Work Text:
You stare at the blinking cursor, willing the words to manifest in your mind, to form the exact conclusion you need.
All you needed was to wrap things up, tie them in a neat little bow. The outline was there, but the wording never quite felt right. The sharp punch you were looking for just out of reach.
You suppose, it doesn’t help that you’re horribly distracted. That you came over to his apartment, laptop in hand, knowing that he’d keep you on track better than if you were at home, surrounded with possible diversions.
And yet, here you were, with the biggest distraction of all. Each edit had been met with a kiss, as you sat beside his modified, overstuffed armchair. Where he had been going over an upcoming lecture - glancing up from the text to give a murmur of encouragement, a smile.
The kisses turning needy, until you were easing onto his lap - your work quite forgotten. Fingers twisting in the thick wool of his turtleneck sweater, one of his actuators curling behind your back to keep you pressed close.
They always betrayed him. His arms, connected to his unconscious thoughts. Contrasting with his words, his “you should be working, my dear”, while they nudged you just a little closer, until you could feel where he thickened inside his trousers.
“I missed you.” You breathed, “I want you. God, I want you.”
There was the peek of his tongue against his bottom lip, his own gaze heavy-lidded. Thumbs brushing back and forth against the curves of your breast, where you could just feel them over your own clothes.
“What do you want?” He asked, watching beneath those thick brows, eyes that catch everything.
“I want you to take me,” You sighed with need, leaning forward to brush your lips against the coarse strands of his beard, where he had grown it out with the changing of seasons, “Want you to take care of me.”
You ached for him, the feeling of him beneath you winning out over the rest.
He laughed then, a low, rough sound. The skeleton of a smug smile from his past, softened by those dark eyes.
You’re lifted, the metal arm against your back curling around your waist. Flipping you until you’re facing the desk, a second arm nudging over your laptop.
“And I want you to work.” Otto told you firmly, a hand pressing against your belly, holding you snug against him, “That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”
He isn’t wrong. And so, you’re sitting, sullenly.
Editing for the second time, stalling as you pick for clues. Shifting impatiently against him, thinking with a corner of your mind about how you can feel the thick curve of him pressed against your ass.
The hand on your stomach twitches. With each stroke of your keys it inches downward - something that you’re acutely aware of. You wonder if it’s encouragement.
If he’ll touch you, if only you keep writing.
It works. It’s good enough for you.
His palm presses against you, the heel of his hand just shy of where you need him. It makes you gasp, your eyes leaving the screen, drifting down.
Rocking against him, trying to get him to adjust his touch. Feeling where the tips of his fingers brush against you, the middle sliding just down the seam of your leggings. The others tracing against your clothed lips, your inner thighs.
“You stopped.” He rasps, the sound low in your ear, “Keep going.”
With a shaky breath, you do.
Ironic that your essay explored the ideas of decadence and aestheticisms in Victorian poetry - because you certainly felt like you were indulging, giving into pleasure over sense.
It would almost be inspiring… if it wasn’t so distracting. But you try - blinking to keep the words in focus as his fingers drift, touch, press.
Winding you up, until you’re biting your tongue between teeth, rocking your hips into the cup of his hand. Eyes closing, testing just how far you can move, if it would be enough.
“You haven’t mentioned Symons.” His idle comment brings you back, as you frown.
Glancing at the paragraph you’re combing through - realizing he’s been reading along. It prickles you, defensiveness curling with the pleasure in your belly.
“We haven’t covered much from him. I thought my other examples were strong enough.” You explain, just as his hand drifts.
Edging past your waistband, beneath the fabric of your underwear. Enjoying your tone - the debate.
“If you were taking my class-” He begins, but you’re cutting him off, with a shake of your head.
“If I were taking your class, this paper would be on nuclear physics, not poetry.”
Otto laughs at that, the sound rumbling. Before you feel his lips ghost against the back of your neck. Fingers that touch down against bare skin, where you’re warm and wet for him.
“Art and science have always been lovers, darling.” His voice is low, amused. Lips pressing against the hollow under your ear - raising goosebumps in its wake, “A man can be well-versed in both.”
You have no retort, not when he’s touching you like this. A finger parting you, sliding back and forth over your clit. His other hand moving to cup your breast, as an actuator loops around your waist, pinning you against him.
Your kisses, and the way you curl,
Delicious and distracting girl,
Into one’s arms, and round about,
Luxuriously in and out-
His breath warm in your ear as his fingers circle, as he quotes poetry to you. The smooth tone of his voice washing over you, your head tilting back against his broad shoulder.
Strong to embrace and long to kiss,
And strenuous for the sharper bliss,
A little tossing sea of sighs,
Till the slow calm seal up your eyes.
You moan, and he can feel just how soaked you are for him, for him alone. Those arms move, then.
Lifting you just off his lap, the careful tip of another tugging at your leggings. Pushing them down mid-thigh as he works open his belt.
Pulling himself out, where he’s heavy and flushed for you. Setting you down against his cock, trapping it between the pillow of your thighs, trapped snugly against your cunt.
He lets you rut against him, slicking him up with each pass. Eyes dropping to watch the flushed head slide against your skin, how you wished it was pressing inside, instead.
You fingers drift down to touch him, but one of the actuators curl around your wrist, gently bringing it back to your keyboard.
“Finish this up, darling, and I’ll give you what you want.” He promises, a chaste kiss against your neck - before he leans back, giving you space.
The thud of your pulse in your ears is still distracting, as is the warm length of him pressed against you.
But you try, thinking about what he said. Adding in a little more detail, encouraged by the subtle rocking of his hips. The slide of him against your clit, though whenever you make a sound he stops.
The slow edging winding you up.
You’d always done well under pressure, under a deadline. Two hover over you now - one tomorrow, another so much closer. The length of time you can last before it’s too much.
Another line flows from you, and then another. Piecing the puzzle of your words and thoughts together. Keying the final line of the conclusion with a little flourish, your head tilting to the side so you can see him.
Where he watches, already reading over your shoulder. A low growl to his voice as he moves again, like before.
“Just look at you. So goddamn clever.”
The praise lances though you, warm and coiling in your belly.
An actuator nudging your laptop to the side as he stands. Another arm bringing you with him, bending you over the heavy wooden desk.
His body, so thick and tall and sturdy behind you - his hand wrapped around his cock as he drags it over you, notching himself right at your entrance.
As he asks, “That’s why you’re my girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” You moan, and he’s making a rough, appreciative noise as he presses into you.
Filling you, finally. Nudging his way inch by inch as your fingers curl around the edge of the desk, as to try to rock back to meet him.
As you manage one last gasp before he’s fully sheathed. Before he gives you what you’ve earned.
“Yours.”