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The bar is loud and crowded, a horrible location for a first date.
Even worse for being stood up for a first date.
You nurse your drink (the same one you’ve been drinking for the past forty five fucking minutes) as you check and check and recheck both the entrance to the bar and your notifications. Your homescreen and the doorframe both remain devoid of “Brad,” despite his confirmation on the app that he would “totally be there, babe.”
Classic fucking LA, you suppose.
There’s no way another drink could make your night worse, so you try to wave down a bartender.
For ten minutes.
With zero luck.
This is not your night.
Fuck it, you paid cash for the first one. Time to cut your losses.
And you grab your wristlet and turn on your stool to get up and—
Is that—
Bo Burnham?
Across the room at the other bar top, you think maybe—yup. That’s him, you’re sure of it as he turns his head for a moment to wave down the bartender (and you shouldn’t be upset that he has an easier time getting someone’s attention than you, because you are and always have been absolutely invisible).
You recall the many nights of your youth spent listening to his videos on repeat, your excitement at every new special, and the one exciting time you managed to see him live. All of it coalesced into a deeply-harbored crush on the comedian that you’ve had for years.
And here he is, on what is turning out to be one of your shittiest nights.
Your heart is lodged in your throat as you process the fact that he is mere feet away, seemingly alone. His gaze is elsewhere as he takes a sip of his beer, the movement of his throat as he swallows capturing your attention like nothing else.
If this is to be the worst night ever, you deserve some small pick-me-up, right?
There’s no way you’re going to approach him. You know with 100% certainty that you’d only embarrass yourself, probably stumble over your words and make no sense and somehow let slip that you’ve had a crush on him since you were in fucking high school.
But you should get a momento, if for no other reason than to prove to your friends that you’re not lying when you tell them this story later.
You know he’s famously reclusive and probably has a strong dislike for being recognized, much less photographed, but you convince yourself that you can be discreet. Besides, you’re invisible. Why would he notice you?
You pick up your phone once more (and still no message from Brad, of course not) and try to subtly shift it below the bar top, leaving the camera lens just above the edge of the surface. You focus your gaze elsewhere as you try to angle it towards him ever so carefully, hoping to get his full face in the frame for irrefutable proof.
Your thumb presses down on the screen to capture the photo as you nonchalantly take another sip of your drink, eyes locked on the bar entrance.
And as you set down your glass, you peer down at the screen.
And practically choke on your cocktail.
You got his face, all right. His eyes are peering directly into the camera and—
He’s flipping you off.
Fuck.
Fuck.
How did he notice? You were so careful—
Well, clearly not careful enough.
You’re sputtering, heart racing like you’ve just run a mile at a full sprint, and you can’t help but look back over to where he’s—
No longer sitting.
What the fuck?
You’re about to turn your head to see where he’s gone, but then there’s a whisper from behind you that sends chills down your spine.
“You know, it’s very rude to take someone’s picture without their consent.”
Shit.
You freeze, wondering if perhaps you stay perfectly still, you will somehow be rendered literally, actually invisible.
“What, you’ll take my picture but you won’t look at me? That hardly seems fair.”
You gulp, every instinct screaming at you to run. Instead, you turn in your barstool just enough to look at him.
You have to crane your neck almost comically to meet his eye.
“There we go,” he says, and the combination of his voice and his face so close is causing a wild mix of sensations in your heart and stomach and maybe between your—
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
You shake your head ‘no’ on instinct, completely at a loss for what else to say.
“So, you paparazzi? Someone finally let slip the one place I can find some fucking peace?”
“N—no,” you choke out, somehow finding your voice. “No, it’s not like that, I’m—I’m on a date.”
He makes a show of looking around the bar, then at the empty stool next to you, and then back to your eyes, each second multiplying your embarrassment and fear by orders of magnitude.
“I don’t see a date. Why the fuck should I believe you?” His tone is icy, distrusting, and you want to sink into the floor.
How the fuck is this your life?
“I—” you can hardly get the words out, holding back tears that suddenly spring to your eyes. Everything is confusing and weird and wrong but he’s right there, in your space, a man you’ve thought about for literal years, and he’s being kind of mean but you suppose you deserve that.
“I’m embarrassed,” you finally settle on, eyes downcast. “I can’t—I should go.”
