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santaasi · 3 months ago

Text

roommates with a problem

pairing: jj maybank x roommate!reader

summary: living with jj maybank is like playing with fire — you swore you wouldn’t get burned, but when he finally touches you, you go up in flames.

warnings: NSFW 18+, language, teasing, edging, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), mild dom!jj, dirty talk, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 4.4k

a/n: I'm still insecure about my smut writing skills so if it's bad just live with it :(

ᯓ★ now playing…

camila cabello - shameless

LIVING WITH JJ MAYBANK IS AN EXERCISE IN RESTRAINT.

It shouldn’t be like this. He’s your best friend. Your partner in crime. The only person who can make you laugh even when you're seething with frustration, who knows the exact rhythm of your moods like a song he’s memorized.

But there’s a problem. A serious, maddening, pulse-spiking problem.

JJ never wears a shirt.

At first, you blamed it on the summer heat. The first time he stumbled out of his room, half-asleep, golden in the morning light with sleep-ruffled hair and sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips, you barely spared a thought.

Once. That’s all it was.

But then it kept happening.

JJ, stretched across the couch like it’s his personal throne, one arm tossed lazily over the backrest, his phone in one hand and that trademark smirk tugging at his lips. JJ, fresh from the shower, towel hanging precariously off one hip, droplets of water catching the light as they trailed down the carved muscles of his chest. JJ, in the kitchen at sunrise, humming off-key while flipping pancakes, looking like the most sinful version of domestic bliss you’ve ever seen.

It’s cruel. He’s cruel.

Strutting around like temptation personified, like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you.

But deep down, you know better.

Because JJ never fails to be wherever you are. If you’re in the kitchen, nose buried in your seminar notes, he suddenly appears — digging through the fridge, drinking straight from the milk carton, standing there all golden skin and bare torso, with that lazy grin and eyes that flicker toward you like he’s watching, measuring. If you’re curled on the couch, trying to drown your thoughts in some forgettable show, he’s suddenly pressed up beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into the heat of him — solid, bare, intoxicating.

It makes you think about things you shouldn't. About the way his voice would sound against your neck. About the way his fingers would feel trailing up the inside of your thigh. About the kind of noises he’d pull from your throat if you just gave in — just once.

It keeps you up at night, staring at the ceiling in the dark, breath shallow, thighs pressed tight together, mind spiraling.

So you run. You bury yourself in your studies, spend long hours in the library under the guise of academia, while Kiara, Sarah, and Cleo tease you relentlessly about your new obsession with “higher learning.” When you’re home, you hide — lock yourself away in your room like it’s a sanctuary, a shield against temptation.

But JJ notices. Of course he does.

Because now, he’s in your doorway more often than not. Leaning against the frame like a goddamn oil painting, abs flexing with every stretch, golden hour light wrapping around him like it’s in love. He doesn’t need a reason to be there. Sometimes he just wanders in, drops himself onto your bed like he belongs there — like he belongs to you — and watches you. Calm. Unbothered. Smirking like he’s in on the joke you haven’t caught up to yet.

It’s like he’s waiting for something.

Waiting for you to break.

And God, you're so close.

BUT ONE EVENING, EVERYTHING CHANGES.

It’s one of those days — the kind that grates down to the bone, fraying nerves until even the air feels hostile on your skin.

You overslept for your ancient literature exam. Rushed across campus half-dressed, only to be turned away — your professor stern and unmoving. Your laptop crashed mid-submission, eating hours of carefully chosen words. And the barista at your usual spot? Got your order all wrong. Too much syrup, too sweet, sticking to your tongue like everything else today.

By the time you unlock the front door, you’re done.

Done with the day. Done with the world. Done with JJ fucking Maybank and his entire unbearable existence.

You shed your coat in the hallway, kick off your sneakers without caring where they land, and stalk toward the kitchen in search of comfort — salt, sugar, anything to soften the edge carved into your mood.

And of course — of course — he’s there.

Leaning against the counter like he was sculpted for it, bathed in the golden warmth of the kitchen light. He’s shirtless — because why wouldn’t he be — skin bronzed and smooth, the sharp cut of his abs flexing as he cracks open a beer with one hand. His lips curve into that signature smirk, the one that always manages to feel both lazy and dangerous. He tilts his head back for a sip, throat working slow and deliberate, like every movement was made to be watched.

It’s obscene. It’s infuriating. It’s — God — it’s unfair.

You slam the fridge shut harder than necessary, crossing your arms tight across your chest like it’ll protect you from whatever this is.

“For God’s sake, JJ,” you snap. “Put on a damn shirt.”

He doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just glances at you sideways, one brow arched, amusement dancing in those sea-glass blue eyes.

“Why’s that?” he drawls, voice syrupy and smooth, laced with mock innocence. “That bother you?”

Your jaw clenches. “It’s just–”

The words dissolve under the heat of his gaze. And then, without thinking, without filtering–

“It’s distracting.”

JJ shifts. His entire demeanor changes — like a predator catching the scent of something new. He straightens slowly, that ever-present smirk deepening into something darker, sharper. More interested.

“Distracting how?” His voice lowers, slides across your skin like warm honey. “Can’t stop looking?”

He runs a hand through his blond hair — slow, purposeful, like he knows what he’s doing. His abs flex with the stretch, and you hate the way your stomach tightens in response. Hate it. Crave it.

“I didn’t know my abs were such a problem, princess,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Unless... they’re not the problem. You just like looking.”

Your breath hitches.

And that’s it.

That’s all he needs.

His grin shifts — cocky giving way to hungry — as he steps away from the counter, sauntering toward you with the kind of deliberate slowness that makes the air grow thick and hot between you. Every step coils something tighter inside your chest, your stomach.

He stops just in front of you — too close — his bare skin radiating heat, the faint scent of salt and soap and pine enveloping you like a second skin. The kind of scent that would cling to your sheets. To your skin.

Your thoughts go quiet. Your whole body just... buzzes.

He leans in — barely. Just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath, the tension hanging on the knife’s edge between you.

“Say the word,” JJ murmurs, eyes locked on yours. They’re darker now, stormy with something unreadable — desire, challenge, restraint. “Say the word, and I’ll put a shirt on.”

You don’t say anything.

Because the truth?

You don’t want him to.

You never have.

“You could just admit you like me and save us both some time.”

JJ’s voice is quieter now, stripped of the usual teasing lilt. There's still self-satisfaction tucked into the edges — but underneath it, something else coils. Tighter. Waiting.

You scoff, reaching for something to ground yourself. Anything.

“Oh, please, I…”

The words stumble, falter, because he steps closer — and the warmth of his skin hits you before he even touches you.

