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lottiecrabie · 1 year

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PLS WRITE A ROSS FIC I BEG

i wrote half of this by hand during one of my classes lmao. also, i know absolutely nothing about bass.

ross teaches you to play bass, but you need a little bit of motivation to listen.

warnings: 18+, fingering, edging, some praise

1575 words

You sit on the couch with Ross’ button up shirt hanging from your body. You strum lightly on one of his bass, mostly a rhythmless pluck as your fingers awkwardly press on strings at random. Ross finds you with a steaming cup of coffee. As you smile at him, thanking him, your eyes trail appreciatively over his shirtless frame, hair sprinkling over his chest and inching down under his gray sweatpants.

“You’re almost playing something,” Ross says teasingly, falling onto a nearby chair. He takes a sip, licking the coffee off his lips. You feel traitorous heat climb up your spine.

“Don’t challenge me,” you warn, pointing one playful finger at him. “I’m petty enough to get really good at this and steal your job.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you actually wanna learn, though?” You bite your lip. He reaches a hand towards you, beckoning you over. “Come here.”

You grin, discarding your mug on the coffee table. Standing up, you prance over to him, sitting straight on his lap. His arms surround you, strong, heavy things. Warmth spreads throughout you. You nestle deeper into his body, nudging your cheek on his beard.

“What do I do?” He takes your fingers, placing them around the neck. He presses your index over the string, then your middle. He plucks for you, the sound resonating in the living room. “Like this?” Ross nods, releasing you. You try again yourself, but it comes out creaky. You cringe. “What happened?”

“You’re not putting enough pressure.”

“I’m putting so much pressure.”

Ross shakes his head, reverberating against you. You laugh at his exasperation. “Who’s the professional?”

You smirk to yourself. “You’re right, you’re right. I’ll be professional now.” As if to prove it, you sit straighter on him, moving around to settle better. Your hips rub against his, too long and too right to be unintentional. A groan slips out of him; you feel his head fall back on the back of the chair. You can’t stop yourself from giggling.

He pinches your side. You fall into him again, laughing in his neck. He tsks. “I think you need motivation.”

You nod eagerly. “Oh yeah. Give me a kiss. It’ll give me courage.” He smooches your cheek. “Come on, you can do better than that.”

His hand finds the inside of your thigh. He grazes your skin, a delicate touch that sends you shivering. You’re not laughing anymore. “How’s that?” He whispers, voice suddenly hoarse. Your legs open wider, a switch reflex you don’t control anymore. His finger travels upwards a little; your hips up in plea.

“Better,” you breathe out.

“Yeah?” He bites your jaw playfully. “So play.”

You try to shake off the greedy fingers of need over your brain. You frown at the bass, gripping it again. It suddenly feels so big in your arms, something protruding from your hands.

Your fingers find the known strings. You strum a loose sound, but it still rings wrong amongst your panting breaths.

“Tighter,” Ross blows in your ear, then finds the apex of your thighs. You close them instinctively, trying to trap him in the pinnacle of your want, moaning. Your hands clench around the bass, practically strangling the damn thing. “There you go. Try again.”

This time, a perfect note blooms out of the bass. You smile happily, pride rushing your cheeks, an excited squeal about to leave your lips. It finds no time to do so because Ross rewards you with a tight circle on your clit. You gasp instead, rocking against him.

“Good,” he whispers, continuing to stroke your bundle of nerves. You nod absentmindedly, biting your lip to hold in a string of moans.

He moves slowly, lazily. It’s a beautiful morning, devoid of responsibilities. Time stretches before you like a cat. Hot pleasure builds inside of you. You feel tight pressure coiling around your belly, spreading down to your legs. Your thighs shake against his. You’ve stopped trying to keep your desperate sighs in entirely, practically mewling in his arms.

Ross stops abruptly. You practically scream out. “Next chord.” He takes his wet hand out of your legs, going over your own trembling fingers.

Your cunt feels impossibly empty; you clench against nothing, crying in dismay. You try grinding your hips against his for an ounce of relief, but your release is far away from you again, hiding just a little out of reach.

“Come on,” you ask, too proud to beg. “Just—” You take hold of his wrist, trying to coax it back inside your thighs. Ross laughs goodnaturedly, and maybe a little mocking, too. “Ross.” The o trails from your lips, some frustrated complaint.

