#the three above the cut are played the most!

[moonlightrafe]

Blood Lust

summary: With his ego inflated after Rook’s Rest, Aemond makes another move against the blacks — taking you.

pairing: Aemond x Niece!Reader

word count: 1.8k+

warnings: Explicit smut, dark!Aemond, incest, oral sex (f recieving), p in v sex, heavy dubcon, loss of virginity, mention of blood, knife play, angst!!! 18+ MDNI

Destiny was a fickle thing but Aemond Targaryen knew three things for certain: he was destined to lose an eye, destined to claim the largest dragon of the known world and destined to be with you.

For as long as Aemond could remember, he wanted you, dreamed of you. The mere thought of you made his cock ache at any moment.

It was not as if Aemond had no other options. There were plenty of Lord’s willing to send their daughters to King’s Landing to be married off to a prince.

As lovely as those girls might have been, they all shared the same detrimental flaw: they simply were not you. You were a member of House Targaryen — bastard born or not, the blood of Old Valyria ran deep within your veins. You were a skilled dragon rider, you carried yourself with grace, held a quick wit, spoke your mother tongue. Above all else, you had been there for Aemond when no one else was. You were perfect.

Aemond had no interest in being betrothed to a Baratheon or a Lannister, nor an Arryn or a Stark; even the most beautiful girl the Tyrell’s had to offer would simply never compare. After a denied proposal for a betrothal and you being taken away to Dragonstone Aemond felt powerless — until now.

Your entire body aches as you make out your surroundings. You had been taken in the middle of the night, forced onto dragon back with your hands and feet tied.

“Listen to me,” your uncle says as he crouches in front of you, “if you scream the guards will come and you’ll be thrown in the dungeons. You have no friends here except me. Do you understand?”

You nod your head in agreement, desperate to be free of the makeshift gag he had made for you.

“Aemond, this is treason,” you state plainly.

“Treason, would be betraying the crown, sweet niece,” he responds, “I am the crown.”

“Fuck you!” you grumble at him.

“Iksos bona skoros ao jaelagon?” Is that what you want?

Against your better judgment, you spit right in his face, observing him nervously as he wipes it away.

“Fiesty little thing you are.”

“What do you want with me, Aemond? Will you force me to kneel before you? Carve out my eye? Perhaps I’ll suffer the same fate as my brother?”

Ah, Lucerys. He was waiting for you to bring that up.

“While I’m sure that seeing you on your knees is a glorious sight, I have other plans for you.”

“I have no desire to bed you, Aemond. I am betrothed.”

The smirk on his face slightly drops at that. Betrothed.

“And where is Lord Stark now?” He questions casually.

“Preparing his army for war.”

“I wonder how it must feel?” he goes on, “to be whored out? Practically sold like a broodmare so that your pretender of a mother can build herself an army?”

“Better to be his whore than your war prize.”

The mask of cruelty on Aemond's face fades for a moment, and for a second, he almost looks hurt at your words.

“Is that what you think? That you’re merely a ‘prize’? You wound me, dear niece. Do you not remember that I love you?”

Ice fills your veins at his confession and your heart drops into your stomach. Things could’ve been different, they should’ve been.

“I don’t understand why things had to escalate in this way, Aemond,” you say as you start to cry, “you could’ve —“ you choke back a sob, “you could’ve had me.”

Aemond takes your chin in his hands as he lets out a laugh.

“I do have you, baby.”

Fear courses through you at his words. Aemond unsheathes a knife from his jacket pocket and holds it to your chest for a brief moment before pulling away.

“Hold still,” he demands as he cuts the rope that holds your ankles together.

You wince as Aemond forcefully spreads your legs apart, violently cutting a hole into your undergarments, exposing your cunt to him.

“Tell me, has Stark fucked this pretty little pussy yet?”

He knows he hasn’t, he knows you and Cregan still have yet to meet. He wants to hear you say it.

“N-no,” you stutter as you continue to cry. Gods, you look so pretty when you cry, Aemond thinks to himself. He only smirks in response.

“You are still a maiden, right, sweet one? You haven’t let little Lord Strong defile you, have you?”

“Gods, Aemond. No.”

“Hm,” Aemond frowns, “a shame for him, really. Now he’ll never have the chance being that you will never see him again.”

“They’ll come for you,” you tell him.

“If they wish to keep me away from you and your perfect cunt they’ll have to kill you,” he muses, “But even then…”

A darkness takes over your uncles face and you soon realize the Aemond you once knew is gone. You are dealing with a whole new monster. He is an animal, a beast — and you are merely prey.

“Do you touch yourself?” he asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

“S-sometimes,” you whisper, feeling ashamed, but finding it difficult to lie to him.

“What do you think about when you do?”

“Not you,” you retort.

He runs two fingers through your soft folds, causing you to gasp, before bringing his fingers up to the light.

“Liar,” he states as his fingers glisten, coated in your slick. “You know you don’t have to lie to me, baby. I think about you, too…”

You can’t help but notice the evident bulge in your uncle's pants, his cock strains against the delicate fabric. You can tell how big he is. You try your best to divert your gaze elsewhere.

“Now, I’m going to untie your wrists. Might I remind you of what I said earlier: You are far better off in here, with me, than out there,” he says, pointing to the door with his dagger.

You’re not sure if you believe him. At this point, you might prefer to be thrown in the dungeon with the rats, left to starve. Instead of arguing, you simply nod your head as Aemond cuts you free.

You feel wobbly as you stand on your feet, Aemond holds your hands as you gain your composure. Your ankles and wrists feel sore, but Aemond rubs his thumb against your wrist soothingly.

Your heart is practically beating out of your chest as that familiar ache between your legs begins to grow. You know you shouldn't be aroused by this behavior, but your body is betraying you.

Aemond picks you up swiftly and places you onto his bed. There was a time where you dreamed of this. If only your younger self could see you now.

Your thoughts are interrupted once again as Aemond’s large hand wraps around your throat. He squeezes lightly, trying to keep you in your place. You make a feeble attempt to push him away, but he is too strong and you can’t break free.

“Please, don’t be afraid of me,” he pleads, “I need you,” the timbre of his voice is so low that you aren’t sure if he meant for you to hear. His free hand moves to your breast, massaging it roughly through your chemise.

"You are so beautiful," he says, leaning over you. You feel him press himself against you, his cock rubbing against your leg, pre-cum leaks out of the tip and smears onto your thigh.

He pushes back and nestles himself comfortably between your thighs. His dexterous fingers part your folds ever so gently, exposing you to him completely.

“Gods, you’re perfect. The most perfect girl in the entire realm,” he groans before his face is buried between your thighs. His plump lips suck at your clit as he prods at it with his tongue before moving up and down your slit. You feel yourself getting wetter, arousal leaks from your core and Aemond laps it up eagerly. On instinct, you spread your legs even further apart, your body betraying you once again.

Aemond licks harder, and you feel the soft muscle of his tongue slip inside you. A loud moan erupts from your chest as a tight knot forms in the pit of your stomach. Your hand shoots down to to tug at Aemond’s silver tresses.

You’re so close, you’ve never been touched like this before and one final glide of his tongue pushes you over the edge. You cry out loudly as you cum, your vision going blurry as your cunt contracts around him.

Aemond pulls himself from your core and stands up, grabbing your hips. He harshly pulls you to the edge of the bed and you feel his cock pressing against you. You eagerly push towards him this time. There is no point in fighting him. You gasp as he enters you fully, filling you completely. The stretch is overwhelming, a tight burning sensation. The fullness begins to feel good as your silky walls flutter around him.

“Just relax,” he coos, “I know you want me.”

You feel his cock twitch inside you slightly as he groans, leaning down to bite your shoulder.

“Fuuuck,” he drawls, “you’re so tight and wet, baby, so perfect; just like I dreamed you would be.”

Your cheeks bloom crimson at his praise and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him tightly as he fucks into you. The sharp pain soon fades into pleasure. The fat tip of his cock relentlessly bullies that sweet spot inside you that you were never able to reach on your own.

Aemond reaches up to paw at your breast, pinching at your nipple roughly, and a wave of pleasure crashes over you. Your spine tingles and your toes curl, causing you to moan in response.

"You think Stark could fuck you like this? Make you feel the way I do? That anyone could?" He rasps as his thrusts become relentless. He slaps your face when you fail to give him an answer. A shameful whimper escapes you.

"Answer. Me." he demands between thrusts, his teeth gritted together, his thumb swiping over the rosy, delicate flesh where he hit you.

“N-no, Aemond! Only you, just you! I'm sorry!” you all but choke out to him.

“That’s right, my sweet. You were fuckin’ made for me,” he grunts before pausing his thrusts, his hips stuttering before he pulls his cock out of you almost entirely. Making note of the blood that coats his shaft, hoping you don’t notice.

“You know it, I know it, your mother knows it,” he grits out, “you’re mine.”

“Yes, Aemond, I’m — fuck! I’m yours,” you mewl.

“Do you love me?" he asks, your mind is hazy, and stars blur your vision as he continues to drill into you. Even while he is taking control, his insecurity still has a way of shining through his cruel demeanor.

You loved him once, long ago. Maybe you could love him again? You know the answer he is looking for is not ‘maybe.’

"Kessa, Avy jorrāelan." Yes, I love you.

Aemond grins at this, impressed with your knowledge of your shared mother tongue.

He slams his cock into you full force, stilling as he presses hard against your cervix, making you cry out again. His hand tangles in your hair as he places his forehead against yours.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he tells you.

You grip at his hips, pulling him into you.

“C-cum inside me,” you moan through bated breaths, “claim me as your own, once and for all.”

“You’ve always been mine,” he says as he complies, pushing into you deeply as he shoots his hot cum inside of you, warmth blooming in your chest as he does so; before collapsing on top of you.

“What happens now?” you ask, as he gently pulls himself out of your heat, allowing his seed to seep onto the bed sheets.

“This is just the beginning.”

[unpretty]

not going to tack this onto @derinthescarletpescatarian's post because it was long enough but here is my understanding of some of the various subgenres commonly encountered in light novels/web novels/licensed webtoons:

isekai: another world. if they end up in a different world it's an isekai. it doesn't matter how they got there. sometimes the other world is explicitly a video game the protagonist is playing. they're not dead or anything, just in virtual reality. they go home at night and it's fine.

portal fantasy: it does matter how they got there, actually. they went through a portal of some kind. wherever they end up, they keep their minds and bodies. maybe in the other world they have powers, but maybe not.

progression fantasy: they are going to level up like a video game character. there may or may not be an actual leveling up mechanic. they might just get stronger or acquire more wealth and powerful allies as it goes on. they will always kick more ass. hundreds of beavers is a progression fantasy.

litrpg: western term for 'the characters explicitly have video game mechanics'. there is probably a System of some kind. characters are aware of levels and power tiers. most controversial subgenre, lots of people hate this.

dungeon break/monster hunter: dungeons or portals appear in the real world, some people get powers that let them fight the monsters. lots of people try to tell me this is just litrpg but i argue that they are distinct subgenres with significant overlap. not every litrpg is this. you can probably find traditionally published american versions of this pre-dating video games and the litrpg concept.

transmigration: this is when truck-kun intervenes. there are other ways it can happen, but usually a character dies (hit by a truck is the most common trope) and wakes up in a different body. usually an isekai, usually it's into a story or video game, but it doesn't always have to be.

regression: a character dies, but instead of dying, they wake up as their younger self with all their memories from before their death. this is explicitly not an isekai, except when someone gets fucky with it and reveals that a transmigrator was actually also a regressor the whole time.

loop: if they regress more than once it turns into a loop. this is distinct because sometimes with regressors they just have the one chance to not fuck things up this time. some loop stories also have characters transmigrating a bunch of times.

villain isekai: usually transmigration. oh no i died and woke up as the bad guy in a story! now i gotta try not to fucking die!!!

romfan: romance fantasy. it gets called romfan instead of romantasy because it came first and is being translated probably.

otome isekai: also usually transmigration and also often romfan. you are now the prettiest princess and all the boys want to kiss you. i assume there's a 'harem' version of this For Men but i don't read those and can't tell you anything about them.

villainess isekai: usually a combination of the above three. most likely to be very meta and funny. i have a weakness for these ones.

divorce revenge: there might be a real name for this but i don't know it. sometimes this is paired with regression but not always, but it's very often a kind of progression fantasy. features a woman divorcing her shitty husband and then living her best life, which keeps getting better as her husband has to watch her kick ass and then cry about how he blew it. there are so many of these.

childcare fantasy: i think this includes both the ones where someone transmigrates into a baby, and the ones where they transmigrate to take care of a baby. i don't like this genre enough to check. but 'formerly abused child gets loved and coddled and anyone who tries to hurt them suffers' is a major component of this subgenre.

there's definitely more but my attention span has waned. here's some comics that are on my reading list after the cut, there's going to be undescribed screenshots because i'm lazy. you may need to find these elsewhere if you don't want to deal with tapas or webtoon and their paywalling systems.

The Greatest Estate Developer: transmigration villain isekai and progression fantasy with litrpg elements. architect uses his knowledge to save his own ass and also his new family, gets powers, everyone will unionize whether they like it or not.

Lout of the Count's Family: transmigration villain isekai and progression fantasy. ends up in otome isekai recommendations a lot despite technically not being an otome, on account of the eye candy and shipping potential. the webnovel has turned into like six different genres by now and is asspull central but i read it anyway. protag says he just wants to save his own ass so he can relax but does it by coughing up blood constantly.

The S-Class Hunters That I Raised: regression dungeon break litrpg. guy with shitty powers regresses and has to figure out how to make his power of taking care of people suck less, turns out it's OP as all hell.

Villains are Destined to Die: villainess transmigration otome isekai, maybe a little litrpg? there's definitely a system. protag just wants to go home because the visual novel she's in is notoriously difficult and she is at constant risk of being murdered. i like this one so much i own it in print.

Marriage of Convenience: regression romfan. not an isekai!! protag hated her life and died in poverty and shame after her husband died, this time she's going to try not doing that.

Villainesses Have More Fun: villainess transmigration otome isekai and progression fantasy. protag is very excited to be the villainess because she was the best character. she loves being rich. unfortunately at least one plot point raises the question 'why is that boy white'

Beware the Villainess: villainess transmigration otome isekai, meta as all hell, extremely meme-able faces, does not end in an OT3 but should have.

Baroness Goes On Strike: regression romfan, also not an isekai. protag wanted a divorce on her deathbed but woke up on the first night of her marriage, wants her life to suck less this time through the power of being assertive.

The Perks of Being a Villainess: villainess transmigration otome isekai and progression fantasy. protag has resting villainess face and progresses through the power of advanced math, unregulated capitalism, and abuse of the patent and copyright systems.

I Think I've Been Possessed Somewhere: transmigration isekai starring a main character who's read so much romance fantasy that she doesn't actually know what genre she's in because everything is too generic. meta as all hell.

Your Throne: villainess, sort of transmigrator? the crafty politically-savvy villainess bodyswaps with the naive saintess heroine, shit gets dark real fast, probably not going to end with girls kissing despite my hopes and dreams.

The Remarried Empress: divorce revenge romfan. you see this one referenced a lot in the comments of other romfans because everyone hates Rashta, the waif that the emperor divorces the empress for.

Raising My Fiance With Money: romfan, fake dating, sort of a divorce revenge except it's her ex-fiance. no isekai elements at all, but the protag is ridiculously lucky with money, comically wealthy, and supported by her doting family despite having terrible taste in men. her love interest is a teddy bear with resting murder face.

When The Third Wheel Strikes Back: transmigrator isekai. the protag never actually read the book, he only knows about it through osmosis because it's hugely popular and his sister is a big fan. one of the only things he knows is that in a recent update his character dies. also, it was already a transmigrator isekai before he got there. he isekai'd into an isekai. so much of the worldbuilding suggests a canon ot3 but i refuse to get my hopes up.

Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint: it's sort of a dungeon break. not really an isekai but kind of. litrpg, sure. there's regressors. there's transmigrators. there's a lot going on. kim dokja was the only reader of a terrible, ridiculously long webnovel that now appears to be coming true. the official adaptation appears to be making the webnovel less queer overall. i read the webtoon until i got impatient enough to force my way through the sometimes clunky webnovel translations. it's hard to explain orv because it's a story about stories. consuming stories, telling stories, stories told about you, becoming a story, the cost of a story. it is so long. there is so much happening. the story is resolved in the epilogue you might skip if you didn't know any better. some people find it too confusing while others read homestuck.

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ NEED TO LISTEN TO ME — price is disappointed in you and your other three lovers, and finds that some 'training' is in order

read on ao3.

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, poly tf141, ANGRY sex, mean dom price, angst, degradation, minor dom/sub, light humiliation, orgasm denial, dacryphilia, minor spit play, minor blood play (not really), rough sex, price orders EVERYONE around, price-centred, whiny johnny and gaz agenda

// NSFW CONTENT UNDER THE CUT //

You weren't scared of many things at this point in your life.

Being a signal officer for the military certainly aided that statement, but it was more the fact that you had four guard dogs in the form of the most seasoned special forces operatives you've ever known. Four very large, very scary men that you'd somehow found yourself lucky enough to get to call your partners.

Both on, and off, the field.

That being said, there was one thing you were terrified of. Like, to your bones, petrified.

And that thing had a name.

John Price.

He was formally the captain of your force for a reason, but he was also informally the captain of your relationship, as well. The one you all looked to in the most difficult of moments, the one that held reason and guidance above all.

It's been that way since the five of you met, and remains the same to this day.

Nonetheless.

It was a known fact between you, Soap, Ghost and Gaz that none of you liked seeing the man mad. You four could count on one hand the amount of times you'd witnessed it, all of which having been directed at either his superiors or an enemy.

But. Right now, in this office, seated on the small couch between your three lovers?

Yeah. You don't fear many things.

But John Price's disappointment is quite easily in your top three, and this situation only cements it.

"He's probably ordering our caskets," Gaz murmurs wistfully, eyes wide as he stares at his foot, tap-tap-tapping against the wooden floor. It's a nervous tic that gives him away too easily, but even with your hand on his knee, it doesn't seem able to quit.

You exhale a deep breath, squeezing your eyes shut. "I hope he gets me a cute one," you mumble back, tone matching the resignation that clouds your captain's office.

"You four. My office."

Those were the only words Price had spoken to you guys, before marching off to a meeting with Laswell.

To say that you and your lovers were mortified was the biggest understatement of the century.

Even Ghost, sat perfectly still, expression perfectly neutral beneath his mask, oozes trepidation like it's the carbon dioxide he exudes with every breath.

"I know 'm 'n tha military, but I still don't wanna die, ya know?" Soap whines, his head flung back and blue eyes glued to the roof as his hands shake in his lap.

You guys must look like unruly students sat outside of your principal's office to any onlookers, and it should be embarrassing.

It would be, if you could feel anything but mortal peril.

You're about to quip a reply to Soap, when the door clicks open, and the three of you sit ramrod straight, Ghost not moving from his already perfect posture.

Price steps in, the door shutting closed behind him.

The silence is a tangible force, and your mouth is so dry, you'd think you were in a desert, not in your lover's office.

His footfalls echo around the modest space, before he leans against his wooden desk, folding his arms over his chest, before directing his furious gaze to you four.

"When I give orders," he starts, and oh god, his tone, it's so unbelievably firm, "I expect my team to follow them."

There's no response, except for the overwhelming quiet coming from the usually passionate and comforting presence that underlies your entire dynamic.

Price clears his throat, meeting all of your eyes one by one. You wonder if you can see the glassiness of yours, the barely restrained tears.

"So why," he begins, before swallowing once more, determination settling in, "Did all four of my teammates rush into an unstable building after being ordered to keep out?"

You know it's not just the anger of a captain's orders being refused.

It's the anger of a lover having to watch all four of his partner's risk their death, while he can do nothing but watch from the scope of a sniper rifle.

The clock on the wall above the door ticks, and none of you make a sound.

Price grabs a pack of cigars from his pocket, quickly sliding one out, placing it between his lips, and shoving the pack back into his slacks. He then pulls out a lighter from his back pocket, lighting the tobacco, before exhaling his first breath of smoke.

In any other situation, you or Gaz would be chastising him, telling him to stop smoking, or to at least do it outside.

Neither of you say a word.

Rubbing at the furrow between his brows, Price then drifts his eyes to Ghost, the only one who hasn't said a word since the mission.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Price says on a deep exhale, shaking his head. There's hurt there, genuine pain, and your heart stutters in your chest at the sight. "You're my lieutenant, Simon. I thought you'd at least 'ave the brains to listen to me when I make an order."

Ghost's hand tightens where it sit on his cargos, and even with his mask on, you can tell that a disgruntled frown lays beneath it.

"And you, Soap," he looks at the man to your right, now, and you can physically see him deflate at the disappointment in his captain's eyes. "Disrespecting authority is cute 'nd all, until it's me, mate."

Those words feel like a physical wound, even to you, and judging my Soap's crestfallen expression, for him, it must hurt tenfold.

And, then, it's your turn.

His mouth is set in a grim line, and you hope that he can see the regret, the genuine sorrow you feel at disappointing and -- and scaring your captain. Your lover.

"What were you thinking?" He asks, and your mouth wants to open, but it's as if there's an invisible force pinning it shut. "You weren't even supposed to step foot on enemy grounds, and you knew that."

And it's true. Your role is mainly with communications and technical supplies, not actual combat. You were trained, yes, but it has never been your role.

But you'd seen Soap rush in, Ghost trailing after him, yelling, and then Gaz not long after, and it was like your mind shut out any rational lines of thinking. There was no rationale when it came to your partners.

That was a flaw. A genuine character fault, and Price was cementing that fact in this very room.

"Kyle," Price runs his hand down his face, cigar in between his middle and index fingers, "Kyle."

The pain, regret, the melancholy -- it's its own element in this room, its own being, and it feels as if it's choking you from the inside out. Like a gas leak, or a grenade stuck in your throat, about to go off.

Ghost, shockingly, is the first to speak.

"Captain," he grits out. Not 'old man'. Not 'love'.

Captain.

"We're aware of our... misgivings," he states, the words coming off of his tongue like hot coals he needs to rid off, lest his entire mouth burns.

Price nods, slowly, eyes narrowing at Ghost. It hits you, then, how your lover's just dug all of your graves in one sentence. Gaz seems to realise, too, his eyes going wide, exhaling a low, short breath in surprise.

"Sweetheart," he quips, standing up in the transition of one moment to the next, eyes snapping to your glassy ones. The endearment holds no warmth to it, for the first time, and your heart shatters where it beats in your chest, shards of glass embedding into the muscle surround it. "Get on the desk."

He says the words, and in the next movement, sweeps his arm over his desk, causing all of his papers, his pens, his folders, to go careening to the floor.

Soap mutters a curse under his breath, and Gaz winces.

On shaky legs, you stand, walking the short distance to the wooden surface and sitting on it with short pants of breath.

His large hand grips your chin in a tight grasp, tilting your head back and forcing the eye contact between you both.

He leans in, mouth mere millimetres away from your own, before speaking. You can taste the tobacco as he does. "I'm gonna let every single one of my subordinates fuck your disobedient cunt, and it's not gonna get any cum. Do you understand that order, sweetheart?"

It's cruel. Patronising, and so unbearably condescending, but you nod, a tear finally leaking down your cheek.

With a calloused thumb, he wipes it away in one stroke. "Save that for the actual punishment, operator."

And then, he steps back, and takes a seat in his chair, allowing him a full view of the other three still sat at the couch, and your position in his desk.

"This is a lesson on following your captain's orders," Price barks his order, like most other men of his rank would. It's a stone cold contrast to the gentle, comforting way he usual spoke to the four of you. His voice, now, holds no love, no underlying adoration lacing through his words. "You will follow every command I give you, and hopefully, this training will carry onto our future missions."

You're all aware that if it gets too much, one of you will utter the safeword you're all aware of -- the weight of it almost embedded into your beings.

Price knows it, too. And no matter how angry he is, he'll always put you all first, listen to you when you genuinely need to stop.

The feeling in the room has shifted from one of heavy disappointment, to an electrifying anger that has liquid heat melting to your core.

