#I DONT EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DSAY

[starliights-shining]

Tfp shockwave with scientist cybertronian s/o that got critically injured in battle

Of course! Sometimes I feel like I dont know how to do Shockwaves personality, So I hope I did him correctly the last few times I've wrote for him. Also, I hope headcannos are okay, Hope this is what you were looking for. Enjoy :)

He was already worried about you being on anyfeild. And then you go and get critically injured in battle. He won't let you go into battle without him again. That will NEVER EVER happen again. You can try but he will always be there with you.

If youre married, He takes the through sickness and health seriously. Get sick, he'll drop almost everything for you, just like he did when you got injured. Except, when injured he will drop EVERYTHING. In the middle of a meeting with Megatron, He's gotta go. Fixing someone Con, He's gotta go. Talking to Starscream, this is perfect, He's gotta go.

I also feel like he'd be upset with himself for allowing such injuries to happen to you, he might beat himself up for a bit, and promise himself to never allow you to go out without him.

For the first few dsays he wouldn't let you leave his lab without him. He's just afriad you might hurt yourself even more, or might strain somehting because you were so persistant on going by yourself.

He have you a little set up in his lab as well. A nice little corner that has everything you need to either continue doing your job, if you wanted, or just to relax. Have you proped up where he can see you, but also get to you if he needs to. He's just caring for his lover, which is sooo freaking cuteeee

If your injuries were to much for you and you were in a coma. He WOULDN'T leave your bedside. One of his servos interlocked with yours while the other held onto the bedside. I feel like he's the type to only do this when its just him in your room, if someone else is there, eh stand back and just watching you.

He'll speak to you in your coma, he'll talk as if your awake. Speaking about new inventions he's made, or something he did or said that remined him of you. Especailly if you're in a coma for a superrrr long time. He'll tell you about future Con plans, or soemthing that happened to another Con. He'd even rant about things to you, Bright red optic staring at you, waiting for a response.

I also feel like if hes one to after you almost die he'd express his feels a tad bit more. Lingering stares, and maybe the odd servo holding if he's worried about you and your well being. He'd jsut realise he can't lose you, and if he does he wouldn't be the same.

He'd be so happy when you awoke, He would do everything in his power to keep you by his side. Oh and don't let him get stared on the things he's made while you were sleeping. He'd bring you to everyone and tell you exactly what they do and how he did it. He's just happy your almost back to healthy and your back at his side. :)

[seita]

Perhaps random of me, but I spent the afternoon going through your content for Semi and felt very likewise when I saw your post about how hard it was being a semi stan when there is just so little content, so because you gave me yours, I will give you some as a payback, 4K of probably a little too soft dom semi to appease your sensibilities.

You are considering possibilities, coursing your tongue over your lipstick worn lips when Semi’s hand circles around your upper arm. He draws you to height without preamble, maneuvering your body into gentle collision with his own, the silken red of your dress gliding across the tight stretch of his leather pants. His eyes, dark and heavy, settle upon yours with indecipherable intent, but intent none the less that tempts anticipation to simmering in your blood.

The spike in your heart stalls, tempers out into quick bursts that bring color to your cheeks and team mercilessly with the breath in your throat, caught. You effectively force it down with a thick swallow, mascara curled lashes blinking lucidly, stemming the slow curve of your mouth that threatens his mildly expressed temper.

Semi’s grasp ghosts down the length of your arm to encircle your wrist and he gazes at you, impassive and imploring, prompting, “You’ve been bad, haven’t you?” though the traitorous twist of his lips betrays the serious insinuation.

The question gives you pause, a split second in which you catch your thoughts before they resort to indecencies and depravities. For a brief glimmer your brows furrow, but you do not take long to assume the fault that he places upon you, however inadvertently.

With a defiant upward tilt of the chin and perfectly arched brows you challenge him. “Have I?” Your tone betrays all innocence, taunting and tempting him to pull no punches, even as you appease him with the sure presence of your body, molding to the sharp cut of his figure presumptuously.

