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ssa-dado · 3 months ago

Note

i’m actually convinced that hotch is secretly a huge gossip. what if that’s the thing that gets him and fleabag reader to start talking? maybe it’s about one of the other pool dads ? hotch actually knows him cause his kid goes to school with jack and it’s something real scandalous. idk i just need to have hotch being nosey and spilling tea.

Pinot Grigio

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man mutual pining Summary: It’s a party. You’re the help. He’s the Hotchner. He shows up to the gala in jeans, insults a politician for you, then stands around long enough to overshare a bunch of gossip you didn’t ask for (meaning: casually reveals he’s been tracking your poolside admirers like a repressed Victorian husband.) Warnings: Explicit sexual language! (not graphic, it's all in reader's head and meant as a joke... for herself, apparently), alcohol use, age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, classism, mysogeny, unhealthy coping mechanisms (wine, gossip, Hotchner) Word Count: 4.2k Dado's Corner: This prompt was so juicy and triggered my brain just right, I had to fumble a lot to find the perfect setting to reveal Hotch’s true chatty grandma self hihihihi this was so funnn! (I think I wrote three different versions of it because my brain cells just refused to collaborate… but hopefully this one works.) [I didn’t end up scripting in the part where Hotch knows the dad because of Jack, butttt! trust me, it’s probably for the better.] Thank you so much for the request, marry meeee <3

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Pinot Grigio.

Just a normal white wine.

Pear on the nose. Citrusy. Crisp. Innocent.

Until yesterday. 7:24 PM.

When Penelope Garcia - who you don’t know, didn’t follow, would absolutely remember if you did (because of the most adorable Lego duck earrings and blonde curls) - posted a single photo from some FBI event on Facebook.

A glass of wine in one hand. Aaron Hotchner’s shoulder in the other.

A bottle of Pinot Grigio right there on the table.

Since then, it’s been panic.

Pool moms liked. Pool moms shared. Some pool moms commented, even.

Penelope is now famous.

She’s gained at least forty new friend requests from women named Debbie (the cool-girl rebrand of Deborah), Beth (Bethany, but pretending), and Lisa (just... Lisa) - all of them hoping for fresh content.

A new Hotchner sighting. A blurry arm. The back of a head. The profile of his nose.

And now you are paying the price.

Because you’re six bottles deep into Pinot Grigio and currently opening your seventh for the Pool Extension Project Announcement Party.

(A name so thrilling it could only have been brainstormed by three men named Greg in a windowless office with beige carpets and no dreams... broken dreams, maybe.)

(Apparently they’re adding a spa? Maybe? You weren’t listening. You were too busy arranging the buffet to look “effortlessly elegant” while silently sobbing into a tray of beet hummus.)

You’re catering it. Sort of.

You were a last-minute call.

You were a desperate substitution. Someone dropped out, and they called you.

Because you are reliable.

Talented. Charming. Funny. Qualified. And – crucially - cheaper.

(Not cheap. Cheaper. Enough of a bargain to be flattering but still slightly degrading.)

And of course, you said yes. Said “I’d love to,” said “What’s the dress code?” while internally shrieking because - what if Aaron is there too? (He might be. He probably is.)

You also told yourself you weren’t dressing for him.

That you just wanted to look professional in your very black, very tailored to your body catering uniform (with a slutty apron) - but your ass looks absolutely divine in these trousers, and if it’s not captured in one of the official photos and framed in the break room, you’re suing.

Mayday. Mayday.

He’s here.

Confirmed visual.

Aaron Hotchner.

In the flesh. In the room.

Looking slightly out of place, which of course only makes him stand out more.

Navy button-up. Jeans.

(Jeans? Him? He owns a pair of jeans??? Who sold them to him? Who authorized this? Who gave this man thighs and then denim?)

(Well… apparently so. And they fit. Criminally well.)

Meanwhile, everyone else is trussed up in three-piece suits, using big grown adult vocabulary like municipal redevelopment-

(Meaning: someone’s cousin is getting paid a suspicious amount of money to plant four trees and call it urban renewal)-

and strategic infrastructure planning-

(Meaning: they’re finally going to pour some lukewarm asphalt over the holes in 45th St NW, right before election season.)

They all shake hands with fake smiles, congratulate each other on breathing, and pretend the room doesn’t still vaguely smell like feet and chlorine, despite the mountain of imported cheeses you spent hours shaping into perfect little geometric offerings to the gods of local politics.

And Aaron-

Aaron just stands there.

Not speaking. Not smiling. Not performing. Just existing.

And yet, somehow, he still looks more elegant than all of them combined.

God, what a man.

…A man you’ve had full conversations with–

in your head.

While brushing your teeth.

While shaving your legs.

While marinating chicken.

You’ve practiced your banter with him more than you’ve prepared for actual job interviews.

The fact that you’ve barely spoken to him in real life is not because you’re shy. Not because you’re afraid of rejection. Not because there’s the occasional whisper that he’s technically old enough to have fathered you if he’d started very, very young.

(Which, most of the time, only makes it more erotically confusing.)

No. (Yes.)

It’s because you lowkey hate him.

You hate him because he walked in holding his pool bag.

…He just showed up here to do his laps.

And you just know - deep in your soul, in your bloodstream, in your ovaries - that inside that bag is a navy speedo. Matching. To. His. Shirt.

A Speedo that will now never fulfill its destiny, heartlessly imprisoned, crushed by a rolled towel and - if you had to guess - a blister pack of ibuprofen (he’s old enough to break his back sneezing and still blame it on “tight hamstrings.”)

Because, clearly, judging by the way he’s confidently flipping the strap back up onto his shoulder…

He has no idea the pool is closed today.