JJ tilts his head, smirk deepening. “Yeah?” His voice dips, thick with amusement. “Did you say something?”

You exhale sharply, forcing your gaze away from his chest. But it’s no use. Frustration sparks, flaring hot in your gut, tangled with something you don’t have the guts to name. You meet his eyes with a scowl, jaw clenched, lips tight in irritation.

He sees it.

And he relishes it.

His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, fighting a grin. His eyes flick to your mouth — slow, deliberate — then back to yours, darker now.

“Oh, you’re annoying me.”

JJ laughs, low and rough, raking a hand through his hair as he watches you—really watches you. Not just looking, but studying, like he’s learning every inch of you by heart.

“Liar,” he murmurs.

Something twists low in your stomach.

“Excuse me?”

He leans in — not enough to touch, but enough that your breath shortens, your skin prickling from the heat between you. And then, almost casually, his fingers graze your wrist.

Not accidental.

“You could’ve asked me to wear a shirt weeks ago,” he says, voice velvet-soft, touch featherlight. “But you didn’t.” His fingers skim higher, ghosting over the sensitive skin of your inner arm. “You just watched.”

His voice drops again, almost reverent.

“And I was disappointed.”

Your breath catches. A shiver dances down your spine.

He notices — of course he notices.

His smirk shifts, darkens into something heavier. Hungrier.

“Tell me to back off,” he says, quiet now, the tease barely hanging on. Beneath it, something real. Something dangerous. “And I will.”

The silence thickens, clings like humidity before a storm.

“But if you don’t…” His gaze dips to your lips, and your knees damn near buckle. “I think we both know what’s going to happen next.”

You open your mouth — but nothing comes out. Not when he’s this close. Not when his lips hover by your cheek, not when his breath dances across your skin like a promise.

Your body betrays you. Heat blooms low in your belly, every nerve aching, reaching, wanting.

He lingers. Waiting. Testing. Letting you break.

“You don’t want me to stop, do you?”

You should.

You really should.

But your fingers curl into the waistband of his sweatpants, gripping the soft fabric like it’s the only thing tethering you to gravity. His breath catches — barely, but it’s there — and then, without hesitation, you pull him in and crash your mouth to his.

And the world shatters.

It’s not gentle. It’s heat and hunger, teeth and tongue, all the tension you’ve fought against burning through you like wildfire. You gasp against his mouth, and he swallows it whole, pressing you back until the counter bites into your spine — but you don’t care. You just want.

The kiss deepens, greedy and overwhelming, stealing your breath and every last coherent thought with it. For a second — for one sharp, electric second — you forget anything else even exists.

Only this. Only him.

JJ moans into your mouth, low and guttural, as if the sound is torn from somewhere deep inside him. His hands slide around your waist, fingers splayed and gripping like he needs to anchor himself, and then he pins you back against the counter in one fluid motion.

You gasp as he lifts you, your spine arching with the sudden motion. The cold marble kisses your thighs before his hands part them and then his hands pushing the hem of your skirt higher, standing between your legs like he was always meant to be there.

“Jesus,” he breathes against your skin, his lips skimming down your jaw, warm and reverent, like he’s memorizing you. His palms press flat against your hips, grounding you, burning into you. “You should’ve just told me.”

“Tell you what?” you manage, your voice trembling as your fingers thread through his hair. It’s grown out a little — just enough for your hands to sink into — and the softness of it, the familiarity, makes something inside you ache. You’re breathing like you’ve just run a race, chest rising and falling against his with every ragged inhale.

“That you wanted me,” he murmurs. His teeth graze your throat, just barely, and a sigh escapes your lips — soft, helpless, aching. “Would’ve saved us months of pretending.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, but your voice is wrecked — breathless and wanting.

He laughs against your neck, but it’s not cocky anymore. It’s shaky. A little desperate. Like he’s unraveling in real time. And then you kiss him again — harder, deeper — and that’s when the teasing ends.

The tension snaps, turning molten in an instant.

JJ growls low in his throat, hands tightening on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His body pushes into yours, chest to chest, hips to hips, until you feel every sharp angle of him. His hands slip beneath your shirt, callused fingertips skating down your sides, and the heat of him makes your knees tremble.

You moan into his mouth, and he answers with a sound that makes your whole body shudder — part hunger, part prayer.

You don’t even register the moment one of his hands slides down, bunching the fabric of your skirt in his fist, the other curling beneath your thigh. He draws you closer, dragging you toward the edge of the counter with a strength that makes your breath catch. You tilt your hips instinctively, and the pressure between your legs spikes like lightning in your veins. You lift your hips for him, heart pounding like a drum in your ears, and the fabric pools around your ankles.

And his hands–

God, his hands are everywhere.

Skimming over bare skin. Tracing lines down your thighs. Gripping, squeezing, worshiping.

You’re dizzy with it.

Every ounce of restraint you’ve fought to keep? Gone. Obliterated the second his lips crash back into yours.

JJ moans into the kiss like he’s starving for it, pulling you closer, tighter, until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the heat of him, the weight of him, the tension humming through every inch of his body as he grinds forward — slow, just enough to tease.

Your fingers slide over his chest, skimming sweat-slick skin, and he twitches beneath your touch, breath hitching when your nails graze down his abdomen.

His grip on you tightens in response, enough to bruise, enough to make your head spin.

“You’re driving me insane, you know that?” he whispers, voice rough, wrecked, as he mouths at your jaw, your throat. He stops just beneath your ear, breath hot as he bites — soft, sinful — and then soothes the sting with his tongue.

You inhale sharply, tipping your head to give him more access. “Am I going crazy?” you rasp. “You’re the one walking around here like some goddamn sinner straight out of an Abercrombie ad.”

JJ lets out a laugh — hoarse, strained. “Could’ve just said something, sweetheart.”

You grab a fistful of his hair and tug, forcing him to look at you.

His pupils are blown, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding it together.

“Do you think I’ll give you pleasure?” you breathe, dragging your nails lightly down his torso again, watching him flinch, jaw clenching.

He exhales harshly — and then his hands slide under your thighs, gripping your ass and lifting you off the counter like it costs him nothing.

You gasp, but he swallows the sound with another kiss — hungrier, rougher — as he carries you across the apartment. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and the friction between your bodies steals the breath from your lungs.

He pins you against the wall outside your bedroom, pressing into you like he’s trying to burn himself into your bones.

There’s no mistaking how much he wants you now.

No more games.

“Still want me to wear a shirt?” he murmurs against your mouth, teasing, breath fanning over your lips.