"Simon," Price snaps his fingers, and it's almost as if you're in a parallel universe, because the large man immediately stands. "Lay 'er down on the desk."

Ghost only needs to take two steps from the couch before he's standing in front of you, hand fisting into your hair, before somewhat gently pushing you to lay flat against the smooth surface. Your breathing is harsh, your chest moving in quick rises.

"Strip 'er down," Price orders, voice gravelly as he takes another deep inhale of his cigar, folding his leg so his left ankle rests on his right knee, legs spread wide. He fills out the chair with his frame, and it makes you shiver as Ghost gets to work peeling your clothes off of you.

When your heated skin feels the kiss of the cool air, you let out a haggard breath, head falling back to hit the wood as you clench your eyes shut.

Ghost goes to spread your thighs, before pausing, awaiting Price's directions like a dutiful dog.

You never thought you'd see the day.

"She's wet enough," Price shrugs, taking another drag of his cigar. "Fuck 'er."

Oh, fuck.

He wasn't lying, you were soaking, something about the fear unknowingly having your inner thighs sticky and core aching to be filled.

But... not getting prepped? At all?

Ghost makes a surprised grunt of a noise, pausing for a moment, before recollecting his senses and unbuckling his pants.

Oh. Fuck.

He's really, properly following Price's directions, like the man had demanded. The guilt was eating all of you alive, and that festered in Simon's actions.

His deep brown eyes flick to yours, before he unzips his fly with one hand, gaze not moving from yours. There's slight apology in them, only a hint, before he leans down to spit on your cunt.

You inhale a sharp breath at the act, squeezing your eyes shut as his dick presses against your heat, rubbing against it slightly.

Then, he pushes in -- it makes you cry out, breath hitching as the tip enters. It's a tight fit, but he continues to push in, and it's almost as if you can feel the intrusion, the pressure in your chest.

"So you can follow orders, huh?" Price quips, almost nastily, and it has you shuddering as Ghost's hips finally flush against your own. You don't think you've ever taken any of them without foreplay, and it's a special form of torture. The pressure is almost too much, his cock filling you up so much.

Simon's head hangs between his shoulders, muscles tense as he stares down at you, the epitome of self-restraint.

He always was the most controlling one, the most calculating.

Not today, however.

That title easily belongs to Price, who merely relaxes further into his seat, as if he wasn't just mere feet away from the two of you.

"I said fuck her, Riley. Not stand there and keep it warm."

He's so fucking. He's fucking cruel about this, fully willing and wanting to make this hurt. It's so completely unlike the man you love, and it's psychologically damning in a way nothing else could be.

But, like directed, Simon fucks you.

He stops trying to be kind about it, stops wallowing in guilt. It's rough, forceful, urgent, unlike the way he usually liked to savour your pleasure, your pain. He usually delighted in the smooth, deep strokes, prolonging the passionate act almost vindictively.

No. Now, it's quick, punishing thrusts, and your head falls back and little moans escape your throat.

It's like you've both forgotten that Soap and Gaz sit on the couch, watching, waiting. Price has likely made it that way on purpose, to make them envy the attention you and Ghost are getting.

"Fuck," you moan, tits bouncing as Simon continues to fuck you relentlessly, harsh in his movements.

"Does he feel good?" Price is standing, and when you open glassy eyes, it's to see his face looking down at you. If you had the mind to, you'd flinch under his criticizing expression. "Answer me."

You nod, shakily, and when his brows narrow, you rush out a verbal response. "Yes, yes, he does!"

Price hums a noncommittal sound, before his hand slides down your stomach, leaving your hairs to stand on end, before his fingers reach your clit. In tight circles, he has you on the edge almost immediately, and you cry out.

"Gonna fuckin' cum," Ghost grunts, voice low as his eyes clench tight.

"Aww, you two close?" Your captain's voice is gruff, all too condescending, and just before you can find your release, his hand leaves your clit, and wraps around Ghost's neck. He leans into his ear, and his whisper is loud enough for everyone to hear. "Pull out."

Simon makes a noise suspiciously close to a whimper, and it's so unlike him that it has your eyes opening wide, before he does just as Price ordered.

He pulls out.

"Seriously?" You groan, filter eviscerated like your high was. You lean up, using your elbows for leverage.

Price raises one brow, before scratching at his beard almost absent-mindedly. "Got a complaint, sergeant?"

You shake your head, lightning quick, like a puppet on a string.

That's what you were right now -- what all of you were. Just puppets in whatever acts Price wanted to see you all star in.

It's exhilarating in the worst of ways.

"Soap, Gaz," Price snaps once more, and Ghost is nothing more than a neglected mutt. Which, really, is almost funny considering the amount of times the man teases you, Soap and Gaz about such a comment. You couldn't count the amount of times he's compare you three to 'needy puppies'.

Now, he was nothing more than that, and you wish you could enjoy that fact more.

The two men adhere to the command, radiating nervous energy as they stand to attention, not unlike they would if they were in a standard military unit.

"Gaz, take her mouth," Price demands, before his hand buries in the short hair near the nape of Soap's head with a mean grip, meant to hurt. Soap barely hides a whine as Price tugs him, forcing the man to his knees as if he's nothing more than the mutt Ghost usually refers to him as. "You, lick 'er clean."

You realise, then, what exactly this is.

It's truly a display of power. Of control. Because you four took that away from him on the field, unrightfully so. There truly is thought behind his anger, his pain.

It only makes the ache in your heart burn, makes it bruise and bleed where the shattered pieces cut and embed into the innerworkings of your body.

This 'training' won't make up for what you four pulled. Not in the slightest.

But it's something to let John get some of his emotions out, in a somewhat healthier way than you lot usually resorted to.

You'd always offer your support, offer yourself, and he knows that.

He's deliberately taking away that option for you, taking control to comfort the side of him that is so deeply ingrained, so deeply relied on for him to live.

You love him. So effortlessly.

Those words remain accurate, even as Johnny first licks over your wet pussy, and Kyle's dick bumps against your lips.

Opening your mouth without a thought, Kyle's tip slips in, his pre-cum salty on your tongue as you flatten your tongue against it. Johnny's as enthusiastic as ever, maybe even more than usual, as he delegates all of his attention to your aching warmth.

John's grip doesn't release from Johnny's hair, shoving his closer against you, and the sight is so hot that you wish you could fully, properly enjoy it.

Another time, when you're all in better spots, happy and unapologetic, you'll ask them to re-enact the scene.

Johnny moans against your pussy, hands coming up to grip at your bare thighs, and you just know there'll be finger-shaped bruises come tomorrow morning. He's always been unaware of his strength, not understanding the proper damage he can inflict, especially in the bedroom. It's attractive as all hell.

"Yeah? She taste good, hm?" John nearly snarls, and you let out a drawn out moan at the pleasure and words. The sound is muffled by Kyle pushing in deeper, having you almost gagging on his length.

Your eyes flutter shut at the onslaught of feelings, but even with no sight, you can feel Simon's eyes on you like a physical weight.

You know what position he's in, without having to look. Leaning against the wall with a furious expression, large arms folded over his bulky chest. Maybe he's pulled off his mask, maybe it's just been hooked over his crooked nose.

"Fuck, cap," Kyle groans, bucking into your throat. "So fuckin' good--"

Johnny muffles a whine as his efforts nearly double, and you swear spots colour the darkness of your vision. You're already there, and it's not like you can say anything, with Kyle abusing your mouth like this.

"She's close, ain't she, Johnny? Feel her clenchin' on your tongue?" John taunts, and you can feel Johnny nod against your core, nose brushing your clit as he does.

John huffs a cruel laugh, before he abruptly pulls Johnny away by the scruff of his neck. You can't help by buck up, searching for touch, but none comes.

"Kyle," John's tone is one requiring no resistance, and with a shaky exhale, Kyle pulls out of your mouth, a string of spit clinging to his dick, before snapping and leaving your cheek covered with a line of it.

You shakily open your eyes, your pussy begging for a release, knowing that you won't get one. Not yet.

"You make a mess, you clean it up," John says.

So, Kyle leans down, his tongue licking over the spit trail, and really it should be disgusting.

Instead, it only makes you wetter.

Your thighs incessantly shake, no hint of stopping as your body aches. The emotional turmoil, mixed with the physical kind -- it's a concoction for torture.

With half-lidded eyes, you watch as John forces Johnny's head in between your breasts, pressing his face into them. It must be almost suffocating, but Johnny manages to whine as you feel John's hand wrap around Johnny's dick, positioning it against your twitching hole.

"Rut into her," John orders, before stepping back.

Johnny does just that -- he thrusts in, bottoming out with one push. Your moan sounds too alike to a squeal at the stretch, the sudden intrusion. Your arms wrap around his back, nails scratching lines down Johnny's back as he thrusts into you almost manically. You're sure that you're drawing blood, but it only seems to encourage the man rutting into you further, his thrusts urgent and feral.

"Jesus christ," someone -- you're sure it's Kyle -- murmurs, and you suddenly want to know what you must look like from a spectator. Ruined, probably.

Your breaths are harried as you feel yourself getting close once more, tears burning at the corner of your vision at the pure need coursing through your veins.

"Please," you whimper, squeezing like a vice around Johnny's dick. "Please, oh god."

"Now you want me to make decisions? Let you two cum?" There's a hand in your hair, and in any other situation, it'd be calming.

Currently, it feels like a thinly veiled threat.

"Please, John, 'm so sorry, please," you beg, eyes blurry as you look up into the man's stormy blue eyes.

Usually, they're comparable to a calm ocean, the beach mid-summer.

Now, they're akin to the darkest of storms, the ones sailors whisper about, the ones that haunt them while they're asleep at sea. Ones that cause shipwrecks to wash up on shores, ones that cause stories to be passed between campers on the scariest of nights.

"Now you're sorry, sweetheart?" And, oh, there's a sliver of the warmth you've come to crave, and it almost has you melting where you lay.

You're so close, you can taste it on your tongue, and your moans get louder, needier, more frantic --

"Stop, Johnny."

Tears fall, then. Hot and heavy down your cheeks, leaving sticky tracks in their wake. Hiccups fall from your lips as you sob from the deprevation.

Johnny whines, head drooped low as he stops, and you can feel him pulse inside of you, both of you at your wits' end.

"You follow orders so well in this room, don't you?" John says. The voice of a captain.

It's almost your last straw. The devastation is too great, the mix of physical and emotion stress weighing on you heavily.

"'M so sorry, shoulda listened," you cry, body trembling.

"John, please, we're sorry," Kyle insists, a furrow between his dark brows where he takes a step closer to you and Johnny.

Simon, although silent, is also closer to you both now than he had been, no longer stood against the wall.

Your boys -- they're so inherently protective, and it's such a nice feeling. No matter how guilty they feel, how genuinely sorry, they can't stand to see you or Johnny so weak, so vulnerable.

Love. You love them, in a way words can never describe.

John exhales. A deep, thoughtful one.

"We're talking about this, after we're all cleaned up," he says. It's the first hint of himself that you've heard tonight, and the relief is like an intoxicating drug.

It's like even the room itself takes a deep breath, dispelling of some of the tension lining every inch of it.

"Off 'er," John snaps his fingers, and Johnny pulls out with a small whimper, head still hung low.

Grabbing your hips, John flips you over, making you bend so your face is to the desk and your ass is in the air. His large hand presses against your lower back, bending you into an arch.

He slides in, and it's an easy entry. You don't think you've been more wet in your life, and gods, you need it.

Setting a ruthless pace immediately, every thrust forces a whimper, a moan, a whine out of your mouth, eyes dazed as your cheek presses against the wood. His hand fists into your hair, forcing your head to face the three men stood side by side, watching you both with a flurry of emotions behind heavy stares.

"Feel so fuckin' good, christ," John seethes, his grip tightening in your hair, causing your moan to become louder as it leaves your lips.

It isn't long before you're at that cliff once more, begging for a final push, just so you can reach that finish you ache for.

"Gonna, fuck, please, let me cum, John, I love you, I'm so sorry," your words aren't fully your own, and they come out in a desperate plea.

"Yeah? My girl gonna cum for me? Needy slut."

Those words are your undoing, your nirvana.

You cum, body strung tight as tears fall down your cheeks once more, your vision nearly blacking out with the strength of your orgasm. It's almost painful, the stimulation altogether too much, and not enough.

John finishes not long after, his cum filling you up with a loud groan from him.

He releases his fist in your hair, and you head falls to the desk, body slumping with the final release of pleasure.

Stroking a smoothing hand down your back, he pulls out, and you can feel his seed leaking down your thighs. You must be a sight -- all worn out and dripping with the white liquid.

"We don't getta cum?" Johnny whines, and you can hear the roll of Simon's eyes.

There's a hand stroking stray hairs off of your face, and from the texture and size of the limb you can tell it's Kyle.

"You won't get to tomorrow, either, if you keep tha' up," Price mutters, and you let out a delusional giggle at his words. You're cum-drunk, almost, from how drawn out your orgasm had been.

"We really are sorry, Cap," Kyle murmurs genuinely, and the hurt is a sharp barb on his tongue. "You know we love you, didn't mean to hurt you."

John releases a long, worn-out breath. "I know that. I do. But you're a bunch of reckless muppets 'nd you fuckin' went too far today. I'm your captain, lover or not."

"We'll talk it over later," Simon states, and you can't help but agree with the sentiment.

You will. And it'll be a painful conversation, but one that you all owe to your captain.

Because, at the end of the day, you four would do anything for the man that you love. That includes the tough words, the difficult exchanges.

John presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and with complete certainty, you're sure that you're all going to be okay.

a/n. the day that i stop loving poly 141 is the day that i die. price needs all the love omg this one kinda hurt to write cause oof angst but hopefully it was an enjoyable read!!!! thank you to everyone who comments on my fics, your notes etc make me do a lil happy dance ily all!!!!!!!!!!!!

[bueckets]

Going UP?

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn't get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student's desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.

Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball's golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.

They say love is a game of chances. But when you're trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it's worth taking the shot. Sometimes cupid doesn't use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.

Featuring: One (1) very broken elevator Several questionably colored cocktails A security guard who's seen it all Basketball plays drawn in spilled Shirley Temples Analytics-based flirting And a whipped cream fight that definitely isn't regulation play

Coming soon to wherever meet-cutes happen in college sports. (Rated R for excessive basketball puns and gay panic)

WC: 8.1k (roughly)

Genre/Notes: uh, i tried to be funny, floofy, rom-com-ish? (i tried), smut at the end, someone gets their kitty ATE, proof read like 50%

Your sneakers pound against the cracked, patchy sidewalk of North Campus, dodging the construction zone that's been "two weeks from completion" since freshman year. The November air bites at your cheeks, sharp as broken glass, and your laptop bag repeatedly slams into your hip with each stride, probably turning your thesis notes into digital confetti. A gust of wind lashes at you, tugging at your jacket, your hair, your sanity, and sending a rogue candy wrapper tumbling like a lonely tumbleweed across the quad like some 50’s Old West showdown. 

You'd woken up to three missed calls from your advisor and an email that made your soul leave your body.

Meeting moved to 9:15 AM. Please bring updated analytics models.

It's 9:12.

The universe is really testing you today. First, your roommate's cat knocked your phone off the nightstand, somehow managing to turn off all five of your alarms. Then, the dining hall’s card reader had the audacity to look at your student ID like it was written in crayon, leaving you to scavenge through your bag for exact change like a Victorian orphan. And now this.

You weave through the crowd of freshmen congregating outside the Student Union like they've never seen stairs before, your thermos of room-temperature coffee sloshing dangerously close to the lid. The wind whips a forgotten syllabus past your feet as you cut across the grass (sorry, campus maintenance), taking the "shortcut" that everyone pretends they don't use. You can practically hear the landscaping team groaning somewhere, shaking their heads at the worn-down dirt trail you and a thousand other students have carved into their perfect lawn.

Gampel Pavilion looms ahead, all glass and steel and architectural hubris. The morning sun hits it at an angle that makes it look like it's on fire, which feels appropriate given your current state of mild panic. You've spent so many hours in this building that the security guard, Mike, doesn't even look up from his crossword puzzle anymore when you scan your ID.

"Running late?" he calls out as you blast past his desk.

"What gave it away?" you shout back, already halfway to the elevators. Your sneakers squeak against the polished floors, leaving behind a faint trail of panic and shame— but most importantly, dirt. 

The ancient LED display above the elevator shows it's on the third floor. You slam the up button approximately forty-seven times, as if that's ever made an elevator move faster in the history of vertical transportation.

"Come on, come on," you mutter, shifting your weight between feet like you're doing some demented speed-skating warm-up. Your laptop bag keeps sliding off your shoulder, and you're pretty sure your hair looks like you styled it in a wind tunnel.  A strand falls into your eyes, and you blow it away with a frustrated huff. Everything about you screams disaster, and yet the elevator couldn’t care less.

The elevator dings. The doors slide open with all the urgency of a DMV employee on a Friday afternoon.

And there she is.

Paige Bueckers is leaning against the back wall of the elevator, one foot propped up behind her, looking like she just stepped out of a Nike ad. Her practice uniform is pristine, her blonde hair pulled back in a perfect ponytail that somehow hasn't gotten the memo about today's wind situation. She's got AirPods in, absently spinning a basketball between her hands like it's an extension of her body.

Your brain short-circuits. 

Time seems to slow down as you stand there, probably looking like a deer caught in very attractive headlights. The elevator dings again, threatening to close its doors on your moment of crisis.

Fuck it.

You lunge forward just as the doors start to close, practically diving into the elevator like you're trying to save a ball going out of bounds. Your coffee sloshes, your bag swings, and you nearly face-plant into the corner.

Paige pulls out one AirPod, her eyebrows raised so high they might achieve orbit. "Nice entrance."

You straighten up, trying to salvage whatever dignity might be hiding in the corners of this elevator. "Thanks, I've been practicing."

The elevator starts its ascent with a concerning rattle that definitely wasn't part of the original design. You adjust your bag for the hundredth time, very aware that you probably look like you just lost a fight with a leaf blower. Meanwhile, Paige keeps spinning that damn basketball, the soft thump-thump of it between her hands matching rhythm with your still-racing heart.

Nine floors to go. Eight if your advisor hasn't moved offices again after the Great Coffee Incident of last semester.

You can handle this. You're an adult. A slightly disheveled, possibly caffeine-deprived adult, but still. Just because you're sharing an elevator with the university's basketball goddess doesn't mean you need to—

The lights flicker once. Twice.

The elevator shudders like it's having an existential crisis.

Then everything stops.

The emergency lights kick in, bathing everything in a red glow that makes Paige look like she's starring in a very stylish apocalypse movie. The basketball stops spinning.

"Well," she says, tucking the ball under her arm and giving you a smile that definitely doesn't make your stomach flip. "Looks like the universe has other plans for us this morning."

You look at your phone: 9:14 AM.

Your advisor is going to kill you.

"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," you mutter, jabbing at the emergency call button like it personally offended you. "This isn't happening. This can't be happening."

The little red light blinks back at you, mocking your entire existence, as if to say, yeah, good luck with that, idiot. You hit the button again, harder this time, because maybe the elevator just needs some aggressive encouragement.

"I don't think that's helping," Paige says, watching you with a mix of amusement and concern. She's still spinning that goddamn basketball, the rhythmic thump-thump now feeling less like a heartbeat and more like a countdown to your academic doom.

"Yeah? Well, neither are you," you snap, immediately regretting it. Great. Now you're trapped in an elevator AND you've just been rude to Paige fucking Bueckers. "Shit, sorry, I just—" You run both hands through your already catastrophic hair. "My advisor is going to crucify me. Like, actually crucify me. She's probably got a cross picked out and everything."

Paige catches the ball mid-spin. "Dr. Martinez?"

"How did you—"

"The only professor I know who actually might own a cross for student crucifixions." She tucks the ball under her arm. "She made one of our freshmen cry last week just by looking at her."

"That tracks." You slide down the wall opposite her, your legs finally giving up on the whole standing thing. "God, I can't believe this. I've got my entire thesis presentation on this laptop, three months of analytics data that I haven't backed up because I'm an idiot, and now I'm going to die in an elevator with—" You wave vaguely in her direction.

"With?" She raises an eyebrow, and you swear there's a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

"With UConn's basketball savior who's probably missing practice right now because the universe decided today was a great day for some cosmic practical joke." You let your head thunk back against the wall. "Coach Auriemma's probably already got a hit out on me."

Paige laughs, and the sound does something weird to your chest. "Nah, Coach is more of a 'make you run suicides until you puke' kind of guy. Much less paperwork than murder."

"Fantastic. So I'll die from academic execution AND athletic retribution. Perfect way to start a Tuesday."

"You always this dramatic before 9:30?" She's definitely smirking now.

"Only when I'm trapped in elevators with pretty girls who should be at practice."

The words are out before your brain can catch up with your mouth. Your eyes go wide, and you seriously consider trying to pry open the doors and jump down the shaft.

But Paige just grins, wide and dangerous. "Oh, so you think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're deflecting from the fact that we're stuck in a metal box that's older than both of us combined," you say, proud of how steady your voice comes out despite the internal screaming.

"And I think you're deflecting from the fact that you just called me pretty."

You pull out your phone again, desperate for a distraction. "No signal. Perfect. This is fine. Everything is fine."

"Could be worse," Paige says, stretching her legs out in front of her. Her feet almost reach where you're sitting, and you absolutely do not notice how long her legs are. "Could be stuck in here with Dr. Martinez."

That startles a laugh out of you. "Jesus, don't even joke about that. She'd probably make me defend my thesis right here."

"Yeah? What's it about?"

You look up from your phone to find her watching you with what appears to be genuine interest. "You really want to know?"

"Well," she gestures around the elevator, "it's not like I've got anywhere else to be."

You narrow your eyes. "If this is some kind of pity conversation—"

"It's not." She cuts you off, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'm actually curious. Plus, you look like you might spontaneously combust if you don't talk about something other than being stuck in here."

She's not wrong. Your leg has been bouncing non-stop since you sat down, and you're pretty sure you're about to wear a hole in your bottom lip from biting it.

"Fine," you say, setting your phone aside. "But remember, you asked for this. And if you fall asleep, I'm using that basketball as a pillow."

Paige's eyes light up with something that makes your stomach flip. "Deal."

"Okay, so you know how current basketball analytics are basically just glorified box scores?" You shift to face her properly, your earlier panic morphing into the kind of enthusiasm that usually makes people's eyes glaze over. "Like, sure, we can track points and assists and whatever, but that's just the obvious stuff."

"And there's more than the obvious stuff?" Paige asks, settling in like she's actually planning to follow your inevitably chaotic explanation.

"So much more." You pull your laptop out, balancing it on your crossed legs. "Like, imagine being able to track not just who made the shot, but all the little things that made that shot possible. The way players move without the ball, how defensive shifts create spaces that don't show up in any stat sheet.”

Your hands start moving as you talk, painting invisible patterns in the air. Paige has stopped spinning her basketball, her eyes following your gestures with an intensity that makes you warm all over.

"It's like..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "You know how in chess, sometimes the most important move isn't the one that takes the piece, but the three moves before that made it possible?"

She nods, leaning forward slightly. "Like a setup play."

"Exactly!" You're fully animated now, previous elevator crisis temporarily forgotten. "But current systems don't track that. They don't see how Player A moving left makes Player B's defender shift just enough that Player C can—"

The emergency speaker crackles to life, making you both jump.

"Hello? Anyone in there?" The voice sounds bored, like stuck elevators are just another Tuesday morning inconvenience.

Paige reaches over and hits the call button. "Yeah, we're here. Two people."

"Alright, we've got maintenance heading up. Should have you out in about fifteen minutes. Sit tight."

The speaker clicks off, leaving you both in that red-tinted silence again.

"Fifteen minutes," you groan, letting your head fall back against the wall. "Dr. Martinez is definitely going to have that cross ready."

"Hey," Paige says, and something in her voice makes you look at her. "Tell me more about your system. How do you track all those micro-movements?"

You blink at her. "You actually want to hear more?"