Didn’t know there was a party. He wasn’t briefed. He didn’t glance at the laminated flyer at reception with a dolphin in a bowtie that said “Join us for the Pool Extension Gala!”

Beautiful, beautiful man. But apparently can’t read for shit.

Because he was too busy doing… FBI things.

Whatever that means.

You don’t really know what he does.

In your head it’s just a sweaty, shirt-clinging montage of him saving lives, wrestling evil, or rescuing kittens from burning houses and carrying them out in one arm while the other cradles a bleeding witness.

You just know it’s hotter than whatever the hell you do, because before he can take more than two steps into the room, he’s already being mobbed by politicians.

Actual, elected men - men with power, men with authority, men with at least three types of stress-induced hair loss and thinning temples they pretend aren’t happening.

And they know him. They recognize him.

They even lower their voices when they speak to him, they shake his hand with such reverence, you can smell their intimidation from all the way across the room.

The fear. The respect. The power. The arm veins. The way Aaron has no idea he’s the main event at a party he didn’t even know existed.

Quite ironically, on the other hand - on the small, overworked, kind of underpaid, sexually malnourished hand that is you - you haven’t slept properly in a week because of it.

Because of the stress of the endless prep and logistics and… fine, because of him too.

Sometimes at 4 a.m., you’d find yourself just… staring at the ceiling. Lying in the dark, vibrating with anxiety and something much less noble and your only two options for survival were:

Cooking. Loudly. Desperately. Whipping up reductions and spreads in your tiny kitchen, determined to perfect the fig-and-goat cheese tartlet while trying not to scream when the oven beeped and you realized the sun was already rising.

Or… Well. Let’s just say your neighbors must think you’re really, really into dental hygiene. What kind of electric toothbrush has that many vibration modes? What kind of dental tool sings at such frequency?

Answer: not a toothbrush.

It’s pink. Plastic. Takes two AA batteries and a prayer.

You may or may not bought it during a very dark week with your café tip money at 2 a.m. from the back shelf of a pharmacy, and since then it’s been the most stable relationship of your adult life.

You’ve had to steal batteries from your TV remote more than once just to get through the week.

She’s not fancy, but she gets the job done.

You’d recommend her.

You’d even recommend her to the woman now standing in front of you - if she’d stop looking at Hotchner and trying to hormonally inform him that she is, at this very moment, in the mating phase of her cycle.

It’s not even subtle - the little cleavage tug, the fluttery eyelashes, the way she’s nodding absently while you talk about acidity and finish, eyes locked on the back of his neck rolls.

You get it. You’ve been there. Last week, actually.

And even now - when you are categorically not ovulating, when you are actively trying to be a functioning member of a patriarchal society - he does, objectively, have a beautiful neck.

A neck that has almost certainly never been stressed about fig preserves or the structural integrity of a puff pastry shell.

“I’ll have that one,” she says, stopping you midway through your ramble and pointing at a bottle.

The fucking Pinot.

Of course you will.

You smile.

Because you are a professional.

Because rage doesn’t pair well with brie.

“Sure,” you say, and pour.

You handpicked twelve white wines for this event. Twelve.

Each chosen with a level of passion that should’ve been reserved for, say, human relationships or personal growth.

Some of them had to be pulled from tiny Italian cellars with shipping so disorganized you’re now on a first-name basis with a man named Lorenzo who thinks you’re unstable and possibly in love with him.

(You might be. You’ve sliced figs and cried about tannins. Your grip on reality is… soft.)

You woke up in cold sweats for a whole week wondering if the Soave made it through Zurich because Italians do not believe in emails. Or customs. Only God.

But none of it mattered, because in the end, it’s always the Pinot, for her – and all the other people that came to your stand earlier.

You call it the Aaron Hotchner Effect.

The logic goes like this:

“If in the picture, he was drinking Pinot, and I drink Pinot, then we have something in common. We can laugh. We can clink glasses.

He’d say something dry and low - “You’ve got good taste” - and brush my fingers as he takes the glass. Maybe the hand. Maybe the elbow. Maybe the fucking thigh.

We’d flirt.

And then he’d fuck me.

Some really good rough, sex up against his hardwood bed. He’d keep his tie on. Hold my wrists. Press his mouth to my shoulder to keep from making a sound, because letting go like that, making noise, would be too revealing. Too honest.

He’d fuck me until my knees gave in and my breath stuttered and my voice cracked from begging. He wouldn’t come until I had. At least three times.

And then, of course, He’d marry me.

All because I drank his wine.”

That’s the pipeline. That’s what’s happening behind their eyes.

And you can't even judge them.

You’d be doing the same, if you weren’t currently being reminded by the smell of onion jam soaked into the pocket of your apron that you’re on the job.

You’re the help, the wine girl no one listens to until the glass is already full and the flirting has failed.

But you’d do it. You would.

Just… correctly.

Because while everyone else in that cursed Facebook photo saw the bottle, you saw the glass.

His glass, the one shoved off to the side, barely in frame - because God forbid someone like Aaron Hotchner be photographed holding the fun juice. That would imply he experiences pleasure. Or whimsy. Or serotonin.

Still, you zoomed in. You don't like to admit that. You really don't. But you did.

And thanks to the course that still haunts your bank account - the one led by three men, all named Marco - you can confidently say, with devastating clarity:

That was not Pinot.

It was Verdicchio.

Lean. Salty. A little green around the edges.

The kind of wine that doesn’t care if you like it.

Citrus and sea air and something just a little bit wrong at the end, like it’s judging you.

And maybe it is.

It’s bitter. Quiet. Difficult.

Difficult also because no one knows how to properly pronounce its name - you didn’t. You butchered it every time and got scolded by each of the Marcos at least once.

