#man printing ticket | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

elaci · 5 days

Text

You need a subject for a photography submission, 'the face of sport'. Art offers one up- him. He doesn't know, however, the long-lasting effects one photo can have.

cw; consensual voyeurism, piv sex, f-receiving oral, masturbation, tennis...

Art Donaldson x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

An old tennis racket, two trophies, a signed ball, three pairs of worn shoes he couldn't bear to part with. Art Donaldson sifts through piles of memories with a smile on his face. Tashi would call it junk and insist Art gave up on what he does not use anymore if she knew it was here, hidden in boxes labelled ‘LINEN’ in the basement where the dust collects dust.

His old pair of lucky socks, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a drive-in ticket to Fast and The Furious, another old tennis racket, his last ever report card from school. Art has to take a moment to stretch his back out, being hunched over a box of old things doesn't work for long periods of time when your posture is everything. He isn't so sure what he's looking for under the dim light of a bulb that needs to be changed: a piece of himself, if he were ever that pensive.

A box of condoms with only one left inside, a toy race car he found on the side of the road after losing a match, three different lighters. The blond has a match the next day and a sore shoulder to boot- with a grimace, he pushes his hair out of his eyes. The basement feels cold and stale and Art doesn't quite know why he prefers being down here than lounging in the wide expanse of his multi-million dollar home. Tashi will be back soon and aching to go and train— maybe it's just a moment alone that Art is after.

Art throws an old neck pillow on the ground beside him and coughs at the dust it kicks up. He knows he should go back upstairs and forget about a life gone by, but when Art peers into what he thinks is a now-empty box, his eyes widen. A camera bag sits abandoned at the bottom of the box, a ribbon that was once tied around the handle lays discarded next to the bag, frayed at the edges.

Art Donaldson feels like an infidel, an apostate, as he reaches in and picks up the bag. It's smooth against his fingertips, the zip cold from its neglect, though the bag is in good condition in spite of a half decade's worth of dust and the constant use of it beforehand. It smells like something old and sweet, and Art feels perverted for even remembering a time of such struggle when his life now is so easy. The feeling makes his breath catch, and he holds the bag to his chest like it'll give him strength- the idolater that he is.

He's seen many cameras in his life, but the one inside is what he remembers most fondly, it's an old Canon with a scratched lens. Though Art is no religious man, this is an occasion that warrants a little extra faith and he thanks whoever listened for blessing his hands with the volition to dig into his past. Also in the bag is a set of printed polaroids held together with a worn elastic hair tie, though Art discards them for the moment in fear of recalling too much.

He takes the camera in both hands and turns it on, half expecting a dead battery symbol to greet his piqued attention, but instead, the screen lights up and he's looking at his spacious basement through a camera that's seen more than it should. He aims the camera into the box mislabelled 'LINEN' and snaps a photo of the white ribbon lying at the bottom. He smiles, presses a button on the camera, and waits as it loads the picture onto the display.

"Not too shabby," he hums to himself, though falls silent again when his finger hovers over the PREVIOUS button, and Art Donaldson falls victim to the sin of nostalgia.

He presses the button and is immediately assaulted with a flash into the past that burns a hole right through his stomach. There he stands, spry and grinning like an idiot with a lollipop stick between his teeth, his arms draped around Patrick Zweig, who is sticking up bunny ears on top of his head. They look happier than ever, bound by a friendship they had thought to be unbreakable. Art can't bear the sight, he presses the button again and feels nauseous.

It's the same scene, the same lollipop stick between his teeth, the same eye-slanting grin across his face. But rather than Patrick Zweig by his side, someone else hangs off his arm...

The door upstairs slams- Tashi's home. The basement ceiling shakes with the rattle of the door, and Art jumps when his wife, his wife, calls into the house for him.

"Art?"

He drops the camera, and the damned thing breaks as it hits the concrete flooring. His heart pounds in his chest as he scrambles for the shattered pieces, eyes glued on the now-dull display screen.

"Art, come on." Tashi's voice is loud enough for Art to catch as she walks through their first floor. "I want to get an hour in before we leave."

Art looks from the camera to the stairs, and then to the set of polaroids he had left unlooked at. And like a dog biting his own tail despite the pain of his own teeth, Art shoves the polaroids into his back pocket and straightens up.

“Coming, babe!”

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“If you hit my camera with that ball, I’ll never forgive you.”

Art grins, “What, you don’t trust my aim?”

You stand to the side of the court, eyes squinted in opposition to the sun as you watch Art Donaldson take a tennis racket from his bag and stretch out his shoulders. You don’t know him, not really, but you’ll vouch on any given day that the man has nice hands.

You manage yourself as he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and hits it against the floor a few times before catching it and looking up at you, hands on hips.

“So, I just hit the ball a few times?”

You nod, “and look good doing it.”

Art snorts out a peal of sweet laughter that has you grinning in response, though when you take your camera from its bag, you’re struck with an issue.

“Hey, can I put my camera bag with your things? I really don’t want to lose it.”

Art looks from you to the bag you hold, a black camera bag with a white ribbon tied dutifully around the handle, he nods and gestures over to his belongings that sit to the side of the court, but can't help his curiosity. "What's the ribbon for?"

"So I know it's mine, everyone in my photography class opted for the same bag," you shrug. "Plus, it's pretty."

Art lets out a hearty laugh and readies himself with a few more stretches as you situation yourself, checking settings and exposure and the such. He doesn't want to distract you, but the silence between you is heavy and awkward. He wishes desperately to fill it, but words of much grandiosity fail to find their way out of his mouth.

"So, you like photography?"

You giggle at his attempt and squint up at him. "You could say that. It's a bit of an entry-level requirement for being a photographer, you know... liking it."

He laughs again, leaning back on his heels to admire the care you take with the camera, fiddling with the settings. He doesn't know you, not really, but he'll vouch on any given day that you have nice hands.

Art's tennis coach is in the midst of a hot work-fling with a professor who happens to head the photography club. She had a student lost on a subject for the 'faces of sport' submission, and Art's coach put his name forward. And here you are, now one of many who have watched him through a camera lens. He had seen you around campus on occasion, taken note of you talking to a friend of a friend- he'd have introduced himself if Patrick wasn't always dragging him away for a drink or four.

Now though, sober and grounded in his element: the court, Art can't help but let his eyes train on you a moment too long. He wonders what you see through the camera lens- a tennis player or a peer?

"Ready?" You're looking up at him with an encouraging smile and he feels his cheeks burn under your gaze as you snap a picture of him as he stands unassumingly.

"I did not say I was ready," Art points an accusing finger at you, but replaces his butthurt tone with a smile and readies himself to hit a few balls. "But I am. Now, at least."

You laugh, and Art finds himself wanting to hear it every day for the rest of his natural life. He smiles at the sound, a toothy grin he'd usually only flash when drunk or ecstatic.

You take another picture, and one more when he frowns at your antics. "You said you were ready," you shrug.

Art serves a few times, getting into his element as you photograph him. The click of your camera becomes background noise as Art works with his mind's eye and body's memory, making precise adjustments and hitting perfectly every single time. He gets into a sweet rhythm, serve after serve as he hits the balls to an empty other half of the court. You watch his form through the camera, taking each shot as they present themselves to you. All he does is play tennis, yet you find yourself eyeing something breathtaking. He's beautiful, like a piece of art with skill unmatched, but it's not his form that piques your interest: it's the look in his eyes. Focused, intent— in love. He adores what he does, the narcotic feeling it gives him, and you find you adore watching it flood his system.

Though your perfect shot, your submission picture, comes as an idea.

"Okay," your voice breaks Art's reverie, and he stops mid-serve to look at you. "I have what I need."

Art's brows furrow, "that's all?"

His arms fall to his sides, tennis ball dropping by his feet as his racket hangs loosely from his grip. He's sweaty, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Though he hasn't done much, you blame the sun and thank it in the same regard: he looks good.

"Just one more thing," you hum, raising your camera one last time. "Smile like you did before."

"What?"

"Just do it, Art."

He likes the sound of his name on your lips and obliges without further question. There he stands like a boy on his first day of school, arms by his side, racket hanging from his grip, sweaty and squinting under the bleating sun with a wide grin plastered on his face.

And you take the photo, him to the left of the shot as an empty court fills the rest of the frame. Remnants of that elated look still shine in his eyes, you've caught the afterglow.

"That's the one," you practically jump up and down at the picture staring back at you on the display.

Art makes a face. "What? I wasn't even playing."

You have to look from camera-Art to real-life-Art to catch his frown. You smile in response and walk pointedly over to the blond so you can practically shove your camera in his face.

"Look," you offer, feeling the extra heat of his body against you when he looks over your shoulder to gaze at the camera screen. You click through photos of him playing, all basic pictures he's seen a hundred times with a hundred different players. "That's the game, hitting a ball with a racket. You look good, you're focused, in touch with yourself, that's great. But this..." you click forward until you find your latest image, the one of him smiling, "...this is the afterglow, the dopamine rush, the actual game, the face of sport."

Art is quiet. He stares at himself, his own smile. A moment passes, and then another, and you're beginning to think he doesn't see the vision when he finally breaks the silence.

