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noorthehood · 10 months

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Until You • 04

Miguel O'Hara/Reader

Ch. 01 Here

Ch. 02 Here

Ch. 03 Here

Faster updates on Ao3!

With a glimpse of a futuristic cityscape and an encounter with a Spiderman seemingly much different from the one you’re used to, you unknowingly find yourself thrust into a web of intrigue and danger as the very fabric of space and time is warping. Who will you trust?

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“Eight thousand fifty six…Eight thousand fifty seven…Eight thousand fifty eight…”

The voice reverberates from the screen on Miguel’s left, each count punctuated by the sound of a ball hitting a ceiling. He closes his eyes, trying to get the tension in his back to dissipate as he takes a deep breath, hands resting flat on the desk he’s leaning onto.

“She’s been going at it since she woke up.” Miguel finally speaks, his voice carrying a hint of fatigue, eyes still shut in an attempt to ease the strain.

Jessica crosses her arms and glances at the screen, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “I’m sure she’ll tire herself out eventually,” she offers, trying to sound optimistic.

“That’s what I said too.” He looks at her from over his shoulder. “Three hours ago.”

Her eyes widened.

“She lost count around the three thousand mark and decided to just start over again.” Miguel explains, a mix of disbelief and resignation in his tone. “Looks like she's determined to reach ten thousand, for reasons only she knows.”

He lowers his voice.

“She’s aware I can hear her, Jess. It’s psychological warfare.”

“Well,” Jessica mumbles, shaking her head in bemusement. “At least you only have two thousand to go.”

Approaching the screen with cautious curiosity, Jessica’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise as she takes in the bizarre sight before her. The live feed revealed a plain, minimally furnished room, where the young woman lay flat on the floor, engrossed in her repetitive task. With each count, she throws a small ball up towards the ceiling, only to catch it and start the cycle anew. But that was not the only thing that caught Jessica’s attention.

“Is that—”

“Paint? Yeah.” Miguel responded with a sarcastic smile, running his hands down his face, exhaustion etched on his features. “Lyla said we should give her something to pass the time with. Quickly backfired, as you can see.”

Jessica's gaze shifts back to the live feed, where every wall of the room aside from the windows were covered in a riot of colors. Abstract shapes and bold splashes of paint adorned every inch, creating a chaotic tapestry of creativity—or chaos, rather. The room, once plain and bare, had transformed into a vibrant canvas, as if a feral toddler had been let loose with tubes of acrylic paint.

“And…how long did you say she’s been in there?” She asks as the rhythmic sound of the ball hitting the ceiling continues.

“Few days. Three, four maybe.” Miguel responds before Lyla promptly interjects with a correction.

“Seven, actually. Seven too many.”

Jessica’s jaw drops, and she immediately turns to face Miguel with an incredulous frown.

“Seven days? You’ve been keeping her in that room for a whole week?” She exclaims in disbelief. “No wonder the girl’s lost her mind! Are you insane?”

“It’s not like we’re keeping her hostage, Jess, she has nowhere else to go—”

“Is her door locked?”

He stays silent for a moment, then sighs.

“Yeah.”

“Then you might as well call her your prisoner.” She scoffs.

“It’s for her own safety. I have to monitor her status while figuring out a way to get her and the other one back to wherever they came from.” Miguel continues. “I’m not doing this for the fun of it, I’m trying to help them."

Jessica adjusts her goggles and places a hand on her hip as he settles on a nearby chair. That man truly had a strange way to go about things.

“How’s the other one?” She asks with a sigh.

Miguel shakes his head.

“Still comatose. But at least she’s quiet.”

He leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on the live feed from the room where the young woman continued her repetitive task.

"You know, I've been trying to figure out what happened," He begins, his voice tinged with frustration. "I've studied the data, analyzed the machine—”

“Carmen.” Lyla chimes in.

“Yes, thank you Lyla—analyzed Carmen, reviewed all footage... But I’ve got nothing."

Jessica nodded, her gaze focused on Miguel as he continued.

"And their resistance to the glitches, even without wearing the gizmo— that’s what’s most baffling to me." Miguel explains, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Everything we knew about the interdimensional travel process suggests that without that bracelet, they should have been affected by the dimensional inconsistencies."

"But they haven’t," Jessica mused, her brows furrowing in thought. "So, what does that mean?"

Miguel slightly shrugged, his exhaustion evident in his posture. "I wish I knew. It's like they defy the rules, the very laws of the multiverse. I've never seen anything like it."

He leans forward, his gaze fixed on the screen displaying the woman in the paint-covered room.

"I've considered every possibility, every hypothesis," Miguel continued. "But nothing seems to explain their resistance to the glitches, or why the go-home machine fails to send her—and only her— back."

He takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words as he stands up to face her.

“I’m at a dead-end, Jess. Seriously.” Miguel admits in a voice marked with a touch of hopelessness, like a confession of his limitations. “I need your help.”

Jessica uncrosses her arms, her expression softening as she takes in the sincerity in his plea. She knows him well enough to understand that for him to ask for help, he must be truly at his wit's end.

"What the hell do you think I can do that you haven’t been able to figure out? You’re the scientist here,” A hint of skepticism laces her words.

“I’m just a biologist, Jess. There’s only so much I can do.” Miguel retorts. “I need you to ask around, talk to people. You know that’s not my forte.”

“That I know.” Jessica sighs again as she looks up at him.

It was unlike him to show vulnerability, much less ask for help . The man was a logistician, driven by pragmatism, often making decisions based on calculated outcomes rather than emotions. His actions could sometimes lack rationality, but deep down, Jessica knew that feelings were not his strong suit. He had cultivated a reputation for prioritizing the greater good, even if it meant making difficult sacrifices—the type of man who would surrender one individual if it meant saving ten others. But something about the woman on the screen seemed to stir an uncharacteristic side of him, disrupting his usual clarity.

Was he worried ?

“Listen. I’m not gonna lie to you, I’m busy enough as is with the wedding prep and the whole Spider-Woman thing.” She preemptively raises a finger as he opens his mouth to keep him from interrupting. “ But …I’ll see what I can do. I just can’t guarantee how long it’ll take.”

A small smile tugs at the corner of Miguel's lips, the tension momentarily lifting from his shoulders. "Thanks, Jess. I knew I could count on you."

She raises an eyebrow playfully as she tinkers on her gizmo, preparing to go back on the field. "Don't get too sentimental on me, now. I'm only doing this to keep you from bringing the mood down on missions with your…domestic problems."

He chuckles lightly. “Wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

As if on cue, an interdimensional portal materializes in the middle of the spacious lab. Jess swiftly mounts her bike, her movements a testament to her expertise. With a flick of her foot, she kicks up the kickstand using the back of her heel, and the engine purrs to life.

"In return," she shouts over the cacophony of the revving engine and the ongoing interdimensional racket, "do me a favor and let that poor girl get some fresh air, alright? She's not a puzzle to be solved or a lab rat…just a woman with poor luck." Her words carry a touch of concern. "I know you mean well, but we don't want her developing Stockholm syndrome, yeah? This is supposed to be the good guys HQ, not Alcatraz ."

Miguel reluctantly nods. She has a point.

“Oh, and Miguel?” Jess puts her bike in gear and revs her engine.

He raises an eyebrow and flinches at the loud noise. “What?”

She smiles.

“Looks like she just lost count again.”

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A.N: A slightly shorter chapter to kick off the weekend!

Just laying some groundwork, I promise we'll be getting a lot more Miguel/YN interactions from now on.

Let me know how we feel about this update pacing (shorter chapters/faster updates or longer chapters/not-as-fast updates?)

See ya soon for more! As usual faster updates on Ao3!

Ch. 05

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara fanfiction #spiderverse

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songbiirdss · 1 year

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UTRH AU

Jason liked to gamble, he always had, he thinks he always will. Especially now that he’s got a second chance at life, carpe diem and all that bullcrap. That is how he found himself killing The League appointed trainers and funneling dirty money into offshore accounts, waiting for the moment he could return to Gotham in a blaze of glory and tear down every last idiot who got in his way.

Talia had approved of his plans, going as far as giving him access to her own accounts. She practically adopted him without any of the formal paperwork and Damian had reacted amiably to having an older brother in his life. But both of them had to stay firmly in the back of his mind as he affixed the explosives to the final support beam of the building he planned on putting Joker under.

Ironically it was the old ACE Building Joker called his claim to fame. Jason smiled thinking about the fucker dying in the same horrific way he did. He suppressed a shudder as he stood, the building was ready and his phone was ringing with an alert from Arkham. He smiled, Talia really did have perfect timing.

A van transport flew through the open bay doors with a terrified driver at the wheel. Jason waved him forward, he trusted Talia but the Joker was insane and unpredictable. The driver unlocked the door and two huge men pushed the Joker out of the rear. Jason waved them off and he was left with a giggling bag of shit.

He shot the bag with a tranq that could take down a whale and the room silenced once again, he had to take precautions with someone who didn’t react to many if any normal tranquilizers. He ripped the canvas open to reveal the Joker in an orange jumpsuit. It was odd to see a man smiling as he slept but it didn’t matter, he was probably already waking up. Jason quickly went to work, cutting the villain's achilles tendons so he couldn't run even if he woke.

He wrapped a chain around his wrists, throwing the other end over a support beam to haul the sack of shit to a kneeling position. Next he attached a soundproof mask around his face, he wanted this to hurt Joker in more ways than one.

Finally, he picked up the lug wrench, something he thought Bruce would appreciate, and he waited.

Joker’s eyes snapped open looking around the room before landing on Jason. He was very obviously trying to speak, and Jason smiled at the peaceful quiet, Joker wouldn’t see his smile though, just a blank, red mask. He waited, leaning back on an old desk that probably had not been used in a decade.

Jason let him figure out that there really was no escape before he checked his watch. Bruce was either getting slow, or he was already there waiting to see what Jason would do.

“Bruce? You up there?” He called out into the darkness. A soft thud and rustle of fabric landed behind him. He smiled once more, knowing this was going perfectly. He pulled out the detonator tapping his hood in a rapid sequence to lock it on.

“Fantastic!” Jason said, his mechanical voice whirring, “I’m so glad you could make it, now for the fun to begin!”

“Jason. What is this?” Bruce asked, stepping forward menacingly, his eyes were snapping around the room rapidly, analyzing everything that was going on.

“This is us moving forward. I’ve figured it out Bruce, how I can forgive you.” He threw the detonator at Bruce.

“That detonator will be the key to our family. It will disarm the bomb that I put in my helmet,” he tapped the two minute countdown on his helmet, “But it will also bring this building down. You can save me, or you can save him. You have two minutes.” Jason smiled as he ran out the door, cutting through the storage room to his motorcycle, if he was going to die he was going to do it his way, and he made sure he would never come back again.

He heard Bruce yelling after him but he didn’t care. Jason flew through the doors racing towards the harbor, he thought it was far enough away.

Bruce was chasing after him with the batmobile, which was a good sign. He stopped his bike at the edge of the harbor, waiting. This would be the good part.

Bruce flew out of the batmobile and Jason saw the Joker sniveling in the back seat. The mask was still affixed to his face.

The detonator was still clutched in his hand as he pressed the button Jason saw his fireworks. The hood fell off his head in pieces as the Joker’s head exploded in the back seat of the batmobile.

He always did love to gamble.

#jason todd #under the red hood au #I think that bruce and jason would never be able to work together after this #its like worst case scenerio but also really in character for jason to do #i reread the lost days and it reminded me how much jason doesnt care how he wins but he will win #like he poisoned a guy bc he knew he couldnt fight him #i think jason would have done something like this if he wasnt also super conflicted over bruce’s feelings #like ik he knows bruce would never kill willingly #i also know he would try and save everyone in every situation #bruce wayne #angst #batfam angst #really sad #i hated writing this it made me sad

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gamergoo · 1 year

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i personally dont think ai generated art is stealing anything but it is usually very lazy, all it takes is some words and the computer does all the work, its not like you tell a paintbrush what you want to paint and it does it for you. its interesting, sure, and it certainly is "real art", but in its current state individuals dont need to be acting like theyre the ones who made it unless they literally programmed the ai itself. it deserves to stay and be developed upon and the "real art" argument people keep making is just reminiscent of nazis trying to decide what art is "real" and what art is degenerative, but redditors that plug some trending buzzwords into a free website dont deserve to call it their own. hope you have a wonderful day btw.

So. I’m a 3D artist, is my work lazy? It’s not like I physically construct a cube, I just tell it where the vertices go! It’s not like a digital artist is actually mixing their paint, they just type 6 characters in and get a color, sometimes the software even gives them split compliments and other color pallets! It’s not like a clay worker is actually chiseling marble right? Their clay is wet and pliable, it’s lazy! I think you see my point. You’re seeing a new tool in its infancy, and just writing it off as lazy immediately instead of watching how it develops.

I’m assuming you don’t actually like read or listen to what people who work with these generators do, maybe it doesn’t sound difficult to you but cultivating prompts to give you the desired image does actually take time, to say nothing of how it connects you to the neural net and gives you an understanding of how the particular one you’re working with understands the words you type. Like the absolute disinterest people like you have with an emergent technology is crazy to me, and the way you repeat conservative talking points while also criticizing them is INSANE!!!!! Jackson pollock wasn’t intimately detailing romantic landscapes or studying light and shadow like an impressionist, he added the layer of distance between brush and canvas! Sure his work was physically easy, but that doesn’t make it worthless or Intellectually empty, right? Abstract Impressionism isn’t lazy, right? Mark rothko’s color field branch of abstract Impressionism isn’t lazy right?

Genuinely you are verbatim repeating what people against the NEA like the American family association said in the 90s, or fuck even EXACTLY what was said about photography when it was made available in the late 1800s! Do you not hear yourself? “They just point the camera and press a button” “they just type some words and get a picture” like you do not want to broach the topic of Effort as Value with me of all people, that is a dangerous game to play. Shut the fuck up.

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chronosbled · 2 years

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Mister Dickson, how have you come to love a witch?

☣ — “A witch?” The words that come forth ever so clearly lack the usual playful tone that his voice normally possesses, making it evident that — whether she was a witch or not — he didn’t appreciate the term in how the question was asked. ‘How have you come to love a witch?’ As if she wasn’t worth loving in the first place. As if, just because she wasn’t human, she wasn’t worth loving. As if she wasn’t lovable. That thought alone was more than enough to make the smile on his face fade, leaving nothing but a blank canvas for an expression. “Do you think she’s a witch? Do you think that, because she’s different, she isn’t worth the time nor the effort I put into her?” His voice soon turns cold as he speaks, taking a single step closer towards the stranger, until they were backed against a nearby wall. “I can assure you that she is worth it. Every. Single. Second. She has always been worth far more to me than most of these useless human females that want nothing more than someone’s money and reputation.” Yes, that’s right, because every other woman that he’d met only ever wanted him for one thing or another — his money, his looks, his family name, his reputation, the things he could give them, the things he could do, the things they could brag about — but in reality, would scream and run in fear once they found out he wasn’t what they thought he was. Those that called him a monster. Those that no longer breathe after making such a claim.

☣ — “I love her because of the fact that she’s different. I love her because she isn’t afraid of me. I love her because she understands the pain and suffering I have gone through because she has also suffered. I love her because she loves me for how I am and doesn’t try to change me, instead she tries to help me achieve the things I strive for, she encourages me more than anyone else ever could. She doesn’t care that I am not mentally stable, nor does she care that I have done things that would make most humans claim me insane. She simply loves me. She loves me.” The fabled tale of achieving true love that had been spun for as many years as he could recall, dancing around within his mind ever since his mother had read him his very first fairy tale storybook — it was something that resonated deep within his being, even when he couldn’t understand such a feeling — he had been fascinated with such a concept, not because it seemed ideal, but because it seemed so foreign to him. The older he became, the more he began to crave the love and affection of someone he held dear, but alas... he had never been blessed by such a thing no matter how hard he strived for it — perhaps it was his fault for wanting such things from people that he clearly meant nothing to — his grandfather had never been capable of love after all. “Crystal will always be more important to me than anything else. She will always come before my studies and my work. She will never be second place in any sense of the word. She was able to take someone utterly incapable of feeling any type of human emotions... and somehow able to make them feel every positive emotion that could ever be felt. She was able to make me feel as if my heart didn’t belong to that of a monster, but a human being. She was able to make me feel human.”

