#yeah kiss my entire ass cormac mccarthy

[tathrin]

#yeah kiss my entire ass cormac mccarthy What's up with Cormac Mccarthy? I've only seen some of the movies based on his books. Are his westerns hollow or something?

Ohhh ha ha ha so. This may not even be entirely his fault? I don't actually know enough about him and his writing to say for sure, because the one book of his that I did read filled me with so much rage that I would sooner set myself on fire than read another.

I was in college (art school, majoring in comic books) and I took all the writing classes that I could squeeze into my schedule because I love writing too (storytelling is where my heart lies, and I thought I would do that with pictures at first, but turns out I actually like writing prose more, oops). Well, my Creative Writing professor had clearly ended up at the wrong school somehow and was deeply frustrated about it — because let us just say that most of the kids at this school were not in my boat re: love of writing, and they only took classes like these because they needed a few non-art credits to graduate.

So the level of interest/talent he got out of his students was mediocre at best. (They weren't there to write, they were there to draw or sculpt or design. Of course 98% of them were half-assing or less their non-art classes.) So he was really excited to have someone who liked writing and was good at it and was excited to be there...!

But. he liked Literature. And only Literature. And I used the Capital L there on purpose, because he was one of those folks where you can just HEAR the sneer when he says "gen-re fic-tion," you know? Looked waaaaaay down his nose at all the stuff that I would consider actually good and interesting books in favor of Boring Person In Boring Life Does Boring Thing That Changes Nothing About Boring World, Wow What A Commentary On The Human Condition That Was! So Deep! Much Thought! etc type books.

(So you can see what I thought of the stuff he liked, too.)

So here I am, turning in all these stories with spaceships and witches and robots and shit and it's the best writing he's gotten from one of his students in years. He's thrilled! ...and so distressed because Why Won't I Write Real Stories? I could be Such A Great Writer if I would just get over my interest in this Genre Stuff! Woe! Alas! Weeping! etc. Someday I'll Grow Out Of It, Surely, Because I'm So Talented! All that jazz.

He wasn't a dick about it; he was actually a very nice fellow. We were COMPLETELY incompatible, but he was nice and so I tried to be nice in turn even as I gave my very honest opinions about all the boring-af shit he had us reading lmao.

So, I'm being A Good Sport about it every time he assigns his Boring-AF Projects where I'm not allowed to put in rayguns and magic swords and alien species and all the stuff that makes writing fun. But I still put in effort, and turn in good (if boring-af) pieces, and participate in class (and argue very politely for The Merits Of Genre Fiction), etc etc. He's delighted to have me, and I have no doubt that I was one of his favorite students ever, even though I had Shit Taste In Books. So he decides he's going to give me a treat! He's going to make our next assigned book a Genre Book! I'm going to be Delighted!

He assigns us Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I don't know if you've ever read it, but: don't. It was intolerable. Second-worst book I've ever read. It's a Post-Apocalypse story about some dude and his kid walking across the world to...idk. Walk? Be a Metaphor? I don't fucking know. Nobody has a name because That's Deep. And because we're being extra deep, we're going to Write Badly On Purpose because it symbolizes the Breakdown Of Society!

And by "written badly on purpose," I mean we're throwing out the entire concept of Writing So Your Shit Can Be Read By Human Eyes.

Apostrophes no longer exist! Commas hardly do either! Or sentences! Or quote marks! Or any form of useful punctuation whatsoever! Just a bunch of either fragments or endless run-ons trudging away into the abyss until you're ready to throw your soul down there with them just to fucking escape. Paragraph breaks only happen when a scene changes! Your eyes skitter-off the page as though it was coated with teflon, your energy sinking into a bleak grey misery that isn't even alert enough to qualify as despair. Every section leaves you a little less alive than before. This is drudgery, the very concept of dullness distilled into ink and printed out for all to read and suffer. I give you an except, but I don't suggest you actually read it because I'm not that cruel:

Oh my gods it was unreadable. I think my eyes actually bled. And to make it even more of a slog, it was clearly written by some dumb-fuck who'd never actually read any post-apocalyptic stories, and thought that he was Far Too Clever to need to do any actual research on the genre that he was "elevating" with his "literary style" or what-the-fuck-ever, because every character in it was so bum-fucking stupid that there was NO WAY any of them would have lived five minutes in an actual fucking wasteland. Also every single Wasteland Cliche that you can imagine, without a drop of originality or subversion or even lampshading or clever commentary or anything. It was all just...there. In the shallowest, blandest way possible.

