#as you experience such wonders for yourself!

[artficlly]

sweetpea [one-shot]

post-apocalyptic marvel au

retired!hero!bucky x fem!reader After the Riftborn War, Bucky Barnes seeks to retire from his past as a hero and settle down, you might just be the peace he’s been looking for all along.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, p in v, against tree sex, outdoor sex, no protection, vague primal vibes, very consensual, kissing, underwear ripping, if you squint, there's some plot, teeth-rotting fluff, it's so cute, bucky barnes is the sweetest, beefy bucky, yelena meddles, steve rogers is horrified, spring festivals, paganism, masks, drinking, mentions of past violence, death and war, mentions of readers previous relationships, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8.9k

A/N: hello! it's nearly my birthday so heres a treat for you all. i've been sitting on this idea for AGES. i've been working hard on the daughter of the rotsál first draft, so i decided to take a break from the angst for some fluffy, cute smut!! please let me know if you enjoy and your thoughts! sorry for any typos - not proof read. permanent tag list: @globetrotter28

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Being fucked over the table was not unwelcome but rather surprisingly pleasant, even if it derailed your breakfast plans. 

Leif had always been a rather attentive lover, skilled at pulling orgasm after orgasm out of your needy cunt. He possessed stamina and a hint of roughness that stirred warmth within you, yet something still felt absent. This elusive quality lingered throughout your year together—an unexpressed awareness that simmered between you. Leif was kind, diligent, attractive, and strong. He was considerate, often surprising you with gifts and regularly praising your looks and cooking. Your friends approved of him.

So even if that brief and passionate session had been perfect, him thrusting into you from behind so intensely that your toes curled and you had to press your face against the wooden surface to keep from screaming—you realised it was all somewhat melancholic. The thing that was missing between you and your Springbond was that fabled spark.

The decision to part ways had hurt, but you both knew it was right. A week before you had made the decision, on Mayflame he would move out, and the both of you would be single once more. The morning sex had been a goodbye of sorts, in typical Leif style. Even if you aligned perfectly, you inevitably amassed a long list of differences that broke the perfect illusion. You desired to settle down, concentrate on your work and home, and build connections with those nearby.

In contrast, Leif craved adventure and excitement—obviously, the Bleeding Age hadn’t brought enough danger and activity into his life. He later confessed that he was eager to sleep around more, as he was still a young man exploring his possibilities. This revelation didn’t necessarily shock or hurt you; you had captured his attention for the entire year, far beyond your predictions. Yet, you couldn’t help but wonder... were you boring?

After years of undue stress, survival, and several near-death experiences, you were eager to take advantage of the calm that followed the defeat of the Riftborn and the end of the Bleeding Age. You had to remind yourself—somewhat bitterly—that Leif was not the first and would not be the last. 

“Did you see who that was?” Yelena exclaimed from beside you, her hand gripping your forearm tightly. You nearly leapt in surprise, abruptly pulled from your thoughts. Your head turned as you looked back, tracking Yelena’s gaze. “I swear to the fucking gods that was Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes—”

You squinted at the backs of the two men who had passed you by. 

They walked like soldiers—steady, assured, their movements streamlined but commanding. No hesitation, no wasted motion, just the certainty of men who had spent years on battlefields, who had fought and bled and survived when others hadn’t. They were massive, even under their coats, their broad shoulders and thick arms unmistakable beneath the heavy fabric. Towering over the people around them, they carried themselves with the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but took it anyway.

“The captain and the sergeant?” You shot back, doubt curling around your words as your brow furrowed. “I thought they were stationed in Stonebrook until the village was built.”

“They were… but last I heard, Stonebrook’s finished.” Yelena’s voice had an eager edge; her gaze locked onto the two figures even as they disappeared around a street corner, swallowed by the cobbled streets. “They were invited back for the Mayflame celebrations. The word is that they want to retire from the soldier business now the war is over.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging at her arm with a huff. “Come on, we’re going to be late—”

“But do you think they’ll run in Mayflame?” Yelena pressed, barely budging under your pull. 

“I mean, gods, can you imagine if Steve Rogers was your Springbond?” She exhaled, almost breathless at the thought, her fingers tightening around your sleeve as if the mere idea was enough to set her heart racing.

You grit your teeth, heat rising in your face—not from excitement but from secondhand embarrassment. A group of older women lingered outside your destination, snickering between themselves at Yelena’s loud ponderings. With a sharp yank, you pulled her off the street and into the village hall, the heavy wooden doors thudding shut behind you, sealing away the crisp morning air and her starry-eyed ramblings.

“There you two are! I need all the hands I can get!”

A flustered-looking Pepper Potts intercepted you and Yelena before you could fully step inside, already ushering you towards a large pile of decorations. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, auburn hair pinned haphazardly at the nape of her neck, a sure sign that she had been running herself ragged in preparation for the festival.

“I’ve got half the boys working on the course and the bonfire,” she said, exhaling sharply. “Can you please cart these down and get started on the flowers?”

“Of course,” you replied with a quick nod, already sizing up the pile, considering how best to carry everything down in as few trips as possible.

Yelena, however, had other priorities. “Pepper, are the captain and sergeant joining the Mayflame?” She asked shamelessly, barely masking the anticipation in her tone.

But Pepper had already turned, swept away by the tide of arriving villagers, barking orders as she moved—clearly too busy to entertain Yelena’s curiosity.

You scoffed, sinking your hands into a collection of freshly cut flowers, their stems already bundled neatly for easy transport. You had grown and picked them yourself, much to Pepper’s praise. In recent years, you found comfort in your gardens and flowerbeds. The scent of wild blooms filled your nose, the petals soft against your fingers as you began sorting through them. “Yelena, stop meddling and help me.”

“Fine, but you are no fun!” Yelena groaned, throwing herself down beside you with dramatic flair. Then, as if compelled by some unseen force, she added with a wistful sigh, “I know you’re upset about Leif, but at least let me dream of a raunchy, hero-filled Mayflame.”

Her voice carried farther than she likely intended. Several nearby villagers—some heaving chairs, others hauling tables—stopped mid-task, casting curious glances in your direction. 

Mortified, you didn’t dignify her with a response. 

—

“I mean, you keep saying you’re not upset about Leif, but you’re obviously upset.”

Yelena’s voice drifted up from below, thick with scepticism. She was not taking her duty of stabilising the ladder very seriously. The wooden rungs wobbled beneath your feet, shifting with every careless movement she made. A quick glance down confirmed your suspicions. She was barely gripping the beams, more occupied with craning her neck up the hill, no doubt hoping for another glimpse of the fabled Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes.

You sighed, your arms burning from the strain. You had foolishly volunteered for the painstaking task of weaving flowers through the towering wooden archways that framed the festival’s entrances. The Mayflame decorations were meant to be intricate and beautiful—braided vines, bundles of wildflowers, bright ribbons fluttering in the evening breeze—but at this rate, you’d be lucky if you made it out of this task without breaking a limb.

“I’m not upset,” you grumbled, though your voice lacked conviction. You worked the soft stems of sweetpeas and baby’s breath into a sturdy braid, securing them with twine against the wooden frame. “We made a mutual decision. It wasn’t working. Just a Mayflame fling...”

Yelena snorted from below, unimpressed. The ladder swayed as she shifted, and you tightened your grip, heart stuttering. “You two lived together for a year. I think it was a little more than a fling.”

You exhaled sharply, your fingers tightening around the flowers. “If he wants to run off, sleep around, and travel, who am I to hold him back, Lena? He wanted something different than I did. It never would have worked.”

“I just…” Yelena hesitated. “I just don’t like thinking about you living up on that farm by yourself.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes as you reached for another bundle of flowers. “Then come visit me more often instead of spending all your nights at the tavern, bothering Nat. I need all the help I can get wrangling those weeds—”

The words barely left your mouth before the ladder jerked violently beneath you.

Your stomach lurched as you wobbled. You instinctively reached for the wooden arch to steady yourself but overcorrected. The shift in weight sent the ladder tilting dangerously, its legs twisting beneath you. The basket of flowers on your hip slipped free, tumbling towards the grass below in a flurry of petals.

“Yelena! The ladder—!”

“There’s a bee in my hair!” Yelena shrieked, her grip altogether abandoning the wooden beams as she flailed wildly. “Gods, if it stings me, I swear—”

You had no time to process her nonsense. The world lurched violently as the ladder lost its precarious balance, tipping sideways with terrifying speed.

Air whipped at your cheeks as you plunged downward. Your arms shot up in a feeble attempt to protect your head, your entire body bracing for the inevitable collision with the earth below.

But the pain never came.

Instead, you collided with something solid—something warm.

A pair of strong arms locked tightly around your middle, yanking you against a broad, muscled chest. The force of your fall sent both of you toppling over; your breath knocked from your lungs as your saviour twisted to absorb the impact. The two of you crashed into the grass in a tangled heap.

A startled squeak escaped your lips as you landed atop them, hands splayed flat against their chest. Their sheer size was dizzying—hard muscle beneath the thin fabric. The steady rise and fall of their breathing made you acutely aware of how firmly you were pressed against them.

For a long second, neither of you moved, your heart pounding as you processed what had just happened. Then, slowly, the arms around your waist loosened. A deep, low voice rumbled beneath you, quieter than you expected yet laced with a restrained amusement.

“Careful, angel. Keep this up, and people will talk.”

Your breath hitched, pulse stuttering as you realised who lay beneath you. Bucky Barnes.

A cold rush of realisation hit like a shock to the system. Your eyes widened in alarm as you took in the situation. Your hands braced against the solid plane of his chest, his body beneath yours, broad and unmoving. Worse, your legs were hooked around his hips, the warmth of him seeping through your clothes—oh gods, were you sitting on his—?

Panic jolted through you. Without a second thought, you scrambled off him in a flurry of movement, heat rushing to your face. Your hands shot up instinctively as if you could wave away the mortifying situation.

“I—I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky didn’t move immediately. He remained where he was, lying on the ground, one arm bent behind his head. The dappled sunlight filtering through the trees cast shadows on his face, highlighting the defined angles of his cheekbones and the depth of his blue eyes. There was no teasing smirk, no cocky remark—just a quiet, lingering patience.

Finally, with a slow, fluid motion, he pushed himself upright, his expression unreadable. 

“It’s fine,” he assured, his voice smooth but low, edged with something thoughtful. Just a quiet confidence that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

You took a hurried step back, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but the erratic beat of your heart refused to settle. You’d always known of Bucky Barnes—the colder one, the quiet one. The man whose name carried a reputation as cutting as winter’s first frost. Yet now, looking at him, the weight of that reputation felt at odds with how he carried himself.

There was something measured about his movements, deliberate and careful, as though he were wary of taking up too much space.

The silence stretched between you until his voice, softer this time, broke through. “You’ve got a little something…”

His hand shot up before you could reply—quick yet remarkably gentle. His fingers delicately moved through your hair, his careful touch igniting a familiar warmth in your gut.

You froze.

He plucked something from your hair and turned it over in his fingers. A single sweetpea, its delicate petals trembling in the breeze. Bucky studied it with quiet intensity, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Sweetpea,” he murmured, as if the word carried weight, his gaze flicking back to meet yours. How he looked at you—calm yet piercing—made your breath catch. For a fleeting moment, the world felt impossibly still.

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Something flickered across his face, subtle but there. Not quite a smile, but something close, something softer than you would have expected from a man with his reputation.

“You don’t have to apologise,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, quieter: “You could’ve hurt yourself.”

It was such a small thing. Barely even a kindness. You were glad the hero couldn’t sense the throbbing between your legs. Maybe this break-up with Leif had indeed done a number on you, lusting after the first man who showed you kindness... but there was something rather magnetic about the sergeant you couldn’t quite understand. 

You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus and gather the scattered remnants of your pride. Your gaze turned to the abandoned basket of flowers at your feet, a welcome distraction.

 "Right, well, thank you,” you muttered. “I should probably—” 

You motioned vaguely toward the half-finished floral arch, eager to redirect the moment into something less intense. But before Bucky could respond, a sharp, frantic voice shattered the moment.

“Oh, gods! I’m so sorry, there was a bee, and I just—are you okay?” You barely had time to brace before Yelena was upon you, hands gripping your shoulders, her wide green eyes scanning your face as if she expected to find a gaping wound. You squirmed under her touch, cheeks still burning.

