picking a fight for the hot sex afterward...like the most Ingridiana thing ever
under a cut, here there be porn
Diana stands in her immaculately clean kitchen, waiting. She’d had a luxuriously indulgent bath, dressed herself in a black silk peignoir and matching robe, and poured herself a tumbler of her second-best whisky.
At 9:05 there’s a knock at the door. Right on cue.
Diana hardly needs to check the peephole to know who is behind the door. “Ingrid, what a surprise,” she drawls.
Ingrid shoves past her, barely taking the time to shuck her bag and coat in the hallway, before launching into a tirade. “Was it really necessary to undermine me in front of the home secretary today, Diana? You have a problem with the operation, you bring it to me first. You start talking out of school and it makes the whole of the Park look bad.”
“Ingrid, dear, the man asked me for my opinion and I gave it honestly.” Diana pours her guest an inch of Glenmorangie, which she accepts with a scowl.
“I could have used that honest opinion before we went to Whitehall. You were fine with the Tbilisi op the last time we spoke.”
Diana circles around her kitchen languidly, making sure Ingrid gets a good glimpse of the silk clinging to her curves. “New information came to light. I showed the schematics to Lamb—”
“To Lamb?!!”
“Yes, to Lamb. And he felt we were spread too thin. That there’s no point in doing it if we’re not going to do it right. And I agree with him.”
“You trust Jackson Lamb’s opinion more than mine? More than the small army of analysts we employ at the Park?” Ingrid asks, fury building in her voice.
Diana lays a hand casually on Ingrid’s arm. “When it comes to field operations? Yes, Ingrid, I do. He was behind the Wall while you were cozied up at your desk.”
If there was anything that got Ingrid riled more than being brought up short with their paymasters, it was Jackson Lamb. Ingrid set down her glass on the counter and stalks Diana like a leopard after its prey. She advances until Diana feels her backside hit the wall. Diana licks her lips in anticipation, breathing heavily.
“Sometimes I think you do these things on purpose,” Ingrid breathes, hands at her waist.
Diana lowers her eyelids, fake demurely, and smirks.
She can sense, rather than see the moment Ingrid’s control snaps.
In a single swift movement, Ingrid flips Diana around. She pins Diana’s wrists against the wall and uses her muscular thigh to spread Diana’s legs apart. Diana lets out a breathy moan. Finally, the reaction she’d been hoping for. Things had been so nice, so normal, so boring between them lately, which was good for national security but made things bloody pedestrian in bed.
Ingrids hands caress her ass. She lifts up the hem of her short nightdress and finds her cunt, bare and swollen. “No knickers? Oh, you tawdry little thing.” She teases her folds, covering her fingers in slick. “You’ve been wanting this all day.”
She removes her hand, leaving Diana bereft, causing her to whimper. “Stay there,” Ingrid commands. Diana complies, body humming, cunt growing wetter with each passing second. She hears Ingrid rummage through her bag, the lewd sound of Ingrid’s zipper sliding down and finally the fastening of buckles and snaps. Her cunt trembles in anticipation, an almost Pavlovian response. And then with very little preamble at all, Ingrid is inside her, thrusting. It’s rough at first without any preparation, though Diana has hardly needed any. It feels bigger from this angle, punishingly thick and large. And Ingrid fills her and fucks her harder than Diana knew she could. Before Diana knows it, she’s coming with an orgasm so powerful she’d probably collapse altogether if it wasn’t for Ingrid’s arm gripping her around the waist.
Later, as they lay together in bed, woozy with afterglow, Ingrid says, “You know if you want me to rough you up or whatever, you could just ask me ahead of time. Instead of picking a fight in front of the suits.”
“Hmm. Oh yes, I suppose,” Diana says noncommittally.
“We could have conversations about these things like normal people. Talk about boundaries, safewords.”
Diana lets out a huff of laughter. “Where would be the fun in that?”
Title: Bodyguard Moment
Fandom: Transformers IDW2
Ship: Road Rage/Nautica, Crosscut/Nautica, others/Nautica (all one-sided)
Word Count: 1500
Rating: PG
Summary: Pre-series. Road Rage wakes up in a medical bay after saving Nautica but what is she forgetting...
A/N: For Femslash February and for the @fembot-prompts prompt “Yours is a body I'd like to guard.”
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Road Rage came sluggishly online, processor seeming to creep closer to redline the closer she crept to consciousness. She activated her audial suite first and found herself relaxing at the reassuring sound of a medical bay. Next came motor control and her body eased as her mind had-- which brought her nervecircuits screaming awake in response to new wires and fresh welds being pulled in ways they shouldn't so suddenly be. Her optics flickered on and her processor really did feel ready to overheat as she tried to interpret all of the input at once, at the same time as she tried to process the alerts popping up on her HUD and to realign her frame too. When she was finally able to make sense of what she was seeing, she recognized Crosscut peering down at her, exasperated but not unkind.
"Do I not pay you enough?" asked Crosscut.
