The content of this drabble is meant for people of 18+ and not below. Blank blogs and Minors DNI.
The Jock Boyfriend is that one who could easily blend in with other jocks like him but that, surprisingly, stood out because he’s built like a four-door wardrobe; big shoulders, big forearms, big man-titties torso, the whole powerhouse. Sometimes people wonder what sort of anabolic his parents put in the baby formula to make him grow that much.
The Jock Boyfriend is the one who only wears jerseys, and if he doesn’t he is decked out in full sports wear; is not really his fault that normal clothes don’t last long with him, or rather with his intense training schedule. Not that the whole female population in the campus has anything to complain about—those clothes are certainly elastic but also tight enough to magnify his muscles. A sight to faint for.
The Jock Boyfriend is the one whose brain essentially goes blue-screening from start to end of classes. He stays sat at his desk, eyes lost somewhere that is far from the blackboard with all those complicated math formulas, expression blissfully lost and hand firmly planted on the blank page of the notes he will not take. His ass is not listening. It’s not ‘cause he’s lazy or stupid—mind you he’s got A’s in other things other than P.E!—“It’s just that this professor makes it so very boring and I really can’t keep my mind in the class whenever he opens his mouth!” he’ll whine all the times he needs to borrow someone’s notes.
The Jock Boyfriend is that one coming at you with big, pleading puppy eyes, asking you to tutor him—“You’re really smart and I could really use your help. I can’t afford to fail this exam another time. Pretty please?” he whimpers on his knees and hands tied together as if he’s begging God Himself. You don’t have it in your heart to turn him down. You half expect him to be the worst teaching experience of your life, him being less smart than a fifth grader; surprisingly he’s a very good student—he’s a fast learner and hangs on your every word, quickly getting the hang of all those concepts he couldn’t seem to wrap his head around previously. He gets so excited when he gets a question right that he resembles a very happy puppy.
The Jock Boyfriend is such a sweetheart when you get to know him. Jocks have this reputation of being bullies as big as buffalos and equally idiotic, who push random people into lockers and make fun of the weakest ones just for the fun of it. He’s the opposite of such a stereotype—he listens to people, he’s kind and helps those in need; he remembers small details and gets really curious about activities outside of sports—heck, he even has a Nerd as his best friend. If someone’s rude to his friends for no good reason he goes into “mama bear-mode” and believe me when I say that, even if he doesn’t raise a single finger, his glare can easily throw you against the nearest wall if you don’t eat your words back. He doesn’t tolerate shit like that.
The Jock Boyfriend is a party animal, always invited to some sick party. He brings lots of friends with him, the more the merrier right, and even if he wasn’t invited—who cares? He brought beers!; one can literally see sparks lighting up his eyes when he sees you from the other side of the room, invisible tail wagging a mile a minute. His smile gets wiped off the second he sees you looking less than amused and another guy bothering you, asking for your number, boy oh boy, he never crossed a room faster—“Sorry pal, you might need to look for a hookup elsewhere. She’s with me.”. His voice is this close to resemble a growl and the way he has his arm around your waist is borderline possessive, and God, the way you just want to jump on him for being this damn sexy without trying…
The Jock Boyfriend looks like a virgin however is anything but. His cherry has been popped long before you two met, though from outside it doesn’t look like it; his ears gets so hot when he’s holding your hand for the first time, he sweats like he’s playing the most important game of his life when you head rests on his shoulders, his face looks on the verge of exploding when you wear his jersey that’s way too big for you. He blushes that cherry red up to his hairline when you mention you could do more intimate couple stuff—“Like kissing and stuff? Oh! Y-You meant sex… I’m not opposed to it—I mean, if you really are okay with it!” he would sputter nervously, cheeks turning red in a matter of seconds.
The Jock Boyfriend tries his best to please you but he’s oh-so greedy. His fingers twitches and tremble when grabbing your thighs, your hips, your breasts, attempting not to grip the flesh so hard and possessively to leave purple indents in your skin; when he eats you out he prep-talks himself inside his head to only let you orgasm once on his tongue, but you taste so damn good he keeps going until you’re squirming and trembling and unable to form a coherent sentence—he uses your clit as a lollipop and he savors your cunt like it’s his last meal. When he finally get to be inside you, you can clearly see the veins prone to popping underneath his skin as he tries so hard not to fuck you dumb, unable to properly walk, and failing to do so—between us, you don’t seem to mind all that much. Bonus points if there’s that bit of size difference between you two.
The Jock Boyfriend, despite his greedy nature that he can’t seem to keep under wraps, is a Soft Dom; likes it when you’re the one initiating, showering you with praises when you manage to fit all of him inside you. When you’re on top he’s the one guiding your movements, needy, deep, pressing down at the bulge forming in your belly and watching amazed the way you dance on top of him.
