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ssa-dado · 13 days ago

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triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: SMUT, pre-relationship mutual pining and just a touch of ♫ LOATHING, UNADULTERATED LOATHING ♫ Summary: You text the hot swim dad for legal help. He shows up in khakis. You try to behave. You fail. He's accidentally jealous of your date, you accidentally grind on his lap, he finishes in his pants, and somehow it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to you. Warnings: SMUT MDNI (heavy makeout, dry humping and *sighs* Aaron creams his pants for just that... the title is descriptive enough), age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, objectification of the Hotchner body Word Count: 4.9k (damn gurl) Dado's Corner: Based on this request! And... um... full disclosure... I added the glasses part solely because of the cat pic sent by @hotchology, who said this ginger furball is how they imagine Hotch in glasses (LOOK HOW CUUUTE)

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Everything showers.

A sacred rite of modern womanhood.

Takes minimum two geological eras to complete, consumes half the planet’s fresh water, and must be repeated often to remain an eligible mating partner.

Because that’s the whole point of being a woman, isn’t it? To be clean, hairless, glowing, and vaguely vanilla-scented - just fuckable enough for men who think 3-in-1 shampoo counts as skincare.

The concept of an everything shower is… layered. Part hygiene. Part penance. Part psychological rebirth. A full-body cleanse for the sins you haven’t committed yet.

You’ve done them before first dates. Before almost-dates. Before parties, dick appointments, emotional breakdowns, and that one Tuesday when you just needed to check in on her-

(Her. Down there.)

Once, you even did one before visiting your mother. (Unclear whether that was for survival or atonement. Maybe both.)

But never - not even in your darkest, most masochistic imagination - did you think you’d be doing one because of an eviction notice.

Not until today.

Because Aaron Hotchner - a man who should be both physically and emotionally unavailable due to his very, very, veeeery important job saving the world - is apparently not unavailable.

Not when it matters.

Not when it’s least convenient for your nervous system.

…The irony.

All it took was one stupid text. A momentary lapse in dignity. Something he’d probably refer to as “compromised judgment.”

do you happen to know a very cheap lawyer asking for a friend

And instead of his usual three-to-five-business-days reply time, he hits you with:

aaron hotchner (work, no nudes): Are you at home now? – A.H.

And now you’re just a bit overthinking… because how does he know that?

Did the FBI install a secret camera in your pothos plant? Does he have access to some satellite heat map of your apartment? Has he been watching your window? A camera in the air vent?

(Has he seen you trying out that new clear dildo in front of the mirror for “science”?)

(The one time you tried doing yoga and got stuck in child's pose for 40 minutes?)

You don’t know. You don’t want to know.

All you do know is that you are currently fully naked, shaving for a man who:

Has no idea he’s being shaved for, while you’re on speakerphone with him, as he gets closer and closer to your building block because he invited himself into your private space and-

Would absolutely turn around and disappear if he ever caught even a hint of cucumber-scented shaving cream (you borrowed from your roommate) and realized you'd… prepared for him.

Because your “just in case” implies premeditation. And premeditation implies intention. And intention? Intention is basically foreplay.

And foreplay is strictly prohibited outside the sanctity of marriage, a psychological clearance form, and at least three signed affidavits from HR.

He would enter WITSEC on the spot. Change his name. Grow a beard.

(Hot.)

“What’s happening? Are you alright?”

He concernedly asks over the phone - totally unaware (definitely unaware) that every time he checks in on you, he’s poking your very well-buried, very latent daddy issues with a stick.

(Or maybe he keeps asking because he’s the one with daddy issues. Very obvious ones. That classic parented-child energy. Raised himself on black coffee, moral obligation and emotional regret.)

What a match, really. You get off on being cared for, and he gets off on taking care of people he’ll never emotionally open up to.

Soulmates.

Anyway-

“So… my landlord is an asshole and I really hope he gets some very painful hemor-”

Mr. FBI has the audacity to call you by your full legal name before cutting you off with, “This call is being recorded. I’d appreciate it if you refrained from making…” he even pauses, searching for the most delicate phrasing. Because God forbid he doesn’t sound like a morally burdened Disney princess. “explicit threats.”

Oh, you’d appreciate a few things too. Like having his actual number and not the one issued by the United States Government - so you wouldn’t have to worry about scandalizing some poor technical analyst who’ll be forced to transcribe this call word-for-word the second they find his body in a ditch and trace it back to you.

(“Exhibit B: She said, quote, ‘I hope he gets some very painful hemor.’”)

…But you’re not as childish as him to complain about that.

“My bad.”

“It’s alright.” (Can he please stop talking like this?)

“Yeah… I-” Your voice trips. Your face is hot. Your entire body is hotter. “The thing is-”

“I’m listening.” Oh, fuck him. (Please.)

“In short: the building’s falling apart. We’ve been emailing the guy for weeks, complaining, begging, threatening – nicely - and either he forgets to reply or says he’ll fix it and then doesn’t. It’s been an eternity and he still hasn’t done a single fuc-”

Recorded line. Recorded line. God forbid the man has a seizure because of you. “-thing.”

You hear a chuckle on the other end.

You hate phone calls.

You’d choke him if he weren’t safely boxed inside a moving vehicle.

“I said threats. You can curse. I’m not ten.” Oh, he’s smiling. You can hear it. The smug bastard.

“Oh, that I noticed.”

You love phone calls.

If he were here, he would've already hit you with one of those signature stares - intended to intimidate, but really just making you want to lick the corner of his mouth out of pure spite.

But look at you. Free. Untouchable. Doing amazing.

“The thing is, I didn’t pay rent this month. Because they’re still ignoring the repairs. And now they’re threatening to evict me if I don’t pay.”

“That’s retaliatory. It’s illegal.”

“Wait… you’re telling me I’m not screwed?”

“No, they are. You withheld payment due to unaddressed health and safety violations. That’s protected under landlord-tenant statutes,” he says, suddenly shifting into full legalese, something-something code 572, subsection blah-blah, tenant rights, lease clauses-

You don’t hear any of it. Actually, the very second he started speaking fluent Law Daddy, , your brain slammed the emergency brake to focus on the real crisis:

What the fuck are you going to wear.

“Document everything-“

Lace? Bold choice, but post-shave? Masochism. Granny cotton briefs? He’ll never look at you again.

“Photos.”

Tight top, no bra? Risky.

What if he hugs you and feels how obnoxiously hard your nipples are?

(He’s not a hugger. He doesn’t seem like a hugger. Right?)

(Right??)

(But what if he is today?)

(What if he walks in, sees you - top clinging, no heating - and suddenly decides: You know what? Now’s the time. Now’s the moment I become a hugger. Just for her. Just this once. Just to pull her in close, pretend it’s chaste, press his palm between her shoulder blades and - oh fuck - realize it’s not.)

(What if he hugs you and feels it?)

(What if he hugs you and keeps hugging you?)

(What if he grips tighter, his hand slides just a little lower, and his voice does too, right by your ear - “You’re not wearing a bra.”)

(“Neither are you, sir.”)

(And what if that hug turns into a grind, into his thigh between your legs, into lift me onto the kitchen counter and show me what else you know about tenancy law.)

“Emails.”

Loose top, skimpy bottoms? Slutty. Strategic. Respectable slutty. He’d stare at your legs all night.

(He wouldn’t. But you’d know. Which is worse.)

You should lather in coconut oil, just in case.

You should lather in coconut oil anyway – hydration is important to avoid ingrowns (and yes, to smell edible too.)

“Timestamps.”

Tight top, no bra, skimpy bottoms? Too much? Too “I can’t pay the plumber, but maybe I can offer something else...”

(Not that you’ve watched those. Obviously. You’re just… aware of the trope.)

(Not because you spent 30 minutes the other night trying to find the perfect one. And then another 10 skipping the plot because it was too unrealistic, there’s no way the plumber just happens to have lube.)

(Not that you wouldn’t do it for him. But you’re also not going to lower yourself to being a badly lit, lazily scripted fantasy for the male gaze.)

“…If you haven’t already, I’d recommend drafting a written complaint.”

“…Aaron, I don’t even know where to start,” you mutter. “That’s why I asked if you knew a very cheap lawyer.”

“I’m the very cheap lawyer.” For some reason he chuckles, probably it’s because of his own joke, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

He is not there in fifteen.

He’s “there” after fourty-eight minutes - flustered, apologizing, muttering something about I-395 and a jackknifed delivery truck, which is just adorable, really, coming from a man who’s clearly never taken the bus in heels while bleeding through his jeans, juggling three leaking Trader Joe’s bags, and re-evaluating every life decision since birth.

He’s grumbling about “infrastructure,” all furrowed brows and moral outrage. How sweet.

You, meanwhile, are Frenching the entire Department of Transportation.

You are giving gridlock the kind of wet, eye-contact blowjob that wins awards - because, for once in your adult life, the universe delayed a man just long enough for you to become a person.

Thirty-eight glorious minutes to shave, moisturize, hide the evidence of your emotional instability, light a candle, panic about the candle (too much?), blow it out, light it again (fuck it), rearrange your throw pillows, Febreze your loveseat, and clean your floors so well you briefly consider serving dinner off them - or yourself.

(Also enough time to change outfits four times, reject each one violently, and land on something that screams “Oh, this? Just threw it on,” while whispering: “I shaved everything.”)

You’ve never been more grateful for civic failure.

You look good. Your apartment looks good. You know it smells amazing in here. You know it. You can feel the Pine-Sol particles sparkling off the hardwood.

Any second now, he’s going to say something about it.

He’s going to inhale – deeply - and ask what detergent you use. Compliment your lavender baseboards.

You can feel it coming. You’re ready. You smile. You bask.

Aaron sets down his bag. Unclips it. Opens it. Looks up.

“I printed out the tenancy statutes,” he says, already pulling out an aggressively highlighted stack of documents from the briefcase.

And this would be impressive - should be impressive - if he weren’t wearing a plain black T-shirt that is doing things to his arms. And the khakis. Fucking khakis.

The most indecently decent pants in the entire male wardrobe.

They whisper "suburban dad," but scream "accidental bulge in soft daylight."

Speaking of which, unfortunately, your apartment lighting has never worked harder - midday golden-hour haze bouncing off every freshly scrubbed surface, casting soft shadows and sensual gleam until finally it settles on The Situation.

…Shit.

(Do not look at it.)

(Do not acknowledge it.)

(Do not mentally calculate whether that’s just the way his pants fold or if that’s his dick pressed against the zipper like it also has a clause to deliver.)

(Do notice, however, that he still hasn’t said a single word about how nice your apartment looks. Rude.)