☣ — His hand moves slowly, eventually coming to rest upon the strangers shoulder while the other hand seemingly disappears behind his back, emerging only a few seconds later with a rather large blade, the serrated edge resting gently against the other’s throat. “Now,” a barely visible smile begins to take over his features, “surely you see just how lovely a person she is? I’m sure that you understand completely why I love her, because if you don’t, then I’m afraid I’ll have to show you just how far I’m willing to go to show you my love for her. After all,” blade pressing further into the other’s neck just enough to draw droplets of blood, “I’m sure she would love to meet you. You would make a nice snack for her... and how she does love to play with her food~.”

#☣ [ ' I αɱ ƚԋҽ ҽαƚҽɾ σϝ ɯσɾʅԃʂ αɳԃ I'ɱ ʅσσƙιɳɠ ϝσɾ ʂσɱҽσɳҽ ƚσ ϝҽҽԃ ɱҽ. ' ] - ✡ Iɳ Cԋαɾαƈƚҽɾ ✡#☣ [ ' Eʋҽɾყσɳҽ Lσʋҽʂ A Vιʅʅαιɳ. ' ] - ✡ Dιƈƙʂσɳ Gҽɾαʅԃ Rҽɠιɳαʅԃ Sιɱɱσɳʂ ✡#☣ [ ' Lσɳɠ; ʅσɳɠ; αɠσ ι ԃιԃ ɳσƚ ƙɳσɯ ɯԋσ ι ɯαʂ. αɳԃ ιɳ ƚԋҽ ԃҽҽρɳҽʂʂ ι ɯαʂ ʅσʂƚ αɳԃ ɳσɯ... ' ] - ✡ Rҽʂιԃҽɳƚ Eʋιʅ 8 ✡#☣ [ ' Fσɾ ϝυɾƚԋҽɾ ɾҽʂҽαɾƈԋ. ' ] - ✡ Aʂƙʂ ✡#☣ [ ' Mαʂƙҽԃ Pαɾƚιƈιραɳƚʂ. ' ] - ✡ Aɳσɳყɱσυʂ ✡#{ Anon... this is why we don't question Dickson's love for Crystal. }#{ You will end up with injuries and then be Crystal's snack. }#{ He will happily feed you to her. }#{ I can't control him when he's like this. I'm sorry. }#{ Dickson is not above killing people or kidnapping people for those he loves and cares about. }#{ I mean... he already kidnapped and murdered his canon wife's college teacher because he took advantage of her. }#{ So he will certainly do ten times worse for Crystal since she doesn't care if he murders people like his canon wife does. }#{ Dickson will go to the ends of the earth for Crystal. }#{ It's not like he doesn't have the resources to do so. }#{ And it's not like he's incapable because he's weak like a human. }#{ He's an experiment gone wrong in the end so he is dangerous and deadly. }#{ He would watch Crystal viciously murder someone in front of him and he'd be like 'That's my wife. She's so cute when she kills people~.' }#tw; knife #tw; blood #tw; blood mention #tw; knife mention

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gibbingtonwibbington · 1 year

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NUber and CVS suck.

I totally did not have the energy for that.

I’m shivvering under a blanket all over again.

I knew it. I knew it as soon as I was forced to sit on the steps waiting 20 plus minutes for a “3-4-3-4” min away NUberfkndriver to show up.

Like what’s he doing? Jerking one cuz he had a young, nubile, Valentine’s day couple to drop off, eh? Fucker in his orange fucking jeep renegade.

Canceled dat BITCH FO SHO BAYBAY.

Then got into a dope ass suv who decided to show off by driving crazy along w two other’s in cvs parking lot.

That guy totally was an ass, truck bitch was at fault 100%. I even wrote a thing to Uber just to make sure they have my say in it. My dude drove forward before the guy backed up ( I didn’t tell them that though lol) I didn’t tell them because we totally would have made it past him if he didn’t back up sideways like a fkn tard on the WORST road to do that on. We needed a second for him to wait and it would’ve been fine. He didn’t cut the wheel at all either. I said “why the fuck did he back up?” then I said “do u just want me to go inside? “ n he was like YA! Walked out n looked at his crushed side mirror n wasliwtf

Hhhhh

it was glorious. He stepped WAY THE FUCK back after this dumb back and forth..

Isaid, that means nothing.”

For the third time to this huge fuckin 6ft whatever tall bald Especially didn’t want to run into my new “best friend” …this one DIPSHIT cop that I made a complete fool put of. Oh god I loved it. I got off later on about it. He was so RED in the face with embarrassment and a flu apparently. He legit blew air in my face. It had to be him. I should call back just to give it back to him. I knew the other cop. He knew me, he knew I wasn’t lying. The last faces i said i wanted to see were theirs and apologized.

Uhh did that flu ridden mofo even search our names? Of course naht! I’m TOO old (for this obnoxious ((mid 20’s but looks older than me) neighbor having no life and being obsessed even though a lesbian joke happened) shit. I’m older than one of the cops by 3 yrs and grumpymcflufuck was at least 41. and I don’t even have a single speeding fucking ticket. flu riddenmofofo

My uber driver would’ve been way more embarrassed if I was standing with that group of middle aged 50-60 yr old men group. Fuck that. I went inside and then snuck over to the 24 store across the street to pee lol. N he said yea. Cuz they had to call the cops n these three dudes were sucking any surrounding witnesses into standing outside with them waiting for the cops. The truck guy was like did u see that can u wait here to some rasta dude in some white eRly 80’s car no shit. I am thinking bro why do u want more witnesses to you fucking up? It’s an accident. That dude wasn’t even a part of it. We had a line of traffic! I can only assume he’s not from around here. There’s a lot of construction shit going on here

So there was this kinda crazy bitch back in my middlechool yrs calles Cristina. I jeard she became a chunky lesbian stripper in Miami. I just searched, I was curious, haven’t heard a word bout this gal in ages, from anyone. Not even the one dude who was obsessed. She makes these pop art super easy canvas things, which an elephant has made look better and it doesn’t have fingers. A trunk is pretty flexible but anyway…lol…she makes these cliché ’ pop-art (insanely simplified) hand-netted basketball nets. Not sure if she’s the only one but it totally seems niche-like. Her art isn’t terrible but it’s NoT something that would make me say wow wtf?

Fkn weaksauce.

So she’s bragging on this fake ass interview thing she posted herself haha and mentions she’s sold to some high rollers like Rlck ross n a bunch of other low mil net worth ppl

n im just like… yea, you’re not applying yourself whole-heartedly, Christina.

HahaHAHA.

Cmon man…

#1 Leave Miami.

Lol

#2 Talk to OTHER people, make friends.., reach outwards.

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burnoutblog45 · 2 years

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I’m tired of wanting to make things, having ideas in my head, wanting to execute them and when I pull up a notepad or a bank canvas I don’t even want to touch it. Not only cause I worry it will come out awful but I’ll loose all motivation for my potential idea too and that fucking sucks. It sucks. My mind and heart just want to create so badly and I can’t. I’ve been blocked for years. I have things I want to work on but when I work on them I hate the process. Why do I want to do it then. I want to be an artist and when I try I hate it. I want to create but can’t think or execute what I think. I don’t even want to watch the things I like. I hate seeing something and wanting to make fanart and enjoy it like everyone else but I can’t. Im tired of everyone telling me how great and talented I am because it’s only been my reality for tiny snippets of time and then it’s completely gone. Abilities just gone to shit can’t make anything. My ex always talked about he worked through his problems cause there was no one to help him - I’ve had help and I’ve been alone and I still haven’t gotten anyfucking where. I realized something was fucked about the way I create after college. I had an awesome period where I could basically make whatever the fuck I wanted. Wasn’t perfect but I was willing to try. And it eventually plummeted. And it’s been basically gone since. I’ve tried to reignite it and I’ve been so inspired but I can’t make things on my own. I don’t even want to try my old ways cause I feel like if I do I’m still stuck and going nowhere. I’m 28. Almost 29. I woke up to someone I wanted to stop being friends with saying they didn’t want to be friends anymore. I already felt like a shitty person. I feel like when I look at how I am I’m a villain in other peoples stories. I was gullible and fell for something a previous crush and someone i admired did and felt super shitty about being taken advantage of and how gullible I can be. I don’t have any skills I can apply to help me earn money. People call me brave and I’m more cowardly than I have ever been in my life. Im trying to live by my values and keep fucking them up. Im completely burnt the fuck out, I don’t know how to get help and even when I do get help I don’t even know if that’s going to work or what to do when it does. I don’t even know what I want cause it feels like anything I want and get to the results don’t feel right and aren’t what I expect so why bother wanting things at all. It’s not worth it. My life isn’t going the way I wanted it to and I don’t even want to bother trying to figure it out but I literally cannot handle sitting around being miserable and feeling like well since it’s bad now it’s not going to get better and do nothing because I will fully mentally shut down and go insane.

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isozyme · 4 years

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what is funny about ad Reinhardt and yves Klein? i want to be let in on the joke

so yves klein was a color field painter, also known as those guys who just paint a canvas blue, all blue, all the same color of blue, and sell it for a shitton of money. actually when it came to blue, yves klein was kind of The Guy.

BLUE

but back before all the fame and the blue, he made “yves peintures,” which was a catalog of his monochromes, pictured here:

the joke is that it’s bullshit! it’s just squares of construction paper glued on the page with little titles written below them. even the preface isn’t a preface -- it’s just horizontal lines that he had a buddy of his sign with his name. one time yves klein and his art pals all hyped up a big big gallery show that he was opening. a solo exhibition! very exciting! all the critics and fancy motherfuckers showed up -- three thousand people came. with great drama, they were led into a completely empty gallery. “welcome,” yves klein said. “I call it THE SPECIALIZATION OF SENSIBILITY IN THE RAW MATERIAL STATE INTO STABILIZED PICTORIAL SENSIBILITY, LE VIDE (THE VOID).” he was, in every way, a total fucker who loved bright colors and pranking the art world.

meanwhile, ad reinhardt -- what’s ad reinhardt’s gig?

ad reinhardt’s gig is BLACK

more specifically, black-on-black grids of very slightly varying shades of black, applied in a very matte, powdery way that left the paintings with almost no sheen. it’s a pretty cool effect in person (if vantablack 2.0 had been a thing in the 50s, ad reinhardt would have busted a nut)

unfortunately, the way he did the paint makes the paintings incredibly difficult to maintain. if you touch one, the oils on your hands will immediately stain the painting, and it can’t be cleaned or repaired.

“no prob, bob,” ad reinhardt said to the flustered museum curators and collectors. “if you mess it up i’ll just replace it.”

“but what about our original ad reinhardt!” said the curators and collectors

“yeah i’ll replace it,” ad reinhardt said, “with the same original painting but not fucked up.” this caused some consternation

incidentally, he also made this small comic, which never fails to tickle me:

YOU, SIR, ARE A SPACE TOO!

one of my real favorite artworks in this vein is by robert rauschenberg, and i’m going to include the story of it because it makes me very happy. rauschenberg was an insane post-modernist -- one of his most famous pieces includes a taxidermy goat with paint thrown all over it and a car tire around its neck, that kind of thing -- and i love his piece titled “erased de kooning drawing”

so willem de kooning was the husband of elaine de kooning, who painted sick abstract expressionist portraits and was slamming hot

wow

willem was also an artist, and kind of a big deal in his own right, and friends with rauschenberg

one day rauschenberg calls him up like “hey i have an idea for a collaboration between us two art bastards. i need you to do me a drawing, in pencil”

and willem said “why”

and rauschenberg said “wouldn’t you like to know”

and willem said “why”

and rauschenberg said “because i’m gay, give it”

and willem said “that’s not a reason”

and rauschenberg said “fine, i wanna make a commentary on the value of art even after it’s destroyed and palimpsests and ephemerality and shit i guess, so i need a drawing by a famous dude to erase, and you’re famous”

willem de kooning said “okay” and proceeded to find the wettest, most difficult to erase grease pencil in his studio, which he then used to make several drawings until he came up with one he liked and sent it to rauschenberg

and to his credit, rauschenberg erased that motherfucker. he put in the effort. in a spectacular show of spite countering spite, he very nearly got rid of it all. look at this shit:

if that almost-blank piece of paper isn’t a work of art, i don’t know what is

#modern art: it's all hilarious!#all conversations written here are my own dramatized versions #rauschenberg was absolutely a giant gay though #and i don't like to speculate on the love lives of public figures but #i strongly speculate that he and jasper johns were a THING back in the day #i couldn't find confirmation of this but when i learned about yves peintures #the prof said the paper he used was paint chips from the local paint store #full cheeky fucker style #and don't forget the time yves klein made 11 identical blue canvases #put them in a gallery #gave each one a different price tag #and told everyone to find the one that spoke most to their heart #Anonymous

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djarinsbeskar · 3 years

Text

Foul - Boxer!Din AU

Definition - To break one of boxing’s rules (i.e. hitting an opponent below the navel, ear or while they are down), which can ultimately lead to point deductions if they are repeated.

A/N: The results of my Boxer!AU poll told me that the majority were interested in a jealous/protective boxer so I hope I have delivered! As always, relaxed fit = unedited, no beta. We also have a sneaky introduction to Paz in the Boxer verse which is super exciting! His concept art has been completed by the insanely talented @ronnieiswriting when I said I saw a mix of Jason Momoa and Winston Duke as our heavy. PLEASE heed the warnings in this chapter. There is nothing explicit but the topics hinted at might be triggering.

Word Count: 7k

Rating: 18+ (NO Minors)

Warnings: SMUT! (unprotected sex), blood and violence, toxic masculinity and derogatory speech, hints at discussions of non-con, somewhat possessive behavior, spanking, dom!Din and everything that comes with it.

Main Masterlist | Boxer Materlist

He might as well have been in hell. A colosseum of decaying humanity and dirt floors that erupted in a burst of dust like poisonous ash every time his next opponent fell. The hollow thump of pure muscle meeting the ground of the makeshift ring only drowned by the cheers of spectators. Masked, shadowed—unseen as they dropped hundreds – thousands sometimes – on which gladiator would remain standing in the end.

He felt like a king, a god among men within the confines of his realm of rope and canvas. It was easy to forget—standing under the spotlights that highlighted the sweat and blood and sculpted beauty of primal masculinity that it was a hollow victory any time he fought in the seedy underground rings of Akiva.

Every gladiator was a slave. Even the victor.

Why the fuck did he think it was a good idea to let you come to one of these fights?

“Enough!”

Paz’s unassailable strength banded around Din’s chest, pinning his arms to his side—attempting to contain lightning in a glass jar. Sweat, blood—it all dripped into Din’s eyes as he growled at his opponent, passed out in the middle of the dirt ring—face swollen and puffy from Din’s fists.

Laser focus and animosity spilled from charcoal eyes as he tried to break free of his friends hold with a vicious yank forward of powerful shoulder and an unfaltering purpose. The bastard had it coming. One round a few punches wasn’t enough to slake Din’s anger, the fumes of rage seeping into his skin and clouding his senses until all he could think of was making the asshole on the ground before him pay.

The practiced speed that Din wrapped his hands slowed at the rowdy group on the other side of the room. Dammit, for all the money they brought in, could these cheapskates not provide separate fucking changing rooms so he didn’t have to be subjected to idiots jacking themselves up on testosterone and false hope?

But pissing contests and fragile masculinity weren’t what caught his attention. He could tune that bullshit out like a fine art. What caught Din’s attention was the obvious death wish one of his possible opponents had – if he even managed to get that far up the ranks to Din – when he waved a red flag in front of the boxers’ metaphorical bull.

