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octuscle · 11 months

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Roommates

Sven wasn't exactly the type of Swedish exchange student that the Alpha Phi fraternity had expected. Of course, they had expected some kind of Viking. Long blonde hair, muscular body, hard-drinking beyond measure. Sven was NOTHING like that. None, slight with a slight belly, vegan, teetotaler. A bore and a nerd! If anyone didn't fit into the fraternity, it was this nerd, whose bed had long since been neatly made at 08:00 in the morning and who was already sitting in the library studying. Most of his fraternity brothers simply ignored Sven. But it wasn't so easy for his roommate Alex. Sven didn't like it when Alex smoked pot with his bong, Sven constantly asked Alex to keep order and clean. Sven annoyed Alex with every single one of his Swedish breaths.

Saturday morning. Alex had a serious hangover. The party yesterday had been more than worth it. Of course he would have preferred to fuck the linebacker in his bed. But of course Sven had already been in bed at 10 p.m. and couldn't be disturbed. But hell, the fuck in the broom closet had been hot. And where had the little nerd gone again? The bed was already made, of course. There was a note on the pillow that read in little-girl handwriting "I'm at the museum today, will be back around 8pm." Museum! On a Saturday! What a loser… Alex had no idea why he was doing this, but he just wanted to get one over on the little neat freak. So he wiped his hairy, sweaty armpits with Sven's pillow. Then he pissed, wanked his morning boner and lay down again to sleep it off. When Sven came home in the evening, he sighed. Once again, Alex had left behind a mess that reached right into his own half of the room they shared. He tidied up at least his part of the room and went down to the kitchen to prepare his dinner. The other guys had all gone out. Sure, it was Saturday night. Sven enjoyed preparing and eating his vegetable soup while reading National Geographic. He got ready for bed around 10 p.m. He wanted to go to the botanical garden in the morning.

Sven's night was restless. Not just because of Alex, who came home at around 03:00 in the morning, full to bursting and then had to throw up in the toilet. It was also because of wild dreams. Sven woke up twice because of an almost painful boner. And after getting up, he had to jerk off urgently. He had never been this horny before. Damn it, if he wanted to get to the botanical garden in time for the tour, he had to hurry. Showering was out of the question. He smelled under his armpits. Phew! And he really needed to shave there too. What a bush that was growing there. Sven quickly took Alex's deodorant. The scent should mask the stench. And then he hurriedly got ready and quietly left the frat house.

When Alex woke up, he had to grin. For the first time, Sven's bed wasn't made. His silly pyjama bottoms were actually on the floor. And he hadn't left a note about what nerdy activity he was doing today. Alex took Sven's pyjama bottoms and pulled them through his own ass crack a few times with relish. The idea of the little nerd putting these pants on made him really horny. He leaked precum, which he wiped off with Sven's pyjama bottoms. His personal pain in the ass deserved that.

When Sven came back in the late afternoon, most of the jocks were sitting in the living room watching football. Sven had no idea what the rules were and he wasn't really interested. But he thought it was cool to hang out with the guys now. As long as he was in the fraternity… Plus there were nachos and beer. If that wasn't a reason to sit down in a free seat…

When Alex woke up the next morning, Sven's bed was empty, of course. Miserable nerd, thought Alex. Then he heard the sound of the toilet flushing. And a naked Sven came out of the bathroom. "Hey, didn't you wash your hands, you pig?" Alex asked, looking at the mighty cock dangling between Sven's legs. Sven held his hand under Alex's nose. "Doesn't stink, so doesn't need washing, Bruh," he said with a grin. And as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants, a no-longer-fresh T-shirt and a sweat jacket, he added that he was late for the first lecture. And asked if he would meet Alex at the gym later.

Whatever drugs Sven was taking, Alex thought, he should keep taking them. Speaking of drugs. Alex was in the mood for a bong. Now that the nerd was gone. Alex would be skipping the first lecture anyway. His Monday started with the lunch break at the earliest. He lit the bong. And taking advantage of the opportunity to be alone, he blew the smoke right onto Sven's crumpled pillow.

Normally, Alex would have been embarrassed to be seen in the gym with Sven. But actually, the little wanker wasn't doing too badly. Sven wasn't necessarily muscular. But wiry. And he obviously had the ambition to put on weight. Alex shared his protein shake with his roommate. And Sven thanked him with a huge protein fart on the leg press. Hell, did he smell like that himself, Alex wondered, feeling a little sorry for Sven. Having not showered since Saturday morning, Sven insisted on showering after training. Sissy, Alex thought at first. Until he saw Sven naked in the changing room. "Hey, Swedish stallion, wait for me," he called after him. Never in his life would he have thought that he would ever jerk off in the shower with Sven.

Sven got up the next morning. He should have done his laundry yesterday. But now he had to do it in yesterday's jockstrap and socks. He had showered last night, so he could use the precious time to smoke a joint. Damn it, there had to be tobacco and weed somewhere in his hopeless mess. Alex was still snoring. The tent he had built in his bed clearly marked his morning wood. Sven would have loved to give the stud a blow job. But he had now decided to have a joint. He didn't have time for both together. As usual, he was running late. And he often couldn't afford to be late any more. Alex was well off. Thanks to his rich parents and his football scholarship, he could afford to sleep through the morning. Sven had to get reasonably good grades so that his scholarship abroad wouldn't be canceled.

Before he left the fraternity house, he quickly made himself a protein shake. One of his frat brothers hugged him from behind and grabbed the bulge in his sweatpants. "Time for a quick fuck, stud?" Fuck, now he was late for class after all.

"You look good, Bruh!" Alex said that evening after the workout. "Ever thought about a roid cycle?" Sven was hungry for more. In his mind, he put on 40 pounds of muscle. The thought of a massive roid gut gave him a hard-on. He knocked the cap off Alex's head. "You only want that to make my cock shrink. You just can't swallow that beast like that." Alex got down on his knees and pulled the waistband of Sven's pants down. The precum-smeared cock popped out of its prison. "I think I'll just give it a go…" Best roommates ever!

Pic of the two studs found @meninthemirr0r

Story based on an idea of @1-800-give-a-chance

#male tf #muscle tf #reality change #male transformation #muscle transformation #jock tf #nerd to jock

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gainingfiction · 11 months

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Heavily Used

Summary: This is a bit experimental (or weird), and maybe a bit predictable, but I had fun writing it. This is a story about an important relationship in a fat guy’s life, and the risk of taking things for granted. It’s also a story about coping (or not coping) with change.

Hope you enjoy!

I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I can only handle so much. It’s one thing to be taken for granted, that’s something we all have to live with. It’s just the total lack of acknowledgment, or even awareness that I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. I swear, one of these days, I’m just gonna snap and call it quits.

