Work Text:
Matt hit the gym most days. When he didn’t make it, there were always the adjustable dumbbells he kept hidden in his upstairs room, where he was spending more and more of his time this year. The guy never slept much to begin with, and the new habit of waking up for 7AM jogs around the neighborhood did nothing to tire him out. (It was, however, giving him a permanent farmer’s tan.)
Jay stayed silent about all the changes to the routine, but it was getting tough to ignore the impact they were having on his bandmate’s body.
With girls (women? dates? whatever) Jay had always felt a sort of latent and loathsome pressure to exert dominance. There was this ill-fitting urge to prove he was big and strong, a protector, a person to be listened to or even feared when other parts of his life felt outside of his control. Oddly, over time, it became clear this was actually more of a size issue than a sexism issue.
Jay was often the tallest person in a room. No amount of hours spent hunched over a piano could change that. And so he figured, when it came to matters of love, his lot in life was to get slotted into those roles by default. Maybe not “strong,” but the other ones. Big. Dominant. Protector.
At some point – the year and date didn’t really matter, no one was making a national holiday of it, though maybe they should’ve – Jay stopped trying to pick up women when he realized he no longer had the energy to perform the role of “boyfriend” as he thought it was written. All of his adolescent aggression, once so ample, had shriveled up and died somewhere inside his now-brittle body. He would circle his thumb and index finger around his wrist and think of the fragile hollow bones of birds. He wanted to fold himself into smaller and smaller shapes like an origami crane, paper-leaf-light, just something to be kept in a jar as decor.
What all this really boiled down to, though, was that he wanted to feel protected. And now it seemed like Matt could protect him. Like maybe Jay could let down his defenses and melt into the arms that had always awaited him. These were odd developments to grapple with, and Jay was never very fluent in the “feelings” department, but it all added up.
It happened slowly, then all at once. Matt’s hands, formerly downright dainty and feminine, now looked veiny and rugged, sporting new callouses courtesy of the bench press bar. His red flannel PJ pants no longer sat low on his hips; they sliced into his sides, with his ballooning quads warping the patterned fabric below. The lav mic’s bodypack transmitter didn’t drag the waistband of his jeans down; instead, it perched at an angle atop the swell of his ass. He seldom wore his old band shirts and graphic tees outside of a workout, having always been more of a button-up guy (“Better to be overdressed than under, my dad always said!”), but when he did, they looked absolutely obscene straining around his biceps and puckering across his broadening chest.
Today is one of those days. The Duran Duran shirt has nine holes in it, minimum, but Jay decides he’s never going to let Matt throw it out, not when it looks like that stretched over his new build. He hasn’t showered or changed back from his gym jaunt yet, so his meaty calves are visible between the rolled hems of soft grey jersey joggers and the cuffs of his white ankle socks.
Matt’s doing the dishes, rinsing out the blender, dislodging ancient chunks of his protein-powder-packed smoothies. Jay’s being super duper helpful by leaning against the counter nearby, holding a soda in one hand and his own elbow in the other. He has forgotten whatever excuse he initially made to follow Matt into the kitchen like a puppy. He keeps ogling his totally oblivious bunkmate.
His gaze lands on the curve of Matt’s belly, a little sliver of pale-pink skin peeking out from the shirt that can no longer handle it. Waitaminute, that’s not even muscle; why is that stirring something in him? Maybe it’s evolutionary. Primal. Something about fertile mates being good at storing fat? Nursing their young? Jay’s eyes drift up to Matt’s chest, drinking in the way it warps the graphic design on the shirt’s front. It’s a quiet Monday and there are no cameras to dress up for, but Jay’s worried Matt will change into his usual uniform soon anyway. Jay wants to stare just a little longer. Or perhaps for the rest of his life.
Matt runs a hand through his hatless hair, down the back of his neck, around to his chest, until it finally settles on his gut. Jay sees his fingers dig in harshly and now they’re both frowning.
“Fuck, man. I’m gonna have to go on a cut.”
“A cut?” Jay panics immediately, wondering if he’ll have to go through the annual process of hiding all the sharp objects in the home. Have Matt’s old tendencies returned?
“Like, to shed– to get shredded.” Matt looks up from his stomach to Jay’s concerned face. Jay sets his soda down and blinks. Matt continues.