“See that one in the front row? You know the one I’m talking about.”

Bawdy agreements and asinine gestures raked up Din’s spine, thorny—and prickling nerves of instinct that made him pause the music blaring in his ears. He fucking hated the scum he came across in these fights. Gang members, criminals—the dredges of humanity he sometimes worried he was part of.

“Gonna get her on her knees choking on my cock before the night is out. Sluts like that love titles, champions—why else do they attend? Good excuse to win tonight, eh fellas?”

“Do you wanna completely destroy your career?” Paz yelled over the chortles and raucous cheers for more, for revenge—for everything under the poor fallacy of a sun that strung in dim, bald bulbs along the notoriously infamous Avika fighting ring.

Din thought you would be safe, arrogantly assuming people would avoid even looking at you once they saw who you were with. And you had been—you were safe, but even he couldn’t protect you from the thoughts of others.

The larger man struggled with him, dragging him out of the ring when it was obvious his words were falling on deaf ears. All Din could hear was the little pricks voice in his head from hours before.

Din stood.

Inhaled, exhaled—tried those bullshit breathing exercises that were supposed to focus his mind before a fight. Help to rein in a temper like his from overflowing in devastating tidal waves to destroy all around him. Din didn’t lose his temper often—but when he did, it was lethal.

The breathing exercises didn’t work.

Because the idiot kept talking.

“Did you see the ass on that?”

Leers sounded from his group of friends. Encouraging the vile words that Din always knew came from a man who felt entitled to a woman’s body. He had seen enough of the underbelly of the world to know what that led to time and again. Din might have been shameless in his youth and even until recently when it came to sex, to one night stands, to women—but he fucking respected the girls he fucked or didn’t fuck.

“Traipsing around in a dress like that? She’s looking for the attention,” the asshole defended himself when one of his party voiced an alternative point of view. They were promptly shut down and didn’t speak again.

Din’s blood turned to ice. An image of you running a hand down his arm on your way to your seat when you parted ways for him to get ready, dress sinfully tight but effortlessly classy—a zip front he was dying to pull open with his teeth later that night.

“It’ll look so good with my cock buried in it…”

The ice in his blood turned to fury, white hot and molten as he tied off the tape at his wrists—throwing the roll into the dingy locker he had been given for the evening. The clatter of noise from where it slammed against the metal back was the only warning he was planning on giving them. The lull of conversation was fleeting, his warning going unheeded—when dim-witted morons didn’t read the murder in his gaze.

Looks like they weren’t nearly as intelligent as the pigs he thought them to be.

Grabbing his water bottle and phone, Din stalked towards the chipped door—distracting himself with a text of “don’t go anywhere alone in this place, sweetheart. Ask Paz to go with you” sent to you without a second thought.

The immediate response of “Yes yes I know, for the thousandth time. Don’t worry and focus on yourself” did little to assuage the roar of blood in his ears. There was only one thing he heard over the noise, one thing as his vision became hued in red and fixated on a single target.

“Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her there too—can’t imagine she’s a virgin but her ass will still probably be tighter than her cunt.”

Bald headed and littered in scars and tattoos of a gang known for their viciousness, the other boxer – if he could even be called that – thrust vulgarly into the air, mimicking the hold he would have on the girl. Din’s girl.

The fucker had a death wish.

And Din was only too happy to play the part of the grim reaper.

His friends voice hardly registered over that same ringing in his ears, the roar of protective aggression at the lecherous sneer on the other man’s face who now lay in a heap in the dirt, the filth he spewed about his masseuse, his girl. How beady eyes, cold and villainous dared to drift away from Din before the bell sounded—over his shoulder, to where he knew you were sitting. Knowing your body had been tainted by the gaze of a man who would sooner take what he wanted from you by force than look at you with anything akin to the respect you deserved—it made something snap inside of Din.

And he attacked.

He was lucky he had only been disqualified.

He was damn lucky no one called the cops.

But the perks of underground fighting, was that everyone who attended had something to hide. And no one wanted to be caught in the middle of shady transactions or betting on fighters to beat each other to a pulp. Hell, the savagery Din subjected the other guy to was exactly what half the fuckers who showed up hoped to see.

Din wasn’t just a nameless street fighter though, not anymore. He had something to lose. Any smear on his record for assault and he would be suspended from tournament participation quicker than the asshole’s body dropped after a crushing blow under the jaw by Din’s right uppercut.

Thank fuck Din’s main sponsor was equally as shady. A good man by Din’s logic, but merciless when it came to succeeding. Din being benched was the surest way to make his benefactors patience run out. No, Paz was right—Boba even more so when he clocked Din good in the cheek after Paz wrestled the irate male out of the ring.

“You fucking idiot, bloodlust is an ugly image, boy—”

“I am not a boy—” Din snapped at Boba, teeth bared and bloody from his split lip, neck straining when he spat the words viciously at his long-time coach. He ran his tongue over the metallic tang of blood before spitting it out of his mouth onto the dirt flooring by the chaotic rows of metal seating.

“You almost killed a guy in the ring, you little shit,” Boba snarled with equal venom, matching the anger reflected in Din’s gaze with furious sense Din didn’t want to witness.

“Let me go,” was all Din growled, eyes never leaving his coach’s even when Paz loosened his arms around his chest. Heaving, coal black eyes darkened dangerously and stabbed the former boxer with a dare to try and restrain him again. The other man shook a rope of dreadlock that had come loose from the strip of leather he kept his hair tied in and made to say something when Din interrupted,

“Where is she?”

Paz closed his mouth, heavy brows furrowing over his eyes as recognition dawned in their dark hues,

“Is that what this is about? Dammit, vod—it’s not like she’s your girlfriend, isn’t that what you always say?”

“Don’t fucking try me tonight—” Din snapped aggressively, the threatening hum between the two men charged to dangerous voltage.

“Din?”

Your voice washed over him – aloe on the burns his fury had scorched his skin with – and he was making his way over to you in the next moment, mind battling with instinct as he ignored the calls and curses of his friends.

Mine.

Not yours—

Mine.

He moved with feral grace, parting the sea of people who bleated from the sidelines but cowered in his presence once his attention was facing them and there was no canvas or rope to separate boxer from spectator. They were lucky. He didn’t see them. Would step on them if they were stupid enough to stay in his path. All he could see, was you—watching him with confusion and concern marring those pretty features, absent of fear in the face of an incensed, adrenaline fueled boxer post fight.

He exhaled a growl as he came to stand before you, the sound cavernous and deep in his chest—the hands you had lifted to examine his face intercepted by his own when he grabbed them. His fingers wrapped fully around your wrists, and he was reminded of how fragile you were – even if you worked out whenever you could and had a will of iron that would make you whack him for saying that – and just how easily a man like him, any of the fighters here tonight—could hurt you.

Never.

They wouldn’t dare.

Not with him around.

But how could they know?

How would they know to stay the fuck away from you?

Knuckles stained with dirt and blood; his hand rasped against the softness of your palm as he dragged you in the direction of the unused backstage waiting room fighters had been offered as a changing room. Where this whole fucking thing started.

“Din—Din, what the hell happened up there?”

You jogged behind him to keep up with his pace, long legs taking him farther than your shorter ones could when confined to the heels you had worn for the night out. He stalked through the dimly lit corridors to the flaky, chipped door with a temporary sign on lined paper with “ATHLETES” scrawled along the front of it like some ironic joke.

He almost bent the worn, cheap metal handle in half—nearly pulled it from its socket with how hard he tore the door open and dragged you over the threshold inside.

You whirled on him with a huff, eyes flashing and hands planting on your hips in growing annoyance.

“Din will you just—”

You didn’t get another word out.

His wrapped hands cupped your cheeks between them, his mouth on yours hungrily when he bent over you. Biting, clawing, desperate—the kiss was more a battle of tongue and teeth than anything else. There was nothing soft, nothing slow or affectionate about the way his teeth sank into your bottom lip so hard you gasped. The way the blood seeping from his split lip painted yours in a crimson rouge—smeared and varnishing you in a visceral mark of his claim.

“Mine,” he snarled unknowingly into your mouth, lapping his tongue along the prairies of your tastebuds, plundering the depths of your mouth to brand every inch of you he could reach. Inside and out. His hands had the same idea, forming down over the shape of your curves as he walked you back blindly to the disused vanity pushed against the closest wall. Topped with a row of mirrors undoubtedly used by performers for whatever this place had once been used for, the glass was now aged with discoloration.

It didn’t matter.

He didn’t have eyes for anything but you as he hiked your legs up to perch you on the edge, your fingers curled into the taut muscles at his neck and clawing down over the sweat slick muscles of his pecs—catching on flat nipples that made ripples of pleasure heat his body further. Mad him tangle a hand in your hair, yank your head back harshly and meet your eyes with dark desire before dropping to your neck. His newest target.

“Din…” your irritated, questioning tone had morphed to fervent sighs. His tongue mapped a trail from the corner of your mouth – tasting the tang of his own blood – to the rapid tattoo of your pulse, a delicate sheen of perspiration beginning to shimmer on your flushed skin from the arousal. Another layer of flavor for him to get drunk on.

So fucking hot under his hands.

So beautiful.

So his.

“Mine,” he repeated into the curve of your neck, framed by tremulous stretches of muscle either side that he carved with scrapes of his teeth to leave tracks of slow fading pink grazes before he bit into it. Your legs – already open and inviting him to settle between them – crossed at the ankles around his narrow hips to keep him close. It was fucking intoxicating the way he could make you feel, the desperate need he had for you.

Months of sleeping together, of knowing his body so intimately had given you a rare insight to his emotions whether he knew it or not. And you knew he didn’t need to talk right now, he needed to fuck. To work through whatever had affected him so badly in hard kisses and rough hands on your soft flesh. It didn’t stop your stomach from flipping at his possessive words though, deliriously spoken but whispering the unacknowledged desires you had for him beyond his body.

“Yours,” you admitted before you could stop yourself, your hand cupping under his jaw to lift his mouth back to yours. His raspy moan at your agreement turned positively filthy when you carded short nails through his damp hair. Din was weak to having his hair stroked, his staunch dominance buckling in violent shivers of pleasure when you dragged those skilled fingers down the back of his skull and neck.

Traipsing around in a dress like that…

His eyes flew open, and he broke the kiss—ripped his mouth from yours to press his forehead to yours, eyes searching while his free hand ran indulgently up your torso to the neckline of your dress,

“Never let anyone disrespect you, sweetheart—” he rumbled, his fingers already undoing the zip of the dress, the nude pink material tempting to the eye and celebrating those features you were most proud of—that he found irresistible to know you loved. That someone could make you uncomfortable in those clothes… fucker. He snarled and pressed a long kiss to your mouth, large hands spreading the sides of the dress open wide – no underwear, baby? – and shucked the material down your arms to leave you bare before him.

His appreciation for your body – fucking gorgeous – was only tampered by the frustration he had with himself at the noise of confusion you made at his words. Of course, you hadn’t heard anything that asshole had said thankfully—but fuck, he couldn’t get it out of his head. You read his desperation somehow, and nodded slowly with puzzled eyes, teeth sinking into your swollen bottom lip as you leaned back on your hands.

So trusting…

Fuck.

It made alarm and something akin to fear rise swell uncomfortably in his throat.

He tried again.

“Never let anyone take advantage of you,” he whispered against your mouth in earnest, his hands running up your bare thighs to press his thumbs into the seams of your legs and hips, “tell me—”

His mouth dropped to your collarbone, funneling those feelings into lapping down to your heaving breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth with a groan and befuddling your mind to his request until he nipped the swollen peak – say it, baby – and caused your head to fall back against the mirror,

“Yes—yes,” you moaned, “I won’t—”

He snarled internally, dammit. Hearing you say it didn’t help. He wanted to say how he wouldn’t let anyone disrespect you, how he wouldn’t let anyone ever take advantage of you. But he couldn’t. Had to frame it like advice he would give any woman he knew instead of speaking it like the promise he wanted to make.

Din had been fucking you for the last few months now, exclusively after only a few months—but it never went beyond that. He had no reason, no excuse to be worried over your life or safety or what you did when you weren’t in his bed. He wasn’t expected to be involved in your life the way a friend or family member was. Not the way a boyfriend was.

He didn’t do relationships. Never had. Too much trouble and frankly—he liked his privacy, his space—and liked not being accountable to anyone but himself. The consequences of any shitty decisions he made would fall on him and him alone. If he demanded that of the women he slept with and then insisted on inserting himself into their lives in the next breath, he would be a hypocrite. And Din hated hypocrites.

He couldn’t.

But fuck. He never wanted to hear someone speak that way about you, never wanted them to think they had the slightest chance with a woman like you. His blood boiled at the notion of someone else’s hands on you, his tempered flared when he imagined your pleasure or smiles, or laughter give to someone who didn’t deserve you.

Like he did?

Fuck no, he knew he didn’t.

He never said he wasn’t selfish though, and he coveted you with sinful greed.

“Fuck me, baby—please, please—” you mewled into his neck as your hands that had started all of this with that first massage, fit into the sliver of space between your bodies to stroke along his cock over his shorts impatiently. His head fell back, and his mind blissfully emptied for a moment, grunting your name at the frisson of pleasure before those damned memories resurfaced again.

Look at the ass on that.

That.

Her. You weren’t a thing, a possession. You were—

He snarled. Misplaced anger manifesting in aggressive passion as he grabbed your wrist from where you stroked him to pin behind your back on the vanity.

“Always so eager, aren’t you—” he grinned darkly when you nodded, “turn around.”

The command was delivered low and dangerous, more a rumble of noise—deep echoes of jungle predators crackling like the kindling of threat, inspiring awareness that one wrong move would be fatal. But you never made a wrong move—not for as long as he had known you. Whether it was alleviating a pain deep in his muscles that had bothered him for months or pushing yourself slowing off the vanity to your feet as you were now—you always knew what he needed.

Wisps of hair fell into his eyes as he watched you—the decided turn of your naked body to dace the mirror—eyes never leaving his even as they caught them again in the aged glass. Bending forward, your ass pressed into the front of his shorts, and you rested your elbows on the vanity.

Perfect.

He didn’t realize he had whispered the word as he pressed his mouth between your shoulder blades, tongue trailing down the arch of your spine while his hands kneaded plush cheeks—spreading them and exposing your slick cunt to the cool air. The hitches in your breath, small squirms of your hips for relief—they all fed into his desire for you.

And he desired you. Constantly.

“I’m gonna eat your pussy until you can’t stand, baby—and then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t speak,” he muttered against the shell of your ear, massive bulk bowed over your back and shadowed eyes – the duality of warm walnut and lethal obsidian – bore into yours through the glass.

“I want them all to know who you belong to,” he nipped your ear, flicking his tongue along the cartilage—the black ink on his back catching the light as his muscles rippled with movement, a roll of pleasure from your ass grinding back against him with a whimper of his name, “so don’t be quiet this time, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fluttered open molasses slow from where they had dropped closed at his words,

“What—what hap—” you tried to turn your head, the concern mingled with lust in those gorgeous, honest eyes making warning bells blare painfully – too close – and he silenced you with a kiss. Swallowing the worry that hinted at feelings that surpassed those expected from a fuck buddy, he buried it deep inside himself, in the shadows like a coward. To be locked away where he would remain safe from it.

Your tongue grew sloppy with a moan when he ground his crotch into your ass—dragging the solid thickness of his clothed cock between your soaked folds and up against your tight rear entrance.

Wonder if she’ll let me take her there…

Bastard.

He sucked on your tongue with a groan of your name, hand releasing your cheeks to fan up your ribcage and cup your breasts. You jerked in sensitivity when rough hands pinched sore nipples – he fucking loved how sensitive your tits got just before your period. The cry you released was nothing short of musical, tempting him lower as he kissed down your spine—wrapped hands sanding down over your ribs again when he lapped around the rim of your ass, circling it before he traced lower.