“No,” he says simply, as if you were asking his permission. “I still don’t believe you.”
He reaches for your phone that’s still sitting on the bar top and picks it up.
And then he starts walking toward the back of the bar.
“Hey!” You whisper-shout. He doesn’t stop.
Did he just—take your phone?
You remain frozen for a long moment as your brain tries to process what just happened.
And then you grab your wristlet and your legs move of their own accord, chasing him, chasing the phone you absolutely cannot afford to replace right now.
You barely register that the door he opens is for one of the single stall bathrooms, your singular focus now retrieving that prohibitively expensive brick that is your lifeline in this world.
You walk in, the door shutting behind you both.
“Hey!” You repeat, grabbing his shoulder to make him turn around to face you, now, your phone still clutched in his palm.
Funny, it looks so much smaller in his hand than in yours.
“What the fuck?” You demand instinctively, and he just…looks at you, eyebrow cocked, as if daring you to continue.
How the fuck did you end up here, in a bathroom with Bo fucking Burnham holding your cell phone hostage?
You realize that perhaps yelling at him is not going to achieve your desired outcome, and force yourself to take a deep breath.
“Look, I’m sorry,” you start, trying your best to be as agreeable as possible. “I’ll—I’ll delete the picture, I will, just—” and then your eyes dart toward the corner of the room, and a horrifying thought consumes you. “Just don’t break my phone, or—or flush it down the toilet, please,” you say, stepping closer, hand tentatively outstretched. “Please,” you repeat, realizing you’re willing to beg.
Realizing just how alone the two of you are.
He steps closer, closer, reaching his empty hand over your shoulder, so close your bodies are almost touching.
You hear the sound of a lock clicking.
He then lifts your phone above your shoulder, too, depositing it on the small shelf next to the door.
He then does the same with your wristlet, plucking it from your arm without so much as a word, setting it next to your phone.
“So,” he starts, and what the fuck is happening— “a date, huh? I’m supposed to believe that?”
You think you might be shaking. You can vaguely detect the pleasant scent of cologne, something masculine and heady and warm and you try your best to compose yourself even as alarm bells start ringing in your head.
After all, he locked the fucking door.
“Y—yes,” you whisper. “Or—it was supposed to be. I guess Brad changed his mind,” you admit, your supposed date’s name bitter on your tongue, your eyes downcast as you attempt to maintain your dignity.
“Hmm,” he muses, still so close, his hands back down at his sides which you can see with your head down turned. “Well, you’re certainly dressed for it.”
That—surprises you. There’s some faint amount of heat in his voice that you could swear isn’t a figment of your imagination. You’re still trying to wrap your mind around the fact that the celebrity you’ve adored from afar for ages just locked you in the bathroom and—
And is now looking you up and down with a gaze that can only be described as…hungry.
You have to be imagining this. Right?
“So some dumbass,” he declares, emphasizing the word like he really thinks Brad fucked up, and why does that send a tingle down your spine, fuck — “stood you up, and then you saw me across the bar and decided to be a creep?”
The word settles in your stomach, somehow both hot and acidic, something unfamiliar and devastating infiltrates your blood and why is he still standing so close to you?
“I—I’m sorry, I just—I recognized you,” you admit, voice shaking, “and I just—didn’t want to forget,” you finish, feeling all at once light-headed and underwater.
He’s silent for a moment, and then you feel something touching your chin.
His finger, guiding your gaze up to his.
“You’re a big fan, then?”
Jesus fucking Christ, you must be dreaming. How is it that a single touch from him is more electric than anything you’ve ever felt?
“Uh huh,” you confirm, breath shaky, every part of you still in firm disbelief.
“For how long?”
“A—a while,” you admit, and he steps closer, closer, and somehow your back is against the cold tile wall and you don’t really mind.
And then, that single finger on your body turns into his entire hand, wrapped around the back of your neck, and you’re certainly trembling now. You’ve seen him in photos, videos, on a stage, but you’ve never truly appreciated the sheer size of him until this very moment, with a hand so big that he can trace your lower lip with his thumb while squeezing your nape like he never intends to let go.
“I wonder what such a big fan would let me do to her.”