"You're asking me that now?" Road Rage grunted and grit her dentae at the grinding noises that accompanied her attempt to sit up.
Crosscut put a staying hand on her shoulder. Then, sounding far more amused than seemed appropriate in the moment, at least in Road Rage's opinion, he said, "I don't see how you can blame me for that when you're the one who ran off looking for new job opportunities in the middle of a fire fight."
Road Rage squinted at him and kept squinting at him while he did her the courtesy of adjusting the medical slab so she wasn't flat on her back. Her processor hadn't actually redlined, had it? She'd have gotten an alert first, probably, and she was awake and aware enough to have recognized one…
"What are you talking about?" she asked, half her attention on him and half on acknowledging and dismissing the slew of popups still blinking for attention on her HUD. Some of her short-term memory was corrupted and she winced as her processor warmed yet again at her attempts to sift through what remained. "When the summit was attacked-- yes, when the summit was attacked, I did my bodyguard thing and got you to safety. I was right behind you. Then…"
Then what? With another grunt, Road Rage poked more insistently at her memory banks. Crosscut was saying something, probably telling her to take it easy, but a new fragment of a memory file finally came up clear. It was a sudden, striking fear and she had to flex one hand, feel the pull of fresh welds, to remind herself that whatever had caused the feeling was done and over with. Then her overtaxed processor recovered another piece of the same memory-- the cause of the fear. Road Rage almost didn't realize what it was, it was in such a tangle with the feeling itself.
It was a scream.
She was doubled over before she realized she'd tried to move, before she'd even realized where she knew that voice from. Crosscut was speaking again, rapid and insistent, but he was drowned out this time by a flood of feedback she only slowly realized was coming out of her. Warnings flashed, so many and so insistent, that she couldn't make sense of her visual input past them. There was a second set of hands on her, unfamiliar, and she would've fought back if she could've remembered how. This was no time to be still. She had to get to-- to--
"Oh, thank goodness," she could hear Crosscut saying. "Just-- talk to her, would you? Tell her you're alright. Let her hear your voice."
"She wasn't supposed to be trying to recover short-term memory yet," said an unfamiliar voice to match the unfamiliar hands.
"Um," said a third voice, one that dismissed a solid third of the warnings and let Road Rage start to relax again. "Hello again, Road Rage. I'm okay, we're okay. We're in medical now. Here--"
Another hand, more familiar than Road Rage thought it should be, wrapped around one of her own and squeezed. The rest of the warnings were dismissed one by one from her HUD and this time it was Nautica's uncertain smile she found waiting for her.
"Hi," said Nautica. Her antenna was twitching with her nerves but she followed when Road Rage was eased back against the slab and then still when the attending medic readjusted it so that she was lying down flat again. Her fingers twitched, too, against Road Rage's, like she wanted to offer comfort but wasn't sure. "Are you alright now?"
"Are you? Really?" asked Road Rage. She cast a critical look over Nautica and didn't see any damage but an impression left on her spark, the ghost of a corrupted memory, made her doubt it. "We were… I…"
She pressed her free hand to her forehead as her processor protested. The medic, not someone she recognized right away, said, "Stop before you burn out your entire brain module. You need to give your processor a chance to do its own maintenance before you go picking at traumatizing memories."
"You did take a lot of damage," said Nautica. Her fingers twitched again, this time in small circles, and her optics took on a pale cast. "I'm pretty sure you took all of it, actually. Thanks for that, by the way." She quirked another smile, more certain but still awkward. "It looks good on your resume, if that helps."
Road Rage had barely begun trying to process that when the medic scolded, "Stop that."
Nautica squeezed her hand and pulled away, leaving Road Rage feeling cold. She shuffled a moment in place, then said, "Well! I'll let you rest up and recover what you can. Thank you again, for what you did for me. If--" she shot a glance at the medic, "I don't want to stress you out too much with reminders but you'll know what I mean when, if, it comes back to you. If you really meant it, consider the position yours." She cut a look at Crosscut this time. "I guess you'll need to discuss--" the medic synthesized a cough-- "right. Well. I'm glad you're alright."
She scurried out looking like she was on the last bar of her social battery. The medic, after a curt instruction to rest, went out after her. Road Rage, lost, looked over at Crosscut. She opened her mouth to ask for even a hint as to what was going on but cut herself off with a hiss as another memory file fragment, this one fuzzy with corruption, played out in her processor.
A cramped, closed space, a chorus of explosions right outside the door. A puddle of energon growing beneath her, sparking wires that really should've been inside her helm and her chassis and the right arm that was missing. A gun clutched tight in her other hand, override after override keeping her conscious.
Nautica's terrified face. Nautica's lips moving but all Road Rage could hear was static-- until one little snippet got through, or maybe that was all that was left in Road Rage's memory banks.
"-- Road Rage, right? Crosscut's bodyguard?"