“It’s supposed to be a cycle, you go into a deficit, start eating less– nevermind. Don’t worry about it.”
“Eating less? Hey that’s– that’s a disorder!” Jay’s arm fully extends, ending in an accusatory finger-point.
“Mmmno, it’s a widely accepted process.”
“Well you said it was a disorder when I did it.”
“Because it was, is. Because look at you.” Matt gestures.
“I know what deficient means, Matt, and it’s not good.”
“Deficit. I said deficit.”
“Tomato tomato,” Jay says, pronouncing the word the same way both times. He resists the urge to plant his hands on his hips to sharpen his point, knowing it makes him look like his mother. Matt laughs at him anyway, quick and quiet and dismissive.
“I said don’t worry about it, I shouldn’t have said anything. Should’ve known not to bring this up to someone with no self-discipline.”
“Metabolisms change.” A wounded look flickers across Jay’s face, but he otherwise ignores Matt’s dig at him and tries to make this declaration with some crumb of confidence.
“False. Patently untrue. You can game the system.” Being a gym rat was not exactly on brand for Matt, but gamifying his mortal existence was. Things were beginning to make some sense to Jay.
He had lived through one era of Matt’s intense body insecurity already, back before the workout routine was really set in stone, when Matt tried to take a one-meal-a-day approach (some DoorDash bowl monstrosity of sad chicken on a bed of greens he’d barely pick at, no fun to eat, not entertaining at all).
Matt’s moods grew more temperamental in those phases, his short fuse getting even shorter. Inevitably, Jay would hear him rustling around in the wee hours, late-night-early-morning, inhaling pizzas (usually two, sometimes three) from Pizza Rustica. Not a sustainable system. This new thing didn’t sound like one either, vague as it was. Jay musters up the courage to push back:
“Well. I think you look nice. Uh, good. You look good. You don’t need to change a thing.”
Matt squints, turning to lean his rear against the sink full of soaking dishes. His hands grip the edge of the counter. He’s rotating Tetris pieces into place in his mind.
“Ohhh I see. Tricky, tricky! Lil’ trickster Bird!” Matt’s laughing lightly but it’s just like the last one; his heart’s not in it. Jay tries to smile back but his brows scrunch up in a question. He isn’t following.
“Just tryna fatten me up so you get all the girlies after the Rivoli show, eh? That’s not nice.”
Ah. Jay was afraid of this. He was self-aware enough to know vanity had long been a hallmark of his, another matrilineally-inherited trait, no doubt. He knew Matt would leap to assumptions about how Jay would do anything to look better when compared to him – anything but put in any effort of his own, that is. How could he state his case convincingly?
“No, Matt, I mean it. Don’t be like that. I mean it, I do. Here, flex.”
“What.” Matt’s already recoiling.
“Flex your arms, lemme see. C’mon, like that one photo. You know, your old contact photo.”
“Oh God, you don’t still have that, do you?” Matt blushes scarlet, his embarrassment distracting him from how nice Jay’s mouth looks when it’s making the word “photo.”
“I might.” Jay smirks. It’s a silly question. Of course he does. And he knows Matt still has the matching photo of him. Matt rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, pretending to pout but acutely aware this pose makes his softly tanned skin stretch out the sleeves of his shirt. He relents after just one little “please?” from Jay, halfheartedly flexing one arm, fist in the air.
“Whoa-ho, gun show! Pew pew!”
“Okay you don’t have to patronize–”
“I’m not! Matt I’m–” Jay’s hands fly up to Matt’s shoulders. What’s meant to be a simple reassuring gesture turns into something else when his fingers start squeezing without his brain’s permission. “I’m not,” Jay says a bit slower, a bit quieter. All the dust particles in the house pause to hang in midair and side-eye this scene.
Matt’s frozen, his eyes quite a bit wider than they were ten seconds ago. A seal has been broken. Jay is mesmerized. He’s pressing along Matt’s upper arms, his long fingers squishing into the flesh. Matt slowly lowers his fist but does not back away.
“Dude what… are you doing?”
“I just… I like you like this.”
“You like me?”
“Why d’you say that so surprised?”