“I’m fine, Lena,” you mumbled, trying to pry her hands off you. “Really.”

“Yes, of course! This gentleman saved you—” Yelena cut herself off mid-sentence, her entire body freezing as she finally got a good look at him. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in unfiltered shock. “Wait. You’re Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky’s expression shifted, barely, but you caught it. A flicker of something. Not quite discomfort, but something close. His posture stiffened, his fingers flexing once before settling back into stillness.

He didn’t confirm or deny it. He just gave a slow, short nod. You saw the way his throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the way he held himself—not defensive, exactly, but closed off as if he had already braced for whatever reaction was coming next.

Yelena’s gaze darted between you, her sharp mind working fast. Too fast. There was a feral glint in her eyes, one you knew well. You could practically see the cogs turning in her mind, a meddling scheme already in action. You held back a groan.

Before she could say something truly insufferable, a sharp, shrill voice rang out from across the unlit bonfire.

“There you are! I need more flowers—can you believe it? I thought we’d have enough with all that you grew. Please tell me you have more in that garden of yours!” You blinked, grateful for the interruption, and immediately turned towards the sound of Pepper’s voice. 

“Yes, of course,” you called back, relief flooding through you. “I grew extra just in case. I had a feeling this might happen.” 

“Wonderful! Oh, you’re a lifesaver today,” Pepper’s voice rose in excitement. “Leave the floral arches for now. I’ll have one of the girls help finish them up. If you could just run up to your garden—” 

You didn’t need to hear the rest. 

“Of course!” You cut her off a little too eagerly, desperate to get away from Yelena’s looming interrogation. It was almost like an escape route had opened, and you weren’t about to hesitate. Pepper barely seemed to notice your enthusiasm as she continued.

“Oh, but you won’t be able to carry them all alone, will you? Yelena, you’ll help her, won’t you? And, oh, Bucky, I didn’t realise you were down here already. If I send you and Steve up as well, can you help these lovely ladies?”

You turned towards him instinctively, almost uncertain of what to expect. Bucky, who had been silent throughout the exchange, lifted his head slightly. His eyes jumped towards Pepper, then towards you. His blue eyes were unreadable, his expression impossible to decipher.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Yeah.”

That was it. No unnecessary words, no wasted breath. Just a quiet, steady answer, the same way he seemed to carry himself, like a man who only spoke when it was worth speaking.

Yelena, on the other hand, was already on you like a hawk, latched onto your arm, nails digging through even your clothing as she grinned in excitement. Instead, you held back any protest that wanted to bubble to the surface, donning a hesitant smile. You couldn’t shake the feeling that the afternoon was about to take a turn for the absurd.

There was no way out of this now. 

—

The sun sat high in the sky as the four of you climbed the hill towards the garden. The path was uneven, the dirt packed down from years of footsteps, the scent of wildflowers and earth thick in the warm air. You focused ahead, gripping the empty basket, determined not to meet anyone’s gaze—especially not Bucky’s.

Of course, Yelena had no such reservations. She walked beside Steve, hands clasped behind her back, the picture of feigned innocence. You could feel the question brewing before she even opened her mouth.

“So,” she began, her tone laced with a familiar mischief. “You two were some of the great heroes of the Blooded Age.”

Steve huffed a small, almost bashful laugh. “I wouldn’t call us heroes.”

“Really?” Yelena raised a brow. “Because I’ve heard plenty of stories that say otherwise. You fought monsters, saved villages, built armies—sounds pretty heroic to me.”

Steve glanced at Bucky as if expecting him to jump in, but the other man remained quiet, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. Steve sighed and shrugged. “We did what needed to be done. It wasn’t about being heroes. People were dying, and the world was falling apart. We just... fought to keep it together.”

Yelena hummed, unimpressed with his humility. “And now you’re here. Retired.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You must be very tired.” She smirked. “All that fighting. Saving the world. Carrying such a heavy burden on those broad, broad shoulders.”

You choked on absolutely nothing, coughing into your hand as warmth flared in your cheeks.

Steve cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was time to put the war behind us.”

Yelena turned to Bucky, who had been walking a step behind, silent as ever. “And what about you, Barnes? Tired of fighting too?”

Bucky finally glanced her way, his expression unreadable. 

“War doesn’t leave much room for a future.” His voice was low, quiet, but firm. “Figured it was time to start thinking about one.”

Yelena tilted her head, studying him like a puzzle she was determined to solve. “And New Fernwick is the place to do that?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately. His attention turned to you—brief and mysterious—before he looked back at the trail. “Seems as good a place as any.”

Yelena smirked, but you reached the garden before she could push further.

“Here we are!” You announced, a little too brightly, desperate to change the subject.

You set your basket down and knelt to gather the flowers, focusing intently on the task. Yelena crouched beside you, plucking a few stems with ease. Steve busied himself as well, his hands surprisingly gentle as he worked.

Bucky, however, remained standing with his arms crossed as he surveyed the field of blooms. After a brief pause, he crouched, reaching for a flower near your basket. You watched as his fingers brushed over the petals carefully and deliberately.

Yelena noticed too. “Didn’t peg you for a flower guy, Barnes.”

Bucky plucked the stem and twirled it between his fingers, his expression unreadable. “You learn to appreciate the small things when you don’t see ‘em for a long time.”

The words were simple, but they settled in your chest, something unspoken lingering beneath them.

Yelena, for once, said nothing.

The silence stretched as the four of you worked, the baskets gradually filling, until until Yelena, as always, shattered it with a single sentence—one that made your stomach drop the moment it left her mouth.

“So, are you two going to do the Mayflame Run?”

Your fingers tightened around the delicate stems of the flowers in your hands, nearly crushing them. Heat flared up your neck, and you snapped your head towards her. “Yelena.”

She only grinned, tilting her head in mock innocence. “What?”

 She batted her lashes. “It’s a fair question.”

Bucky and Steve glanced up from where they were crouched, picking through the wildflowers. The question had caught them off guard. Steve’s brow furrowed, curiosity laced with hesitation.

“What exactly is the Mayflame Run?” he asked.

You parted your lips, scrambling for a way to downplay it, but Yelena was already launching into her favourite pastime—oversharing.

“It’s a spring festival all about welcoming in the new season... new life... fertility and all that.” She wiggled her fingers for emphasis, an impish smirk tugging at her lips.

Steve blinked, his expression shifting into one of wary understanding. “Right…”

The mischief in Yelena’s eyes deepened as she continued.

“The main event is the run. We call it the Springbond Run, but let’s be honest—everyone knows what it’s really about. See, after the Blooded Age, people kind of… forgot how to date. Or just didn’t bother.” She waved a hand as if brushing aside years of devastation. “War, famine, monsters—it put a real damper on romance. And, well, people aren’t exactly repopulating at the rate they should be, so...” 

She shot Steve a pointed look. “The elders decided to encourage things.”

Steve still looked uncertain. "And how does it work?”

You exhaled through your nose, adjusting your basket.

“The women carry torches and run through the dark forest,” you explained, keeping your voice even as possible. “The goal is to reach the clearing on the other side and light the bonfire.” 

You hesitated, dreading the next part. “The men chase them.”

Steve’s brows lifted. “They chase them?”

You nodded stiffly, but Yelena was the one who answered.

“If you get caught,” she said breezily, “you have to date the guy who caught you for a week. You’re now each other’s Springbond. After that, you decide if you want to keep seeing each other or go your separate ways. Most end up sticking it out. Either for marriage or, at the very least, some fun.”

Your stomach twisted as Bucky’s gaze flickered towards you. He hadn’t spoken yet or reacted outwardly, but you felt the weight of his attention pressing against your skin like an unspoken question.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck, clearly processing the information. “And what happens to the women who manage to light the bonfire?”

“Oh, then they get to choose who they spend the week with,” Yelena said. "Which honestly makes the whole thing even more exciting. It’s so dark, you don’t always know who’s chasing you until they’re right on top of you, pinning you to the ground—”

Steve choked on his own breath, shifting awkwardly. You clamped your eyes shut, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Yelena.”

“What?” she said, all false innocence. 

“It’s true. And let’s be real, some people don’t even wait until after the run to start celebrating.” She smirked. “All that adrenaline, all that tension, out there all alone in the woods—”

Steve made another strangled sound, and you wished, for the first time in your life, that you had the power to smite Yelena where she stood.

“And this is normal?” he asked weakly.

You let out a long breath. “Yes. It’s… tradition.”

Yelena’s smirk stretched wider, and a pit of dread opened in your stomach just before she delivered the final blow.

“Oh, she would know,” she said airily. “She’s done it three times.”

Silence.

You felt the shift in the air before you even looked up. Steve was already glancing away politely, but Bucky—Bucky’s gaze was steady, unyielding, waiting. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp beneath it, something that made your pulse stutter.

Your mouth went dry. “I—uh—yeah.”

Yelena cackled, delighted. “And she had quite the reputation for it, too. She and Leif turned it into a year-long one-night stand."

Your stomach dropped. Heat flared at your ears, mortification wrapping around your ribs like a vice. Steve coughed into his fist, visibly uncomfortable, but Bucky—Bucky still hadn’t looked away. The weight of his silence pressed against you, heavier than any words could be. He didn’t flinch, didn’t frown, didn’t even raise a damn eyebrow. He just watched as if waiting for you to offer something. An explanation. A reaction.

You swallowed hard.

Yelena, meanwhile, had absolutely no shame.

“Some people take the week actually to get to know each other,” she continued with a smirk. “Others treat it like a festival fling. A week-long one-night stand, if you will.” 

She turned to Bucky then, eyes glinting. “You seem like the type who’d do a Mayflame run.”

Bucky finally exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. “You get that from watching me pick flowers?”

Yelena leant in. “No, I got it from watching you look at her.”

Your breath hitched.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t react at all. He just held her gaze for a long moment before standing, dusting the dirt from his hands with deliberate ease.

“We should get these back,” he said.

That was it. No denial.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears as Yelena shot you a triumphant look, nudging your arm with her elbow. You shoved her back harder than necessary, grabbing your basket with too much force.

—

You had braided sweetpeas into your hair, their delicate petals—a cascade of soft pinks, purples, and whites—woven carefully through your strands. The fragrance clung to you, sweet and fleeting, barely noticeable except when the wind stirred just right. You didn’t know why you had done it. Maybe it was a whim, an idle distraction while you got ready for the Mayflame. Maybe it was some quiet hope you refused to name, a foolish sentiment born from the strange afternoon. Or maybe, worse than all of that, it was the loneliness of returning to an empty house.

Leif had left while you were gone. You hadn’t seen him pack or even heard the door shut behind him. Just silence, so much silence. His absence had been waiting for you like a ghost when you stepped inside. No trace of him remained, save for a few scuff marks on the wooden floor and a half-finished bottle of cider in the kitchen. You had stared at it for a long time before scrubbing the house clean in a fit of confused energy as if sweeping away the dust might sweep away the ache in your chest.

Did you even want to run tonight? If it always turned out this way?

Leif had been inevitable—his leaving, even more so. The one before him barely lasted the week. And the first... gods, the first. You didn’t let yourself think about that one.

Yet here you were, standing in the dark forest, a burning torch in your hand.

The other women huddled together, whispering in excited clusters, their laughter soft and secretive beneath the trees. The firelight flickered over their masked faces, catching on the gilded edges and painted symbols of the goddess of spring. Yelena was causing trouble somewhere in the throng, as always, her voice carrying through the dark.

“I swear, I can pick them out. I just need a second,” she was saying.

You sighed, already knowing exactly what she was up to.

“It’s a useless pursuit,” you had reminded her earlier. “They’ll be masked, everyone will. That’s the whole point.”

And yet, she was determined. You caught a glimpse of her through the shifting bodies, her blonde hair twisted into an elaborate crown braid behind her fox mask, taunting the gathered men. They stood on the opposite side of the clearing, a sea of darkened figures illuminated only by flickering torchlight. The line between hunter and hunted might have blurred if not for their masks.

You fiddled with the edges of your own mask, adjusting it once more against your face. Each mask bore the likeness of a creature of the forest—the women had prey animals: deer, rabbits, and foxes. You had chosen a wide-eyed doe, its carved wooden surface smooth against your fingertips. The men, in contrast, wore the guises of predators: wolves, bears, and great hunting birds.

