#henry mchenry x femme!reader

[paterson-blue]

The Night, The Flame

Summary: You come home to an unexpected visitor.

Word Count: 2,114

Warnings: femme!reader, sub!reader, dom!Henry, pussy eating, pussy worship, cigarette smoking (y'all already know lmao), degradation, edging, overstimulation, brief mention of consensual somnophilia, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, kinda dub-con if you squint I guess, possessive!Henry, insecure!Henry because it's me & I have to do that shit-- fuck, I think that's all, but let me know if I need to add anything else!

A/N: Uhm. Cannes. That is all.

Your apartment is dark and silent when you arrive home. It’s late, and after a night out with your friends, all you’re thinking about is a shower and straight to bed. You don’t notice that things are a little off—the door to the coat closet slightly ajar, a half empty glass sitting abandoned on the kitchen island, the small decorative glass ashtray usually kept on the coffee table missing.

You don’t notice until you spy movement from the corner of your eye, out on the balcony. Your heart leaps into your throat for a brief moment as you freeze in place, but then a split second later you recognize the lean silhouette, as well as the tell-tale orange glow of a cigarette.

Henry.

You sigh in relief, and just a little bit of annoyance that he’s startled you. You hadn’t been expecting him. Walking over to the sliding glass door, you open it up to peek your head out at him. He’s sitting in one of the patio chairs, long legs resting on the balcony’s edge as he overlooks the view of the city. He’s wearing nothing but a tight pair of black boxer briefs, wavy hair blowing in the slight breeze; you wonder, idly, where the rest of his clothes are.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming over,” you finally say when he fails to acknowledge you. He takes another deep drag of his cigarette before reaching one long sinewy arm out towards the patio table, where the ashtray sat. He taps off the excess ash; you notice that the little container is already half full. How long has he been here?

“How did you get in?” you ask, not quite knowing what else to say.

He hums, the sound low and quiet; still doesn’t look at you. “You gave me a key.”

You blink, but then—yeah. You had given him a key. A “just in case” key he hadn’t wanted to take. Just in case what? he’d asked, making a face at the object like it offended him. You hadn’t really had an answer. Just in case you want to see me. Just in case you need me. Just in case you want something more than this.

Henry had been giving you the best orgasms of your life for four months straight, but the man was so broody and flighty that you didn’t dare bring up a relationship. Didn’t dare ask him to stay. The only outcome would be disaster, this you knew. So, instead, you’d said: in case you’re antsy after a show and want to come fuck me while I’m asleep. And oh, how his eyes had gone dark and hungry.

He’d taken the key.

But, of course, you’ve forgotten about that. Because it’s been two months since then and he hadn’t used it once (at least, that you’re aware of, and doesn’t that send heat down your spine?)

You stand there for a moment, watching him smoke; somewhere in the distance a police siren cuts through the low hum of night time traffic. Henry stabs the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray and promptly lights up another, the flame momentarily bathing his face in light. A deep breath, then he’s leaning his head back, letting smoke curl up towards the heavens. His dark hair falls over his slim shoulders, ones you knew were decorated with freckles you couldn’t see.

Why was he here? What did he want? You try to think, to remember if he told you something about tonight—he’d had a show. A new set of some sort, a new venue. And now here he was, three in the morning, half naked and chain smoking on your balcony. Your gaze traces over his form, recognizing the tension in his jaw, his back.

“Bad night?” you ask softly, gently. You want to reach out and caress him, to soothe him, but you aren’t sure if it will cause him to flee. You compromise your urge by moving closer, but not too close, settling in your own chair across from him. He doesn’t answer but at this point you don’t expect him to—he was in one of his moods. You gaze out at the cityscape with him, waiting for him to finish, for his inevitable leaving. Maybe he’d just needed a place to clear his head.

After a while you feel yourself starting to get a little sleepy—you’re beginning to consider grabbing that shower and telling him to let himself out when he’s done with whatever it is that he’s doing—when he stands. You jerk your head over to look up at him, arching a brow in question. He brings his cigarette up to his plush lips, studying you, eyes dark and wild. It makes you feel cornered; makes you feel like prey.

Henry always seems to have this effect on you.

Silently, he grabs the throw pillow he’d been reclining against, and then leans down to stub out the rest of his cig. You track the movement, watching the soft glow of the embers scatter close to his large fingers. There’s a brief moment of suspense where neither of you move, blink, breathe—and then he’s stalking towards you, a lion going after it’s kill.

He tosses the pillow onto the concrete floor in front of you, and then he’s kneeling on top of it, right between your legs. You feel your face start to flush, and you instinctively press your thighs together as you look around furtively. “Henry.” Your voice trembles, breathless already; he hasn’t taken those eyes off of you. “Henry, don’t.”

He ignores your warning, strong hands gliding up your calves and under your dress, gripping your thighs and prying them open. You gawk at him, but he’s not focused on your face, not anymore.

“Henry, someone will see.” You try again, pushing against his grip; he pushes right back, keeping your legs spread for him. His eyes roam over the sheer white lace of your underwear, and his lip curls up into something akin to a sneer.