"Have you ever played tennis?" His voice is barely there, loud enough for you to hear as he leans down a little, right next to your ear.

You shake your head, you know he can see it, his breath is hot on your neck.

Art stands upright. "You should let me teach you. It's a good skill to have."

You turn and look up at him, "anyone can hit a ball with a racket."

He's quick to frown, a dramatic faux hurt etched across his face, "anyone can press a button on a camera."

You're about to defend your sport, ramble about the editing process and exposure settings and moving subjects and the rule of thirds when Art's sour expression loses to his breaking grin, and you catch the hypocrisy as it's about to drip from your tongue.

Before you can reply, however, he cuts you off. "I'll let you use that photo of me... if you let me teach you the basics."

The basics aren’t so basic when you spend most of your time photographing the ball, not trying to hit it. Art is patient, laughing ceremoniously whenever you flinch at the ball as it comes towards you, clapping when you do hit, and offering you pointers when you don’t. Half of the guys at Stanford for sports would have left fifteen minutes ago when you called tennis ‘a game straight from Satan's hole’. Art just laughed.

You wonder if you weren’t in need of a subject for your submission, whether you and Art would have ever crossed paths naturally. You wonder who his friends are, what he does when he’s not playing tennis, if he has other hopes and dreams.

“Your grip is wrong,” Art calls from the other side of the net. “You can hurt your wrist like that.”

You look down at your grip on Art’s racket and sigh—there’s a proper way of doing everything in tennis, you presume. You’re about to try and correct it yourself when Art quite literally jumps over the net to your side, he’s right in front of you in only a second.

“Hi,” he huffs.

“Hi.”

Art gestures something with his hands that you don’t quite get, then takes another step closer to you before freezing. “Oh, can I touch you? To fix your stance, I mean.”

“I thought it was my grip that was wrong.”

“That too.”

You have to laugh at your fuck-ups if you want to avoid looking like an egg. You nod to Art, who moves behind you and gently places his hands on your hips. He guides your body, slender fingers splayed over your waist, into a position that feels unnatural yet somewhat powerful. With a gentle nudge of his foot between your legs, he parts them and pushes one slightly forward.

“That’s good,” his voice hits your ears in waves, and you feel the tingle of goosebumps creep up along your arm. “Now your grip."

Art Donaldson slides his hands down your arms, taking each of your wrists in each of his hands and readjusts your grip on the handle of the racket, one hand above the other.

You stare at the ground, and he clears his throat quietly. “Like this.”

He brings both of his hands down to cup around yours and pulls your arms up as he swings your arms back and forth, the movement fluid. in demonstration of the godforsaken 'proper technique'. Your back is pressed right against his front, his chest flush against your back and the ridges of his stomach brushing against the line of your spine. Your heart races, and though you're sure he hears it, it's drowned out by the pounding of blood throughout your head as you focus on each movement of his hands, on his words, and on his voice.

"There we go," he nods, his mess of blond hair brushing against your neck as he dips his head down, presumably to check your footing. Your body shudders as he whispers, "Good job," and his mouth tickles the shell of your ear before he releases you. The world seems to tilt, no longer relying on Art for balance. You're surprised the racket doesn't fall from your grasp when he steps back, though with the loss of contact, your knees feel weak enough to collapse. As it stands, though, you're still standing, and Art is beaming down at you like he's just taught a puppy a new trick.

"So, what'd you think?" he asks.

You tilt your head in question.

Art smiles wider, "is it easier than pressing a button on a camera?"

"Oh, so you're an asshole," a bemused smile crawls across your lips.

He snorts, "Maybe."

Your laughter dies away as a strange sort of melancholy seeps in. You're suddenly aware of how far apart you two are, the space between your bodies, the lack of physical contact. Art notices, and gives a soft laugh of his own, a lighthearted chuckle that breaks the eerie need to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of each other.

"So," Art crosses his arms. "Now you just have to learn how to hit the ball."

"Ha ha ha," you verbalise, straight-lipped and eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe next time, hot shot."

"Next time?" Art's reply is quick. "So you'll let me keep teaching you?"

You smile at him, "No, I was lying to be polite."

It's Art's turn to act unimpressed, but you see him bite back a grin. He lets out a stressed-short laugh that turns into a huff at the end. "You're so funny."

"I know."

"Will you show me the photo once it's printed?"

It takes you a moment to realise he's being serious.

"Huh?" you ask, looking up.

Art's eyes are wide, and he raises an eyebrow. "Can I have your phone number?" he clarifies.

You open your mouth to object, to tell him no- you don't give your number to random boys you've just met, but instead, the corners of your mouth twitch upward and you're suddenly typing your number into Art's phone and saving your name with a smiley face next to it. Art smiles at the gesture and pockets his phone. There's a moment of silence shared between you, an unassuming silence that's more comfortable than it is awkward, but a silence nonetheless.

A silence broken by the loud echoing voice of another boy calling out from the far side of the courts- a brunette with curls that are more defined than Arts, that's the most you can make of him as he calls to the blond by your side, waving his arms above his head and then gesturing to his wrist like he's tapping a watch.

"Oh, shit," Art pulls his phone back out to check the time. "Fuck, sorry, I have to go."

You shrug, smiling. "It's fine, thanks for giving up some of your time."

Art smiles back, thanking you in turn for putting up with his tennis brain, then hurries to grab his things and race away in the direction of his friend. For a few seconds, all you can do is stand there dumbly watching his retreating form until he reaches his friend, who nudges Art and looks over his shoulder at you before the pair of them disappear around the corner leading back towards campus.

It's not until they're out of eyeshot that you turn to grab your camera bag, just to be greeted by an empty space where you had left it. Your heart drops for a moment, the thought of losing your camera a soul-crushing one. You remember, though, tucking it away with Art's stuff for safekeeping. He must have grabbed it in his rush to leave.

You exhale, running a hand over your forehead. Well fuck.

Art Donaldsons dorm room number plays on a loop in your head that night. He had texted you as promised, with a simple ‘I HAVE YOUR CAMERA!’ along with an easy ‘COME TO MY DORM I HAVE BEER’

It had taken him another ten minutes to realise you’d have no clue where his dorm was, and send through his dorm number. You had debated sending him a text back, telling him to meet you tomorrow on campus to hand over the camera, but your submission deadline is the next night and you need time to edit, decide you hate your prospective career as a photographer, and then fall in love with the process all over again.

You roam the halls of the boys' dorms for a few minutes, eyeing door numbers until you find his. Some doors are left ajar, some wide open and sporting odours so bad you curse God for giving you a sense of smell. You finally find Art’s door, and double check the number twice before knocking, despite a tennis ball sticker just above the door handle.

There's a little rustling inside when you knock, but his voice calls out clearly. "Come in!"

When you open the door, you're greeted not by Art Donaldson, but by the blinding flash of your own camera. You blink away the stun to find Art grinning at the display, admiring his handiwork as an amateur photographer. He turns your camera in his hands to show you to yourself, startled and wide-eyed in a half-blurred photo: Art's finger covers a corner of the frame too, it must have been over the lens.

"I think I'm a natural," he bites his tongue cheekily as he hands you your camera back. You check it over, out of habit more than mistrust of Art, and he pushes his door wide open to reveal the dorm room in all its college-student glory. It's not large by any means, but it has everything you could ever possibly want and then some, plus an impressive collection of sports memorabilia from past years and awards displayed in frames on the walls. Your camera bag is sitting on his bed, and Art gestures you towards it with a smile.

"Sorry," he spins around and opens a little cooler sitting on his floor, pulling out two beer cans from inside and offering you one. "I didn't realise I had picked it up. Were you okay without it?"

You take the beer with a 'thanks' and pat the small shoulder bag you wear. You lift the flap open to reveal a little Polaroid camera, an old one you barely use anymore. "Had to pull this off the shelf," you say. "But yeah, it should be good now."

"That's good," Art nods as you pop the top of your beer.

You sit on the edge of his bed while he takes a sip of his beer, staring at you. You notice a slight flush to his cheeks and wonder if he's a few drinks ahead of you. You can't help but laugh, leaning forward as you rest your elbows on your thighs. "Why am I here, Art?"

He frowns, looking down at you from where he stands, leaning against his countertop. "To pick up your camera?"

"You could have met me with it tomorrow. It's..." you glance at the alarm clock beside his bed, "nearly midnight."

He blinks and laughs sheepishly at you, scratching behind his neck. "Yeah, about that... I guess I just wanted to see you again?"

"Oh," you lean back and purse your lips in surprise, glancing from Art and the beautiful nervous look on his face to the beer he holds in a tight grip.

Art laughs softly, "Are you freaked out?"

"No," you shake your head quickly, "I'm not freaked out, Art."

Art chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening as his blush deepens. "Okay," he breathes out before he takes another sip of his beer and moves to sit beside you on the bed. It dips under his weight, almost pulling you closer into him, though he leaves enough space to remain respectable. His eyes seem darker now, more focused, even though his expression remains soft and pleasant. His gaze lingers on your face for a while before he opens his mouth to speak. "You said earlier, on the court, that the photo you took was the real face of sport. You're good, huh?"

