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"You got me out of bed to eat?" You say flatly.
When John Cena messaged you at 1 am to come to his hotel room, this was the last thing you were expecting.
John smiles sweetly, infuriatingly, as though it's the most obvious thing in the world, patting the spot beside him on the hotel room bed.
"Come on, I knew you'd be up."
"Well, that's definitely the only thing that's up now," You grumble, running a hand through the longer locks of your black hair stubbornly, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. Great move, Punk. Cool, composed, not in any way hiding the raging disappointment or subtly taking the focus of the half chub that was baking in your sweat pants as you hurried on over here like a well-kept dog, "You're taking advantage of my delicate circadian rhythm".
You're glad you didn't put any effort into your appearance if the only thing you're going to score is room service. Who are you kidding? You wouldn't have put the effort in anyway, because the world can take you as you are or shove it up their asses.
It doesn't weigh on your mind that even at this obscene hour, John doesn't look like he just got off a delayed flight, greeting some sick kid's last wish to meet their favourite wrestler in between shows. He's all white teeth and bright blue eyes. You bet he smells good too, like some expensive cologne that any sales attendant would think you were stealing if you picked it up.
"You know me so well," He teases, reaching over the bedside, "Don't pout. I got you coffee."
"Screw you, I'm not!" You protest.
You want to head right back out the way you came in, but your body is mutinying against your tired brain’s instructive dictatorship. The forward progression takes you by surprise as your knees hit the edge of the bed. The uneven crawl towards him on your hands and knees is the furthest thing from sexy, only adding to the demeaning mess that this whole situation has devolved into.
Your heart sticks in your throat a little when John opens up a space under the enormous overhang of his bicep for you to fit underneath, as though you belong there. He's shirtless and that isn't even the tiniest bit distracting. Swallowing and hoping you face still looks acceptably gloomy, you turn your back and slot into the gap. His arm wraps around you in a half hug, squeezing. It doesn't make your breath stutter, just for a second as he shifts against you, leaning over to grab the promised beverage.
What are you, a love-sick teenager?
Flicking your hoodie up over your head, you broodily accept the cup and begin drinking immediately. Focus on the beans.
"Black, like your soul." John adds cheerily.
You roll your eyes but can feel yourself smiling against the rim of the cup, glad that your face is somewhat obscured. You hate that beneath the boy scout veneer, the guy is genuinely a riot. It was that quick tongue firing off quippy remarks, verbally tearing apart the other talent backstage for fun when the cameras weren’t rolling and the pressed-edge persona was turned off, that perked your attention in the first place.
The coffee warms you up inside and you suppress a little moan at how good it feels, that immediately kick of energy that the caffeine supplies your otherwise exhausted body.
"This isn't bad for hotel dishwater."
"I grabbed it from the airport, from that place you like."
Thoughtful in ways you'd never anticipated, too. It does something strange to your stomach that he thinks about you like that when you're not together, in sweet sentimental moments that shouldn't be afforded to something this new and undefined. A relationship that exists only at midnight or the early AM, behind key-card closed doors and in the hidden corners of arenas and locker room cubicles.
"Lame."
"Must have a crush on you or something."
"It's a shame you didn't want to get into my pants, cause this totally works." You tip your head back and grin, gesturing with the coffee cup.
John laughs at that and his whole frame shakes with the sincerity of it. While your hands are preoccupied, he takes the chance to fondly shove the hoodie back off your head, exposing your face again, laughing harder at your undignified squawk of surprise.
"CM Punk, with all his straight-edge principles..." He grins.
"Shut up," You interject, hating the burning sensation in your chest. You can't think right now about how everything about the man is the polar opposite of you, which makes you want to snap every one of your carefully crafted rules into a million pieces in frustration. “What are we eating?"
"Room service.”
"No Michelin star chef cooking in your room?” You feign surprise, reaching around to check behind the pillows as though someone might be hiding there, “Thought you were meant to be a big deal, Cena. I'm definitely not putting out now."
It's completely contradictory to what you just said, but John only scoffs as he plants a menu in your lap.