Matt doesn’t have an answer, unless you count blushing harder. Jay’s touch turns feather-light, his fingertips trailing down Matt’s forearms before holding his hands, inspecting them, smoothing his thumb over the knuckles and the veins. They’re both a little speechless. It’s impossible to read Jay’s intentions. Matt expects the “gotcha!” to come at any moment, but no way in hell will he be the first one to hit the brakes. Jay presses their hands together – his right to Matt’s left, palm-to-palm. The tiniest of smiles is on his face as he compares their fingers. Mini corndogs versus chopsticks.
His eyes slide up Matt’s arms for the tenth time today, trailing over broad shoulders and alighting on his plush chest. Jay’s unaware how long he’s been staring; he’s zoning out completely as he imagines using Matt’s tits for a pillow the next time they’re watching a movie on the couch, guessing what the tempo of his heartbeat might be. Matt clears his throat, still too panicked to make the “my eyes are up here” joke that’s begging to be made.
“Huh?” Jay blinks and licks his lips before any drool can fall.
“You can stop now.” Matt’s got that severe look in his eyes, the one he uses to cloak bruised feelings. But I haven’t even started…
“You could probably carry me if you wanted.” Jay’s voice is unusually reedy, shaky.
“Probably. Where are you going with t–”
“How much do you, um, lift?”
“O-kay, joke’s over man, HA ha ha, good one, you’ve never shown an interest befo–”
“I know, and I’m sorry, I already said, I just… it looks– looks good. Don’t change.”
There’s a surprising and simple tenderness in the last two words, and Matt realizes how foreign this plea sounds to his ears. His whole life, pretty much everyone’s told him to change something, or multiple somethings. He hasn’t pulled his hand away from Jay’s this whole time he’s been squabbling.
“You uh… I mean you have to admit I’m bigger. Than before.” Matt’s fingers finally start to curl into the spaces between Jay’s.
“Uh huh.”
“It’s, Jay, it’s approaching Bob-from-Tekken levels.”
“What!?” Jay’s smiling now, doing his stupid breathy laugh. “No, nonono, you’re like, you’re like the Hulk.”
“Norton or Ruffalo? Or, like, just the concep–”
“Shut up, Matt.”
“Mmkay.”
Jay finds the courage to peel Matt’s shirt off. (He does not want to be looked down upon by the talented members of Duran Duran for the duration of these next events, whatever they may be.) Matt finds the courage to let it happen. His messy hair looks twice as wrecked once the tee slides over his head. It is excruciatingly endearing. They blink at each other.
Suddenly Matt dives and sweeps everything off the huge kitchen island’s surface, boardgame boxes and unopened mail and paper towel rolls and a rice cooker lid all sailing to the floor. He turns to lean against it and roughly drags Jay in by the collar of his shirt – but just when he expects their lips to crash together, Jay ducks and smushes his nose into Matt’s bared chest, palming at the pecs, pressing them tight around his cheeks as if he’s going to motorboat them. Matt looks up at nothing and frowns. Huh. The muffled little stream of “thankyouthankyouthankyou” coming out of Jay is making this all the more confusing.
Matt’s a freeze-frame again, his tailbone pressing against the kitchen island. Jay’s not exactly kissing or licking at his exposed flesh; more like mouthing and nosing and burrowing.
“Don’t change this.” Finally, a tiny kiss is pressed to the roll of Matt’s stomach.
“Or this.” Another one on the side, on a love handle.
“Or this.” Other side. “No culling.”
“Cutting?” Matt offers helpfully.
“Whatever.” Jay’s dizzy with delight as he sinks lower. There are so many moles he forgot about, on so much skin he hasn’t had the privilege of seeing in so long. This feels so good, like sinking into a beanbag in Matt’s parents’ basement and hiding from the world. His nose burrows lower and lower still, encountering a sharp and aggressive scent clinging to the grey sweats, but it doesn’t drive him away. If anything, it spurs him on. Giddy up. Jay’s spindly fingers, previously kneading the dough of Matt’s burgeoning muffin top, now dig into the sides of his thighs.
“Birdie, are, are you gonna– can you uh– are we– will you– would– is this–” Matt’s stammering incoherently, his hand shaking where it rests so gently in Jay’s hair. Oh. Jay is now at eye level with a little bulge. Oh. He realizes what he’s asking, and how his behavior might’ve given Matt that impression. His eyes flick from Matt’s face to Matt’s crotch, over and over. He did not intend to end up here. But then he remembers something he saw in the fridge earlier and a bright idea appears. A ploy! A plan!