“I flagged the key violations and I added notes on a recent amendment that strengthens your case - you can reference it in your response letter.” His eyes scan the room clearing it for hostiles - except all he really sees is your loveseat. Small. Soft. Close.

And you, in a tank top.

He clears his throat. Adjusts the folder. His gaze flicks back to you – quick, sharp, and immediately redirected to something safer, like the floor.

“Where… should we get set up?” he asks, like he hasn’t already mentally measured the loveseat twice, logged its exact dimensions in his brain, and is currently laser-eyeing the very cushion he’s dying – dreading - to sit on.

“Oh, I don’t know… wherever you’re comfortable.”

He nods - just a touch too seriously - then hesitates. Again. Checks one more time, with those painfully polite eyes: Can I...? Is it alright if...?

(…As if you might suddenly revoke loveseat privileges.)

Then, slowly, he lowers himself onto the cushion. Perches. Occupies the absolute minimum amount of space humanly possible.

If he still had the joint mobility of his youth, you’re convinced he’d just origami himself into a respectful little one-inch cube and tuck into the far corner.

You glance at his shoulders - very broad, deliciously broad, yes - tense, but more at how hard he’s trying not to brush them against yours. What a funny man.

Especially funny because while he's typing up your official letter - like a good little lawyer - he's also letting the conversation drift into a completely unrelated side street.

Unrelated except for the fact that it's all about you.

Like how he “casually” mentions he hasn’t seen you at the pool lately.

The one where he trains and you sit in a cracked plastic cafeteria chair pretending to wait for your friend’s aquatic therapy - when really, you’re mourning every second you’re not legally tethered to the hot dad at swim practice. The hot dad who doesn’t even know he’s the hot dad. (Him. Obviously.)

You go for your friend. Technically.

Spoiler: she’s got two weeks left.

Which means once her sessions are over, you and Aaron will have absolutely no logical reason to ever speak again. No built-in excuse. No default setting.

And now there’s a looming, mutual thing neither of you are acknowledging.

You’re sure there’s a term for this. Something about large mammals afraid of mice and metaphor.

“Yeah, I was in the lane next to your friend’s the other day…” he starts.

“Really?” You pretend you didn’t get fourteen missed calls from said friend, who - when you finally called her back - didn’t even say hi. Just launched straight into: “Burgundy swim cap guy looked up at your seat three times. Three. He looked so sad you weren’t there I had to explain where you were so he wouldn’t drown in longing.”

“Yes… we talked for a bit. She seems very nice…”

Ah.

Interesting choice of words, considering she told you – verbatim - “I can’t believe someone built like a brick shithouse could be that pathetic.”

(She has yet to understand that that is the whole appeal. Him. And that exact contradiction. Him and that-)

“So… how did… your date go?” he asks, pretending to be casual. He’s polishing his glasses against the hem of his shirt, even though they’re already spotless. (You weren’t even aware he needed glasses. Probably neither is the rest of the planet.)

He keeps at it. Rubs one lens. Then the other. Then back again.

You wonder if he’s trying to distract himself. From the question. From the answer.

Your date.

The one that made you miss your friend's call. The one you actually went on. The one that-

“It went well, actually.” It did. Way too well. And that’s the problem.

Because you keep chasing Aaron.

Despite the very obvious fact that nothing will ever happen between you. Because he’s… well, him. And you’re…

A little too young. A little too broke. A little too you.

(And technically if you do the math, you’re closer to his son’s age than his. Just by a few years, sure, but still. Still enough to justify it to yourself out loud, then say it again. And again. Until it starts sounding like a fact.)

It’s just a harmless crush. A stupid little thing. A flicker. A fantasy. A hobby, really.

You have so many of those - men. Smart, emotionally unavailable, vaguely haunted. You collect them like parking tickets: Useless. Repetitive. Always showing up when you least need them. But you keep them. Stack them in a drawer somewhere in your head.

Just in case.

Still, there’s something about this one.

About him.

Aaron.

Aaron in wireframe glasses, almost making you believe in the higher powers he believes in too. (Hopefully not the United States government.)

Aaron with that voice, that jaw, that posture.

Aaron, who says things like “landlord-tenant statute” and somehow makes it sound better than the poetry in those overpriced, niche little books you only buy for the cover, the ones where the author hits enter every four words so it tricks you into thinking they mean something.

And maybe – deep, deep down – it’s because you want to be proven wrong. That someone like him could find goodness in parts of you you’ve already declared a lost cause. That he could look at all the rot and still see something worth saving. Or maybe it’s just easier. Easier to chase something you’ll never catch than turn around and face the things already standing still, arms open, waiting to love you back.

“I’m glad to hear that,” says Deliciously Four-Eyed Aaron, just a little too tight. Tighter than his khakis, which shift and pull every time he readjusts to keep from getting a flat ass on your loveseat.

(What’s wrong, Agent Hotchner? Not expecting it to actually go well? God, you hope that’s why his jaw looks like it’s about to file for divorce from the rest of his face.)

“I don’t know him well,” he adds, clinically. “But… he seems like a nice guy. He’s good at his job.”

Right. Which is rich, coming from the man who literally handed you the guy’s number. And now he’s playing coy?

So what was that, then? A random act of kindness? A stroke of pity? Was it projection? Was it a fever dream?

Did he just reach into the FBI rolodex and go: “Hmm. You’re not under disciplinary review, you own slacks, and your blood pressure is normal. Here, date this emotionally volatile woman I know and I think you might like - she has opinions and abandonment issues, enjoy!

Because Aaron doesn’t do spontaneous. Aaron does strategic. Aaron does 48-hour surveillance and triple-signed documents.

He’s not the guy who improvises. He’s the guy who rehearses his improvisation.

So forgive you if you’re just a little confused by Mr. Times New Roman over here, trying to mentally trace the logic that gets you from “I barely know him” to “you should definitely let him finger you. Only after marriage, though.”

It’s weird. And yet, somehow, that’s not even the most annoying part.

“Good at his job?” you echo, with a laugh that sounds way too close to a cry for help. (Of course. Of course that’s Special Supervising Whatever-the-Fuck Hotchner’s metric for male compatibility. Not empathy. Not emotional availability. Not even basic social literacy. No, job performance. What a catch.) “What are you going to say next, that he’s a good person because he clocks in early and doesn’t steal breakroom coffee?”

“Well,” he says, adjusting his glasses that did not need adjusting, “I can’t vouch for the coffee. But I do see him arrive on time. From my office. If that’s what’s concerning you.”

…Oh. So that’s what this is. We’re flexing now.

Mr. I Have A Window. Mr. I Oversee The Peasants. Mr. Private Office While Everyone Else Plays Hot-Desk Musical Chairs. Mr. Title, Tenure, and a Chair That Supports Both His Spine and His Reluctance to Feel. Mr. I Deserve This Square Footage Because I Ruined My Marriage for the Federal Government.

(You could go on. And on. And on. You won’t. But you could.)

And it’s not even clear who he’s trying to one-up here. The guy he set you up with? Or… you? Both?

Like, “Yes, he’s punctual. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s good at his job. But I define what good is. I’m his boss. Be impressed by me instead. Please. I beg you.”

Okay. Breathe. Relax.

No one invited him to a pissing contest and yet here he is, unzipping his intellectual fly right in the middle of your living room. (Not the fly you wanted unzipped, unfortunately.)

You squint at him. “So what, you show up before everyone else just to watch your little ducklings waddle in behind you? Mother Goose clocking in before sunrise to lead by example and assert dominance?”

He turns toward you. Tilts his head. Makes that face. The one you’ve been craving since the second he walked in.

Eyebrows drawn, mouth slightly open - just enough to spot that one crooked tooth, bless it - an expression that says concerned, confused, and disappointed in your tone, all in one.

“It’s none of that,” he’s dead serious, even if he’s visibly smiling… marvelous. “It’s just respectful to be on time.”

Sure, Agent Hotchner. Tell yourself that while polishing your Employee of the Decade plaque.

“I barely even see my boss at the café. Twice a week, tops. And only after we open.”

Aaron lifts his eyebrows. Shrugs. “I’m not an asshole.”

Then he goes back to typing, pretending he’s not biting the inside of his cheek like the whole thing didn’t get to him.

Like he’s completely unbothered by the idea of some man buying you coffee and making you laugh for two full hours.

Like his knuckles aren’t just a little too tight around that trackpad.

“You know, for someone who just said he’s not an asshole, you sure spend a lot of time trying to prove how much better you are than other men.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says, softly. Too softly. Like he knows volume would give him away.

And fuck, those eyes.

You can’t look at them too long. You bounce between his face and anything else - your coffee table, the printout, his lap (unfortunately) - because those glasses are giving him four eyes now, and all of them are aimed at your skull, dissecting every micro-expression.

He's a bit suffocating.

“I think what really bothers you,” he says, measured, "is that you’re used to being misread."

You scoff. “Excuse me?” (Bitch.)

"You act like you want to be chased, but only if it feels reluctant. If it's earned. You push people to see if they’ll push back. You turn it into a game because it’s safer that way. If it’s a game, you can pretend you were never serious when they walk away."

Well. Okay. First of all: Rude.

Second of all: Accurate. Horribly accurate.

But also: How dare he.

"And if they don't... if they try to meet you where you are... you push them away first. Just to prove you were right to be afraid" he says - and the bastard even smiles. (Fuck his dimples. Really. Pretentious as hell.) "You punish them for it… and you punish the ones who don’t play, too. Because deep down, you still don’t know which would hurt more."

"Wow," you never thought you'd actually be speechless, and yet - here you are, scrambling for a comeback. Great. "Good thing you said you weren’t trying to prove anything. Otherwise I might’ve gotten confused and assumed you were just showing off." (Good enough. You’ll take it.)

Smarty-pants chuckles under his breath then leans back against your very professional, very structurally unsound loveseat. His knee brushes yours.

You pretend not to notice. He pretends he doesn’t notice you noticing.

"Not showing off, just telling you what you already know."

"Oh, right, because you’re such an expert on me."

"I’m just observant."

"And arrogant." And a fucking hypocrite too.

"And you still looked at my mouth twice." What a who-

Somewhere between your brain screaming full bitch slap, full bitch slap and your hand almost twitching to deliver it… you miscalculate.

You lean in. And instead of bruising his cheekbone, you crash your mouth against his.

Pride - and the stack of feminist books judging you from the bookshelf - insist it’s you who moves first. You believe them. You have to.

Even though his hands are already there - rough and steady, drowning your face in their grip - before you even finish breathing in your half-ounce of courage. Before you really even choose anything at all.

