moved back and sped up his thrusts exponentially, quickly bringing you to orgasm, but you were only able to squirt properly after San came again and pulled out, both your arousal fluid and San’s cum leaking out of your pussy.

With a light exhale, San laid down on the bed next to you. He laid his arm out so you could use his arm as a pillow, his other hand cupping your face and wiping tears from your cheek.

“Angel,” San whispered, making you cry all over again because that was the first time all day he had called you by his nickname for you. “Angel, please don’t cry.”

“How can I not cry when you’re going to leave me?” you whispered while crying. “You’re the love of my life, Sannie. I don’t want to break up. Let’s stay together… You do what you need to do, but still be my love, please…”

“Y/N…”

“Please, San. Please.”

San let out a sad exhale. He sat up and said, “Let’s get cleaned up first, okay?”

You nodded slowly and sat up with his assistance. The two of you went to the bathroom and took a shower together, but while usually you two would indulge in shower sex, you couldn’t bring yourself to even look him in the eye. He scrubbed you and himself down as you stood somewhat motionless. Neither of you said a word.

After toweling off and tossing the soiled sheets into the hamper, you and San got into bed. You held onto him tightly in fear that he was going to leave if you didn’t. He pet your hair and left soft kisses all over your face, but you didn’t respond to that because you knew that was him trying to say goodbye. You moved your head down and pressed it against his chest, not allowing him to kiss your face at that point. He settled for pressing his lips lightly against the top of your head before burying his nose in your hair.

“Angel, how about this,” he said quietly. “I won’t leave until the morning, okay?”

You didn’t want him to leave at all. You remained quiet as you thought about his proposition.

“I’ll stay here tonight and sleep with you, then I’ll leave in the morning.”

If he was going to leave in the morning, maybe you could wake up before him and keep him from leaving by hiding his things or just latching onto him and not letting go.

“Okay,” you accepted. “I love you so much, my San.”

San kissed the top of your head once more before resting his chin on your head and hugging you closer. “I love you, too, my angel… My Y/N.”

You woke up to an extremely cold bed. You immediately sat up and looked around. San was not in the bedroom. You leapt out of bed and ran to the front door to see that all of his suitcases were no longer there.

“San?” you called out into the empty apartment. “San?!”

No response. You ran through the apartment searching for him, but there wasn’t a single trace of him anywhere. You fell to your knees and bawled. San really did leave.

Little did you know, San was standing in front of the apartment still. If you had just opened the front door, you would have been able to catch him, but you didn’t know that. San pressed his head against the door as he heard you wailing his name, tears falling rapidly from his eyes, and he continued to cry the whole way back to his hometown.

The following days, weeks, months, you texted San everyday— good morning texts, good night texts, happy holiday, happy birthday, and many, many, many “I love you”s and “I miss you”s; and no matter how much you texted him, you never got a single reply from him. You tried for a year. You even tried to find his hometown so you could get him back by going in person, but you didn’t know where or how to find his hometown. His friends were no help, too. He ghosted them as well. He ghosted everyone.

You wanted to wait for San. You knew that he would come back to you at some point and that you would be able to live your happily ever after with him. But, you didn’t know how long he was going to take. You didn’t know if he ever would show up again.

The thought of growing old and dying alone scared you. You didn’t want to be alone. You wanted someone to love you and be there for you— and that’s when you finally understood what San was saying. You were so lonely without him, and if the two of you were still dating, he still wouldn’t be able to be there for you when you needed him to. So, after one year of waiting for him, you gave up. You couldn’t wait for him any longer; you couldn’t be alone any longer.

You distracted yourself to the best of your ability. You spent more time at work, working well into the night despite the fact that you really didn’t need to. You hung out with your friends often, but you couldn’t keep that up for long because your friends were in their own relationships, and their romantic relationships were more important (and you didn’t blame them because you were the same when you were dating San).

One weekend morning, you went on a walk. Your mind was blank— you spent the entire night before just crying about San and looking at old pictures of the two of you, his favorite movie playing in the background. So, in the morning, you were a zombie. You woke up to see that it was still dark out, but the sun was starting to come up. Your body moved before your mind could process, and you were outside waiting for the sunrise.

You were walking along the sidewalk on a bridge, and you stopped right in the middle of the bridge to look at the horizon. There were a few runners and cyclists and elders out to enjoy the air before the day truly started, and they continued to pass you as you waited for the sun.

A man out on a jog ran past you, only to stop dead in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder and saw you. The sky was bathed in shades of orange and pink, and you looked so beautiful among it. The wind was in your hair, your lips were slightly parted, and you were just staring out at the scenery in front of you while the man stared at the scenery before him.

When you ran your fingers through your hair to brush it back, he saw your eyes. Your eyes were red and puffy, and they were still filled with sadness. You were leaning a little too far over the railing, which also scared the shit out of him. He walked towards you and leaned onto the railing himself, startling you slightly, which made you take a step away from the railing.

“Hi,” he said with a beautiful smile.

“Hi…”

He turned his head and looked at the rising sun. He continued to look into the distance as he spoke.

“The sunrise is gorgeous, isn’t it?”

“Yeah… It is…”

“Did you know sunrises and sunsets are brighter after a rainstorm?”

He looked at you, and you shook your head in response— you didn’t know that. He turned his head back to the sky and looked at the universe with a smile. You stared at his side profile. He was handsome, and he looked so beautiful and radiant in the colors of the sunrise. It was as if the sun rose just for him.

“Rainstorms clear up the sky, so the colors are more vibrant because of the clear sky. Sometimes, it needs to rain so the colors can pop and be more lovely,” he explained. Then, he broke into a wide grin and looked at you again, his eyes turning into crescents. “Nature works in beautiful ways. It’s amazing.”

You were speechless. You stood and stared at the man and took in all of his beauty. Nature did work in beautiful ways because it created the sparkling, lovely person in front of you. His smile got softer as he turned to face you. He held his hand out and introduced himself.

“I’m Jung Wooyoung.”

You took his hand.

“Y/N.”

You fell for Wooyoung. You fell hard. Every single moment with him was bright and happy, and you completely forgot about your heartbreak as you spent more and more time with him. You would go on cute dates like in the park or at the movie theatre— and the two of you would go movie hopping until you got kicked out— or to get ice cream or to an amusement park, but he would also take you to ultra fancy restaurants and rooftop bars and speakeasies. He was such a man of duality, having the cutest and most fun personality while also being a successful president of a company, but you loved it. You loved him.

One year flew by. In that one year, Wooyoung asked you to move in with him, and you did. Living with him was chaotic, but you expected that at the least because Wooyoung was chaotic and unpredictable, but always in a good way. You didn’t know how he was going to surprise you or make you laugh next.

On the second year anniversary of the first time the two of you met, you woke up to Wooyoung shaking you at five in the morning.

“Wooyoung, honey, I love you, but it is too early in the morning for this shit,” you grumbled as you turned in bed and pulled the blanket over your head.

“Please, pumpkin? Sweetie? Cutie? Baby? Lovely?” Wooyoung showered you with all the cute nicknames he had for you as he knelt by the side of the bed and kissed your face all over.

“Ugh, fine,” you complained, but you had the biggest smile on your face. “One of these days, your cute act is not going to work on me.”

“Well, today is not that day. So get up! Get dressed! Let’s go!”

“Get dressed?! At five in the morning?!” you were in complete disbelief.

“Believe me, you’ll be glad you did.”

Blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you looked at what Wooyoung was wearing. He was wearing the button-up you loved most on him along with the tie and tie clip you got him for his birthday. So, you wore clothes to match his… At five in the fucking morning.

He held your hand as the two of you walked through the city, the streetlights illuminating your path. It was still very dark outside. The two of you walked all the way to a bridge— the bridge where you first met. Your heart raced. And once you saw his friend standing in the middle of the bridge with a camera, you immediately got a sense of what Wooyoung was going to do.

Right at the middle of the bridge as the sun started to rise, Wooyoung got down on one knee. He held your hand. He told you how much he loved you and that he wanted to spend the rest of his life showering you with that love because you were everything to him. You cried. He took out the wedding ring, and you said yes. He kissed you, the sky red, orange, and pink. The pictures of the two of you before the sunrise turned out beautiful and vibrant. Nature really did work in beautiful ways.

You sat on the couch in the living room reading through one of the bridal magazines your friend lent to you. After Wooyoung proposed, he said he wanted to get married sooner rather than later, so you decided to get married on the day you first kissed, which was four months after the first time you met.

“Hi, baby,” Wooyoung greeted you with a kiss when he got home from work.

“Welcome home, honey,” you said in response, Wooyoung’s lips immediately pulling into a wide grin.

“God, I love when you say that. It makes me feel like we’re already married,” he giggled.

Wooyoung set his bag down in the kitchen before immediately joining you on the couch. He hugged your waist and nuzzled his nose into the nook of your neck before his eyes shifted to see the magazine.

“You’d look beautiful in that dress, and that dress, and that one, and that,” Wooyoung said as he flipped through the pages. “Honestly, Y/N, you’re already so beautiful normally. The dress would just be a complete knockout for me. Don’t wear one.”

“What, you want me to marry you naked?” you teased him.

Wooyoung’s face went red— he was definitely imagining it. “No, because I don’t want anyone else looking at you naked. Only me.”

You giggled and kissed his cheek lightly, but that wasn’t enough for your fiancé. He kissed your lips. A passionate kiss. One that made your fingers and toes tingle. His fingers got tangled in your hair as he gripped your roots tightly, his kisses getting more intense with every passing second. He took the magazine out of your hands and tossed it behind him somewhere, your hands free to hold onto his shirt so you could work on the buttons. His shirt fell to the ground, then yours, and your pants and underwear flew off your bodies in record time.

Wooyoung had you pinned to the black leather couch. His lips trailed along your exposed skin, leaving light pink marks in their wake. You sighed pleasurably when Wooyoung kissed your neck, his hands kneading your breasts simultaneously. You felt his knee press between your legs and rub subtly, stimulating your clit. Tiny gasps and moans escaped you the more he played with your body.

While you enjoyed his foreplay, you wanted more from him. Your arms wrapped around his body and pulled him closer, silently telling him to fuck you. There was a slight smirk on Wooyoung’s face as he positioned himself and slowly entered you, making you gasp loudly.

“Shit, you’re so tight, baby…” Wooyoung sharply inhaled as he pushed himself all the way in.

Wooyoung moved slowly at first, the friction between his cock and your cunt making electricity zap through your nerves. He kept moving at that steady pace of his, but his waist hit yours powerfully every time, and you loved it.

“Mmm, f-feels good,” you barely managed to say before biting your lower lip and narrowing your eyes slightly.

“Fuck, baby… You can’t make that kind of sexy face and expect me to stay calm,” Wooyoung grunted.

“T-then go wild, honey. Fuck me… H-harder!”

His hands held onto your waist firmly as his tempo sped up. You clung onto his veiny arms as you head went back, the pleasure insurmountable. You watched his jaw clench the harder he slapped his hips into yours, your entire body lurching every time he thrust into you. You felt yourself nearly your orgasm as he sped up and slowed down almost randomly, your body unable to keep up with the change in pace.

“I’m gonna cum!” you cried.

Wooyoung immediately pulled out and rushed his middle two fingers into you, his fingers curling and running against your G-spot rapidly, bringing you to orgasm intensely and loudly as you screamed his name.

Mere seconds after the high of your orgasm faded, Wooyoung carefully entered you again, and after about two thrusts, he fucked you fast. His hold on your thighs got firmer, and you could hear his breathing get rougher and faster.

“Baby,” Wooyoung said breathlessly. “Can I cum inside?”

“Fill me up, honey,” you pulled him down by his shoulders. You bit his earlobe gently before whispering, “Give me every last drop of you.”

That did it for him. With one final slam, Wooyoung moaned loudly as he released his entire load inside you, his cock twitching as his seed kept filling you. When he pulled out, his cum leaked out of you, and Wooyoung loved to see it.

Seconds later, Wooyoung cleaned you and the couch up before wrapping a throw blankets around the two of you. You sat in his lap and held onto his shoulder while combing your fingers through the hair on the back of his head. Meanwhile, he traced patterns along your waist and stomach as he told you, “This, this, this… All this. All for me. No one else gets to see it. Only me.”

He leaned into you and trailed his fingertips from the top of your forehead, down your nose, and to your lips.

“And these are exclusively mine. Forever.”

“I’m all yours forever, honey,” you agreed.

Wooyoung cupped your face and kissed you tenderly. You could feel him smile against your lips, making you smile in the process. He moved away slightly and gazed lovingly at you while whispering, “God, I love you so much, Y/N.”

“I love you too, Wooyoung.”

With a final kiss, Wooyoung got off the couch and pulled on his boxers, roaming the apartment in just his boxers. You watched his butt from the couch and bit your lower lip while imagining taking a bite of his ass.

“Hey, eyes up here,” Wooyoung snapped his fingers and gestured to his eyes.

“Sorry,” you said while not really meaning it. “You have a fine ass, babe.”

“I know that,” he replied while smacking his ass.

You laughed and turned away, your eyes landing on the bridal magazine on the ground. You picked it up and opened it back up to the page you left off on. Wooyoung messed around in the kitchen and began to cook dinner while wearing only boxers.

“Honey, if you’re going to cook like that, you might as well just wear an apron and ditch the boxers,” you teased.

“Buy me a “kiss the chef” apron, and maybe I’ll do it.”

You snickered and returned to your magazine as Wooyoung continued to cook.

“By the way, my friends told me that my best man is going to “kidnap me” for the bachelor party. Just wanted to let you know in case he leaves a ransom note for you.”

“Sounds fun,” you laughed. “Oh, wait… Who is your best man, anyway? You never told me.”

“My best friend from college. San.”

You immediately clutched the magazine hard, the pages getting crumpled in your tight grip, and your heart dropped. You must’ve heard him wrong, or maybe someone else shares the same name because, surely, it’s not… San… Like your former lover San…

“I, um… I’ve never met him?”

“Well, we lost contact right after we graduated, then he went to his hometown because he had to take care of some stuff at home, so he’s been there for a while now… Three years, maybe? But, yeah, we made a pact in college to be each other’s’ best man, so he’s my best man for our wedding.”

You nearly tore the magazine in half. The San Wooyoung was talking about was, in fact, the man who was once the love of your life.

“That’s nice… That he kept his promise…” you said slowly, unsure of what to say because your mind was reeling, and not going to lie, you were getting kind of dizzy. “Well, have fun. I mean, when he kidnaps you… For the party— Um, what day is that, again?”

“Next Thursday.”

“Got it…” you nodded; at least you knew when to not be at home.

Wooyoung hummed cheerily in the kitchen as he continued to obliviously make dinner while you sat on the couch, your heart racing, and your mind spinning just remembering the man you loved deeply, the man that got up and left, the man that broke your heart.

You did a good job of avoiding Wooyoung and his groomsmen until the day of the wedding. Wooyoung didn’t expect a thing because your friends would whisk you away in the name of some wedding mishap, but they couldn’t do that for you at the actual wedding itself. You just had to figure out a way to avoid making eye contact with him and avoid being left alone with him.

You stood on the bridal raiser and smoothed out your dress before turning and checking the back of your dress to the best of your ability. You were all alone in the dressing room by that point because your bridesmaids and mother ran out— they were putting the finishing touches on all the small little details (which you didn’t really care about but they cared a whole lot so you gave them your blessing to go do what they needed to do).

Hanging on the mirror in front of you was your veil. You totally forgot about your veil. You picked it up and attempted to put it in your hair by yourself without messing up your hair. You nearly ruined your hair entirely when the door to the room opened and closed suddenly.

“Hey, Woo, I’ve got the rings and—”

You turned to see your fiancé’s best man. The two of you froze. You locked eyes and stared at each other, your heart sinking.

“No way…” you whispered to yourself.

Your fingers went numb, and you dropped the veil. You continued to stare at him as San smiled at you. His smile was still gorgeous, and he still had those beautiful dimples that you loved so fucking much. Your heart clenched as you observed him act as if everything was okay.

“Hi, Y/N. It’s been a while.”

You remained silent.

“You look nice… Very beautiful.”

“Um, thank you…”

San walked towards you slowly. You desperately wanted to move away, but you were frozen in place. He stood right before you and picked up the fallen veil before offering you his hand to help you off the bridal raiser— he seemed to realize that you were stuck up there. You hesitantly placed your hand in his and carefully stepped down from the raiser, only to forget that you were wearing heels. Your heel immediately tipped to the side as you got down, making you fall right into his arms.

San caught you securely and wrapped his arms around you while you tried to get your footing again, the veil falling to the ground once again. Despite the fact that you regained your balance and tried to move away from him, the man still hugged you tightly.

“San,” you choked out, his name foreign on your tongue. “San, let go…”

“Can we please just… let’s stay here a little longer…”

You let out a tiny, sad sigh. You felt awkward with his arms just around you and you standing still, so you (made a huge mistake and) hugged him back lightly at first. You didn’t realize how familiar his hugs would feel after three years of not seeing him and you found yourself sinking into his embrace. You missed his broad shoulders, the way he would press his head gently against yours, the way his fingers would press gently into the small of your back, and the way he smelled. God, he always smelled so wonderful, and that smell brought you back to three years ago when he made you the happiest person alive, bringing tears to your eyes. You did your best to suppress the tears, though, because your goddamn bridal makeup— you couldn’t ruin that.

Your shoulders trembled as you choked back your sobs, and San noticed that. He loosened his arms around you and leaned away slightly to see your face and notice the tears in the corners of your eyes. He cradled your face as he frowned slightly, his trembling thumbs dabbing the tears— he also knew not to mess up your makeup.

“Y/N, don’t cry,” he whispered.

“San…” your voice wavered.

He pressed his lips together, his own eyes starting to water. “Angel, don’t cry,” he said hoarsely.

You thought that him calling you by that nickname would make you upset, but it made your heart flutter. You blinked several times hoping to clear the tears without them rolling down your face as you looked up at San’s face. However, his affectionate gaze brought tears back to your eyes.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N… You haven’t changed a bit…”

Your lower lip quivered, and you were about to start crying, but San didn’t want to let that happen. He dried your tears and kissed you immediately. It was a light kiss at first, but you missed him so much, and he with you. You held onto his arms tightly as you kissed him back, unable to get enough of him. And when he moved his hands from your face to around you, you moved your hands to his shoulders and just wanted him to whisk you away right then and there.