Jay opens the refrigerator door and pulls out a pizza box. He looks inside and sees four slices left over from Matt’s latest order. (Damn, he really was cutting back. Only finishing one-and-one-third pizzas? Tragic.) He tosses the box on the kitchen island next to Matt’s colossal thigh.
“I will if you eat this.”
“Wh–”
“All of it.”
From where he crouches, knees already aching on the cushioned kitchen runner rug, Jay looks up through the ridge of his brow and digs his nails into the surprisingly firm insides of Matt’s legs. The light has left Jay’s eyes and Matt cannot identify the feeling that’s snaking through his core but he thinks he likes it, thinks he wants to chase it deeper into the dark.
So Matt nods, slack-jawed and dumbfounded at this prospect. It’s a dream. It’s what he’d write on a Make-A-Wish form if you put one in front of him. Fuck the Rivoli; pizza blowjob takes the cake. Cake. Is there cake involved? Can there be?
“You… you’d do that? Really?”
“Yup. That’s how serious this is,” Jay lisps, shocked to find himself believing what’s coming out of his own mouth.
Without breaking eye contact, Matt’s hand flaps around the box. He brings a cold slice – of the Calabrese sausage variety – to his mouth and takes a nibble. Jay wishes it was fresh and hot, leaving glistening grease on Matt’s cheeks and globules of gooey cheese trailing out from his gnashing teeth with every bite. His fangs are poking over his bottom lip while he watches. He jerks his head up, a nod of encouragement, and Matt takes a larger bite. Welp… Time to keep his word. Jay’s fingers slide into Matt’s waistband and tug his joggers down along with his underwear. Matt’s thighs tense up where they rest against the kitchen island. He loudly gulps down another bite of pizza.
Jay had seen Matt’s balls fall out of his shorts more times than he could count over the years, but he couldn’t remember the last time he saw his actual official capital D Dick. Here it was. Stiff but sitting only a couple of inches past his nuts. A little shape as red and round and undefined as his face. But now was no time for judgment. Really, truly, Jay was just happy it looked so utterly incapable of making him cry and gag like those poor porno girls they watched a decade or two ago.
Multiple clickable options pop up in front of Jay’s face like he’s playing a Triple-A video game: nose at it, kiss it, throw up on it and fail the level, etc. He decides to brute-force through his nerves and take it all at once like it’s a bonbon, since it kind of is. Matt fucking squeaks when Jay’s lips close around his cock. His palms press to the counter surface behind his back and he bucks his hips forward instinctively.
“S-sorry,” he breathes, but Jay’s only response is to grab hefty handfuls of Matt’s stomach. Jay pretends he’s lapping at a freeze pop, though the piquant flavor is making it complicated. He’s frowning and screwing his eyes shut in an attempt to quiet the other thoughts that are jockeying for control of him, trying to override this impulse. From where his elbows are digging in and pinning them, Jay can feel Matt’s legs quaking. He’s clumsy, clueless, doesn’t really know how to stop his teeth from getting involved, but he’s trying.
Every scrape of those fangs makes Matt jerk and choke on the food in his mouth. These obscene sounds, in turn, only add fuel to the fire that’s burning in Jay’s own core. There should be more, more, more, more sounds, more food, more of Matt to love. Jay envisions himself in an army helmet, riding atop the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles’ iconic pizza-thrower tank, rapid-firing a dozen of the sauce-drenched discs down Matt’s throat.
It gets hard for either of them to breathe around the time the third slice comes out of the box, once Matt realizes the speed of his scarfing correlates to the speed at which Jay’s head bobs. Matt pokes the flat center of the fourth and final slice into his mouth with three fingers, folding it in on itself like a cold calzone and trying to eat it whole. Jay watches from below and moans, mouth still full. They’re both drooling, albeit for different reasons.
