Rain Down On Me
This is an anon request, and I truly loved writing this one out. It's a rainy day here, which gave plenty of time and a bit of inspo clearly haha. It's very sweet and tender, and I hope you enjoy! I hope it's what you were looking for, anon :)
CW: 18+, detailed smut, soft aftercare, IV + fem reader
Word Count: 3.3k
Rain taps softly against the windows, the droplets streaking down the glass in an ever-changing race to the sill. The whole world outside is muted; misty gray and drowsy, the sort of day where time forgets to move forward. It’s perfect, quiet, and safe.
You sit curled on the chocolate-brown suede sofa with your knees tucked up beneath you, wrapped in the coziest blanket you own; an oversized sherpa throw in the shade dusty rose, sipping slowly from a chipped mug of coffee with cream and sugar. It’s your second cup today, maybe your third, and it’s gone lukewarm by now, but the remaining warmth still anchors you. You finish the page of the book you're nearly finished reading, and you glance over at him as you turn the page.
Across the room, IV is tuning his guitar by the window. His fingers move slowly and lazily, maybe even mindlessly. The music comes so naturally to him, it always has. It’s one of the many things you love about him. The house is so still that you can hear the creak of the tuning pegs, the low hum of each string as he plucks and adjusts. He’s cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hair falling into his eyes causing him to occasionally jerk his head to the side, flipping his bangs away.
He’s completely focused. You love watching him like this; at peace in the middle of something that grounds him. You’ve seen him onstage, radiant and untouchable, a silhouette of desire and control. But this is different. This is IV as he is when no one else is watching. Gentle and immersed, ever-present, and genuinely him.
The rain sings against the glass behind him. He strums once, soft and slow, allowing the chord to reverberate through his ears and settle in his chest, and then looks up. You’re already looking at him fondly.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and it does something to your heart, the way his gaze holds you like a secret. Like he’s already halfway across the room in his mind, closing the distance just to touch you. You set your mug down on the coffee table, heart fluttering, eyes glued to his as your own take on a look of amusement and slight flirtation.
He doesn’t speak. He just sets his guitar down gently, stands, fluid and quiet, and walks toward you.
You expect him to sit beside you, maybe nuzzle into your side and steal the warmth from your blanket. But instead, he sinks to his knees in front of the couch and slides his hands slowly up your calves, settling them gently over your shins. His thumbs stroke back and forth along the bone, calloused fingertips warm against your skin.
“You’re so beautiful like this, darling,” he says softly, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it aloud. You blink, heartbeat stuttering. “Like what?” you murmur, a shy smile forming on your full lips. He smiles up at you, mirroring your shyness, a little crooked. “Peaceful. In your element.”
He presses a kiss to the side of your knee, then another just a little higher. You watch as his hands slide beneath the blanket to rest against your thighs, his touch slow and reverent. The mood shifts.
Something tender curls in your belly; not sharp or sudden, but soft, consuming. The way his eyes linger, the way his hands explore without urgency, the way the rain keeps falling outside like a lullaby... It all melts into something heavenly.
You move the blanket aside and reach for him, fingers carding through the soft hair at the front of his head. He leans into the touch instantly, eyes fluttering closed.
“You’re staring,” you whisper.
“I always stare,” he says, eyes opening again and filled with adoration. “Can’t help it. You’re… captivating.” Your breath catches, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead to your thigh. “I want to be close to you.”
“You already are.” He shakes his head slowly. “Not close enough, doll.”
You rise to your knees on the sofa and tug him up toward you. He follows easily, standing over you now, hands cradling your face. You hold his wrists gently, anchoring him in place as he leans down to kiss you.
The first touch of his mouth is featherlight. His lips move gently against yours as if he’s taking you in again for the first time. Then, it becomes firmer. Deeper.
He kisses like he plays; soulfully, with need and passion. His fingers tilt your chin just so, and he breathes you in like he’s been waiting all day for this. His mouth moves slowly over yours, coaxing instead of taking, until your fingers tighten in the front of his hoodie and your thighs brush against his hips.
