Work Text:
Idea: What if Montague is under the table getting dih from Midas. He just straight up walk in and got freaky ❤️🩹
Midas leans back in his cushioned throne, the charcoal color almost fully enveloping him if it weren’t for the gold rims along the chair. He has mounds of paperwork all over his typically neat desk, some gold bars even being used as paperweights. An elbow presses against a golden armrest, his fingertips holding up his forehead. Even with his agents taking a fair share of paperwork each, the island is still extremely high maintenance. He’s seriously reconsidering this whole ‘GHOST’ organization. Maybe he should just quit this whole act and move forward with the device… his rather stupid thoughts are interrupted when his hideout’s door is heard sliding open. Only two people have the code to his room, Jules and a certain Frenchman, everyone else must knock and wait for Midas to open the door himself. Midas straightens up, not wanting his daughter nor lover to see him in such a pathetic state. As whoever entered walks through the small hallway to his desk, he recognizes the footsteps as Montague’s. Jules wears leather boots while Montague opts for steel bottomed shoes that give him a distinct sound whenever he steps onto Midas’ hardwood floor. When Montague finally comes into view, Midas is quick to let his eyes travel all over the man. He looks the same as always, a dark, navy blue coat with various designs, a black dress shirt, a grey vest, and black slacks. Even with an objectively boring outfit, Montague manages to make it look like it deserves to be featured on a runway with his own special touches. The buttons on his vest are replaced with diamonds, each knuckle on his fingerless gloves are adorned with a diamond, and of course, his glowing medallion that never seems to dim. Montague stands before Midas’ desk, looking down at him with a small smirk. Midas already knows it, Montague is up to no good.
“What do you need, Montague? I’m currently occupied, I have stacks of paperwork I should be doing at this very moment.” Midas’ voice is low and flat, sounding a mixture of bored and exhausted. He’s more of the latter than anything.
Montague raises an eyebrow and glances down at the golden man’s desk. It is in fact littered with paperwork, but there doesn’t seem to be a pen in sight.
“Oh really? Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your extremely important work, but I wanted to check up on you. I could sense your stress all the way from my hotel.” Despite Montague’s joking tone, his eyes seem to carry the slightest bit of concern. Montague is very perceptive, he sees the tension in Midas’ shoulders, the darker-than-usual bags under his eyes, the way his typically perfect posture is barely slumped. Montague really should do something about this. It’s what any good boyfriend would do, right?
“There’s no need for you to neglect your hotel for a useless visit. I am fine.” Midas’ voice is a tad softer this time around, but he keeps a faint edge in his words.
Montague gasps dramatically and feigns a pout as he starts to walk around Midas’ desk, speaking while he does so.
”My visits are not useless! I’ll help you relax. Don’t you know a man can’t work properly if he’s stressed?” Montague ends up on Midas’ side, his pout quickly disappearing and his smirk making a return. He places one hand on the back of Midas’ throne, using it as support while he leans forward.
”Just let me help you and I’ll be on my merry way, oui?” Montague makes sure his words go directly into Midas’ ears, relishing in the adorable glare he earns from this action.
”Montague. I don’t have time for this. I’ve told you alr—“
Midas is rudely interrupted by the movement of his chair suddenly being shoved back. Montague kicked one of his throne’s legs, effectively giving him enough room to stand in between Midas’ legs, which he makes use of right away. Midas nearly lets out a gasp, but forces his mouth shut and settles on a scowl instead. Montague is stubborn. When he wants something, he will get it.
Montague’s smirk widens and he moves his gloved palms onto Midas’ shoulders. Oh, yes, they’re very tense. Montague steps forward, forcing Midas to spread his legs even further and making it so his knees press against the golden man’s inner thighs.
”I only want to help you, quit frowning. I’ll make you feel good.” His French accent lays on these words extra thick, and whether he does this on purpose or not, it drives Midas absolutely insane.
Midas tries, he really does, to resist this damn brat, but he’s a weak, weak man when it comes to Montague. And so, without another word, a golden hand raises and is placed on Montague’s hip, slipping beneath his coat.