(But sure. Go ahead. Call it empowerment. You’re totally running the show. Girlboss shit.)

You want to bite him. Sink your teeth into that smug, diagnosing mouth. Split his lip. Make him bleed all over the living room he still hasn’t bothered to compliment the smell of. (You’re not petty about it… it’s just an observation.)

But it’s slower instead.

You taste his nerve first, his fear right after.

He’s already halfway to pulling back even as he keeps kissing you - trying to have it both ways - and for a second, you do break apart.

Both pretending you could still undo this. (And also undo all the bullshit he said earlier, profiling you so hard he didn’t even realize he was accidentally outing himself too.)

It doesn’t last.

You crash back into him, sloppier, mouths dragging, missing, gasping, half-kissing, half-clawing at each other as you’re both a little too desperate to land properly.

For a split second, the kiss turns... almost sweet. Tender. Romantic, even.

You could say he’s a good kisser.

You could say he’s a great kisser.

You could say he’s the only man alive who could kiss you stupid and still find a way to remind you to breathe through your nose.

(Like when he notices you getting lightheaded and somehow fixes it without even pulling away... which, not gonna lie, is a little humbling.)

But there’s no time for critical analysis. You’re already shoving him flat onto the loveseat, pinning him down, while he blinks up at you - wide-eyed, flushed, so beautiful it makes your chest hurt.

(And he looks so... concerned. As if he’s realizing just now that there’s absolutely no dignified way to get out of this alive.)

(Good. He shouldn’t.)

There’s tongue.

There’s teeth.

There’s his hands – everywhere - gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, squeezing the backs of your thighs, pushing your leg higher over him until you can feel - Oh. Oh, he’s hard. He’s so fucking hard.

There’s a muffled noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like please and you are not thinking about that right now.

And it’s-

God.

It’s filthy. It’s great.

You grind down hard, whimpering shamelessly into his mouth, and he bucks up into you, meeting you halfway with both hands locked around your ass, squeezing so rough you’ll be wearing fingerprints by tomorrow.

(You hope so.)

(You really fucking hope so.)

He helps you move –

Up.

Down.

Slower.

Harder.

Guiding your hips with just enough pressure to make it feel like it’s your idea, finding the rhythm you didn’t know you needed until he gives it to you, forcing you to ride the thick, hard shape straining against his pants-

Just the right angle. Just the right friction.

So perfect it catches your clit every single time, knocks a gasp right out of your throat, straight into his mouth.

You’re soaking through your panties. You’re shaking with it. And it clearly gets to him - God, it wrecks him.

You can feel it - the way he tenses under you, the way his hands clutch harder at your ass, the way his cock throbs against you through the fabric like he’s just barely holding on.

He bites down on your bottom lip, rougher than you expect. Too rough for a man who apologizes when he says fuck.

He holds it between his teeth, sucks it – hard - humming low and filthy against your mouth, so obscene it makes your hips stutter.

Drop.

Just enough to let your soaked cunt drag across the swollen head of his cock.

And when you grind back, slower, tracing right along the thick ridge straining against his zipper, he chokes on a breath.

“God, fuck-”

It tears out of him, raw, as if he’s almost embarrassed by how much pleasure is tangled in it, by how stupidly sincere it comes out of his mouth.

(Also, thank God he didn’t reverse it. If he’d said “fuck, God,” instead, you’re pretty sure he would’ve stopped everything, dropped to his knees, and asked you to drive him to a confessional. Not even a metaphor - actual church. Actual guilt. Actual “forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”)

He tilts his head back, groaning, neck arching against the pillow - exposed, gorgeous - and you completely lose it.

Your tongue drags over his throat, chasing the pulse hammering under his skin, tracing your way back up to his mouth.

He’s so hot. He’s so good. He’s-

…terrified.

"I'm so sorry," he breathes, suddenly sitting up on his elbows. “I-”

He fumbles. He panics. He stands. Backs away from the couch. From you. Visibly blushing. Visibly mortified.

“I didn’t mean-“

He doesn’t finish the sentence...

…Because he finished in his pants instead.

Poor thing.

You should be a little cruel about it - he was an asshole earlier, after all - but you’re not quite mean enough to kick a wounded 6’2” puppy when he’s already limping. (No pun intended… or maybe-)

"Hey," you murmur, reaching out, curling your fingers around his wrist so he can’t backpedal any further. He flinches. (Not much. Just enough to make you want to kiss him again. Harder this time. Until he flinches worse.)

"It’s okay. It’s-" You almost say sweet - catch yourself just in time, because you’re not trying to get murdered tonight.

"It’s normal," you settle on instead. "It’s flattering. Honestly.” (Also kind of hot. But you’ll take that particular confession to your grave.) “You didn’t... ruin anything."

He still doesn’t look convinced. At all. In fact, he looks like he might apologize again, maybe even draft a formal statement and notarize it.

You scramble. “It’s not a big deal, seriously. Who cares if it was-” (You hesitate for half a second, fatal mistake.) "-like, 30 seconds? Could've been 29, right?!”

…Right.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

(I might've missed someone this time, pls tell me in the comments if your name got lost AAAA sorry in advance)

Little reminder that the requests for fleabag!reader are open!! Ok.. I'll go now. Bye.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner x reader smut #aaron hotchner imagine #hotch #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #fleabag!reader #aaron hotchner creams his pants #aaron hotchner profile my c*** next

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glossgojo · 6 months ago

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father charlie mayhew x undercover detective fem! reader/that one fleabag scene

5k words (i went crazy with this one)

oh boy where do i begin

TAGS: siren reader!, AFAB reader, religious themes, nonreligious reader, confession booth is sexy, oraI male receiving, big d!ck charlie, dubious consent, p in v, no protection, breeding cuz duh it’s me, blood k!nk (if u squint)

after lois was nearly detained for being belligerently drunk at work, the FBI called you in. not to work alongside her no, to survey and investigate the community. the crimes surrounded her. you became lois’s daughter’s “friend” living with her and hanging around whenever you could. fortunately for both of you, lois did actually like your company and so did her daughter.

with some miracle you became a part of her everyday life, even tagging along when she met sister megan once. the nun was peculiar and although you weren’t nearly as trusting as lois you liked her enough to fake your way into an unlikely friendship. you the hard on her luck “college student” and her the eccentric murder-obsessed nun. it worked well enough for a cover story and she seemed to buy it. given your experience you knew enough about murderers to get along with her, pretending to share her passion for serial killers and the like. she had mentioned visiting the diner over text one day, you thought it a great opportunity to get out and people watch but what you didn’t expect was that she had company.

you knew megan was unconventional to say the least but you didn’t expect her to be on a date with, the looks of it, a lady killer. the closer you got the more you had to mask your reaction, she was with the new priest. you just didn’t expect him to be near your age and straight out of a GQ magazine. you willed a smile to your lips as you sauntered to the side of her booth, throwing an around the back of her seat and leaning down. megan tore her eyes away from the priest, meeting yours after what felt like minutes. you didn’t blame her, you were having a hard time ignoring him as well. “megan! hey i hope i'm not interrupting.” you finally looked pointedly towards him, your smile withering as you met his chocolate eyes. you hadn’t seen eyes so dark in a while.

“did something happen?” she assumed you had an update, it wouldn’t be the first time since you lived so close to lois. you sometimes told her details to gain her trust, of course clearing it with lois first. you pretended you did, pretended whatever you had to say was not for the eyes of a very curious priest. his eyes hadn’t left you since you interrupted.

“no, uh we can talk later.” you motioned slightly towards him and megan realized she’d never made introductions. she broke eye contact turning towards the priest, finding him already looking at you, well more so the small sliver of skin your crop top displayed above your skirt from the way you stretched over her booth. she knew father mayhew was less traditional but she didn’t expect this.

“oh y/n this is father mayhew.” you looked at him waiting a beat before you smiled brighter than before, he was intrigued to say the least. you were confusing him, sending signals he couldn’t quite decipher. maybe he wasn’t your type because you seemed wholly unaffected by him. that or you were just good at hiding it.

“nice to meet you mr.mayhew.” there was no way you were calling him father, you weren’t religious much less catholic.

“father-“ megan started to correct you and you cocked your head to the side, ready to remind her you didn’t believe in organized religion.

“charlie is fine, please y/n, it’s nice to meet you.” he cut in before you two began your conversation, seeing the way your eyes narrowed at the correction. your eyes were back on him as soon as he said your name, masterfully hiding how your stomach flipped at it coming from his lips. it didn’t matter to him that you weren’t religious, hell it might be for the best if you weren’t. he would rather never see you or your red heels ever again.

“charlie, i’ll leave you two to it.” you attributed the startling attraction you felt to the taboo of it all. a priest, sinfully handsome, and from the look of his shoulders and arms his body was even more unholy. your glances had been brief but they were enough to spike your curiosity.

“please join us, i’d be interested to hear whatever you were about to share.” there was that egotistical expression on his face that made you think he didn’t usually get no from women.

“oh i don’t know it’s kind of a secret. can you keep a secret charlie?” you were pulling out all the stops, straightening your posture, batting your eyelids, even cocking your head to the side and if megan wasn’t so transfixed by his reaction she would’ve taken notes. he was completely drawn into you, reminding himself to blink and respond when you a smile twitched at the corner of your lips when you were met with silence. you knew you had him and he knew too.

“let’s pretend this is confession.” he drew his arms out, leaning back against the booth and you took the challenge, sitting next to megan before she could try to leave you two alone. the scent of your perfume hit him as you sat down, sensual and distinct. he’d remember it for days.

“sure confession, i’ve always liked the notion. there’s something so sexy about the whole thing don’t you think megan?” charlie watched you try to shift the subject away from whatever you came to say. he wasn’t so naive. however one thing became clear, you didn’t trust him.

“oh geez, i guess it is sexy. you’re dishing out your deepest darkest secrets in a small box where you can’t see the other person.” he could see the way your eyes softened around the edges when you looked at megan. and the way they changed when you looked back towards him. he hadn’t felt so wholly consumed by someone. whatever trap you had laid out, he was ensnared.

“i’ve always wondered who a priest confesses to?”

“God.” his eyebrow cocked at the question, eyes lighting up in amusement and you bashfully nodded your head.

“ah right.” megan laughed at your response, finding the exchange a bit trivial. she was itching to hear the new information.