For his part Semi’s resolve remains, consuming the forefront of his thoughts, deciding his course of action before instinct has any chance to draw you in, consume you in a kiss that tells of things to come. The derisive noise he makes in his throat says as much as any domineering pass of his mouth over yours might, sets an edge of danger looming into the atmosphere around you that lures the low and warm glow of bedside lights into a casting of shadows that deign his facial expression a warning.

In response you wither, just slightly deferring to him, to the explanation he offers in brandishing his phone, thumbing through messages that are attached to your name.

“It wasn’t very nice of you to send me this while I was at a business dinner, now, was it?” He poses the question with expected subservience, natural agreement and concession, not once considering that your lips might curve contrarily, eyes gleaming with open insolence.

You do not have to look to know of the this that he refers, the uninterrupted measure of your legs peeking lace finery beneath the raised hem of your dress. Even in the picture your face is far too innocent, not at all imbued with the sinuous concept that sending such a picture surely entailed.

Still you feign your innocence, batting your eyelashes while adopting a low tone, a softly teasing voice that asks, “Did you not like it?”

He can see in your eyes the unrestrained mirth, warm and tempting, making the color of your irises appear liquid. The haze of color across your cheeks only serving to tug his mouth into a traitorous twist, honest sentiment betraying the steel in his eyes.

“Of course I liked it, and that’s the reason we have rules love, because what the fuck am I supposed to do about something like that when I’m stuck at a dinner with my managers?”

Giving a noncommittal hum you risked the forward sweep of your chest, leaning into him to breathe out, ‘anticipate.’

Immediately something dark twists his expression, fond sentimentality vanishing only to be replaced with lurid promise and you do not hide it now, the way your smile stretches in dulcet satisfaction, appease soaking into the very depths of your soul. Semi neither restrains himself, raising your cuffed wrist in order to remind you of the dynamics at play, remind you of how things go. He does not have to speak for you to hear the sternness of his voice, the reminder of, you’re not in charge here, I am, that sets poised on the tip of his tongue, locked away by bared teeth that snap oh so close to your ear before grazing the column of your neck.

His phone is forgotten, discarded upon the vanity you previously imposed yourself and his hand finds its place at the curve of your spine, endearing the slope of your figure to his will. You oblige him with the downward sweep of your shoulders, the forward press of your waist, earnestly meeting the pliant mouth he rests just over yours in which to scold, “The next time you talk back to me like that I may just have to take you over my knee.”

Fleetingly you wonder if it is your disobedience at play now or previously that he considers the slight but the errant thought is short lived, consumed in the sudden wildfire he ignites with his kiss. The damp press of his mouth is coaxing and so downright sinful that were you not shivering in anticipation at the mere thought of a spanking then his mouth would surely have dissolved you to helplessness, a malleable soul only all too happy to acquiesce his every whim.

He drags his teeth along your bottom lip in conclusive fashion, the gentle tug imploring you upright, melding your chests together in righted posture and proximity that leaves you momentarily dazed. You blink yourself back into a reality of his thoughtful face, the considering angle of his mouth. Semi arches a brow and muses, “though I suppose you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His words, an afterthought, are immediately followed with ones more present, idleness marring the proffering that accompanies his restraint erring, shifting from a lithe wrist to grasp your chin between thumb and forefinger. “You’ve always liked playing rough.”

Again you hum, agreeability gifting your features anew, foxlike and coquettish, teeth nipping at the thumb he sweeps over your mouth to be met with Semi’s devil may care smirk. His demeanor is as steady and sure as ever, even as he results you inexplicably otherwise. The sharp edge of your anticipation sings in your ears, pressing down upon you until you are practically buzzing with it, waiting.

The dark chuckle he emits only adds to the tight hold around you the tension provides. You feel it wrap its tendrils around you and pull tight, suffocating, intoxicating. He is so close that every breath you take is a sweet inhalation of scent you know to be purely his. Faint strings of boyish musk and cologne inciting you to thoughtlessly press forward.

Your words are a purr against his mouth, lashes dropping seductively over your eyes. “Only with you.”

