#provider fic

Then you hear it. The creak of the floorboards behind you. The slow, deliberate footsteps of a man with intention. You don't need to turn around to know it's II; there's a certain weight to the way he moves, a casual confidence that always betrays his presence. It slinks through the house like smoke, curling around your senses, heating you from the inside out. 

He doesn't say anything at first. He just watches. You can feel the intensity of it; the way his eyes drag across the back of your neck, down your spine, as if he’s already peeling you open with just a look. You’re still by the kitchen counter, where you’d leaned moments ago to wave the boys off, pretending like you weren’t already aching for this exact moment. But now that it’s here, now that the house is empty and the air has thickened and it’s just the two of you, it’s hard to breathe. 

You don't dare move. Then, softly, like velvet drawn over skin: “There she is.” You exhale, shivering, something primal awakening in you as goosebumps spread over your skin. 

His voice is deeper tonight. Rougher. Like it’s dipped in honey and smoke, dragged through the heat of the stage lights and hours of giving his all. And now, finally, he’s off the leash of touring. 

He comes up behind you slowly, but not lazily. Deliberately. His hands are on you before your brain catches up; one palm settling low on your hip, the other sliding up your side to graze your ribcage. His chest meets your back a moment later, warm and solid and so fucking steady, like a wall built just for you to fall against. 

You melt without even realizing that you are. Your head tilts instinctively, offering your neck, and he doesn’t waste the invitation. His lips brush the shell of your ear first, teasing, before dragging down to your pulse point, open-mouthed, just barely wet. 

“I’ve been waiting all month for this,” he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. “Watching you every damn night we had a show, standing side-stage, knowing I’d have you like this again.” Your breath catches. 

“Alone,” he adds, his teeth grazing lightly over your skin. “Just us. No distractions. No schedule.” You nod, though it feels like your thoughts are already dissolving. “I’ve wanted this too, you have no idea.” 

He hums, pleased, and then his hands tighten. You yelp, quiet and startled as he spins you in one smooth motion, backs you into the counter. The marble edge digs into your spine, but you barely notice. You’re already dizzy from the closeness, the fire in his eyes, the tension in his jaw as he looks at you like he’s starved. 

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he says, low. “Standing there all night in that little dress, knowing I can’t touch you until they leave for pints. Smiling at the others, hugging them like you’re just besties. And I’m meant to just sit back?” 

You try to speak, but he kisses you first, hard and sudden and deep. His mouth moves over yours like he owns it, like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe. His fingers thread through your hair, gripping at the base of your skull, angling your head just how he wants it. 

There’s no room to think. No space for anything but him. When he pulls back, you’re gasping. He leans in again, breath hot against your cheek. “Upstairs. Now.” You nod, dazed, legs already trembling. r. 

As you clear the threshold of the bedroom you share with him, he stops you halfway to the bed, grabbing your wrist and spinning you back toward him. His mouth crashes against yours again as he walks you backward, one step at a time, until your knees buckle into the edge of the bed, and you drop down hard with a little squeak. 

He lays you down instantly, his hand on your chest gently guiding you backwards, his body weighing down the bed around you as he moves to hover over you. He kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding over your bottom lip, asking for entry. You grant him such, and your tongues tangle and fight for dominance. He groans into your mouth as his tongue wins, and he licks into your mouth as if he’s learning you by taste. As if you haven’t been doing this song and dance for the last ten months that you’ve been with II.  

His hands are on your thighs now, pushing them apart, thumbs stroking gentle lines against the sensitive skin. Your shorts ride up as he spreads you open, and he watches with a hunger that makes your whole body tense. 

“You’ve been so good for me,” he murmurs, dragging his nails lightly up the inside of your leg. “Waited so sweetly. You know how proud that makes me?” 

You whimper, nodding. “Yes, sir.” That does something to him; you see it flash in his eyes, feel it in the way his grip tightens. He leans in, lips brushing against your knee as he speaks. 

“That’s my girl.” He purrs as his fingers hook in the waistband of your jean shorts, and you lift your hips instinctually. Your centre pulses, pooling with wetness as your heart rate picks up and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. He drags your shorts down your legs, past your ankles and feet, and flings them somewhere across the room. 

