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nereidprinc3ss · 1 year ago

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you know the killer doesn't understand

in which spencer is so terrified he's going to hurt you after he gets out of prison that he can barely touch you. an argument ensues.

angst (+ comfort) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, mentions of violent intrusive thoughts (non-specific), arguing, yelling, use of the word rape, nightmares, happyish ending, mention of showering together, it's a bad time but it's also a good time for us woo i love angsty angst a/n: i miss posting for real so bad i dug up this draft which was mostly finished and polished it up. i think i really like this one and it was based on a request but i lost it:( i hope u guys enjoy this, pls lmk<3

Spencer is by no means happy with his sudden fear of touching you—it makes everything in his life significantly harder and less convenient and he hates that he’s constantly afraid he’s going to break you. He hates watching you hold back from attacking him with a hug when he enters a room like you used to, and he feels terrible every time you ball up on the opposite side of the couch as he reads, waiting for an invitation into his lap but too scared to ask for one (he’ll always hold out his arm for you, though—he’s not cruel.)

You’re adorable in the way you stand at the foot of the bed in your pajamas, arms behind your back like it’s not your bed too, but it makes him feel terrible. This isn’t at all what he wanted for you, and in all honestly he’s thought about ending the relationship because he knows he’s being an absolutely awful partner—but he just can’t bring himself to. Instead, he gestures for you to get into bed, and you curl up under the covers close to him but not against him, and he’ll play with your hair and read for a while because he can’t sleep very well. Eventually he’ll assume the position of sleep, but some sick part of him doesn’t know what to do with the sounds of the city and the fan instead of the sounds of a hundred men rolling and sniffing and shuffling around their echoey cells. He doesn’t understand warmth anymore, or softness, or nice pajamas or fluffy pillows. He’s starting to think he doesn’t understand you. And that’s the worst thought of all.

So he essentially dozes for the first week, on and off, always exhausted in the mornings but what’s new. When he can’t sleep, he turns his head to watch you breathe—some beautiful, sweet creature dreaming in his bed, unwaveringly loyal to him even though he can hardly stand to touch you for fuck’s sake. You’re beautiful, and it makes him feel better to watch you, even if he can’t touch you. Not now that he knows what he is capable of doing to another person. What if he has some sort of PTSD—PTSS, thank you, Luke Alvez—induced dream and does something terrible to you in his sleep? It’s not like you’re tiny, but he’s stronger, he knows he is, and lately every time you get too close he remembers exactly what it feels like to exert the full force of that strength, and what it feels like when someone else unleashes their own onto him.

They’re just intrusive thoughts, and in them he doesn’t hurt you intentionally, but he always feels a little bit sick now. He is so, so sick. A bull in a China shop. Spencer knows exactly how breakable humans are—it’s his job to know. If he left so much as one red mark on you by accident, he’s quite sure he’d drill down to a previously unknown rock bottom. And if he reaches that point, he doesn’t know if he’d ever deserve to come back.

Every day it seems to become clearer that the only humane thing to do is break up with you. But for now he’ll watch you sleep—the delicate rising and falling of your chest, the way you curl in on yourself because you can’t curl into him. In sleep you look so peaceful and content. You never look that way awake, anymore. Not when he’s around, which is pretty much always. At least he can’t disappoint you while you’re asleep.

Or so he’d like to think.

Until one night, about a week and a half after he gets home; you whimper in your sleep. It’s so quiet he could’ve missed it, but he doesn’t, and then he watches your smooth brow furrow with worry and he knows you’re having a nightmare immediately.

Spencer panics—before, he would have woken you up and held you and comforted you until you fell back asleep and it would have been so simple. Now he’s frozen, afraid to touch you but not sure if he can just lie there watching you so afraid and not do a thing about it.

In the end, you choose for him—and it only takes a few moments. You’re close enough to him that it’s easy for you to close the few inches even in sleep, and maybe you’re slightly conscious but not enough to remember you’re not supposed to touch him.

He stops breathing as you fold yourself against him, muttering worried nonsense—he catches his name, once—nestling against his chest, one searching arm gently draping over his waist. Every muscle in his body is rigid, and his thoughts—his mind goes… completely fucking blank.

Suddenly, all he’s known, all he’s ever known, is the smell of your hair, the warmth of you seeping through layers of clothing, and the weight of your arm over him. Everything he ever was ceases to exist, and he’s just this, right now. The person you’d turned to unconsciously for comfort, so sure, so trusting that he would keep you safe. He can feel your breath for the first time in months. Slowly every tense muscle unspools. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t feel dangerous. He doesn’t feel like his entire body is spring loaded and ready to attack at the slightest provocation. Spencer allows himself to hold you, and part of it feels like betrayal because he knows how badly you need this from him while you’re awake but mostly he feels like he could cry. His thumb rubs circles into the middle of your back and your head tucks so perfectly under his chin while he studies the rumpled sheets where you’d been lying a moment ago. He almost feels like sticking his tongue out to gloat at your half of the mattress—haha, look who gets to hold her now—but instead he sighs, shakily, and squeezes his eyes shut.

You don’t make another sound for hours.

He’s reluctant to let you go when you begin to stir around six AM, but forcibly holding onto you is so far from what he wants to do that he manages. You roll back over to your own side of the bed, and he continues admiring you from afar until he falls asleep. It’s the best three hours of sleep he’s had in a very long time.

Of course, you don’t remember it. When you wake up your sadness resumes, and so does the pretending like you’re not sad, but you’re a very good sport—and it helps that he’s feeling much better this morning than he has since he got back.

“Good morning,” you whisper faintly, still blinking as you watch him longingly from your spot.

Spencer pushes himself up onto an elbow, and you watch with big eyes as he leans over you, stroking your cheek with his free hand.

“Good morning. You sleep okay?”

Your brow flickers, and he realizes it’s not a question he asks every morning, and you’re probably distracted by this overt display of affection, but you answer it obediently anyway.

“I think so. I had weird dreams.”

He hums.

“About what?”

It’s quiet for a moment as he takes in the exact spattering of microscopically fractured pigment over your irises. Your voice is small when you finally speak.

“Do I have to tell you?”

That hurts.

“No. But it might help.”

Coming from him? Ironic doesn’t even begin to cover it.

You acknowledge him with a small hum of your own, studying him with soft, mistrustful eyes.

He can’t help it anymore—Spencer leans down and gently kisses you, so tenderly, so chastely, it makes his own head spin. He hasn’t kissed you like that since you picked him up from Milburn. It’s long overdue.

Which is why he’s not expecting you to start crying. He pulls back immediately, not far, just enough to assess your expression.

“What’s this? What’s wrong, angel?” He frowns. Your lip quivers in a way that feels like a blow to the chest.

“That’s not… you’re…”

“What? What is it?”

A fat tear finally traces a path down your cheek and when you speak your voice breaks in the most fragile, devastating way.

“You’re not being fair.”

He has no neat question to summarize all the bafflement your accusation inspires in his lately cloudy head, but the wildly confused look on his face must be prompt enough.

“I’m trying really hard to respect your space and boundaries and not upset you but my feelings are hurt, Spencer, I don’t know how they couldn’t be. I feel like you don’t even like me anymore. I’m embarrassed around you because I feel like I care about you so much more than you care about me. And then you—and then you wake up one morning and you think it’s okay to act like you love me again but I can’t—I c—” you stop, obviously frustrated—now crying in earnest and lacking the words. “You can’t be mean to me. I know you’ve been through a lot and I’m sorry but you can’t treat me like that. I’m a person, too.”

His chest aches and he swallows down barbed wire.

“I’m not acting like I love you. I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything in my life. That’s not an act.”

It’s not an adequate response, but your words are still spinning in his head until he can’t keep up with them. He’s not used to this, anymore. The language you two had developed is so foreign now.

Maybe he just doesn’t know how to talk to you.

Resignation—a too-calm recognition softens the stormy look that has brewed on your face. As soon as it’s gone, and you’re looking at him placidly, he realizes he’s afraid.

“Well, that’s not enough,” you whisper.

Spencer feels like he’s been shot as you push the covers aside and slip out of bed. And he knows what that feels like.

“Where are you going?” And then louder, when you don’t hear him because you’ve already left the room, “Where are you going?”

He follows you through the apartment as you march purposefully for the door, slipping shoes on and grabbing your keys and coat.

You barely look over your shoulder as you leave, slamming the front door behind you. Things shake from the impact. A mini earthquake.

Spencer is too stunned to follow you.

It’s not until a few minutes later when he goes to call you that he realizes your phone is still sitting on your bedside table. He stares at it, tasting metal, because he has absolutely no way to reach you or guarantee your safety. There’s no way for you to call him, or anyone, if you get in trouble—and he fears that you’ll retaliate against him by doing something stupid and dangerous.

He only just manages to stop himself from calling the police and asking them to start looking for you. Only just recognizes it to be an overreaction.

Besides, he’s not feeling particularly fond of the criminal justice institution these days. If it came down to it, he’d trust himself and his team over the cops any day.

The team. They’re always a resource. If worst comes to worst, he thinks, robotically making coffee as he tries to talk himself down, and she doesn’t come home before dark, I’ll call all of her closest friends. If she doesn’t come home before the morning—the thought makes him feel sick—I’ll deploy every fucking resource at my disposal.

Maybe that’s an overreaction, too, but he has to find a way to self-soothe somehow. Planning makes him feel better. Being prepared for the things you never see coming makes him feel better. It’s impossible, of course—but the illusion of control is stubborn and so seductive.

Thankfully, it doesn’t come to that.

At around 2 PM, he receives a couple of texts from Garcia that are a massive relief.

Penelope: She’s at my apartment

Penelope: BE NICER TO YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!!!!

The series of emojis that follow (including an octopus?), he doesn’t even try to decipher. He simply drops his phone and sighs deeply into his hands, releasing an extreme amount of paranoid tension that had been tying him into knots. Lately, he’s had this sense that everything is fleeting—that the things he takes for granted are painfully, violently impermanent. It doesn’t take anyone with a degree to figure out why he’s been feeling that way, but it’s so all-consuming he’s not sure how to cope with it. Just a few days ago, he’d been wondering how to break up with you. Now he’s asking himself how the fuck he thought he’d be able to do that when he’s barely functioning after a few hours without you.

It’s a question he still hasn’t answered by the time the front door opens at 10 PM. It’s clear by the deer-in-headlights look on your face that you hadn’t been expecting him like this—leaning over the counter, half-empty mug by his hand, staring at nothing in particular and waiting for you to come home. Neither of you have changed clothing since this morning—not that you could—but you look apprehensive as you close it behind you, never facing away from him. The whole thing is like a teenager being caught sneaking back in by a weary parent.

For a moment the silent confrontation stretches into the horizon, a non-specific point as neither of you seem inclined to be the first to talk. You just watch him watching you—leaning against the door rigidly as if you can’t get far enough away. But he’s too tired for this. Too worn out.

“How’d you get home?”

You swallow.

“Penelope.”

Spencer nods slowly, rolling his bottom lip between teeth and finally looking away.

“You really should have brought your phone.”

You scoff, peeling yourself from the door.

“Of course that’s what you’re worried about.”

It’s the same situation as this morning, but in reverse—him following after you down the hall as you storm toward the bedroom.

“Wh—should I not have been? You scared me—” he says your name, barely catching the door before it can slam in his face. “I was worried about you.”

“Why?” you face him, laughing bewilderedly as if the situation were at all funny. A kind of manic energy crackles from the surface of your skin and in your eyes that renders him unable to think of a reply. “Because you thought I would get raped and murdered and then you’d be sad?”

“Yes!” Spencer yells, eyes widening as he fails to contain his frustration any longer. “That is fucking exactly why I was scared!”

You step forward, getting in his space. It jars him, momentarily—he wants to get away from you. Being angry and so close to you is terrifying. What if he lashes out? What if he hurts you? He’s seen crimes of passion. His blood is freezing in his veins.

“Of course you didn’t give one single fuck that I left you. You didn’t think for one fucking second that I might be tired of this. That wasn’t what you were scared of at all.” For every inch you near, he backs away. Another scorned, bitter laugh from you that feels like poison coursing through his entire circulatory system. You notice everything, eyeing him up and down as he cowers from you. “What is this, Spencer? If you hate being near me that much, just fucking break up with me.”

You’re close enough that he can see the tears welling in your eyes, but he’d know they were there even if he couldn’t observe them. He would hear it in your voice. He would feel it. But he can’t do anything about it. Right now, he’s paralyzed.

“If the only thing holding you back is wanting to spare my feelings, just fucking do it. This isn’t better. I don’t give a fuck if it’s hard for you. It’s hard for me, too, but I’m not just going to ignore it anymore.”

There’s no more room. The wall is at is back.

“Honey, please back up,” Spencer breathes. Last time his back was to a wall, he’d been gagged and beaten. Don’t lash out. She never hurt you. It wasn’t her.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” you shout, as tears begin to spill over your cheeks. “Either break up with me or stop telling me to go away!”

At that moment, as you break down and your words become muddled with sobs, you raise your fist.

Spencer watches it approach his shoulder as if in slow-motion.

On instinct, he catches your wrist.

There’s a lull as he waits for something to explode, for something to go terribly, deeply wrong—

But it doesn’t.

He realizes his grip is gentle. He realizes you’d never actually hurt him like that. He realizes how little resistance he’d found when he stopped what was sure to be nothing more than a petulant, petty bump against his shoulder—a maneuver that wouldn’t have hurt in the slightest. It was nothing more than a desolate, childlike display of feelings bigger than you know what to do with.

In the second that it takes him to realize all of this, to realize he is not endangering you in the slightest, nor you him, you’ve begun to truly sob. Standing just inches from him, head angled down as he holds your wrist carefully, you are the picture of a girl who has been running on empty for a very long time and has nothing left to give. Spencer twines his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin and slowly rubbing your back like he’d never forgotten how to hold you. It stuns you, and the tears pause for just a second—before you’re wrapping desperate, weakened arms around him and sobbing even harder, albeit silently, into his shirt.

