Hi, I'm Kit and this is my Hozier RPF account. Requests are open if you're that way inclined! I will write Hozier x reader or Hozier x Alex or Hozier x Alex x reader but probably not any other pairings, sorry! You're welcome to ask though.
If you're a minor, you are welcome to follow, but please be aware I do post 18+ plus fics. Regarding minors and fic - I am not going to police anyone following the blog or reading, but please don't interact with my 18+ fics if you aren't of age!
AO3 Account
Fluff
Butchered Tongue (AO3 link)
There are some things that no one teaches you, love (AO3 link)
Signs of a Body Lived In (AO3 link)
Passenger Seat (AO3 link)
Your hand in my pocket, to keep us both warm (AO3 link)
Just let me hold you (AO3 link)
Boys workin' on empty (AO3 link)
That came natural as a dream you didn't know that you were in (AO3 link)
Smut (18+)
Moment's Silence (AO3 link)
On transness and intimacy (AO3 link)
moments that we stole on begged and borrowed time (AO3 link)
Summary: You overhear him mumbling to himself as he gets dressed about how tight his pants have gotten, scared he’s said it just loud enough on purpose, in order to lay the seeds for how much he fears a body like yours.
Rating: Mature/explicit, 18+. Discussions of weight and body insecurity abound. Strongly implied plus-sized reader.
Words: 4,173
Note: So I've had this story in the can for a few months now, but now that I've finally gotten pretty far into the next story, I feel more comfortable posting this. If you've ever felt insecure in the body you live in, I hope you can relate and enjoy.
Read on AO3 or keep scrolling here!
It starts off… subtly.
It’s a lazy Sunday, rain slamming against the window, perfectly setting the scene as your lips connect, kissing you dizzy.
You’ve got fabric bunched in your hands, ready to continue your fun until he stops you. “No. Keep it on. I’ll keep mine on, too, so we’re even.”
You can only shrug, thinking nothing of it.
Then, there’s a few days later, when he states, “I like wearing your shirts,” after an impromptu sleepover. He gets you hook, line, and sinker with that one, somehow even more turned on at the premise.
What finally catches you off guard is the mostly dimmed lights, and only initiating any form of intimacy after the sun sets… if you're lucky.
It takes a while for you to put the clues together, and while, at first, you wanted to believe it was a part of some sort of fun sensory experience he wanted to try, you're afraid he's got other things on his mind. Especially when even those occurrences start to disappear.
It sends you into a panic. You were far from the skinniest person he’s dated, but it never seemed to be an issue up until now.
You can’t help wonder what his line in the sand was, what exactly you did to turn him off forever, to make you into this grotesque monster he can’t even stomach in broad daylight.
And, why bother to even string you along? Doesn’t he know that’s more torturous than just cutting you off cold turkey? That it gives your mind more time to wander to places you thought you hid behind a vault the night you first met?
You start avoiding his texts until the last possible second, for which he starts to surprise you at your place, like he’d know you’d be home and lonely. Like he has to save you from the tragedy he's written.
And yet, the only time he touches you is when your head is in his lap, scratching your scalp as the TV plays something you cannot bear to concentrate on. Not when his fingers dance up and down your arm, unwillingly tensing up as you think about how turned off he must be by your extra skin.
You sleep together, but only in the literal sense. Fully clothed, under covers, in the dark of night, can he spoon you, terrified he’ll be out before morning if a hand accidentally brushes over your stomach.
He leaves after breakfast, not before you overhear him mumbling to himself as he gets dressed about how tight his pants have gotten.
You’re scared he’s said it just loud enough on purpose, to lay the seeds for how much he fears a body like yours, so that the breakup can be much more swift.
He still kisses you before he leaves, chaste and tasting like syrup and blueberries.
Another night, uninvited, he appears at your door, clad in baggy pants and a zip hoodie, take out from your favorite place in hand.
“The rest are yours,” he states, finishing his half of the dumplings. “I’ve eaten my share.”
“I’m not that hungry,” you lie. You hadn’t been eating full meals for the past few days, opting for lighter dishes in an attempt to “change your lifestyle.” But every recipe you found online made you nothing but miserable. Which, admittedly, wasn’t that hard after this week’s bout of introspection.
“Are you OK?” Andrew asks in earnest.
And since he’s being so honest, it’s only fair to reply, “Do you not find me attractive anymore?”
“Huh?! No! Why would you…” He stutters in disbelief, accompanied by a matching expression.
“It’s no secret I’m not the type of person you tend to go for…”
“What? Gorgeous? Funny? On what planet are you not my type?
“Andrew, even you can admit we haven’t really been intimate in a… bit. And the last few times we have, we keep our shirts on. Or we’re fully in the dark. Even if you don’t think something’s off, your actions are speaking louder than any excuse you’re about to come up with.”
“Honey… please just trust me when I say that it’s got nothing to do with how much I’m attracted to you. Which, for the record, is a lot.” He sighs, “It’s, and not to say the most cliche phrase of all fucking time, not you! It’s…,” his eyes focus anywhere but yours, “it’s me.”
You can only sigh.“Yeah… sure. Let me guess? You think I ‘deserve better’ and you’re ‘not good enough for me’.” You add air quotes for extra measure.
“Yeah…”
“Andrew, what the fuck are you talking about? The only horrible thing you’ve done as of late is this! Unless you’ve been secretly resenting me this whole fucking time!”
“No! I love you!”
“But you don’t want to be with me?”
“I want to! You shouldn’t be with… ugh!” Andrew short-circuits, unable to decide how to word this properly. He’s trying to be a martyr, giving you an out while he can, all while not trying to insult your intelligence. It’s a hard line to balance, and he has unsuccessfully fallen off his beam.
“Andrew, if you’re not going to tell me what’s wrong, I’m going to ask you to stop wasting my time and leave.”
He sighs as he attempts to come up with an explanation. “When I’m usually on the road, or working, I’m surviving on coffee and occasional snacks with a meal if I’m lucky enough to have the time to scarf down. Now that I’m home, I’ve got more time to rest and… more time to… well… most of my clothes have felt tighter as of late.”
He doesn’t like this feeling: the perpetual embarrassment of having to admit you’ve changed in ways society tells you is for the worse. And he knows it’s probably healthier to look like this than a sunken-in face where cheekbones peak out as a physical manifestation of his exhaustion, but his thoughts cannot be kept at bay.
Andrew grabs for baggier items of clothing with a twinge of guilt. He likes sleeping at yours, borrowing shirts that are guaranteed to be oversized so he can feel comfortable with himself and you.
It also doesn’t hurt that he enjoys wearing your clothes, engulfed in your scent… like a home away from home. Like being wrapped in a metaphorical blanket, he appreciates every aspect of being yours, in awe as to how the fuck you must manage these emotions he’s only recently experiencing.
He should be used to this, but taking up unnecessary space with his height is different than width.
“So, you want to break up because you gained a normal amount of weight after not starving yourself for months on end…”
“No! I don’t want to end this. That is not, nor was that ever, my intention. I just feel so fucking… weird now every time I take my clothes off.”
“Well, if you can’t stomach looking at yourself naked, how the fuck am I supposed to feel when you look at me?!”
Now he’s just confused. “Honey, you know that’s not what I mean! Frankly, this isn’t about you!”
“Well, it feels like it is! It sounds like I am the embodiment of your biggest fears right now. It’s no fucking secret I’m close to double your size!”
