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paterson-blue · 3 years

Text

Fine Line

Summary: Henry pays you yet another visit.

Word Count: 2,372

Warnings: Dubious consent, somnophilia, consensual somnophilia, I'm serious y'all do not come for me if you get upsetty spaghetti--this is tagged for a reason, you can have a little dead dove as a treat, afab!reader, bitter!henry, mean & angry!henry, insecure!henry, jealous!henry, possessive!henry, .... it's canon henry y'all idk what you want me to say, henry mchenry is in love and he fuuuuucking hates it, cigarette smoking, passing reference to cocaine lol, degradation (sort of?), masturbation, spit as lube but also lube as lube, unprotected piv sex, creampie oop!, lil hint of breeding kink bc it's me, chance of pregnancy is ambiguous, .... harry styles cowrote with me and I will NOT face any slander for it bye – let me know if I need to add anything else!

A/N: This is part 2 to The Night, The Flame, but can also be read as a standalone!

Just took a sleeping pill so I’m sure I’ll be out by the time you finish up. Break a leg! Let me know when you get home safe.

Henry rereads your text as he sits backstage, cigarette clenched between his teeth. It was stupid, really, for you to ask to know when he got home if you were going to be asleep already. What was the point? What if he crashed his bike on the way back--it’s not like you’d know until the morning. He’d be cold and dead on the side of the road by then.

He thinks about calling you to tell you just that, to berate you over it as the much needed nicotine courses through his veins. But there’d be no use--you were always dead to the fuckin’ world after taking a sleeping pill. You didn’t do it often; you must be having trouble sleeping this week. Henry hates how concern bubbles up within him at the thought.

He’s been hating a lot of things recently, which he supposes isn’t new--but this time feels different from the usual.

Henry sighs in annoyance, stabbing the butt of his cigarette into the nearby ashtray before finally getting back into his street clothes. The set had been a wild success, and he’d been planning on heading into the club to join the audience members. A night of drinking, women, a little coke--he needed it, needed the stress relief. He needed to relax. He’s pretty sure the girl who flashed her tits at him would be game; or, she was last time.

And then he’d seen your stupid fucking text message, and all thoughts of anyone else went out the window.

It’s not how things were supposed to be. You were supposed to be a fun piece of ass that he could come fuck whenever he wanted. That’s how it started, and that’s what you’d agreed to. You wanted to use his body as much as he wanted to use yours, and the two of you were fine with that arrangement.

But now he can’t fucking sleep with anyone else. He doesn’t want to sleep with anyone else, only you. And christ, the thought of you in another man’s bed makes Henry see red. He knows he can’t be the one you want, not all of him--not anything other than his cock. He gets it; he’s beyond fucked up and you’re not, and you both know it. He’s good in bed, he’s confident in that. But what else can he provide?

God fucking dammit he wants to scream. He’s so fucking frustrated, his previous plans dashed. All his earlier urges, his thoughts of the indulgences the club can provide--they’re gone. His fingertips twitch, and he fumbles for another cigarette on instinct, taking in a deep inhale as soon as it's lit.

He knows what he wants--what he needs. And he’s going to get it.

He takes long drags of his cigarette as he grabs his motorcycle helmet and heads outside to his bike, flatly ignoring anyone who tries to talk to him. He’s on a mission now, and he doesn’t feel like interruptions.

It doesn’t take long to get to your flat, the journey one that he’s made what feels like hundreds of times. He thinks he can make the trip with his eyes closed, each and every turn familiar, his subconscious guiding him until he parks, shutting off his bike and letting the night fall quiet.

Henry stares up towards your balcony, taking a couple deep breaths. He itches for another smoke, but he resists the urge—he doesn’t need another hit of nicotine when he has you.

He’s done this before, come to you at night while you were sleeping. It’s the entire reason you gave him a key to your place. He hadn’t wanted to take the token at first, too scared of what a key represented, too worried about what it insinuated. But you’d made such a convincing argument as to why he needed one—told him you knew he got antsy after a show, and you’d be available to him even while you slept, unconscious to his actions.