“i’m gonna head back to the church, can’t exactly leave it unattended this long. sister it was great to speak with you and again nice to meet you y/n.” you waved him a goodbye as he got up and walked past you both, your eyes never leaving him until you couldn’t crane your neck much further. megan shook off the worries that were beginning to surface and instead pestered you to spill your guts. you did as soon as the diner’s bell rang to signal the door closing. you told her what you had rehearsed all the while being haunted by the ghost of father mayhew’s appearance.

the murders continued and you spent late nights with lois spinning every possible theory. you couldn’t scratch the itch that bothered you about megan and charlie. instead of asking megan to meet you, you decided to visit the father himself. although you would play it off as a last minute plan you carefully dressed for the occasion, a baby pink cropped cardigan covered your lacy tank top fit with high waisted flare jeans that hugged your curves just right. it looked casual and your skin was indeed covered enough for church but if you stretched or raised your arms even slightly your skin would show and you knew his eyes would find their way there just like before. you wore baby pink platform heels to match even, your hair up in a seemingly effortless updo that actually took you thirty minutes to perfect. and to top it all off you made sure to smell downright sinful and gloss your lips to the heavens.

he didn’t stand a chance.

you were grateful to find the church empty save the priest in question sitting in the pews reading what you assumed was the bible. the click of your heels drew his gaze over his shoulder, he would lose this battle without a doubt in his mind. he only hoped god would forgive him after. he rose to stand, abandoning the bible with ease and a smile crept to your lips as he met you in the walkway between the pews.

“y/n, what a surprise i thought you weren’t religious.” he didn’t think he’d see you again, not like this at least. maybe only in his dreams or when the desire deep inside him took over.

“oh i’m not, just curious.” you cocked your head to the side and charlie had a sneaking suspicion you got whatever you wanted when you did that. he wasn’t a stranger to using his looks to get things handed to him, he just didn’t expect to be so easily swayed by it himself.

“anything i can help you with?” as much as he would have liked to continue this staring contest he had an idea you were here on a mission. you had unsuccessfully hidden how taken you were with him. now standing at his full height you were finding it hard to disguise your attraction. he was tall, much taller than you had figured and even in your heels you came up to his shoulder. his body was crafted for sports, for modeling, for anything but the cloth. the sheer strength he wielded was going to waste, you wondered why he needed it all.

“you and sister megan are so wholly devoted to all this. i’ve never had that, something so…guiding.” he invited you to sit next to where he was situated before, you did with ease crossing your legs and sitting closer than you should be.

“your morals surely come from somewhere.”

“my parents, they weren’t religious, at least not catholic. all these murders, it just made me wonder.” you spoke in hushed whispers, the church was eerily quiet, so starkly different from the chaos of lois’s home.

“you’re scared, it’s reasonable to be. faith can give you strength but it can’t fix everything.” his head turned down towards you, onyx eyes sucking you in, you were captivated.

“hey i thought i was the atheist here.” you bumped your shoulder against his or really your shoulder against the muscle of his arms. he sucked in a breath, finding himself thinking less of religion the more he looked into your eyes. charlie drew the bible in front of him, turning the page to where he knew he’d find distraction.

“Isaiah 41:13 God promises to comfort and help those who are worried, and to take their hand and guide them through difficult times.” he turned the page to continue, not licking his finger in time and cutting his finger on the paper. it had never happened before and he didn’t even notice it until you listened on, eyes naturally drawn to his large veiny hands and then the pearl of blood that threatened to drop on the spotless floor.

“oh charlie,” you took his right hand in both of yours, thoroughly stopping his reading. you did the first thing you could think of, not wanting the blood to spill anywhere, bringing it to your lips and licking it off, meeting his gaze bashfully. the familiar taste of salty iron lined your teeth. the wet warm lap of your tongue against the pad of his finger combined with the sheen of your lips and your eye contact made charlie suddenly very aware of his corporeal form, all the rest of his blood rushing south. you did it so casually, as if consuming his blood was as natural as wine. the quiet vulnerability making him twitch in his pants. he thanked god it wasn’t well lit in the church or the bulge in his black slacks would be apparent. fortunately for him you were also too embarrassed to notice.

“s-sorry i just didn’t want it to spill.” you dropped his hand quickly, ignoring the warmth between your legs and opting to look very intently at the first button of his dress shirt. he needed to diffuse the situation before he coaxed you upstairs and smudged your damned lip gloss.

“it’s alright, i’m gonna grab a bandaid.”

“okay i’ll be hiding in the confession box trying not to burst into flames.” he laughed at your admission, he hadn’t expected you to be so embarrassed. it was probably the hottest thing he’d experienced and he thought you would own it, own that you were unabashedly seducing him. perhaps he’d misjudged your intentions all along. he came back to empty pews and he scoffed at the realization you were actually in the booth.

“what do you wish to confess?” he assumed the position, taking it as seriously as he could muster. part of him was wishing you would just tell him something substantial about yourself, he didn’t even know what you did for a living.

“how much time do you have?” charlie huffed a laugh at your words and you liked his laugh, it was airier and lighter than you expected. “i suppose ill start with the most recent sin, i embarrassed myself in front of a priest. surely that’s against some rule.”

“not entirely, embarrassment isn’t a sin.” he crossed his arms across his chest, endeared by your admission.

“right, what about lust?” he closed his eyes, he’d nearly gone half-soft but here you were painting deadly images in his mind. he felt like a teenage boy, rock hard and trying to will it down.

“lust, one of the seven deadly sins, but it can be forgiven. that is if you don’t act on it.”

“ah i’ve never been good at that part.”

“i can pray for you, kneel with me.” you did as he said, finding it hard to deny him of anything when his voice was so deep and commanding through the grated screen. you waited a beat and then another, breathing out in and out. you wondered if he was trying to remember a prayer or you were too far gone for one that readily came to mind. instead you heard him grumble under his breath, the church far too quiet for it to go unnoticed.

“fuck it.” you blinked your eyes in surprise, the wood digging into your knees as you waited another beat and the curtain to your side was drawn open and charlie stood in front of you. the sight of you kneeling nearly made him pass out, he swore he’d never been so hard in his life.

“tell me no.” his large hand, now with a bandage on one finger, slid to the side of your face, tilting your face up and up until your neck craned to meet his as he stepped closer. the heat of his body radiated against you. his thumb pushed at the plush of your bottom lip, the lip gloss was as sticky as he imagined, drawing your mouth open. your eyelashes fluttered at the gentle pressure, the coaxing, the slow sensuality of it all. you felt as if you would actually burst into flames, you wished you had worn a skirt. the denim of your jeans felt like hot coals against your skin, your underwear sticky with need. he could see the desire dripping from your gaze, but he needed to be sure.

“i can’t.” you whispered, like the obedient girl you were. and that was enough for him, he shoved the thumb fully between your lips, you hummed at the intrusion. the warm wet heat of your mouth made him whimper as you swirled around the finger sucking it like you wanted so desperately to do something else. your gaze finally moved from his eyes down the length of his body to his slacks, you raised up on your knees and you were eye level with his bulge. even in the dim light you could tell he was massive and your jaw would be sore tomorrow.

“father let me help you, please?” he huffed a breath at the name, there was no going back now though, he knew what he was doing making you kneel. he nodded at your request, removing his hand from your face so you could do as you pleased. the urgency in your motions made him scoff as you practically tore his zipper down and cupped his bulge. you fidgeted to get his length through and when you did you grinned at the sight. the shadow of his length covered your face and while you were intimidated and failing to hide it you still licked tentatively at the furious red tip.

“good girl.” he smiled down at you and you squeezed your thighs at his words, cleaning up all the precum along his slit. he was so big you didn’t think you’d get him even halfway down your throat, but you were never a quitter. your hand circled his base, one cupping his heavy balls as you licked along his shaft, veins protruding angrily and you kissed the tip one more time before flattening your tongue against the bottom of him, stretching your mouth as wide as you could to accommodate his girth. it was a struggle to attempt and you groaned at how hard it was. he chuckled at your frustration, he couldn’t deny how hot the whole scene was. he placed a hand on your head, guiding you down his length and you moaned at the feeling, shivering from how badly you needed him. you wished for some sense of relief and so you took one hand off his balls and tried to touch yourself. it was no use because charlie saw you, catching your wrist. he was gentle until then, forcing you down his length and you gagged. he was so heavy and thick you felt like you couldn’t breathe. the sensation made you nearly lightheaded and he finally released his grip letting you relax and slink back. you got into a comfortable rhythm then, pumping the length you couldn’t reach and swirling your tongue along his veins while moving up and down his length. he could tell he was close from the small groans and whimpers you could hear, his grip on your wrist tightening until he let go completely and pulled you off him. he tapped his cock against your tongue, debating if he should finish this now or give in fully to what he needed.

“tell me about your sin.” your eyes glazed over as he held his cock away from your mouth, letting you speak but making you mourn the heavy feeling. it took you a few seconds to remember what he was talking about.

“i’ve touched myself thinking about this man, but he’s devoted to someone else, to god. it never feels as good as i know he can make me feel.” your gaze traveling from his cock to his eyes, he jaw clenched as he looked away before leaning down and lifting you effortlessly out of the booth and into his hold. your legs looped around his waist and your arms around his neck. he was strong and solid against you, and you whined at the slightest hint of friction of your core bumping his belt buckle.