A shiver trailed down your spine as you scanned their ranks, the shadows swallowing their bodies.

This was fate, they said. A tradition older than the Blooded Age. The goddess of spring would take the helm, guiding her children together. 

Destiny, not choice.

You weren’t sure you believed in fate anymore.

Still, you craned your neck, searching for Yelena again before the race began. Some women had already lined up at the start, their torches raised, waiting for the signal. You pushed through the crowd, weaving past a group of masked rabbits, your torch casting long, twisting shadows over the forest floor.

Yelena stood at the edge of the men’s group, utterly unbothered, her fox mask tilted slightly as she studied them. The smirk you couldn’t see was undoubtedly plastered across her face.

“Lena,” you called lightly.

She turned towards you, still distracted. “You’d think we’d be able to recognise them even with the masks, right? They should be massive, but it’s so hard to tell in the dark—”

You grabbed her wrist, pulling her away. “Come on.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled.

As you turned, your torchlight swept over a lone figure standing at the edge of the men’s group. Half-shrouded in shadow, his wolf mask glinted in the firelight. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, yet there was an unmistakable intensity in his standing and watching.

You swallowed hard and averted your gaze.

Tugging Yelena along, you stepped towards the start line.

The time was near.

You gathered your skirts with one hand, feeling the rough fabric in your fist. The cool night air licked at your skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. Around you, the other women shifted in anticipation, their torches flickering like stars in the dark. Somewhere beyond the trees, the men waited. Watching.

A hush fell over the gathered crowd. Then—

The drum sounded.

The tension snapped, and you ran.

Flames bobbed wildly as the women surged forward, feet pounding against the forest floor. Laughter rang through the night, breathless and high, voices calling to one another before being swallowed by the trees.

Yelena was gone in an instant, lost in the chaos.

You barely had time to register it before you were weaving between trunks, torchlight bouncing wildly in your periphery. Your skirts whipped around your legs, the rough fabric catching on twigs and undergrowth, but you didn’t slow. The forest stretched wide before you, vast and shrouded in shadows.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, heart hammering against your ribs.

It was exhilarating.

You could hear the others somewhere to your left, their laughter spilling through the trees, echoing their footfalls blending with your own. And behind you, somewhere in the dark, the men had begun their pursuit.

The sound of movement grew. Leaves rustled, and twigs snapped. 

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t dare look back.

Instead, you pushed forward, your torchlight slicing through the thick night. The distant hum of music reached your ears, the festival, just beyond the treeline. You were close. So close.

Then—impact.

A weight slammed into you from the side, knocking the air from your lungs. Your torch flew from your grasp, landing somewhere in the brush, its flame sputtering but not extinguished.

You hit the ground hard, back pressing into the cool earth, the scent of moss and crushed leaves filling your senses. Above you, a broad figure loomed, breathing heavily from the chase.

The dim torchlight barely illuminated him, casting jagged shadows across the carved wolf mask that stared down at you. The smooth, wooden surface gave away nothing—no expression, no hint of who was beneath it.

Your pulse thundered.

Around you, the chase still roared on. Footsteps pounded the earth, laughter echoing as others darted past, unseen but near.

You swallowed hard, your breath coming fast, your chest rising and falling. You had been caught.

But gods, it was thrilling.

The figure above you didn’t move, as if waiting—for what, you weren’t sure. His hands were braced on either side of you, caging you in, his breath still heavy from the chase. Yet he didn’t press his advantage or seize you like the others would have. Instead, he lingered, watching.

Then, in the flickering torchlight, he reached for your hair.

You barely breathed as his fingers tangled into the strands, the movement deliberate, almost reverent. Slowly, he plucked one of the deep violet sweetpeas from your braid, twirling it between his fingers before your masked face. The petals fluttered slightly with the motion, fragile between the ridges of his calloused fingertips.

A beat of silence stretched between you. Then, finally, his voice, low, deep, rough with exertion.

“Hey, sweetpea.”

The nickname sent a shock through you, something warm curling in your chest even as your breath hitched. Recognition dawned, sharp and sudden.

“Bucky?” You murmured, stunned.

Even if surprise coursed through you, it made sense. The sheer size of the body hovering above yours, the weight of him pressing into the earth, the controlled stillness…it was him. A reversed echo of your earlier position that day.

“How did you—”

“Your hair,” he interrupted, his voice quieter now, rougher. “You put flowers in your hair. I recognised it.”

He reached up, fingers catching the edge of his mask, and in a smooth motion, he pulled it free. The last flickers of the torch beside you cast just enough light to reveal the sweat beading on his brow, the shadows cutting across his sharp features—and the unmistakable, almost feral gleam in his eye.

Something deep inside you clenched at the sight.

You exhaled a breathless laugh, your hands instinctively sliding up his broad shoulders, fingers curling around the back of his neck. Beneath your palms, his skin was hot, his pulse hammering. “I didn’t think you were running.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He hesitated, head tilting slightly as footsteps dashed past, followed by an excited shriek from one of the other women. The sound faded into the trees, leaving you in perfect darkness, only the two of you remaining in the silence. “But—”

He trailed off, his voice thick with something unspoken. His weight above you was solid, immovable, and gods, you liked it.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Instead of answering, you twisted your arm, pulling your mask off. You weren’t sure he could see the grin curling your lips in the dark, so you let your actions speak for you. Tugging him closer, your chests collided, heat blooming between you.

“Yes,” you breathed.

And then his lips crashed into yours.

The kiss was molten, searing through your veins like wildfire. He wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t uncertain—he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for far too long, like the chase had only wound him tighter, and now he was unravelling against you.

You gasped into his mouth as he shifted, his weight pressing down on you, one hand sliding to your waist, fingers digging in, anchoring you to him. His other hand tangled in your hair, gripping just enough to make your head tilt back, giving him full access. He took it eagerly, deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, devastating stroke.

Heat pooled in your stomach, your legs shifting beneath him, but then—

With shocking ease, he moved.

For a brief second, you were weightless, a startled sound escaping your lips as he lifted you effortlessly from the ground. You barely had time to react before your back hit rough bark, the solid tree trunk now bracing you. His hands were firm as they guided your legs around his waist, pinning you in place. You could already feel his cock growing hard, pressed into one of your thighs as you squirmed beneath him.

A shudder wracked through you at his sheer strength, the way he handled you like you weighed nothing. The last remnants of your composure shattered when his lips found your throat, the scrape of his teeth ghosting over sensitive skin. You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders, the sensation overwhelming and utterly intoxicating.

"You run fast, angel," he murmured against your skin, his voice dark and teasing. His lips trailed lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your jaw. "But not fast enough."

A breathless laugh escaped you, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling just enough to make him look at you. In the darkness, his blue eyes burned.

“I didn’t want to get away.”

Bucky’s breath hitched, and he just looked at you for a moment. Then, his grip on your waist loosened, fingers slipping beneath your skirts. He let out a deep groan as his digits navigated past your underwear, sweeping through the wetness already gathered. “You’re so wet already.”

You threw your head back at the small act of friction, your skull pressing hard into the rough bark as your chest heaved. He did one final pass, stroking through your folds. In the close distance between your faces, you could see a smirk lingering as your hips rocked involuntarily, begging for more. 

Bucky brought his fingers to his lips, his gaze never leaving yours as he pressed them flat against his tongue, dragging them slowly past his lips. His eyelids fluttered briefly, his breath coming heavier as he tasted you, a low, guttural sound rumbling in his chest. “Mmm.”

Heat coiled in your stomach at the sound, something deep and electric winding tight inside you. 

“Bucky—” The whine clawed unexpectedly from your throat, raw with desperation.

He smirked, his expression both teasing and dark, his hand slipping between your bodies.

“I know, sweetpea,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction. His fingers fumbled blindly with his belt, metal clinking softly in the hush of the forest. You could feel his hunger in the way his body pressed against yours, restless, taut with restraint he was barely clinging to.

You rolled your hips against his hand, a breathless sigh spilling from your lips as friction sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs. He inhaled sharply, his head tilting slightly as if savouring the way you reacted to him.

“Tell me,” he coaxed, his voice lower now, almost commanding.

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, nails digging in. Your head tipped back against the tree's rough bark, your chest rising and falling rapidly as your lips parted around the words.

“I need you,” you whispered. “Now.”

Something snapped in his expression.

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his fingers hooked into the delicate fabric of your underwear. His patience was fraying. No careful undressing, no gentle peeling away. His grip was rough and decisive, a growl slipping from his throat as he gave one sharp tug. The fabric tore effortlessly beneath his fast fingers, the sound lost beneath the hammering of your pulse in your ears. He didn’t even bother pulling them down—too impatient, too consumed by need.

You could practically feel your wetness dripping down to your thighs as he blindly lined himself up, cock pushing into your needy heat. Your head dipped, your mouth finding the top of his shoulder as you bit down lightly with a soft cry. The world beyond this moment—the festival, the music, the laughter—blurred into nothingness. The only thing that existed was the feverish press of his body, the way his fingers dug into your skin, anchoring you to him as if he never wanted to let go.

“Fuck.” He hummed low in your ear. His voice strained as he slowly rocked in and out of you. You could tell he was restraining himself, his muscles taut along his back. You hooked your legs around his waist tighter, pulling your bodies flush. 

Bucky tilted his head, his lips ghosting over your jaw before finally finding your mouth, desperate and all-consuming. His pace faltered for a moment, a quiet groan slipping from his throat as you tightened around him.

“Gods, you’re so fuckin’ tight, so fuckin’ perfect—” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer. Your breath was hot against his neck and ear as you whispered. “Then don’t stop.”

Any type of restraint the hero had been holding snapped, his hips immediately jerking into action, beginning a relentless pace, withdrawing from you only to slam back inside. Each thrust sent sparks through your body, pleasure coiling tighter, overwhelming in its intensity. One of his hands roamed, sliding down your thigh to where you connected.

You let out a gasping moan into his shoulder as his thumb found your clit, the added circling motion sending a spike of pleasure up your spine. You felt your cunt tighten around him again as you jolted from the sensation, back arching inward. 

“Bucky—” You groaned into his ear, head tilting as you laid hot, sloppy kisses that were all lips and tongue along his neck. You could taste salt on his skin, sweat beginning to mist both of you. The squelching and slapping sounds of your connected bodies echoed through the dark forest,  the both of you barely holding back the pleasured moans and gasps. 

“You gonna cum for me, angel?” Bucky growled against your throat. Your toes curled in delight. His strokes were already growing frantic and sloppy. You pushed yourself back against the trunk, chest heaving as you used your grip around his waist to grind yourself upon his thumb further. A coiling sensation grew in your gut, a knot beginning to tighten. You closed your eyes with a gasp, chasing the sensation. 

“Y-Yes.” You stammered through your pants, nails digging into his shoulders as your body began to shudder around him. Bucky let out a dark chuckle, straining through his grit teeth as he continued to plough into you. His thumb circled once more, gentle but practiced. You felt your back arch involuntarily—

You moan his name as every wave of pleasure washes over you. Your hips buck and your thighs shake, but he doesn’t let up. His cock strokes inside of you at a continued relentless pace, and he moans right along with you. Bucky’s hand began to roam along your legs, gripping your flesh tighter as he chased his own release. There would be finger-shaped bruises all over your hips and thighs by the time this was over. 

You’re panting above him. Eyes closed, the grip on his shoulders slackening as ropes of thick, hot cum fill you. His cock throbs, each pump releasing even more, only stopping as his hips stutter and his heated moans in your ear fade. 

The two of you panted in the aftermath. Bodies still pressed together as the sounds of the forest slowly filtered back into your ears—the distant thrum of festival music, the rustling leaves overhead, the occasional laughter of those still running through the trees. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

Bucky shifted first, pressing a lingering kiss to the base of your throat, his lips warm and soft against your sweat-dampened skin. His breath fanned over your collarbone as he slowly and carefully lowered you to your feet. Your knees nearly buckled when they touched the earth, your legs trembling with exhaustion. A startled gasp left you as you clung to him for support, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Easy, sweetpea,” he murmured, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest as he steadied you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist. His touch was grounding and reassuring, though the heat in his gaze told you he wasn’t entirely done with you yet.