“I don’t want to break up,” he whispers, his own voice shaky with understated emotion. “I’m sorry. Please don’t say that. I don’t want that.”

“What’s wrong with you?” You cry, a desperate plead caught between sobs that wrack your body against his against the wall. And he knows it’s not an accusation. It’s not an insult. It’s a question borne of confusion and fear. It’s what a child might ask a sick dog while tears stream down feverish cheeks. And it’s completely appropriate, considering he never tells you anything anymore and he’s only just realizing how scary that must be. Spencer is back from prison but you may as well still be living alone for all that you know about him. He tangles a hand in your hair and holds you against his chest, breathing you like nitrous oxide.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. The room beyond blurs as he stares at nothing, focused only on the tingly euphoria of feeling you under his hands clashing with the ever-present and crushing shame that he couldn't do it sooner. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you—to be sorry.” Shuddering breaths and gasps still cleave your sentences in half, and Spencer listens so intently he thinks there might be harmonics hidden in the layers of your voice. He clings to every syllable like you’re wielding the word of god in a five-foot-something body. “I just miss you so m—much. I want you to—to love me.”

“I do,” he promises immediately, lips pressing to your ear. “I do love you. So much. So much.”

When you don’t respond, he’s not exactly surprised. He almost asks what he can do, what you need—but is quite sure that’s not the right move. Instead he doesn’t say a thing. Only holds you.

Later, you’ll pull back and he’ll swim in your teary gaze, and then kiss you. He’ll trace silent apologies into every inch of your skin under the torrent of the shower, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make you understand. But for now, for the first time in months, you’re holding each other, and that’s all either of you need.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic

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savanir · 1 year ago

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DP x DC prompt [3]

during one of the final psych evals at Arkham right before he gets to be released, the whole thing wrapped up so tidy, just a little relapse which involved a robbery. Getting sent back to Arkham, but he got to stay at the asylum so long that he no longer has to serve a prison sentence, score!

But during that eval his overseeing psychiatrist recommended him to have a change of scenery, some fresh non polluted air.

Riddler was rather convinced the guy was making this recommendation to everyone in Arkham in their own weird way to convince them to just leave Gotham and become someone else's problem. should he notify Batman about it somehow? nah, it’ll be more interesting to see how this is gonna turn out in the long run.

But can he leave the state? Can he even leave the city? he never really bothered to look into it, at least not legally, up until now if he felt he needed to leave for one of his plans he just did it.

Turns out he can, it’s a whole hassle and a half though, first a judge and then a probation officer and he’s pretty sure both were like “what the hell is this psychiatrist guy thinking!?” but at the same time, shrink probably knows what he’s doing (WRONG) so he’s allowed to go visit out of state family or whatever.

he had to wear this nice ankle monitor though, Wayne Enterprises™ tech, not overly bulky but still very present. real fancy, and a fun extra challenge heh.

now as for a good reason to leave New Jersey he’s going to need distant relatives, and he finds some, great grandpa walker also has a son, who had a son who had a daughter Madeline, who married some guy Jack Fenton, and she lives somewhere out in the boonies Illinois. great he’ll visit her.

far enough away in all sense of the word that there is no way she knows anything about him. it would be best to call her first though, be polite about it.

“hello, you have reached Fenton works, this is Maddie speaking”

“Riddle me this-” ah whoops, habit, oh whatever, “we don’t share parents, but certainly a part of your life, from laughter to strife. Who am I?”

there is a pause … he’s going to be a bit disappointed if she hangs up if he’s honest.

“cousins~” comes the cheery reply.

“correct! the name is Edward Nygma, we are distantly related you and I and well-”

“oh you simply must come visit!”

well this was rather easy, perhaps a little too easy, but she lives in the midwest so maybe just going with whatever some guy says over the phone is normal there? stranger danger not really a thing in a small town where everyone knows everyone?

things start to make a little more sense once he gets there and he’s starting to think some things might run in the family. like a preference for the colour green and weird hyperfixations and genius bordering on insanity. Though that remains to be seen, Jack does not seem like a very bright light after his very enthusiastic welcome.

their kids however are observant and sharp. young Jasmine is wasting no time trying to psychoanalyze him. and the boy, Danny, he had not really meant to and he swears he’s sticking with calling the kid Danny so he wouldn’t seem overly familiar, but he might have called him little bird a couple times now.

but that’s all whatever, he’s playing nice here. and he doesn’t even have to worry about his eccentricities tripping him up because this place is insane.

There actually is a local teen vigilante active but he seems about as loved as he’s disliked. and the ghost boy’s enemies are basically all his own kind, which another crazy thing to now know about. ghost. they are real actually, how is Gotham not completely overrun? and how do they even work? and where do they keep coming from?

Edward might be getting a little sidetracked here. He had fully intended to sneakily get his next big game plan underway all the way out here, ankle monitor be damned. but he hasn’t made any progress at all.

Instead he’s been listening to Madeline and Jack to maybe figure out what the deal is with these ectoplasmic entities, he has to know, at this point he might go crazier if he doesn’t.

He’s making Jasmine promise him not to get her doctorate in Gotham, he’s going back and forth with space riddles with Danny.

so yeah the whole thing kinda just became a vacation, maybe the psychiatrist had the right idea after all? hmm nah, probably not. but this is fun. He’s thinking about recommending this place to some of the others.

It's different enough to get the vacation feel, but enough crazy shit happens to make it all feel like home.

it is not until Maddie wants to talk with him about potentially switching the position of godfather of Danny to him rather than some weird rich friend of theirs that Edward realizes he might have lost the plot somewhere

Apparently the little bird basically begged them with a powerpoint presentation on how he likes Edward so much more than that Vladimir guy.

And honestly, the fellow sounds like a Dracula Lutho so even if it’s kinda sad Edward can understand why he’d be considered a better option. Even if the guy has more money and a huge company that makes him said money. And it’s not like the Fentons know about his Riddler activities.

Thinking it over, Edward does think that Danny would like Gotham and Wayne has that space program thing right? The kid is definitely smart enough for that (Nygma certified), and yeah Edward does quite like their space themed back and forth. So, fuck it, why not, what is the worst that could happen?

He doubts Maddie and Jack are gonna kick it any time soon anyway out here in the boonies, it’s just a title thing, a stamp of approval or something.

he should have known he was going to eat those words later… he had this whole beautifully elaborate trap set up for the whole Batclan, and he was just getting to the good part when his phone went off.

Had to put the whole thing on pause cause that particular contact wasn’t gonna get ignored. He did promise to be available.

If the whole thing he had planned now went tits up he could at the very least laugh later at the reactions of the bats as he told them to “hold up one second, I have to take this.” while they were all in various perilous positions.

Sadly he did have to go, he had a very distressed godson to pick up.

#dc x dp #danny phantom #dcxdp #dpxdc #danny fenton #The Riddler #jasmine fenton #madeline fenton #jack fenton #edward nygma #Story idea #it took me annoyingly long to figure out how to add a read more line btw #I was going to add some other things as well but I didn't want it to get super long #I imagine Vlad was absolutely furious about losing his godfather status #but our boy Eddie just runs circles around him and humiliates him every step of the way #there is only one vampire themed guy that can put the Riddler in his place and you ain't it chief #also I was planning on adding a thing where Edward ends up in the ghost zone somehow #which makes his ankle monitor go off #notifying the bats #because he either somehow managed to destroy the thing in an instant without making any of the build in warnings go off #or he's no longer on the planet

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yournightmary · 9 months ago

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SFW&NSFW Vi HCs

content warning:: it’s kinda a mix of modern!AU and not idk, fem!reader, smut obviously

AN:: I love muscle mommies

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She might look and act tough but don’t let her fool you. She’s such a silly goober. Okay, at first she might a little cold and distant and take a lot to warm up, but once she does she’s a sweetheart.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I think there might be a ‘you fell first but she fell harder’ situation. She isn’t really that into dating or looking for the love of her life, so when you first met she didn’t even think about getting with you.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ HATES when people help her. If someone does, she’s convinced that she owes them something.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ But she really likes to help other people. She likes to be the one that people owe something… and she just feels really stupid when she doesn’t help someone she totally could. (as people should)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Very self-conscious about her hands. Mostly about the scars and bruises that are on her knuckles, that’s why she wraps them up or covers them with chunky rings.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Hates fancy clothes. Doesn’t remember the last time she wore a normal bra.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ This girl doesn’t have any manners!! That’s the downside of growing up mostly around men. And the Lanes.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Her favorite way to spend free time (besides working out) is watching stupid reality tv. You know, the shows that you can just put on in the background and turn off your brain.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I’m taking this from the trailer- if she’s having a really shitty day she’ll take it out on a punching bag, but sometimes that makes her feel even worse so she ends up hugging it instead.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She’s really touch starved but she doesn’t know how to ask for affection. She’ll just silently sneak up on you and hug you from behind or spoon you once you’re already asleep.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ You might think she doesn’t know how to do makeup but she does the best smokey eyes in the world!!! Also has the prettiest natural lashes you have ever seen.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Loves to just lay down and relax. After being on edge her whole life the short moment she can chill with you before sleeping is like literal heaven.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She could cry every time she gets a gift. Even if it’s something small or something that won’t last- like food or flowers- it just makes her eyes water.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Her favorite thing to lay down on is your lap. She’s such a thigh girl omg. I mean, she loves every single part of your body, but thighs… oh man.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Lord have mercy, she’s obsessed with them. Her hand is big enough to grab almost your whole thigh. She loves to kiss them, bite them, grope them- anything and everything.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Her favorite thing to do is using her fingers on you but god fucking damn it- it takes her so long to start. She has to unwrap her bandages, take off all of her rings, wash her hands. That’s like at least 5 minutes.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She genuinely likes the taste of pussy. Maybe it’s because she spent half of her life in prison eating slop, but she’d eat you out over any food.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I believe in happy trails on girls supremacy. So hot :3

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She not only has insane strength, her stamina is the same. She’ll go at it the whole day and night.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ I can’t decide whether she’d hook up with people often or be an inexperienced virgin. Because on one hand if she wants to get laid, she’ll get laid but on the other- maybe she thinks it’s too intimate to do with some random person?? idk

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Loves to finger you in front of a mirror (she just wants to see her own muscles)

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Riding her abs or toned thighs… somebody help me.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Honestly, I don’t think she likes to receive that much. I mean- obviously she likes it, but she’d just rather give.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She’s so embarrassed by her own moans omg. She loves to hear them from you, but when it comes to herself? No way. Maybe a groan or two, but nothing more.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ She would never hurt you during sex. It’s such a major turn off for her. She saw and caused too much violence in her life to find it arousing.

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Apologies to my scissor sisters, but she will strap you down. Especially from behind- she just loves your ass too much.

my obsession came back

#lesbian #wlw #vi arcane fluff #vi arcane imagine #violet arcane x reader #vi arcane #arcane x reader #violet x reader #vi x reader #violet arcane #vi arcane x reader #arcane #arcane smut #vi arcane smut

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ogviceversa · 2 months ago

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Don’t F*ck With The Boss

Luca:

Being the boss really has its perks, you know. And now it looks like I’m going to be the boss for a very long time— especially after taking care all of the rats in my circle.

So I guess you’re wonderin’ how a young fella like me is running such a big underground organization. Well… I haven’t always been this young or even looked like this.

Actually a few weeks ago, I was a 58 year old Italian guy. Well respected in my community but some of the guys working for me didn’t like the way I ran things.

So what did those fella do? They ran to the cops and gave them enough to get me arrested.

You know, these guys know a bunch of things but not everything. Especially my secret weapon, Magic.

I know it sounds goofy but I’ve obtained a bunch of ancient magical artifacts. And one of those pieces gives me the power to do a little switcheroo with any one of my choosing.

And when I found out that one of my right hand guys, Jack, was leading my take down for my spot…

Well that’s how I got this sweet new body of mine.

You see Jack has 3 sons and I had my eyes set on his oldest one.

Now, I’m not completely evil here. I know Jack’s son didn’t do anything to cause this.

So I put Jack in my body which is now behind bars. And his son is in a body that I know will satisfy him.

I know this because I talked to Jack’s son and gave him his options. And luckily he selected the right one.

He takes a handsome body around his age that is very wealthy, doesn’t ask any questions…while his dad gets sent to prison in mine.

And it’s funny because I could have taken any body I wanted but really— I just wanted Jack to know that I’m now his possessing his son’s body.

And boyyyy am I loving it!!!

I wake up in the morning feeling amazing! No back pain, no stiffness— well other than my new dick.

And you wanna know what’s crazy? I’m no longer attracted to women. Just men. I guess Jack’s son was gay. And what’s even crazier is that I prefer it.

I recently discovered my new found love for male feet. I like to think I have a very sexy new pair of them.

My new feet are hairy and my toes look perfect. The soles of them are soft to the touch and the smell after a long day really turns me on.

And you know what else turns me on? Having guys worship them.

The rest of those traitors are all facing there punishment. I swapped them into a bunch of twinkish looking guys and they all have certain new jobs now.

For instance, take Julius here— prior to his little stunt, he was 6 foot, 270 pounds of muscle, and could beat up just about anyone. A real Goon.

Now his job is to goon over my perfect feet! And I know he likes it, I watch him sniff and kiss them. And I always notice the tent growing in his pants.

I just know for a guy like that, it has to be humiliating. I set specific rules for him and the others— they serve me, cook for me, clean for me, do my laundry. None of them can’ cum without my permission.

And if one of them steps out of line— I pull out another magical item I have with me. A very special knife that can detach anyone’s body parts without hurting them.

One of them has already tried it with me. Running his mouth… well that one lost his ‘body’ privilege for a couple of weeks.

He should have been smart and kept his mouth shut. Because I’m starting to prefer him this way.

I discovered without his dumb cute head attached his body will do whatever I say. So I’ll bring his body to bed with me at night and have my fun.

And I don’t have to hear anything from it. It’s even a nice cuddle buddy at night.