A little bit about me: I’m stylish, polished, and pretty easy on the eyes, if I do say so myself. Born in Poland, but my background is Swedish—I’m European, at heart. The name is Anders, but no one actually calls me that. I’m not super high-maintenance, once you figure me out, but everyone needs a little attention from time to time. Some tending.

Especially living with Max.

I’ve known Max for a while, and he’s not a bad guy. He can be a little rough sometimes, and maybe a little careless, but it doesn’t come from a bad place. I think it’s just a lack of self-awareness. And let’s be honest, that’s a common problem among pretty-boy jocks.

The trouble with Max is that he’s not the pretty-boy I once knew. He’s changed… he’s grown. I mean, he’s literally grown. Grown by about a hundred pounds, if I had to guess, and counting. Over the course of our time together, I’ve gotten pretty familiar with his ass, and I’ll admit, it’s a great one. But, boy, he’s got a lot more ass for me to handle these days.

It’s not insurmountable, not yet at least. But I’m worried it’s getting there.

It started out simply enough, the innocent midnight snacks and occasional takeout treats. No problem, right? Twunks can afford to indulge a little, especially a hot commodity like Max. But then, you get comfortable. You settle into a routine, you let yourself go. That’s the thing about creatures of beauty: one minute you’re the hottest guy in town, trim and toned, with a golden tan and handsome face and perfect, silky hair. The sort of guy who only seems to exist in a Hollywood version of reality. But then, inevitably, something happens. Sometimes tastes change, or maybe you’re the one doing the changing.

I won’t deny, I’m not in the same shape I was when I entered Max’s life for the first time. Any long-term relationship comes with the normal wear-and-tear. Max, though, has taken it to a whole new level.

The little snacks become big snacks. The extra meals go from “occasional” to “frequent” to “everyday”. Gluttony takes over. A 32-inch waist becomes a 36-inch waist becomes a 40-inch waist; size-small shirts are discarded in the back of the closet, soon joined by ill-fitting mediums, and then by larges, stretched out of shape by a gut that won’t stop getting bigger. Max used to flit around the apartment like a bird; now he lumbers like an elephant, heavy footfalls and a slow, waddling gait. His own warning system—you can hear him coming.

On paper, I know I should be trying to help lighten the load. And it’s not like I’m totally unappreciated; there are days when he comes home from work, legs tired and arms loaded down with takeout, and I can tell he’s genuinely happy to have me. But it doesn’t last long. Once dinner’s over, I’m back to being ignored while he sits on the couch, gorging himself in front of the TV, until he comes around again to stuff his face at the next meal. Which, to be fair, is pretty often these days.

It sounds cruel, the way I talk about his escalating weight, his increasingly-indecent greed. I’m not trying to be mean. I just wish he’d consider how it might affect me. I have to live with him, and he’s starting to cramp my style. But it’s not like I can say anything. I just have to sit there in silence, while he eats and eats, grows and grows, piling on pound after excess pound. And the way he eats, moaning and licking and slurping… it’s downright pornographic.

250 starts to feel like a lowball as the months go by. He’s pushing me to my limits without even realizing it. I’ve never had to deal with a guy this fat before, a guy whose big, round bubble butt would hang over the side of even the most substantial chair. And I, personally, am not “substantial”. I’m pretty thin; it’s just how I was made. I thought Max was made that way, too.

I start trying to make my frustration known, but like I said, I can’t just come right out and say something. So I try a little subtlety; a small groan every now and then when he throws himself down at the dinner table for another round of hedonism. If he notices, he doesn’t care. He just keeps upping the ante.

And upping just about everything else: his pants size, his portion sizes, the size of his monster-truck ass and thunder thighs. They press together whenever he sits down, now, lard against blubber. Not like in the old days when his legs were lithe and lean. His moobs bulge against every tank top, his pudgy arms pack his sleeves, his love handles blossom over the top of every waistband like ripening tropical fruit.

In occasional moments of self-pity, I hazard a guess: how much does my man weigh now? 275 pounds? 300? Is he even trying to do something about it? Clearly not. He never works out anymore, unless you count working up a sweat over a third (or fourth, or fifth) slice of cheesecake. I honestly wonder if he’s doing it on purpose, just to spite me. Or test me. But I know that’s crazy—like I said, sometimes I truly doubt he even thinks about what it’s like for me.

But the problem is getting harder to ignore; he really throws his weight around these days. He heaves himself up off the couch. He rests a hand on the front of his bulging belly, barely restrained by some poor, threadbare top, back arching forward from the strain of it all (he’s not a tall guy, which makes his increasingly S-shaped silhouette even more pronounced). He trudges from the living room to the kitchen and drops himself in front of the table like an anvil. When he sits down, his ass, spilling out of some indecent pair of jean shorts, spreads out like lava blanketing some hapless Roman hamlet.

Some nights, I strain underneath him, feeling absolutely crushed by his sheer weight, boundless mass bearing down on me with the force of gravity. How big is he now? I wonder, as I listen to him moan and groan with pleasure. 325? 350? Could he really have gained over 200 pounds? How could he not realize what he’s doing to himself—what he’s doing to me?

He’s just so oblivious. I don’t even recognize him anymore. I’ve been starting to make noises about how uncomfortable I am, how much I’m struggling with his extra weight. But, as always, it falls on deaf ears. His tight little butt has become a pair of vast, ponderous globes, his abs and lats and obliques are encased in a spare tire that belongs on an 18-wheeler, his tits bulge out and dangle towards his armpits. And he just. Keeps. Going.

Keeps eating. Keeps gaining. Keeps expanding.

Things reach a boiling point before dinner one night. I can see him piling up the table, unboxing some outrageous quantity of food for his secret nightly mukbang. Well, secret except for the consequences, which anyone with eyes could notice. “There’s a man who likes his food” would be such a trite, vapid observation that it doesn’t even need saying. He doesn’t just “like” his food, he lives for his food. Food is practically a part of Max’s identity at this point.

He’s starting to lower his colossal ass to sit, and I can tell this is it. Tonight’s the night. Fuck it, I’m done. He’s well past 350 pounds, and that’s too much weight for me to handle.

Maybe he’ll appreciate me more when I’m not around. Hejdå, Max, it was nice knowing you! At least, it used to be.

Max sat on the floor, rolls of fat still wobbling from the jarring motion of his fall. His chair had been complaining for a while now—squeaking and groaning every time he sat down—but he hadn’t expected it to actually break. What a load of bullshit! He wasn’t even that fat!

He looked around at the splintered wood, soreness radiating across his ass—and not in a fun, post-fucking kind of way. At least his buttocks were nicely-padded. When he was bony, a slip on the ice hurt like all hell.

He was glad he was alone, or this would have been super embarrassing. At least no one was around to see him smash that chair like a pro-wrestler in a grudge match. He knew he’d been overdoing it, but this wasn’t his fault. How could it be, surely he wasn’t that big? Just a little out of shape, in need of a few good workouts to shed some winter weight. It was just the cheap IKEA furniture he bought.