You take your time mulling over it, flipping through the contents.
"Salad with protein for me."
"How predictable." You snort.
"I've got a shoot next week." He replies pragmatically.
"Cause you know, one carb is going to destroy those spray-painted on abs," You tease a little because you can't help yourself.
When you first met him, attacking his irritatingly perfectly sculpted body was low-hanging fruit. Since coming to know him better, his dedication to training and maintaining it to the highest standard has impressed you, though you'd never tell him that. Attaining physical perfection may not be your wheelhouse, but the level of commitment to the craft means you're both alike in more ways than one. "Are we talking Play Girl or Sports Illustrated?"
"Is that a note of possessiveness I detect?" John fires back, dodges the mundane in favor of play, raising an eyebrow, "Why, do you want to sign off on the center spread?"
"What am I, your PA?" You snort, evading the suggestion of anything more than a mutually beneficial arrangement existing between you too as best you know how too, "Just canvassing whether I will be stealing a copy from a fan at the next signing to add to my spank bank collection."
"You're sick."
"You're the one that booty called me, so you're obviously into it."
"Sure thing, bud," His blue eyes sparkle, "So what are you having?"
You go back to assessing the menu, perusing the contents with a new interest. If you're not going to get lucky, there's some payback in order. You’re nothing if not an opportunist when a chance to torture him presents itself.
"Get me a burger with everything," You announce decisively, "And fries...oh, you know, that ice cream sundae looks really good..."
"Hungry, huh?" John asks with a quiet huff that lands somewhere between impressed and surprised.
"Hell yeah," You shoot back with your best shit-eating grin in place, "Crippling insomnia gives you the weirdest cravings at the strangest times."
"My body doesn't know what it wants at this hour and that all sounds amazing, so I'm not going to argue with you," John replies easily, though his tone suggests that your attempted act hasn't fooled him one bit.
The dimples in his cheeks pop a little as he attempts to hide a smile before he leans over to grab the hotel phone, dialling reception. Let down by the lackluster response, you lean over to interrupt as he relays the order.
"Don't forget the Pepsi." You stage-whisper seductively, obnoxiously loud so the person on the other end will hear.
In retaliation, John snaps his head around to plant a small, firm kiss on your lips. It successfully shuts you up for a grand total of ten seconds, an achievement that few in your professional life can claim.
"Excuse me," He picks up the conversation, "My boyfriend has no manners..."
Poised to make another smart-ass remark, you audibly choke on your spit at the suggestion. To cover this, you lean in to press your mouth to the thick column of his neck. You've always been creative with your tongue on the mic, but that's nothing compared to the number you work on that impossibly smooth, pale expanse of skin.
Ever the consummate professional, John disappointingly makes it through the remainder of the brief exchange with barely a verbal hiccup. The reddening skin beneath the tactical ministrations of your swirling tongue reveals the truth.
As he hangs up the phone, you expect him to turn and swing on you. You're not quick enough in your delayed attempt to escape the close proximity, to create space between you.
It’s too little, too late. John squeezes his bicep to his side, trapping you against the enormity of his frame. Shifting unfairly quickly for his bulk, he flips you both with ease. You're already laughing as he buries you into the mountain of pillows that had been propping you both up. Once you’re flattened, he presses up to survey the damage, forearm muscles straining as he holds himself over you on his knuckles.
You huff out a breath, blowing the longer strands of your hair out of your face. Rather than panic, you take a chance to look up and admire the view. Years of mixed martial arts training mean you're comfortable in this defensive position beneath the aggressor. Ever the underdog, always on your back. Story of your life.
You grin, running your tongue mindlessly over the piercing in your bottom lip like you could do this all day. The expression quickly falters when John drops lower onto his elbows, pressing his chest against yours and driving you further into the softness of the bed.
"Show off," You smile, as his face hovers just above yours.
"Big mouth." He shoots back.
Any response is swallowed up when he presses his lips to yours. The kiss begins almost tenderly, the gentlest murmur of your lips against each other. It's kind of like being in the ring with someone for the first time, feeling each other out as you get in the first lock up, testing the give and falling into a rhythm.