I guess it really does pay to be the boss and now that I have all of this power, youth, and soon to be wealth. I’m thinking about making this operation bigger.

Potentially swapping all of my team with ‘non suspicious’ good looking guys. If I do that then no one would ever suspect a thing!

Hmmmm… not a terrible idea. I’ll have to think that one over.

In the meantime, I’m going to take this sexy headless body, all of my boys, and have an amazing orgy.

And hell— I might even let all of them cum. But not until I blow my load 😆

#male tf #body swap #male body swap #body theft #male nbm #magic

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returnofeternity · 3 months ago

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Sometimes I want shauna to have that pretty girl gf that everyone wants/ adores but then I remember she's crazy possessive. This girl would bask in all their jealousy caus she bagged a baddie but also be the most jealous girl you have ever seen in you life. Her gf would either have to be the most patient person ever or match her crazy.

tbh i kinda love the idea of shauna having a gf who does NOT match her energy but you guys still work. someone who is just the polar opposite but shauna likes it. and so do you ^^. shauna getting lectured by her gf after spitting in mari's food, rolling her eyes but genuinely feeling hurt by how upset you are with her 😭 even if she acts like she doesn't even care..

god save whoever causes shauna to get jealous 🙏 she's pulling out that fuckin' gun and threatening them if they even look at you for a second longer. she's screaming so loud that the veins on her neck look like they're about to pop O-O. she's shaking off your attempts to drag her back to the hut and i feel like she'd wander off to cool down alone, coming back to you with puppy dog eyes and in need of reassurance.

she's the type to love to show you off but regrets it when ppl start looking at you 😭 she's giving you her jacket to cover up like she didn't ask you to wear that tight dress out -__-

loveee the idea of dating adult shauna and not knowing the yellowjackets, or maybe you just don't care, and only finding out how fucking INSANE she is after she gets jealous. imagining something similar to what she did to melissa but she breaks into one of your friend's house after a jealous fit and after you texted her that ur staying the night there (she's been jealous for a while over this particular friend, so this has been bubbling up for a bit.) long story short, she ends up murdering this person bc of her jealously and she's strangely hot covered in blood. shauna who's a little freak and watches you and this friend for a bit before pouncing, a part of her wanting you to cheat??? a part of her loving how angry she gets over all this??? you know her ass does not clean the murder scene up well tho so you become a prison wifey <3

shauna who bites wayy more when she's jealous. shauna who whines into your neck while biting you, nails digging into your sides while thinking about how lottie keeps trailing after you, looking at you oh so softly while asking if you wanna take more shrooms with her.

#anon #shauna shipman thoughts 💭#shauna shipman x reader

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inkdrinkerworld · 1 year ago

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hi! i saw you were taking requests for post prison spencer, so hey

i was thinking about spencer meeting a kinda sunshine reader, and it’s like…love at first sight. she’s literally the one to make him smile for good

feel free to add your magic to it, and to ignore it, don’t feel pressure at all!

have a good day/night <3

babe you guys are saving my life with these requests right now! I'm feeling so good about everything I write again <3 enjoy sunshine!reader x post prison!spencer who looks less tense and serious around you

You’re at his desk, sitting there all perfect in your orange button up and flared pants, Mary Janes clicking on the linoleum tile as you tap your pen against your lips. Your hair is scraped back into a ponytail, the plait brushing the spot between your shoulder blades.

Spencer had asked about you to Penelope, asked about your personality, about how you work- all the important things. What he didn’t ask was if you were gorgeous and Penelope, who loves to divulge, had never said a thing about your looks.

“Hi, you’re Y/n right?” Spencer’s standing before you, not realising how intimidating he must look till you jolt in your chair.

You’d been trying to get your morning crossword and read in before the day had officially begun, a habit you’d been trying to keep up with since you started the job. So far it’s been going- the crosswords are boring so you have to pretend to be distracted by it to let it last a bit more than four minutes.

“Oh sorry, I am. You’re Doctor Spencer Reid,” you lean back in your chair, not bothering to hold out a hand to you. Penelope had grilled you on his aversion to germs and touching people more than needed. “I’m sorry about taking over your desk, but they didn’t have any free ones.”

Spencer shakes his head, you take a moment to look him over. His hair is a bit looser than you’d imagined, Penelope said curly hair and you’d thought tight spirals- he has pretty loose ringlets, dark and mocha-like.

He smells like leather and something else, maybe plum and black currant- it’s a bit of an all encompassing smell that you like already. He’s much prettier too, he looks tired, but still pretty. His stubble presents a problem, you know it’s going to be your downfall.

“It’s alright, we keep a tight ship. Have they been treating you well?”

You tilt your head, “The team or the unsubs? Because it’s been too many cases to have real team building.” You grin when Spencer huffs, making his lips twitch. “But I think getting concussed while saving Newbie’s ass counts for something.”

Luke grumbles as he walks by with his coffee, “You were hired after I was,” patting Spencer on the back when the taller, lithe, man rolls a chair to sit opposite you.

“Do you still experience headaches or migraines?” Spencer kicks himself when he sees your tongue poke into your cheek- you’re trying hard not to smile at his question. He also thinks he’s doing a shoddy job of flirting but that can be fixed- he’s been in prison for the last three months, he just needs to get back in the swing of things.

“I’m pretty sure your first official day back starts with you in Emily’s office and not giving me an impromptu physical, Dr. Reid.” His lips twitch again, cheeks jumping as he shakes his head.

“It’s just a check-up, no physical yet.” he stands, not really giving himself time to overthink what he’s just said. It’s more than a little presumptuous on his part but you don’t call him an asshole or swear at him, so he thinks he’s okay with it.

“Do you want your desk back, Spencer?” you’re earnest in asking, not wanting to fuck up his routines and his norm. You can tell you like him already and it’s hardly been a fifteen minute conversation.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll take the one right there.” Spencer points a finger to the desk right in behind yours with a little less severity to his lips, his stubble looking even more attractive as he does so.

You watch him walk away, willing yourself to be professional about all this, he may be hot but he’s your coworker and you know all about close proximity relationships possibly being shams. You’re not here for that, so Spencer will be a good friend.

You make your way into the kitchen, steps light as you reach for your mug- a cute blue mug with an orca as the handle.

“So you come in and the kid’s already obsessed with you?” Rossi’s right beside you, making you jump as you put more than the recommended amount of tablespoons of coffee into your mug.

“It’s not like that, you all made him out to be this awkward shy mess and he isn’t.” You try to sound as casual as you can, but you profile your own voice and know how it sounds to everyone- wistful.

“Maybe he’s seen a pretty girl and the ‘awkward shy mess’ melted away,” Rossi places his hands on your shoulders. “He’s a good kid. You can trust in that.”

You roll your eyes, stirring your coffee. “I’m pretty sure he’s in his thirties, Rossi.” You take the milk from him, pouring it in till your coffee is just at the lip of your mug and smile. “Definitely too old.”

Rossi waves his hand, “I’ve been married four times, old isn’t a marker for romance anymore. Not when you’re only twenty four.” He leaves you be for a moment, and on your walk back to your desk to fill out the remaining crosswords you mull over his words.

As you sit, you look down and find it all filled out in black ink, opposed to your blue and you know who did it, if the messy scrawled message is anything to go by- ‘You should get The Washington Post puzzles, much more stimulating.’

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ariestrxsh · 4 months ago

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dealer!chris x dealer!reader

💸 content warning: smut/suggestive, dry humping, mentions of hard drugs and guns, enemies to lovers, slow burn

💸 summary: you and chris celebrate with a joint on the beach after selling all your product

there will be several parts to this story, and they will contain sex, drugs, violence, use of weapons, and a lot of things that could be triggering if you've ever been apart of the drug world or loved someone with an addiction. i don't mean to glorify drug use, selling, or anything like that, but i wanted this story to be realistic, so it does appear like a somewhat "glamorous" lifestyle to chris and the reader in the first few parts. i want to make it very clear that when you get involved in the drug world in real life, you usually end up in one of two places: the ground or prison.

WHEN SPARKS FLY

chapters: | intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

You and Chris had successfully moved all your product in three days, a personal record for you with twelve kilos. The two of you stood in your living room, staring into the duffle bag full of cash sitting on your coffee table after the final sale.

"Holy shit, ma," Chris whispered, staring wide-eyed at the several stacks of hundreds before his gaze flicked up to you. "I know. It never gets old," you mumbled, picking up a stack of cash and holding it to your nose. You deeply inhaled, your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head. You were so infatuated with everything about money. It was almost like being reunited with an old lover every time you made it all back.

You couldn't deny that you wouldn't have been able to do it without Chris. He'd spent more hours with you, bagging up product and helping you move it than he'd spent sleeping the past three days. You admired his charming demeanor and his strong work ethic, you knew he could make you a lot of profit, and you wanted to keep him happy.

You started separating out the cash, putting your portion in one pile and Chris' in another. Once you'd finished divvying it up, you motioned towards the pile of money nearest Chris. "Here. Here's your cut."

"Ma.." Chris started to say. "What?" You asked without looking up at him. "You gave me half," Chris quietly answered, wondering if it was a mistake. "You do good work, Chris. I want to keep doing business with you. You deserve half," you told him, your gaze still fixed on the money in front or you.

"Oh, my god, ma!" Chris exclaimed, his face lighting up as he wrapped his arms around you. "I don't do shit like this often, so don't get used to it," you replied, not reciprocating his hug, but it was hard for you to conceal your grin with Chris beaming with excitement.

"Thank you, ma. I can't believe you already gave me a raise. We should go celebrate!" Chris declared. "And do what?" You inquired, giving him a perplexed look, worried that he was going to suggest a crowded place with loud music.

"I was thinking of something low-key. Let's go smoke a joint on the beach or something. I mean, you don't have to smoke, but the offer's open, and it is a special occasion," Chris rambled. You contemplated it for a moment. After all, why not celebrate? The two of you were making more money than you ever had in your life, and it was just the beginning. Plus, it was a chance to bond with your business partner.

"I'll get us home safe. Take the night off. Leave your gun at home," Chris said, looking into your eyes. "Chris, what if something bad happens? What if I need it?" You wondered with an urgency in your voice. "You've got me. If anyone messes with you, I'll protect you," Chris told you, taking a step closer to you and looking you in the eye.

The way he said it made you feel safe, like he really meant it. It was at that moment that you decided maybe you could trust him. Maybe you had to. Maybe you'd already let him in too much. After a few minutes of deliberation and a few more convincing words from Chris, you agreed. "Fine," you responded after taking a deep breath.

You weren't typically the spontaneous type, but there was something about Chris that brought out that side of you, and in some ways, you liked that. The two of you drove out to the beach, listening to Chris' favorite Arctic Monkeys album on the way there.

Tonight, you weren't a dealer. You weren't a hustler, and you weren't on guard. You were just a human being. Now, the two of you were side-by-side on the shore under a blanket of stars as the sound of the waves crashing echoed in your ears, enjoying the simple pleasures life had to offer.

You kicked off your shoes, feeling the sand beneath your feet. You hesitantly glanced down at the cherry and the smoke that slowly drifted into the air as Chris passed you the joint. "C'mon, ma. It'll be fun. Let loose for a bit," Chris urged you.

You didn't like to feel out of control. You knew getting high could be dangerous for you. You couldn't let your guard down. You couldn't let yourself slip up, admit your growing feelings for Chris, and possibly ruin your business relationship with him.

All the possibilities of all the bad things that could happen if you let yourself fully relax ran through your mind, and for a second, you thought, so what? "Fine," you sighed, taking it from him.

You held it up to your lips, the smoke stinging your lungs as you took a slow, long drag before exhaling with a cough. The dopamine flooded your system immediately, leaving you with a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was nice to have a night off from being a dealer and instead finding yourself on the other end as a consumer. It was nice to let go of the rigidity of your lifestyle and finally get to just be.

You took another puff, allowing yourself to sink into the sensation. You gave Chris back his weed. "How do you feel?" He wondered. "I feel high," you murmured, a smile spreading across your lips and your eyelids growing heavy. He grinned back at you, admiring how cute you looked in the moonlight, the light breeze gently catching your hair.

Chris pulled from the joint, inhaling smoke into his lungs. The two of you sat quietly for a few minutes, enjoying each other's company and listening to the soothing sound of the ocean's tide being pulled by the full moon that illuminated everything around you.

"Daisy broke up with me last night," Chris quietly chimed in, breaking the silence between you. "Oh, shit. Chris. I'm so sorry. What happened?" You replied in a soft, sympathetic voice. "What always happens, ma," Chris answered you, his gaze fixed on his ring that he was fiddling with.

"I didn't mean to make you tell her before you were ready," you leaned over and placed a reassuring hand on his back, feeling somewhat guilty for their relationship ending. "It's alright, ma. You were right. She was going to leave anyway. I should have told her sooner. It's for the best," Chris said in a solemn tone before taking another hit.

You didn't know what to say, and so you didn't say anything, fearing you'd make it worse if you opened your mouth in your current state of mind. You just sat next to him quietly, passing the joint back and forth, gently running your fingernails in a repetitive pattern up and down his back. He relaxed into your soothing touch.

"Ma, that feels so good," he said in a soft voice. A quiet whimper escaped his lips, and his eyes fluttered shut as you continued to caress him. You inched a bit closer to him and rested your head against his.

There was a small, sick part of him that was relieved. He could indulge in his late night fantasies about you and let his gaze linger on you without feeling guilty about it.

The two of you glanced up at each other simultaneously, and for a moment, the sexual tension between the two of you was undeniable. The look you each gave each other of burning desire didn't need words to be expressed and understood. A silent agreement was made.

Without thinking through what you were about to do, you just followed where temptation led you. You shifted, swinging your leg around Chris and straddling him. You stared deeply into his blue eyes, placing a hand on either side of his face as he sat quietly, gazing at you as his heart began to thrum in his chest. Your nose brushed against his as you leaned in, and the two of you each hesitated for a second, acknowledging that once you opened this door, it couldn't be closed.