You were dripping.

He dropped to his knees behind you, eyes drunken with an ingrained pride that he was the one in this position, looking at the petals of your swollen pussy glistening with arousal he inspired from just a few kisses and rolls of his hips. He kept his eyes on the steady trickle of wetness from your twitching entrance, his teeth grazing distractedly down the back of your thigh as he did so.

A finger ruddy with flecks of dried blood caught a string of your arousal – don’t waste a drop – and he sucked it between his lips with an approving groan, the noise of your whimpers the perfect accompaniment. Blood and lust. The essence of humanity, that was what he tasted when he sucked his finger clean. It tasted like life. And he wanted more.

A sharp crack echoed through the room when his hand came down hard on one cheek, and again... and again—each strike making that dripping wetness gush until he couldn’t hold back anymore. He buried his face in your cunt, nosing at your entrance and tongue spreading puffy lips apart so he could trace in pitter patter swipes through your folds—greedily gathering anything he could get on his tongue before swallowing. Dehydrated on the sands of depravity and sordid company—your cunt was an oasis of relief where he eagerly drank his fill.

You tried to move, your hips slamming up against the edge of the vanity – that’ll bruise – and you keened with a shuddering cry when his mouth simply followed your attempt to escape the onslaught of pleasure that was too much too soon.

“Fuck—fuckfuckfuck—” you gasped, dropping a hand back to tangle in his hair, dragging him closer despite your protests. Mm, he loved when you got like this—overstimulated from the first touch. No matter how much you whined, no matter how many times he wiped tears that smudged your makeup when he unraveled orgasm after orgasm from the knots inside you—he knew you loved the intensity as much as he did.

He spanked you again – take it – your cheeks red and beautiful when he spread them side for him to spit directly onto your quivering cunt. His saliva dribbled and mixed with your juices to gather over your clit, his mouth forming over the little bud enthusiastically, urged by your slow ruts back against his face to streak his face with your essence.

“More—” you whimpered.

“Greedy—” he growled back.

The sound of your breathless laugh meshed delightfully with the swallow of a moan – guttural and primal – and made his cock twitch in his shorts. His hips snapped up uselessly from where he was kneeling—finding no purchase or warm embrace to bury itself in as his tongue took that pleasure for itself.

It licked and curled with practiced, seemingly illogical strokes along your clit and up to your entrance—sloppily kissing it before his tongue dove into your tight depths, thumb working in quick circles over your clit. He knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

Your first orgasm was sudden—strong and surprising. He hadn’t even fucking fingered you and you were already spasming around nothing. Your muscles tensed as you went on your toes to lean even further on the vanity, trying to escape his tongue that worked you through each wave—drowning you in the pleasure he knew only he could give you. You were his. His his his his h—

You sobbed his name, a raw answer to his internal mantra his mind struggled against and failed to overcome.

Din wanted you.

He wanted your body, your mind, your time—he wanted what Paz had.

Fuck.

The way the older man mooned and gazed with shameless adoration for the little baker he had fallen for in so short a time. Hell, Din teased him over it constantly. And maybe he didn’t want that—but he wanted something. Din wanted something with you. Wanted you to visit him in the gym and stop him mid set just to kiss him and tell him that you would wait for him to finish so you could go home together. He wanted to buy you flowers without having to think of a fucking excuse like last time to distance himself from the sentimentality. He wanted to open his front door and feel our presence as more than just a visitor. That a toothbrush and the stray pieces of clothing you forgot at his place would turn to shoes at the door and your taste in décor mixing with his.

Din wanted you.

But he had no idea how to do anything but fuck you. He didn’t know how to date or be romantic. Was clueless to things like companionship—to the softer emotions he knew you craved. That all people craved. Din had no idea how to do any of it.

You lay with your cheek on the wooden surface of the vanity, eyes half-closed and spacey as you watched him lift his head from your pussy, face shiny from your release and when he licked over his lips, still hungry for more—you mewled.

“Don’t tap out on me yet, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, a whimper and almost childish refusal while your cheek remained plastered to the vanity, all strength having left your body and an adorable pout trying to lie and tell him you couldn’t take any more.

“Mm, yes you can—” he answered you, dragging his mouth back up your slit and along your tight ass where he lapped at the rim again. Later. It took time for him to stretch you to take his size—it was better left for when he had you in his apartment and could take his time.

His hand followed his mouths direction as it continued up to meet your mouth—smirking against your lips at the whimpers you made from the slaps he gave your pussy—the obscene, wet sound filling the area with each slap slap slap until his hand was damn near slipping every time he struck your cunt from how wet it was.

A bang on the door—a harsh slap to your pussy so you would moan just right for him, and he growled out a threatening “occupied” to whoever was outside. You were too high strung to even notice.

“No one else can have you,” he rasped darkly into your temple, his free hand tangling in the strands to pull your head back against his shoulder—the position no doubt edging on uncomfortable with the way your spine and neck were arched back—moUlded into his hard frame. Your eyes fell to half mast even as your lips parted—still smeared with specks of blood you hadn’t yet licked or chewed off—and he bit your jaw in warning.

“No one else—” you parroted, your hot breath fanning over his cheek even as you rocked back against him, a steel confidence entering your fucked out gaze—mercurial in the swirling heat, “just like no one else can have you.”

The boldness of your words, the conviction spoken in that voice of wooden flutes and bubbling creeks made his blood light with fire—yes. As much as he anted you, he yearned for you to crave him in return.

“No one else,” he repeated your words back to you, rutting his hips against you when his cock pulsed with a negligent ache that demanded to be addressed. He kept one hand in your hair when he pushed his shorts down enough to free his leaking cock, the turgid length swollen and angry as he rubbed the tip between your lips.

Maybe he would buy you flowers tomorrow, after all.

Din gave you no time to prepare yourself – that’s my girl – sliding inside you with one brutal thrust that had you pushed up against the mirror and his cock engulfed in fiery bliss. He felt the heat run up his spine, a volcanic metamorphism into marble as his muscles froze in an immediate pause to stop himself from spilling inside you after one damn thrust.

You weren’t doing much better—one hand clawing for purchase on the mirror and the other digging your nails into his hip as you panted his name, an incoherent string of curses and praise as your sensitive walls convulsed around him. The position had him pressed right against that one spot he cock curved up against that could make you see stars and your care for being caught dissipate in cries of ecstasy.

“Baby—fuck please, so—too deep—” you whimpered in inane babbles, tightening in residual spasms from your orgasm and the sudden intrusion of his cock, still a stretch after all these months. Too deep… he snorted, rolling his hips hard to try shove himself deeper still. He could never get deep enough, always wanting more—always seeking to conquer the untouched lands of your body.

“Mm, want me to stop?” he teased, dragging his hips back with a smirk at your immediate rejection of no no no fuck—please, no—hand pathetically trying to drag him closer to you by the hip. Lovely little thing… thinking you were strong enough.

“That’s better…” he purred, relief washing over him when he pulled out—the walls of your cunt stretching around him, refusing his exit, and trying to keep him nestled inside you. The pace he chose was brutal. He fucked you like he fought tonight. Violently, mercilessly—and deaf to the calls to relent. But where he wanted his opponent to suffer, he wanted to devastate you with pleasure, enrapture you with ecstasy and leave you moaning his name where others would curse it.

Wet cock slapping as he pounded into you in short, frantic ruts – need you baby… fuck I need you – there was no time for you to catch a full breath before he was knocking it out of you again. His fingers had to tighten in your hair to keep you up – your body trembling under his as he sank his teeth into the taut muscle at your neck and his cock sank into your welcome body – exposed and waiting for him to litter in his signature.

He would never get enough of the way his marks looked on your skin—the way you decorated him in yours. You were powerless to do much else than accept them right now – likely getting him back later – boneless and weak under the attack of his mouth and the dominance of his body.

He would make sure everyone in this fucking shithole of a place knew who you were with. They would have to be blind not to notice the blotches of poppy bruises snaking down your neck with the elusion to more hidden from unworthy eyes. The smudge of your mascara as tears pearled like crystals in the corner of your eyes when you glanced at him in strung out bliss.

“M-more—” you begged, dropping one of your hands between your legs to rub at your clit—fingers splitting around the girth of his cock as he fucked you to feel the thick length disappear into you over and over, the soaked mess amassed from your frantic desire for each other trickling down your thighs.

“Yeah?” he grinned, breathless and sweating for much more pleasing reasons than he had been in the ring, a languid kiss to your neck as he hiked one of your knees up onto the vanity—spreading you wider for him to sink deeper.

You spasmed, your head falling back against his shoulder with a cry.

“Yes—there, there baby, fuck you feel so good…” you rambled, fingers working feverishly over your clit in wet strokes, grazing his balls every time they slapped against your skin and making him muffle his moan in your neck.

Rolling a nipple between his fingers, his large—bloodied hand completely swallowed your breast, squeezing it and tickling sounds that belonged to him from you and into his mouth when you kissed him. One last kiss before you collapsed back onto the vanity, and he stood to his full height so he could ruin you with his cock.

His name was the only thing you remembered as he split you open with full, hard thrusts—the entire length of his cock stretching your tight walls around it and playing along raw nerves already on the brink of another orgasm.

“Gonna cum, sweetheart—” he strained, desperate for release as he watched himself fuck you in the mirror—him behind your smaller body, squirming under the pleasure while his muscles bunched and relaxed with each snap of his hips—the veins in his forearms prominent and tendons taut as he poured all that training and dedication and determination into you, into pleasing you.

“Inside—inside, Din fuck, please—”

His mind emptied. Nothing else mattered about tonight—not the fight, not the disqualification, not the rage. Your eyes—cloudy with lust and achingly trusting as you looked back at him were all he could think about. Nodding without even realizing, the thought of filling you running in his mind on a loop.

“Fuck—!”

He wanted you to cum before him, he always did—but he was so high strung, so tense that he couldn’t stop himself, burying himself to the hilt with several punched out moans—exhaled rapture with every pump of his seed against your waiting womb. Your eyes rolled closed at the amount, bloating you with his release and as he came, you worked your clit frantically—chasing that addictive edge you gladly hurled yourself over at just the thought of him coming inside you.

Din dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a gasp, your spasming walls too much on his sensitive length but he had to stay inside—the contractions of pleasure, the gush of your release might push his out. He couldn’t have that. So, he gritted his teeth, mumbled husky praise – good girl, that’s it—just like that, soak me – to work you through your orgasm and pressed open mouth kisses to sweaty skin, the salt tickling his tongue as he caught his breath.

His mouth worked over the sweep of your shoulder, up your neck to your jaw when your orgasm subsided, purring your name and nonsensical strings of words he had no idea made sense or not. He finally eased his softening cock out of you slowly when you shifted your hips—testing your strength and finding it lacking when you realized both he and the vanity were what kept your legs up.

“Feel… feel better?”

“Mhm…” he confirmed noncommittally, nuzzling the marks beginning to bloom and darken like a forbidden garden only he was allowed indulge in the scent of. One of his hands ran absently down the back of your thigh, feeling for his release—pleased to feel nothing but your sticky arousal, his own still nestled inside your sore cunt.

“Want one of those crepes you’re always raving about from that twenty-four hour place?” he purred, helping you stand—going so far as to pull the straps of your dress back up so that zipping the metal teeth would be easier. Your eyes brightened despite the lazy, satiated fatigue hiding in their orbs.

“Gino’s?”

“Mm,” he nodded, looking down from his greater height and lips quirking in an annoying desire to smile when one – bright as daylight – broke out on yours.

You nodded quickly, looping your arms around his neck to drag him down to your mouth, kissing him good and proper while his hands fell under the still open sides of your dress to settle on bare hips,

“Are you ever going to tell me what set you off tonight?” you mumbled against his lips cautiously, the ghost of a smile from the promise of dessert still lingering but a hesitant worry entering your gaze, unsure if his mood would sour again.

It didn’t.

He nudged his nose along yours, aquiline curve slotting along yours as he hummed in thought, thumbs rubbing lazily into your hips,

“Maybe later,” he settled on and captured your lips again.

You left the changing room together, his gym bag slung over one shoulder and his free arm wrapped around your shoulder—nose never leaving your temple or nuzzling into your hair with blatant affection as you blushed at how obvious it was to anyone who saw you what you had been doing.

You had both tried to tidy yourselves—cleaning the corners of your makeup and trying to flatten your mused hair was about all you could do. Din didn’t even attempt to cover the freshly fucked look of messy hair and heavy eyes as he pulled an unzipped Mythosaur Gym hoodie on over his muscle shirt.

A group were passing in the corridor as you asked him something—his former opponent with one eye swollen shut from the bruises forming around his eye, jaw, and cheeks. Din answered you easily, an automatic response to whatever you were asking as his eyes met his opponents, cold fury and arrogant pride flashing in their depths.

You remained none the wiser as you passed the group, Din’s body protectively placed between you and them. He probably should have told you; he knew you wouldn’t be swayed by it—comfortable in your body as you were, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He could protect you from slander and toxicity at the very least—and he planned to. Even if he had to do so in the shadows for now.

For himself, the swelling and bruising on the idiots’ face weren’t the only thing he had to satisfy himself with. He was the one whose cum was still buried inside you, clinging to your thighs and keeping you slick and wet for him to add more to later when he got you back to his place. And as you glanced up at him with a disarming smile after he dropped his hoodie over your shoulders without a thought once you both were outside in the crisp air of the early morning darkness—he secretly hoped that he would be the only one to have that privilege from then on.

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scuttling · 3 years

Text

Happy Accidents

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 6,300 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Art, Neighbor Hotch, Shy and Oblivious Hotch, Flirting, It's soo sappy I'm sorry, Oral sex, Unprotected sex Summary: Aaron's new neighbor is out of his league for so many reasons: she's young, beautiful, artistic, unique, free-spirited, the kind of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. It's no wonder he ends up falling in love with her. *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! Against all of his better judgement, Aaron is kind of creeping on his new next door neighbor.

He is absolutely the type of man, any other time, to approach a woman he’s interested in and introduce himself, look for a way to connect, some common ground, but this is no ordinary woman.

She is out of his league in so many ways: young, beautiful, unique, free-spirited, the type of person who turns heads when she walks down the street. There’s not a chance in hell she would look twice at an old, stuffy, monotone suit with a seven year old son and perpetual bags under his eyes. That’s not him feeling bad about himself, it’s just the way the world works.

The first time he saw her, she was getting on the elevator while he was getting off of it, and they’d bumped into each other; she was wearing a short, flowy dress, and she’d smiled at him, apologized, eyes sparkling, smelling like she’d spent all day in the sunshine. It was the only time since Haley he’d ever entertained the idea of love at first sight.

She keeps to herself most of the time, gives off the air of being really cool and mysterious; their paths have crossed a few times since then—at the bank of mailboxes downstairs, in the hallway they share, once during a false alarm fire alarm—but he enjoys watching her paint more than anything.

They have balconies next to each other, and one night when he was tending to his herb garden—Jack enjoys watching the plants grow, and picking the herbs, Aaron likes to eat them—he spotted her standing on hers, facing away from him, in cut off jean shorts and a baggy t-shirt, barefoot. She’d been painting the city, the sky, with the sunset glowing behind her like she was the work of art, and he actually felt an ache in his chest, the feeling of missing someone he’s never really met.

Since that night, he’s started taking his work outside in the evenings after Jack goes to bed, and sitting in near silence while she paints, hums—sometimes songs he knows, sometimes songs he doesn’t. The first time he goes out before she does, she says hello when she drags her easel out, so he starts to say hello to her when she beats him there, too, but that’s pretty much the extent of their interaction. One evening when Aaron and Jack are getting home from dinner, she is lugging a canvas bigger than she is through the hallway and Jack almost runs headfirst into it; when he looks up, he exclaims about how big it is, and pretty—it’s covered with colors, something abstract and cheerful, and even if he’d seen it on the side of the road, he would have just known that she painted it. (That may be a good indicator that he’s getting in a little too deep.)