Another sigh, another bout of frustration where he can’t bring himself to even look at you. “I see you… and you’re so… fucking gorgeous, and I just wonder… how? How do you do it!? How do you see yourself and not feel like you’re disappointing everyone around you for existing?”
You laugh to yourself, shaking your head at what felt like a backhanded compliment. “I don’t! The number of times I catch myself in a mirror and think, 'Wow… no one in their right mind would want to see you naked?' You make it hurt… less. Or at least you did.“
You hate that you felt this way, that you only felt worthy through being desired sexually. That’s something you both had to work on, clearly, and this vulnerable confession accidentally turned argument wasn’t helping.
“For the record, I had been wanting to tell you how good you looked lately. How you look healthy and just overall happier. And as much as I joke about breaking you in half, you also just look hotter when you don’t resemble a straight-up skeleton.”
“T’anks,” he mumbles, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sorry I-“
“No," Now you just feel bad. "Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t mean to respond so selfishly. Again, it’s more of a… if this is how you feel about your very normal body… how the fuck am I supposed to feel about myself kind of thing? I get how you’re feeling. I really do. And it hurts to see you like this because I know exactly what it’s like. And it fucking sucks. Change in general… sucks! And when it happens to our bodies, and you realize it’s not something you can immediately control? It’s not an easy mindset to deal with.”
You reach your arm out over the table, a hand open for him to grab. Sitting straight up, he uncrosses his arms and takes it.
“As much as I love to see you wearing my clothes… I would rather see you out of them. And I know that me saying that is not the be-all end-all cure for this, but neither of us are therapists, nor nutritionists, nor clothing designers. At least not tonight.” You squeeze his hand for reassurance.
Andrew nods. It’s all he can do, other than a soft, “Yeah.”
“Now, why don’t we clean up and go watch a movie or TV show or whatever. You get to pick.”
“OK.”
You gather the plates and silverware, tossing them in the sink for now, and putting the leftovers in your fridge for another time. “Babe,” you call out for him as you open some cabinets. “Do you want me to make some popcorn?”
You’re a bit startled when he wraps his arms around you from behind, dropping a kiss to the top of your head. “Thank you.”
You blink your eyes open to a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on your coffee table, the credits to some fantasy movie in the background. Looking down at yourself greets you with a still passed out Andrew, between your legs with his head just below your chest, arms fully wrapped around your torso. He must have fallen asleep sometime between you running your hands through his hair and him placing light kisses on your stomach, when not absentmindedly playing with the fabric of your sweatshirt.
“Hey,” you rub his shoulder, “wake up, sleepy head.”
“Ugh,” he mumbles. “What time is it?”
“11:50. But it really doesn’t matter, since my back hasn’t taken too kindly to being pushed against the armrest for this long.”
“Do you want a massage?”
“I think I just want to lie in my bed.”
“Can I come?”
“If you get off of me, yeah.”
“But you’re so comfy…” he squeezes your torso.
“Andrew… I’m not above pushing you onto the floor.”
“I know…” he says in a defeated tone. Lifting himself off of you eventually, he mumbles about how he “had to go to the bathroom,” once he does. “No other reason,” he shouts before shutting the door.
You start going through your drawers, trying to find a suitable outfit to sleep in, when you get an… idea.
“Hey,” you turn to Andrew, who’s currently taking up your doorway. “I feel so sweaty all of a sudden.” Which, not technically a lie, as you’ve been strictly in sweats this entire day, not anticipating any interactions with other humans when you got dressed this morning. “I think I’m gonna take a shower.”
“OK…”
You move past him, tossing your sweatshirt on the floor as you go to start the water. “Do you…” You briefly look back over your shoulder before twisting your shirt over your head.
Oh, “Yes.” It clicks. “Yes, I do.”
Any bit of drowsiness has all but dissipated as he pushes you up against the sink, kissing you with gusto. His hands roam your now bare chest, pinching and squeezing to get those desired noises out of you as you white-knuckle the porcelain. His lips make their way to your neck eventually, as you start to subtly play with the hem of the first layer of clothing.
He notices sooner rather than later, backing off as he catches his breath.
“Unless you've got a bathing suit on under your hoodie, you can’t get in the shower with clothes on.”
Dammit, he realizes the game you’re asking him to play. Well, it’s more akin to a trick, yes, but one that benefits everyone involved. For the greater good, as they say.
It’s not a cure, but a Band-Aid. A temporary bout of fun to cure a bit of his woes, so that you could save the introspective unpacking of how society treats people who don’t fit a certain norm for tomorrow morning.
A lack of a dimmer setting on your bathroom’s light switch? A room that requires clothes to be taken off lest you feel the wrath of ruined fabric? Steam fogging up the bathroom, only emphasizing the desire to undress? All baby steps… a manageable hurdle.
You push down your own pair of sweats, your underwear not following behind, as an attempt to encourage him. But yet, he remains frozen. And not because he’s staring at your now naked frame.
You close the space between you both, hands on his comfortably clad chest as you look up at him. “Can I undress you?” Your tone is as soft as you can muster, “Please?”
“OK,” he breathes out with a nod.
You take your time with the zipper, slowly bringing it down as he shrugs off the fabric. This was a marathon, not a sprint, so you let the clothing fall gently to the floor.
First, it was the hoodie, for which you rub his arms once they’re exposed. Then it was his sweatpants, untying a bow as you loosen them, letting them drop next to your bathroom mat, holding his hips as he steps out of them, kicking them off to the side. You palm his erection through his underwear as you reach up to kiss him. “Just let me take care of you, baby,” you say as you gingerly play with the hem of his shirt.
You’re delighted when he lifts his arms to help you get it over his head, rather than fighting back or giving in to every voice in his brain that’s screaming for him to run away. His eyes are closed once it's tossed, like he was bracing for impact, unable to face his demons hidden in the mirror behind you.
But yours are fully open, a mouth ready to drool as you took him in. It was softer. It was nicer. It was, “So fucking hot.”
Your mouth is on his body immediately, planting kisses on every piece of exposed skin you could get your hands on.
“I’m so proud of you, baby,” you continue to reward him with nips, pinches, kisses, in no specific order, as he runs his hands through your hair, letting out a shaky sigh as he reaches a temporary bout of acceptance.
One hand dips past the waistband of his underwear, stroking a now fully-hard cock as you squeeze at his extra flesh with the other.
“My beautiful boy,” you kiss his stomach again. “You’re so pretty.”
You look up to see his head tilted towards the ceiling as he groans, so you take the opportunity to kiss any part of his neck you can reach, your other hand now moving up to his chest as you brush over sensitive spots.
More noises, all echoing so sweetly in that bathroom, louder than the running water. You manage to get behind him, pushing his underwear down so he's ready to jump into the shower once it's warm enough. While one hand wraps around his front, the other is traveling up his neck, pushing at the back of his head so he gets a good, proper look in the mirror. "Look," you say as softly as you can, your other hand stroking him. "How did you get even more attractive since I first met you?" you hum, kissing his shoulder.
He moans as you continue to pump his cock, catching the blush forming on his cheeks until the mirror is completely fogged up, the shower sure to be the perfect temperature as of now.
“Come on,” one last kiss to his neck before you detach yourself, stepping over the tub into the shower.