You savored the moment before the kiss, the anticipation, and the way Chris' warm, shallow breath felt against your lips right before giving in. Not a single force on Earth could interfere with the magnetic pull, drawing the two of you together.

The kiss was tender at first, your soft lip grazing his, and it slowly grew deeper and more passionate as your tongue slipped into his mouth. Your trembling hands traveled to his chest as you stabilized yourself.

You could feel his hardening cock pressing against the front of your jeans, and you just couldn't help yourself. You found yourself rolling your hips forward and shifting your weight onto his lap, earning a sensual moan from Chris that vibrated against your lips.

You continued grinding against his bulge, and Chris' curious hands found their way to your waist, the half-smoked joint still wedged between two of his fingers. He guided your hips as you continued your movements, the added pressure feeling incredible every time his hard cock rubbed up against the seam of your jeans, stimulating your swollen clit.

You shuddered at the sensation, melting into the boy beneath you that you hadn't been able to keep your mind off of. You loved the feeling of kissing him, his pillow-soft lips, his velvet-like tongue, and the soft hums he elicited as you practically rode him with your clothes on.

"Can't resist me, can you, ma?" Chris rasped in a low voice as he pulled away from the kiss, reaching up to caress your cheek with his free hand. You firmly grabbed his wrist and started gently suckling on the tips of his fingers. "Oh, shit," he whispered, watching your mouth as you slid down to his knuckles, feeling the cool metal of his rings against your lips.

You could feel his cock jerk underneath you as you repeated this motion, alternating between a few of his long, slender digits, pressing your body weight against his dick. He loved every second of it. "Good girl," he quietly praised you as he imagined you sucking on something else. His words sent an electric surge straight to your clit, and you could feel the wetness between your legs that was likely seeping through your clothing by now.

Chris felt the heat from the joint as it widdled down towards the end of the paper, but he was too wrapped in you to care if it burned him. You brought your behavior to a stop, a wave of embarrassment overcoming you as you reflected on how impulsively you'd acted and how pathetic you probably looked humping Chris like a dog in heat after just a few puffs of weed.

"Fuck!" You exclaimed after pulling Chris' finger out from behind your lips and climbing off of his lap. "I don't know why I just did that," you muttered, completely humiiated as you retreated back to your spot in the sand. Chris stayed put for a moment, looking at you wide-eyed with his hard cock straining against his pants.

"Fuck, ma. I don't know why you stopped," Chris whispered, still processing what had just happened. "That was so inappropriate of me. I am so sorry," you mumbled with your face hiding in your hands.

"Why? Because I've been single for less than twenty-four hours or because you're kind of my boss?" Chris chuckled after taking a final hit of the joint and putting it out in the sand. You laughed with your embarrassed expression still buried in your palms.

"Either way, ma. I really liked it," Chris replied, nudging you in the arm as a smile spread across his lips. You picked your head up to finally look at him, face flushed and finding it rather hard to maintain eye contact. You wanted to kiss him again, but it felt like the moment had passed, and you were still embarrassed about how you'd thrown yourself at him.

Suddenly, you felt violently high, your heart beating in your ears and your head pounding. "I don't feel very good," you mumbled under your breath. "Here, give me your keys. Let's get you home," Chris said, springing into action once he recognized that you were most likely greening out.

He picked you up and carried you across the beach back to the car as you incoherently babbled about how sorry you were for crossing the line. He hushed you and assured you that you didn't have anything to apologize for.

He helped you into the car, and as soon as he got into the driver seat, you were softly snoring with your head resting against the window. Chris kept the music at a low volume and drove carefully as to not wake you. Once he pulled into your driveway, you began to stir. He reached over and caressed the back of your hand with his thumb.

"We're here, ma," he softly told you. "Here? Where?" You asked, still feeling heavily intoxicated. "Your house, ma," Chris giggled, shutting off the car and getting out so that he could help you into your place.

"Chris, that was so nice. You didn't have to take me home," you grumbled to him as he guided you through your front door. "You're right. I should have left you stoned on the beach by yourself," he laughed, knowing that of course he had to take you home, and just because he knew he had to, didn't mean that it was an inconvenience at all.

Chris carried you up your stairs and set you down softly on your bed. "Goodnight, ma. I hope you get some rest. I'm sorry for pressuring you into smoking," he said, shaking his head and feeling guilty for the state you were in.

"I chose to smoke, Chris. You couldn't pressure me into anything if you wanted to," you mumbled, slipping out of your jeans until you were in just a t-shirt and your underwear. Chris diverted his gaze as you started to undress, and he made his way towards your bedroom door to give you privacy.

"Where are you going?" You asked him as he started to close the door behind him. "I'll just walk to Dais -" he started to say, but then he remembered that walking to Daisy's wasn't an option anymore. "I'll just call an Uber, ma. Don't worry about me."

"Chris," you whined, reaching for him like a toddler asking to be picked up as you laid helplessly on your bed. "What is it, ma?" Chris asked, poking his head back into your bedroom. "What if you stayed the night here?" You wondered. "I mean, yeah, sure. If you're offering. I wouldn't mind crashing on your couch. It would save me a trip," he responded.

"No. I want you to sleep right here," you mumbled, patting the empty side of the bed beside you with a playful smile on your face. Chris raised an eyebrow, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lip. He could already tell what you were about to say next based on your body language.

"Please, Chris. I want you to fuck me," you begged him, biting your lip. "Ma, you're really messed up. I can't take advantage of that," Chris responded, taking a seat beside you on your bed and choosing his words carefully because he didn't want you to think he was uninterested. He just didn't want your first time to happen under these circumstances.

"Please. I need you," you replied, your voice saturated with lust as you started to take off your panties. "Woah! Hey," Chris exclaimed, stopping you from slipping them off. "Not like this, ma. If you still want to when you're sober, we can, but not when you can barely stand on your own. I'll lay in bed with you if all we're doing is sleeping."

"Okay. We can just sleep. I just want you here next to me," you whined, clutching your pillow in your arms and pulling it into your chest. "Alright, ma. But no funny business. Let's get you some pants," Chris replied, picking up a pair of sweatpants off of your floor and tossing them to you.

You slipped them on and curled up under your blanket. Chris crawled into bed beside you after shutting off your light. He pulled you close and kissed you on the forehead. "Night, ma," Chris whispered before closing his eyes. A few minutes later, he heard the sound of your soft snoring as you drifted off to sleep beside him.

When he was certain you were out, he slipped out of your sheets, snuck downstairs, and made his way out the door. As he waited out front for his uber, lighting up a joint, he smiled to himself, reflecting on the night and how boldly you'd climbed onto his lap and started making out with him.

He hoped that you were developing feelings for him the same way he was for you and that it wasn't just a purely lustful gesture earlier, but he couldn't be sure. Hell, he couldn't even be sure that you'd remember any of it in the morning, which was part of the reason he didn't want to be in your bed when you woke up.

#sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo #christopher owen sturniolo #chris sturniolo x you #dealer chris #dealer!chris

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winters-orbit · 23 days ago

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Now that we're at the end of mission impossible (until mcq shows cruise another video and he goes, I can do that, let's make another one), it's quite remarkable that they managed to tie together a cohesive theme from 8 movies, 5 directors, and 30 years.

And the fact that the theme is: fierce, unrelenting hope and trust especially in the face of insurmountable odds? I fear I may be thinking about this series for the rest of my life.

The first 3 ish movies are spent slowly beating ethan down. He starts out as this cocksure kid at the beginning of mi1. And then he's betrayed by his team leader who he trusts more than anything and is forced to watch and listen to every single one of them die, including Claire and Jim by the end.

He watches another imf agent go rogue (which absolutely could have been ethan in a different timeline given everything that had just happened to him) resulting in more people around him getting hurt, Nyah the most.

He tries so hard to get out, and gets a brief glimpse at normal happiness only for that to be ripped away from him as he watches his wife get kidnapped and tortured (3 does insane things for his character).

So we meet him at the beginning of ghost protocol in prison having had everything ripped away from him again and again. And now he's in prison. And yeah, we know Julia is alive, but the cruel irony of knowing your wife is alive but you can never be near her again goes crazy hard.

But the beauty of the series is that it's been slowly planting people in Ethan's life over these three movies to trust. And they're not trustworthy because Ethan already knows them. He essentially picks them randomly. Luther, selected off the list of disavowed agents ,ends up becoming his greatest and most reliable friend, his brother. Benji because he's the only one available and willing to help him in an absolutely insane endeavor to save his wife.

And we get to 4 and Ethan is back in the field with the ghost protocol team (whom I love but man are they team cringe fail). A team made up of the man who lives with the guilt of thinking he got Julia killed, a woman who is a walking time bomb due to the grief of losing someone she loved, and a man who is in the field for essentially the first time.

And Ethan takes a look at all of that baggage, including his own and says fuck it, this is my team and they are going to make it through this. And they do; by the skin of their teeth and a second left on the clock they make it. Ethan choses to trust the first full team since the first movie when all of them were ripped away from him.

Rogue nation gives us Ilsa who everyone distrusts immediately, except for Ethan. Ethan is once again betrayed by his government and so is Ilsa. And Ethan knows what that's like and thus Ilsa is part of the team.

Fallout tests that trust as Ilsa is forced to work against Ethan for half of the movie. But fallout is also one of the first times these themes are explicitly stated with "hope is not a a strategy. You must be new".

Ethan has been betrayed countless times, lost so many people close to him, and had the shit kicked out of him so many times he probably has a little brain damage. And yet he keeps getting up, he trusts and he hopes, because that's the only thing standing between them and the end of the world.

We get to dead reckoning and he constantly tries to work with Grace, to protect her, to get her out. Even though she is absolutely working against him at every turn. Anyone else would not work this hard to protect someone who is being this actively antagonist to their goals. But Ethan is not the same man as the kid who lost his team so long ago. Ilsa is ripped away from him. He keeps losing people and just keeps going, because hope and trust is all he has now.

And it's really all hammered home in final reckoning. He just had to walk away as he watched his oldest and closest friend let himself die to save an entire city and he immediately asks Briggs to, please just work with him, while actively crying because of the friend he just lost. (And no Briggs, he's actually never gotten used to losing people, ever. That's what makes Ethan, Ethan. It's BECAUSE he cares so much). He spends most of this movie really just begging people to trust him, to trust each other, to give him a chance to stop the entity despite the odds being insane. Because he's been shown time and time again, that trusting in those around you, however foolish it may seem is what saves the day in the end.

Over the course of 30 years they managed to beat Ethan down and build him back up as this character built on love and hope and care for the people around him. This doesn't even begin to talk about all the small moments of compassion throughout the series (the one in fallout with the French police woman always sticks out in my head).

The initial draw of these movies may be the stunts and seeing how Cruise pulls those off, but the heart of these stories is Ethan. A man who despite everything, all the betrayal, and loss, and suffering, simply choses to be kind. And damn what a powerful message.

#hope is a weapon and ethan hunt is wielding it like the fucking infinity gauntlet #I fear I could yap about this series forever actually #text #mission impossible #mission: impossible #mission impossible the final reckoning #the final reckoning #the final reckoning spoilers #ethan hunt

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emilys-bangs · 20 days ago

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my shattered edges glisten | e.p

Tags: uc!emily, established relationship, angst, hurt/some comfort, unstable emily, prison reid arc, momily, babygirl prentiss briefly mentioned, emily goes all edward scissorhands on herself, reader comes to the rescue, use of scissors, no use of yn

Summary: Reid gets sent to prison. Emily frantically tries to regain control and finds herself with a new haircut.

Word count: 0.8k

A/N: This was entirely inspired by the tags on this post that @mxmmyprentiss reblogged. It just sparked something, so thanks Jaye <3. I haven't watched that ep in a long time so don't quote me on what happened. Also. The amount of times I had to go through the torture of writing the word scissors....it's truly my biggest opp

Emily cuts a sharp, decisive line just above the tip of her nose, feeling the tension give at her scalp as the blade severs her hair. She breaks out in shivers but continues, pooling her focus on the loud snips of the scissors rather than the feeling of taut hair jumping loose. A few more cuts and she’s finally across, long threads of her hair curled in the sink, smaller, sharper strands nestling in her shirt and poking her through the thin material.

It’s a butcher’s job.

The bangs are hardly bangs. They’re somehow uneven despite her forcibly stiff wrist, jaggedly inclining in a crude horizontal line across her face.

At least the length is okay. They hang ridiculously long past her eyes, obscuring her vision, but she’d learned long ago to make a wide berth for the initial cut. She hasn’t cut her hair on her own since that disastrous attempt, but she’s frazzled now, close to snapping. If she’ll cut at something, better it be her hair than anything else.

This she can control. This she can fix.

“Jesus!” Your voice startles her more than she’d like. “What on earth are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Emily doesn’t look away from the mirror. She parts her hair around her eyes and trims what she thinks is an inch, shortening it down to her eyeline. Through the mirror she sees your reflection getting closer, but she keeps her gaze firmly fixed on herself, prevailing when your hand closes around her wrist.

She loses the battle when you gently tilt her toward you and worm yourself into the space between her body and the counter.

The way you look at her makes her want to crumble. She’s barely holding on as it is, but when your eyes are soft as they are now, your fingers gentle as you tug the scissors from her hand and into yours, her eyes glaze with tears. Emily fixes them down on the slope of your neck, watching bone and muscle flex as you tilt her chin and wordlessly start fixing her mess.

She hasn’t been easy on you lately, she knows. She can barely stomach herself, her sleep fitful, her appetite dissolved, prison cells and arctic courtrooms perpetually flashing behind her eyes. It’s a miracle she hasn’t snapped at Vivian yet, but even her frazzled brain recognizes that thick, crimson line.

That still doesn’t mean her six-year-old hasn’t started picking up on her venomous mood. When she’d shyly pressed herself into Emily’s side, her frown small and voice quiet as she asked, “Are you sad, Mom?” Emily had all but burst into tears.

