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crying-wolves · 29 days ago

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🆃🅷🅴 🅰🅽🅸🅼🅰🅻🆂.

(peer mentor!ex-prisoner!vi x masc!prisoner!reader)

PART ONE

synopsis: the consequences of your chaotic past have finally landed you in Piltover's finest Correctional Facility. Too bad you can't even atone for your sins in peace without seeing some very familiar, very unwelcome faces.

cw for part one: prison 😔, only sorta-kinda proofread, lots and lots of cussing, afab reader, masc!reader, reader is kind of a pessimist. and a little mean. she went through a lot. running from the cops, the slightest sliver of sexual tension, MDNI!!!!, discussions of crime, dr*gs, alc*hol, all that fun stuff, backstory exposition, let me know if i missed anything!

a/n: this is gonna be multi-chapter (around 5 parts) because it feels better to me this way! the second chapter will be out before next week! pls enjoy <3

likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated :)

Time.

Sweet, sticky, oozing, glorious time.

It’s funny. When you were still a kid—

Well, kid is kind of an overstatement, but you were definitely reckless enough to feel like one. Wind in your face, light in your eyes. All that good stuff. Everyone around you said you were just a touch too restless. A little overboard with your idea of fun.

It was almost as if there weren’t enough seconds in a lifetime to get to everything you wanted to do.

And you wanted to do everything. Sex, drugs, booze, petty crime, not-so-petty crime—The list went on and on and on and on, and then it got longer.

And then, quite suddenly, actually, you didn’t feel like such a kid anymore.

Soon, you were well into your twenties.

a newly-lit angry flame in your chest,

a whole lot more restless energy,

and a shiny court order issued for you to pay for the consequences of your childish actions.

Now, shoved into the corner of four thick stone walls with 58 and a half more months to go, all you have is time.

And nothing has ever felt like less of a comfort.

It’s an uncharacteristically humid day when you see her again. The other prisoners are groaning about the busted ACs and barred windows, claiming that they’re being roasted alive every minute they’re forced to spend in these conditions, and if you weren’t so concerned with folding each individual page of a shitty magazine you’d found into jumbo fortune tellers, then you would be right there with them. But, you know, important task at hand and all.

You’re on your 15th glossy sheet when a heavy fist raps against your cell door, startling the plush paper out of your hands, and your contraband scissors clattering to the floor.

“Fuck…one second!” you hissed out, trying to tape the tiny shears to the bottom of your crackling toilet’s seat. It’s usually the best hiding spot one can find in this overglorified bird cage. The guards who usually commence the daily room checks, Officers Harold and Steb, tend to overlook the rather obvious placement, choosing to believe in the all-forgiving power of ‘feminine rehabilitation’. As long as you bat those pretty eyes and send a half-assed smile over their way, they’ll depart from your space with little trouble, whistling cheerily and trusting in the innate goodness of women who are simply ‘down on their luck’.

If they found out about half the shit the other inmates were smuggling in, whether it be hidden under porcelain seats or shoved up some secret orifice, they’d have a serious bitchfit.

The door swings open after a great deal of hustling and bustling on your end. Flashlights and clickers bombard your senses like noisy fireflies, and for some reason, Harold is grinning at you like he’s won the lottery five times over.

“There is a very special assembly being held today for you C-block girls. Report to the East chapel in 30 minutes! You don’t wanna miss it!”

He’s always excited about things like this. Fundraisers, kickball, bonding activities. Whatever gets the girls together, possibly even enjoying themselves for an hour or two, lights his wrinkled little face up like a Christmas tree. It’s hard, you admit, not to find his hopefulness endearing. Sometimes, at least.

You bare your teeth sweetly, corners of the mouth pointing upwards as politely as can be managed.

“Sounds like a whole lotta fun, sir, but I was planning on a cozy day in, you know? Window watching…ceiling observing. Can’t put those off.”

He pouts, actually pouts, at your negative response. For a moment, you think Steb is going to have to talk him down from crying.

“Oh nonsense! Nonsense!” he exclaims, waving his pudgy hands in the air to ease himself. “We’ve set up fans and opened alllll of the windows. It’ll be a great big treat Besides, inmate, it would be rude when our special guest has come alllll this way just to speak to you lot!”

He turns on his heel away from you, motions for Steb to follow in step into the hallway.

“30 minutes! Nothing more, inmates!”

The door slams shut, leaving you to stew in frustration without the prying eyes of happy-go-lucky correctional officers.