You can feel him smile against your lips. He pulls back a centimeter, noses touching, lips brushing as he speaks.
“You want to go to bed?” he murmurs.
You nod slowly, breathless. “Please.”
He takes your hand. Not like he’s pulling you, not like he’s hurrying you toward anything, just gently weaving his fingers between yours, warm and grounding. His thumb strokes across your knuckles as he walks you slowly down the hallway, your feet nearly silent against the wooden floor. Behind you, the rain whispers through the house. A soft hush, steady and constant.
Your bedroom is dim when you step inside; just the glow of the cloudy afternoon filtering in through the taupe curtains, turning everything pale gray and blue. It’s quiet here, too. Like the room’s been silently waiting for you.
He turns to face you once you reach the foot of the bed. His hands lift to your face again, fingertips brushing your cheeks, your jaw, your lips. He studies you like a painting he’ll never finish admiring. Not rushed or greedy, just saturated with want.
“You look so soft in this light,” he says, his voice low and coated with admiration. “I wish you could see what I see.”
Your heart swells as a blush creeps up from your chest to your neck and painting your cheeks a flirty pink. He kisses your forehead first, then the bridge of your nose. Then both cheeks, one after the other. His hands slide down, grazing your arms, catching in the hem of your shirt. He lifts it slowly, watching your face for any sign of hesitation as he peels it over your head and drops it to the floor.
Then he just… stares, his eyes heavy-lidded with desire and devotion.
His palms come to rest at your waist, his thumbs stroking light circles against your skin. His gaze trails over you like his eyes alone could set you ablaze; taking in every inch of bare skin, every breath, every rise and fall of your chest.
“You are the most captivating thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers. “Every single time.” You try to look down, heat creeping up your neck, but he tilts your chin back up, so gentle, so firm. “Let me show you how I see you.”
He undresses you with a reverence that borders on sacred. Piece by piece, he strips away each layer like it’s something holy, like the very act of revealing you is worship. He never stops touching you, never stops kissing you. His hands map your curves with care, not claim; like he’s trying to memorize the shape of where you belong in his life and against his body.
When you’re finally bare before him, he steps back for just a second, just long enough to pull his hoodie over his head, then slide off his shirt, his sweats, everything else. He’s not trying to seduce. He’s not putting on a show. He just wants to be close to you. You’re already breathless by the time he crawls onto the bed and opens his arms to you your skin alight from where his fingertips traced every curve, every beautiful contour that you have to offer.
Then, you hear his voice, soft and husky as he says simply, “C’mere, sweetheart.”
You go to him like instinct, settling into his lap, skin to skin, your legs draped over his hips, arms around his neck. His hands slide along your back, pulling you in tighter, and he kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, your throat.
“You feel so good in my arms,” he murmurs against your skin. “Like you were made for this.” You shiver, but not from cold.
He rotates you both and he lays you back onto the sheets with infinite care, one arm cradling your spine, the other smoothing your hair out across the pillow. He takes his time kissing down your chest; slow, open-mouthed, and utterly adoring, before trailing his lips lower.
And he doesn’t just touch you. He cherishes you. His mouth moves with aching tenderness, tongue tracing your softest places, lips forming every kiss like a secret. His fingers tease where you’re already warm and wanting, but there’s no urgency in him. No push, no pace. Just the intention to make you feel. To drink you in. To make you believe how worthy you are of being adored.
“So good for me,” he whispers against the skin of your inner thigh. “So soft. So sweet...” You arch under him, breath stuttering as his touch deepens, as his lips mark you from the inside out, as he tastes and savors you. When your moans spill freely into the air, when your thighs tremble against his shoulders, he only hums in approval, holding you gently as you unravel in his arms.
“That’s it, love,” he murmurs. “Give it to me, I’ve got you.”
You come undone like falling petals; slowly, sweetly, devastatingly. He continues to lap at your nectar until you dissolve into a state of pure ecstasy. And still, he doesn’t stop loving you.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing his way back up your body, slow and reverent, tongue dragging over your hip, your ribs, the swell of your chest. His hands never stop moving; trailing up your sides, over your stomach, worshipful, familiar, and most importantly, his.