You huffed a breathless laugh, tilting your head to look at him. 

“You know we have to go to the dance now, right?” Though amusement laced your tone, you could already picture the knowing smirks Yelena and the others would shoot you when you finally emerged.

Bucky smirked, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Even better,” he murmured, leaning in until his lips brushed the shell of your ear. “All I’ll be able to think about is those little noises you make... and that mess between your legs.”

Your breath hitched, a shiver rolling down your spine despite the lingering warmth in your limbs. You swallowed hard, heat pooling low in your belly once more at the thought of his hands on you again, the way he had unravelled you so easily.

He tilted your chin up with a single finger, pressing a teasing kiss to your lips before stepping back slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

 “Come on, sweetpea,” he murmured, his eyes flickering with mischief as he laced his fingers with yours. “Let’s go dance.”

—

By the time you and Bucky arrived, the festival was in full swing, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced cider, and the smoky tang of bonfires. Laughter and music filled the clearing, the rhythmic beat of drums and the sweet hum of strings carrying through the night. Couples swayed to the music, feet shuffling against the packed earth as villagers danced in loose circles, the warmth of drink and celebration evident in every movement.

You barely had time to take it all in before a chorus of knowing smirks and raised brows greeted your arrival. Yelena, seated at a long wooden table with a tankard of something strong in hand, nearly choked on her drink when she spotted you—your slightly dishevelled hair, the flush still clinging to your skin, and Bucky’s possessive grip on your waist.

“About time,” she called with a grin, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Did you get lost?”

Bucky, unbothered, merely smirked and tugged you towards the dancing. “Something like that.”

You shot her a look, but it was impossible to ignore the amused glances and hushed whispers behind you. You tried not to think about the wet mess—a combination of both your fluids nesting between your thighs. Bucky had offered you a handkerchief to clean up, but the small square of fabric had done little against the wetness dripping down your thigh. What didn’t help was the thought of that handkerchief he casually tucked back into his pocket before you could protest. Your lips parted, ready with some half-hearted excuse, but Bucky spun you into his arms before you could respond.

The moment he pulled you into the dance, the rest of the festival seemed to fade into the background. His hands found your waist, guiding you through the steps with ease, music thrumming beneath your skin. Everything was intoxicating, with the warmth of his palm against the small of your back and the gentle pressure of his fingers as he led you.

His lips dipped close to your ear as you moved, swaying to the rhythm. “So, who is this Leif guy?”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but then sighed, your fingers tightening slightly against his shoulder. “Oh—just… my last Springbond.” 

The words felt foreign on your tongue now, distant. “It didn’t really work out in the end.”

Bucky hummed, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over your hip. “Why not? Sounded like you lasted longer than a week.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tilting your head back slightly to meet his gaze.

“Well… we just had different paths. He wanted to explore, adventure, sleep around…” You trailed off, gaze flickering to the firelight dancing in his blue eyes. “I was looking to settle. I’m just tired after everything. I feel you would understand that.”

His grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his gaze dark and steady as he murmured, “I understand you completely, angel.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest ache, warmth curling in your stomach in a way that had nothing to do with the fire or the wine or the exhilaration of the chase. He understood.

You held his gaze, the firelight dancing over his face. There was something ancient in his eyes, something heavy, worn by time and battle. You had known, of course, what he and Steve were before they arrived in New Fernwick—everyone did.

And yet, when the war ended, when the Riftborn were vanquished and peace finally settled over the world, they had simply walked away. But peace was a fickle thing, and you often wondered if it had truly found them in return.

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your waist, grounding you back in the present.

“You ever think about it?” you asked softly.

He tilted his head slightly, the movement curious. “Think about what?”

You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “The way things used to be. Before.”

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away.

“Sometimes.” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “I don’t miss it. But it’s hard to let go of something that shaped you.”

You nodded, understanding. The past had a way of clinging to people, no matter how far they ran.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. 

“Steve took to peace like it was always meant for him. I think he’s been waiting for it his whole life. Me…” He trailed off, his lips pressing into a faint line. “I think I’m still figuring it out.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest. He deserved peace just as much as anyone else.

As the music slowed, your hands slid from his shoulders, fingers tracing the length of his arms before settling over his. His grip tightened instinctively like he knew what you were about to say.

“Come home with me.” The words were quiet, tentative, but certain.

Bucky stilled for half a beat, and then his lips parted, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty, as if he had been waiting for you to ask.

—

The door creaked softly as you pushed it open, stepping inside with Bucky close behind you. You moved awkwardly through the space, glancing at the walls, the furniture, anything but him, as though it could distract from the knot forming in your stomach. The house felt both too small and too big now, the empty rooms amplifying the tension in the air.

Bucky stepped in after you, his boots echoing softly on the wooden floor as he glanced around. His gaze lingered on the fire's warm glow in the hearth, he seemed at ease. His eyes scanned every corner of the space, taking in the simple comforts of home. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

You shifted nervously, breaking the silence with an anxious laugh. “You don’t actually have to do the full week if you don’t want to... I mean, most people just use it as an excuse to get off work—” Your words stumbled out, and you cut yourself off, realising how ridiculous you probably sounded.

Bucky turned toward you, his eyes dark with amusement but softened with something else, a quiet intensity. He was silent for a long moment, focusing entirely on you. Finally, his lips quirked up, and his voice was low and deliberate.

“Sweetpea, I love the sound of your beautiful voice, but just shut up... and kiss me.”

Before you could respond, his hands were already pulling you close, his mouth slanting over yours in a searing kiss that left no room for hesitation. You melted against him, your body pressing into his with a soft urgency, both of you stumbling as you navigated the space towards the bed. His grip on you was firm and reassuring, yet there was a rawness to it, an unspoken need that made your heart race faster.

You fumbled through the room together, bumping into furniture. Your hands sought purchase on his broad chest or tangled in his hair as you kissed desperately, blindly. The dim light from the hearth barely illuminated the path ahead. His lips were warm and hungry, pulling at yours with an intensity that made your pulse spike.

There was a quiet reassurance in how his hands roamed over your body, the steady pressure of his touch as though he wanted to anchor you in the here and now. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t treating this like a fleeting moment. You laughed softly against his lips as you stumbled into the bed, falling together in a tangled heap of limbs and tangled sheets. For a moment, all that mattered was the warmth of his skin against yours, the unspoken understanding that this was something different, something real. 

Something that could last.

[landopoet]

two prizes.

pairing lando norris x journalist!reader

warnings smut, oral (fem receiving), mentions of alcohol

synopsis that day was not the first time you and lando had met, and he helps you remember that

author’s note posting my older works, thanks to @clovermoters for the collage up top!

♯

Excitement pulsed through your veins at the mere sound of engines roaring.

The amount of people trying to push past you made you anxious, but you knew it was all part of the experience. Everyone was bunching up to watch one of the greatest events of all time— the Miami GrandPrix.

Once you make it through the crowd, avoiding elbows and shoulders of people much taller and energetic than you, the entrance that you need comes into view.

You weren’t just excited for the interviews you were going to watch up close, but also the entire concept of the race. The hustle of engineers in all these garages, working their hardest to get the drivers in and out of the pits with minimal time to waste. Not to mention the drivers themselves, having to sit in the cars for multiple hours over the race weekend with no complaints— they chose to do this, they deal with the consequences.

That’s exactly what excited you. The reasoning for their choice to do this, you wanted to ask each and every one of them why they wanted to do this, what was so interesting?

You guessed their answer would be the same as yours if you were asked why you became a sports journalist.

Keeping your amazement at bay, you observed the race, focused on everything going on even though it was a lot to keep up with. But that’s exactly what you were there for.

You were sitting in the grandstands, intently watching the cars fly past you, when your phone rang. The caller ID said it was your coworker who had also been at the race but disappeared about ten minutes ago.

“Hello?”

She sounded distressed when you heard her voice. “Hey, love. I was wondering if you could take over the post-race interviews?”

Today was supposed to be a sort of intern day for you, meaning you were just going to watch your colleague interview the drivers and better understand what the etiquette is for it. You hadn’t expected to have your first interview today.

“Uh, why?” You asked, in a whisper. “You know I’ve never interviewed anyone before, right?”

“So?” She seemed much more confident in you than you were in yourself. “You’ve studied journalism for a few years now, yeah? I don’t think you’d have taken an internship at SkySports for nothing.”

“I mean, I guess?” You shrug. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to speak to actual drivers, though. What if I make a fool of myself?”

“You won’t if you remember that they’re just people doing their jobs, and you’re doing your job by asking them questions.” She makes a good point and you sigh in defeat.

“Alright, I’ll do it. Send over the information you’ve written.”

“Sorry.” You hear her slightly laugh. “You gotta fend for yourself with that one, hun. It’s a cruel world we live in. Cheers.”

With that, the call ended and you were left with nothing but anxiety weighing on your shoulders. The rest of the race seemed to fly by in mere minutes, your mind too focused on the pressure of your first ever interview.

Well, not first ever.

You imagined the day would come sooner or later, so you’d practise a conversation with one of the drivers by speaking to yourself in the mirror. That, and watching multiple interviews through the years, soaking up every bit of information you could about the process of it.

Before you knew it, you were standing in a sea of people with their cameras, waiting for the drivers to make their way to you.

It wasn’t that nerve wracking when you actually started talking to them, and by the time you got to Daniel, you had lost all feelings of anxiety, instead laughing along to his jokes.

You thought so, at least. A feeling of intimidation crawled up your spine when your eyes locked with Lando Norris, a driver for Mclaren. You noticed the piercing look from across the room as he spoke to a different interviewer, his green pupils tracking your every move as you spoke to Oscar.

The interview with Oscar wraps up and he begins turning away from you. “Good luck on your next race!”

Oscar smiled at you as he walked off to somewhere you could only guess.

If you had been anxious before, you were probably five times as anxious now, because Oscar Piastri leaving the spot in front of you meant that Lando Norris would be replacing him. And, for whatever reason, he was making you incredibly nervous.

You looked down at the ground as Lando approached you, waiting to hear what you had to say. You couldn’t bear looking up at him, knowing he’s already staring at you. But it was part of your job and you had to stay professional.

“Hello, Lando.” You said, cheerily.

“Hi,” he grinned at you, sweaty and all, his dimples appearing for a split second. “How are you?”

“I’m alright, thanks, how was the race?” You asked with a smile, ignoring the butterflies in the pit of your stomach when he smiled at you again.

Lando’s green eyes studied your face, soaking up each detail he missed since the last time he had seen you. He knows you don’t remember him and he doesn’t need you to, it’s kind of nice to feel something without reciprocation from the other.

After a long while, Lando shrugged. “Yeah, uh, the race was pretty good, I mean, I got first place, so I’d say it’s good. Y’know, aside from Oscar’s incident, but that’s not something we can predict, it just happens.”

You watched intently as he explained the race, your eyes oddly drawn to his lips. The pattern at which they move, and the tempting way he pokes his tongue out to tap the corners of his lips, makes you weak.

This was horribly unprofessional of you, and you knew that, but the charms of this young british racer had worked their magic on you, and you weren’t strong enough to resist it.

You felt like it was just the two of you in the room and both of you were trying your damn best not to break, one for more reasons than the other.

“Yeah, it seems like it was a lucky race for you, the pace of your car was incredible to watch.” You pointed out, looking down at the race data on your clipboard. “The RedBull’s were a bit slower this race, do you think that gave you an advantage?”

“Well, they already win races left, right and centre. They have to be bad sometimes.” Lando stifled a laugh. “But, uh, I don’t know. I think it all came down to the car and my ability to control it. The pace was insane, honestly, I wasn’t expecting it to be faster than a RedBull.”

The joke made you giggle and you quickly hid your face by looking away for a mere moment, in an attempt to recollect yourself. Thankfully, none of the cameras were on your face.

“Or it’s just pure talent, I’d say.” You look back up at him, his eyes never once leaving your face. He’s so smiley and it’s contagious, so you can’t help but smile at him, too. “Any plans for the celebration? You must be feeling ecstatic about your first win, so I assume the celebration must be as big as this.”

Lando puts the tube of his water bottle to his lips and takes a long sip, eyes still glued to you. He wasn’t even blinking, far too focused on the shape of your lips and how good they felt that night. That one night you can’t seem to remember.