She doesn’t know when her hands have found your waist, but she’s clutching it hard, what’s left of her nails digging in through your pajamas. Emily loosens her grip with a start. Her fingers ache. You don’t react, sifting through her—now above eye-level—bangs and sliding the scissors between her hair and her forehead, dark tufts falling down to the floor between you.

“Did Viv go down okay?” She asks, grimacing at the rasp in her throat.

“Like a light.” You murmur. You tilt your head, do something with the bangs, then bring up the scissors just above the tail of her brow. The metal is cold where it touches her skin.

Emily’s eyes brim up again. “She’s catching on. Thinks I’m sad.” Her voice cracks.

You set the scissors down with a quiet breath. “She’s a smart girl. You’re not going easy on yourself.”

She can’t. She can’t go easy on herself, she can’t pull them out of this mess, she can’t in any way predict how this will end without it all going horribly wrong. Wide-eyed Spencer, his voice quiet behind rusty bars, childishly pouted lips taking years off of his age, calls out for her to help and she can’t do shit. The only other person she could think to call is somewhere she can’t hope to find, his hands full with another goddamn serial killer hunting down his family.

All that’s left is her. And she’s entirely useless.

Emily shakes her head jerkily. Hot tears roll down her cheeks, burning a path into her skin.

“I can’t. I can’t protect him.”

I don’t know if I can save him.

Everything breaks. You catch her in time and keep her from falling, steady arms around her neck, fingers tangled in her hair. Emily’s tears soak your neck, hot as the acidic guilt bubbling in her gut.

“I can’t.” She gasps again, louder than your shushes and futile reassurances. “They won’t—they won’t let him go.”

“They will.” You insist, gripping her tighter as if you can force her to believe it. “Emily, you’re doing everything you can. It’ll work out, it will, just—these things need time, sweetheart. But they’ll let him go, okay? I know it.”

She wishes she shared your conviction.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic @wlwoceaneyes @yoyo-w @upsidedowndanvers

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss angst #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fanfic #fic #divider by saradika

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romeavedefenders · 6 months ago

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mystreet boys & nicknames

characters; laurance, gene & zenix x reader

author; kiri

a/n: my first post! it's a bit simple, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway. remember, asks are open for feedback and requests <3

c/w: reader is referred to with gendered terms a few times.

Laurance

This man is a big fan of any nickname that gets you flustered, but he has a few particular favourites.

Love and beautiful are nicknames he uses on the regular, so much so that it occasionally makes you wonder if he even remembers your actual name. In fact, Laurance rarely uses your name - why should he, when he has a repertoire of nicknames that fit you perfectly?

Out of all the men mentioned in this post (maybe even out of all the men in MyStreet), Laurance is the frontrunner and reigning champion in making up sickeningly sweet nicknames, such as sugarcakes, buttercup, light of my life, etc. If stringing together random words into an affectionate term was a crime, he’d be in federal prison at this point. He usually does this to get a rise out of you, especially in front of your mutual friends (who all think its equal parts funny and embarrassing), but he also just enjoys it. He thinks it’s a cute thing to do, and doesn’t really care if others find it odd or embarrassing. Why should he?

He mostly uses your actual name when calling for you or if you’re arguing, mainly to underline that he’s being serious. It’s not really a conscious decision. I like to think that it’s a habit he picked up from Cadenza when they were kids. At some point, this becomes so ingrained in your dynamic that if he, for whatever reason, calls you by your real name, you automatically start wondering if something’s wrong, and if you’re an overthinker…well that can snowball quickly.

Again, that’s not a conscious decision - hence the slip up. Once Laurance becomes aware of this, either by you telling him or him noticing (because if there is one thing this man is, it’s observant), he’ll actually start trying to alternate between using a nickname and your name more often, especially during serious conversations or arguments. Mainly because he is slightly disturbed by the idea that he accidentally had you associating your name with you two arguing.

Another nickname he uses is angel, though it’s reserved for more intimate moments when he gets really sappy. It’s accompanied by whispers of adoration, confessions of love, and reminders of how much you mean to him. He genuinely believes he’s the luckiest man alive to have you, wonderful you, as his partner. You brighten up all of his days, even those you aren’t present for, and bring out the best in him. Sounds a lot like what an angel would do, doesn’t it?

Gene

Another man who loves to make you flustered.

Babe is one he uses often, but for him it’s more a word that's interchangeable with your name, rather than a term of endearment. Still, if someone else called you that - you’d have a really annoyed Gene on your hands. Exceptions are made for people like Lucinda, who will call everyone and their mom every nickname in the book.

A nickname he absolutely loves to use is doll. He thinks it’s really cute (and these days, unique), and it almost never fails to make you blush. Especially when it's accompanied by his signature smirk and husky voice - that usually has a playful lilt to it. When you’re busy doing something, he loves to come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist and mumble a small “hey doll” into your ear - and if that’s not distracting you enough, he might press a few kisses to your cheek, slowly trailing them down to your jaw.

Another thing he does is add “my” to almost any nickname he uses - “my doll”, “my darling” or just a plain old “my girl/boy”, depending on what you’re comfortable with.

On that note, he’ll sometimes say “good girl/boy” as a response to you listening to him, mostly to get a reaction out of you. And Gene, being the little prick he can be, will deliberately stop saying it for a while if he even suspects you’re getting used to it. It’s really just an ace up his sleeve that he loves to pull whenever you don’t expect it, and your reactions entertain him endlessly.

He’ll also call you sweetheart, though not nearly as often. It’s mostly used when he’s trying to comfort you, or if he himself is having a really shitty day and just needs you nearby (preferably, in his arms).

I cannot remember if this was confirmed or not, but i HC Gene as being at least partly hispanic, so i think he might occasionally use spanish terms of endearment such as mi amor or mi cielo.

Zenix

Honestly, this guy isn’t really all that big on nicknames (unless dumbass, pain in the ass and idiot count). He has nothing against them, but you already have a name, and he likes it, so why not use it? He’s not great at thinking of good ones either, and he feels like most of them just don’t roll off the tongue that naturally. Nicknames like love, darling and dear feel especially awkward to him, and it’s only slightly because emotional vulnerability and casual proclamations of love scare the shit out of him.

Like Gene, he’ll use babe more than others, though mostly in an obnoxious way. If he wants something, or is just being whiny in general, he’ll call you that until you give him the attention he wants.

If you like nicknames, he honestly tries really hard. Most of them just feel really awkward to him, and he doesn’t really see the point until you start calling him various nicknames, and it kind of clicks in his head why people like it so much.

At some point you stop using them, thinking they make him uncomfortable, and he gets genuinely upset. He stumbles through a flustered explanation, where the bottomline is that withholding affection from him like that should be considered a crime, a description you laugh at, but take to heart. When you tell him that you simply assumed he was uncomfortable because he doesn’t call you anything in return, he grumbles about how assumptions are stupid and you should just ask him instead.

Still, Zenix knows it takes two to tango, and after that, he grows a bit more comfortable with nicknames. He tries out a bunch, but it’s mostly because he gets a kick out of your reactions.

In private, he likes to call you sexy, mostly as a joke. There is truth to it of course, he thinks you’re extremely attractive, but the word is just really funny to him. Plus, your flushed face is one hell of a bonus. He would never dare call you that in front of others, especially not Gene and Sasha, so that’s a prime opportunity to get revenge for whatever torment he puts you through.

Honorable mention; hot stuff is another one he might use, for the same reason.

Zenix also really likes to just refer to you as “mine”. He’s possessive, moreso out of insecurity than distrust, though he does find it difficult to put his faith in anyone - especially a romantic partner, which he struggles to admit. He needs a lot of reassurance, which sometimes just comes in the form of calling you his, and with you affirming.

Unironically (well, kind of) refers to you as his partner in crime. Both in private and with others; it’s not that sweet, sure, but it’s a nice middle ground for him when calling you more affectionate names seems so daunting, especially when others can hear. It kind of becomes your thing after a while, even if one day he grows comfortable enough to express his love for you differently.

Zane

He probably grew up with his parents calling each other all kinds of classy terms of endearment like honey, darling, love, and beloved, and I feel like that kind of carries over to him. In the beginning of the relationship at least. He has other nicknames he prefers to use later on.

Beloved is the one that always sticks. It’s simple, but carries a lot of meaning - literally referring to someone or something that is “dearly loved”. And that perfectly describes how he feels about you.

Zane is not the type to use many terms of endearment in public, if any at all. Not out of shyness, he’s just a pretty private person, and while he doesn’t mind PDA, he doesn’t see the need to flaunt everything about his relationship out in the open. He views terms of endearment as a pretty intimate thing by default, and while he doesn’t mind you using them in public (it makes him smile, honestly), he prefers to keep it to a minimum.

If this bothers you, he’ll use them in front of your friends a bit more often. He doesn’t want you to think that he doesn’t love you enough to show it in front of others.

In private, on the other hand? He’s a sucker for cute nicknames like muffin or pumpkin, both of which he uses a lot. As soon as the door shuts behind you two, he’s practically forgetting your given name in favor of those two. He prefers pumpkin, not for any particular reason. It’s also the one he defaults to when you’re upset. He’ll notice quite quickly, and move you to a quiet area, offering you a hug and mumbling “what’s wrong, pumpkin?” into your hair.

He’s not rapid-firing nicknames like Laurance is, but he’s quite close in the race. It’s just a simple way for him to remind you that he cares about you, something intimate he saves just for you. His family have heard him call you sweet things before (and they definitely enjoy this softer side of him), but he tries to keep it between the two of you.

Nicknames he uses less often, and definitely in a more teasing manner, are bunny or kitty, sometimes just pet. You would not catch him dead calling you any of these in front of anyone else, not even while completely wasted, but if you’re alone and he feels like teasing you? He’s pulling out all the stops.

Pet is one he especially uses when he’s trying to convince you to do something for him. Most of the time, it’s something mundane, like taking care of yourself properly - or making him a cup of tea because he’s too lazy to get up. He knows you can’t say say no when he uses just the right tone of voice, even if you’re cursing him as you stomp off to do whatever it is he said.

Hope you guys enjoyed!

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 6 days ago

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3: The House - Jack Abbot x reader (Life imitates art Series)

Summary: 5.6k words. Domestic moments & milestones in Jack’s happily ever after ❤️ Life imitates art Series masterlist

The Art: “My House” (1938) is an oil painting by Johanna W. Hailman (1871-1958), an artist from Pittsburgh, PA. The Carnegie Museum of Art houses several of her works. I really enjoyed researching Pittsburgh art and artists for this series. I highly recommend checking out her body of work.

Warnings: 18+ish content. Nothing too explicit, but mdni anyway please :) Age gap,, gen X, millennials, and gen Z are all catching strays. sorry :) colorful language, angst, fluff, everything in between.

a/n: So this might be my favorite thing I’ve ever written. I took my time with her and I maybe waxed poetic at certain points, but I really love this. I listened to “Unknown / Nth” by Hozier while writing this. do with that information what you please. Divider credit!

It isn’t long before you take the liberty of adding some zest to Doctor Abbot’s apartment. It looked like a barren bachelor pad. If it weren’t for the larger than necessary flat screen TV and luxe sofa, you might’ve compared it to a prison cell. It was bare bones, with an exposed ceiling and concrete floors—that was part of the appeal of the “historic” building Jack moved into. "Rustic”, the realtor had called it. Unfinished, Jack corrected in his mind. Nevertheless, Abbot moved in and paid more money than he ought’ve.

You start small. A throw blanket laid across the back of the couch. You claim it was one from your smaller apartment that you just happened to bring along. You don’t admit that you bought the blanket at a recent art market from a local knitting vendor with the specific intention of bringing it into Jack’s space.

Things really snowballed when Jack gave you a key to his apartment. He liked coming home to you and often invited you to sleep at his place when he worked. His apartment was in a safer neighborhood and he felt better knowing you weren’t sleeping alone at your apartment—despite the door chain, two comically large and loud locks, and the doorbell camera he installed for you.

A singular knitted throw blanket turned into multiple decorative pillows on his couch and king bed. One morning he came home to see a coffee and tea bar cart had been assembled in his kitchen, complete with more ornate mugs than either of you needed.

During a night shift, he got a text from you that made him pause.

23:14 How emotionally attached are you to the sanctity of your bare walls?

Oscillating bubbles danced at the bottom of his phone screen as you typed out another text.

23:15 Follow up question: If I were to have hypothetically nailed multiple holes in some hypothetical drywall and studs to hang some art on a hypothetical whim, would you be opposed? Should I patch it up with some plaster and paint and we can pretend we never had this conversation? Hypothetically?

Jack chuckled and received a not-so-subtle stare from the charge nurse. Since when is Doctor Abbot the type to look smitten at his phone so late on a weeknight?

The one thing you don’t touch in your decorating crusade is Jack’s medical journals. The organization system—or perhaps lack thereof—is beyond you. It makes no sense, and you’re honestly not sure if there is any rhyme or reason to it. You don’t want to add anymore chaos to Abbot’s life, even in the minute form of shuffled journals. Instead, you wordlessly placed thrifted book ends and trinkets on his book shelf, thinking he might take it upon himself to migrate the medical journals to the shelf himself.

He does, after you’ve gone to bed. There is an order to it, a method to the madness that is the array of journals, however not even Doctor King is likely to decipher it.

Jack eventually slipped under the covers next to you and pulled you close to his chest. He kissed your forehead and muttered a soft “thank you.” You don’t hear him in your deep slumber, but you did nuzzle closer to his warm body. Even in sleep, you gravitate toward his safe and steady figure.

One night, Robby came over to Abbot’s apartment for a post-shift beer when Pittsburgh’s winter made it too cold to sit outside in the park.

Robby eyed his surroundings. You’d clearly been here, blessing the walls with your touch as you went.

There’s a framed photo of Abbot and Robby displayed on the couch’s end table. Based on the frame’s ornate details, Michael seriously doubts that Jack had anything to do with it. Abbot has a good sense of humor, but he’s often otherwise cool and clinical. His style is… utilitarian. It was only recently that Robby noticed something other than a spare set of scrubs and some Advil in the night shift attending’s locker. A single 4x6 photo of Abbot and his girlfriend, taped to the inside of the cold metal door alongside a polaroid picture of you painting.