“Wow, that’s the biggest painting I’ve ever seen! And so many colors,” Jack says, awed. Aaron puts his hands on his shoulders to keep him out of her way; they’re already bothering her enough, when she’s clearly trying to get that giant thing home.

“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it? I carry bigger pieces around at my studio, believe it or not,” she says to him, poking her head around the side to look at him.

“You have a studio?” His eyes are wide with interest; his favorite subject has always been art, as evidenced by their refrigerator, which is covered in drawings. She offers him an even brighter smile.

“I do! It’s not far from here; it’s called Live in Color. There’s a big rainbow painted on the side.”

“That’s so cool; it must be awesome to have your own studio.” Aaron loves that Jack seems to be so passionate about this, but the way they are obviously holding her up has him feeling awkward; he tugs gently on Jack’s backpack.

“That is really cool, bud, but we should let her go. I’m sure that’s heavy.” She smiles, shrugs.

“It’s no trouble. Hey, actually, we have some children’s art classes at the studio, and you look like you’d fit right in with the Green group—ages 7-9?” She looks up at Aaron, who nods. “Maybe we can talk dad into bringing you down sometime. We do painting, drawing, and crafts, it’s really fun.” She’s still looking right at Aaron, gives him a little wink, and he swears to god he gets butterflies in his stomach.

He’s a grown man. A federal agent. With butterflies. It’s insane.

“Oh man, dad, please? Can I take classes at her studio pleeease?” Jack tugs on the sleeve of his suit, and he nods, smiles down at him.

“Yeah, absolutely, Jack. We’ll go down and get more information tomorrow?” he offers, to both placate him and finally free the poor girl from the conversation; he nods excitedly, and she smiles, looks sweet, genuinely happy Jack is so excited to take the class.

“Cool, I look forward to seeing you guys there. Actually, if you give me one sec, I can grab my card for you.” She passes them, carrying the canvas and looking effortless while she does it; she props it up against the wall to get her keys out, unlocks her door and heads in, pops back out with a business card in a vivid watercolor yellow. “It has the address and phone number for the studio on the front, and I put my cell on the back; I figured it couldn’t hurt, considering we live next door to each other. Now you know who to call if you ever have an art emergency.”

He takes the card from her fingers, flips it over just to see the handwritten name and number; he knew her script would be lovely, and it is, easy and flowing and natural. It suits her. He tries not to grin, or flush, or otherwise be awkward about the fact that she just gave him her phone number, however innocently.

“Thank you. We’ll see you tomorrow.” They turn to head for their apartment, and she clears her throat; he smiles a little, turns back, and she’s leaning casually up against the canvas with her arms crossed.

“You know my name now. What’s yours?” She’s just being polite, but he gets the goddamn butterflies again.

“Aaron.” She smiles, something beautiful and a little wild.

“Okay, Aaron. See you outside.” From then on, most of their free time, be it evenings or weekends, is spent at the studio. Aaron isn’t the only parent who sticks around—it’s an art class, not a daycare, he doesn’t feel right just dropping Jack off and leaving him there—and he’s also not the only parent, it seems, who is aware of his beautiful young neighbor.

“She’s incredible, right?” another dad says to him one evening, over by the coffee. Aaron looks him over briefly—it’s a job hazard, he sizes up everyone, but he already has a weird feeling about this guy. “I’ve been bringing my kid here for a month just to look at that little ass running around. My wife just thinks our daughter is just really into art.” He says it with a laugh, like that’s a ridiculous concept. Aaron feels himself start to boil.

“You shouldn’t be disrespectful. She’s doing a great thing here, for the children; she’s not doing it for you to ogle her.” He feels a little hypocritical, because he is also looking, but not like this guy. He knows guys like this. He puts away guys like this.

He glances over at Aaron, looking a little taken aback that someone actually commented on his behavior, then rolls his eyes.

“She doesn’t need you to defend her honor, buddy. She wouldn’t run around here in those overalls if she didn’t want us looking. It’s job security.” She’s wearing the overalls tonight, denim shorts with one of the straps unhooked, a t-shirt underneath, but it’s not as if she’s performing a striptease. She just looks like an artist, covered in drips of paint, smiling as she looks at the kids’ pictures over their shoulders. Aaron really, really hates this guy.

“In my experience, women usually dress for themselves; they probably have pockets, easier to keep things at hand that she may need, and it’s warm in here, so she’s likely dressing for comfort. She’s certainly not dressing for you.”

As if she can sense the tension, she looks over at them, flicks her eyes over Aaron, then the other guy, and walks over with a soft smile on her face.

“Hey, Aaron, Jack really wanted you to see what he’s working on.” She reaches out a hand, wraps it around his wrist and guides him over to Jack’s table. “I figured I’d save you,” she says when they’re out of earshot. “That guy sucks. He’s always saying creepy things to me and Alaina.”

“You should ask him to leave if he makes you uncomfortable,” he says, looking down at her with worry. “I can do it.” She shrugs.

“I would, but his daughter really does enjoy the class, and it’s not fair to her that her dad’s disgusting. It’s nothing we can’t handle.” She squeezes his wrist lightly. “Thanks, though. Hey Jack, show dad your project.” He peers over his shoulder, and it’s a pink and orange skyline, much like the one he saw her painting that first time on the balcony. “I asked the kids to paint my favorite thing today, and that’s sunset.”

“I saw you painting this one night,” he says, and then he feels abruptly like an idiot. She just smiles at him though, nods.

“Yeah, I’m a sucker for a beautiful sunset. It makes you feel like, just because the day ends, it doesn’t have to mean things are over; it’s just one of life’s beautiful natural transitions. And the colors are to die for: peach, coral, jasmine, rose, tiger’s eye.” He finds himself unexpectedly touched by her description, smiles softly to shake himself of the emotions.

“The way you see the world is extraordinary. To me it’s just kind of… orange.” She returns his expression, but softer, and squeezes his wrist again; he didn’t even realize she was still holding it.

“Sounds like you need some art in your heart. I give lessons for adults, too; you could even come over and paint with me on my balcony, some time. Special neighbor privileges.”

The thought of being with her on her balcony while she paints is almost overwhelming, which he finds funny, considering he currently sits no more than twenty feet away. There is an intimacy about it, while they both do their work in the cool, quiet breeze, but standing like this, close enough to touch, with the late day sun on her face while she talks about colors… he’s not sure he could handle it without falling in love.

She pats him on the back, moves on to another child, and he tells Jack what a great job he’s doing; his face is lit up, so happy, and regardless of the neighbor, he’s glad they stumbled upon this hobby.

When they pack up to leave, the jerk from earlier comes up to him, leans in to speak in a hushed voice. “You should have just told me you were fucking her. I would have backed off.” He blinks, but the guy and his daughter are walking out the door before he finds himself able to do more than that. About a week later, he goes over for that lesson almost by accident. Jack is at Jessica’s for the night at his request, and Aaron was planning to order takeout and have a paperwork cramming session, but when goes out onto the balcony, phone in hand to place an order, his neighbor is standing on hers like she’s waiting for him.

“Hey. I saw you don’t have Jack; I made some pasta with vodka sauce, if you’re hungry. I always prepare too much.” He sets his phone on the table, walks over to the railing to get a little closer.

“Uh. Sure. I have fresh basil growing here; trade?” She smiles, nods.

“Yeah, sounds delicious. I’ll be right back.” She ducks inside, returns a few moments later with two dishes of steaming, saucy pasta, sets one down on her table and gets right up against her railing, hands the other over to him across his. “That one’s for you,” she says, handing him an orange plate, and he sets it down, picks a few good looking leaves from his basil plant and tears them up, drops them on top. “And this one’s for me.” She reaches, holds a green plate over the gap between their porches, and he adds some basil to it before she pulls it back, takes a deep sniff. “God, it smells so good and fresh. Thank you, Aaron.”

“Thank you, it looks great.” He goes to sit at his table with it, but she scoots her chair closer to the railing, closer to his balcony, so he does the same. They make easy small talk while they eat, mostly about Jack, a little about her studio and his work.

“FBI, huh? I can definitely see that, with your suits, and your… neutrals.” She cringes when she says it, and it makes him laugh.

“I’m sorry I can’t wear paint covered overalls to the office,” he teases, and she shoots him a playfully affronted look, grins.

“You love my paint covered overalls—and for the record, you’d look great in them. You should find a pair. Preferably not black.” He flushes a little at that, but she doesn’t notice, just finishes up her pasta with a sigh of contentment. “That was so good, thanks again for the basil.”

“You’re welcome; thanks for feeding me something other than the takeout I planned to have.” He stands up, gestures to his apartment. “I’ll wash the plate and then hand it back over.”

“Why don’t you just bring it over and come paint with me for a little while? If you want,” she tacks on, and for the first time she seems a little nervous. “I’m not trying to be pushy, I just think it would be fun.”

It’s not that he doesn’t want to; it would be amazing to watch her paint up close and personal. He’s just also afraid he’ll pass the point of no return if he does it, and he can’t handle any more heartache. He only very recently got to a place where just waking up in the morning no longer causes him agony.

It’s the look on her face, though, soft and sweet and open, that makes his decision for him.

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.” She grins.

“I’ll unlock the door.”

She’s dragging out her easel when he walks through the door; her apartment is stark white walls with vibrant furniture, artwork, canvases propped up against every bare spot along the wall, paints and brushes and charcoal and pencils on every surface. It’s exactly what he would have expected, warm and lived-in and comforting, very unlike the mostly black and gray interior of his own apartment. She smiles when she sees him.

“Hey! Can you grab that tray of paint on your way out?” she asks, and he picks up what looks kind of like an ice cube tray filled with many different colors, carries it out to the balcony with him. She has a canvas propped up, a little larger than a computer monitor, and she’s gotten started, but he can’t tell what it’s going to be just yet. When he hands her the paint she looks down at it, peers around the edge of the canvas like she’s comparing something. He’s so intrigued, curious about the way her mind works, what she’s thinking.

“What are you painting?” he asks when she picks up a brush, sets it down, picks up another. She smiles at him.

“Well, we’re painting that.” She points to the street, where there’s a rusty, pale blue antique car parked—he says that loosely, because it looks broken down—in the alley. Aaron chuckles softly.

“We’re going to paint that? It’s a little… grim.”

“Yes. It’s part of a series I just decided to create: ‘Beauty in the Ordinary.’” She sighs, and he’s surprised to see that her eyes are a little wet. She wipes the back of her hand over her eyes. “You know Bob Ross, right? Everyone knows Bob Ross.” He nods.

“Yes; the guy who paints the happy trees on PBS.”

“Right. I used to watch him growing up, and I vividly remember something he said once, about needing both darkness and light in life and in painting. ‘You have to have a little sadness once in a while to know when the good times come. I’m waiting on the good times now.’” She sniffles, exhales softly. “I’m waiting on the good times too. Sometimes looking at things like this car, and forcing myself to find something beautiful in it, is the easiest way to get through the day. Does that make sense?” He swallows hard when she looks up at him, because aside from Jack, she has been the lightest part of his life since the first time they passed each other on the elevator.

“Yeah, it really does.” She shoots him a soft, slightly sadder smile, and then explains about the paints a little, shows him the difference in the brushes, lets him feel the weight of them, the textures of the bristles.

She starts painting the car—the background is mostly finished—and he’s more than happy to watch, to hear her talk about her process. She asks if she can use his forearm to mix paints, and he turns it over, wrist up, tries not to smile too hard when she puts some dark blue on him, then white, mixing them and then comparing them to the car on the street. He looks down at her, the concentration on her face, the softness in her eyes, and is met with the sudden desire to brush a line of paint over her nose and make her laugh and kiss her breathless.

“Okay, your turn,” she says when she’s about halfway done with the car. She puts her hands on the backs of his arms, pulls him in front of the canvas so she’s between him and the railing. “You’ve been watching me, so you know what to do.” He has been watching her, but not necessarily for her technique, so he’s a little nervous; he dips the brush in the blue paint but hesitates to make a stroke. “I have faith in you, Aaron. Here.”

She wraps her fingers around his hand, guides him toward the canvas, and together they make a wide, curved line, rounding out the bumper. It doesn’t look half bad.

“It gets easier once you understand the relationship between specific paint, specific brushes, and your hands,” she says softly, and she helps him paint another line. “Are you having fun? You look stressed,” she teases, and he makes it a point to relax his face.

“I’m having a lot of fun,” he says, looking down at her; they make eye contact for a long moment, and she leans a little closer, and he leans a little closer, and then he accidentally dabs a blob of blue onto the canvas. He pulls back, grimaces, deflates. “I made a mistake. You can’t erase paint, right?” She laughs softly, takes the brush from his hand.

“No, you can’t erase paint, but as Mr. Ross would say, ‘There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.’” She gets her fingers close to the tip of the brush, makes a few quick movements, then grabs another brush, dips it in green. When she pulls back, there is a little blue flower growing out of a patch of grass where his blob used to be. He exhales, a little amazed.

“If only the mistakes we make in life were that easy to fix,” he says, and she nods.

“Yeah, that would be nice, but a lot of the time we find a way to turn them into beautiful things eventually. Are you willing to give it another shot?” He says yes, and she guides his hand for a while, then just hovers near it, then just instructs him on what to do. It’s dark before their painting is finished, and she carries it inside to dry, then takes him to the kitchen sink to scrub the paint off of his arm.

“Thanks for having me over; I had a really good time,” he murmurs as she dries his clean skin. She looks up, smiles softly, nods her head.

“I had a really good time too. I’m glad you came over; you’re welcome to join me any time.”

He says goodbye, heads home, looks at his stack of work with a groan, and brews a pot of coffee. He’s in for a long night, but he wouldn’t change his evening for anything. Life is much the same for the next few weeks: school and work, Jack’s art class at the studio a couple times a week, painting on the balcony on the weekend, with and without Jack. When Jack joins them for the first time, she pulls out a big box of markers and thick sheets of paper and he draws elaborate scenes while they talk and paint together. When Aaron makes mistakes, she’s never upset, just turns them into perfect little details that end up being his favorite parts of the paintings.

“What ever happened with your ‘Beauty in the Ordinary’ series?” he asks one evening while they’re painting some ocean waves. “Did I cause you enough trouble with the car to give up?” She looks down at the ground, looks a little shy, then shakes her head and smiles.

“No, you didn’t make me want to give up. I’ve been working on it at the studio. You’ll see it when it’s all done, I plan to hang them there.”

“Looking forward to it,” he tells her, and then Jack tugs on her shorts, shows them the picture he drew of the ocean, too.

Later that week, the team takes a case, and on the day he’s set to come home, Jessica drops Jack off at the studio with the plan that Aaron will pick him up when his flight lands. Due to some weather between where the team is and home, they get a little delayed; he doesn’t want to make Jessica head back out that way almost immediately after dropping him off, but he’s not sure who else he could ask to pick Jack up. It’s almost a stupid length of time before it dawns on him to call the studio.

“Life in Color, this is Alaina.”

“Alaina, hi, this is Jack’s dad—” He has his whole spiel prepared, but she cuts him off.

“Oh, sure, hang on a sec, she’s right here. It’s Jack’s dad,” she says, but it sounds further away, like she’s trying to cover the receiver. After a moment, his neighbor picks up.

“Aaron, hi. Jack said you were working.”

“Yeah, I was, and I’m supposed to pick him up after class, but our flight was delayed.” He doesn’t know how to ask for help with Jack; even with all the time they’ve been spending together, she still makes him a little nervous. Luckily, he doesn’t have to figure that part out on his own.

“Hey, that’s no problem. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just take him home with me. I’ll order pizza, we’ll draw, and you can just stop by when you’re home and pick him up.” He breathes a sigh of relief, runs a hand over the back of his head.