You don’t hesitate. Not for a second.

“Shut up,” you whisper, tugging at the waistband of his sweats, voice ragged, eyes burning. “And get in my fucking bed.”

JJ grins like the devil himself before throwing open your bedroom door and tossing you onto the mattress.

"You're going to regret saying that, honey," he warns in a low, dangerous voice.

And when he leans over you, eyes darkened with real, bone-deep desire, you realize — he’s absolutely right.

JJ doesn’t waste a second.

The moment your back hits the mattress, he’s on you — all over you. His mouth is hot and demanding, kissing you like he’s been starving for it, like he needs you just to breathe. It makes your stomach flip and your thighs tighten around his.

"You have no idea," he croaks between kisses, his hands sliding under your shirt, "how long I’ve wanted this."

Your breath catches as his fingers trace up your stomach, slowly — deliberately — moving higher.

“Yes?” you tease, trying to keep the upper hand. But your voice betrays you — already breathless, already unraveling for him.

JJ giggles — low, cocky, and utterly rude — but it slips into a sharp gasp when you grind up against him, the friction catching him off guard.

“Hell, yes,” he growls.

His lips find your neck next, kissing wetly, sucking just enough to make you shiver before biting down — leaving a faint mark that makes your pulse race.

“You’re gonna be trouble,” he murmurs, his hands gliding down your sides like he’s memorizing every inch. “I’m already fucking squirming and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

You want to snark back — but then he yanks your shirt off and just stares.

That hungry, greedy, possessive look in his eyes steals the words from your throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Then his lips are on you again — hot and open-mouthed — trailing fire down your collarbone, over the curve of your breast, until his tongue flicks over your nipple.

You arch beneath him with a moan. “Damn, JJ…”

Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging hard.

He groans, rolling his hips against you — and God, you can feel how hard he is.

“Can you feel that, honey?” he pants, voice wrecked and teasing all at once. “That’s what you do to me. Walking around, acting like you don’t want to–”

He bites again, sharp enough to make you gasp.

“Like you don’t want me to ruin you.”

Your nails drag down his back, digging in until he hisses.

“Then do it,” you whisper — your voice cracking, already undone.

JJ freezes.

Just for a second.

He stares down at you with wild eyes, dark and blown wide, like he’s about to lose control completely.

Then–

His hands are on your thighs, yanking off your skirt and underwear in one swift, fluid motion.

Before you can even catch your breath, his mouth is on you.

Your head falls back against the mattress. “Fuck, JJ–”

He moans at the sight of you, sprawled out beneath him, your legs parted, your body offered up like some fevered prayer.

“This is the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” he murmurs against you, voice muffled, drunk on you. His tongue teases, circles, slides — then sucks you in deep, pulling a desperate cry from your lips.

You clutch at him — his shoulders, the sheets, the headboard — anything.

But he just laughs, sinful and smug, squeezing your hips tighter to hold you exactly where he wants you.

“Take it, baby,” he rasps, pushing two fingers inside you, curling them just right. “Be a good girl. Let me have you.”

And you do. God, you do.

He fucks you with his mouth like it’s a goddamn art, like it’s the only thing he was born to do. His tongue works you relentlessly while his fingers curl and thrust, and soon, you’re a mess — whimpering, clawing, begging.

“JJ, I… fuck, I can’t–”

“Yes, you can,” he growls. One of his hands reaches up, finding yours, intertwining your fingers.

You squeeze his hand like a lifeline.

Your back arches, a strangled sob caught in your throat, moans pouring from your lips like prayers.

“Come on, baby,” he groans, mouth hot against you. “Let me feel it. Give it to me.”

When he sucks at just the right spot, your vision goes white at the edges.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a wave — violent, shaking, devastating.

JJ moans as you fall apart against his mouth, as your body trembles under him. He doesn’t stop — licks you through it, drinks in every sound, every shudder, until you’re spent and wrecked and still gasping his name.

You're breathing hard, blinking up at the ceiling, still trying to figure out what the hell just happened, when JJ wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smirks down at you.

“Yes,” he murmurs, crawling back up your body, voice thick with arrogance. “That’s what I thought, baby.”

You don’t even get the chance to fire back with something smart, because his mouth is already on yours — and fuck, you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You moan into the kiss, needy and undone, and your fingers tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate for more.

JJ chuckles against your mouth. “Patience, honey.”

“To hell with patience.” Your palm slides over the front of his pants, and he groans, dropping his head to your shoulder, body taut with restraint.

For a second, it seems like he’s going to tease you again — draw it out, make you beg.

But then he pulls back, sits up, and yanks off his sweatpants in one quick, determined move — like he needs to be inside you, like he’s got something to prove.

And… yeah.

You stare.

Because holy. Shit.

Of course, you’ve heard the rumors. Everyone’s heard the whispers on campus about JJ and his — well. Let’s just say his confidence isn't unfounded.

But seeing him like this? Big, thick, hard — real? That’s something else entirely.

JJ smirks like he knows exactly what you're thinking. His hand wraps around himself, slow and deliberate as he strokes, watching your face with a look that’s all heat and hunger.

“You’re looking at me like you wanna eat me alive,” he rasps, voice ragged now.

You lick your lips, pushing up on your elbows, gaze locked on him. One hand reaches out, fingers aching to wrap around him — to feel every vein, every inch.

“Maybe I do.”

JJ groans, grabbing your hips and pulling you flat again.

“No,” he growls, voice dropping dark and deep. He hovers over you, pinning your wrists to the mattress, eyes blazing. “Your turn comes later.”

Then he shifts between your thighs, spreading them wide, and you feel the thick head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance.

“Right now,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours, “I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

You shudder beneath him, breath catching. “Bold of you to assume I remember it now.”

JJ laughs — really laughs — and your heart stutters.

And then his grin fades, eyes darkening again, and he pushes in.

Deep.

Slow.

Devastating.

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your fingers flexing in his grip as he fills you inch by inch.

JJ curses under his breath, pressing his forehead to yours, shaking.

“Jesus fuck,” he groans. “You’re so tight. So warm. Fucking perfect.”

He pulls out just a little, then pushes back in — deeper, harder. You moan, legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

And then he does it again.

And again.

Each thrust hits deeper, harder, rougher — his grip on your wrists tightening as your body arches up to meet him.

The world narrows to this — his breath scorching against your ear, the way his hips snap into you, merciless and unrelenting. The mattress creaks beneath you, the headboard knocks rhythmically against the wall, but it all fades into nothing compared to the sound of JJ breathing your name like a curse, like a promise he knows he’ll break the second you ask him to.