You blink up at him, dazed and glowing, and he looks right back; like he’s not just looking at you, but into you. Like you are his favorite thing to witness and observe.
“I need you,” you whisper, voice thin and trembling. “I know, love,” he murmurs, mouth ghosting over your jaw. “I’ve got you.”
He lines himself up against your entrance and rolls his hips just enough to let you feel him; thick, heavy, and waiting. He’s teasing you, but not to torment. It’s more like reverence through restraint. Like he wants to draw out every second of this. You wrap your legs around his waist, the arches of your feet pressing against the small of his back and pull him closer, your arms wrapping around his neck. “Please,” you whisper.
And then he’s inside you. The stretch is slow and perfect, deliberate and deep, overwhelming in the best way. You clutch at his back, fingers and nails digging in, and he groans low in your ear, the sound raw and wrecked.
“Fucking hell, baby,” he breathes. “You feel unreal around me.” He stills once he’s fully seated inside, buried to the hilt, giving you time to adjust while his hand cups your face.
“You’re doing so well for me,” he whispers. “Taking me so perfectly. Adjust to me, yeah, just like that.”
You can’t speak, you can barely think. All you know is the fullness, the warmth, the sound of the rain outside and the slick, slow rhythm he begins to set. Each thrust is deep and smooth, his hips rolling against yours with intention, his pelvis grinding into just the right spot to make your whole body twitch.
“Look at me,” he says, soft but firm. You do, and the moment your eyes lock, you feel like you’re going to fall apart all over again.
He’s watching your face with that same unshakable focus, soaking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every tremble in your jaw. His thumb strokes gently along your cheek, even as his thrusts get just a little harder, a little filthier; still slow, still controlled, but full of need.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he groans. “Every time you let me in like this, I swear... it’s like the rest of the world disappears.”
Your head tips back against the pillow, brows arching, lips parting in a soft cry. He leans down, kisses your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder; soothing the tremble in your body with his lips.
“You were made for this,” he whispers. “For me. For these moments.”
His hand moves between you, fingers circling that sensitive bundle of nerves with just the right pressure, just the right pace. Your hips rise to meet every stroke, every grind of his body into yours, and you’re unraveling fast, your moans soft and ragged, your hands fisting the sheets beside you.
“That’s it, angel,” he murmurs. “Let go for me, it’s okay.”
And with his low, coaxing words, you do. It hits you in waves; slow at first, then overwhelming, like something ancient breaking loose inside your chest. You cry out his name, high and broken, as your body clenches around him, as pleasure surges through every limb for the second time and leaves you trembling beneath him.
He’s not far behind. He moans your name as his rhythm falters, hips stuttering, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Baby- ah fuck I'm close... Let me fill you, angel, can I please?” he asks, his words coming out in shaky breaths and stutters, his eyes barely open, but still on yours as he searches for any sign of affirmation or denial. You nod up to him as your head falls back, his length inside you hitting that perfect spot repeatedly. His face twists in pleasure and bliss and something almost worshipful as he thrusts deep one last time and spills inside you, warmth blooming between your hips.
You stay tangled together, panting, foreheads pressed close, his hands stroking your sides, your hips, like he’s grounding you both in the afterglow.
“You’re magnificent,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your shoulder, your damp hairline. “So good for me. So fucking beautiful.”
You hum, body limp beneath him, utterly blissed out. He brushes your hair back, kisses your temple, and shifts carefully to slip out of you. You whimper at the loss, but he’s already grabbing the towel he set out earlier on the nightstand and rolling back to you. “Here, baby, let me help,” he says gently as he guides your knees open, granting himself access to clean you up.
“You’re gonna feel my hand and the towel, okay? Are you ready?” he asks, nearly cooing up at you. All you manage is a hum of approval, and he chuckles lovingly at your inebriated state. “Alright, love. Here goes,” he murmurs as he gently glides the towel through your folds and along your inner thighs, cleaning himself from you.