"I'd like to think so," you smile fondly, gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes.

"Are you in love with it?"

You hum, "with photography?"

Art's eyes flick up to your eyes. His gaze is intense, not in a scary way, but something more playful and inviting. He nods.

"I love it, sure," you nod, situating yourself to sit more comfortably on Art’s bed. "Are you in love with tennis?"

Art nods, taking a longer drink from his beer. "Yes."

Your brow furrows and you raise an eyebrow. "I didn't know. You seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole 'look at me, I'm a tennis player' thing, actually."

His face splits in a toothy grin. "I'm humble."

You giggle quietly at that, and stare at him for a couple of seconds, studying his face, taking in every little detail. His hair, his eyes, the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline and chin, his smile, and the dimples on each cheek that said smile brings out. There are traces of dark circles underneath his eyes, you realise, and they're highlighted when his pupils expand slightly at your laughter.

You feel warm, and not from the alcohol that sits inside your stomach. The both of you place down your beers, and Art Donaldson, who may well have a girlfriend and dirtied intentions, takes in a deep breath before asking you lowly, "Can I kiss you?"

The word 'please' escapes your lips before you can stop it and the red tint in Art's ears deepens. You bite the insides of your cheeks nervously, waiting for Art to speak again, but he doesn't, and suddenly his hand is at the nape of your neck, tugging you forwards and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, desperate manner.

As he starts moving slowly, his tongue darts out and traces the curve of your bottom lip as he pulls you further into him, the taste of his beer lingering on his lips making the gesture feel all the more enticing. A hand cups your jaw, slender fingers trailing down your neck in sensual exploration of your exposed body before his other hand rests on the small of your back and he draws you even closer until the heat radiating off himself feels almost unbearable on your skin.

There's no hesitation, no awkward pauses, or second-guessing, you find yourself melting against his body instinctively. A narcotic, he is, the way he smells and tastes and sounds and touches, and there's only so much you can handle before it overwhelms your senses completely. The kiss itself isn't that hot, it's chaste and messy and your teeth click against his in the desperation of it all, but it fills you with something unfamiliar, makes you feel lightheaded and dizzy and yearning wholeheartedly for more. You don't care how little you know him, you don't mind the lack of foreplay; you just feel overwhelmed and need more, you need more than just his lips on yours.

He practically whimpers when you pull back, his hands sliding down to hold onto your hips possessively. Sad eyes meet yours at the loss of your taste, but you brush off his worry easily, running your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into your touch, breathing in and out heavily through his nose as if you are his only source of breath, and the sight causes a knot to form in your stomach.

"You are single, right?" your kiss-swollen lips whisper against his and you feel him exhale.

"Yes," he speaks against your mouth, a husky sound that makes your heart ache.

"Good."

You kiss him again, more fervently, letting your tongue tangle with his as his arm wraps around you tightly. Before you know it, Art has your back against his mattress and is hovering over you, hands gliding swiftly under your shirt. You aid him in getting it over your head and watch as he follows suit, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it to the floor in dismissal. He slides down his shorts and leaves himself in a pair of blue boxers that you already notice are tenting.

You take a moment, you have to, to appreciate the sculpt of Art’s body—the muscled planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His face is flushed, hair mussed and unkempt, lips swollen and kissed pink. You want to commit every last inch of this man to memory, keep him locked in the back of your mind in fear of never experiencing this again.

Is this a one-time thing? You lift your hips as Art pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, and you can't help but wonder if this is the first and only time you'll feel his fingertips against the skin of your thighs. When morning comes, and your lust is expelled and tired, will Art turn his shoulder from you? Is this something? Hell, you don't know the guy, not really.

But he presses a gentle kiss to your lower abdomen and you feel safe and comfortable; your heart rate slows as the tension eases and your body sinks further into the mattress, letting Art's hand slip between your legs to part them. "Art…"

A low moan passes your lips as he brushes his fingertips over your clit, they're still cold from holding his beer, and the stark contrast in temperature is enough to make you gasp. Art slides his thumb over the sensitive nub and you arch your back in response. Your hands come to grasp at the sheet beneath you, knuckles whitening from the amount of pressure you're exerting on them. You want more, but you realise quickly that Art is a man for taking his time. Slow, languid circles over your clit, not daring to even push a finger inside of you just yet. You whine and buck your hips against his hand, needing his touch to be deeper.

He presses a kiss to your chest, and then trails his mouth down your stomach, pausing briefly to look up at you before he dips to place a kiss directly to your pulsing clit.

You freeze, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. "You don't have to..."

"I'm dying here," Art's eyes meet yours: he looks starved. "Please let me."

All you can do is nod your head and close your eyes as he delves between your thighs for a taste of your lust. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, grip tight as if he’s dead set on leaving his mark, staking his claim. He’s showering in the way you writhe, his tongue rolling over your clit as he slips two fingers inside of you. He’s high off your taste alone, latching his lips around your clit in an assault fueled by insatiable need.

You can feel him shuffle a little, moving his free hand from your thigh to reach under his own waistband and stroke himself in tandem with the thrust of his fingers inside of you. His pace quickens, though he still manages to savour your pleasure. Your hand snakes down to thread your fingers through his mess of blond hair, pushing your hips up in an attempt for more.

As Art pumps his cock with his hand, he groans against your heated flesh, sending vibrations from your sex to your spine: you arch your back in pleasure, the tightness of an impending orgasm beginning to roll over you. You try to vocalise it, tell Art you’re close, but you’re already a mess of incoherent moans and pleads for more— but he doesn’t need words to know, not when he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your every muscle tensing. His scalp must burn from the stress of your pulling, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much, smiling against your pussy as he finger-fucks you to climax.

With a sharp inhale and a choked sob of a moan from your throat, you come undone under Art’s ministrations, your vision blurred and stomach in knots of ecstasy. It's only once your breath finds you again that Art pulls his fingers out of you and climbs over you once more to press a messy kiss to your lips, he shares with you a taste of yourself, lips glistening with your release. He grins into the kiss, as pussydrunk as can be, and moves to press a sloppy mixture of kisses and bites to your exposed neck.

"You taste so good," he speaks against your skin, nipping at your pulse.

"I want more of you," you exhale, dizzy with lust.

Your legs tighten around his back as he meets your eyes once again, a sultry smile creeping across his face. You snake a hand down to the waistband of his boxers, noting the thin layer of sweat that already glosses Art's torso, and dip a finger under the elastic. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, please," he murmurs, ducking down to press another kiss to your shoulder. You tuck your hand into his boxers, feeling past his trimmed-short hair and wrapping your fingers around his cock, rock hard and pulsing in your hand. He groans and presses himself further into your hand, his teeth dragging along the expanse of your shoulder as you pump his shaft. His hips rise of their own accord as you bring your hand higher, rubbing along his length until you have him completely desperate for the now-familiar warmth of your pussy.

"I need to be inside of you," he lays his intentions out, head tilting up to watch you for a sign of protest.

You nod, eager and willing to accommodate him, and release his cock, raising yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at the beautiful mess of a man moving to stand. He (ungracefully) reaches over to grab a condom from his bedside drawer and sheds his boxers. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he takes his time as he slides the condom onto his dick, stroking his cock gently once it's on. He watches you closely, a fond look on his face as he rubs the head of his cock up and down your pussy a few times, collecting the remnants of your lust and his spit before he enters you. It's slow, and careful, and deliberate, and your body trembles in anticipation, eyes flickering closed when he finally gives into your silent plea. The shared gasp between you is uniform, a symphony of pleasure and endurance. Him, overwhelmed by just how tight you are. You, overwhelmed by the stretch of just how big he is.

Art bottoms out in one movement, to get the harshest part out of the way for you; you hiss at the searing heat of the stretch, but calm as Art stills inside of you. You both take a moment, a shared breath, to appreciate being one, and the pleasure that comes with such entwining.

Once you’re ready, you squeeze his bicep, giving him the green-light to move. And he does, painstakingly slow, he pulls out of you, just to snap his hips forward to plunge himself back inside. The hand that isn't holding him up is pressed down on your stomach, feeling himself through you as he pushes in deep, then withdraws. Each thrust of his cock brings forth a loud gasp from your lips, which only serves to guide him further into a state of mindless bliss. He keeps himself in check as best he can, though his breathing has quickened considerably as he continues to fuck you. You feel like you're going to lose your mind, unable to breathe or speak or think straight as you're pulled closer and closer to your end. Though as you've learnt, Art Donaldson is a man to take his time, and he switches from the fast snapping thrusts to a slow roll of his hips once he feels he's a little too close to the edge.

You notice, too: you see the tension building in his muscles, how he pants and groans with each movement he makes. He stares at you adoringly, heavy lids weighing his sights down to your chest, your arched torso, your sweet design. He leans down to press another kiss to you, lips parting so he can slide his tongue into your mouth as his rhythm quickens even more. The kiss feels more intimate than even the act of his cock splitting you open, it's a sweet one, a honeymoon-style kiss where after his forehead meets yours and his eyes bore into your eyes in a mixture of something hazy.