Your back arches when he angles just right, dragging a broken moan from your lips. He grins, teeth grazing your jaw.

“There she is,” he pants, dragging his hand up your side, fingers splayed wide like he’s memorizing the feel of your skin. “Knew you had it in you.”

He palms your breast roughly, thumb brushing over your nipple until it peaks beneath his touch, and when you whimper, he pinches — sharp, sudden, delicious.

You cry out, clenching around him, and he groans like it physically hurts to hold back. “Fuck, you like that, huh?”

“JJ–” you gasp, nails raking down his back, leaving angry red lines in your wake. He hisses, slamming into you harder, the sound of your bodies echoing in the humid, sex-thick air.

“Yeah?” he growls, mouth finding the sensitive spot just below your ear, sucking until your hips jerk. “That what you needed, baby? Me–… ugh… inside you, owning you?”

“Yes–… God, yes–”

His hand moves to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, firm enough to make your breath catch, intimate enough to make your head spin. His other hand tugs your leg higher around his hip, and he thrusts deeper, grunting low in his chest.

JJ grabs your chin, tilting your face up until your eyes lock.

“Then look at me when you come,” he says, voice thick and rough. “Take it like you fucking mean it.”

And you do.

Your body bows beneath him, pleasure snapping through you like lightning, your vision going white as you clench around him, shaking. He holds you through it, murmuring your name over and over, like it’s grounding him, like it’s the only word that still makes sense.

You barely register his hips stuttering, his rhythm faltering — until he lets out a broken groan and spills into you with a shudder so full-body it pulls a whimper from his throat. He stays there, buried deep, panting against your neck as his weight settles over you, heavy and warm and exactly where you want him.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. His hand traces lazy patterns along your ribs, then drifts lower, slipping between your legs just to watch you squirm again, already too sensitive.

"Fuckin’ insatiable,” he mutters, kissing your breast, dragging his tongue over your nipple before giving it a soft bite. You twitch, gasping, and he grins like a man who knows he’s wrecked you.

Eventually, he shifts, pulling out with a wet, obscene sound that makes you both hiss. You can feel him dripping out of you, thick between your thighs, sticking to your skin.

You should care. You don’t.

You’re still catching your breath when he breaks the silence.

“So…” JJ says, grinning crookedly, his voice still hoarse. “You still want me to start wearing shirts?”

You smack his chest weakly. “You’re such an asshole.”

But you kiss him anyway — deep, slow, and toe-curling. He tastes like sweat, like salt, like the stupid grin he’s still wearing when you pull back.

To hell with the shirts.

To hell with the rules.

Roommates with a problem? Yeah. The problem is, you’ll never get enough of him. And the real problem? He feels exactly the same.

thankx for reading <3

gosh, writing smut is so hard for me. every time I do, I feel like it’s awkward or badly written and I get so embarrassed lol. so if you’ve got any thoughts, I’d really appreciate any feedback—whether in the comments or my inbox! :3

– your santi 🪐

masterlist

#– santi 🪐#jj maybank x fem!reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank fic #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #jj maybank smut

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ccrites · 1 year ago

Text

chokehold

listen, I've had this idea in my wips for a while (since the begnining of the year actually) and the fat reader worms have been wiggling in third gear with all the awesome stuff early ( @391780 ) has been putting out lately. So have 6.4k words of Soap being an absolute pussy eating freak but you know you love him

(also on ao3 if you prefer the formatting there, or if you want to drop a kudo)

The second the doors swing back closed behind you, you start feeling the scratchy feeling of doubt at the back of your throat.

It was predictable, really.

A small gym in a small town, heads turn when the hinges creak, not because they’re staring at you specifically, but because it’s a reflex.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to keep the scratchy feeling from turning sour in your mouth. Or make you throw up from embarrassment.

Perhaps your New Year’s resolution should’ve been to start on a home gym type of situation. Buy yourself some girly weights, a mat, and some sort of stepping device, and do those easy exercises every slim, pretty, high-ponytailed YouTube instructor seemed to preconize people out of shape do. Like a hamster on a wheel inside their cage. A rat chasing its own tail, maybe.

No, you promised yourself no more fake promises. Perhaps the money spent on the gym membership (stupid fucking New Year’s promotion) would motivate you to use it, lest it’s just money down the drain.

You wore the stretchiest, thickest pair of black leggings you owned, hoping no one would see the terrible shape of your underwear through it. On the opposite spectrum of things, you knew the largest hoodie you owned would smother you and make you boil with sweat, so you chose the next best thing: the widest black t-shirt you owned. It was definitely not black enough, the dye faded into a dark gray from use over the years, but it was the only thing that camouflaged your body enough from the others’ sight. God forbid they imagine what your body actually looks like underneath.

The heads pretty quickly turned back around as you started walking towards the empty treadmills. It couldn’t have been more than a second, but the combined weight of at least a dozen pairs of scrutinizing eyes would’ve been enough to make you turn on your heels and back to your car, fuck the membership price.

At the very least, you could convince yourself that walking in place (no better than a hamster on its wheel but oh well) would be enough to get you started. Baby steps, and all.

It doesn’t take long for you to realize the treadmill fucking sucks. Why would anyone suggest looking at a parking lot while suffering instead of the pretty scenery of a park or forest (while also suffering, but still).

The timer you’d set for the warm-up (ten minutes, just like the pretty blonde coach suggested!) crawls by way too slowly for your taste. You’d be all but whooping with joy when it beeps if you weren’t so out of breath and conscious of a gaze on you.

You’d seen him as soon as you walked in.

Between figures of balding men trying to get rid of their beer gut with abs, two thin women whispering to themselves in a corner while trying to look inconspicuous, and a few other, completely average-looking men and women, there he stands, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as he deadlifts an impressive amount of black plates.

He immediately looks straight ahead, correcting his stance, as if there were anything to be corrected, in your unathletic opinion. The muscles in his arms bulge even through the thin, grey hoodie, and the ones in his legs coil tight as the weight is lifted off the ground in a slow, controlled motion. Not even a grunt escapes his lips, at least no one you could hear from where you stood, completely mesmerized.

There was always something almost unappealing about overly muscled men. Their wife’s not feedin’ ‘em enough, your granny would grumble when passing by the rows of magazines at the checkout of the supermarket.

Yet this man.

Yeah, he was muscled. But in a way, he looked… almost normal. Like he was built for strength, not necessarily vanity. Each bend of his legs, each twist of his arms…

You’d swoon if you hadn’t lowered your standards so low he’d trip on them. Accepted it a long time ago. Fats belong with fats, thins with thins, and if there’s a thin with a fat, either one’s getting fattened up, or the other’s getting dumped. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy, and one you’d rather not be a part of.

