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oftenderweapons · 1 year

Text

In Your Calvin's | JJK

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x reader (nicknamed Candy)

Wordcount: 9.6k

Genre: smut, fluff, pwp, established relationship

Rating: 18+ Minors, do not interact

Synopsis: Being Jeon Jeongguk's girlfriend is a great honour, but it comes with great responsibilities. When the commercial celebrating your boyfriend (very secret boyfriend) starts playing on everyone's and their mother's phones, it's time you face what it means to be loved by the most wanted idol of them all.

Warnings: Jealousy and general possessiveness. Swearing. Powerplay, switch!reader, switch!jk. Masochist!jk (?). Marking (hickey, writing on body with a pen), hair pulling (male receiving), edging (male receiving), spanking (male and female receiving). Teasing. Mild degradation. Dry humping. A very mild boobjob. Breast worship. Unprotected foreplay, oral sex (female receiving; brief male receiving), unprotected sex (be smarter, kids), rough sex. Mentions of cockring.

One last thing: 1. this was edited at 3am, please bear with me. 2. Sidenote: I try to be as neutral as possible with the way I describe the girls' appearance, however I wanted to specify that in this fic, I mention Candy having long, straight hair (and huge badonkers, but that's kinda canon by now LOL). It's just a brief mention, absolutely nothing major and holds no relevance to the fic, you might not even notice it; but still, I wanted to make sure I thought about my curly haired goddesses, and short haired queens, (or a combo of both heart eyes) and that I apologise for making this fic just a pinch less immersive for you. (Is this the right moment to apologise to small boobs princesses too? ily sisters, itty bitty titty committee 5evah)

Here's my masterlist, lemme just disappear very quickly. Enjoy 💜✨

You knew Jeongguk had a gig with Calvin Klein. You've known it for months. You've seen him cut calories and hit the gym and dehydrate for a couple days before the shoot because he explained to you how muscle definition works, and crucial to showing a great slab of abs is being basically as dry as a breadstick, to the point of being cranky because you have drunk three glasses of water in the last forty-eight hours.

Which all means, you knew his stomach would be quite surely showing.

And yet your world still stops once you're merrily sitting on your train back home and his half undressed form appears on the screen on your phone.

At first you slam your phone shut, mostly because you're used to hiding your boyfriend away and that's the reaction you usually have when you open one of his flirty pics from your chat.

Next, you realise you weren't on your private chat, and you weren't even looking at pictures in your phone gallery.

You were absentmindedly scrolling. On Instagram.

You unlock your phone again, and right there you're confronted with the very naked truth.

Jeongguk. Is basically naked. On your phone. And it's for the entire world to see.

Your brain slows down, as if the earth axis is tipping over a little in the opposite way.

Something inside you snaps around the third time the video plays in front of your unseeing eyes. To anyone looking at you, you could be just an obsessed fan taking a close look at the fine piece of art, but your eyes are unfocused, your mind too deep in thought to register any stimulus from the external world.

The vibration from the phone awakens you from your state of trance.

“Candy, baby,” says the adorable lover boy calling you. “Have you seen it already?”

Your lips are sealed, and you can't quite bring yourself to speak, you don't know why.

“I'm on my way back home.” You say, and the words feel like cracking a glow stick in your chest.

“But did you see it?” His voice isn't as bright now.

“I'm coming home.” You repeat.

He's silent for a few seconds, and you can hear him sigh. “Okay.”

“He's so insanely hot,” you overhear a girl sitting across from you comment.

“I want to run my palms down the sides of his waist,” says her friend.

You stare at them and you know you must look like a woman possessed right now, but you still allow yourself to incinerate them with a glare, as if your eyes could turn into flamethrowers.

“Candy?”

“I'll be home in ten.” And you close the call.

On the way back home, you hear more people talk. More girls fawn. More women zoom in.

On the escalator, you notice a woman fanning herself while staring at the screen. Another one even crosses herself as the ad from your boyfriend reruns on her phone screen.

Every step on your way home is utter agony, and once you step over the threshold, you're not sure what you're going to do.

Jeongguk is in the kitchen in a sleeveless top, tattoos out, piercings glowing in the gentle light of the living room. And his hair is fluffy, which means he's probably just done blow drying it after taking a shower.

The fact that the scent of his body lotion is still sharp gives you further indication of how recent that shower must be.

“Hey,” he says, turning towards you with a bunny grin, which immediately dims once he sees your expression. “Oh. Bad day?”

You bite your lip and stare at him a fair bit. Then, a bit more.

“Candy, love.”

You don't know what to do with him. Is he yours? Is he really yours?

How come you come home to him making dinner, and being freshly showered, and being so domestic? How come you're living in his apartment, knowing his pass code, having an ID card for his apartment complex and his studio at HYBE? How come he gives you a copy of his schedule and talks about you over the phone on his weekly call to his grandmother and brings you to his parents' house? How come you go on trips together and you're the emergency contact to his fur babies and you make love two to four times a week? How come he's brought you to the town he grew up in and loved you down in the place where he lost his virginity because, "I wish it had been you since the very first time"?

Who is this man?

Is he Jungkook from Bangtan Sonyeondan? Or is he Jeon Jeongguk, your very own quiet, shy, reserved lover boy?

“You're scaring me,” he whispers, putting down his wooden spoon and taking a few steps to stand in front of you.

“Why me?” you ask, staring at his collarbones, too scared to look into his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asks back, sheepish.

This time your eyes meet his. “Why me? Of all the women out there, why me?” You look down, taking in just how average you feel, every imperfection magnified in your eyes, now that you have so many people you're comparing yourself with, and competing with.

“Candy—” He starts.

“Everyone, everyone out there is literally foaming at the mouth at that commercial, and I'm here? I come home to you? I make love to you almost every night?” You pause and laugh bitterly at him. “I'm a fucking fraud.”

He shakes his head and moves closer, grabbing your wrists. “A fraud, you say?” He tuts in disappointment, places your hands on his waist. “You're not a fraud, ____, you're my soulmate.” He leaves your hands once he feels them clutch at his narrow waist.

Possessiveness hits you all of a sudden, and it is only mildly ebbed by his hands landing at the top of your ass.

“I love you, and I make love to you because it's a fucking dream. You're a fucking dream, and I'm so upset that you don't see it.”

You're jealous. You're simply jealous. It's human and it's healthy to be moderately jealous. After all the comments you heard and read, it's fair to be jealous.

“I reckon you saw the commercial.”

“I saw the commercial and everyone's reaction to it,” you comment, slightly acidic.

Jeongguk bends to place a kiss below your earlobe. “Are you angry?”

No. Not just anger.

Your hands mimic his and crawl to his lower back, toying with the hemline of his underwear. “I'm not mad.” I'm disgustingly jealous and I don't like them having more of what's mine. They already have too much, they've always wanted too much and you always give it to them and I'm furious that it's not mine alone.

Jeongguk wears a mischievous smile as he makes you take several small steps back, the back of your legs hitting the kitchen counter. “Do you like it?”

You click your tongue and shake your head. “No.”

The reply startles him, and he feels his mood dim. Did he—

“I'm not a jealous person, but this… God, this hits a new level,” you finally admit. “They already drool over you quite enough, and now they even have a video of you shirtless. How would I not be jealous!? Half the girls would have snapped your neck. If Yoongi ever did this, Kitten would have his balls dangling from her Mercedes keychain. I don't even know how Lace and Princess are handling their boyfriends naked on everyone's phone. If I were Tae I would seek political asylum in Greenland. Or maybe Tibet.” You take a large mouthful of oxygen before you launch yourself in another tirade.

“Everyone's talking about grabbing your waist, licking your abs, tugging at your hair and shit and hi! I'm here! I'm the girlfriend! Sorry I exist! WHAT THE FUCK!?”

Jeongguk laughs and lowers himself to your chest, kissing where your heartbeat echoes like a crazed war drum.

“It's not fun!” you complain, significantly agitated.

“Mh.” He hums as he moves aside the hem of your shirt, meeting the soft, smooth skin of your chest. “It was supposed to come out on your birthday, that's why's a bit more racy,” he explains more patiently. “But they decided to release it early.” He kisses a tender spot and your left knee tingles a little. “It was supposed to be a slightly too public boudoir shoot. But secretly it was just yours.” Jeongguk finds the cup of your bra and stares up at you as his fingers reach the hem and slide the fabric aside. “I was thinking of you when I made it.”

And once his mouth wraps around your nipple, your right knee starts tingling too.

“Must admit I had to push the limits a lot to finally make you jealous,” he purrs once he is done with the licking, sucking motion of his mouth around your tender flesh. “But I'm sorry I crossed the line.”

What line? You think, your brain already hazy. No sharp line exists in the world you’re currently in. Just the loving, plush hills of Jeongguk's lips, the slippery slopes of his waistline, the sinuous curves of his hip bones leading you to his pelvis, and the soft curls of his luscious dark locks. No crossed borders, only gentle waves licking the shore, water and land embracing one the other.

“Remind me who's the boss here, Candy,” he says, and you know he's playing you right now. “Remind me where I belong.” His mouth is at your ear as he whispers, “Show me who owns me.”

The tingles are spreading as his fingers grab at your ass, his lips connecting with your jaw. “Talk to me, Candy.”

You’re not sure you can articulate words at this moment. Talking isn’t as easy as everyone makes it seem.

His eyes connect with yours and he can tell you’re staring at his lips by the poetic detail of your lashes lowered over your cheekbone.

It makes him chuckle, very gently, that he has all these details of you he adores, and that you have the audacity of asking him why he picked you, and why he keeps choosing you over and over.

He loves you, his family loves you, his dogs love you. This is the way it’s supposed to be.

His finger reaches underneath your chin, forcing your eyes to actually meet his. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he purrs, and as your lashes dart up, he shakes his head a little, loving the way you arch up a fraction, as if pulled towards him. “There she is, beautiful.”

You feel completely neutralised. Disarmed. All the storms brewing over you a minute ago are forgotten as soon as his sweet smile shines like sunlight above you.

His hand combs your hair back, cupping your cheek and landing a kiss on your temple. “Are you feeling better?”

You nod.

“What mood are we in?” You’ve asked him this question thousands of times since the two of you became serious, ever since he opened up about feeling too closed off to make a relationship work; and now, the fact that it was such a solid, valid ritual in your dynamics made it natural for him to ask too. “You need to talk to me, sweetheart.”

“I’m better. I…”

“Tell me what you want.”

You stare at him, at his shoulders, at his biceps, you trace his tattoo with your fingertip, and he looks closely at your finger, at it drawing swirls and circles on his skin.

“Pick me up,” you say softly.

And he does, immediately. His biceps flex and he grunts a little, not at the weight, but just because he knows the sound can make your toes curl, and he likes that a lot. His hands are wrapped around the back of your thighs, then they adjust to your bottom.

“Next? Counter? Bed? Shower?”

You kiss him. Impatient, and needy, you kiss him.

He opens up for you without hesitation, moaning at the sweet invasion of your tongue in his mouth. God, he loves it. It makes him melt, to feel your tongue slip against his, moving wet and sloppy, your lips plush and hot pressed up against him. He loves kissing you. Actually, he loves making out with you. He’s pretty sure he could come of that alone, and he tries to remind himself you have to give that a try. Another day.

He places you onto the counter because he fears his knees might give out on him. And once he has you there it means his hands can roam all over you and grab your chest and toy with—

“No touching,” you snap at him, gripping his wrists and pulling his hands behind his back.

His eyes go wide at the shift in pace, but he obeys. He also feels like he's awakening from a dream only to find out reality can be so much better.

You dig your hands in his hair and he hisses a little as you tug gently, but still roughly. You think of all the people who wish they could do just so as you stare into his eyes, seeing just how turned on he gets as you manhandle him.

You lean towards him and you notice him trying to kiss you, but you tug at his hair harder, holding him in place as the heat of your exhale fans over his parted lips and his chin.

“You want me to own you?” you ask him, watching his muscles twitch as he fights the urge to grab you and put you in place.

He nods. “Do me all the things no one else can.” He has a roguish smile as he adds, “Do me everything they won't ever, ever do to me.” And he is god of deception when he finally tips you over the edge. “Do me everything I want just from you, and you alone.”

You watch him intently, then tug at his hair so that his head is angled upwards, throat vulnerable and exposed.

He's staring at you with a mischievous glint in his expression, a walking temptation, and you can almost hear him say it, 'come on, do it'. And you do it.

You bend forward and sink your teeth in his flesh, the tender skin caving in as your bite marks him softly before your cheeks move into a suctioning motion that you know will turn into a bruise. It just pleases you so.

“Take a step back,” you order as soon as you're happy with the hickey. “Take off your shirt.”

And he winks before he does. You watch the plain of his chest, the valley in between his pectorals leading you down to his navel.

“I hope you're wearing your Calvin's,” you tease with a cocked eyebrow.

He smirks. “Always in my Calvin's.”

You snicker and shake your head. “Take off your pants.”

His forehead scrunches up in surprise, but he eventually obeys.

He's standing in a pair of socks and his white boxer briefs. At least he didn't lie, they are Calvin Klein.

“Do you want—”

“The Calvin's stay on,” you sentence, then you descend from the counter. “Head over to the bedroom. I'll come over in a minute.”

He stares at you, flabbergasted.

“Oh, and I almost forgot: don't touch yourself. Settle down, hands on the headboard and wait pretty.”

He blinks, unsure of where this is going to end or where it came from, but so blazingly grateful for it.

“Okay.”

You give him a quick once-over as you stand in front of each other. His abs are toned and defined, but now less alarmingly than the days before the shoot. His thighs are strong and you love how the material from the boxers wraps around them comfortably and smoothly.

You dare stare at his crotch, at the way the fabric traces the curve of his length, so perfectly long and so perfectly thick.

You allow your fingertips to trace the curve of his spine, so lightly that it causes him to close his eyes, his head inched to the side as he shivers in pleasure.

“Can I be rough with you?” you ask him, your hand reaching the small of his back and cupping the curve of his ass.

He moves his hands on you the exact same way you did. “Maybe I like pain,” he suggests, and from the collection of tattoos and piercings, but mostly from the supercut of memories of him getting bitten, spanked and scratched by you, you’re reminded that you’re not dealing with the edited version of him he has promoted publicly.

This is your boyfriend. Jeongguk. Your Jeongguk.

You sink your nails into the flesh of his ass, and he hisses but smiles, pulling you closer, swaying his hips to tease your crotch with his. “Go get ready, babyboy,” you croon.

He hums invitingly and kisses your neck, trying to get you to move with him, but you’ve made up your mind already.

“Go,” you repeat.

He pouts and grabs your hips. “Come on, what are you trying to do?” he asks, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark and wide and imploring for you to just follow him and spare him whatever cruel surprise you want to use against him.

You grab his wrists, making him unclasp his hands. “Go and you’ll find out.”

He hesitates and then he faces away, still reluctant, turning around a couple times on his way, checking if you’re following him — perhaps, maybe, hopefully…

Yet, you don’t move, not until he turns the corner to the bedroom. And then you make your way over, slow, unbothered.

And you close the door on him.

You head to the bathroom, wash up quickly, and equally quickly you cover yourself in his favourite lotion, taking special care of your neck and chest. Once properly buttered up and covered in nothing but pretty Calvin undies and his favourite Calvin jeans jacket, you’re ready to attack. But you stare at yourself in the mirror, and you feel like there’s still something you could do to give him a heart attack…

Oh, that, you think. And you get to work.

Apparently he has behaved, as you find him lounging in bed, with his boxers still on, his hands laced behind the crown of his head, a fine slab of abs in full glow from the dark amber hue coming from his led lights.

“Are we on a sunset gold kinda vibe— Holy shit.” He didn’t manage to sound as cool and aloof as he’d tried to be once his eyes landed on you.

He wished he could take a picture of you and spread it across town, just so he could stare at it while waiting for a bus, or hanging out at Hongdae with his friends, and excitedly point at it while tipsy to holler “that’s my fucking girlfriend, that fine piece of ass fucking owns me”.

He wished he could put you on an album cover and fill it with all the insane stuff you do to his heart and his mind and his body. How his heartbeat does a little hiccup thing when he sees you first thing in the morning, and how he’s spent every wish on fallen eyelashes over you, and making you happy, and building you a house and having fireworks for your wedding night, and having all his fans seeing just how incredibly fantastic you are to him, how you make him so happy and deliriously smitten and barely coherent when it comes to talking about you, and just… He just wants everyone to love you half as much as he does.

And maybe for you to be only ever in love with him, so he doesn’t risk anyone thirsting for you enough to steal you from him.

“What were you saying about golden lights?” you ask, climbing on the bed, your hand modestly holding the lapels of his jeans jacket together — it’s not time to destroy him yet.

“I— I…” He tries to sit up, but you push him back where he belongs with a well-placed hand pressed to the middle of his chest.

“Put on the red lights, love.” You grin devilishly, watching his doe eyes glimmer with wonder and disbelief.

“Have I ever told you I am one lucky motherfucker?” he says, staring at your neck, at your face, at your hand, his palms already moving to your hips as you straddle him.