You notice the glossy look in his eyes immediately, it's the same one you had seen on the tennis court earlier. The awestruck, total blissful look in his eyes that had spurred your inspiration. The face of sport. Even through your fucked-dumb haze of lust and a hedonistic desire to finish like this, with Art on top of you, the opportunist in yourself can't help but move. You place a firm hand on Art's shoulder, and his thrusts roll to a stop.

"You okay?" he pants, a sudden worry in his eyes, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort.

"Fine," you shake your head, trying to clear it, blinking away the foggy sensation clouding your mind. "Just, uh... do you trust me?"

Art's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the question: "Why?"

Your voice is barely there, a heat spreading across your face as you ask; "will you let me on top?"

Art chuckles low and deep, eyes never breaking contact with yours. A gentle touch to the curve of your ass cheek tells you that he'll miss the view, but he nods nonetheless, and you smile in turn. You expect Art to pull out and lay back on the bed, but instead, he wraps one arm under your back and pushes up with his other, flipping the both of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he's flipped over you straddle his waist, resting your hands on his chest for support, and laugh at the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.

This new position, with you sitting on Art's cock, makes you feel twice as full. You can tell that neither of your orgasms are far off, and you take the opportunity to test the waters. You roll your hips, grinding down on Art's cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut. When he lets out a low noise of approval that sends shivers down your spine, you lower your body closer, pressing a wet kiss to Art's jaw as he grips your waist with a strength you don't doubt will bruise come morning.

His hips raise underneath you, fucking up into you as you continue your ministrations. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the air, and you'd close your eyes in ecstasy if you weren't so hypnotised by the sheen in Art's eyes. With each thrust Art manages to drive into you, you find your nails biting into the skin of his chest. He gets louder, groans and whines that you'd play on repeat if you could,, he's close, and he says as such.

"Let me take a picture," you say before you can stop yourself; his jaw slacks open at your words, staring up at you with incredulity written across his face. You defend your proposal- "With the Polaroid. I'll let you keep it, no copies."

A bad idea, probably, what with his face being one he hopes to see plastered across buildings one day. He doesn't know why he nods, why he smiles when you reach across the bed for your Polaroid. Maybe it's the mindless state of lust he's in, maybe it's the danger, or maybe he'll find the photo in ten years' time and remember this night with a smile or a frown depending on the grand outcome.

You ready the camera, roll your hips against his a few more times, and look down at pretty Art Donaldson.

"You're fucking gorgeous," you let slip, praise falling from your lips straight to his reddened ears. You feel him twitch inside of you, you squeeze around him in coaxing. "Look at you."

He fucks up into you with a pace unrelenting. Your second orgasm of the night is only seconds away, and you cope through the haze of pleasure and lust to focus on Art's face, memorising every detail of that look in his eyes as he starts to falter.

"Fuck," you groan, pressing down onto him to a new depth. He's tense for a moment, a sweet moment of shared rapture as you both fall over the edge of your climaxes.

"Shit, shit," his sounds mirror yours, veins pulsing in his neck as he cums. One hand digs into your hips, the other grips the sheets.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it. The look, the face of pleasure, of need, of sin.

You take the shot.

SIX YEARS LATER

The night is quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees outside and the occasional passing car. Art Donaldson has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.

He stands in the shower, water falling over his back, though cleanliness is an afterthought despite being sweat-ridden after hours of training with Tashi.

With one hand, Art pumps his cock in vigorous strokes, leaning against the cold tile wall as he jerks himself off. His eyes are locked onto what he holds in his other hand- the photo you took all those years ago. He's careful not to get it wet, but it's hard to focus on the state of it when his pooling orgasm nearly blinds him.

His eyes burn into the image, a display of himself at his most vulnerable. You had taken it looking down at him as your orgasms synced, and now he looks down at the same sight you had seen at your peak. He cums ropes onto the shower floor, biting so hard on his tongue to stifle his moans that he's surprised he can't taste blood in his mouth.

He’s left breathless, eyes still locked on the polaroid he had found in the basement earlier in the day. There's a handful more of them, but Art had no time to go through them, not after pulling this one out first and being hit with a wave of memories he’s not sure he should have.

He has to satiate his guilt by telling himself it’s not wrong to jerk off, especially not when it’s only a photo of himself… or, that could make it worse. Art exhales deeply, emptying his lungs so he can take a breath of new air.

Art steps backward into the fall of water, letting it run down his face in a rejuvenating cleanse of his sins and unholy ways of thinking. He sighs, wonders what level of hell he’s going to, and then flips the polaroid around.

Written in your handwriting on the strip of white down the bottom in permanent marker,

THE ART OF MAKING LOVE.

series taglist: @lotties-ashwagandha @daughterhouse @kiiwizz @doll-0f-flesh @jackierose902109 @lonnie2390147 @hedonisticwomen @ysuftmikey @viena-vie @whitewashedghanianlol @kolsmikaelson @nikirikii @dumbass-sappho-stan @seriousaliysa @majathepapaya @lovezclub @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers 2024 #art donaldson #art x reader #art smut #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine

871 notes · View notes

starchaserwrites · 3 months

Text

@jegulus-microfic / february 27: change / word count: 434

James doesn't particularly believe in coincidences, but when at 15, during the week his parents gave him a loose fitting bright red t-shirt with a Lightning McQueen print, he gets the top mark in an exam he didn't study for, found money he didn't remember he had in one of his jackets and won tickets to a Green Day concert, that's when his lucky t-shirt was born.

Since then, he uses it whenever the situation calls for it. Exams, new tricks with his skateboard, parties, amusement parks, and lots of other things. He even used it the day he helped his best friend to run away from his house to live with him. So it becomes common knowledge how important the tee is to James.

Four years later, during the warmest summer in recent memory, James is wearing the t-shirt that has faded slightly with the passage of time and no longer fits as loosely as it once did, when there is a knock on the door of the flat he shares with Sirius. Silver eyes and dark curls flood his vision and electrify his entire body.

A month later, the morning after Regulus' birthday party, who is trying to make up for the lost time with his brother, James overhears that in a couple of days he will be auditioning for a part in a film. His relationship with Regulus is... complicated, James tries his best to get him to like him, but the younger boy always seems to be displeased by his presence. Considering this, James doesn't know what possesses him when instead of changing into his lucky tee he decides to sneak it into the bag he knows belongs to Regulus. He barely passes his driving test that day but he is strangely happy.

James never mentions the t-shirt again but Regulus wears it under his jacket when he gets the part for his first important film.

He also wears it a week later when he asks a very surprised James out on a date.

He uses it again on the day they kiss for the first time.

Once again when Sirius tells him he loves him in the middle of a game of chess.

One more time when he spends his first night together with his boyfriend.

Then again every time he wins a new award (which is quite often).

And again under his suit at his wedding with James.

James realised that he doesn't need to be the one wearing the t-shirt to be the luckiest man in the world.

Regulus has never and probably never will watch Cars.

#based on my own lucky tee #jegulus #regulus black #james potter #starchaser #sunseeker #james x regulus #jegulus microfic #marauders #len writes

554 notes · View notes

keiamor · 3 months

Text

Okay but Biker!Toji x Librarian! Reader is still on my mind-

Biker! Toji with one of those massive bike where it's wide enough for you to lay down and of course fucking you atop of it.

Biker! Toji with all black outfit, rarely take off his helmet and just look sketchy as fuck everywhere he goes. The only few times he actually take it off, he just look sexy as fuck with his hair slightly damped from the sweat.

Biker! Toji who checks women out whilst waiting in traffic, nodding at those who notice only to chuckle to himself whenever they blushed.

Biker! Toji who sometimes take women on a ride around when they approach him, only for him to weave through traffic and laughing when you beg him to stop or slow down.

Biker! Toji who definitely bribes officers to get out of a ticket, either offers to show them a good time or speed off when he catches them off guard.

Now comes the juicy part—

Biker! Toji who went to print something in library, only to stumble on you who’s nose deep in your book whilst making your way back to your desk. Having to wave you down just so you can show him how to actually use the printer, you were too busy processing what you had just read to recognise that shit eating grin he have plastered across his face as you followed him to the printer. It was then when you realise the printer was jammed, sighing to yourself as you tried to figure out a solution. Needless to say, Toji watched closely as he leans against said printer, fingers tapping against the cover. “So… Is that why you became a librarian?”

You were baffled, brows frowning as you carefully not to get your fingers trapped in this shitty printer. The last thing you want is for someone to be talking to you right now, “Sorry what was that?” Given the situation, it was only natural for you to sound a little angry. Huffing slightly as you answered without looking up at him, “Don’t play dumb with me now, sweetheart. Should you really be reading those kind of books at work?”

It was then when his question clicked, the way your froze were noticeable but not as much as the redness across your face. “I—“ You were speechless, caught red handed as you were trying to defend yourself, only then do you look up at the tall man with slightly teary eyes. “You’re wrong! I was just— I was—“

“Was what? Taking inspiration and trying to recreate them? I can help with that.” Toji leaned down and whispered with the same shit eating grin on his face, what’s wrong with this guy?