He turns back to look at you, and his gaze is dark and ravenous. He looks you up and down and licks his lips, and he looks nearly animalistic. “Take off your panties, baby.” A simple command that you oblige instantly wriggling out of them and discarding them in the general direction of your shorts. 

He smirks down at you as he removes his own shirt, revealing his toned yet still soft upper body. He’s truly beautiful, and you can’t wait to trace every divot with your tongue. You hold your knees together; a nervous behavior he’s been trying to help you escape. 

He leans forward slightly and places his warm hands on your knees, gently pulling them apart. “It’s okay, my love. Let me see you.” he coos, and you obey mindlessly, his smooth, deep voice putting you into a trance-like state. Your thighs are now completely separated and pressed to the mattress, baring you to him. He takes in the sight of you, and you watch his erection tenting in his joggers. “So fucking gorgeous, darling... Look at you...” he says lowly to you, his voice smooth and velvety. He kisses up your inner thigh, slow, deliberate, and unhurried.  

Your breath hitches every time his mouth touches down. He doesn’t even flinch at how sensitive you are, how easily your body responds to him now. Instead, he uses it. He strokes his tongue across your skin in firm, wet lines that make you tremble, humming low against you like he’s tasting something he’s missed for far too long. 

Then he pauses just before reaching the apex of your thighs. You’re aching for him, desperate for friction, and he knows it. And still, he waits. 

You lift your hips a little, involuntarily, seeking touch, relief, anything. But his hands are already pressing you down again, fingers curling over your thighs to keep you still. 

“So impatient,” he murmurs against your skin. “Where’d my good girl go?” Your eyes flutter open, wide and pleading. “I’m trying, baby, but please...” you whisper. He smirks, wicked and fond all at once. “You are. You’re doing so well for me.” 

Then, finally, finally, he gives in. His mouth meets you where you need him most; hot, greedy, and starving. His tongue strokes you in long, firm licks that leave you gasping, clutching at the comforter underneath you, trembling like your body barely knows how to handle this kind of touch. 

He doesn’t let up. Not when your moans turn breathless. Not when your legs start to shake and one orgasm turns to two. Not even when you beg. “Please... please, I can’t- can’t take it...” 

“Yes, you can,” he murmurs, fingers joining his mouth now, curling just right, finding that spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed, your body on the verge of convulsing. “You can take it. Gimme one more baby, you can do it.” 

The wave crashes through you fast and hard, your voice coming out as a cry. Your legs clamp around his shoulders as you shatter beneath his touch, the pressure of his mouth never once easing until you’re twitching and whimpering and spent. 

Only then does he pull back, mouth glistening, eyes heavy with lust and pride. He wipes his thumb across his lower lip, then drags it into his mouth with a satisfied hum. “So fucking sweet.” 

Your head lolls to the side, chest rising and falling in sharp little bursts, mind empty yet buzzing with the overwhelming, overstimulating pleasure coursing through your nerve-endings.  

You barely register him standing, his joggers and boxers hitting the floor, his cock springing free and slapping his stomach as he pumps himself a couple of times, slow and teasing. Then he’s back on top of you, hands already tugging your shirt up over your shoulders and head, mouth finding yours again with dizzying intensity. 

“You ready for me, love?” he asks, voice low and serious now, all the teasing gone. You nod instantly, voice wrecked and panting. “Yes. Please.” He groans against your neck. “That’s my girl.” 

He lines up with your soaking, aching entrance, then he eases himself inside your cunt, burying himself in your wetness. A husky groan escapes his lips as your walls tighten around him, and you cry out in pleasure. 

The stretch is perfect, just enough to burn in all the best ways and fill the void created by your three orgasms. He holds still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, letting you adjust. One of his hands cradles the side of your face like you’re something fragile, too precious to rush. 

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Every fucking time, I swear it only gets better.” 

He pulls back just enough to thrust forward again, slow and steady at first. You gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist, drawing him in deeper. 