“I just know it.” You sit on your throne — his lap —, stretch to the end table to grab the remote to switch the lights to red, and once the deal is settled, you let the jacket open. “I mean. I’m the luckiest because I have these, but considering you profit from them… You know…” You let your breasts show.

“I know…” he says, entirely mesmerised. God, he is so easy, you think, watching his eyes scan your chest like a cat playing catch with a laser light. You mix your standard level of charm with a slow grind of your hips, so slow and gentle that it’s straight up teasing, torture at its blandest level.

“You make it so hard to think,” he speaks with a strangled voice, trying to make you move the way he wants, but you grab his hands with the excuse of lacing your fingers with his, only to drag them back by the sides of his head.

“I didn’t know I could turn your brain into mush just like this,” you reply, feeling your folds moisten in an attempt to ease the sliding of your crotch against his length. Too bad both of you are still clad in your underwear and, according to your plans, would stay that way for quite a while, as long as possible. “You’re so whipped.”

“I am,” he purrs, and tries to get away with moving his hands back to your hips, but before he can dig his digits in the soft of your flesh, you tut.

“You’d better not touch that ass, Jeon. Keep your hands to yourself if you want my hands on you,” you threaten. “Just to remind you who’s in charge, sweetheart.”

His eyes go wide and he moves his palms back behind his head as soon as you finish your remark. “Yes, miss.”

“Good boy,” you praise him, and you visibly notice him holding back from smiling at the praise. “Did you see my little mark?” you ask. “Call it a slog

an of sorts. A vision statement.” You shrug and push back the lapels, hoping for the lights not being too low for him to see.

It has taken a while for your handy work to happen, mostly because it can be absurdly tricky writing in reverse, but thankfully you’re quite prone to graphic arts.

Jeongguk rises a little, getting closer to where he can recognise dark scribbles on your chest. Unusual dark scribbles.

“Is that… Tattooed?” he asks, and his eyes go wide as he meets your face.

You cackle at him, leaning over and licking his lips, sucking his lower one, then travelling along his jaw, nibbling at his earlobe in a way that makes his hips jolt against you, buckling. “I can't have that tattooed, can I? Unless the world knows and it gets a little too permanent.”

He frowns, not at the way he loses contact with your warm crotch, but because of the unwelcome realisation of what it means to not belong to you entirely. “I'm so sorry,” he sighs, trying to hold you, but stopping his hands before he can touch you.

He goes back to his assigned position and begs you with his eyes.

“Oh, no. Don't worry, it's okay.” To keep him distracted, you get back to a soft roll of your pelvis against his, and he seems to oppose, but it only lasts for maybe five seconds.

His wound-up exhale convinces you to reward him further, lowering your chest so that it drags against his as you keep grinding on him.

“Jeongguk, baby,” you murmur fondly.

“So unfair… That I don’t get you like a girlfriend like anyone else…” He speaks, his focus spotty and frail.

“What do you mean, love?” you egg him on.

“All the public stuff… All the PDA and the grand gestures. The stuff that makes it official, you know.” His eyes are glassy and fleeting as he speaks, and it really feels as if speaking were like making a necklace except he can’t quite line up the beads the right way and he can’t manage to get the string inside the hole and it takes a very long time for the words to finally turn into meaning and it’s all so frustrating.

“I don’t care,” you reassure him, and this time you’re not unaffected either, the sentence stumbling out of you before you can even fully register the meaning you were trying to convey. “Can you read the tattoo, Guk?”

His eyelids lift through great effort, and in slow motion. You stop moving to help him focus on the writing, and he grunts at the interruption. He does not like that at all, and having you so close, so soft, so hot and wet for him is making his instinct vibrate with need to be inside you, move inside you, and then finally find his release in the welcoming darkness of your womb.

“I—” He’s really trying so hard, god bless his heart, but he’s so unfocused and his vision is blurry and he needs to blink for a bunch of seconds before he manages to spell the message, and then compute it, and then smirk wildly before he bucks his hips up against you, letting you know that you’d better move on him.

“What is it, Jeongguk? Mind sharing with the class?” you bait him with a cheshire grin.

“Not sharing any of this,” he growls, and you can feel his arms jolt at the urgency to wrap around you, press you to his front and shove you underneath him, so that he can finally move as hard and as fast as he knows the both of you need.

“Oh, don’t be a greedy little boy! Don’t you want to test how it feels to say it?” you tease him further, ready to push him to his breaking point. After all, that is what you’re always trying to do, get as far as it needs to make him go wild on you, barely coherent and entirely animalistic.

“You want me to say it, don’t you?” he provokes you, feeling just how much the humiliation will further send you soaring over him.

“I do,” you admit.

He bites his lip and you look at him, you study the shape of his lips, the glint in his eyes, the dark shimmering of his lovely ebony locks, and the way his chest heaves with effort and arousal. “These tits own Jeon Jeongguk,” he speaks, his gaze piercing yours, holding you accountable for the undoing he knows will follow.

“That’s right, isn’t it?” Your smile is sardonic, evilly pleased with his admission of submission, with him confirming, with conviction, that he is indeed entirely enslaved to his fascination for your chest, that he is so deeply enticed by it that just a silly part of you can guarantee you his unflinching devotion.

“You know it’s right,” he grunts as your movements resume. And at this point, he knows this is going to take a while, and it will most surely turn out vicious.

“Just checking in on you, making sure you haven’t found a better pair—”

“Don’t you dare talk to them like this. Not in front of me,” he hisses with a passion, and you chuckle at how chivalrously he defends your breasts from your own ill assumptions.

“That’s so gallant of you,” you reply, your hands pulling his hair back, your tone fond and just vaguely lined with mocking. “Let them repay you for your kindness,” you suggest, as you start crawling down his body, your breasts landing heavily on his lap.

“Really…?” he asks, first distracted and then extremely alert as he connects the dots. “With my boxers on?” He says with a frown.

You shrug and smirk. “Maybe we’ll get rid of them later…” You sprinkle some kisses on his abdomen, your chest dragging against his sensitive parts.

He frowns at the weight of them, so welcome, and yet deceiving as the fabric is hindering him from fully enjoying the act. “Please, off,” he huffs, tutting and fussing a little, but you decide to reward his patience with your nails tracing patterns against his chest, your fingertips drawing his areolae, your eyes hungry on his lost, bewildered state.

“Not yet, love… Be patient with me,” you reassure him, tracing the rift in between the crests of his hips, one side, then the others, ricocheting between the bones on the two sides. “I’m going to make it so good to you,” you promise him, placing kisses all around the underrated perfection of his belly button — a huge ‘fuck you’ to the people salivating over him and never, ever knowing how such a minuscule inch of his body has you so irreversibly whipped.

“Candy… Mh, love—” His voice has grown unbearably raspy and airy, so light it feels almost incorporeal, if it weren’t for the velvet smoothness of his skin underneath your lips, like marble that has finally received the breath of life, your boy an ineffable Galatea.

“If you knew, Guk, if only—” kiss— “you knew—” kiss— “how sexy, and erotic, and exciting and poetic you look right now, baby. You look like art.”

“Lemme touch you, I need you, I need—” he gasps and you’re almost expecting him to release a groan before he comes, way too early, much earlier than planned. But fortunately he doesn’t, he holds back stoically and cants his hips away. “For fuck’s sake,” he whispers, an arm covering his eyes. “I need a second if you need me to hold back.”

“Oh,” you reply in surprise, lifting yourself off him. “Are you alright?”

“Just give me some quiet for a second, Candy, don’t you dare even speak.” Jeongguk’s chest is rising and falling in wide movements, enticing and captivating.

Finally he removes his arm from his eyes, but he barely makes eye contact.

“Guk?” You ask, worried.

“Just— I’m trying to keep it cool here, love.” He wiggles his body a little, trying to get his boxers to fit a bit less tightly around him. “We should be smarter about this, you know?” His hands clench as he stops himself from reaching for you. “We should get a cockring for next time.”

You ogle him, then smile excitedly. “Really?” you chirp.

“Totally,” he concedes. He smiles even bigger at your smile. “Don’t tell me you bought one already.”

“Uhm… No,” you admit with a pout.

“Dammit. It would have been weird, but I wouldn’t even have complained about it since it would pretty much save my ass right now.” He licks his lips, stares at you some more, and he groans and throws his head back at the renewed flare of arousal after he’d just managed to tone it down a notch.

“I’m so sorry, bunny.”

“I’m alright,” he admits, his tone defeated.

“Is this the right moment to suggest I ride your face?” you say, your grin now sardonic, almost drunk on him and the sight of his body shutting down for you, malfunctioning at the mere touch of you.

He stares at you, wide eyed, nodding energetically, like a kid being asked if they want to visit Disneyland. “Guess it took a half naked commercial to get you to finally ask for it like you own it.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Careful or I can keep going with torturing you. I’m liking it anyway.”

“No no no, come over here,” he says with a stern and determined expression on his face, his hands reaching for the back of your thighs. “I’ve been waiting. Get comfy,” he encourages you, and after some manoeuvring you settle on top of him.

He nods to himself, his nose nuzzling against the crotch of your panties, his mouth opening so he can feel your heat with his tongue, trying to get as close as possible.

Unsatisfied, his fingers reach to slip your panties to the side, but you slap at his hand.

“Nope. You wanted the Calvin’s, and we’re keeping the Calvin’s,” you scold him.

He frowns. “No, you were the one wanting them,” he argues. “Keep them on, you said.”

“Whatever.” You arch an eyebrow at him, but you also know he’s right and this decision has come to bite you in the ass. “Imagine how good it will feel once we take them off… And it feels a bit kinky to keep them on. Like… Like we’re having a quickie and everyone out there is waiting for model Jeongguk to come out anytime now, but once he does, well, he looks freshly fucked and everyone can’t stop talking about it— Oh, that!” you moan, your musings interrupted by Jeongguk trying to get bits of you in his mouth.

You’re thankful for the brazilian cut panties giving him plenty of stuff to work with even with the underwear still on.

“Stop me if it’s lewd but, dammit, I love the smell of you.” He drags his face side to side, basking in the damp, salty scent of your arousal. “I don’t even know what it is about it, but I like it so much.”

“Keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you comment, your voice breathy.

“Do you want me to keep talking?” he asks, and you just rub yourself against his chin, his mouth, and his words come out muffled. At some point you think you might have hurt his nose, so you ease the pressure a little, but he grabs handfuls of your butt and keeps you snug to his face, parts his lips wider as if he were really trying to eat you.

He parts from his designed heaven only long enough to announce, “I’m pushing ‘em to the side, fuck it.” And you’re barely coherent, and he’s speaking with that intimate lisp of his, his accent heavy, like he can’t pay too much attention to words anyway.

You don’t oppose.

In seconds, his tongue is tipping inside you, slippery, and so hot, and you moan without even noticing it. Everything is soaked, his chest is covered in perspiration, and so are your thighs.

You dare look down, and his eyes are closed as he is filling all his other senses with the sensation of you.

You bask in the sight of him, one forearm draped against the headboard of the bed, your other hand reaching down, to his fluffy hair currently tickling your inner thigh. You grab it, careful to be right between gentle and aggressive, in that way he finds so pleasant and sexy.

He opens his eyes suddenly, and the moment he finds your eyes already connected with his face, he finds himself more eager to give you just what you need to plunge into oblivion.

He gives you lush, slow licks, from your centre to your most sensitive spot, he takes his time, and moves into more sinuous motions, drawing curve after curve on his way up. He is unrushed, patient, and eloquent. He is luxuriant, explorative, curious.

He loves what he’s doing, and he loves you and he’s showing it, top to bottom, and all the way up again.

“Guk,” you breathe out, and it’s almost a hiccup.

“Yes, I know,” he murmurs against the bend of your inner thigh, right at the fold to your crotch. It’s so private, so sacred. It’s heartbreakingly yours and his and no one else’s. You’re in a shared space where nobody else can tell what you and him know.

“Please,” you manage to say.

He rearranges his arm so he can move two fingers along the seam between your legs, and then they’re inside, and he’s moving them right, rubbing them against the back wall of your entrance.

As you tip your body forward, he moans with his mouth to your clitoris, happy with the new angle, and once you start grinding against him, climbing your way to your climax, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t go faster, he doesn’t add pressure. He does not change one single thing, and you’re so grateful for the way he has come to understand you, your body, your tells.

“Just right,” you encourage him. “You’re so damn perfect, love— Oh, there.”

That’s the last thing you can remember saying before he sets you off like fireworks. You don’t take much into consideration after that. All is fair, unless he’s holding you back.

You grind, hump, moan, thrash just a little as you get too sensitive and fold in two, your forehead pressed to your wrist on the headboard

as you shake your head ‘no’ but can’t bring yourself to stop from feeling everything he wants you to take.

When you manage to recover, you whisper, “Okay, gimme a second.” And you try to unstraddle his face, but he holds you there, and simply avoids touching your sensitive parts, removing his fingers from inside you.

“Are you alright, Candy?”

You nod and take some large breaths.

He moves your panties back in place, then kisses your mound softly, affectionate, innocent even.

“Can I do anything for you now, love?” He asks with a reverent, caring note in his voice.

You shake your head, still recovering. “Can I lay on top of you?”

“Sure thing,” he says, unlatching from you and leaving some room for you to realign with him, face to face, torso to torso, hip to hip, calf to calf.

He’s still hard as marble, and the gentle grind of your pelvis against his causes him to groan softly.

You press your lips to his to distract him.

The jeans jacket you’re still wearing gives him something to ground himself, his focus aimed entirely at the feeling of the fabric underneath his fingers instead of the humid warmth of your crotch pressed against his.

Just then, you bring your heels underneath your ass, rising to your knees as you swiftly remove your upper garment.

The way his focus moves immediately to your breasts makes you cackle a little, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Candy, you’ll have to get that tattooed.”

“Nah, too dangerous. They might tell on you.”

He frowns. “You’re right,” he still agrees. Too dangerous. You’re dangerous to him too, and there are not many chances of him keeping some form of dignity if he could at any time see a tattoo calling him out for his undying liaison with your chest.

He catches your wrists, making you lose your balance so that your torso collapses onto his. And he keeps you there, wraps you up in his arms.

“Still jealous, love?” he asks you.

“More than ever,” you admit, and you look into his eyes, recognising the feeling pooling in them.

“I'm only yours,” he swears, kissing the side of your head, whatever he can reach, and it's so tender, so innocent, so magical. “What can I do for you?” he whispers, flirting with you.

You wrap your hands around his forearms and bring them up above his head. “No. I want to do things for you.”

You press your lips to his gingerly, then start to kiss down, tracking his throat and moving further downwards, to his chest, stopping where his heart thumps against the petals of your lips.

“Beats so hard for me,” you comment lightly. “Do I make your heart race, love?”

“You do, Candy,” his reply is strained, as if it hurt to speak at that moment.

“But I—” You let your nails tickle the flat of his waist, the elastic band around his hips— “I also make your dick hard, don't I?”

He moans eloquently, then chuckles at your teasing. “You so do,” he admits, embarrassed but also excited, and so so thankful for having found you.

You grab the waistband of his underwear with your teeth, letting it slap against his skin with a dry snap. “Grab a pen from your bedside, will you?”

You look up just in time to catch his eyes flickering open, his expression coming to life slowly. “What?” he asks, confused.

“A pen, from your drawer,” you repeat.

“Oh.” He had been too unfocused and he hadn’t realised you were talking to him, as if the words were just sound with no meaning; however, now he’s paid attention, so he stretches to the side, exposing the slender twist of his waist to your reverent mouth. You kiss him there, his body contracting as your lips attack his ticklish spot.

“You’re a menace,” he complains, giving you the side eye, but also offering you a boyish, loving smirk.

“And yet, you love me.”

“You’re lucky,” he says, right before you nip at his skin in reprimand. “Okay, I am the lucky one,” he concedes, returning to you with a pen in his hand. “You want this one?” he asks.

You nod and stretch for it, then peck the mole beside his navel and make your way down.

His underwear by now is bitterly persona non grata, still you make yourself okay with it and simply move the elastic down, exposing his hipbone more fully.

“What you gonna do?” he muses, propping himself up and staring at you bent over his pelvis. You look at him and prepare the pen, staring in his eyes as you suck at your bottom lip, torturing it a little as you think.

“Are you gonna mark me? Sign me up?” he asks, a mocking grin on his face.

You move the pen away and loll your tongue out, drawing a thick stripe following the shape of him in his boxers.

He immediately drops his cocky act and arches up, sensitive, holding on barely.

“You think you’re so smart, huh?” you scold him provokingly. “Remember where this is all coming from,” you remind him threateningly.

He gasps as your mouth sucks his tip through the fabric, your nails tracing the indentations of his quads.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “You’ve got me.”

You nod to yourself. “I do,” you say, patronising just in the slightest. And because you can you rise, remove yourself from the way, and pull at his hipbone, trying to flip him around.

He’s alarmed, but he follows your lead. You straddle the back of his thighs, bend down, and move his underwear down, the elastic stuck under the fold of his ass, further emphasising it. It looks plump and delicious, and for a moment you’re caught admiring him.