Montague is pleased, his eyes glinting with an emotion that makes Midas a little scared of the future. Midas’ silence typically means submission, so Montague takes this as a sign to continue.
“Thank you, mon cher.” Montague coos out, his fingertips starting to press down on Midas’ shoulders, working out any knots while simultaneously using this as an opportunity to feel up the king.
Midas exhales through his teeth, his eyes reluctantly shutting and his body relaxing against his will. He hates being taken care of… at least, that’s what his pride tells him.
Montague is well aware of Midas’ struggles with his pride, he also knows he has far too much of it and reacts badly when someone forces him to swallow it. This is exactly why Montague constantly toys with the man by forcing him to submit. He enjoys the conflicted expression on Midas’ slender face, fighting back the urge to groan and give into the gentle massages currently being given to him. Honestly, watching Midas being in any sort of struggle seems to arouse Montague. Once the Frenchman deems Midas’ shoulders relaxed enough, he glides his hand downwards, his left hand resting on Midas’ chest while the right moves to grip his tie, slipping it out from underneath his vest.
Midas lets out a quiet scoff. This single action is enough to tell him that Montague isn’t here just to give a massage. Despite this knowledge, Midas makes no attempt to stop Montague. The diamond man sees this and tilts his head, a habit he does whenever amused.
“Giving in, I see.” Montague murmurs, leaning forward and tugging Midas’ tie forward to make sure Midas’ eyes go nowhere but him. Midas doesn’t bother reacting to Montague’s teases, instead being too focused on gazing down at Montague’s lips, lingering for a few seconds too much. Montague ponders teasing Midas, but he’s sure he’s going to do plenty of that later, so he gives in this one time. Slowly, Montague closes the distance and presses his warm lips against Midas’ colder ones. Midas’ grip tightens on Montague’s hip, not wanting him to move one inch away. As the kiss continues, the men’s lips begin pressing harder against one another, and soon enough, tongues are sliding into each other’s mouths. Midas’ free arm snakes around Montague’s waist, his golden hand resting on his lower back and pressing into the soft fabric of his unbelievably expensive vest. Montague almost shivers at the cold feeling on such a sensitive place, but he enjoys it… far too much. The Frenchman is the first to pull away, surprisingly, but even then, he barely keeps any distance away from him. The make out session didn’t last too long, so not much of a mess is made. Their breaths are ragged and combine together from how close they are, both of them trying to regain oxygen as quickly as possible. Montague seems to win the competition as he’s the first to speak.
”Are you feeling relaxed yet, my king?” Montague’s warm and slightly flushed lips whisper over Midas’ as he asks his question, his French accent being more pronounced, this time without even meaning to. Montague’s accent subconsciously thickens whenever he’s particularly emotional. He stares down at Midas with a cocky expression, expecting a scoff or a roll of a golden eye, but instead, he’s yanked down by his medallion. Montague gasps and instinctively returns his hands to Midas’ shoulders. His smug expression is wiped clean in a split second, allowing for a more shocked look to appear, but it’s gone as quick as it came. He’s pouting now, which only deepens when he sees Midas is smirking down at him.
”No, actually. Don’t you think I deserve more? I have so much grueling paperwork ahead of me.” Midas’ golden thumb rubs against the gleaming amulet, earning a quiet groan from the Frenchman. The medallion also glows considerably brighter, but only for a few seconds. “No one is set to be visiting my office any time soon, I’m sure we can make your little visit worthwhile.”
Midas could mean many things, but with the way he’s forced Montague to bend down, at eye level with the plethora of tattoos on his neck, Montague assumes he means to get on his knees. The thief considers this for a moment. It wouldn’t stray too far from his original plan, and it is quite easy to tease Midas while on his knees… so, he supposes it’s alright. In a flash, his pout is replaced by his signature smirk, and he gives a short nod.