You walk with shaky legs to the water dispenser, then get ready to grab the second to lightest weights to try some bicep curls.

You try to remember the positioning from the videos. Rotate in… or out? Should the wrists be like this? You go through ten repetitions on each side, before you think that you should’ve gone for the abs straight away. God knows there’s fat to burn there, and that the flab under your arms can wait.

You turn back from the rack and walk straight into a wall.

No, a chest.

Fuck.

“Sorry there, miss,” says a deep voice. You detect some sort of accent, unable to quite place it right away.

Your eyes run up, instinctively stopping for a second at chest level (holy heavens that’s a Chest with a capital C if you’ve ever seen one) before finally meeting that same pair of eyes you met a few minutes ago, through the mirror.

Double fuck.

“S-sorry, it’s me, wasn’t watching,” you stammer out, gesturing to the weights in a panicked way. “Just, y’know, switching exercises,” you sputter with a nervous laugh, like it was a completely normal thing to switch exercises after one rep.

He chuckles, and you really need to start planning your escape, because holy shit the way his pectorals rise and fall as his chest puffs up is getting a bit too much for your poor little humiliated self to handle, but he doesn’t let you as he speaks in a soft tone.

“I’m getting arms aren’t really your thing, eh?” he asks, not unkindly. Gosh, did it have to be a Scottish accent?

You can’t meet his eyes, they’re too blue, too piercing for your liking. “To be fair I don’t know what’s my thing yet, I’m just starting out, y’know?” you shift your weight on your legs, conscious of the size difference, and not in the way you wanted to be. Your neck is very warm all of a sudden.

He laughs again, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, and you almost want the floor to open up and swallow you whole, but the words that come out of his mouth are completely unexpected.

“Figured! A girl with thighs like yours, I’m sure you can deadlift more than me with just a lil’ training. I’m Johnny, by the way,” he adds in passing, as if offering his name is the least of his concerns. “You ever got someone to train you?”

You’re entirely unsure if you’re dreaming or not. Did this Scottish hunk of muscle really just offer to be your personal trainer?

“Never - uh… lifted anything, I guess. Just when moving, my couch and bed and all, but I had a friend help me.” You definitely feel like you’re oversharing and you’re struggling to ignore the weight of the gaze of the two thin women, burning through you as they whisper among themselves, when you realize you hadn't answered the second part. “Oh and, uh– no. I’ve never… trained. Been trained. It’s my first time in a gym since- a while. I don’t want to bother you.”

You finally look up at him, and you’re unable to read his expression. There’s a sort of curiosity, a fascination, that blends fast into a wide-eyed joy that’s so open, so sincere that it makes your head spin as he gently but firmly grabs your wrist and pulls you where his bar stands on the thick mat, ignoring your sputtering protests. “Not a bother at all, lass!” He lets go of you as he bends down and effortlessly racks the barbell, starting to remove plates as he continues. “We can start by measuring your max lift, then the one where you can easily do three reps, then we’ll hike it up till failure, so I can calculate your starting training weight!” he rambles on excitedly. You nervously shift on your feet, conscious of more curious gazes on you, but then he’s back in your bubble, pulling your attention towards him like a magnet.

His smile is like a blazing sun, and you don’t have the heart to tell him to prepare for disappointment.

He’s infinitely patient as he shows you how to place your feet, and the angle of your hips (oh, how you feel your knee weaken at the feel of his light tough through the leggings, nothing short of electrifying, despite being perfectly friendly), the hold on the bar. It’s all a blur till you find yourself bent over in front of him, looking in the mirror at your position and trying not to feel conscious of the way he’s placed behind you. Or let your mind wander in inappropriate places.

“Whenever yer ready, hen.”

You brace yourself, close your eyes for a brief second, wondering how the hell you’d landed on this planet, then breathe in, open your eyes-

The weight is in your hands. Not on the floor. You’re holding it.

You almost drop it when he cheers behind you, warm palms rubbing down from your shoulders to your elbows and back up. “Easy! I told you you’d be a natural! ‘S all in the legs and you’ve got awesome legs, bonnie! Let’s add twenty more.”

It’s a blur of racking and de-racking and lifting once and setting back, and redoing it again and again. You’re out of breath, sweating like a sinner in church, but you’re smiling along with him, finding yourself giving him double high fives, and doing small, excited jumps.

“Next one’s exactly my weight, if y’can lift that, I’ll be losing my bloody mind! D’you realize how well yer doin’ for a first-timer?” He says as he bends next to you, adjusting the bar for the next set of weights. With a wipe of his forearm over his forehead, he crouches slightly down, placing his head right above your shoulder and looking your reflection in the mirror straight in the eyes with a conspiratory grin. “Swear to God, if ye can lift it off the ground, I’m buying you the most expensive drink at the bar next door!” he says, grin blending into a blinding smile, too genuine for your own good.

He’s just friendly, just friendly, just friendly, you say to yourself like a mantra as you position yourself. He stands again to his full height behind you, hands ready under the bar, a safenet.

Deep breath in– hold it…

Slowly but surely, you lift the weight off the floor, your ears ringing from the effort. You see his lips move as he cheers you on, but the blood pumping in your eardrums makes it impossible to hear him. Suddenly, the weight is back on the ground and your feet are off the floor as you’re lifted in a tight embrace and spun around like you weigh nothing.

You yelp and flail but he’s holding you tight, face pressed smack-dab in the middle of your chest, between your tits, rumbling praises about your prowess while you’re trying to figure out whether this can be something that your brain is capable of summoning as a dream.

“Put me down, Johnny, oh my God, put me down!”

He thankfully complies but not before squeezing your ass tighter, and suddenly nothing feels real anymore.

“Jesus, I knew ye were perfect,” he says, pulling back reluctantly to rerack the bar and put back the weights. “I cannot wait to properly start training ye’ tomorrow, but for now, I have a promise ta’ keep, and, uh, let’s just say I wouldn’t mind using those strong thighs as earmuffs with this freezin’ weather. On the way back from the bar, what d’ya say?” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows with a crooked smile that lets you know he’s joking around. (Is he?)

You laugh with him and for a second, you forget what you were here for.

+++

The way to the bar is short. It was just a block away (Good for business, he jokes), but the conversation with Johnny made time really fly by.

He seems genuinely glad when you tell him you’d decided to head to the gym not just as a New Year’s resolution, but trying to simply become a better you. There’s no condescendence, no talking down, no (God forbid) pity, just an overall nice interaction the whole time. He tells you about being on leave as a soldier (Medical leave, he specifies, a fucked up knee can work in a gym, but it’s a different story out in the field), you tell him about your studies and how that led into a “big girl” job that left you no time for yourself.