He’s twisting his neck to try and see what you’re doing, filled with wonder at the way your hair tumbles over, and he’s mesmerised by the shine of it, the softness of the tips, like a brush, whispering at his skin.

You pick the right spot, then settle down, folded over his glute. His skin is hot against your touch and when you finally bring the pen to his flesh, you hope it won’t fail, despite the perspiration and the soft surface.

Shamelessly, you draw the words like an inscription on a stone.

Poetic, and dirty. Just the way you like it. However, you don’t give him the benefit of knowledge.

You lean back, watch your little handywork with a surging of pride and love and confidence. You smack it, just because you can, not hard, not soft either, just sweet enough that it doesn’t feel like a violation doing it without asking his permission first.

His muscles squeeze, and his breath catches.

Because I can, your brain keeps telling you, over and over, like a mantra. You’re allowed to. He’s yours and you’re the only one allowed to.

“You’re getting confident with this,” he comments, and suddenly your eyes are meeting.

He looks like something you would paint. Something you would dream of, and then wake up and sketch down in the middle of the night, caught by some sort of frenzy, some urgency mixed with an impending fear of forgetting, of losing it. Losing him.

“I’m gonna draw you.”

He doesn’t connect the words for a bunch of seconds. Not until you’re standing up and running out of the room and he asks himself, why, why the fuck is she leaving?

“Candy?” he calls, unsure.

He tries to see what in the world you’ve written on his ass, but you’re making your way back in the room, tablet in hand, and your steps are bouncy and your tits follow the movement so his attention is divided.

“What— Where—?” He’s confused.

And then you’re perched on the armchair at the corner of the room, and the light from your tablet reflects on your face, and you look spirited, caught by some urgency he can’t quite find a name for.

“Candy, for the love of—”

“Just a bunch of minutes. A quick sketch, no more.”

He’s been patient. He’s been understanding. He’s let you tease him, and he’s let you touch him, lick him, suck him. He still has your taste all over his face and chin and he still feels the phantom touch of your breasts against his crotch and all he wants is to feel you on him, around him, against him.

“Please,” he whines.

“Just a minute.”

He swells. Frowns. Thrusts his hips against the mattress.

“Almost—” you say, drawing a couple more lines.

You’re in his arms next. “Put that down, Candy.” His face is right above yours and he’s carrying you bridal style. “Put it down,” he repeats.

You're very still. He's looking at your quick sketch, at the way it was all a rough frame and some basic lines. “You're gonna post that? Share it as some fanart instead of a live portrait?” He throws you on the bed and you clutch your tablet harder, trying to save it from any damage. He's on top of you next, grabbing the device and moving it to his drawer before he returns upon you, blocking your wrists above your head.

“Are you maybe going to draw it faceless, so you can sell it as a picture, to decorate somebody's house?” He bends to your ear and nips at the side of your neck. “Let my ass hang naked on someone else's wall?”

You feel overwhelmed and surprised by his counterattack, not really knowing how to react.

He drags his body against yours, stealing a whimper from your lips. “I think you enjoyed topping a little too much tonight.” He flips you onto your front next, and you find yourself only mildly embarrassed that he's made only one tenth of the effort it had taken you to flip him.

He slaps your ass, and it is nowhere as playful or light as the spank you'd given him. It is his turn to grab the pen.

“Let's see if you can walk the talk, Candy. If you like the taste of your own medicine,” he muses, and he bites your ass cheek, bending over to start writing, but accidentally finding himself unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in your plush flesh.

“Since I'm not a selfish asshole, I'm gonna tell you what I'm writing. Here we go, 'This ass likes spankings from Jeon Jeongguk'. What do you say? Is it true?”

You're panting, wiggling in his hold, trying anything to see the possessed look on his face. “It's true,” you admit, breathless.

He smirks and lands one more hit on your ass. “Damn right it is,” he says confidently.

He tugs your underwear off harshly, almost angry.

Soon he's naked, and so are you, and he's slipping inside you while you're still on your front, your hips arched all the way up, cupped by his hands. “Let's make this fuck more fun than your drawing, huh?”

And when he starts, goodness, you want him to never, ever stop.

He's ruthless, and he only asks if you're alright once, after three strokes. After that, all's fair, and he's ramming inside you in a way that makes you gasp and arch further, trying to get him even deeper, to an even better angle.

You can't really look at him, since you'd risk a kink in your neck, but he doesn't care. He only cares about his handwriting on your ass, and his name on it. He only cares about the way you're gasping his name, and sometimes, when he slams in at the right moment, the impact causes too much of your breath to come out, so the whispered begging gets punctuated by moaned-out, hiccuped syllables.

He smacks your ass a few more times, his hand tingling, but the spanks seem to make you happy, so he doesn't stop, and he doesn't complain either.

“You're jealous of me, Candy,” he manages to speak, slowing down just enough so he has more of your attention. “Do you have any idea how jealous I am of you? How hard it is to feel like you want to own me half as much as I want to be yours?” He's on his knees behind you, and his thrusts grow more patient, more luscious. Richer and fuller. “Sometimes I'm scared you'll leave me, and someone else will get to have all the wonderful sex I get to have with you. Someone else will get to see your face first thing in the morning, and become a character in your cartoons, and talk about you with their granny, and bring you home for New Year's.” His face collapses close to your shoulder. “What will I do with myself, then?”

You turn your face and you finally get to see him. “Flip me around,” you order him, but your voice is fond. “I want to look you in the eyes while you fuck me like no one else has ever.”

His hair is fuzzy with his perspiration, and his face glistens with a light sheen of sweat. “Sure?” he asks, in confirmation.

“I'm sure,” you comfort him.

He's only happy once you're below him, and he's on top of you, inside you.

You clench around him, and he frowns deeply, trying to control himself. Still, he gives a sharp jab with his hips, and it steals your breath.

“Like that,” you praise him. “I want you to fuck me like that. Like no one else can.”

His eyes stay wide open, stubbornly nailed to yours as he starts moving. It's hard and slow, and it makes you see stars.

“Do you still feel like drawing?” he provokes you, “Or am I fucking you good enough?”

You hiss and bite his arm, both to keep him humble, but also, again, because you can — and nobody else does.

“Maybe I could get on top of you so you can watch my tits bounce, and maybe that will make you want to draw,” you bite back, and next thing you know you're both sat up, you're on his lap and he's bouncing you on his dick.

“Definitely feeling inspired right now,” he concedes. “Maybe I should stop and paint them.”

You push him down and he's finally with his back to the mattress, you on top. “Or maybe you could shut your mouth and get busy so I can cum.”

The slap lands almost immediately on your ass. “Dirty mouth. And a fucking divine cunt,” he speaks through gritted teeth.

He lets you lead for about thirty seconds, during which he stays occupied with your boobs, grabbing them, slapping them, pinching your nipples, and then he grabs your hips and stills them.

“Touch yourself,” he orders your roughly before he starts fucking up from below you.

It escalates quickly from there, and in less than a minute you're gone, collapsing forward, against him, and he's so thankful because he's coming too and your kegels are squeezing him just right, and he only manages to say “fucking yours” before he abandons all his inhibitions and loses himself inside you.

You come back to reality only, and you find yourself tucked in his embrace, his body above yours. You don’t know when he flipped the two of you over, but you like his weight on top of you.

“Hey,” you murmur, combing his hair away from his face.

His expression is lazy and satisfied.

Well done, you tell yourself, almost giving a pat to your own shoulder. He looks fantastically fucked, deliciously edible and perfectly yours.

“Hey you,” he replies, with the most heavenly, blissful grin on his face. No, too tired to be a grin, more like a glowy smile. It’s not fully on, it looks like those battery-operated lights when they’re almost out of energy, a bit faded, or maybe pale. Faint, feeble, dim. Soft. Muted. If his bunny smiles were jewel tones, this was the most delicate pastel pink. A powder baby blue, almost robin egg blue.

You want to wrap yourself in the hazy glow radiating from him, gentle as a sunny dawn in late May.

“So glad you got those Calvin’s,” you joke, and there it is, bunny grin, ten million watts. Apparently that makes his battery die because his head collapses to your neck and he doesn’t seem willing or ready to lift himself back up.

“So glad I made you jealous. But also sorry,” he says, truly apologetic. “I’m happy we did this. I’m happy I saw you like this.”

His lips tickle the side of your neck, and you squirm a little, but you try not to move too much. You want to be comfortable for him to rest on. You want him to stay like that on top of you forever. “I’m still maddish. But I think I can deal with it.”

“There’s more pictures coming,” he says tentatively, and he makes the effort to pick up his head to give you a helpless look, trying to protect himself already by giving you the sweetest pair of puppy eyes he’s ever used on anyone.

“Oh, I’m totally getting your ass branded,” you reply, saccharine. “I was thinking I could make those ribbons, like the ones the police use, except I put my name on it and I wrap it all around your chest, so they can’t drool all over your abs.”

He laughs, and the sound is boyish and playful, and lovely. You fall in love a tiny bit more.

“Can I see the pictures in advance?”

He hums as he thinks about it for three seconds, except he already knows how he wants to play it. “Mh…” he says some more, keeping you on your toes. “No.” He looks up, testing you. “But let’s say I hope you get that cockring ready.”

You pull your head back, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re not naked in your Calvin’s, right?”

He grins, gives you a devilish wink. “Maybe.”

You grab his cheeks and squeeze his face and he laughs so hard you can’t be possibly mad at him for even a nanosecond. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“And your tits will be it for me,” he flirts back.

You shake your head. “Brat.”

And he kisses you. Just that.

Before he hits the shower the following morning, Jeongguk inspects the damage you’ve done on him.

He’s quite happy with it. A very faint bruise on his neck. A red splotch on his abs, and another on his hip, but nothing that won’t fade within one or two days. He knows you know the drill by now.

He turns around to inspect his back, and he’s okay with it, nothing that will get him in trouble in case he needs to be shirtless or generically undressed around staff members. He drops his underwear and it’s only once he’s making his way to the shower that he notices something strange on his asscheek.

Oh, fuck. Suddenly reminded of your little handiwork with the pen the night before, he bends to the side, trying to get a better view at his ass.

He finds himself wobbling side to side, like a silly puppy chasing his tail, and that is exactly the way you find him when you enter the bathroom.

A laugh bubbles out of you and you smack his butt playfully. “Do you need help with that?” you ask, cheery.

“No,” he bites back, but he has the most innocent, pouty look on his face, and he is having fun a little. “Maybe,” he concedes, his voice young.

You wrap your arms around him and rise to your toes, propping your chin on his shoulder as you hug him from behind. “I wrote, ‘Candy’s babyboy’.”

His ears go red, just the tiniest bit. “Really?” His expression is so sweet.

“Really,” you confirm, confident, serious, and loving.

“You’re not making fun of me,” he asks, vulnerably.

“I promise I’m really, really not, Guk.” You kiss his shoulder. “You’re my babyboy. And my sexy man. And just mine, generally speaking.”

He nods, a happy, fulfilled look on his face. “Right.” He’s once more confident. Entirely adult.

“Love you,” you reassure him again, and then you kiss his shoulder, again.

He grins. There he is, your boy. “Love you too.”

Hi it's Dita, the writer, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment to keep this poor gremlin fanfic writer motivated. Bye and I LOVE YOU!!!

#jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook one shot #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x candy #jungkook x yn #jungkook au #bts x reader #52 hertz #bangtansorciere #btswritersclub

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gravobs · 8 months

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This is me flexing my abs…

Still shocked by how doughy I am. When I poke it, you can tell that my fingers hit something hard under all the fluff. I just can’t believe how far my fingers sink in before finding anything. Every time I reach down there, the slab of fat sliding around over my abs is thicker and deeper than the last time.

#exjock #weight gain #gaining weight #got fat #fat #getting fatter #you got fat #fattening up #fit to fat #belly #soft belly #gay gainer #male gainer

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cure13-blog1 · 10 months

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Brandon was shaped like a Stickman, always insecure about his appearance. He fantasies of being admired by others (mostly men) and to be the idolisation of masculinity. He always had some sort of fetish with muscles, he was easily turned on when seeing steroid driven men with unfathomable amounts of testosterone and strength. When I’m the gym he became so aggressively horny yet also jealous of the teen muscle freaks. He was manly jealous at the fact that he could never build muscle like them, even tho they where full of steroids. He was desperate to jump on gear yet was terrified of the side effects. But it was hard to stay natural when seeing the contrast between his undefined frame to these muscled jocks. He tried twice as hard in the gym than they ever did, however not even half of the results.

It was a Monday evening and Brandon decided to make his way to the gym, late enough that all his steroid driven jocks from his class weren’t there. He was dreading the leg day grind ahead of him but he stayed motivated and disciplined.

He went in to the gym locker room the pure musk of testosterone and sweat hit Brandon’s nose, causing a solid 4 inch hard on in his underwear. The room was ghost quiet with no one in sight, so he decided to undress to get into his gym clothes. But as he was undressing he noticed a dirty jockstrap on the floor.

Obviously being the horny teen he is, he made sure no one was around and picked up the jockstrap. Without even thinking he shoved his face into it taking a massive sniff. It was drenched in the musk of sweaty balls and cum, and also of piss. He never felt so horny in his life, even his legs began to tremble. Then the idea came to him, to put the jockstrap on. He removed the remaining clothes so we was fully naked and put the jockstrap on. It was way to big for him and he had to hold it up so It wouldn’t fall down.

Suddenly a wave of heat and energy came across his body. He felt a aking feeling on his joints and ligaments. Then realising he’s growing taller. Once was 5,8 now rising to 6 foot then slowing down and stoping at 6,2. He felt confused and shocked, with being such a height he never could expect, yet his joints felt under more pressure without strength to support. But then he began to sweat, with his brain becoming foggy and hormones rising. His libido began to rocket in levels, becoming horny and a need to grow. It began with his legs, his calves grew to immense size, fallowing with his thighs. His legs began to bulge out of control to the size of giant tree trunks, through all of this he was in immense pleasure, thoughts full of lust moaning in bliss. Then his ass inflated into giant globes, to the point that it can suffocate someone. Then it began on his torso, he felt his shoulders widen, his delts bulging into canon balls, and his back muscle twitching and expanding forming a v shape torso with a slutty waist. Then his nipples started to tingle and his pecks ballooned out, growing and bulging into massive juicy pecs. This then following his arms wich he tended and the bulged into slabs of muscle and meat, and veins picking out all over. He felt a tight feeling on his stomach, then abs piping out forming a tight 6 pack.

Now the jock strap was tight on him yet there was still some space on his crotch area where in soft 2 inch and small balls where. Then with a sudden sensation he slammed his fist into a locker door bending it in half with his god like strength and aggressive horny energy. And his dick and balls began to grow. His penis began to grow longer and thicker by stoping at 10 inches Soft. That alone filled out the jock strap and it was steaming from the weight and size of his cock. Then his balls began to bulge out of control into tenis balls of size. He looked himself in the mirror, he looked like a muscle jock god, putting all his class mates to shame. And all that was on his mind was sex and gym.

#hyper muscle growth #musclegrowth #massive #huge muscle #muscle freak #muscle beast #huge muscle growth #dick growth

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swoleisthegoal · 5 months

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Slabs a' Abs

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3rdgymbros · 1 year

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━ 𝐍𝐚𝐠𝐢 𝐒𝐞𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐨 𝐇𝐚𝐬 𝐀𝐧 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭-𝐏𝐚𝐜𝐤!

— pairing; nagi seishiro x reader

— summary; in which you discover that nagi seishiro has an eight-pack after seeing him work out. set in the blue lock manager au, and also inspired by that one picture in the manga of nagi doing pull-ups (you know the one).

— notes; please donate to my kofi if you like my content and wish to support me. reblogs are appreciated !!

❋ Get a grip. Get a grip.

❋ You’ve seen boys in various states of undress before. It kind of comes with the territory from being the manager to a whole hoard of teenage boys. Hell, even Bachira’s flashed you before, and you’d taken it in your stride easily enough.

❋ But this?

❋ This is different.

❋ Very, very different.

❋ You stand at the entrance to Manshine’s private gym, your arms filled with sports bottles and clean towels, staring unabashedly at Nagi.

❋ Oh my God.

❋ Seeing him in the flesh ─ as Nagi casually tosses his sweat stained shirt into a corner ─ is practically synapse frying. You aren’t sure if the fruits of Chris Prince’s training are beginning to make themselves known, or if Nagi’s always been this . . . Well-built under the baggy shirts he always seems to favour.

❋ But whatever the case is, you definitely aren’t complaining as you stare unabashedly at Nagi. There isn't an ounce of excess flesh on him anywhere, just hard slabs of honed muscle.

❋ Someone coming into the gym bumps into you, still frozen in place. You can barely manage an apology; you’re far too busy visually devouring Nagi and his washboard abs.

❋ “[NAME], you’re staring.” Reo says from behind you, and you can practically hear the smile in his voice.

❋ “Yeah, you look like you wanna devour Nagi,” Chigiri chimes in. And, after a pause, “And not in the way Isagi usually means it.”

❋ “Thanks a lot, guys.” You mutter, flushed with a sudden shame at how obviously you’d been staring.