Robby smiles warmly at the framed photo in Abbot’s living room. You weren’t decorating to transform Jack’s apartment into your place, but rather, you hoped to make it a place that felt like home for him, complete with pictures of his closest friend.

It was a good look, both on the apartment and Doctor Abbot. The night shift attending was the happiest Robby had seen him in a long time.

You arrive at Jack’s apartment following an after hours private tour at the museum. It’s a few minutes past 8 when you show up. Jack and Robby are resting their weary bones in the couch’s plush cushions watching the puck drop of a Penguin’s hockey game when you waltz through the door. A few tiny snowflakes linger on your parka, the rest have since melted in your hair. Despite the below freezing temperature outside, you refuse to abandon your dresses, so you compromise with thermal flannel leggings underneath to preserve your warmth (at Jack’s gentle behest). Your boots aren’t nearly as functional as they are fashionable, but they get the job done until you strain to remove them at the door. Jack is just about to get up and help you before you resolutely tug the last one off, settling to your feet a few inches shorter than you were with the boots on.

“Hi Robby!” you greet as you round the back of the sofa, wordlessly pressing a soft kiss to Jack’s curls. You continue through the apartment toward the kitchen, mindlessly lighting a candle as you go.

“Tea, anyone?” you ask, pouring water into the kettle. You’re considerate not to distract from the game, even though you know Jack would’ve turned the TV off completely at the drop of a hat to give you his undivided attention.

“No, thank you,” Robby responds, your name warm and kind on his lips. “What a nice host.” His voice is soft, the compliment about you directed to Abbot. “Unlike someone…” he jokes, dodging a piece of popcorn Jack aimed at his head. There were many years Michael was left to fend for himself whenever he visited Jack’s apartment.

“You have two legs, you can walk to the damn fridge and get your own beer,” Abbot says pointedly, his eyes not leaving the flat screen TV.

“Touché,” Robby ceeds.

Jack left your apartment with no time to spare before his night shift. What was supposed to be a nap in your bed quickly evolved into something much more stimulating. He did eventually get some shut-eye with your naked form pulled against his after he took care of your worn-out body in the shower. Abbot supported your weight on his sturdy form when your legs were too shaky under the hot stream of water.

He was pleasantly aroused from his sleep when your featherlight touch morphed into your legs straddling his hips, challenging the “old man” to round 2. Unfortunately, quickies with Jack were never really quick. Hence, why he was tying the drawstrings of his pants as he jogged into the Pitt at 18:59.

You laid in bed, satiated after the evening’s activities. Just like you had left your mark on Jack’s apartment, evidence of him lingered in every room of yours. A quarter of the closet had been cleared out to make room for his stuff, though he insisted he really didn’t need that much space. Two drawers in your bedroom dresser served as the permanent residence of his essentials. Scrubs, socks, underwear, and his watch.

His watch.

Abbot never worked a shift and seldom left home without it. The tactical watch was set to 24-hour time and was outfitted with a 3-axis compass, LED flashlight, precise GPS coordination, and biometric tracking. It was a little over the top, in your opinion. There were very few situations you could fathom him needing a compass in the ED, as if he couldn’t navigate the halls blindfolded.

Jack didn’t really need the watch to get through this one shift. There’s large digital clocks in each trauma bay, and the nurses and residents around him are bound to have watches of their own. The med students would jump at the opportunity to tell him the time if needed.

Abbot doesn’t need much to survive. As long as he had a few MREs and his police scanner, he was set. His watch, though, was far up on the list of essentials.

You don’t think twice before getting out of bed and throwing on some clothes and fixing your hair; you want to at least look semi-presentable when you show up at the Pitt—not like you’d been freshly fucked within an inch of your life.

Jack didn’t have time to eat or pack food when he stumbled out of your apartment with his pants barely pulled up to his hips. You’re not sure what he calls the meal he scarfs down at 3 a.m., but the cafeteria certainly isn’t serving it at that hour. The food you whip up for him is a simple, quick dish. The sooner you and his watch get to him, the better. The food gets packed into pink tupperware and you slip a handwritten note alongside it in his lunch box. His watch is carefully tucked into your tote bag for safe keeping before you set off.

19:47 I’m on my way to the ER

In retrospect, you could have worded that text much better. Especially since your phone died right after you sent it to Jack.

Abbot doesn’t see the message until ten minutes after you sent it. He would’ve seen it sooner if the notification came through on his watch, he gripes internally. His blood runs cold when he squints enough to decipher the small text on his phone’s screen. Jack immediately calls you, but it goes straight to voicemail. Shit.

He’s instantly on edge, to the point where he brushes past an otherwise innocent med student who begins to ask him a question before they clam up at his shift in demeanor. Abbot’s head starts spinning as his mind goes to worst case scenarios. He’s an attending trauma physician, for Christ’s sake, but a seven word text has him ready to spin out.

Jack’s tunnel vision shifts to the Pitt’s internal lobby doors, where the triage RN calls his name as she leads someone toward him. He’s breathing heavily and he’s not masking his panic nearly as well as he hoped when you emerge from behind the nurse. The smile on your face quickly drops and turns to concern. Jack looks… unwell, for lack of a better term.

“Hey, honey,” you tread lightly. Abbot’s shoulders rise and fall unsteadily as his eyes rapidly dart over your unharmed body. The doctor grips your hand and drags you to a private area in the ED where he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. You squeak in surprise but ease into his hold nonetheless.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he mumbles into your hair, showing no signs of letting go soon.

“I- what?” you’re confused, eyebrows scrunched together as you lean back to assess him. Jack begrudgingly allows some distance, but his hands never leave your hips.

“I’m on my way to the ER?” He parrots back at you.

Oh. You wince. Poor choice of words is an understatement. You frown apologetically, before shifting your weight to your tip-toes, pressing a lingering kiss to his firm-lined lips and assuring him you’re okay. Jack sighs heavily and pulls you back into him, resting his chin atop your head. His breathing evens, syncing with yours, and you both relish in the quiet, though neither of you dares to utter the Q word out loud.

When Jack is back to his baseline—when he’s okay because he knows you’re okay—you clear your throat and poke at his taught obliques to get his attention.

“Before you get whisked away to a trauma, I brought you something.” You hold up the black lunchbox into his view and dig the watch out of your tote bag.

Jack smiles despite his settling anxiety.

To be loved is to be known.

He accepts both gratefully, securing the watch around his wrist in a few swift moments. He’s still not ready to let go of you, though he knows the tide of the Pitt will drag him back any minute now.

“You know, I much prefer it when you come here, not in a gurney,” Jack half-teases. You scoff.

“Funny you should say that, because I also like not experiencing a medical malfunction,” you poke back.

Two residents come running around the corner, searching for Doctor Abbot. He hesitates with you still loosely tucked into his side, but you gently push him toward the action with the promise that you’ll put his lunchbox in the employee lounge and you’ll see him at home.

A few weeks later, it’s Jack’s unscheduled turn to visit you at work. You meant to lend your copy of The French Revolution as Blasphemy to a coworker, Beth, in the thick of their masters program. Frustrated rifling through your tote bag proved that you had left the book at home. You begin to apologize to the woman, offering to bring it to her after work tonight, when Jack appears in your periphery. He smiles that boyish grin as he walks towards you. His limp is infinitesimal, barely noticeable to anyone but you. Hypocritically, you wonder when the last time he took a break from his prosthetic was.

Jack comes to a stop beside you with a paper bag of aromatic Union takeout in one hand and the exact art history book you left at home in the other. The doctor offers your coworker a polite smile and nod before his attention is back on you like a gravitational pull.

You’ve told him a few times that he has a staring problem.

“I saw it on the entryway table and I knew you meant to bring it in today,” Jack explains, raising the book in his hand as if it’s featherlight. “Besides, I was in the neighborhood,” he finishes with a kiss to your forehead and you lean into him instinctively. Your eyes flutter shut briefly before his words register and you pin him with a disbelieving look.

“No, you weren’t,” you call him on his bluff immediately. You know him, and you know that he should be sleeping right now after working a night shift.

“No, I wasn’t,” Jack admits quietly, a soft smile gracing his leathered, weathered face. “But I missed you, so who am I to pass up an opportunity,” (read: excuse) “to visit my beautiful girlfriend.” He seals the statement with another kiss to the crown of your head.

Beth looks on in awe. She doesn’t mean to intrude on a private moment, but she’s dumbfounded at the stunning specimen before her. You’ve mentioned your boyfriend, multiple times in fact, but she’d never actually seen him in the flesh, despite his frequent visits to the museum. Beth thinks that you also never mentioned that he’s a devilishly handsome silver fox that could make any woman with a competency kink weak in the knees.

A quiet cough from Beth pulls you back to your senses and manners. You introduce the two.

“Beth, this is Jack, my boyfriend. Jack, this is Beth, future museum director and my lovely coworker,” you smile kindly at the younger woman.

Beth sputters something that sounds like nice to meet you with a blush. You get it, you were her once too. Jack pretends not to notice her bashfulness and instead reaches out his hand to shake. He doesn’t comment on how clammy her palm is.

You can’t remember the last time you slept alone when Jack wasn’t working. The one year dating anniversary flew by and you looked forward to all the years with Jack to come. During one of your visits to the Pitt, a new nurse called you Mrs. Abbot and you didn’t correct her. It felt right.

Not too long after your anniversary, Jake mentioned going to some open houses.

“Like… real estate open houses? Like residential homes?” You laid the book you’d been immersed in for hours down on your lap, memorizing the page number and turning your full attention to your boyfriend.

Jack stood at the kitchen counter fidgeting with a mug of hot black coffee.

“Mmmhmm,” he confirmed around a sip. He’s trying to act casual, but you can sense the underlying hint of unease in his body language. He might be the doctor, but you had an unparalleled skill for assessing him. Abbot’s shoulders are tight, like he’s preparing for a rejection. As if his taut muscles will soften the blow. Your face softens and you patiently wait for him to continue.

“You and me. Looking at houses. To live in. Together.” He’s walking toward you now and he never breaks eye contact. That damn staring problem again. Jack has his plain coffee in one hand and a glass of your fancy iced latte in the other. He’s no barista, but he’s pretty damn close to perfecting your favorite home coffee recipe. You smiled wide at Jack. He thinks your cheeks might crack if they stay in that position much longer. Thankfully, you narrowly avoid it when you gently grip the collar of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss. Balancing two cups of coffee with his eyes closed as he leans into your sweet lips is a bit harrowing, but this isn’t his first rodeo, and he’s certain it won’t be the last.

“I’d love to,” you say it against his lips like a promise. When he reluctantly pulls away, he passes the iced latte to you and you take a sip, appraising his work. It’s perfect.

Two months later, you and Jack move into a two bed, two and a half bath home equidistant from the hospital and art museum. It’s a quaint brick home built in the 1960s; modernized enough for comfortable living with the home’s original character still preserved. Abbot doesn’t bat an eye when the real estate agent shares the list price. Meanwhile, you nearly sprayed a mouthful of water everywhere. The only place you’d personally seen a dollar amount so large was on your cancer treatment bills. It’s a significant change from Jack’s apartment’s open concept floor plan and vaulted ceilings, but as long as he got to share a bed with you, surrounded by nearly a dozen decorative pillows that you handpicked, he would be happy. It would feel like home.

When you first toured the home, it was more square feet than you knew what to do with—three times the footprint of your current “shoebox” apartment, as Jack called it. You quickly warm up to the layout when you note the abundant wall space, perfect for displaying art work.

The first order of business upon moving in—besides christening every surface—is building a new bookshelf to accommodate all the medical journals and art publications you could ever dream of owning. You and Jack were neck and neck tying for who had the most items of your respective academic interests claiming residence on the stained wooden shelves. The new ornate bookshelf proudly erected in the living room dwarfs the original one in your old apartment. It comfortably houses all of the reading material with room to grow.

Aside from your contributions to Jack’s previously bare bones bachelor pad, he doesn’t have much to contribute to the home’s interior. Before you, he didn’t spend much time there anyway; it was just a place to crash and bide time in between the borderline unhealthy amount of overtime shifts he picked up to keep himself busy. Abbot’s therapist informed him that simply not sleeping to avoid night terrors was not a healthy adaptive coping strategy.

The spare room of the new home is turned into your art studio. Robby and Abbot are careful to not disturb your supplies when they install a Murphy bed along the wall for when Michael inevitably stays over.

“Gone are the days when I can just cuddle up with you in bed after too many beers, brother,” Robby jokes as he passes a power drill to Abbot. Jack doesn’t find it funny nor does he laugh, but the deadpan look on his face makes you snicker as you walk past the room.

Real Housewives plays at a low volume on the TV opposite the foot of the master bedroom’s king bed at the end of the night. The his and hers closet doors had been removed from their hinges. A stained glass-inspired upcycle door project came to you in a fever dream, or maybe a targeted ad on pinterest. The two were one in the same, lately. Inside the closets your prosthetic leg stands side by side with Jack’s. The appendage with floral designs and pastel details contrasts Jack’s monotone prosthetic.

Abbot felt out of place in the big brand jewelry store. Most of the men in the store wore gaudy Rolex watches and flashy cufflinks, a far cry from his laidback style for a day date with you. This store is the first stop of however many it takes to find your engagement ring.

Apparently, there were taboos about a woman being directly involved in shopping for her own engagement ring. Reddit and Facebook users had a lot to say about the dos and don’ts of proposals, rings, and every other topic under the sun. None of the noise mattered to Jack though. Ultimately, he knew you would marry him regardless of what ring he proposed with, but he wanted it to be perfect. You deserve nothing less.

A sleazy salesman with greased back hair and a superiority complex approached the couple with a wolfish grin. As you spoke about ring styles you were interested in looking at, the man’s eyes never met yours. Instead, his gaze burned on your body, staring at places only Jack could touch.