“That would be perfect. Thank you—I’ll owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything. Hanging out with your mini me is reward enough; he’s painting something special for you today, won’t let me see it.” That makes him smile, and he feels so warm at the prospect of picking him up from her bright apartment, seeing his artwork, her smile. After a long, draining day like this one, it’s exactly what he needs.

“I’ll have to remain in suspense until tonight, I guess. Can you let him know I said hi? And thank you, I’ll see you later tonight.”

“Of course. We’ll see you then.”

It’s late, after nine, by the time he makes it home. He doesn’t even take his bags inside, just drops them outside his door and knocks softly on hers. She answers with a smile, ushers him in, asks him if he’d like a drink and gets them each a beer.

Jack is in her room, asleep, so they have a little time to chat; she asks about his flight, his case, and he asks about the studio, and she gets a little shy when it comes to that topic, clears her throat.

“Um. I have Jack’s secret project, if you want to see it. He said I could show you.” He’s not sure why that would make her nervous—at least, until he sees it.

The background is all watercolors, a gradient of rainbow colors starting with pink at the top and ending with a soft purple at the bottom. Over that, in black marker, he’s drawn the three of them, with a big heart around them.

“Tonight’s theme was the thing that makes you the happiest, and he said he’s the happiest when the three of us are on the balcony together. It was… really, really sweet.” She looks up at him, brushes a hand over the crown of her head. “If I’m being honest, that’s when I’m the happiest, too.” He takes the picture from her hands, runs his fingers over it, and smiles, feeling a warm ache in his chest—not like before, not like losing someone he’s never really met, but like finding something he never really planned on.

“That’s when I’m the happiest, too,” he agrees, and when he looks up, she looks determined, like she does when trying to find just the right shade of paint. She takes Jack’s picture out of his hand, sets it on the counter, and then pulls him down by the lapels of his suit, kisses him long and slow. His hands move to her waist, keeping her close, and eventually she pauses for breath, looks at him again, and then wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him some more.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since the first time I saw you—tall and dark and serious, striding out of the elevator. So intriguing, mysterious,” she breathes when they separate again. “I wanted to know everything about you.”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, huffing a laugh. “I’m boring, but you are so vibrant, so full of life; I felt like you were everything I wasn’t, and I wanted to know you so badly.”

“You know me now; would you like to keep getting to know me?” It’s one of the easiest questions he’s ever been asked; he nods, and she beams, and he lifts her into his arms and carries her to the couch, drapes himself over her while she leans back against the cushions, pulling him closer.

They make out like neither of them have a care in the world—god, how long has it been since he’s made out with someone?—her fingers scraping through his hair, his hands on her bare waist when her shirt rides up, and she’s in the process of pushing his jacket off his shoulders when they hear a sound from the other room that startles them apart. Jack.

“I’ll go check on him,” Aaron says, and when he goes into her room Jack is still snuggled up on her bed sound asleep. It looks like some canvases fell over, though, and he stoops to pick them up, then spots the car they painted together. He turns and she’s right behind him, skids to a stop. “I thought you said these were at the studio?”

“They were,” she says, and she looks nervous again. “But I changed my mind about hanging them there. They felt too personal.” He runs his hand over the car and sees where she’s coming from; this one feels personal to him, too.

“Can I see the rest?” he asks. “Only if you want to show me them.”

“You’re the only one I want to show them to,” she says with a soft smile, and she grabs a few more canvases, carries them into the light of the living room. “Beauty in the ordinary, remember.” He remembers, could never forget.

She turns one over, and it’s a kitchen sink, and in the kitchen sink is an orange plate with a fork resting on it—like the plate she’d given him with the pasta on it. She turns one over and it’s a man’s hand, holding a paintbrush, with pale blue paint on his forearm. The next one is a little herb garden on a balcony; the next one is a view from above, of a sandy haired boy with markers all around him. The last one is an open elevator—ripe with possibilities.

When he looks up at her, she’s got tears in her eyes, and one slips down her cheek.

“So, I think I’ve found my good times.” She smiles through her tears, and he takes her face in his hands and kisses the salt from her lips. “I love you,” she says when he pulls back to wipe her face with his sleeve, and he kisses her softly, again and again, and tells her he loves her, too. The next weekend, Jack is at Jessica’s for a sleepover, and Aaron has been enlisted to help with an art project. He walks next door, knocks lightly, and enters the living room; he is met with a very deep, passionate kiss and a smile, and instructions to help move the furniture out of the way.

“I’m really curious what kind of art requires this much floor space,” he says, shoving her couch back against the wall, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip, a move he has been unable to resist since she did it the first time they had sex. She knows it’s a weakness, exploits it, and he loves every minute of it.

“You’ll see, but I promise you’re going to like it.” When they clear the floor, she grabs a large, rolled-up fabric canvas and lays it out in the middle of the room, then drops three bottles of paint—one is yellow (jasmine), one is orange (peach), and one is kind of pink (coral? He’s still not sure.)—onto it. “You can obviously say no if you want, but I wanted something over my bed with the sunset colors, and I found this…” She steps closer to him, runs her hands down his chest, guides him down for a kiss so delicious he loses his train of thought. “It’s sex art; we put the paint on the canvas, and on ourselves, and… you know, go at it. What do you think?”

He thinks he really, really loves art now, even more than he thought possible.

“So we have paint-covered sex and then you just hang it on the wall? Like regular art?”

“Yep, I got the supplies I’ll need to hang it; letting it dry will probably take the longest. I figured we could shower while it’s drying, maybe go for round two, if you’re up for it.” She moves her hand to his waist, slips it inside his shorts, and he pulls her closer to his body. “Are you up for it, Aaron?”

That is an understatement.

Undressing happens extremely fast, because this is really sexy and they’re kind of in a phase where they can’t keep their hands off of each other anyway. She pulls her hair up onto the top of her head to try to minimize the amount of paint in it, and then she pours paint on the canvas, turns around and drizzles some on his back and tells him to lay down.

“I think we should probably change positions often so we get a lot of motion on the canvas; I apologize to your old knees in advance,” she teases, but she soothes the sting of her words by pouring paint on herself and then laying between his legs and licking at his dick. “Do some stuff with your hands; I want to see those big handprints on my wall,” she murmurs, and he groans, puts his palms down in the paint and drags them through it.

She leans up a little, sliding her knees through some yellow paint, sucks him fully, deeply into her mouth for couple of minutes, and then stretches forward and puts an orange hand right in the middle of his chest; the look in her eyes is playful, and he reaches out with one finger, hooks it under her chin, and guides her off and up so they can kiss.

“Your turn,” he says with a smirk, and then he gets her onto her back and ducks between her legs, hopes she doesn’t grab for his hair like she usually does. He rubs his pointed tongue over her clit, waits for the mmm it always elicits, and looks up at her, covers each of her breasts with a paint-covered palm and squeezes. “Leave handprints for me,” he leans up and reminds her, kissing her stomach, and she plants her hands, then presses up and grabs his shoulder, smearing pink down his back. “Oh, you wanted more of that?”

“Don’t tease me, the paint will dry,” she whines, and he spreads her thighs wider with his elbows and licks her pussy quickly, until she’s squirming against the canvas and panting for more. “Come here, come here.”

He’s not ready for that, though, paint or not, wants her to come from this; he takes his hands off of her, dips them in the paint again and presses down, then puts his hands under her ass and brings her closer so he can fuck her with his tongue, quick and deep and slick.

“Aaron, Aaron, god.” She slides her hands down his arms, over his neck, digs her nails in when she comes moaning like music.

While she catches her breath, so gorgeous, she sticks her arms out like she’s making a snow angel, and he catches her while she’s off guard and turns her onto her stomach, puts his hands on the smears of paint he’s already left on her ass, and slides inside.

“Oh my god; I was trying to impress you with this sexy art project, but you’re rocking my world.” She’s breathless, pressing back into his thrusts and painting with her entire body. God, he loves her mind.

“You know I always take your projects very seriously,” he says, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, and she groans, laughs.

“Yes you do. From the side? Let’s lay diagonally.” They shift, and he hooks his chin over her shoulder, kisses her neck and huffs hot against her hair. “Hmm, love it like this,” she sighs, and she reaches back to press her hand to his hip, holding him while he moves inside her. “I love you.”

“Love you. I want you to finish on top of me,” he instructs with a wet kiss to her throat, and she nods against his lips.

“Yeah, next; I’m getting close.” A few more strokes and she gets up onto her knees, lets him lay back, propped up on his arms, and climbs on top of him; she kisses him slow and dirty and then runs her hands over him, sits back on his dick and glides up and down. “You wanna come like this too? I owe you a little world rocking,” she says with a flick of her tongue over his bottom lip, and he nods, squeezes her thigh.

“It’s the least you can do after making me move all the heavy furniture.” She rolls her eyes but kisses his chin, down his throat, and bounces harder on him, all delicious eye contact and moans. “Mmm. Just like that, baby, come for me.”

“Fuck. I will, I will.” She wraps a hand around the back of his neck, kisses him kind of rough and with lots of tongue, and then tips her head back and climaxes, clenches, wrings his orgasm out of him so quickly it’s almost jarring. “Oh, yes Aaron. So good,” she mumbles, and then he lays back, out of breath, and she slides out of his lap and lays beside him, out of breath too.

After a moment, she looks over at him, smiles, and swipes a pink fingertip over his cheek.

“This is the hottest thing I’ve ever done with anyone. I’m glad I got to do it with you.” He rolls on top of her, presses a kiss to her nose, and nods.

“Me too. You know,” he adds after a moment, “my bedroom could use some artwork, too.” She grins, wraps her arms around him and squeezes tight.

“You’re right; I think we should do yours in blue: liberty, that’s dark blue; periwinkle, that’s light blue; maybe steel gray, too.”

“You’re the expert. I’m just your paintbrush.” Her hands smooth up his back, and contentment washes over him like a warm breeze.

“Hmm. I like the sound of that. Want to get cleaned up?”

Cleaning up is almost as fun as making the mess, because they’re well and truly covered, and when the canvas dries, the sunset colors are almost as beautiful as the ones she used the first time he ever saw her paint. Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #anon #prompt

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bookofbonbon · 3 years

Text

maybe - rafe cameron.

pairing: Rafe Cameron x reader.

summary: Sometimes it only takes one person to believe in you to change the course of a person's life. Rafe wonders if he had spoken to you sooner, if maybe that person could've been you.

word count: I have no idea, I wrote this on my phone on a whim. 600?

The sun setting on the horizon not only signalled the end of the day but, the end of the Cameron family vacation in Nassau, Bahamas. Rafe had been reluctant to come. The annual 2-week trip having always left a sour taste in his mouth. Not because he didn’t like the island but because of the tenfold amount of time the vacation forced him to spend around his family. And sure, he had been reluctant to come but, this time he was reluctant to leave and all because of the girl sitting on the opposite end of the swing chair.

It started over a petty argument of golf. She had been taking far too long for his liking on the final hole and when he began to berate her she told him to either shut up or help her. He went with the latter so; she’d hurry up and move along. Yet somehow that one interaction evolved into an unlikely friendship for him.

“What are you thinking so hard about over there?” She calls to him, foot pushing into his thigh and pulling him out of his head.

Rafe breathes a laugh. A small smile on his lips as he catches her foot, hand sliding up to wrap around her ankle, pulling gently to extend her leg into his lap, hand never releasing its hold. He thinks about how easy the action was, practically second nature as if he’d done it a thousand times before and how she doesn’t question it either.

Despite the passing years between them, he remained a blank canvas to her. Something that he revelled in because he was able to paint himself in colours that he liked and not the ones provided for him. For the first time in a long time, he could finally allow himself to breathe.

“You,” he admits, easily and he likes how that feels.

He didn’t feel like he was teetering on the edge of insanity. He could walk beside her with ease instead of the eggshells that he did with his father. He wasn’t burdened with wearing the mask forced onto him in the OBX because of his family name and the fire that was constantly lit inside of him, always bubbling beneath the surface, ready to spill over at any given moment had been smothered.

“Me?” She asks, smile wide as she sits up straighter and gives him her full attention.

“Do tell, do tell but, try not to make my head too big.”

Rafe snorts at her reaction, eyes rolling playfully but, shoulders rigid. Something she instantly picks upon.

“What is it?”

Rafe sighs, fingers combing through his hair, “I’m gonna be honest.”

“I should hope so,” she says, not missing a beat.

Rafe chuckles, ignoring her remark.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he repeats. “You’re probably my first real friend, and I mean I have friends and stuff but, it’s not real,” he finishes.

She notices the red creeping up his neck, fingers pulling at the collar of his shirt but, he doesn’t hide from her.

“Rafe…”

“Don’t do that,” he says, mistaking her sadness for pity.

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I just wish I met you earlier because then maybe,” he squeezes her ankle, sorrowful blue eyes gazing at her, at what could’ve been.

A lifetime of possibilities if he had one person in his life who actually saw him, believed in him; if he had just spoken to her at least once in the course of the last ten years of vacation.

“Maybe my life might have turned out differently if we had.”

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Outer Banks characters or Outer Banks show.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron one shot

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queenxxxsupreme · 3 years

Text

Let It Be (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

A/N: It has been so long since I wrote for anyone! I hope you guys like this! This takes place in Ch. 6

Warnings: spoilers for RDR2, angst but fluffy, TB Arthur, but there’s a fluffy ending! no sad ending here

Word Count: 1.1k

Summary: Arthur can’t let on that something is wrong with him, but even though he’s doing his best to hide it, you can tell something is wrong.

***

The fire crackled softly just outside the tent. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a soft breeze made the tall grass around the tent brush up against the canvas.

Arthur was laying on his back. You were tucked comfortably into his side with your head on his shoulder and one hand on his stomach.

His blue eyes were focused on you, watching the way your eyes would flutter shut every few moments only for you to force them open. You were doing your damnedest to fight the sleep off, and it was amusing Arthur.

“You know you can sleep a little bit, pumpkin.”

“No.” You grumbled, stifling a yawn by pressing your face into his shoulder. “I don’t want to sleep yet.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause when I wake up, we’re going to have to go back to Beaver Hollow. And I don’t like it there.”

“Neither do I.” Arthur’s hand came up to brush over the back of your head. “But we’ve gotta go back.”

“I know.” You shifted around a little, pushing your body tighter against his. He was so warm and comfortable. “But I’ve enjoyed this. We deserve this, you know. After Shady Belle and the robbery in Saint Denis and you being in Guarma for so long…. I needed this.”

Arthur stayed silent. His chested tight with your words.

“I'm really sorry for you, son, it's a hell of a thing."

“Arthur?”

“Hm? What?” He looked down at you.

“Did you hear me?” You lifted your head up so that you could look at his face.

He watched you for a few moments.

“Sorry, pumpkin. I…. I wasn’t….” He trailed off.

“You’re not here.” You propped yourself up on one elbow.

Arthur’s fingertips trailed along your spine.

“You’ve been spacing out all day. You wanna tell me what’s on your mind?”

His eyes trailed over your face, studying every little detail he could.

The way you gazed at him with concern. Those eyes always seemed to be filled with concern when you looked at him. Concern…. but also adoration.

The way your brows furrowed together just slightly to create a wrinkle between them. He had always teased you when the two of you were younger about how that wrinkle would be permanent when you got older.

The way he could see the lines by your mouth from years of smiling. Arthur constantly wondered how even in the lifestyle you shared that you could smile so much. When he questioned you, you always told him that he was enough of a reason to smile.

He shook his head softly, reaching over to pull your bag underneath his head. This would allow him to keep his head propped up and to see you better.

“It’s nothin’, pumpkin.”

“But it is, Arthur. It is something. It’s making you act all funny.” You put your hand on his chest.

“Don’t worry about it.” He brought his hand up to cup your cheek. His thumb traced your bottom lip. There was a scar that cut through the tender flesh. You received the marking nearly a decade ago. Arthur could still recall the exact train robbery that it happened during.

“I’m sorry. Have you met me?” You cocked a brow at him. “Worrying is my specialty.”

