#and how fiercely and unapologetically he loves | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ssa-dado · 27 days ago

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The Metaphysics of Love - SOS

Aaron Hotchner x fem!bau!reader Genre: fluffy fluff, sapiosexual fluff and - brace yourself - SOFT SMUT LET'S GO SPICY GOYALS!!! Summary: On a rare day off, you planned a quiet morning for Aaron's birthday. But he surprised you instead, taking over the kitchen revealing one of his hidden talents. Caught between banter and intimate teasing, you both savored the depth of your connection, blending banter and desire. One thing is certain though, luck is never by your side. Warnings: +18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, or at least do out of your parents' sight - SEX, ORAL SEX ALLUDED (fem receiving because we live in a patriarchal society, we deserve it), lots of dirty talk. Aaron 'how am I a whore' Hotchner, he's just a whore. Word Count: 8.8k Dado's Corner: So, this is the first remotely sexual thing I've ever written. I love reading some good ol' smut, but for some reason, I cringe a lot while writing it. It took me excruciatingly long. I don't know what I'm doing; I don't even know if it's any good or even half-decent - let me know? AAAAA I'm very insecure about this and on posting it eheheheh life is fun isn't it? Is it even smut? Who knows. I need theraphy after this.

masterlist

Greek philosopher Plato wrote, “If only there were a way to start a city or an army made up of lovers. Theirs would be the best possible system of society, for they would hold back from all that is shameful, and seek honor in each other’s eyes.”

On rare days off, there was one thing you allowed yourself unapologetically: to be entirely unproductive.

You took these days like a blessing, where sleeping in was less a luxury and more a necessity - a chance to let your mind drift, to refuse the call to be anything more than just here, in this restful solitude.

And when Aaron came over the night before, both of you embraced that same ritual.

It felt almost like a paradox that two people so fiercely devoted to the relentless precision of your work - two minds honed to confront humanity’s darkest edges, always willing to answer the call, no matter how ungodly the hour - could find such deep, sweet solace in those private mornings together.

Days when, for once, you weren’t bending yourselves to crises or sacrificing the next moment’s peace to duty.

You and Aaron, who could spend hours in a rare, intellectual love, a bond built on respect, shared virtues, and an admiration for the other’s mind, a connection that didn’t rely on words, but on understanding each other’s essence.

Yet when the door was closed and the world locked out, all that intellectual reverence between you replaced by something untamed, something driven by pure, aching desire.

The slide of his hands over you felt reverent yet urgent, mapping each line and curve as though rediscovering familiar territory for the first time.

Each kiss, each touch held the thrill of exploration, a deliberate pace that turned gentle caresses into an unspoken plea. The way he whispered your name, his breath hot against your ear, sending sparks down your spine as he drew you closer, as if he could never be close enough.

In that bed, the world ceased to exist, its demands fading into oblivion as you lost yourselves in each other’s bodies, moving and meeting in rhythm, a silent language spoken only between you.

You felt his every shift, every unhurried stroke, savoring the taste of his skin, his weight, the feel of his hand tangled in your hair.

Every time his hands began their journey over you, it was as if he were memorizing you anew, mapping each curve with a reverence that made every touch feel essential. The way his lips would trace a languid, heated path down your neck, over your collarbone, and linger to each of your breasts, then lower to your stomach – always precise, always teasing, always patient.

Each time, he would pause with that infuriating, electrifying smirk, glancing up at you just as his mouth left warm, wet trails along the delicate skin of your inner thigh, each mark a whispered claim, each gentle bite igniting a spark of wild, irrational hunger.

Then, he’d slow, letting his touch turn soft, his movements deliberate, every kiss a careful mark of possession as he inched closer, closer, until he hovered right where you burned for him most.

The warmth of his breath brushed against your skin, stirring an ache that felt endless - and yet he always held back, drawing out each second to a tantalizing, almost torturous eternity.

Time itself seemed to dissolve, stretched and redefined by his restraint, bending beneath his control until it became something ungraspable, a vast chasm of unfulfilled need. In that suspended tension, everything beyond the heat of his touch blurred and faded, the world reduced to the exquisite ache of his nearness.

Every nerve felt poised on the brink, strung tight between the agony of waiting and the edge of release. It was an ache that deepened with every restrained second, until every part of you ached for him to finally give in - to end the slow, maddening tease and take you over the edge you so desperately craved, to just let you combust.

Every time, you knew there was no getting out of that bed.

But today, you needed to try.

Today was Aaron’s birthday.

It was his tenth birthday as your partner.

His second as your boss.

His first as… your boyfriend.

The word still felt novel, strange to say aloud, as if acknowledging it might make it slip away. Months in, and it hadn’t yet lost its surreal sweetness. So, despite already knowing he would brush it off, you wanted this day to be special.

Not big, not loud, just enough to quietly tell him how much he meant to you.

And how much you loved him.

He had given up on his own birthdays long ago, weighed down by the memories of being called away, the guilt of leaving pieces of himself with every mile, the reason of the failure of his marriage, the strain of missing out on Jack’s moments he could never relive.

But you knew his aversion went even deeper than guilt and regret.

Because Aaron Hotchner, the man whose presence could command a room with a single look, who possessed a physical authority in his stature, his voice, and his steely gaze, was nothing like that in private.

In his job, he could pull strings in hidden places, command respect from even the most powerful, yet, in private, Aaron Hotchner was anything but the center.

He instinctively yielded that space to others, always giving, forever considering his own worth secondary to his duty. For him, the spotlight was an obligation, a necessity he wore well, but not one he sought.

He instead lived with an unshakable humility that, in his own mind, made him unworthy of the small graces most would take for granted.

He was the center for so many others, to let the world turn around him, even for a day, felt almost undeserved.

This was the man you loved.

The man who, in every part of his life, had chosen to orbit around others rather than himself.

But today, you wanted to change that.

If there was one battle you were determined to win, it was this one: slowly chipping away at Aaron’s stubborn sense of self-denial, proving to him that he deserved the care and quiet adoration he so freely gave everyone else.

You’d make it your mission, spoiling him however you could in those rare, fleeting moments he allowed.

Especially today.

Today, you wanted everything to be about him.

You wanted him to let you give him a birthday that revolved solely around him, a celebration in the purest sense of the word.

So, you concocted a plan.

One of your more mischievous fool-proof “evil” plans, as you’d call them.

You’d set your weekday alarm to go off at an ungodly hour, sacrificing your own precious sleep for a just cause. When the alarm blared, you’d pretend it was a simple mistake, and then, under the guise of getting some water, slip out of bed.

Now, Aaron, being Aaron, would try to keep his eyes open, struggling to wait for you to come back to bed, but you were betting on his recent run of sleepless nights to wear him down. He’d have no choice but to let sleep drag him back under.

And while he slept, you’d slip into the kitchen to bake him a birthday cake, filling the apartment with the warm, sugary smell of freshly baked sweets.

But not just any sweets - because Aaron’s idea of a “sweet tooth” was as delightfully twisted as the man himself.

He liked desserts that weren’t cloying, desserts that had just the right balance of sugar and subtlety. You’d stocked up on his favorite ingredients earlier in the week, quietly stashing them away like a stealthy confectionary hoarder.

You wanted the process to take time, to show him that he was worth the hours of sacrificed sleep, that he was worth the care poured into each meticulous step.

Call it love.

You could picture it perfectly, or at least you thought you could: the early morning quiet, just you in your cozy sanctuary, stealing away precious minutes of peace to bake for the one person who had come to mean more to you than anyone else in the world.

You’d sneak out of bed and create something special, something full of quiet love. That was the plan, the picture you’d carefully composed in your mind.

But reality had other plans.

Because, instead, you woke up alone, which wouldn’t have been unusual months ago, back when solitude was your morning routine. But lately, you’d grown a little too used to waking up next to Aaron, finding him there in those rare, lazy mornings, seeing his face softened by sleep.

So, yes, waking up without him startled you.

And that wasn’t the strangest part.

But what truly threw you off was the unfamiliar noise that filled your apartment – the sounds foreign and unexpected, loud and unmistakably upbeat.

Music.

Not just any music, but the kind that seemed plucked from a pop radio station’s Top 30 - those catchy, bubblegum-sweet songs that played over and over, each one sounding like a new but familiar hit. You recognized the song immediately, a few of its lyrics sneaking into your consciousness.

“Romeo, take me somewhere we can be alone…”

The music filled the entire space, and the distinct melody grew louder as you slowly pulled yourself out of bed. You quickly washed up, threw on Aaron’s shirt - somehow conveniently draped over the chair beside your bed from last night - and crept toward the source, trying to make sense of the scene awaiting you.

The closer you got, the louder the music became, and as you moved down the hall, another noise reached your ears. A full octave lower, slightly offbeat tune, blending into the chorus.

You stopped.

This new melody was unmistakable - a deep, familiar voice humming along.

You rounded the corner, holding your breath as you peeked around the door frame, and there he was: standing at the counter, 6’2” of pure FBI stoicism, humming and even softly singing along to Taylor Swift’s “Love Story” as he flipped pancakes, completely absorbed, almost…at peace.

Aaron, your Aaron, was singing.

And he was singing on key, to a Taylor Swift song, of all things.

This was Aaron “blues and classic rock” Hotchner, the man who’d first revealed he could play the guitar with quiet pride, a piece of his world he’d shown you like an offering.

This was the man who once played you a perfect riff from Eric Clapton’s “Layla” to win a bet, who could talk about the origins of every Beatles riff and knew exactly which blues chord matched which heartbreak.

You’d seen him pour himself into those riffs and solos, even negotiate an occasional strum in exchange for something even as stupid as a kiss or him asking you to sing along. That was thrilling enough, it was something special he shared with you, revealing his private passion for music.

You’d always thought he kept his own voice hidden somewhere deep.

You’d gone a decade without hearing it and almost expected never to, half-convinced he didn’t even know how to sing. If he did, it was probably as flat as his deadpan humor.

Yet here he was, in his element - or maybe in your element - singing along, his voice low and smooth, threading into the melody as if he’d been doing it all his life.

He wasn’t putting on a show, no spoon-as-microphone dramatics, no fake dance moves. Just the smallest tilt of his head in time with the music, his voice like his presence - restrained, yet always intentional. It was almost as if he was singing to keep himself company, like he’d done this a hundred times over, alone.

It was strange, maybe surreal, to see Aaron singing the words to one of the most unabashedly sentimental pop songs, lyrics he’d usually flip the station over without a second thought.

But what truly was more shocking - was the calm, almost methodical way he sang. It wasn’t the typical poppy, upbeat rendition, he was deliberately bending the melody, drawing out the notes, giving it a weight and richness that felt… sincere.

Even thoughtful.

“Romeo, save me,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, layering over the lyrics with that warm, low cadence that made you feel he was singing a ballad rather than a radio hit. “I’ve been feeling so alone” The lower octave turning the song into something more heartfelt, the kind of warmth you’d find in an old love song.

You barely dared to breathe, your hand resting on the doorframe as you took in the scene, each step bringing you closer, yet you stood still, just watching him.

There he was, perfectly at home in your kitchen, flipping pancakes in time with the song, a bowl of batter at his side, and those neatly diced apples - your apples, the ones you’d hidden for the cake, already sliced and ready on the counter.

He moved with this calm certainty, like he knew exactly where every spoon and skillet was, as if he’d done this a hundred times before, like this was his kitchen, his place.

And watching him, the weight of it settled over you, soft and unassuming, like it had always been there, only waiting for you to notice.

You wanted to see this every morning.

This sight - him in your kitchen, in your space, humming along to a cheesy love song.

You could already imagine so many more mornings just like this - waking up to the quiet sounds of him in the kitchen, maybe later to the faint patter of little feet, to quiet laughter, to moments of warmth and ease you hadn’t dared to let yourself picture.

Right there, it hit you, the thought rising naturally, with the same certainty as breathing: you wanted to marry Aaron Hotchner.

You wanted this morning, and every morning, and every rare, precious moment he’d allow you to share, for the rest of your lives.

It was so startling, it almost scared you - the sheer weight and clarity of it, something you’d never even let yourself imagine until now.

And as if he could read your mind, he sang on, unwittingly echoing the thought you’d just had, the words falling from his lips with this surprising tenderness, so soft you barely heard it over the sizzling pan,

"He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring…”

And in perfect time with the lyrics, he turned, reaching for something on the counter. His gaze met yours, and he froze, his eyes going wide.

Caught.

Caught like he was a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, his cheeks tinged pink as he stammered, “It’s… catchy.”

You couldn’t even form a coherent reply. All you managed to say, a little dazed, was, “Last time I checked, this was my kitchen.” It seemed only fair to mention, because he looked entirely too comfortable, like he belonged there. Which, of course, he did.

Without missing a beat, he smirked, still flushed. “Last time I checked, that was my shirt.” There was a glint of humor in his eye as he nodded at the oversized button-up you were wrapped in.

Touché.

But you couldn’t let him off so easily.

“So, Hotchner’s finally embraced pop?” you teased, moving closer. He gave you a look that was half-fond, half-exasperated.

“Are you going to tell the team?” he asked, lips twitching in a barely suppressed smile.

“Oh, you mean that you know the lyrics to Love Story by heart?” You reached for a piece of apple, savoring the sweetness, both of the fruit and the moment.

He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms in a way that was both effortlessly intimidating and disarmingly charming. "And how exactly are you going to tell them?" he countered, his voice low and amused. "Considering we’re still keeping this whole thing," he gestured between the two of you, "a secret?"

You arched an eyebrow at him, a smirk dancing at the corner of your lips. “Oh, don’t worry, I’d find a way to tell them. Especially after finding my plan completely sabotaged.” You gestured toward the crime scene he’d made of your countertop, the diced apples mixed with flour dust and cinnamon smears, reaching out to pick up a perfectly diced slice. “What kind of monster butchers my last apple?”