(Marco One - smoking indoors in his wool turtleneck in July, would hiss, "No, no, Ver-deek-kio, not Ver-dish-ee-oh, do you want to die in shame?")

(Marco Two made you repeat it five times in a row in front of the whole class.)

(Marco Three just muttered “Madonna Santa” and poured himself another glass.)

Verdicchio doesn’t seduce.

It holds its distance, stands in the corner of the room with crossed arms, and waits for you to prove you're worth the conversation.

Half the people who taste it hate it. The other half get addicted.

It lingers. It cuts. It stays in your mouth longer than it should.

A wine with boundaries.

A wine that says: you don’t know me.

You think you do, but you don’t.

Just like Aaron.

And you tried, betraying everything the three Marcos ever taught you about integrity, balance, and correct regional pairings, to guide each of your (unwanted) patient tragically afflicted with Hotchism toward the Verdicchio.

Even when it didn’t pair with what they were eating. Even when it clashed. Even when it made your soul itch with the wrongness of a soft-rind Brie beside all that salinity.

You’re not a bitch. You don’t gatekeep. You offer your knowledge freely. Warmly. Kindly.

But you’d be lying if you said that knowing the truth didn’t make you feel good.

Smug.

A little superior.

And yes, fine, maybe that made you feel close to him.

Closer.

Maybe you are a bitch.

Because you could have said it, could have casually dropped the line - “Oh, by the way, he was drinking Verdicchio. It wasn’t the Pinot.”

You could have been generous. Transparent. Correct.

But it wouldn’t have changed anything.

You’d be out of Verdicchio instead of Pinot.

They’d still fawn.

Still flutter.

Still call him Agent Hotchner with that glazed, pseudo-coy voice like they’re already imagining what his mattress feels like.

(It’s probably very firm. Orthopedic. Recommended by his chiropractor. No softness. No give. Posture is sacred. Comfort is weakness.)

(He probably tucks the sheets so tight you’d have no choice but to scooch closer to him just to have some room to breathe. Which, obviously, is the point.)

Same thirst, different label.

Maybe you’d tell the first one who actually listens to you.

The first one who doesn’t treat you like furniture in an apron. The first one who doesn’t cut you off mid-sentence the moment they clock that the politicians are loosening their grip on him.

Maybe the reason why you have such a crush on him is because he’s everything.

And you’re- well. You’re here.

In shoes that are starting to pinch. With wine on your hands and fig paste in your hair. With bills and back pain and the slow, creeping dread that no one really sees you unless you’re holding something they want.

And even then, just barely.

He’s elegant, unreadable, capital letter Important.

You’re… nice. Warm. Cheap... cheaper.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole appeal.

Maybe that’s why you keep staring at him as he’s basically dragged to your tasting stand by a small parade of men who spend their days warming seats in the Senate and collecting checks for pretending they invented civic duty.

One of the men makes the effort to squint at your name tag.

You can see the gears turning in his head as he uses it - not to address you - but to soften the blow of a condescending joke he thinks is charming, such as “how rare it is to find a young woman with taste… especially one who serves.”

You smile.

Because that’s the job.

You’re the help. The scener-

“What do you mean?” Aaron asks, turned slightly toward the man, voice flat.

He looks disgusted.

(Though, in fairness, everything he says sounds vaguely judgmental. That’s just his face.)

“Oh, no… Hotchner, don’t get me wrong. I mean it as a compliment. I admire it. Not everyone’s meant to chase titles or build a résumé, you know? And that’s not a bad thing - society only works because some people are content doing the everyday stuff. The real work.”

You’re two seconds away from breaking the last Pinot bottle over his head.

Kill two birds with one stone: one bottle, one condescending prick, and finally, blissful silence.

“…We need the people who keep the wheels turning. Mechanics. Hairdressers. Cooks…”

He gestures vaguely to you, apparently your existence is now an example. A concept. An idea. Something nice to look at when dressed in black and pouring wine.

“Really,” he adds - just in case you didn’t catch the insult the first three times - “I admire it.”

“Do you always talk to people like this?” Aaron doesn’t raise his voice - just tilts his head slightly, gaze locked on the man with a kind of stillness that, for reasons you’ve yet to comprehend, is louder than yelling.

It’s unsettling.

“What? I’m paying her a compliment.” Senator Asshole tries to laugh it off.

“You’re condescending to her. It’s not the same thing.”

“Come on,” Senator Asshole chuckles, flicking a desperate glance around, “I’m just saying she’s good at what she does.”

“And I’m saying maybe you should stop talking,” Aaron hisses.

The silence is immediate.

Aaron just stares at him – for one, two, three, four??? Seconds.

Senator Asshole, sadly, does not burst into flames. He’s stolen away by Councillor Buttchin, who probably heard everything and tries to mop it up with the limp excuse of needing to discuss “urban renewal”

(Meaning: gentrification. The rich man’s robbery.)

And so Aaron watches him leave, before he turns back to you.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “The asshole didn’t even apologise.”

(He’s very hot when he swears.)

You wave it off. “It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not. It’s disgust-”

“It’s not the first time,” you cut him off. Because you don’t want to hear it. The apology. The concern. The male guilt wrapped in decency like it's somehow revolutionary.

Yes, thank you for noticing misogyny exists. Gold star.

You’ve done the bare minimum and you’re very tall so it feels like more. Congratulations on not being a monster.

At least, that’s what the rational part of you is saying. The one with a spine. The one that reads theory and donates when she can.

The other part – the one currently regulating the lubrication levels of a certain region of your body that apparently believes being mildly defended by a man with forearms like that is enough to justify reproduction - has… other thoughts.