The entire world faded. In that moment it was just you and your lost lover. Just him holding you brought you back to your younger self when you and San were in love and happy. You fit so snuggly in his warm embrace as if you were two puzzle pieces meant to be pressed together— you felt so right with him.

Slowly, the kisses got more intense, more frantic. He let go of you to pull his suit jacket off, but he made sure to leave his lips with you. When his hands returned to your waist, you untied his bowtie and began unbuttoning his shirt. By the time San reached for the zipper on your dress, you were nearly done with the buttons, and just as your dress strap fell off your shoulder, someone knocked on the door, completely startling the two of you.

“Baby?” Wooyoung asked, happiness exuding from his voice. “Your mom wants to know if you need help with the veil!”

“N-no! I got it!”

“Okay, see you soon! I love you!”

You were completely pulled out of your daydream with San and came crashing down into the real world, your heart shattering into a million pieces. You pushed San away lightly and put the dress strap back on without making eye contact with him. You turned away from him and walked towards the mirror where your veil laid on the ground. You had to get ready for your wedding.

“San, we can’t be doing this,” you told him without turning around. “It’s too late. I’m getting married, and I’m getting married to your best friend for crying out loud! And I—”

“I know, Y/N, but… I need you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

“San, you lost your chance. I’m in love with Wooyoung, now.”

“Yeah… I made a mistake,” San said— you heard the hurt in his voice. “Leaving you was the biggest mistake I ever made.”

You turned to look at him, your eyes burning as they filled to the brim with tears. “Then why did you do it, San?”

With a heavy exhale, San ran his fingers through his hair and took a seat on one of the couches in the room. He rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together as he stared at the ground.

“For the past three years, all I did was take care of my family. My friends would text me, but I never had the time or energy to respond. I was completely alone… And I knew that if I was still with you, we definitely wouldn’t have lasted because of how inaccessible I was.”

As he talked, you approached him and sat next to him. You, too, looked down at the ground as he continued.

“I never stopped thinking about you. I always wanted to text you back when you texted me saying you missed me, but I was scared… I didn’t want to give either of us false hope. And then, you stopped texting me, so I knew you moved on, and I didn’t want to ruin whatever happiness you had.”

You gingerly placed your hand on his, gripping his hand as you listened to and understood his justification.

“When Wooyoung sent the engagement photos, I was shocked,” he let out a little laugh. “I realized I never told him about you when we were together, and I never got to talk to him about his relationship with you because I distanced myself from everything. I actually told him that I couldn’t be his best man, so he actually hunted me down and wore me down, using our college days against me.”

San moved his hands away from yours and covered his face to let out a shuddering sigh.

“I love you so much, Y/N… I can’t believe I let you go,” he said, nearly sobbing.

Your heart clenched. You wrapped your arms around him and hugged him, hoping that he would stop crying because seeing him cry was too much for you to handle. San hugged you back and sniffled while whispering into your ear, “I’m sorry, Y/N… I wish I never had to leave you… I love you.”

You moved away from him and cupped his face— it was your turn to dry his tears. You smiled sadly at him as you said, “I never stopped loving you, too, San. I’m sorry things turned out this way… I just hope that someday you’ll find someone who can do for you what Wooyoung did for me.”

Innocently, you leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, but San turned his head right at that moment, and your lips briefly reconnected with his. You gazed into his eyes and held your breath— no matter what you said, and no matter how much you loved Wooyoung, you still had deep feelings for San. So, when he kissed your lips lightly again, and then again, and again, you let him. Your Superego begged you to stop, but the Id and your libido had more control over you. When San dropped his head and trailed kisses down your neck, you gasped, your head tilting back in response.

“W-wait, San,” you whispered and moved away slightly. “We can’t do this.”

“Just give me one last time, angel.”

“But—” San cut you off by kissing you, and you immediately caved.

You clung to him and continued to let him kiss your lips until they were raw. Both straps of your dress completely slipped off your shoulder and exposed your bare breasts. San, his lips leaving yours, stood up and helped you out of your wedding dress before delicately draping it over a chair and then doing the same with his dress shirt. He then locked the door and turned most of the lights off before rejoining you and pinning you down on the sofa, the two of you kicking off your shoes before you continued.

You wrapped your arms around him and ran your fingers through his hair on the back of his head. His tongue slipped into your mouth and danced along with your tongue, he pressed his chest against yours, and he held onto your waist and thigh, bringing your thigh up to wrap around his waist. Your pants started getting louder in between the kisses, and you were breathing heavily when San released your lips to remove his pants and underwear.

It had been so long that you forgot San’s size. You couldn’t help but look at him in fear as his stiff, red, throbbing dick rested on your stomach. Meanwhile, he looked at you anxiously.

“I don’t have a condom…” he whispered.

“That’s okay… Cum inside, though. It’ll make it easier to clean up.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Sannie. I’m on the pill.”

You said his nickname without giving it a second thought, and hearing yourself say it made your heart hurt all over again, but before you could cry about it, San left you with a mind-blowing kiss. He gently rubbed the tip of his cock up and down your folds slowly, making you wetter so that when he entered you, it wouldn’t be so painful. Yet, he still took you by surprise when he thrust into you, and you did your best to not moan or gasp loudly.

“Does it hurt?” he asked you quietly.

“No,” you breathed out.

“Will you be okay if I start moving?”

You nodded. Hands holding your waist, San moved slowly at first, and every time his hips would slap against yours, you’d let out a little whimper, your heart longing for San despite the fact that he was right there. The closer his upper body got to you, the faster his thrusts got. You bit your finger to keep from crying out loud as the pleasure rapidly increased. San, however, did not want you to bite your finger. He didn’t want you to get hurt. So, he kissed you continuously even with the two of you shifting on the couch with every thrust.

San caressed your hair. You wrapped your arms and legs around his body. You held onto him tightly as his cock rubbed against your G-spot continuously. His kisses were less of a continuous string the closer the two of you got to your climax. His breathing in between each kiss was getting shallower. He was biting back his own groans, the two of you just letting out smaller, sharper breaths as he thrusted into you hard. His waist slammed into yours hard as the two of you came at the same time. San bit his lower lip to suppress his pleasureful groan while you opted to bite the inside of your cheek.

The two of you panted heavily as the high of your orgasms wore off. You both remained stationary as you brought your eyes to meet his. You knew the regret and the guilt would set in later, but in that moment, you just wanted to be with San for as long as humanly possible. You desperately wanted to be able to cuddle with him and whisper sweet nothings to each other as you drifted into a comfortable sleep. But, that could only happen in the past. That could’ve only happen years ago before San left you.

San pulled out slowly and immediately grabbed the tissue box so he could clean you up. You sat up and caressed San’s cheek, willing him to look at you once again. You kissed him softly for a brief, beautiful moment, until you had to return to reality.

“I love you, San.”

“I love you, Y/N.”

He kissed the top of your head gently. Then, you had to tear yourself away from him. You both got dressed quickly. You took one more fleeting glance at him before you turned away from him, the two of you silently acknowledging the situation. You sat in front of the vanity and looked down at your lap as San carefully made his way out of the room. The door closed gently behind you, and a tear slipped out of your eye.

Wooyoung knocked on the door again to check in on you, and you asked him to send your maid of honor and mother. When they saw the disheveled state you were in, they bombarded you with questions, and you lied for every answer like saying you cried reading over your vow to Wooyoung, or that your hair was messed up because the veil refused to work with you. You felt incredibly guilty doing so, but it was truly the best option considering that you were to get married to the man that you love now in the next couple of hours. Luckily, the makeup artist and hair stylist were able to fix you up quickly and get you ready to walk down the aisle.

You were able to go through the rest of the wedding normally, the only thing— the only person— on your mind being Wooyoung. He was completely head over heels when he saw you walk down the aisle in your wedding gown. He vowed to keep you happy and laughing and to make sure you always felt loved, and you cried. Maybe it was because of the vow, maybe because of the guilt, or maybe a mix of the two; but regardless, Wooyoung dried the tears from your face with the beautiful smile that you fell for, the first smile of his you ever saw, on his face.

When Wooyoung was allowed to kiss the bride, and the two of you shared your first kiss as a married couple, you didn’t have to look at San to know that he was smiling and clapping for the two of you with complete sadness in his eyes. You didn’t need to look at him to know that he was hurting because, truth be told, you were hurting a little as well.

You forgot about the speeches at the reception until your father stood up and started talking, and sorrow paralyzed your body. After your father, your maid of honor spoke, and then the best man. You could barely keep your eyes on San as he stood up to speak.

“Wooyoung and I made a pact that we would be each other’s’ best men back when we were in college, but the thing is, I never thought I’d have to hold up my end of the deal.”

Everyone at the wedding party laughed, and you had to force one, especially when San turned to face the bride and groom with a beautiful smile on his face, his dimples as clear as day.

“But, seeing him here today with Y/N and… Seeing how in love the two of them are… I know that this relationship was meant to be, and I know that you’ll always keep her happy and smiling, Wooyoung.”

Your heart twisted into a knot. You covered your mouth as tears threatened to spill out of your eyes. Wooyoung, noticing your tears, held your free hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as he smiled softly at you.

“I know I don’t have to say this, but Wooyoung, cherish Y/N. She is the best thing that has ever happened to you. Give her all of the love in the world because she deserves that and so much more, and Y/N…” San cleared his throat, the smile barely holding up. He made complete eye contact with you as he said, “Wooyoung is the luckiest guy in the world to find someone who loves him so much… I’m happy that you two found each other… And I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.”

He turned away from you and held his champagne flute in the air.

“Cheers!”

San took his seat, and he couldn’t help but look at you from the corner of his eye. Wooyoung had his arm over your shoulder and he was whispering happily to you, the tears on your face disappearing as Wooyoung made you smile and laugh. Wooyoung kissed your cheek and hugged you closer, and San had to look away, his heart breaking, his heart broken.

457 notes · View notes

cupid-styles · 9 months

Text

ginger ale (sugar daddy!h)

Harry is a rich CEO and Mia is a grad student that's eight years younger. It just so happens that they may be the answer to one another's problems.

Content warnings: age gap (8 years), sugar daddy dynamic, alcohol, smut, slight daddy kink

Word count: 8k (grab a snack and a bev and enjoy!)

masterlist | talk to me

Mia's never been attracted to older men but somehow, she's found herself sitting at a two-person table at one of the fanciest Italian restaurants in the city, nibbling on the end of the straw in her glass of ginger ale, awaiting the arrival of her date, a man who is eight years older.

To be fair, she got to the restaurant 20 minutes early and forced herself to sit in her car. She tried occupying herself by scrolling through Instagram and TikTok and playing a few rounds of Candy Crush, but she couldn't shake the anxiety bubbling in her stomach.

She weighed her options: she could drive away, go home, change out of this ridiculously uncomfortable outfit, order Chinese and rot on the couch all night. Or, she could text him here!:), go inside, say she's here for a reservation under Styles (a fake last name, she's almost sure of it), and actually give this guy a chance.

Mia desperately wishes she doesn't have a moral compass because indeed, all she wanted to do was binge watch New Girl until her eyes feel like they're going to roll out of her head, but she'd feel so shitty for standing her date up. Grumbling, she turned her car off, stuffed her keys in her purse, and walked into the restaurant, 15 minutes early.

Thankfully the staff doesn't bat an eye at her arrival time, instead escorting her to a rather private corner of the restaurant.

"This is Mr. Styles' table, but please let us know if you'd prefer something more suitable to your needs," The hostess explains as she places entree and drink menus in front of Mia.

"Oh, this is great, thank you," She replies, trying not to let any inklings of shock seep through her voice. This guy had his own table? Her eyes bulge as she glances over the wine list, her eyebrows raised slightly at the triple digit numbers accompanying fancy French names. How rich did he have to be to dine here that often?

Mia's phone buzzes, tearing her gaze away from the overwhelming menu. It's Harry, her date, who says he'll be there soon. Sorry you're waiting on me — order a bottle of wine for us, whatever you like, he'd written, making Mia roll her eyes. He must think far too highly of her if he thinks she knew what any of these wines even are.

She settles on her comfort drink instead, a ginger ale filled to the brim with ice. If this wasn't such a nice place, she would pop ice cubes between her teeth, but she figures that's a major faux pas for first dates at restaurants where a plate of pasta cost upwards of $50.

Despite meeting on a dating app and familiarizing herself with his appearance, Mia knows Harry has arrived before she even sees him. The staff seems to stand up just a little straighter and the baseline hum of conversation tapers off.

When she looks up, she understands exactly why: Harry, whose last name apparently really was Styles, commands a certain presence the second he enters a room. He's striking, fashionable, and charming, floating through the dining area with a luxurious air. Everyone — including Mia — seems simultaneously intimidated and turned on.

Thank god she decided to go on this date.

. . .

Harry is so tired.

Physically, he's been running his body into the ground for the past 8 years or so, ever since he took on the role of CEO at his uncle's company when he retired. He knows that he was insanely fortunate and privileged, and 27 was a rather ridiculous age to run an entire conglomerate. As a result, he feels the incessant need to prove himself and make sure every single one of his employees feel taken care of.

So, he doesn't have much a social life.

He has his core group of friends from college. He's close with his family. He has friends at work, and he attends numerous charity events and galas as an investor. In hindsight, he has it all — except for a romantic partner.

Harry doesn't think that you need a boyfriend or girlfriend for life to be complete, but he's certainly guilty of missing it. He hasn't had a serious partner since college, a sweet girl named Zyla, but they broke up shortly after graduating. Since then, Harry has gone on tons of dates — he knows he had so much, and he wants to share it with someone. However, it seems that all of those people are after the same thing: wealth.

He understands it. Truly, he does, and he doesn't think those people were necessarily bad. But after years upon years of shitty first dates, he's exhausted. His best friend Mitch and his girlfriend Sarah suggested he try out dating apps, so they helped him sign up for Tinder and Bumble, where were fine enough. They were good at helping him scope out people he'd actually mesh well with, but they usually ended in one night stands, never to be heard from again.

Harry is 35. He doesn't want wild sex with strangers anymore.

After a date at a bar with a guy who didn't even pretend like he was interested in him romantically, Harry snapped. If money was all he was good for, he would be upfront about it from here on out. It had gotten him everything else he could've ever dreamed for in this life — a gorgeous penthouse apartment, designer clothes and shoes, non-profit donations galore — so why not just use it to find his forever partner?

That night, after polishing off a bottle of red wine to himself, he swiped onto his dating app of choice, clicked on settings, and deleted his existing bio. Sarah had initially suggested making it about what he liked and what he was looking for, but he was eager to rid his account of its current description: "Born in London, permanent NYC transplant. Love art, books, and fashion. Send me your favorite Fleetwood Mac song."

Without a second thought, he typed in a new bio: CEO. Let me take care of you.

. . .

Harry Styles makes Mia extremely nervous.

He hasn't even sat down yet and her stomach already feels like it's in her throat, her lips parted slightly as she took in his presence. He looks so effortlessly cool, and she's nearly positive she saw his trousers on the Gucci Instagram page last weekend.

"Hey," Harry grins as he approaches the table, shedding his body of the navy blue blazer he wore, "Mia, right?"

"Mhm." She nods tightly, noting at how the waiter pulled Harry's seat out for him, placing the menus out in front of him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Harry," he says as he settles into his seat. He glances up at the waiter and shoots him a charming smile. "Thank you, John."

John, apparently, quickly shuffles away. Mia squeezes her hands into tight fists under the table while Harry glances over the wine menu, though she was almost positive he was doing it as a courtesy if he knows everyone that works here.

"Did you have a chance to decide on a wine?" he asks, glancing up with raised eyebrows.

"Um, no," Mia mumbles, "I just got a... ginger ale."

She feels incredibly dumb now. What was she even doing here? She's wearing clothes from the clearance section of ASOS and a pair of platform oxfords, meanwhile, Harry's outfit looks like it cost her entire monthly rent.

"Oh, do you not drink? I'm sorry for assuming."

"I do," Mia replies with a shake of her head, her eyes drifting down back down to the drink list, "I just... don't really know any of these... and I also don't know how to pronounce most of them."

"That's okay. Is it alright if I pick one?"

Mia nods and rolls her lips into her mouth. She wonders if it was too late to escape — can she say she has to use the bathroom and try to sneak out the window? This has to be some kind of prank.

"Once we get our entrees, we can talk out the details of the arrangement, should you be interested," Harry murmurs, closing the faux leather of the main menu, "I'm not sure if you came prepared with certain stipulations, but I'm happy to hear any that you have."

Mia's eyes bulge, leaning forward slightly with furrowed eyebrows. "I'm... what?"

Of course, John decided to come back just as Harry's jaw ticked, looking just as confused.

"What can I get you two to eat this evening?" he asks, though Mia barely listens as Harry lists off some random wine, followed by a pasta dish. John looks down at Mia, who swallows harshly, grimacing.

"I'll do the same," she jumbles out. He nods and shoots her a smile before stepping away to put their orders in.

"What do you mean by arrangement?" Mia hisses out, leaning forward and keeping her voice low.

"You're joking, right?" Harry asks, a slight crinkle forming between his brows.

"Do you... what do you think this is?" Mia demands as she digs her fingernails into her palms. Does he think she's a prostitute or an escort? She doesn't think anything on her profile gives off that vibe, and while she knows she isn't dressed as nicely as he is, it isn't enough to warrant such an assumption.

"You... you read my bio, didn't you?" Harry questions, sitting back in his seat, "You understand what I'm looking for?"

"I have no fucking clue what you're talking about, Harry." Mia's teeth are gritted, her jaw set in annoyance.

He leans forward again, glancing over his shoulder to make sure none of the waitstaff is walking by. In a hushed tone, he mumbles something intelligible out.

"What? I didn't hear you."

"I'mlookingforasugarbaby."

"A what? Can you speak up a little?"