”Oh, fine! Only because I am just such a wonderful man.” Montague theatrically announces, his hands sliding down, just like before, but they don’t stop at his chest this time. As Montague’s hands drag down to Midas’ waistband, his knees simultaneously bend and lower themselves onto the floor, kneeling in between Midas’ legs. Midas releases Montague’s medallion and leans back, moving his arms to rest on the golden armrests of his throne. He doesn’t let any sounds slip through his lips, even with the extremely arousing sight below him. The air surrounding them grows thick and heavy. Montague, being the tease he is, moves in a purposely slow and deliberate manner. His fingers expertly unbutton Midas’ slacks, not taking the initiative to slide them down just yet and instead choosing to play with the Greek man for a few moments longer. Long and nimble fingers start to run down Midas’ sensitive thighs, the touch so light you’d have to be focusing on only that to even notice it, which Midas, of course, is doing exactly that.
Midas tilts his head back, allowing Montague to caress his thighs for a few seconds longer before forcing his golden hand. He grips the Frenchman’s right wrist, making contact with the cool steel of his Rolex watch, but he pays that no mind. He drags Montague’s hand back up to where it belongs, pressing it down firmly on his already straining erection forming beneath his slacks. Midas releases the Frenchman’s hand and returns his hand to his armrest, subtly clenching it into a loose fist.
Montague lets Midas guide his hand, finding his straightforwardness very attractive. Yes, Montague likes it when Midas gets needy, but he also loves it when he takes control. The thief’s smirk only becomes more smug when he feels his fingertips being pressed into the growing erection beneath Midas’ pants, relishing in the almost relieved exhale he draws from the man. He prides himself on how easily he can get Midas so aroused. Montague’s bicolored eyes flicker up to Midas’, taking in the beautiful gold color and how they already seem to be fogging up. Finally, after admiring his precious king and giving a teasing caress to the prominent tent in his slacks, Montague trails his other hand upwards, reaching Midas’ belt. Reluctantly, the hand on Midas’ pelvis moves away and focuses its attention on unbuckling the golden man’s belt and slipping it out from the loops on his slacks. Midas looks slightly annoyed that he’s no longer being teased by Montague, but he doesn’t allow the emotion to stay for very long, instead replacing it with what he thinks is a relaxed expression, but really only looks like the face someone would make if they wanted to devour a certain Frenchman below themselves. Once Midas’ belt is taken care of and tossed to the side, Montague looks up yet again and gives that mockingly sweet smile that makes Midas melt despite knowing full well it’s only used to get something from him.
”Can you lift your hips for me? I don’t want to pull too hard. I could hit my head on your desk, after all.” Montague tilts his head to the side for the second time in just this one visit.
Midas grunts and begrudgingly raises his hips. Montague makes quick work of sliding down his tailored slacks, contemplating pulling them down just to his knees for quick access, but he wants Midas a little more vulnerable than that, so he takes them off entirely, also carelessly throwing them aside. Montague’s palms find themselves on Midas’ barely clothed thighs almost right away. Now, all that separates Montague’s hands from his lover’s bare thighs is the thin fabric of black boxers. Midas grumbles something incoherent, probably an empty complaint. Montague finds it so amusing how Midas will try his absolute best to hide his excitement and or pleasure. It’s just incredibly funny to the man, especially when he gets to see the facade break into tiny little pieces.
Montague pulls away from Midas’ legs, loving the cold glare he earns in response a little too much.
“Don’t be so dramatic, chéri, I’m only taking off my gloves.” Montague coos, his fingers plucking off his fingerless gloves and carefully placing them on Midas’ desk without even having to look up. The way he treats his gloves is a stark contrast to Midas’ belt and slacks, but in his defense, those gloves have precious diamonds on every knuckle.
Midas speaks in a gruff tone, “You should be the absolute last person calling me dramatic, Montague.” Midas uses snarky words to try and create the illusion that he is some uncaring man, but to Montague, he just sees an utterly adorable brat. Ironic, considering he’s usually the brat in this relationship.
Montague’s eyes finally return to what should be his primary focus. His right hand moves to rest on Midas’ thigh while the other attempts to bring Midas to a full erection. It isn’t a hard thing to do. A simple bat of Montague’s eyes and Midas would be flushed like he ran a marathon. Long and almost perfectly androgynous fingers start to run up and down the outline of Midas’ cock, the Greek man letting out a barely concealed gasp. Montague notes his sensitivity and continues his actions, slightly digging his nails into Midas’ inner thigh just to see the irritated yet lustful look on the other man’s face. Once Montague deems he’s had enough foreplay, his right hand starts a sensually slow path upwards, dipping into Midas’ boxers and freeing his already leaking cock. Montague grins in delight, calming his expression soon after but clearly feeling motivated by Midas’ arousal.