Aaron chuckled, crossing his arms in that familiar way that made him look both effortlessly intimidating and disarmingly charming. “Well, I got here first, so I have dibs on breakfast duties,” he said, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he leaned in just a bit closer.

“Admit it, you’re just miserable that I’ve now beaten you not only to the office every morning but also in your very own kitchen.” With a playful smirk, he reached out, fingers grazing yours as he took the slice of apple from your hand, popping it into his mouth.

Your hand instinctively reached up, brushing a stray smear of flour from his cheek, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, your fingers lingered against his skin, warm beneath your touch, your thumb brushing over the roughness of his stubble. “Believe me, Aaron,” you murmured, your voice softening, “I’m hardly miserable. But if there was ever a day for you to be spoiled, it’s today.”

A subtle shift crossed his face, he tried to play it off with a shrug, but you caught the way his eyes softened. “Since when are Sundays such a big deal?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper.

You smiled, your voice dropping just as low. “Since a certain FBI Unit Chief turned 43 today.”

He paused, something deeper flickering across his face, gratitude, maybe even a hint of wonder. But his lips curled into a small smile as he teased, “So you’re saying you’re obsessed with me? Is that why today’s circled on the calendar?”

You laughed softly, leaning in until the warmth between you was almost overwhelming. “Maybe I’m just a thorough planner,” you murmured, unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. “Not that you’d know anything about that, Mister Show-Up-Unannounced-To-Ruin-Everything.”

His chuckle was low, rich, and his hand slid from the counter to your waist, pulling you closer, his thumb traced small, warm circles just above your hip, sending a thrill through you that made your pulse quicken. “Oh, so I’m the one to blame now?”

His forehead pressed against yours, his lips only inches away, his voice a warm murmur that made your breath catch. “I thought I’d get some credit. I put my heart into this, you know.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing gently along the nape of his neck as you closed the space between you. “Maybe a little credit,” you whispered softly in his good ear, your voice low and warm,

“But only if those pancakes are as good as the cake I was going to make for you.” You leaned back just enough to see your reflection in his light chestnut eyes. "Happy birthday, Aaron. I love you."

Six words, and that’s all it took.

Six words and the universe seemed to gather itself, suspended in a moment that transcended language itself.

It was a truth so elemental, it resisted adornment, a declaration distilled to its essence, timeless and immutable.

An affirmation that existed beyond expectation, a vow as ancient and constant as the stars themselves.

There is a metaphysics to love, you realized - it stands outside the linear bounds of time, touches the eternal.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice serious thick with emotion, “I love you, too.”

As he leaned in, his lips met yours with a tenderness that felt timeless, like the merging of two notes in perfect harmony. The kiss was neither hurried nor tentative - it lingered, unbound by time, a communion in which words would only lessen its meaning.

It was as if the essence of all things - of breath, heartbeats, even thought - collapsed into a single, quiet rhythm, a pulse shared between the two of you, steady and enduring.

His hand on the small of your back was grounding, tethering you to the warmth and certainty of his presence, yet it held the weight of something deeper, an invitation to transcend the ordinary, into a realm that felt almost timeless.

His fingers traced gentle paths along your spine, each motion a quiet pledge, a reminder that this moment - this suspended eternity - was as real as anything either of you had ever known.

There was something purely metaphysical about it, a union that philosophy itself would struggle to pin down, though it tried - oh, how it tried!

There were passages in Aristotle, in Plato, that hinted at this feeling, words that beckoned yet somehow fell short of translating this precise depth, this shared infinity.

How perfectly absurd, yet fitting, that the ancient words you’d studied your whole life only now truly resonated, here, in his arms.

It was probably a blessing that he couldn’t read your mind, or he’d surely tease you mercilessly, forever, about finding existential truths in the simplicity of a kiss.

Yet philosophy was the only thing that could try to capture even a fraction of what he made you feel. You would have likely confessed that, at this very moment, he seemed to hold all the secrets of the universe in the softness of his gaze, in the press of his hand.

If he knew, you could already hear him laughing, promising with that faint smirk to remind you every day for the rest of his life: ‘that you were the one waxing poetic, hopelessly undone by his touch.’

But perhaps you’d take that trade-off, if it meant he’d keep looking at you just like this.

Or maybe he already suspected, because as he pulled back slightly, that familiar sparkle was in his eyes. His voice dropped to that low, warm timbre that always seemed to melt you. “You know, I’m the luckiest guy in the world having you as my girlfriend,” he murmured.

You felt your cheeks grow warm, a reaction you couldn’t seem to help, especially when he was the one reminding you of that fact.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying your blush. “I love how you keep doing that every time I call you my girlfriend,” he said, savoring each word, his grin only widening.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?” you nudged him playfully, pulling away just long enough to pour yourself a glass of water.

He leaned against the counter, eyes sparkling with a playful glint. “Maybe. It’s the little pleasures in life, you know?” He paused, and you caught the mischievous edge to his voice. “Like watching that blush climb all the way down your neck every time I’m close to you.”

You took a sip of water, trying to keep your cool, but he leaned even closer, his lips just a breath away from your ear. “And I can think of a few more ways to keep you flushed like that,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a sultry murmur.

You nearly choked, sputtering as you looked up at him with a mock glare. “If you say one more word, Aaron Hotchner, I swear I’m dumping this entire glass of water on you.” you warned, pointing to the water for emphasis.

But he didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he raised a playful brow, his smirk only deepening. “Now, that’d just give me an excuse to get closer to you. Which, I’d say, isn’t a bad way to spend my birthday.” He paused, eyes trailing over you in a way that sent warmth radiating from your cheeks down to your very core. “Or… maybe you’d rather see me get out of this shirt? I mean, it’s your call, sweetheart.”

The room suddenly felt too warm, and from the glint in his eyes, you knew he could see how thoroughly flustered you were. You searched for a comeback, determined to give him a taste of his own medicine.

But the words caught in your throat, entirely out of reach, and he noticed - of course he noticed. His grin widened as he leaned back, folding his arms, looking smug and entirely too pleased with himself.

“What’s the matter, Professor?” he continued, a grin playing on his lips. “Don’t tell me the great philosopher herself is speechless?” His voice dropped even lower “No ancient texts to rescue you from this one?”

The challenge in his eyes held you captive, and you knew there was no witty comeback that could save you from the truth: he had completely undone you.

But you managed to pull yourself together just enough to respond, leaning forward as you raised your chin with a defiant smile.

But he didn’t budge, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, infuriating confidence. “Oh, I think I’ll stay right here. Watching you like this?” His smirk grew wider. “This is the best birthday gift I could ask for.”

You raised an eyebrow, refusing to back down, and turned to the fridge, grabbing a cold bottle of water and holding it up with a knowing look. “You know,” you said, a mischievous smile playing on your lips, “there’s a whole bottle of ice-cold water here. Just waiting to be used.”

He chuckled, unfazed, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Judging from that blush,” he murmured, stepping closer, “I think you’re the one who could use the cold water.” He leaned in, his voice a low, seductive whisper. “Or do you want to bet I’ve already got you wet down there?”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your lips as you took a small step back, pretending to consider his words. “Oh, you’re bold today, aren’t you?” you teased, uncapping the water bottle and tilting it slightly in his direction. “I wouldn’t test me, Hotchner.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied smoothly, though his gaze stayed fixed on you, steady and full of challenge. “But I’d love to see what you’d actually do with that water,” he added, crossing his arms and leaning back with a smirk. “Go on, show me.”

You lifted the bottle just enough to let a single drop slip down, watching as it slid down the bottle’s edge, intentionally drawing it out. “You sure about that?” you asked, your tone daring. “Because once I start, there’s no going back.”

He grinned, holding his ground, eyes dancing with intrigue. “Try me,” he whispered, his voice rough, daring you, his gaze locked on yours.

With a smirk, you tilted the bottle in one swift motion, letting a stream of cold water pour down his neck, catching him completely off-guard. The shock in his eyes was priceless as he gasped, shivering as the icy water spilled over his collar and down his chest, soaking into the fabric of his shirt and clinging to his skin.

You watched, heart pounding, as rivulets of water dripped from his hair, tracing paths down his jaw and across the hollow of his throat.

His breath came shallow, and for a brief moment, he just stared at you, his eyes dark with a mixture of surprise and something else - a heat that went far beyond the playful spark in his gaze moments before.

Slowly, he brushed his fingers through his wet hair, sending droplets flying as he shook his head in mock surrender, chuckling under his breath. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice low and rich, “I’ll give you that one.”

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours, the water still trickling down his neck, clinging to his skin. “But you do realize,” he said softly, a glint of challenge and mischief in his eyes, “now it’s my turn.”

Your fingers threaded into his damp hair, tugging him closer as you pressed your body against his, deepening the kiss with a need that went beyond words.

His mouth moved over yours, hot and unyielding, each kiss more consuming than the last, igniting a fire that pulsed through every inch of you. You let out a soft moan as his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you against him, until the lines between where he ended and you began were blurred.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted you with ease, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as you steadied yourself, your legs tightening around his waist. He walked with purpose, each step deliberate as he moved you away from the puddle on the floor.

Reaching the counter, he set you down, his hands sliding to your hips to keep you anchored to him. You pulled him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist, feeling his hard bulge pressing against you, right between your legs, sending an excruciating wave of heat that made you ache with need of wanting every inch of him.

His lips trailed down to your neck, finding that sensitive spot that made you gasp, arching your back and tilting your hips against him in response, desperate for more contact through all those unnecessary layers of clothes.

That made him chuckle against your skin, his breath warm and teasing as he pressed his hips forward, letting you feel more of him. His hands roamed over your body, one slipping down between your thighs, his fingers sliding over the fabric of your clothes to press gently against your folds. You let out a shuddering breath as he teased you, feeling your arousal seep through the fabric under his touch.

“Shit Aaron,” you whispered furrowing your brows, the sound escaping as a mix of plea and need. He let out a low, satisfied sigh, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes along your folds, applying just enough pressure to leave you breathless.

"Told you needed that cold water too," he murmured, his voice rough and dark with desire as his fingers continued their slow, teasing movements, each touch lingering longer than the last, setting every nerve in your body on fire. "You’re so wet, love."

His lips found yours again, his kiss searing and consuming, swallowing the soft gasps that escaped you as his hand worked in a steady rhythm that left you trembling, every touch building the ache that spread through you.

Your hands found the hem of his soaked shirt, unable to resist the need to feel more of him. You gripped the fabric, slowly peeling it up over his torso, your fingers tracing over every defined line of his abdomen and chest as the shirt lifted, clinging to his skin, heavier from the water.

He shuddered at your touch, his muscles taut under your fingertips, and his breathing hitched as you struggled to work the fabric up over his shoulders. With a quick, impatient movement, he pulled it the rest of the way off, tossing it carelessly to the floor, where it landed with a wet, heavy thud.

The unexpected sound made you both pause, sharing a breathless, shared chuckle that broke the intensity for only a moment.

Then his gaze met yours, dark and blazing with an almost unrestrained hunger. His pupils were blown wide, breaths shallow and quick, matching your own.

The charged silence between you was almost unbearable, every second weighted with anticipation " Let's cut this shit and just fuck me, Aaron," you said firmly locking eyes with him, your tone was thick with need.

"So eloquent," he replied, his voice so low that it made you even more wet than you already were.

"If you don’t have me quoting Plato," you breathed, voice unsteady, “then it means you’re doing it a good job."

He let out a low, throaty chuckle. "Trust me, that's the last thing I want to hear right now."

False. But he wasn’t about to let you know that just yet.

Keeping his gaze fixed on yours, he dipped down slowly, his hands sliding up your thighs, his grip firm yet gentle, holding you open in a way that left no room for resistance and filled you with a breathless anticipation.

His lips brushed softly over your knee, then trailed upward in maddeningly slow, deliberate kisses along your inner thigh. Each touch of his mouth felt like a spark on your skin, the heat pooling within you growing with every inch he covered.

The roughness of his stubble scraped deliciously over your sensitive skin, heightening the sensation and leaving you craving more with every slow, deliberate movement.

“I could stay here all morning,” he murmured, his voice thick and rough, lips lingering at that spot on your inner thigh that made your head spin. “Fuck, your thighs drive me crazy.” He sucked gently at the sensitive skin, and a dizzying wave of warmth coursed through you, making you clutch the edge of the counter beneath you.

“You sound so much better when you’re talking between my legs,” you managed, your voice a whisper. “Almost makes me want to actually listen to what you’re saying.”

A smirk played on his lips as he moved inward with torturous slowness, each kiss deeper and more lingering than the last, his mouth exploring every inch with an intensity that only stoked the fire inside you. “Can’t wait to eat you out,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low rumble that made you shiver. “You always taste so damn sweet.”

Just hearing him made your cheeks flush, heat spreading across your skin, and he looked up briefly, catching the blush on your face.

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your thigh, the vibration sending a shiver through your entire body. “There it is,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your skin as if savoring every reaction, “and I’m not even close.”

“Fuck you Aaron,” you muttered, rolling your eyes at the nerve he had, but unable to mask the need building inside you.

“Just give me a few minutes,” he whispered, a wicked smile tugging at his lips, “and you won’t be able to say a word.” Without giving you time to respond, he moved his hand, his fingers brushing over your throbbing, clothed core, drawing a soft, needy moan from you.

“Oh, Aaron,” you gasped, the words spilling from your lips as the warmth of his touch sent a shock of pleasure through you.

“Better, but next time just say my name”, he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction as his mouth continued to explore every sensitive spot, each kiss igniting fresh waves of desire.