You tilt your head fractionally, improving the access and parting your lips wider, invitingly. When he makes no move to deepen the contact, you take matters into your own hands, pressing your tongue insistently into the gap. The sound he makes is somewhere between a chuckle and a groan, and you'll take it, will anytime you can make him react to you. It’s the attention whore in you, what can you say?
He relaxes into the invasive maneuver, allowing you to control the tempo as you explore, licking and tangling with his tongue in a caressing roll. One of his enormous hands winds it’s way into your dark hair, cradling the back of your head in an impossibly soft grip.
The other wanders down to shift your hoodie and tee up carefully, slide past the frayed band of your sweat pants. Fingers sneak beneath the material to find the softly padded divot of your hip, stroking gently there. The pad of this thumb flirts with the edge of your boxers, lifting just enough to sweep across the lower line of your abdomen.
You fight hard not to brace against it, to suck in. He’s always had this strange obsession with your stomach. Hilarious, given he’s built like a marble statue and you’re, well...not that. Have been continually reminded by the higher ups that you’re ‘skinny fat’, nothing close to the business prototype that sells action figures and is splashed on billboards.
You focus on keeping your breathing natural as his palm flattens below the little overhang of your belly. John always runs hot, so his hands are comfortingly warm. His eyes are cast downward, observing the bare strip of exposed skin. He hums a little, like he’s quietly pleased at nothing more than the sight, and it’s almost too much to take.
Losing the battle with self-control, you squirm away from the consistent caresses. Pinned beneath the blockade of his thighs, there isn’t much room to escape. Even if your brain isn’t into the dedicated attention, your cock is. Your hips buck upward, not to throw him off, but grinding up into the bridge of his groin.
As though he senses your internal struggle, he removes the hand from your mid section, planting it in the bed as he pushes up off you to sit back on his heels. He’s so irritatingly perceptive, finely attuned to the slightest changes in your demeanour and verbal cues. It’s what makes him such a good partner in the ring and so intimately infuriating outside of it.
You compose your expression, heart pounding as though you’d run a mile rather than lying uselessly on your back.
“Ticklish?” John asks.
“I couldn’t breathe, you were crushing me.” You snip.
“Doesn’t look like you were worried to me.” He arches an eyebrow, before glancing down at the obvious tent in your sweats.
"Did you mean it?” You ask, evading the question with your own mildly accusatory one, changing the topic almost immediately to avoid the inevitable interrogation.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb, idiot.” You’re slightly breathless and it’s kind of embarrassing. Covering your own shame has always been as easy as redirecting your self-hatred at the nearest target.
"Oh yeah," John grins, bypassing the defensiveness in your tone entirely. He plants his hands on either side of your head, before leaning back down in an impressively controlled movement to whisper the words into your mouth, “You’re the rudest person I've ever met."
Mistake. You knock your shoulder into the soft juncture of his bent elbow. Capitalising on the window of opportunity, your arm shoots out to wrap around him, spread legs latching around his waist. Utilising the off-centre distribution of his weight, you throw your own to the side, rolling your bodies so he’s underneath you.
Triumphantly, you take the top position, straddling his hips with your thighs. Stretching one of your arms across your chest and arching your back in a lazy stretch, you seat yourself smugly in his lap. You plant your hands on his bare chest, shifting down to steal a kiss indulgently before sitting upright.
“That’s as close as you get to dirty talk, right?” You smirk indulgently, planting your hands on your hips.
“I can do better,” John counters, not even remotely thrown by the power play. Maybe you’re not the only one who’s at home in the submissive position. He pillows his arms behind his head, entirely aware of how he ridiculously good he looks, biceps bulging obscenely, “Take your hoodie off.”
“Who do you think you are, bossing me around? People pay big money for this privilege, you know,” You puff your chest out a little, reminding him as if he wasn’t aware of what a goddamn superstar you are. The goddamn nerve.