You wonder, for a brief moment, if there’s enough time to grab the scissors from your hiding place and offer it up to Harold for a one-way ticket to solitary confinement, but you decide against it. Who knows what this special assembly will bring out of the other women?

A full 47 minutes pass by before you find yourself in the East chapel, Officer Harold clicking his teeth in disappointment at your tardiness. But when that sweet breeze of electric fans and breathable air hit you in the face, you wish you had arrived sooner. Especially when your eyes fall on the last available seat: one smack-down in the middle of the front row. Of course.

You shove your hands into the pockets of your dark blue jumpsuit, settling into the surprisingly comfortable flip-out chair that’s a hair’s breadth away from the altar. Every single person seems to be talking over each other, new voices add themselves sporadically into the mix, gossiping excitedly about the same old things that always happen in this place.

“Did’ya hear Nolan’s getting out on good behavior next week? what a fuckin’ kissass? I’d break her face if it didn't mean God knows how long in the hole…”

“You’ll never guess who I saw sucking face with a guard while waiting in the commissary line. Some of these girls’ll do anything for a freebie, I swear…"

It almost reminds you of a high school cafeteria. Nothing but low jabs and cruel chatter.

“Apparently, they flew her in from Zaun…she’s this ex-convict who got out of a murder charge ‘cause the judge says she’s got ‘good character’ or something. Can you believe it! I’ve got fan-tas-tic character and I’m still stuck in this hell for another 40 years…”

That certainly peaks your attention…

…because there aren’t many people, especially, many people from the Undercity of all places, who go before the hallowed Piltover court with a charge like that and just get to walk free.

And considering the fact that you were born and raised in Zaun, growing up with kids who had also spent their free time chasing the next new thrill until ultimately getting caught, it may not be a stretch to say that you could, possibly, recognize this speaker.

It isn’t until you catch a flash of electric pink hair, a silver sparkle atop thick raised eyebrows that your heart drops to your ass.

Violet fuckin’ Lanes.

In all her flesh and glory.

Janna, even the way she struts to the podium pisses you off.

Her boots hit the ground like some magic megaphone, somehow commanding the attention of each and every eye in the room. The inmates stare, like wild animals trailing a new addition to an already tight knit pack. It’s different, though. There’s none of the whistling or lewd comments that usually accompany the arrival of a new prisoner, but the captivated silence that falls over the crowd when she smirks their way makes you wish she was in uniform like everyone else was.

Some regard her with disdain, invisible daggers shooting from their eyes right between her charmingly crooked smile. Others are practically leaning into the spinning fans that litter the scenery, trying to catch themselves from swooning so openly in front of her.

You can’t say either reaction is unexpected. You two do have a particularly troubled connection, after all.

Violet had introduced herself to you as ‘Vi’ after some enforcers shut down a crazy house party you were both attending. Bottles were being thrown all over the place, people had been dragged out by their arms and legs. You took this as a sign to get the fuck outta dodge.

When the pink-haired girl had caught up to you, pretty easily, you might add, she was already talking your ear off. Inviting you to a different party just a few blocks away, asking if the dying cigarette hanging from your lips was up for grabs, listing off every situation in which she’s had to book it to keep from getting locked up (this was the 6th time in the last three weeks), all without faltering in speed or running out of breath. It was impressive, for sure.

She led you straight to that party she was gabbing about. Some stuffy abandoned warehouse spinning with heavy smoke and even heavier music. Vi hauled you into the center of the heady disarray and pulled you in as close as she could.

“Dancing’s always more fun when your eardrums are about to pop right out of your skull.” she’d told you.

And you smiled at her. Honest full-face-grin beamed at her, because, Gods, where has she been all your life, and why is she only coming into it now?

So, of course, you danced with her all night. It ended up being the most fun you’d had in a really long time. You could tell she wanted to keep your attention all for herself, what with the way she wouldn’t let you out of her sight for longer than ten seconds (even when she challenged you to keg stand contest, and lost her focus because she couldn’t keep her eyes on her own barrel for the life of her), but you didn’t mind so much. She kept laughing and spinning you in circles and dragging you around like she was leashed to your wrist, but you didn’t find it the least bit annoying.

When the warehouse began to empty and the music dimmed to a shivering whisper, Vi brought you to the roof just in time for sunrise. The way the warm spots of heat kissed your features rebirthed a sort of softness in your heart, and you showed it by wrapping an arm around Vi’s shoulders in a contented squeeze.

“You’re…something else, you know that?” you’d crooned to her, still addled and woozy from the flask in your hand and the—well, copious amounts of everything still settling in your system.