Darwin would call it natural selection.

You’d call it bringing feminism back fifty years in one pelvic pulse.

But maybe your body’s oh-so-romantically prepping for insemination because he doesn’t make a speech.

He doesn’t continue to perform, doesn’t launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about respect, social or say something like “I have a lot of female friends, my mom is a woman, for instance.”

He doesn’t explain how decent he is.

He just… nods. Gives you a flicker of a concerned half-smile (because he’s a dad, and concern is hardwired into his frontal cortex, right between disapproval and knows best.)

But it’s quiet. Undramatic.

Like he saw it. Heard it. Filed it.

And now he’s moving on. Not because it didn’t matter. But because it did.

And not just emotionally, physically. Actually moving-moving.

Shifts halfway down the shorter end of your stand - not technically in your area, but just close enough that if he got any nearer, people might start asking him what cheese pairs with a Chablis.

(Which would be a disaster, because he looks like he’d say “cheddar” and then stare you down until you corrected him.)

Close enough to feel like a choice.

He doesn’t look at you. Scans the room instead, until his gaze lands on something. Someone.

“See that guy?” he says, nodding subtly toward ‘that guy’ across the room.

You follow the gesture.

Ah. That guy.

Mid-thirties.

You don’t know his name.

You just know he’s always suspiciously nearby. Hovering. Lurking. Casually orbiting the table where you sit every week in the pool cafeteria while waiting for your friend to finish her laps.

Objectively hot - if your type is broad shoulders, hollow eyes, and a divorce lawyer in waiting (and it pretty much is, unfortunately.)

He has a kid, you’re pretty sure. And a wedding ring he forgets to forget.

The kind of man who blames his wife’s headaches instead of confronting the fact he thinks the clitoris was a Greek philosopher.

(“Clitoris? He makes an appearance in Plato’s Symposium, doesn’t he?”)

“He’s been battling with himself over asking for your number for about a month,” Aaron says. “Still hasn’t managed it.”

Oooooooooooooookay.

Weird. Unexpected. Also deeply awkward.

(How strange that it’s not you making things weird for once.)

“And…” you trail off, because you’re too distracted by how he looks like he’s regretting it all - what a loser. “You’re saying this because you want me to hand it to him directly?”

“Oh, not at all.” Boy. That was fast. Too fast. “…he’s married.” You knew that already. “…You shouldn’t-”

“I shouldn’t?” You blink.

“Um, you…” He shakes his head, “You should… just… know this.”

…Right.

Aaron’s wife definitely cheated on him. Or maybe he’s just a prude. Or a control freak.

All possible. All extremely inconvenient. Poor him. Or maybe he deserved it, who knows.

“…Thanks,” you say flatly. “You… want something to drink?”

You ask because it’s polite… and also because he’s technically clogging the line forming behind him (all faint whiffs of Pinot settling directly into your nostrils from people pretending they need a refill, when really, they just want to stand near him.)

(Mr. Aaron.)

(Awkward-mr.-Aaron.)

(Socially-repressed-emotionally-terrifying-mr.-Aaron.)

(Mr. very-much-returning-to-the-place-he’s-meant-to-be, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr. leaning-in-to-read-the-wine-list, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr-)

“How did you know about the guy?” slips out of you, as you’re already pouring something into an empty glass just to keep moving… you don’t even look at the bottle.

No pear. So, not Pinot. (Small victories.)

“He always sits on the side of the table facing you, instead of watching his son’s swimming lesson like the rest of the parents.”

Yeah, okay, that guy is a bit way too obvious, but the problem only continues to be him.

Aaron.

“He straightens his posture every time you laugh.”

Aaron, who shouldn’t have time to notice these things. Who stops by every other week, maybe. Maybe less. Always suited. Always in a rush. Always delivering the same three lines.

“Americano, no sugar.”

“Card.”

“Have a nice day.”

He never lingers. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even stir the coffee. Just takes it and goes. Gone before the register beeps. FBI stuff awaiting for him.

“He ordered the same drink as you twice. Didn’t drink it. He doesn’t like cappuccino, he only did that because he thought you’d notice him”

So, how the hell does Aaron know? How does he notice you? Because he must have.

Somewhere in those two-minute drop-ins. In the blur between Card and Have a nice day. In the handful of seconds he’s ever been within ten feet of you.

Unless…

“Puts his phone down when you walk in. Doesn’t check it again until you’re gone.”

Unless he did look. Unless he looked specifically at you. Out of all the people. All the tables. All the parents and staff and regulars.

“His son finishes swimming before your friend. He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t talk to anyone else. Always finds something to do. Phone. Book. Pretending to read the sign about pool shoes.”

He saw you. And he remembered.

Which means…

“Always leaves five minutes after you. Never before. Never with anyone else.”

He’s either been paying attention. Or this big, terrifying federal agent is actually just… a massive gossip.

You freeze, because he picks up the glass you poured.

It wasn’t meant for him. You didn’t even know what it was.

Aaron swirls it once.

Leans in. Smells it.

Then brings it to his lips-

And hums.

A low, pleased little sound that settles right between your legs lungs, ergo straight to your heart. Because you’re a professional. And you take the sommelier thing very seriously.

You’re just passionate about your craft.

Especially about praise.

You love being praised.

On the job.

For the wine.

“People give a lot of themselves away when they want someone,” he says softly, almost kind.

Then he licks his lips. Just to clean the red off.

But it’s slow. Thoughtless. (Only makes it worse for you, honestly.)

You’re magnetically locked onto that smart mouth, so it’s easy to catch the small smile he gives you before turning and walking away.

Still with that soggy pool bag slung over his shoulder.