Your hands fumble a little with the zipper, the teeth catching before it glides. Making a show of it, you shrug the material off your shoulders, pulling your arms out before pantomiming tossing it into the crowd in a shitty imitation of his over the top ring entry.
“Yeah, I heard you were big in Japan,” John quips smartly. You slap his ribs in retaliation. The effort only causes him to giggle a little. “Now, the shirt.”
It’s only fair that you meet him half way. Throwing your arms back over your head, you grab the offending garment and pull it over your head in an uncoordinated movement.
As soon as it’s off, John puts that core strength to good use, jackknifing upward into a seated position. It should dethrone you, but an arm shoots out to wrap around your waist, pulling you in close. His fingers trace through the light smattering of your chest hair, almost comically hairy in comparison to the smooth panes of his pecs.
“Didn’t shave tonight.” He comments, tone aiming for casual and failing entirely, heavy-lidded blue eyes fixated on your chest. The intensity of his stare, how he absorbs every little detail of your appearance, would be unnerving to someone who didn’t share his single-mindedness.
“Would you prefer me all baby smooth like one of the Divas?” You huff, ready to be offended. He glances up to check your expression, definitely catches the tiny hint of insecurity there.
“Your tits look perfect as always, sweetheart.”
It should be sexist and demeaning, not making your dick practically whip lash with how suddenly it throbs at the unexpected praise. You didn’t need him to tell you how good they look…
Pressing the point, John begins to massage your pecs, rolling the soft tissue with gentle squeezes that shouldn’t feel as good as they do. While he focuses on the left, his thumb begins to circle your nipple, teasing the bud into blooming.
The pressure is phenomenal and you throw your head back, exposing your neck as you swallow down a moan. Your hand shoots out to scrabble, scratching where there is no purchase at the back of his buzz cropped hair. The bastard knows how insanely sensitive you are there, even after you removed the nipple piercings.
“No comeback. Wow, I must be doing something right,” John breathes, voice husky. He drops his head lower, nose brushing against the sensitive area. You have to bite back a cry of surprise, squeezing your thighs together in desperation when he puts his mouth to better use. His lips close around the peaked nub, suckling.
“Motherfucker.” You swear, violating your own promise not to show him how much you’re enjoying his attention. He responds with a little groan, introducing the tip of his tongue as he sucks.
The slutty moan that claws it’s way out of you throat as the wet lapping intensifies is entirely unintentional. The sound projects loudly off the hopefully thick hotel room walls.
Against your brain’s express wishes, your hands press his head closer to your chest as he switches side to pop your other pec into his mouth. His tongue swirls around the soft muscle, slurping audibly, making it very obvious how much he’s enjoying himself.
The grip around your waist tightens and John shifts you easily up higher in his lap. You secretly loathe how small he makes you feel when he does that, casual shows of strength that make your untended dick leak against the inside of your boxers. The bounce allows you to feel his hardening length trapped underneath you, fitting snugly into the parted gap between your ass cheeks.
The atmosphere of sexual tension is entirely ruined by a knock at the door.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” You snap.
John has the audacity to laugh at your outburst with your nipple still in his mouth, the puff of air tickling the too sensitive area. You plant your hands in his chest and shove him roughly backwards as you roll throw your weight backwards, growling in annoyance as you fall off to the side of the bed.
He’s still chuckling in amusement as you tumble off the bed, adopting a wide legged stance as you stomp in the direction of the door.
How’s this for in-house entertainment? You swing the door entirely open, not bothering to hide your obvious erection.
“Your meal…sir.” The twenty something young woman stammers, nearly losing her grip on one of the trays. Her eyes widen in recognition, before flickering below the level of decency.
“The timing of the service here is impeccable.” You says, forcing your best stained tooth smile.
“You’re…”
“Yeah.”
She chews her lip nervously, batting her eyes lashes and you decide to go easy on her by beginning to remove the plates from her questionable hold. You grab the tray with your drink on it first, keeping the door open with your other arm as you drop it on the table.
“Thanks, Mr. Punk…sir.” She fumbles, blushing and giving you her best attempt at an eye-extension enhanced come-hither.