With a grunt, he started the process of heaving his monumental form to a stand. As he started to gather his momentum, he glanced at the ruined seat and frowned. He actually liked that chair. It was pretty comfortable.

At least, it used to be.

(Author’s Note: don’t forget to rotate your dining chairs!)

#weight gain #male weight gain #gay #wg story #weight gain story #realistic gain #gaining fiction #belly #bhm #chub

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submariini · 1 year

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When Finland’s Käärijä took the stage at this year’s Eurovision, a star was instantly, explosively born. With an outrageous energy, infectious presence and that oh-so-catchy hook, the Vantaa-based rapper may not have won the contest but he certainly snatched the hearts of those in his home country and beyond. We ask Käärijä the million dollar question: what next?

[full article under the cut]

Last May, a peculiar frenzy engulfed Finland. Virtually all green foods – cucumbers, especially – were sold out from stores. Buildings across the land were bathed in vivid green lights. Social media brimmed with green-themed parties, while data obtained by Swedish fintech company Klarna showed a 570 per cent increase in the online sales of neon green shirts.

This phenomenon was all thanks to Käärijä, the rapper who represented Finland in the 2023 Eurovision Song Contest. His now-infamous, blazing green puff sleeve bolero – dreamt up by Finnish broadcasting company Yle’s costume design team and which he dons when performing the smash hit track ‘Cha Cha Cha’ – had taken on a life of its own, the lush hue uniting the entire nation amid the competition. “It was incredible to see it happen and so cool being part of it,” Käärijä says. “It wasn’t planned at all – it was the people who created the commotion. I’ll definitely never forget it.”

When we speak over Zoom, Käärijä, whose real name is Jere Pöyhönen, is lounging in his minimal apartment in Vantaa, a city just outside Helsinki. He appears on my screen shirtless, a chunky gold chain dangling on his neck. On his head sits a pastel turquoise cap adorned with little cat ears. As he gestures with his hands, I spot flashes of poison green nail varnish. Pöyhönen’s chosen attire, or lack thereof, is extremely fitting – he typically performs bare-chested (“It gets so hot during my gigs”) and his Instagram handle is @paidatonriehuja, or ‘shirtless rascal’.

Hot off a performance in western Finland, the 29-year-old is enjoying his first days off in a while. It’s been a sweltering summer of non-stop touring, with fans flocking to festivals and concerts nationwide to see his explosive live show. Things are not winding down either, with Käärijä heading off on his first-ever European tour this month. Some of these shows sold out in mere minutes, an indication of his immense international following. “It’s so exciting; I’m definitely jumping into a new territory with that tour,” Pöyhönen says. “But I don’t have any expectations – I’m just going to let everything happen organically rather than stressing about it.”

Although he created one of this year’s buzziest songs, the guy on my screen is humble and, save for his look, almost un assuming. I remark on the stark contrast to his fiery and flamboyant stage presence. “Through Käärijä, I get to channel all the craziness, quirkiness and hyperactivity I’ve had since I was a child,” Pöyhönen says, describing himself offstage as “just this ordinary dude”. Without delving into further details, he tells me that the name Käärijä (translating roughly to moneymaker) stems from a history with gambling. Despite the darkness of its origin, he notes that the moniker is to be taken with a grain of salt.

While it might seem like Käärijä exploded into the public consciousness from obscurity, Pöyhönen has a long journey in music behind him. Born in Helsinki but having spent most of his youth in Vantaa, he started dabbling in the medium at just three years old. Coming from a musical family (“My dad and big brother both play the guitar”), jamming sessions were commonplace in the Pöyhönen household, his instrument of choice being the drums. “I was playing with pots and spoons before I got a set of those plastic kids’ drums,” he says. “When we moved to a bigger house, we built a band room downstairs where me and my brother spent a lot of time practising.”

At that time, rap music hadn’t yet entered Pöyhönen’s life; he was strictly a self-described “metal guy”. His older brother had instilled in him a love for the genre, particularly metal icons Rammstein. Upon starting high school, his musical taste broadened and he began listening to Eminem and popular Finnish rap groups Fintelligens and JVG. “Me and my friends were filming our own music videos to old rap songs, learning the words by heart,” Pöyhönen says. “It [making rap music] pretty much started as this humour thing I did with my mates.”

Encouraged by his loved ones, Pöyhönen began writing his own songs, still playing it for laughs. Turned out he had a knack for it. “Since I was little, I’ve been an avid storyteller – my imagination ran a little wilder than the rest of the kids’ at my school,” he says. “So when I started making music, I didn’t even need inspiration; I was able to whip up the lyrics from my head.”

But then, at 15, an unexpected turning point came by way of a severe sudden illness. Rushed to the hospital with ulcerative colitis, a chronic inflammatory bowel disease, Pöyhönen underwent emergency surgery to remove his colon. Had he not been treated immediately, the complications could have been fatal. “I was writing songs in the hospital – music became a source of strength for me,” he says. “I decided that if I make it through this, I’m going to give my all to music and be serious about it.”

After over a decade of hard work and countless hours in the studio, Käärijä released his first album, Fantastista (Fantastic), in 2020, but it would take three years for him to become a household name in Finland. After snapping up the top prize in Uuden Musiikin Kilpailu (the Finnish contest for new music) with his party anthem ‘Cha Cha Cha’, a song dedicated to a hedonistic night out fusing rap, electronic music and metal, he secured the coveted spot as his country’s entrant for the 2023 Eurovision, held in Liverpool. One of Pöyhönen’s craziest dreams had come true.

For Pöyhönen, Eurovision was “an amazing but immensely tough experience”. The event’s intense schedule and the little time carved out for practising surprised the artist. There was no room for errors or retakes once it was time for rehearsals. “They didn’t give much mercy,” he says. On the bright side, the long days filled with “lots of press conferences and waiting around” gave Pöyhönen a chance to get to know the other artists. “The group we had there was wonderful – there wasn’t a competitive atmosphere at all,” he says. One of the contestants he became especially close with was Sweden’s Loreen, with whom he exchanged numbers and promised to “meet up and talk about everything else but music”.

By the time the grand finale came, Käärijä’s explosive performance and infectious song had made him one of the favourites to win. Ultimately he came second, while Loreen nabbed first place. How did Pöyhönen handle the letdown? “It was a huge disappointment, but in the end, the feeling didn’t last long,” he says. “When I thought about how far I’d gotten, the incredible journey it was and all the new friends I made, I realised that these things are far more meaningful than winning.” Plus, he still achieved something major: ‘Cha Cha Cha’ made history as the first ever Finnish song to reach Spotify’s global most-listened charts. The track’s reach proved to Pöyhönen that language doesn’t matter; it’s all about creating a singular, infectious sound: “The mouth is just as much of an instrument as the piano or the guitar is,” he says.