“This is very unprofessional,” he teases. “Taking advantage of my position like that.”

You huff. “Well, I’m trying, but you’re not making it very easy.”

He snorts, kissing your neck. You tilt, giving him more access for beard burns. Instead, he says, “Come on, you said you wanted to learn.”

You groan. “Fine.”

Ross moves you like a doll, puppeteering your fingers over the frets, forcing you to pluck through clenched fingers. In the off time, he teases you, rubbing your nipples and circling your clit until you feel fire living under your skin. You’re burning, especially inside his arms, sighing and whining, crying out when he finally dips a finger inside of you.

He whispers the name of the chords in your ear, biting the lobe, making your whole body shiver. As if you had any mental capacity to remember it. You nod along just to please him, just to convince him to continue. It’s pointless. It always ends the same: on the edge of some mind numbing climax, panting and screaming and begging, rutting against his skilled hand, just for him to entirely stop.

“Ross,” you yell, body convulsing on the memory of what almost was. It’s half a plea and half a swear. You want to destroy him; you want him to destroy you.

Ross kisses your cheek, unbothered by your mumbled insults. “You’re doing so good, love.”

“Please, I’m so close.”

He nods along, agreeing with you. “Do you want to play me a song?” He doesn’t bother teasing this time, just slips two fingers inside of you. Already on the edge, you stifle a scream, rolling your eyes. Pleasure pumps along his finger, building to a staggering cliff you can’t seem to fall from. “I wanna hear you play.”

“I—” Words escape your brain. You exist nowhere but the pure euphoria swimming inside your body, trembling your exhausted thighs. “I don’t know any,” you pant in the morning air.

He bites your lobe. “You know Sex.” You moan just at the word from his mouth, dripping on his working fingers. “Can you play Sex for me?”

You know what you have to say. “Yes…” Satisfied with your answer, he rubs at your clit. You open your mouth, letting embarrassing moans fall out of it without bothering to catch them.

He repeats the chords for you. You open your eyes, trying to sit away from his feverish fingers just to make sense of all of it. He’s unwilling to let you go, pinning you down at your waist. Need is a blanket over your brain; you can’t seem to make it function like it usually does. His words come in one ear and then the other. You let your head fall on his shoulder carelessly.

Of course, he calls you back to work, slowing his fingers menacingly. You grip the bass, shaking your head like it would be enough to make sense of the chords. You try one tentatively.

“Wrong one,” he says, then pinches your waist. You squeal in surprise. You try another one. This time, no squeeze comes. You smile proudly to yourself.

You hum as you play, trying to find the rhythm. Every wrong chord gets you a little squeeze to your hip, your thigh, your breast. Every right one gets a faster beat, a harder one. His fingers thrust out of you like he’s trying to split you open. Of course, the notes come out wrong; you’re barely holding the neck, just trying to get through the bassline while burning euphoria speeds through your veins.

“You’re doing great,” Ross pants, clearly affected too by the show you’re putting on, chest out and heaving, legs spread, screaming as you badly play his bass. “You’re so close. You’re almost there.” You nod, clenching around him. “Just a few more chords. You’re right there. You’re the best. Aren’t you the best?” He passes a hand through your sweaty hair. “You’re beautiful. God, you’re beautiful.”

A pressure builds in your abdomen, spreading through your body until it takes over your head. You think nothing, you’re nothing but bliss. With relief, your fingers play the final chord. Ross grins wide against your cheek. “That’s it. Come, baby.”

You throw yourself down the cliff, head first, careless. A wrecked scream rips out of your throat. You drop the bass, gripping his forearm with two hands, furiously rocking your hips into him. Your brain wipes completely; all you think is yes, yes, Ross!

It takes a few seconds for you to come back to yourself. You’re dripping; he takes his fingers out, sucking them clean. You feel especially content, settling deeper into his arms lazily. Ross smiles, satisfied. “You’re my best student.”

You laugh. “If you do this every lesson, I better be your only student.”

#ross macdonald smut #ross macdonald #ross macdonald imagine #ross macdonald x reader #the 1975 #the 1975 smut #imagine #smut #request #writing #i hope ross feels in character!!#play me a song

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