Vi trailed her gaze up to the curve of your neck, taking in the position of your head, memorizing the drops of alcohol as they ran down the corners of your mouth. You were downing cheap, warm beer like parched wolf, and for some reason, her head swirled with envy at the sight of it.

In a flash of a moment, she ripped it from your lips, and toppled you over so hard you started spitting up the bitter liquid.

“Hey! The fuck was that f–”

She straddled you, trapping your thighs between her own in a tight embrace. pressed a harsh kiss to your temple to apologize, the madwoman.

When you looked back up at her, she tilted her head at your form like a curious pantheress, like she wanted to know how you felt squirming between her teeth.

“What are you doing this weekend?” she inquired, like her hips weren’t crushing yours into the impenetrable concrete.

You blinked several times at her.

“I–I dunno! …What are you doing this weekend?”

That got her grin back. She rewarded you by shifting her weight off of yours, and stretching out next to your heaving frame with a thoughtful hum.

“Come up Topside with me. I can show you all the best spots, we can get into some real trouble up there…”

A stunned laugh loosened itself from your throat. No one’s ever caught you off guard this much in such a short amount of time, so you punched her in the arm to regain some iota of surprise back.

“What happens if we get caught, smartass? We’re not exactly piltie princesses over here.”

She rubbed her sore bicep slowly, shrugging as if she’s made of rock-hard diamond. From what you’ve seen of her, it doesn’t seem like an outlandish assumption.

“Oh, please…”, she muttered, ultramarine eyes boring into your foggy glare.

“You really think they’re gonna be able to catch us?”

It’s been almost seven years since she said that to you, on that hushed, rumbling morning,

and you regret ever listening to a single word she ever uttered in your direction.

taglist: @baylegend6

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crying-wolves · 1 month ago

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When are we expecting that fic…no rush..haha

u know what I’m gonna make sure I lock in 😼

vi oneshot will be out sometime Friday

and I’m thinking Sunday for the butch!reader oneshot <3

#lovey replies!

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crying-wolves · 1 month ago

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on cloud nine rn

don't hold back

first time posting Abby x reader so be nice! also trying to address the masc shortage (reader has a happy trail and boxers) (reader is slightly Ellie coded so do with that what you will) contents: Abby x masc!reader, college au, weed smoking, fluff, teasing, fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), overstimulation, squirting wc: 1.5k

It starts as a lazy evening in her dorm—she’s promised to watch some dumbass movie with you for your film class. It’s in German, and very surrealist, and after half a joint shared between you, you no longer have a clue what it’s about.

And you don’t really mind, because time is slow and languid, and Abby is seated between your legs, absentmindedly massaging your ankle. Your fingers play at the edges of her scalp.

“Ugh, more of that.” She tips her head back against your shoulder, and when you giggle against her, she adds a grudging “please.”

So you massage her temples, finding the tension there, feeling it slowly release. Your fingers comb through her hair, which falls over her shoulders easily. Even just catching the side angle of her face in the TV glow, you’re struck by just how fucking pretty she is with her hair down. It’s actually a crime that you’d only ever seen her with a braid until your third week of dating.

You’re not paying attention to the movie anymore, just drifting, when you feel her squeeze your ankle tightly, whole hand wrapped around it, then release.

“Abs?”

She heaves a big sigh, then begins the awkward process of twisting herself around so she can face you. You could make this easier on her by unwrapping yourself, but you’d rather feel her squeezed tight, shifting against you.

Once she does, she pushes herself up on one arm so she’s hovering over you, her hair tickling your neck. You touch her cheek, brushing over that pale scar—thinking about all the times in class you’d seen that scar and wanted to brush a thumb over it—and wonder how you got so goddamn lucky.

She kisses you, long and deep, the weight of her body sinking into you until it’s almost too much. Almost crushing. You’ve never gotten used to this—how soft her lips are, the warmth of her wandering hands, how breathless she leaves you.

When she pulls away, she’s got a playful look on her face—something devilish in the undercurrent, and just a little shy.

“Can I?” Her fingertips dip under your shirt, making you shiver.

“Yeah,” you nod, holding back the fuck yes, finally, please.

Her hands move over your stomach, feeling the soft fuzz that she adores, then up, over your ribs. You shudder and shut your eyes, hips pressing up against her.

She watches you so carefully, studying the way you move and respond. A little smile curls the corner of her lips. You wouldn’t be surprised if she’s making mental notes to add to the very detailed sex diary she’s shared with you later.

She loves seeing you squirm like this, noticing the moment her touch turns from something lazy and gentle to something more heated.