Well how could he have said no?

Yes, Henry’s done this more than enough times now to have everything down to a science. He knows how to let himself in silently, knows where to step so the floors don’t creak. It wouldn’t make a difference really—you won’t wake up, and he knows it—but it just enhances the experience, pretending that you might.

He knows you’ll be sprawled out in bed naked; you always said you got too hot at night. He knows how to move you ever so gently, letting your legs fall open to reveal your sweet, gorgeous pussy. He knows where you keep the lube; knows exactly what he needs to make sliding into you slick and easy.

He forgoes the condom this time. Usually he wore one in order to prevent any mess—to try to leave no trace of himself, so you’d be none the wiser when you awoke. But not tonight. Tonight, he’s on edge, possessive, irritated with the feelings you cause within him. He’s going to make a mess of you, leave it for you to find in the morning.

He’s going to fucking show you just who you belong to.

He’s already hard as he unzips his jeans, palming his cock through his briefs. It’s not surprising—doing this always got him going. You’re so fucking beautiful like this, spread out and vulnerable for him. The prettiest, most obscene picture for his eyes only.

Mine, he thinks to himself as he shoves his underwear down his thighs, gaze greedy. He can’t help but suck his thumb into his mouth, wetting it before moving his hand between your legs, rubbing slow circles over your clit. You twitch in your sleep, cunt pulsing--begging for his cock.

He considers pulling you to the edge of the bed--kneeling and tasting you, coating his tongue with your slick. It’s just as much for him as it is for you, though Henry’s loath to admit it. Part of the appeal, though, is your response to him--your moans, your sighs, the wriggle of your hips against his face, your fingers gripping, twisting, pulling at his hair. The pain is a high stronger than any drug can give him; your noises, euphoria. He has none of it if you’re asleep, yet he doesn’t want to wake you and spoil the current moment.

It’s another frustrating contradiction. You’ve never made things easy for him.

Henry warms the lube in his palm before giving his cock a couple strokes; it twitches in his hand, overeager. His gaze trails over your body up to your face, expression lax and peaceful where your cheek is nuzzled into your pillow. He thinks about what it would be like to have this--have you--every night. He imagines a world where he comes home to you, pulls you into his arms, rests his head on the pillow next to yours and tells you sweet, beautiful, stupid little things.

It’s unrealistic and he knows it--makes his heart clench up in his chest. That ugly green feeling rises within him once again to replace his sorrow.

Sometimes, Henry thinks he loves you so much that he hates you.

It’s a fine line.

He jerks his cock the way he wants to fuck you: hard and fast and ferocious, squeezing himself tight. His chest heaves as he struggles to gasp in quiet breaths; his lungs feel heavy, suffocated by his irrational anger, his jealousy, his resentment. Henry knows he could let go of his feelings--could free himself from the darkness that swirls in his head, in his heart. But, if he did that, he knows what feelings he would have left, and love is a far scarier thing than bitterness.

He fights the urge to wake you--to pound into you mercilessly, a hand around your throat, making you cry out for him as he stares into your eyes. He wants to punish you for making him love you, for making him weak, for making him hopeless and discontent. But, he’ll save that for later. Because he knows, despite what he tells himself, there will always be a later. He can’t stay away from you long, and you always--impossibly--welcome him back.

Instead, he forces his hands to stop their incessant movement; the lack of stimulation makes his hips jerk. Wiping his hands on the sheets, he clambers onto your bed; his cock bobs between his legs, hard and drooling. You stir slightly, and Henry settles his palms on your knees, watching your face intently--still, you remain unconscious. As soon as you settle back down, Henry wraps his long fingers around your upper thighs, spreading you open just how he needs in order for him to shuffle closer.

Your cunt twitches when he notches the head of his cock to your pretty little hole, as if trying to pull him in. It makes him groan--quietly, low in his throat. He’s already close, cock throbbing as he rubs the head through your soft folds. You’re relaxed enough like this--and probably still open from last night--that he can press in with little resistance. You make a noise akin to a sigh, but Henry’s too entranced by the sight of your pussy swallowing his cock inch by inch to check and see if you’re waking up.