“Just how long have you been wanting this?” Montague teases, starting to lightly stroke at Midas cock while the other hand moves to wrap around the base.
Midas lets out a strangled whine and digs his blunt, and golden, nails into his palm. The action doesn’t bring him any pain, but he forces himself into thinking it grounds him. It doesn't. “Shut your damn mouth and put it to better use.”
Montague’s eyes glitter, the blue one looks especially beautiful, Midas thinks. “So mean towards someone trying to assist you, mon morveux.” He speaks in a melodramatic manner and with such a thick French accent it makes it quite difficult for the average person to decipher.
But Midas is no average man, he scoffs and takes a deep and almost shaky breath. He raises a hand from his armrest and slips it into Montague’s hair with the utmost care before suddenly getting a firm grip on it and thrusting him forward. This causes soft lips to brush against the head of his cock and for Midas’ breath to catch in his throat. Midas quickly recovers and puts on an assertive performance.
”Quit with the teasing. Didn’t you come here to relax me? You are doing quite the opposite.” Midas’ voice is low, lower than usual, and even a bit dominant. He may be stupidly smitten for the Frenchman on his knees, but he prides himself in being able to temporarily tame the absurd amount of brattiness coursing through him at all times.
Montague, well, he is most definitely enjoying himself. His eyes are slightly wide for a short while before the narrow back down to their half lidded state. His strokes start to gain more purpose.
”I did… I apologize, allow me to make it up to you.” Montague mutters, his apology sounding foreign coming from his mouth but strangely genuine. Without another word, he leans down the final few inches and starts to drag his tongue over the length of Midas’ cock, starting at the base, where his hand still gently grips, and moving up to the tip. He laps at the precum, chuckling lowly, and Midas shivers at the subtle vibrations.
Midas watches Montague every move with a look of both admiration and pure desire. Soft groans fall from his lips as Montague starts to kiss along the sides of his cock, the warm and slightly wet feeling of Montague’s lips feeling far better than it should.
While Midas seems to, surprisingly, enjoy the slow pace, Montague grows impatient and decides to finish the worship of Midas’ cock and take him into his mouth. But before he follows through with his decision, he requires just a little more motivation. All while Montague licks and kisses along Midas’ cock, his hand that is currently holding up Midas’ cock moves up to the golden hand still resting on the armrest. Slowly, he brings the cold palm to his face.
Midas’ eyes widen, and a flicker of confusion crosses his face, but he quickly realizes what the thief wants: he wants some damn affection. With a breathy scoff, Midas starts to caress the Frenchman’s cheek, his thumb rubbing against Montague’s perfect skin on his cheekbone. Montague enjoys the touch greatly and takes a short break to lean into the touch, but Midas grunts in irritation and quickly pushes his head down. Gently, of course, but it’s still a very demanding move with an undertone of neediness.
Montague makes a playful whine, one that is simply to tease Midas, before returning to his original task now that he has his lover’s both hands on him. The man likes to be treated like a precious jewel, even when he’s in such a lowly position, literally. Heterochromic eyes meet golden ones, and Montague chooses to give into Midas at last. The Frenchman takes Midas’ cock into his mouth, taking him all in, just as he always did.
Midas’ head jerks back against his chair and his eyes shut at the initial feeling of warmth and moisture. But, unable to keep his eyes off Montague for too long, he opens them back up to meet Montague’s, who has been looking up at him the entire time. Montague always enjoyed eye contact during intimacy, while Midas had a tendency to close his eyes or look away in embarrassment. The man’s pride is to blame. But, in this moment, Midas meets Montague’s eyes stubbornly, wanting to see every detail of the beautiful man below him.
Montague didn’t entirely expect for Midas to return his gaze, as he rarely did, but he eagerly accepts the fact. Perhaps a little too eagerly, as his tongue begins to lap around Midas much firmer and his sucking gets considerably more intense. Montague watches Midas’ reaction with pure admiration in his eyes, the throbbing sensation in between his own legs becoming extremely difficult to ignore.