Of all the memories that could've escaped corruption was the memory of what Road Rage had said in return. In her mind's eye, Nautica's face came into stark focus. Then came the words, rough with static but still, somehow, so very clear, "Yours is a body I'd like to guard."
Road Rage blinked back to the present with her fans running on a high setting and her poor processor still struggling on the edge of overheating.
"Came back to you, did it?" Crosscut asked.
She turned to look at him, engine letting out a sputter and then a long whine. She wished what he'd said earlier-- what Nautica had said earlier-- didn't make so much sense when she factored in the possibility that Nautica had told him about that conversation-- or at least how Nautica had interpreted it. Any hope she might have had, though, that he didn't know or at least didn't understand what she had meant in the moment was vanquished by the look he was giving her.
Part amusement, part pity, all understanding.
They were silent for a long moment. Road Rage's sincere desire to fall suddenly, tragically offline did not come to pass, which seemed more unfair the more she thought about how touchy her condition obviously was.
"Well," said Crosscut, "I don't imagine it will be too much trouble to have you transferred, if that's what you really want."
A moment passed before Road Rage realized the way his optical ridges rose was because she was nodding. He huffed another laugh at her, still not unkind. Then he patted her on the shoulder and repeated the medic's instruction to rest.
"I'll get it taken care of," he assured her on his way out. He paused at the door and gave her that same understanding look over his shoulder. "For what it's worth-- I wish you better luck than the rest of us have had."
How about married life with Grell headcanons? :3 if you don't mind
Technically, Femslash February is still a few hours away in my time zone...but let’s be real! Every month is Femslash February on this disastrous bisexual blog. XD So, without further ado, here are some married Grelle x fem!Reader headcanons:
I headcanon touch to be one of Grelle's major love languages, so she's extremely cuddly. Lots of snuggles when you're going to sleep together or waking up in the morning, tackling you with impromptu hugs, draping herself over you while you're working at the computer to give you a kiss, holding hands when you're out in public together, etc.
Much like a cat, if she feels you aren't giving her enough attention, she might plop down in your lap and demand affection now!
You share eachother's outfits on a regular basis (though 3/4ths of your closet space at home belongs to Grelle). On lazy days in, Grelle cuddles with you while she's wearing your coziest hoodie.
Since Miss Grelle is most definitely not a morning person, you have to be responsible for making sure she gets to work on time. Sometimes she's a tad grouchy, but your good-morning kisses and the fresh coffee you make her definitely help.
No matter how long you've been together, the sex is still spectacular, and you never cease to be blown away by how stunning and confident your wife is...and how capable she is in bed. ;)
You own a couple of smol white froo-froo dogs like Malteses, Bichon Frises, Lhasa Apsos, etc. (in her confessional, Grelle says she always wanted one). You dote on them like they're your own children, and Grelle hand-sews a bunch of cute little outfits for them. They're always included in family photos, and you often take them on walks or carry them in your purses when you and Grelle go out together.
If you're comfortable with it, Grelle loves taking selfies with you. She just has to show off how dead gorgeous her wife is!
Grelle takes every opportunity she gets to flaunt the fact that she's a married woman. She's definitely the type of spouse who makes sure her wedding ring is on prominent display, or loudly informs the waiter that "I'm here with my darling wife" when you go out to eat.
She messages you throughout your workday. Cute videos of puppies, selfies (some of which are rather NotSFW) she tried out with the latest Snapchat filter, and flirty texts reminding you how much she loves you are all fair game.
You love playing with each other's hair, and you're the only person Grelle trusts to brush it, comb it, braid it, etc. besides herself and her hair stylist.
Grelle teaches you everything she knows about fashion, makeup, and so on, and the two of you turn heads wherever you go.
You're the one in charge of household finances; otherwise, Grelle might tend to overspend on clothes and high heels. XD But you still treat the reaper like a queen and provide her with the lavish lifestyle she deserves.
Much of the decor in your house/apartment is red: Red curtains, red pillows, red carpet, red bedsheets, and much more! You also own a chic red convertible and enjoy taking long rides together, the music blasting and the wind in your hair.
After a long, hard day at work, you and Grelle take a leisurely, rose-scented bubble bath, often with a glass of champagne or two. Things tend to get amorous after that because Grelle is Grelle. ;)
Grelle likes to make cute plushies for you, and you have a whole collection at this point!
Both of you are patrons of the local theatres and opera companies, to the point that you have your own private box to share with your wife.
Although Grelle is doing much better mental health-wise since she transitioned and started therapy, you're always there for her if she has a dysphoric moment or if you need to defend her against creepy transphobes.
Both of you are successful career women, the quintessential wealthy and glamorous wlw aunties.
You attend Pride together every year and are very active within the local LGBTQ+ community.
You keep the spark of romance alive! Grelle has a score of pet names for you and gushes about how beautiful you are; you surprise her with roses or cupcakes you baked for her "just because." Every day, you do your best to make Grelle feel loved. No marriage is perfect, but yours is indisputably a happy one. >w<