He savored every second, each shiver, each breathless sound you made, keeping you on edge and drawing out your need until you were trembling with anticipation, every nerve alive and straining toward him, aching for the moment he’d finally close that last, agonizing bit of distance.

A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips as his mouth reached the very end of your inner thigh, lingering there with maddening intent before, with one swift motion, he slipped his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and discarded them, leaving you exposed to the cool air that instantly sent a shiver down your spine.

Your hand flew to his, squeezing his left hand resting on your thigh, seeking an anchor amidst the building tension. He intertwined his fingers with yours, holding you there, his grip firm and grounding.

What a gentleman.

As he moved closer to where you ached for him most, the warmth of his breath contrasted with the coolness of the air, sending another wave of heat pooling low in your belly.

Your skin was hypersensitive, every inch of you on edge, the cool air brushing against your slick, exposed core making you tremble with need. You could feel yourself wet, the evidence of your desire trailing down, and he noticed, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he took in every reaction.

Slowly, he leaned in, and just when you thought you couldn’t bear the wait, he let out a soft, cool breath against your sensitive center, the contrast making you gasp, your hips instinctively arching toward him.

The sensation was electric, his teasing touch only building the tension to a fever pitch, leaving you breathless and desperate, every nerve alive, craving his next move.

Every inch of you ached for him, and the faint chill of his breath against your heated skin only made you more sensitive, heightening every sensation as you waited, breathless, desperate, for the moment he’d finally close the distance and give you the relief you craved.

And just as you felt yourself entirely lost in the moment, fully immersed in his touch, your phone rang – your work phone.

Aaron, sensing the urgency of your vibrating work phone, let out a reluctant sigh and leaned down, resting his head between your legs for a lingering moment before handing the phone to you.

His hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze before he straightened up and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. He knew it had to be important if you were getting called on your day off - especially since your last case had barely wrapped up a day ago.

With a sigh, you brought the phone to your ear, feeling Aaron’s hand slide down to rest on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles over your skin. “Agent Y/L/N,” you answered, keeping your tone professional despite the unmistakable warmth of Aaron’s presence beside you.

The voice on the other end chirped brightly. “Oh, don’t worry, Teach, this isn’t a case.” It was Garcia, her usual exuberance coming through, immediately putting you at ease.

Aaron’s head shot up, his expression sharpening as he registered Garcia’s voice on the line. His unit chief instincts kicked in immediately, a hint of concern flickering across his face - he knew as well as you did that Garcia wasn’t supposed to make personal calls to your work phone.

His gaze shifted to meet yours, silently questioning, his eyes searching for an explanation.

But you quickly gave him a reassuring nod, your eyes conveying, ‘It’s fine. Just Garcia being Garcia.’

He studied you for a moment, then sighed, the tension easing from his face as he accepted your silent assurance. She was his favorite on the team, after all – you knew he’d let this slide simply because it was her, and only her.

His tense posture softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he relaxed. But his hand stayed firmly on your leg, his thumb moving in soothing circles, silently grounding you as you continued the call.

“So… what’s up?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

“Well, I’m just outside your door!” Garcia chirped, and you froze, a sense of dread pooling in your stomach. “I came by to return that umbrella you lent me! And as an apology for taking so long, I brought homemade cookies! But not just any cookies - these are made with your recipe. I had to know your secret, oh wise cookie guru.”

You exchanged a panicked look with Aaron, who widened his eyes, clearly just as surprised as you were. He raised his eyebrows in disbelief, mouthing, ‘What?’

The kitchen was a disaster - a puddle of water glistened a few feet away from where you were, his shirt and your discarded underwear lay crumpled on the floor, and a forgotten stack of pancakes sat on the opposite counters, cold and untouched.

You tried to focus, clearing your throat. “Did you, um, brown the butter?” you asked, forcing a normal tone as Aaron’s lips returned to your cheek, planting feather-light kisses along your jawline. You brought your hand up to his chest, gently pressing to stop him just before he reached your neck.

If he kept going, there was no way you’d keep quiet.

“Oh, obviously, I browned the butter! Gourmet tip of the year, right?” she replied with dramatic flair. “But seriously, why haven’t you opened the door yet? Don’t tell me you’re still in bed!”

“Oh, Penelope, uh,” you hesitated, your voice wavering as you shot Aaron a helpless look. He simply leaned back, crossing his arms with an amused grin, watching you squirm. “I’m… uh… a little tied up right now.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then she gasped, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Teach,” she said, drawing out the word as if savoring it. “Did you get laid?”

Your eyes widened, heat creeping up your cheeks, and you avoided Aaron’s gaze. “I, uh…” you stammered, glancing at Aaron, who raised both eyebrows, clearly entertained by the direction the conversation was going. ‘Lost for words, again?’ he mouthed, with a smirk.

“Oh my God!” Garcia squealed. “Spill! Where did you meet them? Was it romantic, thrilling, a slow-burn kind of thing?”

Thinking quickly, you stammered, “Uh… met him at the supermarket, actually.” You glanced over at Aaron, who was watching you with a barely contained grin.

“The supermarket?” Garcia’s tone was incredulous, then turned approving. “Well, look at you, turning errands into escapades! What was it about him? I mean, Teach, this is you we’re talking about, and you have that five-date rule before you even consider any ‘extracurriculars’!”

Aaron barely held back a laugh, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He mouthed, ‘Five dates?’ with an exaggerated look of mock surprise, clearly referencing the fact that it had taken you much fewer than five dates to get there with him.

Grabbing a pen and sticky note from the counter, you quickly scribbled, *It took us ten years, I think we waited enough.*

He read it, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous grin that seemed to say, “Still a win.” He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, and you rolled your eyes, fighting back a smile.

“So?” Garcia’s voice came through again, jolting you back. “What made him so special?”

You cleared your throat, keeping your answer vague. “He was… just nice. Nothing too remarkable. We just clicked.”

Garcia paused, as if processing that. “Clicked, huh? Not the most exciting answer, but I guess it’s better than nothing.” Her voice lowered conspiratorially, “Well, Teach, between you and me - how was it?”

You blinked, struggling to keep your composure. You knew answering in detail would only encourage her. Shooting Aaron a quick, apologetic look, you took a deep breath and answered, trying to be as nonchalant as possible “Honestly? Not memorable.”

Aaron’s eyebrows shot up, a look of playful offense crossing his face. You grabbed the pen again, quickly scribbling, ‘She’d have asked for specifics. It was the only way to end it.’

But Aaron wasn’t letting it slide.

He smirked, taking the pen from you and jotting, “If I were you, I’d start writing your incident report now.”

You mouthed a playful “Come on, Aaron,” but he didn’t relent, writing again, ‘You won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you. Trust me on that.’ His eyes gleamed with a mixture of humor and something darker, and he added, ‘Consider it a favor to your Unit Chief.’

The moment he pulled rank - even in jest - you knew he wasn’t kidding. A thrill shot through you, as, you realized: oh, you were fucked.

Meanwhile, Garcia was still on the line, sympathy dripping from her voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Teach. I hope the next one is better! But hey love, you’re a catch, you’ll have a line of suitors soon enough.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, grinning as he traced lazy circles along your arm, clearly entertained and waiting to see how you’d handle the situation. Just as you were about to breathe a sigh of relief, thinking the conversation with Garcia might finally be wrapping up, she added, “But one last thing… how big was he?”

Your eyes flew to Aaron, who pressed his lips together, struggling to keep from laughing outright. His brows lifted, an expectant glint in his eyes as he waited to see how you’d handle this new level of interrogation.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh, hiding your face behind your hand for a second before answering.

“Oh, Penelope,” you began, doing your best to keep your voice steady as Aaron’s expression practically sparkled with mischief. “Size… let’s just say he was… more than enough.”

You gave Aaron a pointed look, as if to say, ‘Happy now?’

Aaron raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in his eye, and picked up the pen to scrawl on a sticky note, “At least you said something true this time.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms with a smirk and that unmistakable, self-satisfied gleam that only made him more infuriatingly irresistible.

You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to wipe that smug grin off his face. He was lucky you loved him, even when he was this cocky.

Garcia hummed, clearly intrigued. “Alright, alright, keep your secrets! But I’ll be needing a coffee date soon to get all the details. And I’ll make sure to bring a tape measure!”

Aaron’s smirk only widened, thoroughly enjoying every second of your discomfort. Determined to take back some control, you grabbed the pen, furiously scribbling, “If you don’t stop smirking, I’ll make you wait a week.”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly unfazed, and took the pen, writing back with a smug confidence, “I don’t think you’d last a week.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement as he leaned in close, his mouth brushing your ear. “In fact,” he whispered, voice low and challenging, “I’d bet you’d be begging in less than a minute.”

Just as he pulled back, you caught yourself, remembering Garcia was still on the line. You shook yourself out of the daze he’d left you in, quickly bringing the phone back up. “Thanks, Pen. I’ll, uh, catch up with you later. I’ve got a bit of a… mess here to handle.”

“Ohhh, say no more,” she replied with a knowing giggle. “Go handle your ‘mess,’ teach! I’ll swing by later to drop off the cookies.”

“Sure thing,” you replied, hoping to end the call before anything else slipped. “Talk soon!”

Finally, she hung up, and you let out a sigh of relief as you placed the phone back on the counter.

Before you could even process the call, Aaron wrapped his arms around you, pulling you back toward him. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss along your jaw, trailing slowly down to the sensitive spot on your neck, his touch igniting that spark of need all over again.

“‘Not memorable,’ huh?” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed his lips along your collarbone, his voice thick with amusement and challenge. “Guess I’ll have to change that.”

You smirked, threading your fingers through his hair, giving it a gentle tug as you met his gaze, your eyes gleaming. “Consider it a challenge,” you whispered, voice heavy with anticipation.

“Oh, I intend to,” he replied, his voice low and filled with a promise that sent a thrill through you. His hands slipped down to your waist, gripping firmly as he lifted you effortlessly back onto the counter.

His fingers traced along your thighs, pulling you close until there was no space left between you, his warmth flooding over you as he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was anything but forgettable.

The intensity of his lips left you breathless, his mouth moving with a need that always made you ache for him.

But just as you were melting into the kiss, he pulled back abruptly, leaving you gasping.

Without a word, he turned and walked toward the entry room where he’d left his briefcase the night prior.

You sat there, still dazed, watching as he rummaged through it with purpose. When he returned, he handed you a piece of paper and a pen, his smirk widening as you looked down and realized he’d handed you an incident report form.

You laughed, shaking your head in disbelief. “An incident report, really?”

He grinned, his hands settling on your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You file this,” he said, voice rich with amusement, “and in the meantime, I’ll clean up this kitchen disaster we made. How’s that sound?”

“You’re serious about this?” you asked, trying to keep a straight face as his fingers slid teasingly up and down your sides, his touch setting your skin on fire even through the fabric.

He leaned close, his voice a husky whisper against your ear. “Think of it as a precaution,” he murmured, his breath tickling your skin. “Can’t have you running to HR with ‘not memorable’ complaints, now can we?”

You arched an eyebrow, glancing at the cold pile of pancakes beside you. “Fine. But if I’m filing paperwork, I’m at least entitled to a last meal,” you teased, reaching for one of the now slightly stale pancakes.

He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, his fingers brushing along your jaw as he looked at you with mock sincerity. “Of course. I’m not heartless,” he said, sliding a hand possessively down your thigh. “Wouldn’t want you complaining that I wasted your ‘last apple.’”

You rolled your eyes, grinning as you took a bite, savoring the taste with exaggerated satisfaction just to get a rise out of him.

As you took a bite, he leaned in, his lips trailing a slow, heated path down your neck, each kiss sending sparks across your skin. “Finish up,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and filled with promise. “You’re going to need a lot of energy later.”

You smirked, picking up a pancake and handing it to him. “I think you’re the one who’ll need it more,” you teased, eyes glinting. “Wouldn’t want you throwing out your back, old man.”

He raised an eyebrow, biting into the pancake you offered, then leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Old man?” he echoed, his tone low and challenging. “We’ll see who’s begging for mercy first.”

You chuckled, unfazed. “Just looking out for you,” you replied innocently. “Can’t have my Unit Chief all sore and out of commission, can I?”

He chuckled, his fingers tightening around your waist. “Sweetheart, by the time I’m through with you, the only thing you’ll be looking out for is a place to catch your breath.”

“Oh?” You leaned in, eyes dancing with mischief. “Big talk. Hope you’re not all bark and no bite.”

He tilted your chin up, his gaze darkening as he smirked. “Oh, you’ll feel the bite.” His lips brushed over yours, slow and teasing. “And trust me,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, “I’ve got more than enough stamina to keep you… occupied.”

You grinned, meeting his dark gaze with a defiant spark in your eyes. “More than enough stamina? Now that’s a bold claim,” you murmured, your voice laced with playful challenge. “But, if you’re looking to impress, I’d expect nothing less than an all-night performance. Think you can handle that?”

His smirk grew as his hands slid up your sides, pulling you even closer. “Oh, I’m not just handling it, I’m guaranteeing it,” he replied, his voice a low, rumbling promise. He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, just close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath. “In fact, sweetheart, I don’t plan on letting you sleep at all tonight.”

Your pulse quickened, but you kept up the game. “Guess I’ll have to cancel my morning plans,” you replied, pretending to sound disappointed. “Here I thought I’d be waking up fresh and ready to tackle the day.”

He let out a soft, amused chuckle, his fingers slipping down to grip your hips firmly, pressing you against him. “Oh, you’ll be plenty ready to tackle something,” he teased, his eyes glinting as he tilted his head, giving you a slow, purposeful once-over. “But the day? Probably not. You’ll be too busy trying to remember how to stand.”

You rolled your eyes, though the smirk never left your lips. “Big words, Hotchner. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He leaned closer, his lips grazing the sensitive spot just below your ear, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Challenge accepted,” he murmured, his tone dripping with intent. “And just so you know,” he added, his mouth ghosting over your skin, “the only thing I’ll need all night… is you begging for more.”