He sets a rhythm that’s punishing and precise, each stroke hitting something deep and needy inside you, each one designed to wreck you a little more. His hand slips down between you, rubbing slow circles that push you higher and higher while he fucks you through it. 

“You’re taking me so well, princess,” he pants. “So fucking perfect for me.” 

You’re gone for him. Absolutely undone. You claw at his back, gasping, pleading, whispering his name like it’s the only thing you know. 

And still he keeps going, eyes locked on yours, watching every expression cross your face as you fall apart for him again. 

“Cum for me,” he says, rough and commanding. “Now.” And it’s like a switch is flipped in your brain. A switch that he wired in. 

Your fourth orgasm rips through you like a shockwave; blinding, overwhelming, and consuming. You shake, sobbing his name into his shoulder, clutching him like you’ll fly apart if you let go. 

He groans low in your ear, rhythm stuttering as he chases his own release. “God, I wanna fill you up,” he growls. “Fuck, baby... Lemme show you you’re mine.” 

His voice breaks on the last word, and then he’s spilling inside you with a long, shuddering moan, body tense against yours, every muscle tight. 

You both stay there for a moment, tangled and panting. The world comes back in pieces. 

The warmth of his breath against your collarbone. The steady thump of his heart against your chest. The way his fingers cradle your jaw as if to anchor you back to earth. 

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft again. “You alright, love?” 

You nod, barely able to speak. “Yeah. I’m… wow.” 

He laughs, a low, fond sound, and kisses your forehead. “You’re perfect.” 

He slips out of you gently, groaning a little at the loss of warmth, and pulls your shirt back down to cover you. You’re already starting to tremble, muscles twitching with leftover adrenaline and strain. He tells you he’ll be right back as he walks over into the bathroom right off the bedroom you share. You hear running water in the tub, and you know what he’s doing. You smile and close your eyes, eternally grateful for this man and the way he treats you – and fucks you. 

You try to sit up when he comes back in, but you nearly fall off the edge of the bed. He sees it immediately. “Alright, no more moving,” he says, his voice shifting into full caretaker mode. “I’ve got you.” 

Before you can protest, he’s scooping you up in his arms again, warm, safe, strong, and carrying you out of the room like something precious. 

You press your face into his neck and just breathe. You don’t need to ask where he’s taking you. You already smell the rosewater bubble soap. 

Your head rests against his shoulder as he carries you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lulling you deeper into that floaty, post-high haze. Your limbs feel heavy, sated and shaky, and yet somehow, safe. Like you’re allowed to drift, because he’ll hold you. 

He doesn’t say much as he walks into the bathroom with you. He doesn’t need to. The warmth of his body, the quiet press of his lips to your temple, the soft, reverent way he holds you; it's all speaking for him. 

You smell it before you see it. Gentle, floral, and the clean, damp scent of hot bath water. The bathroom is already glowing, dim with amber light. One soft lamp, no harsh bulbs, and candles flickering low on the windowsill. The tub is nearly full, steam curling over the edges, bubbles thick and pearlescent, catching the light like something out of a dream. 

“You really ran me a bubble bath?” you murmur, drowsy and blinking up at him, gratitude emerging in your tone. He grins. “Figured I got all you sore and wrecked, so I started it when I came in here to get you a towel.” You snort, the sound weak but warm. “Confident.” 

“Correct,” he teases, kissing your forehead. “Now hush. Let me take care of you.” He sets you down gently on the closed lid of the loo, his hands slow and careful as they help guide your legs to rest. You watch, mesmerized, as he moves around the room with quiet efficiency; checking the temperature of the water, adjusting the tap, adding a few more petals from a little dish on the counter. 

He kneels in front of you again, eyes scanning your face, your skin, your posture. His hands skim your thighs like he’s reading your body, searching for anything he might’ve missed. 

“You’re trembling,” he says, more to himself than you. “I’m alright,” you whisper. “I know.” He leans in and kisses the top of your knee. “But I want you better than alright.” 