"A sugar baby!" Harry whispers out aggressively, clutching the corners of the table. Mia raises her eyebrows in shock and surprise, doing a mental recap of what she knew about Harry — she never would have swiped for him if that's all he was looking for, mainly because the whole concept made her too nervous. Their virtual conversations had been tame, consisting of normal questions about their occupations and hobbies. How did she miss this?

"I... I didn't know that's what you were looking for," Mia replies slowly, "Your profile didn't say anything about that..."

"Yes, it did!" Harry nearly whines, "'Let me take care of you?' That literally implies a sugar baby situation!"

"Are you serious?" Mia asks, her face twisted in a cross between confusion and disgust, "You think people understand that's what that means?"

"Obviously!"

Mia shakes her head and grabs her napkin from her lap, tossing it on the table. She feels so discouraged and frustrated, there's no way this Harry guy wasn't a total creep.

"Wait— Mia, don't go," Harry says, following her lead and standing from his seat, "Please, I'm sorry about the confusion. This isn't a reflection on you whatsoever. Can we just talk? I'll explain why I'm looking for this type of thing, treat you to dinner, no strings attached."

Mia sighs. Harry's expression and tone seem genuine and if she's being completely honest, a little naive, too. She's already here, hungry, and dressed up. It wouldn't hurt to stay.

"Fine," she mutters, plopping back down in her seat, "But you're getting me the cheesecake for dessert. And you're paying for my parking."

A small smile wiggles its way onto Harry's lips. "I'd be honored."

Mia has to look down at the tablecloth so he doesn't see the blush warming her cheeks.

. . .

Over large plates of pasta slathered in decadent sauces, Harry explains why he's in the market for a sugar baby.

"I've never looked for this type of relationship before—"

"Yeah, no kidding."

"Anyway, I'm so used to people only being interested in me for my money so I figured why not try to use it to my advantage, I guess. I'd want it to be as casual as possible... like I really am just looking for someone to come to events with me, maybe hang out on the weekends and go out on dates if we clicked enough."

Mia nods her head as she chews her penne vodka thoughtfully. "And what would I get in exchange?"

"Well, what do you want?" Harry asks through wine stained lips, "Do you have any bills you want paid? Student loan debt? Clothes, electronics, furniture?"

"How rich are you?" Mia questions before sipping on her second ginger ale of the night.

"I'm... definitely wealthy," Harry replies carefully, "My net worth is in the millions, if that tells you anything."

"You could've just said you're a millionaire."

"Are you always this bratty?"

She huffs, leaning back against the plushy velvet of her chair. She takes the lull in the conversation as an opportunity to sincerely contemplate the logistics of this situation: She stayed for the free meal from the rather... attractive, and apparently disgustingly rich man, but was she seriously, actually considering going through with this?

No. It was crazy.

Wasn't it?

"I can see you're having some sort of internal moral battle," Harry murmurs after taking a sip of wine. "I told you, no strings attached here. If you're not interested, it's more than okay."

"I don't know," Mia says, breathing out through her nose as she lowered her fork, "I would be lying if I said I didn't need the... financial assistance, I guess."

"Let's talk money, then," he shrugs, leaning his elbows on the crisp table cloth. "What do you need help with?"

Mia hadn't grown up poor, but she certainly had never been rich. Her parents had modest careers and were now retired. They taught her the importance of saving and paying her bills on time. They instilled education in her as top priority and never pressured her to pick a career that would make her the most money, instead pushing values of true happiness and satisfaction. It's honestly how she ended up in her second year of grad school with hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt under her belt.

"Well, I'm a student and I work part-time. I'm in grad school to become a social worker. I pick up shifts at the university's library when I'm not in class, so probably like... three or four days out of the week."

Harry nods, listening intently. His gaze is intense and it makes Mia's face warm.

"That seems like a lot," he says, a twinge of sympathy creeping into his tone, "You must be tired."

Mia shrugs her shoulders. "I guess."

Admittedly, she's uncomfortable with the apparent empathy Harry emits. She's used to being fairly independent and working herself to the point of burnout, solely because it was what'd she been doing since she was an undergrad. She's never entertained the thought of someone helping her out, let alone with finances.

Pursing his lips, he nods slowly before folding his hands together. "Here's what I'm willing to propose. I usually have one or two events a week, sometimes work-related, sometimes just appearances or charity things. If you'd be willing to be my date to at least one of them, I'm happy to have you quit your job and supplement that income. I can also pay off some of your student loan debt, however much you're comfortable with. I'm more than willing to work around your schedule, so if you can't attend something, that's absolutely fine. If you're struggling with rent or other bills, just let me know, and I can take care of those, too."

Mia's mouth goes dry. Harry speaks entirely too casually about money, let alone paying off massive things in her name that she'd been stressing out about for years. She quickly tucks her straw back between her lips and takes a hearty sip of ginger ale, focusing on the earthy taste and carbonation filling her mouth.

"Why?" She blurts out after swallowing, "You don't know me. I'm just some girl in grad school. For all you know, you'll take me to one of these events and I'll embarrass the shit out of you, or someone will figure out how we got involved. Isn't that worse?"

He hums, contemplating the points Mia had made. They're valid, sure, but they weren't deterring him either.

"What would you have to gain from embarrassing me?" He asks, rolling his lips into his mouth contemplatively. "I've been embarrassing myself for years by going out on dates with people who only want my money to begin with. We both need help and this is the best solution I could think of on my end. There's no pressure to agree, but I just think... well, maybe, we could be the answer to each other's problems."

Mia's worrying her bottom lip between her teeth when John reappears, asking if they wanted any to-go boxes or dessert.

She doesn't order any cheesecake, but she does text Harry late that night as she lays alone in her bed, mentally running back through the night for the thousandth time: If you're still interested, I'll do it.

. . .

Mia doesn't hear from Harry for a few days.

Her mind runs rampant when she doesn't have her nose buried in a textbook doing homework or sitting through three-hour long lectures. She can't help but wonder if he's decided it's not a good fit, or maybe the entire situation was ridiculous to begin with. From what she knew about sugar babies — or what she thought she knew — was that they typically involved some sort of sexual favors in exchange for money, but Harry hadn't mentioned anything about that. All he asked for was for her to accompany him at an event once or twice a week, and he was willing to pay for her bills and chunks of her student loans.

Maybe the entire thing was just too good to be true.

So by day three, that's what Mia assumed. After all, he was a 35 year old millionaire — he definitely could do far better than a stressed out student.

She has an apple cinnamon candle burning and one of those eight hour long lo-fi YouTube videos on her TV, hoping the beat-ridden songs would somehow seep some level of productivity into her brain. She was working on a paper she had due in a couple of days, but she was only four out of 12 pages in, and she had the assignment for the past month.

She was just about ready to give up, blow out her candle, and tucker in for the night when her phone buzzes, the loud vibration echoing against the wood of her coffee table, making her jump. She didn't know what time it is, but she knew it was too late for any normal person to be texting her.

That's why she's only partially surprised when Harry's name pops up on her screen.

I have to go to a charity thing at a museum tomorrow night. It starts at 7 pm. Would you be available?

Mia was slightly confused by this — she thought that he would reach back out at some point to iron out the fine details, but it seemed as though Harry didn't care for those. She mentally goes over her schedule for tomorrow; she has classes from 10 am to 3 pm and she should work on this paper when she gets back.

What time would it end?

Nearly immediately after firing off that text, she tapped at the screen again: also, what are you doing up? It's almost 2 am.

The familiar speech bubble popped up almost instantly. Mia wedged her thumbnail between her teeth, biting at it as she watched the three dots.

It'll probably be over by 11 but I can always get you home earlier if you need. Also, I could ask you the same thing.

She pressed her lips together. There was so much she didn't know about Harry and yet, she couldn't help the way her body warmed ever so slightly at the thought of spending the night on his arm.

11 works for me. Should I know anything about the event or you before we do this? I don't want to embarrass myself by not knowing basic facts about you if I end up talking to people.

Mia's surprised when the dots immediately pop back up, but she supposes he's not doing much at 2 in the morning. She tucks her legs under her body and grabs the fuzzy blanket draped over the back of the couch as his next messages comes through.

Are you suggesting we play some sort of fuckboy 20 questions game?

She snickers at that and imagines the way his eyes widened teasingly, as if her request was as outlandish as asking him to come over for a late night hookup.

Which she would never do, and promises she hasn't fantasized about doing it every night since she saw Harry last.

Call it what you want, I just don't want to get kicked out of some fancy event because I don't even know your middle name.

She takes up her decades-long nervous habit of nibbling on her thumbnail when her phone starts vibrating in her palm, this time signifying an incoming call from Harry. She initially wonders if it's some sort of butt dial, panicking about answering it, but by the fifth ring she figures he would've caught on by now, so she quickly presses the green button and lifts it to her ear.

"Hello?"

"You didn't think we were gonna play 20 questions over text, did you?"

. . .

Harry thinks he could stay up until sunrise talking to Mia.

Conversation flows naturally, like they're childhood best friends and have known each other their whole lives. If he hadn't been born eight years before her in a different country, he would actually wonder if that were the case, but youthful, snappy remarks are enough to remind him that there's no way this girl ever existed in his life before. He would've remembered her, even if they'd only met for a moment.

They talk about anything and everything to soothe Mia's nerves about not knowing basic facts about one another. Her middle name is Lucille and she grew up in Connecticut with an older sister. They bond about being the youngest sibling and having divorced parents. Her comfort food is boxed macaroni and cheese, which makes Harry's nose wrinkle, though she swears it's the perfect meal to eat after a stressful day.

"What should I wear tomorrow night?" Mia asks sometime around 3:15, when their conversation begins to dwindle down. Harry hums and picks at a loose thread on his vintage tee-shirt.

"Any sort of dress will do," he replies casually, "I can always have my stylist send some options over if you'd like, just text me your size."

She snorts at that. "Yeah, I think I'll pass on that. You wore head-to-toe Gucci the other night and I'm pretty sure designer shit runs, like, three sizes too small on women."

"Point taken," Harry admits, backing off. "It's not too fancy of an event so don't stress. Do you have anything in mind?"

"Mm, maybe. I have a pink slip dress I wear on dates sometimes. Do you think that would be alright?"

Harry's stomach twists at the thought of Mia going out on dates with other people, but he quickly shoves the feeling down.

"Sounds pretty," he murmurs, clearing his throat. "Send me a picture before tomorrow night so I can match you."

Mia smiles to herself. "That's cute. I'll see you tomorrow then, yeah?"

"Yeah, my driver will pick you up at 6:30. Sleep tight, Mi."

"G'night, Harry," she says softly before hanging up the phone. She tries to ignore the way her heart warms at the new use of a nickname.

. . .

Mia has had a bad day.

She stayed up too late last night talking to Harry, and she's trying not to give too much weight to the fact that butterflies invade her stomach every time she thinks about their two-hour long conversation. She snoozed her alarm to the last possible minute so she couldn't take a shower before class this morning and her professor called on her when she wasn't paying attention, so she stumbled through some bullshit answer about child psychology like an idiot.

She didn't have time to grab lunch between her second and third classes, so by the time she got home, she was starving, tired, and grumpy, but she had to get ready for Harry's charity event. She stuffs a bagel down her throat and hopes there's decent food before jumping in the shower, pulling on her dress, and doing just enough with her makeup and hair. She's additionally grouchy that she didn't have enough time today to make a dent in her paper that's now due in only three days, but she knows she can only blame herself for poor time management.

When she receives a text from Harry that says "Here x", she tries to take a deep breath to rid herself of the day's worries and anxieties. Typically around this time, she'd be elbow deep in a carton of lo mein from her favorite Chinese restaurant and preparing a eucalyptus-scented bath, but she reminds herself that she already agreed to do this for Harry. And the money.

Her platform sandals click against the sidewalk outside of her home, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of a sleek black town car with a man standing outside of it.

"Mia?" he asks, his lips pressed in a tight line. She nods and he opens the door for her, motioning for her to get inside.

When she climbs in, she sees Harry on the interior, his thumbs tapping against the screen of his phone. He glances up to look at her and her breath stalls for a moment. He's wearing a baby pink silk shirt underneath his blazer, matching the exact shade of her dress.

"Hey," Harry smiles, tucking his phone in his breast pocket, "You look beautiful."

"Your shirt." she points out dumbly.

"What about it? Do you not like it?"

"I love it," she blurts out as the man shuts the car door closed, "I didn't think you were serious about the matching thing."

"That's silly. Why wouldn't I be serious about that?"

"I don't know." she mumbles with a shrug.

"Are you gonna buckle up?" Harry asks, nudging his chin in the direction of her seatbelt. She scrambles, feeling embarrassed as she hoists the strap across her chest, clicking it in. The car gently buzzes to life and glides down the road and out of Mia's neighborhood, just as she realizes she's definitely never been in a vehicle this nice before.

"How was your day?" Harry questions from beside her. Her fingers are wrung together in an awkward position in her lap and she has to clear her throat before answering, tugging the material of her dress down to cover more of her thighs.

"It was actually kinda shitty," Mia admits with a bittersweet smile. "Woke up late and didn't really have time to eat too much and my lectures were boring. And I have this kind of big paper due in a few days that I'm stumped on, so that's that."

Harry wrinkles his eyebrows and she can't tell if it's because he's disappointed or about to reprimand her. She prepares herself for the former based on the age difference, assuming the worst from assumptions she's made.

"I told you we would work around your schedule. If you need to do homework tonight that's perfectly fine, I can have Reese turn around and drop you back off."

Mia's slightly surprised at his soft-spoken response and she relaxes her shoulders at it. Harry notices, but he doesn't say anything.

"It's okay. I still have three days... well two since I probably won't work on it tonight."

"What are you stuck on?" he asks, pressing his lips together. Mia glances down at them for just a moment, but she instantly notices their natural muted pink hue. It reminds her of their first date, when they were stained red from wine. "I obviously don't know much about social work, but sometimes it helps to talk things out."

Mia nods at that before shrugging her shoulders, "I think it's mainly just an environmental thing. I spend most of my days on campus so I just want to go home when classes are done, and my neighbors are loud and I get too distracted at home. I can manage it fine, but I usually need an impending deadline to pressure me to work."

"Mm, yeah, I've been there," Harry replies with a chuckle. "Well, if you need a change of scenery, my place is always available. I have an office and guest room and such, whatever suits you. Won't even bother you to play 20 questions."

She lets out a laugh and shakes her head. "I admit, I didn't mind that distraction."

"Ah, so I'm a distraction now?"

He has that cheeky grin on his face — the teasing one that makes her blush and her heart stutter — and she giggles, forcing herself to look away so he doesn't see the way her face warms.

Maybe tonight won't be so bad.

. . .

Harry likes having Mia on his arm. A lot.

Maybe a little too much, really, but he's blaming it on the two glasses of wine and the lack of food in his stomach. Like Mia, he'd had a busy day with minimal time to eat, let alone breathe, and he probably would've ditched this entire thing if she hadn't agreed to be his date.

He's not even that special of a guest here. He was a frequent donor to the art museums in the city, and he'd supplied the exhibition with a couple of thousand dollars to get it off the ground. He didn't do it for anything other than the fact that he had too much money and didn't know what to do with it, and his sister always asked to visit this particular museum every time she was in town.

Harry discovers that Mia is actually quite good at schmoozing and chatting with wealthy people. She plays the part of Harry's girlfriend well, and the sight makes his throat dry. She's sweet and kind to everyone they talk to, even if they bring up points that are painfully boring, and she wraps her hand around his as they meander around the room, picking at h'ordeuvres and refilling their glasses.

It almost feels natural.

Sometime around 10 pm, though, he can feel her posture slump slightly and yawns begin to escape her. He excuses them from the conversation he was just barely paying attention it and smoothly guides her with his hand at the small of her back.

"'s a matter?" she whispers, her eyes widening. "Did I do something wrong?"

"What? No, of course not. You're getting tired though, hm? I wanna make sure I get you home at a reasonable hour."

Mia blinks a few times, a look of confusion crossing over her face. "You said 'til 11 though, right?"

"There's no reason for us to stay any longer and you've already done so much by being here, Mi," Harry murmurs as he fires off a quick text to let Reese know they're ready to be picked up. "Lemme get you home, okay?"

She doesn't argue any more at that, and that's how he can tell she's genuinely exhausted. He smiles gently and shrugs his blazer off, then wraps it around her shoulders.

"It's gonna be cold out there, temperature was slated to drop a bit," he explains shortly, swallowing at the sight of her in his jacket. "Reese will be here any minute if you're ready to go, though."

Mia nods. As Harry turns on his heel to exit the building, she reaches out without thinking, intertwining their fingers together. He turns instantly, wanting to make sure that she was okay, but all he sees are wide eyes and a furious blush.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she scrambles, dropping his hand, "I... don't know why I did that, I'm sorry, I'm tired."

Harry smirks. "We can hold hands if you want, babe."

She scowls at his teasing tone but nevertheless reaches outward once more to grasp his hand in hers.

"If you make fun of me for this when I'm sober and not as sleepy, I'll kick you in the shins."

He lets out a loud laugh, "Wouldn't dream of it."

. . .

Harry doesn't hear from Mia for two days.

He tries to distract himself with work and the gym, but he's lying if he says he's not checking his phone every five minutes for a text from her. He wants to message her first, but it's been years since he's had... feelings, whatever they may be, for someone, and he doesn't want to overwhelm her. So for two days, he busies himself with going over reports, bringing work home and passing out on the couch with his laptop still open.

Finally, on Thursday night, Harry has Friends on TV while he scrolls mindlessly on Instagram. His phone suddenly alerts him of an incoming call, and his fingers itch at the sight of Mia's name. He doesn't even have it in him to wait 10 seconds before he picks up.

"Harry?" She sounds stressed as he rushes out his name before he's able to say hello.

"Mia?" He echoes her panicked tone, "Are you alright? What's wrong?"

"My paper is due in five hours and I still have four pages to go and I— I don't know what to do, I'm freaking out, I'm so tired and I just— it's worth 70% of my grade and I'll fail the class if I don't—"

"Mi, breathe," Harry cuts her off, placing his elbows on his knees. "What do you need? Do you need to talk it out, read it out loud to me?"