❋ “Just keeping it real,” Reo says, patting your shoulder in consolation as he slips past you into the gym.

❋ And just for that last, unnecessary comment, you think that you’ll ask Chris Prince to double Reo’s training menu.

#nagi seishiro x reader #nagi seishiro reader insert #nagi seishiro headcanons #nagi seishiro imagines #blue lock reader insert #blue lock imagines #blue lock headcanons #blue lock x reader #bllk imagines #bllk headcanons #bllk x reader #bllk reader insert

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bravo4iscool · 1 month

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Hii, this this the person talkin about chubbier Simon! Give me a sec and let me set the stage for you,

Simon Riley x 141!reader whos on military leave to cope after a particularly hard mission. Reader finds a way of coping and expressing their love to simon through the art of cooking for him constantly. (i come from largely a guyanese and indian family so everyday theres always good food on the table) So we all know this man can eat ALOT (he needs to maintain his girlish figure after all😌lmao) So i can just IMAGINE him eating all the stews, curries, roti and rice (or whatever culture/country reader comes from)he can get his hands on! He would have such an appreciation for food from working in the military so long and having limited food he could eat. So going from a man of pure slabs of muscle to slabs of muscle but WITH softer abs he gets a little self conscious but he sees the benifits that hes getting alot with a great meal everyday and how his reader ogles him everyday hes starts to like the change. (Theres actually more benefits for having muscle and fat than just pure muscle!! When you see bodybuilders with just pure muscle the muscles in their whole body are constricted causing cramps and alot more muscle pulling in day to day life compared to heavy weight lifters who many not look as muscular but can lift much more while still having a strong core and overall more power)

Sorry to ramble and run but this has been rattling my brain. Have a great day and remember to drink water♡

I ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS OMG!! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS ASK!!! i‘m sorry i wasn’t able to answer it any sooner, i‘m in my last three weeks of school and it‘s kinda stressful🥲. i hope you can understand…

as someone who is russian-german i totally understand the whole food thing😭 (thats why reader will be russian-german lol. it‘s the only culture i really know about the food and all that (at least i think i know about the food🧍🏼). also, i do not know the english names of the food so i‘ll be using the terms i know.)

i hope you like this!!

(masterlist)

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN!!!

„y‘cooking too good f‘me,“ simon mumbles as he puts his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest. „‘m loosing all my muscles.“

you chuckle and turn your head to look at him. „that‘s not true! you‘re just developing a little more fluff.“ you smile and turn again to focus on the food you‘re preparing. „besides having muscles with a layer of fat is way healthier than just muscles.“ you can feel simon nod with his head rested on yours.

„what‘re y‘makin‘?“

„pelmeni,“ you answer, skilfully sticking the dough together so the meat would stay inside while you cook them. „i haven‘t made them for you till now.“

simon lowers his head so it‘s beside yours and examines the dough and meat in front of you. „thought we a’ready had ‘em two weeks ago?“

you shake your head and lick your bottom lip, trying to concentrate. „that were manti simon. they are made like…mochis. pelmeni are cooked in water.“

simon doesn‘t say anything and buries his nose in your neck. „t‘boys will laugh a‘me when we return,“ he mumbles as his lips ghost over your skin to leave little kisses.

„they won‘t,“ you protest and slightly slap his arm. „if anything they will be jealous!“ you dust your hands off and turn around in his arms. he looks at you and you start to frown. „you are not…insecure, are you?“ when simon just blinks at you without answering you take his face into your hands.

„you, simon riley, do not need to be insecure because you’re eating good. you’re not getting fat or losing muscles. if anything, you’re only getting healthier because the army food is total garbage and you’re finally getting some real food,“ you try to explain, withstanding his gaze the whole time. „don‘t beat yourself up over stuff like this.“ your voice is gentle as you caress his scarred face with your thumbs. „you deserve something good life. let me be that something.“

silence follows after you‘re done talking and you could swear you saw a tear in simon‘s eye but then he blinks and it is gone. „i don‘t deserve ya,“ he whispers, pulling you close again. „i don‘t deserve ya…“

„oh, but you do,“ you smile as you pull him down to press a gentle kiss on his lips. „you do deserve me and you also deserve my food.“ you put your arms around his waist and hug him. he does the same, keeping you close to him. he rests his head on yours and closes his eyes. he just wants to savour this moment…

#writing #ao3 #fanfiction #archive of our own #story writing #call of duty #simon riley #cod #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x you #ghost x reader #dad bod simon #dad bod simon riley

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handsomedudesxxxyz · 3 months

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Blind Muscle Stefano - Alessandro Cavagnola

"Anthony Martin loves keeping Stefano blindfolded and standing erect, his arms at his sides, chained away from his body, his legs spread, his back aching, forced to remain erect and unbending for hours by the steel collar around his neck. It is the ideal position for maximum appreciation of his physique. He flexes and strains against the chains, displaying his muscles perfectly. He is gagged and completely naked, a voiceless slab of muscle. Anthony rubs down every inch of his glorious body with baby oil before, once again, flogging the stud mercilessly on his abs and pecs, stopping only to grope his reddened, warm flesh and his fat, hairless cock and balls. Then Anthony switches to a horse crop – delivering a new, much sharper pain to his torso, inner thighs and cock. In totally darkness, Stefano is terrified and confused. Then a live electrode touches his metal collar."

"Anthony Martin has strict instructions from our client – Don Giovanni, the rich Italian aristocrat – to inflict no permanent damage on his prized slave, Stefano, so Anthony keeps the level of current low and the shocks to Stefano’s steel collar short. Still, each shock makes the young bodybuilder’s huge pecs striate, his veins bulge and his massive thighs tremble. It’s like watching a statue of a Greek god come to life. Anthony then shocks Stefano’s balls, making him whimper like a little boy. Seeing such a physically powerful man reduced to such vulnerability is a massive turn-on. Stefano experiences a whole new level of pain when his pecs are ringed with clothespins and his cock is lined with even nastier clips. “If you want to be free, you’re going to cum for me,” Anthony tells the stud hours later, releasing Stefano’s wrists so he can remove the clips and clothespins and work his cock."

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#alessandro cavagnola #muscle #italian man #italian #fitness model #muscle man #bodybuilder #italian hunk #italian model #muscle men

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thegainingdesk · 1 year

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Gain for Pay: Chapter 4

Find all of the chapters here.

"265 pounds?" Jamie barked. "That's not good enough, recruit! I need you fighting fit!"

"Sir yes sir!" Kyle tried to stop himself shivering. He looked down at his body, clad only in a jock strap that should have been retired 30 pounds ago, and his socks. All the recent weight had pushed him from "chubby" to "fat" in a way that Kyle didn't know how to feel about. On one hand, he'd lost his beautiful body that so many men had adored, on the other, he couldn't deny how much more attention the channel, and he, was receiving.

His gut had swollen up from a dome shape to a full blown globe of fat where his abs once lay perfectly flat, and recently his pecs had rounded out into pert little packages of fat - Kyle found himself grabbing them idly throughout the day, beginning to understand what straight men's obsession with tits was all about. At Jamie's suggestion, he'd started to let his previously perfectly manicured body hair grow out. The point of all that preening was to show off his toned, glistening muscles, and now they were hidden beneath slabs of chub, it seemed silly. Jamie had suggested he go for more of a bear look, which Kyle had initially balked at, but looking at himself now, he had to admit the label was becoming more fitting by the day.

Kyle was snapped out of his contemplation by Jamie slapping his butt. "Get off those scales you fat slob, and give me twenty sit-ups!"

Kyle stepped back and lie down on the floor, wincing at the feel of the cold floor on his ass. He bent his legs up, tensed his core, and did the first sit-up. Didn't these used to be easy? His old muscles were still there, he told himself, although he'd not been doing much to maintain them of late, and now he had to fight against so much fat and flab, which resisted each motion. Every single sit-up resulted in his gut bunching itself up uncomfortably, causing it to become even more pronounced and stopping Kyle from completing the motion.

"Twelve! Thirteen!" Jamie barked above him. By this point Kyle was shaking, great drops of sweat dripping down his forehead and his chest. "Fourteen! Fifteen!" Kyle collapsed down. They'd planned for him not to complete all twenty sit-ups, but Kyle legitimately wasn't sure how many more he could have done anyway. "I didn't tell you to stop, recruit!"

Kyle swallowed in great gulps of air. "I… I can't sir." He struggled out.

"What was that maggot!"

Kyle took a deep breath. He wondered if Jamie could tell this was real, or if he just thought Kyle's acting ability had improved recently. "Sir! I said I can't do anymore sir!" he said louder.

"And why not recruit!" Jamie barked.

"Sir! Because I'm too fat sir!" Kyle replied. He gathered enough strength to pull himself into a sitting position and began to stand shakily.

"You're pathetic recruit! Get back into your uniform!"

Kyle eyed the halloween soldier uniform weerily. More of a "sexy park ranger" outfit that had been repurposed and dyed a darker green, it would have been skimpy if it had fit, and the "one size fits all" label was certainly not intended to extend to men of Kyle's new stature. It had been a struggle to get it on and buttoned for the start of the scene, and no easier to peel off of his newly thickened thighs and back once they'd gotten going. "I'm not sure I can sir, I'm too fat for it," he told Jamie through gritted teeth, hoping he'd pick up on the hint and move on.

Jamie grinned devilishly, breaking character for a moment. "I told you to put it on, recruit," he purred. "Or am I going to have to write you up for disobeying your superior officer?"

Kyle sighed. "Sir, no sir." He picked up the shirt first, stretching it over his back and squeezing his thick arms through. He was proud of how his arms had expanded recently, but some part of him knew that it was pure fat. He didn't attempt to do the buttons up, and Jamie didn't push it, they both knew it would make the video far too long. The shorts were next. They slid past his calves easily enough, but got stuck around thighs like Thanksgiving turkeys. Slowly, he managed to slide them up, until the top of them hit his watermelon-like ass.

"You'll have to help me sir," Kyle told Jamie, avoiding his eyes, but with his dick hardening all the same. Jamie smirked, and came behind him, looping his fingers through the belt loops and tugging up. Between them, they managed to get the shorts up and over his butt, and Jamie buttoned the top button for Kyle as he sucked his gut in.

Kyle felt humiliated, fat, in pain, and horny. He caught a sight of himself on the monitor, squeezed into an outfit several sizes too small, fat pouring out everywhere, a round, hairy gut hanging out the front.

"Now recruit, to ensure you're fighting fit, I'm going to give you your nightly rations of this specially formulated super-soldier formula," Jamie said, pulling out a funnel and a jug of thick weight gain shake. "It's designed to turn even the laziest slob into the perfect soldier."

"I don't think it's working sir," Kyle said, rubbing his gut. "I've just been getting fatter and fatter ever since you started feeding me it." He sat down in the armchair angled towards the camera.

"It is not your job to think, maggot!" Jamie snapped. "It is your job to do what I tell you to, and I am telling you to chug this formula!"

"Sir, yes-" Kyle was cut off by Jamie placing the tube of the funnel deep into his mouth, making his eyes water. Jamie started pouring the mix straight away, and Kyle focussed on building up a rhythm. Breathe, swallow, breathe, swallow, breath, swallow. He'd become a seasoned pro at this, even coming to enjoy the feeling of an overly tight gut at the end of it all. He felt his cock growing - it had come to learn that food meant sex.

"What a good recruit," Jamie said once he'd poured the entire jug into the funnel. He let go, allowing Kyle to support it as he drained it. "Why don't you let sarge help you out there?"

Jamie sank to his knees, unbuttoning Kyle's shorts. Kyle's gut surged forward and he moaned in relief. The moan only increased in volume as Jamie took his entire dick into his mouth, sliding the full length in expertly. Kyle had to remind himself to keep up his rhythm of breathing and swallowing, chugging in time with the bobbing of Jamie's head, as his hands explored Kyle's belly.

Kyle hefted the funnel a couple of times, trying to judge how much shake was left, and how much longer he needed to hold out for. It was difficult - Jamie was skilled and eager to please, and Kyle had to distract himself to keep from climaxing.

Finally, Kyle sucked the last of the weight gain shake from the tube, and discarded it to one side. He tilted his head back and placed his hands on top of Jamie's on top of his gut, and joined in with his kneading. "Oh fuck, I'm gonna-"

He began to cum into Jamie's mouth, and felt the smaller man come away from his dick. Kyle came long and hard, and he could tell he was putting on quite the show.

Eventually, Jamie stood up, thick ropes of cum covering his face. "Right, umm, recruit, that was, uhh, well, that was very good. Thank you very, I mean, yes, that was as, as expected from the uhh, soldier serum, and you can, uhh, go, go back to your bunk now."

In response, Kyle let out a deep, slow burp. He smirked at the erection he could see trapped in Jamie's much more flattering soldier's outfit.

"Right," Jamie said, composing himself a little and stopping the recording. "I'm going to go and," he gestured at his face, dripping with Kyle's seed. "You know." He stood awkwardly for a moment. "That was really fucking hot by the way, you're getting great at waiting until you're full to cum, it'll be so good for the video."

Kyle shrugged. "Starting to come naturally I guess."

Jamie gave a short laugh. "I guess. Anyway." He moved to the bathroom, where Kyle could hear him turn the shower on.

While Jamie showered, Kyle tried to tug the uniform off. Without Jamie's help, and now full of gainer shake, he quickly gave up, and just tore through the flimsy fabric instead, collapsing down on the armchair once again in just his jock strap.

"You know," Jamie said once he was done with his shower. "I still don't really think the sergeant would have sucked off the recruit, it's not the right character dynamic."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "Look, it's not fucking HBO, we're making porn for guys who love fatties, okay? They don't care about the characters, they want to see me eating and chugging and getting sucked off."

"Yeah, yeah, I know big guy," Jamie tried to soothe him. "You're the star, I know that, I was just saying-"

"And why do I keep on sucking you off, you know?" Kyle continued, clearly not listening. "This is supposed to be all about me getting worshiped, and I'm the one giving blowjobs? What's that about?"

Jamie came over and starting rubbing Kyle's gut. "You are getting worshiped, buddy okay? All these subscribers all the fans, all of them are here to come and worship this big, fat gut, yeah?"

Kyle started to smile a little. "Yeah, yeah, I guess. They're really starting to get into it, aren't they?" Jamie nodded. "I just, you know, I'm thinking about the fans, you know, they'll want to see me getting serviced and shit. Since I'm the fat guy."

Jamie nodded, rubbing Kyle's gut in large, slow circles. "Exactly! You're the big guy! The star!" he said. "This is on me, I'm sorry, I should have thought about the fans and the best way to present you to them in all your glory." He put the emphasis on the last word.

Kyle nodded, feeling his cock growing hard, despite only cumming quarter of an hour before. Jamie clearly noticed because he looked over at the camera. "There's a pizza in the fridge," Jamie said. "If you wanted to go again?"

Kyle smiled. "I think I've got room, yeah."

Kyle finished his fries, throwing the carton alongside the three burger wrappers. He wiped his greasy fingers on his sweatpants absentmindedly while he sucked on his milkshake, and opened up Grindr. He'd grown used to sex after stuffing himself, and was starting to find himself restless on the days when he and Jamie weren't filming.

He flicked through the usual slew of blank profiles and faceless torsos, ignoring the messages from men who were so beneath his league it was laughable - too old, too hairy, too fat. Didn't they know he was a sex god? That men paid a premium just to look at his body?

Finally, he found someone who took his fancy, and sent a few short messages, blunt, to the point and effective. I can be round in half an hour sexy. the reply came.

Kyle looked round his small apartment. Generally, filming with Jamie forced him to keep the space clean, but he'd gone on a binge these past couple of days, and now fast food wrappers littered the floor. He stood, straining a little, small burps escaping every so often, and picked up the various boxes, wrappers and styrofoam cups. The smell of grease and salt made him crave more, even as his stomach ached from all he'd already eaten. He opened some windows in an attempt to disperse some of the smell.

Apartment made somewhat more presentable, he looked down at himself. The sweatpants would have to do, as stained as they were, since they were all that fit anymore. He looked down at his bloated hairy gut. He probably needed to cover that at least. Once upon a time, he'd have answered the door to a hook-up practically naked, but now he wasn't so sure. He found a clean t-shirt that he'd bought just last month and pulled it on. It covered his gut, but barely, clinging to his pecs and gut, and riding up at the slightest movement to reveal a sliver of skin. He flexed his arms, pleased with how the sleeves hugged his biceps.

His intercom buzzed. "Hey, it's Matt."

"Hey Matt, come up, the doors open, it's number 8," Kyle replied, buzzing him in.

Kyle sat down and turned on his TV, keen to seem nonchalant. A minute later, he heard the door open and turned to see Matt stand with his mouth open. "What the fuck?"

"Hey," Kyle said, standing up. "Looking good man."

"I'm looking for Kyle?" Matt said, disbelief in his eyes. He was younger than Kyle, 21 or so, with thin, toned limbs and a non-existent waist.

"Yeah, that's me," Kyle said slowly.

Matt came closer, examining him. "Christ dude, how long ago did you take those pictures?"

