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bleubrri · 2 years

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۪۪۫۫ ༄ؘ ˑ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴍᴜsᴇ - ᴀʀᴛɪsᴛ!ᴊᴇᴀɴ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

༄ؘ ˑ contains: 2.5k of artist!jean, shower sex, creampie, pottery clichés, black coded!reader being a nude model bc i forgot to explicitly mention that oops, hc format + a lil oneshot<3

༄ؘ ˑ a/n: not proof read T^T

artist!jean who insists that you’re his muse. he’d been in a rut for what felt like aeons but in reality was probably only a couple of months before he met you. still, the way jean describes it as a transformative spark of inspiration sounds so poetically exaggerative that you find yourself with an involuntary grin whenever he mentions it.

artist!jean who uses oil, the first time. oil paints in fiery coppers and springtime golds to capture the exposed skin of your body. the flick of a wrist, the turn of a waist. the curve of a pelvic bone. he wasn’t lucid when he painted you, he swears. swears he still feels fuzzy working on some pieces even now. you were artwork. artwork that inspired artwork. that made him frantic to smear carefully calculated streaks of colour across his canvas in a lustful burst of creativity.

artist!jean who you approach after the class, slipped into sandals and a silk robe and trotting over to ask to see his work. he’d been sheepish, adrenaline from his fervent work wearing off and leaving him with the feeling of hummingbirds in his belly. you’d modelled a few times, never really interested in any of the students work, they were all either creepy, indifferent or desperate for a passing grade. but he’d made you.. beautiful. captured a playful sensuality that you didn’t even realise was there.

artist!jean who hangs the piece in the entryway to his studio—even if now he has the real thing to inspire him everyday. his studio smells of woodsy canvas paper and earthy terracotta clay, usually. sometimes it’s the headache-pine of lingering turpentine seeped into scattered rags. other times its simply his own sweet scent. in the summer, he foregoes a t-shirt and unbuttons his paint-stained overalls to hang loosely around his waist. (you love watching him work in the summer).

artist!jean who likes to use you as a canvas. and he’s never told you that, but it’s obvious in the way that his tongue feels like brush strokes against the silky depths of your cunt. in the way his strong hands mould the flesh of your ass with deft fingers. in the way he frantically pumps his cockhead, head thrown back and panting to send himself over the edge and paint your pussy with the milky globs of his seed. you’re always a little oversensitive, twitching when his lithe fingers trace the puffy lips of your cunt, ghosting over your swollen clit to fully coat you in the pearly mark of his arousal. you call it fingerpainting. he says you just look good covered in his cum.

artist!jean who often gets the insatiable urge to just fucking make something at the most inconvenient hours. his fingers will twitch against their place on your stomach, his brain far too awake for well past midnight. he always relents, reluctantly leaving your orbit and quietly padding downstairs.

tonight, you find him hunched over on the kitchen floor, caked to the elbows in drying terracotta. there’s a gentle hum from the pottery wheel and the vaguely soil-like smell of unfired porcelain.

the sound of your bare feet padding across the tile floor makes him glance in your direction. you’re a rough sleeper—a few braids have slipped from the satin of your scarf and are framing your tired face. jean gets the sudden urge to smush your sleep-puffed cheeks and kiss the sleep from your eyes.

you give him a dreamy smile and a kiss on his head as you pass him to grab a glass of water.

“can’t sleep?” he asks softly, as if any remote volume will disrupt his work and disturb your peace. you mumble something that sounds a lot like not without you and jean feels his insides heat and liquify inside of him.

he pauses his ministrations with his partial vase and dips his arms into the bucket of water next to him, sloshing off the dried clay and re-slicking his hands.

you’re craving the cloak of unconsciousness, resigning yourself to a lonely hour or two in your shared bed. you do sleep better with him, but you’ve been together long enough to know that you’ll always wake up with the weight of his arms draped around you. but jeans making impatient, semi-clean grabby hands in your direction.

“baby. c’mere.”

you groan around the glass and shake your head in defiance.

“babyyy.” he sings.

“jean, it’s 3am.”

“c’monnn.” he pouts.

