crush imagines (he/him crush)

one night stand part 1

more smut on the way muahaha >:)

in this story you and C/N aren't dating. enjoy! 

Wednesday nights at LaffTrack were a weekly occurrence, preceded by happy hour and succeeded by nights of sexy, steamy dreams. The dreams could and would only be attributed to one man, known to me only by his comedian name: Guy. 

I almost never sat in the front of his shows, preferring to observe him from the back, where I could watch him pop backstage for glasses of water, his Adam's apple bobbing as he wiped sweat from his brow. Sometimes, I would stay after hours helping collect discarded brochures, watching him flirt with other comedians or make himself a gin and tonic. 

His jokes were an acquired taste— so stupid that they were smart, the kinds that are their own punchline. I had an epiphany after nearly every line, trying to keep up with the gears in his brain, which appeared to be a well oiled machine. 

He was gorgeous, and I was just some girl. I watched him and he never watched me. 

Or so I thought. 

Until the Wednesday when I was running late, and by chance, the only available seat in the cramped, renovated brownstone was a spot in the front. I slid into my seat and admired my new view, one that allowed me to see the little mole below his left eye and the scar along the topside of his forearm. 

I rarely participated in shows. Hecklers were just a different breed, or drunk out of their minds. I wasn't one to subject myself to ridicule for the pleasure of others. 

Yet today, the improv was dry, a series of words that he'd riffed on many times before. I could sense his frustration intensifying each time he called on someone. I had to do something, so when he held the mic up with a teasing smile and asked for another request, I shouted as loud as my quiet voice could muster. 

"Catilinarian conspiracy!" 

He immediately jumped into his set stance, ready to go. 

"Catilinarian conspiracy. Uh—" 

He froze abruptly, earning hoots and chuckled from the audience. His eyes searched the crowd for the source of the voice. 

"Who said that?" he inquired into the mic, eyes settling on me when the people around me yelled and pointed. God, I hated comedy patrons. "You said that?"

I nodded, burning up at the thought of so many eyes being on me. 

"Well, congratulation," he grinned, sauntering over to my side of the stage. He lowered himself to eye level with me and gave me a mischievous look. "You are the first person to stump me during my improv set." 

The crowd went wild. Yet for a moment, his gaze lingered, equal parts intrigued and confused. I loved seeing those gears turn, and I loved knowing I was the one that got them turning. 

He caught me at the bar as I was delivering all the brochures I'd collected. His hair was messy and his shirt was damp, yet he still smelled like cologne and beeswax lip balm. 

"You stumped me today," he recounted, reaching over the bar to grab two glasses. "I don't like being stumped." 

He slid one glass to the bartender. 

"Get this fine patron a rum and coke, please and thank you." 

And turned to me. 

"You're here a lot."

"Indeed," I replied, fiddling with the belt loop of my jeans. 

"Why?"

I rolled my eyes. "The chairs. Best fold-out chairs in the city." 

He laughed heartily and caught my drink without making eye contact. 

"In all seriousness," I revised, staring into the ripples of my drink, "You're a funny guy." 

He looked at me as if he'd never been told that before. 

"Thank you. I don't think I've ever heard that one." 

"Are you kidding me?" I asked, leaning out of my seat and towards him. 

"Usually people are too busy trying to one-up me to acknowledge that I'm the funniest person to ever exist in this galaxy." 

I snorted. "When are universals?" 

I drove him back to his apartment, one of the ones that was an ugly beige on the outside but a lovely, fresh haven on the inside. 

He stopped outside of the door and fished for his keys, choosing to ignore the fact that we were practically pressed up against each other, both so filled with lust that all politeness seemed to have drained from the plant-lined hallway. 

When he finally got his door open, he turned to face me, eyes hungry. 

"So... want to tell me a bit about Catilitarian conspiracy?"

His uneven breaths broke the silence between us as I considered his invite. 

"I'd love to—" 

And before I could finish, he pulled me inside.