Having made history, I ask Pöyhönen if he felt any pressure after the Eurovision bubble had burst. “Of course there are the thoughts of ‘what now?’ and ‘is this going to be it, will anyone be interested anymore next year?’ – I’m aware that the hype won’t last forever,” he says. “But I’m onto creating the next thing, trying not to feel any pressure for future releases. I haven’t done that before, so why would I do that now?”

Pöyhönen hints at a new album dropping sometime next year, but in the meantime, he’s enjoying the attention – including his Vogue Scandinavia debut. Shot at the extraordinary home of the late interior architect Antti Nurmesniemi and his wife, textile artist Vuokko Nurmesniemi, we find the space where Pöyhönen and Käärijä meet, the quiet confidence mingling with that more-is-more persona.

And while Käärijä might develop as a character (“I want to show that he’s more than just a bolero chap”), he’s adamant that he will stay true to his music and keep singing in Finnish, despite the sudden international attention. “In the end, I’m doing this for myself,” he says. “Also, why change something that works?”

Photographer: Karoliina Bärlund Stylist: Sanna Silander Talent: Käärijä Hair Stylist and Makeup Artist: Neea Kuurne Photographer Assistant: Milja Laakso Stylist Assistant: Nelli Korhonen

#käärijä #jere pöyhönen #eurovision #the article in full

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bogkeep · 30 days

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Whats the worst thing about sweden

imo it's the aik fans, football fans in general are annoying as hell i dont understand y ppl care

eh, i can't imagine swedish football fans are any worse than norwegian ones, i haven't really run into a lot of them over so far!

my main complaints are: the kiosks sell shitty hot dogs and none of the grocery stores have bread slicing machines. life is so hard you guys

#there might be larger cultural problems but i don't think they're any different from norway and therefore not an exclusively swedish problem #i also miss pizzasnurrer.. i don't know how to translate that

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grapehyasynth · 27 days

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💜 wilmon;

"This must be a mistake, I've always had this room to myself."

Wille knows it's the wrong thing to say as soon as it's out of his mouth, though to be fair, it's entirely truthful - for ten years he's flown into Toronto after spending Christmas with his family in Sweden, opting to take the long, luxurious train ride westward across Canada and back to what he considers his real life in Vancouver. He needs the time to shake off the holidays, and his parents, and the version of himself he becomes with them.

So he spends a ridiculous amount of money for a cozy cabin in Prestige Class, and he arrives early so that he can unpack all of his toiletries in his private washroom, and then he takes a coffee in the Panorama car for the first hour of the ride before he retires to his room to read. Which he'd been coming back to do now, except there's a man in his room. And this man has put his toiletries next to all of Wille's toiletries, and his shirts are hanging in the closet next to Wille's suit jackets, and he's sitting on the clean sheets of the bed, which - does that mean Wille is expected to sleep on the couch?

The stranger shrugs, his shoulders clad in a cozy green sweater rising almost to the lowest swoops of his curls. "Maybe they ran out of room this year."

Maybe they offered you a bargain rate, to cram one more person in, Wille thinks, because nothing about this man's scuffed shoes or worn suitcase suggests he could afford Prestige Class. This thought, thankfully, he has the foresight to keep to himself.

"If you're thinking about asking the conductor, don't bother," the man goes on. "I already did."

"I wasn't," Wille lies. "I'm Wilhelm, by the way. Wille." It's a peace offering, to mollify the man until he can find a conductor. Surely ten years of patronage should earn him a modicum of special privilege.

"Simon." Simon's gaze flicks between Wille's face, his shoes, the book in is hand. "Are you Swedish?"

"Uh, yeah. But I've lived in Canada for a decade now."

"Jag kommer också från Sverige," Simon says.

Great. As if sharing his cabin weren't already going to make relaxing difficult, now he'd have a constant reminder of Sweden and everything he's trying to leave behind before he gets home to Vancouver. "Cool," Wille answers in English.

Simon's expression barely changes, but the warmth is gone now, his face closed off and his smile less genuine. Wille fights a little shiver; he wonders what it's like to really get on this guy's bad side.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he announces. He hopes Simon will take the hint and excuse himself to the dining car, but Simon just nods and settles back on the pillows that Wille had been previously dreaming of falling asleep on tonight.

Wille has barely stepped under the hot water for a moment before the pleasurable hum of the train's wheels is sliced by a piercing scream from somewhere further down the Prestige Class train car.

#wilmon #young royals

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narcolini · 2 months

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white room - pt. 3

johnny davis x gn!reader, 18+, canon typical themes and language, 4k words, 3 of ? part one | part two a/n: if anyone's curious, the fics named after the song white room by cream, which was both relevant enough, and playing on spotify at the time, to be chosen for such reasons skskssk gif credit to @hausofmamadas mi amor

Friday, well, that one turns out to be a movie. Not in the romantic feeling kind of way, but in the real movie theatre with a bucket of popcorn and everything else kind of way, and you would’a never expected that from a guy like Johnny.

Really surprised you at first, caught you so off guard that you made him say it twice when he picked you up, but then he said besides riding and racing, movies are his favourite way to spend an hour or two, which really warmed you up to the idea. And you know, he wasn’t lying, neither. Everyone likes movies in some sort of way, sure, but Johnny? He loves them. Really really. His eyes lit all the way up when he told you which one he’d picked out for you, and you didn’t mind anywhere near enough to complain or choose something else, so that’s what you ended up doing.

And on the way there, he asks what your favourite thing is, for passing time and stuff, and you tell him, well, you suppose that’d be writing. So he says, books? And you says, yeah, stories. Adventures.

“You ever think about writing a movie script?” he asks.

And you shrug, cause you ain’t never thought about it really. “I could do.”

“Bout some guy who starts a bike club?”

“Yeah, and he thinks he’s the coolest guy around, til he meets someone cooler, that is.”

He smiles. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, someone they call Lips.”

Then he’s laughing, and not looking at all where he’s going, eyes all sticky to yours, but the road's straight, so you figure it’s alright for a little while. “It’s good,” he says, “but, ah, I don’t think it’ll make it. Won’t get the audience, you know?”

“Sucks,” you tell him, “I had a real good feeling bout that one.”

Oh, and he picked you up in his car this time too, which you ain’t never seen before. With the bikes and the trucks, you thought you had his wheels all covered, but then he pulls up in this thing—real neat looking, all black and low to the ground, but not too showy, like something he could still put his girls in, when it’s his turn or something. And you know as much about cars as you do about bikes, which is nearly fuckin’ nothin, so you couldn’t tell him anything about it, other than it looks nice, and that he was in a real surprising mood today. Keeping you on your toes, you said.