Then her fingers are working at your belt. You’re already whining, and kicking yourself for falling apart so easily. But how can you not when Abby fucking Anderson is the one pulling your belt all the way out from under you so she can yank off your shorts, leaving you in just your boxers?

She settles between your legs, that same playful look on her face. She drags both her hands slowly up one of your thighs, under the fabric of your boxers, reaching the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh, but going no further.

You kick your leg a little, trying to get more contact, but she’s got you pretty well leg-locked. And when she actually wants to use all that strength of hers, you’re pretty much fucked.

“Abby, c’mon. Don’t fuck with me,” you plead, trying desperately to sound like you’re not pleading.

“You don’t want me to fuck with you?” She laughs, low and hearty, hands still moving up your thigh. This time, her fingertips brush heat and wetness—just barely.

It’s enough to make you jerk forward, hips rolling.

She withdraws her hands, and you think you might actually lose your mind.

“Abby, what the fuck?”

“I mean, if you don’t want—”

“Yes, I do fucking want, baby. So bad. You’re literally—”

You don’t have time to finish that thought, because Abby’s mouth is on your crotch—wet heat enveloping you. She finds your clit easily through your boxers, toying it with her tongue, and all you can do is buck and whine against the firm pressure of her body.

“Fuck—!” If she keeps this up, you’re going to cum already, without even getting your underwear off. How fucking humiliating.

Abby knows this—so she tongues at you until you’re teetering over the edge, and then drags her teeth over you instead.

“Ab—!” You almost leap off the couch. It’s sharp and almost too much, and you can actually feel your clit pulsing between her teeth—but she just holds you like that until your orgasm retreats.

“I really hate you right now,” you pant through ragged breaths, muscles going slack.

“Let me be nice, then.” She lifts your hips easily, and slides your boxers off under them—in the process, hiking your knees over her shoulders like you weigh nothing. And there she is, breathing against your slick center, eyes never leaving yours.

You startle at the first brush of her thumb through your wetness, savoring a path from your entrance to your clit. She circles it, and you think you could probably cum right there—you jerk your hips—with just a few more—

“Easy,” she whispers, like she’s trying to calm a startled animal.

Then she slips a finger inside you.

Just one is thick enough to fill you, to make you clench around her helplessly.

“You’re so fucking wet, babe,” she says with hungry admiration.

“That’s—” you gasp out, “—your fault.”

And she laughs, a low vibration, as she takes your clit into her mouth.

You’re right there again. It’s fucking impossible not to be. No more teasing—her tongue flicks over your clit, suctioned between her lips, and her finger strokes you inside just where she knows you need it. Gentle at first, testing, and then harder, unrelenting.

Your body tenses, thighs already shaking. You climb and climb and then fucking nosedive into the most intense sensations you’ve ever felt.

She doesn’t stop. You cum and cum and then suddenly you’re on the other side of it, and everything is too bright and hot, and it’s way too much, and you whimper at her to slow down, please, you’ve had enough.

“Mm-mm,” she mumbles against you, which just makes it worse. Your thighs are clamping down on either side of her face when she presses a second finger into you.

“Fuck, Abs!” You bite down hard on the palm of your hand, needing something, anything, to anchor you against this new onslaught—fingers curling, abusing swollen tissue, taking you apart so easily.

Abby adjusts her angle, more upright, mouth finally leaving your clit with a wet pop. You think maybe she’ll let up, but this is even worse, because she presses down on your lower belly with her free hand, and her fingers inside you start to thrum like she’s starting a fire.

“Abby-abby-pleaseIcan’t—” You curl against her, body quaking, a pressure building that’s so vivid it almost hurts.

“Yes, you can.” The veins of her arm stand out against her skin, and her freckled forehead is slicked with sweat. This is what she trains for—being able to fuck you without ever slowing down. She doesn’t stop until that pressure reaches just below the surface, and your eyes shoot wide. You grip her bicep, half to stop her, half because she absolutely cannot stop right now.

“Yes,” she says, demands. “Let it go.” And then you’re rushing, spilling warmth into her palm while she keeps going, and you literally couldn’t stop even if you tried—crying and gushing and probably leaving a permanent stain on her couch.

The second orgasm comes moments later, this time a firecracker behind your eyes that makes you blind and dumb for three literal minutes. All you can do is ride through the slowing rhythm of her fingers, clenching and unclenching around them, until she finally slides out.

Through it all, her touch never leaves you. Her hands soothe over your thighs, your stomach, spreading wetness—and you don’t even care. You could not be less bothered to care.