The Jock Boyfriend is always supportive when you decide to go to the gym with him, but will most likely act like your personal guard dog, glaring at every guy that even so dares staring at your ass when you’re doing squats; he swears he isn’t a jealous guy, let alone possessive of his girl, but you know better when he’s drilling his hips into you right in front of the mirror of the locker rooms, as if he’s trying to wipe all those lecherous stares from your sweaty skin.
The Jock Boyfriend often tells he has a good control of his sex drive, when in reality he’s very easy to rile up; he doesn’t really need you to show your breasts or ass in public, nor he needs specific gestures to get him in the mood—most of the times is just you wearing a pretty skirt that shows off your legs, paired with his much-bigger-than-you jersey, or you absentmindedly chewing at a candy, or twirling your hair around your finger while deep in thought that really, really, gets him hot and bothered. When that happens you better find a quiet and secluded place in the next five minutes—and you better have a change of clothes ‘cause he’s going to ravish you.
The Jock Boyfriend is like a big teddy bear—soft and cuddly—and you know what they say about bears: their glutton knows no bounds.
The party was loud. Loud music, loud people, loud drinks…
The bass that feels like a second heartbeat that much is booming, people of all genders bumping into one another due to the high level of alcohol in their veins trying to dance, only to move like uncoordinated inflatable mascots in the wind. The level of modesty is thrown out the window too, considering all the couples one can find grinding against each other behind every corner, kissing like the other’s lips are oxygen, incapable of finding a private corner in time for the passion to flood the gates—not that anyone cares at all.
No one really pays mind when a Jock is gone from his group of friends, just like no one questions when a solitary nerdy girl disappears in the overwhelming sea of people.
When your boyfriend corners you in the bathroom the whole place feels so much smaller than what it normally should be.
He hoists you up to the sink and wastes no time roaming his hands on your legs and thighs while his tongue dances with yours, sloppy, carnal, needy. “New skirt?” he asks breathlessly, parting his lips from yours a little too soon for your licking. You can only nod, mind fuzzy and drunk of kisses much like you’d just drank a whole bottle of vodka.
“Thought you might like it…” you mutter, and the way you purse and pout your lips to further spread his flavour makes him more excited than he already isn’t.
“It’s pretty. I love it,” he purrs. The sound makes pleasant shivers crawl down your spine, gooseflesh blooming even though the temperature in that small-like bathroom is scorching, heat pools in your abdomen and you know he knows what he does to you.
He resumes kissing you.
You smell like him, his jersey like a cardigan a dolly would wear, and—God!—how much he likes it. That possessive side of his growls, like an hungry wolf, bursting with pride when no guy dares come close to you just because you’re wearing something of his. Even that one mean girl in your class had nothing acidic to say, meaning if someone’s messes with you they mess with him.
The kiss is pure heat. Your hands travel up and down his broad back, gripping his shoulders, the shorter hair at the base of his neck where you know makes him feral. The guttural growl climbing up his throat is proof of that.
“God, I wish I could take off your clothes and bang you, right here right now…” he says breathless, looking at you, a beautiful mess, like an artist seeing the Venus painting for the first time, taking in all the details to burn them in his mind. You tilt your head to one side, “Then why don’t you do it?” you ask in that sweet, feeble voice that he definitely hasn’t set as his alarm clock ringtone.
The redness spreads up to his hairline. “Well…I mean, yeah, we could, just…” he sputters, in between embarrassed and excited, “...the bedrooms were all occupied and, you know, stripping butt naked in a bathroom that we can’t lock it’s a bit…”. He pauses. You keep looking at him with those languid eyes and he feels his thin self-control fraying.
“I don’t like the idea of someone barging in and seeing you the way I see you…” he admits, the pout he does makes you wanna pounce on him that much he’s adorable.
You pinch the cotton of his shirt—the short sleeved shirt that you still don’t know how it sits so tight on his figure yet that makes his muscles absolutely perfect—looking up at him with red cheeks and shining eyes.
“I want to do it,” you say, pleading, “Please?”
His brain short-circuits for a moment, the blush spreading to his ears and neck. He takes one big breath, running his hands on his face, then sighs, lowering them to give you a look. “Clothes stays on, deal?” he bargains with the same confidence as an insurance agent, the same serious look. You nod, tongue glued to your palate, words failing you—not that you have any need for them now.