"Would I ask if I didn't?" She's got this soft half-smile that does dangerous things to your ability to think straight. "Plus, you get all..." she waves her hand vaguely, "sparkly when you talk about it."

"Sparkly?"

"Yeah, like you're lit up from the inside." She says it so casually, like she hasn't just made your heart do a full court press against your ribs.

You clear your throat, trying to remember how words work. "Right. Well, um, I've been working with the computer vision lab to develop these tracking algorithms..."

The next fifteen minutes dissolve into a blur of technical explanations and basketball theory. Paige asks surprisingly specific questions, and you try not to look too pleased every time she leans in closer to see something on your laptop screen.

When maintenance finally gets the elevator moving again, it feels too soon.

The doors open on the fourth floor – your floor – and you scramble to pack up your laptop, suddenly aware that you've spent the last twenty minutes word-vomiting about analytics to one of the best basketball players in the country.

"Thanks for, uh, keeping me from completely losing it," you say, standing awkwardly in the doorway. "And sorry about the whole..." you gesture vaguely at yourself, "chaos."

Paige stands too, and even in the normal lighting, she's unfairly pretty. "Chaos looks good on you."

Your brain short-circuits. "Can I get your number?"

The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into the nearest trash can. But Paige just grins, that dangerous one that makes her look like she knows exactly what she's doing to you.

"Tell you what," she says, spinning the basketball on one finger because apparently she's physically incapable of not showing off. "Come to Friday's game. If you can spot one of those micro-interactions you were talking about..." She lets the ball roll down her arm and catches it smoothly. "Maybe you'll find out if I give my number to random girls I meet in elevators."

She backs into the elevator, maintaining eye contact until the doors close between you.

You stand there for a solid thirty seconds, staring at the brushed metal doors like they might reveal the secrets of the universe. Or at least explain how you went from having a mental breakdown about your advisor to what definitely felt like flirting with Paige Bueckers.

Your phone buzzes: another email from Dr. Martinez.

Meeting rescheduled to 2PM. Bring coffee. The good kind.

You look back at the elevator doors, then at your phone, then at the ceiling.

Looks like you're going to a basketball game on Friday.

The security guard at Gampel's student entrance looks at your ticket, then at you, then back at the ticket with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for people trying to use expired coupons at Target.

"This is— courtside," he says slowly, like maybe you don't understand what those words mean.

"Yeah, I, uh,” You shift your weight between feet, very aware of the growing line behind you. "I got it in an email?"

It comes out like a question because honestly, you're still not entirely sure this isn't some elaborate fever dream. The past three days have felt surreal, starting with Dr. Martinez actually smiling during your rescheduled meeting (turns out that fancy coffee shop downtown does make a difference) and ending with an email from pbueckers@uconn.edu that made you choke on your morning cereal.

The security guard squints at his scanner like it's personally offending him. "These are usually reserved for—"

"Is there a problem?" A familiar voice cuts through the growing awkwardness, and you turn to find Mike, your elevator-lobby guardian angel, approaching with his signature "I've seen too much student nonsense" expression.

"Got a courtside ticket here, but—"

"Oh, yeah," Mike says, shooting you a look that's somewhere between amused and knowing. "This one's good. Let 'em through."

You mouth a 'thank you' as you pass, and he just shakes his head, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "kids these days" under his breath.

The student section is already packed, a sea of navy and white that ripples with pre-game energy. But your ticket directs you past all that, down, down, down the steps until you're so close to the court you can smell the fresh polish on the hardwood.

"This isn't happening," you mutter to yourself, dropping into your assigned seat—which is literally close enough to high-five players coming off the court. "This is fine. Everything is fine. You're just casually sitting courtside at a sold-out game because you got trapped in an elevator and word-vomited about basketball analytics for twenty minutes. Totally normal Friday night."

The woman next to you, wearing what looks like several hundred dollars worth of UConn gear, gives you a concerned side-eye.

"Sorry," you say, slinking lower in your seat. "I talk to myself when I'm having an existential crisis."

She just nods and shifts slightly away, which, fair.

The arena fills up quickly, the ambient noise growing from a buzz to a roar. You try to look casual, like you totally belong here and didn't spend forty-five minutes earlier having a breakdown about what to wear to a basketball game when you're sitting close enough to be on TV. (You'd finally settled on jeans and a UConn hoodie, figuring if you're going to have a gay panic on national television, you might as well be comfortable.)

The teams come out for warm-ups, and your heart definitely doesn't skip when you spot number 5 leading the layup line. Paige moves like she's got some sort of cheat code for gravity, each motion fluid and precise. She's got her game face on, all focused intensity and practiced routine, but then—

She catches your eye as she circles back to the line, and her serious expression cracks just enough to let through a hint of that dangerous grin from the elevator.

"Oh, I am so screwed," you breathe, and the woman next to you shifts another inch away.

The game itself is a blur of motion and noise. You try to focus on analyzing plays like you promised, looking for those micro-interactions you'd rambled about, but it's hard to think strategically when Paige keeps making passes that shouldn't be physically possible. Your laptop's probably having a stroke trying to track all these movements.

By halftime, UConn's up by twelve, and you've filled three pages of your Notes app with what started as technical observations but has devolved into increasingly incoherent capslock about various impressive plays. The latest note just says "HOW DID SHE EVEN SEE THAT CUTTING GUARD??? PHYSICS???? HELP????"

"Nice analysis."

You nearly drop your phone. Paige is right there, pretending to adjust her shoes by the bench but clearly smirking in your direction.

"I'm being professionally thorough," you whisper-hiss back, trying to ignore how your pulse is doing full-court sprints.

"Uh huh." She stands up, heading back to the huddle, but not before adding, "You look good in UConn blue, by the way."

You spend the entire third quarter trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The fourth quarter is when you see it—one of those perfect setup plays you'd theorized about. Paige moves left, drawing her defender, while simultaneously nodding almost imperceptibly to her teammate. The slight movement causes a chain reaction: the defense shifts, creating a gap that shouldn't exist, and suddenly there's a perfect passing lane that materializes out of seemingly nowhere. The ball flows through it like water finding the path of least resistance, resulting in an easy layup that looks simple but was actually three moves in the making.

You're on your feet before you realize it, pointing and probably looking deranged. "That! That's exactly what I was talking about! The head fake was the trigger but it wasn't even about the—" You cut yourself off, becoming aware that several people are staring at you, including the woman next to you who's now practically in the next seat over.

As the final buzzer sounds (UConn by 18), your phone buzzes with a new email.

From: pbueckers@uconn.edu

Subject: Nice catch

Body: 617-555-0147

PS - Your "professional analysis" face is reaaaaallly cute. Even from ten feet away.

You stare at your phone long enough that the arena starts to empty around you, afraid that if you look away the numbers might disappear like some basketball Cinderella story. The woman next to you finally gets up, edging past with the kind of caution usually reserved for wild animals.

"Sorry about all the,” you gesture vaguely at yourself.

She just pats your shoulder with grandmotherly sympathy. "Honey, I've been watching basketball for forty years, and I've never seen someone have a gay awakening quite that enthusiastically. Good luck with number five."

You're still sputtering when she disappears up the stairs, leaving you alone with a phone number and the distinct feeling that the universe is either laughing at you or playing matchmaker.

Possibly both.

Nah— Definitely both.

After what feels like an eternity of staring at your phone like it holds the secrets of the universe, your bladder kindly reminds you that you stress-drank an entire large iced coffee before the game. Fucking wonderful. You glance at the concourse—and immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment.

The bathroom line snakes around the corner like some kind of hydra-headed monster, full of people who clearly had the same brilliant beverage ideas you did. You briefly consider just holding it and dealing with the consequences later, but your body has other plans.

"This is karma," you mutter, taking your place at the end of the line. "This is definitely karma for all those times I made fun of people waiting in long bathroom lines."

The girl in front of you snorts. "If it helps, I'm pretty sure we're all suffering from the same coffee-based poor judgment."

Twenty minutes. Twenty. Entire. Minutes.

You've gone through every social media app twice, responded to three emails you've been avoiding, and played enough Candy Crush to rot your remaining brain cells by the time you finally emerge from the bathroom. The arena is practically empty now, just cleaning crew and a few lingering fans.

Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, that number burning a hole in your mind. You pull it out, staring at the digits like they might rearrange themselves into instructions on how to text your elevator-meet-cute crush without sounding like a complete disaster.

To: 617-555-0147

Hey, this is your favorite elevator analytics nerd. Great game tonight. That fourth-quarter setup play was chef's kiss

You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret every word choice. Chef's kiss? Really? Maybe if you run fast enough, you can catch up to your dignity before it leaves the building entirely.

Your phone buzzes before you can fully commit to your shame spiral.

From: Paige 🏀

some of us are heading to murphy's for dirty shirleys if you want to continue your "professional analysis" in person? promise there won't be any elevators involved

You nearly trip over your own feet.

Will there be a formal presentation required? Should I prepare slides?

just your sparkling personality and maybe an explanation of how you knew that play was coming before I did 😉

Bold of you to assume I wasn't just gesturing wildly at a mosquito 

we both know you're too much of a basketball nerd for that. meet you there in 20?

You pause at the arena exit, looking down at your very casual, very not-prepared-to-go-out outfit. But then again, when has anything about this situation been normal? 

Your eyes shoot back to your phone and your frantic typing begins once again.

Only if you promise to explain how that behind-the-back pass in the third quarter didn't break several laws of physics

deal. and hey?

Yeah?

the hoodie really does look good on you

Your stomach shoots to your ass and you stand there grinning at your phone like an idiot until Mike, doing his final security rounds, walks by and shakes his head.

"Don't stay out too late, kid," he calls over his shoulder. "These love stories always get complicated when they start in elevators."

"That was literally ONE MOVIE," you shout after him, but he just waves without turning around.

You look down at your phone one more time, then up at the now-empty arena, and can't help but laugh. Somehow, a broken elevator, an understanding security guard, and a basketball player with a dangerous grin have turned your disaster of a week into whatever this is.

Time to find out if Dirty Shirleys taste better when you're sharing them with a girl who can bend physics on a basketball court.

Murphy's is exactly what would happen if a sports bar had a baby with a college town dive and raised it on a strict diet of neon signs and questionable decor choices. The walls are plastered with enough UConn memorabilia to fill a museum, if museums were into collecting signed napkins and mysteriously stained jerseys.

Your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics as you push open the door, immediately hit by the smell of mozzarella sticks and what you really hope is just decades of spilled beer. The place is packed with post-game energy, and you're pretty sure your heart stops completely when you spot Paige at a corner booth, still in her game-day warmups because apparently she just casually walks around looking like a Nike ad.

"Analytics nerd!" she calls out, waving you over with that stupid grin that makes your brain cells commit mass suicide. "We saved you a seat!"

The 'we' turns out to be a collection of players who could probably stack on top of each other and touch the moon. You slide into the only open spot—right next to Paige, because the universe is clearly not done testing your ability to form coherent sentences today.

"Everyone, this is the elevator girl who knows more about our plays than we do," Paige announces, and your face goes hot enough to fry an egg. "Elevator girl, this is everyone."

"I have a name, you know," you manage, trying to ignore how her shoulder is pressed against yours in the crowded booth.

"Yeah, but 'elevator girl' has a better ring to it," she says, sliding a violently pink drink your way. "Plus, it's technically accurate."

"So is 'basketball menace' but you don't see me—" Your mouth snaps shut as her teammates start cackling.

"Oh, I like this one," says a girl you recognize as KK Arnold, grinning like she just got early Christmas. "She's got bite."

"She's got analytics," Paige corrects, but she's looking at you with something that makes your stomach relocate to somewhere in the general vicinity of Jupiter. "Speaking of which, you never did tell me how you caught that play coming."

You take a long sip of your Dirty Shirley to buy time, immediately regretting it when the sugar content threatens to give you instant cavities. "Holy shit, what's in this? Pure pixie stick powder?"

"Don't deflect," Paige says, poking your side. "We've got a whole team of analysts and none of them caught it. So spill."

"Fine, but only because you bought me diabetes in a glass." You shift to face her, accidentally-on-purpose letting your knee rest against hers under the table. "It was your head."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "My head?"

"You've got this tell," you say, getting into it now because apparently basketball analysis is your ideal flirting language. "This tiny little head tilt you do when you're setting up something sneaky. Like a cat about to knock something off a table, but make it basketball."

The entire table goes quiet, then erupts in laughter.

"She's got you there, P," Ice wheezes. "You do look like a menacing cat sometimes!"

Paige is staring at you with a mix of indignation and something else that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. "I do not have a cat tell."

"You absolutely do," you say, emboldened by sugar and the way her eyes keep dropping to your lips. "It's actually kind of cu—"

"SHOTS!" someone yells, and suddenly there's a tray of something alarmingly blue being passed around.

"Oh god," you mutter, watching the liquid slosh ominously. "Is this what happens when a Smurf dies?"

Paige nearly chokes on her drink. "That's terrible!"

"Just like these shots are about to be?"

She leans in close—too close, definitely too close for your remaining brain cells to function—and whispers, "Good thing I like terrible jokes."

Your stomach shoots to your ass (and possibly into another dimension) as she pulls back with a wink that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states.

"I hate you," you inform her, grabbing one of the Smurf funeral shots because if you're going to have a gay crisis in a college bar, you might as well commit fully.

"No you don't," she says with absolute certainty, and the worst part is she's right.

You really, really don't.

The night dissolves into a blur of increasingly ridiculous drinks (who knew they made something called a "Husky Howl"?), basketball stories that get more elaborate with each round, and Paige's thigh pressed warm against yours under the table. You learn that she stress-bakes before big games, that she once tried to teach her dog to play basketball, and that when she really laughs—like, really laughs—she snorts a little and it's possibly the cutest thing you've ever seen.

At some point, Azzi starts drawing up plays on napkins with increasingly chaotic drink-fueled creativity. Aaliyah Edwards keeps stealing her pen to "fix" the defensive rotations, while Nika Mühl throws wadded-up straw wrappers at both of them, critiquing their "absolutely trash spacing."

"No, no, look," KK follows imaginary lines with her finger across the napkin, accidentally dragging it through a puddle of spilled Shirley Temple. "If we run this here, and then—" she grabs your arm— "you're the defense, okay? Stand up."

"I absolutely am not," you protest, but Paige is already pulling you up with that stupid grin that makes your knees forget how joints work.

"Come on, elevator girl," she teases, positioning you near the booth. "Show us those analytics skills in action."

"I hate all of you," you mutter, but you're laughing as KK tries to demonstrate some elaborate defensive scheme that mostly involves her spinning in circles while Aaliyah provides unhelpful commentary.

"Your footwork is trash, bestie," Aaliyah calls out, now using maraschino cherries to build what appears to be a scale model of the paint.

"YOUR footwork is trash," KK shoots back, then promptly trips over nothing.

"Ladies, ladies," Paige steps in, all faux seriousness undermined by the way she can't stop grinning. "Let a professional show you how it's done."

She moves behind you, hands settling lightly on your hips, and your brain immediately flatlines. "See, proper defensive stance is all about—"

"Get a fuckin' room!" Nika yells, launching another straw wrapper that hits Paige square in the forehead.

"Actually," Paige says close to your ear, and your stomach does approximately seventeen backflips, "I've got that new analytics setup at my apartment if you want to see it. You know, for research purposes."

You turn to face her, very aware that her hands haven't moved from your hips. "Research purposes?"

"Mhmm." That dangerous grin is back. "Purely academic, of course."

"Of course," you manage, trying to ignore the way your pulse is doing a full drumline routine.

"Oh my god," KK groans from the booth. "This is worse than when Aaliyah tried to flirt with that barista using coffee puns."

"Hey!" Aaliyah protests. "That was smooth!"

"You asked if she wanted to 'espresso' her feelings!"

"And now we're dating, so who's the real winner here?"

Paige rolls her eyes at their antics, but her thumbs are drawing small circles on your hips that are making it very hard to focus on anything else. "So? Want to help me with some late-night analysis?"

Your stomach shoots to your ass as you meet her eyes, finding them sparkling with something that definitely isn't just about basketball statistics. "I mean, it would be unprofessional to turn down a research opportunity..."

"GET OUT OF HERE," Azzi throws a cherry that sails completely wide of both of you. "Your gay panic is ruining my plays."

"Your plays were already ruined," Nika points out, helpfully redrawing the vodka-smudged X's and O's with what appears to be lip gloss.

Paige grabs her jacket with one hand and your hand with the other, tugging you toward the door. "Don't wait up, nerds!"

"USE PROTECTION!" Aubrey shouts after you, causing several nearby tables to choke on their drinks.

"I mean, analytics can be very dangerous," you say with mock seriousness as you step into the cool night air, very aware that Paige hasn't let go of your hand. "All those numbers flying around."

"Absolutely hazardous," she agrees, pulling you closer as you walk. "Better stick together. For safety."

"For safety," you repeat, hoping she can't feel your pulse racing where your fingers are intertwined. "And research."

"And research," she echoes, giving you that sidelong grin that makes your heart forget how to beat properly. "Though I should warn you..."

"Yeah?"

She stops under a streetlight, turning to face you with eyes that sparkle with mischief. "My elevator works perfectly fine."

Your laugh echoes off the empty street. "Damn. There goes my backup plan."

"I'm sure we can find other ways to get stuck together," she says, and your stomach relocates somewhere in the general vicinity of Mars.

As you follow her down the quiet streets of Storrs, your joined hands swinging between you, you make a mental note to buy Mike the biggest coffee gift card you can afford.

Broken elevators might just be your new favorite thing.

Paige's apartment is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's somehow both a basketball prodigy and a complete dork—there's a literal trophy shelf right next to a collection of Star Wars Funko Pops, and her UConn jersey hangs framed above what appears to be a very elaborate gaming setup.

"Nice lightsaber," you say, nodding to the collector's edition propped in the corner.

"Nice deflection from how your hands are shaking," she shoots back, shrugging off her jacket.

"It's cold outside!"

"Uh huh." She disappears into the kitchen, and you hear cabinets opening. "Want some hot chocolate? I promise it's better than those nuclear waste shots Aubrey kept ordering."

Your stomach does a weird flip at how domestic this feels. "Only if you have—"

"Mini marshmallows and whipped cream? What kind of monster do you think I am?"

You follow her voice to find her already pulling out mugs, one of which has "Ball is Life" written in what appears to be glitter pen. "The kind that owns a bedazzled basketball mug?"

"First of all, Nika made this for my birthday and it's a masterpiece," she says, grabbing milk from the fridge. "Second of all, you're just jealous of my sophisticated taste."

"Oh, absolutely. Nothing says sophistication like..." you pick up a container from the counter, "unicorn hot chocolate mix?"

She snatches it back, fighting a grin. "It's limited edition!"

"Of course, my mistake. Clearly I'm in the presence of a fine dining connoisseur."

The kitchen fills with the smell of chocolate as she heats the milk, and you try not to stare at how she's rolled up her sleeves, forearms on full display as she stirs. You fail miserably.

"See something you like?" she asks without turning around, because apparently she has eyes in the back of her head.

"Just admiring your hot chocolate technique."

"My technique is excellent, thank you very much." She turns, holding up a can of whipped cream with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Want to see?"

Your throat goes dry. "I feel like this is a trap."

"Maybe." She takes a step closer, and your back hits the counter. "But you've been analyzing my moves all night. Shouldn't I get a turn?"

You're about to say something witty—really, you are—but then she's shaking the whipped cream can and all your brain cells collectively abandon ship.

"Don't you dare—" 

The words are barely out before she's spraying whipped cream directly at your face. You squeal (not your proudest moment) and grab for the can, resulting in a brief wrestling match that ends with cream basically everywhere except in the actual mugs.

"You're such a menace!" you gasp, trying to wipe cream off your nose while she cackles.

"Says the girl who called me out on my head tilt in front of my whole team!"

"That's different! That was professional analysis!"

"Oh yeah?" She steps closer, effectively pinning you against the counter. "Analyze this."

Your heart stops as she reaches up, thumb gently wiping whipped cream from the corner of your mouth. Time seems to freeze, your entire world narrowing to that point of contact and the way her eyes drop to your lips.

"Your technique could use some work," you manage to whisper, and she laughs—that real laugh, with the little snort that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

"Maybe you should show me how it's done then."

Your stomach shoots through the floor as you reach up, threading your fingers through her hair (definitely getting whipped cream in it but whatever), and pull her down to meet you.

She tastes like chocolate and whipped cream and something uniquely her, and you can feel her smile against your lips as she wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. 

"How's that for technique?" you murmur when you finally break apart, both breathing a bit harder.

"Hmm." She pretends to consider it, but her eyes are sparkling and her hands are still firmly on your waist. "Might need more data to make a proper analysis."

"Oh my god, you're actually worse than me with the nerd references."

"You like it," she says with absolute certainty, leaning in again.

"Maybe," you concede against her lips. "But only because you're cute when you're being smug."

She pulls back just enough to give you that dangerous grin that started this whole thing. "Just cute?"

"And modest, clearly."

"I'll show you modest," she growls, and then she's kissing you again, deeper this time, backing you further against the counter until you're pretty sure your soul leaves your body entirely.

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, 

The hot chocolate goes cold on the counter, forgotten in the haze of warm laughter and sticky fingers. At some point, her lips found their way back to yours, sweet and a little messy, and now you’re on her couch, knees bumping against hers as you both settle into an almost tentative rhythm. She pulls back just slightly, her forehead resting against yours, and her breath fans across your lips in short, uneven bursts.

“You’re trouble,” she whispers, her voice low and a little breathless, her hands sliding up your arms to rest on your shoulders, thumbs brushing the curve of your collarbone.

“You like trouble,” you fire back, and there’s just enough of a spark in your tone to make her grin.

“I really do,” she admits, and before you can respond, her lips are on yours again, slower this time, deliberate. It’s not the playful teasing from before—it’s something heavier, something that makes your heart stutter in your chest and your hands curl into the soft fabric of her sweatshirt.

Her fingers tangle in your hair as she shifts, nudging you gently until your back hits the cushions. She hovers above you, her knees bracketing your thighs, her ponytail spilling over one shoulder as she leans down to kiss you again. This time, it’s a little rougher, her teeth catching on your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp, and the sound seems to light something in her eyes.

“You’re killing me,” you murmur against her mouth, and she pulls back just enough to look at you, her grin sharper now.

“Good,” she says simply, and her hands are on the hem of your hoodie, tugging it up. “This okay?”

You nod, swallowing hard, and she doesn’t wait for a second invitation. The hoodie’s off in a flash, tossed somewhere behind the couch, and her eyes sweep over you like she’s committing every inch to memory. Her hands are warm as they skim over your sides, fingertips brushing against bare skin and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says softly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and the way she says it makes you believe her, even with your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you manage, trying to sound casual even as she leans back down, her lips finding the curve of your jaw and then lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to your neck. Your hands find her waist, and you can feel the strength of her beneath the soft cotton of her sweatshirt, her muscles flexing slightly as she shifts against you.

“Should we,” she starts, her voice trailing off as she pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s a question there, unspoken but clear, and you answer it by pulling her back down, your lips crashing into hers with more urgency than before.

“Definitely,” you say between kisses, and that’s all the encouragement she needs.

Her sweatshirt joins your hoodie somewhere on the floor, and her hands are everywhere—your waist, your thighs, the curve of your hip. It’s all a blur of heat and soft laughter and the kind of clumsy, sweet desperation that only comes with two people trying to figure out how they fit together.

The couch is too small, the angles all wrong, and at some point, she pulls back just enough to breathe, “Bed?”

You nod, and then she’s pulling you to your feet, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers with yours as she leads you toward her room. There’s something about the way she looks back at you, her grin soft and a little nervous, that makes your heart ache in the best way.

The moment you’re through the door, she’s on you again, her hands sliding up your back as she kisses you like she’s trying to memorize every curve, every shiver. The bed is soft beneath you, and her weight is solid and warm as she follows you down, her knee nudging between yours as she leans over you.

“You’re really good at this whole ‘research’ thing,” you tease, and she laughs against your collarbone, the sound low and husky and so incredibly her.