Kyle picked up his phone, confused, and opened his profile to look. "Like six months ago," he replied.

"What happened to you?" Matt asked, taking a step back, as if it might be contagious.

Kyle felt his chest tighten and tried to pull down his t-shirt self-consciously. "Well I've got this OnlyFans, and people like to see me-"

"You've got an OnlyFans?" Matt interrupted. "As in, one that people pay for?" he looked Kyle up and down, disgusted.

"Hey, fuck you!" Kyle said, his voice rising along with his cock. "Lots of people fucking pay to see me actually. I get fucking worshipped okay? Fucking worshipped!" He didn't know why getting humiliated like this was such a turn on for him, or why he was getting so angry. If it had been the other way around, he knew he would have done exactly the same thing. "People love to see me stuff this tum- this gut, okay? Yeah, I don't look like every other twink in this city, but there's plenty of people who are fucking obsessed with me."

"God, okay, sure, your a sex machine, whatever," Matt said, failing to hide a mocking smile from his face. "But maybe you want to update your profile pictures? Or find another app? There must be one for fatties - Blubbr or something?" He slapped Kyle's gut.

"Fuck you," Kyle said, although he had to admit Matt had a point - he really didn't look like his photos anymore.

Matt made his way out. "Look, no hard feelings or whatever, but if you've got this humiliation kink thing going on, maybe figure out some way to get people's consent first?" he said at the door.

"I don't have a humiliation kink," Kyle said.

"Dude, your cock is rock hard. You're getting off on this." He eyed Kyle's dick appraisingly. "At least your photos weren't wrong about that at least." He pulled out his phone. "Whatever, I need to go find someone to rim me." And with that he was gone.

Kyle moved to the fridge, rubbing his gut and sliding a hand into his sweat pants. He began to pull out snacks that Jamie had filled his fridge with a couple of days before.

Kyle sat at the table in a white vest that was far too small for his expanding gut, tomato sauce smeared around his face, which was fixed in a pained expression. He belched, and grimaced at the greasy smell. The scene they were filming was more extreme in both believability and the quantity Jamie was making Kyle eat than they'd ever done before.

Jamie walked into shot, wearing only a short apron. His pert bubble butt stuck out the back, and his erection tented the front, removing what little modesty the dainty bit of fabric afforded him. A fake mustache was pinned under his nose. "Oh mama mia!" he cried. "My growing bambino! You've already eaten all your food, I'm such a terrible host! I should have known to make more meatballs!"

"I'm sorry," Kyle replied flatly, hands cradling the furthest extent of his gut. "It just all tasted so good, and I'm a growing Italian boy with a big appetite."

"Oh, dio santo!" Jamie's hands whirled around in a wild dance of expressions with each word. "I will make you my famous carbonara - no one ever leaves my ristorante hungry!"

Kyle sighed as Jamie brought out a heavy pan full of spaghetti in a rich, creamy sauce. "This isn't working," he told Jamie, breaking character.

Jamie stopped putting on the thick accent. "It's offensive, isn't it? I knew this was a bad idea."

"No, I mean- well, I mean, yeah, this is terrible, but no, I mean this," Kyle said, gesturing down at his new fleshy body. "The gaining thing. I'm huge, I'm gross, I'm…" He sighed. "I just think I need to lose it all and get hot again."

Jamie hurriedly put down the large pot of carbonara. "But you are hot," he insisted. "This" he reached out and squeezed the soft flab of Kyle's lovehandle, "is what all those people are paying the big bucks for! You don't want to be some generic twink like me, they barely even notice-"

"Some of them notice you," Kyle interrupted. "Some of them subscribe for you," he spat. He could feel the resentment bubbling up inside him. "Loads of the comments are about you. Your abs. Your tiny fucking ass." He squeezed his tits and let go, watching as they jiggled. "This was supposed to be about me, and I've given up looking like a Greek fucking god, all because you were jealous of how hot they all thought I was."

"What? Kyle, you know that's not true," Jamie pleaded. "All our followers, all of them, are from since you've started gaining. No one cared about us when we looked like everyone else, what we- what you've done has completely changed the channel- our lives!" He gestured around Kyle's apartment, with its assortment of recently bought furniture. "Okay, some of them comment about me, but if they want some skinny white guy, there's a thousand other channels. They only care about me because they want desperately to be the one feeding you."

Kyle huffed. He could understand the logic. Wanted to understand. And the way Jamie described how important Kyle was made his dick chub up in his skimpy shorts.

"Why did you suggest getting fat?" Kyle asked after some time.

"What? Kyle, we've talked about this, we needed to stand out, we nee-" Jamie began.

"No, we've talked about how we needed to find a niche," Kyle said bluntly. "We could have shown our feet off, or our armpits, or we could have wrestled, or tickled each other, or whatever."

"Do you know how many channels there are for foot fetishes? All of that stuff?" Jamie tried to plead.

"But you jumped straight to fat. Straight away. No umm-ing or ahh-ing or what-ifs. You decided immediately that I needed to chug weight gain shakes and eat pizzas and," he shook his gut, "do this to myself."

"I just did my research Kyle. I wanted to follow the best possible-"

"You get off on this, don't you?" Kyle asked. "It's not just the freaks that subscribe, is it? You're one of them. You love how big I've gotten. How skinny it makes you look. That's why you knew so much. You've been planning this for years."

"It's not like that!" Jamie pleaded. "Yes, I think you're hotter now, but I didn't plan it! And you've been enjoying it just as much, I know it. I've seen how you react everytime."

"Can you fuck off please?" Kyle said.

"Kyle, please, come on. Don't you love it? Think of the money. Think of the fans!"

"Just get your clothes and go, alright? I need to think."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Jamie said. "But seriously, think about it, okay? We're onto a good thing. The money if nothing else. If we need to maybe pivot to something else, maybe more of a muscle bear-"

"I asked you to leave," Kyle said simply.

Jamie nodded, quickly put on his clothes and left. Kyle sighed, rubbed his gut, and pulled the pot of carbonara towards him, picking up the fork.

#gaining fiction #weight gain #gainer fiction #gainer story #weight gain story #male weight gain #weight gain fiction #wg story #gain for pay #collab story

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southern-god1 · 1 year

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Guided Meditation

As you returned home from work, a package waited for you outside your apartment door. It was addressed to you, but there was no return address listed.

You opened it and were surprised to find an old-fashioned tape recorder and a pair of headphones, a brochure for some guided meditation thing.

Curious, you decided to try it. You found meditation calming, and a guided meditation experience sounded potentially interesting. You slipped on the headphones and pressed play.

“Welcome to Guided Meditation. I will be your guide through this guided meditation experience, Dr. William Greyson.”

The man’s voice was calm and quiet, possessing a refined Southern accent, the quiet dignity of a gentleman. It was soothing to listen to. He continued.

“Close your eyes and attempt to clear your mind. Remove any distracting thoughts. Politics, sports, pre-conceived notions. Take a deep breath in. Count to 5. 1…2…3…4…5. Exhale. Good.”

You took a few deep breaths, counted to five, and exhaled, trying not to think about politics or sports or anything else, to clear your mind, as you did with all meditation. The smooth voice continued.

“Picture a pristine, babbling creek, full of fish, winding its way through the forest. Hear the soft babbling of the water, the sounds of birds around you. You are fishing in the stream. Feel the rod in your big, strong, calloused hands. Feel the cool air against your tough, sun-burnt skin, hardened from years of hard work on the farm. Your hairs stand on end from the cool wind, your skin prickling. Remain in this calming space for a few moments, listening to the water and feeling the cool wind on your skin.”

For a few moments, you could swear you felt a cool breeze rush over you and hear water rushing nearby. Not the sound of waves crashing against the hot beaches of Oahu, but water like in a creek or a stream. Must be the power of suggestion, you thought.

“Now, let us transition to another scene. It is fall, and as the leaves are falling, you are getting busier. Busy hunting and of course, playing football. Feel the adrenaline pumping through your body, the sweat after a hard-won game. Feel the energy coursing through your veins, through your big, strong muscles, solid and strong like white titanium. Feel the heat radiating from your body, the sweat and musk wafting from you. Feel your size 16 cleats crunching through fallen leaves, feel the sweat drying on your body. Smell the smoke of a bonfire, taste the ice-cold beer on your lips before you rumble out a burp.”

This was getting…weirder, you thought. Adrenaline and heat, energy? This was supposed to be meditation, not pumping you up! And what kind of a meditation tape would ever talk about beers and burps and bonfires? Maybe you should stop listening, you think, before a hot warmth swells up inside you. You felt sweaty, but you did have a hard day at work, and it was hot, like always.

“Feel the pride welling up inside you. The pride from winning a game, winning a game against a weak team from up north, showing them Southern power and strength. Utterly dominating them, as you should. Feel your mighty muscles. Your huge boulder biceps, mighty pecs, your hard abs. This is the power within and without. It is your power. You are strong. You are mighty. You are powerful. Feel your white titanium muscles slowly swelling up bigger and bigger, getting stronger as you embrace your heritage.”

You had no idea what was going on at this point, and tried to reach for the headphones, only to feel the warmth inside you abruptly move, to your pecs. Your pecs began to grow and swell, swelling out into mighty slabs of muscle. Your abs became chiseled like thick cobblestones of muscle. You couldn’t bring yourself to open your eyes, and it felt so good. It burned, but it was a good kind of burning, like a purifying flame.

“Feel your arms and legs growing. Your cock becoming worthy of you, rather than the old, inferior you.”

The heat shot out in several directions. Your arms and legs began to burn; you could feel muscles swelling up from nothing, being molded by the heat like clay being fired in a kiln, hardening into strong mounds of muscle, huge biceps, triceps, calves. As the heat spread to your cock, you nearly doubled over with pleasure as you felt your balls balloon in size, your cock growing, becoming a long, thick cock worthy of a man of your size.

“You may feel disoriented as you adjust to your new reality. Feel your skin burn as you become a true Southerner, a Son of Dixie. Cast aside your old identify and be born anew."

You were finally able to open your eyes and felt an intense itching all over your body. You looked down in awe and horror at your new muscles. They were so big and strong, but slowly seeping across your body was a wave of white, almost like oil seeping across your body, climbing like kudzu vines up a trellis. Wherever it passed, your skin itched furiously for a moment before becoming pure white titanium, unblemished and nothing like the darker tone over what was left of your body. You frantically tried rubbing it off, and tried reaching up for the headphones, only for a wave of confusion to wash over you. Why were you trying to take off the headphones? This was helping you become a new, better you, a bigger you, a stronger you.

"The process of acquiring new memories may be confusing, disorienting, traumatic. You are a proudly Southern country boy, you have always been a proudly Southern boy. You are a big, strong, cocky football player. You have always been a football player. Let go, give in, give up, surrender to who you are now."

You shook your head vigorously, looking down at your body. Why had you ever thought you were Asian? Fuck that, you were a country boy through and through. Nah, the only thing Asian about you was the fried rice and egg rolls you ate at that cheap Chinese place on the corner. You and your team members had once eaten literally everything in the restaurant, forcing them to close early. After all, big muscles like yours needed big fuel. You were a big strong country boy, Will Hayes, a player for the Nocturne City Rebels.

"Feel your memories slipping away. Do not be afraid, they are the remnants of your past life being erased so you may start anew, so you may be reborn. You will be a Southern country boy through and through, with no memory of your past life."

You had strange memories. Memories of someone else...someone who you thought was you. An Asian boy, living in Hawaii. Milestones of his life flashed by; a birthday party on the beach, learning to swim in the salty Pacific, his first car, attending a Harry Potter screening with friends. But these brief flickers faded quickly, like embers in a dying fire, struggling to survive. You shook your head, new old memories flooding in. You were born to a small family in rural Virginia, outside Nocturne City. You spent your childhood hunting, fishing, helping dad out on the farm. You had never left the continent, let alone been to Hawaii. You remembered the first time you shot a deer, your father proudly helping you mount it on the wall where it remained to this day. You remembered getting your truck, a big, lifted Ford that had speakers that could shake the ground when you blared Dierks Bentley and Florida Georgia Line. You remembered your first football game, the rush you felt when your team won against the pathetic little team from up north.

"Now, clear your mind of any lingering elements of your old self. Interests, hobbies, all need to be destroyed that you may be born anew as a Son of Dixie."

Despite your country upbringing, you had weird tastes. A fondness for Harry Potter, Magic The Gathering, and musicals. All that needed to be erased. Within seconds, your knowledge of Magic cards and spells was replaced by a hard-won knowledge of how to fish and hunt. Your encyclopedic knowledge of lyrics from the songs of Wicked was replaced with knowing how to change a tire, fix an engine, and fix a leak. Your love of fictional British wizards was replaced with a love of all things football. Your favorite movies were now the Southern Avengers movies; you even had a framed poster for the original Captain Confederate on your bedroom wall.

"Good. Now, there are just one more thing left to do. I assure you; it will come quite naturally to you. Explore your new body, and then jerk off. Purge yourself of your remaining impurities."

You looked down. Your work clothes were incredibly tight, unable to handle your new size, and looking comically undersized on your mighty body. Absolutely nothing remained of your previous appearance, aside from the clothes. You ran a hand through your scruffy facial hair, feeling the short brown hairs tickling your fingers. You felt your bulging biceps, flexing and feeling your immense muscles bulge with every flex. The sleeve of your work shirt tore, unable to handle your new biceps flexing. Your hands ran down, rubbing your huge pecs, massive slabs of beef topping your chest. You ran your hands down your abs, like rock hard bricks of white marble. Your hands found their way down to your immense cock; eight inches soft. You reached down and felt your balls, churning up seed. Normally you'd be fucking or being sucked off by a weak Yankee, or having sex with your boyfriend, Ryan, but you needed release now. You stroked your mighty country boy cock, and felt it harden. You slowly began to stroke it, feeling your cock quickly harden in response to your touch. As you stroked, more memories came to you. You remembered meeting Ryan in high school, the two of you falling in love on the football team; you were a running back, he was a tight end. You remembered your first time dominating a Yankee; making some weak Yankee nerd lick your cleats clean, get you beers, and suck you off. You stroked harder, cock lengthening to a ten-inch monster of country boy meat.

"Purge yourself of what remains."

The voice was accompanied by the intense heat returning, concentrated in your cock and balls, and you groaned, stroking faster. Whatever this was, it felt incredible. You moaned loudly as you came, all traces of your previous existence being blasted out along with your load of thick salty cum. Your underwear and pants were soaked, and so was your chest and work shirt. This didn't last long through. The heat shot up to over your heart, and began to burn, more intensely than it had before. You nearly doubled over in pain and pleasure, as a battle flag tattoo formed over your heart. As you saw it forming, an intense wave of pride came over you. You were proud to be gay, proud to be Southern, proud of being a real man, proud of where you were from, and eager to show off your superiority to puny Yankees. You closed your eyes for a moment, reflecting. When you opened them, you looked down. Your work clothes were gone, replaced by a tank top and a pair of jeans, a pair of boots on your feet, which had grown to a solid size 16. A ball cap rested on your head. Despite the chill of the Virginia winter outside, you felt fine wearing just a wifebeater. You were no longer in Hawaii, you were at home in Virginia, about to go meet up with Ryan for a date; burgers, beers, and dominating a pair of Yankees he had caught. You grinned and took a pic before heading out to your truck.

This was a commission for @dumbmusclehypnojockboy Thank you again for being one of my first ever commissions!

#southernization #story

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ronearoundblindly · 1 year

Text

Release (Ari x Reader)

a Bedrock and Blueprints tale, following Tension

Summary: After ten years of friendship, you and Ari have finally crossed the threshold into something more than friends. Is it for the best?

Warnings for SMUT. What do I say? The entire 3k 4k+ (4339 words to be exact) is feels and smut, gang. Protected, awkward-moment-filled, passion- and insecurities-driven sex. Seeing as it's sex, there are mentions of bodily fluids. Shocking, I know. It's also sex with beefcake Ari, so that deserves a warning, too.

So what you're saying is--" you take a few big breaths "--we have work to do in the bedroom now?

It’s been a hot second since you last slept with someone, but based on this first scorching minute with Ari’s mouth on yours and his body close, you’re about to make up for a lost millennium of sex—dirty, delicious sex. Thirty seconds of dry humping whatever bit of him is so hard atop you would suffice, doesn’t matter if it’s his dick, his thigh, or his fucking face. There are also the options of his abs, his hand, his forearm…at this point a foot would do. Even if he fell asleep on his stomach right now, that ass is tight enough that you could ride him into the sunset but—

Sweet mercy, when did you get this horny?

Senses drenched in him, your body tenses at the feel of his thick, muscled torso between your thighs, rocking step by step on the way to your unfurnished bedroom. Before Ari can reach his destination though, you pull at his hair, needing your lips on him again, needing to explore and possess. He can’t see or keep walking, so instead, he crashes you both into the wall less than two feet from the bedroom door.

No one skips a beat.

Ari tastes like lemonade and cigarettes, bitter and smokey-sweet like a barbecue sauce smothered over a slab of meat—say, the rack of ribs beneath your palm and a dusting of chest hair. Your nose picks up the faint tang of sunscreen from his face as you shift and angle to let your tongues play.