Andrew follows you as quickly as he can to join you, almost worried he was going to slip when he finally makes it inside. His hands are on your jaw immediately, kissing you as the water rushes down your back.
You keep stroking him in the meantime, enjoying every noise he sputters out. “How’s that?” you encourage him to be even louder, smiling as he complies.
“Fuck,” it’s drawn out as he throws his head back, your mouth back on his chest. “Just like that. I’m so-“
Another moan. Another nip. A palm flat against the tile, wishing he had something to grip on that wasn’t you. Not that he doesn’t try, nails digging into the soft flesh of your upper arm to ensure it’s as painless as he can manage. “Let me know when you’re close, baby. Want you to come all over me.”
“Mhmm,” he uses this as his opportunity to take over, your arms now free to wrap around his neck. Pulling him down for a bout of sloppy kisses, he pumps himself. “Fuck,” he echoes into your mouth. “I-“
You feel his stickiness all over your belly with bits up to your chest, in tandem with his heavy breaths. “That’s it,” you cup his chin. “You did so well, babe.” Eyes closed, he’s practically heaving, hand back on the tile for balance. You place a quick kiss on his lips, “It felt so good to have you finish on me.”
He nods. “Thank you” gets stuttered out after a big exhale.
“I’m going to clean myself off now, OK? And then I’ll help you after, how’s that?”
Another nod. Another exhale. Another quick kiss.
You see a bit of a smile from him before you turn around to face the shower head, letting what’s left of him on you to cascade into the drain.
He places light kisses on your shoulders as you reach for the bar of soap. “Does your back still hurt?” He asks between pecks, now flat against you, hands around your torso, smiling at the softness he brings.
“I think the hot water helped,” you respond as you lather yourself up. “But god knows my shoulders could always use your magic hands.”
“What about other places?” he teases, rubbing circles into your back.
Turns out “later” wasn’t that far into your future.
Towel-clad, you lay on your bed, Andrew returning the favor soon enough as he peppered every inch of you with kisses. Starting from your legs, to the inside of your thighs, to your stomach. Scratching, caressing, biting, and everything in between as he travels up your body, murmurs of “gorgeous,” “beautiful,” “stunning,” and whatever else he could come up with in that thesaurus he called a brain.
His beard tickles your skin, and you feel his smile when you giggle due to the sensation. “I love you,” another peck, this time in the valley of your chest. “I love every inch of you,” another gentle kiss, “I’m so lucky to be with someone as pretty as you.”
You can only sigh with delight, grateful to have met Andrew when you did, and that your friends encouraged you to talk to that guy who was, “Definitely staring at you,” from across the bar. If it weren’t for them, you wouldn’t have experienced this past year of bliss.
After getting at your neck, he’s finally met your gaze, planting kisses all over your face: your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your eyes, saving your lips for last. But, before he takes the plunge, he just smiles back at you, lit perfectly by your bedroom lamp. “Hi,” so sweet, you can feel the toothaches forming.
“Hi.”
You sit up as he kisses you, determined not to end the night on your back until it was time to fall asleep. Gently pushing him onto the space next to you, you reach over a curious Andrew as you fish out a condom from the table of your bedside drawer. “Do you want me to put it on, or-“ you ask as you hold it between your fingers.
“I can do it,” he grabs the condom with eagerness as you lie beside him. He’s always been ready and willing to do whatever you suggest, more enthusiastic with his clothes off, rather than on.
“Can I-“
“Yes.”
“… finish what I’m trying to say?”
“I just want you to finish in general.”
You lean down to kiss him as you run your hands through tufts of chest hair. “You’re so sweet,” another kiss as you play with his nipples, “so sexy.”
“What,” he interrupts himself with an involuntary noise, “were you going to ask?”
“I want to ride you,” a kiss, “for as long as you’ll let me.”
“Please,” he responds in a tone implying he would want nothing less.
“And I mean long. You can’t finish before me, babe. Promise?”
“Promise.”
Andrew opts to lie down flat, rather than propping himself up against the headboard. He typically prefers to look at you, but once you slip out a, “I love seeing you under me,” suddenly he’s making himself comfortable as he rests his pretty little head on one of your pillows.
His hands are firmly on your hips as you lower yourself onto him, a pleasant sigh shared between you both as you take him, feeling yourself stretch with pleasure.
“You feel so fucking good, baby,” you exhale as you start to rock your hips. “Fuck.”
Slow and steady was the name of the game. Gentle, meticulous, deliberate, each movement you made felt calculated, like you crunched the numbers to make sure you lasted as long as possible.
You rest your hands on his stomach for some balance as you pick up the pace, a small victory as he doesn’t immediately recoil at your touch. “I love the way you feel,” a double entendre at its finest.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Honey.” He loves seeing you like this, in the throes of it, head back as you make noises only confined to this personal space. “How much-“
“Longer,” you answer him, followed by a moan. He starts to move his hips in tandem with yours, “Yes!” You shout as your symmetry works wonders. “Just like that, baby.”
His nails are deep into your sides, practically guiding you for the next couple of moments as you get closer and closer to the edge. Squeezing your softness, you can tell he’s close, so you slow down your pace.
“Just a little longer, OK?” You wrap a hand around his wrist, a more entertaining version of a stress ball.
“Mhmm,” he breathes out.
Eventually, you can feel that surge in you, that eventual wave building. “You’re so fucking hot when you make those noises for me, baby.” Back to picking up the pace, cracking that metaphorical whip, and you both moan in pleasure. “Just like that, I’m…”
A few more thrusts and you’re done for, one last, circulation-cutting-off level squeeze to his wrist as you ride out. He’s not too far after, crying out your name as he digs nails into stretch marks. Beautiful of sight and sound, you love to see his face strain in pleasure, all because of you.
Despite your exhaustion, you manage to get up off of Andrew and onto the space next to him in your bed. Through matching heavy breaths, you kiss him. “I love you,” your lips move to his neck. “All of you,” down his chest, all the way to his happy trail, before making your way back up. His soft smile almost makes you well up. “What shirt do you want?”
“The grey one. With the possums on it.”
“The one with the holes in it? You can just keep it if you want?”
“Nah. It’s more fun if I steal it from you.”
You roll your eyes into one last kiss before a bit of clean up, and soon enough, your head is resting on a possum-clad chest, a blanket draped over you both.
Hands play with your hair as you drift out. “Thank you, Honey,” he whispers before wrapping an arm around your backside, tucking you into his side.
WRONG. talk about it. shout about it. yell about it. scream about it. so what if it’s a fanfic? it’s done with love and passion. it’s art created by a fellow human being who, despite life and lord knows what battle they may or may not be going through, probably stayed up all night writing it before they shared it with the world for free. they’d probably spent months or years writing it. it’s as much a piece of art and literature as any other art and literature that aren’t fanfics. and unlike artists who make profit off their works, fanfic writers truly write for free, because they are that passionate about their stories. the least we can do is show them our love and appreciation.
in 2026, remember how GOOD writing feels. remember how satsfying it is to get your characters to the point you have been dying to get to, where they will experience the love, fear, relief or whatever the feeling you want to bring to life may be. let this year be the year of writing, prgress and of satisfactory endings.
Summary: Time for your office’s annual holiday party! For the first time since you were hired, they’re allowing employees to bring plus-ones. Time to introduce your coworkers to that guy who you have a picture of above your desk! And, who knows? Maybe you’ll have some time to give him a private tour of your office?