You should feel scared. Trapped. And maybe you do, but that’s somehow not all you’re feeling.
And when he leans down, he captures your unuttered response with his lips.
Anything.
He swallows down the word, unintelligible as his mouth slots over yours, the kiss immediately hot and filthy, his tongue pushing into you like he means to taste the back of your throat with it. It’s all you can do to keep up, moaning into his mouth as your brain tries to catch up with your body.
When he breaks away, your lips are still connected by a thin string of spit.
Filthy.
You shudder, and your cheeks must be bright red, flush quickly spreading down your neck.
He looks at you, chest heaving, searching your eyes for something—you’re not sure what, but whatever it is, he must find it, because then he’s spinning you around to face the wall, caging you in with his body, and everything is hot and wrong and you just…let him.
Nothing even remotely like this has ever happened to you, and you should be appalled at the way he just manhandled you, but all you can do is squeeze your thighs together and brace your palms against the tile.
“This fucking dress,” he whispers, hands suddenly gripping the fabric that cascades down your thighs. “Someone should get to enjoy the fruits of your labor, don’t you think? Got all dressed up and didn’t even know you’d get to fuck someone famous, did you?”
He says the word famous like it burns his tongue.
Your mouth remains shut, hardly able to process his words. But somehow, your hips move back ever so slightly, no more than an inch, completely of their own accord.
And he notices.
“Fuck, you’re just desperate for it, aren’t you? Needy little slut.”
The term washes over you, new and wrong and a little thrilling and you should hate it, should be pushing him away and admonishing him for daring to speak to you that way.
Instead, you whimper.
You seem incapable of anything else.
“Fucking hell,” he bites. “I knew it.”
And then those hands fisted in your skirt lift it up and up and up, until your lace covered ass is bared to his gaze and your back is arched—
Fuck, what has he done to you? You’ve never felt so desperate, so eager to please, so willing to be treated like a—
“Whore,” he whispers, one finger coming to trace the edge of your underwear, cheeky and a little sexy and you can feel his eyes on you even though you can’t see them, your head facing the wall as he examines you.
“You wanted to get laid tonight, didn’t you?”
Embarrassment and nerves coalesce until your tongue feels too heavy to move, making it impossible to respond.
But then the hand on your ass is gone and is now fisting your hair, pulling until your neck arches back and you make a noise you’ve never made in your fucking life.
“Didn’t you?” He repeats, demanding and a little mean and it makes you throb, your underwear getting more and more slick by the second.
“Yes,” you gasp, as if he tore the very word from your throat.
“That’s what I fucking thought,” he growls into your ear, and then his hands are back on your hips, gripping the waistband of your panties and sliding the soaked lace down your legs. His hands take turns wrapping around each of your ankles, surprisingly gentle as he eases your wedged heels up and through the leg holes one at a time.
And you just…let him.
You clench around nothing, and this time, there’s nothing to catch the little bead of arousal that escapes you, trailing down your inner thigh.
You pray he doesn’t notice.
But it seems he’s too perceptive for your prayer to be answered.
“Fucking look at you,” he murmurs, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see his face as his eyes track the movement down your leg. And then he holds up your panties, showing you where you’ve soaked through them in the scant few minutes you’ve been in this bathroom with him, your own little world of want.
“You really are a fan,” he says with a devastating smirk, and then he tucks the wet fabric into the pocket of his jeans.
And that’s when you notice that he is also enjoying himself.
Quite a lot, by the looks of it.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen such a sizable bulge in person before.
And of course, he notices that you’ve noticed, smiling at the look on your face that must be equal parts trepidation and excitement.
“See something you like?” He questions, and the cockiness should bother you, it really should.
But it just makes you wetter.
And then suddenly, his hand is up your skirt and your forehead thuds against the wall in surprise, and he can feel exactly how wet you are.
Oh god.
“You really shouldn’t like it this much, honey,” he says, voice dripping with condescension. “I’m not being very nice.”
All you can do is moan as a single thick, long finger sinks into you like a hot knife through butter. You can’t recall the last time you were this wet. You’re not even sure you’ve ever been this wet.
“Needy little cunt,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and your palms start sliding against the wall as they sweat, overwhelmed, overcome as he starts to work his finger in and out, the sound obscene as it echoes in the small room.