The way this man moans your name should be illegal.

That vibration trespasses on every nerve. That single word assaults your aching core. Arrest him! Lock him up (with you inside) and throw away the key.

The very thought makes you grip him tighter and clench around nothing.

He smiles into your kiss, relinquishing the lead in favor of lingering enjoyment. When you finally gasp for breath, he wanders. Between his strong, broad hands on your ass and his open mouth sliding up your neck, you’re pretty close to signing over the house just to get him fully naked.

You shimmy your ankle over his gym shorts to gauge if he even has boxers on. There are only two, slinky layers between your throbbing heat and what is clearly an incredibly hard dick. Bless him. Bless Ari’s total impatience. He continues to rock his hips against you at a snail’s pace, completely opposite of his darting tongue.

“Ari,” you whine, high and thin, pushed to the brink already, the sharp pang of arousal twisting your insides.

It’s the very first time he hears you say his name in that way, and the pathetic tone stirs something primal in Ari. It spurs him on and drives him to blindly waltz you both into the room with your temporary, inflatable mattress.

He only gets to the other side of the wall before pinning you again.

This morning when he met at your apartment, the couch was the only furniture that could fit in his truck. The inflatable is a minimal-effort, ‘just in case’ option, because you don’t know how long it will take to make the place livable or if you’ll stay overnight to work on it. The idea would have been to stay overnight alone, of course. This is not the scenario you imagined needing it for. This is actually a scenario you’ve never imagined, and up until a handful of weeks ago, he hadn’t imagined it either.

No, you never thought about Ari this way, not really, not for you, but the sudden onslaught of ideas for how he can use you suffocates your mind in the most welcome way. Thinking is for another time. Now is the time for action.

We have work to do in the bedroom, you said.

Yes, you’re a dedicated worker. That’s a proven fact.

Fuck, he said.

Yes, Ari, that’s exactly what you’re gonna do.

“Shirt off,” he mimics your orders from the couch, leaning back to give you space. He’s amused by how slowly you comply, body sluggish and distracted anticipating what’s to come. The hem of your tee isn’t even above your breasts before he’s groping over your sports bra, fascinated as the plush flesh beneath spills above the neckline at his every touch. There’s no tiny bow in the center—like his imagination (or maybe his memory) conjured up a few times—but he still considers the thick, unyielding fabric a sort of gift wrapping.

He helps by sliding his thumbs under the band but doesn’t follow the garment all the way off. He’s too busy coaxing a nipple into his mouth with his bandaged hand and pinching the other between his fingers. He nips at your tender skin as you gush more beautiful sounds.

Oh, yes, this is going to be fun.

In all your (mostly drunken) conversations about sex over the years, you’ve mentioned the things that loosely make up the list of ‘rules,’ things essential to good sex for you, but you never described yourself in bed. You’ve never mentioned that you’re loud. Ari likes that. His whole body hums in appreciation of it.

The list is pretty short, actually, for a decade’s worth of information.

Rule #1: Show some initiative.

Sure, he’s seen you be bossy. You’re not shy about sex, but that doesn’t mean you like being the one to create all momentum. No problem there. He’s ready. He wants you. He fucking needs you, and you know it. It’s plain in the daylight.

For comfort though, he’s flicking the switch beside you both on the wall for the overhead fan. He hasn’t fixed the AC yet, and even with the windows open there isn’t much breeze. He can already tell he’s going to be a sweaty mess based on his thundering heart rate and the simple idea of putting his hands all over you. Unfortunately, the cut on his palm still stings like a son of a bitch, and he has to stop thinking about how the fan has a dramatic wobble that he can hear even when he can’t see it.

Being face-deep between your tits is well worth the chance of his very own Final Destination ending. Consider the initiative taken.

Rule #2: Foreplay.

Not exactly rocket science, but this one’s still more abstract. You never gave a play-by-play, so Ari’s had to pool together mentions of specific things you’ve found sexy during a relationship. Almost none of them have to do with penetration itself. There are sex-adjacent things, of course. He held me down while… He never stopped kissing me during… He watched while I came, etc. Shit, did Ari think about that one a lot in the last weeks.

He breaks from your breast to catch his breath, and for a moment, you’re both all tongue and teeth. You bite at his earlobe while Ari licks the path of your collarbone.

He knows you remember the heavy petting, you remember being told what he’s going to do to you, and you remember reaching the point of begging for it, too.

Of course, now he remembers how he’s spent the last weeks imagining you beneath him, on top of him, bent over literally any piece of furniture he walked by, especially if he watched you walk by it first in real life. One day recently, he lied and said he was sick when really he was so hard for you he didn’t think he’d manage to be around you even if he rubbed one out first.

Yeah, Ari’s had fantasies; he’s about to have memories.

You slip against the wall, grinding harder against him as you fall a few inches. Your fingers curl into his chest hair, unable to grip at his arms in your stupor.

Playing by the rules is about to serve him very, very well, which brings him to Rule #3: Dirty talk.

He rocks his hips forward.

“Want it slow and deep, don’t you,” he growls lowly. When all you return is a strangled cry, he rolls his hips again. “Can think of a dozen ways to take you right here.”

He knows you love that. Excited dirty talk. Desperate dirty talk. Needy dirty talk. Not overly dirty talk, nothing so graphic as to pull you out of the moment (at least, not the first time), but you want some good noise.

If what he’s done so far is any indication, the total three sentences of it, then you’ll be mewling like a cat in heat before his pants are even off, and damn, is Ari excited about that, desperate for that--dare he say?--needy for that.

Panting heavily, you’re blind with lust, completely at his mercy, the epitome of down-to-fuck.

“Then do it,” you gasp out, “old man.”

The snarl that erupts from Ari makes you laugh, but his vigor in tossing you down to the mattress is anything but humorous. You meet his eyes to see an intense, animalistic gaze, darkened by the same spell you’re under.

The inflatable is awkward and bouncy, tilting wildly to one side beneath your weight, so when you lift your hips for Ari to pull off your shorts and panties, the plastic scoots farther away, making you slip out of his grasp.

“Stay still,” he growls again. “Don’t test me, woman.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you giggle back, watching the hairy beast stalk forward. Frustration looks good on him. It hardens his features beneath long-soft locks and bares those pearly-white teeth for you.

You only have space to playfully shove yourself and the mattress farther back once until you hit the opposite wall, and Ari’s chest is flushed an angry pink when his hands get to you.

“Gonna pop this fucking thing by the end of the night.”

Your head snaps down. “Don’t you dare.”

His grin tells you he’s teasing, especially with how so much of his palms and fingers drag down your legs as he finally gets your clothes off, but there’s a moment when your breath catches.

As your best friend stares at you naked for the first time, it dawns on you that this changes everything; you have already changed everything.

Without warning your thighs clap together and your butt sags to the floor beside the tilting mattress. Even though your eyes are already shut, you cover your face with your hands.

“What are we doing?” You thought the words so loud that they came out as a whisper. “I can’t lose you.”

After only a split-second hesitation, Ari’s hands relax from your ankles.

“Hey,” he soothes, tugging your wrists to move them away. “Hey, honey, no. That’s never gonna happen.”

He crosses his legs as he crawls closer to you.

The good news is you’re not crying, but the bad news is all that sexual excitement from moments ago has ratcheted up into painful anxiety that sharply overfills your chest. It’s hard to breathe.

He takes your face in his own hands. “I will always be here for you, but you have to know that I can’t go back to—“ Ari licks his lips quickly, struggling not to notice your bare shins against his, your bare knees against the inside of his elbows, your ass cheek just barely pressing the top of his foot “—to just friends.”

He swallows hard and holds your gaze.

“I can’t unsee you,” he says, though he means so much more.

He’ll never stop thinking about how gorgeous you are now. He can’t stop appreciating your strength—all types of it—that you’ve shown for so many years. He’s admired you as long as he’s known you, and even if colored by attraction, that will never change.

He can’t find any more words to describe you right then, so he pets his thumbs across your cheeks, hoping to show you what he can’t say.

He’s not wasting this chance, he won’t let you shut down, and even if today goes no further than this, Ari is resolved to cherish every second. So he’s had his fast and hot kiss; now he wants your steady and passionate one.

He removes his hands to lift beneath your knees, lacing your feet over his legs to just outside his hips. You don’t have to open your thighs. They remain solid between you while he leans forward to capture your lips. This kiss is slow, tentative, a wanting and waiting attempt to sort through thoughts you’ve never had before, a moment to reframe something—someone—you’ve only ever viewed from one angle, and that’s difficult, Ari knows.

The idea alone nearly ran him off the road in those first seconds. He’s had (he’s taken) weeks to adjust, but shit, does he hope it doesn’t take you weeks. His nights without you were already becoming intolerable. Now he’s had a taste—a partial taste—of what he wants and he’ll fight tooth and nail for the rest.

Because Ari Levinson now lives to provide whatever you want, but he can’t do that from afar. He can’t handle even the distance of friendship. Ten years and you never left him behind, never forgot about him. You never babied him or asked for anything. You could have. You should have sometimes.

You weathered the uncertainty of deployment and coming home better than anyone he knows. He always felt your devotion as a friend, even at his most chaotic and unsure. He realizes he counted on that. He needed you more than you needed him, and you still stayed and stayed. He’s had no idea what he’s doing for years, and you never stopped.

You were always the stable part of this. It makes sense that you’d fear what he’s going to put you through.

But the reframing isn’t that hard for you.

Ari has this world churning around in his head because he’s never built any sort of life for himself. You? You have always wanted the same things. You’ve planned. You’ve prepared. You’ve cut out pieces that don’t fit and bring you down. Ari’s survived all that. He means something to you. You care for him. He fits. He does not bring you down. Ari was always coming and going but never left you. He never has in ten whole years.

You know how you two get along through every situation under the sun. You even know how you two fight, and you’ve always made up. The making-up part will just become a lot more active now.

All your brain has to do is shift him over to a different column: from ‘my friend’ to ‘mine.’

He thinks he’s asking for more than you’ve always been, more than you’ve already given. You think he’s asking for what he already has, what he’s already earned.

Somehow, the soft drag of his lips against yours conveys all his passion. Somehow, you allowing him in demonstrates all your needs.

So the kiss continues, topped by sharp breaths and involuntary grunts of pleasure.

His beard is magical. It turns rough and coarse when he’s more intense, but during these slow moments, it feels damn near silky against your skin. It makes you think of what else it can do, what else his mouth can do.

You’ve sat still and willing this whole time but uninviting, so you open your legs at his sides, laying them over his lap, and smooth your arms over his shoulders to bring him closer. His response is immediate and audible, the reprise of that vibrating, dirty moan rakes over your every sense.

Ari puts a hand on your stomach, lightly scratching his forefinger back and forth before squeezing your side and pulling you up into his lap.

“I’d give you anything,” he mutters against your lips, waiting for doubt that never comes.

“I’m about to give you a tour, Ari. Get on with it.” Your breathy tone lets any intensity to your demand evaporate like the saliva in his open mouth. He licks his lips.

“There she is,” he chuckles.

Rule #4: Slow but not gentle. Not one thing all the time.

Ari’ll be damned if he ever gives you a reason to call him a One-Trick Pony or a Minute Man, but after weeks of fantasizing about what you’d feel like, he is truly overwhelmed by the reality.

He’s got to keep it together. He’s got to fucking taste you.

“Up on the bed,” he orders, lifting your hips to guide you only partially upright, leaving your legs wide open and by his sides, back wobbly supported by the noisy plastic.

He likes the thatch of hair between your legs and how responsive you are. Ari’s a bit ’70s pornstar in that way. The natural sight and scent of your cunt make him feral, and before you fully balance, he’s plunging his tongue in without warning. At least he’s gentlemanly enough to cup your ass and help raise you to his attack.

A string of curses escapes as you clench and relax. You are very loud, he likes that very much, and luckily, the house sits on a bit of land. Your neighbors aren’t within earshot of these open windows.

You don’t rush him or order him around. You babble just as much when his nose brushes your clit as when he purposefully sucks it. It makes his exploratory approach even more thrilling. It ticks some of his boxes, too.

Oh fuck. Boxes!

Ari pops his mouth off of you with a sloppy sound, and your trembling legs fall in his dropping arms.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, jumping off the floor and running out into the hall.

You hear the front door open a few seconds later.

“What the fuck,” you scream into the empty house, body hot and coiled, ready to spring.

His car door creaks open, and you swear in that instant that if that man drives away, you will burn this house and his apartment to the ground.

The sounds repeat themselves in reverse order until Ari’s back in the doorway, shirtless, glorious, holding condoms. Good man.

“I could have killed you,” you huff, flopping your head back on the mattress.

Ari grins, pulling out a small square packet and tossing the box aside.

“Where was I?” He kneels back down, stroking your bare hip and thigh as they continue to twitch. His blue eyes sparkle with something unfamiliar, something new: adoration.

Your breath is stolen at the thought of it being for you.

He grabs the two pillows and blanket from the useless bed. Effectively handling you like a rag doll, Ari wads up the blanket behind your head after pulling you to the center of the room. He works two fingers through your folds, waiting till you start to roll into them, only to then gruffly order you, “up.”

He places one pillow under your raised hips. Fingers gone again quickly, he stands above you, staring.

“Ari, just fuck me please,” you beg below him.

If that didn’t light all of his other fantasies on fire and dance on their ashes, he’s not sure what would.

His shorts are off in a flash, the last pillow wedged under his own knees, and Ari makes like he’s completing the world’s sexiest push-up as he lowers himself down. He pants, his toned chest grazing your heaving breasts in time with the gasps of lost restraint. His hand brings the foil packet to his teeth and rips the seam.

He holds the open end to your lips and whispers, “you mind?”

Eyes locked on his, your mouth pinches on the rim of latex as he slides the wrapper away and tosses it, too.

“Thank you,” he rumbles, taking the condom, keeping up his bit of pornstar show by letting you watch his face while he rolls it in place, touching himself. The head of his cock hangs low enough to swipe at your mound teasingly during this performance.

It makes you shiver.

Rule #5: The first time should never, ever feel lazy. Put your back into it.

He practically roars at the feel once he sinks his length fully inside of you. Your wanton cry in his ear along with the bite of your nails in his biceps sets him on edge. He pumps a few times, but he’s too close too fast and has to pull out, gripping his base harshly. Even when the feel of you isn’t on him, the sight of you floods his mind like blood floods his groin.

Fuck, he has to focus.

You’re impatient and so damn close that your hand moves to stroke yourself, completely uncaring about what’s stopped him. If he thought the sight of himself fully seated inside your cunt was distracting, Ari short-circuits as he watches you touch yourself while looking right at him.

He started it though. It's only fair.

He leans down on his bad hand as best he can, getting close enough to abandon his own dick and shove two fingers back inside you, earning him a euphoric grunt that snaps your head back.

“That’s it,” he moans, curling and rubbing in time with your circles over your clit.

Moments later, your rhythm falters and slows, coupled with a high whine of ‘shit’ and your hips bucking off the floor.

His thumb dexterously flicks your own fingers out of his way, and he cups his palm forward. The effect of this dual friction is immediate, violently shoving you over the edge, unleashing your orgasm. Your mouth falls open, but barely a peep sounds. Tremor after tremor rolls from your spasming walls up through your spine, pushing your breast back to his eager mouth.

He tries to work you down easy, to let you settle after your high, but you’re having none of it.

“Damn it, Levinson,” you hiss, pushing his hand away with another wet smack and rolling him and you over. You straddle him in the layer of dust on the wood floor. “You’re gonna come for me.”

Right, well, looks like you aren’t being lazy either because you certainly put your back into this.

You line him up and sink down until his cock is as deep as you can take, pulsing your hips as if it will stretch you further and further until he’s lost inside you.

His respite bought him some time. He’s not on the brink anymore, but he’s not far off.

You ride him with a hand around his throat, no pressure, your fingertips cradling the back of his head and your thumb flat against his jugular. His grip on your wrist to keep you there is harder. Your weight leans on his chest where your other hand is splayed for balance. Your hips stroke him wildly while you struggle to keep your eyes open and on his own hooded gaze.

You babble.

You babble about how hard you just came. You babble about how good his dick feels inside you. You babble about the places he’s reaching that make you want to explode, and Ari can’t take any more distance between him and that mouth of yours.

He shoots up, pulling your arms out of his way and grasping your ass to keep you steady, lips latching together.

Your shallow thrusts don’t miss a beat, but he helps, kneading the soft flesh of your thigh, tugging at your pace.

“Come again,” Ari whispers hot into your kiss. “Come for me.”

The command makes you keen, leaning back to brace your hands around his outstretched legs, bouncing with a renewed urgency. That response has Ari possessed, fucking up into you, meeting every roll of your hips with an extra nudge to your sweet spot. Your shouts quiet, and he knows you’re on the edge, too.

Every shattered moan he swallows from you, every shuddering gasp. You’re just as eager to take his harsh breaths as your own, but your body shakes uncontrollably, sweat-glistened skin on sweat-glistened skin.