Marginally appeased Semi allows a conceding inclination of his head, sentiment of, “You know what’s good for you,” and momentarily you are on even ground, the celebratory couple you were meant to be as of this date. But sentimentalities aside there is only brief adoration in the brush of his lips over yours and it is succinctly chased with a harsh suck of your lower lip that courses flush red when released, teases out a deep moan that implores his smile out of hiding.

Semi smiles with unfettered glee and brushes his thumb over the swollen measure of your mouth, his other hand along the exposed notches of your spine. The backless dress had been chosen specifically with him in mind though you knew there would be no merit in it for him but the handful of moments that came before he took it off. Despite intentions of contrary you had each been summoned in alternate persuasions for the night, never mind the fact that this date was meant to be yours.

You intended temptations that could amass hours in such a dress and your one ploy had served to temper him equal parts in and unimpressed. So much for your game, your play at power; Semi, with his hand pressed between your shoulders, had it all, plucked every string to his own fancy. Never unfairly, you would be the first to amiss, never in a way that didn’t appeal to you, never in a way that didn’t align every one of your dark and sordid inclinations with each and every one of his own.

When he dipped his hand down the curve of your spine once more, settled the width of hands that could pleasure and punish in the same stroke at the curve of your backside you did not worry for what was to come next, simply bit at your bottom lip and did as you had suggested he might, anticipated.

You pressed fingertips tight to the sinewy muscle of his neck, shoulders, tilting your head with doe eyes that better suited low lights and bedroom gazes. “What’s it gonna be Semi, pleasure or punishment?”

His lips assumed an angle of condescension, playful disposition guiding the affectionate brush of noses together in an eskimo’s kiss before his lips found yours in one more fitting, deep, dark and dizzying, leaving you grasping desperately at threads of reality to anchor yourself. Your hands grasped the curves of his shoulders while he acquainted himself the perfumed skin of your neck, breathing in low, warm tones, “On our anniversary? Pleasure, of course, my love, so much of it you’ll be begging me not to touch you.”

The predatory gleam of his eye was raised a swift disconnect, a step away resulting your figure noticeably cool without his pressed keenly. He offered a demonstrative twirl of his fingers, ordering, “Turn around, hands on the table,” and years of his requests make you immediately acquiescent, turning on expensive heels to oblige.

The heels of your palms meet the edge of the vanity, fingers curling around the pristine antique mahogany to find tentative purchase, to enunciate the curve of your spine, to press your thighs together. Intrinsically his dark eyes find yours in the mirrored surface, assuming a domineering possession that keeps your eyes locked even as he lowers himself to the curve of your neck and sweeps your hair aside to sear in a kiss that has flames licking your skin.

Warmth erupts from your every nerve ending with each pass of his tongue and Semi’s mouth shapes satisfaction as it sweeps across your shoulders, fingers working fine finesse on the closure of your dress, letting the slip of red pool unbecomingly low around your hips. The backless feature had boasted a lack underneath that he knew of already though you did not miss the distracted nature of his gaze when it disconnected from yours to follow the paths his fingertips trailed.

A venture of curves and almosts, ghosting along the edges of your breasts but never acquainting as you began to wish he would. Semi touched you with brevity, a glimmer of sensation designed to set you on edge, anticipation upon ever mounting anticipation as he slowly gained momentum, as he slowly lavished you in indulgent kisses that allowed him taste and you dissolving patience, just as he wished.

When his hands were a prominent weight gliding along your sides, imploring you upright to rest against his chest and raise your arms above your head you were already shivering, the tremor of your body obvious when light fingertips danced along the soft skin of underarms, tickling. The laughter such an action normally elicited tumbled from you in soundless gasps, heaving in your chest and rendering you hyper sensitive, hued cheeks hinting sheer desperation that was nowhere near peak.

Semi hummed approval into the crook of your neck, punctuating the silence of your content by sharply tugging your earlobe between his teeth, drawing a ragged moan through the seam of your lips in muffled response. Your eyelashes fluttered to descent, resting upon warm cheeks in solace as you surrendered wholly.