When her forearm brushes your clit, you cringe like you’ve been punched, body bracing. Abby just presses a kiss into your ribs, laughing slightly. “Sorry, baby. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

It takes several minutes before you can speak again, longer before you can form a coherent thought. Abby rests against your side, heavy arm draped over you, both of you sticky with sweat and breathing heavily.

“I don’t know what kind of witchcraft you just did to me, but if you ever do that again—”

She’s got your fingertips in her hand, kissing them individually—”you can pay me back for it later.”

You will. And you definitely, definitely, want her to do it again.

-----

tags: @smellslike-updyke @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @cinnamonstrr @elliemulate @gardengnosticator @arabellyn @lovergirl-co @winestainedwhiskers (reply if you want me to tag you next time!)

#abby faves #masc!reader

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crying-wolves · 1 month ago

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I WOULD OMFG THERES NOT ENOUGH BUTCH/MASC/STUD READER

Your wish will be granted like 5 times over <3 I’m so excited🤩

#lovey replies!#butch4butch

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crying-wolves · 1 month ago

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if you’d read butch4butch reader insert fanfic pls interact it’s lonely out here 😔

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crying-wolves · 1 month ago

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coming soon! old dolio!reader x abby will be multi-part, so here's a treat <3

🆃🅷🅴 🅰🅽🅸🅼🅰🅻🆂.

(peer mentor!ex-prisoner!vi x prisoner!reader)

cw: prison 😔, lots and lots of cussing, afab reader, reader is kind of a pessimist. and a little mean. she went through a lot. a little angst, and a little fluff to soothe the pain from the angst, discussions of crimes, betrayal, alcohol, dr*gs, m*rder, other fun stuff, arguing, estranged friends (?) to lovers, contraband, tension (both sexual and awkward), some fighting for dominance, making out in a chapel, MDNI!!! sexual content, sorta-kinda hatefucking, fingering (r! + vi!receiving), oral (r!receiving), switch!vi, switch!reader, a lil cuddling

a/n: I really wanted to post something, so here's a preview on what I am directing all my brain power to <3

you shove your hands into the pockets of your dark blue jumpsuit, settling into the surprisingly comfortable flip-out chair that’s a hair’s breadth away from the altar. every single person seems to be talking over each other, new voices add themselves sporadically into the mix, gossiping excitedly about the same old things that always happen in this place.

“did’ya hear Nolan’s getting out on good behavior next week? what a fuckin’ kiss-ass? i’d break her face if it didn't mean god knows how long in the SHU…”

“you’ll never guess who i saw sucking face with a guard while waiting in the commissary line. some of these girls just don’t get it…”

it almost reminds you of a high school cafeteria. Nothing but low jabs and cruel chatter.

“apparently, they flew her in from Zaun…she’s this ex-convict who got out of a murder charge ‘cause the judge says she’s got ‘good character’ or something. can you believe it! I’ve got fan-tas-tic character and I’m still stuck in this hell for another 40 years…”

that certainly peaks your attention…

…because there aren’t many people, especially, many people from the Undercity of all places, who go before the hallowed Piltover court with a charge like that and just get to walk free.

and considering the fact that you were born and raised in Zaun, growing up with kids who had also spent their free time chasing the next new thrill until ultimately getting caught, it may not be a stretch to say that you could, possibly, recognize this speaker.

it isn’t until you catch a flash of electric pink hair, a silver sparkle atop thick raised eyebrows that your heart drops to your ass.

Violet fuckin’ Lanes. in all her flesh and glory.

blinker from blinkies.cafe, banners from @omi-resources

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crying-wolves · 1 month ago

Text

🆃🅷🅴 🅰🅽🅸🅼🅰🅻🆂.

(peer mentor!ex-prisoner!vi x prisoner!reader)

a/n: I really wanted to post something, so here's a preview on what I am directing all my brain power to <3

“did’ya hear Nolan’s getting out on good behavior next week? what a fuckin’ kiss-ass? i’d break her face if it didn't mean god knows how long in the SHU…”

“you’ll never guess who i saw sucking face with a guard while waiting in the commissary line. some of these girls just don’t get it…”

it almost reminds you of a high school cafeteria. Nothing but low jabs and cruel chatter.

that certainly peaks your attention…

…because there aren’t many people, especially, many people from the Undercity of all places, who go before the hallowed Piltover court with a charge like that and just get to walk free.

it isn’t until you catch a flash of electric pink hair, a silver sparkle atop thick raised eyebrows that your heart drops to your ass.

Violet fuckin’ Lanes. in all her flesh and glory.

blinker from blinkies.cafe, banners from @omi-resources

79 notes · View notes