You grunt in response as you balance the other plate on for forearm, before filling up your hands and backing up into the room.
“You got something for me to autograph?” You call over your shoulder, poking your tongue out in concentration as you balance the plates on your forearms.
“Asshole.” John whispers, enunciating the syllables as you dump the food on the bed as cautiously as you can manage. The bed isn’t visible from the door, but you can can never be too careful. You flip him off before heading back to the door.
When you return, the young lady has unbuttoned her blouse. The faintest slip of a purple lacy bra peaks out, highlighting the creamy skin of her breasts.
“I meant the bill, but this works.” You grin, pushing your hair out of your face. You lean on one forearm, taking up space casually in the doorway.
“Oh right!” She hands it over as the black folder with an insincere laugh. You steal the pen from between her lips, scrawling your signature before repeating the process in a more intimate location on her person.
You put on your best company face, smiling and nodding as she babbles about what a huge fan of yours she is, how she’s even contemplating adopting the straight edge lifestyle. You’re about to close the door in her face when something she says piques your interest.
“What’s John Cena like?”
“Honestly?” You put on your most earnest expression, leaning in as though it’s a secret just between the pair of you. Despite the close proximity, you project your voice as loudly as possible, “Exactly what you’d imagine. Total asshole beneath the sweet-as-pie exterior. Impossible to work with.”
“I knew it. My best friend loves him and I can’t wait to convert her.” Her smile is infectiously bright.
Your laughing so hard in agreement that you even bend down to grace her with a hug before shutting the door.
By the time you make it back to the bed, glass of Pepsi in hand, John has already mostly polished off his salad. You’d hurry too if your meal was that sad.
“Really give the fans what they came for, huh?” He gives a little pantomime of a distasteful grimace, gesturing down at your bulge with his fork.
“I’m a man of the people, John Boy. You know that.” You snicker. As proof, you grab your junk, repositioning in a rather unnecessary gesture with one hand. With the other, you drain the glass in your opposite hand before dropping it unceremoniously onto the carpet.
“You’re an animal.” John retorts, leaning back against the headboard to get comfortable. He drops his plate onto the side table, before spreading his legs invitingly. “Now shut up and eat your food before it gets cold.”
“Gonna tell me to take my vitamins and say my prayers next, grandpa?” You counter, before knee-walking onto the bed. The movement jiggles a burp out of you that you’re not quick enough to shield with your hand.
“Pardon you.” John smiles, blue eyes sparkling with a strange delight. He fiddles with the remote, the familiar score of the latest DC movie playing from the screen.
“Just making room for the main course.” You mutter defensively. You feel your cheeks flush a little, but John smiles, unbothered by the involuntary expulsion. Expecting a long, sleepless night ahead, you had a whole bottle of soda before getting the unexpected text so it’s an understatement to say you’re carrying some extra water weight.
Doing your best not to be self-conscious about it, you slide into the inviting spot between his legs. It’s comforting pressing your back to the warm skin of his chest.
John wraps his arms idly around your middle. His big warm hands settle on the little pouch of your lower abdomen, rubbing gently. It’s odd and unexpected, but if he’s trying to put you off, he’s going to have to try harder than that.
Grabbing the plate beside you, you decide to get started on the burger. Granted, it was a larger portion than you had imagined when you set out on your plan to make John jealous of your meal choice in his state of caloric deprivation, but it’s nothing that you can’t handle.
Taking the first bite, you suppress a laugh as the juice from the meat sprays down onto your chin.
“Making a mess?” John hums close to your ear.
Instead of dignifying that with a reply, you continue your best attempts to make a dent in the monstrous creation. It’s delicious and the first few bites go down easy, even if it takes both hands for you to hold it up to your mouth.
Though you’d face death by a thousand poles from chanting Daniel Bryan fans before admitting it, that last glass of Pepsi might have been a mistake.
You burp again attractively around a mouthful of chewed food, attempting to release some of the pressure building up. Your stomach gurgles embarrassingly in protest as you chew and swallow determinedly.