You whimper as he bends that finger toward your front wall, another small gush soaking the digit, enough that he can slip in another.
You downright groan at the stretch, so blissfully full.
And then you remember the size of him and realize you have absolutely no concept of fullness. Not yet.
But you’re certain you will.
His other hand comes to rest on the wall above yours, his breath hot on your neck as he dwarfs you.
Envelops you.
“You’re dripping all over me, you know.”
You clench at his words, and he feels it, you know he does, by the deep and throaty chuckle that escapes him.
“God, just falling all over yourself for some little celebrity. So fucking easy for me, aren’t you?”
You need something to do with your mouth that isn’t embarrassing yourself further, so you turn your head, eagerly searching for his lips. His fingers inside you don’t falter as he brings his other hand to grip your neck again, holding you in place.
“You want another kiss, creep?”
Vulgar. Shocking. Horrifying.
You clench again.
And you whimper, a needy, sad little sound.
He takes pity on you, slotting his mouth over yours again just as the pad of his thumb starts tracing circles over your clit in tandem with his thrusting fingers.
You moan so hard he can’t even keep his mouth connected to yours, and you realize—well, remember—that you’re in a crowded bar, and you try to turn so your head is buried in his chest to muffle your whimpers as you approach an orgasm so devastating you're not sure you’ll be able to stay upright.
But that damn hand on your neck slides up to your hair and wrenches you back, sound dampening a hopeless cause as he wrenches your mouth free of him.
Your jaw drops, wanton noises increasing in pitch and frequency just as his hand does the same, sending you hurtling toward the edge.
And then his nose nudges your ear.
“No hiding, you little fucking slut. Not from me.”
And then his eyes lock with yours, your jaw still wide open.
He must take that as an invitation, since he doesn’t ask before he leans down and spits onto your waiting tongue.
And you come, shattering, wailing, hopeless to the pull of his dexterous fingers and filthy fucking mouth and oh god you’ve never felt as humiliated as you do when you eagerly swallow down his offering as you rhythmically clench around him.
You only remain standing due to the sheer strength of his grip on your hair and the anchoring hand fucking into you.
Once you’re transitioned from bucking to shuddering, he lets go of your hair and your forehead drops against the welcoming coldness of the tile once more. He works you through the aftershocks so intently it’s nearly too much. You close your mouth to swallow again, eyes shut, cheeks burning, inner thighs surely soaking wet.
“Someone’s thirsty,” he chides, and your entire body must be flushed by now.
You can barely catch your breath as he removes his fingers from your body. You hear something that sounds suspiciously like those digits being sucked clean, and you open your eyes just in time to see the tips of his pointer and index exiting his mouth.
He’s leering at you. There’s no other word to describe the look on his face.
“Only fair that we each get a taste, right, little slut?”
You gift him with a shaky nod, clenching beneath your dress which has fluttered back down over your ass. He looks equal parts proud and—disgusted? Angry?
Faintly, you wonder just how much of his performed self-loathing is real.
But then he’s reaching for his zipper, and you don’t have much room to think about anything else besides his cock springing forth, every bit as large as you suspected.
He loosely fists his length and, surprisingly, turns you to face him with a commanding hand on your shoulder.
Unconsciously, you widen your stance. Just a little.
Making room for him between your legs.
He shakes his head in a pantomime of disbelief that mirrors your own.
“You on birth control?”
You nod, all at once overwhelmed at the thought of feeling him so fucking close, skin on skin, nothing separating the two of you.
The object of your affection as close to you as a person can possibly be.
It’s reckless, risky—
You’re going to let him. There’s no world in which you’re not going to let him.
You raise the hem of your dress. Inviting.
Even as your entire body shakes with overstimulation and anticipation.
“I’m good,” you verbalize. “Please.”
“Good slut,” he praises, and then he’s lifting one of your legs in his hand and lining his cock up with your entrance using the other. His knees are bent, your heels giving you enough extra height that he manages to get himself between your folds.
Holy fuck, this is actually happening.
His cockhead passes over your clit once. Twice. You whimper each time, and then he does it again, seemingly just to hear you.
“Look at me,” he commands, and you do, just as he begins to sink into your welcoming heat.
