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dyns33 · 1 year

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Burning love

The Jon Dondon x female reader nobody asked for. Jon is very OOC.

They had met in an Art gallery.

Y/N had won free invitations thanks to a stupid contest on the internet. She didn't really know much about Art, except that it was either beautiful or ugly, interesting or very boring, complicated or terribly simple.

The exhibition included works by several very different artists, so she had been able to admire Art in all its forms.

It was then that she was admiring an abstract painting that Jon came to talk to her.

Quite honestly, he confessed to her later that he had thought she was the artist, or at least an artist, that he could have recruited for his agency, but he was happy to have spoken to her anyway.

They had discussed the work, Jon asking her what she thought of it, and Y/N answering that she didn't really know. She couldn't tell what it represented, or if she liked it.

"Well, I guess that's a good sign that it doesn't leave me indifferent."

"What do you mean ?" Jon asked, raising an eyebrow, puzzled.

"Well, there are a lot of paintings that you see without looking at them. Without it marking you, and which you almost immediately forget. You think, 'yes, not bad', but nothing more. Here, I believe that I don't like it, because it makes me uncomfortable, but at the same time I don't hate it, there is something... It's hard to explain."

"And that's a very good explanation of what Art should produce in people. Are you free tonight ?"

Very quickly, Y/N got to know Jon, but also to know Jon Dondon. It wasn't the same thing.

Jon knew how to be gentle, kind. He wasn't very good at socializing, but he really tried. Jon Dondon was thinking above all about his work and his reputation.

Always very honestly, Jon told her from the start that he didn't want anyone to know that they were together. He wasn't ashamed of her, he had no reason to be ashamed of her, but in the Art world you had to look available, detached, free and he had a few rivals who might use her against him, or try to hurt him through her.

In addition, he liked this separation between his work and his private life. She was like his secret, something he had only for himself. He stopped seeing other people, but he wanted to give the impression that he was able to have fun whenever he wanted.

It was difficult, but Y/N really liked Jon, so she accepted this situation, behaving like a stranger or a simple friend when they saw each other in public.

This lasted until the Dease paintings were exhibited.

Jon had asked her to come with him to give him her opinion, because even if he was an Art critic, he considered that she had more talent than him for these things. With Y/N's vision, his influence in the industry, and his gift for the right turns of phrase, he could quickly tell if this new artist had value or not.

As every time they collaborated, they separated to explore the rooms, before meeting in front of a canvas to discuss their impressions.

The tour was very quick for Jon, who was captivated by what he saw, like everyone else in the exhibition. Everyone except Y/N. She stopped at the first painting near the entrance, and didn't move until Jon joined her.

"So ? Your verdict ?"

"... You have to burn these things."

"... What ?"

"Jon. These things need to be burned." Y/N whispered again, shaking, totally frightened.

"Jon Dondon, please. And why do you say that ?"

She was unable to explain what she felt to Jon, and she didn't think he would have been able to understand, but there was something wrong with those paintings. Oh, they were very beautiful, very well done, but there was something else, dark, stale.

Of course, Jon doesn't write that in his article, just saying like all the other reviewers that Dease's work was intriguing.

He remembered all the same what had happened, deciding to carry out some research on the subject of the artist. But it was more because one of his rivals, Morf, seemed very troubled in Dease, and Jon was very keen to discredit him by finding something compromising.

It was pretty clear the day Y/N came home and came face to face with one of the artist's paintings. Jon had bought it because, as a good Art critic, he had to own at least one work by fashionable artists.

She stayed in the hallway, staring at the canvas, until he realized she was there. "You really don't like it ?" he chuckled without malice. "I thought a simple painting might be fine. A little weird, like all of his work, but appropriate. I think they look like us."

The canvas depicted a man and a woman. A couple. The colors were cold, dull, they had no face, standing, the man looking at the woman, who was looking at the viewer. She seemed sad, as if she was trying to run away.

Y/N didn't feel that. In any case, she didn't want to feel that. Sometimes, with Jon Dondon, it happened. But not with Jon.

"... No, it doesn't."