“Getting full already?” John asks, a genuine note of concern in his tone.
He beginnings rubbing gently at the rounded circumference of your stomach. It’s beginning to push outward against the comforting press of his hands as it expands. When you glance downwards, you can see the edges of your Straight Edge tattoo prominently as your abdomen beings to stretch accommodatingly.
“Just getting started.” You garble, your mouth still full.
You make short work of the first half of the burger, but the second part is more of a challenge. You’re not as hungry as you thought you were, but because you don’t do anything by halves. you’re committed to consuming every last crumb.
It’s still mouth-wateringly good, but each bite is becoming increasingly laborious as your mind begins to register that your eyes were bigger than your actual appetite. You begin making obnoxious noises of enjoyment to distract yourself as you swallow. Always the performer, you moan loudly to broadcast just how good it is.
Behind you, John makes a quiet noise himself, muffled with a cough. He goes back to massaging your expanding abdomen, rubbing firm little circles into the protruding bloat.
“Taste that good, huh?” He says, voice oddly strained. He clears his throat before continuing, but there is something less relaxed in his tone. “Think you can manage the rest?”
You wiggle your hips backwards, spreading your thighs a little more and giving your belly more room to hang freely. His fingers follow, holding it in a supportive cradle.
That’s when you feel his cock pressing into the swell of your ass. It would throw a lesser man off but you’ve always been great at improvising. You focus on making a show of how much you’re digging the first course of your meal as your mind races with the unexpected discovery.
Is he getting off on this? It’s not a kink you’ve discussed. That said, who are you to deny a lover satisfaction, regardless of the weird and wonderful nature of their interests?
You finish your next mouthful before you respond, choosing your words carefully.
“Oh, I’m stuffed but there’s no chance I’m stopping now.”
“Good,” John groans. He tucks his chin over your shoulder to watch more closely. The movie is long since forgotten with his entire focus trained on you.
His talented fingers gently knead across your lower abdomen, knuckles pressing into the puffy surface.
“Does this help?”
The contrasting pressure feels incredible. Your stomach is so loud underneath his finger tips, popping and shifting as it digests.
“Y-yeah.” You stammer, unable to help the blush that spreads across your cheeks.
The attention on your least favourite body part should be unnerving, but it only makes you more determined. To achieve what, you’re not entirely sure but he’s clearly enjoying this.
“That’s good,” John says softly, “Proud of you for finishing your food.”
The strangled sound of that follows, another quiet groan that whooshes out close to your ear, causes a shiver to ripple down your spine. The unexpected praise only adds to the cacophony of pleasant and uncomfortable sensations coursing through your body. Unsure of what to do with this new information, you settle back into demolishing the final bites.
“Your belly’s so fucking hard,” John murmurs as you eat. He drops his head to your shoulder, mindlessly mouthing at the skin there. You feel the blush creeping down your chest intensify as his hands rubs up higher, tracing the rounded circumference where your tattoo sits before sweeping down the outline of where your abs would be if you had any to speak of.
“You like me all full?” You gasp a little, surprised. Shoving the empty plate to the side, you lick the excess juice off your fingers.
“Like when you’re satisfied.” John manages with a sigh.
Not trusting yourself to respond, you brace your hands on his thighs, leaning back against his chest for a little breather. You’re so uncomfortably full that you’re actually a little breathless with it, like the weight of your belly is putting pressure on your lungs.
Your dark gaze dropping downwards as his huge hands slide back beneath the line of your sweatpants to continue serving your stretched lower abdomen.
The repositioning inspires another burp, louder this time. Your belly tenses and relaxes with it, jiggling a little in his hands.
“Sorry.” You grimace, frowning and glad that he can’t see your face.
“Let it out if it feels good,” John encourages without hesitation, doesn’t even falter in his actions, “It’s all a release, right?”
Fuck, that shouldn’t be as disgustingly hot as it sounds coming out of mister straight-laced wonder boy’s mouth. You feel his hips grind a little behind you, fighting to remain still.