“Confident, aren’t we?” you teased, threading your fingers through his hair, giving it a gentle tug. “But confidence only gets you so far, you know. You’ll have to back up all this talk.”

He smirked, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, his eyes gleaming with that familiar intensity. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, his lips brushing over yours. “By the time I’m done, the only thing you’ll be able to say is my name.”

“Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet”, Plato.

---

taglist: @beata1108 ; @cuddleprofiler ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @justyourusualash ; @kyrathekiller ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mxblobby ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

Hope you liked it :) Happy birthday old man

#aaron hotchner #hotch #hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner smut #symposiumff

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chrissturnsfav · 15 days ago

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♪♱✮𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 . . . 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘳!𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴

rapper!chris has been in the industry for around 5 years now. he's known to have that cocky, confident, swift flow in his music which has helped him make it big in the industry. most would say he hasn't missed, after all a lot of big rappers are looking to produce tracks with him.

from the private box, you watch chris own the stage like he was born for it. the arena is packed, sold out weeks in advance, and the fans' energy buzz so high it feels like it could blow the roof off.

the moment he steps out, mic in hand, confidence rolling off him in waves, the noise doubles. he looks so fucking good up there—grin cocky, every movement sharp and sure, like he has the whole audience wrapped around his fingers. he knows it, too, the way he flashes a sly smirk up your way, just a little show-offy, like he's rapping just for you.

he owns every line, his voice smooth and fierce at the same time, slipping through verses so quick it's like he barely has to think about it. watching him move—feet sliding effortlessly, the way he tilted his head to catch the dim lights just right.

the crowd feeds off his energy, shouting his lyrics back at him like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to be here, and chris gives it all back, grinning and laughing, making it look as easy as breathing.

"y'all are fuckin' wildin' out here t'night," he says smugly into the microphone, beads of sweat forming on his forehead just below his backwards black cap. the crowd erupts in laughter and louder cheer, chris acting mock-surprised at them.

"yeah, y'all want more, huh?" he taunts, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips when the audience cheers as loud as they can. just then, the next track off his new album sends the arena booming and he immediately launches into the song.

every time chris hits a new verse, he leans into it with this reckless, fire-in-his-eyes energy, like he's daring the audience to keep up. and they're trying—god, are they trying. hands up, shouting, jumping in sync with his beat, riding the high he’s whipped up like they're in his world now, fully under his spell. you feel that pull too, even from up in the box. he's magnetic, commanding every eye in the room, and yet somehow, whenever he throws a glance your way, it's like you both are alone, like you're the only one in this sold-out sea he cares about impressing.

and you feel so proud—beyond proud. you feel lucky. watching him from up here, raw and unapologetic, you know how hard he’d worked for this, how many late nights he’d spent in the studio perfecting and getting every verse just right. to see it all pay off, to see him shining in front of thousands like he was made for this moment, it leaves you in awe. but then, right at the end of the song, he looks up to you, holding your gaze just long enough to make you blush, before diving right back into his flow without missing a beat.

you can't take your eyes off him, and you don't want to. you watch him own his stage, every inch of it, pouring his soul out into each line, each beat drop, moving with this effortless confidence that has the crowd eating out of his hand. he finishes with one last verse, voice dropping low and intense, and the audience goes wild.

but all you can think about is him from up here, his fierce, beautiful self, and how lucky you are to be the one in his private box, cheering him on, knowing every glance he throws up here means, "this one's f'you, ma."

♫𐙚✧𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 . . . 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

singer!reader has been in the industry around the same amount of time as rapper!chris. you found out about chris when his manager reached out to you after you blew up and you two ended up making a song together. surprisingly, fans loved the contrast of your girly style with his hard rap one. after hooking up at the launch party, you've been inseparable ever since.

with each verse, you let your voice rise and fall gently, swaying your hips to the rhythm, giving the audience a soft wink or a wave here and there, watching them grin back, laughing and singing along.

it feels so natural, like a conversation between you and them, and you love every second of it. they laugh when you lean close to the edge of the stage, reaching out to touch hands, and you can't help but giggle back. it's like this beautiful, sweet exchange, and it's truly magical.

at the end of the song, you glance up, right to where chris is sitting in the box, and he nods at you with a little smirk, mouthing, "my angel." your heart flutters, and you give him the smallest wave, cheeks warm.

the buzz of the crowd is still humming through your veins as you slip backstage at the end of the show, heart still racing from the thrill of it all.

you barely have a moment to catch your breath before you see him striding down the hallway toward you, looking every bit like he owns the place. chris’s eyes sparkle with that familiar, confident glint, and the second he sees you, his smirk turns into something softer, but just as intense.

“y'were sum'n else up there,” he says, voice low, his gaze running over you like he's seeing you for the first time. before you can even say anything, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close, and you laugh, still breathless, feeling his warmth seep through you.

“was it that good?” you tease, your voice a little shy. you're so used to him seeing you in the spotlight, but there's something different about him watching you so intently, soaking up every note like every song was made for him.

“c'mon, y'know it was,” chris replies, his smirk growing as he looks down at you, hands settling comfortably on your waist. “had me in awe the whole time, mama.” there's that cockiness in his tone, but underneath it, you feel the genuine pride, the way he’d been watching you like he couldn’t take his eyes off you.

he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, your palms against his cheeks gently. “the way y'own that stage...” he pauses, like he's searching for the right words. “everyone out there was jus' as hooked as me, baby. my girl, stealin' every heart in the room.” he brushes a hand through your hair, eyes warm with something deeper, and it makes your heart race all over again.

you can't hold back your smile, feeling like your cheeks are on fire, but he doesn't stop. “every note, every lil' smile—jus' perfect. s'like you're some fuckin' angel.” and then he grins, that cocky edge coming back. “not that you ain't, cause y'are."

you roll your eyes, giving him a playful shove, but he just pulls you back, laughing, until his lips find yours. his kiss is soft but slightly hungry and it leaves you dizzy, like he's pouring every bit of that pride and admiration into it.

when he pulls back, his eyes are still locked on yours, warm and playful, but a hint of lust swirling in them. “let’s get atta here,” he murmurs. “need ya all to m'self.”

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: cutie little babies i love how he has such a soft spot for her. also singer!reader still and won't have a set face claim, i used madison beer in the pic bc she matches the vibes i set for singer!reader. this was a lot longer than it needed to be but i hope u guys liked it anyway hehe

thank you for reading!! <3

@chrissturnsfav ™

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fratttymatty · 23 days ago

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A New Type Of Art

(All characters are 18+)

Luke had always been the kind of guy who didn’t fit into a mold, and he liked it that way. He was an artsy, liberal college sophomore who spent more time with his paintbrush than his textbooks, more time discussing philosophy than politics. His long, blonde hair was usually in a messy shoulder-length style, a reflection of his creative, laid-back personality. People often joked that he looked like he’d stepped out of a 90s indie film, and he was fine with that.

He was proud of who he was—gay, unapologetic, and fiercely liberal. His friends in the dorm loved him for his passion, his endless debates on everything from climate change to gender fluidity. He wore the brightest colors he could find, mismatched patterns, and unashamedly displayed his individuality through his clothes. He didn’t care if people stared—he wanted them to. Being different was his art.

Luke was someone who lived openly. He was out, loud, and proud. He believed in change, in equality, in breaking barriers. But then something strange happened that would turn his world upside down.

It started when he wandered into the obscure little gallery downtown. The art was... different. No, it wasn’t just different—it was weird, unsettling even. All the paintings were of men—clean-cut, athletic, stoic figures that seemed too perfect, too polished, as if they were all carved out of the same mold. They stared down from their frames with proud, almost smug expressions.

Luke felt a tug of unease, but his curiosity got the better of him. He walked deeper into the exhibit, looking for something new, something that would spark his imagination. But what he found was something far more unsettling.

The curator, a sharply dressed man with cold eyes, suddenly appeared at his side.

"You’re not from around here, are you?" the man asked, his voice smooth, almost hypnotic.

Luke didn’t know how to answer. “I just came to see the art,” he said, glancing at the paintings again, the faces of the men still haunting him.

The curator smiled faintly. “Art is not just for seeing, my friend. It’s for becoming.”

Before Luke could ask what he meant, the curator’s hand landed on his shoulder. And everything changed.

Luke awoke with a start, his heart racing. The room was unfamiliar. The air smelled different—stale, almost like rubber or plastic. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake off the sudden dizziness that had overtaken him. His mind was foggy, his thoughts spinning like a broken record.

He glanced around. The walls were bare except for a few sports posters—one of a football team, another of a group of athletes holding up trophies. A large computer sat on a desk, the screen blank but sleek, high-tech. The bed he was lying on was too small, too clean.

Then, something caught his eye—a full-length mirror on the wall. He stumbled over to it, his feet feeling heavier than usual.

The reflection staring back at him was... not Luke.

It was a completely different person. His face—his features—were different. His once soft jawline was now square, his cheekbones high and pronounced. His blonde hair was gone, replaced by a rich, dark brown mane that was tousled perfectly, messy but in a way that looked effortlessly stylish. It was a little wavy, but in a way that made him look... well, hot.

The messiness of his hair gave him a rugged appeal, like he’d just rolled out of bed after a late-night party or a spontaneous game of pick-up basketball. His chest was broad, and his body had more definition—muscles that didn’t exist before now rippled under the tight-fitting T-shirt he wore, and his skin had a deep tan that made his features pop even more.

He reached up to touch his hair, the strands feeling thicker, softer than he remembered. There was a strange sense of satisfaction in how it fell around his face, like he was born to have it that way. As his fingers ran through the tousled locks, he caught the faintest whiff of cologne—something strong, athletic, and masculine.

Something inside him—a feeling that had been buried before—shifted. This was right. He was... supposed to look like this.

And then, as if to confirm it, a sudden wave of memories flashed before his eyes—high school memories. Football games. High fives with his teammates. Laughter with his jock friends. A pretty girl’s smile as she flirted with him in the halls. The vague recollection of endless hours spent playing Call of Duty in his friend’s basement, of sports cars and parties. The memories were his now, and they felt... good.

He glanced back at the mirror again. The face staring back at him was someone completely new—someone named Ethan Clark.

Ethan.

It sounded... right. It felt like the right name for the guy he had become.

Ethan’s first full day in this strange new life was a blur of sensations, conflicting memories, and awkward realizations.

He stood in front of his high school locker, the red-and-black track jacket feeling tight against his shoulders. The hallway buzzed with activity around him—students laughing, chatting, rushing to classes—but his attention kept wandering.

He couldn’t help but notice the girls.

They were all looking at him—some giving him shy smiles, others openly admiring him, especially the ones who whispered to each other and then giggled. Ethan had no idea how to handle it, but something inside him surged at the attention. It was like he wanted it. He liked the way they were looking at him. The way his tousled brown hair framed his face just right, the way it somehow made him look cooler, more attractive.

He caught a glimpse of himself in a locker mirror, and his heart skipped a beat. He looked good—like a guy who played varsity football, who could crush a bench press, who wore his hair just so in a way that drove girls wild. It was different, but it felt natural. Comfortable.

“Hey, Ethan,” one of the girls said as she walked by, her gaze lingering on him for a second too long. “You’re looking extra hot today. What’s the secret?”

Ethan blinked, confused at first. Was she talking to him? She smiled, and he suddenly felt this unfamiliar surge of confidence flood his chest. Without thinking, he ran a hand through his dark hair, giving her a slight smirk.

“Just, uh... woke up this way, I guess,” he said, his voice rougher, deeper than it used to be.

The girl giggled, clearly charmed, and kept walking, throwing him one last glance over her shoulder. Ethan watched her go, a mix of pride and something else stirring inside him. He couldn’t quite place it, but he didn’t need to.

This was who he was now. The guy with the dark, messy hair who turned heads, who was adored by girls, who fit right in with the team, the jocks, and the “normal” crowd. He was straight, athletic, confident—and he had no idea who he was before. The memories of his old life were slipping away, like sand through his fingers.

He walked down the hallway, his steps firm and sure. The world was different now. And for the first time in a long time, he was okay with it. In fact, it felt pretty damn good.

As Ethan settled further into his new identity, he quickly realized he was getting a lot more attention than he ever had before. It wasn’t just the girls; the guys on the football team were treating him like one of their own, giving him high-fives, calling him “bro,” and acting like he was the man.

He loved it. And he made sure everyone around him knew it.

One day, during lunch, he walked into the cafeteria with his new crew—a group of jocks who clearly saw him as the alpha in their little pack. The guys were laughing and slapping each other on the back. Ethan’s loud voice cut through the chatter as he cracked a joke about how the girls were practically throwing themselves at him now that he’d "finally started dressing like a real man." His comment earned a chorus of laughs from the table.

“I swear, bro, these chicks don’t know what to do with themselves,” Ethan said, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his now perfectly tousled hair. “Like, calm down. I’m just a normal guy.”

He smirked as the guys around him laughed, but the joke was all too familiar to him now—this was how they all talked. How the guys had to talk to be part of the crew. The alpha energy. The mocking of others. The jokes about the ‘liberal snowflakes’ and the ‘woke culture.’

“So, bro, what do you think of that chick in your history class? The one with the, like, big eyes?” one of his teammates asked, nudging him.

Ethan’s lip curled. “Pfft, she’s cute, but, like... I’m not really into the whole ‘intellectual’ thing,” he said with a scoff. “Girls should be, you know, fun. And pretty. That’s the only thing that matters. Politics are for losers anyway.”

The guys around him laughed, and a few clapped him on the back.