"If you say so. Anyway, if it's not us, it's ours."

"It's yours. If it was mine, I'd burn it."

They didn't argue. They never argued, Jon always thought he was right, and Y/N didn't see the point of trying to change his mind. She just ignored the canvas, going in and out of the house as fast as she could without looking at it. She sometimes had the impression that it was looking at her.

It was difficult. That, and the secrets, and Jon's behavior, began to rub off on her. Slowly, she felt like she was being drained of her joy, of her passion, of her life. As if she entered this cursed painting that she was trying to ignore.

As always, Jon saw nothing, continuing his research and his work. He had hired a private investigator to investigate Dease and he proudly claimed that he was going to find something soon, he felt it. Y/N sensed that something terrible was going to happen.

She decided to tell him, while they were at his office.

"Jon, I think..."

"Jon Dondon, please." he said, like every time they were in public.

"Don't go to your meeting with that detective. I have a bad feeling."

"I paid a fortune for it, and I hope to have results."

"Jon..."

"Jon Dondon."

"You..."

Y/N couldn't finish her sentence, struggling not to cry. It had been years since she had cried. Not once since she had met Jon, who despite his many faults made her very happy. He finally turned to her, and he seemed to see her. Really see her.

But something had broken, and she left without adding anything, leaving him alone.

At home, she stopped to observe the painting. The feeling was still the same as the first time, oppressive, bad. Y/N didn't want to think about it, occupying her mind by doing the housework and the dishes, which was useless, since Jon had a maid for that.

Lost far away, she didn't jump when a head rested on her shoulders, arms surrounding her gently.

"You ate ?" Jon asked, looking at the plate she had been cleaning for ten minutes.

"Have you been to your appointment ?"

"No. Tell me what's going on."

"Because you care now, Jon Dondon ? Why ? I've been telling you for weeks that something's wrong. But you don't listen, you don't see. You don't care, like you don't care about Art. The important thing is the appearance. The fame. The money. I know that's why you don't want us to be seen together, admit it. You're ashamed of me. You do not love me."

"I do love you."

"Really ? You saw a painting of an unhappy couple, a desperate woman, and you thought of us. Of me. Wonderful."

Jon didn't answer, his head still resting on her shoulder. Slowly, he took the plate from her hands, before turning her to face him. He looked at her eyes for a long time, as if searching for something.

"What can I do ?"

"Burn this painting. Forget this artist." she begged him one last time.

Silence returned to the house. Jon continued to stare at her, before looking at the entrance, where the canvas was. Without saying a word, he then left the kitchen, and Y/N was convinced that he had chosen. She was going to have to leave.

But Jon reappeared with a little metal box and matches. He took the canvas, placed it in the fireplace, sprinkled it with the contents of the box and set the fire without the slightest hesitation.

The flames reflected in his glasses, dancing close to him, but he didn't move, admiring his handiwork.

Not daring to believe what was happening, Y/N approached, equally fascinated by this spectacle, feeling all the fear and despair coming out of her. She couldn't help smiling as she looked at Jon.

"Jon... Jon...Thank you."

"You were right, it had to be burned."

"Are you sure ?"

"You're better at these things than I am. I'll... I'll tell the detective he can stop looking. I'll take some vacation too. We could go to Europe, or somewhere else. Spend some time together. I feel like we need it."

"Jon..." Y/N sighed, jumping on him to kiss him.

They were far away when they learned about the series of suspicious deaths that happened to all those who had participated directly or indirectly in the sale of Dease's paintings. For a moment they wondered if the same fate would befall them.

But Y/N still didn't know anything about Art, except how it made her feel, and Jon had decided to change his approach, trying to better understand the artists. Even if they weren't perfect, they had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, and Dease seemed to know it.