As by miracle, the printer started to working again and you take that as your cue to leave. Slamming the printer drawer close, glaring at this stranger before you walked away without saying another word. All you can hear was the same man, almost yelling atop of his long to thank you only for you to glare back at him again.

Safe to say, this same very strange, annoying man kept on showing up when you’re on the clock.

#toji x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro x you #jjk x reader #~; cheshire ramble #enjoy my morning brain rot

443 notes · View notes

chiriwritesstuff · 5 months

Text

The Girl in IT - Masterlist (Under Rework!)

A Boss! Joel Miller x IT Specialist F! Reader AU

Click here for The LIST

Series Rating: E (18+, MDNI)

Series Summary: When an IT specialist who feels behind in life stumbles upon a sexual bucket list on her boss's computer one night, what will she do once she finds out that it was written about her?

Series Warnings & Tags: No Outbreak! Joel Miller, Smut, Joel's Sexual Bucket List, Boss x Employee Relationship, Virgin Reader, All the Fluff, All of the Yearning, Mishaps, Awkward Sex, a small-ish Age Gap, Joel is a Forward and Healthy Communicator, Roleplay, Meddling Millers, Tess is a Boss, Sugar Daddy Lite, Daddy Kink, Smut, SO MUCH SMUT, Age Gap, Overstimulation, Squirting, Older Man/Younger woman, So much dirty talk, DD/lg (kinda? they're both into it), Virgin Reader, Loss of Virginity, PIV Sex (finally!!!!), Breeding Kink, Breeding kink, More tags to be added as series progresses

Chapter List:

The Night Shift - 5.6K

Off to the Races - 3.6K

Vroom Vroom - 6K

Gooey - 6.4K

Pony - 3.5K

The Adults are Talking - 5.3K / Deleted Scene - Sweet Revenge - 1.3K

The All Hands Meeting - 4.4K

The Panic! in the Breakroom (Christine's Version) - 8.2K

Fools Rush In - 3.9K (Undergoing Rework)

Looks Like We Made It - 4.1K (Undergoing Rework)

Love, Joel - From Joel's Eyes

The Tornado Watch - 2K

Who Wants to be a Millionaire? - Coming Soon!

To Build a Home

IT Ticket - Byte-Sized Microfics / Drabbles (1K words or less):

Print Job

I Fell

Moodboards:

Frank's Wedding Pinterest Board for Joel & Sugar, Honolulu, Hawaii 2024

I would choose you in every lifetime.

The Girl in IT Vibes

Behind The Scenes & Extras!

Behind the Music!

Joel's Headcanons!

Sugar's Headcanons!

Minor Character Headcanons!

NSFW Alphabet (18+)

Sugar's Style! - After Joel's Neiman Marcus Birthday Spree!

Joel and Sugar Fanart! - by the lovely @desuidesu

The Girl in IT meets The Office - Fanart by the lovely @babyispunk

Recreated Slack Visuals - Fanart by the lovely @babyispunk

Meet Cute NYC - 1.3K (A glimpse at the future!)

900 notes · View notes

ddarker-dreams · 7 months

Note

Do you think Gojo is the type of yandere to kidnap? And if so what would cause him to do so?

gojo is a weirdo.

forcing you to stay in one confined space would be boring, for you and for him. he's entertained the thought, voicing it aloud as a way to make you squirm, but it's never been an objective of his. he likes the thought of you going about your life knowing he can (and will) pop up uninvited at any time. he wants to show you off! blabber about you to his poor students, beaming proudly as he scrolls through the thousands of pictures he has of you on his phone. for this, he considers himself a magnanimous man. he could deprive this world of your presence by locking you up all for himself. however, since he's nice, you can keep living as you did BG (before Gojo). with a few adjustments, naturally.

the main being who and what receives your attention. there aren't many unspoken rules with gojo, because strict regulations have never been his style. for instance, you're more than welcome to:

be rude to him

talk to whoever you want*

go anywhere you want*

do anything you want*

*now here's the fine print. your life and physical wellbeing might not be on the line, but that doesn't extend to everyone else. at times, he entertains the thought of being a god. there are even instances where he believes it. as such, who is he to deny you your free will? you can accept that barista's hastily written phone number, purchase airplane tickets to some far-off country, report him to whatever authorities you think could handle him; he won't clip your wings.

he loves you and the love of any fair god must include judgment. if you don't want others to end up as collateral, you'd do well to remember that. his 'magnanimity' doesn't mean he'll share. you can be admired at from a distance or talked to, just not for long. your attention is the air he breathes and he won't deprive himself for a second longer than he deems necessary.

#yandere gojo x reader #concepts #answered #Anonymous

587 notes · View notes

yawnjunn · 1 year

Text

:*:✼ TXT attending your concert ✼*･ﾟ

Woahh its been a while huh...got super busy with life, just failed my physics exam 😜✌️ and now im on my school break, i decided to write this post bcs im SUPERRR bored rn but anyways

╰┈➤ idol!ot5! txt x idol!gn!reader

╰┈➤ no warnings, just fluff

╰┈➤ quick guide : y/n = your name, y/g/n = your group's name, y/f/n = your fandom's name

yeonjun(연준) :

☆ This man isnt afraid to attend your concert WITHOUT covering his face, yk how some artists covered their face and attend their friend's concert? yeah...not yj tho

☆ He might only bring a lightstick, not those extra banners or signs or whatever

☆ The only reason why he only brought a lightstick was bcs, he treats your concert like its his monthly/weekly routine

☆ Youre having a 2 day concert in seoul? You know damn right he'll be there despite his busy schedule

☆ Having a concert in japan? Finds a way to get to japan just to attend your concert

☆ so thats why he didnt feel like the need to bring extras cs in the end, yk hes gonna attend anyways

☆ but that didnt stop fans from screaming whenever they saw yeonjun

☆ he'd probably try to make a conversation with your fans while waiting for you to perform with your group

☆ "so how long have you stan y/g/n ?"

☆ "im a y/n biased, and you?"

☆ when you came on stage and during the breaks between performing, you called out yeonjun

☆ "yeonjun i know youre here somewhere, cameraman pls find yeonjun and point the camera at him"

☆ and when the camera is on him, hes smiling brightly and covered his shy face after getting those cheers from your fans

☆ you'd probably ask him to dance to one of your songs

☆ "yeonjun dance this song for me pls" then hes like shaking his head and all, refusing

☆ but the moment the music started, he danced so well that he literally became the hot topic of your group's show

soobin(수빈) :

☆ well soobin however, he'll come 2 hours early before your concert starts

☆ the reason he came early was because he was excited to give out his handmade freebies

☆ the night before, soobin had asked if he could hand out some freebies to your concert and you found this soooo cute that you told all your fans to find soobin for freebies

☆ he may be a little bit biased but all his freebies are just you.

☆ you wonder, what did he made? well...he made a banner, your photocard that he printed himself using his company's printer, candies of your fav and pastries that he had bake

☆ believe me or not, he woke up as early as 4 am just to make cute little pastries as your concert take place in morning

☆ he believed your fans wouldnt get breakfast, so he baked the pastries for them 😭

☆ as soon as your concert starts, he whipped out his phone so fast and record it and whenever you came on screen, hes like "wahhh theyre so pretty"

☆ when you start singing, he starts crying???? hes way too proud of you that he starts crying and vent to his friends sitting next to him

☆ "you know how hard my baby worked? im so proud of them, i remember them crying every night to me because of training and now look at them, theyre on stage now"

☆ his friend sitting beside him was like, soobin are u okay??? are u drunk?? but either way, his friend can only smile and nod while listening to soobin rant

beomgyu(범규) :

☆ idc what anyone says but this man will be fighting for a front row ticket

☆ literally camps outside the venue like..literally

☆ you had offered him to enter the venue earlier than anyone before the show starts

☆ but he refused this bcs he wants to get them freebies from your fans 😭 instead of giving them out, he wants the freebies himself

☆ goes from fan to fan, if he sees a fan handing out freebies? he'll be speed walking, another fan giving out freebies too? he'll be speed walking

☆ receives the freebies until it couldnt fit in his little bag that he brought with him

☆ as soon as the security lets everyone inside, he'll be running just to get close to the barricade

☆ since hes an idol, i know its ridiculous but he'll be surrounded by 2 of his protocol team 😭

☆ even though he had brought his 2 protocol teammates, he'd somehow make them enjoy your concert too

☆ like when your group tells the fans to jump, beomgyu would convinced his protocol buddies to jump aswell

☆ you spot beomgyu in the crowds and he'd wave you like crazy, like a fan boy 😭 ...does beomgyu knows that youre his lover???? 😭😭😭

☆ but anyways, he'll go on weverse and post the concert pics and take a photo of the freebies he received

☆ "what an amazing night, they look so beautiful tonight and thank you to y/f/n for giving out the freebies, i'll be keeping it forever"

taehyun(태현) :

☆ this man is quite lowkey but he is a hardcore stan of yours

☆ hes a bit dissappointed when he founds out that he wasnt the first one to arrive at the venue, he was like "2 hours before the concert starts, and theres alot of people waiting..." poor him, he thought he was the first 😭

☆ he'd show up with his mask on and a cap as he didnt want the fans to know he came to see you

☆ but that kinda failed as your fans started to notice his famous boba eyes in the crowds

☆ this made him open his mask, since theres no point in using it 😭

☆ as soon as y/g/n performs, yk damn well he'd be taking tons of videos

☆ he'd sing along to your songs and dance to some of it

☆ he memorised the fanchant too !!!