It's silent for a moment and butterflies invade his stomach, wondering if he's pressed too hard. Maybe she just needed to vent.

"I was actually wondering if I could come over and work," Mia says softly. "It's fine if not, I'll be okay—"

"Yes." Harry replies, quick enough to make himself grimace. "Um, yes, of course, the offer still stands. I'll send Reese for you right now and I'll set you up wherever you want."

She breathes a sigh of relief into the receiver, mumbling out a series of "okay"s.

"Did you eat, darling?"

"N-no. I came straight home after work and I... just didn't have time to cook anything."

"Work?" Harry repeats, flashing back to their date two weeks ago, when he told her she could quit her job. "I told you I would supplement your income if you left."

"Well, um... you didn't exactly... pay for me for the event a few days ago and I just thought maybe our... arrangement, um, changed."

"Oh, sweetheart," Harry sighs, lifting his hand to his hair, pulling at the messy roots. "I'm so sorry, I thought... I assumed you would ask when you needed money. I've never done this with anyone else and I didn't even think."

She swallows thickly and pauses on packing her bag to bring to his house.

"Listen, let me order some food and when you get here, we'll work on your paper and I'll send you some money to make up for the other night, alright? We'll iron out the rest of the details, too. I don't want you to keep working yourself to the bone."

"Okay," Mia breathes into the receiver, and the muffled shuffling in the background resumes. "Yeah. Okay. Thank you, Harry. That sounds good."

"Of course. Reese is on his way, I'll see you soon."

"See you."

. . .

Mia wants to cry when Harry unlocks the door of his penthouse apartment.

She's so tired and burnt out and all she could focus on the drive over was whether or not her thesis was good and if she had enough points and data to reach the word count.

She wants to collapse the moment she steps inside, brushing past Harry with a small, forced smile, who is already in a pair of sweatpants, a worn tee-shirt, fuzzy socks and a pair of reading glasses.

The tears actually start when she glances over to the kitchen island to see a bowl of macaroni and cheese and a ginger ale.

"Eat," he murmurs as he reaches his arm out to take Mia's bag. She's stuck in her place though, eyes watering at the sight of her comfort meal in Harry's million dollar apartment. "Mi? You alright?"

She blinks the tears away and parts her lips, looking up at him with wide eyes. "You remembered."

Harry smiles gently and nods, pressing a hand to her upper back and guiding her to the dining room table. "Of course I did."

He shuffles down the hallway as Mia stuffs a few forkfuls of macaroni in her mouth. She doesn't realize how utterly starving she is until right now, and she has to admit that having some food in her system is helping soothe her anxiety.

Harry meanders back out as she's sipping on her ginger ale, "Okay, I set your stuff up in my office. Plugged your computer in, put your phone on do not disturb. I'll be in my room if you need anything."

"Wait," Mia jumps up, glass in hand. "Uh... I'm sure you worked all day and the last thing you want is to hang out while I write this paper, but would you... stick around, maybe hear some of my ideas out? I tend to get a little loopy when I'm stressed."

A dimpled grin wiggles its way onto Harry's face.

"I'd love to, Mia."

. . .

"Harry? Can you read this and tell me if it makes sense?"

It's been two hours of quiet typing, discussing Mia's thesis, and Harry playing mindless games on his phone until she asks him to go over something with her. He's exhausted — they both are, but she only has an hour before the deadline and they have no choice but to keep trucking on.

She hands him her laptop and he peeks through his glasses, reading the highlighted paragraph. It's something about community-based learning opportunities connecting to abuse victims, and while the only relevant knowledge he has is from a freshman psychology course, Mia is knowledgeable and great at what she does. She breaks down concepts in a way that's easy to understand and listening to her talk about something she's passionate about makes his heart swell with joy.

"Looks great, Mi," he murmurs as he passes her laptop back, "How much more do you have left?"

"That was actually it." She says with a bright smile despite her tired eyes. "I can submit it now as long as all that sounds good."

Harry grins and rises from the en-suite couch, stretching his arms out. Mia can't help but notice the sliver of his torso revealed as he bends back slightly and she swallows, refocusing back to the screen.

"D'you wanna stay over, darling? It's already 3 and I bought a six-pack of ginger ale that I won't drink."

Mia's heart tightens as she clicks 'submit', shutting her laptop and looking up at him.

"Are you sure that's alright? You've done so much for me already, I don't wanna be a bother."

"Not a bother," Harry mumbles, nodding his head in the direction of the hall, "Also, send me your Venmo so I can send some money over, hm?"

"Harry— wait, about that," she scrambles up from the desk, wringing her hands together behind her back as she steps towards him, "I don't want you to pay me for that night."

"What?"

"I don't know if this is... presumptuous of me, but I had a really nice time being your date. And I don't want you to pay me for that time."

"Oh," Harry mutters, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. "You need money though, don't you?"

"Well, I'm not at your status but that's not why I'm here. Or why I went with you the other night."

"What?"

Mia swallows and takes a deep breath. "I like hanging around you, Harry. I like who you are. I don't want this to be a financial exchange if... if you want the same thing."

"Really?" Harry asks, blinking owlishly at the girl, "You... you don't want me for my money?"

She shakes her head. "No. I don't."

"I like you," he blurts out, making a smile appear on her lips. "I don't want that arrangement either."

Her shoulders relax and her smile turns into a grin. He steps closer to her and tentatively reaches out to press a hand to her hip, waiting to see if she'll reject his touch.

"Can I kiss you?" Harry asks softly, glancing down at her mouth. "I've been dying to since that first night."

Mia nods quickly, breathing out an affirmative answer. He leans forward and smears their lips together, nearly moaning out in relief from the feeling of closeness he'd been dying for. She stands on her tippy-toes and wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her chest up against his. It's warm and wet and so nice, but he forces himself to break away, leaning her forehead against his.

"That was nice." she murmurs, little puffs of air leaving her mouth. He nods eagerly and squeezes her hip.

"Perfect," he whispers. "Just... don't wanna rush things."

Mia raises an eyebrow, glancing down when she realizes Harry's hard length against her thigh. He grimaces in embarrassment — typically he's able to control himself far better, not getting a boner from a two minute kiss, but he's been dreaming about finally getting to kiss her.

"Oh," she sighs, and Harry swears he notices a slight glint in her eyes when she glances up at him. "You feel.. big."

He breathes out a chuckle, "Don't stroke my ego, sweetheart, can only take so much tonight."

"Can I... am I allowed to touch?" Mia questions, her voice soft and peeked with curious. Her eyelashes flutter as she peeps up at him, biting down on her bottom lip.

"Only if you want to. Don't feel pressured to do anything, it'll go away on its own."

Harry's honest in his answer, not wanting her to feel obligated by any means, but he's lying if he says he isn't thrilled when she slowly sinks to her knees, palming at his crotch on her way down.

"Fuck," he mutters, swallowing harshly at her sweet doe eyes batting up at him.

"When's the last time someone took care of you?" she murmurs as she gently tugs his sweatpants down, leaving him in a navy blue pair of briefs. His cock is nearly bursting out of them and she licks her lips at the visual, her mouth parting slightly.

"Doesn't matter," Harry replies in a strained voice. She pulls his underwear down to reveal his painfully hard cock, slapping up against his lower stomach with a bubble of pre-cum at the tip. "Wanna take care of you, darling."

Mia giggles at that and begins to pepper kisses along the tops of his thighs. Her fingertips wiggle between his legs, just below his balls, encouraging him to part them so she can sponge kisses along the skin there.

"Can I touch, please?" she asks, looking back up at him. He nods and sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, groaning when her hand wraps around the base, squeezing lightly. "I was right. Your cock is big and pretty."

"You're gonna make me cum just from that dirty mouth." Harry mutters, lulling his head to the side as she slowly pumps his length. She moves her mouth to hover over his length and spits, letting saliva dribble from her mouth onto his skin. The mix of her spit and his pre-cum are enough lubrication to help her jerk him at a steady pace, and she smiles when she hears his choppy breathing from above.

Mia mouths over the tip of his cock and sticks her tongue out, licking up the leaking fluid. "Mm, you taste good," she mumbles, almost as if Harry wasn't meant to hear her, "I want you to fuck my face and cum down my throat, please."

He chokes at her casual tone and reaches down to thread his fingers through her hair. "Are you sure, baby? 'M perfectly content with just watching you on your knees like this."

With her cheek pressed against his thigh, she smiles brightly at the use of the pet name, still nodding her head at his question.

"Mhm. I usually don't like deep-throating but your cock is really nice... wanna taste you and feel you burst in my mouth."

"You're gonna fuckin' kill me."

She lets out a giggle as Harry slowly guides his cock into her mouth. She takes him with ease, relaxing her throat until she's taken most of him. He inhales sharply through his nose as she takes initiative and begins bobbing up and down, drool starting to leak from the sides of her mouth. He groans as he watches her, growing comfortable when he sees how eager she is, and moves his hips in time with her movements until her nose is flush against his pelvis.

"Fuck, Mia," Harry moans when she gags around his tip. Mascara-stained tears flow from her eyes and down her cheeks, but she doesn't give an inkling a discomfort, only doubling down on her efforts with a muffled whimper.

She releases for a moment and he's prepared to ask if he's being too rough as she wipes spit from her chin, "You can go harder, I'm fine. Also, is it alright if I call you daddy?"

"Jesus Christ," Harry guffaws, allowing his head to duck back fully now, "Yeah, sweetheart, choke yourself on daddy's cock."

Mia grins and squeezes her thighs, instantly diving back in. Harry bucks his hips, fucking her throat deeper and faster as his orgasm quickly unravels in his body. Lightning zips throughout him, his groans quickly getting louder every time she gags around his length.

"I'm gonna cum," Harry warns, the familiar feeling building. He looks down at her and watches her greedily take him, and that's all he needs before he's exploding. "I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, fuck—"

He's filling up her mouth with rapid ropes of warm cum and she moans at his taste, letting him empty his balls and continue using her throat. He breathes harshly as his peak slowly ends and she slides off of his sensitive cock, cum spilling out the corners of her mouth.

Without a word, he pulls her up and surges forward, pressing their lips together. She squeaks in surprise but eagerly kisses him back, their tongues swapping the fluid he just emptied into her mouth. They part with harsh breaths, Mia clutching his shirt with tight fists.

"Was that okay?" she asks as he wipes the remaining mix of spit and cum from her lip.

He smirks and shakes his head, "You're silly for even asking that. It was amazing."

"Mm, good."

"C'mon, I'm not letting you go home at this hour. You can stay in the guest room if you don't want to sleep with me."

"I just swallowed your cum, I think you owe me a cuddle, Styles."

He lets out a loud laugh and tugs at her hand, out in the direction of the hallway and to his bedroom, "Whatever you want, darling."

. . .

The next morning, Mia wakes up in a huge, comfy mattress, surrounded by luxurious tufts of white duvet.

For a minute, she forgets where she is, until she's reminded of the night before. She blushes at the overwhelming happiness that floods her body, remembering the way Harry held her all night and pressed kisses to her cheeks and forehead every time he woke up.

When she opens her eyes, she's expecting to see him, but she's met with an empty mattress. She sits up with furrowed brows until she zeroes in on a folded note on his pillow with her name and a heart next to it.

Smiling gently, she opens it.

Morning, sweetheart. Got called into the office early and you looked too sweet to wake up. Make yourself at home, feel free to invade my closet or fridge.

Leaving you my credit card to treat yourself to something nice, too — just because we're not in this arrangement anymore doesn't mean I won't take care of you financially.

xx daddy

Mia squeals and falls back against the bed.

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maximotts · 10 months

Note

18. “so perfect all tied up for me.” With your dollhouse au? I’m imagining those silk ribbon bondage rope not just tying you down but wrapped around you because Wanda thinks it’s such a pretty sight <3

I'm a different person posting this than I was yesterday when I started this fic... and then it got Deleted in drafts and I saw my life flash before my eyes. This is edited kinda, but honestlyyy I just needed to conquer it at this point lmao

please don't flag this fic, I have warnings clearly labeled

Doll House AU. masterlist. wc: 1.7 cw: 18+ only, please. smut, fluff. loose ribbon bondage. body worship. inspection. fingering (r receiving). oral (r receiving). size kink if you squint. overstim. mommy kink. snuggly aftercare. and then all the usual Doll House warnings.

Wanda and Doll spend an intimate afternoon in bed, Wanda perfecting her ribbon tying skills while judging your patience

⁛— 2nd birthday sleepover.

"There you go, all nice and pretty..."

Silk ribbons adorned your figure, wrapping you like an extra present to Wanda, from Wanda. She'd spent the past hour fawning over you atop your plush bed, shedding your morning outfit only to replace it with buttery soft threads. "So perfect, all tied up for me."

It wasn't tight enough to restrain you really, if you truly wanted to wiggling away was an option— but you didn't want anything of the sort. Wanda's undivided attention was the best kind of afternoon you could hope for.

Curious as ever, you still had your questions. "Mommy, why aren't these tight?"

Shrugging your shoulders showed off the little movement you could make, careful not to undo any of Wanda's hard work. The older woman laughed and kissed your hip above the ribbon she'd tied over your curves, amusement filled green eyes gazing up and instantly bringing a dopey smile to your face. "I don't want to tie you down, not today at least."

"Then what are we doing?" Oh you wished so badly you could reach up and kiss her, but your wrists tied at your middle stopped you from bending too far, again more fearful of messing up whatever goal Wanda strove for.

And that was the most of what you were doing, Wanda testing your patience, whatever willingness you had to let your reverence of her outweigh your own desires... so far you were performing perfectly.

“We’re playing, of course. Silly thing,” Wanda sat up between your legs, crawling over your prone body until she could reach your neck for her next area of focus. It was an excessive show of possession, biting endlessly along your throat, leaving marks she'd be tending to for days after, relishing in how helplessly you squirmed under her; this could easily become her favorite afternoon playtime. "Aren't you having fun?"

Lithe fingers slid under the thick ribbons at your legs, playfully tugging just to hear your surprised squeak. Your legs fell apart with nearly no coaxing, Wanda’s fingernails scraping over your inner thighs just the way she knew you adored. Small shivers rattled your body as best they could within your restraints, ever conscious of leaving them in place, and the moment she laid eyes on your glistening sex she remembered why she’d decided to keep your lower limbs tied separately.

“I asked you a question.” The only answer she received was your meek nod, an action that resulted in a faux pout from Wanda, more concerned with how often you forgot you were allowed to speak now rather than whether or not you were truly enjoying yourself. That much was evident.

“It sure looks like you’re having fun,” Spreading your folds apart was just as easy as your legs, leaving you completely vulnerable to Wanda’s impromptu inspection. No matter how long you stayed with her, there was a persistent shyness about you, but your longing for your mommy’s approval always won out. It would be so easy to uncurl your hands where they rested bound together a mere few inches above Wanda’s, to push her away and cover yourself… but you didn’t— just as Wanda expected of you.

Today’s obedience earned you a reward, but Wanda wouldn’t spell it out for you, preferring instead to continue her game of testing self-restraint. It was better to train you into behaving even without possible reward, no matter that she already spoiled you rotten every chance she got. Two wet digits left their examination and came to settle on your waiting lips, your patience forced but steadfast. “Say please.”

“Please mommy, may I clean your fingers?” The drawn out please was so adorable Wanda wanted to suffocate you, but instead she sated herself with your grateful sigh around her, your tongue diligently licking until she drew them away.

Her hand came back to settle between your supple thighs, fingers sliding easily through your sex, knuckles just barely grazing your clit. Curious fingertips fell down to your entrance, gathering warm wetness from where you were dripping and bringing them to her own mouth this time. She always wondered if you knew how desperate she was to have you, but one look down at your dazed expression answered that for her easily. “Did my playtime make you all icky? Do I need to clean you up?”

Admittedly, the past hour of Wanda’s gentle touches, sweet words and even sweeter kisses left your brain fuzzy. The tingling in the pit of your stomach had grown into a calm and pleasant ache, much gentler than the gnawing, desperate clawing that plagued you whenever Wanda was rough. Sometimes she left you at that painful edge, frustrated to no end and chastising any complaints she caught. Today if she’d left you with nothing, maybe you’d be able to manage the evening with dull nagging, but the notion of an orgasm at the end of your slowly building high was too tempting to pass by; you had to make your need known. “Make it better, please… want it so bad.”

“So now you speak up, whenever you need something from me…” Wanda took her sweet time traveling down your front, lips brushing over every curve and divot so that when she finally placed one last adoring kiss atop your mound, anticipation buzzed through your veins. “You can cum as much as you’d like, but don’t you dare untie yourself.”

Sometimes Wanda’s rewards were straightforward, a simple start and finish before she sent you off. Surprisingly, you preferred rewards you worked towards together, ones like these where her tongue drew intricate patterns over your clit, teasing and testing just how far gone she could pull you while you remained committed to following her rules. It was harder than it looked, knowing you had the ability to twist and turn with every perfectly placed stroke, but willing your body to stay confined, to preserve Wanda’s ribbon-tied handiwork.

Thankfully they allowed space for the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the clenching of your core as the first wave of orgasm washed over, knocking your head back into your plush array of pillows as you erupted into a fit of moans and pleas. “Mommy.. Mommy, please.. again! Wanna cum again-”

“Such a needy doll, so pretty all tied up for me and begging for my mouth.” It was a brutal inner battle to keep from bucking your hips, fingers fidgeting at your midsection to keep busy in anything other than Wanda’s hair. When she descended again it was all worth it, warm mouth suckling at your swollen bud to distract from the three fingers prodding at your hole.

The stretch was maddening, an instantaneous full feeling sending you over the edge again before Wanda even got the chance to move. She groaned around you as she felt your walls clench, free hand coming to wrap securely around your upper thigh; instinct drove you to back away from the thick intrusion, but she couldn’t have any of that. “Shh, sweetheart, let mommy play a little longer.”

“O-Okay..” Your previous pleasant need evolved into something more, something starved within that only reared its head when Wanda’s intentions turned heady. Careful not to toss around too much, you relaxed as your thoughts settled into a low hum, taking every thrust and each curl of her fingers until individual orgasms merged to one neverending bliss.. you’d lost count after three anyways.