Hands falling from midair suspension they too found solace in smoky ash, twining, twisting, tugging, until just a slither of Semi’s composure slipped, an errant groan permitted escape. Your smile, executed in the most divine listlessness, slackened under hands that passed over breasts, palms that brushed already hardened nipples, to lure out a soft gasp, a breathy admission of Semi’s name.

In response an acknowledging hum, an arch of a brow that you could not see with your eyes still closed. He caressed the supple flesh of your chest only to catch you off guard with contrasting sharpness, the pinch of his thumbs, forefingers, scattering your errant thoughts further into disarray. The precise roll of his fingers curled desire in tight coils beneath your skin, enlisted a restless shift in your hips that he had awaited.

Semi palmed your stomach, pressing a possessive hand to your abdomen while he breathed instruction into your skin.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

And you found in the sheer proximity of his observation heart wrenching intimacy, all subdued affections unreservedly pooling in the depths of dark granite eyes so close to your own that the angle employed a necessity to blink, to refocus your vision. You leant back just slightly, chin on your shoulder to peer at him more openly, to boldly insist where you rather shyly intoned, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

A play at boyish charm and arrogance and Semi was working down the discreet side zipper of your dress. “Why?” His gaze raked over your form, followed the cascade of silk down your legs to puddle around your feet and none too discretely passed his tongue over his lips. His gaze flickered back toward your own. “Because you look absolutely devastating.”

Emboldened, teasing, you straightened, arching a challenging brow, loftily intoning, “And you didn’t want pictures.”

His answering scoff is abrupt, accompanying a sharp purchase on lace covered hips, teeth on lips. “You know why I didn’t want pictures?” he whines, nipping your bottom lip and drawing you close enough that you can feel his growing arousal through strained leather. “Because this is what you do to me,” he explains, his hand covering yours, guiding it over his length in demonstration.

“Knowing how you looked while I wasn’t there to do anything about it?” His hand left yours to self employed devices and he smiled, sheepish, earnest. “Fucking torture.”

With a sinuous smile you palmed his erection through his pants, delighting the shaky exhale that filtered through his lips and fanned across your own. “I spent the rest of dinner thinking of all the ways I could punish you for teasing me like that, and now…” he gave an ineffectual wave of the hand, words tapering off into suggestive silence and arched brows that spoke more than sentiment could.

“Now I just want to devour you. Just want to see you fall apart in all the ways I know I can make you – until you’re begging me to stop, and maybe, maybe then you’ll understand.”

Semi returned gentle hands to a tender cradle of your face, bringing your lips to his in a kiss long enough that you were laughing disbelief into the crevices of one another’s smiles, slipping buttons and zips free in growing haste and murmuring in disjointed phrase; “As if you don’t do the same to me.”

You push away the fabric of his jacket, tugging his shirt free to work through the remaining buttons. “Do you even know how unfair the sight of you in leather is?” You glance him in flirtatious suggestion, fingering the lapels of his shirt until your hands are caving to implicit need and carting him forward, affording your mouth access to his jaw that he obliges with the craned measure of his neck to eager teeth that lay claim.

His shirt finds company amongst your dress, his jacket and Semi toes off his shoes while your hands fumble with the fastener of his pants. Impatiently pushing the fabric down his thighs your hands return to the narrow planes of his hips to find the elastic of his boxers only to draw back curiously when you find none.

Before you can subdue it an unbidden moan slips out, distress nuancing your features. “Really Sem? No underwear?”

And his answering chuckle is sin.

He is reaching for you around the waist, gathering you in his arms, guiding you away from tangles of clothing with a charming smile that renders all admonishing statements inarticulate on your tongue, diffused to giggles when one awry step, one stray swing of your foot, catches the vanity and topples the contents across the surface. Adept sheepishness glances across his features and Semi mutters, “I’ll tidy it later,” and you laugh against his mouth, disagreeing.

“No you won’t,”

And a beat behind, his concession: “No, I won’t.”