Ethan’s transformation was complete, or so he thought. Each day that passed, the remnants of his old life—the life of Luke—faded into oblivion. The whispers of art, of activism, of painting vibrant canvases of rebellion and love, all became distant echoes, drowned out by the thumping bass of his new life. The image of his blonde, shaggy hair, the colorful shirts, and the feeling of freedom in being himself—they were all gone now. Ethan Clark, the confident, athletic, and straight high school senior, was who he was meant to be.

And honestly? He couldn’t be happier.

The guy who once hated the idea of conformity, who argued endlessly with anyone who didn’t share his beliefs, had morphed into a version of himself that didn’t question anything.

Girls flocked to him. He flirted effortlessly, his tousled brown hair always falling just right, his posture always leaning casually against the locker with a smug smile that made their knees weak. He could tell that they adored him—hell, everyone adored him. The jocks respected him, and he’d even made it to captain of the track team. He was the star athlete, the alpha in his group, and nothing felt more exhilarating.

The few times when a flash of Luke’s old world would flicker—like when he’d overhear a conversation about climate change or a new art exhibit downtown—he’d feel a weird, nagging sense of discomfort, but it never lasted long. He’d push it aside with a loud joke or by tossing a football to one of his buddies, and the feeling would evaporate.

The most recent instance had come during a heated debate in his government class. A kid who sat in the back—one of those annoying guys with a patchy beard and a mind full of "woke" ideas—had dared to challenge Ethan's casual dismissal of LGBTQ+ issues. Ethan had shrugged it off with the kind of condescension that only someone truly at ease in his masculinity could muster.

“Dude,” Ethan had said, his voice dripping with arrogance, “I don’t know what kind of crazy world you’re living in, but we’re not doing that whole ‘gender-fluid’ thing here. I’m straight, I’m proud, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to some liberal lecture about equality. It’s simple: be a man, get a girl, and stop with all this nonsense.”

The guy had opened his mouth to argue, but Ethan had silenced him with a mock chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he’d said, and with that, the room had gone quiet.

The looks of approval from his teammates and the laughter from his group had only fuelled Ethan’s growing sense of power. He was right, and everyone else was just wrong.

It was after that incident that the strangest thing happened—one night, alone in his room, Ethan stood in front of his mirror, adjusting his hair for the hundredth time, as he always did. His tousled, perfectly messy brown locks had become his trademark, and he ran his fingers through them with the kind of pride only a high school jock could have. He looked good. He knew he looked good. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to enjoy the full force of that knowledge.

But then... it hit him.

The reflection wasn’t the problem—it was what was missing.

For a brief, disorienting moment, he could almost see it—the flash of blonde hair, the open, unapologetic expression, the vivid colors in his clothes. The warmth of a smile that wasn’t just for the girls or the boys who wanted to be his friend. It wasn’t just for the applause or the attention—it was a smile that came from being who he was, not from performing for everyone around him.

But the moment passed quickly, replaced by the face in the mirror that he now recognized so well—the face of Ethan Clark, the confident jock, the proud guy who didn’t care about the world of art or politics anymore.

For a second, though, Ethan’s gaze faltered. There was a slight hesitation—a small, uncomfortable ripple in the stream of his new identity.

“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. The thought felt foreign, even stupid. He smirked at his reflection, his confidence quickly returning.

“Get over it, man,” he told himself, his hand running through his messy hair again, his grip tight as he styled it just right. “This is who you are now. This is who you were meant to be.”

The unsettling sensation lingered, but only for a moment. Ethan stood tall, shoulders squared, and he smiled—genuinely, arrogantly—at the guy in the mirror. He had everything now. He was popular. He was strong. He had girls after him and the guys at his back. And most of all, he didn’t care about anything that didn’t fit into this new version of himself.

The weeks passed, and the echoes of Luke’s old life grew quieter. Ethan’s friendships with the other guys on the football team deepened, and his bond with the girls only grew more intense as they swooned over his rugged good looks and cocky charm. He spent less time reflecting on his past—less time worrying about the strange feeling in his gut that tugged at him when he thought about what he had lost.

One night, at a house party thrown by one of his teammates, Ethan stood with a group of his closest friends, a drink in his hand, and the girls around him laughing at his latest joke. Everything felt perfect. It was what he’d always wanted—what he’d deserved.

One of the girls, a blonde who’d been flirting with him for weeks, pulled him aside, her voice low and sultry. “Ethan, you’re like... so different from other guys,” she whispered, brushing a lock of his messy hair out of his face. “You’re just... amazing.”

He grinned, the compliment going straight to his head. He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar rush of confidence flood him. “Well, babe,” he said, his voice smooth, “I’m just a man’s man.”

The girl laughed, leaning in closer, and Ethan kissed her on the lips. He’d become so used to this attention, this life of being the center of everything. It was a feeling he didn’t just enjoy—it was the only feeling that made sense anymore.

But as the night went on, as the alcohol and the party noise blared around him, a thought flickered again in the back of his mind. It was small, almost imperceptible, like a whisper from a distant past he couldn’t quite grasp. A memory of a world where being himself didn’t mean fitting in. A world where being free meant embracing everything that made him who he truly was.

The thought came and went, but this time it was different. It didn’t make him feel scared—it didn’t make him feel sad. It just... faded.

Ethan Clark was who he was. The boy who had been Luke was gone now. Completely gone.

And as Ethan kissed the blonde girl again, he couldn’t help but smile. He was everything he was meant to be.

There was no going back. There was no reason to.

Ethan’s transformation was complete. Every morning, he woke up in his new life, slipping effortlessly into the role of the popular, athletic jock—his tousled brown hair falling perfectly into place as if it had always been this way. His body was strong, chiseled from hours of training, and he was the star of the track team. More than that, he was a leader among the jocks, a natural at commanding attention without trying. He had the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing he had it all, and he knew the girls were obsessed with him.

The girls couldn’t get enough of his athletic frame, his perfectly styled hair, and the cocky, yet irresistible smirk he threw their way. He had a certain swagger now—one that came from both his physique and the newfound belief that he deserved to be admired. Ethan was a magnet for attention, and it felt so good.

But there was something else—something he didn’t always let the jocks see.

Ethan had always been a gamer. Sure, he was now the track team captain, the guy everyone turned to for advice on their bench press, but late at night, after practice, when the house parties were over and everyone had gone home, Ethan logged into his gaming setup.

The gaming chair, the massive monitor, the LED-lit keyboard—it was all tucked away in his bedroom, hidden behind a door that only his closest friends knew about. But even now, as captain of the team, as the guy who’d casually broken the 400-pound squat record and was getting invited to college recruiters' camps, Ethan was still that guy—the gamer who lived for the thrill of the digital battlefield.

He had always been good at it. No, scratch that—he’d always been great at it.

Every night, he dominated the leaderboards in Call of Duty and Fortnite, racking up kills with ease. He had his own Twitch account, but it wasn’t for the fame. It was just for the adrenaline, the rush of hearing the ping of a headshot, the satisfaction of topping the scoreboard with his friends.

There were nights when he played until 3 a.m., still wearing his track hoodie, drinking a monster energy drink, the glow of the screen lighting up his face as he obliterated opponents. He'd be wearing his headset, yelling at his buddies—laughing, trash-talking, keeping it light. No one knew about his online identity, but to Ethan, it was just as important as any track medal or touchdown. It was where he could be himself without the weight of the jock persona, without the expectation of being perfect all the time.

The football field was where Ethan thrived. The air was thick with the sound of cleats pounding the turf, the shouts of coaches pushing their players harder, and the constant rhythmic thumping of the ball hitting the ground. Ethan, naturally, was right at the center of it all, a strong, imposing figure in his football gear, his dark hair peeking out from under his helmet, his chest heaving with every breath.

As the captain of the football team, Ethan had earned the respect of every player on the field. They respected his strength, his unrelenting drive, and his ability to motivate others. He was ruthless in practice, always pushing the team harder, making sure no one slacked off. But despite his hard-nosed approach, he kept a certain arrogance that kept the guys in line. He wasn’t just the captain—he was the guy who set the tone for the team, the one who was feared and admired in equal measure.

Today’s practice was intense—punishing drills designed to improve agility and reaction time. Ethan’s muscles burned with the effort, but he wasn’t about to let up. He was determined to lead his team to victory this season. They had a big game coming up, one that could secure them a championship spot. And Ethan was more than ready.

He finished his sprints with ease, his lungs pushing through the burn, his legs feeling stronger with each stride. The guys were panting behind him, but Ethan didn’t even break a sweat.

“That’s how you run,” he said, smirking as he jogged back to the sidelines, his teammates panting behind him.

“Jesus, Ethan, you never slow down,” one of the defensive linemen, Jake, said between breaths.

Ethan threw him a lazy grin. “That’s because I’m built different, bro. You’re just not on my level yet.”

The guys chuckled, and Ethan felt the familiar swell of pride. He loved it. This was his world now. It felt right. The jocks who had once laughed at him in high school now admired him. The girls who had once ignored him now threw themselves at him. Ethan was the epitome of what every high school athlete dreamed of becoming—the guy who was good at everything, effortlessly cool and untouchable.

But then something caught his eye—a flicker of doubt. It was subtle. One of the guys on the team, Alex, had been showing Ethan something on his phone earlier in the locker room. He’d been talking about the new Star Wars Battlefront game and how he was crushing it with some of his online buddies. Ethan barely registered it at the time.

Now, as he caught his breath, he couldn’t help but think about it. Alex had mentioned a team—a clan that all played together late at night. The more Ethan thought about it, the more he realized that even though he was crushing it on the field, there was something oddly thrilling about those nights alone in his room, the camaraderie of his gaming friends, and the rush of winning in a world that didn’t care about how many touchdowns he scored or how big his biceps were.

His thoughts were interrupted when Coach shouted across the field.

“Clark! Get your head in the game! We’ve got a season to win!”

Ethan snapped back into focus, mentally shaking off the random thought. He was Ethan Clark, football captain, jock, the guy everyone looked up to. That was who he was.

Later that night, after the last of his teammates had left, Ethan headed back to his room, dropping his gear on the bed and collapsing into his gaming chair with a deep sigh. His muscles ached, but the comfort of his familiar setup—the glowing RGB lights, the cool click of his mouse, and the hum of the PC booting up—was like an old friend welcoming him back.

He was back where he belonged.

Ethan fired up Call of Duty, glancing over at his phone to see if any of his friends were online. Sure enough, a notification popped up: “Your Squad is waiting.”

He grinned.

Sliding on his headset, Ethan clicked “Join” and immediately heard the familiar voices of his gaming buddies flood through the speakers.

“Yo, Ethan, we’re about to wreck some noobs. You ready?”

Ethan’s grin widened. “Always, bro.”

As they dove into the game, Ethan’s body relaxed, his muscles still sore from practice, but his mind fully focused on the game ahead. This was where he felt free. This was where he could shut out the expectations of being the perfect athlete, the perfect teammate, the perfect son. Here, on the battlefield of the game, there were no rules about how to act or what to be. It was just him, his friends, and the rush of winning.

The hours slipped by in a blur of headshots and jokes. The adrenaline was just as real as it was on the football field, maybe even more so. Ethan was still the dominant force here. His reflexes were sharp, his aim precise. He dominated every match, and when they won, the rush was the same as it was when they hit the game-winning touchdown.

"Man, you're on fire tonight," one of his buddies, Tyler, said, laughing.

Ethan leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk curling his lips. "Just like always, bro. Who else can carry the squad like I do?"

The guys laughed, and Ethan reveled in the sound of their praise. It felt good. It felt right.

For a moment, as the squad geared up for the next round, he thought back to earlier that day on the football field—the sweat, the cheers, the hard work that had earned him his place as the team captain. Then, without even realizing it, his mind drifted back to his gaming chair, to his gaming world, where everything was just as real.

He wasn’t just Ethan Clark, the football player, the alpha jock. He was Ethan, the gamer, the guy who could lead a team to victory in both worlds—whether on the field or behind a screen. And for the first time in a long while, Ethan felt a sense of balance between these two sides of him. He had it all.

In this life, no one could touch him.

And that was exactly how he liked it.

Ethan's life seemed to revolve around two worlds: the football field and his gaming chair. But then there was Sophia—his girlfriend—who lived somewhere right between them, a perfect accessory to his newfound high school popularity.

Sophia was the blonde girl everyone noticed—the type of girl who was the center of attention at every party, with a laugh that made guys turn their heads and an effortless grace that made other girls a little jealous. She was the kind of girl who belonged on the arm of a guy like Ethan—athletic, handsome, and undeniably cool. And now she was, and she knew it.

The two had started dating a few weeks ago, and it had been a perfect fit. She was beautiful, outgoing, and obsessed with the idea of being with someone like Ethan—someone who could give her all the status and attention she craved.

Ethan wasn’t the kind of guy who spent a lot of time on his emotions, but when Sophia smiled at him, he couldn’t help but feel a certain rush of pride. He'd caught her eye first, but now she was his, and it felt good. There were whispers in the hallways, and every girl who tried to get his attention was met with the same smug, “I’ve got my girl” attitude. It was the kind of confidence that only someone who knew he had everything could pull off.

Sophia didn’t mind the attention. She was used to it, and she loved the way Ethan’s popularity amplified hers. It was a match made in high school heaven.

Later that day, after practice, Ethan found Sophia waiting by his truck, her arms crossed, a playful smirk on her face. He had been walking out with a couple of the guys from the team, talking about the upcoming game, but when he spotted her leaning against the tailgate, all conversation stopped. His friends shot each other knowing looks, and one of them, Alex, made an exaggerated “Ooooh” noise.

Ethan didn’t even acknowledge them. He made his way over to Sophia with that familiar swagger, not caring if anyone was watching.

“What’s up, babe?” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

Sophia grinned, her eyes gleaming. “Not much. I was just thinking about how awesome you looked out there today. You were like, on fire.”