Midas' grip tightens on Montague's silky strands, not to push him forward, as he’s already more than far enough in the king’s opinion, but to try and silence himself. Once again, it works horribly. Stifled groans and the occasional gasp when Montague's fingers brush over the expanse of his pelvis slip from Midas.
The more overwhelmed with pleasure Midas becomes, the more aggressive all of his gestures seem to develop, all except for one: his grip on Montague's face. Throughout everything, it remained gentle, much to the thief's pleasure.
Quite the conflicting touches, one hand yanking his hair while the other cups his face so lovingly. Montague revels in it. The Frenchman feels a knee jolt against his shoulder; Midas' legs are twitching. He's close. This only spurs Montague on even more, his half lidded eyes and thick eyelashes making it almost impossible to see his eyes, but Midas doesn't need to see the man's eyes to feel the want radiating from them. He can feel just how much Montague wants him from the way he takes him. As usual, Montague's eyes reluctantly drift away from Midas', instead focusing on deepthroating the king for his last few moments. Midas lets out a sharp curse, yet another rare occurrence from the golden man, and pushes Montague’s head down. The Frenchman gags for a second or two before adapting in record speed, taking Midas’ cock with fervor.
Midas isn't a loud man, not at all, but when he gets overwhelmed, it's not easy to contain every noise that threatens to escape. Midas can't help but shut his eyes, not wanting Montague to see his eyes roll back, and mutters several words of praise as he nears his climax. Some words are unable to be deciphered, but the others bring Montague to his peak, surprisingly cumming before the man he’s literally blowing.
If Midas were to have his eyes open at this moment, he’d be able to catch a glimpse of a bright, blue light shining in between his legs. Montague’s medallion. The diamond is very clearly attached to the thief’s emotions. Of course it glows like a damn beacon when he finishes.
With one last twitch from the golden man's hips, he cums right into Montague's throat, Montague swallowing the thick load with no resistance, although some remains on his tongue. Swallowing isn't even a question anymore, Montague has made it clear that he will do so every time. Midas leans back into his office chair while in absolute ecstasy, his chest heaving and his legs trembling.
Montague moves away from Midas' sucked out cock and raises a hand to wipe his lips glistening with drool, and some of Midas' cum, as he instinctively licked his lips after pulling away. His eyes find themselves back on Midas’s blissed out face and moves his hands to grip onto the Greek man's knees, his thumbs mindlessly circling the ridges of Midas’ kneecaps.
Midas’ eyes flutter open and he gazes down at Montague. As he comes down to earth, slowly but surely, he remembers the grip he has on the Frenchman's poor, abused hair. His grip loosens, but doesn’t pull away completely. He still wants to hold some form of control over Montague, as odd and possessive that sounds. But, even with his weird way of thinking, his fingers hold onto Montague’s locks with considerable care.
Montague didn’t mind the rough grip, in fact, he thinks of it as one of the most exhilarating feelings while blowing Midas, but this gentle and almost caring touch is very pleasant to the Frenchman. Silence lingers between the two men for a few moments. Midas seems to finally get his breathing under control, although a fuzziness remains in his brain and his legs feel as though they require a good stretch.
Montague willingly keeps his knees pinned to the floor, his index fingers still tracing various shapes on Midas’ kneecap. Then, he slowly rests his head on Midas’ right leg, his cheek pressing against the his inner thigh. This position is usually labeled as pathetic and lowly, but Montague isn’t so insecure to think such things of himself.
Midas’ overall expression remains unchanged, but his golden eye softens just the slightest bit when he sees his beloved, who is usually so bratty, being such a lovely presence on his lap. His slender face relaxes and he leans back into his throne, removing his hand from Montague’s cheek and tucking his cock back into his boxers. He cannot have Montague attempting to go for another round. Midas’ hand returns to his lover’s cheek, his golden fingertips brushing over Montague's light stubble.