After some unmeasured amount of time, Wanda granted you a reprieve, leaving you dreadfully empty and weakly clenching around nothing. You felt limp head to toe, unable to even raise your arms without Wanda’s help as she worked to slowly unwrap you. She took her time so as not to startle you, smoothing over any tiny indent her ribbon left from your movements and doting on it with a cautious rub of her thumb.

Once she was done, she was genuinely surprised you hadn’t dozed off; the act of overstimulation alone was occasionally enough to leave you napping for hours. But today heavy eyes lazily followed her every move, bottom lip quivering more visibly by the second. “You did a wonderful job today, my love. I’m so proud of you.”

The praise was much appreciated as always, but you’d been missing one thing terribly since Wanda had first given the instruction to lay back while she unfurled her ribbon and tired as you were, you needed one last clarification. “Can I touch you now, I want a hug…”

“Of course, we’re long past our game.” You were in Wanda’s lap after the second word, curling into her and wrapping your arms around her middle in the tightest hug you could muster. Any time she searched your thoughts, they were full of her, the urge to be near her so strong Wanda was surprised whenever she got a moment to herself these days.

It was the sweetest form of devotion she could imagine, the pure need to keep her presence in whatever capacity; your lovey ways never failed to render her heart gooey. “That’s why you were so pouty just now, my poor little snugglebug.”

Giving your tummy the gentlest tickle before drawing the sheets closer, Wanda scooted you both until she could lay you down; not that the position mattered much when you stayed attached at the hip. Content little noises rumbled against Wanda’s arm as you made them, keeping still even as you craned your neck to cover her cheek in appreciative smooches. “Nap with me, mama. I’m sleepy.”

“If you insist,” Now it was Wanda’s turn for restraint. It’d take little to no effort to pull herself from your grip even without her powers; there were a myriad of things waiting for her to do downstairs… but she stayed put. The desire to see your smiling face when you woke up in a while, ever excited to wake up in her arms, far outweighed any living room cleaning.

#I'm so exhausted pls forgive typos #doll house au #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #dark!wanda maximoff x reader #maximotts 2nd anniversary #motts writes.#maximotts

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sprout-fics · 1 year

Text

The Depths of Him

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F! Reader

(Part of the Consequences Series)

Word Count: 9.3k (A LONG BOY) Rating: Explicit (18+ only) Tags: Brat Tamer! Ghost, Brat! Reader, Flirting, Jealousy, Poor communication, Arguments, Sex with feelings, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering, PiV Sex, Unprotected sex (Use protection!!), Dirty Talk, Praise kink, Overstimulation, The mask comes off, Pleasure Dom Ghost, Mean Dom Ghost, Punishments, Possessive sex, Rough sex, Just absolutely filthy rotten terrible, Probably more but I can't be bothered, Angst Warnings: None A/N: Y'all asked for smut. Don't say I don't love you

You can feel his eyes on you.

The rum in your drink burns the back of your throat as you tip it backwards. Like a welcome burn it trails over your lips and spills across your tongue- sweet, sharp, ambrosial. You'd requested the Jamaican kind, and when the bartender had turned Soap had given you a look that was nothing less than withering. Yet it had been swallowed by his bark of laughter when you had elbows him gently in the ribs.

All while a dark pair of eyes burned into your skin, stinging more fiercely than any liquor.

Ghost sits off to your side, past the two seats previously taken by Price and Gaz. The two are up near the pool table, and when you turn your attention you can hear the sharp clack of the balls as they scatter across the green felt surface. They talk in low voices, the trail of Price's cigar smoke curling and whispering into the thick air of the quiet pub.

Soap is chattering at you, his elbow leaned across the bar top and bumping your forearm. He's close. You can smell him, the scent of cedarwood and smoke curling across your senses. When he speaks, it's with the exhale of whisky that imbues itself pleasantly in the buzz of your thoughts.

He's made a point this evening of being especially forward. It's not unlike the Scotsman to make a point of cracking a few jokes and letting his eyes linger on you for a few moments too long. Yet now Soap's smile seems to creep into your own, his fingers drumming against the polished wooden bar and his voice low, suggestive.

Maybe it's the contagious high of a successful mission. The assassination had gone rather well, executed flawlessly with your team long gone before the body had been discovered. It had been your shot that had taken the general down, a pure chance between you and Gaz positioned to overlook the other terrace.

Maybe it's the outfit you'd worn for the occasion. You'd seen Johnny's eyes rove over your form when you had slid up the pub, sliding from the curve of your ass over your chest and back again. The black blouse you chose dips low across your bosom, and with your arms tucked in front of you at the bar you know he can see the dip of your cleavage vanishing beneath the silky fabric.

You hadn't worn it for him.

No, it had been for the other man who Soap seems to have completely forgotten about during the course of your conversation- the one who's watching you two intently, unblinking, form coiled with displeasure.

You've been ignoring Ghost all evening. Recently he's made it a point of trying to maintain appearances in front of the others, trying to prevent them from catching on to the... relationship between you both. That means sidelining you during briefings, assigning you to Price and the others, cold-shouldering you over comms.

It shouldn't bother you as much as it does. You two aren't exactly an official item, really. To all outward indicators Ghost treats you like all the others- a rookie, one who is still earning her place on the team. He's a lone-wolf, one that takes charge when needed and barks orders like the alpha of a pack of predators. He corrects you like he would any other soldier, offers a rare dash of praise when you earn as much.

You can still hear his words sing in your thoughts from the mission.

"That's right, give 'em hell Bravo nine."

He'd let his pride bleed through in a rare moment of transparency, and it hadn't gone unnoticed- both by you and the rest of the taskforce. Not a soul had commented on it, but you'd let your pleased smile carry across your face all the way back to base.

Only for him to ignore you.

Now, in the quiet after-hours of the mostly empty pub, you've decided to return the treatment. You've barely said a single word to the Lieutenant the entire time you've been here aside from a simple greeting. Instead, you've turned your attention to the sergeant next to you, offering him a coy smile and a girlish giggle hidden behind your hand.

His eyes are flashing at you when you do, steel blue and keen on the swipe of your tongue across the lipstick painted on your bottom lip- cabaret red.

"Alright lass." He purrs, head tilting at you with that trademark smirk tugging the corner of his mouth. "Got another one for you- Wha d'you call a soldier who's survived mustard gas and pepper spray?"

You give him a sly smile from behind your glass as you take another sip. The moment lingers as you rest the drink back on the counter, drawing it out like the sweet, bitter aftertaste of the liquor on your lips.

"Dunno." You reply at last, leaning your cheek on your fist and angling your body towards Soap's. Your boots knock against his calf, and the motion doesn't go unnoticed as he drums his fingers on the countertop once more.

"A seasoned veteran." He replies after a beat, and you can't contain the roll of your eyes despite your amused smile.

"That include you, sergeant?" You husk, and when your eyelashes flutter at him Soap sucks in a breath like he's finding his footing before firing a high-powered rifle.

"Mm." He hums, and there's a flush creeping across his cheeks, ruddy from whiskey and desire. "I think you'll find I'm fairly well-seasoned when you bite into me."

Your smile crinkles the corner of your eyes.

You both start when a glass clanks down on the bar, sounding for all the world like a shotgun against the low murmur of the bar. Instantly your eyes are darting up to the other soldier seated past Soap, around the corner of the counter and partially hidden by the shadows of the dim lighting.

The paint is faded from around his eyes, his irises eclipsed by the size of pupils as his stare narrows in on you wordlessly. You can tell even with his skeletal gloves on the grip on his glass is white knuckled- the only sign of his fracturing restraint. To anyone else it would seem like he's suddenly paying attention after zoning out. Not to you. Not when you can read this man like an open paperback in your palms.

Ghost is pissed.

Yet you only shoot him an innocent questioning look at his sudden gesture, lower lip pouting as you blink at him in a silent question.

Ghost only squints at you, eyes bright from the shadows. Even with the mask on you know that look, know exactly what it stands for.

A warning.

Soap is too busy casting a single arched eyebrow at Ghost to notice the expression that flickers across your expression- daring, inquisitive, devilish.

The arm that's not crossed across the bar top slides across the polished wood, fingers tracing over the hair of Soap's arm as you draw his attention back to you.

"I have a bit of a sweet tooth." You murmur at him, and your tone is tinged by rum and mischief as you angle your body towards him, shoulders bumping.

"Tha' so?" Soap asks, and you can see the light dancing behind his eyes, full of swagger and enthusiasm. You're close like this, and for a moment you see his gaze flicker down to your lips, where the red stain of your lipstick has smeared.

You aren't stupid. You know Soap has the hots for you. The man is terrible at keeping secrets when it comes to that sort of thing. It's played off as a tumbling playfulness, words meant to draw your attention and spark laughter free from your chest. You always let it slide off, hardly indulging him beyond friendly banter. Not when your heart and body belongs to another man.

The one watching this whole interaction with a low, simmering ire like distant thunderclouds. Ominous, imminent.

You pointedly ignore it, instead fluttering your eyelashes up at the Scotsman with a suggestive tilt of your head.

"Mhm." You nod, and Soap's fingers are drumming on the table, the low white noise of the music playing like radio static in the back of your brain. "-But I guess you'd find that out once you figure out what I taste like."

The drumming stops.

Soap's eyebrows are arched almost into his hairline, lips parted in surprise. Yet there's a ghost of a smile there, waiting for a curtain call before it at last reveals itself. His steel blue gaze is fixed on you, lust roiling just under the surface. He's ready to take you up on your offer, ready to sink his teeth into you and savor the taste there, not knowing yet about the undertones of Kentucky bourbon that flavor your veins.

"Well, lass, I-" He starts, chuckling, and you can hear the bit of nervousness in his voice, suddenly aware of the fact that you both have an audience lurking in the corner.

Ghost's bar stool scrapes hard across the floor. You catch the motion of him as he moves quickly behind Johnny like a phantom out of your periphery. You don't fully process it until there's a gloved hand closing around your arm, setting the divide between you and your teammate.

"That's enough drinks for you, corporal." Ghost murmurs, and only you can hear that tone in his voice, the one that speaks of consequences and sends a pulse fluttering low in your stomach.

You scoff, mostly to keep appearances, with the added effect of trying to shake Ghost off and further irritate him. Yet his clasp is firm on you, and when you turn your head to catch his eyes you see the ire there, dark, precarious.

"We're just having a bit of fun." You protest, smile wicked beneath the facade of innocence. "Right, Soap?"

Soap looks like he's been thrown off a cliffside, off kilter and desperately trying to correct. His eyes are darting between the two of you, and you can see the confusion, the shock and the curiosity there. He's trying to understand this, trying to conjure the logic behind your subtle proposition and his LT's sudden interference. Yet when you speak to him he startles, and the thought fades behind the realization of what exactly he was about to do- accept an offer of thinly veiled sex from his teammate in front of a superior officer.

"R-right." He concludes at last, voice a little dry in his throat. Then, after a pause "...too many drinks."

You feel a bit bad for him, the way you're pulling him into this without his knowledge. Mentally you make a note to make this up to him later, maybe buy him some of the whiskey he prefers.

There's no time to think about it though, not as Ghost's gloved hand is wrapped around your sleeve and his eyes are boring bullet holes into your brain.

"Let's get you home, lass." Ghost grunts, and suddenly his other hand is curled at your waist, firmly guiding you off the stool.

Oh. So that's how this is going to go.

"I-I need to settle my tab." You try, feeling a spike of foreboding flash through your veins, hot like the temporary burn of liquor as you realize the imminent consequences you're about to face.

"Soap will handle it." Your Lieutenant replies gruffly, and the way his breath curls across your nape has your toes curling in your shoes. "Won't you, Soap?"

Your eyes flick to the Scotsman, and you can see the myriad of emotions conflict across his face. Confusion, shock, disappointment, perplexity at this sudden forwardness of his comrade towards you. He's grasping the edges of the picture, piecing together the puzzle pieces of what's really going on, but when Ghost's voice directs itself towards him he snaps to, blinking and offering a smile that fails to conceal his thoughts.

"Roger that, LT." A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth when he catches your eyes again. "Anything to buy a drink for my bonnie sniper."

You shoot him a grin, huffing a small laugh before Ghost has you turning on your heels, guiding you resolutely towards the door. Steps wobbly, you feign drunkenness to keep up with the charade Ghost has set out for you, of him being a gentleman enough to get you back to the hotel you're all staying in nearby. Yet the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth vanishes when, once out of sight, Ghost leans down to your ear and whispers a dark, sultry declaration there that ripples along your skin and up your spine.

"That was a mistake."

The breath in your lungs goes stale just as Ghost uses one wide arm to open the door of the bar, cold November air rushing inside and over your flesh. You step outside, and the flat of Ghost's hand has never vanished from the small of your back, pressing there as an ever-present reminder of his touch, of the way only he can handle you.

"Car?" You ask hesitantly, and for a moment your eyes flash up at his taller frame from under your lashes.

"Your room." He replies simply, not bothering to even look at you. You can see the flurries of snow gently falling down, brushing against the blonde lashes that catch the light of the streetlamps.

"I-I don't have a room." You try, but Ghost merely scoffs, seeing the lie for what it is instantly.

"Yes, you do." He insists, voice deepening, darkening. It takes him a moment but he blinks, turns to stare down at you- and there's danger there, burning low like embers, ready to re-ignite at a moment's notice. "You came here with a plan, didn't you, pet?"

"I-"

"Oh?" He asks, and suddenly he's crowding closer, threatening to dwarf you with his size. The hand against the small of your back slithers to your hip and then hauls you to him, and the grip there is a warning, threatening to clench down. "Isn't this how you wanted this to go, little brat?"

You swallow, and there's a hand braced against his bicep. It curls into the fabric of his jacket just as your lips part. Ghost's eyes dart down to them for a moment before flickering to your gaze, pinning you where you stand.

"...Four blocks north. On the left." You murmur, and those embers spark, glowing in the dim haze of the streetlamps.

"Good girl."

---

When the lock bolts behind you in the hotel room, it's like a gunshot, a final, fatal sound that echoes into an unsettling silence, the calm before the storm.

He's behind you. Just a few steps, his hand still wrapped around the door handle. Yet his eyes burn into your back, scorching and branding your skin even where it's hidden under your layers.

Like a wolf in the dark of the woods. Eyes glowing, unblinking, ever seeing.

When he shifts you tense, stomach fluttering and then dropping straight down to your feet.

His hand is at the base of your skull, wrapping around your neck so his thumb presses up under your fluttering pulse point and you shiver where you stand. Yet then his hand is descending, snagging the collar of your jackets and descending still, dragging it down over your shoulders. You let him despite the urge to turn and narrow your eyes at him. Frustration, irritation at his earlier attempts to ignore you still simmers low in your veins. it threatens to lash out, to raise its ugly head and hiss like a venom spitting viper.

There will be time for that. Later. Not now.

There's a foot kicking apart your legs, and Ghost's hand is back on your nape, bending your head forwards so you look at the floor. You shudder when he presses into your back, his chest glued to your spine, his other hand fiddling with the hem of your shirt, fingers just barely skimming against the flesh of your stomach.

"On the bed."

It's a command, a simple one, yet the way Ghost speaks it you know it's a warning.

Even so you stay where you are, squaring your shoulders, staring forward, refusing to look at him in a silent effort to voice your displeasure.

He pauses then, at your refusal, his gloved thumb brushing against the vein of your jugular, pressing.

"I'm talking to you, pet."

"I know." You reply, and your voice is firm despite the fact that you hesitate at the implication there, at the way it settles low in your belly.

You feel Ghost still then, as if surprised that you've dared to retort at him despite all the warnings he's given you.

"Being disobedient?" He asks, and you grit your teeth at the way he sounds almost amused under the frustration there, the anger at the stunt you pulled earlier. "We'll have to fix that."

That hand wrapped around your nape grows harsh all at once, and you're suddenly pushed, guided and then sat down until your knees hit the floor.

Ghost sits before you on the bed, massive thighs spread to either side of you as his eyes glint down at your form, knelt between them. The implication is clear, as your hands hover on the breadth of his thighs.

"What was it you told Soap? He asks, and there's a tone of mockery to his voice, and it grates down harshly, here in the after effect of all the time he's taken to dismiss you, to ignore your advances. "Something about wanting a taste, was it?"

He pauses, as if expecting a response. When you don't give one, however, his eyes narrow, like pinpricks of light against a dark sky.

"I'm not as sweet as Johnny." He goes on, ignoring your silence. "But I guess that doesn't matter, does it?"

"No."

Your voice shatters the quiet hum around you both like broken glass.

It's firm, angry in a way that makes Ghost pause, still in surprise. You think you see his eyebrows arch under his mask, but that look is quickly replaced by narrowed eyes and a loosening grip on your neck.

"No?" He asks, and he's balancing, vigilant, trying to discern the origin of your refusal, trying to distinguish it from disobedience to the hurt it actually is.

You bite the inside of your lip, face souring as you stare at him. There's a warmth to your face, a warning singing low in your belly at this, at the words forming on your tongue, but it's too late to stop them, too late to stem the rolling tide of venom that seeps from your lips.

"Is that what this is, Simon?" You ask suddenly, and the air around you has shifted, sharpening into something darker, poisoned with frustration and anger. "You ignore me for weeks during deployment, try to pretend like I...like this doesn't exist and then expect me to sit down and happily suck you off? Is that it?"

You've caught him by surprise. You can see it in his eyes, the way his lashes raise to reveal the whites beyond his irises. He's off balance now, thrown by the abrupt, seething bite of your words.

You think he might back down for a moment, perhaps even apologize for what he's done. There's a flash of guilt there, sharp and sudden, until it's drowned under darkness, under an immeasurable vexation that has his gaze clouding like darkened thunderheads.

"Is that what this is about?" He asks, and in that tone, something of mockery sets your skin aflame, your hackles rising. "Flirting with Soap, being a brat, all because I was focused on our mission instead of you?"

You laugh. The sound is cracked, almost desperate as your fingers dig into the fabric of his pants.