☆ bro got jealous when he sees y/f/n got the banners like...ugh he wants one too????

☆ he was like "see i knew i shouldnt have brought lightstick only"

☆ politely asks y/f/n for some extra banners

☆ believe me or not, he'd use those digital text on his phone that says, "y/n please notice me"

☆ luckily you noticed this and blew him a kiss and in return, he gave you a big heart which made you giggle on stage which also made y/f/n cheer louder

hueningkai(휴닝카이) :

☆ you think hes gonna go alone to your concert? nope

☆ he'll invite everyone he knows, his members, his family, his staffs. literally everyone to show how talented you are

☆ as much as you would love your boyfriend to bring in alot of people, apparently it has limits

☆ so in the end, he only brought his 2 sisters, lea and hiyyih

☆ dont worry, he paid for their tickets lmao

☆ LOVES receiving freebies from y/f/n

☆ when lea or hiyyih got your photocard from the freebies, he'd say smthn like "can i have that..?"

☆ not only he likes receiving freebies but hes also a merch buyer. sees a cute wristband for the lightstick? he'll buy. a cute shirt? he'll buy. a batch with your face on it? he'll buy.

☆ he'll buy everything that has your name or your face on it, until lea told him to stop unless he wants his bank account balance to be $0

☆ he'll do anything to get noticed by you, even tho he knows youre his lover

☆ before the concert, he texted, 'i'll be on the middle row, 3rd line from the front!!'

☆ but he decided to go extra as he thought you'd forget to see him so yk what he did? he brought glowing light sticks with him to make him more noticable 😭😭

☆ when you noticed him, you gave him a heart and him being a fanboy of yours, he started giggling and bragged to his sisters, "did you see that? they definitely gave that heart to me"

☆ after the concert ends, he'd ask one of his sisters to take photos of him doing cute poses whenever youre on screen, like him doing a big heart whenever you show up on the screen

☆ fans found this cute as they started uploading his leaked pictures doing those poses

☆ people may or may not label you guys as the couple of the year 🤭

1K notes · View notes

thelightsandtheroses · 6 months

Text

1: bad idea, right?

Let's Get Lost | Frankie Morales x female reader

Series | Next

You probably shouldn’t think it, but Frankie looks good sober. He looks even better on vacation.

It’s not fair really.

You’re standing in baggage collection, wishing your ex-boyfriend was the type to wear socks with sandals or stupid t-shirts and loud printed shirts. Crocs, even.

Instead, he’s right here next to you, looking so calm and relaxed with your daughter in his arms, letting her play with the brim of his baseball cap and no, no this is all wrong. You’re meant to be the one dazzling your ex with insouciant style and a glow up, not him.

Sobriety’s changed Frankie though. As he looks over at you now, you’re met with memories of the man you met so many years ago, the man you fell in love with.

Once upon a time you thought you would marry Frankie Morales.

In another world, maybe you did. Maybe in one universe, the two of you are heading to Hawaii for your wedding, not Benny and Lia’s. Maybe in that universe, you were able to work everything out.

You two were in love once after all. You’ve never loved anyone like you loved Frankie and you’re not sure you’ll ever will.

That wasn’t enough though.

You weren’t enough.

It’s hard to compete with the release found in a powder, or in a bottle. It’s just as hard to live with that fact too.

The tannoy sounds loudly around you, breaking you from your reverie. You hate this part of the holiday or travelling - hanging around an airport, the worries about flight tickets and passports. You want to skip immediately to the moment where you’re settled in your hotel room, ideally at the beach with a coconut water in one hand and your new book in the other.

It’s been a long day. Your flight was delayed by several hours due to staffing shortages, it’s the middle of the night and by now you’d planned be fast asleep, not standing in baggage reclaim with your ex-boyfriend, a tired daughter and one particularly drunk idiot five metres away.

You’re tired and hungry and Clara is about ten minutes from reaching her breaking point, however, ever since Frankie’s picked her up, she’s been beaming and like a completely different child to your utter betrayal.

You feel like you’ve run a half marathon but Frankie’s been right there with you and the man is practically glowing. It’s like

Maybe everyone’s right. Maybe you do really need this break.

“That’s the last one of ours,” he says lightly, looking at the battered suitcase in the distance and moving immediately to fetch it from the carousel, even with one arm taken by a tired toddler.

This seemed like such a good idea in theory.

You’re friends now, you’re co-parents, you’re both in the wedding party. It seemed obvious to do this - to give Clara an amazing holiday experience and memories with both of her parents, to ensure Benny and Lia have the wedding they deserve without your drama. It sounded so simple, so mature, at the time.

This is the first time the three of you have spent this much time together since the breakup though. You’ve both had a lot of mature conversations about what’s right for your child, what’s right for Benny and Lia too as it’s their wedding after all.

It’s easy in theory though. A simple diktat of ‘everyone needs to be on their very best behaviour.‘

This is going to be a disaster.

You meet Frankie at a coffee shop. There is a new barista in training and a long, slow-moving queue. You can smell the coffee aroma around, the siren’s song of freshly baked pastries calling to you.

This is your favourite coffee spot on the way to work and it’s usually quieter, usually easier to just slip in and out before heading to the office.

You shift awkwardly on the spot, mentally adding up if you still have enough to get coffee before work, if the barista is likely to be able to make the coffee how you like it, or if perhaps even thinking that makes you ungrateful and rude.

Then you see Frankie behind you. He is wearing a baseball cap, dark jeans, and a t-shirt. It’s not the hat that draws you in though- it’s his face. There’s this intense kindness in his eyes, in his features and you straight away feel drawn to him.

He’s exactly your type.

He speaks first, making polite small talk and his low, calm voice soothes the lingering anxiety about schedules and instead you just want to know about him.

You’re terrible with dating. The apps feel so impersonal and you’re always nervous about how you’ll make an impression, if you look the way you should, if Dateline is true and you’ll go on a date and never be seen again.

You’re not a romantic, not really, you think. You’d like to find someone though; you’d like to fall in love. You want that, you want it to feel organic.

So, when Frankie walks into your life, maybe it’s kismet.

He’s smart and funny and it’s so easy to talk to him and he asks for your number when you pick up your coffee from the counter, asks if he can call you. It feels right to say yes. You want to know him more, to get to know him, to just spend more time with him.

You’re almost wishing the queue would carry on, that the coffee would take longer just for an extra moment with him. You even take your time and hover around the cafe to wait for him to pick up his Americano so you can extend the moment.

“What do you do?” you ask casually as you step outside the cafe, taking a sip of your drink.

“Oh,” Frankie shuffles then looks up at you with a smile, “I’m a pilot.” He could have led with that you think to yourself , you know so many people who would be impressed by that job, and by the way he winks at you before heading in the opposite direction, he knows it too.

He texts you an hour later.

It feels like a book or a movie, all of your dreams and hopes finally coming off the page and into your real life.

You don’t know a lot about Frankie at that point, like the cafe is next to a NA meeting, or that Frankie has his demons. You don’t know that loving Frankie is bith the easiest thing in the world and being loved him feels like it could be everything. You don’t know that won’t be enough though, that plastic baggies and nightmares and a short reccy will systematically unravel every thread of your life with him in just a few years.

You can’t know that then and even if yoy had, it probably wouldn’t have changed anything.

Fate has its ways after all.

The hotel Benny and Lia are getting married in is stunning. You knew it was going to be an extravagant affair from talking to Lia and hearing vague murmurs about the planning over brief coffees and calls. You definitely got the impression from the cost of the hotel rooms when you were booking your stay, but this? This is like a scene from a movie.

Even in the pitch darkness, the spotlights on the pavement illuminated the building to show its luxurious facades and the reception was gleaming and bright. You can’t remember staying somewhere like this before.

It seems idyllic.

Seems being the operative word right now.

“Okay, but the apartment had two bedrooms,” you say, resting an elbow on the marble counter in exhaustion and frustration. “Two, that’s what I specifically booked. The family apartment. Now there’s a problem?” That had been the deal, you would take the one room with an extra cot for Clara and Frankie would have the other room so you could exist as the perfect co-parenting happy family you were at least trying to be for your kid.

It had been a good plan.

The receptionist’s bright demeanour falters momentarily and she looks at her computer screen instead of meeting your haze “Yes but appears there was a small glitch with the booking online and well - we checked the other family in earlier. We do have a room for you, of course.”

You look over at Frankie desperately. Of course there was a problem, you think, feeling the familiar sensation of tears burning in the back of your eyes.

You told Frankie you had sorted the hotel booking, you told him that it would all be okay and it’s a mess. You’re a mess.

“So, your system has glitched. However, we have either an apartment or a room, right? Good. Please can you confirm that the one you’ve put us in -” Frankie begins, his voice steady.