“I’m not entirely sure, if I’m honest.” He shrugs, tongue poking out to lick his bottom lip before he takes it between his teeth, biting back the widest grin you’ve ever seen on his face. “I still have to call my mum and siblings.”

“I’m sure they’re incredibly proud of you,” you smile, politely. He’s still intently looking at you, cheeks now burning red at your comment accompanied by his massive grin.

It was time to wrap up your chat with Lando, but, in all honesty, you really didn’t want to. You felt something brewing in your chest at the mere feeling of his eyes burning into you, and it excited you.

Still, you ignore it. You had to stay professional, even if it was all too much to handle. “It was lovely chatting with you, Lando. Congratulations and good luck next race.”

“Will you be interviewing me next time, too?” Lando asks, making no move to walk away just yet. His eyes narrowed onto yours when you looked back at him, an adorably surprised look on your face.

“Uh,” you look away for a moment, not sure what to say. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I look forward to seeing you again. Maybe.” He gave you another cocky smirk and nodded his head as a farewell, leaving you nothing but a blushing mess in the media pen.

After a plethora of interviews back to back, you were tired beyond words. Your feet were sore, your back hurt, you felt your eyelids close if you stood still for longer than two seconds. The image of your soft hotel bed made you motivated to keep moving through the building and find your way out.

“Oh, hey!” A familiar voice stopped you in your tracks. “Y/N, was it?”

Your eyes find their way to the person behind you and you’re happy to see that it’s Daniel. “Daniel! Hi, nice to see you again.” You extended a hand to shake and he smiled as he squeezed it.

“Was lovely talking to you earlier. You asked such great questions, honestly, it made me really think about my answers, y’know?” You hadn’t noticed how both of you started walking again and he kept up with your pace. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Oh, interviewing?” You ask and he nods eagerly, with the energy of a little boy. “This was my first official day of interviewing, actually. I had to step in for my colleague.”

“No way.” He muses, jaw slack and eyes glimmering with interest. “The way you interacted with me had me thinking you were carrying a load of experience.”

You stifle a laugh and watch the path ahead. “Yeah, well. I practised a lot in my room. You have race sims, I have a mirror and a hairbrush for a microphone.”

Daniel’s laugh echoed in the mostly empty area around you. “You’re funny, too.” He muses once again, shocked by how much fun you can be. “Listen, I know it’s not professional to ask this, but are you free tonight?”

“Oh, uh,” you look up at him and hesitate. “I’m not interested in-“

“No, no,” Daniel waves his hands in the air as if to stop the words spilling from your mouth. “God, no. I was going to ask if you’d like to come to the club later, all of the drivers are gonna be there to celebrate Lando’s win. It could be fun.”

You paused in your steps, brows furrowing as you felt a beam of energy climb up your spine. All of a sudden, your bed didn’t seem like the comfiest thing in the world and you were willing to exchange it for a pair of heels and a dress.

“I’d like that, yeah.” You smiled at Daniel and he reciprocated the gesture.

He gives you a piece of paper with something scribbled on it and you gladly pluck it from his fingers. “Shoot me a text when you’re ready, I’ll give you a ride to the club. Cheers.”

And with that, he disappeared into the car park, the only remainder of his friendly presence being his lingering smell in the air and the scribbled number on the back of a grocery store coupon.

“Thanks, mate.”

Lando’s hand felt heavy as he shook it with someone he barely knew, congratulating him on the win. He’s been stuck in this large group of people for way too long, desperately looking for an escape. And, eventually, he found it— you.

His eyes have been stuck to you for the past fifteen minutes, patiently waiting for the people to finish congratulating him so he could finally talk to you.

When the perfect moment arose, Lando swiftly shimmied between the dancing bodies and made his way to the bar. You were still sitting there, looking as beautiful as the last time he saw you, but now you were right in front of him and he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Lando’s voice startles you when he plops down in a bar stool beside you.

You smile at him, feeling the same anxiety crawl up your spine as the last time you saw him. “I’d say the same, but this feels like the perfect place for a race winner.”

“I honestly hated it before,” he shrugged, looking out into the crowd. “I used to party after a podium, second place being the best I’ve ever had.”

“But now you’re here as a winner.” You’re still looking at him when he turns back around. There’s something so nostalgic about the way he looks at you, almost as if you’ve already been there and seen him before. “A victory looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” He flashes a grin your way, raising a brow. “I’ll try to win more then. Maybe I’ll get to see you again that way.”

“I’m free whenever you want to see me,” you blurt. Lando’s eyebrows raise with surprise when you say that and he bursts into a small laugh when you start flailing your hands around in the air. “Sorry, that’s so unprofessional, I didn’t mean to–“

“It’s fine,” he assures you. “I was actually going to ask you if you wanted to get out of here. But that’s so unprofessional of me.”

“Mr. Norris!” You exclaim with a faux gasp. Lando watches with an amused grin on his face as you smile back at him. “I’d like that very much.”

It didn’t take long for both of you to swivel your way past the drunk people in the club and find yourselves in a cab. Lando’s hand made a home on your thigh and you didn’t mind. It felt warm, secure and turned you on when he inched it closer to the hem of your dress.

Time flew fast in the company of a race winner, especially one as charming and attractive as Lando. You didn’t realise how many hours had passed after you had left the club and, frankly, you didn’t really care.

The moments spent with him felt somehow nostalgic, as if you had felt this way before. But you’re sure you just dreamt it. There’s no way you’ve met Lando before and didn’t remember it.

It felt silly to think that, so you just ignored that thought and continued watching the intoxicating way his lips moved as he spoke. He’s been talking about something for the past five minutes and you didn’t hear a word of it, being far too focused on the pattern of his freckles, the dip of his nose and the gentleness of his eyes when he looked at you.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked, voice gentle and cautious.

You bit back a smile, eyes flickering between his eyes and lips. “You.”

The nostalgic feeling snuck its way into the back of your mind when he kissed you, his lips and hands feeling like a long lost home. You somehow already knew the melody of his breathing and the pattern of his hair, the familiarity of his kiss starting a fire in your chest. You felt the warmth of his lust spread through your torso, creeping up your neck, softly toying with the giggle in your throat.

Stars spackled on the inside of your eyelids and the harmonious sounds leaving your lips finally drew you back to that night.

Warm hands. Gentle strokes and soft kisses. Careful fingertips trailing their way down your hips. Lando’s tongue danced on your aching bud and you felt the whole world fade away. The mere touch of his fingers on your hips to keep you still reminded you of the last time.

“Mmh, fuck.” Lando hummed against you, the vibrations sending bolts of lightning through your veins. “So good. So fucking good for me, y/n.”

His tongue swirled around your throbbing clit, bringing you that much closer to the edge. The alcohol in your system mixed with the pleasure coursing through your body was a lethal combination. Your legs shook as you felt your walls close around nothing, Lando’s mouth attached to you as if he was a starved man and you were the first thing he could get his mouth on.

“I’m- I-” You couldn’t even finish your sentence before making a mess all over his goatee. He licked up every last bit of you, the sweet taste of you making a perfect combination with the aftertaste of whiskey in the back of his throat.

You stayed lying there, eyes fluttering closed and lips parted, deep breaths inflating your chest. Lando watched you, green eyes soaking in every inch of you— he wasn’t sure if you’d remember him this time, so he made the most of every moment spent with you.

After a while of him watching you, you felt Lando get up and come back in a few minutes, a damp towel in his hands. He touched your most sensitive parts with the weight of nothing, carefulness sewn into every movement he made. At that point, you were drifting in and out of consciousness, not fully knowing when the bed dipped under Lando’s weight again.

You felt his arms wrap around you and pull you in, the warmth of his bare skin heating your cheek. You were hesitant to speak, cautious as to not say something wrong. So, instead of speaking, you lifted your head and connected your lips with his again, the minty taste of his lips making you smile.

“It was you.”

Lando hummed into the kiss, as if to acknowledge that it was him, but also to ask what you meant.

You pulled away, fingers immediately making home in his curls. “That night.” A familiar look painted itself across Lando’s face. “I tried so hard to remember whose lips felt like home, and only the weight of yours reminded me.”

“You were thinking about me?” Lando inquired, brushing stray strands of hair away from your face.

You nodded. “Every day since that night.”

Lando smiled before kissing you again. “You never left my mind. I kept reminiscing that night, waiting for fate to magically bring us back to one another.” He whispered against your hairline, lips pressing soft, love-filled kisses against your skin. “Didn’t expect to win two prizes in one day.”

A small laugh slipped past your lips. “What a lucky man you are, Mr. Norris.”

“The luckiest.” He hummed. “Because I finally have you.”

[hotgeniusreid]

Have you ever tried… This position?

Aaron Hotchner x F! Reader

Mentions of: Sex, P in V (wrap it b4 you tap it), riding (SAVE A HORSE RIDE A COWBOY YEEHAW), oral (M! Receiving), not proofread we die like men

!!!NSFW/MINORSS DNI YOU WILL BE BLOCKED!!!

One thing you had come to realize since your relationship with the BAUs Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner was that without a doubt, he was a very dominant man. He’d soften up when he’d come home from work and see Jack, but in bed? The dominance continued, not that you were complaining but you had spent many lonely nights wondering what it would be like to be on top just once, would he lose his composure? What noises would he make?

You sighed, once again losing focus on the book you were reading, letting out a groan of frustration and tossing the book on the couch, you were losing your mind over something so trivial, you loved being under him, but the thought of being the one on top had you spiraling, you had to experience it at least once and then you’d stop obsessing over it. Standing up from the couch, you had made a decision, thankfully Jack was away at his aunts house for the night, and Aaron was coming tonight from a rather difficult case, you had made up your mind, your were going to ride this man like if your life depended on it.

You had it all planned out, hopping out of the shower, you blow dried and styled your hair, and slipped on your favorite lingerie, a baby blue lace babydoll nightgown with matching lace panties, one night during a girls night with the BAU girls, you had confessed that you had a thing for buying pretty lingerie, you never really had the chance to wear them though, because Aaron always cut right to the chase, always taking you to the room and commanding you to strip with that dominant tone. You did your makeup subtly, and dolled yourself up with some jewelry, spraying his favorite perfume you own, and slipping a short silk white robe on top. Looking at the time, you realized you still had more than enough time to cook dinner and set up the table.

The sound of the door opening and keys being dropped into the bowl by the door signalled that Aaron was finally home, you slipped out of the kitchen and met him at the door, “Hi honey, how was the case?” You murmured as you wrapped your arms around him, standing on your tiptoes to press your lips to his, his arm wrapped around your back as he returned the kiss, “A bit tiring, but we managed to catch the unsub, how are you? Where’s Jack?” He asked, looking around, waiting for Jack to come out and welcome him home. “Jack is having a sleepover with Jessica tonight, said something about a movie night.” You smiled softly, “Come to the table, I just finished making dinner, it’s your favorite.” Turning around, you walked off to the kitchen, his eyes finally raked over your body, breath hitching at the fact that you were wearing the smallest silk robe that looked so nice against your body, he could feel himself growing hard, if only he knew what was under.

He walked into the kitchen, the smell of a home cooked meal making him smile, he loved you more than you could ever know, and seeing you do something so domestic such as serving him food truly made him appreciate just how much you did for him and Jack. He wrapped his arms around you as you began serving the food onto plates, “All right, what’s the big idea hm? Cooking my favorite meal, and looking so pretty, what did I do to deserve this?” You let out a giggle, throwing your head back against him, taking in the fact he was home, “nothing, just wanted to show you how much I missed you, I also happened to have a lot of free time today.” A chuckle escaped him as he shook his head, “Honey you spoil me, takeout and a movie would have been just fine, unless, there’s an ulterior motive for this?” He said, his hand stopping at the tie on your waist. Setting the plate down on the counter, you froze, had he really found you out? Turning around and looking at him with a pout, “Me? Ulterior motive? You wound me Aaron. But maybe I suppose you might be right.” You murmured sensually, turning around and pressing a kiss to his neck, he let out a low hum as he gripped your waist. “I think dinner can wait a little longer, I think I’m hungry for something else.” He said, his voice deep and wanting.