"Yeah, that's right." You reply, and you no longer try to veil the accusation in your tone, the bite and snarl in your words- like that of a caged, wild animal. "I flirted with Soap. Frankly, I didn't think you'd care if I fucked him. After all, you're not going to do it yourself. You're just going to make me sit here and suck your dick, isn't that right, lieutenant?"

"Like hell I'm going to let you sleep with Soap." Ghost snarls, and you've unleashed that same wildness in him now, his voice digging deep in his chest and lashing out.

"Let me?" You ask, and now it's your turn that's mocking, a hurt, bitter thing. "What are you, jealous? You can't stop me from doing shit, Simon- I'm not even yours."

Ghost freezes.

It's as if he's been shot- the way he flinches at your words, his hand still hovering above your nape, thumb digging into the crease of your skill even as you growl and hiss in his grip like a feral cat. You've never seen his eyes this wide before, the way the whites of them seem to blend into the paint of his mask, the one he uses to keep his true face concealed from you.

He closes them for a moment, keeps them shut as he draws in a breath, chest rising as he measures himself. It should be enough, that mere gesture, to warn you of what happens next, but your ire, your untempered fury bursts brightly under your skin, obscuring any warnings he has left, any potential escape he has yet to offer you.

When he breathes out, however, you realize what you've done.

"Allow me to make it clear to you then, pet." He speaks in a tone you've never heard before- something beyond anger, irritation, a bottomless void you've fallen into unknowingly with no escape. "Who you belong to."

You blink then, surprised by this sudden change in him, in his sudden emphatic possessiveness. Yet there's no time to question it, because suddenly you're being hauled forward, and you yelp as you find your upper half spread across the bed, ribs braced against Ghost's massive thigh. Yet that startled noise is nothing compared to the sound you make when a massive hand seizes your skirt, yanks it down past the swell of your ass along with your stockings and panties.

"S-Simon!" You try and protest, attempting to raise up on your elbows against the soft mattress under you. Yet all you receive to your yelp is a hand settling low between your shoulder blades, pushing you down, down until you're flat with the surface under you, face pressed into the bed spread even as your bare ass faces up towards him.

You should expect the first slap, but you don't. When it lands, stings against your bare flesh you gasp, a high, breathy sound that has Simon's hand curling into your spine. Yet before you can protest it comes down again, on the other cheek, the sound ringing out into the quiet hotel room like gunfire.

"Do you have any idea-" Simon, Ghost asks abruptly, and his voice is a snarl in his chest, whipping like a supercell, threatening to tear the flesh, the siding off of you. "How much I, how much you could lose because of this?"

You want to turn, to ask him what he means, but you can't, not with the way his hand presses you down into the mattress with nowhere else to go, his other palm- gloved, coming down onto your ass with a sound that rings in your ears. You gasp, squirm in his hold but the hand holding you down is adamantium, unbreakable even as your voice chokes in your throat.

"If they ever found out about this, if they ever found out about the way you do this- rile me up, let me bend you over and fuck the stupid, bratty nonsense out of you, I'd never see you again. You know that, don't you?"

Smack!

Your ass stings. It's random, whichever cheek he decides to lay upon next, and the sudden shift, the unexpectedness of it is enough to stutter the breath in your chest. Yet you know his words are true, that they are inescapable just as much as his touch- haunting you even in dreams. There's a pulse of traitorous arousal thrumming below your stomach at the pain, at the lewdness of this act, and even as you try to tamp down on it, it only rises higher, flickering flames at the core of you.

"You must not know." Ghost goes on, and his words are punctuated not with a slap, but with a smooth stroke of his palm over the swell of your ass- one that has you hissing into the sheets. "Not with the way you're acting out, trying to fuck one of my subordinates, your comrade."

Smack!

You shout then, bending forward and burying your cry into the bedspread even as Ghost strikes the tender, reddening flesh of your ass. The pain is so sudden, so intense it threatens as liquid warmth at the corner of your eyes.

Smack!

"G-Ghost-" You try, but he ignores you, just as he's done all this time while on mission.

"I'm trying to keep you safe." He hisses, and his words are punctuated with an impact of his hand that has you jerk forwards, away from his touch even as that arousal rises higher, threatening at the back of your throat. "Making sure nobody knows about us, threatens to court martial me, you. And what do you do, pet?"

Smack!

"You go and try to sleep with fucking McTavish, right in front of me."

Smack!

His words pierce at you, sharper than any combat knife, slicing inside you and peeling muscle away from bone. Yet the apology, the plea stales on your lips, stuck inside your throat.

You groan when his hand lands again, and the sound is as overwhelmed as it is pained, form trembling even as you refuse to concede. It's making sense now. You don't know why it didn't before. Maybe you were just too stubborn, too hard headed to see past the ever-present facade that is Ghost, distant and grim as he is. He's distant because of you, because of the consequences that come with indulging himself, indulging you.

Because it's you.

Yet Ghost pauses at the sound that leaves your lips- the lewd, open moan there that you clamp down on too late. You can't see him but you know without looking that his head tilts, that his eyes narrow down on your face smushed into the bed as his knee threatens to dig into your stomach.

"You filthy brat." He breathes, and his voice is muted with disbelief. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"N-no-!" You try, only to gasp loud when his hands comes down once more.

Smack!

"Say it."

You try and question him, try and squirm to face him, shivering and weak as you are against his assault. Your eyes peer up at him over your shoulder, eyes glassy and lips parted with heavy, shuddering breaths. Yet his eyes offer no mercy, not as they bore into your flesh, flaying you alive and offering no shelter, no respite.

"Tell me who you belong to, little brat."

You swallow, but your throat feels dry, a harsh scrape as you purse your lips, refusing to admit defeat.

Smack!

You yelp, the sound rising towards the ceiling as your flesh protests in pain, and then whimper when Ghost's hand smooths across it, traitorously gentle.

Even then, however, you shake your head, tears threatening your eyes as you remain stubborn to the bitter end.

Smack!

You grit your teeth, eyes scrunching shut and body trembling with the effort it takes to not surrender. The bitterness of his dismissal, as logical as it is, stings inside you harsher than any wound, and you hate it. You hate the way you've let your feelings overcome you in this, in whatever this is.

He indulges you because it's you, and you do the same. You needle at him, draw his attention, provoke him, summon him to you because it's him- him, and no one else.

"I-I'm yours!" You gasp just as Ghost's hand impacts you once more, and the flesh there feels tender enough to bruise. "Y-yours, Simon."

The spanking stops.

You gasp then- a shuddering, wrecked inhale that has your entire form trembling where you lay. Face still smushed into the pillow, shoulders shivering, the tender flesh of your ass too bright, too warm against the slight chill of the room. You're shaking, bridging on the edge of being overwhelmed- by his touch, by your own arousal, by the revelations that are evolving and shifting inside you.

"Again." He demands, but there's no touch this time. Just a simple, growled demand that has a tremor run through you, makes you tuck your face into the sheets.

"Yours." You echo, voice slightly muffled. "Only yours."

Simon breathes then, as if he's allowing himself to do so for the first time in your presence, letting the air settle deep in his lungs before it's breathed out, the hum of it stuck in his chest.

"Good girl." He murmurs, and even when you flinch at his hand smoothing over your bottom he doesn't abate, tracing the reddened swell of your cheeks.

"Breathe." He instructs as you flinch, suck in a gasp at his hand. Then, when you do, when your breath looses free of your chest his voice is softer, encouraging. "That's it, that's a good girl."

You bury your face in the sheets, ignoring the way your makeup is probably smeared, the way you shudder at the low timber of his voice.

Gently, you feel yourself shifted, lifted. Your body splays against the wide spread of the bed under you, cool sheets wrapping you in their embrace as you sink into them. You don't move even as Ghost frees you of your skirt, your stockings, sliding them down your legs until your bare feet dangle over the side of the bed. When he moves to your top you don't protest, lifting your arms weakly as he raises it off of you along with your bra.

Yet then he vanishes, his touch disappearing completely from you even as you lift your head to find him. Before you can, however, there's a click, the sound of a light switch before the world is plunged into darkness.

"S-Simon?" You call, unsure, pushing up on the bed and reaching for him despite yourself- seeking his warmth, his touch in the aftermath of all that's transpired. You need him. You need his touch, the gentleness of his voice here, in this moment. Here, where he's shown you the truth in himself, the one you've so desperately wanted to hear and has shattered you into stardust. You need him to mend you back together.

"I'm here, pet." He murmurs, and even though you don't see him you can feel him, the way a hand grazes across the bare skin of your ankle. The grip there is solid but yielding, and you allow him to draw your leg to the side, opening you up to him in the darkness.

You whimper when you feel his weight settle on the bed below you, absent of any words and hoping instead the sound conveys your intent. Hands outstretched, you reach for him, find the corners of him in the pitch-black room, lit only by the distant glow of the city outside beyond the curtains.

He makes his way up you, stalking up your frame as if he's crawling under barbed wire until at last you feel his breath ghost across your chest, your face.

"Easy." He tells you when you jerk at his touch as it hovers on your hip. "It's alright."

"Simon." You sigh again, and the utterance of his name is pleading, unsure and yet desiring, showing him exactly what you need from him, this man who you trust with your body, your life.

Simon hums low in his throat, something that sounds almost pleased at your voice, submissive and beseeching towards him.

"Good girl." He croons, even as his voice dips low, deep and rumbling in his chest. "Tell me what you need, love."

You swallow, and you try to regain yourself enough to demand he say the things you need him to, to confess his reasons for this, for all of this, for choosing you.

There will be time for that later too.

"I-I want you." You murmur instead as you reach, cup the edges of his face and then gasp when you realize he's discarded his mask. Your fingers trace over his lips, over the plushness of them as he hovers over you. The scant edges of him are almost visible in the darkness, outlines to a sketch you can't fully see.

"Only you." You breathe, and you shift, raise yourself, follow the trail of your fingers until at last your lips find his.

You can taste the bourbon on his lips, can feel the caramel sweetness of it roll over your tongue as you drink in his breath in the darkness. With every heartbeat you feel him relaxing into you, his form loosening, unwinding. He settles over you, braces his arms to either side of your head as he bends over your form pressed into the bed, legs caging you on either side. He's bare, you notice, having discarded his clothes, even his mask when he stepped away from you. It's enough to make you gasp, open your mouth wide enough for his tongue to press in, swipe across your bottom lip.

Hands fluttering, you raise them, unsure where to perch them until they naturally land on his shoulders, in his hair. When your fingers graze against his scalp Simon hums a low, rumbling note deep in his chest, and for a moment it almost sounds like he's purring.

He shifts then, letting one arm brace above your head as his other hands seizes your thigh, dragging it outwards and opening you to him. You shiver, feeling the grazed flesh of your ass drag against the bedsheets. Yet the little whine that escapes you is swallowed by him, drunk down and down like the liquor pooled in your belly- warm. sated.

"Fuck." He hisses when his fingers swipe through your folds, and the squelch of slick there is enough to make you bend your head into his shoulder with a mewl. "You're so wet."

Any response you can offer, however, is bitten off with a keening moan as he breeches you with a finger, giving you only a moment to adjust before there's another. A simple curl of his roughened pads upwards, into your fluttering walls is enough to make you arch off the bed with a gasp, fingers digging into the bare flesh of his muscular shoulder.

"Easy, love." He murmurs against your jaw, and when his voice is this quiet, this low there's a scrape there that's worse than when he usually speaks, grating low and sensual against the foggy corners of your thoughts as he opens you to him.

You're too tight, too tense, however. Even as he strokes his fingers inside of you, thumb ghosting over your clit you can't help but clench down on him, the pain of his earlier discipline harsh against your skin.

"Relax." He murmurs, and you let loose a shuddering sigh into his shoulder, trying to anchor yourself there. He's pressing little kisses into your neck to distract you, and as he does you feel your legs loosen, spread wider, body sinking into the mattress. "Good girl."

He's surprisingly gentle when he works you open like this. It's as if he knows the touch required to prep you for him, the gentle, rolling pleasure in your core that eases the way, allows you to become pliant and willing under him. With both fingers delving into you he collects the slick from your entrance, smears it up across your sensitive clit as you moan, whimper, clinging to him.

"There we go." He growls as he feels you grow slack under his touch- and you know there's something about the act of gentling you like this, of making you so needy, so drunk with it that it's all you can do to writhe and whimper, begging for release. His words alone are enough to make your stomach flop helplessly, a shuddering breath fogging into the rolling plane of his shoulder as he touches you. "Good. Good girl."

"S-Simon." You murmur, the name muffled into his flesh. "Please, I want you inside-"

You're interrupted by his groan, feel the warmth of it spill across your flesh and stoke the fire, the glow of embers flickering higher inside you.

Then, without warning, he bites.

You yelp, clenching down on his fingers- thick, full inside you as pleasure laces through your veins. The stretch of it is too much for a moment, as he presses, pulls against your slick walls. Burning, sparking, higher. Your nails on his shoulder dig instantly in an untamed reaction, and in response Simon's teeth only press down, hard enough to leave a welting, purple bruise.

"T-they could see." You try, but your voice cracks in your throat when his lips close around the spot, suckling hard and drawing blood to the center of the mark.

"Let them." He replies gruffly, pausing to let his warm breath engulf the forming bruise. "Let them think twice about looking at you."

Whatever words form on your lips die with a choke when his fingers are suddenly pressing in, further, further until he's got nothing left to give, down to the brassed, worn knuckles of him. Yet then they retreat, only to delve back in again, and again, and with each pull you feel your walls clinging to him, clamping down and sliding with delicious friction over the roughness of them.

Soon the rapid, lewd squelch of your wetness is muffled by your whine into his shoulder, forehead bent into the junction between his chest and throat. You can hear every grunt, every tremble of his voice like this, with your ear pressed to him, the way he growls down at your shivering, trembling form.

You can feel the beginning throes of your climax building inside you, rising, twisting, shivering. With every plunge of Ghost's fingers there's a mewl, a whining groan wrung from you as the pleasure clenches low beneath your stomach, at the base of your spine, racing like sparks along your nerve endings and up to your shoulders, your throat, where it escapes in a strangled, needing gasp. The sounds are enough to make Simon hum against your throat, and his lips are descending again into your collarbone, craning his head to reach the tender flesh there.

You can hardly feel it as he lays another hickey there, biting the skin between his teeth. You're too busy writhing, squirming under his touch, and when his thumb presses down, circles your clit you jerk, feeling that pleasure spike inside you, double exponentially. He seizes on it, draws it upwards until your voice rises so high in your throat it cracks, chokes into silence.

"That's it, pretty girl." He murmurs low against your throat, and you can feel how his shoulder rolls with every thrust of his fingers. "My girl."

You're panting with it, skin too warm, too flushed as he picks up, as you feel him hammer those fingers away inside you, curling, pulling, pushing, searching for the thing he knows is there. He knows your body better than any weapon, knows the note that makes you sing to him, the way you clench and writhe and beg-

Your voice rises sharply as his fingers find it, find the source of that glow inside you, and you arch off the bed, driving yourself down on him in an effort to chase it. You don't have to, however, because Ghost's aim, deadly and true, finds it just as soon, and he reaches, presses down on that bundle of nerves just as his thumb presses down on your clit. Instantly you're bowing off the bed, throat closing but lips parting, trying to find purchase somewhere, anywhere against the tide of your climax as it washes forcefully over you, too much, overwhelming.

It's his shoulder you settle on, and your teeth sink into him just as your walls pulse and flutter around his fingers, as he sets a slow, steady rhythm to work you through it. He chokes as you bite down, but his pace never slows, drawing out the pleasure for as long as he can until you shake, shudder, groan into his flesh.

"There we go." He grits as you twitch, clinging to him, biting him against the force of it all. His voice draws out the words, and it feels like running your hands over black satin, feeling the smooth dark sensation of it under your fingers. "Theeerrreee we go, pet."

It takes more than a few moments to regain yourself, and the pulsing aftereffects of your climax burn under your skin. Yet they don't die, don't dim down to darkness. Not yet.

When Simon at last withdraws his fingers you whine at the sound that results, at the slick mess of you that coats his hand down to his wrist. You feel your face warm, breath still making your chest rise in rapid little pants that have your nipples grazing against his chest. Yet he doesn't comment on it, merely grunts as he pulls away from you, sits up and uses both hands to shift, adjusting you up the bed until both your legs are held up, braced against his shoulders.

"Turn on the light." He tells you after a moment, voice a little breathless and cracking deep in his chest.

You pause at that, unsure. He's not wearing his mask. The phantom of his kiss lingers across your lips, and it's enough to make you hesitate. It's not as if he hasn't kissed you before. Yet each time it's happened (five, you've counted) it's been in the dark, your eyes closed, his shirt wrapped around your eyes to shield him from your gaze. Despite this, despite all the time you've been together, you've never seen his face.

The message isn't lost on you. He knows. He knows you'll see his face and yet tells you it's fine, his words a command you're bent to obey, even as it opens him to you, revealing the piece of him you've been seeking for so long- the tender, needed acceptance of you. He asks you to reveal him, surrendering himself, hands open, waiting.

"Go on." He encourages softly when you don't move, let your hand settle against your collarbone where he's claimed you. "I want to see you. Want to see your face when I break you open on my cock, my girl."

Your breath stutters at that, choking stale in your chest at the way he says it so plainly, as if conveying intel, tactics. It's not a question of if or how but when.

So you stretch, fingers fumbling for the bedside lamp and clicking it on, washing the room in a dim, hazy yellow glow.

You see him.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust but you see him. His eyes are the same, but with his brow they seem softer somehow, more expressive. His lips are parted, swollen from kissing you, and there's paint smudged around his eyes, the sharp bridge of his nose sloping downwards on his face. Stubble clings to his jaw, his hair mussed and clinging to his forehead. He's...

Handsome.

Yet before you can say so, before you can hardly breathe he shifts, looks down, and you see him fist his cock, letting the tip slide through your slicked folds as he bends over you.

"Look at me."

You blink, not hearing him for a moment as your eyes lock onto his shaft, cum pearling at the tip, flushed and red and veiny and huge-

"I said look at me, pretty girl."

