𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒. shawn mendes

viii. in his calvins

yeah just, smut. enjoy??
words: 3.2k

"Cut! Let's check that."

Shawn exhaled in a gust. It was hell flexing and making it look natural, like his muscles weren't' screaming for release every time the director said action! He'd been shooting for Calvin Klein all afternoon and into the evening, doing fifteen push-ups between takes. The pictures were going to look incredible, it was just fact.

He took pride in his body, you could tell in the casual way he carried himself, and he'd worked his fucking ass off for it. Hitting the gym almost everyday for five years had led him here, to his body on a fifty foot billboard in SoHo for everyone to see. To standing in front of a camera in nothing but a pair of white boxer briefs looking like a modern Greek god.

"Okay, Shawn. I think we have what we need," the director called from the booth. Shawn jumped down from the platform he'd been walking on and shrugged into a big, fluffy gray robe. The oil clung to the loose fibers, making it a little sticky. He couldn't wait to get back to the hotel and shower, maybe FaceTime if it wasn't too late. He knew you liked to go to bed at reasonable hours and there were three time zones between the two of you.

It sucked, especially on a day like today when he just wanted to tell you how amazing it all went and how good he looked.

He showered in the makeshift trailer they had on set and decided to go back to the hotel. Niall had called earlier, said something about maybe going out later, but Shawn was wiped. When he was in the big black SUV on the way, he got a text.

You: wanna talk before I go to bed?
Shawn: sure...wanna do more than talk? 😏
You: omg shut up maybe lol
Shawn: I can tell you all about my shoot...if you're lucky maybe I'll give you a sneak peek *wiggles eyebrows*
You: 🙄 call me when you're back at the hotel.

Shawn smiled down at his phone.

Honestly, he'd choose facetiming with you over any overcrowded West Hollywood bar Niall could possibly take him to. He shot his friend a message begging out of plans. The car rolled up to his hotel and he quickly snuck into the lobby, narrowly avoiding being seen by the paps constantly haunting the entrance.

"Shawn?"

I know that voice. Whipping around, he stared at you in disbelief.

"What are you doing here?!" he was so surprised he couldn't move. You took him in, white Calvin Klein tee barely containing his chest, and sighed. Getting up from the chair you'd been waiting in for an hour, you approached him slow so he could fully accept and process the fact that you were in fact real and standing in front of him.

"Not even a 'happy to see–"

You couldn't even get your sarcastic comment out before his lips were on yours. They were full and wet and covered in cherry flavored chapstick. God, you'd missed him. His arms came around you and enveloped you in his warmth. You ran your hands up his chest, noticing the way he gasped a little into your mouth when you grazed over his sensitive nipples, and threaded your fingers into his damp curls. He smelled like sandalwood and bergamot and boy. It was intoxicating. His tongue ran along the lower seam of your lips, begging for deeper entry but you stopped him, breathing heavy against his mouth.

"Shawn, we should go upstairs." His head popped up and swiveled as if he'd completely forgotten that you were in full view of the public and not in the privacy of his room. He blushed hard, pink rising in his cheeks down to his jaw and disappearing into the neck of his t-shirt. You giggled behind your hand, reaching up to ruffle his curls.