In an instant, his hands were at the tie of your robe, loosening it, a groan fought its way out of his throat at the sight of your lingerie that he was not expecting, his eyes raking down your body, he took in how well the lingerie hugged your curves, he licked his lips, “God you look so fucking pretty baby, this all for me?” You nodded your head, “Why don’t we go to the room?” You said turning around and walking to your shared room, swaying your hips, his pupils dilated, taking in the sight of your ass, he palmed his now achingly hard cock, ridding himself of his shoes and following you to the room. He closed the door behind himself and the moment the door closed he was on you, bringing your body against his, his erection pressed against your ass as you let out a mewl, you wanted to submit to him right then and there, but you remembered the task at hand.

You turned him around so that his back was facing the bed, you pressed your lips to his and walked him backward til his legs hit the end of the bed. Aaron sat down, you dropped down, knees on the floor, looking up at him through your lashes, you began to palm his hard cock through his slacks, a low rumble sounding in his throat, you smiled at him, “Aaron your so handsome.” You murmured, “Especially like this.” You breathed, unbuttoning and unzipping his slacks, bringing them down enough for his cock to spring free. Your mouth always watered at the sight of Aaron’s cock, long and girthy, the tip red and angry, with a pearl of precum adorning it, you licked a long strip from base to tip, before taking his tip in your mouth, a sigh escaping from him as he tangled his hands in your mouth. “You always look so pretty, but your so gorgeous when you have my cock in your mouth.” You moaned around his cock at his praise, taking more of him in your mouth, you bobbed your head up and down, groans and sighs escaping his mouth at the feeling of you giving him head.

You loved riling him up by sucking his cock, the weight of his cock in your mouth never failed to get you wet, the heady taste never failing to make you so needy, you took a deep breath, before swallowing his cock to the base, a moan escaped his throat as his hand tightened in your hair. You pulled off of him, a string of saliva and precum the only thing connecting you to his cock, the string snapped and you wiped it as you stood up, straddling Aaron, bringing your lips to his desperately, your tongues clashing and spit slipping from the corners of your mouths, you grinded yourself against his hard cock, a gasp escaping you at the feeling of cock pressing against your clothed pussy, “Fuck Aaron, wanna ride you so bad.” You whined, circling your hips, he let out a breathy chuckle, “Is that what this is about baby? Wanna ride my cock?” You nodded, a whimper falling from your mouth as he grabbed your ass roughly. “Yea, wanna fuck myself on your cock baby.” You pulled your panties to the side, too desperate to completely pull them off, you moaned at the feeling of your bare pussy against his cock, you bucked your hips at the feeling, your head finding a place on his shoulder.

You heard a dark chuckle before you felt a hand tangling in your hair and pulling you upright, forcing you to stare at Aaron, “If your gonna ride my cock, your gonna fucking look at me while you do it, you can be a good girl and do that right?” You nodded vigorously, whimpering at the feeling of your hair being pulled, you lifted yourself, lining his cock up with your entrance, and dropping yourself down on his cock in one movement, a gasp fought its way out of your throat, you knew Aaron was big, and usually when he’s on top he fucks you so good, but the feeling of being on top and the fullness you felt was something you could have never imagined, you threw your head back, trying to regain your composure, Aaron littered kisses against your neck, “Breathe baby, eyes on me.” He murmured, encircling his arm around your waist, you took a deep breath, and looked at him, the sight of him under you was exactly what you wanted, heavy panting and lidded eyes, you clenched around his cock at just the sight of him looking so fucking sexy. He let out a growl, his thumb digging into your side at the feeling of you clenching around him.

You pressed your forehead to his, staring into his eyes as you lifted yourself up and dropped back down, moans coming from both of you as you began bouncing on his cock, “F-Fuck you look so pretty like this, all ruined over my cock.” He was panting, his hand on the small of your back guiding you to rock your hips back and forth, the action causing friction on your clit, you clenched around him once more, a wanton mewl slipping from you, you placed your hand on his chest, pushing him back til his back was on the bed, you continued rocking your hips against him, “Mmm, Aaron feels s’good, fuck your so big.” You were a mess on top of him, you had spent so much time thinking about how it would feel to be on top, and now that you had it, it was indescribable, you were in your own little world, relishing in the feeling of how deep Aaron was, Aaron planted his feet on the bed, thrusting up into you, a scream tore from your throat, instantly losing your balance and tumbling into his chest as he continued pounding into you from below, moans and cries of ecstasy falling from your lips.

“A-Ah Aaron, gonna cum!” Tears were trickling down from the pleasure he was giving you, you met his thrusts, bouncing up and down, chasing your high, your hand on his abdomen, feeling the coil in your stomach threatening to snap, “You gonna be a good girl and cum for me hm? That’s what you wanted right? To cum while you were riding me? Go ahead baby” He murmured, holding off his release so you could let go first. A choked sob came from you when he brought his hand down to your clit, your orgasm washed over you, waves and waves of pleasure, your thighs trembled and you clenched tightly around him, the feeling of you clenching around him so tightly triggered his own orgasm, hot ropes of white cum staining your insides, you wrapped your arms around his neck as you both came down from your highs, Aaron let out a chuckle, “So this is what you got all pretty for? You wanted to ride me?” You hid your face in his neck, “It’s been on my mind since you left for the case, and it was frustrating me. Had to do something about it.” You mumbled.

He rubbed your back lovingly, “Cmon, let’s go shower and go eat dinner.” You laughed softly, “Oh now you care about dinner?” You smiled up at him, “I cared about dinner from the moment I got home, you just distracted me honey.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, he pulled out of you, you whined at the loss and grimaced at the feeling of his cum leaking out, he stood up, picking you up bridal style and taking you to shower, but to no surprise, he fucked you in the shower, saying something along the lines of ‘having to thank you for riding him’. Lying down in bed, thoroughly satisfied, you looked at him, a smile gracing his features, “I love you.” He whispered, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, before leaning down and kissing you softly, “I love you too.” You said as you snuggled into him, basking in the post sex haze.

When Aaron went into the office the next morning looking well-rested and in a good mood, Morgan patted him on the back, “Had a good night last huh?” Morgan teased, smirk on his face, Aaron smirked back “A very good night indeed.”

[sweetiepipebomb]

No. I will continue to shame them and then follow it up with handing them a thick folder containing a list of all their local thrift stores and affordable clothes outlets, as well as dozens of (printed!) (In color!) (At my own expense!) potential outfits based on their particular colors, including appropriate outfit suggestions for every season, major life event, and other common circumstances. I will not watch these diamonds in the rough go dripless. It's not their fault no one taught them (and i will stress this) but it is their responsibility to learn how to dress. It is my civic duty as a fashion nerd to help teach them and I will not be "peace and love UwU"-ed out of setting these ladies STRAIGHT goddamn it.

(Not that they HAVE to wear what I suggest, it's like when your mom picks out your clothes. It's not the best but it's a hell of a lot better than the nonsense you come up with before you give a shit to learn how to dress yourself as a teenager)

This is second PUBERTY after all. Sorry, but bullying is part of the teenage experience! Normal girls who dress like shit get bullied for what they wear. If your thing is gonna be dressing like shit then you gotta learn to own it in the face of adversity. But for the other 95% of girls who want to dress to impress, hopefully it will be more constructive than it is painful.

and frankly, wearing an outfit you KNOW you look great in does wonders for dysphoria. Trust. It's magical.

Being a good ally means not cringe-shaming transfems. like I get it. she's wearing cheap clothes from Amazon. she's posting the stereotypical reddit memes about programmer socks and blåhaj and monster energy. Whatever. It's fucking second puberty. You were awkward at your first. She's exploring her gender later in life than a cis girl would. It's being a teenager again but everyone shames you even worse for not being grown up already, because you've passed the arbitrary gate of "adult", as if your own actualized personhood can be acquired that fast. Convincing and shaming her like she's the problem for being "cringe" or "reddit" or "stereotypical" doesn't help her actualize that self at all. It's the same shame society forces on teenage girls except it's "justified" either for reasons of pure transmisogyny or because she "should be acting like an adult", as if our childhoods, our girl's experiences, our girlhood, are not routinely and cruelly denied. What sense does it make to stifle someone who was not allowed to grow previously? Who does that help? Notice this behavior in yourself and others and correct it.

[forthefictionallesbians]

I've been seeing a lot of anti-independent rhetoric on the overnet forums recently, and I feel like it's important to clear some things up.

It is perfectly fine to think about what it would be like to be a floret, even if you're an independent or a free terranist! It's almost impossible to avoid wondering about it from time to time when we're surrounded by the affini and their propaganda. And, in fact, it is actively a good thing to daydream about, so you can get better at rejecting affini advances if you find yourself in a compromising situation!

Even for the most committed of feralists, it is a good exercise to be able to hold something in your mind and then reject it. Just rejecting it full-stop leaves you vulnerable to the affini's shock and snuggle tactics. We all have fantasies about being the one who can fully resist them on sheer willpower alone, but I have had too many strong-willed friends become subby little sprouts because they didn't prepare properly. You need to have mental experience with sinking into their soft, comforting vines, feeling your thoughts and worries drfit awayy, starinng up inko theirr irreestisble eyess and fesling thiieerr bi9rhytjm

And then pulling yourself back, no harm done! Knowing how bad things can be, preparing for the worst, and practicing a path to coming out on top. It may take a bit logner to come bavk uo each time ass tou drif5t and think sboute it butr its imortsnt andd doesnr mesn yeour sjny less indpednte

Edit: Stop saying I'm a sprout!!! It's not illegal to make a few typos when you're distracted with tooughts odf being embeaxed by ann affini because yoru dso good st restidting. See, Incan go back to fullt normal after!!!!!

[paci-papa]

"Fuck! Sorry, I've got to find a bathroom!"

Your best friend hid a giggle as you suddenly stood up and darted for the nearest restroom.

You knew she probably thought you were desperate, about to have an accident in your cute little panties if you couldn't find a potty in time. She couldn't have been more wrong, though.

What she didn't know was that you had already had an accident, or three, while you were sitting there talking with her over appetizers. The thick, absorbent padding between your legs kept your pants nice and dry, however.

No, you were running to the bathroom now, not to use the toilet (or potty as you often called it now), but because of a text you had gotten from Papa.

Diaper check. 30 seconds.

You had 30 seconds to send a picture of your diaper to Papa or face the consequences. You knew from experience, you wouldn't like the consequences.

You made it to the bathroom just in time to tear down your pants, snap a picture, and send it off.

You didn't have time to lock the bathroom door.

"Honey, is everything ok? You took off pretty... Oh my God!"

Your best friend walked through the door just in time to literally catch you with your pants down. Your soggy diaper sagged heavily between your legs.

Your friend didn't even try to stifle her giggles this time.

"Oh, sweet pea, it looks like someone is in a bad need of a change!"

And that's how you found yourself lying on your back on the restroom's changing table, legs spread as you wondered if from now on your best friend would be anything more than a glorified babysitter.

[thatoneevanfan]

Remus Lupin x popular girl!reader

In which the popular girl starts taking interest in her tutor.

warnings: lowkey bimbo reader, oblivious Remus, cussing, tension, lowkey suggestive

—————————————————————————————————————

YOUR POV:

“Ughhh” you groan as you slam your head against your desk. “I don’t even know what you see in him. Isn’t he like a nerd?” Your friend, who was laying uninterested on your bed, reading some fashion magazine. “Well… Kind of but that’s what makes him so hot. He’s hot and he doesn’t even know it! Such a turn on.” You daydream.

“You sound like you’d fuck his brains out.” She chuckles plainly, barely leaving any actual emotion in her words.

“well that’s the thing. I WOULD. If only he gave me the chance…” You whine out frustrated while trying to once again regain your focus on your potions essay.

“Also what the fuck is this essay. I don’t get anything. Potion class sucks.” You groan out dramatically.

“Why don’t you just ask your wonderful man to tutor you?” She rolls her eyes sarcastically. You bite your lips focused but your demeanor changes at her suggestion.

“Wait a minute… YOURE BLUDDY BRILLIANT.” You shout out excitedly, jumping over to the bed and placing a smooch on her forehead.

“What? I wasn’t being serious Y/n! Where are you going?” She yells after you as you skip outside the dormitory, leaving her dumbfounded on your bed. Quickly you run back into the room and grab her along, to help with your plan.