Your eyes dart up to him, and his shoulders are rising with restrained breaths as he notches the head against your entrance. When you whine his eyes flash, like stars blinking in the nighttime winter sky.

He enters you in one slow, drawn-out motion, sliding home until he meets the barrier inside you. You arch off the bed with a broken sound, hands searching, fluttering until one of his palms settles across yours, grounding you.

"Fuck!" He snarls, and without the mask you can see the way his face contorts, the way his brow knots with pleasure. "So fucking tight, pet. Gripping me like a bloody vice."

You don't answer, lost in the tide of it, eyes glassy and vision hazy as you feel him- all of him. Except there's still more. You know there is. You've taken it before, bent over desks on base, up against a wall in a safehouse, on a dingy couch during a mission where it was just you two. Yet this time feels different. For once it's not Ghost, bending you over, fucking you like he means it, growling and primal and a little depraved.

No, this is Simon.

He wastes no time, giving you hardly any space to breathe before he's pulling out and setting a steady, jolting pace that batters the head of him inside you, reaching deep, deeper with every thrust.

The friction sends you spiraling, and you can't contain the noises that come next, seeping from your lungs like a bullet ridden bottle of brandy, leaking onto the sheets below.

"Fuck, listen to you." He breathes, and there's one hand keeping your legs up, braced on his shoulders as he pounds inside of you- precise, efficient, brutal. "So loud for me. Fucking good girl."

He turns, and you see his lips open, seize around your calf as he bites there too, leaving marks wherever he can find the space for them. It feels like a brand, one that you desire, you need, for him to mark you in the way only he can.

It's so sudden, the way he fucks into you, driving the head of him knocking inside your walls even as you cry out, tears threatening the corners of your eyes. It's almost painful, and your core clenches around him, oversensitive still from his fingers spreading you and then drowning you, yet it's not enough. You need more, need him deeper inside of you until he's all you can think about, until you feel him for days, for weeks.

You need him to break you.

"Keep those fucking eyes open, love." He growls down at you when you retreat into your mind overwhelmed by all of it, by him. "Need to see your eyes."

You do, and it's hard to focus on him as he fucks you, body jolting up only to sink down on him once more. Tits bouncing, hair caught against the corners of your face, brow furrowed and eyes glassy, it's enough to drive him insane, restraint falling away like the sound of shattering glass.

"Fuck." He breathes, and his voice crackles in his chest. "Look at you, fucking cock drunk, aren't you?"

You can only imagine the state of you, as you arch off the bed with a particularly brutal thrust that grinds into you, splits you wider, letting him sink deeper.

He groans, and the sound is hidden under his gritted jaw as his cock fucks into you, your walls dragging against him and refusing to let him go when he retreats, only to drive back into you again. Burning, unyielding, devastating.

There's pleasure bursting under your veins like bruised capillaries, seeping into you and blossoming bright against your skin. You feel like you're drunk on hypoxia, and fuck maybe you are, the way your chest rises and falls and you feel like the blood in your veins is replaced with sweet Kentucky bourbon, the burn of it swallowed by a woodsy sweetness that reeks of him.

Simon shifts, and you arch, voice cracking and loud, devoid of words as you feel the tip of him grind against your cervix, knock against the entrance to your womb.

A hand settles on your lower belly and presses, and you jerk with a cry, gaze whipping down to see his hand splayed across your skin beneath your tummy. Yet when he moves his palm away you see it, see the telltale rise of him with every thrust, stretching you wider, deeper, further than you've ever taken him.

"Holy shit." You wheeze, and the resulting chuckle has your eyes flicking back to his, settling on his hungry, almost desperate stare, tinted black at the edges and set to ruin. Yet then his brow pinches with pleasure, lips closing in a grimace as he grunts, bends over you until you're folded in half, knees pressed to your chest and then pressed into the mattress until there's nowhere left to go.

Simon shifts inside you, and then suddenly he's thrusting against something that makes you wail, cry out and fumble for him, a plea on your lips.

"I-it's too much-" You try, and your words are choked as he slows, grinding into that same spot enough to make you instantly go limp, a full body tremor wrecking your smaller frame.

"I'll say when it's too much." He snarls, and when you gasp, shiver, try to reach for your clit to draw that release sooner, closer, he swats it away.

"I don't think so."

It takes him only a moment to wrap his hand around your wrists, hauling them up, above your head and then keeping them there. All the while his thrusts have shortened to shallow, precise impacts against that bundle of nerves inside you, enough to make tears leak at the corner of your eyes.

Normally he'd stop, ask you if it's too much, make sure you're okay before he continues. Not now, not in the aftermath of what he's said, when he's crazed and desperate and possessive, needing to sink himself into so deep he's not sure he can find the surface. It's all you can do to simply take it, listen to him as his head drops towards you, bracing on your sweat slicked forehead, voice cracking.

"You. Are. Mine."

It's closing in on you now, your climax, and the gravity of it threatens to drag you under, roping around your limbs and dragging you to the precipice. The weight of it is unlike anything you've known before, and it's slick, heavy as he sinks into you, as you sink into him, as you both drown together, submerged in a tar that sears, which binds you both together.

"Say it." He grunts, and his other hand closes around your cheeks, tilting your watery eyes to face him with a curse. "Say my name."

"Simon." You wheeze, and you're ruined, by him, by desire, by need and the rolling, building press of your orgasm in your veins. "Simon."

You stare into his eyes then, close like this, and they seem brighter somehow, dancing with a dark gleam that speaks of you. It's haunting, ephemeral, and you know that here, in this moment it's enough to shatter you into grave dust, only to let his hands scoop you up into his waiting lips.

"I'm yours." You whisper, and then surrender wholly, entirely to him, as your voice builds and you scream a silent sound as the earth-shattering end finally reaches you, black and inescapable, all-consuming as the world fades into nothingness.

---

You come to a while later, and it's unclear if it's a mere second or whole minutes. The world around you blurs, and when you shift you feel the warm spend of him inside you leaking out past your folds.

A hiss escapes you when he scoops it with a finger, idly presses it back inside.

"You with me?" He asks, and the edge of him has faded from his voice now, fucked and brittled down, tamed back where it belongs.

You nod, groan as his arm wraps around you. It aches, but the throb there is stifled by the simmering aftereffects of pleasure. You feel undeniably sated, warm to the touch, limbs heavy but weighed down with contentment even as the core of you throbs and flutters.

It takes him hardly any effort to haul you on top of him, on top of his broad, sweaty chest that smells like birch and woodsmoke and the lingering, coppery taste of metal. You feel it rise and fall under you as he regains himself, a hand pressing into the meat of your hip as you splay over his form.

"I'm sorry." You mumble, ear pressed to the center of his chest where you can hear his calming heartbeat. "I was being...stupid."

He stills then, the hand on your thigh pausing here it rubs circles against your skin. Yet then he hums, raises himself so you can see his face once more, see his glazed, dark eyes stare down at you.

He could say anything in this moment, you think. The space between you feels enigmatic, full of mysteries as you both try to uncover what's left. You're his. You know that, but it still doesn't feel like he's yours. Not yet. The depths of him are still unknown to you, even as you trace over the exposed planes of his face, with his slickened brow and rosy cheeks. He could tell you he's right, could scold you for being greedy despite the fact that you are, could pull the earth from under your feet with a startling revelation that sends you spiraling downwards into doubt once more.

"I want you." He says softly instead, and there's a sadness in his eyes you don't understand despite the fact the words are so tender, so open. He's hiding in the depths, and you know that he's telling the truth, that he wants, needs you but doesn't know how.

You realize then, dimly, that this is going to end someday. You want him, want to seek him in the darkness, fish pieces of him from under the surface and assemble them in your hands even as he hides. He wants you, wants the indulgence of you not because of this, because of your body but because of you.

For now.

Bitterness, like the afterburn of the liquor he doesn't touch pools at the back of your throat, sharp, biting. You swallow it down, let it intoxicate your veins even as it poisons you slowly, makes the world fade to dazzling flashes of color until there's nothing left.

You summon a smile instead, let it pull the corner of your lips as you brace your chin on his chest. There's a pause, a moment where you think Simon sees the lie behind your eyes. If he does he doesn't say, and you know it's because he's hiding secrets too.

"I like your face." You murmur, and you reach up a hand to stroke the corner of his jaw. it flexes under your touch. "...but I think I like you better with the mask on."

He smiles then, and you can't help but let your lips part as you see it for the first time, steady, warm.

"Naughty girl." He rumbles, and the sadness is gone now, hidden away again to a place you seek but cannot see.

"Your girl." You supply cheekily, and when you shift you feel him against your thigh, hardening once more. You reach a hand down, knowing it's too soon but wanting to touch him anyways. His eyes darken at that, and the voice that he uses with the mask is there once more, thundering into an imminent, distant future.

"Mine."

There's no official taglist for this series yet but I've got a few more ideas planned! If you'd like to be included in future updates please reblog/reply to this post!

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #call of duty #cod mw22 #call of duty modern warfare #cod ghost #fucking-#take this shit #I'm exhausted #my writing #my fic #again 18+ only #smut #minors dni

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circusofthelastdays · 14 days

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y'all remember wyll saying he now has "ridges in unmentionable places"? yeah. I wanna write about that.

#i have so much to write #but ive been exhausted and stressed lately so haven't been able too #elliacia rambles #wyll ravengard #wyll ravenguard smut

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someplace-darker · 2 years

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Kinktober Day 7: Costumes | Matt Murdock

Pairing: Matt Murdock x reader (no y/n)

Wordcount: 1.7k (this is going to be the longest one)

Warnings: 18+, PWP, costumes, a lot of sacrilegious activities, party sex, dirty talk, no protection (wrap it!!), afab reader but no pronouns are used, maybe slightly ooc matt but i am too tired to care. it's porn.

Summary: You may have fucked up on picking costumes for Marci's Halloween party, but at least Matt looks hot, right? Surely this won't awaken anything in the two of you- right?

A/N: Hi! I kind of got carried away on this one, there's probably a lot off repeat phrases, but this is the late day 7 and the late day 8 should be coming tonight as well but if not: oops. Also cmon, i had to make it a priest costime.

It had taken months of begging and persuasion to get Matt to even consider putting on a costume for halloween. Much less a shitty priest costume that you had snagged from the local party shop two hours before Marci’s ‘ghoul gala’ party. You’re not exactly sure how to tell Matt what the two of you will be going as, the ‘hot nun’ costume you snagged alongside his currently laying on his bed in front of you as you contemplate your options.

“It could be worse,” you nearly jump out of your skin, having forgotten you called Karen for help, her slightly glitched voice coming through your phone. Sighing, you pick up your costume and open the packaging, allowing the spandex like material to fall out onto the sheets. It’s incredibly skimpy considering what it’s portraying, the slats on the long skirt allowing most of your legs to be visible. Obviously the holy grail of it all, the wimple cutting off at your collarbones to allow a deep V to run down your chest “how can it be worse than this Karen, truly. I mean I could spit on a bible, maybe then-”

“You’re being dramatic, I’m sure Matt will love it.”

“I think Matt is going to have a stroke, but I appreciate your enthusiasm,” you remark dryly, biting back a smile when Karen snorts.

“Well he just left the office not too long ago so he should be back to you soon. Marci’s thing starts in about an hour, Foggy left the office in costume so I assume he’s more than stressed about it.”

“Oh i’m sure he’ll feel better when we get there,” you laugh, perking up when you hear the door click shut “Matt just got home, i’ll see you at the party okay bye!”

“Was that Karen?” Matt asks, stepping behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, chin coming to rest on your shoulder. “Yeah,” you speak, voice tight as you prepare yourself to tell him about your outfits for the night. He notices immediately, concerned questions spilling from his mouth and you brush off each one, assuring him that you’re okay before pulling from his hold to grab his packaged costume. You turn back and hold it out in front of him, biting your lip when he takes it from you, squeezing the plastic that encloses it.

You take the chance as soon as he begins to open it “don’t be mad at me.”

Matt pauses, sunglasses turning in your direction as he sighs “what did you do?”

The venue was huge, and you suddenly understood why Marci had spent so much money on it. You had been correct about Foggy’s mood improving when you showed up, the neutral look on his expression immediately turning into one of disbelief and elation. “You’re kidding me,” Foggy laughs, walking directly to Matt and pulling him into a hug before holding him back at arm's length. Matt is tense, you can feel it, but god he looks so hot, so you can’t find it in yourself to be that worried. The clerical collar accentuates the muscle and veins in his neck, adam's apple bobbing against it when he leans toward you to speak. “At least act like you’re not getting wet right now,” Matt grits his teeth, his volume dropped low enough so only you can hear.

Foggy’s voice is immediately drowned out by the rush in your ears, your thighs clenching together, his words like a warm rush through your body. “I need a drink,” you manage to spit out, weaving through the group of people until you reach the cooler on the opposite side of the room, pulling a seagram and beer from the ice. You’re half tempted to climb in, just to cool the heat that is spreading to the end of all your limbs and maybe clear your head. The beating in your chest is rapid, heavy thumps against your ribcage as your heart repeats what Matt has just said to you over and over and over, and you know for a fact that he’s listening to it purely because of the smirk that tugs his lips as you walk back towards him.

“Fancy a drink, father?” you raise your voice over the music to tease, handing the bottle to him with a bit more force than intended. Matt doesn’t know what he expects to feel when father slips off your tongue with such carnality, but lust was not one of them. It burns fiery in his chest, everything he has ever been taught about Thou shall not covet suddenly thrown out the window. You see the dilemma in the shape of the sharp inhale Matt takes, jaw clenching tight enough to see the muscle work.

“You’re treading an incredibly thin line here, sweetheart,” Matt warns, hand going to rest on the base of your spine before pulling you flush to his . The open slats of your costume causes your legs to brush against his pants, the thin fabric not doing much to cover the feeling of his hardening cock against you. “What?” you say breathlessly, hoping the thumping of music will drown out everything you say “you can’t handle it father? Do you need me to confess my sins?” The pressure against your lower back increases, as does your heart rate.

“You don’t need to confess them,” Matt replies smoothly “I’ll fuck them out of you.”

There’s a moment of pause as you gasp and Matt’s head cocks to the side as he focuses on something, bottle being taken from your hand and set on a table, his glasses nearly black mixed with the deep red lighting of the room. Grabbing your hand, Matt begins to tug you to the back of the venue, passing by people with ease and you hope that it’s too dark for anyone to notice the blind man leading you instead of the other way around. Soon enough he’s at a door, twisting the handle and pulling you inside. It’s a washroom, also bled in the same crimson lighting as if a bloodied glass was placed in front of your eyes. It’s giving you a headache.

“Is this what you wanted? Play a game of blasphemy until I get fed up and make you feel good?” Matt twists the lock on the door and presses you forward until your thighs hit the sink, his breathing ragged and heavy against your back. The costumes may have been unplanned, but your choice of words throughout the night had not. This is what you wanted, but the admittance of it out loud seemed more like desecration than anything else. You do it anyway.

“Yes,” you grin, pressing your ass back into him. Pride blooms in your chest when he chokes out a moan, fingers frantically pulling the skirt up to bunch at your waist before undoing his belt and pants. Matt’s hand rests between your shoulder blades, pressing you forward to bend over the porcelain. You blink back the haze in your eyes glancing up at the mirror inches in front of your face to peek at him, the sight of the clergy shirt ridden up his stomach revealing his hand fisting his cock enough to make you whimper.

You’ve never seen Matt so worked up before, and something tells you this is a subject you’ll have to tap into again at a later time. Right now though, he’s pressing into you slowly, lip caught between his teeth as he focuses on the feeling of your cunt taking him in. “Made for me,” he murmurs before pulling his hips back just the slightest to press in further than before.

The counter digs into your legs with each roll of his hips, moans tumbling past your lips with no hesitation, your body responding to him as it always does. “Oh my god Matty, so good,” you whimper, eyes pinching shut. No one has ever made you feel like Matt has, romantically or physically, the call of his body always pulling a response from yours. Your hands press against the tiled wall, eyes blinking open and glancing over him in the reflection catching the quick dip of his head, his hips stalling momentarily.

One hand leaves your hips to grip the white collar, pulling on it “gotta be quiet now sweetheart, someone’s waiting outside.The music is loud, but so are you.” Once it tugs free he reaches around to your face, holding it in front of your mouth. “Bite,” he instructs, voice ragged and terse. You do, clenching your teeth onto it to keep from crying out when his hips slam back against you. Your pussy clenches around him as your knees shake, the only thing keeping you from falling being the sink you’re bent over.

“Being so good sweetheart, need you to cum for me,” Matt moans, almost unheard through the ringing in your ears and hum of the outside music. Small shocks spark along your skin when his fingers find your clit, rubbing and applying pressure that has you keening, face falling forward to press against the cool metal of the faucet. He knows exactly how to play you like an instrument, knows how to make you sing the prettiest songs for him like this, and he knows it. You can hear his cocky chuckle when your legs begin to shiver, hands slipping from their spot on the wall.

Everything seems to slow except for your breathing, your orgasm racking up your spine and down your legs, inching through to your fingers and it takes everything in you to keep the collar clenched in your mouth as to not alert whoever may be lurking by the door. Matt praises you through it, slowing his thrusts but not stopping, waiting until he knows you’re coherent enough to hear him to speak.

“That’s it, baby, you did so amazing,” Matt leans forward to press a kiss to the back of your head, pulling the white fabric from your lips “think you can do another?” He rolls his hips into yours once more, hitting something inside you that makes the red lighting of the room turn to white. You hum, pushing back against him.

“Yes, father.”