His reason was something about not wanting to leave his bike someplace he can’t get to in a pinch, and apparently that’s the movie theatre. So, you’re sitting next to him this time, instead of clinging on like a second jacket, and talking all that crap about movie scripts while he drives you there.

You figured you’d be feeling a sort of way about the car thing, cause you were getting real used to having him in front of you, really enjoying it, you know, but side by side? Well, that’s a whole other drug. Spent the whole ride so far just looking at him. At his face, his hands. His thighs in those washed out jeans of his—cause he sits the same in a car as he does on a bike, would you believe it, his knees all spread out like that. And sure, maybe it’s not polite to eat him up so much with your eyes, but you’re listening too, and talking when he needs something from you.

Plus, you only caught him a couple times, but he’s been looking at you as much as you’re looking at him. At your jeans and thighs as well, you reckon. Between the both of you, you’ve made the car feel like one of those Swedish sauna things on wheels, or maybe it’s just you thinking that way, but your neck is hot, real world hot, and even your brow’s a little damp too. God, if he notices the sweat on you, you’ll be opening that door and rolling out onto the road before he can shout at you to stop.

At one point, he says, “You like the bike or the car more?”

And you say back, “Well, whichever one you like driving, Johnny,” cause the real answer is that one makes you dizzy and the other makes you act like you ain’t never seen a man before. You’re not precious neither, about what he thinks of you, but you’re not gonna go and say something that’ll make you sound like that now, are you?

By the time you’re finally getting out of that thing, you’re thinking thank God, cause you don’t know how much longer you could’ve survived without taking one of his hands off that steering wheel just to feel some part of him. Not in a freaky way, you know, just something to stop you thinking all crazy like. Some little bit of him to hold on to, like you have on the bike.

Who would’a known that was the lesser evil of the two, right? At least when you’re pressed up against him like that he can’t look at you, all hungry and curious like he has been doing—and you can’t look at him neither, but you can feel him. All big and strong and warm. Then you don’t gotta sit and wonder like you were just then, going all crazy thinking about how it would be, how it would, well, you know. With his hands and his face and his lips and stuff. Thinking bout that, you know.

So you get out the car, and for a few minutes you’re free, feeling normal, and he buys the tickets and the candy, and the soda that you need dowsing with, and you think, yeah, sure, you can play nice. You’re chatting and laughing just like last time. And he’s letting you go in first, cause he’s a gentleman with things like that, so it’s easy to feel like you’re a respectable person still.

But then you’re sitting next to him again, and this time it’s in the dark, and his knees are touching yours, actually touching, cause your seats are closer in the theatre and he’s still spread out like he’s got a damn engine under him.

Like, fuck, you feel altogether insane by the time the movie’s going.

No other man’s ever got you like this, right? Sure feels that way at least, like you’re fifteen again, and letting the kid next door take you out for the very first time. All heart hammering and sweating like you ain’t never kept a guy’s company before.

Johnny don’t notice of course. He’s watching the movie with both hands on his lil’ pouch of M&Ms, and every time he laughs, he’s no idea that his knee’s rubbing up on yours or that his elbow’s bouncing right into your arm. You don’t tell him though, cause these are perfectly normal things to happen on a date, right, and you wouldn’t want him to stop, you only want your brain to quit thinking all these things you ain’t got the right to know yet.

Like how his lips are so big and pretty looking. Like they’re made for kissing, carved out just for that one thing, but they don’t make his face any less handsome, right, and you certainly wouldn’t call him pretty allover. Just, rugged, you know. Good to look at. And, Jeez, you can’t even go five minutes without something like that. Wondering what his lips are really like to kiss, or whether he’s got any more tattoos any place you can’t see.

It’s a good thing you ain’t supposed to talk in here, cause the way this is going, something might slip out that you really shouldn’t say. So you just keep looking forward and watching the movie that you’re already losing track of.

_____

Turns out, biting your tongue is worth it sometimes, cause about half way in you get the answer to one of those crazy questions of yours.

Only a little something, but it gets your heart going all over again. Out of nowhere, his hand goes right there on the arm rest between you, and it’s not just resting, it’s inviting, cause the palms up, you know, waiting for you. And when you don’t move, like you might not’ve seen him do it, he reaches and puts his fingers through yours until, yeah, you’re holding hands, and he’s sitting them both in the middle right where he wanted them.

Before, you’d been wondering if his hands were as rough as they looked like, and well, now you know. And they are. But that bird tattoo, that swallow by his thumb? That’s smooth as anything, and once you start feeling it, you can’t stop. Running your own thumb all over it like you’re in love or something. But his hands are a little cool, you know, compared to yours, and you guess you got some habit you can’t help, about warming things up by rubbing them all sweet like that.

You guess you’re also feeling like he’s sort of familiar already, and that’s what you do when you hold a hand and it’s one you’re used to, right?

But how’s he got you feeling that way after doing so little? Like he’s got you holding hands and tracing swallows and thinking about his thigh against yours, when really, you’ve seen him three times and that’s it. Which is next to nothing, you know? You haven’t even kissed him properly yet. The other night, when he dropped you home, you got a peck on the cheek and a mouthful of cologne and that was that. Which you’re not complaining about, course not, it sent your heart scattering like a mouse across the kitchen floor, but normally you got a real hold of yourself at a point like this.

Instead, here you are, acting like you know who he is and what he looks like under all the layers. Acting like maybe you wouldn’t mind so much to one day marry a sort of guy like him—if you were to marry anyone at all, that is. You figure one like Johnny wouldn’t be too bad. Quiet when he needs to be, rough looking, but nice still. Someone you couldn’t bring to your mother but would bring to an office party. It could work, you know, if you were ever really wanting something like that to work.

Boy, you’re almost making yourself sick thinking about it. You barely know the guy and you got no interest in marrying, not any time soon, and God knows Johnny ain’t wanting that either, so what does it matter to you? You’re just thinking all sorts of things for the sake of thinking them—just to avoid thinking about all the other things that you’re trying not to think about and, yeah, you’re really going round in circles about it. If he could hear you now, he’d be leaving you right there in the dark.

Then he breathes by your ear, and he’s whispering about the girl on screen looking like his Aunt Tina in a hair piece, and you laugh so loud the people in front turn round to shoot you with their eyes—until they see Johnny, that is. Cause then it’s right back to the screen again like they didn’t see nothing. Even in the dark, when all you can make out is what the light off the screen gives you, that jacket of his means something. One look at the leather and the patches and, whoosh. Suddenly nobody’s got the guts to say anything about it.

And the worst part? That all makes you feel even more like you’d marry him. Or someone like him, if it came up, of course. You’re even squeezing his hand a little afterwards, like you’re thanking him for it even though he didn’t do nothin. Just sat there looking mean, you know.