#velvet buzzsaw #jon dondon #jon dondon x reader #jon dondon imagine #jon dondon fanfiction #tom sturridge #tom sturridge rare characters

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gyllenhaalstories · 2 years

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BLUE VELVET — MORF VANDEWALT

summary: two hot friends in a room, they might kiss 👀 or do other hot things together 👀

warnings: bad portrayal of morf, smut (morf’s nudism is implied, praise kink, worship kink from both of them, masturbation & mutual masturbation, brief edging, use of cum as lube). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 1735

gifs credits: @/tylerposey (cropped) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: his hotness is chronic and his ass is iconic i mean what look, i know i can’t write morf properly (or any jake characters for that matter, details) but i need morf content so... there it is. 🤓🎨 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

You opened the curtains of Morf’s bedroom, letting the sun enlighten his face while he took a final look at his most recent written piece.

He hummed in agreement with himself, scrolling down with his pointer finger while his pinky one was raised in a distinguished gesture.

You smiled at the way he squinted when the sun hurt his eyes. “The world of art,” your voice took a dramatic tone to catch his attention, “can wait for the next big destruction of the new rising star. You can take a break, you know.”

“Critique is so limiting and —”

“emotionally draining.” You finished his infamous sentence before him. “Does that not prove my point?”

He looked up at you, your silhouette haloed by the sunlight. “What point?”

You rolled your eyes and walked closer to the bed again, not without taking a long look at Morf’s exquisite body. “What will it take for you to listen for once?” It was not a reprimand, there was not an ounce of resentment in your body. You simply wanted to spend time with him. Only him.

With his left hand, he gently gripped the frame of his glasses and adjusted them higher on his nose, his eyes exploring you from head to toe, the same way you had taken a look at him. “I have a feeling you are insinuating something with that question.”

“You are one insightful person, Morf.” You walked closer to him and removed the laptop from his arm reach. You set it down on the upholstered blue velvet bench at the end of his massive bed. “I give you three chances to guess what is on my mind.”

His lips formed a thoughtful pout, he gently pressed a finger on his mouth and dragged his bottom lip with it. “The next exhibit Rhodora personally asked me to visit?”

You shook your head and climbed on the bed. His side was always so neatly folded despite being slept in, while yours looked like a tornado had lifted the blankets upside down. You would never get tired of noticing those infinite details about him.

“Perhaps would you like to try out the new bath salts I purchased.” He saw you raise an eyebrow. “I have been told they are quite relaxing and rejuvenating for the skin.”

“You have to stop buying everything your Pilates friends recommend you.” You chuckled softly and sat down in front of Morf. The bed was so big there was plenty of space for you to lay down by his feet, which you did after you carefully removed the panties and bra you had slept in. You had gotten used to Morf’s way of life where a minimal usage of clothes was the norm in his house, but you had more road ahead of you to reach a point where you would be just like him, writing critical reviews of artistic pieces naked.

He gasped when you took place terribly close to him. He brought his hands to his chest when you lifted your legs up so the back of your thighs would lay over his. “Oh...” He reached to grab your pillow and offer it to you for comfort.

You moved lower, and lower, until your core was barely touching Morf’s soft shaft. You used the pillow he gave you to prop your head on, folding it halfway for firmness. “One guess left.”

You watched him move his hand up, brushing lightly, and definitely not accidentally, over his exposed nipple before he brought two fingers to his lips and coated them in spit. He reached down to you and smeared his saliva over you. “I don’t want to guess anymore.” He murmured.

You nodded. There he was, focused and absorbed by you as you wet your fingers the same way he did and spread it all over your folds, dipping your fingers in between your pussy lips to expose yourself to him.

Morf ran his hands up and down the soft skin of your inner thighs, the tip of his fingers barely reaching where you needed him most. But when he did, he was mesmerized. Every time, it felt like the first time for him, like it was the first time he got to explore the work of art that was your body.

“Please, Morf.” You begged, almost quietly, and finally you felt his delicate fingers on you.

He dipped them in your wetness, barely diving in, so that he could rub your clit in small, light touches. He helped you move even closer to him so that you were easier to reach, he needed to touch you so bad. The more circles he rubbed against you and the more, almost inaudible moans he was pulling out of you, the harder he was getting.

It was your turn to mirror his expression, it was one of awe and lust. His cock grew harder and harder until it slowly fell on his lower stomach.