Ethan couldn’t help but smirk. “Of course I was. It’s what I do.”

She laughed, the sound high and melodic, and stood up straight. “Well, I’m glad you’re on fire... because I was thinking you could use some company tonight,” she said, teasing him a little as she walked toward the passenger side of his truck.

Ethan raised an eyebrow as he followed her. “What kind of company?”

She shot him a wink as she slid into the seat, settling in with a practiced ease. “Let’s just say I have plans for us—and they don’t involve any football or video games tonight. Just you and me, Ethan.”

Ethan grinned, his chest puffing up with pride. This was the life—the kind of life he’d always imagined. Popularity. Strength. A beautiful girl who loved him.

It was almost too perfect.

As he drove off, his mind wandered briefly, but it wasn’t to his old self—the person he used to be. There was no trace of Luke anymore, no reminder of the boy who’d been scared to even talk to a girl like Sophia. No, this was his world now. He was Ethan, and Sophia was his, and that was all that mattered.

At least, that's what he told himself.

#male tf #male tf story #nerd to jock #smart to dumb #gay to straight #conservative tf #lib to con #gamer tf

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d0llcuries · 2 months ago

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could you make a one-shot or hc (idk) of things neteyam does to show love to his partner and loving and deep thoughts he has about her? please

neteyam isn’t shy when it comes to showing love, especially when it’s you.

he perceives love as something to be demonstrated openly, proudly.

from the moment he decided that you were the one for him, it was as though something primal and unshakable settled into his bones, dictating his every move around you with a sense of purpose.

that being said, hunting is one of the first things he uses to display his affection.

it is what he knows, what he has been trained to do since his hands were old enough to grip a bow. but when it comes to you, hunting takes on a new significance.

he does not just hunt for survival—he hunts to provide for you, to ensure that you have the finest meat, the best cuts. when he returns from a successful hunt, he brings the kill to you with a quiet pride, his chest puffed out just a little more as he lays the offering at your feet.

he watches your reaction closely, waiting for the moment your lips curve into that soft smile that makes his heart race, waiting for the look of approval that makes the hours of tracking, stalking, and fighting worth every second.

his hands never stray far. public displays of affection are a given with him

he is unapologetic in his need to touch you. he doesn’t care if his family sees. in fact, he relishes it. if he senses even the slightest bit of fluster in you, it only encourages him.

if it makes you blush? good. that means he’ll do it again—so casual about it, like he doesn’t even realize.

he relishes in the way you shy away, pretending to be annoyed, but he knows the truth—you love the attention just as much as he loves giving it.

but goodness it wouldn't kill him to show a little more propriety.

he purrs, too, openly and without a trace of shame.

it doesn't matter if it’s just you two are alone or in the middle of a crowd. you touch him? he purrs. you laugh? he purrs. it’s automatic, and he doesn’t try to hide it, his chest rumbling every time you’re close.

he makes sure you hear it, because it’s for you.

your mere presence makes him so instinctively happy why should he surpress that?

he's so inadvertently supportive whenever you do anything.

when you cook him a meal, for example, the second the food touches his lips, he’s looking at you like you just saved his life. close to tears and everything, he’s going on about how he’s never tasted anything better, and he’ll probably say the same thing next time.

he genuinely believes that what you’ve made is a gift, something special just for him, and his heart swells with the knowledge that you’ve put effort into caring for him in this way.

my favourite animal is neteyam when he doesn’t receive at least three kisses or more from you in a day.

can you blame him? his days are long and exhausting, spent with his father barking orders and chasing after tuk to keep her from wandering off. so, of course, he looks forward to the moment he can feel your soft lips on his, the one moment of peace he can count on.

if you withhold a kiss, it’s like a stab in the chest. his ears flatten, tail droops, and his big amber eyes well up like he’s been abandoned in the middle of the forest. there’s a desperate edge to his voice, thick with disbelief—how could you deny him?

he’ll practically sink to his knees, hands reaching for you, putting on the most dramatic performance ever just for you.

if you decide to tease him on a particularly hard day where he doesn't have the patience required for such theatrics, he'll just scoop you up and haul you over his shoulder, kissing you until you can’t remember what you were supposed to be doing.

it’s not negotiable—three kisses, minimum, every day, or he’ll never let you hear the end of it.

neteyam loves deeply, fiercely, and in every little gesture, he makes sure you feel it.

he wonders if you know how much space you take up in his head. he thinks about you constantly.

one instance of this is when he's left alone with his thoughts on a particularly long hunting trip that lasted more than one day.

neteyam lays on the cold ground, the stars above him stretching endlessly, and yet, despite their beauty, all he can think about is the empty space beside him. it’s strange, how the absence of something so small—your quiet, rhythmic snores—can leave him feeling so lost. the other hunters of the group snore but that does not guide him to sleep quite as easily as your sounds do. he chuckles to himself, though there’s no one around to hear it. she would never believe me if i told her, he thinks, swears she doesn’t snore. but you do. soft little sounds that lull him to sleep every night.

without them, the silence feels oppressive. he shifts, trying to get comfortable, but nothing works. the coolness of the forest at night wraps around him, but it doesn’t bring the peace he’s used to. not like when he’s with you. back home, when he can feel the warmth of your body pressed against his, when the sound of your breathing fills the space between his heartbeats. it’s then he realizes how much he depends on those little things, the ones you would never even think about.

he closes his eyes, trying to picture your face. eywa, it’s only been a few days, and i already miss her this much. it’s embarrassing, really.

his mind wanders to the rosy tip of your flat nose. it looks just like the petals of a lortsyawll, he thinks absentmindedly, a small smile tugging at his lips.

he swears, if he could just hear your laugh, even for a moment, it would make this whole hunt more bearable. i hate being away from her.

he shifts again, turning on his side and curling his body into itself, hoping that maybe if he closes his eyes tight enough, he’ll be able to pretend you’re here. but the weight of your absence is heavy. the way your soft hand always finds his when you walk together. the sound of your voice, soft and low when you’re sleepy. the way you tease him, lighthearted but full of affection. he misses the way you press your forehead to his when you’re trying to comfort him, even over something small. he needs that now—needs you.

nothing feels right without you beside him. the hunt is going well, but even the thrill of the chase can’t distract him from the fact that, at the end of the day, when the adrenaline fades and the world quiets down, it’s you he longs for. i need her, he admits to himself, the thought settling deep in his chest. i always need her.

you are always there, in the back of his mind, shaping his every action, his every decision. he doesn’t need anyone else’s approval, doesn’t care what others think—as long as you’re proud of him, as long as you’re his, that’s all that matters.

she’s everything, he thinks, for the hundredth time that day, and yet, it still feels like an understatement.

i should be asleep but this request was too good!!

#neteyam x reader #neteyam fluff #neteyam oneshot #neteyam drabble #neteyam sully imagine #neteyam sully #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam sully x na’vi!reader #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam x you #atwow #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #avatar way of water #neteyam suli x reader #neteyam hcs #neteyam hc #neteyam headcannons #d0llcuries stuff ꫂ ၴႅၴ

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gothcsz · 1 month ago

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Mamita! Hojala que todo esta bien contigo! I have no idea if you’re taking mini requests pero I can’t stop thinking of Javier when I listen to Amarramé by Mon laferte 😭 Si no, esta bien I also wanted an excuse to talk you again! Con amor 😘

tags: f!reader, dirty talk (in english and spanish), no use of y/n, smut, unprotected p in v sex (be safe), oral (f), javi handcuffing you to your bed, hurt/no comfort kinda, fwb, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know ok thx.

~ 1.3k w/c - gif cred

a/n: hola bebita hermosa, gracias por dejarme este prompt y canción tan 🥵 i listened to it and immediately it gave me friends with benefits!javi energy and reminded me of the fact that this cabron carries two sets of cuffs on him... y como dice la canción: tómame del pelo y repíteme mi nombre, y ámame, pero sin querer. i hope you like it 🖤 cuidate nena y cualquiera vez que quieras hablar conmigo, nadamas mandame un dm 💋

“Stop fuckin' running.”

He growls it low and rough against your skin, biting down on your shoulder just hard enough to make you gasp, that delicious blend of pain and pleasure shooting down your spine. He's buried so deep inside you that it feels like he's touching your fucking heart.

It’s hard not to flail around like a fish out of water when each thrust is relentless, wild, like he's out to stake his claim right then and there, leaving you breathless and desperately clinging to every sensation.

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of hot, fast, dirty encounters in places you’d never imagine. The two of you never bother with beds, turning instead to dark corners, cramped car seats, the occasional bar restroom, even a closet at a friend’s house party—always fueled by a fierce need, never by softness.

But tonight is different. When he appeared on your doorstep, smelling of whiskey and impatience, you barely had time to catch your breath.

Sex with Javier was fucking amazing, the kind of chemistry that sticks in your bones.

He knew exactly what he was doing—a filthy mouth, hands that held you with just the right amount of force, and a delicious cock that hit every angle like it was his purpose. He went down on you because he loved it, his mouth a weapon of pure pleasure that left you wrecked.

He was dangerously close to perfect, if you could overlook the cocky attitude and that short fuse of his. Not that it mattered; you weren’t in this for a relationship. This was just pure, unapologetic indulgence, a mutual craving born out of that one forgettable party weeks ago that he’d somehow managed to make unforgettable.

You’re honestly not sure how the hell he managed to find out where you lived—but you barely had time to register his arrival before his lips were on yours, his hands already roaming, steering you backward until your shoulders hit the wall.

His mouth was urgent, trailing down your neck, hands lifting you as he sank to his knees with a look that dared you to stop him.

He lifted your thighs onto his broad shoulders, spreading you open, and didn’t waste a single second burying his face in your pussy, his tongue exploring every inch. He licked you slowly at first, savoring your taste, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking just hard enough to make you see stars, then lightly grazing his teeth against the swollen flesh, drawing gasps and cries from your throat.

He made you come like that not once but twice, each time rougher, more desperate, until you were clutching at his shoulders, hips rocking against his face. By the time he stood, cock hard enough to cut through those tight ass jeans of his, you were nothing but a willing mess, ready to take whatever he gave.

“Where’s your bed?”

Those were the first words he growled out since his hasty entrance, and you were so blissed out, half-dazed, that you nearly forgot where it was.

Barely catching your breath, you managed a breathy answer, and the way he moved—urgent, driven—had you wondering what set him off tonight. Before you could even form a coherent thought, he had your nightgown tugged off and tossed aside, his hands guiding you down onto the mattress with a roughness that left you trembling.

The sharp clink of his gun, badge, and cuffs hitting your nightstand sent a thrill through you. He undressed with a speed that made it clear he wasn’t in the mood to wait, and when he finally joined you on the bed, his weight and heat pressing against you made every nerve in your body hum with anticipation.

With no patience or gentleness he sheathed himself inside your cunt—just harsh intensity that made your mind go white-hot.

It was unlike any rhythm he’d set before, every thrust harder, deeper, driving into you with a force that bordered on desperate. Your eyes glazed over, tears blurring your vision as his grip on your hips tightened, leaving bruises you knew you’d feel tomorrow.

The sting from the hard spanks he’d landed on your ass burned deliciously, and every time his cock hit that unbearably sensitive spot inside you, you couldn't help but jerk forward, shattering his rhythm.

But the way he frustratingly growled your name each time you disrupted his pace only made it hotter.

After doing it too many times, Javier’s irritation finally spills over, and he pulls back abruptly, reaching for his set of cuffs. Your eyes go wide, and you try to push yourself up, words on the tip of your tongue to protest, but he moves too fast. In moments, the metal snaps around your wrist, then loops through one of the beams of your bed frame, before he clamps down your other wrist.

“Javier,” you manage, tugging at the cuffs, feeling the cold metal bite into your soft skin as you wince.

“¿Que?” He mocks, his tone drenched in condescension as he lets a smug pout play on his lips. “Want me to take 'em off? ¿Te duele?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, though, his hands finding your waist and yanking you back toward him, his cock sliding through your slick, swollen folds.

They do hurt, yeah, but you’re suddenly less angry and more turned on, trapped there, fully exposed and helpless in a way you hadn’t expected to like.

He doesn’t bother with gentleness, just sheaths himself back inside you, drawing a scream from your lips as his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing your back into a deep, sinful arch. Tears prick at your eyes as he fills you again, every inch of him overwhelming.

“Te sientes tan rica,” he groans, his words a low growl in your ear as he folds over you, pressing every inch of himself into your senses. “Pussy is so goddamn tight and wet, fuck, baby.” He rambles on, his words coming in hot waves that only half register, your mind hazy as your own orgasm looms—and your wrists throb against the cuffs, a mix of pain and pleasure blurring the line between frustration and desire.

Without warning, his fingers slip down to circle your clit, drawing a desperate yelp from you. He smirks, slickening two fingers with your arousal before forcing them into your mouth, pressing down until you gag. The strangled sound you make only turns him on more, his cock twitching hard inside you as he groans. “C’mon, give it to me. Fuck, I can feel how tight your greedy cunt is gettin’. She wants to come, doesn’t she?”

You choke out a muffled “yes” around his fingers, your mouth wet with saliva that dribbles down your chin.

He drags his damp fingers back down, finding your nipple, twisting it just hard enough to tip you over the edge.

Your climax crashes through you, pulsing around his cock, locking him in, and he grits his teeth, fighting to hold back as your creamy release coats him, your throat raw from screaming his name.

The cuffs cut harshly into your wrists, leaving red marks you know will sting later.

With a rough groan, he pulls out just in time, releasing hot and thick across your ass, fingers still pressing into your tit as he rides out his own pleasure.

"Get these things off me,” you spit as soon as reality snaps back at you, blinking rapidly, disoriented in the rush of your comedown. “What the hell is your problem?”