Fuck.

The things you wouldn’t do to that man.

“Can I have what he just had?” the next woman in line asks, already stepping up.

Of course you can.

That’s the point of lines, isn’t it? You wait your turn, you get what you want, and you leave. No lingering. No swooning. No involuntary pelvic lurches.

Survival.

Even if the sommelier - oh, that’s you! What a coincidence - would swear to drink Pinot for an entire godforsaken month just for five more seconds with that huge, handsome, back in that goddamn navy shirt… and that mouth too.

You glance at the bottle in your hand.

What did you even pour?

Oh. Of course.

It’s that wine.

The one you only open on nights when you’re either crying or coming.

The one that tasted like a mistake the first time and like a need every time after.

Aglianico.

Black fruit. Smoke. Leather.

Earthy. Dense. A little savage around the edges.

Unapologetic.

Masculine.

Slow to open.

Demands patience.

Tastes better if you wait for it.

Like all the worst things.

And all the best ones.

What a coincidence, really.

Phi's Corner: requests for fleabag!reader x Hotch are (wide) open(ed)!

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

#fleabag!reader #aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #hotch x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner imagine

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orphicsun · 4 months ago

Note

hi!! could u pls write about prison vi or ellie x sweetheart reader who works as the librarian at the prison <3

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮. (𝐕𝐈)

content: fem reader who works at stillwater's library, prisoner vi, fluff, powder mention, mention of implied sa, kind of angsty because i can't write stillwater without mentioning the injustice.

a/n: hi anon sorry for the long wait for this request i've been brainstorming for it but decided to wait until frenzy was out to start it. as for ellie, i have an ellie and sweetheart reader fic i've been working on! it's still deep in the drafts though. i hope you enjoy this:)

Stillwater's contents are harsh and hard to look at. The walls, stacks to the highest of heights, are simply grey bricks with cracks that will never see maintenance. The cafeteria's lighting is low and depressing, and the view of the prison from afar is of the alcatraz, only that prison would be a heaven for stillwater's inhabitants.

The cells are even worse, and that is where prisoners stay most of their sentence. Writings on the drab-toned walls is not uncommon. The beds are made of cheap steel, the springs imprinting into the backs of prisoners even through a mattress layer. Stillwater is the type of place you'd see parents make up scary stories about to keep their children out of inevitable trouble.

However, inside the high fence surrounding the institution, there lay one part that is less Edgar Allen Poe-esque.

You take pride in the library you've been given. Just on the first floor and to the right, prisoners can enter through the doors if they are permitted free time. Inside is your job and where you try to make the miserable a bit less miserable.

You were born in Piltover to a wealthy family, though you didn't care for the life of arts and exquisite tastes. Instead, you secured a well-paying job at a prison most people would rather gauge their eyes out than step foot in. It was when you caught a glimpse of a face through a dark, hidden cell that you accepted the job, and from there, you've tried your best to correct enforcer wrongs.

You sit at the front desk, a pen in your hand.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

Around you is the library you've furnished with books-some your favorites, some you've found as donated treasures or upon a relative's dust-collecting shelf. Though it isn't much, you work with the budget given to, as the council calls it, "provide prisoners with educational resources." You'd like to say that it's more than that for you, however.

You've grown fond of a few prisoners, and some are regulars. Many don't bother with the library, but the ones who do are often the people that you think about at night. Their stories keep you up.

A single mother whose choices were limited, while the mouths she needed to feed were needy.

A man whose daughter was spotted on the street by a group of thugs, a man who would rather be put on trial for murders than know that the men walked freely.

Countless stories of people who deserved a lesser sentence or none at all, while the council's own crimes stack like a pile of dirty magazines.

One girl in general separates herself from the rest, however. You find yourself thinking about her the most.

Click, click, click, click.

You hear the door open, two enforcers present behind Vi. They shut the door behind her, and she walks towards you without much hesitation.

"Got anything new for me?" She asks, eyes briefly glancing over the stack of paperwork at your desk before meeting yours.

"It's been a while since you've visited." You notice, as if asking for an explanation.

"What, you miss me or somethin'?" Vi teases, laughing at the small, embarrassed huff that slips past your lips.

"I'm allowed to care for the people here, especially you. Please tell me you didn't get yourself into anymore trouble, Vi. I told you it worries me." Your tone carries a hint of worry that Vi is unfamiliar with in other people. She doesn't get much bonding behind bars, and to be frank, she doesn't know how to take it.

"It wasn't my fault." She says quietly, not quite meeting your concerned gaze. "I just want something to read. Anything new for me?"

You nod, stepping behind the desk and leading her to an aisle a few rows down. It's further out from your desk, and your heels are loud on the ground, especially loud with just you and Vi in your library.

"I'll never get how you walk in those shoes." You hear Vi say from behind you, and you laugh despite the jab.

"I'm used to it." You simply tell her, leading her down through the aisle.

"I forget you're a Piltie." Though that is another insult, there is something fonder hidden behind it. You know how much Vi hates the better-off, and if she forgets she hates you, isn't that a good thing? "You know, when me and my sister were little, I remember how much she wanted a pair of shoes just like those. I always thought they looked silly, but they kinda suit you." She says quietly, a softness in her voice.

You stop at the end of the aisle and grab a novel from the fourth shelf. You turn back to Vi and hold it up for her eyes to read over the title.

"Your Native Land, Your Life." Vi reads aloud, brows furrowed in confusion. "A poetry collection?"

You nod, a small smile on your face. "Yup. Some of her poetry took me a while to understand, but I think the read is worth it. Really beautiful stuff."