“And everyone thinks I’m the freak.” You huff, shielding another little burp with the back of your hand, equal parts amazed and impressed.
“No idea what you mean.” He digs the tips of his fingers into the bloated curve, as if to push the air out of you. Maybe you’re the one that’s sick because it’s enough to cause your cock to dribble in your boxers.
As if reading your body’s cue, the lower positioned wanders down to wrap around your straining dick.
“Gonna finish the ice cream for me?” John coaxes gently. There is a softness in the request that is an out in itself, giving you an unspoken exit if the unexpected turn in the early morning’s events has become too much for you.
It’s like he doesn’t know you at all. If he needs sign you’re into it, you nearly drop the bowl in your haste to get it up to your face.
The dessert is half-melted. Less than appetising, but it makes the runny consistency makes it go down easier. The sweetness of the chocolate topping is almost enough to make you gag, but the coldness is soothing. Your stomach grumbles loudly in protest, but you ignore it.
“Take a breathe.” John’s fingers are busy collecting the slickness that’s already spilled out of you. He uses the excess to slick you, easing the strokes as he begins to begins to build up a rhythm. The other hand continues to diligently circle your belly.
“Fuck.” You grunt, pausing to swallow around the empty spoon.
A persistent ache begins in the pit of your gut, testing the limits of your resolve. John touching you so reverently feels too fucking good to tap out now.
He begins to fist your length faster as you practically bury your face in the bowl, making short work of the final creamy remains. It clatters as you drop it down beside you, leaning back against his chest and writhing in his grip as he begins to strip you messily.
“You look so fucking good like this, Punk. All satiated and comfortable,” He groans, chest heaving against your back, “How does your tummy feel?”
The softness in the question makes your insides twist, and you pretend the groan you make is a sign of physical discomfort rather than attempting the process the sentimentality of his words.
“Tight and heavy,” You manage dumbly, eyelids fluttering closed, “Like I’d pop if I ate another bite.”
It’s probably not a sexiest response, but it’s true. The pressure inside you is insane. Your stomach is a gassy symphony of sensation, tiny cramps eased by the suddenly building heat of your orgasm sparking at the base of your spine.
“Lay back.” John instructs, carefully shifting to move out from behind you.
You want to whine in protest, but you’re too incapacitated from bingeing to argue. You allow yourself to fall back as carefully as you can manage with no coordination into the fortress of pillows as he repositions you.
Walking around to the foot of the bed, John makes quick work of dragging off your sweats. You offer no assistance, lifting each leg uselessly, watching with exhausted eyes as he pulls off your damp boxers.
He crawls up the bed, commando crawling on his belly. Spreading your thighs with his hands, he grabs your knees and hooks them over his shoulders.
“Wait, what are you…” You ask blearily, propping yourself up on your elbows.
You immediately fall flat on your back when he buries his face into the sweaty valley of your ass. His tongue delves into your pucker without preamble.
It never ceases to amaze you that the most disciplined, all American boy you’ve ever met can eat ass like he was made for it. You cry out as the slick muscle breaches the tight entry in a single movement. His tongue burrows insistently, stretching the plush inner walls of your unprepared channel.
It’s filthy and impossible wet and you weren’t prepared for him licking you out like you were the best option on the menu.
You close your eyes, throwing a tattooed arm over your face. His restless hands find a new job to perform, slipping underneath to squeeze as the globes of your ass.
One eventually sneaks up to rub over the curve of your belly. You can’t even bear the thought of looking down at him, toiling away between your legs. Your stomach must be enormous, the skin stretched enough to burst, and somehow he’s still into it.
The hand on your stomach blessedly abandons it’s position, trails back down to join the debauchery between your thighs.
Your shoot up onto your elbow when a finger testing the give of your already stretched hole. It’s enough to make you whine aloud when the digit burrows it’s way inside to join his tongue.
It’s only been a few minutes of him devouring you from the inside out when your cock jerks in warning, spurting dangerously. It’s been too long and your too tired and overwhelmed to practise any sort of sexual etiquette.