But maybe you want someone sitting there looking mean. Maybe you don’t wanna be doing it for yourself no more, and are perfectly happy to let someone like Johnny do it for you.

Who knows, but you really should be watching the movie now anyhow, cause he’s gonna ask you all about it, you’re sure, and you don’t even know any of their names yet.

_____

“So you like it?” he says after, just like you knew he would, when you’re walking back over the lot to that four wheel surprise of his.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“What, you only think you like it?” He throws you one of them big, crumply, frowns, with a cigarette bouncing in his mouth already. “How can you not know if you liked it or not?”

“I’m still deciding,” you tell him, cause you are, cause you were distracted for most of it. But that part you’re not telling. “I know I prefer things where I can talk to you, though. Face to face and stuff.”

He don’t smile but his eyes do, and you know before he says anything, that he’s gonna say something in a real sort of a way, just to get a rise outta you. “There I was,” he says, “thinking I was doing something good, you know. Giving you a break from all that talking, Lips.”

“No way.” There it is. “That’s not stickin, Johnny.”

“Yeah…” He nods in a sorry looking way. “I kinda think it already has.”

“And I kinda think three dates is enough. How’s that for thinkin?”

“Oh, calling it then, are you?”

“Yeah, I am.” But neither of you are pretending like you believe it, not even for a bit of a game to play; like it’s a given that you’re lying, you know, three dates and he and you both know you’re sticking around for more. No question. “You ever gonna light that thing?” you ask, pointing to the long smoke dangling over his chin. You’re at the car now and he still ain’t touched it, acting like he’s not even thought about it since he put it there.

“Was getting round to it,” he says, making no move to do anything other than standing there looking at you.

And you’re looking right back.

It’s dark out already, cause that movie was longer than you thought it’d be, but there’s enough street lights round here that nothin’s really hurting by it. He’s just got a little orange on him, shoulders glowing like you’re sitting with a campfire or something.

So you lean back against his car, right on the driver’s side, and ask him what he thought of the movie, cause you can tell he’s thinking a lot on something or other, so you figure it’s probably that. And he sets off talking like you’re right, going on about one of them cowboys in particular, but you gotta admit, you're not listening to a word of it.

Real bad manners it is, really awful of you to get a guy talking and not even hear one thing he says, but Jeez, you’re just watching those lips and that cigarette and not helping yourself in any sort of way at all. You just agree and shake your head when it feels like the right thing to do—and you know you’re making it obvious, may as well be screaming kiss me, Johnny, kiss me, but he just keeps going. Talking more than you ever heard him talk about anything.

And right when you think he might ask you something, or call you up on that look you’re giving him, he takes the smoke from his mouth and tosses it. Never even lit, clean as the day they made it, and he throws it right into that grimy little puddle there with no warning at all. He could’a kept it you know, put it back in the box and had it later, if he didn’t want it no more.

“What d’you do that for?” you ask him.

He says, “You wanna go?”

It’s the way his voice sounds when he asks, it makes you frown a little. Like he’s upset or something. Or maybe, and most likely, he saw how rude you were being and got worked up about it, instead of going the other way. And you wanna tell him it’s not that at all, and you’re sorry, yeah, you’ll listen better now, but all you can do is shake your head at him.

No, you don’t wanna go. What you want is—well, you’re trying to be good about it, cause he said before that you’re the first person he’s looked at in any real sort of way since Betty left, and that’s a whole load of weird, every step of the way for him, you know—but, God, what you really wanna do is kiss him. You want to kiss him.

Guess he’s used to you by now, cause you’ve been so quiet that he notices something off about it. Then he don’t look upset, or mad, he just looks confused when he asks, “You okay?”

Well, then you figure, screw being nice, just for a little bit.

“I’m thinking it’s getting real hard to look and not touch,” you say.

Slips right out of you, gone without stopping, but you said it in a dazed kind of way, so it came out sort of nice, you guess. Honest without being crazy about it. And he says nothin, no surprise right, but you do catch something—yeah, right there, he goes and does it again—his eyes drop from looking at yours, to looking down at your mouth. Bingo. He’s thinking about it too. All you can do is wait it out.

After a second that feels like a minute that feels like an hour, his head shakes halfway and he says, “I don’t,” but that’s all he says, I don’t. Then he goes and pulls you into him.

Just like that.

Two hands, either side of your face, scratchy on your cheek and cool feeling cause you got hot real fast, and then he’s kissing you. Not quick like some other guy might, but slow and careful like a man really thinking about it. Kissing you like. Well. Like nobody’s ever been kissing you before.

You feel yourself curling in, right up close to him, and grabbing onto the edges of his jacket a little. Letting him kiss you, not the other way around, but doing all you can to keep it going, you know, cause you can tell by his lips, by the way he’s moving, he’s still sort of worrying about it. Like he knows how to but can’t remember yet, or doesn’t know if he likes your mouth enough to forget about the last one he was used to.

And you’re not caring about anything to do with any of that, you’re just making sure you remember every bit of this, incase he decides he don’t like it after all.

But he keeps going still, and your mouth starts tasting like his mouth, which is like a load of ash and candy, cause he’s a sweet tooth, you know, who knew, and he was tossing them back like water in there. Which you’re glad of, cause somehow it’s all adding up to taste like the best sort of thing you’ve ever had, and you don’t think he’d get that title if it was just the cigarettes on his tongue.

When he pulls back—and God, you fight him on it—you make a noise like he hurt you. Embarrassing, right? A little whimper like an animal, or something, and that makes him keep you real close for a sec, just to be sure he didn’t actually hurt you somehow. Then you’re both saying “sorry” at the same time, for some reason. Sorry, you know, over nothin.

And that’s dumb enough that you laugh right up against his lips, and he breathes in a lazy sort of way, all heavy like he’s not had his fill yet.

Well, you’re already standing straight again and letting go of his jacket, cause it seems impolite to be tugging on him like that now he’s waiting a little, and one of his hands moves to your neck like he’s trying to leave but can’t make his body listen to his head.

Course, you don’t mind either way. He could have another, or he could shove his hands in his pockets and rush you into the car, and you wouldn’t complain one bit because now you know. You know what it’s like.

You’re smiling still too, while he looks at you all hungry like, and you know it’s in your mouth and your eyes and the way you find yourself saying to him,

“Take me home?”

Which is the wrong fuckin’ thing to say apparently, because his hands drop off you so quick it almost stings. Like you were never hot, he was, and now he ain’t there holding you the cold is real sharp feeling. Then he steps back a bit, and he’s clearing his throat and rubbing his nose with his knuckles, and you figure you’ve scared all of that right back out of him again.

“You know,” he says, like it really hurts him to say it, “I—I can’t. I mean. I don’t wanna rush into nothin with us, you know?”

“I know,” you tell him. “Who’s rushing anything?”