Silent, he reaches for the key, unlocking you with a practiced motion, releasing each wrist as you rub your raw skin, the marks a testament to his roughness.

“Sorry.” His voice is curt, no warmth behind his words, as he gathers his clothes, already tugging them back on.

And before his cum has even dried, he’s halfway out the door, leaving you breathless and tangled in the aftermath of that unapologetic, maddening exit.

#💌 you’ve got mail!#javier peña smut #javier pena smut #javier pena x reader #javier peña x reader #javier pena x you #javier peña x you #kat's writing.

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babyleostuff · 6 months ago

Text

[ 💿 ] . . . TAPE 11

나를 숨 쉬게 하던 건 / 온통 너로 가득했어 / 네가 없는 나의 마음 모자람은 / 구멍 난 아픔 같은 거야

☁️ "yawn" by seventeen [ vocal unit ]

being loved by boo seungkwan means having a fierce protector. he might not be the tallest or the buffest out there, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t step in the second he’d see someone making you uncomfortable, making fun of you, or treating you in a way they shouldn’t. even in situations when nobody is really bothering you, like in big crowds, or when you’re walking by a busy street, he is always there, with your hand in his, ready to fight anyone and anything. his sharp tongue, and ability to make people crumble by one sassy stare is enough to keep you safe, protected, and comfortable. boo seungkwan really is your knight in shining armour.

being loved by boo seungkwan means having a shoulder to lean on. a comfort person, a safe bubble, a place that feels like home - that’s how boo could be described. he is the epitome of comfort, and he never fails to remind you that you can always count on him, no matter what you’re struggling with, no matter how ugly he gets - he’s always there to be a shoulder to cry on, arms to hold you tight, voice to soothe your worries.

being loved by boo seungkwan means having someone you can be completely, unapologetically yourself with. for boo it’s the greatest joy to see the real you, the you that not everyone gets to know, and he’s forever grateful that you chose him to be the person you’d open yourself up to. he never judges you for what you do or what you say (unless you’re joking around), and he’s always hyping you up like his life depends on it. seungkwan doesn’t want you to hide any parts of yourself from him, and he’d gladly spend the rest of his life uncovering the next layers of you, and your beautiful soul.

being loved by boo seungkwan feels like spring, like freshly picked strawberries, like late night talks with your love cuddled under a blanket, like a kiss on the forehead, like a lemonade on a hot day.

“you are part of my existence, part of myself. you have been in every line i have ever read (...)" - charles dickens, great expectations

taglist (if you want to be added, check my masterlist): @jeonghansshitester @weird-bookworm @sea-moon-star @hanniehaee @wonwooz1 @byprettymar @edgaralienpoe @staranghae @itza-meee @eightlightstar @immabecreepin @whatsgyud @hyneyedfiz @honestlydopetree @vicehectic @dkswife @uniq-tastic @marisblogg @aaniag @daegutowns @carlesscat-thinklogic23 @embrace-themagic @ohmyhuenings @nidda13 @hrts4hanniehae @k-drama-adict @isabellah29 @f4iryjjosh @bangantokchy @mrswonwooo @bangtancultsposts @lllucere @athanasiasakura @onlyyjeonghan @haecien @caramyisabitchforsvtandbts @hannahhbahng @valgracia @ohmygodwhyareallusernamestaken @mirxzii @hhusbuds @wonranghaeee @rosiesauriostuff @gyuguys @tomodachiii @veryfabday @lilmochiandsuga @asasilentreader @mrsnervous @bewoyewo @sharonxdevi @wondipity @gyuguys @raginghellfire @treehouse-mouse @waldau @wonootnoot @hellodefthings @dokyeomkyeom @sourkimchi @bbysnw @hoichi02 @aaa-sia @haneulparadx @minvrsev @zozojella @wonootnoot @kimingyuslover @wntrei @honglynights @jihoonsbbygirl @uhdrienne @bloodcanbehot

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perseidlion · 3 months ago

Text

The Interview With the Vampire TV show is a perfect example of how adaptations do not have to follow the source material closely to be an excellent adaptation.

(This is a spoiler-free commentary, but it does discuss the dynamics of the characters in general.)

I read the books back in the day, and of course, saw the original movie. Despite a laundry list of big changes, the series still feels extremely true to the books because it captures the spirit. It gets the characters and their fucked-up dynamics right. It doesn't shy away from them being melodramatic monsters. It keeps to the rules established in the source material. The show also makes sure to preserve key moments and key scenes, but always with a twist.

Since they did that, they were free to shift things in time, amp up and adapt certain dynamics, and change the race of characters in a way that deepens the story and complicates already extremely complicated power dynamics.

The original movie stuck more closely to the era and the appearance of the characters as described by Anne Rice, but I don't think the story loses anything by changing those two elements. In fact, it gives it modern relevance and room for political and social commentary.

I have never ascribed to the idea that an adaptation has to be slavishly accurate to the source material to be a good adaptation. It just has to be smart enough to identify what to keep and what can change. An adaptation adapts. Honestly, I find it boring when I see exactly what was in a book up on screen with no surprises. Where's the fun in that?

The difference between a good adaptation and a bad one is not how accurate it is to the source material, but how well the adaptation respects what made the story compelling to begin with.

What's important here?

Lestat is dramatic and powerful and a monster who is deeply charismatic, but also manipulative.

Louis is overdramatic and self-hating, but oddly drawn to Lestat.

Claudia is fierce, but bitter about her eternal childhood.

Their relationship is deeply toxic but with true affection. They are monsters, but monsters capable of intense love and devotion - to the point where it has the power to destroy them.

THAT is at the core of this story. THAT is what they keep intact. This frees up all sorts of avenues for play around a few key plot beats.

This room for play also gives opportunities to expand on thinner characters or rewrite them entirely. It's been a long time since I read the books, but I don't recall Daniel standing out as more than a framing device, especially in earlier books. But in the show, he's one of the best parts. Not only does he take a much more active role in the story, he delivers some of the most hilarious and cutting lines of the entire series. If the show had stuck closely to the source material, we wouldn't have this Daniel.

It was also smart of them to make Claudia a few years older. The eternal child element is preserved, but the layer of arrested teenaged hormones and womanhood that will never blossom adds an extra layer of angst and sadness. She is stuck forever in a state of rebellion, never allowed to settle and come into her own.

Having her be a young Black woman also deepens her attachment to Louis, visually, socially and symbolically. They are different from Lestat and they understand each other in a way he never can. She's still very much the Claudia from the book but with layers added to deepen her character and add new, fresh dynamics and complications.

It's also delightful to see the show take the homoeroticism that was subtextual in the early books with Louis and Lestat (and in the original film) and making it unapologetically text. Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles have always been incredibly queer and subversive, but it's amazing to see that side of it fully embraced and stated plainly with no ambiguity or qualifiers or hints. It's queer and that queerness is woven into the fabric of the entire narrative. Louis and Lestat are the toxic beating heart of the Vampire Chronicles.

It's also important because we need messy, dark, fucked-up queer narratives. Sweet, coming-of-age stories and romances are of course, important - especially for younger queer people. But us older queer folk not only want to see ourselves in multiple genres, we want permission to see imperfect, messy, and yes, even evil characters. It's a way of reclaiming the monstrous queer that was villainized for so long and making it our own. We want to find something beautiful in the dark.

If we all thought about it, we could probably think of dozens of examples where a show or movie went far off-script from the source material and was still an excellent adaptation.

Interview With the Vampire is just the most recent and one of the best examples of a stellar adaptation that respects the source material but also builds and expands on it.

I look forward to seeing how they surprise me next season.

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002yb · 5 months ago

Note

So I see you subscribe to the Damian and Jason met in the League theory. Therefore, please allow to share this idea that won't leave my head - Damian matchmaking Jason and Dick. Just Damian noticing how much Jason loves romance novels and wanting Jason to have his own romance novel worthy relationship, and deciding Dick is the correct option to work with.

An AU where Jason stays with the League to watch over Damian as his guard and nursemaid caretaker. Damian being besotted because Jason's love for him is fierce and protective and his; because Jason is synonymous with kindness and safety. Jason's is a devotion that is unconditional. He's unapologetic about it, too.

There's no secret in how Jason makes sacrifices for Damian. The challenge he gives, the punishment he takes. Jason goes through hell for Damian. He brings the League to heel for him. Anything, everything, and more to protect this boy.

The love/hate/want Ra's would have for Jason, omg. But that's neither here nor there. Point being: Damian and Jason have a close relationship.

They soothe each other, though Damian doesn't realize what a comfort he is. It feels one-sided to him because Jason is so soft with him. Tough with his love, but patient. Gruff in his kindness, but generous and caring. He's too good for the League. That he stays with Damian, for Damian, is something that Damian struggles to reconcile most days because it indirectly says something about him.

That he's worth it: the love, the affections, the coddling. The safety. The kindness. That Damian must be good, too.

Damian being weighed down by the seeming lack of reciprocity on his end. Because he wants to take care of Jason, too. He wants to make sure Jason is as happy as his caregiver has made him.

It's on one of the rougher days at the League - where they're both beaten and bruised from a fight over the severity of Damian's lessons (where Jason intervened and lashed out on Damian's behalf when Damian couldn't do it himself - all bloodied hands and bruised skin; where Jason was taken to be reprimanded by Damian's grandfather and came back to their quarters limping, but with a crooked smile) that Damian concocts his plan.

Because it would be a routine: Jason reading to him. Damian's head rested on Jason's lap, Jason's fingers scratching through Damian's hair. The lull of Jason's voice drawing Damian to distraction or sleep.

And he would realize that it's not just a routine. It's a hobby. Because Jason is often reading in their spare time when Damian isn't demanding his attention.

So Damian fully listens as Jason reads about adventure and romance. Love stories that make Damian pull faces until his cheeks are pinched in retaliation.

But he listens. And he watches Jason, all the while.

And at some point, Damian resolves that he's going to give Jason a love like out of the novels. He'll find a man worthy - one that's everything of the men that Jason discreetly swoons over and is tickled by.

No one in the League fitting the profile Damian has built. No one anywhere being good enough, in fact.

Until Gotham.

Because, as it turns out? Dick Grayson is everything Jason has ever dreamed of. Funny thing is: he is. Because Dick is Jason's first love. Of course Jason was subconsciously attracted to similar qualities of the love interests in all the novels he read.

But Damian is clueless that it's not that Dick fits the profile he made - Dick is the profile.

So it's comically cute how proud of himself Damian is because there was never anyone other than Dick.

This is where the thoughts drop off, but maybe Bruce 'dies' and the ensuing grief/uncertainty/alienation prompts Damian to reach out to Jason via letter. And they correspond like that for a time. It both soothes Damian and makes his heart ache, but he's resolved to be strong like his caretaker, so he persists.

Dick noticing the consistency of the letters that come in/go out and the positive impact it has on Damian. They seem to ground him, humble him. It makes working with him easier and like that Dick and Damian start building a proper relationship as Batman and Robin.

The way these two would bond over being homesick. Because Dick isn't a stranger to missing people, places, and times they can't go back to. Just Dick becoming this support to Damian; a home away from home.

And it's when that comfort comes about that Damian starts talking about Jason - his beloved.

Which Dick is baffled by because what? Damian is ten.

Which Damian clicks his tongue at because that's his caregiver; his guard. Jason is most dear to him.

They talk about Jason. About what Jason sacrifices for him. About the letters. A slow unraveling of the more vulnerable parts of Damian because Jason makes him soft.

And of course Dick falls in love through hearing Damian's stories. Because Dick might not know this person's name, but he knows they're beautiful: passionate, brilliant, wicked, kind. They're brave in a way few are - steadfast morals and ironclad resolve. They're also endearing with what Damian describes as a sharp tongue and truly scathing wit, ornery and playful. It's clear that Damian's humanity was saved by them, kept safe by them.

The first time Dick and Jason interact being through a letter. It's not even directly addressed to him. It would be something Damian saved from prior correspondence and passes on to Dick who maybe loses part of himself to the cowl and is having a bad go of it.

So Damian gives him this letter that helped him when he was at a low point and Dick isn't expecting anything from it, but then he reads it and it fucks him up. It's soothing and encouraging; puts things into perspective and rekindles hope in his heart, warm and bright.

Dick adds a thank you note alongside Damian's letter the next time Damian mails something. When the reply comes: two envelopes.

The note Dick gets from Jason? Scathing. But in a tough love sort of way that puts a smile on Dick's face because wow, Damian wasn't joking about the mouth on this man. Still, he's charming. And so obviously kind - to write back like this.

It's something Dick should leave alone.

He doesn't.

He writes back, though it's only to talk about Damian - how he's doing, what he's been up to; this and this and this. Everything Dick can think of that Jason would want to know that wouldn't be breaching Damian's trust with him.

And this would be how Dick and Jason become penpals, of sorts. Texting would be easier, but there's something nice about a letter, too.

(Meanwhile Jason, at the League, heart racing because the romance of it, fuck!! ;//////; )

The correspondence persisting. While Damian's always at the forefront of both their thoughts, he's mentioned less. Instead they talk about what they can. Largely mundane until at some point they both realize their letters are pages long and filled with banter and inquiries and postscripts that are too lengthy for what they're meant to be.

There's this oddness to their relationship because they don't know each other's names or faces, but they know each other. And over time, they understand each other, too.

Which is why Dick picks up on how Jason might be homesick, too. Because he's alone in the League and his reason/purpose for staying has gone. More than anything Dick wants to tell Jason to run, to come to him them, but it's not his place. He sends pressed flowers, instead.

(The way Jason's breath catches when they fall from the letter and he realizes what they are. The tender way he'd admire it, smile soft and crooked. He'd hide them in the pages of his books, memories for him to cling to so he won't forget again).