Rating: Mature/explicit, 18+. Semi-public oral sex abound.
Words: 2,926
Note: Happy Holidays, everyone! This was originally going to be part of the time loop interludes, but eventually turned into a fun little office holiday party one-shot! Hope you enjoy
Read on AO3 or keep scrolling here!
You always knew it was time for the holiday season once projects were winding down. But the real confirmation was the invite for the office holiday party appearing in your inbox in the middle of November. Officially checked out whatever document you were editing, you immediately turn to your favorite coworker, “Did you see it?”
“December 17th,” Gabby states. “Pretty late this year, to be honest.”
“Madeline in HR told me they were having trouble ordering enough booze.”
“Like they could fill the conference room on the 5th floor. It’s fucking massive.”
“They’ll sure as hell try.”
“Oh, look at this. They’re officially allowing plus ones this year.”
“Really?”
“Mhmm. Maybe you could finally introduce me to that singer boyfriend of yours?”
You look up at your desk to see the photo of you and Andrew practically hidden among the post-its and memos above your desk, his arms snaking around your shoulders as he rested his head on top of yours, smiles abound. The memory always cheered you up when you were in the middle of a frustrating day. “I can ask him?”
It’s not like you were bragging to everyone at work that you were dating a guy whose songs they’ve probably heard on the radio more than once. Locking down most of your social media accounts at Andrew’s warning early on in your relationship, this picture was the most you showed off to the people you spent the majority of your week with. Heck, Joel in accounting swears it’s photoshopped.
It’s the closest thing you're getting to a hard launch.
Hey babe? You text him.
You’re free in December, right?
Mostly, yeah?
Why?
Would you like to attend my office’s Christmas party?
There will be lots of booze, and you can finally meet Gabby
Yeah, why not?
Ok, I’ll RSVP for both of us
Wai,t does that mean I get to see the infamous Joel in the flesh
Amongst the sea of buzzed coworkers, Andrew sticks out like a sore thumb with his height and familiar-looking face. You pick up on a few comments intended to be whispered, some combination of “Is that?” Or the funnier, “When did we hire that fucking tall fella?”
You both enjoy the spoils in the meantime, multiple drinks in as Andrew’s hand ghosts your waist as you gossip with Gabby, wondering which department would win the title of sloppiest behavior. “I didn’t realize that Archives could party like that,” you state after a sip.
“They’re a bunch of repressed nerds trapped in the basement,” Gabby quips. “Of course, they party hard.”
“They’re in the-“ Andrew asks.
“No, Babe,” you interrupt him with a laugh. “But their main office doesn’t have that many windows.”
“It’s for preservation purposes… allegedly.” Gabby chuckles.
“Don’t mind him,” you add. “He doesn’t understand. Never worked a nine-to-five in his life.”
Before Andrew could get a rebuttal in, Joel makes his way over to your little group, “Ok, ‘fess up. How much is she paying you?”
While you and Gaby roll your eyes, Andrew just smiles. “Hi Joel,” he states, offering his hand to shake. “Excited to finally put a face to the name.”
“That NDA must be iron-clad,” Joel responds with a laugh.
“Hey, Joel?” Gabby asks. “Can you make it a singular hour without being an asshole?”
“Is that a bet?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“One I can’t lose.”
Andrew laughs to himself, delighted at the entertainment. Joel turns his attention back to him. “Your cup’s running low. Can I get you another drink?”
“Are you flirting with her boyfriend?” Gabby asks with a smirk.
“No, I’m being kind to her prisoner.”
“Ok,” she pushes him towards the makeshift bar, “Let’s leave these lovebirds alone, you weird prick.” She turns back to the two of you with a forced smile. “I’ll get some refills.”
As Gabby pushes Joel away with a scowl, you can’t help but sigh. “Told you he’s a piece of work.”
Andrew just chuckles. “Gabby is definitely hooking up with Joel.”
You turn to him with a baffled look. “No…”
“Yes.”
“We’ve spent multiple lunch breaks going on about how much we hate him.”
“That doesn’t mean she thinks he’s ugly.”
“They loathe each other. She’s said absolutely vile things about him to his face!”
“He probably finds that hot! I knew I had to at least talk to you when you muttered, ‘Legs that long and he can’t walk faster than a snail?’ the day we met.”
“You heard me say that?”
“Yeah. And I still do. In my dreams…”
“You sap…”
Up on your toes, you kiss Andrew on the cheek the second Gabby arrives back with your drinks. “Stop it,” she fakes a disgusted look. “You’re only feeding my drunk urges of making out with a stranger I’ll eventually see every day in the cafeteria.”
You both turn to Joel, who’s staring back at your group, wondering which one of you he’s got his eye on.
With the liquor flowing and the room getting more and more overwhelming, you were itching for some sort of escape without leaving the party altogether. So, with everyone dispersed and Andrew’s fingers dancing along your sides just so, you turn to him and ask, “Do you want to see my desk?”
His nodding is immediately followed by you grabbing his hand, giddy as you drag him to the elevators.
“I almost forgot what quiet was like,” he states with a laugh once you arrive on your floor. “This feels like a feckin’ zen garden compared to downstairs.”
You roll your eyes as he follows you to your workspace, a cubicle in a cluster of similar-enough-looking ones that any other day would make your head spin. But tonight, it’s oddly grounding. “This is where the magic happens,” you state, clumsily sitting on the minimal free space on top of your desk, swinging your legs with glee.
“I’m impressed.”
“You are not.”
“I am not.”
After a bit of laughter, Andrew saunters over, his head hovering above you with a smirk. As he leans down, he notices the picture hidden amongst the sea of reminders.
His expression softening, Andrew grabs for it, almost bewildered at its existence. “What a fun day this was,” he says in earnest, genuinely touched at being the only photo on display.
“Yeah. The memory of it practically stops me from jumping out the window some days,” you quip in a tone you both hope is in jest.
Andrew places the picture on your desk, as his familiar Cheshire grin starts to emerge. “If you’re so slammed with work, maybe you need an… assistant.”
You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms as he moves to the printer in the middle of the open space. “And who says I’m hiring?”
“Well, I’ve got a lot of special skills…” he taps the machine. “I can have 100 copies on your desk in less than ten minutes, Boss.”
“That’s Ma’am, to you,” you state with a smirk. “How are you with a stapler?” You start this interview as you move to your chair.
“Average.”
“Phone calls?”
“Thanks for contacting us, but the Boss can’t come to the phone right now unless you want this entire office to burst into flames. Can I take your message?”
You can’t help but laugh. “How do you handle constructive criticism?”
“Well, I just do the very professional thing and get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness.”
You snort, “Can you show me an example of that, Mister... what was it again? Byrne?”
Andrew quickly grabs a pen and some paper, scribbling a message on it before getting onto his knees. The note now in his mouth, he literally crawls over to you in your office chair, forcing your jaw closed in order not to give him the satisfaction, as you feel the wetness starting to form in your core.
He still has the stupid smirk with the note in his mouth, his hands on your knees as he closes the distance. Taking the paper out of his mouth, you can make out Hire me please :) in the chicken scratch he calls handwriting. You shake your head with a laugh.
“Does this mean I got the job?” He asks, his chin in your lap
“One last question, Mister Byrne. What exactly sets you apart from the other candidates?”