“we can attone later.” it’s all he says as he’s walking purposefully up the stairs and down a hallway, the walk is long or at least it feels that way when you’re nearly drunk from desire.

your back hits something soft, you realize it’s his bed as he’s climbing over you. you sit up, unbuttoning his shirt while he’s doing the same to your pesky jeans. his shirt is unbuttoned before he’s pulling them off you and you marvel at the sculpted muscles of his body. you're not sure if you’re drooling but you could be. he doesn’t bother to take your heels off, opting for your cardigan and crop top next. and you whine as you try to reach the buttons of his slacks, he tucked himself back in at some point and you don’t like the insinuation. charlie can’t help but laugh at you, maybe you weren’t the femme fatale he thought you were. “patience is a virtue.” he’s got you in your bra and panties splayed out under him and he relished in the sight of your lip gloss smudged. in the light of his room he could see all the sinful details of your body and he couldn’t wait to wreck every part he hadn’t touched yet. he kneels in front of you, shirt gone and his slacks unbuttoned, watching your chest rise and fall in anticipation as you maintain eye contact. he can tell you’re struggling to, the way your eyelids droop and narrow. when he’s finally bare in front of you, you’re looping your arms around his neck and pulling him down, finally kissing him and it’s as messy as you hoped for. all teeth and tongue, he bites your lip hard enough to draw blood and you groan into his mouth. he’s feral and you can’t help but arch into him, the hard planes of his body pressing so deliciously against you, you silently wish you could grind against his abs for some kind of friction. charlie pins your wrists above you with one of his hands, the other deftly unclasping your bra, an action that speaks volumes of his experience.

he doesn’t loosen his grip on your wrists even slightly, somehow in control despite the rabid look in his eyes, trailing his lips down your neck, biting and sucking likely leaving marks for tomorrow. you buck your hips into him, desperate for something, anything. he’s so hard against your core, sliding against your stomach. you can’t imagine he’ll fit, not with how far up your chest his length reaches. your thoughts are drawn back to the hot mouth that’s latching to your nipple, bitting and sucking like it’s the last thing he’ll do. charlie groans around your breast, massaging the other one with his hand rough palms creating a friction you try to get closer to. he’s slurping and biting so roughly you’re whining without realizing, tears pricking your eyes from the sharp pain. it’s so devastating you think it might be the way you want to go out.

and when you feel you might just come from his mouth on your breasts, he’s moving off you with a pop to his lips. it’s reminiscent of your actions downstairs and his cock twitches at the image. he leans back to take a look at his work releasing your wrists, bite marks and bruises littering your shaking chest and his lips curl in a smile. you think you’ve never seen him genuinely happy until now. he stays out of your reach kneeling between your spread legs and you almost complain until he’s peeling your underwear off you, it’s sticky and you revel in the cool air finally grazing your heat. charlie’s eyes are inexplicably drawn to how you’re nearly dripping onto his sheets, the light illuminating how badly you needed him, and from the looks of it it was just as long as he did. you can’t help the moan slip from your mouth when he’s biting his lips and spreading your folds to watch a fat wad of arousal drop down to your ass.

your pleasure ends when you see him leaning down for a taste, far too gone for any more foreplay. you need him and you need him now. you’re twitching when you slide your fingers into his hair, drawing your gaze to him. the hunger in his gaze doesn’t dissolve but the black of his eyes seems to soften when he sees your wrecked expression.

“please i need your cock, now please.” you’re begging and charlie can’t say no to that. he’s been aching for what feels like forever. he coos at your request, wiping the tears you didn’t even notice were falling and moves back on top of you, the satisfying weight against you calming whatever worries you had. but he doesn’t give you what you want. his fingers, still spreading your folds dip into you, there’s zero resistance from your sopping entrance, but the stretch makes your eyes roll back. “please.” you don’t want his fingers, you don’t care if he splits you in half at this point.

“relax baby,” he’s soothing you as best as he can when he just wants to sink into you. instead of focusing on where he can make you unravel, he scissors you open, getting impatient himself. you hum at the shift, bringing his lips to yours with a hand still threading through his hair. when he adds a third finger you groan at the stretch. “so tight darling, you won’t be able to take me.” he’s purring at you, teasing you. you can’t string the words together to dissuade him. when he’s satisfied you’re stretched enough he pulls back, licking his fingers and groaning at the taste. devine, just like he expected.

despite your wishes he’s leaning back, tapping his angry cock head against your clit, and you realize his words may be true. your legs slide over his shoulders like they were made to be there and when you look down at your entrance, panic creeps in.

“i don’t think it will fit.” he watches your eyes widen, your brows furrowed in genuine concern. it’s comical.

“where did my good girl go? you were just begging for it.” he’s teasing you, laughing at the way your wide eyes meet his. without you responding, he slips his head towards your entrance, catching on it and slipping away, fuck you were so tight. you whimpered at the feeling, trying to slink away from him but he tightens his hold on your hips. you realize, albeit far too late, your heels are still on and very much on his shoulders.

“it won’t fit.” you’re pleading with him, for what exactly you’re not sure. and then he’s leaning down, pressing the tops of your thighs back towards you, folding you in half, his lips not quite reaching yours.

“i’ll make it fit.” without warning he’s nudging at your entrance again, bullying his way in and you whine and jostle at the feeling. it’s too big, the stretch too much and you feel tears prick your eyes. he’s tearing you open, ruining your for anyone else and you can’t find it in you to care.

when the tip is finally in you breathe out in relief, there’s still an ache between your legs and you know you’re dripping onto his sheets but you think the worst is over. you don’t know you’re far from it. because while charlie is a man of faith, of perseverance and virtue he can’t hold back from how addictive your pussy is. the tight hug of your cunt around his tip drives him to ease his full length into you without warning. you paw at his chest, eyes rolling back as he pushes his way fully in nestling against your cervix and curving inside you. making you gush out more liquid than you knew you had. in fact, it’s so much you’re not sure if you’re squirting or you just came. the pain and pleasure mix into one and you think scream his name. you swear you can feel him in your ribcage and you choke out a breath.

he’s barely holding himself still when his balls finally rest against you. your walls are molding to him, and he think he might have died and gone to heaven. “so fucking tight, you were made for me.” a deep groan leaves him before he can hold back and you whine at the sound, clenching down on him and making him only more painfully turned on. you can feeling him throbbing inside, carving you out, the veins of his cock pressed against.

when you begin to squirm under him, still not used to his size but not in pain, he starts moving. every time he moves out he feels he has to push back in, your poor abused cunt is gripping him so tight, he feels bad even pulling out. the burn becomes so intense and every time his tip bumps your cervix you twitch beneath him. he presses a sweet kiss to your ankle over the strap of your heels before pressing his hips down and reaching even deeper. you cry out his name at the change in position and then he’s drilling into you like he wants you to be ruined forever. you don’t know where your orgasms start or end as he continuously fucks against your most sensitive spot, your mind numb from pleasure and the only word leaving your lips is his name and cries of pleasure.

he’s no better, he swears he might be addicted to you. the way you call out his name, the way you clench around him when he groans and how you seem to still get wetter from his thrusts. he hopes you don’t blame him when he feels himself getting close already, from the look on your face he realizes you might not be able to think at all. his pace is cruel, driving you into the mattress and likely denting the wooden floor.

your mind is fractured into a million tiny pieces; the only thing you know is that you need him. and when he’s close he’s pressing into you like he wants to get you pregnant, he’s breeding you, making you his and you come again. there’s no room for his cum inside you, so it’s leaking out the sides and he can’t have that, not after how good you’ve been, how well you take him, so he’s scooping it back up and fingering it inside you all the while pumping you full. you don’t know when you started crying but you can taste the saltiness of your tears when you pull him down for a kiss, savoring in the drag of his tongue along your teeth and you suck on it slightly, still hungry. he wishes the moment could last forever, but begrudgingly he pulls out and swallows down your whimper. how could he ever begin to atone for this? he had a feeling he would be begging for forgiveness for the rest of his life, there was no way he could forget you.

#father charlie mayhew #father charlie x reader #father charlie smut #father charlie mayhew x reader #charlie mayhew x reader #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas alexander chavez smut #glossgojo #nicholas alexander chavez x reader

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frostedfragments · 2 months ago

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the angels are watching ✧.* zayne x reader ✧.* 4.1k words ✧.* strangers to lovers summary: father zayne becomes obsessed with you, the newest girl at church warnings!: priest!zayne mutual masturbation, inappropriate use of a confessional, inaccurate portrayals of catholicism note: i do not subscribe to any religion...if any of this is wrong or inaccurate, ignore and just have fun. this is kind of a slow burn, if you're looking for a long gratuitous smut scene, this ain't the one. i was more going for the tortured monologue of zayne pining as usual note2: blame fleabag for this one. it's 7:30 am i've not slept so if this is full of grammatical or spelling errors, pls dont be mean 2 me.

divider cred. @enchanthings-a

The moment you stepped into the church Zayne knew you were going to be a problem for him. For years he has prided himself on the love he has for his faith, and the enjoyment he gets presiding over the parish that welcomed him with open arms when he was nothing but an inexperienced novice stumbling around, unsure of himself. He has always put the church before everything, before any whim or temporary desire he has had, before the fleeting thoughts of more outside of his role as priest.

He’s never missed anything of his old life, none of the recreational habits he enjoyed in his youth, or the carnal moments he shared with women he didn’t know. He has never once wished for anything other than this.

Until you.

The first day you stepped into the church, flanked by your familiar and respectable parents - frequent parishioners who Zayne recognised as active community members. At first he didn’t really notice anything unusual save for the fact you were new, Zayne hadn’t seen you attend his service before, but he had new people joining the parish every week, it was hardly out of the ordinary. His eyes trailed over you once; the long lengths of your hair, the dark dress, a tattoo peeking out from the hem where it cut across your thigh.

He looked away then - he didn’t want to appear to be ogling. And he wasn’t, of course. He just hadn’t seen anyone so different, so vibrant in quite some time. And maybe he was a little curious about the ink on your skin.

The first time you approached him was with your parents after that first Sunday. They introduced you, though you remained silent, eyes watching him. The way the candles behind Zayne reflected in your eyes had him lost in thought for several seconds before he reached out his hand to you, introducing himself as he would anyone else, and yet the moment seemed to hang in slow motion, suspended in a bubble that only the two of you seemed aware of. It was so peculiar that Zayne had taken his hand away from your soft grip almost too quickly, an apology falling from his lips before he’d left you and your parents standing there bewildered.

He had shaken the hand of every parishioner in the church at one point or another, but your touch was the only one he couldn’t shake off. His hand clenched in the back office of the church, palm hot and tingling like he’d touched a live wire. He chose to put it behind him.

The next time you walked through the doors, your father wasn’t present, ill your mother had informed Zayne. You were still quiet, lost in thought as you stood behind your mother, eyes fathomless, deep and bewitching, and Zayne felt almost unsettled as you looked at him. He watched you watch him, his head nodding vaguely to whatever your mother was telling him, but he couldn’t look away from you. He felt adrift, unmoored from his usual state of indifference towards the beauty of women. Of course pretty girls came into the church all the time, but he had never felt like this. Never been compelled to look at someone, drink his fill like a man wandering in the desert and coming upon an oasis.

He’d almost sighed in relief when you walked out of the church after the service. Your eyes on him felt like a vice around his chest, his eyes darting over to where you sat in the pews. Your cheeks pink every time his gaze landed on you, and like a damned man, he wanted to feel the heat of your skin under his palms.

He had prayed that night, and the night after, asking God for some mercy from this distraction. Was this a test of his faith? A challenge sent from the Lord to ensure he does not wander? To make certain he does not give in to his urges? Never, in all the years since he became a man of the cloth has he felt tempted. But you are his biggest temptation, the biggest risk to his faith.

Today Zayne stands at the doors of the church as he does every Sunday. He feels it on his skin when you arrive, feels it like a rush of static against the surface of his body. The awareness of you creeps beneath his alb, settling in the space between the cloth and his bare skin, like a touch.