“I hate to break this party up, but I’m not going to last.” You groan.
From between your thighs, John hums encouragingly, still buried inside you. You can feel the sound vibrating inside you. You barely have time to get your hand around yourself, managing a few uncoordinated strokes before you’re spilling over the enormous curve of your belly.
As if the sparks shooting doting your vision aren’t daunting enough, John has decided he isn’t finished with you yet. Dragging himself up into his forearms with a shit-eating grin, he busies himself mopping up the mess.
“You’re such an asshole.” You groan, falling back into the pillows helplessly. All fucked out after your orgasm, you don’t even have the strength to shove him away as he licks up the spillage from your abdomen. The gentle huff of his laughter puffs across the skin.
“Are you okay? Thanks for going along with that,” He says softly when he finally sits up, pulling himself back up beside you. His expression is worried and too fond and it makes you want to slap him, looking at you like you’re something fragile. Precious is the word you can’t admit to yourself.
“If you wanted dessert, I would’ve shared.” You joke, smiling weakly.
“Those calories I can afford.” He grins. It’s so cheesy but his lips are still wet with your essence and you can’t bring yourself to make fun of him.
Instead, you pull him down for a kiss, assisting with the clean up as you taste your own unique tang on your tongue.
When he pulls away finally, he ducks his head down to readjust himself. The jean shorts are so stupid but there’s is nothing laughable about the erection straining against the loose material.
“Want me to return the favour?” You mime jacking him off just to make him cringe, “I’d can blow you, but it’s 50/50 if I yack on your nice linen sheets.”
“That’s tempting, but I’m okay, really,” John replies, “Just wanted to show you that I missed you.” He rearranges the pillows behind your head, dropping a kiss to your forehead. He moves carefully as he edges his way off the bed, before heading to the bathroom.
Sighing tiredly, you make the effort to get up yourself. Stacking the plates and walking them out into the hall is enough to keep you from passing out on the spot.
Smiling as you listen to John humming inside as the faucet runs, you pull the covers back before sliding underneath them. There is no way your rolling back to your room like this.
Dropping a hand to your belly, you tuck the other behind your head. Normally you’d feel like a bit of a shitty lay leaving him hanging, but it’s not the first time he’s declined. The guy genuinely gets off on making you feel good and who are you to deny him that simple pleasure?
“I’m going to pay for this when my trunks don’t fit tomorrow night.” You grumble with a good natured laugh, poking a finger in the squishy surface where your abs are to watch it spring back stubbornly.
“Don’t lie, you love the thought of pissing Vince off by going up a size.” John laughs as he pads back into the room. The hideous ring attire is gone and you enjoy the view of his basketball short clad legs.
“Please do not talk about our boss when we’re in bed together,” You frown.
“Had to flatten my boner somehow.”
You both laugh as he slides into bed next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.
You roll onto your side with a quiet groan, hating the way the movement makes the contents of your body slosh uncomfortably.
“The things I do to make you happy. My stomach is killing me.” You complain.
“Well it’s appreciated,” John replies, “Did you want to, uh, talk about it?” He slots his body behind you in the big spoon.
“About your kinky obsession with me stuffing myself?” You snort, burrowing your cheek into the pillow with a sigh, “Definitely going on the list of morning post-coffee discussion topics with finance and the weather.”
“Great, cause I’ve got some ideas.” He continues, irritatingly awake despite the ridiculous hour. Normally it’s you chewing his ear off at this time, but the combination of being well fed and fucked has done a number on you.
“Cena has ideas, who would’ve thunk.” You snicker, feeling sleep closing in on you.
“You’re going to have to build up some stamina with getting stuffed, because I’m gonna to fuck you after dessert next time.” John adds.
Your nearly closed eyes snap open.
“Excuse me?”
He chuckles, planting a kiss on the back of your neck. One arm slips beneath your head under the pillow, while the other comes to rest gently on your aching stomach.
“Goodnight Punk.”
“Fuck you, Cena.” You grumble before shutting your eyes.
Sweet dreams, indeed.