“I can show you,” Andrew states as he starts to kiss your knees, “better than I can tell you.”
Back on the floor, he crawls his way under your desk, following his movements as your chair swivels. “What are you doing?”
“Giving my boss the bonus she deserves.”
“Andrew, my legs barely fit under there.” You weren’t wrong. The cubicle being the last line item in your company’s budget, it didn’t really offer much surface space, above or below.
“Well, thankfully, my head fits perfectly between your legs,” he states with a grin. “Ma’am, you must be so stressed with all those reports just piling up. Let me relieve you of all of that.” He stretches those cramped arms to reach out to the base of your chair, pulling you as close to the desk as possible so he can assist you in shimmying your tights and underwear to pool around your ankles.
Using your feet to anchor the chair in place as you spread your legs, his lips ghost along the inside of your thighs, feeling the heat of his breath against you.
He slowly enters a finger into you as he peppers kisses onto your thighs. “Already so wet?” You can feel his smirk against your skin before he nips at it.
“You know I prefer you on your knees.”
“That you do,” this time a bite, sucking at the spot so he can leave his mark.
“Hey, Andrew?”
You hear a thump, followed by a hiss, laughing as you imagine him bumping his head. “Yes, Boss?”
“What happens if someone comes upstairs?”
“You’re going to be the only one cumming up here, Darlin’.”
“Andrew!”
“What!” He yelps with a laugh, peppering your thighs with kisses once again. “Fine. Just start… kicking me, I guess.”
“If you keep moving your fingers like that,” you can’t help the noise you let out, “I’m going to start kicking you, regardless.”
“Like what, Darlin’?” He’s teasing you, slipping another finger inside. “I can’t hear you from all the way under here.”
You gently nudge him with your foot, for now. “By the way, please touch yourself. You’re not going to get the job if you go back downstairs with a visible boner, much less a giant cum stain on your pants.”
“Miss-always-prepared doesn’t have any emergency stain remover hidden in those desk drawers?”
“We both know a tide pen won’t be enough.” You grab the tissue box on top of your desk and chuck it down below.”
“T’anks,” he says between heavy breaths.
The sound of his zipper hits your ears like a freight train, groaning the second he touches his cock, his noises enticing involuntary ones from your throat.
Replacing his fingers with his tongue, he gets to work, moaning straight into your cunt. “Fuck, Darlin’. You taste so fucking good.”
One thing you liked about Andrew was that he was… let’s just say, vocal. Straight to the point when it came to activities in the bedroom (or in this case, office), he was never shy when it came to showing you how great it felt to be with you. You’re still working on his communication skills while his clothes are on, unfortunately. “I’m shocked you’re still thirsty after the way you behaved downstairs...”
You can only fit one hand below you, slipping it into his hair so you could push his face even deeper, “Fucking parched.” He’s more muffled as you lock him in place between your thighs, squeezing his head just the way he likes it.
With every simultaneous flick of his tongue and wrist as he pumps his cock, it takes all of you not to scream in pleasure, trying to stay in sync with his delicious hums as he laps you up.
Biting your lip, you reach for the keyboard in front of you, momentarily opening up a Word doc in an attempt to distract yourself.
I hate you I hate you I hate you I love you I hate you, just over and over and over and-
Ding!
Shit. “Andrew,” you attempt to warn him in a volume you hope he can hear, but no dice. “Andrew.” Again, kicking at whatever body part you could reach. “Stop, someone’s-“
The footsteps get you to shut up, his heavy breathing almost just as loud once he finally understands. A whispered “Ow,” only has you picturing him rubbing a now bruised thigh.
Looking up has you locking eyes with Gabby over the cubicle wall.
Except she’s not alone.
Eyes darting between her and Joel, you’re just happy Andrew isn’t able to witness this.
“Hey…” you attempt to be as subtle as possible. “Fancy seeing you both here.”
They’re both just as flustered, clearly not expecting your presence.
“What are you doing up here?” Gabby attempts to avoid the massive elephant in the room.
“Uhhhh… I had to…” Think! “Send an email I thought I sent hours ago.” Smart!
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Joel asks, arms crossed. “Or did he have to meet the next Make-A-Wish kid?” Gabby nudges him out of annoyance.
“He had to run to the bathroom, so I thought I’d come up and get it done before I forgot.”
“Why didn’t you just use your phone?”
“I had to attach a document.”
“Ok…”
“Why are you guys up here?”
“Oh, um… I also needed to print a report for my manager.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah. Very adamant about it. Must be the eggnog talking.”
Andrew laughs in a decibel only you can hear, so you squeeze your thighs a bit tighter, not really caring if it’s more of a reward than a punishment.
“So, we must be going. Sorry.” Joel walks off with Gabby traveling just behind, rolling her eyes.
Once they’re completely out of sight and sound, you push the chair back, briefly setting Andrew free. “That was close.”
His face is nothing but smug, “I told you.” Andrew’s head is back in your lap, kissing any bits of exposed skin he can get his mouth on.
“You did,” you let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what she sees in him. He’s not unattractive, but his lack of personality should be enough to be… repulsed?”
“You say that like it matters when you’re drunk and lonely.”
“Fair. I just want better for her,” you let out another sigh as you run your hands through Andrew’s hair.
“And I want better for all of us.” He shimmies away, dragging the chair with him as he pulls you back towards the desk. “Now, let me finish my interview.”
“Fuck, Andrew!” You shout the second his lips hit your cunt. “I don’t think they got back in the elevator.”
“If they’re still up here,” he says between tastes, “I guarantee you they’ll be too distracted to notice.”
His muffled moans match yours, the nails of one hand digging into your knee as he continues to touch himself. All while lapping up every bit of you he could reach with his tongue, absolutely spoiled he was.
You arch your back in your chair, barely on the seat at this point, thanks to him. “I’m so close, Darlin’. Are you-“
“Yeah!” Your hand is on the back of his head, grinding against every curve of his face. “Fuck, babe… I’m-“ you’re consumed by the wave crashing over you, grabbing the nearest pencil and biting into it as you ride out this feeling.
He’s not too far behind, moaning as he gets his last tastes while he finds his own release. Andrew’s panting as you move back, giving him some space to clean himself up, lifting his head up too fast. Another thump, “Shit…” he mumbles to himself as he carefully zips his pants.
“Aww, poor baby,” you tease. “Want me to kiss it better?”
With a smile, he crawls to you one last time, tissues in hand as he helps to clean you up, you bend down to place a quick kiss on a place sure to have a lump come morning. He can only hum, nuzzling his head on your lap as you take a moment to play with his hair, pressing light kisses into your still exposed skin.
“Did I get the job, Ma’am?”
“Expect an email in your inbox within the next week.”
You feel his chuckle, “And what am I supposed to do until then?”
“How about one more drink, and then we can head home and do that all over again?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Andrew gets up, wiping off his face with what’s left of your tissues as you adjust your tights. “Do I look like we just snuck off for a quickie?”
“Nah. Unless your coworkers have imaginations that should be addressed by HR? What about me?”
You walk in front of him to smooth out the wrinkles on his shirt. “Not too shabby.” You lean up for one last quick kiss you’re both smiling into, before heading back to the elevators.
But, just as Andrew’s about to push the button, you hear a crash coming from the supply closet.
“Fuck, Joel. Just like that!”
Andrew can only snicker as you get on the elevator.