Damian in the periphery, quietly smug but minding his business as he works in the shadows to bring his two most important people together.

Things being good for a time, only to fall apart when Jason's letters taper off, then stop completely.

Safety is a foregone thing in all their lives, but the reality that something might have happened weighs on them. Damian especially, since he's saddled with the regret of not bringing Jason with him from the start (though truth be told, Ra's wouldn't have allowed it).

Oh. When Talia first told Damian he was going, it was with the intention of Damian going alone for all the reasons - meeting his father, learning from Batman, being safe. Jason not being allowed to go even without Damian telling him to stay. And Jason being put in the position to take the fall for Damian being 'taken' from the League. And all the punishment/repercussions of that. Which just escalates over time and reaches a head when those letters get discovered ahhhhhhh.

Jason being used as bait to lure Damian back to the League. A foolproof plan because Damian is soft and seeing what's become of Jason after Damian left him alone is enough to break his heart.

So Damian's ready to give it all up. Only Dick and Jason aren't about that at all. Cue all the rescues and a joint throwdown with Ra's. Something something Dick's brutality and cruel passion piquing Ra's interest and earning some begrudging respect because it's something Ra's understands well. Which...leads to...a tentative truce?

Anyway, when everything is said and done, it's Damian and Jason crumbled to the floor and in each other's arms. It's Jason soothing in that way he does and it's Damian stubbornly biting back tears because he's never been so scared for someone.

And it's Dick walking up to them and Jason catching his eye and for a moment - recognition. For Dick. Almost for Jason.

They're all bloodied, bruised; gasping breaths and aching bones. But it's Dick's breath caught in his throat, his heart beating so hard in his chest that he feels faint. Blinking through the blood in his eyes because - it's Jason. It's his little wing.

(It makes sense. Who else would take on the League to protect another child soldier? Who else loves so profoundly? Deep and compassionate and gentle. Who else sparks hope like this but Robin?)

It was always Jason. Just like how for Jason, it was always Dick.

#dickjay #caretaker!jason #smitten!dick

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hisui-dreamer · 9 months ago

Text

ode to the protective aide

Pairing: Sebek Zigvolt x gn!reader

Synopsis: you were one of the few in his life who could see past his rough exterior

Tags: drabble, fluff, slightly poetic hehe, reader is a simp for sebek

Word count: 605

Notes: happy birthday sebek!! this grumpy crocodile guy really wormed his way into my heart haha (•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

Masterlist

Your lover possesses a remarkable honesty that cuts through the veils of pretence and artifice with surgical precision. His words, though often delivered with the blunt force of a hammer, carry an authenticity that is both refreshing and intimidating. He doesn't sugarcoat his opinions or dance around the truth; instead, he lays bare his thoughts and feelings with a rawness that can leave others reeling in its wake. Whether he's heaping praise upon someone for their talents or delivering a harsh critique, you can always trust that your lover's words come from the depths of his heart, unfiltered and unapologetic.

Your lover harbours an unyielding disdain for the cold, a sentiment that becomes all too apparent in the subtle ways he seeks warmth and comfort. Though he may never openly admit it, you've noticed how he unconsciously gravitates towards you, seeking solace in the heat of your presence. Whether it's a casual brush of his arm against yours or the way he leans just a little closer during a chilly evening stroll, his subconscious need for warmth speaks volumes. You offer him the refuge he seeks each time without fail, enveloping him in your embrace and shielding him from the biting chill of the world outside.

Your lover possesses a curious tendency to wander through life with a certain air of obliviousness. Despite his sharp wit and fierce determination, there are moments when he seems to be operating on a different wavelength altogether. Whether it's getting swept up in the excitement of the moment or simply failing to grasp the subtleties of a situation, he has a knack for stumbling into the most absurd of predicaments. It's both exasperating and endearing to witness his frequent bouts of air headedness, but there's an undeniable certain charm to his innocence.

Your lover may exude confidence and pride in most aspects of his life, but when it comes to you, he is surprisingly easily flustered. Despite his fiery demeanour, his heart skips a beat at the mere mention of your name, and his usually loud voice softens to a barely audible whisper in your presence. You've seen the flush of colour that creeps into his cheeks when you compliment him, his words stumbling over each other as he struggles to articulate his gratitude. It's both amusing and endearing to watch him squirm under your gaze, his pride momentarily forgotten as he fumbles for the right words to express the depth of his affection. And in those moments, you can't help but feel a surge of love for the vulnerable, lovestruck man before you.

Your lover finds immense joy in providing for you, in being the pillar of strength upon which you can lean. Whether it's through grand gestures or small acts of kindness, he delights in seeing you smile, in knowing that he's the reason for the light in your eyes. He takes pride in ensuring your safety, standing as a fierce protector against any threat, real or imagined. In his arms, you feel sheltered from the storms of life, cocooned in a warmth that is both physical and emotional. For him, there is no greater pleasure than knowing that he can make you feel loved, cherished, and above all, safe.

Your lover is a whirlwind of contradictions, a puzzle with pieces that seem to defy logic. Yet, beneath the bravado and the bluster, there beats a heart that is fiercely loyal and unabashedly passionate. And in that, you find solace, knowing that despite his flaws, he loves you with a fervour that is as undeniable as it is intoxicating.

Your lover, is none other than Sebek Zigvolt.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #sebek zigvolt #sebek zigvolt x reader #twisted wonderland sebek #twst sebek zigvolt #twst sebek zigvolt x reader #twst sebek #twst sebek x reader

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thedarlingdearestdead · 1 year ago

Text

Training:

Summary: Training with Anakin gets very off topic.

Warnings: R18, SMUT, once again I apologise.

Word count: 1,900

The training hall was filled with the hum of lightsabers. Anakin Skywalker, with his unruly hair and intense determination, stood at one end of the room, igniting his blue lightsaber. On the opposite side of the hall, you stood glaring at him.

Master Yoda had assigned you as training partners, had insisted you keep practising your form and tactics even though you had both been promoted to Generals in the wars.

The two of you had been at it for hours, rotating between circling each other, and charging at each other.

Anakin, ever the provocateur, couldn't resist a taunt. "Are you tired yet, Y/N?"

"You wish, Skywalker."

"Good, again." With that he came towards you once more, eyes glazing over with an instinct more focused and determined than he ever seemed outside of battle.

"I've handled tougher challenges than you, Skywalker," you retorted, strengthening your stance as you prepared for the clash.

The ensuing battle was fierce and unyielding. Anakin's aggressive style clashed with the your precise and calculated movements.

You had always had such different styles of doing things, in some ways that made you very well suited partners, or at least fun ones.

In the midst of their heated duel, Anakin couldn't help but admire your skill. "You've got some moves," he admitted, a smirk on his face despite his fatigue. He was glistening with sweat now, you supposed you were too.

You gritted your teeth, refusing to let his compliment distract you from the fight at hand. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Anakin," you replied, deflecting his attack with ease.

Anakin chuckled, clearly enjoying the adrenaline rush of the battle. "Just giving credit where credit is due," he replied, lunging forward with a swift strike that you quickly dodged.

“Yeah? Maybe one day I can teach you a thing or two."

Anakin's eyes gleamed with amusement, "I doubt it. But it's always worth a try."

For a moment, it seemed like you both were evenly matched, but then Anakin made a critical mistake, leaving himself open for you to strike and disarm him.

The blue lightsaber flew across the room, landing with a clatter on the ground. Anakin was left defenceless, panting and sweating heavily. But he did not seem to accept defeat.

Instead he started to fight with his body, dirty and completely against protocol. It shocked you into fierce defence, you were unsurprised by his tactics but still unsure of how to counter them.

You tried to maintain your composure, but with each passing moment, it seemed like Anakin was gaining the upper hand. He completely ignored the rules of engagement that had been drilled into him since he was a child. But it worked. Soon your own saber had been flung out of your hands and he had you on the floor.

Only then did the fog clear from his eyes and the boyish look of triumph which covered his face made you groan and lie down, staring at the ceiling in defeat and mock misery.

Anakin leaned over you, his grin growing wider. "Looks like I win this round, Y/N."

You rolled your eyes and pushed him off of you, standing up and dusting yourself off. "That was a dirty move, you cheated," you accused him, trying to hide the smile that threatened to break through your facade of annoyance.

Anakin shrugged, unapologetic. "Hey, all's fair in love and war."

You couldn't resist teasing him a bit. "I didn't realize you loved me so much, Skywalker."

Anakin's cheeks turned slightly pink, but he quickly regained his composure.

"Don't flatter yourself, Y/L/N."

You were still on your back and trying to regain your breath, he moved to sit on the floor next to you instead of helping you up. You were grateful not to have to move for a moment, probably bruised and definitely sore from the fighting.

He lay down on his back and put his hands under his head, watching him you couldn't help but notice his shirt ride up and your heart skipped a small beat as his muscled abdomen became exposed.

You couldn't help but feel a strange tension building between you. you couldn't help but feel a strange tension building between you. Anakin's hand brushed against yours, and you felt a jolt of electricity shoot through your body.

You meet his eyes and feel something magnetic pull you into him, his flush and peace after the exercise had made him turn into pure light. Without a second thought, you closed the gap between you, your lips meeting in a fiery kiss that left you both breathless.

It was a kiss filled with passion and hunger, a release of all the energy that had built up between you both during the hours of training. This had been the real goal of the session, the real tension behind it all.

Anakin's hands roamed from over you face to down your body, exploring every inch of you, as if he couldn't get enough. He pulled you on top of him causing you to moan softly, unable to resist him, unable to stop.

The training hall faded away as you gave yourself over to the moment, lost in the sensation of his touch.

You start move move above him, start to let your own hands wander, He took a moment to appreciate the sight of you, your hair a mess and your lips red and swollen from the force of his kisses. His cock twitched in his pants as he watched you, so much adrenaline coursing through his body that he mentally had to tell himself not to destroy you.

He did need a change though, wrapping his hands tight on your waist he turned the two of you over so that then he was over you. He grinned at your surprise and pressed his lips back on yours.

"Still think you could beat me?" He asked, moving down to your neck and sucking down ferociously.

"I think you've already won." You mutter, senseless to his ministrations.

He beamed down at you, kissing you deeply and reassuringly, but desperate for release. "I want you so much," he murmurs. You can't bring yourself to say anything back, just moan softly as he moves his hand down to your robe ties, undoing them with ease and finding the top of your trousers, pulling them down.

Each touch of his hands left your body on fire, you felt like you were melting from the inside out, a pool of lava aching for release.

"Say my name, Y/N."

"Anakin." You practically purr, the tension getting tighter and tighter, your release so close.

"Again."

"Anakin!" It had come so fast, so suddenly and completely that you were blinded. He licked his lips, watching your entrance, his hand snaking down your body and grabbing the hem of your shirt, pulling it up over your head and throwing it on the floor.

Then he removed his own and you were gaping at him. Not just a sliver, his entire torso was visible to you now. It was a work of art, every muscle taught and defined...

He smirked at the look on your face, and upon seeing it, you tackled him. You rolled him over and straddled him, pinning him down and grinding your hips down onto him. You couldn't resist tracing your hands over it, feeling the muscles in his arms and pressing your fingers into his chest. Tracing them with reverence, shockingly gentle for such an arousing moment.

Not for long however, he grunted as your nails dug into his shoulders, your teeth bit down on his pulse point, punching his skin. He rose his arms up to wrap around your waist, his hands roamed all over your body, you undid his trousers too, pushing them down only just enough so that you could pull him out.

He looked at you, and you could have sworn he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead he grabbed you by your hips, and you shuddered at the feeling of his hands on you. He lifted you so that he could line himself up with your dripping entrance, bringing you down with a shuddering moan.

"Anakin!" You cried, tears springing up in your eyes as sparks of electricity shot through every inch of your body.

He grinned, knowing your sensitivity was all due your release. Feeling it build once again, his ego was soaring.

You moved up and down on him, feeling every inch of him, moving to let him get deeper inside of you.

The force and speed of your thrusts was picking up, and you dropped your head back in pleasure, moaning his name.

Anakin's hands moved to your hips, gripping them painfully tightly and pushing down on you, muttering your name into your neck. The feeling of him inside of you had you both right on the edge immediately, the movements only working to intensify the experience.

"Is that what I do to you?" He whispered in your ear. "How do you feel?"

"It's so... good," you panted, throwing your head back.

He growled at your words, pushing himself up so that his length was buried deep inside you. You both groaned loudly at the feeling. "Tell me..." he breathed, sliding back and thrusting into you again, hard.

You closed your eyes, moaning as he moved again, this time slower.

"I want you Anakin, I've always- ah- wanted you."

The pressure built up, and you knew you were both close. His thrusts were getting faster and faster up into you until you couldn't hold yourself up anymore and you collapsed down onto him, screaming his name. He continued though, not caring or even noticing your overstimulation, just chasing his own.

And yet, despite how drained you were, you still couldn't help but moan at every thrust.

You pressed yourself against him, going down onto him as hard as you could.

"Oh... Ah!" He cried, his hips jerking back and forth at a delirious speed, until with a final thrust, he hit his peak, groaning your name as he came. His grip on you tightened, and you held on for dear life as he rode out his high.

His head fell back onto the training room floor and you relaxed your body onto him. Spent, and now, truly too exhausted to move.

"That was.. incredible." He rasps into the air. You smile into his chest, running your fingers through his sweaty hair. "I never knew that would happen."

"We should train together more often." You say.

"I wish we could stay here forever." He says, his eyes closed. The sun had begun to set, and the room was flooding with orange light, an eerie glow making Anakin's golden skin look even more like a statue than it already did. A real life god, you laugh silently to yourself.

"I think I need a shower now." You say, finally getting off of him, aware of the liquids running out of you and leaking onto his body.

He looks down and swallows, "I'll come with you."

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