—————————————————————————————————————

No Pov:

He walks into the library looking for his favorite book on one of the shelves. Suddenly he hears sighs coming from behind one of the shelves. With much curiosity and worry he decided to go look into the noise.

As he walks around the he spots you.

Well and your friend.

He watches as you dramatically sigh and whine over an essay. He pretends to look for a book to continue eaves dropping.

“This essay is so hard. If only I had someone that could tutor me.” He hears you, once again, sigh dramatically. Any less oblivious person would have instantly noticed your intention, Remus however was way too oblivious to understand your intent. Innocently he turns around and asks you if you need a tutor.

“Well there’s just noooo way i Could ask that of you…” You sigh once again longer than you should have.

He however assures you that he would love to help you. He is a prefect after all.

You happily agree and plan a time and place to meet.

_____________________________________

NO POV:

Happily you start skipping over to your agreed upon place. You grin to yourself as you look down on your outfit. Your school skirt, way too short. Your out of school shirt, way too much cleavage. Perfect.

“Hiii Remus” You smile innocently at the poor boy who is still completely oblivious.

“Hi Y/n, so i’ve looked at your task and basically you have to write down what happens through out the experiment. Lucky for you I have connections so we get to use the potions classroom and the stuff in it.” He smiles proudly.

“Oh wow remus! That’s great, I wonder what i would have done without you.” You exclaim dramatically.

He blushes furiously at your words.

You both make your way to the classroom to start working on the project.

_____________________________________

“Sooo you crush this unicorn hair, mix it in with the hardsnail slime and the water, then it turns into this white thicker liquid.” He explains with full concentration.

“Mhmm does it?” You giggle at his words like a 14 year old boy. His eyebrows furrow at your reaction as he tries to figure out what was so funny. “Why did you- Oh. Y/n that’s-“ He cuts him self of with silence as he remains speechless. You sit quiet with a proud grin.

“anyway… you continue by stirring.” he instructs with a stutter.

—————————————————————————————————————

The awkwardness continues for another hour, as you manage to make everything he says have a sexual undertone, as well as occasionally brushing against him.

However something finally makes him crack.

The liquid you both had made seemed to start bubbling and started splashing. Some of the white liquid splashed onto his face, making it look quite… sexual.

“Now in a different setting i’d think that’s hot.” You smile suggestively.

He takes a sharp breath and looks at you with furrowed brows.

You reach out to wipe it away but he grabs your wrist mid move.

“Y/n.” he exclaims, saying your name like a warning.

You start to feel a little bit embarrassed, feeling rejected.

You apologize and quickly get up to leave, gathering your things.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He once again warns. You look up at him with confusion, slightly blushing at his demanding tone.

You open your mouth to respond but quickly get shut up by him pulling you in for a kiss. You continue to make out for a few seconds before he pulls off for air. He grabs his stuff and walks to the door. “This is what you wanted isn’t it?” He grins at you before leaving you there.

You stand there dumbfounded but your mouth quickly turns into a grin.

He totally wants you. You think to yourself proudly.

But… what will the next step be?

[hollowed-theory-hall]

i read your horcrux post, its fascinating and very well done! im just stuck on one thing: while i agree that tom definitely has a good share of self-hatred, enough to cause himself pain and endure an agonising process to become immortal, doesnt the whole idea of "killing yourself" for the ritual seem very risky? like what if you actually die lmao then the whole thing was all for naught. i mean i can also see him being confident and arrogant enough to believe he COULD do it without mistakes, but still. seems like a big risk considering his whole shtick is avoiding death as far as possible. anyway thank you for all your metas they are very enjoyable to read and think about!!!

Thank you so much! 💕 I'm glad you liked my Horcrux theory, it's one of the earliest ones I made here and I'm still pretty proud of it.

As for the risk — yeah, it is incredibly risky, that's kind of the point. This is a ritual we know Tom was crazy to attempt multiple times, a ritual in-universe that even just doing it once is considered insanely risky and potentially damaging, not to mention multiple times:

‘Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction. ...’I mean, why mention it then?” she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut;

(HBP)

That was what you told me he said. ‘Further than anybody,’ And I thought I knew what that meant, though the Death Eaters did not. He was referring to his Horcruxes, Horcruxes in the plural, Harry, which I do not believe any other wizard has ever had. 

(HBP) - only part of the quote since the rest of Dumbles' analysis of Voldemort's character in the above section is questionable.

JKR stated in an interview there is a final horrible step that must be taken to make a Horcrux, something beyond just murder. Cannibalism, physical self-mutilation, or masturbating over the corpse (Yes, I have read this theory somewhere) don't make sense because then Harry couldn't become a Horcrux. It doesn't really leave us with many possibilities.

Additionally, Voldemort talks of how only he was skilled and brave enough to attempt it more than once, to go "further than anyone" ever had:

I, who have gone further than anybody along the path that leads to immortality. You know my goal — to conquer death. And now, I was tested, and it appeared that one or more of my experiments had worked . . . for I had not been killed, though the curse should have done it.

(GoF)

If there was no risk, more people would make Horcruxes and more people would make multiple Horcruxes. Voldemort himself calls it an "experiment". He wasn't sure it would work at any point but the risk was worth it for him.

when he asks Slughorn what would happen if you made multiple Horcruxes he already made two Horcruxes. He experimented with Horcrux when he had little to no information on them. He experimented magically on himself. Multiple times. (He also mentioned "experiments" in plural so I wonder if he had another method besides Horcruxes that he attempted...). This is not a person who cares about "risk" like a normal person. Riping your soul apart to make a Horcrux, even without my theory, is in itself, a huge risk — and he does so consciously 6 times!

Dumbledore, Slughorn, and Voldemort all talk of Horcruxes like an unknown magic, barely attempted by anyone throughout history. Even Magick Moste Evile doesn't give more than a mention to the concept of Horcruxes because no one actually makes them. (It's the spider georg meme: "average dark wizard makes 1 horcrux in their lifetime factoid actualy just statistical error. average dark wizard makes 0 horcruxes. Horcrux Tom, who lives as a wraith in albenia & made 7 horcruxes, is an outlier adn should not have been counted").

If you need to temporarily kill yourself to become immortal it would explain why not more people have tried it. I mean, Grindelwald wanted to be the Master of Death, so why not make a Horcrux, I'm sure he was familiar with the ritual?

Becouse the risk was too great for him to take.

I talked about this a bit here and @iamnmbr3 has this post about this, but Tom, for all that he is the heir of Slytherin, acts a lot like a Gryffindor. He is prideful, sure, but he is so incredibly brave. Experimenting on himself with a super dangerous ritual 7 times is incredibly in character for him. Yes, he's arrogant, he's sure he'd succeed, but unlike Grindelwald or (younger) Dumbledore, he is willing to take the ultimate risk for the sake of his immortality.

It also makes sense symbolically. Like, to become immortal you have to risk your life — to live forever you must be ready to go through death. It makes sense in a symbolic sort of way. It just feels right.

[holyguardian]

Aerith already seemed to have a wonderful mess in their shared room. A temporary one, mind. Strewn across her side of the bed were her favourite clothes — some night dresses, some simple linen dresses, and some of her favourite day dresses. The fancier evening dresses were left to her old room for now, she didn't want to fill their shared wardrobe to the brim before Somnus even had a chance to sort his own clothes.

There was a small, knowing smile spread upon her lips when she heard that familiar rush-and-quickly-shut-door. When she was a kid she remembered her father having the exact same reaction to bath being so separate from dressing.

She hummed a tone of agreement, her back respectfully turned to him while she folded her dresses to store. "I do miss your... well, I called it a pond and got in trouble." she admitted with a laugh. "But your very spacious baths did grow on me."

Another thought then came to her. "I'll request a larger wooden tub for you, though. Those larger ones are more often used, you just got lumped with the Princess bath. Maybe you won't have to squish in next time."

It was only when Somnus asked his hesitant questions that she stopped what she was doing and turned to him. She blinked, then softened a little with a shake of her head. "Pick out your clothes. If you felt like wearing our style, then that is something different, but no one who matters will expect for you to change."

Aerith walked over to him, and as he picked out the cloth for his toga and such, she offered her open hands to take the bundled materials briefly from him. "Don't look worried. I'm not going to attempt to wrap you up in a disaster." she lightly teased, directing him to come behind an ornate wooden divider.

Tucked away in privacy was a cozy space for changing into fresh clothes, though it wasn't as strict as stand and change. There was a dressing table and comfortable chair, where she directed him to sit down. "We're a little luxurious about our daily routine." she informed him. Once he sat down, a picture of gentle curiousity as he was assaulted with even more information, she eased a fur mantle around his shoulders. It was to keep him warm while the finishing touches were applied. "Of course you don't have to follow our routines, but there's no harm in showing you how to pamper yourself a little, is there?"

Aerith walked around, kneeling to ease a basin of water from it's unassuming place beneath the dressing table. "Feet up." she instructed, placing the basin down while she eased his feet to lower into the warmed water. "I usually skip the soaking, I just wash but you have to experience the full routine today."

Sat in a comfortable chair, wrapped in warm furs, feet soaking, Somnus had likely never complicated something as straightforward as 'pull new clothes on' like this before. And he would experience no mercy whatsoever when Aerith wordlessly warmed something between her hands. It smelled pleasant. Like it belonged on a tray of desserts, it had an earthy and nutty kind of scent, laced with something sweet.

Moving behind him, she raked her fingers through his damp hair, again, and again, before massaging over his scalp with her fingertips in unrushed circular motions. She didn't even give warning before her 'attack', and she didn't sound apologetic at all given the way she hummed an idle little tune.

And just like that he held part of Aerith’s soul and heart in his hands. For a moment Somnus wanted to turn this offer down. As if he wasn’t worthy of seeing these paintings. Not yet. They were married, yes. They had lived through… actually. They had lived through a lot in a short time. Even if they were parted again, there was no possibility of them losing each other’s bond once more.

And he never wanted to part from her again, if he was listening to this quiet voice in his mind.

Holding the parchments carefully against his chest, Somnus mustered the painting of her birth father again. His head tilting as if he expected Gast’s spirit to spring forward, if he just looked at it from another perspective. Was she serious? She made it sound like sometimes the late king still walked these halls.

Though he wanted to ask, he barely got the chance to save the bound parchments as Aerith directed him around. The paintings were laid onto the bed in their chambers, before he just… followed along. A little overwhelmed and trying to take in all that was told to him… how could baths be so different here?

Somnus really was a little suspicious at this all. The silence that followed Aerith’s bubbling explanations left him frozen to the spot for a moment. Because he… did not understand. This was their bath? Obviously. It just… looked so small. As if one person could use it. It smelled amazingly. And yet it was made from wood… and a cloth. That did not add up in Somnus’ head and as he carefully stepped closer to look over the edge into the milky water as if he was eyeing a suspicious soup, he considered whether he was supposed to remove the cloth. Maybe use it to wash himself with?

He had half the idea to turn around and ask Aerith for more instructions, but that seemed… embarrassing. So… he made do with what he had at hand.

And the warm flowery water truly was like heaven to his body. He knew warm baths. But this one felt like it had been cooked water. Almost scalding. But oh so good. Somnus wanted to sink into it fully, though he treated this more like a task yet. Because Aerith needed to bathe, too, yet. And the maids and servants would need some time to prepare it for her after he got his turn, right? They needed to be done ahead of dinner to appease the Queen.

Emerging from the bathroom, wrapped in this… robe? Somnus could not but throw a glance down each side of the hall, listing for a moment, before he dared to cross it again and hurry into their chambers as if he was fleeing from something with his hands tightly holding onto the robe around him and the clapping of bare feet on stone echoing after.

 Safe. And by the Astrals. He really felt like a whole new person now. Smelled like one, too.

“Well… your baths are a lot stranger than ours. They are so… small and hot.”, he mentioned, though obviously not with ill intent. It was just… new. As new as this whole life would be. He had already been heading for his bag, though then stood still. In his assumption that Aerith would have tow ait for a bit anyway, he outright asked her for more help.

“What should I wear? I… should I wear something more according your lands’ dressing rules?”