(He also never actually defined or even hinted at What Happened, I presume because he was too dumb to figure out a backstory this was Literature and not Genre and thus Proper World Building Wasn't Necessary Because This Was A Metaphor Or Something idk fuck it. Like...sometimes there were gas-masks? but also people didn't need them? and there didn't seem to be radiation in a way that hurt anybody, but there also seemed to be Radiation Aesthetics going on...? It was just. so badly done.)

And our protagonists were SO stupidly incompetent. Just, complete idiocy, countered with Incredibly Convenient Random Happenstances (you would not believe how many Untouched But Easily Accessible Stashes Of Food these fuckers stumbled over oh my gods) to save their asses from their self-inflicted imminent death over and over and over again. An absolute travesty of a book, written in the worst fashion possible.

Needless to say, the essay I turned in on the book tore it about seven new ones. I SHREDDED it from first word to closing paragraph. Did not find one single redeeming or enjoyable thing about that clusterfuck of a "story" (and I use the term loosely) and I made sure everyone knew it. I wasn't shy about my opinion of the arrogant asshole who wrote it, either, and what I thought of the choices he'd made in writing that way, and the lack of talent and intelligence he'd demonstrated throughout.

My poor professor was devastated. He'd thought this would be my favorite book of the whole class! He picked it especially for me, as a treat! And I LOATHED it. (I hadn't realized it was supposed to be a gift to before I wrote the essay, or I probably would have been gentler in my disassembling of it. But I only discovered that when he handed the essay back. Poor man. I did feel a little bad about that. But oh my gods the book was horrible.)

So I have no idea what kind of author Cormac McCarthy is in general, or whether he's more tolerable (or even hypothetically enjoyable, I suppose) when he's writing whatever he does usually. This may be a complete outlier: an attempt to try something new (that failed abysmally) from a guy who normally writes Just Fine. I don't know! And I'm not interested in finding out, because to me he will always be the egotistical shithead who wrote the most spirit-draining, eye-torturing travesty of a book ever printed called The Road and he will not be forgiven for that crime.

#rants #i'm not tagging this with his name because i presume there must be people who actually do like his books because they keep selling somehow #and so i presume that whoever is in the cormac mccarthy tag doesn't want to read me shitting all over im so we'll just once again go with: #yeah kiss my entire ass cormac mccarthy #which frankly feels like the only tag i'll ever need to have on my blog for navigation purposes involving him tbh #least favorite books #me

[winterscaptain]

co-regulating.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: following balancing out, an anon asked about aaron and mom’s first time after her recovery, so here it is!! our first fic of 2021! and it’s smut. who’s surprised? not me!! i’m doing blog housekeeping this weekend, so let me know if you want to be on taglist!

words: 1.8k warnings: smut (p in v penetration, creampie, very soft, quite tame), mentions of canon-typical injury and recovery, language

summary: “scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” - cormac mccarthy, all the pretty horses. au!march 2021

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | requests closed!

You turn off the lights, crawl into bed, and slide under the covers, immediately rolling halfway onto Aaron and pulling his lips to yours. 

He makes a little surprised noise and takes the back of your head in his hand, his other arm wrapping around your lower back. You run your fingers up his abdomen under his shirt, finally landing with your palm over his racing heart. 

“Did you take your meds?” You whisper against his mouth. It wasn’t like him to forget, but his pulse had to be higher than a hundred. That might be alright for someone actively running a marathon, but for a fifty-two-year-old stabbing survivor with chronic health issues due to said stabbing it was less so. 

He laughs. “Really?” 

