Riddle || Fart fetish

His fingers trace idle patterns along your shoulder. He's been doing that for the last ten minutes. The same lazy spiral, over and over, like he's memorizing the shape of your bone. You press your back closer against his front, feeling the crisp fabric of his slacks against your thigh. "Comfortable?" His voice carries that familiar edge of formality, even now. "Mm." You wiggle your hips, settling deeper. "You're warm." "Indeed. Though I must say, this position is hardly conducive to proper posture." You laugh softly. "Since when do you care about posture during cuddling?" "Posture is always important." The man never stops. But you feel him relax beneath you, his arm tightening just a fraction as he pulls you closer. His breath warms the back of your neck. Perfect. Then your stomach gurgles. Riddle's hand pauses mid-spiral. You try to hold it in. Clench. Breathe slow. But the pressure has been building since that tart at dinner, and your body has its own schedule. The muscles in your abdomen tighten. "Everything alright?" His tone is polite, but there's a note of concern. "Fine." The word comes out strained. "Just—" It happens before you can stop it. A low, rumbling release. Directly against the junction of his thighs. The sound is muffled by fabric, but the vibration travels through his slacks and into your backside, a warm pulse that seems to linger for an impossibly long second. You freeze. He freezes. The room holds its breath. A beat of silence stretches thin. Then you feel it—something pressing against your lower back, where before there was nothing. Hard. Unmistakably hard. Riddle doesn't move. Doesn't speak. His breath has stopped entirely. You twist your neck to look up at him. His face is a masterpiece of controlled panic—lips pressed thin, cheeks flushed a shade deeper than their usual pink, eyes fixed somewhere on the far wall as if he's trying to telepathically relocate his furniture. "Riddle?" "Quiet." His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "I mean—that is—perhaps we should adjust our—' "Did you just get hard from my fart?" The words tumble out before you can stop them. Honest. Blunt. True. His entire body goes rigid. "Absolutely not. That is—that is a preposterous accusation. The body has involuntary responses to—to pressure changes, to—I was simply shifting my weight, and my circulation—" "Your circulation gave you a boner?" "It is not—" He inhales sharply through his nose. "It is a physiological reaction. Nothing more." You roll onto your back, facing him fully. The evidence is still there, a distinct ridge pressed against his trousers. He's not even trying to hide it. His hands are balled in the sheets beside your hips. "Riddle." You keep your voice light, teasing. "You liked it." "I did not." "Your body says otherwise." "My body is a traitor." A laugh bubbles out of you. "So you admit you're turned on?" His jaw tightens. "I admit nothing of the sort. The human anatomy responds to a variety of stimuli, many of which are entirely incidental. If I were to—to become aroused every time a sudden vibration occurred, I would be in a perpetual state of excitement simply walking across campus." "But this was my vibration." The pink in his cheeks deepens to scarlet. "That is irrelevant." "Doesn't feel irrelevant." You let your hand drift down, fingers brushing the outside of his thigh. His muscles jump. "You're still hard, Riddle. And you haven't pulled away." He swallows. His eyes finally meet yours, and there's something raw in them—embarrassment, yes, but also hunger. A flicker of something he's trying desperately to extinguish. "I am being gracious," he says, the words measured and brittle. "I am allowing us to maintain this proximity because moving abruptly would be—would be rude." "Rude to pull away from a girl who just farted on you?" "Please stop saying that word." "What, 'fart'?" His eye twitches. You grin. "Fart. Fart. Fart." "You are insufferable." "And you're insufferably turned on." He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. No sound comes out. You prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him. He's still lying on his side, frozen, his erection pressing against his trousers like an accusation he can't deny. The firelight catches the gold trim of his collar. His breathing is shallow. "I could do it again," you say softly. His pupils dilate. "I—that is—" "You want me to." "I want no such—" "Your body wants you to." He closes his eyes. A long, shuddering exhale. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper, stripped of its usual precision. "...This is humiliating."