“Don’t distract me,” she murmurs, and her hands are on you again, her touch firm and sure and just a little shaky in a way that makes your chest swell with affection.

And when she kisses you again, slow and deep, you think, for the first time all week, that maybe the universe actually got something right.

The mattress dips under her weight as Paige pulls back just enough to take you in, her hair falling loose from her ponytail, framing her face in a way that feels criminally unfair. There’s a glint in her eye now, something teasing but focused, like she’s about to run the most calculated play of her life.

“You look nervous,” she says, her lips curling into that sharp grin that’s been undoing you all night.

“I’m not nervous,” you lie, though your voice cracks on the last syllable like your body’s calling you out.

She chuckles, low and throaty, and leans down, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Good. Because I’m about to ruin you, and I don’t need you overthinking it.”

Before you can process what she said, she’s sliding down your body with deliberate slowness, her hands dragging over your sides, down your hips, and hooking around the waistband of your leggings. She raises an eyebrow, silently asking permission, and the second you nod, she pulls them down in one fluid motion, leaving you feeling bare and achingly vulnerable.

“Holy shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, her eyes locked on you like she’s just stumbled on a masterpiece at an art museum. Her hands settle on your thighs, thumbs tracing small circles that send shivers racing up your spine. “You’re so—” She stops, shakes her head, and looks up at you with that cocky grin. “Nah, I’m gonna show you instead of telling you.”

Her lips press to the inside of your knee, soft at first, but as she moves higher, her kisses grow hungrier, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to leave you squirming.

“Paige,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whisper, but she just hums against your thigh like she’s savoring her favorite meal.

“Patience,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your skin as she shifts lower. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Your response gets caught in your throat as her mouth finally finds you, and every coherent thought you’ve ever had promptly evaporates. Her tongue moves with the same precision she has on the court, all calculated angles and devastating accuracy, and it’s like she’s figured out exactly how to dismantle you.

“Fuck—Paige—” Your hips jerk involuntarily, but her hands hold you steady, her grip firm enough to keep you grounded while her mouth does the opposite.

She pulls back just enough to look up at you, her lips glistening, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye that makes your stomach drop in the best way. “Hang tight,” she says, reaching toward the nightstand.

“What are you—oh my God,” you gasp as she pulls out a vibrator, the sleek little device gleaming like it was made for moments like this.

Paige winks, all confidence and mischief, as she turns it on, the low hum filling the room. “You trust me, right?”

You nod, because at this point, you’d probably trust her to lead you into a cult if it meant feeling like this.

“Good.” She leans back down, her mouth finding you again just as the vibrator presses against you, and the combination is so overwhelming it almost knocks the breath out of you.

Your hands fly to her hair, tugging as the vibrations send shocks of pleasure racing through your body, and her tongue works in tandem, teasing and relentless. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and you can feel yourself unraveling, piece by piece, with every calculated movement.

“Paige, I—” Your words dissolve into a moan that would make your ancestors weep, your thighs trembling as she doubles down, her grip on you tightening.

“That’s it,” she murmurs against you, her voice low and full of something that sounds dangerously like pride. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

And just like that, you do. The orgasm rips through you like a tidal wave, leaving you gasping and clutching at the sheets as your vision whites out. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you swear you hear yourself speaking in tongues.

Paige doesn’t stop until your legs are twitching, and even then, she presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before sitting back with the most self-satisfied grin you’ve ever seen.

“Did I just—” You pause, catching your breath, your voice hoarse. “Did I just have an exorcism?”

Paige laughs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you did, I think I’m gonna need to start charging for holy services.”

“Fuck you,” you say weakly, though the way you’re still grinning probably ruins the effect.

She crawls back up to you, her body warm and solid as she settles next to you, her arm slinging over your waist. “Oh, you’re definitely going to want to do that next,” she teases, pressing a kiss to your temple.

And just like that, you’re laughing, still breathless and a little wrecked, but somehow more at ease than you’ve felt in ages. Paige grins down at you, smug but soft, and you think, maybe, that this is exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Sometimes the best love stories start with a malfunction.

Just don't tell Mike. He's smug enough already.

The End

[riki-dazed]

Best friends can kiss, right? -- PART 1

3:00 AM -- Finding Hope · part 2 · fluff · wc: 792

"I'm so tired," You sigh, watching Riki search for another song on the computer that he's currently sat in front of.

The both of you had spent the last couple of hours together in his personal studio, turning the tight space into a full blown karaoke room. All that you hoped for tonight was that no one would come knocking at the door, considering that Riki already had to sneak you into the company building.

Your body falls backwards against your sofa, yes, your sofa. The tiny, barely-seats-two one that Riki had cramped into the corner of his studio, just so you'd have somewhere to sit, or sleep on, when you'd visit him. You loved that about your best friend the most, his overly thoughtful and sweet nature. To Riki, your comfort and happiness has always been at the top of his priorities list.

Your gaze stays on Riki as you watch him scroll through one of his spotify playlists, your head resting on your arms in which are slumped over an armrest. Eliciting a hum of approval, he finally decides on a song after a few moments. The slow, soft melody that engulfs the space causes your eyes to flutter closed. It was a familiar sound, one of your favorites. You hear your best friend humming along to the tune, the sound of his soft tone further pushing you into a sleepy trace. It's about time the both of you finally took a second to calm down, to breathe.

Baby, it's three AM, had you on my mind...

"Here," A deep voice cuts you out of your trance, you blink your eyes open, "Lean on me, it's comfier,"

You glance over your shoulder towards the direction where the voice was coming from, suddenly finding Riki's body sat beside yours on the little sofa. You give him a small smile as you pick yourself up and off the uncomfortable armrest, you nuzzle yourself into his side. His body's warm, the fabric of his hoodie soft against the skin on your face.

He smells good, too.

"We should probably go home soon," You murmur against him, your eyes closing shut yet again. Who knows what the time must be, though, you're too comfortable and cozy to even care about it at the moment.

"Later," The boy beside you replies, his voice barely above a whisper as his hand snakes its way around to the side of your waist. He pulls you into him.

You nestle closer into Riki, enjoying the warmth of his embrace, and the comfort of his presence. Every other irrelevant thought within your mind fades away as you focus on the soft music playing through the speakers. The feeling of contentment envelops the both of you.

Cause baby, if I find a way, I'm sure of it, this love won't stray...

"..just give me a chance to say I love you, and I need you, now are you here to stay," Riki sings along quietly, his deep voice is as soft and as smooth as a cloud.

Despite the late hour, you have nowhere else that you would rather be than right here.

Wanting you more and more, I can't help but think of what we could be...

Without a single thought behind your actions, the lyrics suddenly cause you to lift your head off him. As you meet Riki's gaze, you find yourself getting lost within his sharp eyes, seeing a reflection of the emotions swirling within your own chest. Neither of you exchange a single word, yet a silent understanding engulfs the space between the both of your bodies, a mutual recognition of something unspoken, yet deeply felt. You feel the weight of the lyrics echoe within your mind, and stomach, in the form of a hundred butterflies.

As you continue to scan your best friend's face, you see a vulnerability in his expression. It's as if he's laying bare his soul before you, offering you a glimpse into his unspoken feelings.

"This feels dangerously intimate," You murmur out of the blue, the sudden seriousness had caused you to almost start feeling awkward. You and Riki were barely ever a serious pair when together, you needed to lighten the mood somehow..

Riki can't help but shake his head over your sudden remark, he lets a chuckle escape his lips. You smile at his heartwarming reaction, yet you can't shake the feeling that had just engulfed you moments prior.

You can't help but realize that perhaps the both of you had been dancing around the edges of something more profound than mere friendship.

"Best friends can kiss, right?"

Your eyes grow wide as Riki catches you completely off guard with his sudden question, your smile drops off your face.

...

Copyright © 2024 riki-dazed. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | Do NOT edit, copy, translate or repost any of my work without permission.

[celestial-sphere-press]

Book Decoration: AKA All The Ways I Don't Use a Cricut

(this post is for people who don't want to buy an expensive cutting tool, or for those that do have an expensive cutting tool that would like to mix things up a little)

1. Print That Shit

If you're already printing your own textblocks, an easy step for titles is to print them. Above is a title printed onto an "obi" of decorative paper. I measured out where I wanted things on the finished book and laid it out in Affinity, then printed it on a full sheet & trimmed it down to wrap around the book. A more simple method is to print & glue on the label into a slight indent in the cover (to protect it). A third option is to do the spine in bookcloth, while you print on paper for the cover and then glue that paper onto the boards (this usually looks even better when it is a three-piece bradel bind).

2. Foil Quill / Heat Pens

The heat pen is one of my go-to tools, but it can be a bit touchy about materials. The most popular version is the We R Memory Keepers' Foil Quill (which is one of the most ergonomic), but other pens exist that can get you to a higher heat temp, finer lines, or more consistent foil. For example, I have a pen created by a local Japanese bookbinding studio that fares way better on leathers than the WRMK quill & with a finer tip, but it's hell to control. Best results in general are on paper or smooth bookcloth (starched linen, arrestox, colibri - even duo will work but its less solid). The fuzzier a bookcloth is, the less your foil quill wants to deal with it. This means the heat n bond method of making bookcloth does not play nice with a heat pen usually, but there are two solutions: 1) use this tutorial on paste + acrylic medium coated bookcloth instead that will get you a perfect surface for the heat pen, or 2) use the pen on paper & then glue onto the cloth. I did a video tutorial for both foil quill use and this type of homemade bookcloth for @renegadeguild Binderary in 2023.

You get the most consistent results by tracing through a printed template that is taped in place, as I do in the video above.

3. Paint That Shit

Acrylic paints will do you fine! The above is free-handed with a circle template, because I wanted that vibe. If you need straight lines that won't seep, lay them down with tape first & then paint over it first with a clear Acrylic medium, then your color. Same goes for stencils. Two more examples of painted bookcloth:

4. IT'S GOT LAYERS

By using layers of thinner boards, you can create interesting depths & contrasts on your cover. You can also make cutouts that peep through to the decorative paper behind. The most important part to this technique is the order in which each edge is wrapped. To get a good wrapped inside edge, you will split the turn in into tabs to get them to conform to a curve. You can also layer multiple colors of bookcloth without multiple layers of board, as seen below left, so long as you mind your cut edges for fraying.

5. Inlaid... anything

Mirrors! Marbled paper! I saw someone do a pretty metal bookmark once! The key is creating a little home for it to live in, which is pretty similar to the above layering method. On one layer you cut the shape, & glue that layer onto the bottom solid board before covering. You can do the top layer as an entire 1 mm board (like I did for the mirrors) or a sheet of cardstock, like I would use for inlaid paper.

6. Decorative Paper

Decorative paper is always helpful & adds to the paper hoard... & its effects can be layers with other techniques, as below. Marbles, chiyogami, momi, or prints & maps of all kinds can be great additions. Some papers may need a protective coating (such as wax or a sealer).

7. Stamps (with optional linocut)

While I've not used many more regular rubber stamps, I do know some who have, successfully! And I've used one once or twice with embossing powder (see photo 3 up, the gold anchor on the little pamphlet bind). What also works is to carve your own linocut or stamp, & then use block printing ink to ink it onto your fabric (as i did above). A bit time intensive, but it was nice how easily reproducible it was, and I liked the effect I got for this particular bind.

These methods are not exhaustive, just ones I've used, and there are of course many others. I haven't gone too into detail on any of these for the sake of length (& post photo limits) but feel free to ask about more specifics. Usually I'm using them in combination with other options.

[deerspherestudios]

Short Break and To Dos!

Hello all! 🍄🍄👻 I'm glad to see people enjoying Day 3 so far! I was so nervous about showing another side to Mychael in the update I thought people wouldn't like him as much but plenty have reacted positively! ❤️

I'll add a TLDR; above the read more, but if you don't mind my ramblings and want more details about everything, I'll write everything below! Light spoilers ahead!

I'll be taking a short break from MO development until 28th October to work on a short VN for the Monstrous Desires jam!

Most probably missed it, but there's a tiny small patch to Day 3 explained here.

Queue will return soon! I just gotta handle some housekeeping first with my Patreon.

Regarding the feedback on Day 3, I'm glad people aren't as averse to the new side of Mychael, in that he isn't always soft and sweet. I want people to fall in love with a person after all, not a yandere caricature, and that means that person can get upset, angry and sometimes irrational when we don't know what's going on in their head even towards the subject of their affections. While some (understandably!) were shocked about his reaction to the mushrooms, it'll be clear as to why (hopefully!)

Some of you have given incredibly accurate theories, and I'll take that as something I've done well in building up the mystery!!! I'm excited to share more in the next update, but for now!

1. I'll be taking a short break from MO development to work on a short VN for the Monstrous Desires jam!

What I have planned for Day 4 of MO might be the biggest update so far, since one route will lead to a few official BAD ENDINGS as opposed to 'dead ends' like the current demo has. To those who really want to, you finally get to see Mychael at his worst. As usual, writing the script takes a few months with plenty of changes in between, and I don't wanna bulldoze ahead and rush the story when it's getting to the climax!

But before I jump into all of that I just wanna give myself a creative exercise and try exploring a different theme, style and setting with a fresh new character for the jam! Since I'm a sucker for the trope... yes, the new blorbo will also be a yandere, sorry, I'm predictable.💔 The jam ends on October 28th so development on MO will continue then!

The last time I wrote something remotely sci-fi was in high school, so this will be fun to try!

2. Most probably missed it, but there's a tiny small patch to Day 3 explained here.

What it says on the tin! If you've already played Day 3, rest assured there's no significant story changes. Just an updated credits list, three extra sprites for one route and a small fix in the code.

3. Queue will return soon! I just gotta handle some housekeeping first with my Patreon.

Plenty of people have sent such sweet and encouraging messages to my inbox on what they thought of the update and I cannot thank all of you enough for the support!! I can't wait to post them out to archive them on the blog and answer all your interesting theories and queries in my queue!

But for now I'm due for a short break from my socials and to catch up on my Patreon sketch requests haha. I also plan to release cut content from Day 3 for my Yearling and Deer patrons. Plus, I'll be working on some written prompts for extra lore so that's something to look forward to!

I'll be back soon! Take care, fireflies!! ❤️

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐃𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒

# with trafalgar water d. law.

it was said that those trapped inside his sphere were then nothing but a helpless patient on his operating table. law made sure you, too, would experience it.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, day three. medical play. glove kink. smut (mdni)! fingering (reader!receiving). freaky law. use of devil-fruit. double penetration. afab!reader.

WC: 2.5k

it was an agreement that the captain of a crew was the most valuable asset. law had matured into such a position with natural ease — powerful and intelligent; responsible and menacing — yet, his most arduous and important role relied neither on his battle skills nor on his plans. law was crucial to the lives of crew due to his extensive anatomical knowledge and the devil-fruit whose power could heal whatever ill. he was reliable, organized, logical. shame had no place within the walls of the infirmary, for law cared not for the cause of the disease or the placement of a pimple — instead, he all but strived to get rid of it.

the gratefulness and cheerful compliments thereafter were fuel to his ego, the confirmation that he had fulfilled his duties as a captain. law drew pleasure from the fact that he was one to execute a role unique amidst his crew. he had taught them concepts of medicine and surgery — to have a set of aiding hands, at least — but none of those with whom he shared the submarine were fit to nurse themselves to health. that diligent performance, more often than not, brought him a greater sense of power than the one granted by victorious battles.

it was an achievement; a task; his father’s legacy. law treated his patients with utmost professionalism, the character of their shared dynamic long forgotten if one had to be examined. it was a neutral space; undiscriminating. his ethics were thorough, his examination was immaculate. the mere thought of law losing focus during such instances was inconceivable. that was, of course, until you were the subject whose back pressed against the examination table.

the prelude itself had been virtuous. your limbs were sore during the aftermath of an arduous battle, minuscules cuts adorning your skin due to the offensive character of your opponent. law had insisted on treating you, regardless of how minor were the gashes. the memories were a vivid talon that had claimed his mind: your knee pressed against your chest as he stretched your muscles; the perspective from being atop your figure; your mellow breaths of relief whenever his fingers succeeded in undoing a tense knot. law had grown hot, then, forced to hasteness for the sudden tightness of his pants would be sure to denounce the perverted thoughts.

the second time was one of prolonged misery. a mosquito bite from a foreign island had left you bedridden; feverish. a frailer state of mind and manners, hazed by the consequences of a higher temperature. from soothing massages to the press of ice-cold thermal bags — your comfort became his most favored goal. the pain, however, proved to be overbearing, and the product of such given relieves came in the form of multiple moans. a press of his hand had you sighing; the cool, metal touch of his stethoscope against your burning skin made you beg for longer contact. whenever law dared to place a damp towel above your forehead, you’d lean into his touch and plead for him to stay.

yet, the occurrence that snapped the strained thread of his mind had been during a routine checkup. your mouth was open wide; law had a thin, small, wooden-stick on your tongue, striving to check on the health of your throat. he teased your gag-reflex, a gloved thumb pressed against your lower lip. law had lost his senses at the sight of your tears, the wild rise-and-fall of your chest, a context much too similar to that of a blowjob. the examination was cut short, and law had spent an entire hour in the shower right thereafter, fisting his cock; chasing a fleeting orgasm that had refused him, for your touch was its demand.

the infirmary shifted into a somewhat sinful ambience. the metal table was but a surface on which you could be ravaged. the stethoscope an instrument he could use to listen to the pace of your heartbeat, its increase gradual to his thrusts on your pussy. and the gloves. rubber moistened with your cum and spit; the act of stretching it near you, for it would then strike at the growing-sensible flesh. law wanted to witness the middle in which pain and pleasure converged — and you had been the chosen subject.

fleeting touches; warm breath hovering above your earlobe; the caress of your leg, under the table, with the point of his shoe. the guaranteeing of your restlessness coated in faux aloofness. when the teasing, at last, conquered its desired effect, law had the infirmary far more than prepared to receive your storm. his nape had burned under your gaze throughout the later hours of the afternoon, and when law stepped inside the maddening room, he was well-aware that you would be soon to follow.

he hid amidst the shadows, reveling in your confused-etched expression as you walked through the infirmary’s door. when you reached the center, law locked it, the force of its shutting enough to produce a loud, startling noise; echoing through the metal hallways of the submarine. you jumped, glancing at his frame placed by the door. law’s eyes drowned in the sight of you, thoughts swirling to the fantasies whose realization was of absurd importance.

“is something wrong, captain?” you inquired, arms crossed.

law’s steps were slow; calculated. he approached you as though a leopard surrounding its prey. you grew wary, retreating without forethought until your hip-bone collided with the examination table.

“how are you feeling tonight?” law grinned at the sight of your confusion, the increasing nervousness all but exciting him further.

the sound of his palms slamming on metal had you shrieking, yet law did not seem apologetic. he all but devoured your trapped figure, cursing the chaste knitting of the jumpsuit — though the sight of his crew’s symbol above your chest sent him a jolt of uncontrollable possessiveness.

“i’m fine,” you stuttered, clearing your throat and clinging to the fabric of your garment. “better than ever.”

“is that so?” law mused, pressing the back of his hand against your forehead. his fingers were but a hook on your chin; curled and unyielding. “you’re a bit pale, wouldn’t you agree?”

“captain, i don’t—”

“doctor,” he corrected through rough intonation, forcing the angle of your face to match his own.

“doctor,” you echoed. while the grunt of lust at the sound had been contained, the same could not be said about his member — a gradual erection, borderline painful.

he sighed in faux disappointment, allowing his hand to wander; to hover above your chest. “you leave me no choice but to examine you.”

you were left out of words, mouth agape as your mind struggled to wrap itself around that turn of events.

“sit. you know the drill,” he commanded, and once you had done as such, law turned on his back, striding towards the locked drawer whose contents were the ones adjusted to fulfill the standards of what he meant on doing. his movements were languid, patient. at the absence of sound on your part, law tsked, angling his head so as to glare at you. “strip.”

your spontaneous gasp of bewilderment had a smirk etching on his face. “captain, i— what?”

“doctor. and i don’t plan on repeating myself,” he scolded, fishing the stethoscope from its previous spot. “i taught you the proper way to listen to one’s heartbeat. forgot it already?”

“oh,” you breathed out sheepishly, tugging down the zipper of your jumpsuit. law at last understood the root of your hesitation, for you wore nothing but a bra underneath. his mouth dried up, and he dared not readjust his gaze. “i thought, well, nothing. it was silly.”

“no, please, enlighten me,” he requested, positioning the stethoscope around his neck.

the growth of tension escaped past your pores as though a leaking faucet. “just, with the touches and the glances, i figured you were in search of another thing entirely.”

“and what would that be?”

your movements ceased midway, the upper half of the jumpsuit a dangling fabric at your sides. you hid your face from his glance, though his focus remained on the inviting sight of your cleavage.

“you know—”

“i do not,” law detached his figure from its previous support spot on the table’s edge, languid steps guiding him to you. “and a decent patient does not keep secrets from their doctor.”

you were caged, forced to lean back as law angled himself forward. the sudden exchange of energy, due to the temperature divergence between your spine and the metal, made you hiss. your back arched out of instinct; your chest pressed against his own as a consequence. mere inches separated his face from yours, his breath fluttering your eyelashes. your pupils dilated when law tossed his blue coat aside, the half-unbuttoned shirt he wore doing nothing to shelter his bare abdomen and chest from your lustful eyes.

you gulped; wild rise-and-fall of chest. “sex.”

he hummed, putting on the stethoscope’s ear pieces. its chest piece teased the warmth of your skin, movements too erratic to catch the proper pace of your heartbeat. “i can’t hear you, say it louder.”

you were aghast, stuttering as he smirked with malice. sentences sounded muffled; chaotic breathing hindering the performance of the tool. law placed the stethoscope aside, feigning dissatisfaction.

“it seems i’ll have to scan it closer on,” he stated, a twist of his wrist enough to teleport your heart to the palm of his hand.

it was a beating wonder; a rampant pace. the source of your life secured in between his teasing fingers. clutching it would have you howling in pain, stabbing it would reap your soul; an unfathomable, despising, thought. when it came to the negative consequences to a severe act of violence committed to one’s heart, law was well-versed. the soothing touches, however, were unprecedented territory — for now.

law drew your heart closer to his mouth, ever-so-tender. he blew a careful gust of air over the delicate flesh, and the kiss thereafter tore a devastating moan from your lips. droplets of sweat bubbled from your pores; your pupils buried the tone of your irises; your limbs all but trembled. law failed to contain a groan, losing balance at the blood flowing through his aching cock. he was desperate to witness that reaction yet again.

“take it all off,” he instructed, voice coming out strained due to the effort to keep himself from crumbling.

he laid your entire body on the examination table, struggling to ignore your whimpers as the fabric slid down your legs. law sliced the rubber gloves, discarding the pieces meant for the palms.

“room,” law detached his fingers, guiding them to the glove holes; covering them in rubber. he returned to you, breath catching at the sight of your body, bare and trembling, a marvel bestowed upon him. “the doctor will see you now.”

“please, doctor,” you mewled. “heal me.”

without further ado, granted the privilege of his devil-fruit, law guided his floating fingers to your cunt. a gloved thumb teased your clit through circular movements, two fingers parting your folds. he was aghast at the amount of lubrification caused by the mere press of his lips on your heart. law shoved his middle-finger into your cunt, coating the rubber with your essence. a loud whimper had his cock aching, and law grew worried, much too selfish to share your sounds with the external environment.

“silent,” he rasped, latching his lips to your heart, leaving a trail of kisses on the flesh. your back arched, a muted moan tearing through your throat.

he witnessed the squirming of your body; the violent trembling of your legs. his ring finger accompanied his middle one, scissoring your cunt as his thumb maintained a stable eight-pattern on your clit. law’s warm tongue teased your heart, and the shout of pleasure whose sound the barrier had silenced was his latest straw. law undid it, shoving his index and minor finger into your mouth.

“suck it,” law commanded, having your spit coat the rubber. his mouth dried, a wet patch visible on the fabric of his pants.

the swirling of your tongue around his fingers had his cock twitching, yet law had no hands available to unbutton the belt. he clicked his tongue, and the fingers inside your holes had switched, activating his devil-fruit regardless of the detachment.