“It’s technically an upgrade,” she says brightly. “It opens out onto the beach and it’s actually one of my favourites.”

“That’s wonderful. Does it have two bedrooms though?” Frankie asks.

“No.”

Your face falls and you squeeze your eyes shut to fight the impending tears. You are exhausted and you made the right booking for the right room, how can this be happening to you?

“However, we have put a pull-out cot in the room for your daughter, so that should resolve your concerns over the bedrooms and the room really is a lovely one. It’s the grade above what you booked actually and the views are stunning. You even have a terrace as I said that opens on the beach and -“

“We’re not together,” you say bluntly. “That’s why we need separate rooms. We’re not together.” Your voice sounds almost plaintive now, repeating that you and Frankie are most definitely not a couple.

Not anymore.

“Oh. I - uh, I - we’re fully booked with the wedding,” she says in a small voice, tapping keys on her keyboard desperately as it if will magic an extra room into the universe. “I’m so sorry.”

You look at Frankie who shrugs as the two of you try and have a mental conversation.

“We’ll figure it out,” you say. “For tonight. Tomorrow we will need a better resolution.”

“I don’t know what we can do. I’ll - we’ll look into this for you.”

“Thanks. Alright, let’s get this munchkin to bed,” you say, looking at your daughter fast asleep in Frankie’s arms.

“Yeah, we’ll uh, we’ll sort this out tomorrow.”

“Honestly, you need this break,” Frankie says, leaning against a kitchen counter as you shake your head at him and concentrate on unloading the dishwasher.

“I have so much work and - do you think I want this? I don’t want to miss Lia’s wedding or seeing Clara in her dress -” The past few months have been difficult with work and while you’ve been so looking forward to a holiday and Lia’s wedding, it’s starting to feel impossible.

“So don’t,” Frankie says, shaking his head.

“It’s not that simple. My job -”

“Oh, honestly, fuck your job.” Frankie runs his hand over his face, removing his cap and squeezing it awkwardly.

“I have a mortgage and I can’t just - I can’t just leave things.”

“You’re burnt out,” Frankie interjects in a low voice, “Everyone sees it. Lia’s worried about you too, she told Benny.”

“Traitor.”

“I’m worried about you too. You have the PTO already booked off and our daughter is so excited about all of us going together.”

“I know,” you say, wiping the tears from your eyes. “I know.”

Frankie moves over sintantly, placing a hand delicately on your shoulder. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. It’ll be okay.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a job, I know that.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

“You’re not, you’re definitely not. I can promise you that.”

You look up between bleary tear-filled eyes. “Why are you being so nice to me, Frankie?” He doesn’t need to be nice to you anymore; you’re not together, you’re just co-parents.

“You’re still - still important to me. We’re friends again, right?”

You nod. You are friends again; it’s taken some time to reach this point but you missed having Frankie in your life. This sober Frankie before you? He’s someone you want to be your friend again too.

“Please don’t try and tell me you’re not going to your best friend’s wedding again. We’re all going. It will be good.”

Despite the late hour of your arrival, you can immediately tell the hotel room is special. It’s too dark to see out towards the terrace but the wide French doors are already inviting you out and you have visions of sitting there in the morning with a cup of coffee. The furnishings are white and blue, the classic coastal colour scheme, with rich dark wood furniture. What you can see of the bathroom looks great as well.

The problem is the two armchairs instead of a sofa, the tiny rollaway cot for Clara and the giant king size bed in the room.

Normally, the crisp white sheets would be all to inviting, but in this scenario you feel panicked.

How are you going to work this out? You thought the pull-out bed would be large enough for one of you, or that there would at least be a sofa.

The priority has been Clara and getting her ready for bed and asleep as soon as possible.

Now though, the two of you are standing awkwardly.

“You should take the bed,” he says, “I know things have been a lot recently and you should have it anyway, but -”

“Where would you sleep?”

“There’s a bathtub, right?” Frankie says calmly. “I could get the blankets and I could sleep there tonight.”

“You can’t sleep in a bathtub, Frankie!“

“Why not? I’ve slept in worst places when I was a pilot.”

“Exactly what about your back? Same for me, I guess - I’m getting flashbacks of drunken house parties now.”

“Oh really?” Frankie smiles.

“Long time ago,” you say, looking down at your daughter who is now tucked into the cot and is already asleep.

Your eyes feel so heavy with tired and you’re dying to have a shower and then curl up for the night so the holiday can properly start in the morning.

Frankie looks similarly fraught; his brow is furrowed and he’s perched on an arm of the armchair.

“We’re grown-ups, right?” you ask after a moment.

“So they keep telling me,” he replies with mischief in his eyes.

“Okay, then we’ll talk to the hotel in the morning, get this sorted out for good, but it’s one night, Frankie, and I am fucking exhausted.” You look over at Frankie. “It’s a big enough bed and there are enough pillows that we can - yes, yes, that’s the only option, isn’t it?” You nod your head; certain this is the only solution now. You’re tired and you desperately want to sleep and just hope that tomorrow will be better when you wake up.

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Do you have a better idea? And the bathtub is not an option, Frankie.”

Frankie thinks for a moment and shakes his head.

“Do you still sleep on the same side?” Frankie asks in a low voice, rubbing his hair and exposing a hint of his stomach and automatically moving to the other side of the bed.

You nod and awkwardly put your phone on the bedside table and get into your side of the bed. “You?”

“It’s fine.” You remember that Frankie used to like the same side of the bed too, he’d use that as an excuse whenever you woke up in his arms each morning.

This is going to be so much harder than you thought it would be.

“Was this necessary?” Frankie asks, pointing at the barrier of pillows.

“I didn’t want either of us to feel uncomfortable,” you say simply and your voice feels small.

“It’s fine, it’s all good.”

“I don’t even know why I did it.”

“It’s not a big deal, okay?” Frankie gets into his side of the bed, barely stifling a yawn. Maybe the day is finally catching up with him. In the dim light of the bedside tables, you can see the exhaustion starting to fill his eyes, the tiredness on his face.

“Still can’t believe you were going to sleep in the bathtub anyway!”

”It seemed a good idea at the time. Hey, she’s fast asleep,” Frankie says with a smile, indicating your daughter who is safely tucked into her own bed. “Y’know, I wanted to say thanks for this.”

“You’re the one who persuaded me not to stay and work.” You smile and shake your head as you slip into the covers. “Can’t believe I almost considered that.” Though in fairness, you wouldn’t be dealing with this hotel room drama if you were at home. You wouldn’t be with Clara though. “Besides, Lia’s my friend too and you had a good idea with combining this with something for Clara. I want her to grow up and know we’re not fighting each other and that we’re on the same side. She’s our priority, right?”

‘’Always.”

“Besides, I’ve never stayed somewhere like this before.”

“Me either.”

“You travelled everywhere in the army.”

“Oh, darling, you have very different ideas about life in the army. I stayed in dorms or safe-houses or outside.” You notice the way his smile falters slightly, his eyes haunted by the ghosts of a short reccy that turned into days of worry and anguish. All Frankie came back with were bad dreams and enough trauma to send him straight to the escape of his vices.

“I’m sorry about the room.”

“It’s not on you. Besides, it’s one night. We’ll sort it out properly tomorrow.”

“Yeah, it’s just one night,” you repeat.

“Huh, heard that one before,” Frankie says sadly and before you can think about what he’s just said, he turns to the other side of the wall.

Usually you listen to a meditation or a sleep story to drift away. You like the harmless, ambient noise and dulcet tones of someone else to lull the stresses of the day away.

You can’t do that with Frankie here though and your second option for sleeplessness … absolutely not.

You switch off the light and exhale slowly. You’ll be fine, you can count sheep or try that breathing technique you read about. It’s just you’re so tired now you don’t even feel like sleeping now.

“You okay?” a low voice asks quietly.

“I hate the first night in a new bed.”

“I remember.”

“It’s fine.”

You turn over so you’re facing Frankie’s side. In the darkness of the room, all you can see is the silhouette of the many pillows separating the two of you and the broad outline of his shoulders.

You remember nights kissing the freckles on his neck, his shoulders, being so incontrovertibly in love with this man you thought you could spend forever in bed with him. You’d have spent forever anywhere with him once.

You’ve dated since Frankie, you know he has as well, but somehow the finality of the very barrier that you created is pulling at your heartstrings right now. It’s all wrong.

It’s not supposed to be like this.

This is going to be a long week.

Tag List

If you would like to be added to to the taglist please let me know. As a reminder this blog is 18+ - minors do not interact and I block blank/ageless blogs.

LGL tag-list: @morallyinept @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 @beboldbebravethings @spishsstuff @bitchesuntitled @redcake444 @missladym1981 @kungfucapslock @dinoflower-reads @kirsteng42 @angelofsmalldeath-codeine

Everything Pedro tag-list: @harriedandharassed @pedrostories @hiroikegawa @pedrosaidsheispunk @pastelnap

#frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x reader #triple frontier fanfiction #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie catfish morales #triple frontier

330 notes · View notes

shojizbae · 1 month

Text

My Rave Babies

Spencer Reid x Reader

rave baby part two

For three weeks, your coworkers had been barraged nonstop about your scandalous habits. "So, listen to any good EDM?" or " Going to any parties?" had been ringing in my ears all week. The team had managed to sneak in puns during a case.