“Yeah, really. You’re fucking tachycardic.” 

He shakes his head and kisses your forehead. “That’s your fault. And yes, I did take my meds.” 

You hum. “Good.” 

“Any reason in particular you ask?” He’s still the picture of fond skepticism - eyebrows raised and a little smile curling at the corner of his mouth. 

You shrug. “Just got some clearances from physical therapy today.” 

“Oh?” 

“Mhmm.” Your hand slides down past the waistband of his sweats, palming his cock through the fabric. He hisses through his teeth, his hips tipping up, searching for more contact. 

His eyes flutter shut as you stroke him over his pants, your touch gentle and slow. He swallows thickly, his breath stuttering for a moment. “Are you allowed?”

“I have to take it easy,” you tell him. “But I’m allowed.” 

He reaches down for your thigh, brushing up to your ass, and he inhales again, sharp, when he realizes you’re wearing one of his shirts and one of his shirts only. You oblige him and shift to straddle him, settling down against him and circling your hips for just a little friction. 

Aaron’s fingers play with the hem and a little flash of anxiety jolts through your belly. He sees it in your face and lets go, dropping his hands to your hips. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You shake your head. “Just got nervous about the scarring. I’m fine.” 

Aaron tilts his head to the right, studying you. “Do you want to leave your shirt on? It’s okay if you do.” 

“I know.” You take a deep breath and remove your shirt, your ribs only pulling a little as you lift your arms over your head. “But I’m good.” 

Of course he’s seen you - he’s the one who dealt with your wound care when you got home - but this is the first real sex you’ve attempted since your injury. It’s silly to feel insecure, really. Aaron loves you from top to toe and you know it. He’s also got scars of his own, and you know they don’t impact the way you see him, but it’s new to you. 

Scary. 

Aaron’s hands slide up to your waist, his right thumb just brushing the angry, raised scar over your left side. You run your hands down his arms, coming to rest on his forearms. The pair of you just sit there for a moment, breathing together. 

Co-regulating. You remember. That’s what this is called. 

“Can I turn on the little light?” He asks. 

You nod, knowing he can see you. One of his hands leaves you and stretches, sliding the dimmer on the bedside lamp just bright enough that you can see each other, but not so bright that it’s harsh. 

His eyes soften as they wander from your hips, up your abdomen, and finally meet yours, watching him look at you. He wets his lips as he shamelessly checks you out and heat floods you from head to toe. You know he can feel it when you start to throb between your legs, your center pressed against his hardness. 

“There you are.” His hands slide up, reaching your chest, brushing over your nipples with his thumbs. “I missed you.” 

You smile, despite yourself. “Hi.” 

When you nod, he presses his hips up into you and you lift up, giving him space to slide his pajama pants down enough to free his cock. 

You settle back over him, grinding without letting him enter you as you slide against him. Bring a hand to the back of his head, winding your fingers in his hair while your other hand rests on his shoulder for balance. 

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” Aaron’s head tips back and gentle hands guide your hips back and forth, coating him in your arousal. His next words come through an almost-desperate gasp. “I missed you. God, I missed you.” 

There’s something in his voice that makes your breath catch, brings tears to your eyes. His eyes snap open and meet yours, his hands leaving your hips with fingers open and palms out. “Did I hurt you?” 

“No, no.” You shake your head. “I think this is what the kids call catharsis.” 

He laughs a little and sits up, kicking his pants all the way off and gingerly pulling both of you to the top of the bed so he can lean against the headboard and bring a leg up behind you. “C’mere, honey.” 

You melt into his chest, picking yourself up a little and slinging your arms around his shoulders. You feel his hand between you, guiding himself into you. 

You tense with a little hiss through your teeth, and he stills. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” You kiss his cheek. “Just gotta go slow.”

He presses his cheek to yours, his other hand brushing over your back. “Okay. At your pace, sweetheart.” 

You finally sink down with a deep breath, taking all of him. 

The hand that was between you slides up around your back, finding a place at the back of your neck and holding you close. Aaron barely moves, thrusting up into you just as far as he can without jostling you too much, taking all your weight on his hips while supporting you with his thigh. 