“aren’t you tired of this yet? you do this every single time.” you’re huffing, trying to fight the smile that manifests over stupid, fond, repetitive memories.

when jean got into pottery, he made the completely predictable and cliche move of dragging you in between his legs and guiding your hands along the damp clay. the patrick swayze to your demi moore. he had even started humming the chorus of that godforsaken song, unchained melody, that had you booing and fighting off giggles. but it was cute, in a sickeningly romantic way.

and yet jean had kept on doing it. every time you walked into his studio and saw him sorting through bricks of clay or re-dipping his hands, you’d bolt for the door only to be chased down by jean who’d drag you back with soiled hands and a wicked grin. he called it ‘ghosting’ you.

“it never gets old!” he insists, waggling his fingers at you. “c’mon you love it.”

“goodnight, jean.” you say, putting away your glass and rushing to sidestep him.

nimble fingers wrap around your wrist just as you pass him. damn his long ass limbs.

you groan and writhe in his grip as he stands to embrace you. “ugh you’re all wet!” he ignores you, grin dripping with mirth as he buries himself in your neck and shuffles you both in front of the vase.

“i just showered right before bed! i can’t shower again this late.. you’re so annoying you know that?” you’re grumbling as jean drags you down to sit with him, you’re mildly irked but revelling in his blanketing heat behind you. jean punctuates the kiss to your pulsepoint with the glide of his hands over yours. air haults in your lungs as long fingers slip between your own and the clay smooths beneath your palm.

you huff again. “i hate you.”

jean breaths a laugh through his nose, tickling your neck, making you smile.

you give in. melting against him and letting him guide your hands to smooth out the sides of the vase, making dips and curves with the clefts of your palms. all the while making a wet trail of his lips across your skin. suctioning behind your ear. blowing along your collar bone. fucking teasing.

“don’t start.” you warn him.

“hm?” he feigns innocence, resting his chin on your shoulder and turning a fraction to peck the side of your mouth.

you scoff, slipping your hand from his and smearing a streak of clay on his nose.

“forget it.”

“hey!” he gapes at you “that was uncalled for.” he grumbles. your remaining hand caged around his own suddenly feels crushed under his increasing weight. clay starts to collect between your fingers, thick globs of rust caking your digits and jeans.

you raise a brow. “don’t you dare.”

but oh he dares.

his filthy hand shoots up the expanse of your forearm, making you screech into the night. jeans laughing as you recoil, almost elbowing him in the ribs. “you started it.” he states with a loud, wet kiss to your cheek that you try to swat away.

“i’ll fucking finish it you asshole.” you grunt, dipping into the water and flicking it at him.

jean yells at the unexpected attack, quickly recovering and grabbing your retreating wrist. “oh so now you wanna make a mess?” he asks, guiding your hand back to the sad excuse for a vase.

your bubbling laughter dies into nothing as jean claws his fingers around yours. “then let’s make a mess, baby.” he rips a chunk of clay from the side, cradled in your fingers and in a flash it’s smushed against your clavicle.

an incredulous, breathy laugh erupts from you. the cold smear of sienna on your body definitely warranting a shower now.

“you’re dead, kirstein.” you say calmly, a menacing smile on your pretty face as jean tries to cage you further between his legs to hinder your movements.

the next few minutes are a flurry of attacks. jean nearly knocks over the bucket in his attempt to scoop up the gross, soggy remnants at the bottom of the water and smear it on your cheeks. you’re both yelping and laughing as clay gets smeared along your exposed skin. you even manage to drop some onto jeans plaid pyjama bottoms in the ultimate revenge ploy. eventually you scramble up from the floor and jean relents, hands up in surrender as the misshapen blob of clay spins aimlessly on the pottery wheel.

“truce!”

“truce.” you smirk, offering a hand to your temporary foe and dragging him up from the floor. he’s got that stupid horny look in his eye as he reaches full height and stares down at you. soft eyes droopy under the weight of his arousal and pupils blown in lust.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes, whether over his blatant neediness or your feathery resolve to give in to him, you aren’t sure. being pressed against his broad form for so long hadn’t exactly been satiating enough.

on your tiptoes, your arms circle his neck and you kiss him, uncaring of the dot of clay that somehow ended up on his perfect little cupid’s bow. “how ‘bout that shower?” you mumble as you pull back, lidded gaze boring into his.

the lifting of your body serves as his answer. reflexively your legs lock around his trimmed waist, and you indulge in the taste of him as he blindly makes his way to the bathroom.

the journey from the kitchen to underneath the spray of the shower is full of tongue and teeth. lips on his neck. a flurry of clothes shed. the cool slate of the wall against your back makes you shiver, but they’re swallowed into the heat of jeans mouth almost immediately.