You watch him scratch the back of his neck—always itching when he’s trying to get outta something, yeah, you seen him do it enough times already—and he’s screwing his face up like you ain’t getting it, and he can’t think of any way to put it that'll help. “We should probably, I mean.”

“You gonna tell me you don’t wanna date me no more?” you ask him.

Which is funny, cause you said that before he kissed you, and neither of you meant it then, but now there’s a little sour guy in your gut saying maybe, just maybe, you know.

“No, no.” He shakes his head, voice all whiny like it actually is hurting.

“Well what is it then?”

“I know how you get, yeah…you, when it gets like that. Taking you home, staying over. I mean," and then he says, "I can’t give you a life, you know?”

You stare at him real hard. “Did I ask you to?”

“Not yet, but,” he shrugs, “I’ve done all that before.”

A part of you is thinking, God, worrying about all that already? This guy’s a real piece of work. But the sensible part thinks, yeah, you too, even if you weren’t really thinking in any serious kinda way—plus he’s got a divorce two steps behind him, so why wouldn’t he be worrying about it? He’s figuring all this out like it’s brand fuckin’ new, and all the while trying to make sure you’re not getting cut up in the process. A little early on, sure, but that’s what you gotta do, right? Clear the gutter out before the rain comes.

So you tell him, “I only wanna spend time with you, Johnny.”

And he thinks on that, looking like he don’t believe anyone could ever say it and mean it, then he says, “S’pose that’s alright then, if that’s what it is.”

And you say, “Yeah, that’s what it is.”

And when he drives you home, he’s got one hand on the wheel, and the other on his thigh, and you put your pinky round his like you’re scared of holding it proper. Scared of touching him like you’re used to doing it, and scared of him dropping you off without saying nothing else at all. Just your pinky and his pinky, and the radio on quiet like you’re dreaming, or something.

But then it comes to it, and you get another taste of candy and ash right under your porch light.

It’s short and a little polite, like Mrs Saccone might be watching, but that don’t matter, cause you figure it means he’s decided you’re alright spending time with him still. Not rushing into nothing, yeah?

He’s half-way down the steps again when he says, “See you tomorrow, Lips,” and he don’t even know if you’re free for him or not. Which you guess means you haven't scared him off at all, if that’s what it is.

_________________

part four >>>>>>>

taglist: @garbinge @drabbles-mc @ashlingiswriting @raven-black102 @lyralu91 @hoodeddreams13 @businesscalamity

#johnny davis x reader #johnny davis fanfiction #the bikeriders fanfiction #the bikeriders x reader #johnny davis #the way ive had to split this chapter in two....thnis fic is growing at monumental rates

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magics-neptunes-things · 8 months

Text

Winter is coming

Hi guys!

This is the first time I try to write with two existing people, I hope it suits you. I don't really know what to think about it to be honest.

Also I apologize if there are weird things, I received a new lava lamp that bubbles for my birthday and it hypnotizes me x)

Do not hesitate if you have suggestions or requests, I will respond as soon as possible ♥

It was a request right here by the way.

TW : Mention of nudity

Enjoy!

P.S I'm sorry for the title

The icy Swedish cold seems to pierce the Barcelona players tonight, during the game between FC Barcelona and Rosengård. Apart from Ingrid Engen and her Norwegian origins, most Spanish players seem to suffer particularly from the cold. Despite the relatively easy win as the match ended with a 5-0 for Barcelona, Lucy can only notice Ona’s defeated and tense face.

After a few seconds of hesitation, the English decides, despite their vain attempts to keep their couple deprived, of joining her, the need to know what’s happening to Ona more important than her desires for discretion. Ona doesn’t turn around when Lucy calls her name, a bottle under her arm and applauding, her face turned towards the audience.

In a few strides, Lucy finally reaches her height, gently placing her hand on the neck of the young woman. This doesn’t prevent Ona from being a little startled before relaxing when she realizes that it’s only Lucy who is behind her.

"Is everything okay?" Lucy asks, immediately seeking to plunge her eyes into Ona’s.

"I'm fine" Ona simply replies, without even trying to smile.

This seems to quickly alert the English, perhaps a little too used to seeing Ona smiling and radiant at her side. Ona puts her hands on her face while Lucy speaks again.

"It doesn’t look like it"

Lucy’s tone is gentle and delicate, certifying that there is only concern behind it and that it isn’t for the push to confession in any way. The attention warms the heart of the Catalan, unlike her sore fingers.

"I’m fine, Luce. I’m just cold" begins Ona before turning in the direction of the English. "I just couldn’t wait for the game to end. The last ball I took from my head gave me the impression that I was given a huge slap on the face"

To explain better, Ona carries a gloved hand on the side of her face, making Lucy laugh softly.

"Nice assist anyway" compliments the brunette, making Ona smile. "I'm going to the locker room before losing all my fingers. You come with me?"

Ona nods and follows in Lucy’s footsteps, seizing her gourd to drink some water, regretting however that it’s not a good hot tea. Shivers run through all her body all the way to the dressing room and she willingly wraps herself in a blanket when she’s inside.

"I have no desire to undress" Ona admits from the bench on which she sits, huddled under her blanket.

"I can give you a hand if you want" Lucy offers with a grin.

Ona laughs softly and shakes her head, trying not to let her eyes slide too often towards Lucy who is changing. She is helped a little by their teammates who join little by little the locker room, Aitana seems even more disturbed by the cold than her. Unlike Ona, Aitana almost never left Spain to play, so she never had to face Manchester’s winter on a daily basis.

Lost in her thoughts, Ona realizes that Lucy is completely changed only when she comes to sit next to her on the bench. She passes her hand energetically into the back of the Catalan, seeking to create a friction to warm her.

"How about not showering now and taking a nice warm bath back at the hotel?" whispers Lucy to Ona while bowing an eyebrow.

"I really like this idea" Ona says with a smile.

Ona finally found the courage to get out of her blanket to change also, putting on with relief several layers of clothes to warm up as much as possible. In the bus taking them back to the hotel, Ona sits on a seat next to the window and Lucy doesn’t hesitate a single second before sitting next to her. They have no particular rules and sit very often next to other people, but this evening the older one have the impression that there is more than the cold which bothers Ona.

Ona gradually lets herself go against Lucy and when the bus finally starts once everyone has arrived, the head of the youngest is fully on Lucy’s shoulder. Even if Ona is tactile and her love language is physical contact, she isn’t the type to have such intimate gestures in public. But Lucy says nothing, promising herself to ask Ona questions once they are in their hotel room. And when Lucy gently puts her hand on Ona’s leg, she tightens a little more against her.

After a group meal in the hotel’s dining room, Ona quickly returns to their room but it’s only a few minutes after Lucy joins her. When the brunette arrives in their room, Ona is on the phone and speaks quickly in what Lucy recognizes to be Catalan. Understanding that her girlfriend is either on the phone with her mother or her older brother, Lucy gently closes the door behind her and approaches her girlfriend from behind.