It feels like an embodiment of sin, and he wishes he could shake it off. His eyes briefly fly upward, his thoughts calling to God in hopes he can be rescued from this challenge now, before it wrecks him. He is interrupted by the nearness of you as you walk by him, alone today, your eyes flicking over his face, a soft smile on your lips and a nod of greeting before you’re gone, into the church.

The scent of honey lingers in the air in your absence, and Zayne licks his lips as if the taste of you rests there. He sighs a ragged breath before he re-enters the church - you are always one of the last to arrive, and one of the first to leave. At least soon, you will be gone, and he can relax for another week.

The service passes as it always does; Zayne’s skin feels like it’s on fire, his hands are clammy and clenching against the wood of the pulpit. He tries his hardest not to look your way, but his eyes always seem to stumble across the unfocused faces of the crowd who sit in the nave and land on you, as if you’re the only thing he can see clearly. You’re watching him, as you always are, though you look troubled today. A crease between the smooth skin of your forehead, eyes darting away from Zayne just as quickly as they find him again.

Zayne breaks eye contact first, as he always does.

People soon begin to file out of the doors to the church, and Zayne is blessed that only a couple people of the parish come over to speak to him, praising him as they often do on his words. He suddenly feels like a liar, preaching of purity with his position in the church, the eyes of God hot on the back of his neck even as his mind calls to you, bewitched and beholden to your attention. The final conversation with the last parishioner ends with a quick nod and a shaky smile, and Zayne rushes down the aisle behind them in a rush to close and bolt the doors so he may retire and dwell on his own lack of control.

He knows the moment the heavy door creaks and then thuds shut that he has made an error; he is not alone, he feels it in the way his skin prickles with goosebumps, despite the sunny spring day.

“Father?”

Your voice is like the caress of a hand against Zayne’s skin, and he almost buckles at the first sound of it. How can you sound like an angel whilst condemning him? His hands rest on the wood, and he is all at once unable to move, limbs shaking with fear? Restraint? Desire? All of it contradicts the other, and yet the storm within him refuses to cease.

When he does turn, it is to the sound of your voice once more, “I’m sorry to keep you. I - ah,” his eyes find you, standing beside the final pew of the nave, wringing your hands as you look over at him. Your eyes are full of something he cannot put a name to, though he feels a kinship to whatever it is. You appear lost. “I was wondering if you might hear my confession?”

The idea that you might have sins to confess has Zayne all at once breaking out in a sweat and wanting to laugh. He should be in the booth, confessing his own sin, his own filthy needs that seem to have risen from their long-buried grave in your presence. He cannot imagine you have a sin greater than his own, and yet you believe him the best person to hear it.

“Of course,” His throat is low, rough from the service as it always is. He hasn’t had time to drink anything yet, but he clears it once, “the booth is over here,”

You follow behind him, a few paces separating the two of you. He is thankful for the space, thankful for the time between the nave and the small booth close to the entrance. It gives him time to prepare himself for how you might sound, how your voice might carry through the dividers of the confessional. The idea of you speaking to him in a quiet, whispered tone, the two of you all alone in separate stalls of the dark booth has him suppressing a shiver.

He is a depraved man.

Pulling the curtain aside, he allows you to enter the stall for penitents. You brush past him, your hair carrying the same honeyed scent from earlier, and he releases the curtain with a sharp inhale, eager to get this over with.

He feels some relief once he is inside his side of the confessional, the thin layer of separation is welcome to his racing heart and wayward thoughts. He can just about gather himself after a few quiet moments, the soft sounds of your breathing the only thing Zayne can hear. He makes the sign of the cross, glancing through the divider to check if you are ready. He does not see you make the sign, and he frowns, speaking softly.

“Have you ever done this before, ___?”

A soft gasp, and then you speak, “I didn’t think you’d remember my name,”

Zayne’s lips quirk up at the edges. Oh, if only you knew the thoughts that had been synonymous with your name over the last month. “I take great care to remember the names of my parishioners,”

A bald-faced lie, and in the confessional, no less. But Zayne allows himself this sin - he can repent later.

“Oh,” You say, and Zayne can hear the smile in your voice, “that’s a lot of names to remember,”

“Well, I never claimed to remember the correct names,”

When you laugh, it is as if someone has managed to capture all the beauty of a spring day - the rain pattering against leaves, the melody of birdsong, the burble of a forest stream. His eyes close to it, like he is committing it to memory.

You’re quiet for a few moments before you speak again, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to begin,”

Your first confession, and Zayne gets to hear it.

“First, you make the sign of the cross,” He says, peeking through the divider where he can make out the blurry outline of your hand moving over your face. His lips curl into a grin, the sight of it pleasing to him, if only because he gets to walk you through it for the first time, “Then you say, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned’,”

You clear your throat, speaking soft, “Bless me, Father,” you pause, “for I have sinned,”

Zayne wants to convince himself that he doesn’t get a strange, dark sided satisfaction from hearing you address him as such, but he does. He cannot explain it - the taboo of it, perhaps. The wrongness of his affinity to you, the way in which you make him feel more than anyone ever has, and the fact it’s such a problem for a man in his position. Speaking of sinning while the leap in his chest and the heat low in his gut is the very embodiment of his own sin.

“Good,” He says, almost so quiet he wonders whether you heard him or not, but he notices the creak of the bench beneath you, the rustle of your clothing as you fidget, and he licks his lips. “Now, you say, “My last confession was…” and tell me when you last confessed,”

He hears you swallow in the heavy silence, the lack of sound so dense it’s almost too loud, overwhelming and broken only by the quiet breaths from the two of you. It’s as if you’re the only two people on earth.

“I have never confessed, Father,”

Zayne nods, despite the fact you cannot see him, “I understand. In that case, you can just begin,”

A deep inhale followed by the creaking of the bench is all that follows, and Zayne realises how much he awaits the words you’re about to give him. He is almost impatient with it, desperate for any little bit of you he can claim while staying devout. He cannot have you, cannot enjoy the feel of your skin or the taste of your breath on his lips, but he can have this.

You begin in stuttered words, a frustrated sigh filling the space before you finally get the words out, “I-I have been having some…impure thoughts,”

Zayne’s hands ball into fists, and he feels, not for the first time, like this is a true test. Perhaps you are his punishment; he has not been living purely enough, he has not been devout, he has strayed from his own teachings. He surely must have done something wrong to warrant such torture, such temptation, packaged in a woman so sweet and so beautiful. He cannot imagine a worse fate, and he doesn’t have to.

“I see,” The words are a grind to get out, his throat almost closing up, locked with a thirst he has never felt before. One that cannot be quenched with even the cleanest, freshest water. This is a need Zayne is only vaguely aware of, and it can only be satisfied with skin and sweat and teeth dragging on salted cheeks. A wet, hot drag of blood rushes to Zayne’s groin and his thighs jerk closed, as if someone might see his body reacting to barely the implication of you thinking about sex. Of you lusting after hands on your body.

He wants to fulfil that need for you so badly it aches.

“Maybe this isn’t a good idea -” You begin, and Zayne panics. He knows it’s a terrible idea to hear you speak more, to have you truly confess all your darkest desires to him. It’s unholy, and it’s wrong, and it’s the worst kind of temptation. But he can’t help but succumb to it, just a little.

“You can continue,” He rubs his palms along his thighs, the heaviness of his clothing almost suffocating him. Not for the first time, he wants to curse these vestments, to pull them off his body. “I have heard many confessions, ___. Please, unburden yourself,”

Unburden yourself by burdening me with the thought of your bare body on mine.

There’s an edge to your voice when you speak again, almost breathless, perhaps with embarrassment of having your secrets revealed. Zayne can appreciate how confessions can be awkward, especially the first time. “I have…I am not someone who has followed the church for long. I -” you swallow, and Zayne hangs on every word, “I mean to say, I am not a virgin. I am…I’ve had sex before marriage,”

It’s not the first time this particular confession has been revealed to Zayne - times are different now, and even thoughts who are true to their faith cannot resist the heady pull of connection with another person. Zayne himself would be a hypocrite if he was to admonish anyone for that particular sin.

“You are not alone in that, ___,” Is all he says, though he hopes it can help you feel more comfortable, more at ease. He likes to hear you speak, even if the words that leave your lips feel like being held against a scorching fire.

“It’s not the thoughts,” You say, “I mean…it’s not that I have these thoughts, that’s not why I felt compelled to confess. It’s,” Zayne almost leans toward the divider in intrigue, “it’s who the thoughts are about, Father,”

The first feeling is jealousy, which is ridiculous. Zayne has no claim over who you dream about, or who you desire, but he feels greedy even in this one-sided infatuation.

“Who are these thoughts about? I am sure God understands,” God certainly won’t understand Zayne, nor will he forgive. But as he burns for you on the other side of the confessional, he wonders if perhaps Hell isn’t the best place for him. There he would be able to desire you all he wants.

It's sacrilegious to even think about it, and Zayne wants to slam his head into the wall. He has finally gone mad.

“I think about…” There’s a pause, and he can’t imagine what you might say. Who you might think about. Nothing prepares him for your answer, “I think about you, Father,”

There’s a very real, self-preserving part of Zayne that wonders if he might be dreaming. Some kind of TV-induced slumber he’s fallen into inside his apartment. A safe, controlled place where he can act out whatever fantasy he wants right now, with the information he now has, and there will be no consequences.

He knows that not to be true, though, and so he sits in the stall beside you, his cock already hard in his slacks, and attempts to pray. He does so silently, not wanting you to hear and get the wrong idea, but he cannot string a single thought together long enough to actually have any hopes of speaking with God. He cannot receive any guidance right now, and he fears that it will be his damnation.

“Father?” You speak, and Zayne realises in horror that he has not replied to you, “perhaps I should go. I’m sorry - this -”

“No,” He says, his voice as steady as it has ever been, and his heart restarts at the sound of you plopping back down onto the bench. He feels his stomach clench at your obedience, the twisted part of him wanting to see how far that obedience will take you. He winces at his own depraved thoughts. “This is your confession, ___. You can tell me, I am here to give you guidance. There is no judgement,”

His voice is as tight as a bowstring, and he knows you can hear it, knows that you are aware of his reaction by the way you inhale softly, sharply. “What…what should I say?”