Once all the leftovers are finished, Jay sucks harder as a reward, and here’s the part where all the fridge magnets in Matt’s field of vision go out of focus and he fists both hands into Jay’s messy hair, breathless, mouth open, muscles in his neck all gone taut. A new unpleasant taste pools in Jay’s mouth, but he’s thought ahead for once. Cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s, he pops up from the floor and pushes Matt to sit back on the kitchen island. He stands between his legs and wraps a firm palm around the back of his head and suddenly Matt’s cum is making a special guest appearance during their first-ever kiss.
Matt tenses up and grabs at Jay’s shoulders but doesn’t push him off. Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuc– Jay opens his mouth wider, worming his way into Matt’s. He presses closer and tips his head forward, letting the whole load pour out of him. Matt’s not swallowing it down immediately; it’s sitting on his tongue, then it’s swishing and swapping back and forth between them, its flavor combining with that of all the savory sausage and salt and grease and oil and cracked pepper and cold hard cheese Matt’s just crammed into himself. Fingers curl around Matt’s throat and he automatically straightens his posture and cedes to Jay, swallowing the remnants of his jizz.
The kiss is finally broken. Matt looks like he’s just seen a ghost. Jay noses against Matt’s soft chins, the ones no amount of exercise ever seems to change (and thank god, since Jay’s recently grown to love them). He peppers kisses along them and can’t resist nipping at the supple skin, triggering a sharp intake of breath from Matt. This is still happening? This is still happening. Make the most of it.
Matt fumbles frantically through his post-orgasm haze until he locates a little bit of his usual boldness and his fingers dance along the hem of Jay’s salmon-colored henley. Why does he have to be the only one topless? No fair.
“Can I..?”
“Wha? Oh. Sure, why not.”
Matt wriggles the shirt off of Jay’s body but when he reaches out grab a handful of soft fuzzy chest, Jay’s leaning back, out of reach, opening the fridge again. He procures a carton of shiny fresh strawberries. (Hey, those are for Matt’s smoothies–but he daren’t protest…)
Jay leans back in and holds the largest strawberry by its leaves, pinched between thumb and forefinger. He wraps his lips around it and sucks a big bite out of it. He’s staring into Matt’s eyes all the while, his hair a totally tousled mess, his bony shoulders and his salt-and-pepper chest hair now on full display, a self-satisfied glimmer in one dark eye and a ravenous twinkle in the other. It’s not only the stuff dreams are made of, Matt thinks, it’s the stuff that should be either printed on centerfold calendars or hidden behind a paywall. Note to self, next plan, we’ll make a fortune and the Riv–
Matt’s train of thought is derailed when Jay grabs the back of his head again, tugging at his hair until he yelps, crashing their faces together. Jay spits thoroughly-chewed-up fruit into Matt’s open mouth and kisses him through it again, for good measure. He repeats the process at breakneck speed, chewing up one more then two more berries, spitting the mush into Matt, moaning at the sweet taste and sucking at his tongue until Matt’s flapping his palms and gasping for air. They separate again.
“Bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Matt chokes out, red-faced, tears in his eyes.
“Wha?”
“Babybirding me?”
Jay grins, but he is a man on a mission; he is not in banter mode.
“There’s still room for dessert.” It is not a question. It never was.
Jay rips into a box of Whippet chocolate-covered marshmallow cookies sitting on the countertop, one of his personal grocery picks. He tears off the wrapping and grabs one out of the clear plastic tray, then waits for Matt to present his tongue. Matt’s brows are furrowed. He’s a little less compliant now that he’s not nipping at the heels of a climax, but making Jay happy is his full-time job, so his lips eventually part anyway.
The cookie is dense and gooey, something that should be chewed slowly, but Jay pops it down Matt’s gullet and presses two long fingers in after it, forcing Matt to suck around them. He sputters and gags.
“How’s that, huh? How’s it feel to suck someone else’s knuckles for a change?” Jay smirks, flashing back (fondly, though he’d never admit it) to the many nights he’s suffered through a movie soundtracked solely by Matt’s noisy consumption of popcorn or chips. Matt’s eyes are pleading, confused by the mixed messages but too dazed to do anything about it. He tries to chew, carefully avoiding Jay’s fingers. They slide out of his mouth but the second he takes in a gasp of breath around the decimated remains of big wet crumbs and marshmallow fluff, Jay crams another two cookies against his face, mashing them. Matt tries to yell something but Jay’s face replaces Jay’s hand and now they’re kissing aggressively through the cookies, little bits falling onto their chests to join the sticky pink streaks of strawberry juices already there. Chocolate-brown drool leaks from Matt’s poor overwhelmed mouth and Jay licks it clean the moment he notices.