With more force than he actually intends, his fingers dig a bruising grip on your waist and Ari uses you to milk the tightness from his aching sac. It’s only a few extra thrusts after you start to flutter again that he shoots into the condom and hauls you back to his chest, biting your collarbone as gently as he can manage while still coming in hot spurts.

While you return from floating, he takes in the warmth and feel of you, relishing the well-earned exhaustion and a single slow drizzle of your release down his balls.

He steadies you with a secure hold beneath your shoulder blades. It’s an appropriate moment for lazy kisses, he thinks, and you both continue weary explorations of the nearest limbs, silent, leaving only the churning teeter of the fan above. Soon, you’re slumped against his chest and drawing a little pattern on his skin.

“We should do that again sometime.”

Ari snorts, wiping a hand down his face before attempting to lift you. “We should go on a date, kid.” His voice is hoarse and thick.

You’re amused but your laugh stops short at the sensation of his cock dragging out of your slick cunt.

He would tease if he weren’t so determined to get the fucking condom off, but in a surprising feat of renewed energy, you’re spinning onto your knees and wrapping your lips around him as soon as the latex is pulled away. Ari’s so overstimulated by that one touch that he yells your name between a few choice curses.

“What,” you say, eyes back up to his, finger wiping his cum from beside your mouth and licking that, too. “I didn’t get to taste you.”

Ari’s brain short-circuits again. His back and bare ass are covered in wet smears of dust while a heady, rich smell of sex permeates the room. He knew working on your house would be a dirty job, but he had no idea it’d be like this.

New Rule: You two should definitely go on a date…and then do this immediately after.

Ta-dah! \o/ I did it, gang. Broke through some rough and emotional writer's block to bring you a real Sinful Sunday chonk. Hope and pray that everyone enjoys this and the next few things in the works. Thank you for reading!

[Next Part; Main Masterlist]

#bedrock and blueprints #ari levinson fanfiction #ari levinson imagine #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson x you #ari levinson smut #ari levinson series #ari levinson x female reader #fluff and smut #fluff and romance #fluff and feels #ari levinson fluff #sinful sunday

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spreadyovrwings · 3 months

Text

64 Oslo Square

"Companion' Middle English. From Old French ‘compaignon', literally 'one who breaks bread with another.

Strapped for cash, John gets a job at a bakery as their new delivery boy. Juggling school and Queen and work is exhausting, but it’s more than worth it. It's worth it because of you.

Warnings for this chapter: obscene flirting... characters realising their life has more to it than their job? other characters learning other people aren't quite so scary and can be trusted? those two characters fancying each other like crazy? yeah.

Chapter Nine

Steam billowed from the kettle’s spout. You watched it swell and curl through the air, until it hit the low kitchen ceiling and dispersed. On the mantelpiece, your grandmother’s carriage clock chimed ten.

It was the longest you’d been able to sleep in in years. Though you’d been trying to cast your mind back all morning as you set about making breakfast, you couldn’t recall the last time you’d been able to go to bed without setting an alarm.

Though the days were growing steadily warmer as summer rolled in, mornings were still cold in your little flat. You tucked your chin under the collar of your thick woollen jumper and puffed out a breath to warm your body.

It had not been a good week.

It’s difficult to anticipate how one might react in a situation like yours. You thought if someone had asked you a few months ago what you might say if given life-altering news like the kind Gladys had given you, you probably would’ve said you’d rage and eff and blind until the problem righted itself. You’d go out fighting, at least. But when Gladys set off her grenade, you didn’t say a word. You just stared at her. You stared and stared, and stared some more.

It didn’t take long for you to find your voice, though. Not after Gladys started to describe the whole ordeal. She couldn’t seem to get the words out fast enough, it was like watching someone in confession. Her open mouth was like a gutter, gushing words and apologies and useless explanations until finally, you couldn’t take anymore.

“You selfish cow!”

John came into the room when the shouting started. Mickey was close behind. One of them put a hand on your shoulder, it must have been Mickey because the hand was heavy and solid like a slab of concrete.

“Skip…”

John slipped his fingers between yours, trying to bring you back down to Earth, but you barely felt him.

“How could you do this to us? To Mickey? To me?”

Gladys covered her face with her hands, her chunky rings glinting in the low lights.

“I’m sorry!”

“He’s just had a baby!”

“I know, I know-”

“This is my home!”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m- I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t think in a million years he would-”

You stopped listening. John was murmuring close to your ear, telling you to stop now. His long fingers were wrapped tight around yours, keeping you grounded but only just.

“Sweetheart, leave her,” he murmured. “You should get some air. Just come with me and breathe for a second. Please.”

But that didn’t sound like a reasonable option either. You didn’t want to go outside. You didn’t want to keep having this conversation either. Standing here, shouting at Gladys, that was the only thing that made sense.

“How could you be so stupid.”

The words barely made it out from between your gritted teeth.

You felt John’s hand leave yours. Mickey too took a step back. They both seemed to realise this wasn’t their fight, this wasn’t something they had a right to be involved in, even though they were grieving too.

Gladys was the brightest, most joyous person you knew. She flitted from person to person like a hummingbird. With her brightly coloured hair and her clattering jewellery, she was as dazzling on the outside as she was on the inside. But right now, she seemed to have shrunk a few inches. Her colour had dulled. Her light had gone out.

“I just thought he was interested in me,” Gladys looked down at the floor, ashamed. “No one’s ever been interested in me. And he seemed so eager to learn about the bakery and I thought- I thought maybe he was just proud of me. For building this place. For doing something so amazing on my own. But I was wrong.”

You could still feel your pulse pounding in your neck and the base of your skull. You couldn’t recall ever feeling so angry and let down in all your life. Time seemed to be rushing by you, and all you wanted was for John to hold your hand again.

Gladys still couldn’t look at you. In a way, you were relieved. You didn’t think you’d be able to meet her gaze either.

It was difficult to order the feelings surging through you. You loved Gladys. You owed her so much. You’d do anything for her and until today, you would have sworn she’d always put you, or at least Oslo Square, above all else. Despite everything, she was a good person. You knew that. She was enticing and gregarious and too trusting and a fool. And she had let you down for the last time.

“I will never forgive you for this,” you said, then turned and walked into the kitchen, through the back door and out into the alley.

But you didn’t get far. You never would.

Sinking down on the bakery’s back step, you folded your knees up to your body and prayed the pressure would take the ache away. It didn’t. You bit your lip, trying to hold back the sob that lay in wait in the back of your throat.

Sun filtered through into the alleyway, falling on the ground in puddles of light. Above you, the sky was so clear, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. And you just wanted to cry and cry and cry.

There was a sound behind you, the scuff of a boot against the cement steps. You pushed your face into your crossed arms, not ready to face anyone just yet.

“Skip?”

It was John. Of course it was. Who else would they send after you?

He called you by your nickname again, then as he came to sit beside you, your real name, softer, more intimate.

Finally, you raised your head.

He was looking at you closely, his clever eyes switching across your face. He was trying to work out how upset you were, how carefully he needed to tread around you. That was just his way, John was just being a good friend, but right now, you didn't want kindness and gentleness, you just wanted to be left alone.

“John, I think maybe…”

“It’s going to be alright.”

It wasn’t like him to interrupt. Usually, John weighed every word with care, as if each syllable would cost him a great deal, or he had a finite number at his disposal. You had always admired that about him; everyone else in your life spoke so carelessly, like it didn't matter at all.

“John…”

“C’mon,” he said, nodding now, like he’d made up his mind about something. “Let’s go upstairs. We’ll have a cuppa and we’ll-”

You wrapped a hand around his arm and squeezed gently, asking him to stop without a word. John looked so crestfallen, you couldn’t bear it.

You stood up, crossing your arms over your chest, as if it would help to keep the sickness sitting in your throat at bay.

“I think maybe you should go home,” you said as gently as you could. “I’ll call you later. Okay?”

John looked surprised, then a little hurt. It shouldn’t have annoyed you but it did a little. He had no idea what you were going through, he should just listen and know that when you said you needed some time, you meant it.

But the small part of your brain that could still think clearly knew that wasn’t fair. If the roles were reversed, as they had been before, you knew you would badger John relentlessly until he was forced to talk about whatever was bothering him. But this wasn’t about an exam or a tiff with his band, this was your whole life, your whole future, and it had wrenched from your grasp without you even knowing it

“Okay.” John slowly rose to his feet, his hands awkwardly moving from his pockets to his hips, behind his back and then to his pockets again. “I’ll come see you. Later.”

You nodded, your lips pulled back in a grim smile.

“I’ll call you,” you said again firmly.

For a moment, John didn’t move, he didn’t even blink. Then finally, he seemed to get the message.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Just… Be careful with yourself, darling.”

Then he was gone and you were alone again.

That was two days ago. You hadn’t left your lonely flat since.

You poured boiling water into your favourite mug, waited a few minutes, then added the milk. Your movements were robotic, rehearsed, the habit of a lifetime that required no thought at all, and thank God, as you didn’t have the energy to think or feel much of anything.

The phone rang again but you didn’t even spare it a glance as you padded back to your bedroom and closed the door.

Life went on like this for a few more days before finally, you decided to pull yourself together. You got dressed, headed downstairs, and debated whether or not to turn on the ovens.

Mickey hadn’t come into work since the news. You couldn’t blame him, he had a baby at home and a wife to reassure. You had no one. Just an empty flat and a cold, silent bakery. But even that wasn’t yours anymore. Mickey phoned often enough though, asking if there were any updates and if he could do anything to help. You wished you had something to tell him.

You looked around at the old kitchen. The multicoloured tiles from renovation after renovation, the cookers and the ovens, all older than half the buildings on the road, the pots and pans, bowls and utensils, all lying unused. They seemed to stare at you, waiting for answers, just like Mickey, just like the customers you watched from your window, who passed by every day and soon left again, looking disappointed and confused.

Yeah, you thought, me too.

You grabbed some paper from behind the till, scribble a quick note, then sellotaped it to the door.

Closed until further notice.

You stared at the sign, letting the words truly sink in, then turned and went to go hide yourself away upstairs.

Then the door chimed.

“Skip?”

You looked up, heart pounding. It had only been a few days, but it was the longest you’d gone without seeing John for the best part of a year.

You’d somehow forgotten how tall he was, how lanky and gangly he looked standing in the bakery doorway, his perfect, long hair a striking contrast to his shabby clothes.

He smiled at you, shy and unsure, and you wished you could do more than stare back.

“Hi,” John said as he carefully pushed open the door all the way and finally stepped inside.

As the door rang shut again, you gritted your teeth. You thought if he’d asked, if he’d given you the choice, you probably would’ve said that now wasn’t a good time and he should come back later.

“Hi,” you said instead, and watched him pocket the key Gladys had given him on his first day.

John looked at you like he was waiting for you to say more. You couldn’t blame him for that. You’d led every conversation you’d ever shared, guiding him and teasing him, wheedling information out of him with a fine hook. Now, you couldn’t for the life of you think of anything to say.

“You haven’t been answering the phone,” John said eventually. “I was worried.”

He cautiously approached the desk. Perhaps he’d only just noticed the thick tension in the air, or maybe he was just having trouble pushing through it, but he seemed to take careful steps, his eyes fixed on you.

“Well,” You tried not to sound huffy but it came out all wrong. “I’m kind of dealing with something right now. I don’t have time for…”

“What?”

He was challenging you, daring you to say more. You clammed up, feeling chastised.

“Did you talk to Gladys?”

You nodded.

You’d spent the last few days in meetings with your boss, discussing what had happened, trying to figure a way out of this mess, going over the details and again and again until you were both exhausted and resigned to the idea that this place was no longer yours. Everything that Gladys had built, everything you’d worked for, was gone.

“What did she say? What’s going on?”

John came closer until he could rest his hands on the counter. You stared at them, following the outline of each of his long fingers.

He really did have such lovely hands. The round onyx ring he wore on his little finger, the silver one he always took off and pocketed when he was helping out, because it was Freddie’s and he didn’t want to ruin it. The little scars from his childhood and faded burns from mucking about with machines. You’d missed them.

“Did you fix it?”

You pressed your lips together and shook your head.

“No.”

At home, you blankly stared at the ceiling, at the television screen, into the mirror. It had slowly begun to dawn on you that outside of 64 Oslo Square, you had nothing. Friends you saw once in a blue moon, no hobbies, no interests, no idea of what the future would hold. Everything, you’d put everything into the bakery, your whole life. In just a few weeks, you’d even have to find a new flat. Everything was falling apart.

“There has to be something we can do. She’s made a mistake.”

“I know.”

“C’mon, love. We can sort this out.”

It was too much. It was just all too much. You didn’t want to hear positivity and hopefulness, you didn’t want anyone to be kind to you, especially John, not after the way you’d pushed him away. You didn’t want gentleness and softness, because it meant he thought something had happened to warrant that care, and you didn’t want to be someone who needed looking after. You didn’t want to be someone that had had something so awful happen to them.

“I can’t do this.”

You pushed away from the counter and moved into the kitchen, heading for the door to your flat. All you wanted was to crawl back into bed and shut out the world. Compartmentalism had got you nowhere, not when one of the best things about your job had turned up out of the blue asking you a million questions and caring about you far more than you deserved.

You didn’t expect John to follow you, but you heard his boots clunking against the kitchen floor, his voice soft and low as he called out again,

“Skip?”

You bit back a sob. You weren’t Skip anymore. You weren’t the captain of anything. You had no bakery, no business, no prospects, you were just- You were nothing.

“Leave me alone.”

You tried to sound forceful but the words got caught in your throat.

“Love, please-”

John was right behind you as you wrenched open the door up to your flat. You could hear his stupid boots on the stairs.

“John, I can’t-”

“Just talk to me.”

“You don’t understand!”

You stopped in the middle of the stairs and span around. It must have taken John by surprise because he staggered to a halt, one foot hanging in midair, as if he’d been in the middle of a step.

“In a month, I won’t have a home or a job, and this place will be packed up and turned into luxury flats or some half-arsed storefront selling overpriced street food to bastards like him, and I won’t have anything.”

It was as if someone else was doing the talking. You could almost believe you were standing beside yourself, watching as you shouted at John, your eyes shining and your jaw tight. You wanted to tell yourself to stop, that he didn’t deserve to be talked to like that, but you couldn’t close the floodgates.

“And you, you’ll swan off with your band or pack it in and become an engineer, and you’ll forget all about us and this place, and I’ll never see you again.”

John’s eyes flashed but his expression was as neutral and measured as ever.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said evenly. “You really think that little of me?”

“Oh, shut up, I was only-”

“Don’t tell me to shut up. You don’t get to decide how much I care about something. Alright?”

“Why would you care? You’re just the delivery boy. Some student Gladys took pity on cos she can’t resist strays.”

“I love this place too, you know I do. Things aren’t as easy for me as you think.”

You scoffed. It annoyed you that he could be so rational and calm at a time like this, when all you wanted to do was shout and accuse and lash out.

“Oh, poor John. It must be so hard for you, being a genius and having to choose between being rich and famous and being a bloody rocket scientist, or whatever the fuck it is you do. Life must be so difficult.”

Finally, John scowled. He moved closer, so now he was on the step just below yours, your faces level for the first time.

“You don’t know anything about my life.”

“Not for lack of trying!”

“You’re so- I’ve given you more of myself than I’ve ever given anyone!”

“Oh, well lucky me.”

“God, you’re-”

“What?”

“You’re…”

John trailed off. He seemed to realise, at the same time as you, just how close you were to each other.

You waited, hardly daring to breathe. John was maybe a few inches away, his chin tilted up ever so slightly so that he could meet your gaze. His pretty, silvery green eyes were fixed on yours, as if to make a point. You were fighting the same urge, to not look down at his lips, angled so perfectly up towards you, it was enough to make your chest lurch.

Slowly, so slowly it was almost painful, you watched as John’s gaze finally slipped and he glanced down at your mouth. Surrender. You followed immediately, and felt time speed up again. You caught your breath. Your heart was hammering so hard, you were sure John must’ve been able to hear it, feel it.

John’s gaze dropped again and stayed for longer this time, very obviously debating something that terrified and excited you all at once. It was just a matter of who would give in first.

“We’re not going to kiss,” you whispered, not trusting your voice. “Not like…”

You made the mistake of letting your eyes fall to his lips again, one last time. They parted ever so slightly, an invitation, like he was asking you to give in and take what you’d been wanting for so long. You pressed your lips together and immediately regretted it. You’d given yourself away.

The corner of John’s mouth twitched up into a little smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmured. “You said some horrible things to me.”

You pulled in a lungful of air and closed your eyes. The moment was gone, but it still took you a second or two to get your feet back on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” You rubbed your tired eyes, feeling guilty and ashamed and dizzy all at once. “I was being stupid.”

John shrugged.

“Just because it was hurtful doesn’t mean it wasn’t accurate.”

“Still, I’m being an idiot. I’m sorry, John. It’s been a fucking awful week.”

He smiled to let you know he understood. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth again, just for a second, but you couldn’t have missed it.

“Not like what?” he asked softly.

“What?”

“You said ‘We’re not going to kiss. Not like…’. Not like what?” John raised his eyebrows. “Not like this, you mean?”