“you sure you don’t want head or something?” he muses against your lips. jean always tends to be unabashedly direct when he’s in a dizzying state of arousal.

“i’m good.” you assure him, scratching lightly at the sensitive spot above his nape and watching him shiver. “jus’ go easy.”

he hums, taking the plush of your bottom lip between his teeth as he pumps himself to full mast under the scalding stream. you’re propped up between the wall and his body when his thick tip traces your clit. his skin is flushed, pink cheeks and swollen cock dancing around your engorged nerves and down to your slit. he’s got one palm gripping the meat of your ass, the other lining himself up with your hole as he props you open with one knee.

instinctively, you clench and try and snap your thighs shut when his tip sheaths inside of you, hot and heavy and splitting you open. his thumb settles on your dripping clit, drawing slippery circles with a delicious pressure. he couples it with sucking on your tongue, you like to be distracted at the preface to pleasure that comes with taking his girth.

“ngh—i f-forgot that water makes the worst fucking lube—shit—” you’re moaning into his mouth, but not in the way that he wants.

“complaining a lot tonight, aren’t we angel?” he teases, nipping at the velvety flesh of your jugular.

“i’m not complaining, i’m jus—fuck!” he cuts you off with the snap of his hips to bottom out into the welcoming heat of your gooey walls. he shudders as you clench and flutter around him, brain already foggy with desire.

“you’re complaining.” he repeats, slow drags of his cock melting into a steady pistoning of his hips. “you were impatient weren’t you? wanted to go straight for my cock.” you think you mutter something in agreement, too focused on the way you can feel every fucking ridge of his shaft swelling and trailing against your pocket of nerves as jean shifts his angle. that gorgeous twisting vein along his shaft pumping with blood and throbbing against your sensitive flesh. he knows what he’s pressing against. you can feel the bump of his pelvic bone against your hips with each precise thrust as he relentlessly aims for your g-spot.

being with jean is a fucking sensory experience. the friction from the trail of hair below his navel. the constant flutter of his fingertips across your slick skin. heated breaths. washboard abs that pull taut with each ravenous connection of your sexes. full balls churning with his load that slap against your ass from the force of his hunger. he’s broad and firm and soft and everywhere and everywhere—

“shit, shit right there, baby. ‘s so good, you’re so good.” he can taste the sweetness from your mewling coating his tongue and sliding down to his stomach. the feel of your skin under his hands, god, he could swear you were made for him. moulded from divine clay, or made from his rib. that’s how the story goes, isn’t it?

as quickly as the foamy white ring of your cream forms around the base of his cock, it’s being washed down the drain under the constant stream of water. a waste, he thinks. there are so many possibilities when you cum. still, he can’t really focus on that now, the frayed rope in his stomach coiling tighter by the second, the blissful feeling of you reaching your high spurring him on to the peak of his own.

familiar fingers tug on the hairs at the base of his head, punching a serrated breath from his lungs and jean practically hauls you against him as thick spurts erupt from his twitching member.

adoration manoeuvres your bodies, afterwards. the careful combing of fingers through his tawny strands, melded together with clumps of dried clay. the smooth sweeping of suds over the peak of your chest. hushed apologies for the fingertip-bruises that pepper your hips, for the crescent scratches that decorate his nape and shoulders; we’re even, like you always are.

and when you finally crawl back into bed, dark streaks of lilac in the sky signalling an invitation for dawn, jean ponders the way you fit so perfectly against him. the way your back curves against his chest and his arms settle into the soft flesh of your bare stomach. he can barely feel your gap in his ribcage.

you drift off easily in his arms. peaceful, dreamless sleep beckoning you. when daybreak peeks through the cracks in the blinds, you smile at the feeling of jeans comforting weight firmly draped around you. you wriggle around to face him, one side of his face squished against the pillow and boyish serenity dousing his handsome features.

and in the virtuous light of the morning, you can’t help but think that he’s artwork.

#: @luvkun4 @sheluvzeren

#I USED THE WORD MEMBER DKSJDH #officially desensitised to that horrific vile word😞#aot x reader #jean x reader smut #jean x reader #jean x black reader #jean kirstein x reader smut #jean kirstein smut #jean kirstein x reader #aot smut #aot x reader smut #aot fluff #jean fluff #aot x black reader

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