#kinktober #my writing #matt murdock smut #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock x y/n #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fic #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #daredevil fic #daredevil smut #priest!Matt murdock #not really but kind of #it's a costume #i am so exhausted

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toomuchracket · 1 year

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the birthday (after)party

hiya! here it is, part 2 of the birthday party! this one's EXTREMELY long and 18+ (beware, there is unprotected sex in this), because you are all horny bitches (affectionate) and wanted smut even though i have never written it before in my LIFE, but there is also a lot of requited love. please enjoy both the fic and this picture of matty i took at atvb glasgow, which is so sexy that it makes me want to gnaw my own arm off like chloë sevigny in bones and all (that's kinda spoilery. soz) - therefore, the perfect vibe for this. also, i don't think i clarified last time, but this fic is afab!reader, and there is gratuitous use of the phrase "good girl" within this part. thanks for all the support, and happy reading!

despite his penchant for smoke breaks in the cold, matty's hands are warm against your own. your fingers are interlaced with his, puzzle pieces slotting perfectly into place, and the backs of your hands are pressed up against the wall behind you as the two of you continue your kisses.

when matty pulls away for a breath, you seize your chance and bring your connected hands to your mouth, kissing each of his knuckles consecutively, then standing on tiptoe to press a sweet kiss on his lips. eyes heavy with want, matty sighs softly as you lower your heels back onto the ground. he wraps both arms around your waist, while yours settle into their new home around his shoulders. "you're killin' me, darlin'," matty says into your hair, breathing in the botanical scent of your shampoo. "you're too sweet. i'm gonna die of a sugar rush if you keep it up."

you smile into the crook of matty's neck, one hand playing with the curls at the nape. the nail of your pinkie finger lightly scratches the milky skin there by accident, and you feel his breath hitch. a flush of desire passes over you, and you - still lightly, but with enough pressure to make your intentions clear - continue to slowly rake your hand downwards, across the defined back muscles obvious even through a suit jacket. "i can be even sweeter," you whisper into matty's ear, savouring the way his breathing slows. experimentally, you place a feather-light kiss on the spot where his jaw and neck meet, for which you are rewarded with a throaty groan that shoots straight into your lower stomach, and another on his lips. "why don't you take me home, and i can show you just how sweet i can be for you?"

just like he did with the cigarette earlier, matty breathes slowly into your mouth, hands sliding down to rest on your ass. this time, his exhale is shaky with obvious lust, rather than cigarette smoke; still, you feel a rush of something chemical, and tense every muscle in your body in war against the urge to squeal in ecstatic shock about the effect you have on him. his eyes blink open slowly, that beautiful brown almost hidden completely by his dilated pupils. "i've never wanted anything more in my life," he murmurs against your lips. he pulls his head back slightly, and the tenderness in his gaze almost makes you cry. suddenly, though, in a way that's just so matty, the tenderness changes to glee as he cheekily slaps your asscheek. "let's get a move on, then!"

you roll your eyes, but hold out your hand for him to take; after kissing it quickly, matty leads the two of you back into the bar. although the placement of his hand in yours is by no means new - you've lost count of the times you've desperately grasped each other at shows and festivals and on nights out, your joined hands keeping you from getting lost in seas of strangers - you've never noticed just how right it feels, his calloused hand on your ink stained one. the closest analogy you can think of is likening it to a favourite sweater. a perfect fit. warm. relaxing. something you don't ever want to take off.

matty continues to hold your hand when you re-enter the bar, too, only dropping it to help you with your coat; even then, he takes it back in his grasp immediately as soon as you turn to face him, and smiles excitedly at you. "ready to go, sweetheart?"

he's so beautiful in this moment, all sharp jaw and grey strands of hair and big brown eyes illuminated by the dim but warm lighting in the bar. you tell him that, and watch his cheeks tint pink as he shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself. moving closer to you, matty kisses your temple and leans to murmur something in your ear. "you need to stop saying stuff like that, babe, or i won't make it home."

your heart flutters against your sternum - whether from desire or sheer shock at just how much matty wants you, you aren't sure. maybe both. "let's go, then."

a final kiss to your lips, and matty pulls you towards the door in a french exit. as you pass the dancefloor, though, you make eye contact with the birthday girl, now jumping around with her fiancé to a talking heads song. her eyes widen as she clocks you and matty's linked hands and half-out-the-door state; when they snap up to meet yours, you quirk your brows and wink, to which she responds with a cheer of "FUCKING FINALLY!". some of your other friends start to turn around at the noise, but you and matty are outside before they notice you.

the familiar walk to matty's house is short, although the burning desire practically radiating off the pair of you makes it seem far longer. that, and the fact that matty insists on stopping at every red-lit pedestrian crossing, despite the uncharacteristic lack of london traffic; as you wait for the red men to vacate and the green to appear, he kisses you as deeply as he can within the limited timeframe.

after you've made it past the busier area and turned onto his street, you tease him about the frequent liplocking. "you really like smooching me, don't you?"

"yeah, i do," matty replies, in that cocky-yet-charming manner of his. "and you'd better get used to it, babe, because i've got to make up for all the years i wanted to kiss you and didn't, haven't i?"

christ.

your cheeks begin to burn, and you tuck your face into matty's side in an attempt to cool them down. "oh my god."

matty only giggles, throwing his arm gently around your head and kissing your temple. "i'm serious! the worst time was when we were all at mine and you got the call about your first novel getting picked for publication-"

"oh no."

"-and i walked into the kitchen and you were just sittin' on my countertop cry-laughin' in that green dress - my favourite, by the way - and you just looked at me and said 'they're publishing it' with total joy in your eyes," matty continues, ignoring your protests. "i just wanted to plant one on you so badly in that moment. i was so proud of you - still am, every day."

his confession liquifies your insides into a puddle. you stop, now outside his front door, and lean up on tiptoe to kiss him - gently at first, then with unabashed desire, until you're forced to pull away to breathe. "et toi, angel. now, get us inside and you can make up for all those years properly, yeah?"

spurred on by your request, matty presses your back against the door, kissing you sloppily as he tries to find his keys in his pocket. once he does, he breaks from your lips and fumbles with the lock, shaking hands not helped by your pressing kisses into his neck. "god, you're gonna be the death of me" he groans, as he finally gets the door open and walks you inside. "but fuck, i'll die a happy man."

you begin to giggle, the sound quickly cut off by matty's lips returning to yours. he slides your bag and coat off your shoulders, leaving them in a heap on the floor and pressing you against the wall. one hand tenderly cradles the back of your head, stopping it from smashing off the concrete, while the other grips your ass, pushing the front of your body against his, lithe and hard and hot. at the contact, heat pulses through your body and settles between your legs. "matty," you whimper into his open mouth. "need you."

"ok, sweetheart, you'll have me" matty breathes, kissing down your neck as he toes off his shoes. he begins to trail kisses down your body, crouching to unfasten the ankle straps of your heels. as he reaches eye-level with your thighs, he removes his lips from you, hands ghosting over the hem of your dress as you kick your shoes off - however, your involuntary hiss as your bare feet meet freezing concrete causes matty to pause his movement, clearly rethinking any notions he had of having his way with you in the hallway. before you can apologise for the noise, he's back standing, hands under your ass and wrapping your legs around his waist. "bedroom."

you continue to kiss as matty carries you - with surprising speed - through the twisting corridors of his house, only breaking it to giggle at him bashing his foot against the bedroom door as he kicks it open. the pain causes matty to drop you quite unceremoniously on his bed, and he mutters an apology before sliding off his suit jacket and crawling over you to return his lips to yours. this is the most passionate kiss of the night thus far, sloppy, hungry, as if you're both trying to consume the other.

suddenly lightheaded - but unsure if it's from lack of oxygen or want for matty overwhelming your very being - you break the kiss, instead focusing on sitting up and unbuttoning matty's shirt with trembling hands. he sits up on his knees and brings his hands to his chest to guide yours, pressing little kisses over your face. "hey, hey, darlin', it's alright," he coos. "know you want me, but i need you to calm down a bit, ok? relax. we have all the time in the world."

you exhale slowly, shakily, pushing matty's now unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. no matter how many times you see matty shirtless, whether he's sunbathing at a barbecue or dancing wildly onstage, his tattoos and defined muscles always make your knees threaten to give way; here, now, seeing them so close while on his bed, the effect of the sight goes straight to your core. and yet, despite the desire pulsing through your veins and beginning to pool in your panties, you don't feel compelled to immediately begin leaving hickeys or raking your nails all over matty's exposed skin. instead, you lean forward and place a chaste kiss over his chest tattoo, over his sternum, over his heart; that's what you feel compelled to do, probably by the same supernatural force that encouraged you to join matty in the smoking area and end up here.

it's matty's turn to exhale now, hand coming up to lightly stroke your messy hair as you rest your forehead against his heart, arms wrapping around him. you stay like that for a minute, enjoying the calmness of the sweet moment, until matty breaks the silence with a bombshell of a sigh. "fuck, i'm so in love with you."

you detach from him like you've been shocked, tilting your gaze to meet his. a beat passes, then matty begins to ramble, apologies and "its true but i shouldn't have said it"s and "let's just forget i said it"s and more apologies falling from his lips like a modern-day Joyce protagonist. before he talks himself unconscious, you shut him up the simplest way you know how: pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. when matty seems to have calmed down a bit, you pull away and bring your hands to his jaw, just as he did to you earlier. "i'm in love with you too."

his eyes widen. "you mean it?"

you nod. because you do mean it - you are in love with him. you have been for a while. you miss him when you aren't with him. you get butterflies in your stomach when you are. on more than one occasion, you've thought about what it would be like to grow old with him, the two of you still writing together at a farmhouse kitchen table while your grandkids play in the garden and multiple dogs lie at your feet. you like yourself better when you're around him. you like others better when you're around him. you want to cry at the mere thought of him with somebody else. you would do anything he wanted you to, and you know he would do anything for you. yeah. you're in love with matty, alright.

"oh, sweetheart," matty smiles, his eyes glassy as he pulls you into him and crashes his lips to yours. while there's an undercurrent of desire, this kiss is softer, sweeter, calmer; it feels like coming home. after it ends, matty rests his forehead against yours. the two of you bask in the tender glow of the moment - that is, until matty says something suggestive, as is his wont. "will you let me go down on you to show you how much i love you?"

in spite of the recent revelations, and the subsequent softness in the air, matty's question sends a burst of heat to your core so strong that you struggle to speak. nodding frantically, you croak out a "yes", and close your eyes as matty begins to kiss your neck and lift the hem of your dress, only reopening them once the black velvet is lifted over your head and matty lets out a quiet curse in exclamation. his pupils are almost fully dilated, eyes raking up and down your lingerie-clad body, mouth agape, hands clenching and unclenching.

to egg him on, you quickly reach around to unclasp your bra, letting the straps fall down your shoulders and discarding it somewhere on matty's floor. it has the desired effect; he blinks slowly once, then all but pounces on you, covering your boobs with grabs and caresses and kisses and sucks and bites. you relish matty's worship for a few glorious minutes, before he pulls himself up to your lips to kiss them again. "you're so beautiful," he mutters against your lips. "can i get you naked now, sweetheart?"

fuck. you whimper an affirmative, and you feel him smile against you before he gently pushes you down into the mattress. "lie down for me, baby, that's it," matty coos as he settles himself on his stomach, head resting on your thigh. eyes locked on yours, he slides a single finger up the middle of your clothed core, pressing it gently on your clit and making you gasp. "fuck, you're so responsive. good girl."

with that devastating phrase, matty hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulls them down, pushing your legs up to slide the black lace fully off and throw them away. he winks at you, grinning, then wraps his arms around your thighs and buries his face between your legs.

a cry of his name escapes your throat before you can stop it, which only seems to encourage him. you knew matty had a mouth on him, but this far exceeds any wet dream you've ever had; he's everywhere, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking his tongue against it, then licking into you and lapping up your wetness like it's caramel, making you writhe on his mattress. somewhere in your addled brain, you thank everything holy for soundproofing concrete so well - had this dalliance taken place in your flat, the noises matty is coaxing out of you would warrant complaints from every other tenant in your whole building. he's making noise, too, moaning into your core and praising your sweet taste every time he comes up for air.

as the pressure in your lower stomach begins to grow, your hands find themselves on your boobs, squeezing and pinching your nipples in an imitation of matty's earlier actions. he stops working on you with his mouth, thumb toying with your clit as he admires you. "that's my girl," matty says, sending a direct shockwave to your clit. "my beautiful, beautiful girl. god, i love you so much."

with that, his mouth is back on your core, fingers parting your folds and thrusting inside you. the combination makes your head spin, the pressure within you growing ever-nearer to breaking point. one of your hands latches itself into matty's curls, resulting in another throaty groan, and you begin to grind yourself against his face and hand. "matty," you whimper, back arching off the bed. "please don't stop. m'so close, m'so fucking close."

matty moans into you again, speeding up his movements ever so slightly. he pulls his mouth from you briefly, so he's understood. "cum for me, sweetheart," he pants, thumb substituting for his tongue on your clit as he speaks. "be a good girl and cum on my tongue." with that, back down he goes. as soon as his tongue returns to you, your orgasm hits; you scream, clenching around his fingers, your whole body convulsing in icily-burning ecstasy. matty pulls every last bit of pleasure out of you, lapping at your clit increasingly softly until you whimper at the sensitivity.

matty pulls himself up to hover over your panting chest, although his forearms shake with the effort after how tight he held your thighs. he presses a gentle kiss to your lips, making you moan at the taste of yourself on him, before he speaks. "that was the sexiest thing i have ever experienced. i'm gonna think about that every fucking day of my life. thank you."

still breathing heavily, you giggle, pulling him down to lie atop you. matty nuzzles sweetly into your neck, somewhat contrasting the eroticism of his hard cock against your stomach. you bring a hand to the buckle of his trousers, which makes him sigh in contentment, and begin to undo it. "oh, i love you. thank you. will you let me return the favour now, angel?"

matty moans into your neck, his hands moving to his trousers to help you pull them down. he leans back slightly to kick them off, then sits up on his knees before you. "honestly, baby, as good as that sounds... i'm quite desperate to be inside you, if you feel ready for that."

slightly embarrassingly, you feel yourself get wet at matty's words. sitting up, you capture his lips with your own, your hands tugging at the waistband of his boxers. "please."

matty swears under his breath and yanks his boxers down his legs. holy fuck. his cock is beautiful; long and hard, weeping for attention. you swipe your thumb over the tip as matty reaches across to his bedside table, but he pulls back with a "for fuck's sake" before you start to work him further. "fuck, the condoms are in the bathroom cupboard. i'll be two seconds, babe, let me just-"

"wait," you sit up on your elbows, preening internally at the way matty's gaze falls to your boobs moving as you do so. "i mean... i'm alright not using one, if you're cool with that. i don't mind, either way."

matty's eyes close, and you don't miss the way his cock twitches slightly at your words. "well, i'm clean, if you're sure you don't mind going without-"

"i am too"

"-but what about... other things?"

"well, going by my biological calendar, we should manage to avoid that this time," you begin, moving to caress his face, his eyes fluttering open as you do. "but even if we don't, i've always maintained that you'd be a proper dilf, so..."

"fuck, i really do love you," matty grins, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand. he settles himself better between your legs, wrapping them around his waist, thumb lightly circling your sensitive clit. "do you want me to fuck you now?"

you slide your arms down onto the bed so you're lying flat again, tipping your head back against the pillows. "mhmm."

matty moves so he's leaning over you, pausing his hand movement and replacing his thumb on your clit with the tip of his cock. "need to hear you say it, sweetheart" he whispers, directly into your ear. "can you do that for me?"

the whole scenario is so erotic that you can't stop the needy whimpers you emit as a response. "please, please matty, want you inside me, please".

"good girl," comes the reply, and then matty's cock is at your entrance, pushing slowly inside you, stretching you out. he's big, the biggest you've ever had, but the stretch and the sensation of him inside you after all this time is nothing short of delicious. matty leans down to kiss you as he bottoms out, the two of you moaning into each other's mouths like it's your own shared language.

after a few slow thrusts, matty breaks the kiss to hover over you. "fuck... shit, you feel so good, baby," he pants out between thrusts. "can i speed up a bit? are you ready?"

his attentiveness towards you is incredible; matty looks like he might combust if he doesn't pick up the pace, jaw open and loose and dark eyes heavy, but he keeps the slow tempo until you answer. "fuck me harder, please. want it so bad."

matty smiles above you, kissing your forehead gently. "anything for my girl."

and with that, most of the gentleness disappears; matty pulls out almost all the way, then slams back into you, making you cry out his name and tangle your fingers in his hair again. he picks up speed, too, moving those hips of his rapidly as he chases orgasms for both of you.

the position doesn't change the whole time - it's perfect, matty's cock hitting your sweet spot every thrust and making you clench around him. you're aware of yourself babbling between moans of his name, but you have no idea what you're saying; all coherent thought in your brain has been replaced by love for the man above you and his sexual prowess, the man alternating between kissing your neck and sucking on your nipples, the man responding to your shit-talking with adoring coos. "fuck, good girl, taking my cock so well, so perfectly. you were fucking made for me, weren't you? made for me to make you feel good, yeah?"

it's overwhelming, especially after the intensity of your last orgasm. the familiar feeling in your stomach begins to build again, your jaw trembling and eyes rolling back into your head as matty continues to fuck you just so perfectly. when your legs begin to shake around his waist, he brings his thumb to your clit and kisses into your neck. "you're close, aren't you, sweetheart? can you cum for me again? cum all over my cock?"

again, it's matty's words that do it. you yank his face down to your own, scratching his back so hard it bleeds and making out with him as he brings you to another convulsing orgasm. it's not a long kiss, though - matty pulls away from you as you clench around him in the throes of pleasure, his hips stuttering as he nears his own release. "where...?"

"inside," you gasp out, clinging to his sweaty shoulders. "wanna feel you."

face above you, dark eyes boring into your own, matty whines loudly - the hottest thing you've ever heard - as he finishes inside you, pulsing heat into your core. he holds himself up long enough afterwards to place a kiss on the end of your nose, then flops on top of you, cock softening inside you, head resting on your boobs. "best sex i've ever had. i love you."

"i love you too," you reply, caressing his sweaty hair. "can't wait to do that with you every day for the rest of our lives."

matty giggles softly, kissing inbetween your boobs before raising his head to look at you. "and i was thinking, if we have a boy in 9 months, we should name him after me."

"whatever you want, babe."

#ok i'm exhausted #mads does writing #matty healy #matty healy fic #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #the 1975 #mads muses #matty x reader #matty healy fanfiction #into the birthday partyverse

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