The final chapter of the Time Loop Interludes is up!
Chapter 5: I’d Go Through it Again
Despite spending almost four years longing for a tomorrow, you're both unsure if you even want it now that you're here.
AKA: the first day out of the loop
I can't believe that we've finally reached the conclusion to this story. Thank you to everyone who went on this journey with these two across space and time. I hope you loved it as much as I did writing it (which, for the record, was a lot).
As always, feedback and comments are encouraged, and I would love to hear what you guys thought about this whole thing.
PS: I have something I'm writing that will hopefully be done in time for Halloween. The supernatural premises just keep pulling me back in lol.
As well as a different one-shot I've had sort of in the can for a few months... but we'll see where that goes...
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.
"why did you stop writing your story!!! never stop writing!!!!!!!!!!!" well you see the character had to drive one mile to a new location and the sentence "she got into the car" was quite simply my undoing
warnings: PWP, reader is an exotic dancer, sex workers (i don't condone the exploitation often found in the industry), dry humping, possessiveness, praise, p in v, believing the stripper is in love with you lol (except she kinda is)
authors note: hey yall. this is my first time publishing a fic like this so im getting a completely fresh start lol. i have no idea if its good. not beta read, barely edited, and hanging on by a thread. enjoy.
fic below the cut
And then he says to me, baby if it feels good, then it can't be bad...
Your method of making money was... unconventional. Yes, it was looked down upon by society, but when were you ever one to care about what others thought? You found a joy in getting ready, in doing your makeup in a crowded room, bonding with other women over which fellow dancers were bitches and which songs were the best to dance to. The best part of your shifts, however, was a certain regular.
The man in question was a 6'6 enigma. Everything you knew about him was guesses. He was rich. He had to be. You didn't know what from, but the fact that he alone would pay you enough to cover rent and groceries for a month was enough to infer that. You thought millionare, but multi-millionaire could also be possible.
He was Irish; that you knew from his muttering as you danced. "Fuck," he'd say every time you barely opened your legs. "So fucking good. So talented. And all for me." You heard those words so many times that you knew he wasn't American, but coming from across an ocean meant you were left with more questions than answers.
And out of all your patrons, he was the only one who seemed to care about you as a person. Your main piece of evidence to support this was the interaction you had in your first few sessions.
"What's your name?" He looks down at you as you dance, head between his spread legs.
You feed him the lie, repeating for him that he should know this before telling him the embarrassing stage name you picked early on in your career. He shakes his head, his chin lying on his chest.
"Your real name," he clarifies. And you stay silent. Did he think this was some movie where he falls in love with the stripper and saves her from her life of debauchery? "Please."
You sigh, feeling a bit of pity for the man. If he was going to be this obsessed with you, you might as well return the favor. Your name, muttered under your breath, brought a cheeky grin to his face.
"I... I'm Dante. Pleasure to-" Brushing your hand on his inner thigh made him too distracted to finish his greeting.
Dante wasn't his real name. You knew that. Anyone with working eyes could see the way he panicked and came up with it on the spot. But you nodded, giving him a reply.
"Dante... it's a pleasure, alright."
Between that encounter and the occasional blush on his face, you can't help but think there's some sort of emotion behind the bulge in his pants. Some "I want to take you away from all this" rhetoric that fueled him to come back weekly, sometimes twice a week, and only want to see you. The routine you both had fallen into was now comfortable. Well, as comfortable you could be while grinding against a stranger every Friday night.
Part of you — a part you wanted to squish beneath a high heel — thought he was actually attractive. Under any other circumstances, you’d even consider asking him out. Long brown hair with curls you’d kill for, and eyes with color that shifted depending on the lighting. You would sometimes take it upon yourself to scratch your nails through his beard, or grasp at his hair. It was a method of admiring his features. This was encouraged, "Dante" dropping a $50 bill every time. Toying with him made you feel... actually wanted, which you knew was so incorrect. He wanted a quick feeling of satisfaction, maybe to feel touched by a woman for a night, and then to hide this habit from his loved ones. You both knew this. Then why was it so hard to get that into your fucking head?
Friday. 10 at night. That was your set date and time. Dante said it was what worked best for his schedule, and when he could be the most consistent with his visits. You’d find him in the crowd, moving as efficiently as the tight-fitting dress you would wear permitted you. He’d summon you, ask for a private room, and you’d strip down to the display underneath your clothes, exposing body glitter and every part of your body not covered by a skimpy bikini. Then, a show for Dante, using a personalized playlist and choreography that usually ended with humping his leg and a few hundred dollars more in your pocket. It was so routine you barely even blinked at it.
So why the fuck was it 10:15 on a Friday and he wasn't there?
He was never on time, but usually it was only a five minute difference. You asked around — your boss, fellow working girls — to see if anyone knew where he was, and you were greeted with a cacophony of "No." Their answers led you to determine that he simply was not. Showing. Up.
But hey, no hard feelings, right? People have things more important than seeing their favorite stripper once a week. If you needed the money, you'd just have to work a bit more next shift. And there were plenty of men with empty laps and full wallets, looking at you like you're a full course meal on display in front of them.
"Hey, doll," a gravelly voice called. You looked in the direction of the noise, met with a man who must've been at least ten years older than you, and staring at you with drooping, red eyes. Not Dante, but he'd have to do.
Perfect, he's high. I can just do a shitty job for a few minutes and then be on my way, you thought. And so you nodded as he introduced himself, name going in one ear and out the other. He just loved your outfit, apparently, though he wanted nothing more than to be the one to take it off. You let him play a bit with you, slip two fingers beneath the strap of your bra, as you zoned out. Brain turned off, you followed what it was like any other night.
But you wanted it to be him. For some reason, you missed Dante. Missed the feeling of his cold hands on your thighs as he praised you effortlessly. Missed the stupid smile on his face when you'd brush his hair behind his ear. Missed the slander that left his mouth, the "slut"s and "whore"s. Anybody else calling you that would elicit a slap to their face.
"Hey, doll. What's wrong?" High Guy asked, cupping your chin in his hand. It gave you the strong urge to bite his thumb, just to ensure he'd leave you the fuck alone. Looking away, you scanned the room, one last time before you lost hope.
And there was Dante. A few couches away, sitting with his arms crossed and a nasty scowl on his face, actively turning down another woman trying to talk to him. Was he mad at you? At the man beneath you? You knitted your eyebrows at him, to try and get his attention without making it blatantly obvious.
He caught your gaze, the corners of his mouth getting wider until they pulled into a smile. He rapidly rubs the pads of his fingers against his thumb. Money, he means. Then, he motions down to his open, empty lap.
You've never wanted to be somewhere more.
"Excuse me," you mutter as you pull yourself away. "I'm gonna have to go."
"But what about-"
"I'm sorry," you say with a shrug (and no true remorse). "He has an appointment."
You get up and walk away, only letting yourself smile once you find a spot next to Dante to sit. He looks you up and down as you lean back into the leather couch.
"What was that?" He asks, nodding over to High Guy, who is now frustratedly leaving.
"You were half an hour late, Dante. A girl has to make money somehow."
"It took longer in the studio than I expected, okay? I'm sorry."
His face nearly retracted into itself as he realized what his statement gave away. So he does something with music. Makes sense. If his voice could sound harmonious just from giving you commands, then hearing him sing would be like going right to heaven.