You had to repeat yourself twice now to the salesman. Words were going in one dense ear, bouncing around his empty skull, and straight out the other. Abbot’s breaking point was when you leaned over the glass display case to look at a ring and the salesman used it as an opportunity to view your cleavage, complete with a pervy lip bite. Jack’s balled up fists remained steady by his side

The sharp click of Abbot’s tongue from the roof of his mouth got the salesman’s attention. The satisfied smirk on his face dropped at the deadly cold glare he received from Abbot. The two of you don’t stay in that store much longer.

“It’s a shame they didn’t have that many marquise cuts,” you said passively while looking up directions for the next jewelry store, not that Jack even needed them.

“Yeah. Shame.” Abbot’s jaw is clenched, but you know he’s not frustrated with you. You pressed a series of short and sweet kisses along his jawline, your fingers’ grip on his chin gentle but firm. You felt the tension leave his body in waves as you continued your ministrations. Your soft eyes meet his hard ones and he melts toward you in the middle. Jack understands all your unspoken words.

The next store offers better luck with the staff, but they don’t quite have what you’re looking for. Jack thinks he knows what you want. He’s seen your pinterest boards; he notices styles you eye curiously and others that you disregard. He knows you.

The third place is a bit of a hole in the wall. The antique store wasn’t on Jack’s mental itinerary of Pittsburgh’s jewelry store offerings, but your gasp at the eye-catching OPEN sign had Jack pulling a u-turn and parking the truck before you could even ask to stop.

“Maggie’s” is a local mom-and-pop vintage shop, owned by a husband and wife nearing retirement. You float through the aisles with Jack on your tail. The treasure trove of homewares and art long forgotten made you forget why you walked into the store in the first place until you came upon a glass jewelry case. In the very center sat an elegant ring—a sturdy but simple gold band supporting a two carat marquise diamond surrounded by smaller colorful stones—perfectly illuminated by the store’s sparse soft yellow lighting. It looks like a spotlight and feels like a sign.

Jack feels you squeeze his palm and he knows this is your ring before his eyes even meet the kind, tender gaze you share with him.

Doctor Abbot takes some uncharacteristic PTO and whisks you away to Nowhere, Pennsylvania for New Year’s weekend. The quiet rural cabin is far from fireworks that might trigger Abbot. It’s a picturesque place where the two of you can just be. The stars have never looked brighter.

There’s no cell service or GPS way out yonder. Halfway into the drive, when four bars of cell service dwindle to one, Jack pulls an atlas and a handful of folded paper maps from the truck’s glove box in front of you. His eyes flicker between the two lane road traveled only by the two of you and the stack of maps until he finds the one he needs.

CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA. One of the map’s edges has curled into itself. Symmetrical scored indents from the map’s folded position expand across the surface. The ink isn’t as vivid as when it was first printed, faded by time and use, but it still gets the job done.

“Honey… what’s this?” You ask, eyeing the materials splayed on your lap.

“A map.” Jack states it matter of factly, offering no further explanation before returning his calloused palm to your inner thigh.

“What, like from the 1900s?” Your side-eye becomes a full body rotation to stare at Jack across the truck’s bench seat. He pinches the skin of your thigh and you yelp, not expecting the harmless sting.

“Don’t act like your birth year doesn’t also start with ‘19’,” Abbot pokes, placing emphasis on the number. At this point in your relationship, he’s long gotten over any insecurity about the age gap, but that didn’t mean you weren’t still going to have fun calling him archaic.

“Barely,” you mutter with your face scrunched. Caught in between millennials and gen z, you’re equally intrigued and disturbed by whatever the fuck is wrong with both generations.

The winter weather is forgiving enough to allow you to enjoy fireside s’mores under the stars as the clock winds closer to midnight.

Your head rests on Jack’s lap beside the campfire he built by hand. Your mind drifts to visions of him that afternoon prepping. You offered to help him carry the firewood, but Abbot scoffed at the insinuation, as if he was offended you suggested lifting a finger. You can give it as good as you can take it, so he compromises by allowing you to carry the box of matches. In retrospect, it’s a good thing you weren’t holding 20 pounds of firewood anyway, because you can’t tear your eyes away from how Jack’s arms flex as he carries the load from the cabin’s shed to the stone firepit. Watching Jack build the fire was hot, even with the windchill. Your man was good with his hands—something you were well aware of, but it didn’t hurt to see it in action. Abbot positioned the firewood to a tipi position over kindling interwoven between the larger blocks before gratefully accepting a few matches from you. Jack was an eagle scout before he entered the military, but both ensured his fires were flawless. You’re certain you’ll smell the smoke in your hair tomorrow morning, but it will have been well worth it.

At 23:57, Jack’s thigh twitches and shifts underneath you. You hum softly, eyes still trained on the sky with Jack’s warm hand still encapsulating your smaller, colder fingers. Out here, there’s no light pollution—just you and Jack, endless trees, the aromatic expertly-built fire, and stars. So many stars. You see constellations that otherwise could’ve been disregarded as fictional if you’d never seen them like this.

Abbot clears his throat and says your name. Not honey, or love, or sweetheart, or baby. The depth of love in Jack’s eyes, his tender stare and gentle hold of your bundled body let you know that this is it.

You knew the proposal was coming, obviously. You picked the ring out yourself.

As the holiday season winded to a close, you never pushed Jack or asked him when he’d finally pop the question. Abbot would ask when the time was right. You trusted him implicitly, and this was no exception.

Once, he came home to you watching a Hallmark movie, half-asleep with an empty mug of peppermint hot chocolate balanced on your abdomen. The first of many throw blankets you introduced to his home was draped over you, pulled down just far enough to offer a view of your festive sweater. Doctor Abbot’s night shift nurses kindly gifted you a custom pullover for the Pitt’s ugly holiday sweater party. The deep navy blue sweatshirt was covered in multicolor snowflakes with cut-outs of Abbot’s face sprinkled across the fabric. Jack isn’t even sure where they got the picture from, but it quickly became your favorite piece in your ever-expanding wardrobe.

The film played on a low volume as the predictable corny ending scene wrapped up. The ridiculously attractive lumberjack proposed to the business woman who swore she’d never leave the city, in front of a Christmas tree farm with a beautiful ring. Not as beautiful as yours, though.

Abbot admired the scene for a minute—the film, you sleeping soundly, and his winter wonderland of a living room—before he carefully scooped you up and carried you to bed where he knew you’d rest much more comfortably.

Soon, he promised with a kiss to your temple.

Jack carefully shifts you off his leg, cradling your head with care. He supports you to stand, and you hold his hands while he settles down on one knee. Jack’s eyes are watery before he’s even begun his speech. They match the happy tears on your waterline. Your smile is wobbly, and you’re trying your hardest to be patient. Abbot worked on his speech for a long time; like the ring, it needed to be perfect.

Abbot’s speech is beautiful. For a moment, you forget how cold it is. You can only focus on Jack, handsome as ever, kneeling on one knee, extending the ring you picked out together as the winter’s wind blows embers through the night.

The fire illuminates the marquise stone and the jewelry box’s soft light highlights the smaller complementing stones. On the inside of the gold band, there’s a date engraved on the ring that wasn’t there before at Maggie’s. In small script, the day of your first date is followed by a heart. It looks exactly like Jack’s scrawly handwriting.

When you say yes—because of course you do. Yes a million times over, in every universe and lifetime with Jack—he wastes no time slipping the band on your left ring finger. The fit is perfect, and it clings to your finger like it has always belonged there, like it just found its home.

It’s midnight now. A new year, a new ring, embraced with a kiss.

Abbot would be more than happy to find Nowhere, Pennsylvania’s nearest courthouse on New Year’s day and get married right then and there, but he knows you dream of something different.

A late Spring wedding with a small ceremony at the botanical gardens. The Phipps Conservatory and Botanical Gardens wedding venues are booked out over a year in advance, but you know a guy who does event planning for the Carnegie Museum of Art and Phipps.

In May, you walk down the aisle in an elegant white gown that drapes just shy of kissing the nearby florals. Detached ornate tulle sleeves match your veil; the veil’s dainty beaded edges complement the dress’s embroidered bust and train.

Jack has never been happier, he thinks as a tear streams down his cheek before you’ve even met him at the altar. On his wedding day, he traded his black scrubs for a light navy blue three-piece suit. Doctor Jack Abbot is your something blue.

For the wedding reception, you host close family and friends in the house’s backyard.

Abbot was on a first name basis with many local hardware and home improvement store employees after his numerous trips in early Spring to revive the yard from Pittsburgh’s winter. Thriving raised garden beds lined the back perimeter of the yard, serving as a picturesque backdrop for the stone fire pit Jack built. You helped by ogling him as he worked from the porch with a glass of lemonade in hand.

The stringed lights above the garden illuminate your loved ones, along with the blazing fire, built with ashes from New Year’s eve. The first dance flows into several songs played by a string quartet (your biggest splurge for the wedding). Jack holds you in his arms like you’re the center of his universe while you sway together as husband and wife.

The next day, you and Jack are on a flight to Europe for a three week honeymoon. Jack handed a gate agent boarding passes with your new last name on it and you couldn’t help but smile.

Abbot looks pretty damn good on your passport.

a/n 2: Growing up, my Girl Scout troop had this campfire tradition; We saved ashes from each campfire and would dump them into the next one, so each fire burned with ashes of all the ones that came before it. I like to think that Jack and his wife have that tradition with the ashes from their New Year’s Eve fire.

Comments, asks, reblogs, feedback, etc. mean the world to me!! Please share your thoughts & feelings mwah ❤️

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rabotimagines · 2 months ago

Note

Okay so my brain has officially short circuited after reading your Jazz x Reader fic… So good…

May I request a prompt somewhat similar? Like a Decepticon reader who has been captured by the Autobots and puts their cute frame to use to flirt, canoodle… (maybe something more? 👀) their self out of their situation? Maybe with Bumblebee or Prowl? :3

I don't think either of them would go for it, but it would certainly be fun to sexually harass them a bit as a Con.

"Shameless" Gn BOT Reader x Bumblebee, Prowl [Smut Scenario]

Summary: Flirty con reader sexually harasses Bumblebee and Prowl.

G1 characters: Bumblebee, Prowl, (Ironhide has some little moments too.)

Genre/Theme: smut scenario 🔞

Warnings: Sexual harassment, Con Reader cranks it in the middle of the Autobot brig, Ironhide threatening reader at the start

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours, them, they, their

Notes: Shameless flirty con Reader, Readers playful and a bit of a slag starter, Reader calls Bumblebee "Honeybee", Made as a Part 2 of this in mind, Con Reader tries to goad Prowl into a hate frag

"Where's the artifact?" Ironhides hard unmoving expression met yours. His digit pads clenching your jaw so hard they risked imprinting their marks.

Your servos hovered over the electrified bars of the Autobot brig. Ironhides grip, forcing your faceplate almost right against them. You could feel the heat of the high voltage electricity ghosting along the metal of your face. But you still just worried your expression alongside your smile. Knowing sparkdamn well how mad Ironhide would get from just the little look alone. "Sorry, but I don't have a clue what my fellow cons decided to do with it. Maybe dial up ol' Megatron and ask if he's up to share?"

Ironhide's engine growls, and you can't help smiling just a touch more over the reaction. Which only makes Ironhides expression darken further. He's so easy to play with that you can't help your em field wanting to flex out and taunt him even further.

"Ironhide, release them." Prowls voice cuts through your staring contest and makes you both glance at the tactician. The Honeybee trailing along behind him as he walks over to you two. Prowl's servos are behind his own back and he seems very unconcerned about the entire thing. Ironhide makes optical contact with Prowl, and he still does not release you.

They hold their gazes like that until Ironhide finally scoffs and throws you back a touch, his digits finally leaving your frame. "Fine. Better have a good interrogation method ready for them."

You just massage the metal of your jaw, your digits rubbing over the slightly indented marks Ironhide left behind. "Aw, big bad Autobot passing the responsibility of the prisoner? Ironhide, I'm hurt. I thought we had something." Ironhide whips around, rage now reignited on his faceplate. His mouth opens, no doubt about to rip into you again, his plating tightening down on his own frame. But you also notice how his optics are just a smidgen brighter. For an old mech, Ironhide really can be quite cute. Especially when he's all flustered like that.

"Ironhide." Prowl's voice cuts through again, and Ironhide stops himself short.

Ironhide shuts his mouth with an audible clunk and points a digit through the electrified bars. "You better behave your sorry sparkdamn self or I'll come back in here and put you back in your fragging place, con."

You only wrapped your arms around yourself in an exaggerated fashion. "I'm shaking in my plating."

Delight curls in you when Ironhides gaze sharpens even further. But he finally just huffs and turns to march out of the brig.

Once he's gone, Prowl evaluates you with a critical gaze. You only impassively meet his stare before he broke it to look at the Honeybee. "Bumblebee." The scout jumped and snapped his gaze from you to his superior. "Report any instances of the prisoner acting up."

"I'm on it, Prowl." With that, Prowl gave one last glance towards you and then turned to leave.

Your gaze moved from Prowls doorwings to the Honeybee when the door automatically closed behind him. He jumped a second time when your optics met for a nano-klick. He then stood up straighter and broke his gaze to glare at the wall. Trying very hard to look tough and uninterested.

His optics already brighter than they should be and his servos almost as tight as his plating.

Oh... this would be fun.

Maybe you could convince the scout of a little... exchange. Or at least you might be able to scare him off of his post.

Bumblebee drummed his digits on his own gauntlet, trying very hard not to let himself focus on you. He just managed to acknowledge the fact he thought you were hot. He didn't need to be guarding you right now. Bumblebee was already embarrassed enough being attracted to a Decepticon. He didn't wanna be in charge of exactly that Decepticon prisoner. It had been a few klicks, and you hadn't said anything, so Bumblebee thought just maybe you'd keep quiet through his shift.

"Hey, Honeybee." Your voice immediately shatters that hope. Bumblebee's plating that had relaxed clamped back down on itself at the sound of your voice. Bumblebee tries to steel himself so he can prepare for whatever you were gonna say to him.