But he will make it up and though it’s not promised it’s not doubted either, a wordless gesture extended between kissing mouths and tumbling forms that find comfort amongst plush pillows and linens. The weight of his figure warm and heavy atop yours expels from your lungs in sweet relief and were it not for the hands he reaffirms around each one of your wrists you would draw him closer. Yet even in the throes of playful jeers and teasing remarks Semi has not forgotten his intentions, has not forgotten what he promised lay ahead and he reminds you of as much with pupils blown so far the color of his eyes is obsidian, coal, onyx.

He does not indulge a moment’s hesitation before descending upon you in predatory stance, the muscles in his back rolling, stretching taut and tempting under coffee cream shadowed skin that your fingers itch to touch. The instinct draws reach that he restrains, an admonishing tut sounding in the back of Semi’s throat that he breathes against your neck, your chest.

“No touching,” he reminds, his voice a lofty sing song, and you can hear the curl of his mouth as much as you can feel it slanting over your skin. He lifts his head with a devilish smile scantily and immediately returns to idle touches of his tongue that feel mostly directionless, executed with only the intention of teasing as he delves lower. In his descent his grip loosens, imploring fingertips pressing to the inside of your wrists with the suggestion of compliance that for now you concede to obliging.

Your body is not so acquiescent, gradual warm up picking up where the last had left off to leave your spine arching from the mattress in a feeble attempt to garner more from him than just his tongue. Though unlike you Semi is happy to indulge restraint, despite breathless tones that feel as if a physical caress directly upon his cock, your efforts to appease him are useless.

“This is why you shouldn’t send photos babe,” he teases, tracing his tongue between your breasts, glancing up at you with wicked eyes. “It’s no fun not being able to touch, is it?”

Affronted you idly entertain your most put out expression, squirming beneath him. “I thought you said pleasure, not punishment?”

Semi shrugs and drags the flat of his tongue over one of your nipples. “Does this not feel good?” and though he asks the question he does not expect a response more telling than the shudder that rocks your chest, the fists your hands clench into. His hands ghost over your ribs, waist, hips and he lifts you sparsely from the mattress to draw you into his mouth, following, “that’s what I thought.”

And though it is what you had thought to want Semi’s teasing ministrations are so pointedly a beat behind that the more from his mouth you had sought no longer seems satisfying to receive, need having bypassed to exceeding the suckling of his mouth, the hiss of your breath at the drag of his teeth. The upward press of your hips to his is pointedly ignored in spite of the strong instinct required to ward off a downright adolescent urge he feels to rut himself against you.

By the time he moves across your chest to attend the breast left untouched you are running worrisomely low on patience, knuckles pierced white in their tightly clutched posture. Your eyes too are tightly clenched shut, fighting off the arousal doomed only to multiply if you were to watch him, to see the way he settled his weight in the space between your thighs, could not help the occasional abortive rock of his hips.

The groan he emits vibrates tantalizingly against your skin, a current of electricity that skitters across the surface and sizzles and burns, makes your throat close up with a whistle of a breath that turns his smile in arrogance. The application of his mouth is not hindered by smugness as much as it is reinvigorated, picking up pace to placate you some as he relents to shifting down your torso, teasing in sharp nips of teeth over your ribs and hips that will leave the faintest traces of him come morning light.

You do not dare to tempt diversion when his fingertips find the underside of your thighs, curling under your knees, guiding your legs over his shoulders, by opening your eyes. Fearful that the moment you locked eyes with him Semi would direct you the mildest of smiles possible before countering, ‘you didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?’ you remain unseeing, unsuspecting and vaguely suspicious of his intention only to be spared surprise by the path chosen.

The feather touch of his mouth along your thighs prompts an impatient, needy whine in your throat, your fingers to twist in your hair and Semi chuckles agonizingly into the seam of your thigh and hip, idle fingers considering the lace hem of your underwear. With baited breath you await the unavoidable discovery he is due to make of just how much of a mess he has reduced you and it comes shortly, some spare minutes after he lavishes your thighs bruises that will only serve to tug his lips with satisfaction if you dare send him any pictures soon.

At first he overlooks your aching center to meanly snap the elastic of your underwear against your waist tauntingly, but then the tips of his first two digits are acquainting with the curve of your womanhood and despite previous self-preservation your lashes flutter open to afford you the humbled expression that adorns his face when he feels just how wet you are.

