ModernRoomate!Muriel x Reader, where Muriel collects you up after you've returned from a party. Perhaps you're exhausted, perhaps you're drunk, but you swat the lights of the room until it's turned off, and you flop onto the nearest large-enough surface you can find. Maybe it's the couch, maybe it's the table, maybe it's the floor. You don't know, and you don't care.
Muriel on the other hand, does.
Of course he does.
He collects you up off the floor. Not scooping you up, lest your delirious brain swivel and swirl in your skull, till your eyes ache even worse, and your stomach flips upside down—no, he simply ushers you up and off of your sloppy sleeping place, offering an arm for you to lean on as he slowly guides you to your bedroom.
You mutter something, drowsily, incoherently, and in that warm, rumbly hushed voice of his, he hums, asking you what you meant with as little sound as possible.
"Makeup," you manage to mutter and grumble. "need t'take of my makeup...just take me to the bathroom."
He does as you ask, and the lights of the bathroom are flickered on. Miserably, horribly bright, but mandatory for your needs.
You're about to paw the area for your makeup wipes, but Muriel tugs you back before he pulls out a little unmarked bottle of... something and begins to clean your face, letting you close your eyes, as he wipes away the smears and marks your makeup left behind, running lukewarm water over your face, enough to build little puddles of water around the small sink. You feel clean when he's all done tidying you up, a little dry perhaps, but that might've been from the drinks, or the sweat. You expect him to lead you back to the bedroom then, but he fishes a more familiar bottle from the messy shared sink space, and rubs your moisturizer into your face.
Finally done with that, he leads you back into your room, drapes a blanket over your shoulders and helps you to tug the worst of your party outfit off. You're mostly covered by the blanket, but whatever skin shows is covered by the lights still left off in your room, though the washroom lights linger, exposing a sliver of skin to any eyes who may choose to pry.
Muriel's green eyes catch gold from the old bathroom lights. Even in the dark, he still looks away, insistent to give you your privacy.
Maybe you're naked in the end. Maybe you manage to worm at least some portion of your pajamas on. Regardless, Muriel simply tucks that blanket around your shoulders to cover you better, and helps usher you into your bed.
He's about to leave, but you hold him back, clinging to his clothes, perhaps, or wrapping your fingers around some of his own before he can pull away.
It's dark. You're exhausted. The only coherent thing you can manage to say is, "I didn't know you could do that."
"Do what?" His voice feels lower somehow. It's certainly quieter, but the low rumble of it makes you lean towards him, towards the sound of him, even as your head continues to ache.
"Remove makeup. Didn't know you knew how to do that."
He hums, soft and deep just like before, and he hesitates by your bedside. Maybe he wants to reply, maybe he doesn't want to explain. You don't care either way. You want him to linger by your side.
He leans closer towards you and you can feel it more than you can see it, the brush of his clothes as they drape closer towards you, the warmth of his chest, of his hands, the tickle of his hair against your skin.
Light passes through the window, gold and red illuminating him for a moment, to confirm your suspicions, but halt his movement. He hesitates, still standing over you when the light fades from the window, that car somewhere far away by now, and he leans back, squeezing your hand as he goes, soothing his thumb over a patch of your wrist, as he leaves.
and all too soon, he pulls away.
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