“shambles,” his pants and underwear teleported to a meaningless spot.

law detached his cock and removed the pair of fingers from your cunt, for the particular warmth and wetness were meant to be claimed by his cum.

“doctor,” you babbled, voice muffled by his fingers, tears rolling down your cheeks as he applied pressure to the entrance of your ass. “it’s too—ngh much.”

“you’re still sick,” he cooed, teasing your folds with the tip of his member. “and i must treat it. can we proceed with it?”

you nodded, gagging when he shoved his fingers deeper — unrestrained by the confines of his tendons.

“speak,” he insisted, neglecting your inability to produce proper words.

“yes,” you cried out, sending vibrations through his fingers.

“yes what?” law snapped, teasing your entrance with the tip of his middle-finger.

“yes, doctor,” you coaxed in sheer desperation, trembling with need.

law hummed with satisfaction, careful during the insertion on your butthole. the rubber had enough of your essence to serve as a form of lubricant, yet he wished not for you to feel pain. his tongue licked strips on your heart, and your throat produced but an orchestra of boisterous moans, half its sound muffled. a never-ending pace of kisses to your wildly beating heart served as decent distraction, and when law slid his middle and ring fingers into your ass, you barely ever felt it.

your high was a powerful force, drowning his floating cock in your cum. law trembled, rutting his hips out of instinct, the movement itself useless as his member was no longer attached to his body. law marveled at the sight of you, covered in sweat and spit; squirting all over the examination table. he was drawn closer as though a senseless sailor to a siren’s aria, lost in your contorting features, the pleasure written all over.

your eyes met his, wet with past tears. “can i treat you, still?”

law feared that he had crossed a line, far gone in his bliss to remind himself that, although there were no limits to what he was willing to give you, the same could not be said about how much you were capable of receiving.

yet, after a minute, your breathing stabilized and your cheeks briefly hollowed, tongue swirling around his fingers. he removed them, if only to facilitate your speaking.

your voice was meek; hoarse. “treat me ‘til the end, doctor.”

he groaned when your lips parted, head weakly moving to accommodate his fingers. law’s member started to stretch you out, making itself at home within the walls of your cunt. you trembled, sensitive, and law moaned as his cock was coated with the essence from the previous squirting. he paid attention to your expression, fingers scissoring inside your butthole as he matched the pace with that established by his cock.

law caressed your heart, busying his mouth with the press of soothing kisses on your face. he shoved his cock past what was humanly possible, brushing the tip on your cervix; returning it to your entrance and ramming it inside yet again. your moans were the most entrancing melody he had heard, and law caught himself comfortable enough to produce similar sounds.

you tightened around both his fingers and cock; cunt and ass giving in to the overbearing tides of pleasure. your voice failed you, and law had his fingers removed from your mouth in order to listen to the sound of your bliss without restraints. the veins of his members twitched; he felt the knot close to its undoing. yet, it was the bulge of his tip visible through your stomach that had his vision covered in dark spots.

his grip left your heart — out of safety — as his orgasm washed over him, converging with your cum. he rode his high, careful as to observe your face and retrieve once the stimulation became too much. you were left limp on the table, a brief vocal command of his devil-fruit returning the detached limbs to his body. he threw the damp gloves on the trash can, and helped you sit, holding your heart in order to return it to your chest.

when you kissed it — shuddering at your own touch — and observed him through your eyelashes, law, however, became more than willing to ruin the infirmary further.

— 🐈‍⬛ : dear lord this was nasty. i love kinktober.

[itneverendshere]

you going to jj’s little graduation, and you’re giving proud mom. even if he’s towering over you in his cap, and you’re pinching his cheeks, and as always rafes in awe of how much of natural caretaker

i'm a sucker for these three dynamic 😭😭😭😭 so i also added a little kie bc jj deserves all the teasing in the world after he made rafe's life miserable the past year🤭 hope you enjoy!🩵🫂

you've got no reason to be afraid - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

Rafe never wanted to go to this thing.

No, really. It wasn’t even one of those "I don’t wanna go, but deep down I actually care" moments. He genuinely didn’t want to show up.

Because honestly, why the hell was he going to JJ Maybank's graduation?

You dragged him here, and yeah, he was pretending to hate it every second of it, but...okay, maybe he was…a little proud of the guy for making it out alive. Sue him.

You’re buzzing around like a proud mom, and it’s almost hard to look at. Not because it’s annoying—okay, maybe it’s a little annoying—but more because it’s… god, he doesn’t even know. It’s just you.

You can’t help it. The whole natural caretaker thing, how you swoop in and take care of people like you’re born to do it. 

Rafe’s leaning against the wall while you’re annoying JJ, pinching his cheeks like he's still that scrappy little kid you saved from his old man’s rage. His stupid graduation cap keeps sliding off his head, and every time you fix it, he grins like an idiot.

The guy's taller than you, but it’s almost like it doesn’t matter. 

"You’re not gonna cry, are you?" JJ teases, standing there in his cap and gown like some kinda of scholar. It's hard to take it seriously, to be honest. 

You roll your eyes at him, "Shut up, Maybank. I’m allowed to be proud of you." You reach up again, smoothing down the collar of his gown, and it hits Rafe how much you care about this. 

He crosses his arms tighter over his chest, trying his best not to look too invested in the scene playing out in front of him. You’re still fussing over JJ, like some proud older sister at her little brother’s first big milestone, and Rafe… well, he’s trying not to roll his eyes for the third time in five minutes.

He pushes off the wall, just enough to glance at his phone, scrolling through his notifications to look busy, like he’s not watching this whole thing happen. He catches a glimpse of you laughing—JJ making some dumb joke about how he can’t believe he even graduated in the first place.

He didn’t get it at first. How could someone who’s been through what you’ve been through still have the energy to care about people like this?

Especially about someone like JJ? The scrappy, no-good kid from The Cut who spent more time getting into fights and drinking than actually passing his classes. But that’s the thing about you—you never gave up on people, even when everyone else had.

"You’re staring," you tease, glancing back at him with a grin, breaking his train of thought. "You okay over there, baby?"

Rafe straightens up, wiping the expression off his face before you can see too much. He’s quick to shrug, playing it off like he’s too cool to care about whatever’s going on. "Yeah, I’m fine," he mutters, locking his phone and slipping it back in his pocket. "Just wondering how long this is gonna take."

"Uh-huh." You’re not buying it for a second, but you let it slide. You know him better than anyone else, after all, “Get your ass here. We’re taking a picture.”

He sighs, letting out a dramatic huff like this is the worst thing he’s ever been asked to do. "You serious?" he groans, but he’s already pushing himself off the wall and walking over to where you’re standing with JJ.

“Dead serious,” you shoot back, giving him that look—the one that always gets him to do what you want, even when he’s trying to act like he’s above it.

JJ’s got that shit-eating grin on his face, the one that says he knows Rafe’s just playing tough. He slings an arm over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Rafe’s eyes narrow, his possessiveness showing before he can even stop himself.

“Relaaaax, man,” JJ teases, catching the look. “You’re gonna burst a vein.”

He rolls his eyes but steps closer, standing right beside you as you hand your phone to some random kid to take the picture. The three of you huddle together and you pull Rafe in by his shirt, snuggling into his side like you always do, and despite himself, he can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. Not enough for anyone else to notice—he’s too stubborn for that—but you feel it.

You always do.

The camera clicks, and just like that, the moment’s captured—JJ in his stupid graduation gear, you looking like a proud mom, and Rafe standing there like he’s not sure how he ended up a part of this weird little family, but maybe, just maybe, he’s okay with it.

“Alright, picture’s done. Can we leave now?” Rafe grumbles, already half-turned toward the parking lot.

You step in front of him to block his way. “Oh no, you’re not getting off that easy. We’re going to the party.” Your voice has that no-nonsense tone, the one that makes him groan because he knows you mean business.

JJ laughs again, clapping Rafe on the back. “C’mon, man. You can survive a couple hours with us. Plus, there’s free beer.”

He arches a brow. “Free beer?”

“Yep. Keg’s already set up back at John B’s place,” JJ says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Fine,” Rafe groans, but he doesn’t actually mind. Not when you’re looking at him like that—like he’s the only thing you want standing next to you, even if it’s at some ridiculous party in the Cut. In his little sister’s boyfriends house of all places. Sarah and John B’s on-again, off-again thing is enough drama for one lifetime.

 “But I’m not carrying your ass home when you get shitfaced.”

JJ smirks, patting his gown. “I’ll be fine, man. I graduated today. I’m an adult now.”

Rafe snorts. “Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts.”

You’re already pulling Rafe toward the car, glancing back at JJ with a grin. “Come on. Let’s celebrate while you still have time to pretend you’re responsible.”

JJ’s talking a mile a minute, the entire drive, from the backseat, already planning out how he’s going to "run the party" and bragging about the free booze like it’s the highlight of his life. Rafe tunes most of it out, too focused on you, the warmth of your hand lingering even after you’ve let go. By the time you pull up to John B’s place, the sun’s starting to set and the yard is already half full with the Pogues. Kie’s there, Sarah too, probably.

You park, and before Rafe can even make a move, JJ’s already jumped out, tossing his cap onto the grass as he heads toward the keg. "Let’s get this party started bitches!" he shouts, and the small crowd cheers in response.

Great.

He climbs out of the car, walking around to meet you on the driver’s side. “You sure about this?” he asks, glancing toward the crowd. He’s not exactly best friends with these guys, and parties in the Cut… well, they’re not really his scene.

But you smile up at him, reaching for his hand and threading your fingers through his. "Yeah, I’m sure. You’ll survive, baby.”

He huffs, but when you start pulling him toward the party, he lets you. He always lets you. You weave your way through the small crowd of pogues, most of whom nod or wave at him but don’t bother trying to talk to him. 

You glance back, grinning as you lead the way toward the makeshift party area. “You’re not gonna hide in the corner the whole time, are you?” you tease, giving his hand a playful squeeze.

Rafe rolls his eyes but follows you, his free hand shoving into his pocket. “No promises,” he says, though a small part of him is already resigning to the fact that you’re probably going to drag him into the middle of everything by the end of the night.

Everything's already in full swing by the time you both find a spot near the keg. JJ’s surrounded by a group of people, handing out beers like it’s his personal mission to get everyone drunk. John B and Sarah are off to the side, leaning against the porch railing, sharing a laugh. Disgusting.

You flash him a smile before heading off to grab drinks, leaving him standing awkwardly near the keg, trying his best to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

He’s mid-scroll on his phone again when he hears JJ’s voice call out, “Yo, Rafe!”

Rafe glances up, already preparing himself for whatever shit JJ’s about to throw his way.

“Don’t tell me you’re just gonna stand there like some grumpy old man. You’re at my graduation party, man! You gotta at least try to have fun.” JJ’s grinning from ear to ear, clearly already a few beers in.

Rafe snorts, shaking his head. “I’m here, aren’t I? That’s gotta count for something.”

JJ laughs, clapping him on the shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Just didn’t think I’d see Rafe Cameron at a pogue party, y'know?”

“Don’t make me punch you in the face."

JJ grins again, but there’s something a little more genuine in his expression this time. “For real though, man. Thanks for coming. I know this isn’t your scene.”

Rafe’s about to answer with his usual sarcasm, but he catches the sincerity in JJ’s tone and decides to let it slide. He nods, his voice gruff as he says, “Yeah. Congrats, Maybank. You deserve it.”

JJ’s grin widens, and he raises his beer in a mock toast. “Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”

Before he can say anything else, you’re back with two beers in hand, nudging one toward him. “Here you go. Now you’ve got no excuse to look so miserable.”

Rafe takes the beer from you with a half-smirk, but his eyes are soft as he glances down at you. “I don’t look miserable.”

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. “Sure.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. It’s cheap, of course, and not exactly his taste, but he doesn’t complain. Not when you’re standing so close, looking up at him like you can see right through all his bullshit. He watches you for a moment, the way you light up around these people, the way you float between them like you’re the glue holding everyone together does something to his heart.

Rafe leans back, his arm draped loosely around your waist as you chat with Kie and JJ, laughing at some dumb story JJ’s telling about getting caught sneaking into class late one too many times. He can’t help but wonder how you do it. The nights you spent bailing JJ out when his dad got too wasted and violent. How you’d sneak him into your place, covering up the bruises and making sure he had somewhere to crash for the night.

“Hey,” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts. “You okay? You’re staring again.”

Rafe blinks, realizing he’s been zoning out, watching you again. “Yeah,” he mutters, clearing his throat. “Just thinking.”

You tilt your head, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “About?”

“How much I love you.”

JJ gags, “Shut the fuck up.”

Kie slaps him in the back, “Shut up, it’s cute.”

Rafe lets out a low chuckle, glancing over at JJ. "Jealous, Maybank?"

JJ takes a long swig of his beer, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. I’m not jealous of your sappy shit.”

“Sure you’re not,” He drawls, leaning back with a smirk. “Not like you’ve been drooling over Kie all year or anythin’.”

Kie’s eyes widen, her face flushing just enough to make it obvious, “What the hell are you talking about?” She shoots Rafe a glare, but there’s no real venom behind it.

His grin only widens. “Oh, come on. You think I haven’t noticed? You two have been dancing around each other for what, months now?”

JJ chokes on his beer, coughing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. That’s not—”

But Rafe’s not letting up. He’s enjoying this way too much. “Dude, just admit it. You’ve been into her forever, and honestly, we’re all sick of watching you act like you don’t.”

Kie crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You’re sick of it?”

“Yeah,” Rafe deadpans, “Everyone knows. Hell, even John B probably knows, and that guy’s oblivious to everything except Sarah.”

JJ groans, rubbing his hand over his face. “You’re seriously gonna make this about me?”

“Yep,” Rafe grins, “Payback’s a bitch, huh?”

He knows Rafe’s just messing with him. He’s been down bad for Kie for as long as he can remember, but every time he gets close, something stops him. The friendship, the fear of messing it up, maybe just the fact that he doesn’t think he deserves her. Rafe’s seen it all before.

Kie, for her part, just rolls her eyes. “Boys are so fucking dumb.”

You laugh, nudging Rafe in the ribs. “Stop torturing him. It’s his big day.”

Rafe huffs, a smirk still playing on his lips. “I’m just saying, if I had to deal with all the crap about you and me, it’s only fair he gets his turn.”

“Yeah, well, maybe JJ needs a little push,” you glance between the two of them. “You gonna make a move, Maybank? Or you planning on dragging this out for another year?”

JJ looks at you, then at Kie, then back at Rafe, who’s clearly enjoying every second of this. “You guys suck,” he mutters, grabbing another beer and stalking off toward the keg, leaving Kie standing there, cheeks still a little red, though she’s doing her best to look unbothered.

Rafe watches him go, then turns back to Kie. “He’s a mess, but you already know that.”

Kie sighs, shaking her head. “Yeah, I do.” Her voice softens,“But he’s my mess, I guess.”

You smile, giving Kie a knowing look. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

Kie glares at you playfully, but there’s no hiding the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Oh, shut up.”

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Begging you for more Caracalla fanfiction pretty please?? Literally no one writes for him ??

I’m so ashamed but can you write Caracalla and fem reader who starts her period, how he’d help her through any pain or discomfort? Also disgustingly good period sex to get rid of cramps if this isn’t too weird?

I just started at work and have no products with me so we die like men in Rome, free bleeding 🩸

Blessed if you do, blessed if you don’t 🙏🏼 ty xx

Bleeding free for love

Emperor Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : +18, smut, hurt/comfort, tiny emotional, kissing, body worship, blood play, period sex, family problems

Summary : When the sun was in the sky at midday, it was the aches and pains that afflicted the goddess of Rome, hot and cold baths hardly seemed to help and hardly any food was right. When her husband has a certain idea to take away her pain and they both could get closer to each other.

info : So finally dear i have finished it i wish you a lot of fun reading and hope you have survived your period well. I had a lot of fun writing this everytime again and wish you lots of fun ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blood had many uses for rituals, animal blood for eating, for painting, blood was something that gave life and could take life it was the most valuable thing known to man because without it you died.

One thing the soldiers in the battles knew as soon as they saw the blood of their opponents they had won, the midwives saw the blood of the mother as a life was born and a dead man would bleed as his head was cut off.

A thing that everyone knew, every child, every man and especially every woman who felt the blood on a day of the month followed by pain and upset.

A natural process that could lead to life according to certain doctors or midwives to whom one went to have herbs and tinctures mixed against the pain, but as death would haunt everyone, so would pain haunt every woman of Rome.

A pain that also commanded the empress in a moment of adversity, from the moment she woke up she had felt on the edge of Olympus.

She loved her husband and her brother-in-law but her smile wanted to smile less and less, everything seemed to interfere and nothing worked her mood was completely controlled by the gods a thing that only disturbed her even more.

At breakfast, her appetite didn't seem to be for anything except for a delicious sweet fruit or honey glazed nuts, but nothing else seemed to appeal to her either, ,,I'm sure it won't be anything bad" she had told Caracalla, who was already giving her a worried look, normally the three of them tasted their way through the whole breakfast and were not so reserved.

At midday in the palace garden she was only in the shade, the sun seemed far too strong, although even Geta and Caracalla were in the sun, ,,Just leave me" she had said more cheekily than necessary when they both wanted to pull her to the table for a game and she had retreated with her servant.

But above all, her stomach pains didn't stop, pains that she feared were something worse and she wanted to turn to a healer after the senate meeting...but the answer came to her with a knowing sigh.

She rose from her seat in the senate to help her brother-in-law's argument, knowing that Caracalla was not fully present in his current state when she felt the first drop and she cursed inwardly.

,,I commend myself, something has come up" she only hastily said to Geta and gave Caracalla a brief smile as she tried to get away from the gazing eyes as quickly as possible.

But while Geta tried to reassure the senate that all was well, it was Caracalla in particular who seemed to snap out of it and looked anxiously after his wife.

Gods must you make me bleed now? she asked the saints and at least the answer was only why her abdomen hurt and why her mood was so different, she had bled once more.

A bleeding that made her go straight to the bathhouse where she washed herself because of course it didn't stop at a drop, she sometimes felt as if she were an animal bleeding to death in its last moments.

It stung and pinched so much, no wine or food seemed to help and the water always seemed too cold, ,,Warm it up once more" she ordered her tone again harsher than she wanted and the servants informed the slaves.

The bath water warmed up again after a few minutes and she sighed as the pain disappeared, at least for a moment, as she tried to concentrate on the rose petals and the scent of avender that came through the flowers floating around her.

A scent that at least helped her with a headache did some good, at least the gods were a little merciful to her because the rest of the day she would be bleeding in her room.

Her feelings were as numerous as the gods and she probably didn't take pleasure in anything, just lying in bed perhaps listening to music to distract her from the pain.

Whatever it was she was going to do it was all better than being around people, she had kept the dinner with Caracalla and Geta as short as possible, ,,I will find a way to take away your pain that is my duty as your husband" her heart tried to cheer her up and gave her a quick kiss.

A kiss that actually made her smile for a moment, it seemed that no matter what situation or how much pain she was in Caracalla always found a way to make her smile, one of the things she appreciated so much about him.

He liked to fight with himself, the madness taking him over more and more from time to time but for her he always tried, ,,And I will accept this as your wife" she replied and gave him a kiss too as Geta only had a pleased look for the two of them, glad that his family didn't stop at madness and blood.

After dinner, everyone retired to their rooms to rest, the day had been exhausting enough and she just wanted to try to sleep, a sleep that was not granted to her, but minutes turned into almost hours in which she turned from left to right and knew that as long as she continued to be stabbed in her abdomen, she would find no rest.

Until the moment she heard a knock on her door and smiled, ,,Are the gods not letting you sleep either?" she heard her husband ask and saw that Caracalla had a small tablet with some things on it.

Sitting up in her bed, she tapped the fur next to her, ,,The honourable ones seem to be stabbing me right now," she replied, but immediately saw her husband get a worried look on his face.

In his state, where he was probably at least a little more aware of his surroundings, it was always better than him having a full-blown seizure and hurting someone else.

Setting the tray down on the bed, he scrambled over to her and placed his hand on her stomach, surprisingly gentle for someone who seemed so worried but at least it had a little ,,The warmth of love" he grinned as he saw her features relax and her hand rest on his.

Maybe it really was the bond between man and woman that could help them, that could ease their pain as she saw some sweet treats on the tray.

Treats they fed each other, the sweetness and warmth actually helping a little, ,,My caring emperor" she murmured to him before giving him a kiss.

A short kiss really, but one that made the blue-eyed man want more, his hand sliding from her belly to her side, letting her know he wanted her, ,,The healers said...a touch of body might help with your pain," he said as they parted, the smell of sweetness mingling slightly with the tang of metal.

She felt the slight shame burning on her cheeks, she knew it was supposed to help when they slept together it always seemed to make no difference, an agreement, a bond could do so much

,,But the blood" she already knew the skins and pillows needed to be cleaned even without the sex through her blood, but Caracalla just smirked, ,,Has an attractive effect on me" he just giggled before he kissed her again.

A kiss as they lay gently on the pillows, hands carelessly taking the clothes from each other's bodies, the room seemed too warm, too heated by their love that burned as his hand went to her breast.

The gods gave her the pain but also the sensitivity something that also struck her lover who looked at her almost proudly, ,,Never be ashamed of our union no blood will keep me from you" he assured her and began to kiss her neck.

The little bites and marks turned her on more than usual, her mind plagued by lust that surfaced between the pain whenever she thought of her husband, an emperor who continued to take care of her body.

His fingers skilfully massaged her breasts, teasing her nipples as he lightly pinched them and she shuddered as she groaned, ,,Mhhh gods you've made a pack with him" she giggled as she saw the amusement of Caracalla as he continued to take care of her body.

Every piece of her had to be loved by him, everything she needed he gave her, praised her, kissed her, bit her, licked her everything he just wanted to be with his wife.

His goddess who loved him so much it was the only right thing to do that he helped her through everything in their life together.

Blood was what he liked in the Coloseum arena, and her blood seemed to act like an aphrodisiac on him, making him lose himself in lust and slight madness.

He finally kissed her belly before running his hands along her thighs and pushing them slightly apart, ,,Your emperor will take away any pain...as sweet reddish as a cherry you are" he compared them and the couple both smiled at the sweet but apt comparison.

A comparison as his hand held hers as she saw him caress himself a little and yet she opened her legs, his hungry expression meeting her slightly pleading one.

The feeling as he was inside her not unfamiliar but pleasing the sounds of the couple mingling as he kissed her again the brief moment of time to geen hung between them.

But now their shared love seemed to diminish, with every thrust he made, every movement, every lustful sound that escaped them both, their love for each other only blossomed more.

His hands went from her hips to her body every now and then, giving it further attention, knowing that it made her feel good when the pain was taken over by the pleasure.

,,Don't stop" she only breathlessly brought out, wrapping her legs around his hips to feel him deeper after a few minutes.

The healers were right love could banish pain and how love could banish it, rarely had she felt him so intimately and arousing it was something a look at her husband told her they should both do more often.

Her hands shakily detached themselves from the fur and scratched along his torso, his grunts letting her know he was the one enjoying the pain, something she gave him more of.

His thrusts increasing whenever she pulled at his light-coloured hair, scratching along his skin, his back streaked with red.

The couple gave themselves to each other, savouring everything and the sounds that echoed off the stone walls as if they were looking at each other from afar.

She heard him stammer ,,I love you" almost sensing that he was close to his climax, a tingling sensation in her stomach that she could only answer with a nod as she pulled him even tighter against her.

The moments passed and the movements became more hurried and intense until the stifled cry was lost in the kiss as the couple shuddered and clung to each other as the climax came over them both.

A moment in which the pain and the blood didn't matter, his care didn't matter, they held each other and only separated after a short moment.

He lay down next to her with a slight grin and put his hand on hers, ,,The gods should honour us like this more often" and the couple had to laugh again when she turned to him and held his hand.