And when your jaw drops, a gasp escaping your chest, your eyes are locked on his.
“Is this what you wanted? Huh?” He goads as he sinks into you, inch after inch of perfect, all-consuming stretch. He growls as you shake your head yes, unable to do or say anything else.
“Slutty little groupie bitch wanted my cock?” He bucks his hips, almost violently spearing you on the final inch, and you groan at the combination of the feeling and his words, words that should make you scream and cry and run for the hills—you have a feeling you’ll only be doing two of those things.
And then he withdraws, only to sheath himself back in with a single, long, aching thrust.
“Is this a dream come true?”
And you can’t hold back any more.
“Yes,” you moan, the word stretching out into something lengthy and erotic, and you reach for his arm with your free hand, throwing your head back, unable to face him as you voice your acquiescence to his particular brand of filth.
But he won’t stand for that.
He grips your chin again, guiding your eyes back to his.
“I said look at me, you fucking whore. You’ll look at who’s making you feel like this.”
Another thrust, and it takes everything in your power not to let your eyes roll back in your head.
He swallows, pinched look on his face, almost pained-looking as he starts to pick up the pace, as if he’s letting his words marinate on his tongue before he says them, poisoning himself before you.
“Bet you fucking wanted me to catch you,” he declares, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You’re struck with the urge to lick it away, but that’s impossible considering the way he has you pinned open to use. “Look at you, taking your punishment like a good little cockslut.”
And you’re not sure what washes over you to make you say what comes out of your mouth next.
“Th—thank you,” you whine, just as he adjusts the position of his hips to hit that perfect spot on your front wall with every move of his cock inside of you.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” He almost yells it, the question, and you feel emboldened by the strength of his response, chasing the pleasure in watching him come just a fraction as undone as you.
“I s—said—th—thank you, Bo— oh,” you repeat, and this time you can’t stop your eyes from rolling back, not when he grips your hair again, contorting his body so he can lean down and suck a bruise into your throat, all teeth and tongue and perfect suction, and he squeezes one of your breasts like he’s angry at it for existing. It just so happens that this new position makes his pelvis grind against your clit with every thrust, and you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you’re going to come again.
And then he releases your neck with a groan.
“Stupid fucking whore,” he groans, unstoppable. “Should just take you home and keep you all to myself, make you my personal little cum dumpster if you want it so bad.”
That does it. Your entire body lights up, overwhelmed with searing pleasure as he fucks you through your orgasm, murmuring nonsense and filth.
“I’ll keep you in my bed all the fucking time, then you won’t have to sneak around to see me. I’ll just use you every—fucking—day—huh?”
As you wail and moan and shudder and tears start streaming down your cheeks and you wonder just how long an orgasm can last, you realize his suggestion sounds pretty good.
Words in the throes of passion, and all. He surely doesn’t mean it, but the sentiment certainly prolongs your peak.
And he just…doesn’t stop fucking you. His pace never falters, brutal in the best way, and the tears are flowing freely now.
He makes his own groan, a noise you want to bottle and keep and listen to forever.
“You keep fucking coming you little fucking slut, Jesus Christ,” he grunts, as if he can’t quite believe the effect he’s having on your body.
Not that you can blame him—you’ve never felt anything like this before.
The sensation fades for a brief moment when he lets go of your leg to wipe his sweaty hand on his jeans, just long enough for you to take a single, deep, aching breath before he brings it back and starts all over again, hitching your leg even higher this time, moving his other hand from your breast—which he has somehow managed to free from your dress without you noticing—up to the back of your neck, moving you until your foreheads are pressed together and instead of full on thrusts, he switches to a sensuous grind that does nothing to stop the wetness on your cheeks from continuing.
His lips brush against where a tear drips, and you wonder if it was an accident.
The fucking was ruinous all on its own, but this? You feel as though every cell of your body is dedicated to feeling nothing but him, the press of him inside you, the way he rocks just barely in and out of your dripping hole, and something is building, another orgasm, but instead of sharpness, it almost dulls, flattening out your very being into a constant stream of deep seated pleasure.
Something in you compels you to warn him.
“I think I’m gonna—I’m gonna come again,” you whisper almost against his lips.
He growls like he’s angry at you for finding pleasure in this, in his absolute devastation of your body.