“What’s this? Hoping you’d find someone to show these to tonight?” His fingers press into your skin as if to accentuate his words. You frown at him, and start to speak, to tell him no and to stop being an asshole. You don’t get the words out. Anything you’re about to say flies out of your brain when he presses his face between your legs, planting his mouth over as much of your cunt as possible.

You squirm in your seat, letting out a little whine. He works his jaw, sucking on you through your underwear, and you know the fabric will be sopping wet in no time with how messy he’s being, letting the lace capture his saliva. He presses his nose right up against your clit—inhales deeply and lets out a low groan. It’s possessive. Your heart feels like it might beat out of your chest.

“Fuck, Henry—“ you curse, moaning softly when he rubs that stupid perfect nose up and down, up and down, taking his damn time, his breath hot where it fans out against your skin. “L-Let’s go inside, please?”

He bites the inside of your thigh in response, and then suddenly he’s wrenching your underwear down your legs. He tosses them over his shoulder and you yelp when they go over the side of the balcony.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you snap at him, but then he’s shoving your legs up and back until your knees hook over the arms of the chair you’re in. When he looks up at you his eyes are ablaze, his hands pressing at the backs of your thighs, his big thumbs opening your pussy to the cool night air.

“You’re gonna sit right here and let me taste you.” His tone is dark and demanding, and you look down at him in disbelief. Your mouth opens to say something—anything—but then he’s yanking your forward by your ass and burying his face into your pussy. He doesn’t start out slow; apparently, that’s not the mood he’s in tonight. Instead, he shoves his tongue into you as deep as he can, rubbing his nose against your clit—and even still, he’s grabbing at you so hard you think he’s trying to get deeper.

You clench around him and he moans, moving to suck messily at your folds. You’re hyper aware of how fucking noisy it is, the way he’s eating you—slurping at you—and your face feels like it’s on fucking fire. Christ, what if one of your neighbors heard? What if they saw? You clutch a hand into his hair, hips rolling up into his mouth without your permission.

Henry seals his mouth over your clit and sucks hard, tongue beating out an insistent pattern against the bundle of nerves. You gasp, wriggling against him, and he just holds you even tighter, nose pressing into your pubic bone in a way that surely can’t be comfortable.

“Oh shit.” You whisper, voice breaking as you try to stay quiet. You’re already close, somehow, just on the edge, thighs trembling—and he fucking knows it. He fucking knows it because he stops that gorgeous rhythm, presses his tongue back inside and groans at the taste. He starts the process all over again and you’ve never hated him more.

He does the whole thing twice more before you’re making incessant, involuntary little noises, still making a futile attempt to stay quiet. Henry looks up at you as he circles your clit with the hard point of his tongue and for some reason that’s what does it. You clap a hand over your mouth as you cry out, the noise close to a sob. He’s snatching your hand away in an instant, his fingers wrapping all the way around your wrist, holding it tight.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ muffle yourself. What the fuck’s your problem, huh? Don’t want anyone to hear what a little slut you are? Don’t want anyone to know how good I make you feel?” He’s speaking loudly, voice carrying into the night. He grabs your other wrist, holding them both and squeezing so hard you think they might bruise. “You fuckin’ ashamed of me?”

That seems to cut through the haze in your brain, and you manage to shake your head at him, holding his gaze. Of course you weren’t ashamed of him. Why would he think that? Henry seems to flounder for a brief moment, as if he hadn’t expected those particular words to come out of his mouth. But then he lets out a growl, and he’s leaning forward, spitting right onto your pussy.

You gasp, clit throbbing as you feel the liquid trail over your skin. Henry uses the index and middle digits of his free hand to push his saliva into you, his fingers following as he stretches you out deep, deep inside. When he looks up at you he’s composed himself, back to his normal guise of control. “Let them hear,” he snaps, “I want them to hear.”

He gives no warning before he’s setting a frantic pace with his fingers, fucking you with them harshly. You let out a shaky cry, and he gives you a sharp grin.

“Louder.” He demands, his own voice rising in volume. “Scream my fuckin’ name.”

You do, you do, lost to the merciless pace of his fingers inside you, to the wet squelch of your cunt as he hammers your g-spot. You can’t escape his touch, can’t escape the intensity of his gaze as you cum all over his hand. Henry fucking laughs, the sound ringing out over everything else. “Listen to that sloppy pussy. You’re gonna bounce on my cock right here until I fill it with cum, and then I’m gonna fuck you again over the railing. You’re mine.”

He doesn’t stop, even when you sob out from overstimulation, body shaking with it. Your cunt grips his fingers like a vice, and he lowers his mouth to your clit just in time to bring you to a quick second orgasm. Your thighs close around his head as you scream for him, just like he wanted—you don’t even recognize the sounds you’re making.

When your legs finally fall back open to release him, Henry pulls his fingers from you into his mouth, sucking at them as his dark eyes stay trained on your slick folds. You’re panting loudly, all pretense of politeness forgotten as you focus on him. He reaches out to brush a feather light touch over your pussy, humming low in his chest when you twitch for him. “Pretty thing. I bet my cock’s gonna slip right in.”

You bet it will, too.

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