"Well, that sheriff was just raving, man." Derek leaned against the counter and brought a paper cup to his mouth

"Enough," I groan and toss my head back

"C'mon, you can't just tell us you used to go to raves and then not take us," Emily explains

"We are in the dead of the midwest. Will a serial rapist be on the loose, and you're thinking about going to a rave?" I fill up a paper cup with coffee

"Well, do you know of any back home?" JJ offers, sliding effortlessly into the conversation.

"JJ, you have kids," I whine

"Will can watch them for the night." She refutes

"I can't. I'm going back to the murder case before this town is traumatized further." It's a less effective duck-out, but it draws attention away. Hotch gives me a bit of a look as I rejoin a discussion with an exhausted look.

"I hope you didn't stay up all night partying." He teases

"No, I got a full night's rest. I'm ready to take this guy in." Deny. Deny. Deny.

The case came to a close two days later, with the man castrating himself and then slitting his throat. Unfortunately, the connection that all of the victims had was that they frequented the same club. An EDM / Rocker club with very Rave-like vibes. The jokes flew on the plane ride home.

"Alright, alright, fine. I'm going to call my old friend. She'll let me know what's going on in town."

"Really?" Morgan jumps at the statement

"Yeah, don't make me regret this."

It was four days later that a festival would be in town for the weekend. I informed the team that tickets needed to be bought. I also let them know they should be on high alert for roofies and perverts. Skimpy clothes and loud music were catalysts for freaks.

"So you're really knocking the dust off?" Morgan holds an FBI mug up to his lips. He's got an all too-full-of-himself grin on his smug little face.

"Yeah, you're coming too?"

"Yeah, so is Emily."

"And me!" JJ holds each of my shoulders, "I'm so excited, Will hasn't stopped ogling the outfit in my closet. He said he needed to borrow some floss and held it up on the hanger."

"Is anyone else coming?"

"Yeah, Penelope and Spencer," Emily says

"Reid?" I nearly snort my coffee out

"That's my name." He traipses into the kitchen and dumps half the can of sugar into his mug.

"I figured a rave would be a little out of your comfort zone. You're really coming?"

"I-i-It is. But I'm trying some exposure therapy."

"I thought that has been disproven." Emily counters

"Clinically, yes. But some of the results of those who have conquered fear through exposure therapy are too nice to pass up. You know, in recent studies-"

"Yeah, we get it you're going." Derek cuts him off

"So, have you picked out an outfit?"

"It's no Halloween, but I figured I should just wear what I always do."

"What?"

The night came faster than I had expected. One night, I was filling out a report on a serial arsonist; the next, I was tying myself into a bikini and zipping up giant platform boots. I put on a silky kimono to disguise the scandalous outfit. We all taxied to the nearby party meeting to get our tickets and a wristband checked. Emily and JJ looked phenomenal. Penelope was show-stopping, though. A galaxy-printed dress, giant boots, and fishnets, bejeweled with bracelets and a bucket hat.

Derek was primarily shirtless, though he found a neon fishnet shirt and tactical boots over some burning man cargo shorts. Finally, Reid was the last of the group. Surrounded by a thousand people in their skivvies, he stuck out like a sore thumb in gray slacks, a purple pinstripe button-down, and a sweater vest. The most crazy part of his outfit was his mismatched DC and Marvel socks.

"Wow, you look-"

"You look," I motion up and down at him. "You know, for the youngest on the team, you look like you're babysitting." He laughs, but it seems like he's shriveling on himself.

"Don't worry, you look great," I reassure and slide my hand up and down his bicep reassuringly. Even if I'm typically a touchy person that gesture might seem too forward for coworkers so I retract my arm awkwardly.

"Dang, (Y/n), where were you hiding that body?" Emily came and patted me on the ass and then slung her arm over my shoulder.

"Ok, tipsy, why don't we get you some water?" I unfurl her from me

"That sounds great," Reid clears his throat. "My throat is feeling a little dry." Emily wraps herself around me, and JJ slings an arm over Reid's shoulder. Morgan follows behind us, and we find some bottles of water that are way overpriced. Music begins to bump behind us, and I drag the group into the heart of the crowd. Morgan rears off when he finds some girls eyeballing him. Penelope follows Derek to a group of fun.

JJ and Emily stay close by but jump and sway with the thrumming music. Reid looks out of place like a black sheep.

"DOC!" I shout over the loud music

"Yeah!"

"You look stiff!" I jump around and scream at him.

"I'm not much of a dancer. Maybe I should just go home."

"What?" I stop jumping. C'mon, you've just got to feel the music." I take a step closer. Thanks to the giant shoes I wear, I'm much closer to his face than I usually am. I loop my fingers into the belt loops on his hips and take another step closer. "C'mon, man, you've just got to feel the rhythm." with my hands, I make him sway his hips to the beat. With a bit of encouragement, he starts to do so by himself.

"Ok, just jump around. Let yourself feel free." I twist and jump to the ear-splitting music. He raises his arms apprehensively, and I fling mine on top of him to show him it's fine. With my permission, he raises them and starts to flail freely.

"Alright, pretty boy, get into it." Derek teases

"Don't listen to him. You look great." I jump and swing my arms like a toddler. Lost in the moment, I spin around to show off my back and shake my hips. I lose my control and dance like a maniac. I back up onto Reid and sway with him. As I feel eyes on us, Reid jumps away from me.

"Are you two having fun?" JJ drawls

"Have you been drinking?" I shout

"A lot!" She responds

"I'm having so much fun. Why did you stop this?" Emily screams

"The hangover you'll have tomorrow? Yeah, have fun taking a jet ride with your ears trying to compress into your skull. And one time I caught a nasty STI from hooking up with someone in a port-a-potty."

"What ew," Emily fake retches.

"Don't worry, I took antibiotics." The music came thrumming through the speakers as a new DJ started their set. Immediately, I recognized her and started leaping like a manic shrimp. "Oh my god, I love this song!" I twisted around and grabbed each of Reid's wrists.

"C'mon, dance with me!" my mind disappeared in the bass. Nothing else mattered but the feeling of my feet pounding into the dirt and the occasional collision of Spencer's limbs. Slowly, the thrumming of the tempo migrated to my ankles.

"Alright, it has been a long time since I've danced like this. I need a break."

"Yeah, I don't think these are the best dance shoes either." there's sweat on his brow, but he holds up one of his feet to show off the brown loafers.

"Let's find the rest of the group," I whisper scream in his ear. In the proximity, I feel my torso press to his. I nearly roll my ankle and he catches me by my hip. He stands me back up and steadies my hips.

"Ok, let's get you to a cab," We find Derek quickly. He only has one girl who won't let go of his bicep tonight. Emily, JJ, and Penelope cling back to us, and we leave the grounds all slightly limping. We all file into a taxi and people filter out of the car slowly.

"I think I'm going to get out here and just take the metro home." JJ and I are the only two left in the vehicle as Penelope gets out of the car.

"What no, just stay in the car. I'll drive you home."

"No, that's far too much."

"I could drive you home." JJ offers as we turn down the corner of her street."

"No, you live further than her."

"Reid, I'll drive you home," I demand.

"Alright, you two have a good night." JJ slinks out of the cab, and we watch Will open the door, and she leaps into his arms.

'the kids are sleeping.' I read from his lips

"They're going to have a fun night." I snort. Reid shrinks on himself again. "C'mon, you've had to have some sort of fun like this."

"No,"

"No?" The cab takes us to my neighborhood, and we get out. Reid insists on paying the driver. I let him in and opened the front door. He takes the same space on my couch and groans from the pain. I bring two cans of lemon seltzer water and slump down with my legs across his lap on the couch. I crack the cans and hand one to him.

"Oh, thank you," he takes it, and I take a big slurp of mine. I extend a foot up and put my ankle near his face

"Could you unzip me?"

Uh, uh, sure." He holds my ankle and tugs the zipper down the inside of my calf. Once it's down, I use my other foot to push it off with my other foot. I hold up the second foot and he obeys, tugging off himself.

"Thank you, I roll, crack my ankles, and sigh in relief. "Whew, those were killing me." I start to roll down my thigh-high fishnets.

"Uh, would you like to go to the bedroom to get changed?"

"No, I'm fine like this." I pull the second sock off. I readjust the slipper kimono and tug one of my blankets up my shoulders. I twist around to lie on Reid's chest, straddling his leg.

"Uh, what are you,"

"I'm tired, Spencer." I dig into his chest with my own and loop my arms around his neck. I readjust myself even more around him. His tie stabbed me in my temple, and I tugged it off his chest.

"Uh (Y/n), what are you-"

"Calm down," I say, undoing his top buttons for the skin-to-skin contact my body craves. Your chest is warm." I cuddle into it and kiss his collar.

"I had a good night, Spencer," I sink further into his frame and pull the blanket on harder. I feel a hand thread its way into my hair but dreamland takes me away.

"I had a good night too."

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x reader #raver girl

168 notes · View notes