He chuckled lightly.

“You worry too much.”

“No such thing. Especially not when I am with you.” You kissed the rough pad of his thumb. “Mr. Arthur Morgan. He’s quite a character, you know. Always getting into trouble and stirring up a ruckus wherever he goes.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” You took his hand and guided it around to the back of your head. Then you dipped your head down and kissed his chest. “Makes quite the name for himself. Everyone thinks he’s a bad, scary man. But you know, I have seen him run away from a mouse.”

His nose scrunched up.

“That wasn’t a mouse. It was a dog.”

You giggled.

You turned your head away as you yawned.

“Alright, alright. Enough talking. You need to sleep.”

You groaned again, putting your head down on his chest. He continued to brush his fingers through your hair, blunt fingernails scratching your head.

“In the mornin’, we can go through town and get some of those cookies at that little bakery you like.”

“Arthur Morgan, you are spoiling me.” You giggled. He fell silent.

When he said nothing in reply to you, you lifted your head, sensing that something was…. off. He had been acting odd all day, but you had thought that maybe something had happened while he went into Saint Denis earlier that morning to meet with Sadie.

His blue eyes gazed at the roof of the tent. He continued to brush his fingers through your hair.

“Arthur?”

He didn’t answer you. He was too absorbed by his thoughts.

You reached your hand up to brush your fingers along his cheek. It was only then that you could feel how warm his skin was.

“Arthur.” You said his name a bit more firmly this time.

He blinked slowly and looked down at you.

“Are you feeling okay?” You furrowed your brows. “You’re warm.”

“M’fine, pumpkin.”

“Did you hear me call your name the first time?” You looked over at him. The lighting in the tent was too poor for you to really get a good look at him. But now that you knew he was warm, you wanted to see if he looked okay. “Will you come out to the fire with me for a moment?”

“Not right now, pumpkin.” He shook his head. “It’s late. We need to be sleepin’.”

“But Arthur, you’re running a fever.”

“No I ain’t.” He shook his head stubbornly. “I ain’t even that hot. I think it’s just ‘cause you’re layin’ here next to me.”

An itch began to crawl up the back of his throat. He brought his hand up to cover his mouth as he coughed and turned his head away from you.

You didn’t believe his words, and he knew this. He held your gaze for a few moments before turning his head in search of something.

“Arthur, please. Just give me a little peace of mind.”

If he complied and went out to the fire with you, peace of mind would be the last thing you would get tonight.

Arthur picked up a bottle of gin and took a few swigs of it, hoping to get that nasty cough stirring in his throat to go away.

You sat up, brushing your hair back.

“M’fit as a fiddle, Y/N.” Arthur put the bottle down and laid back against the pillows.

You crossed your arms, looking down at him with furrowed brows.

“Come on, pumpkin. We gotta get some sleep if we wanna make it to camp by nightfall tomorrow.”

“Arthur Morgan, you drive me insane. And I think you do it on purpose.” You settled back down beside him.

“Sometimes I do. Just like seein’ ya all riled up.”

You turned your back to him and sunk into his chest. His arms wrapped around you, making sure you were as close to him as possible.

“I love you, pumpkin.”

“Love you too, bear.”

Taglist: @winterwolf @lauramb7 @caraqas @bluscryn @krenee1drful @zodiacaldustcloud @nonodino @cal-lifornication @thefirelordm @sargeantsea @sokkasdarling @thecollection @mayday1284 @kashasenpai @misskrql @brooke-supernatural16 @lassiee @hocdolliday @antoinette-2131 @fuzzyfangirl @the-average-mastermind

If your name is in italics, it wouldn’t let me tag you :(

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x reader angst #arthur morgan x reader fluff #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fic #arthur morgan fic #red dead redemption 2 fic #arthur morgan oneshot #queenxxxsupreme

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unfortunate-brat · 2 years

Text

Obsession

Pairing: Deanmon x Reader

Word Count: 2k

Summary: Dean can’t stop thinking about Y/N, the way her lips look wrapped around his length, to how her tits bounce with every thrust and how sweet her pussy tastes on his tongue. Every waking and sleeping second is spent on Y/N, though Deanmon can’t see it as a problem, one might just call it outright obsession. A perverted one indeed

Warnings: unprotected sex, dirty talk, fingering, DARK FIC!, Rape, non dub con, non con, lewd videos, oral sex, blow job, perverted fantasies, drinking whiskey from breasts, male masturbation, unhealthy obsession, stalker!deanmon, violence, threatening, mentions of torture, Daddy!kink, slight breeding kink, twisted Dean, daydreams, blending of reality & fantasy, cussing, creepy moments

Fetish | Patreon | Kofi | My Masterlist

“ That’s it, keep going sweetheart.” The demon’s dark eyes watch as the woman takes him whole, cheeks hallowed out and doe eyes on him. Wearing nothing but a red thong and heart pasties, feet still in her heels and make up starting to smear from his hand. “ Just born to suck on my fucking cock huh?”

The things this woman could do with her tongue, and those lips, oh it drove the demon insane! The way her mouth parted as he fucked into her womb, marking up the once beautiful skin to his own canvas covered in red paint. How her body immediately submitted to him when he requested, Chuck knew what he was doing when making this woman.

Yes, everything was tailored right down to this moment. This recurring moment of having her impaled on his thick cock, mewl after mewl escaping her as he sucked on her breasts. Smacking the flesh before going back, the liquid inside dripping down his chin. “ You know human me would have never, ever lived to see actual whiskey in tits and drink from it. Right from his favorite source. Too weak of a man to take what he wanted but baby,” His eyes flash to black. “ I’m better now, and this body is mine for the taking. Right sweetheart?”

And as he looks up, Y/N’s face greets him with a groan. “ Yes, my body is yours.”

“ Nuh Uh, how did I train you to talk sweetheart? You’re forgetting your special word.” His palm collided against her ass cheek and the sting raced down to her core.

“ Yes, my body is yours Daddy.”

The demon lets out a loud chuckle, “ Now that’s more like it! See how good it feels to listen to me? Betcha life was shit before I came and rescued my babygirl, gave her a purpose again and a fat cock to worship. Didn’t I?”

“ Y-Yes Daddy.”

“ And folks she hits a home run again, what a lucky gal. Now I’m not quite done with these toys so you hold on tight for me gorgeous, cause this ride is about to get bumpy.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

“ Dean!”

“ What?!” His response is that of an angsty teen, yelling back after being disturbed by an annoying parent for some silly chore. It’s how the demon looked at Crowley, thinking nothing but negative thoughts about the King of Hell.

With pants put on, noting to do something later, he walks into the corridors of the land below, and no not the lovely home of an Aussie. Used to the screams of torment of millions upon millions of souls, crying out in agony for any help at all. Dean recalled for a brief second that his voice once joined them, feeling powerless under the extensive torture of Alastair, the same man who also gave him a new power. Darkness.

Inside the throne room, he stares down at the other demons, who cower before the male, aware of his growing strength and then scurry away. Much to the their King’s disliking though it gives them an open opportunity to speak.

“ How about we go on another field trip Dean? A new bar, new broads, a couple games of pool.” He doesn’t mind the time having quality bonds with one another, but knows it’s to keep the newly appointed knight of hell within control, on so called leash. The other demons, they whispered along the corridors of a time where Crowley would be overthrown by his own monster, the man he helped bring back to work under his reign. Just rumors really, but a King can never be too careful and this one made sure to cover all loose ends.

“ You called me all the way over here just to hang out?” The demon rolled his eyes, of course Crowley wanted to keep him around just in case. Dean wasn’t stupid, he can smell the fear of being overthrown by his own Frankenstein and did the demon care? No. Besides, if Crowley was overthrown, he was gonna do it right.

“ Why not? Did you have any better plans?” Crowley held his head high, acting as if Deanmon could be replaced with anyone if rejected. It’s a reverse psychology used on children but it’s not like Dean was acting any more mature than one. Perverted was already on the list, you couldn’t pay Crowley a thousand dollars to barge into his room or to witness what the creep could be dreaming. He knew, oh he knew what and who Deanmon was obsessing over. Practically turning into an animal just to chase the dream of having her by his side. The usual cut out of Playboy all had their faces replaced by Y/N herself. Pictures he snapped and cup out from the original photo, tapped on while Dean most likely jerked off to it.

Requesting the best television from the demons just to watch the so called “ movies ” he had when Crowley had discovered them to be recordings, and not just any. Some of Y/N getting dressed, others while she slept and the most disturbing of them all, Dean playing with her sleeping body. Curling his thick digits inside as soft whimpers fell from her mouth. Tongue lapping at the mess and ripping her panties off, only to be found under the demon’s pillow. A true monster in the making and Crowley wasn’t one to worry over humans but for Y/N, he felt as though something needed to be done to pretty her life.

“ That’s my business Crowley but last time I checked,” The demon stalks closer, leaning in to grab at his shirt collar, raising a brow. “ Being brought back as a demon, I didn’t consent to being your best friend. So do me a favor, if you call for me, making sure it’s important.” And with that, Dean let’s go with a chilling smirk, making Crowley’s skin prickle with goosebumps if his corpse wasn’t dead but could sense them form anyways as the knight leaves the room. Forcing the King to do a reality check, Dean Winchester was gone.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

He finds himself at the foot of her bed, looking at her sleeping form with a sigh. She chose to wear nothing to bed, just how the demon liked it best, though missed the fun of pulling the lace to the side and have his way.

For the first time, Dean leaned over, caressing her cheek softly with a soft promise on his lips. “ I’ll make you mine soon sweetheart, don’t you worry.” Those same fingers that were gentle a moment ago had made their familial path down to her core, right there for the taking. Making it all too easy for his two thick digits to push in, working her open and nose get hit with the scent of her sweet arousal.

He has to taste her, and spotting the bottle of gummies in the corner, knows the woman would be too asleep to notice. Going in for the kill, his digits drill into her core and tongue laps up the taste of her. Never satisfied, always needing more than what was given to him at a time. Slurping and feasting so much he knows Y/N will be sore tomorrow, yet not just from his tongue alone.

Pulling away, he strips, releasing his aching member and stroking the length of steel, thumb smearing the precum over the tip. “ Gonna fill your cunt up with my cum sweetheart, wouldn’t you like that?” The thumb of precum, he uses to gather up more precum and runs it over her lips, letting out a dark chuckle. “ Come on pretty girl, isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? For Daddy to treat you so good?” He lines the head at her entrance, taking a deep breath before pushing in. Immediately bottoming out and drooling as his face comes into contact with her breasts, nipples hardened into pebbles. “ Oh babygirl, you got these all hard because of me?”

He talks as if she’ll speak back to him, despite her sleeping though his fantasies mix in with reality and before realizing what was occurring, sees Y/N smirking back up at him. “ Always wet for you Daddy. You make my pussy feel so good, want you to stuff me up with so much cum please.” She brings her hands over her sensitive breasts, kneading the flesh right before his eyes. “ And while you fuck me, you can have a drink of whiskey from these, just like you always do.”

Growling, he makes the first thrust and latches onto one, though to outsiders she is not awake, Dean is too far into his head to notice the difference. Either way, what mattered was that Y/N was going to be branded as his. “ Damn sweetheart, you’re just spoiling me at this point. Don’t mind if I fucking do.”

His thrusts are powerful, making the bed frame hit the wall repeatedly and though the loud noise might wake up a sleeping form, Y/N is still out cold. Though despite unconscious, Dean can feel how tight her pussy grips him, greedy in how it swallowed his dick whole as more arousal leaked out of her cunt. Made to fit around him like a glove. “ Fuck babygirl, tighter than a virgin. Just how I like ya, and remember, who does this cunt belong to?”

He spreads her legs open as wide as they’ll go, balls slapping against the globes of her ass as Dean chases at his approaching orgasm. “ This is Daddy’s cunt, his cunt alone. No one else can touch.”

Seemingly so close yet still lacking a portion to travel. “ Good girl, so obedient for me today. How about I fuck you seven ways to Sunday huh? Against the window for all the neighbors to see that I’m the only one who makes you feel this good. No one else. You want that?” He grips on tit in his hand, the flesh sitting nicely in his palm as she squeals a yes, so quick to respond and it drove him mad with lust.

“ Gonna overthrow that bastard of a King and become superior babygirl. You’ll be my beautiful Queen, tending to my every fucking need. Even when I need my cock sucked by those lips.” He kisses them, growling when her inner walls tighten again. “ That’s it, want you to coat my dick in your juices, I want it all.”

Yet what the demon failed to realize was that sometimes, the things we want are meant to be desired for a reason. To be left behind someday and not taken advantage of, not forcibly taking into one’s own hands outs of selfish and obsessive needs. Just as Deanmon was pounding away into Y/N’s cunt now.

This unsatisfied monster he had become has taken too much control, humanizing and restoring the former hunter that resided could mean death. Too much guilt to process, the chance of being so disgusted with one self, they can’t bear to be standing much longer. It’s not right, what Deanmon was doing was far beyond the path of righteousness. This wasn’t who he was meant to be, what the Michael sword was supposed to be doing. Yet as a God who left his children behind to fend for themselves, Dean continues to drown in sin. With no way out for himself.

As he lays claim to the woman in the bed, Dean watches the cum ooze out of her abused hole, though he scoops it with a finger to push back in. “ Nuh Uh, if I want to have an heir someday, you’re gonna have to keep all my seed in sweetheart.” With care, in a twisted element, he has her close both legs, kissing her pearl before pulling the blanket over the Y/N’s sleeping form with a sly grin. “ Sleep tight, you’ll need to be well rested for your King when he rescues you from this miserable life.” And like the howl of the wind outside, thunder rumbling in the distance, Dean disappears. Promise to return echoed into the air.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

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#demon!dean fanfiction #demon!dean x reader #demon!dean x f!reader #demon!dean x latina!reader #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x latina!reader #dean winchester x f!reader

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citrinesparkles · 3 years

Text

doctor todd.

jason todd x gender neutral vigilante!reader. 1,875 words. notes: requested by @jason-redhood as part of my hundred followers celebration! this got a lot longer than i intended, oopsies. thanks for requesting- hope you enjoy! warnings: tending wounds, mentions of food.

"y'know, lurking outside somebody's window is a good way to get yourself shot," jason called over his shoulder.

"i'll keep that in mind," you said, voice strained enough to shoot dread into his veins and draw his attention completely away from his work.

he set the gun he had been cleaning on the table and twisted around to find you gingerly sliding through the open window.

"hey," you mumbled, giving him a weak wave after your boots hit the floor. "sorry for not calling, i just..."

you were backlit, the glow of the city making it impossible to see your features from the dining area- but your posture alone was enough to have him shoving his chair back and crossing his apartment.

"how bad?" he asked, stopping a few steps back, now able to make out the tears in your suit and the bruises around your mask.

"pretty sure i sprained my wrist, and there's a poorly-bandaged gash on my leg, but otherwise i'm peachy."

"how bad's the leg?"

"i'm... not sure. bad enough that i think i need your help." you patted the windowsill with a gloved hand. "obviously."

he nodded and slid to your good side, gently resting a hand on your shoulder. "okay. c'mon, my stuff's in the bathroom."

"here." he handed you a pair of shorts and a large tank top. "change into this so i can get to the wounds, okay? i'll be right out here if you need anything."

"you're good!" you called.

he nudged the bathroom door back open and scooped your uniform up from the floor, carefully putting it in a canvas bag and tying the handles together before setting it in the tub to deal with later. "alright," he sighed, turning back to face you.

his clothes looked way too right on you, he realized, a wave of emotion he would vehemently deny surging through his chest and pushing heat to his neck and cheeks.

"alright?"

"okay. alright. uh-" he jerked a thumb at the counter- "up here, i guess, so i can see your leg."

you propped one foot on the toilet lid and braced your good hand against his shoulder, his hands instinctively coming up to hover around your waist as you pushed yourself up and settled next to the sink.

the grateful smile you gave him was enough to tug his lips into a smile of his own.