Vi nods, and you're glad she doesn't make a move to leave. You take in her tattoed face and the sharpness of her jaw. It always bothers you how little they feed Stillwater prisoners, but at the same time, something in Vi carries a beauty that you like to admire when you're allowed to.

You think that there is something sweet in Vi that can't ever truly die. You see many prisoners harden with their experiences in here, but not Vi. She carries herself with violence in her cell and throughout the hallways with the rest of the group, but the bits of information she shares with you regarding her sister tells you otherwise. The way she speaks to you makes you want to ask what you are to her, but you refrain. It's mere kindness, and you should be professional.

Still, you don't move away or scream for the guards as she currently leans in. You let her breath hit your face.

"You confuse the hell out of me." She tells you, quietly and intimately. When you seem confused, she continues. "I know you've heard the stories about me. The things I've done to people in here. Yet you still look at me like I'm as innocent as a doe."

"You aren't automatically a horrible person because you're here, Vi."

She scoffs, but doesn't step away from you. "I've done shitty things. Doesn't that make me a shitty person?" She speaks, low and vulnerable. Her voice is unusually small.

"I don't think you are." You say quietly. You can't help but smile at each other. Before you can even think, Vi's lips press against yours in a soft, hesitant but sweet kiss. You process what is happening and return the kiss. Your hands cup her jaw, fingers threading through her soft hair. She presses you against the shelf with a hand around your waist, but she doesn't press for more. Her lips move against yours affectionately for a few more seconds, lingering before she reluctantly pulls away.

This is what always gets you-that look in Vi's eyes, vulnerable and loving. You see it when she talks about things she loves, and you long for it when the prison weighs her down. Her thumb makes contact with your cheek and strokes the soft skin.

"You need to get back to your cell. It's almost lights out." You reluctantly say, still not pulling away. Neither of you can seem to seperate, wanting to prolong the moment. "Promise me you'll stay out of trouble?"

"If it means I can visit you again." She plants one last kiss on your lips before letting you go.

You truly feel sympathy for all of Stillwater's prisoners. You think of them and their situations. You think about their families back in the undercity. However, you think of Vi the most, in the dark of your room. You'll let yourself think of her until you drift asleep tonight, and imagine if she were with you, her hands keeping you cozy and tight in her embrace.

taglist: @witzs, @bewareofmyglock, @ruelezz (if the tag doesn't work it's because of your settings!)

#requests #vi x reader #vi smut #vi headcanons #violet arcane #vi #vi arcane #arcane

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lilacprose · 6 months ago

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𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗 | 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

summary; In a dark, small cell on the Star Fighter, Vader enters. On his knees, his helmet off, eyes on her... word count; 1,040 words a/n; The indulgence is selfing. He's still Vader with the armour but not burned. ROTS-era hair. Yea... 😳 May or may not be inspired by this specific photo. oop-. Shoutout to the best of the best @itsladyliv who always got my back, and @crumblekitty who beta-read this fic (we sure had a Time™ brainstorming this). content includes; Vader on his knees doing you-know-what (oral) to fem!reader. Nothing too graphic, more atmospheric than smutty (but smutty nonetheless). Written in third person with no use of y/n. Minimal dialogue. Minors can look away, there's nothing to see here.

Smooth metal beneath the tips of her fingers. Nails and fingertips digging through the grooves others before her had created. Sensing a piece of them with each scratching motion. Scared. Terrified. Innocent. Guilty. Straightening out the fabric of her long white skirt, she contemplated which one of those belonged to her. Scared when they dragged her, terrified when her face got covered. A white masked “guilty” before doors closed behind her.

And then darkness. It lifted from her head only to engulf her again in the small cell. But instead of marching footsteps, the galaxy gently hummed outside her window. She couldn’t make out anything. A stream of white light illuminated the room, cutting it in two. A straight line between her and emptiness.

She draws a deep, questioning breath. How long was she going to stay here? Long enough for her vision to remember these four walls? Long enough for this bench to become a permanent piece of her? Her hands move on either side of her, her grip tightening on the edge of the bench for a moment. She taps her fingertips mindlessly on the cool metal surface and sighs.

Interspersing the galactic hum, there were sudden footsteps. Heavy. Leather boots sounding like they could be full of metal. Making haste to the door. When the door flies open, she sits up straight. Turns her head. It was only breaths she could hear. Echoing, echoing, echoing. Her eyes began to adjust to the towering presence in the room. Darth Vader was enormous, making the room seem so much smaller than it already was.

He walks to the corner opposite her, past the white light. Something clicks. The breathing suddenly stops. She sees Vader’s shadowy hands reach for the helmet and lift it off his head. Her eyes had gotten used to the dark by now. Adjusted to the outline of his body, the flow of heavy fabric a black waterfall down his broad shoulders. He throws his head back, soft curls gently cascading as he stretches his neck from side to side. Vader lets out a sigh.

The helmet crashes to the ground with a loud thud that makes her jump. Her heart races as he slowly turns towards her. He takes slow steps into the light. Parted lips illuminated, shiny with longing and starvation. His chest rises and sinks beneath the heavy armour. She notices the shallowness of his breaths—impatiently quick with lustful undercurrents.

Her heart thumps in her chest. He’s so quiet. She longs for the echoes of mechanical breaths instead of this. This deafening, deafening silence. Him not saying a word. Her not knowing what will happen next.

And yet…

The more she looks at him, the more she knows. The questions from before return to her like trails of a wildfire. Scared. Terrified. Innocent.

Guilty.

The cloak swishes. Heavy fabric thrown behind his back. Vader lowers himself, moving away from the light, his lips hidden in the shadows. The stream of white hits only his eyes. Closed, looking down, never meeting hers.