But no more pain plagued her as she gave him a kiss on the forehead and now knew that love could conquer even the pain of blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@cottoncandiescupcakes , @somepallings , @k-yurieee , @qardasngan , @sweeteststing , @songbirdmunson , @abundance-of-fic-reblogs , @bel0ved-heretic

[softpascalito]

I Healing Hands I Marcus Acacius I

Summary: Acacius returns home with an injury—and you try to care for him. But his ideas of healing (and baths) are a little ... different. Especially when you finally have some time to yourselves.

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x F!Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 2.3k Tags: Explicit, Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Handjobs, Nipple Play, Dirty Talk, Bathing/Washing, Blood & Injury, Secret Relationship, Mention of Period-Typical Violence, Mention of Period-Typical Slavery, Not historically accurate

AO3 LINK // Masterlist

notes: i can't believe i wrote smut about romans. anyway, i can't wait to see the trailer, enjoy the porn <3

domus - a type of house dulcissima - sweetest anaticula - little duck (affectionate) subligaculum - a type of underwear (i had three years of latin so i absolutely know what i'm doing)

The domus he lives in sits on the edge of Palatine hill, a small house that feels more welcoming to you than any palace could. The atrium is decorated with a variety of plants, the green colors peaking through the columns that line the sides of the open space. You’ve come to know the details of this place well, from the feel of the stones below your feet to the artistically created, coffered ceilings.

As you let your gaze wander over the sunlit atrium, you find yourself looking at the small statue that sits in the middle of a small fountain, both almost hidden by the plants around them. The water below reflects the merciless sun above and sends small reflections of light dancing across the open space. The form of Apollo stands still, frozen in a heroic movement with one arm raised and his head held high.

The god of music, of truth, and most importantly, of healing. You always think your presence in this house must please him, because since being here, you have felt more healing than you have known before.

You hear Acacius before you see him, his breath coming in a little shorter than you’d like. His footsteps sound through the atrium and you catch glimpses of him as he passes behind the columns on the other side. Even from a distance, the way he’s holding himself tells you he’s hurt, not to mention the dirt on him and his armor. The golden details usually shine in the sun—now they look almost ancient, covered in grime.

You sent a silent prayer to Apollo, your eyes briefly flying back to the statue. When you turn back towards Acacius, he has rounded the corner, making his way over to you, though much slower than he usually would. A small sigh leaves his lips as his eyes land on you and you can see his body deflate visibly.

“Acacius.”

You’re by his side in an instant, attempting to let him prop himself up on you, to use your body to support his. Instead, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into a hug. You wrap your own arms around him, a hand finding his hair and attempting to brush through it—only to find it matted with blood. He must feel you tense next to him, a sharp breath escaping you as your fingers feel over his scalp, trying to locate the wound.

“Not mine,” he mumbles under his breath. He pauses for a short moment. “I promised I would come back.”

“You always do and yet I dread the day you will break that promise,” you say, a sad smile playing around your lips. You pull back enough to look at him, taking in the small cuts on his face and the deep lines between his brows that you want to smooth out until he looks as peaceful as he does in his sleep.

He does not protest when you try to take some of his weight on you, silently wishing you could take his worries too, and lead him away from the atrium and towards the small bath that is off to the side. You maneuver him through the small archway that is framed by beige columns on either side and into the middle of the room, the scent of the bath salts filling your nostrils as soon as you take a deep breath.

Acacius lifts his right arm—and immediately screws his face up in pain. You send a stern glance his way. “Let me do that.”

You nudge his arm to the side just enough to reach the leather strings that hold his armor together, slowly working your way through them until you can easily slide the dark leather off him, shaking your head weakly when you see how caked with blood and dirt it is. When you’ve placed the armor on one of the stone benches that line the wall, you move on to his braces and his shoes—and finally, the undercloth, taking it off just as carefully and leaving him in just his underwear.

And then, you suddenly see the reason he’s holding himself the way he is.

A nasty cut marks his right side, just below the ribs. You swallow hard, reaching out and tracing the dried blood around it with a motion that comes naturally. You feel Acacius shift under your fingers, bringing his own hands towards yours and wrapping them around it. They fit perfectly, his grip strong despite his injury.

Your gaze is drawn back to his face by the movement and he smiles weakly. “It looks much worse than it is, dulcissima.”

He’s not wrong. He’s definitely had worse injuries, including the time he barely made it to the atrium, instead collapsing into your arms just behind the entrance to the domus. But, quite frankly, it doesn’t mean you don’t worry.

“It stopped bleeding halfway here,” Acacius adds, correctly interpreting your silence.

“Why didn’t you clean yourself at the baths? They would’ve tended to your wound.” You search his face as you speak.

“I wanted to be with you.”

You sigh disapprovingly at his response, though you can’t deny you like to have him close too, especially when he’s injured. Which, with him, feels like it’s every other day.

He leans down to you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, mumbling. “It really does not hurt all that much anymore.” His arm sneaks back around you, though his hand is now wandering much lower than it did before.

You bite your lip, trying to give him another stern look but you can feel the way you begin to falter as he smoothes circles into the fabric of your tunic. “Acacius, your servants—”

“They are busy,” he assures you, dragging his lips over your cheek and towards your earlobe. “Besides, if any of them attempted to talk, I’d have their heads.”

You listen into the silence that follows, almost determined to catch a pair of feet approaching or a voice in the distance. But the only sounds that reach your ears are those of the small fountain in the atrium and Acacius’s breath against your skin.

“We won’t be disturbed,” he hums and you sigh in defeat, reaching down to undo his subligaculum, the soft fabric falling away to reveal the trail of dark hair that leads down towards his cock. You’re only mildly surprised to find him already half-hard.

“Let me clean you first at least,” you mutter, leading him further into the room and towards the small bath embedded in the tiled floor. You sit him down at the edge of it, letting him dangle his legs into the warm water. You reach for a cloth, wet it slightly and get to work. You start with his arms, watching as the dirt and blood starts to come off, revealing the tanned skin underneath.

You hear Acacius sigh above you and you feel his eyes on you, the soft gaze he looks at you with so different from the one he carries on the battlefield. His hands begin wandering again, dipping below the thin fabric of your tunic and you are just reaching down to wet the cloth again when he manhandles you into him, placing you comfortably on his lap.

You tense for a split moment before he catches your lips in a kiss—and then you hear yourself sigh as the protest inside you makes space for a fire that’s rapidly building in your lower abdomen. You can smell him, his sweat mixed with a hint of blood, you can feel the dirt rubbing off on you but you don’t care. You just want him.

His voice is a growl. “Merda, get out of that thing already.”

You obey, crawling off him and slipping the tunic off your body, carelessly letting it fall to the dirty floor. You see Acacius’s eyes raking over your body, taking in every curve like he’s seeing you for the first time rather than the hundreth.

“You are as beautiful as the gods, my dulcissima,” he mumbles, pulling you back onto his lap, one hand securely placed on your back to keep you from falling into the water behind you.

He’s careful not to lean on his bad side as he sneaks his free hand between your bodies, dragging it down ever so slowly until he reaches your mound, his index finger drawing a few circles around your bundle of nerves before moving on, a smile spreading over his lips when he finds wetness waiting for him between your legs.

You feel your breath catch in your throat as he inserts a finger without warning, the size of them always taking you slightly by surprise. His moves are shallow, never quite pulling his finger out completely but always keeping you on that delicious edge. When he adds a second one and starts curling them, he has you whimpering almost immediately.

“Marcus, please—”

“I thought I was Acacius to you. Just to make sure you do not—how did you put it—slip up,” he mumbles, a smirk on his face. The groan you intend to sound annoyed comes out much more desperate than you would like.

“You know we have to be careful—” you try to start, but with his fingers inside you, your brain simply does not work the way it usually does.

“One of these days, I’ll make you my wife,” he mumbles into your ear, his voice so low you can barely hear it. Without taking his eyes off yours, his thumb finds the spot that, combined with his words, almost drives you over the edge. “And you’ll live with me and we can make as many babies as you want.”

It catches you off-guard, but not in an unpleasant way. It’s just a fantasy, one that may very well be unattainable, but you like to let your mind drift there regardless. Judging by the twitch his cock gives against your skin, you’re clearly not the only one who does.

At that thought, you manage to hold off a bit longer and reach for him in return, enjoying the way his breath catches in his throat when your hand wraps around his attention-starved cock. His gaze flies down, to your bodies already so intertwined, touching each other impatiently. And you know he craves it as much as you do—to be even closer, to feel the weight of him nestled inside of you.

“You are so dirty,” he whispers, withdrawing his hand and making you whine at the loss. He wipes at some of the dirt on your thigh, mixing it with your own juices.

“And you seem to rather enjoy that,” you mumble back, squeezing him slightly. An affirmative chuckles leaves his throat before he lifts you up and lowers you into the small bath in front of him, the warm water immediately soothing your body.

He follows a moment later, stepping into the blue mass. A few petals swirl around on the surface, stirred by your movements in the water as he pulls you close again, his body seemingly all around you as he wraps you in his arms. Then he lowers his head, trailing kisses over your collarbone and down your skin until he reaches your chest, grazing his teeth over your hardened nipple.

“Marcus—” you whine, impatiently pressing your body into his, attempting to get any friction, a task made even harder by the water around you. “I want you inside, please.”

“Always so polite, Anaticula,” he mumbles into your skin but he does satisfy himself with one more nip at your skin before pulling back. “Is that what you want?”

You nod impatiently and feel him lining himself up below you, gently directing you towards the far edge of the bath, where he immediately braces himself against the wall for support with you in his arms—and just a moment later, you can feel him sink into you.

Your bodies mold together, his cock making you feel so deliciously full and complete. You can hear him grunt as he begins to thrust into you gently, his hands on your hips as he guides you onto him again and again, making you moan into his neck as you cling on, half a mind not to touch his injury.

Acacius groans your name, his movements speeding up slightly. “Come on, I want to see your pretty face, dulcissima.” You pull back enough to see him and press your forehead against his. Your thumb comes up to wipe a spot of dirt off his face and brush over his beard, the hairs of it more gray than dark, like they were when you first met, and for a few moments, you both just stare at each other as the water around you ripples with your movements.

“Let go for me.” It's just a whisper—and one you don’t think you could ignore if you tried. You feel the wave wash over you, your vision going weak as you fall apart—knowing that Acacius will hold you close until you’re put together again. You barely notice that he follows suit, spilling himself inside of you with whispered promises of all the things you’ll have one day.

You stay intertwined in the water like that for a while. Eventually, you begin to gather some in your hand and let it run down Acacius’s scalp, beginning to wash the dried blood out of the gray-streaked hair.

“You are going to let me put a proper bandage on your cut once we get out,” you state, earning a loyal nod from him. His eyes are searching yours again, carrying the soft look you know is reserved for you.

“I did come back,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion and you suddenly feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“I know.”

You kiss him softly and he kisses you back just as softly as you curl into him, inhaling his scent and pulling him close and ever closer, determined to let noone take you from him.

thank you for reading! feel free to follow my socials or leave a comment if you want more of slutty roman men <3

[formulawolff]

"just one dance" - t.w.

pairing: horner's daughter!reader x toto wolff

word count: 1.9k

warnings: toto lusting after a woman thirty years younger than him (what's new on this blog lmfao), sexual references, maybe some cursing (idrk), mentions of drug use, alcohol use, flirting, banter, yadayadayada

a/n: i played "here" by alessia cara like 20x on repeat while writing this fic. so we could say that this fic is veryyyyy loosely inspired by that song. also! this was a request by an anon! i hope y'all enjoy! <3

"come on," the words as slurred as he rolls his eyes, "come dance with us!"

bringing your hand to your mouth, you stifle a giggle, "max, for the last time, i am not joining the horny middle school grind circle you guys have going on over there."

"it's not a grind circle," he puts his hands on his hips, "i would say it's more like a mosh pit."

which, given the occasion, was not quite appropriate either.

at the moment, you were perched at one of the many elegant banquet tables, the rigid surfaced draped with a thick, cream-colored tablecloth. adorning the table were numerous vases, filled to the brim with floral arrangements, their fragrance oh so sickeningly sweet.

the plates, utensils, and other various dining ware were now cleared, only leaving numerous wine glasses, their crystalline stems glimmering in the dim light, swathed by the golden hue of the chandeliers as they sparkle above.

this was the annual fia prize gala, one of the most coveted events of the season. it was the showcasing and peacocking of sheer and utter wealth, as the drivers got to pull up to in their luxury vehicles, their keys handed off to the valets. every individual was dressed head to toe in designer clothing from nearly every brand possible, from christian dior to saint laurent.

you lost track of the amount of rolex watches, cartier jewelry, and hermès bags you noticed throughout the course of the evening.

the main event wrapped up hours ago, leaving the rest of the night for the drivers, crew members, mechanics, engineers, executives, and team principals to mingle and dance. and well, consume copious amounts of alcohol.

and well, perhaps do a few lines in the restroom. or light a joint outside. maybe even pop a few pills.

with the exuberant amounts of cash involved with events like this, there were surely some illicit affairs. ones that the fia ignored, simply turning their heads.

if they didn't see it, it didn't happen.

after all, you were in monaco. it was like las vegas in a way.

what happened in monaco, stayed in monaco.

and here max verstappen was, three-time world champion, standing before you, so drunk he could barely walk, begging for you to come join him on the dance floor.

too bad your phone was almost dead.

this would have been a prime opportunity to record what was unfolding before you. it would have fed the max girlies all over instagram and tik tok for months.

glancing over max's shoulder, you pick out lando, oscar, charles, and carlos. they were apart of the large formation, jumping up and down, barreling into one another. alexandra, rebecca, and lily linger around the group, their gowns swishing as they laugh, their cheeks dusted with a bubblegum pink glow.

a drunken mosh pit with a bunch of sweaty men? no thank you.

but gossiping with the girls? that was more your speed.

"my dad would have a stroke if he caught me with you guys," you simply shrug, sipping on your wine, "and what if something happened to my dress? we have to return this, you know."

"ugh," the dutch driver groans, "you're no fun."

"hallo, max," a new voice cuts in, thick with an accent you can't quite place your finger on, "congratulations on your accomplishment this year!"

shifting in your chair is none other than torger christian wolff, better known as toto wolff, team prinicipal of mercedes.

your heart skips a beat as your eyes drink in the sight of him, the way his crisp tuxedo fit him effortlessly. his dark brunette hair was messy, more than likely from the events of the evening. his bowtie was untied, hanging loosely around his neck. the first few buttons of the snowy white dress shirt were undone, exposing his skin.

fuck, was he a gorgeous man.

with sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and wide, beautiful coffee brown eyes, he knew that he was attractive, his aura brimmed with nothing but sexiness and dominance.

his hands land on the chair beside you, pulling it out as max rambles, the words drowning out in your ears.

you were more focused on his stature as he sits to your right, his thighs spread in the chair, a hand running through his hair.

"is there a reason why i haven't seen you on the dance floor?"

due to the excessive volume of the music, his mouth hovers by your ear. a shiver runs down your spine as his eyes lock with yours, lips forming a radiant smile, flashing his perfect pearlescent teeth.

"cat got your tongue? or are you just as intoxicated as maxie boy over there?"

"neither," you counter, straightening in your chair, "just not really interested, that's all."

"did daddy not give his precious diamond any dance lessons growing up?"

your father was none other than christian horner, team principal of red bull racing, sworn enemy of toto wolff.

quickly, your eyes scan your surroundings, in an attempt to pick out your father among the throng of people. to your dismay, you cannot find him.

which, in this case, could be a good thing.

if he saw toto speaking to you? oh fuck. it would be game over. you'd probably be grounded at your big age of twenty-four years old. could parents even do that when you were an adult?

you didn't really want to find out.

yet, you couldn't turn down a few moments with the team principal.

after all, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

why not seize it?

for most of your life, you obeyed every single one of your father's wishes. you maintained your distance from the red bull drivers, careful not to get too close. you stayed out of the spotlight, ensuring that no negative publicity ever came his way. as much as you yearned to get to know members of the mercedes team or crew, you shied away, maintaining the promise that you would never befriend a rival.

so, for this one night, you could be a little selfish.

just this once.

even if it involved your father's biggest foe. the bane of his existence. the man he spoked about so bitterly for years on end.

"i was offered dance lessons, actually," your voice is melodic, like an angel's from the heavens above, "i turned them down. opted for horseback riding instead."

"so you know how to ride?" the team principal runs a tongue along his lower lip, his brow slightly raised, "well, i have an offer for you. one dance with me, and then later you can show me how well you can ride."

"and what am i going to be riding?" you inquire, folding your arms across your chest.

the corners of his lips curl into a devious smirk, an emotion glinting within the mocha depths as he leans in, "my cock."

heat flourishes into your cheeks, seeping all throughout your body. as your mind scrambles, struggling to formulate some sort of witty response, the team principal nods, "not expecting that, were you? i like seeing you like this, all flustered. it's cute."

"y-you're ridiculous," you manage to sputter out, hands instinctively shielding your face.

"not as ridiculous as any of those fools," his head motions towards the group of rambunctious drivers, "tell me, why aren't you with any of them? i'm sure maxie boy would love to take you on a date. lando too."

"just not interested," you shrug, regaining your confidence a tad, "don't get me wrong, they've asked. but i've always just turned them down."

toto cocks his head, his voice laced with a tease, "why? scared daddy is going to ground you for dating a driver?"

"i just rather wouldn't be involved with anyone of them romantically," you wave a hand, "it'd be too awkward if things didn't end up working out. could you imagine having to spend so much time at the paddock with someone who your dad could fire at any given moment? it'd be like walking on eggshells. i'd feel bad for any poor soul who wants to court me. they'd constantly be seeking my father's approval, on and off the track."

"well it's a good thing that i already know where i stand," toto shoots you a wink, your heart thudding against your rib-cage as he offers you his hand, "come on, just one dance. that's all i ask of you, gorgeous girl. one dance and then you can come right back over here, spending the rest of your night sulking in the corner."

"i haven't been sulking," you snort, accepting the gesture, "i've just been bored."

"how about you accept the other half of my offer then?" his accent is prominent, lingering in every word, "i've just been flirting, you don't really have to ride me. unless you know, you want to-"

"are you forgetting that we're in a very public space?" you hiss, elbow interlocked with his as you make your way to the dance floor, "people can probably hear you."

"good thing we're all drunk," he responds, the casual delivery sending you spiraling, "here, place your hand on my shoulder. i'll take this hand. the other will go on your waist."

as you follow his lead, you can't help but feel the pairs of eyes fixate on the two of you, murmurs rising above the music. yet, toto's focus is honed in on you, and only you.

"don't worry about them," he takes a step forward, your feet following in suit, "they're probably just envious that i'm with the most coveted woman in all of formula one."

"you don't mean that."

"oh schatzi," a chuckle rumbles in his chest, flowing from his lips, "do you not hear the things they say about you among the paddocks?"

"enlighten me then," your heart swells as his thumb tenderly kneads into your waist, fingers interlocking with yours.

his mouth is merely centimeters away from yours now, dimples apparent as his eyes glitter like the chandeliers above, "there's whispers that you are the most breathtaking woman in the world. the drivers talk about you all of the time, debating who would look the best by your side. you're a hot commodity. a prize to be won."

"people say those things about me?"

"would i ever lie to you?" toto arched a brow, "i have no reason to."

"that is true."

there's a twinge of resentment that bubbles up in your stomach as the song ends. oh how this moment ended too soon.

way too soon.

"still no sign of your father," toto's voice is hushed, barely audible over the music, "you think i could have you for just one more song? after that, i promise i'll leave you be."

"i think so," you feel a smile form the moment he pulls you in closer, the space between you crumbling away, "careful, mr. wolff. you need to maintain some sort of distance between us, remember?"

he shakes his head, fingers squeezing your waist, "right now, i could give any fucks what your father would think. he's lucky that i have some sort of self-control."

"and why is that?" you press, blood roaring in your ears as his head lowers, situated by your ear.

"because it is taking everything within me to keep myself from getting on my knees right this instant and lifting up that gown of yours."

[tallulah477]

Feral

Survive The Night Day 2: Predator/Prey

Pairing: Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Warnings: AgedUp!Neteyam, Dark!Neteyam, ***NON-CON***, Dub-Con, Oral (female receiving), P in V, Sex Pollen, Size Difference, Chasing, Primal Play (Predator/Prey Kink), Creampie, Hair Pulling, Knife Play, Restraining Holds (i.e pinning/holding reader down), Fear Kink (?), Alien Genitalia (not really the focus, but its there), Knotting, Belly Bulge

Word Count: 7.3K

A/N: Based off a dream I had where Neteyam chased me through my house and I was running for my fucking life. Why didn't I let him catch me, you ask? Cause dream Talie is stupid.

Summary: You never understood why the Na'vi don't use this particular plant in their healing practices. It's a miracle plant for the humans - cutting healing times nearly in half when used as a topical paste. You would think it would have some similar benefits to the Na'vi. You would be wrong.

**PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS - DON'T LIKE, DON'T READ**

Translations:

Tawtute - Human

Kehe rikx - Don't move

Rutxe ftang - Please stop

Kehe - No

Even considering he’s a nine foot tall blue alien, Neteyam Sully still looks extremely out of place standing on the clean, white tiled floor of the lab. 

His siblings don’t look so out of place when they visit - comfortable and familiar enough within the confines of the lab to make themselves at home among the multitude of beakers, whirling machines, and thick observation glass that make up your day-to-day workplace. Their large bodies twisting and contorting with ease when necessary to accommodate for the smaller space. 

Neteyam isn’t so lucky. He doesn’t like the human facilities, opting to follow in his mother’s footsteps and stay as far away from the skypeople as he can. He’s only here because he was ordered to be, sent by his father to fix his broken throat comm before they head out with the hunting party on a three day hunting trip.

He looks uncomfortable as he stands behind you, back stiff and arms crossed across his broad chest as he watches you tinker with the comm. Repairing tech has never been your strong suit, so it’s taking you a bit longer to figure out than it probably should have, but since you're currently the only person left in this half of the base, the responsibility has unintentionally fallen to you. 

You should be out there too. The thought forms bitterly in your head as you poke at the small opened compartment of the comm with your tweezers. Your favorite part of research is going out into the world and finding the specimens. The lab is great, a fine place for breaking ground and learning new things, gathering knowledge and data about a flora and fauna in a way that no other humans had ever had the opportunity to do before. Pandora is your home, where you grew up and lived your whole life - and yet, it’s still a mystery, and you learn something new and beautiful about it everyday. 

But the real fun is outside the lab. It’s when you're out there, in the thick of it, stepping over breaching roots and feeling the moss of the ground between your toes when you take off your shoes during a rest break. It’s feeling the gentle breeze of air along your skin and hearing the trees rustle in the canopy above you as a result, and pretending that - just for a minute - you can feel the breeze of alien air brush against your face instead of your mask.

Usually one of the older scientists, Alice, offers to stay behind at the lab to run tests and be on call for the Omatikaya should human tech ever be needed. But she’s the most knowledgeable when it comes to locating the elusive and seasonally grown plant that’s come to be known as the Rust Plant. 

So, that leaves you here, on your ass and pouting while everyone else gets to go off and have their fun. 

As far as you know, the plant doesn’t have any special properties or spiritual significance to the Na’vi. But when the red dust-like powder is collected from the center and manipulated into a liquid, the result is a miracle paste that significantly reduces healing time with human injuries. You asked about it once - why the Na’vi don’t try to make the paste for themselves to see if it will work on them - but the only answer you got back was that it had some ‘unintended consequences’ when used by the clan, so they stay away from the plant altogether. 

You don’t think about that when Neteyam walks in. 

The plant mixture, once rust red, is now a beautiful glowing purple inside the beaker - a reaction from the solution added to the powder to form the liquid base. It’s been on the hot plate for a while now, but it’s only just starting to heat up enough to provide small spirals of smoke inside the clear glass. 

You’re glancing at the clock when you hear Neteyam sniff slightly behind you. You don’t turn around, ignoring the little puffs of air that somehow sound like bullet shots in the silence, but a part of you is instantly insecure. What is he smelling? It can't be the mixture in the beaker. Despite the smoke, it doesn’t give off any kind of smell. Subtly, you press your chin to your chest, trying to see if you can smell yourself to find out if maybe it’s you giving off some kind of stench that his overly sensitive nose is picking up on, but you don’t smell anything off about you either. 