"you're up, doctor todd," you teased.

he stepped forward with a halfhearted eyeroll, fingers brushing the cloth tied hastily around your leg. "can i take this off?"

"go ahead."

he tugged gently at the knot, wincing when you inhaled sharply. "sorry."

the scrap fell away, revealing dried blood and an open wound on the outside of your thigh.

"yeesh, that is nasty," he said.

you scoffed lightly. "gee, thanks."

"hey, if you wanted a nice doctor, you probably should have gone somewhere else." he shifted to the side, grabbing a clean cloth and bottle of alcohol. "fair warning, you're really not gonna like me here in a minute."

your quick "i seriously doubt that." was greeted with a grin that felt a little too fond for his liking.

he told himself it was for your benefit.

...yeah, that sounded good.

he could live with that.

he made quick work of cleaning the gash, doing his best to distract you by making stupid small talk about the horrible movie he'd sat through that morning because the tv remote had been out of reach and the mediocre new coffee shop with dry blueberry muffins.

"was the coffee okay, at least?"

"okay, yeah, but not 'five-dollars-fifty' okay. if i hadn't been falling asleep in line i probably would have left when i saw the price."

"there's a nice one up by my place, they make the best blueberry muffins ever."

he hummed. "i'll keep that in mind, next time i'm over that way." he leaned back, studying your cut. "i think stitches would probably be smart."

you groaned. "of course they would."

"i'm okay to do them- i do them on myself- but if you want i can give you a lift to a hospital or something."

"no. if you can, i want you to do them. i trust you."

he sat with that for a minute, searching your face for any hesitation. when he found none, he nodded. "okay."

as you both expected, it sucked.

to make things worse, he was rapidly running out of mindless things to talk about.

how many times could two people really argue about pizza toppings before it got old?

"alright, done."

"holy shit, finally." you slumped back, leaning on your good hand for a moment before your head snapped back up. "no, not like- i meant thank you, you did great, i'm not being an ingrate-"

"i know, relax." he nudged your knee with a goofy smile. "here, gimme your wrist."

you pouted (which, yes, that was also adorable, much to his dismay), carefully stretching your bad arm out.

he took your hand gently, scooping it up in one of his and bracing your forearm up with his other. "it's actually not too bad, considering you hit hard enough to tear your glove. i'm gonna clean the scrapes here up, though, okay?"

"do i really get a choice?"

"it's your body, so, yeah."

you sighed dramatically. "fine, if you insist. go ahead, clean my wounds for me."

he was quiet this time, focusing intently on removing bits of dirt and stuff from your raw palm with a set of tweezers.

trying to ignore the way your eyes seemed to linger on him now that he was looking down.

he set the tweezers aside, glancing up at you to find you smiling at him thoughtfully, and dropped his gaze just as quickly as he had lifted it. "what, you enjoying making me do all the work?"

"you could say that, yeah."

he scoffed. "well, you're going to enjoy it a lot less in a second. time for the alcohol again."

"ugh."

he managed to dig up an old wrist brace in the back of his sock drawer. a little big for you, but it would work for now, he figured.

"may i?"

you nodded and held your arm back out for him to loop the brace over your thumb and tuck the velcro strap under and around, pulling it snug against your skin before sticking it to itself.

"last one, tough stuff." he pointed at your cheek, where a small patch of dried blood stained your skin. "ready?'

you nodded tiredly. "let's just get this over with. this counter isn't as comfortable as it looks."

he chuckled, dampening the softest cloth he had and wringing it out. "sorry, i didn't think i needed to get an apartment with counter cushions." he raised his left hand up, hovering an inch or so below your chin. "uh, can i..?"

your eyes widened, glancing at his hand. "oh, uh, sure. yeah."

he moved slowly, raising it to cup your chin softly with his middle and forefinger on one side and thumb on the other. "this okay?"

"mhm." your eyes slid shut and he could almost believe that you sank into his touch.

if it wasn't absolutely insane, anyway. his touch wasn't exactly the kind people sank into- much less people like you. people that good, that caring, that stunning? yeah, no.

he tilted your head to the side slightly, rubbing gentle circles across your cheekbone with the cloth and watching as the blood faded.

"so, who did this?" he asked softly, casually.

apparently not casually enough, though, because you snorted at him. "why, you think you need to go avenge me? defend my honor or something?"

"no! i'm just curious. just... making conversation."

your eyes opened, amusement dancing in them and threatening to hypnotize him. "good. i shouldn't have to tell you who won that fight, jay."

"well, i mean, you are missing a chunk of your thigh."

"aw, is the big bad vigilante worried about lil old me?"

he squeezed your face gently, pushing your cheeks up and forward into a goofy fish face. "it's rude to tease the guy tending to your wounds, babe."

he definitely didn't imagine your breath hitching. "babe, huh?" you asked playfully.

"shut up," he grumbled. "don't make me regret helping."

"alright, looks like that's the last scrape. you're all cleaned up."

"thanks, jason." you smiled up at him, soft and warm and genuine. "i really appreciate this."

"yeah, yeah." he squeezed your jaw again. "try not to make it a habit."

"mhm." a moment passed quietly before you spoke quietly. "so, you gonna do something here, or can i have my face back?"

he froze.

your mouth- which he was really trying not to look at- shifted into a confident smirk, a challenge written clearly in the angle of your lips.

your eyes, bright under the harsh lighting, told a different story. one of vulnerability, and want, and something close to fear.

"do you want me to?" his voice was hoarser than he'd intended, and he swore you could hear his heartbeat echoing in it.

your gaze dipped to his lips. "would it make everything super weird?"

"you just came crawling through my window in the middle of the night in a mask and kevlar. i think things are already weird."

he felt your hum under his fingers. "then why not?"

"do you really want me to answer that?"

"jason, will you please just kiss me already?"

"well, you did say please." he leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to slip away or yell 'sike!'

all you did was bring your good hand up to his collar and pull him towards you.

your lips were soft and gentle, and the way they pulled upwards slightly when his hand slid from your jaw to cup your cheek was something he'd be thinking about for weeks.

when he eventually pulled back, it took him a moment to open his eyes. he was half convinced that if he did, it would be to his bedroom ceiling, the past half an hour all a dream.

instead, he found your fond gaze.

"finally."

he let out a huff of laughter, thumb running over your cheek. "you should stay here tonight."

"w-"

"not like that," he clarified quickly. "you have stitches, you shouldn't go leaping across rooftops tonight. i can take the couch."

"hm." you smoothed out his shirt collar, the barely-there brush of your fingers against his shoulder almost tugging a whine out of him. "or i can take the couch, and then you can take me home in the morning and let me treat you to an actual blueberry muffin."

"are you asking me out?" it was a teasing comment, paired with a tiny smirk meant to fluster you.

but it was also a reality check.

you seemed to catch the second meaning. "yeah, i am. would you, please, let me take you out on a date?"

"i'll have to check my calenda-"

"you're so full of it."

"yeah, probably."

"is that a yes?"

he laughed, bringing his other hand up to squeeze your knee. "yeah, i can let you take me on a date. i could use a good muffin."

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donghyuckcuyhgnod · 3 years

Text

SHOWER VISITS.

huang renjun x fem!reader

genre: smut

warnings: unprotected sex, shower sex, oral (fem receiving), slapping, switch!renjun, a little bit of dirty talk

1.9k words

you sighed, pulling the spare key to the dorms out of your pocket. you had knocked on the door, but no one answered. walking in, you quietly took your shoes and coat off, walking further into the apartment, noticing the lack of crazy boys in the home. you call out for your boyfriend, renjun, getting no response in return. you swore he would be home all day. you’re about to turn around and leave, until the sound of a familiar, heavenly voice rings through your ears. you hear him hum a soft tune, and you realized that your boyfriend was in the shower. you smiled upon hearing his voice, thinking he was just the cutest thing for singing in the shower.

you quickly and excitedly make your way to the bathroom, quietly opening the door and stepping inside. you could hear his voice clearly now, your heart melting into a puddle, along with your clothes on the ground, right next to his. you pried open the curtain just a little bit, a glimpse of renjun’s bare back greeting you. you bit your lip to contain your giggles, successfully stepping inside without him noticing. you slowly reached out, gently wrapping your arms around his back and resting your chin on his shoulder. he jumped with a small yelp, quickly turning his head to see you staring up at him with the prettiest love struck gaze.

“hi, baby,” you softly greeted him, leaning up and giving him a sweet kiss on the cheek as he sighed in relief.

“you scared the shit out of me, y/n! let me know next time, will you?” he lightly laughed, relaxing in your hold. you lightly poked his bottom, eliciting another yelp from your boyfriend as he turned around to face you. you giggled, “you’re so cute.”

renjun glared at you, a pout on his lips. “i’m almost done with my shower, y/n. must you interrupt it?” he whined like a child, slumping his shoulders as the water ran down his back. you clicked your tongue, reaching your arms out to your boyfriend and bringing him closer to you. you wrapped your arms around his neck, backing yourself against the shower wall and lifting one of your legs up to pull him closer to you. renjun’s eyes widened at the new position, his hands automatically going to your bare waist.

“you don’t want me to stay? i mean, i could leave and wait for you, if you want,” you whispered against his lips, looking into his eyes with a sultry gaze that made renjun weak at the knees. he gulped, knowing exactly what game you were playing (and extremely aware that you were going to win; and in this case, he wasn’t a sore loser).

“well, you can stay if you want,” renjun said, his pupils dilating in lust as his slowly hardening cock grazed your core. you sent him a seductive smile, licking your lips in anticipation. “i think i will stay. we’ll save water, hm?” you hummed, your lips just barely grazing his. you were driving him insane with all this teasing.

“when will the boys be home?” you asked, referring to the other dreamies that lived in the dorm. upon your arrival, you knew that renjun was alone. he breathlessly responded with a “not until later,” his patience running thin and his cock becoming hard. you noticed this, of course, sending him a mischievous smirk, his eyes never leaving your lips. all it took was a low and simple “good” from your end, before the two of you connected your lips in a hungry kiss.

both of you were devouring each other with utmost desire, clawing and nipping at each other as if it was a competition. renjun’s hands grazed your lower back before landing on your ass, eliciting a moan from you as he squeezed the supple skin. your lips left his, trailing kisses across his cheek, down to his jaw, and sucking on the skin of his neck as his breath began to get heavier. your hands gripped the side of his neck, and renjun could feel your finger nails lightly digging into the back of his scalp. you laced your fingers in his hair, pulling on the dark locks and allowing yourself to devour his dripping wet neck. renjun moaned at this, his cock fully hard.

“fuck,” he breathed out as your hand traveled downwards, gently stroking his member as you continued to ravish his skin, creating a never-ending series of marks and bruises on his neck.

“i wanna taste you, baby,” your boyfriend whispered, his hands cupping your cheeks and forcing you to look at him. you whimpered at his words, giving him a chaste kiss before pushing him down to kneel on the shower floor. “then do it.”

renjun wasted no time, lifting up your leg and putting it on his shoulder as he dove between your legs. he placed a kitten lick to your clit, looking up at you through the wet locks of his hair. his dark eyes wide and blown out with lust, watching the way your face contorts in pleasure as he laps at your clit. his fingers found their way to your core, teasing you. your hand went to his hair, pushing his head further into you as he ate you out like a starved man.

your moans and whimpers only spurred him on, his middle finger entering you as you cried out. he fingered you for what felt like hours before adding a second, sending waves of pleasure straight through your body. his mouth was working wonders on your clit, sucking and nipping in a way that made you see stars. his fingers were relentless, pumping in and out of you in the most delicious of ways, curling inside of you and hitting the spot that had your toes curling. the pleasure was too much, mixed with the mere sight of him between your legs, and you couldn’t help it anymore.

the second he added a third finger, however, the knot in your stomach got even tighter and you found yourself grinding against his face, forcing him closer to you and his fingers deeper. renjun moaned at the tight grip you had on his hair, and that was all it took for you to come undone. your mouth opened in a silent scream, renjun’s free hand reaching up and tugging at your breast, increasing your pleasure as you came undone around his fingers with a desperate cry of his name. when he showed no signs of stopping, you pushed his head away and pulled him up to face you.

“i need you inside me, baby. now,” you said breathlessly, hooking your arms around his neck as you pulled him into another feverish kiss. renjun whimpered at your urgency, pumping his member a few times before lining his tip up with your arousal-covered core. the stretch was painfully good, the familiar feeling drawing a noise of pleasure from the both of you.

“fuck me, renjun,” you licked your lips, locking eyes with your boyfriend. he grunted, hooking his arms under your legs and lifting you up against the shower wall. holding onto his shoulders for support, your breath hitched as he found his pace, thrusting his hips in a slow but steady rhythm. his thrusts were sharp and deep, droplets from his wet hair and the running shower behind you making him look sexier than ever.

your moans increased as his hips sped up, reaching for something, anything to hold onto. your hands gripped the shelf on the side of the shower, knocking the shampoo bottles straight off. neither of you flinched or even cared, all your focus on each other and the intense eye contact that neither of you wanted to break. you weren’t sure if it was the water or his own sweat, but the sheen layer of moisture on renjun’s body was clear, droplets of it dripping down the side of his face, his neck and down to his collarbones. the visual was a sight to see, and you were nearly at your limit the more you admired him.

it seemed that renjun felt the same, because his eyes had finally left your own and were all over the place; focusing on your bouncing tits, and down to where your bodies were connected as his cock disappeared in your pussy. at last, his dark eyes landed on your neck, an open canvas just waiting to be painted with different hues of blue and purple. your hands tangled in his hair once again as his mouth left open-mouthed kisses on your neck, traveling down to your breasts.

“fuck, renjun!’ you cried out, “i’m gonna cum, fuck, i’m gonna cum.”

“c’mom, baby. cum for me,” he said through gritted teeth, keeping his pace as he watched your face. you threw your head back against the tile, your lips parting in an ‘o’ shape as you moaned uncontrollably. your legs shook in his arms, your toes curling at the pleasure that your boyfriend provided you. barely giving you time to recover, renjun dropped you from his arms and turned your body around.

your chest was against the tiles, your ass stuck out and giving renjun the view of his life. you wiggled your butt back towards him to show your impatience, causing a dark chuckle to leave his lips. his hands smoothed over the skin of your ass, before coming down and landing a loud slap to the supple skin, the sound resonating throughout the bathroom. your body jolted, a surprised giggle escaping your lips as you looked over your shoulder at your boyfriend.

“impatient, are we?” he asked, prodding his tip at your entrance in a deliciously tortuous way that only renjun could do so well.

“i think you know the answer to that, junnie,” you said, a smirk taking over your features as he slowly slid himself into you once again, filling you to the brim with his cock. he didn’t even give you time to think before he was slamming his hips into you, his hands gripping your hips with a bruise-inducing strength.

“fuck, yeah, baby. your pussy was made for me,” renjun moaned, sending arousal straight to your core, a whimper leaving your lips at the sounds of your boyfriend’s honey sweet voice saying things so sinful. his thrusts were fast and impatient, your body being pushed up against the shower wall. renjun’s hands left your waist, taking a hold of your wrists and bringing them up and over your head. his chest pressed directly against your back, his voice whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he fucked you senseless.

his thrusts became sloppy, his breathing and moans increasing with every thrust. you knew he was close, and the mere thought had sent your mind and your body into overdrive, the knot in your stomach coming undone for the third time. the way you clenched around renjun’s cock had him driving his hips impossibly faster into you, letting out a moan of your name as he quickly pulled out, his cum landing on your lower back, dripping down your ass as the both of you caught your breath.

you looked back again, renjun’s head thrown back in bliss, his chest heaving up and down as his hand slowly pumped his cock of each and every drop. the sight never gets old. renjun noticed the mess he made on your body, soothing his hands over your hips as he admired the visual of you covered in his cum.

he let out a breathless chuckle, “look at the mess we made, baby. good thing we’re already in the shower.”

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