A furrow on his brow grows with focus. “Do you believe it?” The sound of his voice, an intoxicating deepness, sends a hot flash in her core. His hands slide, clothed and steady, over her sides. Caressing her hips, creasing her skirt. He grabs fistfuls of white fabric, hitching it over her knees. “That you’re guilty?” Vader looks up at her now, requiring only one look from him for her to lift herself so that the skirt can fall over her hips. Vader removes his left glove. His leather and her white lace float to the floor. Vader’s two hands stroke her thighs, the right clothed and the left as bare as hers.

Slowly. He bends her left leg, his bare grip firm on her soft skin. Slowly. Warm lips begin to trace a trail down her inner thigh.

She gasps at the sensation of his mouth. Vader draws his tongue over her arousal, steady and slow. Tasting her like a starving man. She leans her head back against the wall, letting out a loud moan as he begins sucking her. Oh—she wants to touch him. To feel the strands of his hair between her fingers as he devours her. Her fingertips barely get to graze his hair when her hands suddenly become unable to touch him. All that comes out of him is a low “No…” as his moans reach deeper into her. Her hands move to the edge of the bench. He keeps them there, holding her down with a phantom’s touch. He hums into her, heated vibrations spread all over.

One look.

He denies it. Vader shakes his head, his hair tickling her inner thighs. She becomes unable to say anything. All that can come out of her are pleasured tears. In her mind she pleads and begs, but words don’t form—they only sigh and moan and cry for him.

Let me touch you.

Her knees buckle, and she writhes over him. Vader picks up the pace, adjusting his body so he reaches the parts of her that make her scream. Her legs rest on his shoulders. He lets out loud, deep groans.

Still without looking. Still holding her down.

Please—

The Force slowly lifts off her hands.

Lips lift from her too.

He catches his breath. “Tell me… What’s it going to be, then? Innocent…” He opens his eyes. “…Or guilty?” Vader looks at her for what feels like an achingly long time. The questioning hot gaze and his darkened eyes send her closer to the edge. Her hands glide up his head. She takes in the sight of him as her fingers, entangled with curls, massage his head. She hopes that his eyes never abandon her. To remain open as her hands carefully tug at his hair. To never break when she directs his face back to the throbbing spot between her legs. To stay with her until she comes undone before him.

His shallow, hot breath brushes against her. He waits. He keeps his eyes on her, but he waits. The anticipation, the hovering of his mouth over her. The waiting.

His eyes stay on her as his lips return.

And he gives it to her.

taglist; @ladyanaschmidt @death-of-peace-of-mind @darth-jess @anakinstwinklebunny @orchidscurse @internallysalad

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revelboo · 7 months ago

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i love your writing so much thank you for feeding us!!! do you think you’d ever write for ultra magnus/minimus? feel free to ignore this if not!

18+ 🌶️

The Conversation

Ultra Magnus x Reader

• How many is that now? Servos drumming on his desk, he grimaces. Five counting Swerve’s find the day before. That one had to have appeared after Rodimus and Megatron had destroyed the machine. Brainstorm’s only response had been to wave his hand and mutter about lingering temporal effects. Which is complete lunacy. Science has rules, it must. Whatever Brainstorm had done isn’t following them, though.

• Leaning out from the ladder, you stretch an arm out and your fingertips can just barely brush the top of the book. Tipping it and lunging to catch it before it can fall to the floor below, you feel foot slipping on the ladder rung as you reel back and bang back into it, feet scrambling until your footing is secure again with the book clutched to your chest. And heart racing, your stomach drops. It’s not like you haven’t fell before, but this is different. Cold sweat breaking out all over your skin, your head feels like it’s splitting open. You can’t hold onto the ladder, can’t feel your fingers at all as your vision goes gray at the edges and pain hammers you.

• There’s a feeling like a shift in air pressure that prickles over him. Bringing his head up in time to see the small form just materialize in the air. Reaching without thinking as that limp form begins to fall and he catches you. Another one? Venting raggedly at how warm and still you are in his palm, he reaches out a servo of his other hand to gently nudge you. Can feel your heart beating and see the rise and fall of your chest. Alive, but if you’re anything like the others, that pain would have been crippling.

• When you come to, it’s to your head pounding and a foul taste in your mouth. Everything hurts, like you’re one big bruise, but whatever you’re laying on is warm and there’s something soft wrapped around you. And you just want to sleep, curling tighter against the ache you can feel down in your very bones.

Happy turkey day- visiting my grandma in the land of no cell service

#transformers x reader #ultra magnus #ultra magnus x reader

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abbysimsfun · 3 months ago

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Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 166 (Here's to the Birthday Girls!)

Cousins Lavender Gordon and Betta Bell were born just days apart, and they turned five together while Betta stayed with her mother, Holly, and grandmother, Daisy, at the Gordons' home in Brindleton Bay.

To commemorate their shared growth spurt, they posed for a silly selfie in the front yard. As it should be, the family was together. Even Ash was home, and this was perfectionist Lavender's favourite gift of all.

She didn't even mind that they didn't have a bigger party - Lavender thought parties created anticipation, and too much anticipation might lead to disappointment. But her family was too preoccupied with Ash's custody issues and preparing for the arrival of her baby brother to throw a party, anyway.

Cheerful Betta talked excitedly about her cousins coming to stay at her family's loft in the city for a sleepover, but this weekend they were content to stay home and spend time together.

A light spring rain filled the breeze with the mossy scent of petrichor, and they gathered outside to take in the fresh air of Sable Square. When the baby kicked to join the family festivities, Betta curiously felt her Aunt Heather's growing stomach.

"Are you going to have another baby, too, Mommy?" Betta turned to Holly with curious eyes.

