#gilfoyle

Seventy-two hours, that’s how long Gilfoyle’s been up hacking. Seventy-two fucking hours.

The pads of his fingers hurt, his eyes sting and there is a pounding in his temples that only worsens as he hears Dinesh’s door slam at the other end of the hall. Nausea claws at his stomach, from exhaustion and the crate of energy drinks he’s consumed while trying fix the shitstorm that Gavin Belson had unleashed upon them.

When he opens the door to his own room, there you are sitting on his bed in a pair of his boxer shorts, his Napalm death t-shirt and those knee socks, the ones he’s been dying to fuck you in all weekend.

That’s another reason he hates Gavin Belson; he’s been depriving him of that sweet pussy over the past three days.

You glance up as he steps inside, those eyes of yours taking in his dishevelled clothing and the half up, half down man bun he’s sporting. You’re wearing that pair of cute kitty cat headphones he modded for better sound quality and your laptop is resting on your crossed legs as you furiously type out the next chapter of your upcoming novel Cthulhu Dreams.

That’s how the two of you met, on a message board debating the lore behind H.P Lovecraft’s greatest literary invention.

You set the laptop and headphones down on the nightstand as he drops onto the mattress alongside you, his arm thrown up over his head to shield his gritty eyes from the lamplight.

“I want to die.” He mumbles as you reach over, turning off the lamp.

The room plunges into darkness, the glow from the laptop illuminating your features as you prop your head up on the pillow. He tilts his face towards you as you reach out to touch him, your fingertips tracing over the coarse hair of his beard.

“If you were dead then you wouldn’t feel me doing this.” You murmur as you lean in close.

Your nose trails along his until you find his mouth. He sighs as you kiss him, relief flooding through his nervous system as the taste of bubblegum blossoms on his tongue from your lip balm. You always have this way of relaxing him, of quieting the relentless noise in his head when he gets too deep.

You shuffle closer, your soft curves pressing against his hard planes as your legs entwine with his.

“You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” He mutters, his calloused palm roaming down your thigh until his fingers toy with the elastic on your knee socks. It gives him a deviant thrill when you wear these for him. He wants to peel those boxer shorts off you, tumble you into his sheets in his Napalm Death t-shirt. “The spirit is willing but the body is fucked.

“Too tired to fuck…” You tease as you remove his glasses, setting them alongside your laptop. “It must be the apocalypse, Bertie.”

He nips that sensitive spot underneath the hinge of your throat, the one that makes you a little crazy. “Quit it with the Bertie, you know it only ends with you tied to the headboard at my complete mercy.”

“Oh no.” You drawl, wrapping your arms around him as he buries his face into the curve of your throat. “I wouldn’t want to wake up like that at all.”

You can feel his smile against your skin as his body relaxes against you. Your fingers combing lightly through his hair as he begins to settle, his breathing evening out.

“Tomorrow my dark queen.” He mumbles, already half sleep. “I promise, I’ll ravage you then.”

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