It hadn’t occurred to you that you’d spoken those words out loud. It was jarring to hear John repeat them back to you, and even more surprising to realise that’s exactly what you meant.

You nodded.

“Not like this.”

This wasn’t the right time, as much as it pained you. He was so close, looking up at you so sweetly, telling you how much he cared about you and that he just wanted to help. But John was right, you’d been horrible to him, and you were so sad you could barely breathe. When you did kiss him, you wanted it to be right, you wanted it to be good, you wanted to make the world stop turning.

John nodded, looking down at his ridiculous shoes. When he looked up again, his gaze still lingered antagonistically around your mouth. You wondered if he was doing it on purpose.

“When then?”

“What?”

“When can I kiss you?”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed.

“When you get me my bakery back.”

John grinned. He had such a lovely smile, so bright and honest.

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“Promise?”

John crossed his index finger over his heart.

“Promise.”

You beamed at each other. For a moment, it was as if nothing had changed, like nothing was wrong, or could ever be wrong. Because John was here and he was smiling at you, and he wanted to kiss you and knew you wanted to kiss him. But then reality slowly seeped in, harsh and so cold, it made you shiver.

“It’s hopeless, John,” you murmured, and pressed your face into your palms.

John wrapped his long fingers around your forearms and squeezed gently. When he carefully pulled your hands away from your face, you saw he was smiling sweetly.

“Shall I stick the kettle on?” he asked.

You’d never heard anything more romantic in your life.

You led him up the stairs to your flat and let him make you a cup of tea, while you sat on the sofa and watched him move around in the kitchen.

It was only tiny. Even ‘kitchen’ was a generous word, it was just the two sideboards, the hob and some cupboards set into the wall, but John moved around them as if he’d lived there all his life, and you were, once again, assured that he was fated to be 64 Oslo Square’s delivery boy.

“I was thinking about finding a flat. For after uni.” John handed you a mug and sat down beside you. “You could, um… Maybe I could start looking now and… You know, obviously we don’t know when things will… But I could look and…”

You blinked at him.

“Are you asking me to move in with you?”

John’s cheeks were tinged pink.

“I just want you to know you have options. I know you’re going to figure this out, but I want you to know you have somewhere safe to stay.”

Your chest squeezed as a wave of affection washed over you. How did you ever get so lucky? It was a small relief, in a way, to know that no matter what happened, you had a friend in John. The idea of moving into a flat together felt unreal right now. The more you pondered on it, the more the severity of your situation seemed to settle in.

“There’s nothing to figure out, John.” You sighed. “Gladys signed the paperwork. You know, she didn’t even really understand what she was signing? He got her drunk then pushed the papers across the table and told her he wanted to invest in the bakery, she just had to sign. Daft cow.”

“How’s Mickey taking it?”

“He’s alright. He’s a fantastic baker, he could find a job anywhere.”

“So could you.”

“I couldn’t.”

“You’re joking. Everything you make is incredible! And you’re passionate and you’re dedicated… You could find somewhere else. Maybe start your own place someday.”

You laughed softly, embarrassed by the compliment. His faith in you was flattering. No one had ever said anything like that to you before.

You reached out and took John’s hand, folding your fingers between his and interlocking them, as if you’d done it a million times before.

“You’re so sweet. But I can’t.” You squeezed his hand gently. “I started working here when I was sixteen. Have I told you that?”

John shook his head.

“I used to pass by on my way to school. Me and my friends would come in every Friday. And every day, Gladys was there, behind the counter. And she was mad and funny and she let us stay all afternoon, even though we only had enough money for a cuppa and a cake. And when I left school, there was one place I wanted to work.”

You looked up at the photo of you, Gladys and Mickey on your mantelpiece. Your tiny, ridiculous, mismatched family.

“I was just behind the counter at first, like you. But it was fun, it was a living. Then Shaz, the head baker back then, she started letting me help out. I loved it so much. The time things took. The attention to detail. The warmth of the kitchen. And it’s stressful but it’s full of love. You know? Everything we make is…”

You squeezed John’s hand again.

“When you see people smiling because of the things you make… It’s the best feeling in the world. I asked if I could start working as a baker and Gladys agreed, and even knocked a bit off the price of this place.”

Together, you looked around at your tiny flat. It wasn’t much but it was home, it was yours. You’d never had anything that was just yours before, and you couldn’t stress it enough, the importance of having space, having ownership, a room of one’s own, especially for a working class woman in 1973, especially for someone making it on their own.

“This is my home, John. And these people, they’re my family. I had nothing and the bakery gave me a purpose. I can’t just find somewhere else. I can’t. I can’t. It’s Oslo Square or nothing.”

John watched you for a moment, and you wondered if maybe you’d bored him with your outpouring. You wouldn’t be shocked. But then he raised your interlocked hands and held them to his chest.

“I’ll get it back for you. I promise.”

You laughed softly. He’d surprised you yet again.

“Where did you come from, New Boy? You really are an angel, aren’t you.”

“I don’t know about that.” John shyly glanced away. “The bakery means a lot to me too now. I want to help. If I can.”

Was it too early to revise your ‘no kissing’ policy? You really wanted to kiss him. Actually, kissing John would probably fix most of your problems. Or, at the very least, make them much easier to deal with. God, you could probably make him moan with just a kiss, you could tell from looking at him that he’d be a noisy one. Or maybe he’d lay you back on the couch and run those stupidly big hands all over you, playing you like one of his instruments. You wouldn’t mind that at all.

“Skip?”

You blinked. John was looking at you expectantly.

“Oh, sorry,” You gave him a wonky sort of a grin. “Just a bit tired, I think.”

John didn’t look like he believed you but he let you off the hook.

“I think you need to get out of the house.”

You had to agree. Aside from nipping to the shops for the essentials, you hadn’t left your flat since Gladys’ news.

“Where do you wanna go?”

“Well, actually,” John said guiltily. “I have to meet the lads at three. I wondered if you wanted to come.”

“To watch you rehearse?”

“It’ll probably be really boring for you, but you’ll get to see a few arguments. And we can get lunch first or dinner after or… I don’t mind, I just want you with me.” John blushed. “But you can say no, I didn’t mean to-”

You laughed softly. He really was the sweetest boy alive.

“I’d love to, John.”

That afternoon, Queen were rehearsing in a studio space in South London. John was tempted to grab the tube but you convinced him onto the bus, remembering, as you handed over your change to the driver, that he’d once admitted he was nervous about travelling that way. If he was going to be a proper Londoner, you thought, he had to learn how to use the buses, and the 49 seemed as good a place to start as any.

You watched John watch the world go by. He really was so beautiful and he had no clue. He had some semblance of an idea that he was alright, you knew that. The way John preened in front of every passing mirror told you so. But he didn’t see the lovely slope of his strong nose, or the way his grey eyes shone every time he saw something that piqued his interest, or the way his lovely, funny mouth twitched at the corners just before he was about to murmur something to you in that lovely, funny voice.

You’d tell him, you decided. Soon. You’d tell him just how beautiful you thought he was.

It was only when you followed John through the quiet, carpeted corridors of the recording studios that you began to feel nervous. You’d never been anywhere like that before, it was a foreign land.

As you passed, you peered through the porthole windows of every door to catch glimpses of steely grey microphones and mixing desks in big glass boxes. It was like something out of a film, something you’d only ever seen in magazines and photographs.

John seemed totally at ease. You supposed you were seeing him in his world for the first time. He would protest, he was a scientist, an engineer, he wasn’t a rockstar, but he was a musician, through and through. This world of dials and crossfades and endless electric cables suited him very well.

Eventually, he pushed open a door and held it open for you, gesturing for you to go in first.

The room was only small, probably all he and his friends could afford to hire by the hour. In the corner sat a shiny, black grand piano. Freddie tapped on the keys, humming under his breath as if building a tune just from a few plaintive notes. Next to that, there was a row of guitars all standing to attention, and a drum kit, steadily being put together to just the right requirements by Roger.

He looked up when the door opened.

“Hi, John. We were just saying-” Roger stopped in his tracks and immediately brightened when he saw you come in. “Bakery girl!”

“Hiya, Rog.”

You laughed as he came over to give you a big hug. It had been a while since you’d seen John, so it had been even longer since you saw his friends. You were sure Roger was only sweet to you because he knew it annoyed John but you were more than happy to play along.

John waited until Roger had gone back to his drum kit to stop frowning.

“Brian not here yet?” he asked, a little gruffly.

Freddie scoffed.

“He’s late. Again. He’s teaching somewhere in Balham. He’ll probably be hours, you know how he likes to bang on. You don’t play guitar, do you, love?”

You smiled shyly as Freddie also came over to greet you.

“No, sorry. Just the recorder in Year 3.”

“Ah, you’ll fit right in.”

Freddie beamed.

You didn’t know him as well as Roger but every time you saw Freddie, you practically tripped over yourself to befriend him. He was just so cool, so beautiful, his voice soft and his mannerisms so enchanting. He drew you in, just as he did the crowds when he was on stage, like a siren beckoning in beguiled ships.

“How are you doing?” Freddie held you by the shoulders as his soft dark eyes searched yours. “We’ve heard about this awful business with that twat. Andrew, was it?”

“Alastair.”

“That’s the bastard.” Freddie shook his head. “I’m so sorry, love.”

You wondered how much John had told them. By all accounts, he wasn’t the most talkative of people. In fact, you were still getting used to how much he spoke now. If you compared the boy standing beside you to the boy who first anxiously walked into the bakery that cold January night, you would almost say they were completely different people.

“Thanks, Freddie.”

“Are you staying?” asked Roger.

You glanced at John and he shot you an encouraging smile.

“If it’s okay with you lot?”

“Make yourself at home!”

You found a seat off to the side, just behind John’s amp.

You couldn’t help staring, transfixed, as he got himself set up. You could watch his hands forever, the way his fingers slipped over the strings, how the instrument fit perfectly against his body. Even watching him plug in his bass was mesmerising. It all just seemed to come so naturally to John, as most things did. He really was wonderful.

Queen warmed up slowly, giving Brian more time to turn up, and as they did, they passed ideas back and forth to each other. It was like a foreign language. Musical terms, notes, lyrics, pacing, you didn’t understand any of it, though you loved to listen to the boys figure it all out together.

For the most part, Freddie and Roger talked back and forth, while John watched, thumbing pensively at the thickest string of his bass as he waited to play. But you noticed how they never decided anything without consulting John for the final say, and his word seemed to be gospel.

John looked back at you over his shoulder and shot you a rare confident smile. You just had time to blush before the door opened and Brian fell in, apologising and shaking his head so that his wild, dark curls danced.

Brian waved to you but didn’t waste any time chatting. He grabbed his guitar and struck up a chord that filled the room with that familiar, quintessentially them sound.

They were magic to watch. You couldn’t wait to see what they became.

Soon, Freddie started to complain that he needed a drink to soothe his raw voice, and Roger and Brian went with him. They asked if you and John wanted anything but you both declined quickly, eager to be alone together again.

As soon as the door shut behind them, John turned to you properly and smiled. He nodded down at his bass, asking wordlessly if you’d like to try.

Grinning, you nodded too, and tried not to look too pleased as he ducked out of the strap. John gently lifted it over your head, and you tried to keep still as he settled the bass against you. You’d never held a bass guitar before. You hadn’t expected it to be so heavy.

“Oof, wow.”

You rolled your shoulders back, adjusting your posture so that you could balance its weight better.

“I know,” John’s hands skirted over your shoulders, making sure the strap was sitting comfortably first before he came round to stand in front of you. “I’ll have a terrible back when I’m an old man, I’m sure of it.”

Trying to remember how his hands moved when you watched him play, you lifted your left hand and pressed the tip of your index finger against the first metal string. It was thick and strong, and indented your skin as you pressed down. You couldn’t imagine how he managed to play so quickly, so deftly. The instrument seemed ungainly and oversensitive to you.

“You make it look so easy.”

John just smiled.

It was nice to see him in his element, to see him confident and sure of himself. He’d had once told you that he only picked up the bass because his first band needed it. You found it hard to believe, John and the bass, they seemed made for each other.

“You’ve almost got it. Here.”

You held your breath as John moved to stand behind you again. His left hand came up to cover yours, gently twisting your wrist around so that it was positioned nicely under the neck. With his other hand, he plucked a few notes on the lowest string, then took your index finger between his and showed you how to curl it just right. You swallowed thickly, and hoped he wouldn’t be able to hear your shaky breaths.

“Feels funny,” John said as he watched you pluck out a few tentative notes. “Me teaching you something for once.”

Face hot, you just tried to concentrate on playing right.

“You’re a much better baker than I am a bassist.”

John moved closer to correct your left hand, and now his chest was pressed up against your back. You tensed, trying to keep as still as possible but it was difficult to concentrate with him so close. All questions about whether he was doing it on purpose left your head when he spoke softly by your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

“I don’t know,” John let his hand slip down your forearm, just as it did the neck of his bass, and tentatively let it rest just above your waist. “Looks pretty good from where I’m standing.”

You stopped attempting to play, it was pointless. You couldn’t so much as hold a thought in your head, let alone carry a tune. You turned your head to the side until you could just see John out of the corner of your eye.

“You’ve taught me a lot, you know,” John went on. “Not just the baking. You’ve made me much braver.”

His big hand felt heavy against your side. You were suddenly hyper aware of the slightest movement of each of his fingers. While his other arm was slung across the body of the bass, his fingers tucked underneath it to support its weight, the fingers of his left hand pressed into your soft waist ever so slightly and you had to hold back a gasp. You were touching so much, it was insane, you could barely remember your own name.

“I think I just bullied you into talking more.”

Your voice was shaky and low. You knew John would catch it but you didn’t care. You were too busy thinking about how warm his chest felt against your back, and how if you angled your hips just right, you could sink back into him until his hips were fitted against your arse. Then John spoke again, so close now that it felt like his lips were close to brushing your neck

“I’m glad you did.”

You could practically feel him smile against your skin as he added,

“You’re good for me, I think.”

Slowly, carefully, you turned your head a little further, and John shifted around so that you could meet each other’s gaze properly.

His confidence seemed to slip the moment he knew you could see him, but the hand that rested heavily on your waist slipped down to your hip and squeezed.

“I think you’re good for me too,” you said, and smiled when John blushed under your gaze.

There was no space between you at all. Just one move, one inclination of your head, one press of John’s hand, and you’d be in his arms, your fingers in his lovely hair, your mouth pressed against his with only the bass between you, and suddenly the worst week of your life would be over.

You had just the wherewithal to realise how wrong you’d been. You thought you were alone, you thought you had no life outside of the bakery, but here you were, in the arms of the sweetest boy you’d ever known, listening to his band create some of the best music you’d ever heard, and John truly believed everything would be okay. Maybe you ought to trust him.

John let out a short breath, the corners of his mouth turning upwards, as if he too was nervous and excited and uncertain all at once. How sweet it was to know he felt exactly what you were feeling.

“What you said about, erm, no kissing till I’ve got your bakery back,” John murmured, his pretty eyes fixed unashamedly on your mouth. “Is that a… Is that a hard and fast rule? Or more like a suggestion?”

You smiled, and watched John’s adam’s apple bob in his lovely throat.

“What do you think, pretty boy?”

It was very clear from the look in John’s eyes what he thought about that. He bent his head, slowly and with great consideration, just like with everything he did, until the tip of his nose brushed yours. You felt your eyes close without you needing to think about it, your lips parting as you heard John say,

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting t-”

“Oh, have we got a new bassist? Lovely.”

Your eyes snapped open in time to see Freddie swoop into the room with a drink in his hand. He was smiling like the Cheshire Cat.

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am, love. You’ll look much better in the costumes.”

John begrudgingly moved away but he was smiling to himself. Caught. When his hands left you, it felt like all the air had come rushing back into the room.

The boys chatted as they filed back in, passing around ideas and thoughts on the next show, but you could barely hear them over the sound of your own heart thumping in your ears.

John stayed close. You couldn’t be more relieved. After today, after this week, you never wanted him to move out of arm’s reach again.

“Thanks for today,” you whispered to him, when you were sure the others wouldn’t hear you. “I needed this.”

John shrugged, then carefully helped you out from under his bass. He slipped it over his head, then swung the guitar round so that it wouldn’t bump against you as he took your hand in his.

“You’ve saved me enough times. It’s about time I returned the favour, Captain.”

“I’m still Captain, am I?”

“Of course! You’ll always be my captain.”

“I was worried… I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to see me anymore, now you don’t have to.”

John smiled.

“It wasn’t the bakery I was coming to see, love. I haven’t been getting up at the crack of dawn and peddling across half of London for the bakery. I didn’t suffer scraped knees and a daft helmet for Gladys and her bloody ancient coffee machine.”

You marvelled at this for a second, then you smiled.

“It’s Mickey, isn’t it.”

John laughed.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah. Can’t get enough of the bloke.”

“I knew it, I knew it.”

”It’s the arms.”

“Who can blame you.”

Master List

#john deacon #queen #john deacon x reader #john deacon reader #john deacon fic #queen fic #john deacon x you

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