He helps you out of what’s left of your shirt woth slow, tender movements, like you’re made of glass; a complete contrast to the way he was manhandling you just moments ago, coaxing multiple climaxes from your spent body. His eyes don’t leave yours, even when you’re bare before him, even when you shift, self-conscious in the soft light. He doesn’t leer. He doesn’t ogle. 

He looks at you like you’re art. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your cheekbone. “So fucking beautiful.” You smile, flushed and exhausted and loved to pieces. 

When he stands, he offers both hands. You take them, letting him pull you up, and he holds your weight easily as he steps into the tub first, naked, hair slightly tousled from your grip. He lowers himself, settling back against the far end, then reaches for you. “C’mere, angel.” 

You climb in slowly, your legs shaky and your muscles thrumming from earlier. The heat of the water envelopes you instantly, coaxing a moan from your lips as you lower yourself into the bubbles. You settle his lap, adjusting yourself so that your back is to his chest, and he wraps his arms around you like a blanket. 

It’s perfect. The bath, the soothing warmth, the feel of his body behind you, cradling you gently between his thighs. His hands find your stomach, your hips, drawing idle patterns into your damp skin as if to remind you he’s still there, and you’re still safe. 

You let your head fall back against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. He kisses your temple, your cheek, your neck; soft, slow, no rush. Just devotion. 

“You were incredible tonight,” he whispers. You hum. “You always say that.” 

“Because it’s always true.” His hand dips the cloth into the water, then trails it over your skin; your collarbone, your arms, the curve of your shoulder. He’s methodical about it, but unhurried. You can feel the care in every movement. The cloth is soft, the water hotter toward the edges, cooler where it laps between your bodies. 

When he gets to your thighs, you shiver. “Too much?” he asks quietly. “No,” you breathe. “Feels nice.” He continues, gentler still, wiping between your legs, around the marks he left there with his mouth, his fingers, and just the aching stretch of his body inside yours. 

You gasp softly when he touches a particularly tender spot. “Sorry, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

“You didn’t,” you say, eyes still closed. “You just… gave me everything... And my body is um... recovering,” you murmur, chuckling at the last few words. 

He stills behind you for a moment, and you can feel the emotion move through him, his breath catching, the way his arms tighten just a little more. 

“You give me everything,” he says, voice quieter now. “Every time, bedroom-wise or not. And I’ll never take it for granted.” 

You twist to look back at him, turning just enough to catch his face, lit gold by candlelight, soft with affection. He looks at you like he’s thinking a dozen things but doesn’t know how to say any of them. So you say it for him. 

“I love you.” He exhales and his eyes close, his lips finding your shoulder as his head drops in relaxation, and he places a few sweet kisses along the soft curve of your shoulder. 

“I love you too, baby.” You lean back as he leans forward to meet you, kissing him slow and sweet. Not hungry or rushed. Just love, poured into him through every movement of your mouth, every stroke of your hand against his cheek. 

When you finally part, he nudges his nose against yours. “Let’s get you rinsed and into bed,” he whispers. “I’ve got your favorite shirt warming by the radiator, and I’ll change the sheets. And I am not... going... anywhere.” he whispers, punctuating every word with a kiss to your neck. 

“Promise?” you ask, lost in the sensation of his lips on you. “Swear on the mask,” he says with a smirk. You laugh, full and breathless now. 

He drains the water while keeping you wrapped up against him, then lifts you from the bath like it’s nothing, carrying you to the plush towel he laid out earlier. You brace yourself on the wall near the tub as he dries you gently, thoroughly, then helps you into the oversized shirt that smells like him; warm cotton, sandalwood, a hint of the rosewater still clinging to your skin. When he tucks you into bed, you’re limp and smiling. 

You watch him disappear into the hallway for a moment, only to return with a glass of water and your favorite snack from the cupboard. He sets them on the nightstand, then climbs in beside you, gathering you into his arms like you belong there. 

You do. You absolutely do. You always have. As sleep tugs at the edges of your mind, you hear his voice again; soft and steady, spoken into the quiet space between your breaths. 

“You’re mine, my angel,” he says. “And I’m yours. Always.” And then, nothing. 

Just warmth, safety, and the slow, steady beat of his heart, lulling you to sleep.