Morf’s cock twitched from the feeling of your pussy on his fingers, hesitating between removing his glasses so he could be more comfortable and keeping that so he could admire all of you.

The way a short breath got caught in your throat when he increased the speed of his fingers, the way you opened your mouth to speak but no sound escaped your lips, the way he had to push your thighs open so that he could keep his full access to you. But it became too much, not quite painful, but so overwhelming not to touch himself at the same time.

It was basically magical how at the instant he felt tears pooling in his eyes from how much he craved your touch, you gave him exactly what he needed. You took him in your hand and jerked up and down his length, studying his reactions and learning that he was beyond the point of teasing.

He needed you, and he needed you really bad. He brought his wet fingers to the tip of his cock and coated it with you before immediately going back to pressing on your clit.

And you, you jerked him off faster, tighter, you swiped your thumb over his reddening tip at the same time. “You’re doing so good, baby, so good.”

He brought his hand that was on you to his mouth to taste you, then coat them in even more spit so he could rub your clit even faster.

The faster he went, the faster you went too. It felt as though you were both connected in this instant and that finally, finally, Morf’s mind and body were all yours for the time being.

“I-I’m —” he stuttered.

“Go on, use your words.”

He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, his fingers losing their precise rhythm for a moment. “I’m close!”

“Good job, such a good job.” You knew that your praising words sent waves of pleasure directly to his cock, which you felt twitch in your hand.

He was painfully hard, veins bulging and leaking pre-cum that you desperately wanted to taste. The rest of his movements seemed like a choreography. Abruptly, he pulled his hand away from you and sat up on the bed.

You blinked, the image of his toned body flexing at his every move appeared was tattooed on your mind.

Morf was now up by the side of the bed, one knee sinking on the mattress, he needed to stop to stroke his cock. He got close again, and stopped everything to straddle one of your legs.

You were floating in the sweet noises of his moans and grunts, taken by surprise when he leaned forward to pinch your clit and rub it, fast and hard.

That was all he needed to finish. He jerked himself off over you, aiming directly to your puffy, wet folds. “So beautiful.” He kept repeating, he wanted to know just how sublime you looked at this instant.

“You’re so beautiful.” And you felt it, you felt warm cum dripping down your folds, some on the inside of your thigh, some more landing on your arm, your stomach.

Morf struggled to keep his eyes open at the force of his orgasm, but he did. He looked at the way he painted you in white and let out a long, satisfied sigh.

You? You were not satisfied just yet. You gathered some of his cum with your fingers and used it to rub your clit in the same intense way he did. You locked eyes with him until you could no longer stand it and threw your head back against the pillow as your orgasm washed over you.

His hands were all over you while he jerked himself slowly until he reached the point of no return when he was too oversensitive. His eyes watched your gorgeous, pleased face, and where your hand was still rubbing through your release until you, too, could not take it.

Morf fell back into a sitting position while your legs finally relaxed, down on the bed. You smiled at him and he swore that at that moment, there were stars in the morning sky.

He massaged your legs gently, sitting there as he got soft and relaxed, too, from the pleasure.

After a while, you had no idea how long you both just enjoyed each other’s presence, you broke the silence. “How about that bath you offered me earlier?”

With a pout, visibly disappointed to take his eyes, and hands, off you, Morf looked in your eyes. “I see that I have piqued your interest.”

“I’m curious to see what else they will suggest you buy. If I see one more Goop product in here, I swear...”

“I didn’t get the candle!” Morf protested vividly.

After a long pause during which you debated calling him out on his questionable curiosity for Gwyneth Paltrow and her equally curious products, you both exploded in a wave of laughter. You stood up on your feet and reached to press a gentle kiss to his soft lips.

He held your hand for a second, stopping you on your way to the adjacent bathroom.

You cut him off before he could open his mouth. “Yes, Morf. Now you may submit your new article and ruin somebody’s life.” His face lit up with a prideful smile. “But you better join me after, I’m not quite finished with you.”

#morf vandewalt #morf vandewalt smut #jake gyllenhaal smut #jake gyllenhaal imagine #jake gyllenhaal fanfic

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