“Apologize,” he says, and your brain barely processes the word.
And then he lets go of your neck to bring his thumb to where your bodies meet, angling his pelvis just barely so he’s no longer pressing against your clit, and that peak of pleasure is disappearing right before your eyes but his thumb is so very close to bringing you back.
“No, please, please—” you beg in a voice you don’t recognize, a new level of desperation washing over you that somehow makes the pleasure that much deeper, more tantalizing, to have it dangled in front of you and then ripped away. You’d do anything to get it back.
He inches his thumb even closer, removing his forehead from yours so that he once again towers over your pliant, controlled, cradled body.
“Apologize for being a little fucking creep and I’ll let you come,” he promises, offering you a key to your pleasure, and there’s not a single drop of hesitation in you as you cry out in relief and overstimulation and wail—
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry Bo, please, please let me come on your cock.” You’re gasping, shaking, and his thumb is scant millimeters away.
And he brings his mouth to your ear once again to deliver the final blow.
“Louder, bitch. Then the whole world will know Bo Burnham fucked you.”
And then his thumb is on your clit, and you shatter around him, reduced to mere sounds and sensations—noises deep in your throat, blinding white-hot euphoria, the faint sensation of spilled warmth inside you as your groans mix with his, unabashed and uniquely honest, trusting him to hold you aloft as you both get pulled under the debilitating wave.
It somehow lasts forever and is over in an instant, too long and far too soon.
Your breathing is rapid and shared as you both come down.
You feel like a changed woman, and when you chance a peek upward, you think you might see a changed man.
How is it possible, something like this? So deeply wrong and fucked up and brilliantly new and perfect?
He’s looking at you like a chord he can’t pinpoint, a lyric he can’t surmise.
An enigma.
Fitting, since you’ve only just discovered the mystery yourself.
“Maybe I’ll keep you after all,” he whispers in the afterglow, so quietly you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. And then, he withdraws.
This time, your legs actually do give out, the sensation almost as overwhelming as the many orgasms he’s given you tonight.
But he’s there to catch you.
“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay honey, I’ve got you.”
Yes, yes he does.
You certainly consider yourself got.
He tucks a stray hair behind your ear in a tender gesture you have no idea how to interpret, and you’re both silent for a moment, taking each other in. Slowly, your legs regain function and stop incessantly twitching.
“Can you stand?” He whispers in a voice so quiet, you can hardly hear it over the music streaming in from the bar.
You nod, once, short. Only then does he step away to tuck himself back into his pants. Then, he turns his back to you, taking a single, long step to the sink and splashing a bit of cold water on his face. You use the moment to collect yourself.
Well, as much as you can with a pounding heart and cum most certainly dripping down your thighs.
You run your fingers over your hair, tuck your breast back into your dress, and you’re distracted enough that you don’t realize he’s approaching you until he’s right there in front of you again, holding something in his hand.
Before you can ask what it is or why, he’s reaching for your chin, decidedly more delicate than the other touches he’s bestowed upon you tonight.
“Look up,” he whispers, and you obey on autopilot.
He softly drags what you realize is a wet paper towel under your eyes, removing what must be a mess of mascara and eyeliner and tears. He’s slow and methodical about it, and you try to remember the last time you were cared for like this.
You fail to come up with any such time.
When he’s done with your face, he retrieves a fresh towel, and then kneels at your feet.
You try to hide the hitch in your breath.
You’re pretty sure you fail.
This time, he trails the towel up your inner thighs, and you fight back a blush as he mostly cleans you of your shared fluids—at least for now. He came so deep inside you, you’re not sure when you’ll stop dripping.
A secret part of you hopes it never stops.
“There you go,” he murmurs, standing and tossing the crumpled paper in the trash without looking.
Another pause, and then—
“Can I have my underwear back?”
He tilts his head, a half-smile forming on his lips.
“No.”
If you fight him, he’d probably relent.
But the idea that maybe, just maybe, he wants to remember this too? You decide to let it slide.
“Fine.”
His half smile turns into a full one.
“I expected you to put up more of a fight,” he says, and now you’re the one laughing at the utter irony.
“What exactly gave you that impression?” You ask with a quirk of your eyebrow, and then you’re both laughing, and the tension goes from excruciating to slightly less than unbearable.