“But I’ve always been a big girl,” you feel the need to justify. “Just… gotten bigger as I stopped finding time to move. The desk and the laptop are pretty stationary,” you joke, still trying to make sense of why a man like him (broad, and tall, and strong, and… gosh, just perfect-looking) would even deign to accept being seen with you.

(It’s not a date, you dumbass)

“I happen to like big girls,” is what you don’t expect him to say.

Wait, what?

His blue eyes glue you to your seat, and you respond dumbly. “What?”

“I mean, why do you think I’d offer to train you?” he continues, placing his hand, big and warm over your thigh. It’s squished as you sit, wide and flattened in your seat, yet his hand covers a good amount, almost covering the whole width.

Your brain is short-circuiting but you have to answer something.

“Out of– uh… out of niceness?” you stammer out, feeling your insecurities climb back out of the hole they’d been sleeping in all this time, making you shrink even more, trying to cover yourself as if he didn’t see right through you with that piercing gaze. “To feel good seeing you be the reason I lose weight?”

He chuckles, squeezing your thigh as his head hangs down, almost as if to hide the smile that spreads on his lips.

“Strength training doesn’t work like that, bonnie.” He looks back up, and his eyes are blue, and wide, and so pretty, that you can’t find anything to argue back. “Ye’ think building glutes underneath that fat arse does anything but make it bigger?” He shifts, inching closer as he licks his lips and drops his voice lower. “Ye’ think growing your quads will make this,” he gives an even firmer squeeze, wiggling the fat back and forth, and you tense under his grip, but he’s got you pinned down, “any less wide and soft?”

He presses closer, and the booth has no escape room, you’re practically squeezed into the corner as he pushes his body against yours, bending to whisper lowly in the crook of your neck.

“I did not joke when I said I want yer pretty thighs wrapped tight around my head.”

You can’t be blamed when you don’t remember how you ended up in the back of a cab, Johnny barely taking the time to bark an address to the poor driver and throw fifty quid on the front seat before kissing you absolutely senseless, shamelessly groping your tits with a hand and wrapping the other around your thigh, squeezing you close.

You should probably think more about going home with basically a stranger, no matter how hot, but when he presses his entire palm against your cunt, cupping it over the quickly dampening pair of leggings that didn’t seem so thick anymore, you can’t think at all. He swallows your quiet moans, and hums contently against your lips, taking each gasp for air as an invitation to slither his tongue into your mouth. God, you’d forgotten what a good makeout session was like, and you can’t even find it in you to be embarrassed when you see the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, instantly looking away when you see him staring.

Johnny doesn’t seem to mind either, and when he notices you looking in the front again and again, he crowds you against the door behind the driver with a huff, half-climbing over you until his knee is pressed against your core, and the only thing in your field of vision is him.

“Johnny,” you try to say, but it’s getting hard to think, with the way you’re being squeezed in a corner, this hunk of a man of pure muscle pressing against you like a weighted blanket, kissing you like you were a drop of water in the desert and he was a parched man drinking you for his salvation. You feel his excitement pressed against your thigh, and it gives you enough lucidity to try again. “Johnny,” you gasp out again, “aren’t we going a little fast?”

He laughs instead, choosing to focus on the side of your mouth, pressing fervent little kisses down your neck before starting to suckle the delicate skin over where your clavicle is. “I can go as slow as you’d like, bun.” He takes the spot an inch next to the previous one into his mouth and sucks again, this time more forcefully, marking you, and oh God you’re going to have to conceal it before work tomorrow, unless you can find a turtleneck to wear–

The cab driver clears his throat, and you notice that the car is stopped in front of a small apartment complex. Johnny says a cordial thanks as he pulls you out of the car and throws another twenty on the backseat, before wrapping his arm around your shoulders and taking all of the thinking out of the equation as he walks you to the entry.

His flat is pretty well furnished, all things considered, but he doesn’t give you enough time to observe the deco as he presses you against the door and slides his hand under your leggings.

“Got me starin’ at that ass the second you walked in, best fuckin’ thing I’ve seen in months, d’ye realize that, bonnie?” he breathes out against your ear as his entire palm cups your sex, and you can only whine as you press your forehead into the crook of his neck. “And by how wet this pussy is, I think you liked starin’ at me, too.”

“You are–” you say, but he curls his middle finger in, spreading your lips and spreading the wetness to your clit, making you choke on your words, “-very nice to stare at.”

“Yeah?” you hear the grin in his voice.

“Mmhm,” you nod, as he keeps the back and forth of his finger, never dipping in too far, just keeping you hungry for more.

“Then how’d ye like to stare down at me as I taste this wet cunt of yours?” he purrs in your ear as he stops moving completely, letting the words process.

Brain.exe has stopped functioning.

Had you ever had a boyfriend willing to speak filth like that to you when you were down to do the deed, maybe you would’ve gotten enough practice to know what to answer something sensible and intelligible to that, but as it stands, all you can muster is a very dumb-sounding “Huh?” as you stare back at him.

And that, apparently, is the funniest thing in the world to him, because he dips his head down and laughs, almost like a boyish giggle. Not only does that not stop him from kneeling in front of you, but it also somehow gives him more confidence to keep talking like that.

“How about you look down into my eyes as I eat out your pretty little pussy and make you come around my tongue, how’s that sound?” His baby blues bear no trace of maliciousness, no trace of a joke, as his fingers hook around the waistband and trace it around your stomach. You have to make a very conscious effort not to suck it in immediately in preparation for the letdown, but he doesn’t pull them down yet, only moving his hand alongside the edge. Your silence as you try to process what is happening only seems to spur him on instead. “In fact, how about you close your eyes, I close mine, and you hold my head close as I devour you, would you let me do that, pretty girl?”

“I’m not-” you can’t think of any way to properly let him down, not when he looks up with such pleading eyes, so the words stumble out gracelessly. “I’m sweaty, you don’t wanna–”

But he interrupts as he pulls your leg closer by gripping your thigh and squishing it against his cheek “But I do.” He inhales deeply, and your own breath shakes at the sight of how blissed out he already looks. “God, I want it. Let me have this.”

A voice somewhere inside yells at you that this has to be some sort of weird fetish, and that he most certainly won’t be having the same aura of desperation around him tomorrow, when post-coital rationale shows up and he sees your body past the veil of lust, but for now, you think that getting some with Johnny cannot be that bad compared to any one of your past encounters. Might as well enjoy it when you still can.