"Say hello to them for me" Lucy whispers in Ona’s ear before kissing her neck.

The shivers that runs through Ona isn’t related to the cold this time, but to the pleasant sensation of Lucy’s lips on her skin. Smiling softly, Ona turns her head in Lucy’s direction with a small smile.

An exchange of eyes later while the interlocutor of Ona tells her something, Lucy smiled softly at Ona before kissing her nose and letting her go. Seeing Ona’s sulky face, Lucy smiled softly.

"I’ll prepare the bath" she whispers again.

Ona nods and sits on their bed to end her conversation, her eyed following Lucy as she sneaks into the bathroom. It’s not every time there’s a bathtub in their hotel rooms, but since there’s one it’s great to enjoy it, right?

When Ona joins Lucy a few minutes later in the bathroom, the bathtub is fully filled and Lucy is adding foam.

"Tadam!" Lucy happily sings, triggering the laughter of the Catalan. "Lady Batlle’s bath is ready"

"It’s Miss for now, thank you very much"

Lucy smirk for any answer, watching Ona get rid of the thick sweatshirt she had been wearing until now.

"Aren’t you coming with me?"

Ona’s question is posed with a touch of concern when she realizes that Lucy doesn’t make the slightest gesture to join her while she is on almost entirely ready to enter the bathtub.

"If you want, but I wanted to let you relax before I talk to you about something."

Lucy almost immediately regrets her choice of words when she sees Ona’s face painted with worry. The brunette frozes, with only one leg entered in the water while she was stepping over the bathtub.

"Nothing dramatic Oni, don’t worry" adds Lucy, smiling affectionately to reassure her.

It only seems to work half way, since even if she ends up nodding and sitting in the hot water, Ona’s gaze is always anxious. Deciding to join her instead of mentally slapping herself, Lucy gets rid of her clothes, leaving them on the pile of clothes already formed by those of Ona.

Settling behind Ona, Lucy sighs of relief as she feels her muscles relax in the hot water. Even if she seemed less affected by the cold than Ona, this didn’t prevent that it was probably not her favorite conditions to play a football match.

"Come here, Love"

Passing her arms on each side of Ona’s body, Lucy draws her all against her, smiling when she feels Ona pressing her face into the hollow of her neck. Sliding her fingers along her hips, the English girl thinks about the best way to engage the conversation. The language difference between them was never a problem, Ona speaks really good English despite her accent that Lucy simply finds adorable. And Lucy understands Spanish perfectly well and also does well in this language by spending time with their Spanish teammates.

"What did you want to talk about?" asks Ona, interrupting Lucy’s thoughts.

"You"

The answer seems to surprise the Catalan who takes off her face to be able to better observe her girlfriend.

"Me?"

"Yes, I think you looked trouble by something. As if you were thinking of something, not really here you know? I know you told me it was the cold, but I feel like there’s something else"

Ona briefly bites her lip before answering, choosing the words she will use to not lie to Lucy without worrying her too much.

"I’m a little tired, that’s all" Ona replies, continuing to see Lucy’s unconvinced gaze. "I’ve been playing a lot lately between the national team and Barca. And even though I love it and wouldn’t do anything else, tonight was really complicated for me. I was exhausted at the end of the game."

"Why didn’t you ask for a replacement?"

Lucy furrowed her eyebrows when Ona shrug, turning her head to look ahead. Her back leaning against Lucy’s front.

"I won’t let the team down"

Knowing Ona’s determined and stubborn character, Lucy can only imagine perfectly the reasons that pushed Ona to finish the match as planned in Jona’s head. And, knowing also that it’s useless to discuss with the Spanish for the moment, Lucy decides instead to change the subject. For the moment. Or rather try to relax Ona as much as possible. Stepping back a few centimeters, Lucy put her hands in the back of the brunette, drawing her tattoos with her fingertips before starting to massage her back. She presses her fingers along the shoulder blades and the neck of Ona, taking the time for each of the muscles of the Spaniard.

"Madre mia" moans Ona, making Lucy smile.

"Are you moaning already?" jokes Lucy maliciously.

It also amuses the youngest, who gives her a little playful slap on the leg. But apart from that, she remains peacefully motionless, too relieved by the attentions that Lucy brings her.

"You are so tense" the English mumbles feeling the muscle knots everywhere in her back.

Ona humms simply for any answer, eyes closed and as transported elsewhere by the benefits of this massage. She could fall asleep on the spot. But her smile was reborn on her lips when she felt Lucy’s lips again on her neck and in her neck.

"Is that part of the massage?"

"Only for you"

"Because you massage a lot of other people?" Ona informs herself, an innocent look on her face.

"No" laughs Lucy. "On the other hand if someone other than me does it to you, you have to inform me because I need to kill him"

Ona laughs softly and opens her eyes, tightening a little more against her girlfriend’s body, tilting her head back to look at her.

"I’ll think about it the next time I go to the physios at the training center"

Even if the sentence is said in the tone of the joke, Ona can’t help but feel a heat wave in the hollow of her belly by noticing the upset air that emerges for a few moments on Lucy’s face. The idea that she may be jealous for her will never cease to amaze her.

"Bésame, por favor" murmurs Ona.

Obviously, Lucy oblige and quickly breaks the few inches existing between their lips. Soft and tender at first, the kiss deepens when Ona raises her hand to place it on Lucy’s cheek and keep it longer against her.

A few minutes later, Ona had turn around in Lucy’s arms to sit on her lap, causing them both to lose their balance when Lucy slips into the tub and finds herself lying on her back.

When their laughter ends up interrupting, their glances plunge into each other. One arm holding her firmly against her, Lucy gently pushes back a long strand of brown hair behind Ona’s shoulder.

"You may decide not to take care of yourself, but count on me to make sure you do, Ona. And you can also count on me to take care of you. And you can talk to me if you need to, you don’t have to do all by yourself. I’m here for you that’s what a relationship is about to. Let me be there for you."

What’s the answer to that? Ona, who is still struggling to realize that her celebrity crush is sincerely and deeply infatuated with her, finds herself suddenly without knowing what to say. But, luckily, Lucy to find all the words she can’t pronounce in her beautiful chocolate eyes.

"I’m so in love with you"

Ona’s confession, pronounced no higher than a murmur is however perfectly understandable in the tranquility of the bathroom. Only the lapping of the water is audible, adding to the serenity of the moment.

"I’m in love with you too" whispers Lucy in return, smiling, before stretching her neck a few centimeters to capture once again Ona’s lips with hers.

#woso x reader #woso imagine #ona batlle #lucy bronze #ona batlle x lucy bronze #lucy bronze x ona batlle

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