The purple liquid is still thin inside the container, needing several more minutes of constant heat in order to bubble and thicken slightly before it can be considered a usable product, but you pause your tinkering on the comm to note the time for the smoke in a small notebook. 

Neteyam lets out a loud sigh when you drop the tweezers to grab a pencil, the annoyed huff nearly ear piercing in the quiet of the lab. This time you can’t help but glance towards the harsh noise, a slight tilt of your head towards the large Na’vi and your eyes meet amber for just a second before they drop again to the paper as you scribble. 

A part of you wants to be snobby, ask a prissy ‘can I help you?’ just because you feel like he’s being so unnecessarily rude when you're just trying to help, but you keep your mouth shut. 

He doesn’t. 

“Are you nearly done?” He grunts, accented tone pitched with agitation as his feet shuffle on the tile. 

“Yes, just a few more minutes,” You say, picking the tweezers back up. “Be patient.”

You think you’ve almost got the comm fixed, just a minor replacement to the tiny inside panel, and you're thankful that’s all it is. It shouldn’t take too long. You’ve nearly got the replacement piece in place now, so all you should have to do is solder it in and it should be fine. Which is good because the sooner you can get this fixed, the sooner you can get the huffy, oversized, unfortunately very handsome despite being an incredible dick of a Na’vi out of the lab so you don’t have to feel him breathing down your neck anymore. 

It only takes another couple minutes for the smoke to consume the rest of the empty space in the beaker, thick white wisps swirling inside of the glass and spiraling out of the top. You drop the tweezers again, cutting the power off to the hot plate and grab the pencil again to log the time. 

Neteyam sniffs again, this time audibly louder and longer, before it sounds like his breath gets caught in his lungs. 

Immediately, your head spins around to stare at him wide eyed, surprise and concern flooding your chest when you notice he’s backed up a few steps. He’s staring at the bubbling beaker, yellow eyes set with suspicion and what almost looks like distress. 

“Are you o–”

“What is that?” He interrupts, voice gruff as his three fingered hand points to the beaker. 

“It’s… the mixture for our healing paste,” You reply, confused. 

“No! What is it?”

“The Rust Plant? The one that grows on the sides of river b–”

You’re cut off again by a sharp hiss, and you have just a second to register Neteyam’s dagger-like teeth as he stalks forward, spitting out a frustrated “You stupid–” before he’s jerking back, hand immediately covering his nose as if to stop himself from breathing.

He looks wild, eyes frantic as he stares at the beaker, and every muscle in his body looks tense, stung up tight like a bow ready to shoot. You’re a scientist, you’re meant to be observant, so you don’t know why you didn’t see it before. But it’s clear as anything now. The smoke doesn’t have any kind of smell to you, but to him - with the way he’s backing away and covering his nose to keep from breathing it in - it must be horrible. 

His tail is trashing behind him, so upset that you think you can almost hear a swish from it cutting through the air like a whip. 

“I need to leave,” He says suddenly. Instinctively, you back up into the desk at the sight of the large and angry Na’vi coming at you again, but he just grabs the still broken comm and turns around to storm out. 

He’s big though, too much for the small space of the lab, and his frantic tail is still thrashing as he turns. The thin appendage accidentally snaps against the side of the still smoking beaker, sending it flying off the desk and onto the ground. 

The glass shatters against the tile, glowing purple spreading across the white floor in a large puddle as the smoke spirals up into the air. Neteyam’s hand instinctively drops from his nose to grip onto his tail, holding the end of it close to him as if to keep it from swinging and smacking into anything else. But you watch, shocked and frozen in your spot as he takes one shuddering breath, and then another, tense back muscles shifting under his cobalt skin with each inhale and exhale of air. 

“Neteyam?” You ask, timidly. Dread shoots through your chest and you have the feeling that something very serious just happened, but you don’t even know what. 

He’s just standing there now, back towards you, but he’s not moving towards the door anymore. It’s like something is keeping him from moving, some unseen force that exploded out of the glass container when it burst and wrapped its tendrils around him before he could take another step. 

Whatever he was smelling from the beaker wasn’t good for him, and now it's in the air, invisible signatures swirling through the small space of the lab, and it's affecting him - the ‘unintended consequences’ of the Rust Plant on the Na’vi.

Your every instinct is telling you to stay away from him, that he’s dangerous. But he’s one of the Omatikaya, and regardless of how he views humans, you know he would never hurt you and disobey his father like that. 

“Hey,” You say, gently. You force yourself away from the desk, slowly moving around him to try to not startle him as you attempt to make your way to the airlock door. “Just relax, okay? Let’s try to air this pl–”

His deep growl has you frozen again, cold ice shoots through your veins at the predatory sound. It’s not a normal growl - not a low, quick sound made in anger or frustration. It sounds dark, a deep dangerous rumbling that came from his chest. A warning. 

You watch in horror as he slowly tilts his head towards you, the pointed tips of his sharp teeth visible under the snarled curl of his lips, glittering in the bright fluorescent lights of the lab. Your brain screams at you to run - danger, danger, danger, it shouts, but you can’t move. The realization hits hard: he’s not Neteyam anymore. The Na’vi in front of you is not the same human-indifferent, scoffing, fearless warrior son of Toruk Makto.

He’s an animal. A predator. 

Feral. 

His golden eyes are now just a thin band of dark honey encircling two endless black holes. And in their reflection you see yourself - tiny and weak. Scared.

Prey.

His body shifts slightly, just the most minuscule movements as he angles himself towards you that you probably wouldn’t have noticed had your survival instincts not been ringing alarm bells in your brain. Without thinking, you grab the hot plate, gripping it tightly at its base and holding it in front of you as your only form of weapon.

“Neteyam Sully!” You shout, and you can’t even believe how out of your mind you are to try to use his full name like an upset mother. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you stop it right now!”

There’s not even a second after the words leave your mouth, not a beat or breath or anything before he’s coming at you. 

Your body registers his sudden movement before your brain does, the roaring snarl bouncing off the walls of the lab as he lunges at you. The hot plate is out of your hands in an instant, the hard base of the plate smacking into his face with a loud cuh-thunk. His snarl is interrupted with a grunt from the hit, body jerking back a step from the impact, and you don’t wait around to see the way his eyes zero in on your retreating form again in rage. 

You can’t think - your body is moving without your brain telling it what to do. Pure panic mixed with raw survival instincts is what drives you through the door behind you, nearly smacking into the wall as you barrel down the main hallway. You hear Neteyam’s footsteps close behind, bare feet smacking against the tile. 

It’s a sound you never thought you would find terrifying. You think of little Mae, the daughter of the staff nurse and one of the science guys, and how the sound of her tiny footsteps stomping on these same tiles floors always brought a smile to your face. You could always hear her coming before you saw her, just a few seconds before she rounded the corner with unsteady steps ready to cause havoc as she tries to run from her exhausted and overstimulated mother. 

These ones are louder though. Heavier, but somehow more quiet as they rush at you from across the unobstructed hall. Your body doesn’t wait for your mind to catch up, and that’s probably a good thing considering you have no idea how the fuck you knew to take the split second turn to your right the exact moment Neteyam tried to pounce. 

You hear his snarl of anger as he rights himself, loud and echoing through the hallway. You’ve managed to best him for a second, but he’s still on your ass - gaining ground on you with his long Na’vi legs despite the cramped human-sized halls. 

Your heart is racing in your chest, pounding with fear, and the adrenaline coursing through your veins is the only thing keeping you going. You can’t breathe - shallow, panicked, quick puffs of air rip from you as you run, your high pitched gasps sounding against the hall walls as a foil to Neteyam’s predatory growls. 

“HELP!” You scream, voice cracking with how loud you're trying to scream. The desperation and pure terror are evident in your voice and you know if someone were around they would hear you for sure. Someone has to be around. They have to be. “SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE!”

No one responds. No one steps in to intervene. No one even opens their door to try to take a little bit of a peek. No one to run to for help even though it feels like you're about to get mauled to death by a Thanator. 

You’re truly alone. And that thought makes you somehow even more desperate. 

Most people have a tendency to close the doors of their bedrooms, trying to keep as much privacy as they can in the small base. Norm has no such desires, often too excited or too focused on getting to his studies that he outright forgets to close his door. 

It’s a god send now that you’re sprinting through the residency part of the outpost. Your room is one of the last down the hall. You won’t make it. Not with the way you’re shaking right now, body feeling like it's somehow both freezing over with ice and lighting on fire as the fear and adrenaline fight for dominance for your immediate attention. Neteyam’s right behind you, long stride more than twice the size of yours cutting any distance you gained through your miracle of a move back down to barely anything at all. 

He’s going to catch you. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

Throwing yourself at a random door is dangerous. Just the extra second it takes to turn the knob and push the door open could almost certainly be the difference between life and death if you even still have a chance at life at all. And even then you run the risk of it being locked. Your eye catches on Norm’s door - open and shining like a beacon of hope amongst the fluorescently lit hallway. 

You don’t have another choice. 

You turn. 

As soon as you make it through the threshold, you slam the door behind you as fast as you can. 

You don’t know what you expected, naively hoping that the door would somehow succeed in protecting you and keeping Neteyam out. It’s not even locked. 

You scream as the door explodes under Neteyam’s weight, the wood splintering as it bursts apart, smaller bits of fragmented wood spraying towards you as the feral Na’vi shoulders his way in. The bathroom to your left is the only option, and you lunge for it just as Neteyam lunges for you. The tears pouring down your cheeks burn your eyes and blur your vision, your loud hyperventilating cries make your throat raw. Another door just barely slammed in his face and your back presses against the opposite door, your panicked hand trying to jiggle the knob but your brain not reminding you how to twist it. This other door hasn’t been used in years - the bathroom that once connected these two rooms together is just used by Norm now since Mary had her baby and her and her husband moved into a larger room to accommodate the crib. It’s locked, and your fingers are struggling to twist the mechanism up to unlock it when Neteyam breaks through. 

Even through your blurred vision, you see it clearly. His arm reaches through the hole his shoulder has made, and the bathroom is too small, too fucking small because that arm looks like its reaching across the entire length of it, fingers splayed out like if he can just get one of the tips to brush you, he’ll snatch you up. 

“HELP!” You scream again. Fuck fuck fuck. You’re going to fucking die. “HELP ME!”

You watch the door in horror as Neteyam pulls his arm back, head dropping to glare at you through the opening, and your veins fill with ice. 

He looks murderous - pupils blown so wide you can’t see the golden ring wrapped around them at all. You want to drop to the ground under that stare, beg for mercy even though the look in his eyes makes it clear there won’t be any. 

“N-Neteyam,” You stutter. Your heart is pounding so fast, blood sounding like it’s rushing in your ears so fast you don’t know how you haven’t had a heart attack yet. “P-please s-stop. P-please.”

His eyes stay locked on yours through the hole in the door, dark and glaring but for some reason he’s paused his attacks. A part of you wonders if your begging is making it through to the non-animalistic part of his brain. Whatever the smoke from the mixture of the Rust Plant did to him, it has to be only temporary. He’s still Neteyam. Neteyam is still in there somewhere. 

“Please,” You try again, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re scaring me.”

He leans forward, one hand curling around the broken wood from the open hole in the door. When he speaks, you don’t know if you’re relieved to hear that he can despite the overwhelming feral actions, or if you’re horrified at how his voice comes out. 

He doesn’t sound like himself at all. His words are clipped, short words made sentences that you don’t understand as both the gravely and growled way he says them as well as overall meaning. 

“Tawtute,” He growls. “Mine.”

“Wha— I-I don’t understand,”

You scream when he hisses at you, long canines and sharp teeth on display through the damaged opening and you have a front row seat to the show as your back presses harder against the door behind you. The hand wrapped around the edge of the hole pulls back suddenly, taking with it a huge chunk of the center and the loud crack and snap of wood snaps your body back into gear. You twist the small lock on the door behind you, unlocking it and wrenching it open when Neteyam throws his body against the opposite door again. You’re out the door and into the next room, slamming the door shut behind you just as you hear the telltale crash of the wild Na’vi breaking through the other barrier. Without thinking, you round the side of the bookshelf that stands on the side of the doorframe. You push with all your might, tipping the bookshelf on its side so that it falls diagonally across the door. A dresser sits just on the opposite side of the door, the bookshelf catching on the edge of the dresser so that it blocks a good portion of the bathroom door. 

Any other time you’d be heartbroken to see the books that fall off the bookshelf in your mishandling scatter along the floor and at your feet like they were nothing more than trash. Today, though, you can’t give a shit about that. 

Your hands grip your hair in frustration as you hear Neteyam’s body barrel into the door, hot tears racing down your face as you waste valuable seconds staring at the bending wood behind the tipped bookcase. It won’t keep him back for long. He could probably easily push it out of his way, but it's something. Your only hope now is that it keeps him long enough for you to get away and that his instinct driven brain doesn’t realize he can just go back the way he came to get around the obstacle. 

Turning on your heel, you sprint out the bedroom door, heading back down the hallway towards the lab. The sound of the loud crash echoing through the empty hall makes you run impossibly faster. Was it the door finally giving way under his weight? Or was it the bookshelf being tossed to the side like it was nothing and he’s about to barrel down the hallway to finish the job that you’ve somehow managed to postpone until now?

You make it back to the lab, foot smacking against the forgotten hotplate still laying on the ground in your haste to get to the airlock. Your hand smacks against the button on the side wall, fingers practically choking the heavy handle as you go to yank it open. The oxygen masks lay forgotten on the shelf next to the door. You don’t care about them, don’t care about breathing right now because what’s good about breathing when Neteyam could end your need for it in just seconds if he catches you. 

The airlock door hisses as the seal breaks and for a split second you think you’ve done it - have somehow managed to survive this deadly game of cat and mouse you’ve inadvertently been forced to play. You can grab a mask and slip inside the airlock. Keep Neteyam locked up here in the lab while you sit safely outside until the others get back or he comes to his senses enough to remember how to open the airlock door himself. 

But no sooner than the thought crosses your mind, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and pulls you from your death grip on the thick metal door. 

You scream as you’re tossed to the floor, body pressed against the cold tile as Neteyam straddles you. His hips pin your legs down, leaving them useless and unable to buck or kick under his massive weight. You beat at his chest with your fists as hard as you can, trying to ignore how they hurt from your balled up fists trying to hit against pure solid muscle. 

Panic manifests in your desperate cries and you aim for his face too, trying to hit or slap or scratch - anything to get him off of you. You feel like an injured animal caught in a trap. And you suppose you are. 

“Get off!” You cry. “Get off me, Neteyam!”

He snarls as one of your hits lands too close next to his eye and he grabs your hands tightly in one of his, pinning them above your head.

Your screams stop, catching in your throat when the bright fluorescent lights of the lab catch on the knife on his hip. The light caresses the blade as he pulls it from its sheath, the sharp tip sparkling as he brings it to press against the base of your throat.

His face is in front of yours in an instant, so close you feel like you can barely breathe in the wake of the knife resting at your throat and the way his huge eyes feel like twin black holes threatening to suck you into their depths if you move even a single centimeter. 

“Kehe rikx,” His words are hardly more than a whispered breath against your face, but their translation rings loudly in your ears. 

Don’t move. 

The point of the knife drags against your neck, scratching lightly as he draws it down your collarbone. It pulls at the fabric at the neck of your t-shirt as he moves it down your chest, stretching and bunching it down as he scrapes the tip through the valley of your breasts. Your heart pounds under the deadly tip of the weapon and your body wants to fight, keep fighting for your life that you know could be taken from you with just a quick movement of his hand, but your fear keeps you frozen. 

Something hard presses against your trapped thighs and your eyes automatically rip themselves from the knife down to the space between your bodies, and your breathing catches in your throat again for a whole other reason. 

Neteyam’s cock is hard in his loincloth, having escaped its sheath and filling out under the thin material enough to raise a sizable tent inside it. 

He doesn’t give you time to react as his head bends down and latches onto the swell of your breast through your shirt, sharp teeth digging into it just enough for marks to surely be left even through the layers of shirt and bra. You yelp, back arching instinctively against the pain, and your body unfreezes as his teeth scrape against your breast before digging into the material of your shirt and ripping.

The loud sound of tearing fabric rips through the room and Neteyam releases the torn fabric from his mouth just to grip it with his hands instead, pulling up and out and exposing your bra clad torso to his darkened crazed eyes. The knife is still in his hand, but the blade is pointed sideways now as he uses the fingers around it to rip your shirt apart. It’s not smart, not a smart idea at all to try your hand at smacking at him again, but you have to do something. 

You don’t know what he wants anymore. What did that mixture do to him? He was chasing you through these halls, growling and snarling like a predator on the hunt for its next meal, and now he’s on top of you - hard and tearing your clothes off like he wants to fuck you. 

You only get a couple smacks in before the knife is back at your chest and you’re forced still again. Neteyam’s eyes are locked onto your chest, following the tip of the knife as he slides it under the band of your bra directly between your breasts. It cuts easily under the pressure of the sharp knife and the covering falls on either side of your chest, leaving you bare to his hungry gaze. 

There’s a mark on your breast from where his teeth had dug into it and he pauses to stare at it greedily. 

“N-Netayam,” You say, slowly. He seems a little calmer now that he has you trapped under him. You need to talk him to his senses. He’s still in there somewhere. He has to be. He’s not all animal. He can be reasoned with. “You don’t wanna do this. Plea–”

Your plea is cut off as he rises off of you, crouching back just enough to give himself room to flip you roughly over on your stomach. You grunt as your bare chest hits the cold tile, arms splayed uselessly on either side of you as you try to get your bearings from the quick movement before he’s using his knife to cut through the denim of your shorts. 

“Neteyam! Rutxe ftang! Kehe!” 

You don’t know why you think pleading in Na’vi will be any different than English, but desperation punches the frantic words out of you before you can even think about deciding to say them. Your hands finally find purchase on the ground beneath you and you try to push yourself up in hopes of crawling away, but Neteyam’s dropping the knife and taking hold of your hips before you can. 

High pitched squeaking sounds hit your ears as he drags your body across the tile. Your hands scramble frantically against the floor as you’re pulled backwards, but there’s nothing to hold onto. They just slide uselessly, voicing their protest in the way the tile screams under your grasping fingertips as you’re hoisted up with your lower half in the air. 

Your back arches against Neteyam’s hold, legs kicking in the air but doing no harm despite their efforts. The hole he’s created in your shorts is enough to have your pussy on display for him, and you can feel his breath on it - hot puffs are the only warning you get before his mouth is on you. Your voice is raw from all the screaming you’ve done, the sound crackling and almost pained as you shout again - shout for him to stop and to let you go as you kick and squirm and beg. 

You want to cry more, any drying tears of fear you have still tracked on your cheeks are replaced with tears of humiliation. Your clit pulses under his relentless tongue, pussy subconsciously clenching around nothing as he licks and sucks over the puffy folds. 

You’re wet. 

You’re so wet already, body confusing the adrenaline caused by fear and desperation and flooding it with the adrenaline that comes with arousal instead. His textured tongue slips across your sticky cunt, licking up your wetness, and a reluctant moan escapes your lips at the rough feel on your sensitive parts. 

A gleam to your right catches your attention and a flicker of hope rushes through you at the sight. Neteyam’s knife is laying on the ground next to you, scattered just far enough when he dropped it that it's a stretch for you to grab it, but not impossible. He’s distracted by your cunt, chest rumbling in what you can only describe as a more aggressive type of purr and your face contorts in unwanted pleasure as the vibrations pulse against your clit. 

You reach for the knife, using one hand pressed against the tile to gain any kind of leverage you can while your other arm stretches out towards the forgotten blade. You're not even sure what you’re going to do with it when it’s in your hand. Would you just threaten him with it? Tell him to back off and that you’ll use it if he doesn’t? Would you cut him a little to show that you’re serious? 

Would you stab him if it came to it?

Your fingers graze along the hilt of the knife, fingertips brushing along the part that it can touch and curling in, trying to coax the knife just a bit closer so you can grab it. Neteyam growls into your cunt, and you let out a gasping curse when his foot lands on your wrist, pinning it to the tile before you can work your hand around the knife. 

“You son of a bitch!” You yell, anger burning through your desperation, but all Neteyam does is push his face deeper into your pussy. His large hands rip at the back of your shorts more, fingers digging into the exposed curves of your ass to spread you apart. 

The pressure in your belly intensifies as he sucks on your clit, laving his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves before wrapping his lips around it in what feels like an almost pleasured punishment. 

You’re going to cum. Fuck fuck you’re going to cum on the tongue of the practically feral Na’vi who just chased you through the halls of your own home and made you think he was going to rip you to shreds and leave you to die on the floor for your coworkers to find. It feels so good, so so good and you wail as your pussy spasms against his relentless tongue, contracting against the wet muscle as the coil in your belly bursts in an explosion of uncontrolled pleasure. 

Neteyam groans against your core, lapping up everything you have to offer as you whine and shake. Your legs, still suspended in the air, are becoming numb - the tingling sensation of your limbs losing their life combining with the dramatic pulsing over your oversensitive cunt. 

You grunt as he drops you to the ground, his foot lifting off your wrist as he crouches back up, and you pull it to your chest, cradling it there and quickly checking for any injury as your body automatically tries to curl up in a protective ball. 

His hands are back on your hips in an instant, pulling you back again across the floor until your ass is pressed up against his front. Your blood runs cold when your bare ass meets bare skin. The bulge that was once blocked by the thin layer of his loincloth is now free - large, dominant, and demanding of attention as it presses tightly against you. 

Demanding of your attention. 

The hand on the back of your neck is uncaring as it pushes you down, forcing your face against the white tiled floor as he lines himself up with your entrance. 

“Neteyam, no! Please!” You beg, even as your back is forced to arch from the exposed position he has you in.

And maybe if this was a different situation, a different circumstance, he would have used this opportunity to tease you. Tell you to stop fussing and stay still. To be a good girl for him while he fucks your tight cunt and maybe if you’re good enough, he would let you cum again. You would let him. Neteyam is beautiful, more handsome than any other Na’vi you’ve ever seen. If he would have been kind to you and shown interest in you like that, you would have agreed to fuck him in a heartbeat. 

But he’s not himself. Doesn’t even have his mind enough to acknowledge your pleas with anything more than agitated snarls and frustrated growls. 

His cock feels monstrous as he rubs it between your soaked folds. Thick and hard as the wetness of his own slick mixes with the sticky mess you have already between your thighs. The head of his cock rubs against your tender clit and you can feel how the sheer size of it forces your pussy lips apart.

You can’t take it inside you. Fuck. You can’t. You can’t. 

You whimper when the tip makes its way back to your entrance, nudging against it before the blunt tip presses forward. Your hands press into the tile on either side of your head, mouth falling open in a silent scream even as he presses your cheek further into the floor as he pushes his cock further into you. You feel every thick inch of it as it spears you open, and you expect it to hurt. It should hurt, especially with the way you’re clamping down around him, body automatically trying to keep it out even as it bullies its way deeper inside you.

There’s pressure, so much pressure. He’s too big, large alien cock way too much for your tiny human body to take, but somehow it is. Your brain is trying to tell you to panic, that the pressure is pain and you should scream and cry and try to wiggle away from it. But it's not. He’s stretching you so much, filling you up - but it doesn’t. hurt.

And that realization hurts you more than the cock currently rearranging your guts ever could.

You know it’s the slick. Despite never being with a Na’vi yourself, you know that the wetness that coats a male’s cock to aid it with slipping out of its protective sheath has something in it that eases the pain of penetration. It’s a good thing. Inherently helpful for any relationship, especially for those between a human and a Na’vi to curb the extra struggle of the size difference. 

You always thought it was sweet. A way for Eywa to reward the loyalty of the good sky people who are lucky enough to find everlasting bonds with her own children. 

Now, the idea of it leaves a bad taste in your mouth as the cock inside you pulls out only to thrust in harder. The texture on his cock scrapes against your slick walls as he starts to fuck you, the bumps and barbs rubbing and pressing against the sensitive spots inside you that you didn’t even know you had. 