"It's fine, just don't leave me waiting next time, okay?" You ask of him, faking a pouted lip. "Now we'll have less time together."
"Guess we'll have to make the most of it then," he mutters. He gets up from his seat, making a beeline straight to the back of the building, where the private rooms are tucked into a secluded corner. You follow him immediately and without question, stilettos clacking against the floor tile. He stops in front of room 5, a selection you agreed upon ages ago. The door creaks open, and the room reveals itself. The white leather seats, strobe lights, and personal speakers all exactly where they need to be.
He holds the door open for you and lets you enter first; he knows it takes you a moment to get everything set up.
Connecting your phone to the speaker, you search for your favorite song to dance to, and one that Dante is also fond of. Pressing play, the sensual guitar riff begins to fill the room, and you slowly remove the tight leather dress you've been wearing. It reveals what's basically a glorified swimsuit, covering only your nipples and what Dante would call your "perfect little pussy". It's only when the lyrics start that the real show begins.
You wanna fuck me right now...
You drop to your knees, thighs open, then closed, then open again. Crawling to him is next, you recall, the choreography engraved in your frontal lobe. You do so, and begin to paw at his calf like a needy kitten when you reach his legs. Dante does something new and places a hand on the side of your face.
"Beautiful," he murmurs. "So needy and so fucking beautiful."
A visceral sound leaves you, almost a whimper. You climb up him, the long man he is, and straddle his thigh. It's large enough that you can start to hump it, fabric against fabric causing him to close his eyes, his head rolling back.
Where I can be immoral in a stranger's lap.
Isn't that the truth? Being immoral in a stranger's lap was the story of your life. But the moments like this made it worth it. He moves his thigh with you, letting you feel the friction and letting one of his hands fall down to his still-clothed cock. You catch this, grabbing his hand and holding it up.
"Be patient," you chide him. To surprise him, you let his fingers into your mouth and start to suck on them, still humping against his thigh. Dante's pupils are blown wide from pleasure, looking at you in awe, like a masterpiece painted for his eyes only.
"Fuck being patient," he proclaims. He pulls a hand from your mouth and grabs your hips, perfectly placing your thighs around his waist. You get the memo and start to grind again, getting a grip into those goddamn brown curls that seemed to defy the gods just through existence. It's starting to feel good, really good, as the hard-on in his pants reveals itself. The friction is dizzying, and clearly he feels the same. Dante reaches down to unbuckle his belt, but you grab his hands.
"We're not supposed to... there's cameras in here. Are you sure?"
"If there's cameras, then let them fucking watch." God, he's determined.
"And you're sure about this, Dante?"
"No. No, not Dante. My name's Andrew. It always has been."
That name did seem to suit him better. It rolled around in your mind as you looked down at him. "You've kept this from me for this long? Why tell me now?"
"I want to make sure you're screaming the right name. Need everyone to know who you belong to."
You muttered a curse under your breath, releasing his hands to freedom. He prepared himself, pulling down his fly and the strap of his boxers until his already hard cock sprung out. Meanwhile, you removed the thin fabric covering your cunt, which was already practically dripping. By now, Gibson Girl had faded out, another song now playing.
Flames so hot that they turn blue...
The singer crooned as Dante — no, Andrew — adjusted himself so he would be in the most comfortable position. You ask a question regarding one last step before you can finally feel him.
"You don't have a-"
"Nope."
"I don't either."
A beat. Andrew speaks up again, breath labored.
"Do you still want to do this?"
"More than anything."
Your hands nearly dig into his shoulders as you lower onto him, trying to capture all of his length on the first try. You moan his name, his real name, proving his comment before correct. Once he's bottomed out, you look into his eyes and take a shaky breath. You feel so full, he's almost intimidating. And you thought you'd break him. It might be the other way around.
"So much..."
His hips jerk upward, and you take it as a sign to start bucking your hips upward and into him. He immediately praises you: "Angelic, you are. An angel just for me, all for me, right?"
You do your best to nod, brain turning fuzzy from pleasure.
"You're gorgeous, and so good, too good, so goddamn tight-" he praises, hands running up and down your thighs like a madman. His vigor alone is enough to make you shake.
It's not enough for you, because now you can feel that familiar wave beginning to form in your core, and you know you can't keep up composure any longer. You start riding him like you need your release because you do. It's so close and it feels as though the foreplay wasn't even enough to take you over the edge.
Andrew clearly agrees, thrusting into you to match your pace. Your face falls into the crook of his neck as you clutch onto his hair for dear life. In your time with closed eyes, an idea pops into your head.
You muster the body strength to pull away from his neck and sit up as best as you can. Your hands are still firmly grasping his hair when you smash your lips into his. Andrew lets out an unprecedented moan, long and seemingly strenuous. He returns the kiss, kissing you back for a beat before he starts to twitch beneath you, and his release fills your stomach.
He came from kissing you.
You would make fun of him if you weren't about to do the same, thighs shivering. With one last move of your hips, you reach your peak and spill all over him, though Andrew couldn't seem to care any less. He peppers your face with small kisses, whispering.
"You did so good for me. Thank you, thank you."
You pull off of him, flopping onto the couch like a rag doll. He begins to clean himself up, pulling his boxers up and covering up with his pants again. You'll miss that experience. If your boss finds out, you won't be able to get away with having sex with the same client twice. Andrew stands up and looks down at you, at the display. He hands you a wad of cash, which you quickly flip through and realize that he was much richer than you thought.
"So... same time next week?" He jokes sheepishly, pushing the hair out of his face. You nod.
hello eden if you write intox kink (preferably with either him or you being so high they can barely function) i will name my first born child after you
hi phoebe i hope you like this :3
getting him so incredibly high, giving him an edible that is much stronger then he thinks and smoking a joint before retreating to bed. just watching as he gets quieter and higher, eyes growing red and glossy.
he’ll slowly nod when you check up on him, whimpering when you put a hand on his inner thigh. he can barely keep his eyes open but he had enough energy to buck up against your hand with a whine. he can’t help himself as he throbs against your palm, melting into the bed. he has to stop himself from moaning as you coo in his ear ‘my baby’s so helpless,’ ‘so high and needy for me, hm?’ while his mind barely registers that you’re straddling him until he feels you grinding against him. his hands find your hips, his dick only covered by his boxers (when did his sweatpants get taken off?) as he presses his hips into yours. his lips are parted, tongue darting out to wet them, eyes peeling open and staring up at you as his head spins. the green of his irises stand out against the red in the whites of his eyes. everything is moving too fast for his brain to process, the concept of time slipping out of his hands as he slips into your warmth. he groans at the unexpected feeling of heat and wetness surrounding him. his arms wrap around you and he tugs you into a sloppy kiss as he twitches inside of you. it doesn’t take him long before he’s reduced to whimpers and whine, grabbing at your body as his eyes squeeze shut. with how sensitive he was, it was obvious he wasn’t going to last long. he cursed as he pulsed and twitched, burying his release deep inside you, waves of pleasure crashing over him violently. he’s flushed and panting and limp but he still musters up enough energy to get you on your back and kiss down your body until he’s between your thighs, making sure you get the same release he did.
a scene must be included PRIOR to sex where the characters READ their birth certificates OUT LOUD so the reader will know they were born on the SAME DATE to avoid any disgusting AGE GAPS
blurb: short morning breakfast drabble (>1.5k words lmao), post non-sexual adult sleepover
word count: 1,562
it’s a distant clattering sound that first rouses him. he stirs, blinking groggily until the click-click-click-click of his induction coming to life drags him fully from sleep. it takes a second for him to put the pieces together. but once he does, he’s stumbling out of bed, barely remembering to run his fingers through his hair as he lumbers downstairs.