It’s perfect, though it always is, having you on his cock. The lube slicks the way just enough for him to press in deep, holding himself there as your cunt flutters around him, adjusting to the intrusion. He’s so on edge--physically, emotionally, mentally; just this is enough to make his balls pulse. Henry allows himself a couple slow strokes, muscles tense as he moves his hips in deliberate, steady thrusts. Your walls grip him tight, hot and soft, sucking him back in as soon as he starts to pull out. He thinks, idly, that he could stay like this all night. Maybe he should lay down, pull you back against his chest--press his cock into you from behind, let your warm pussy milk him until morning while he nuzzles his face into your neck.

But it’s too soft a dream; too intimate an image--it’s not something he deserves. And, more than that: it’s not something he’s ever wanted before. You’ve turned him into someone else.

Henry clenches his jaw, gritting his teeth. Fucking pathetic, he thinks, both of us. Gathering saliva in his mouth, he lets it drip down onto the top of your mound before spreading it around your clit with his thick fingers. It’s messy and unrefined; if you were awake, you’d probably do that thing where you pretend not to like it. He hates that he knows your each and every reaction.

As it is, your pussy clenches on his cock, your body still giving away how much you want it even while unconscious. Each little movement of your hips, each hitch in your breathing, each furrow of your brow pulls Henry closer and closer to the edge. He rubs your clit leisurely; he’s practiced enough to know exactly how much you need to make you cum without jolting you awake.

He swears he can feel your cunt getting wetter and wetter the more he works you; he pulls out just enough to check, and groans quietly when he sees the sheen of your slick coating his cock. Pressing back into you makes him shudder, and the movement of his fingers gets sloppy; he’s desperate to feel you break, desperate to watch you shiver through your peak. He doesn’t have to wait much longer.

You make a whimper that cuts off almost as soon as it begins, a pretty frown decorating your once peaceful facial features--and then, all of a sudden, your hard little clit is pulsing underneath Henry’s fingertips. He clamps his teeth down onto his bottom lip to muffle himself as your pussy squeezes around his sensitive cock, pulling his orgasm from him. It’s all too easy: your soft walls milking him, the knowledge that you’re unaware of what you’re doing. Your body wants his cum, wants him--he’s your most basic desire. He won’t deny you what you need.

Henry’s fingertips circle your clit until your hips jerk, wanting to ride the wave of your orgasm as long as he can. The heat of his cum floods your pussy, coating his cock, leaking out onto the sheets; it makes his head spin to think that maybe--just maybe--it’ll take root. That he’ll place a piece of himself inside of you, that you’ll let that hint of darkness grow. He heaves in a sharp breath, goosebumps peppering his skin. Don’t make a fool out of yourself, the sneering voice in his head tells him.

He doesn’t move for a while after your aftershocks fade, ignoring his aching knees as he savors the moment. It’s quiet in the darkened room aside from his trembling breaths and the faint noise of the city outside. You still haven’t woken, even with the sheen of sweat decorating your skin and his cum sticking to your inner thighs. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe this is how the two of you last. Him stealing little moments while sparing you having to be with him--maybe this was the only way he can know you.

Henry shakes the thought from his mind, finally spurring his body into motion. He doesn’t bother cleaning himself up this time, just watches the creamy white of his cum drip from your pussy as he tucks his cock back into his briefs. It makes such a pretty picture that he wants to document it, but he’s already overstayed his welcome and he knows it. So he leaves the scene as it is: your legs spread akimbo, sloppy cunt on display, sheets stained. That angry little voice within him raises its ugly head once more, telling him it’s what you deserve. He shoves the words away, draping one of your quilts over your bare form as gently as he can.

When he gets back to the safety of his apartment, he shoots you a text just as you’d requested.

Made it home. Sleep well.

_______________________________

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#cw: dubious consent #cw: somnophilia #cw: consensual somnophilia #cw: drug mention #henry mchenry x reader #henry mchenry #henry mchenry x afab!reader #adcu fic #tori writes #feedback always welcome & appreciated!

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