“I’ll walk you out,” he announces, and you try not to let your face fall with the realization that this encounter is nearing its end.
You reach for your wristlet and phone on the shelf, and then he’s opening the door like you didn’t both just break about a dozen public indecency laws.
Blessedly, there’s no one there waiting to drag you off to jail, and you wonder if it has anything to do with his regular status at the bar.
You try not to wonder if he does this often.
He’s close by your side, and you lead the two of you toward the exit.
But then, you spot a familiar face.
You freeze, eyes narrowing.
And you know it’s him.
Before, you might’ve been nervous enough to say nothing, to avoid eye contact and brush past him and run home with your tail between your legs.
But with a newfound confidence, you walk right over to where that familiar looking guy is talking to some random girl who would clearly rather be left alone.
“Brad?” You ask, voice unwavering. You faintly register the warmth at your back, realizing that Bo actually followed you.
At the sound of his name, Brad turns around, clearly annoyed at having been interrupted. The girl looks relieved, using the distraction to make a beeline to the other side of the bar.
You watch as Brad looks at you, zero recognition on his face.
But then his gaze shifts to a spot over your shoulder.
“Holy fuck, dude, you’re Bo Burnham!” He announces, loud enough to be a nuisance.
Bo leans down, his hand coming to rest on your back, and you have no idea what to expect out of this interaction, but—
“And you’re the asshole who stood this girl up, aren’t you?”
—oh. That’s certainly not a possibility that crossed your mind.
“I, uh—I don’t—” Brad stutters, clearly caught off guard, perhaps finally realizing who you are—the date that he probably assumed had given up and left, leaving the bar free for him to roam.
Bo gets even closer, close enough that the only two people that can hear him are you and Brad.
“Your loss. She’s a dynamite lay,” he whispers, and you should be furious, but all you can manage to feel is pride as your cheeks turn red once again. Bo resumes his normal height and volume as he continues. “Eat shit, man. Have a horrible night!”
And then he’s guiding you out of the bar, his hand still on your back, and it’s all you can do to keep up with his long strides, still shell-shocked at the turn of events of your evening.
“Th—thank you,” you whisper, eyes downcast as you immediately remember the position the two of you were in the last time you said thank you.
He seems content to let your appreciation dissolve into the evening air.
“How’d you get here?”
And you try to remember how to be a functional human being.
“I walked,” you admit, looking down at the wedge heels that you once considered sensible—before getting fucked while standing in them. “It’s not that far, I—”
“I’m calling you a car,” he says, voice leaving no room for argument, and again you are flooded with warmth.
He’s fucking filthy, and a little messed up, and so, so caring.
You can’t help the fact that this little encounter did absolutely nothing to quell your giant crush on him.
No—you estimate it’s probably about a hundred times worse, now.
He takes out his phone, dials a number and relays the location of the bar, then holds it up to your ear so you can give whoever is on the other end your home address.
You barely have time for the silence to turn awkward before a sleek car is pulling up in front of the bar, and he’s guiding you over to it with his hand resuming its place on your lower back and fuck it’s so warm and comforting and you think you could cry at how much you never want him to let go.
But he’s said nothing of the future outside that bathroom, and you accept that his mid-coital musings of keeping you in his bed were nothing more than frankly spectacular dirty talk.
He opens the door for you, and you carefully tuck your dress under your ass, praying it catches any leaks, lest you get stuck with some huge car detailing bill for dripping Bo Burnham’s cum on the leather.
“Get home safe,” he says, and your tongue is too heavy for words, and then the door is shut and you are left with regrets.
But only some.
You decide at that exact moment to cherish this night for what it was: a chance encounter, a fantasy come to life—well, not a fantasy you quite knew you had, but a fantasy nonetheless.
At least you still have the picture.
You decide a peek wouldn’t hurt, so you take out your phone.
And the screen displays three texts from an unknown number, around the time Bo snatched your phone from the bar top and led you to the fucking promised land of debauchery.
You’re stunned silent, blinking rapidly, sure you’re hallucinating. But before you can decide if it’s real, another text pops up in the thread, and you can’t help the loud snort that escapes you, the certainty washing over you that yes, this is definitely real.