“morning!” he hears them chirp as he enters the kitchen and stops dead. they’re standing at the counter with their back to him, efficiently plating up something. pancakes, by the smell of it. he stares mutely as they turn to face him, wearing an apron, his frying pan in one hand and a spatula in the other.
“i hope you don’t mind. i would’ve asked, but since you were dead to the world when i woke up i thought i’d help myself.”
it takes him a second to find his voice, let alone come up with something clever.
“you… you always spoil people like this when you sleep over?”
his voice is rough from sleep, his words not fully enunciated. he catches their eyes sparkling as they turn back to the pan.
“oh, you know, only the ones who haven’t done anything to deserve it. something i really need to work on.”
that makes him snort as he approaches.
as soon as he’s within reach, he slides his arms around them, making them start before they relax into his embrace. something in his chest does a soft little flip when they lean their head on his shoulder, back snug against his chest.
“good morning,” they murmur, looking back and up at him, head pushing into his shoulder like a headbutting cat. he kisses their temple, smiling softly, before he very effectively forces them to turn back around by resting his chin on the crown of their head. tightening his grip, he starts swaying lightly, side to side, and smiles soft and warm at their huff of laughter. when he starts humming deliberately to really drive the point home, they attempt to nudge him away with an elbow to his ribs.
“the pancakes are almost done.”
he resists, squeezing them tighter, humming just a tiny bit louder, and can practically hear the fond roll of their eyes before they try again.
“there’s coffee on the stove. go and pour yourself some.”
this time a pointed poke to his arm accompanies their words. he grunts and shuffles over to his cabinets to retrieve a mug, benevolently ignoring their muttered “i’m rubbing off on you”.
the first sip is restorative. he can feel the placebo of the taste waking him up before the caffeine even has a chance to hit his system. the satisfied sigh he lets out earns him an affectionate scoff.
“you are really not a morning person, are you?”
he only hums in response as they emerge from the kitchen, balancing two full plates and a glass of juice in their arms. taking a plate, he mutters a soft “thanks” as they both take a seat. he hopes the word comes across as fond as he feels, watching them eagerly douse their pancakes with honey—christ, they even managed to find that, rifling around his cabinets—before tucking in.
as he eats he can slowly feel himself coming back to life. the fresh pancakes and coffee settle pleasantly in his stomach. they’re good, the pancakes, a homely, subtle kind of sweetness to them that pairs well with his bitter coffee. he wonders if they used honey in the batter.
when he looks up, they’re watching him intently, a mischievous gleam in their eye.
“what?” he asks, swallowing his mouthful, holding eye contact and trying to ignore the flush that’s surely rising on his face.
they hum. then they take a sip of juice, exaggeratedly slowly, clearly amused and intent on playing it up. he catches himself smiling at their cocky expression before shaking it away.
“’s just interesting.”
“what is?”
they simply hum again, eyes still fixed on him, as he reflexively sips his coffee. not in a way that makes him feel cornered, or at fault. the warmth in their eyes leaves no room for that. he finally averts his gaze as he puts a name to it, cheeks flaming. he’s self-conscious. he can barely handle their scrutiny when he’s operating at full capacity, and he’s only been awake for thirty minutes. how is he meant to deal with this?
“i’ve just never seen you like this.”
his eyebrows raise, prompting them to elaborate.
“you’re usually so…” they trail off, narrowing their eyes at him and leaning back in their chair, and he feels himself flush even harder.
“...thoughtful.”
he can’t help the surprised laugh that escapes him. “you make me breakfast in my own home after you spend the night, and you’re calling me thoughtful?”
“well, that’s why this is the exception,” they shoot back, folding their arms over their baggy shirt. “you always put everyone else around you first. it’s like it’s built into your dna—i don’t think i’ve ever had a moment with you when you weren’t looking out for me. even last night…”
they look away as they shrug one shoulder up, something grateful and warm in their eyes that turns the gesture bashful instead of coy. his heart clenches with hope at the sight. they clear their throat before meeting his gaze again, their lips twitching into a mischievous grin.
“i always had you down as the breakfast-maker, but i guess your horrible sleep schedule cancels out your status as a gentleman.”
he huffs, throwing his hands up with a grin he tries valiantly to hide.
“i do usually make breakfast, let it be known—”
“you’ve barely said a dozen words this whole half hour!”
he opens his mouth to argue.
“you just grunt and sigh and trudge around looking for coffee. or cuddles.”
he closes his mouth after that, because they’re right.
in more ways than they know.
as they snicker at his silence and bite off another forkful of honey-soaked pancake, he wonders, not for the first time, if they know how easy this feels. how much his feelings of self-worth were previously staked on comparing himself to heteronormative societal standards and pleasing his partners in strictly straight relationships. there was a time when he prided himself on being the breakfast-maker, the one to hold open doors, the one to be attuned to his partner in bed. but while he still believes in being attentive and thoughtful in a relationship, it’s been a while since he’s identified as straight, even longer since he’s felt fettered to the rules of what makes a “good man” in the eyes of society at large. some of them they directly pointed out (“so i’m supposed to just sit there and wait for you to cross the car and open my door?”), some they’ve unpicked unknowingly, tugging on threads that had begun to fray in previous relationships but had never been examined this closely. he wonders if they know how easy it could’ve been for him to never reach this kind of introspection. how grateful he is that their relationship has begun changing his view of himself so deeply.
“you’re staring,” they point out, and he shakes himself for the second time this morning. the smug twinkle in their eyes pulls a grin out of him before he can help himself.
“you’re stunning,” he replies easily, and then sees them tense, just for a moment, before slowly relaxing as they lean forward.
he watches their smirk morph into something more solemn and follows suit, resting his forearms on the table, because he adores their earnest side just as much as their flippant one. their gaze dips, and he can tell they’re sounding out the words in their mind before saying them out loud. he treasures the care that radiates from them.
“thank you. for last night.” they say, voice low. “you don’t know how much that meant to me.”
“no need to thank me.” he lays his hand on the table, palm up, and they immediately grip it in theirs. his heart leaps at the ease of the gesture.
“there’s no rush,” he repeats, slowly, so they can hear the sincerity behind his words, see it behind his eyes. “we’ll take it at your pace.”
a small nod, and he squeezes. their gaze flicks down to their joined hands before they intertwine their fingers, softly brushing their thumb over the back of his hand. he inhales silently. then he dares to jest.
“i can’t have you revoking my gentleman status just yet.”
a smile spreads across their features, small and raw and hopeful. he thinks it might be the most breathtaking one he’s ever seen. the tender mood doesn’t evaporate, just like he’d hoped—instead their eyes return to his and they both take a second to just breathe, to stare like lovesick fools as they take in the full scope of what they’ve found in the other.
he dares to make a wish in that moment. in this room that has never felt more like home, smelling of coffee and pancakes and honey. he imagines a shutter going off in his mind’s eye as he squeezes their fingers, capturing this moment forever. so that even after he has to stand up and unravel their fingers, the light in their eyes remains.
