⋆˚࿔ When I Picture You 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
pairing: hozier x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ (MDNI), masturbation, fantasizing, post-nut guilt, no beta we die like icarus: overtaken by our own hubris
a/n: you might've been thinking you saw this fic on ao3, and you'd be correct. i posted it anonymously before i gained the courage to actually post under my name. i've decided to shorten the title and post it on here. i promise it's me (you can see my notes app to check lol) i would never plagiarize. may this hold you over while i work on new stuffs.
He steps into his hotel room, takes a deep breath, and settles into the fact that for the first time in 48 hours, he is completely alone . There's a freedom to it, a sense of rest that comes in the silence. No one is talking to him, or asking him to do something, or screaming his name while he's on stage. The only sound is the light hum of an air conditioner, barely adding an ambiance. He's alone. And it's perfect.
The first thing he does is hit the shower. He had a long day. His insistence to wearing multiple layers on stage doesn't help, so even though he's exhausted, he's sweaty first. After undressing and fiddling with the hotel's shower handle (it seems to be different at every location), he steps into the shower and lets the cold water prick against his skin. Before he even reaches for the body wash, he merely closes his eyes and stands there. He takes a deep breath as the water cleanses him, and rotates so that the water hits his back. Finally, once he actually begins to clean himself, his thoughts wander to his day. He thinks of words he should’ve said, things he should’ve done, comebacks to arguments that had happened months ago. And as the soap rinses off of him, he finds something for his thoughts to focus on.
You.
As he massages the shampoo into his scalp, he considers you. His crush on you was thinly veiled. Ten minutes couldn’t go past without you being on his mind. He thought you were a masterpiece, that you must’ve been perfectly sculpted by whatever heavenly being there was in the universe. Not only that, but you were intelligent, and funny, and had such a capacity for kindness. You had captured him, and likely didn’t even know it.
But no , part of you must’ve had some idea of the effect you had on him. Otherwise why would you stare at him from across crowded rooms, only breaking eye contact with a wink? Why would you search for him in crowds, or wear a revealing shirt when it was just the two of you. There had to be something there, there must be.
When it comes time for conditioner, his thoughts have begun to go down the gutter. He thinks of you in that tight dress you wore once. He made it a point to memorize your figure that night, so he could came back to it in moments like this. His vision had traced your outline so well he could recall it from memory. He rinsed his hair out, scrubbing once more as the suds left his head. Twisting the shower handle once again, he turns off the water and grabbed a towel to dry himself. When he looks down, he is met with a surprise.
He had become hard. That was a new development.
The best part of being alone meant that he could take care of his little predicament easily. He threw on a sleep shirt and boxers, which he had set up to get changed into. If his new plan was on the agenda, he would’ve skipped the step altogether. To preserve his dignity (and cover his bases incase someone needed him), he threw the clothes on. He sat down on the bed, adjusting himself so that he was against the headboard and propping his legs up. Tentatively, the waistband of his boxers came down, letting his cock spring free. He considers pulling up one of your social media accounts and using them as a base, but he’s grown a bit restless. Besides, his imagination will do him just fine.
His first touch is light, simple. He brushes over his tip, just to test the waters. When it twitches under his touch, he knows he needs more. The light touches turn passionate as he begins to stroke himself. The entire time, he’s envisioning you. The curves he knows in perfect detail despite being clothed. The occasional noise you make when you stretch or twist something, letting out a noise that could be lewd in any other context. His breathing quickens, along with his pace, as he envisions being the cause of those noises. He wishes it wasn't his fist wrapped around him, but the tight clench of your cunt, letting him fill you and spill his release inside of you. He moans at the thought, and his eyes shut. Tight. Images of you in unholy positions fill the space behind his eyelids. He begins to form them into fantasies, thinking of various scenarios as he bucks into his hand.
You're on top, riding him until the both of you are sticky and breathless as he begs you to fuck him senseless.
"Please," he murmurs, "I can take it. Please, baby."
You obliged, picking up the pace and rocking into him, bouncing up and down as well. The headboard squeaked loud, causing a cacophony of noises he was sure would cause him getting a noise complaint. In this moment though, he couldn’t give a shit. Not when he’s so close.
You both reach your climax; he releases inside of you, and your juices pour out of you. The sight is delectable to him. You pull yourself off him and grab a hotel towel he had set aside before. He cleans himself up, and watches in pure awe as you do the same, reveling in the sight of you. You toss the towel onto the floor, curling into him and you both fall asleep, exhausted and bare.
He opens his eyes and closes them again, resetting.
Now he’s hovering over you, thrusting into you with such a vigor that part of him is scared he might break you. The soft kisses he gives your face contrast the harsh words spilling from his mouth.
“My little slut. Look at you, pathetic and brainless. Can barely speak, just from my cock. Isn’t that right?”
He looks down at you, and a small noise leaves your mouth as you try to reply. He was right, you’re barely functioning. He isn’t complaining, he’s enjoying using you like this. Given you’d had a long conversation about it beforehand, he knows you’re enjoying it too. He’s about to be spent, and with one final jerk of his hips-
He releases, spilling onto his chest as a sinful noise leaves his lips. He sees stars in replace of your naked body, imagination overrode by pure pleasure. He’s grateful he chose a shirt and boxers; clean up is now much easier (and doesn’t require a second shower). He wipes whatever’s on his hand on his shirt. Unsanitary, sure, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s currently more worried about the fact that he feels dirty on the inside . His desire got the best of him and he actually jerked off to you. Who was he becoming?
He sits up for a moment, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the floor, which to him might as well be no man’s land. He settles back into bed and pulls his boxers back up. He’s shattered now, absolutely done for the night. He pushes any and all thoughts about you to the side. He can’t be arsed to think about the implications of what he’s just done.
For the night, he closes his eyes and tries not to stress about the awkwardness that will come with admitting his actions. The time will come when it needs to. He’s going to have to tell you about it eventually.
You’re opening for his tour, after all.