Your lips press together, tongues dancing, breaths shortening and warming up with each smack that echoes in that bathroom that seems much smaller with him inside. His hands roamed up your thighs, squeezing the flesh, the thumb getting caught in the elastic of your panties. Your hand, instead, went to grab his glutes, a moan got lost on your lips as his body jumped at your sudden boldness—his ass is firm but oh-so-soft, you start kneading the fabric of his pants, wishing, imagining it’s his bare skin.
He slides your panties down your legs, the cotton rolls and twists on the sweaty skin. Chilly air hits you where you’re most sensible, your legs instinctively trying to close and curl to keep the heat, but instead they close around your boyfriend’s hips. You try to speak, telling him that panties are considered clothes but the words never left your mind palace, now besieged with lust.
His knuckles brushes against your labia, ghosting over the clit; he groans against your lips, satisfied. “You’re so wet…” he mutters.
His fingers delve inside you, curling and scissoring; you whimper and pant and moan softly, while his lips nibble and kiss from your ear to your neck, leaving lovebites however he pleases. The sounds that fill that small-looking bathroom are wet, carnal, indecent yet neither of you cares enough. A displeased sound leaves the comfort of your lungs as the metal of the sink presses harder on your back, your butt slipping in the concave shape—the marble cold and uncomfortable against your sweaty skin—away from his warm touch.
Your boyfriend notices, the same sound of yours leaving his lips. He makes you latch your legs against his hips, shifting positions. He pushes you against the wall, his back to the door, and resumes stimulating your walls. He doesn’t stifle your moans, nor he tells you to be quiet—you don’t try either—he basks in your cute sounds, gets turned on more when your muscles tightens around his fingers, when your lips brushes his ear and your voice sings to him how much pleasure you’re feeling.
But he’s greedy. He’s so damn greedy.
It’s a challenge for him balancing you between the wall and his legs while unzipping his pants and pushing them down along with his boxers—but he does manage.
“Please hurry,” you whisper in his ear. And he wants to give it to you, all of him, pounding you until your moans and screams overtop the loud music downstairs. But he knows he has to be gentle with you or you’ll break under the uncontrollable force of his greed.
He enters slowly, the veins of his forearms bulging due to the amount of self-control he’s putting on himself. When he finally bottoms out, said self-control gets thrown out of the window, after a few mild and deep thrust you hit him with those three words—a plea to him: “Please, go harder.”
And harder he goes.
His hips slam into yours with such intensity you’re afraid the wall you’re leaning on is shaking.
He grunts and praises you, hands grabbing your thighs so hard to leave bruises of nasty violet. You moan and whimper with every thrust, pain mixing with pleasure in a concoction you grew to be addicted to. You’re each other’s drug and neither of you wants to quit.
His breath crashes on your ear, his moans and grunts filling your brain like the best of songs; his back muscles jump under your fingers in such a delicious way, so much to wish you could shred his shirt and leave red stripes all over his skin. His body both curling protectively and tensing to avoid sending you to kingdom come as his pace starts losing rhythm, his breath hitching and chest rumbling with growls you’re pretty sure a human couldn’t possibly make.
You come first, body spasming and clinging to his like he’s a solid anchor during a storm. He climaxes a split seconds after you, doing his best not to fall on you with all his weight, elbows and knees scraping the wall to keep himself straight.
You’re both panting heavily, lips smacking, dry; you bury your nose in his neck—he smells of sex, perhaps you do too.
“Shiiiit…” he mutters into your hair, head now out of the lust’s fog. “We forgot the condom. And I didn’t pull out…”
You chuckle. “I took the pill before coming to the party,” you reassure him, messing up his hair, damp with sweat, even more.
“Don’t know whether to call you my angel or my devil…”
You chuckle again when he makes that adorable pout of his, leaning your head to kiss him; he does the same, lips brushing against yours before—
A loud knock bursted the bubble of post-sex cuddles built around you two. The knocking grew more insistent.
“Whoever’s in there, can you hurry up? I need to take a leak!” yells a guy. Your boyfriend groans, annoyed at the interruption.
“We should probably come out now,” you whisper, suddenly feeling embarrassed. “Not until you get cleaned,” he replies, putting you down gently.
“What about the guy outside?”
“He’ll wait.”
“I don’t think he will. Besides, the door’s unlocked—”
“And if he dares come in he’ll find me, pissed after being interrupted from post-sex cuddles with my girlfriend. I dare him to try.”
“Well, if you want to cuddle some more we can...ditch the party and continue somewhere else. What do you say?”
He stared at you for a little while, eyes narrowed and pout everpresent. “Your place or mine?”
“Are you two done having a moment in there or what?! I’ve got a bladder like a soccer ball!” yelled the guy from the other side of the door.
Your boyfriend huffed. You chuckled at his expression.
“That guy seriously needs to learn to read the goddamn room…”
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