A waterfall of moans and whines rip from your throat as he moves faster, your higher pitched pathetic sounds a stark contrast to his deep guttural grunts. His hand is off the back of your neck now, instead finding a place at the side of your face as he keeps you pinned to the floor. It’s so big compared to your head that it spans the entirety of it, thumb hooking just under the edge of your jaw while his fingers curl around the top of your head as he holds you down. 

Your thighs shake underneath you as he pounds into you, thick cock so far inside you that you know there has to be a bulge in your belly. There is, you can feel it. The way the head of his cock pushes against your lower abdomen roughly with each thrust and you know that if you could move your hands from the death grip press they have on the tile, you could feel it disappear and reappear under your palm. 

He adjusts behind you, both feet planted on the ground as he crouches behind you to try to push in deeper. Pleasure soaks into your brain as you subconsciously push back against him, pussy clenching and squeezing around him trying to suck him in. 

“N-Neteyam,” And you have more to say, you do. But you can’t form thoughts anymore. Nothing else will come out other than little punched out breathless gasps. 

It takes you a long time to realize that he’s speaking, and even longer for your fucked up and fucked out raddled brain to register what he’s saying. It’s not normal sentences, it’s not even English. His words are still animalistic, growled through gritted teeth as he spits out broken Na’vi between his groans of pleasure. You grew up with the language, but you’re so distracted, so overwhelmed by him and the cock inside you that your brain can’t seem to latch on to what he’s saying. 

You think you hear the word for ‘whore’, maybe ‘take it’, something ‘baby’ but you can’t be sure. 

And then he’s leaning forward, body curving overtop yours as he covers you completely. It’s only then you feel what you’ve been too distracted to notice. The thick knot at the base of his cock, fully engorged now as it prods at your entrance. 

Your hands finally leave their place pressed against the floor as you throw them behind you in newfound panic. One hand pushes against his abdomen as best as it can, trying to slow his thrusts while the other grabs at his wrist in an effort to pull his hand away from your face. The hand on his abdomen doesn’t do anything to slow his relentless pace, but the hand on the side of your head moves to tangle in your hair, gripping it in his fist close to your scalp just hard enough to burn a little as he yanks your head back. 

You gasp at the sharp sting and your gasp quickly turns into a whimper as his knot presses tighter against your soaking hole. He’s unforgiving as he digs it against you, holding your hair tight and forcing your back to arch as you stretch even further around it. You’re too wet, pussy too wet and almost greedy and it takes him in, determined despite the obscene size of the engorged ball of tissue.

“Please!” You squeal. Please stop. Please more. “Neteyam, fuck!”

Your eyes roll back into your head when the knot slips inside you, sheathing itself within your heat with another solid push of Neteyam’s hips against your ass. His cock hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars, your vision whiting out and there feels like there’s cotton in your ears as you cum around him, squeezing him tightly as you soak his length in your juices. Your breath catches in your lungs when you feel his cock pulse inside you, twitching and feeling like it’s expanding even bigger as his own orgasm hits him. 

He holds you close, keeping you pinned and still underneath him with the savage hand in your hair and the firm grip he has on your hip - fierce and unmoving as if to keep you from running away.

As if you even could with the knot locked inside you. 

His growl of pleasure reverberates off the walls as he paints yours. Long, thick ropes of release coating your insides and it's so much, so so much that you feel like you can’t fit anymore. Like if he cums anymore, you’ll burst. The knot is still lodged inside you, locked in and refusing to let you free, but there’s no space left inside you, no space, and you feel the excess cum seep out of your hole from around his knot to trail down the insides of your thighs. 

You don’t remember blacking out, and you’re not sure when Neteyam was able to pull free from you or when he passed out next to you either. But when you wake up next, it’s to voices.

“Oh my gosh!”

“Y/N!”

“What the fuck happened?”

The bright florescent lights of the lab are blinding when you try to open your eyes. Exhaustion seeps from every pore of your body and fuck, you feel so sore. 

Norm’s shocked face is looking down at you when your eyes finally adjust to the light, Max and a few of the other scientists are behind him, faces an equal mixture of shock and horror as they stare at you with wide eyes. 

It takes you a moment to remember what happened - why you’re here, waking up on the cold floor of the lab. Naked. You scramble up, hands clutching at your chest as you desperately try to cover yourself. A deep groan to your right steals your attention from your group of onlookers, and your eyes fall on Neteyam, just waking up from his own sleep.

His eyes are back to their normal gold as they open, groggy at first and then alert in a heartbeat as it registers where he is. He’s up in a crouch in an instant, looking ready to fight but not really sure what he’s supposed to be fighting. Those golden eyes catch on the group, confusion twisting on his face and you can practically see the gears in his brain turning as he tries to figure out what’s going on. 

Then his eyes meet yours, taking in your torn clothes and near nakedness, and you sit in horror as it clicks for him what must have happened. 

And you watch as the horror in your eyes becomes mirrored in his. 

**Special thanks to @quicktosimp and @itchaboi-itchyboy for the prompt!

Taglist: @eywaite @loaksulluyswife @erenjaegerwifee @f-cklife @beautiful-brown-skin-05 @minnory @localjasmine @skywonder @neteyamswillow @luvv4j4ybe11 @vampirefilmlover @aria-tempest @pocky444 @bambithewriter @xylianasblog @anemonelovesfiction @criticallybella

**Comment here to be added to/removed from my taglist!

[snixkers]

Naked in Manhattan

Pairing: Emily Prentiss × Fem!Reader

EXPLICIT CONTENT, SMUT

For: requested by @bloodycoochielicker, submitting for @cmkinkbingo2024 for workplace sex

Content Warnings: Jealous Emily 🥵, fingering + cunnilingus (reader receiving), mentions of FWB and polyamory but they're all metaphorical, soft!Dom Emily my love, reader has afab anatomy, pure filth

Summary: Hotch lets you cover up with his jacket. In her defense, Emily would've if she had a jacket. Guess she'll have to find another way to warm you up.

Author's Note: Woah, another lesbian Emily Prentiss fic with a Chappell Roan song as the title? Crazy. Also disclaimer, pls don't have sex in public bathrooms the germs are 🤢🤮

Feedback is always welcome!

Requests are OPEN!

Your night had started out promising, but that clearly was not going to be the case. Girls' night was promptly interrupted by Hotch calling everyone in for a case, so you were forced to abandon your drinks and dancing for work.

As you arrived at the BAU, you began to notice that you were severely underdressed. Most people were clearly pulled from bed. JJ was in a signature mom cardigan, Garcia still had her sleep mask around her neck, and Reid's cardigan was backwards.

Your eyes couldn't help but wander to Emily, noticing her low-cut tanktop and lack of bra that you had seen several times. Quickly, you glanced over at the TV, trying not to get yourselves caught.

Hotch noticed you shivering in your tight strapless dress, undoing the ironed suit jacket that he must sleep in, and handed it over.

"I don't want you to be cold when we head to New York."

You gratefully pulled on the jacket, but that didn't mean you missed the jealousy that flashed through Emily's eyes before she schooled her expression.

"New York?"

He nodded, passing a folder to everyone.

"Manhattan. Three strangulation victims."

Hotch headed out of the room, calling 'wheels up in 30' over his shoulder. Everyone hurried to get their things, while Emily gestured for you to follow her.

The two of you made your way into the empty bathroom on the 5th floor that no one used, and she pulled you into the last stall.

"What the hell?"

She narrowed her eyes at your protests, torn between desire and anger.

"You're just letting Hotch give you his jacket?"

You rolled your eyes, turning to face her.

"It's a jacket. You're acting like I slept with him."

She grabbed your arms, turning you around so you were pressed face first against the wall.

"Is that what you want?"

You shook your head, biting back a smirk as you tried to play dumb.

"We're not exclusive, Em. I could if I wanted to."

She leaned closer, brushing your hair away from your neck to work a series of bruises into your skin.

"I don't want to share."

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head back to give her access.

"Friends with benefits implies that you aren't the only one I have to benefit from."

She turned you back around, her breath fanning across your cheek. "Well, then that's not what I want to be."

Your smile dropped slightly. You were expecting her to be jealous and rough you up, not this.

"What are you trying to say?"

She shrugged, all the jealousy leaving her body as she started to to get doubts. "Whatever more than friends with benefits is."

You reached out to entwine your fingers, giving her a reassuring squeeze. "That's called dating."

Emily sighed, running a hand through her hair before getting to her knees in front of you. Before you could say anything, she had your dress pulled above your waist and was running a finger over the crotch of your panties.

You shivered at her touch, toes curling in anticipation of what was to come. She dragged her knuckles up and down a couple times before pushing the panties to the side. Her eyebrows raised as she took in your wetness, grinning proudly.

"All of this for me?"

You nodded dumbly, fog starting to take over your brain as you focused on her touch and the fact that she wanted to be with you. Sure, you had daydreamed about it, but you never thought she would feel the same.

She leaned forward, and before you knew it, her face was buried in your pussy. She expertly swirled her tongue around your clit a couple times before flattening it and licking in broad stripes. You moaned at the sensations, eyes fluttering shut. She glanced up, shaking her head.

"No, watch me. I want you to see exactly how much I need you."

You forced yourself to watch her as she ate you out, your legs quickly turning to jelly with each precise movement. After a couple minutes, she slowly pushed her index finger inside, curling it slightly.

Your back arched off the wall, white hot pleasure growing in your belly as she worked her magic. Her tongue and fingers were everywhere, caressing and comforting you. As she continued her ministrations, you realized that you could get used to this.

The sex was amazing, but something about the way she looked up at you with pure love in her eyes made it better.

She reached up, bringing the top of your dress down and freeing your breasts. Emily used her free hand to trace figure eights around them before hungrily squeezing. You could feel your orgasm building, the coil wound so tightly your ears were ringing.

The bathroom was echoing with your moans and cries, and before you knew it, you were coming on her tongue. She lapped it up eagerly, reveling in being the one to bring you pleasure.

Emily slowly stood up, her arm wrapped around your waist until you could properly stand on your own. She brought her finger to her mouth, sucking off your juices like they were a full course meal.

"Em, did you actually mean it?"

She nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I want you to wake up in my bed and stay."

You bit your lip, not wanting to come off too eager.

"Actually, that sounds really good."

She smiled and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue as you took control.

"Now, take off your pants. We have enough time for me to return the favor."

[latenightdaydreams]

College AU König. 7 minutes in heaven. König is an awkward immigrant student🇦🇹 and reader is an inexperienced nerd🤓.

THANKS

7 Minutes in Heaven

MDNI🔞

Master List

>cw: fem/afab, peer pressure, kissing, oral, finger

1.7k word count

.

.

König has not had an easy time making friends since moving to attend college. His Austrian accent is still thick, and he’s not exactly the most approachable person being 6’10. When he was invited to a house party, he went.

As he steps into the home, he looks around at everyone there, noticing the small cliques that form in each room of the house. He steps into one room where it looks like people are simply sitting around. Taking a seat on the edge of a couch, he looks down and notices you; the girl from his sociology class. You’re wearing your hair down and a semi form fitting dress. He’s used to seeing you with a ponytail and baggy clothes.

You smile up at König and greet him with a small wave. He reciprocates and looks down at your body before looking away quickly. In the corner, a girl named Martha sits up. “Let's play truth or dare.”

“That’s some kid shit.” Aaron speaks up, and she throws an empty bottle at him.

“Shut up. It would be fun.” She turns to Eric. “Truth or dare.”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to…” She stalls, struggling to come up with something to do.

Aaron laughs. “See, I fucking told you.”

Martha’s eyes fall on you and König, sitting close together. The tall weird Austrian kid and the dork that never shows up to anything. She didn’t even notice the two of you, or even who would have invited either of you. She points to you.

“Truth or dare?”

You freeze. König looks down at you, awaiting your answer. “I-uh, truth?”

A loud unison ‘boo’ rings out around the room. “Don’t be that person.” Aaron says.

König can see the nervous look on your face. He knows you don’t have very high social standing. He wonders if you’ll give into peer pressure, or stick by your original answer. Although, he can’t really blame you if you cave. He would.

“Okay, dare.”

A mischievous smile came across Martha’s face as you picked dare. “Okay, I dare you and König to kiss in the closet for seven minutes.”

“This isn’t seven minutes in heaven, dumb ass,” Aaron snaps at Martha.

“But it’s a fucking dare!” She quickly says back through gritting teeth.

The entire room has a smirk on their face. They watch the both of you closely to see how you’ll react. König looks at Marth before looking down at you, looking absolutely mortified. Your mouth opens, but no words fall out.

“You don’t have to—” König begins before getting cut off.

“She either does the dare or has to take three shots.”

Since you don’t drink, you agree. “Okay.” You look up at König. “If it’s okay with you?”

König nods, almost too eagerly. Standing as you do. Martha opens the closet door and pulls a string to turn a small light on inside. The closet is spacious for a closet, but not when you’re stuffed in with boxes and a giant man.

“Seven minutes, I better hear some fucking kissing!” Marth closes the door and sets a timer on her phone.

You stand there, swallowing hard as you gaze up at König. He’s already looking down at you, biting his lower lip feeling a rush of emotions. While he is nervous and feels awkward being put on the spot, he really wouldn’t mind being able to kiss you. Others may overlook you due to the way you place academics above a social life, but he can see how truly attractive you are.

“We don’t really have to kiss if you don’t want to.” König leans down to whisper in your ear so the others don’t hear.

His Austrian accent sends a tingle throughout your body, you find his accent so attractive. You’ve always had a thing for tall blondes, the accent just adds to it all. While you’re nervous, you don’t want to pass this up.

“I just haven’t really… done this.” You say meekly as you fidget with your fingers.

“It’s okay, I really haven't either.” He says with a chuckle.

The both of you stand there for a while not really doing anything. In König’s mind, time is ticking by and you’re too short to really make the first move. He has to, so König leans down and places a short peck on your lips to break the ice.

You’re pleasantly surprised as he kisses you. He smiles down at you as he sees the small smirk on the corner of your lips. One hand raises up and caresses the side of your face.

“Was that, okay?”

“Yeah.” A giggle escapes you. Your eyes fall to his lips and you wrap your arm around his neck, pulling him back into a kiss.

König bends down to reach you and kiss you again. Your lips lock as your eyes flutter shut. A few small pecks before König realizes that this will kill his back. “May I pick you up?”

“Uh, yeah.”

König’s hands move down to your thighs, your skin so soft and silk in the palm of his hands as he lifts you up. He presses you against a wall and you smile with a soft laugh. His hands rest on your ass, feeling the soft fabric of your cotton underwear.

Your lips meet again, his lips are thin but soft against your own. His mouth opens and you follow his lead. Tongues gently meeting and swirling around one another. König’s fingers slightly dig into your skin as he begins to get excited. His cock slowly gets hard in his pants, your lips pillowy and you taste so sweet.

König pulls away, “Can I kiss…other places?” His pale blue eyes trail down from your lips to your neck.

“You can.”

König wastes no time moving back into pepper kisses down your neck. His lips leaving wet kisses behind. He lightly bites your neck and you moan softly. You can feel yourself getting wet, every little kiss or scrape of his teeth sends deep tingles down your whole body. Your mind wanders off to thoughts of what his body might look like, feel like; craving his touch more than anything.

“You feel so nice in my hands.” He whispers. The thought of going further with you consumes him. There is a part of him that’s worried that you’ll reject him, but he’s already here with you so why not try?

König lowers you back down so your feet touch the floor, he kneels before you. You gaze into his blue eyes questioning what he is doing when you feel his hand creep up the inside of your thigh. Goosebumps cover your body. He looks at you as if asking for permission to continue. When you don’t stop him, he takes that as a yes.

You feel his fingers brush against the wet patch on your underwear, the soft touch sending a wave of excitement through your whole body. His finger hooks the fabric to the side and slips two fingers under, caressing your folds.

He looks at your face to see your reaction as he slips one finger into your pussy. Your jaw drops feeling his thick finger slowly move in and out of you. “König…” His name slips from your lips so softly.

“Shh.” König leans in to kiss you in a way to muffle your moans so those in the room outside the door don’t hear you. The both of you aren’t aware of how much time you have left, so König moves quickly in enjoying your body. An additional finger slips into you, filling your tight little cunt. Your eyes flutter and your hands hold his muscular arms tightly.

“I want you to cum.” König says in a hushed tone as he drops lower, lifting your dress over his head.

Your eyes go wide and you laugh out of surprise. “König!” You chuckle.

König lifts your right leg and places it over his shoulder, just getting lost in the moment. You’ve never had someone lick your pussy before so when you felt his warm, fat tongue swipe across your cunt, you let out the most pathetic whimper König has ever heard.

His tongue flicks back and forth of your clit, sucking slightly as it begins to grow from the stimulation. While he sucks his tongue swirls in circles around the delicate bud. Your legs twitch rapidly in reaction, head dropping back against the wall as your hands rest on his head through the dress’s fabric.

“That feels amazing.” You quietly whimper.

On the other side of the door Martha looks at her phone watching the second tick down until it’s time to let you out. The room is full of people laughing and drinking. Most people forgot that you two even went in there.

Once time runs out, Marth opens the door. The room instantly falls silent as they all see your face twisted in pleasure with König on his knees between your legs, one of his hands reaching up and squeezing your breast.

Your eyes shoot open and make eye contact with Martha. You push König’s head away from you in a panic. He pulls his head out from underneath your dress, looking up to you, he can see the look of terror on your face. Realizing what was going on he drops, stands up and wipes his face, turning to see Martha and a whole room of people with grins.

“You know that you’re supposed to kiss her mouth, not her pussy lips, right?” Aaron shouts, teasing the two of you.

König’s face turns red as he lets you leave the closet first. You clear your throat and look at the room of people. Most have gone back to their own personal conversations, but a few still watch you and laugh at the fact you and König were basically fucking in the closet. Embarrassment leaves you frozen until König’s fingers intertwine with yours and pull you away. He leads you out of the house and away from the party.

Standing outside he turns to you, still licking his lips to taste you. “Do you want to come to my dorm? We can continue?” He looks down at your dainty hand on his own.

“Let’s go.”

König smiles at you accepting his offer, he knows that you’re feeling this connection. As if you’ve both known each other for years. He turns and walks with you to his dorm, his mind going over everything he wants to do to you.

[1x20]

hello and welcome to my tutorial on how to create gifs like this one! full explanation under the cut, but if you wanted to take a little peek at the gifset attached to this tutorial, here ya go!

for the purposes of this tutorial i am assuming you know

how to make a gif

what vhs footage looks like

STEP ONE: MAKING YOUR GIF

choose your footage and plug it into your desired software of choice! i use photoshop for this so i can only attest to the efficacy of these methods in that context

as for shot selection, you could feasibly choose anything. however, i prefer shots without too much movement in them - makes it look more like a home video.

because of the heavy amount of colors and filters, i'd recommend a gif somewhere around the 40-50 frames! but of course you can play around.

oh i also set the frame delay to 0.08 seconds. this is slower than most gifmakers tend to set theirs, but it makes it run buttery smooth imo.

STEP TWO: MAKING THE COLORING

here's where we get vhs specific. if you're unfamiliar with vhs footage, i recommend clicking through this youtube playlist! if you're not interested in the coloring, skip to step three (smart object fuckery + filters)

now while making a set i tend to choose some primary colors for my gifs. in the gifset i linked above, i chose to work with blue and orange-y yellow. in some of the other gifs i'll be using as examples (from an unfinished set) i chose green and yellow.

to create the above coloring i generally use these steps:

1) curves

i'm a maniac so i use the same curves layer to initially edit the luminosity AND colors of my gifs. the purpose of this layer is to edit brightness/contrast like i normally would and already start the process of changing the colors a little bit. this is my curves layer for the blue house gif:

to make the gif go from the left image to the right image:

as you can see i used the brightening curves to make the footage a whole lot lighter. i also increased the reds to get rid of the cyan tint a lot of blue footage has, slightly increased the blues, and once again decreased the greens to get rid of any cyan. this does make the blue hue a bit more purple, which is a nice bonus!

as for the gif of the boy, that one's a little harder to show a before and after for, but i'lls how the curves for good measure:

the original shot was already quite bright so i only edited the brightness a litttle bit. because i knew i wanted the gif to be green and yellow, i increased the greens, decreased the reds (except in the shadows), and decreased the blues (to get yellow)

2) channel mixer

now the channel mixer layer takes a little getting used to so i recommend experimenting. ALWAYS USE THIS LAYER ON THE COLOR BLENDING MODE for a more even result.

i use channel mixers to sort of... unify the colors a bit more. for the house gif, for example, i increased the blue channel to +110% blue, but decreased the blue in the red (-12%) to retain the yellow in the window.

if you want me to explain this more in depth, send an ask! it'll be kinda longwinded though

before / after of the boy gif with curves/channel mixer.

3) levels

this is where it starts looking more vhs-y! vhs footage has light shadows and dark highlights.

first, set your levels layer to luminosity blending mode to retain your beautiful colors.

then, crunch the hell out of your gif to make it very... mid.

this may feel a little wrong at first but i prommy it'll look okay at the end. a before/after for the boy:

now that's starting to look familiar right?

4) color fill/gradient map

because i want to unify my colors/make sure my gif is saturated, i usually add either a color fill or gradient map layer. in the case of the house, i chose to go with a dark blue color fill:

because the coloring of the boy gif was a little more complex, i decided to go with a brown to green gradient map.

this will make the shadows yellow, and the highlights green.

BOTH THESE LAYERS ARE SET TO OVERLAY. i usually fiddle with the opacity of them until i like it, but it's anywhere from 7% - 17% depending on what i feel like that day

5) curves (again)

this layer is probably useless but i do it anyway to make myself feel better. this is just a regular curse layer to up the brightness a tiiiiny bit and amke sure everything's clear. also it helps counteract the darkness your overlay color will add in.

6) color balance

this is my most subtle layer so i won't be able to show before and after but i fiddle with the color distribution a little until i'm satisfied. set this layer to color blending 'cause that's what you wanna affect!

i decided i wanted the house gif shadows to be a little more purple, for example, so i added in red (+3), magenta (-1) and blue (+1). etc etc. do what feels good!

STEP THREE: SMART OBJECT FUCKERY AND FILTERS

OKAY that was a lot. sorry or you're welcome. but good news: now's the fun part. convert your animation to a timeline, then select both your coloring and gif layers, right click, and select convert to smart object.

now that your gif's a smart object, i usually crop it. i tend make vhs aes gifs a 4:3 ratio (so 540 x 405 px) because that's what vhs footage was usually recorded as! crop your gif, resize, and then we can continue.

1) color bleeding

vhs footage usually bleeds its colors - this manifests as a short of... weird subtle halo around any object. the way to recreate this in photoshop is to duplicate your smart object.

set your copied smart object to color blending. now move it to the side a couple of pixels (i usually do around 5px, but you do you!)

as you can see, the tree and chimney (and everything else but less prominently) have a yellow shadow to them. this is exactly what we want!

2) filters

now's the time to add your filters and make it look like shit (but on purpose!) first, select both smart objects and convert to smart object again. this will ensure the filters apply to all layers evenly.

i use the following filters:

unsharp mask (amt 35%, radius 4px) - this will subtly add some sharpening but only on the edges of objects

add noise (amt 7.5%, distr. uniform, not monochromatic) - this will add the signature vhs grain.

box blur (2px) - i edit this to be 75% opacity with the little arrows to the right, just to make sure you can still make SOMETHING out when you're looking at the gif. MAKE SURE THIS FILTER IS ON TOP OF YOUR NOISE FILTER. tumblr will kill your gif otherwise

4) ONE LAST THING

usually at this point i'm not happy with either the saturation or levels. (usually the levels). so on top of your smart object, add another saturation or levels layer and fuck around!

in the case of the house gif, i thought it was too bright still so i set my output levels to 13 and 216. for the boy, i thought the shadows were too dark, so i set my shadow output to 11.

BEFORE & AFTER:

aaaand that's it! thanks for reading! if you have any questions, feel free to come to my askbox, i'm always happy to explain my process. happy giffing 🥰