"If you want a little brother or sister, you and Tetra might have to convince your father. He's really happy with the two of you."

"But when great-uncle Karl and great-uncle Mortimer move to Willow Creek, we'll have more room for a baby!"

Holly laughed. "You don't have to convince me, kiddo. Talk to your Dad."

"So, how is life in the city for you?" Daisy asked her grandson, trying not to show her distaste for the Landgraabs while she made conversation.

"It's fun, Grandma. I don't like some of the kids at my school, but I don't have to talk to them. Nan and Papa make us feel safe there. Papa's engineering firm is even working on time travel with biometrics so criminals like Marco Peralta won't be able to use it!"

The adults looked between one another with stunned glances. Heather silently fumed; Judge Marlow had told them to avoid discussing ghosts or time travel with their son, but the Landgraabs, as ever, thought themselves above rules everyone else had to follow.

Worse, the Landgraabs were probably responsible for the biometric device used by the slippery time thief Felix and Lilith had gone to 1920 to try to find.

"What's wrong, Mom? Isn't it a good thing to make time travel harder to use?"

She nodded quickly to hide her frustration. "Absolutely. Of course."

Conrad turned his attention to the dogs. He dressed warm to take them out to run around, bringing his phone to update Felix on the latest developments with a video chat.

"I thought you'd want to know it looks like Landgraab Engineering is already working on a biometric device, according to Ash."

"Of course they are. I'll look into it, see if they're breaching the patent. If they are, I'll hopefully be able to shut them down. Oh, by the way, you're on speakerphone. Lilith's haggling with the wedding venue over email right now."

"Hopefully? Hey Lilith."

She called back warmly as the newly-engaged attorney sighed. "I know I'm good at what I do, but the Landgraabs are the Landgraabs."

Conrad frowned. "So, what else is going on in your part of the world?"

"I'm still trying to find a charger that will work on this phone Maude left for us. We wanted Emit to take it to the future, but he said their tech is too advanced and the phone won't work in his time, either. They got rid of cell phone towers centuries ago, apparently."

"I ran a search through the police database for Robin Banks and didn't find anyone matching your description."

"I didn't think you would. I think she's from the future. Maybe not too far into the future if the Landgraabs are already working on biometric time travel."

"Maybe Banks is an alias, or a married name," Conrad brainstormed, as another idea dawned on him entirely. "I think I know who you could talk to about getting into that phone..."

When he returned home, he grabbed a piece of birthday cake while Lavender played with Mayor Whiskers in the kitchen. "Are you going to have a piece of your own cake?"

Lavender shook her head, pulling a piece of leftover cheesecake from the fridge, instead. "This one has no icing, Daddy."

That night, Ash braved a chilly evening at the chicken coop in the yard, helping hatch a new chick he decided to name Coolbeans. He never had opportunities like this is San Myshuno, and he missed listening to the sound of crickets in the brush lining the walking paths around the square.

Wanting to be responsible like her big brother, the next morning Lavender went outside in her pajamas to tend the insect farm. But she ignited a spigot of biofuel, and I legitimately thought I was about to lose my Gen 3 heir but the fire went out thank goodness!

She calmed her nerves from the rapid flames by listening to music from the Grimophone in the living room, and this encouraged Heather to pass down a gift she'd carried in her inventory for decades. Watcher knows why - perhaps Lavender was always destined to be a violinist, and when her dad Neal dug up this child's violin way back in Gen One, he just knew Heather should hold onto it.

"I know how much you love sounds. This might be a sound we all have to get used to, but I hope you enjoy making beautiful music with this one day. Hopefully, it keeps you away from the insect farm for at least a few more years."

Perfectionist Lavender was excited to focus on mastering the instrument, but her early attempts were squeaky and wrought with missed notes. She couldn't grasp everything as easily as her brother, but she was determined not to fade into his highly accomplished shadow.

Undeterred by the noise in the backyard, Lavender's Aunt Holly could still find a way to break into a meditative yoga pose just feet away. In truth, Lavender sounded awful, but Holly liked violin, and she liked supporting her niece's burgeoning interest even more.

With instrument in hand and hours of practice quickly under her belt, Lavender dreamed of being an artistic prodigy.

But would her perfectionism and drive to follow in her genius brother's footsteps help or hurt her along the way? ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 2.1 Summary

Gen 1 Start | Gen 1 Summary

NOTE: With Ash and Lavender fully five years apart, I do have a height preset for Ash but I'm sort of afraid to use it. I know, why download it, etc. But it's there for side sims who need to be tall or short for the plot, for the most part, and I don't want to get too reliant on the preset for storytelling because from what I can tell once it's applied and I save, I can't take it back without removing the cc itself. All that to say that's why they're the same height at ten and five years old at the moment!

NOTE 2: Every age up trait the heir gets comes from the In Bloom Challenge guidelines (the freedom I have is when they gain those traits), but I've tried to show toddler Lavender both into music as well as books, hence the violin skill she must master. She's also the type to get deeply disappointed when the perfect plan she has in mind plays out differently (like finding out she's getting a baby brother instead of a sister). Perfectionism being a bit of a response to her accomplished brother felt like a great base to build Lavender's character on!

FUN FACT: Lavender aged up twice - once for real and once because I had to reshoot Betta, who initially aged up during a stay over and I couldn't edit her randomized look (a medieval cc peasant nightgown and some gumboots!) without cancelling the event. The fun fact is, both times, Lava aged up randomly with lavender-coloured hair - once with an EA swatch and once with cc. I love this because it's been my plan to have her dye her hair when she's older like her namesake grandmother (Conrad's mom) since she aged up to infant and got Heather's hair colour. It's like the game just knew.

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #brindleton bay #felix psyded

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