"Honeybee." You hummed, your tone so much sweeter than Bumblebee knew you were. "I know your audials work. Don't ignore me now."

Bumblebee finally looks up at you and sees you close to the bars staring right at him. "What?" He asks purposely keeping his words short.

You are completely unbothered by his curt attitude. You actually smile a bit more when he responds, and Bumblebee has to tamper down his engine so it doesn't start softly purring. "Wanna make my stay and your boring shift a little bit more... interesting?" Bumblebee cycles his optics at the question.

Did you want to... actually talk to him?

Bumblebee frowns at the thought, not letting himself get caught up in his own cyberpuppy crush. There was no telling what you were actually doing this for. Bumblebee knew what kind of bot you were first- and that was a Decepticon. So he cautiously picks his words and doesn't let his optics leave your frame. "What kind of interesting?"

You smile and uncross your arms, one of your servos reaching down and- "Wanna interface?" Your digits dragged over the cusp of your modesty panel.

Bumblebee's optics rapidly cycle multiple times as he stares at you, still dragging digits over your own modesty panel teasingly- Bumblebee rather violently snaps out of his daze when your servo full on cups your closed panel. "No- no! You're our prisoner! I'm not gonna- No!" Bumblebee can't stop his vocalizor from pitching higher even when you obviously find his reaction funny.

Bumblebee forcibly clears his vocalizot and gets himself back together. "No." He repeats and hardens his expression to glare at you impassively. This was a trick. You were messing with him. Messing with him because you thought it was funny! So Bumblebee stands firm while he meets your gaze, daring you to say something else...

And you do "Alright fine, suit yourself, Honeybee. I'll just take care of myself then." You turn on your pede and make your way to the brigs uncomfortable recharge slab and sit down on it.

Bumblebee huffs a bit.

He was kind of proud he didn't break away from your gaze first.

Bumblebee's optics snap open wide when he watches you casually spread your legs out and snap your modesty panel back in one motion. "Uh-!" Bumblebee starts, and he can't finish because he's now suddenly stuck staring right at your valve.

"Enjoy the show then, Honeybee." Bumblebee's optics snap back up, and he watches as your servos drag along the grooves of your own plating. Your digits now dragging along the sensitive inner dips were your plating meets. A soft set of sighs dragging out of you every continued touch you'd feel of yourself.

Bumblebee watches mouth agape when your servos slowly dragged from your collar all the way down to your array.

Bumblebee's jaw clamps shut when he sees your now active array.

Your spikes pressurized and twitching heavy on your own frame. Your digits then rub over the mesh of your own valve tentatively. "You can still join if you want to Honeybee." Bumblebees optics snap back up to your faceplate- and he has the break away first this time when you smile at him. His gaze unwillingly shoots back down to your array when he catches movement, and he watches you start by immediately sliding two of your digits into yourself. Your valve obediently opens under your own prodding- the rim of your hole stretching around your own digits. And Bumblebee's mouth goes utterly dry.

Your other servo wraps around your spike, and you indifferently start to stroke yourself off. Pace unbothered but digit pads making sure drag along the girth and shape of your own spike every continued stroke up and down. You groan loudly under the stimulation and Bumblebee's own array starts twinging with obvious sudden interest.

Your thighs spread farther apart, and Bumblebee watches when your digits sink down to your knuckle. The wet sound of your own lubricant punctuated the act, and Bumblebee has to swallow down the needy sound that almost escapes his vocalizor. You huff a laugh and let your frame stretch out even further. Your plating laxing more makes the sensitive seams peak out even further for Bumblebee to look at. Your open thighs very much a clear invitation for Bumblebee to cozy himself between them-

No- no no no! Bumblebee shakes his helm and has to force his gaze away from you. He wouldn't-! Bumblebee needed to leave. No, he couldn't- he's supposed to be your guard and just watch you!

So Bumblebee slack jawed watches as your pelvis arches off of the recharge slab into your own servos. Your spike is starting to leak pre lubricant all over your own plating. You moan openly, and the sound is followed by Bumblebee's spike hitting the front of his modesty panel.

Bumblebee was supposed to report you acting up- he could report you acting up! Yup! Bumblebee was doing that! Right fragging now-! Bumblebee physically puts his servo up so he won't feel tempted to steal another glance while he rapidly dials Prowls Com.

Prowl answers Bumblebee's com call with an impassive nod. His optics are still trailing along his datapad. "Bumblebee."

"Prowl! Uh-!" The noticeably higher pitch in Bumblebees' voice immediately has all of Prowl's attention turning towards the conversation. "Um- the prisoner! They're uh-" Prowl quickly stands at the mention of you coupled with Bumblebee's obviously flustered state. He's opening Red Alerts Com in his backlog, noting how there was no message about you escaping or acting up. Prowl moves to start heading towards the brig preemptively. "They're um-!"

"Bumblebee, have they made any attempt to escape?" Prowl prods as he makes his way out of his office.

"Prowl they're self servicing-!" Prowl stops in his place, his sensor panels flicking upwards when he processes the statement.

Prowl resists the urge to sigh and quickens his pace. "I'll be right there, Bumblebee."

...

Prowl did not believe you would still be doing exactly what Bumblebee said you were when he actually got there. But low and behold you were.

Prowl has to suppress his optical ridge twitching at the sight of your thighs spread wide and your very active array out on open display. "Prowl!" Bumblebee exclaims at the sight of him, and Prowl can only note how bright Bumblebee's optics were. If Bumblebee had door wings, Prowl imagined they would be hiked up as far as they possibly could go.

"Bumblebee, you're relieved of the rest of your shift."

A look of surprise passes over Bumblebee's faceplate before he glances at you when you make a rather loud noise. "Ah- ha right- bye!" With that, Bumblebee rushes out of the door, leaving you and Prowl alone in the brig.

The sound of the door shutting behind Bumblebee makes your helm raise and your servos pull away from your array. You make optic contact with Prowl, and he does not bother to hide the unimpressed expression on his faceplate. "Aw, Honeybee got scared away?" You smiled clearly amused. "Even when I offered him the chance to join..." Prowl's wings twitch at the casual admission.

Prowl sighed and clicked his glossia. "Your abhorrent behavior is bothering our Autobots. Cease immediately."

Like he'd expected your derma just quirked upwards at his demand. "Or what, pudding?" You're servos trail down the dips of your hips till they were resting on your array. "Gonna come in here and punish me, maybe? Oh no... whatever shall I do...?" One of your servos finds your spike again, and you begun stroking up and down your own length.

Prowl can feel his annoyance flair and become genuine anger for a nano-klick, and he half imagines doing just that. And when his logic center tries to calculate the easiest way he could get a hold of you, he dismisses the numbers, and he smothers it back down. '

Prowl's optics flick down at your hard spike that's spilling pre lubricant all over your own fist. Then, towards your valve, which you currently weren't touching but was definitely lubricating under your own administrations.

His optics flick back up and your smile sharpens a touch. Prowl's plating tightens slightly on himself, having been caught leering for the quick moment. However Prowl holds his gaze with your own.

Prowl wouldn't allow you to get to him.

"What? Too shy to come in and join? I didn't take you for the type, Prowl."

"You're our prisoner, and no type of fraternizing will take place while you're in our care." Prowl's tone is clipped and short. He can feel the urge to say more on the tip of his glossia. But he also knew better than to give into your obvious attempts to off kilter and anger him.

"What? Not much of a spike mech?" Your servos both dip low, and the movement makes him glance- and Prowl wordlessly watches you spread your own valve mesh. Prowl has to resist the urge to swallow when he physically sees you clench down on nothing. Prowl lately registers his door wings raising a bit higher, and he forces them back downwards immediately. Unfortunately, you'd noticed the slight reaction before he had. "Oh, so you are more of a valve, mech. Noted."

Prowl ignored your remark for the sake of his own sanity. "I will ask you again to cease your inappropriate behavior while in our brig."

"What? C'mon, I'm dripping over here. Come in here and spike me, Prowl." You pushed two digits into your valve with a wet sound. Your other servo still on the side of your valve and still parting your mesh. Showing Prowl how you would clench down on your own digits. "I'll even let you overload inside me if you let me out afterwards. You were an enforcer before, right? I doubt this would be the first time you've ever traded an overload for a softer sentence."

The very bold assessment you'd made of Prowl's character snaps him out of his thoughts and drags his temper back to the forefront of his processor.

You were trying to escape. Not only escape, you were trying to offer sexual favors to get yourself out of your imprisonment. And you would accuse Prowl of- extorting those he's arrested for sexual gratification? Prowl's door wings slant, and his frown deepened into a scowl. "I have done no such thing, and I will never do any such thing as the gross miss use of power you are describing."

"You expect me to believe that? Really? A dirty enforcer like yourself?" You fisted your spike again and started stroking yourself while thrusting your digits into your own valve. "I bet you even fantasize about using those stasis cuffs of yours on cons like me! Ha, while imagining yourself punishing us like the dirty criminals we are." Prowl's mouth goes dry, and disbelieving outrage floods his system alongside the hot burn of shame. Prowl didn't know how you guessed his sins correctly, but frankly, he does not care.

Prowl's wings slant further, and he can't stop himself from disparaging you at least a bit. "You are a filthy pervert. Self-servicing in front of Bumblebee with no regard to anyone else around you. You have no dignity, and it's a wonder how none of your allies have killed you yet for your personality alone."

"Oh yeah?" The amusement in your tone only makes Prowl's anger flicker higher. Your servos are still working your array, and Prowl can feel the current heat in his chassis try and burn in a different way. The utterly immoral emotion easily wants to join Prowl's rage and settle in like it was meant to be there.

Prowl's optics narrow, and he can't stop his own glare or his glossia. "You're nothing more than a sexual deviant-! A deprived criminal who can only derive joy from the most dissolute forms of interaction." Prowl's engine tappers off a rev and he forces it to still as he continues. "You are unprincipled, selfish, abhorrent, and-"

"Keep going! I'm almost there-!" You urge Prowl on a smug satisfied smile curling at your derma. Prowl's door wings snap high, and his optics widened when he processed what you'd just said.

Arousal trickled up Prowl's chassis swift to settle in alongside his immediate disgust.

Prowl was compromised by his attraction towards you.

He's leaving. Prowl was leaving right at this very moment.

Without giving you another word, Prowl turns on a pede and makes his way out of brig. "Aw, Prowl, you're no fun-!" The door shutting behind him cuts your words off. Prowl had to allow himself a moment to vent. The frustration and the sexual energy fizzling down further and further in the back of his own frame.

Prowl instinctively checks his com when he gets a message.

Ironhide had messaged Prowls com saying if he needed to come teach you a lesson, Ironhide would do it at Prowl's command. Prowl promptly dismissed the message. Prowl knew Ironhide of all mechs was not who he wanted in charge of you in the brig right now. He'd seen you get into it with one another recently on the battlefield. And frankly, your encounters could be so sexually charged nowadays, Prowl was surprised that Ironhide hadn't broken code already.

No, Prowl needed someone who would not fall prey to your flirtatious advances and / or fall for your goading comments.

... it may take him a few klicks to find who he's going to subjugate you onto and also swap schedules around to give whoever that is the time to do that.

Red Alert cycled his optics and stared slack jawed at the monitor in front of him. You-! this was a trick- it had to be a trick-! But the longer he watched you self-service in the brig even after Prowl left had him uncertain. Red Alert then wordlessly watches you overload all over yourself with a loud groan. Transfluid spilling out of your spike and your own thighs closing around your own servo.

And then his jaw clamps shut when you move to continue touching yourself.

"Again!?" Red alert jumped out of his chair with a panicked shout at the voice to his right suddenly speaking. Red Alert's optics burned, and his helm is sparking when he makes frazzled optic contact with Trailbreaker.

"Red, I ain't exactly against the voyeurism, but you might wanna turn the volume down." Inferno on his left makes Red Alert whip his helm around. "I think anyone in the hallway can hear them from the monitor."

"Voyeurism!? It's not-! no its-" Red Alert fumbled and stared back at the screen of you working yourself to yet another overload. Trailbreaker and Inferno were both staring at the visual of you alongside him.

Oh, this was-! Frag! Red Alert turned the monitor off with a curse. The camera feed was still recording just- if you were up to something, he could review it later, Primus! Red Alert scrubbed his servos over his faceplate, his helm sensors still spitting static. Trailbreaker laughed softly on his right, and Inferno awkwardly patted his pauldron on his left.

You smirked when Soundwave pinged your com to tell you he shut the camera feed off. You pulled your servos off of yourself and stood up from the slab. You slipped your servo into one of the hidden physical storage areas you had on your frame and pulled out the human gem you'd been hiding from the Autobots. You pinged Soundwave and told him you were ready to hand it off.

The far away vent in the brig rattled and opened, and Ravage dropped down onto the floor with a barely audible noise. He stalked forward and stopped dead in his tracks, staring at you.

Oh, right, your spike and valve were still just out.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I needed a way to get them to leave and turn the cameras off. They're such prudes- don't y'know?" Ravage made a chuffed sound that you couldn't take as anything else but a scoff. You bent down and stuck your servo through the bars, letting Ravage take the gem in his jaws before standing back up. "Tell Soundwave he's not gonna be able to black mail me on this. I do not care." You didn't bother trying to cover up since Ravage already had enough of an optic full that there was frankly no point.

Ravage raised his helm and continued to leer at you. You arched a brow and smirked. "Pervert."

Your com pinging with a message again makes you glance at it.

> Takes one to know one.

You huffed a laugh.

He had a point. "Touche."

As Ravage made his way back out of the brig, you made yours back to the slab. Wondering if you should fantasize about the Honeybee or that sour Enforcer of yours.

...

Maybe you could think about them both. No harm in that little fantasy now was there?

#transformers x reader #transformers x cybertronian reader #transformers x y/n #x reader #rabot writes #valveplug #prowl x reader #bumblebee x reader #rabot requests

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