Zayne is out of his depth, but he can’t resist the pull of his own carnal desires, can’t resist hearing what exactly you think about, “Tell me about the...thoughts,”

You shift again, and his mind flutters to the image of you in your dress, thighs shifting on the wooden seat. His cheeks flush, the heat burning. When you speak, your voice is shaky, breathless, and Zayne is hungry for any and all reaction, “I…I had a dream about you. The first time,” you pause, “I dreamt you were alone with me. That we kissed in the nave…that you pushed me against the wall,” you swallow, “you were…rough. Not how I imagined a priest would be, but it excited me. The wrongness of it all,”

It excites Zayne too, it always has. Ever since he first saw you, a part of him enjoyed the traitorous thoughts he would have of you. At first it was simply that you were pretty, a harmless observation, but then it changed, and it became about the way the dresses you wore to church clung to your body. The way your body might feel in his hands, the weight of your breasts, the softness of your hips. Soon he was imagining the hot, wet wrap of your cunt around his cock, the stretch of your rose-coloured lips around his length as he fucked your throat. His throat dries up as he recalls them all.

“Did it stop there?” He murmurs, the cracking of his voice giving him away, but it’s too late now. He wants you to know that everything you feel, he feels it too. Maybe even more, worse. “Did it stop at the kiss?”

He glances at the divider, and he swears he sees you bite your lip, even through the blurred screen, “No,”

“What did I do next, ___? In your dreams,”

He’s dragging his nails along his thighs to stop his hand from touching his erection. It’s hot, hard against his thigh, and he can feel it throb in time with his heartbeat.

“You touched me. You pulled up my dress and you put your fingers inside me,”

A harsh breath blows out through his nose, and Zayne feels the fraying edge of his control begin to break, his pulse thudding everywhere, blood rushing in his ears. He can hear you shifting, your body restless on the other side of the thin wall, and he almost groans. You are suffering, just like him, and he can’t have that.

“Are you turned on, ___?” He is looking through the divider now, and he can faintly make out your parted lips, your head leaning back against the wall, the slow roll of a nod, “Touch yourself. Do it exactly how I did in the dream,”

“But…” You sigh and then groan, and Zayne imagines that you have pulled up your dress, your fingers trailing against your underwear, “Father, God will -”

“God isn’t here right now. It’s just us, ___. Okay?”

“Okay,” The word breaks on a whine, and Zayne loses the battle, his hand flying under his alb to press against his cock. He grunts, cursing through his teeth, and you sigh, “Father, please…tell me what to do,”

His brows furrow, vision almost blurring as he fumbles with his belt buckle. If he closes his eyes, maybe he can pretend he isn’t desecrating the confessional in his own church. Perhaps if he doesn’t touch you, this doesn’t count. His hand fists his cock as soon as he pulls it free, his other hand fighting with the layers of cloth, tugging it to his waist, his abs tensing with each slow stroke.

“Are you wet?” He grunts, “Can you slide your fingers inside, just like I said?”

Your low moan is answer enough, the creaking of the bench beneath you his only indicator besides your laboured breaths that you’re in this with him. There’s a sharp gasp, and then Zayne hears the wet squelch of your cunt, and he clenches his jaw so tight it hurts.

“Good girl,” He sighs, his thumb brushing over the leaking head of his cock. He gazes down at his hand blearily, half drunk on pleasure, scattered thoughts rushing through his mind, too fast for him to keep a tight hold on. His hand speeds up, remnicent of all those times he’d fucked himself to the idea of you in the safety of his own shower. Only this time, he has your moans to help him along, right beside him on the other side of the wall.

The next few moments are alive with the sounds of his wet strokes, the pumping of your fingers and your collective sighs and whines of pleasure. Zayne briefly fights with the urge of pulling back the curtain, of going to your side of the confessional and seeing with his own eyes how you pleasure yourself. How you take care of your own desires, your own filthy needs, but he knows if he were to do that, everything would shatter around him. In here, in this booth, he can maintain some sense of control. Some rules have stayed unbroken, and he clings to that like a lifeline as you cry out.

“Father, I - I’m almost -”

“Come, ___. You’ve done so well -” His voice cracks, a moan breaking through the last word as he spills into his hand, his body obeying his own command along with you. He can hear you writhing on the bench, your hips moving enough for the bench to thud against the wall. Zayne thinks he has never heard something so beautiful, and so damning all at once.

The moments that follow are alight with the afterglow of pleasure, though all too soon reality sets in, and the silence is cut through by the sounds of rustling clothing, and the metallic screech of the curtain being pulled back. By the time Zayne has tidied himself up, he looks into your side of the booth to find you gone, and he feels both relieved and devastated in one harsh blow.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #love and deepspace ff #love and deepspace smut #lads #lads ff #lads smut #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #zayne x you #zayne ff #zayne fanfic #zayne smut

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lichenes · 5 months ago

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Lockjaw

Someone requested Silco x brothel worker!reader (AND I WILL WRITE IT, KEEP YOUR EYES PEELED.) but. I raise you one better. Silco in love with a brothel worker, NOT reciprocated HAHAHAHAAAAAA. I'm going fucking insane. I'm going crazy. The smut is also here... ig... I did a shit ton of research cuz my seasoned writer best friend said it was difficult to get right. Any feedback is appreciated!! CW: reader has a pseudonym (Lulu), porn with plot (AND ANGST HAHAHAHA), SW!reader, eating out (reader receiving), piv briefly mentioned, wear protection kids, fleabag reference - i couldn't help myself. wc: 639 . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚

Dark drapes. Burgundy carpets. Gold candleholders. You could smell the incense all around you. The cool, night air calmly was circulating and mixing with the warm feeling spreading in your chest. The room was overflowing with prestige and cachet.

Silco was between your legs as you stared at his beautiful, bicolored eyes. You were toying with his locks as he greedily pleasured you. He couldn’t take his own eyes off of you. He was mesmerised by your squirming body, by your quiet moans and by the way you were just- almost there.

He detached himself from you, denying you pleasure once more. You whined at the sudden loss but were eager to get even more from him and tonight, he wanted to give you it all. He hurriedly unbuckled his belt and slid his pants down his legs putting the garment neatly on the chair behind him.

“Hi Lulu!” Said Juliette entering the break room where you were spending your last moments alone for the night. “Hi Julie, how you doin’?” She was in a good mood. “I’m doing okay! I got a massive tip from this one guy, and-” She trailed off saying how glad she was to not have taken a sick day today. You didn’t quite listen. “Lulu? I asked you a question.” You came back to your senses and answered the trivial question she presented you with.

“So, how long are you staying?” You began answering but she interrupted you. “Oh!” She hit herself lightly on the forehead. “Silco’s coming today right? It’s Wednesday after all.” You nodded. “Looks like you’ve got quite a night in front of you.”

Your thoughts were interrupted by him getting close to your face. He was breathing heavily, yet a certain intimateness was flowing from him today. As he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue. Slight hints of expensive cigars were also there, the taste was intoxicating.

With his lips still on your own ones, he pushed you back onto the bed and caged you in his arms. He kissed a trail down your neck and chest before he put his hands on your thighs and spread them wider- right to his liking. He pulled back for a second. “You look divine.”

He entered you with a slight resistance and let you accommodate his size before he started moving. With each encounter he was becoming more gentle. You never mentioned it, you never even noticed it up until now. You were fearing the- worst.

Your legs were bent at the knees, you were trembling a bit from the intrusion. You were propped up by your elbow watching him enter and exit you. You reminisced about the first time he ever showed up here. Quickly you were pulled away from your thoughts by him burying himself to the hilt.

“Lulu you were requested.”

“Lu- oh, Lulu.” Moaned the most powerful man in all of Zaun.

“I’ve been watching you for quite some time.”

He emptied himself into the rubber and stayed inside you for a moment more, relishing in the closeness. Closeness he was to lose soon enough.

The break room was empty. “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.” The silence was filled with his confession. “Clients aren’t supposed to be here.” You said, dressed only in a warm robe, keeping you from getting goosebumps. He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes becoming dark, darker than any substance ever synthesised, soulless and- subdued.

He hung his head and turned his back to you, his coat in hand as he professed. “What’s keeping you here?” You didn’t answer. “Lulu.” He pleaded. “It’ll pass.” You answered.

He walked onto the street, rain falling freely from the sky. His messed up hair was becoming wet. “I don't think it will.” He said to no one in particular.

. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ . * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚. * 　　 ✦ . 　⁺ 　 .⁺ 　　 ˚ masterlist

#x reader #writing #smut #angst #arcane silco #silco #silco x reader #silico x reader #silico #silico arcane #for my polish readers: tak jest to środa bo dzień loda.

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worthyprnce · 7 months ago

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random merlin episodes I wish we had:

a stuck in the same day over and over episode — where someone, obviously merlin, is somehow magically stuck living the same day again and again but only he knows that. we missed so many opportunities. so many magic reveals and so many different reactions to it, specially from arthur and perhaps the knights too.

a halloween special — with a much darker and scarier mood, with less comic relief and more horror. we have a few dark scenes along the show, a whole episode of it would be so cool

a merlin x doctor who crossover — I have this inside joke with a friend that the diamair (that alien looking creature that helps gwaine in the first two episodes of season five) was BBC's way of pushing doctor who into the show, and it would be so nice if it was true. it didn't even have to be a merlin episode, it could be a doctor who episode where the doctor and the companion (I don't remember exactly which ones would be, I guess the 11th?) get back to save the diamair and they help them find a better place to live. and then we see the doctor hiding away from gwaine and percy, and then merlin and arthur and morgana (and all the guards and all) until they can finally talk to the diamair alone. and along the episode we see the characters going as the episodes in merlin canonically did, but in the doctor's pov.

a breaking the fourth wall episode — fleabag style. maybe merlin is the only one who can break the fourth wall, but I like to imagine everyone can, but no one else knows that's a thing everyone could do it. I don't know how this would be explained in cannon, but it would be fun

a green knight episode — where we follow (merlin follows) gwaine in a cheaper version of the tale of the green knight where the writers would obviously time compress a whole year into a few days, give cheap and lazy explanations and the green knight would probably be some random morgana's ally but I would love it anyway

a knights episode — actually I would have loved a spinoff of the knights with two seasons minimum, but at least one whole episode following their pov would be so much fun. maybe something happens and now we watch each of them along their day in flashbacks or something like that, until said thing happens and they have to collect all the puzzle pieces and try to understand what is going on and what happened and why and how to solve it. bonus points if merlin solves it all off screen and they all think that they did it, so now they are all proud of themselves. merlin obviously lets them take the credit for it, but this time he doesn't feel bad about not getting the credit he's due for saving the day once again. he feels happy to see his friends all happy and proud.