You take a shaky breath, the tightness in your throat hanging on until you let yourself cry into his shirt. Nothing hurts more than it should given your injuries, you’re not sad, but you missed him. 

“Are you alright?” He asks, pressing his lips to your shoulder. 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

He doesn’t say anything else. The hand on your hip begins to guide you so he can pull out further before sliding back in. You whimper. 

The feeling of him moving within you is achingly familiar; he feels more like an extension of your own body than a separate being. 

There’s no hurry, no rush, no aim in his movement. Neither one of you tries to get anywhere, preferring the proximity to anything else. You literally can’t get closer to him. When he bottoms out, you can feel the pleasure and pressure behind your cheekbones, in your aching ribs.

He’s a perfect fit. Always has been. 

You tuck your face impossibly further into his neck, your lips locked to his pulse point, as your tears subside. 

His heart rate has slowed significantly, beating steadily, without haste, under his skin. He wraps further around you, the hand on your hip crawling up your back to meet the other between your shoulders. 

He doesn’t mean to, but he crushes you a little to his chest and you flinch, your ribs twinging. 

Immediately, his hands disappear and he stills. You lean back and press your palms to his chest for stability, breathing as deeply as you can with your eyes squeezed shut until the pain passes. You open your eyes to Aaron’s concern, guilt coloring the lines around his eyes. 

Bringing your hands to his face, you rub the tension away with your thumbs. “I’m okay, love. Just a little gentler. It’s okay.” 

His eyes flutter shut, but you keep your eyes and hands on his face as you lift yourself again, feeling the intoxicating drag of him against your walls before you drop back down. He lets out the breath he was holding as he bottoms out again, his hands returning to your waist. 

You lean forward, your foreheads meeting and noses brushing. His hands drop to your hips, guiding them to that angle that always leaves you both wanting for air no matter the pace.

Without fail, you find it together and the ribbons of pleasure curl up your spine, unhurried and gentle. You let out a breathless moan and Aaron steals it from you, capturing your mouth. Deepening the kiss, you drop your hands from his face to the nape of his neck, your fingers winding into his hair. 

The pace never changes, remains slow and meandering, even as you both get closer to the edge. You almost don’t want to finish - didn’t think you would, really - but the pleasure nevertheless builds in your lower belly, your walls throbbing in time with your heart.

Aaron’s thumbs pass back and forth over your skin where they work your hips against him. 

You reach your peak first, his precision and consistency tipping your body into a rush of pleasure that takes your breath and your vision. Aaron never frees your mouth, swallowing your cries as they leave you. 

“Good, baby. Just want to make you feel good.” It’s a mumble as he finally wanders away from your lips, wandering down your jaw. 

His command of your body prolongs your orgasm, drawing it out to a constant dull hum that thrums through you. 

Aaron never falters for a second. You know he’s entirely focused on you, but he told you once that the focus only makes it better. The effect of your pleasure on him is clear when you open your eyes, even weighed down as they are by sensation. 

Aaron’s eyes are closed, his breath leaving him in time with his movement inside you, his mouth pressed into a thin line. You fall forward into him again and his arms wind around you, gentle and mindful. 

His orgasm seems to surprise him a little, his hips and breath stutter as he thrusts up and pulls you down by the hips, spilling deep into you with a short groan. You gasp at the pressure, the last dregs of your own orgasm fluttering through you with renewed purpose. 

The two of you continue to move against each other as you come down, your body feeling looser and almost without pain for the first time in three months. Aaron’s hands trace up your back, smoothing over your skin and setting it alight. He softens inside you, but doesn’t leave your heat. 

Aaron curls forward, pressing his lips to your collarbone and wandering down your chest. You let yourself tip back, supported by his hands, as he continues down your body until he reaches the new scar. His lips pass over it three or four times before you feel a firm, but gentle, kiss right over the center. 

He straightens, bringing a hand to your face. “I love you.” 

The words sound so simple in his mouth. They make you smile. 

“I love you, too.”

+++

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