Secretly, he’s reveling in the sight of his climax dripping from your velvety centre. He grins devilishly to himself as he swipes another pass over you, hoping silently that he gets to see you like this for the rest of his life.
He finishes with the towel and stands to discard it in the laundry bin. He pulls his boxers back on just to apply that barrier, making sure you don’t feel that he’s attempting any implications. He wants you to be completely comfortable. He climbs back into the bed next to you, and he curls you into his arms, pulling a blanket up over both of you, his hands cradling your back.
Outside, the rain still falls, soft and steady. Inside, there’s only the thrum of your heartbeat, and IV’s lips brushing the top of your head as he whispers,
“I love you. More than I’ve ever known how to say. But I hope you feel it in every touch.”
The world is soft again. Your body hums, limp and satisfied, steeped in warmth and love. Your limbs barely want to move, your skin still tingling in the afterglow, but none of it matters. Not with IV curled around you like this. One arm draped over your waist, the other beneath your head, fingers stroking lazily at the base of your spine. He’s breathing slow and even now, his cheek resting against your hair, nose brushing your temple as he hums something tuneless and sweet under his breath.
The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten heavier, and now it drums against the windows in long, steady waves adding heavily to the ambience inside this space you’re in. The house is warm, safe, and dim and gold in the fading afternoon.
You could stay like this forever. But after a while, he shifts slowly and gently, like he’s afraid to disturb you. You whine softly when his warmth pulls away. “Shh,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “Just for a second, baby. I’ll be right back.”
“Where’re you going?” you mumble. “Getting you a shirt. And something to drink. You need a little sugar.” You blink open one eye. “You’re spoiling me.” “‘Course I am,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re like my own slice of heaven, and I enjoy treating you as such.”
Your chest tightens with emotion; soft, full, overwhelming. You hear the rustle of drawers and the quiet clink of dishes in the kitchen as he moves around the house barefoot, calm and focused. A few minutes later, he returns with a tray balanced in one hand and a bundle of fabric slung over his arm.
He sets the tray down on the nightstand and offers the shirt first; one of his old Sleep Token rehearsal tees, faded black and perfectly oversized, soft from years of wear. He helps you sit up just enough to pull it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves like you might fall apart if he lets go too quickly.
It smells like him. Like cedar and smoke and rain. “You’re such a caretaker,” you whisper as he settles beside you again. He shrugs, smile gentle. “You give everything to me when we’re like that. I’d be a fool not to give something back.”
He lifts the tray into his lap and nudges it toward you. There’s a warm mug of coffee, sweetened just the way you like it. A small bowl of strawberries and chocolate squares. Toast with honey. He’s even added a little napkin, folded neatly beneath it all.
Your heart swells. “You’re unreal.” He laughs softly and leans in to kiss your temple. “Eat, dove. You’ll feel better.”
You do, slow and quiet, nestled into his side as he nibbles a piece of toast with one hand and keeps the other resting on your thigh under the blanket. He turns the TV on low, a film you’ve both seen a dozen times, something warm and nostalgic, and lets it flicker in the background while the two of you snack and sip and exist in the slow comfort of each other’s presence. You don’t talk much, but then again, you don’t need to.
After a while, he sets the tray aside and pulls you into his chest again, wrapping both arms around you and burying his face in your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, his voice low when he finally speaks.
“Days like this… this is all I ever want.” You shift closer, curling into the shape of him. “Me too, my love.” He pulls the blanket up around you both, and his fingers slip beneath the hem of the shirt to rest over your stomach, thumb stroking idly.
“Don’t ever doubt how loved you are,” he whispers. “Not even for a second.” You smile, eyes growing heavy, lulled by the weight of his arms and the rhythm of the rain. “I know,” you murmur. “You show me every day.” He smiles at you briefly, places a kiss to the tip of your nose, and turns his attention back to the movie. You remain in each others' arms through the night, eventually falling asleep together from the lull of the television.
@yourgirlisa @houseofsleeptoken @wormm-mom here you go! Let me know if you'd like to be tagged here :)