Montague’s eyes flutter shut, his thick eyelashes, perfectly tousled hair, and content expression setting a scene that makes Midas’ breath catch in his throat. His hand lazily trails up and brushes aside the white strands of Montague’s bangs. A vulnerable, and particularly disliked part of Midas orders him to say something, compliment the man, tell him he did a wonderful job, shower him with praise, but the larger part of Midas forces his mouth shut and keep the comfortable silence. Unlucky for Midas, the silence is broken anyways, but by Montague.
”My pants are an utter mess. You don’t happen to have an extra pair in your office, do you, mon roi?” Montague whines the first part but quickly changes into a more charming tone when he asks Midas for a favor. When he speaks, his eyes open and brown and blue eyes immediately meet Midas’.
Midas sighs, unable to stop his gaze from flickering down, trying to catch a glimpse of the “utter mess” in Montague’s pants. The fact that he can drive Montague to his peak without a single touch strokes his already ridiculously large ego. Montague’s pants are just as he claimed: a mess. A very attractive mess in Midas’ opinion, but he cannot leave the office with all that. Midas rubs a blank lock of Montague’s hair in between his fingers as he hums in pretend thought.
”Not in my office, but I believe I do have a few changes of clothes elsewhere. I suppose I could spare one for you.” This is Midas’ attempt at humor, which is honestly just being a smug asshole, but Montague seems to find it amusing, so it’s a win in his book.
Montague chuckles and lifts his head up and off of Midas’ lap, finally standing up. He has no shame in the soaked state of his pants, as only Midas is here, and Midas has seen it all. Montague stretches his back, purposely arching it and giving a small show to Midas.
The Greek man sighs in exasperation, but his fingers twitch at the sheer want of needing to be placed on the other man’s waist. He refrains and instead stands up himself, searching the floor for his slacks. Montague has just a couple inches over Midas, but still makes a display of looking down at the king.
Midas can feel Montague’s intent gaze, but he pays it no mind and instead reaches down to grab his slacks, which were very rudely tossed to the side of his desk.
“Was it necessary to completely remove my pants?” Midas grumbles, making it seem like spending a second searching for his pants and another few seconds to put them on is such a great inconvenience. To Midas, it is. Midas zips up his slacks and internally groans at the soreness in his legs. He makes a mental note to stretch once Montague leaves, but for now, he steps forward, essentially caging Montague between him and his desk. Montague’s eyes narrow playfully and he allows himself to be trapped. Midas raises a hand and cups Montague's warm cheek yet again. Montague’s face is a lovely sight, who wouldn’t want to constantly touch it? Midas narrows his eyes back at Midas, trying to seem annoyed, but he can never truly be irritated with Montague… usually. With no warning, not that he needs one anyways, he closes the small distance and locks Montague’s lips into a deep kiss against his own. This kiss is noticeably different from their earlier one. This one is much less lustful, and while it’s still deep and intimate, it’s more slow paced and savoring.
Montague quickly reciprocates and pushes his lips against Midas’, his fingers raising to wrap around Midas’ wrist, keeping his palm firmly on his cheek. His medallion flickers faintly, but dims down in disappointment when Midas takes a step back. Midas’ eyes open and his gaze goes over Montague’s shoulder, eyeing the hallway that leads to the exit of his office.
”I’ll go get you your clothes now. Stay put and don’t make a mess. I have a private bathroom beside my office, clean yourself.” Midas orders, meeting Montague’s eyes once he finishes his sentences.
“Don’t keep me waiting too long, yes? Make sure you get me your most luxurious clothes too.” Montague smirks and slides his hand down, gracefully intertwining his fingers with Midas’ golden ones.
Midas smiles, barely, but still there, and squeezes Montague’s digits for a second.
“I won’t, and I’ll make absolute sure you get my cheapest suit.” Midas’ smile that hardly even counted as one morphs into a smirk that appears much more natural on his face. He relishes in the pout on Montague’s face for a good moment or two before pressing one last kiss to the Frenchman’s lips and pulling away. He’s met with a little resistance from Montague, but a sharp glare quickly forces a surrender from the man and he releases Midas’ hand. Midas turns away from Montague, facing forward and tucks his tie back into his vest while he walks down the hallway towards the exit to his office, already planning to give Montague an outfit that consists of all his favorite brands.