It decidedly doesn’t feel like a hookup any more. It feels more like an endurance test, or perhaps an interrogation technique of some kind, and the drag of Jay’s stubble across Matt’s belly is ticklish, but far be it from Matt to complain about this gorgeous gift the universe has stationed here between his knees.
Mad with power or something as yet unnamed, Jay retrieves his carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer and opens it up. He shapes his hand into a makeshift scoop and shovels out its top layer.
“Wha–” Matt’s query is smothered by a freezing cold hand clamped over his mouth. Jay smushes the ice cream in, palm flat, thumb pointing down, his elbow twisting up into the air between their heads. It trickles down Matt’s cascading chins, melts down his thick neck, and drips onto his pecs. Jay scoops into the carton for a second serving and repeats the process, this time hooking his fingers around Matt’s bottom teeth and holding tight onto his jaw. Jay dips his head down and licks a continuous stripe from Matt’s nipple up to his earlobe, chasing and erasing one creamy wet trail of the mess.
Matt begins to suspect this is less about his body being attractive and more about this guy really liking sugar, but fuck it, he’ll take what he can get. He was barely able to swallow the first palmful of ice cream, and now the second is dribbling entirely out of his mouth – still wedged open by Jay’s hand – and all over his chest. Jay licks his lips and dives back in, latching his mouth onto a nipple until Matt yelps. With his face still occupied, Jay blindly grabs Matt’s knee with both hands and repositions it between his legs, grinding into it.
He sucks red marks into the undersides of Matt’s tits and scrapes his teeth along his sides, frowning with his eyes closed, emitting blissed-out little hums like nothing could break the spell he’s under. He bucks desperately against Matt’s shin, groping at the back of his firm calf, moaning Matt’s name. Matt’s hands haven’t known what to do this entire time, so Jay finally tells him:
“Grab me.”
“Wha–how? Huh?”
“Fuckin’ crush me.”.
With a perplexed scowl still on his face, and with Jay still doubled over humping his leg like an unruly dog, Matt leans forward to attempt an awkward embrace. His left arm circles the back of Jay’s neck, his hand pressing against the back of his head. His right arm wraps around Jay’s back, gripping the side of his waist. Matt squeezes – first a little, then a lot, until he can hear the air leaving Jay’s lungs.
There’s a garbled little “guh-ahhh” sound, and Jay tries to muffle the second half of it by burying his face deeper in the side of Matt’s stomach. Jay’s body is a ship crashing against jagged rocks of pleasure, and Matt’s mere existence is a cannonball blowing any remaining planks to smithereens. His shoulders shake through the orgasm, facedown in Matt’s lap, and there are stars in Matt’s eyes (fuckin’ anime twinkles, really) as he bears witness. Matt slides off the kitchen island and grabs Jay by the shoulders when it looks like he’s about to faint.
On trembling legs they slowly stand up straight, looking around in a daze as if they’ve never seen this room before. For one long moment, they’re both stiff and still like two glitched Sims. Matt yanks his pants back up. Sticky bits of dried vanilla ice cream are trying to hide among the grey streaks in Jay’s hair. The world outside the kitchen window is dark. It wasn’t before.
“Shoot, it’s late,” Matt remarks, dragging a hand over his face.
“Dinnertime,” Jay chirps without missing a beat. Matt shoots him a look at first, thinking he’s teasing, but then realizes he’s being entirely earnest. That’s fair, of course Jay’s hungry; not much of that food actually ended up inside him…
“Should we get delivery?” Matt offers. Jay nods, bleary but happy.
“Yeah? Burger Republic?” Matt asks with an uncharacteristically sheepish smile, already fiddling with an app on his phone. Jay nods again, faster, suddenly eager. He steps behind Matt and presses up against his back, skin-to-skin, their shirts lost somewhere on the filthy floor. He cranes over Matt’s shoulder, draping his twiggy arms over Matt’s strong arms, sliding his hands over Matt’s hands. The comparison is enough to get him ready for round two. On the order screen, Jay taps the “Triple Patty” checkbox and makes it a combo.