an animated episode — I am a huge lover of animation and just thinking about all the characters in an animated style version of themselves makes my heart warm. I love it so much, it would have been soooooo fun and so cute. it could have been an special, didn't even have to be an actual episode. like a christmas special maybe? I don't celebrate christmas so I don't know what would happen, just that it would be animated.

one or some of the characters turn into children — I think it would so fun and so cute to have merlin, gwen, gaius and maybe leon taking care of baby/child arthur. bonus points if uther is still alive and they have to hide baby arthur from him. or worse, all the knights turn into different aged children, leon is a teenager, gwaine has around 11/12, elyan has 7 and percival has 2, and merlin is going insane trying to keep up with them at the same time he tries to solve this mess as soon as possible. I would love the absolute chaos.

a merlin's birthday episode — nothing bad happens, we just get to watch everyone doing their best to come up with a good gift for merlin. and he is so confused as to why everyone is acting so strange around him (but they think they're being stealth and doing a good job). in the end they get the date all wrong and merlin's birthday is like, in six months or something.

that's all I can think of right now, and I know most of them (maybe all of them) don't even make much sense and wouldn't be possible to make in canon, but hey I can dream.

if I ever think of something else I'll do a part 2

#this is so random i don't even know how to tag #merlin #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #the adventures of merlin #merlin au #apollo posts

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berzahoes · 1 year ago

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sing a song for you | tom blyth

summary: reader is on tour with hozier as his opening act and debuts a new song that tom helped write

an: yes this was because i am listening to hozier right now.

tom had taken some time off from doing interviews to finally attend one of your shows, well your opening act since you were on tour with one of your favorite artists, hozier. thankfully the show was near his brooklyn apartment so he didn’t have to drive far. he messaged you a couple of times but he knew you wouldn’t respond since you were busy preparing for the show.

when it was finally time to leave, tom made sure his apartment was locked and drove to the venue. as he parked his car, he quickly texted the cast group chat that he had arrived since rachel, josh and hunter were also attending. rachel texted back saying they were getting merch and that she had bought him one of your shirts.

before he could put his phone away, you called. “hey, i just arrived. rachel, josh and hunter are getting shirts.” he spoke into the phone.

“i could’ve given them free shirts. remind me to send them stuff later. sorry i didn’t text back. i just had the best conversation with beth about fleabag.” beth was your best friend and also your guitarist.

“you will take any opportunity to talk about fleabag and i love it.” tom smiled as he walked to the venue. he saw multiple people wearing homemade and official merchandise with your lyrics or logo and it made him happy.

“so i actually have a really important question.” you said.

“yes, love?”

“remember the song we made when you were filming billy the kid? i talked with the record label and it’s going on the next album,” you continue. “but i want to sing it tonight and the band said it was okay. and i want to ask you permission if it’s okay for me to sing it.”

“love, it’s your song. you don’t have to ask.” tom chuckled.

“yeah, but this song is half you half me. you’re getting writing credits on album, not just the song, tom. you helped a lot.” you reply.

“so does this mean if you win a grammy for the album, i will too?” he teased. “sing our song, i would be honored to hear you sing our song for the first time.”

“i love you.” you said then hung up.

“hello all of you lovely people!” you spoke into the microphone. the crowd cheered, tom being one of the many people that yelled the loudest. “you’ve been such a great crowd that i thought it would be a good time to sing a song that has never been heard by anyone other than me and the love of my life. he’s here tonight by the way along with our friends.”

you could feel yourself blush as tom yelled “i love you!”

“i love you more,” you replied. “he and i wrote this song in a day on the set of his show. thank you for being such a great crowd and i hope you all love this song as much as i loved writing it with my husband.” you smiled. you and tom would often call each other husband and wife even though you weren’t legally married. it was just a habit.

“that’s my wife!” tom yelled. rachel had gotten her phone out to record the performance and, of course, tom’s reaction.

watching the video that you sent me. the one where you’re showering with wet hair dripping

tom was amazed at your talent. he looked around the venue and saw how everyone was so focused on you. he then started to mumble the lyrics. he liked how you two were the only ones who knew the lyrics. it was your special moment. rachel had turned the camera from you to tom and noticed how in love tom looked. it was clear that you and tom were soulmates.

#tom blyth one shot #tom blyth fanfic #tom blyth imagine #tom blyth x reader #coriolanus snow #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #billy the kid #tom blyth #tom blyth fanfiction #singer!reader

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valandrawrites · 4 months ago

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2024 Recommended Fics - Incomplete List

Here's my start at an end of year round up. If you're looking for a specific kind of fic or trope, let me know, and I'll try to find something for you! I have many, many more I could add, and what I've included is in no particular order.

I didn't list the rating or warnings with this because it just got too long, and honestly, I'm lazy. Read at your own risk.

A. fragilis by eachainn @eachainn

This is quite simply the best fic I've ever read. Do not continue until you read this one!

150 million years ago, an Allosaurus finds a stranger had wandered into his territory and he wants the intruder out.

1878, the middle of what will become known as the Bone Wars between O.C. Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope. Castiel Novak is transporting fossils from the latest dig in South Dakota back to Yale. He has to be careful, because there are people who work for Professor Cope who would gladly take the fossils off of his hands.

Those Who Get in the Way of Peace by ladyofthelake17 @ladyofthe-lake

“Don’t make me an optimist. You will ruin my life.”

Dean Winchester finally has his shit together: business is booming at his auto repair shop, he's eating healthy (okay, he's eating salad with bacon bits), he's exercising (in a cemetery). He's single, but he's claiming it as a good thing. And so what if Sam's not talking to him? So what if his dad is marrying an insane artist? And so what if the priest marrying them is hot as hell with a name that sounds like a sin just to say it — Castiel?

AKA: another Fleabag fic, but maybe it'll have a happy ending. Maybe.

Illicit Ink by allmystars @allmystars-i

Dean Winchester has a secret. He does this thing maybe two or three times a week, and he loves it, don’t get him wrong, but… He’s a camboy, and that’s not exactly something he wants shared around the breakfast table. When Dean decides he needs a change, it’s nothing too drastic, just a tattoo. But the hot-as-sin tattoo artist he gets to do the job might just change everything.

Ground Control to Major Tom by MrsShinigamiDaiko @mrs-shinigami-daiko

Dean Winchester dreamed of being a mechanic all his life, but he never thought he would end up working as a mechanic for NASA and going into space. He is thrust into his first ever space mission after a strange lunar body, dubbed Luna-b I, mysteriously appears in Earth’s sky. Teams of astronauts scramble up to the permanent lunar base and begin analysis to determine if the blue orb is any threat to mankind. Most of the first team is sent home after a few months, nearly all of them having fallen ill with devastating cases of space sickness. As time goes on, it becomes clear that something altogether unnatural is going on here. Dean feels like he’s losing his mind as he and his crewmates also begin to succumb to sickness. He races to figure out what could possibly be the root cause. Is Luna-b I really just some weird, deep space rock that got caught in the Moon’s orbit by chance? Or is it something much more sinister, watching and waiting for the opportune moment?

Pinfall by crowleyo @crowleyo

Cas runs the family diner with his adopted son, Jack. His old high school flame rolls into town and he thinks he can just step back into Castiel's life. Well... He's kind of right.

This Impossible Happiness by FriendofCarlotta @friendofcarlotta

In one universe, Dean Winchester is pushing thirty. He’s just danced at his little brother’s wedding, he likes his job at the garage, and he goes on the occasional hunt with friends and family. He’s also desperately lonely for someone to share his life with. One day, he finds a mysterious package outside his door. It contains a news clipping about an urban legend that just might be real, and a book by Professor Castiel Novak, who happens to specialize in that same urban legend.

In another universe, Castiel Novak’s roadside motel is slowly dying, its business hollowed out by the interstate system. Dean Winchester, the man who asked him to run away together years ago, is only a painful regret these days. Until the day a mysterious letter Castiel doesn’t remember writing brings Dean back to his doorstep.

Out there in the multiverse, a man and an angel look for each other in all the wrong places. In the meantime, they might as well help a few other versions of themselves figure things out.

Then Comes the Rain by someonetoanyone @someonetoanyone-blog - a three part series

“I’m not looking forward to it,” Rowena tells him, as though that will absolve her of anything, “he may have a better solution for this, but the spell requires a smidge of spilled Grace. He’ll need to be hurt for this to work, and — Dean, all joking aside, you may be the only person fit to do this.”

“Oh, this’ll be great — go ahead, tell me why I’m the only one that can get butt-fucked to save the world.”

Mind Your Own Business by BunnyHunter

While the ability to overhear the secret thoughts of the people around him was distracting at best and anxiety-inducing at worst, Castiel had found ways to cope that included a pair of noise-canceling headphones and burying himself in his PhD research. After hearing inner thoughts for his entire life, there were very few things he overheard that surprised him anymore. So imagine his shock when his roommate Sam's brother, Dean, came to stay with them. While Dean may have been able to keep a straight face on the outside, his inner thoughts told a much different story.

Survivalism by bleuzombie @bleuzombie

Genetic engineers Castiel Novak and Dean Winchester are on the verge of a breakthrough in cancer treatment and possibly even a cure, using genetic manipulation and incredibly, shark DNA.

Following a devastating diagnosis of brain cancer, and amid growing pressure from his boss, Dick Roman, for results, Castiel is pushed to an act of desperation. He tests the cure on himself with disastrous and violent results.

He has never been so hungry.

Dean Winchester’s half-way house for orphaned half-monsters (and humans) by foolondahill17 @foolondahill17

What if Dean just kept every kid he’s ever interacted with?

A re-write of season 6 onwards in which Dean slowly collects every conceivable stray that crosses his path.

The eyes of a lamb by naughtystiel @naughtystiel for Shedar

The year is '98 and Spring is approaching fast. For most, the season is a symbol of new beginnings with Mother Nature’s chaste kiss that breathes life into everything once more. It's inspiring, peaceful and beautiful. So, the fact that this is exactly when a certain serial killer loves to strike makes Detective Winchester's blood boil. Two years in a row now, the guy has slipped through his fingers, not leaving a single trace behind. No clues, no leads, just murdered women in the most picturesque places imaginable. And the worst thing of all? Sometimes Dean catches himself admiring the killer's work.

where there is darkness by quiettewandering @quiettewandering @wanderingcas

When Castiel Milton takes a job to be the new assistant keeper at Whaleback Lighthouse in Kittery, Maine, he expects to live out his new life in quiet isolation. What he gets instead is Dean Winchester: bitter, brash, and, like Castiel, harboring a dark secret. As the spark of attraction between them grows into a flame, the lighthouse walls start closing in—as do the ghosts of Dean and Castiel's checkered pasts.

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