You wrap your hand around the one he still has around your waistband, and see his face positively light up as you softly caress his cheek.

In the end, you’re the one that pleads.

“Johnny, please.”

Your pants are off you and your leg is over his shoulder before you realize what is happening.

The feel of his warm tongue against your slit makes any thought, any doubt, any fear positively vanish, and the content sigh that he lets out as he licks at you is the same sigh as finally removing a bra at the end of a long day, it’s the sigh of laying down carelessly onto a soft bed after standing up for hours, it’s the sigh of the first bite of the best meal a man has after starving for weeks.

It should be awkward the way his arm wraps around your thigh and sinks into the softness of your stomach, using it to pin you up as he uses his other hand to spread you out enough for him to work his jaw the same way he did when he was making out with you in the car… Yet it’s not. It’s natural, the way his hand squeezes you as he licks, and sucks, and kisses around your pussy, unhurried yet passionate, languidly but firmly, pressing his tongue in, licking around your lips, and maddeningly avoiding the place you wanted him to touch most.

“Johnny,” you moan as he grazes his teeth around your sensitive nub in response. You almost buck out of his hold, but he’s firmly keeping you in place. “Please, don’t tease.”

He hums in response and dives back in, eyes fluttering closed as he ignores your whines. Every time his tongue or lips graze your clit, he works his mouth the opposite way, holding your thigh harder and pressing his palm up as he counters your hip movements with a clever swipe of the tongue. It’s absolutely maddening. “Johnny, please!”

He chuckles as he pulls back, an obscene string of spit lengthening as he pulls back, only breaking when he runs his tongue against his reddened, swollen lips. “Thought ye’ wanted me ta’ go slow, bun.” His eyes sparkle with challenge, but you can also discern a veil of unhidden desperation, of waiting for you to give the go-ahead for him to let loose.

“I’m fine with faster–” you start, but the words dissolve into a barely restrained moan as he hikes your leg up more, getting you closer to him, and immediately singling onto your neglected clit.

His forehead rests onto your belly now, and if you had more than two functioning neurons you’d wonder how he is that he’s breathing, but his hums and moans let you know that he’s perfectly content burrowing his nose in your pussy, nudging at your clit with the tip of it as he licks you with all the dedication you’ve never been shown from a man of his caliber.

He builds it up, and soothes it down, knowing exactly when to put more pressure, or when to teasingly swirl his tongue around your entrance, or to lave broad strokes of his tongue, so much so that the knee that’s not hooked over his shoulder almost gives out on a particularly forceful suck of your clit.

“Easy there,” he groans almost petulantly, as if you’re interrupting him. “Can’t have you fallin’ over when I’m not done wit’ ye.”

“My legs are gonna give out,” you say honestly, trying to catch your breath and avoid having the perfect man at your feet steal it again. “You’re a bit too good at this.” He grins up at you, “Am I?” and you want to give you a playful swat, but instead decide on carding your fingers through his now disheveled mohawk. “Guess the mess on my face speaks for itself… Shall we take this to the bedroom?”

You throw a glance around the apartment, assessing your options. “Couch is closer.” His smile is blinding. “I like how ye’ think.”

It’s now the second time he surprises you by scooping your legs from under you and picking you up like he couldn’t wait any longer and that carrying you bridal-style was the only way he could think of moving you. You yelp out a protest but he swallows it with another hungry kiss, shamelessly smearing your own wetness over your cheek as he walks you both to the couch.

You sink into the cushions where he places you gently without so much as a grunt of effort, and oh God, there they are, the standards are rising.

You reach over to pull him closer as he straightens up, but he only gives you a peck on the lips in return, like he hadn’t been kissing you sloppily the entire time.

“Come back,” you whine, hoping you can get it done before he comes back to his senses, like they all do, but he just smiles and kneels between your feet, hands pressing your thighs apart. The squelch of your lips parting should be embarrassing were he not looking up at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes full of adoration, like a child staring up at the full moon on full display on a clear night’s skies. Maybe you are his moon, his goddess, judging by the lust-clouded look directed at you.

“I did say I was gonna make you come on my face,” he says lowly, the gravel in his voice making you squirm as he places a trail of kisses up your thigh. “And I intend to keep that promise.”

With that, he dives in again, using his forearms to pin your legs open on the couch and his fingers to tease around where his tongue can’t reach. You mewl when you feel his tongue at your entrance, circling it around it briefly before delving in as deep as he could, his right hand stroking your clit rhythmically. The fact that he’s so good at somehow playing all your buttons like a maestro directing an orchestra has you thinking that he must be some sort of womanizer, some freak who does this kind of thing every night, but then his lips wrap around your nub and he gives a firm, long suck, and any restriction that you could’ve conjured up simply vanishes. Your thighs want to close around his head, but you can’t move under the iron grip he has on you.

You fist his hair more forcefully than necessary, and he looks up, wet eyelashes framing his beautiful eyes as he hums in response.

“Please,” you moan, and he hums affirmatively again, closing his eyes to focus on licking and suckling harder. He heard you, he simply doesn’t seem to care. “Johnny.”

“What,” he asks, voice muffled and why is this so hot?

“I need… I need,” you whine, unable to string the words together, and desperately trying to buck your hips under him, for lack of strength to actually close your thighs how you want to.

That seems to get his attention, and he chuckles, before pulling back with a gentle kiss on your mound. “Guess you’ll have to keep tryin’, pet,” he sussurs, a condescending pat on your thighs before he dives in slower than before.

Oh, the absolute asshole. Now he wants you to work for it?

You think that doing the opposite, relaxing your thighs open and letting him go to town however he wanted would help, but he seems hell-bent on riling you up every once in a while, getting you closer and closer with each lave of his tongue over your poor, overstimulated clit, but never enough to actually push you over the edge.

After what seems like an eternity, and almost, almost starting to think that this was a mistake, halfway ready to let him do this thing before your hip starts to cramp up, you feel a finger nudge at your entrance.

“Fucking finally–” you start, ready to curse him out, but he’s faster than you can think in your blissed-out state, and he slides a second finger alongside the first one, immediately zeroing in on that spot that makes you go cross-eyed and buck under his hold.

“Thassit– there you go, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your clit, and oh, okay, maybe you were closer than you thought, because the rhythmic curl of his fingers doesn’t need to last long before you’re off like an arrow, back arching and thighs squeezing, coming harder than you ever thought was possible. If he were any less skilled at making you completely lose the ability to think, you’d maybe notice that you’d managed to close your thighs almost completely around his head, but he wasn’t, so you don’t, twitching helplessly in the aftershocks of the most wonderful orgasm a man had ever given you.