There is a minute wideness to his eyes, an arch to his brow almost as if he doesn’t quite believe it though this is hardly new territory for either of you as his fingers follow your shape. The moisture coating his fingertips when he considers, rubs the two against the pad of his thumb, burns your cheeks, enlists a most dazzlingly pleased smile from him. Semi breathes out a faint echo of disbelief and errantly suggests, “Have I been too mean if you’re this wet already?”

And you know that what he means is perhaps his pace has been too unforgiving but he does not let up on it, sparing a nonchalant hum before he drops his head and presses a kiss to your lower lips. Instinct dictates your hands better placed in his hair than in your own and for your own part you have the presence of mind to recall his earlier instruction just seconds before your fingernails have the chance to drag across his scalp, deferring to drag in frustration across your abdomen in trails of blossoming red.

His name slips past your lips in a heavy plea; please, please, please, chasing the syllables in an unspecified request that has nothing to do with his languorous pace and everything to do with your desire to touch him that Semi picks up on adeptly when he notes the sting of red painting your skin.

He is in some ways feeling guilty enough that he acquiesces a modicum of your patience in allowing the small liberty though it does not employ his haste. Greedily you bury your fingers in the tufts of his hair, all out sighing with small satisfaction. The drag of your nails across his scalp catches his breath and you feel your small satisfaction grow, blooming with potential that you scarcely entertain.

While Semi does away with the dampened cloth of your underwear just to the side to perchance his tongue access you pull on the strands of his hair, urging him closer. His acquiescence is executed under his own design and followed through with a lazy probe of his muscle that dips just past your soaked lips to make blessed contact.

Your breath escapes you in a noisy whoosh that you do not have the necessary energy to feel embarrassment over, succumbing to sighs and closed lids while Semi concedes to less teasing and more firm applications of his mouth. He presses hard kisses to your clit, feeling the persistent throb of it against his lips, under his tongue when he sucks the bundle of nerves into his mouth to suck.

He only lets up on the singular assault when the tension in your muscles bows your body rigid, tightens your thighs keenly to his ears.

Sparing a modicum of the strength he has over you to force your legs apart once more Semi directs his tongue a new venture, lapping at your entrance and the steady flow of arousal that aptly coats his tongue, allows the easy slide of his first two fingers right down to the hilt.

The length of his fingers has always been a point in his favor that Semi has illustrated the punishing benefits of before, expertly reaching every part of you that history guarantees favorable reaction to. The thrust of his digits reaches so deeply that all at once you feel his momentum finally gaining on your own, aligning with the tightly wound pleasure in your abdomen until it is fit to burst, so very, very close that you can feel your release creeping up on you.

It takes only the flat of his tongue and a curl of his fingers to ease the locked up tension in your muscles, your thighs trembling as your nails dig painfully into his scalp and your back arches restlessly from the mattress, the flutter of your eyelashes offering no distinction between the light or dark that steals over your vision in a pleasurable haze as you curse his name, squirm away.

“Fuck Semi, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You push at his skull when you blink your eyes open and he relents enough that he lifts his head from between your legs and lazily drags his tongue over his lips, cleaning himself up, propping his weight up on his elbows in such a way that your legs slide from his shoulders.

Scrambling back enough to demurely close your knees Semi’s eyes glow with mischief and he is fastly on his knees, crawling across the mattress to drag you back beneath him.

“Where on Earth do you think you’re going?” he says, and this time he’s a lot faster about the way he settles a palm at your hip and bypasses preamble to thrust into you without warning beyond the fingers that spread you open for him, the smile that drips across his mouth. “What did I say before?”

You worry your teeth over your bottom lip, hips squirming beneath the experimental roll of his own even as you traitorously clench around him, draw him in deeper. 

The breath you take is just enough to lend your voice volume, to acquiesce him an answer that rolls off your tongue with all the trappings of anticipation and overwhelm. “Until I’m begging you to stop.”

Semi hums, dipping his head down to brush your noses, to murmur, “There’s my good girl,” right against your mouth. “And I don’t hear you begging yet.”