Limbs that somehow still belong to your body hang uselessly off the side of the couch, and you struggle to catch your breath. You blink lazily, noticing him smugly wipe his face with the back of his hand, his half lidded eyes not any less blissed-out than yours.

You didn’t believe a man like this ever existed, until now. It aches that this might not be something that would last, so you make grabby hands at him, unable to find the will to speak just yet.

He laughs softly and gently grabs your arms, kissing from your knuckles slowly up your arm, to the crook of your neck. The patience he has is almost inhuman, as he takes the time to let you regather your senses, matching the marks he made earlier on the other side of your neck. You cup your hand around his head in response, and he smiles at you.

“Ye’ with me, bun?”

“Mmhm.”

“That slow enough fer’ ye’?” He holds himself up, an inch fron your face, and you reach up to kiss him.

“I’m gonna kill you dead,” you mutter against his lips, and he chuckles.

“Let me at least fuck you properly, first,” he whispers, and you notice that he’s long since unbuttoned his pants. You barely get a view of the massive size of him over your belly as he holds himself in his hand, large palm not enough to cover the whole length of him as he strokes himself, angled in such way that his tip rubs against your clit on each downstroke. The word “Please,” is not even halfway out of your mouth when he sinks into you in one swift motion, the rest dissolving into a long, drawn-out moan.

“Fuck-” he grunts, “so tight, cannot believe it.”

He guides one of your legs to wrap around him, keeping it flush against his body with his elbow as his palm grips your ass tightly, the other holding him against the backrest, forearm near your head as he pulls you closer for a sloppy kiss as he starts rolling his hips. You moan into his mouth and he swallows them greedily, leveraging each trust of his hips with a pull with his hand, helping you move in tandem with him, readjusting when your thigh threatens to slip out of his hold. The slaps of his pelvis to yours should sound obscene, his hard muscles hitting against your soft, jiggly skin, but his groans into your mouth are like music to your ears, the fact that he’s vocal about it has you almost reaching your peak again in no time, but he seems to sense it, and slows down immediately.

You try to kiss him harder, but he makes a small noise of protest, muttering something that sounds vaguely like “no, let me, let me just–” and you want to ask what he wants to do, to help him, but he instead reaches down both hands to grab your hips and pull you off the backrest. You yelp as your ass suddenly hangs in the air, his cock speared inside you the only secure point as he pulls you halfway off the couch, but he directs you firmly, “Here, around me,” helping you wrap your legs tightly as he starts thrusting again, harder than before.

“Oh, God, oh God,” you flail around, but each thrust in pushes your back into the cushions, and he reaches behind his back to hold your feet in his hand as he presses his palm near your head for support, spewing more filth as he does.

“That’s it, hold me tight, squeeze my cock like ye’ almost squeezed mah heid off earlier, huh, bonnie? Show me what those thighs can do, fuck-”

Your whole body is jiggling with each thrust, and you don’t have it in you to even feel self-conscious with the way each time he fills you, the tip of his cock nudges against the spongey spot inside, making you mewl in tempo with his relentless rhythm.

“Johnny, Johnny,” you moan, and he bends over to kiss you again, swallowing his name like communion while you chant it like a prayer.

“Don’t give up now, bonnie, keep squeezin’, fuck, I can feel ye’, yer so close.”

You try to get some leverage with your upper body, trying to push yourself up the cushions, but his cock suddenly slips out of you as your thighs almost give out, and an apology is already halfway out your mouth when he kneels back down and burrows between your legs, tongue first with a rushed “Need ta’ taste us, fuck, both of us, together-”

One hand wraps around your hip and over your pelvis, reaching up to knead desperately at your stomach, to pull you closer or push you away, you can’t tell, the other pulling your lips apart to settle his entire lower face against your pussy firmly– before letting go as he starts humming.

Your thighs are free to squeeze around his ears, and he nods encouragingly as he keeps licking, and then you hear it: the sounds of wet stroking. You don’t see him fisting his cock, but you hear it, fast and desperate. As your hand tangles in his hair to pull him closer, and another hum– no, another moan vibrates through your core, it’s the last thing you hear before you’re absolutely gone, gasping out a curse as you tense up in his hold, trembling as you come.

It’s even more intense than the first one, and as you buck out of his hold, he stands up shakily, his hand moving faster and faster around his cock, the angry red of his tip at the same level as your face. You gesture for him to sit down, trying to signal to him that you want to reciprocate despite the post-orgasmic haze and exhaustion, but he shakes his head, and, seconds later, you feel warm wetness land on your belly and slowly trickle down as he moans your name when he comes.

You feel like you still have to give something back, and, when he slumps down next to you with a content sigh, you climb over to place a delicate kiss on the tip of his cock, letting out a huff of laughter when it twitches under your touch.

“Ye’ absolute menace,” he whispers fondly as he pulls you up and tips his body to the side to lie down, using his legs to push you up halfway over him, trapping you between his body and the cushions, yet protectively shielding you from falling over. You place another kiss on his stomach, and you see his abs tense under your touch as your warm breath moves his hairs as you hover for a second, before deciding to shift up and use his pectorals as a cushion. He hums softly as his arm wraps around under yours, reaching to pull the plaid off the back of the couch and settle it around you both. Ticklish, eh? That’s a piece of information best stored for later.

You’re still breathless, absolutely done for. God, best decision of your life, going to the gym. “Now what?” you can’t help but ask. It’s the same fear that always creeps up, the fear that he got to try out a fantasy, and now that he was done with it, he had no need to want to continue anything possibly serious. Not that eating a girl out on a first date, if you could even call it a date, was a sign of a one-night stand, you can’t help but feel awkward and insecure now that it’s all done, despite the comforting cuddle.

He chuckles in response, that same chuckle from earlier in the day, a What a silly question chuckle. Like he’d read into your thoughts and insecurities and found them absolutely laughable.

“Same time at the gym, tomorrow? I want you to squeeze my head off next time.”

“Next time, huh?”

He pulls your leg over his pelvis, trapping his still half-mast cock between his belly and the crook of your knee, hand firmly wrapped to shift you up, almost completely on top of him. When both of you are comfortable and you start feeling the tendrils of sleep pull you deeper, he gives a last, playful squeeze to your ass.

“Next time.”

#cc writes #soap #soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #fat reader #chubby reader #john soap mactavish x fat reader #pwp #call of duty #fanfiction #call of duty fanfiction #cod fanfic #cod #plus size reader #john soap mactavish #my man knows how to eat pussy and he ENJOYS it #ignore my attempt at writing his scottish accent i tried okay?

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