[pink-slay]

arcane Viktor and likely spoilers for both seasons

I keep thinking about Viktor from arcane all the time and I've written poems and had lengthy conversations about it but decided that I need to state it in prose to on an account that I barely update because this account is full of things that mean something to me

I constantly think about the lengths Viktor went to to be well. The writers lured me in thinking maybe hextech or the arcane or shimmer would help Viktor's vision of running on a purple arcane body become a reality. However in the end viktor became equally if not more disabled than before. He lived, yes, but at what cost, killing Sky?

And I'm a believer in the mutual JayVik love and understanding, but Sky still mattered. She was brilliant and wonderful and kept Viktor grounded. Took his head out of his work and into the clouds (eventually literally).

Often, as disabled people, we are told that if we worked harder our problems could go away and it is a prominent belief in our culture, even if unconsciously so. I remember years ago Imani Barbarin made a video on how able bodied people want to believe they could work their way out of any disability by trying harder. They then project this onto disabled people to shield themselves from their inevitable fate (disability or death). This myth is pervasive and as much as I and many people want the betterment of all, perpetuating this myth, even in a fantasy story, is at best unrealistic and at worst problematic.

However, Arcane subverts this expectation because Viktor lives, but he lives a disabled life. He tried harder, and it tore him apart. To me this is a more powerful story than overcoming. Most can try, and most don't overcome not due to personal shortcoming but because trying harder ≠ getting better (at least inherently and especially with disability).

It reminded me of how in my freshman year of college, I dropped my math minor. It was upsetting and annoying because it was an attempt to hold onto the pieces of my first analytical love, math. However I didn't have the right wheelchair then and I didn't know it yet but I was becoming progressively more paralyzed. I just couldn't make it to the classroom they assigned me and they refused to change it.

I told my mother that at a certain point it felt more impactful that my disability made a noticeable impact in limiting me instead of trying to torture myself into narrative of overcoming. Not taking that first class was one of many times Calc II would get in my way, each time related to disability.

Viktor, like me, had a progressive disability that would've continued to progress until it killed him without drastic action. For me the drastic action was a surgery that made me be on constant opioids all summer and destroyed my relationship with my mother and the scraps of independence I still had. For Viktor it was taking shimmer and bearing the almighty power of the hex core.

I guess I write all this to say that my love of math and my disability parallel viktor. We have scientific loves and would work ourselves to death. We can be romantic when we get our heads out of our work. And we are disabled. Sick and disabled. So sick we put our lives at risk for health. Even a glimmer of health.

I know Jayce's speech is controversial among disabled people. I respect the opinions of others but I think many people don't get the experience of severe disability when interpreting it. In real life with the wide variety of disabilities, Viktor may not fall into that category but he surely does in Piltover. For me, my disability is severe. So severe I questioned if, as much as I looked up to Viktor, II could ever be respected like him. However disabled people don't become more respected by shunning nonambulatory powerchair users like me. They just isolate those that make up their community.

From a severely disabled person, understand that yes, I understand you want to fix yourself, but when you have a disability that at any point threatens your life, there is a certain ubiquitous self destruction in everything you do. That's why Viktor needed Jayce's speech. It wasn't because Jayce didn't see Viktor or his pain. Jayce knew Viktor was in pain. Jayce knew Viktor better than he knew anyone. And Jayce knew Viktor needed to be shown his value that was independent of effort--- his value as a person.

To be loved is to hear things that you can't fully wrap your head around. I believe (when I think really hard about it) that I can be who am both because of and despite my disability. I say to my closest friends that it feels like all I ever was was a miracle sick child who lived and a smart person. And I break off each quality about myself and my friend says that she'd still find value in me. Because there are people in our lives like Jayce or my friend who will give speeches to you, not to gain anything but to show you your worth even if it kills them. Because in every universe, sometimes there's only one person who can show you that-- who can stop you from ending the world even if it means succumbing to life and it's inevitable partner, death. Because the people we love don't want to see our sinews as we tear apart ourselves to breathe. They want to see us. They don't want us to suffer as much as we do. But for us there is a desire to be well. And that desire drives suffering it doesn't fix it.

Viktor meant a lot to me as someone whose life keeps changing especially in regards to their disability. Hesitancy toward drugs and spinal hardware and leg braces. And so did the way he almost destroyed the world craving something.

I have longed to be normal, to be well for most of my life. But life doesn't work that way. In fixing ourselvea and the things we view as flaws, we lose beautiful parts in the crossfire. Our friends beg us to see ourselves and if we're lucky our friends do. But so do we. I don't succeed but maybe Arcane has pushed me to see the beauty of being kind to myself because working myself into the ground isn't worth the pain especially with such a bleak unsuccessful outcome. We'll be told to fix ourselves forever but at least for once, in this one show, we can be valued despite our ardor for work. Yes, it isn't inherently wrong to want to be better. But we have lifetimes for that. Just this once maybe we can sit in the beauty of being loved both because

and despite.

[v3nusxsky]

Showing you the ropes

*authors note~ so this one is living in my head rent free and I wasn’t sure if I wasn’t gonna post it but @dingdongthetail told me I should. Do you all want a series’s?*

Trigger warnings~ nothing?

Prompt ~ none? my current life?

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

For the longest time you knew this job was your true calling. Starting your teacher training degree was everything you spent years working towards and now you were half way through the program. Your placement was the one and only Nevermore. You’d head so many things about Nevermore from your peers in the university of Jericho but nothing ever good. Or was then that moving two hours from your home town sounded like a bad idea. Of course they placed you in Nevermore knowing you don’t have much local knowledge yet. Days leading up to your time at Nevermore you spent wondering if what you had heard was true. How would this seven week block go?

The first thing you noted was you happened to have older students for your classes. The teachers seemed to be nice enough, possibly even afraid of you. The students seemed shocked at your appearance in their classrooms. Some challenged you instantly, others stuck to you like glue. It’s all pretty text book. Until it’s not.

Your first Friday there was when you realised how challenging this career is. Finding yourself in the headmistress’s office due to a students ability accidentally causing harm to another teacher and you being a witness to the scene. You’d already filled the paperwork out yet apparently you seemed to have botched the form. Would the principal be mad? Would you lose your teaching placement? What if you did something terribly wrong and she wanted to yell at you? The anxious thoughts continued to swirl round your mind as you waited for the striking woman to speak to you.

“Don’t look so nervous dear, you aren’t in any trouble” Larissa reassured gently, her eyes flickering up to watch you visibly relax. “Much better now darling let’s do this form together, I understand it’s your first time, so let me teach you what to do.” Stunned you just nodded along in understanding answering her questions as she asked them. “What’s your role here?” She murmured gently to you causing you to pause. “I uh just a placement teacher?” If you could’ve, you would’ve died of embarrassment on the spot as the look of pity she gave you. “No darling, you aren’t just anything you’re a teacher okay? You may be in training but you’re still teaching at my school.”

Perhaps it was embarrassment or maybe the fact she was practically a goddess in front of you, well known for her years of experience in the field but you cheeks heated up as a blush spread all over your cheeks as you ducked your head slightly. Praise and understanding from adults was always something you struggled to accept, the lack of it in your younger years meant you craved it all the more. The rest of the form was simple and she walked you through everything, gently explaining what you needed to know and what would happen next. “There. All finished. And you darling, if you ever need anything, a chat, some help with plans for lessons or even just to say hello, my door is always open for you darling” she mumbled as she stood up to lead you from the office. Perhaps this placement wouldn’t be bad at all especially with such a supportive headmistress

[dreamyintersexouppy]

idk what fantasy you're living in that you think speaking to me this way is ok, but it really seems like you're assuming i'm... not an intersex transfem, or at least i don't count cuz i'm one of the Bad Ones. stop talking to me like im ignorant cuz im not. i lived this, my life has been real and my thoughts and personhood is real. if you think im diminishing your trauma just because i said you're not tma you aren't listening. if you think im being reductive when i talk about agab affecting position in transfeminism you have understood too few transfeminist concepts. it's not about "being raised as a boy", cuz i sure wasn't, i was raised as a faggot, and i never got to be a girl. the difference is me being a girl is not aligning with my agab, i have no "im afab" to fall back on to explain why im on e or getting bottom surgery. i don't doubt that you face transmisogyny but you are not who it is for. you literally admit yourself that the small moments where you do get your assignment remembered the transmisogynistic abuse lessens. i never have those moments, i never have escape.

i understand this is a lot of pain to experience intersexism and get hit by elements of transmisogy at the same time, probably because that's what my life consists of. your argument boils down to the same awful argument that people use to discredit tme/tma language and honestly, thank you. thank you for demonstrating exactly the kind of interaction that the concept of an afab transfem is meant to foster. you claim i am speaking Over you, you insult me, degrade me, you call me things i've heard a thousand times and you do it righteously, can't you see you're only trying to silence me not trying to argue. you are not being insulted by being told you are appropriating my life, you're doing it to describe very painful and valid trauma but that doesn't make what you appropriated actually true or especially unharmful to others. if any ounce of you is a transfeminist like your bio says, you wouldn't speak to trans women this way ever again, but somehow i think that's a useless plea, i honestly believe you'll just keep on talking like this, keep misinterpreting transfeminist language and wearing my life as a mask to hide your pain, only ever having the transfeminist solidarity with your own and then screaming at us for being "exclusionists." it's unoriginal, i've seen it all before, and im just so tired of all of you assuming i'm stupid. but hey, getting away with this kind of vocal abuse is what having privilege over transfems lets you do, i wonder how you got that privilege

surgeries and goals does not a tranny make, but i know you've seen a lot of what our lives are made of, the systems that perpetuate transmisogyny. of all people you should know better

ok for the record, the intersex argument for afab transfems is still baseless, when we are coercively or especially forcefully assigned a gender at birth we are subject to the forces of that assignment. it doesn't make me get treated like a cis woman because i had a period, i got treated like a weird "man" with something wrong with me, the same is true for any intersex person, how our conditions may show themselves don't actually change our cagab, which is the thing that matters for our society to identify deviants. we're placed into a category and if we perform that category we get to stay, if we don't we get put in the deviant box and excluded. afabs performing womanhood is EXACTLY what is wanted from them, even if they think they're "biologically male." and that's the crux of it really, being intersex is a biological condition, and because transness and gender is defined socially by our systems privileging certain genders and forceful reinforcement of the binary, it has very little to do with biology (ex why the trump order has bad biology in it, it's not about biology, it's about exterminating a social group not defined by actual biology). the assholes who argue for the case of the intersex afab transfem simply believe that there is something about transfems that can be biological, as in something biologically male. they always bring up theoreticals like "well what if they were assigned female and grew up with a body that went through male puberty" and like... you know what happens right? they get hrt, often forcefully. they are not trans they are being forced to be CIS women, and society won't demonize them for that. no one bats an eye when an afab takes estrogen, no doctor struggles to prescribe it to them, no one gets fanatical about how there's an evil cult giving them estrogen, no one calls them predators or baeddels or pedophiles. like i'm sorry but if you think an intersex argument has any validity you are boiling transness down to something biological, boiling the identities of intersex people down to be centered entirely around our conditions, and treating real trans women like a costume that can be put on and taken off for fun while we truly suffer under the weight of constant transmisogyny. you are a stooge and you invite only your own to join, either purposely or unwittingly letting them be fed vitriol and lies that align with supporting the patriarchy and continuing the real oppression of real trans women. biggest tell that the afab transfem isn't transfem: she and those who support her care nothing for her transfem sisters, disgraceful

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Series

day three: the morning after

ᰔ pairing: oberyn martell x reader

ᰔ summary: everyone talks about their night in oberyn's bed, but they seem to leave out what happens the morning after.

ᰔ author's note: i could write about oberyn martell every day for the rest of my life and feel fulfilled. he's one of my favorite pedro boys and i'll never get over the end of his story. ouch ouch ouch. also i don't write a lot of smut so please let me know how i can improve! i'd like to get better at it :)

ᰔ content warning: 18+ / MDNI!!! it's oberyn, all bets are off. actually he's really sweet in this one, in his own way. afab!reader. fingering. very loose GoT lore here and there.

Many had warned you of the Prince's bed and what a night with him entailed. It was no secret that Oberyn was not shy, not one to hold back when in the throws of passion. If you had heard one thing about his bedchambers, you had heard a thousand.

You stirred at the sound of the sea as it wafted through the quiet room. As you came to your senses, you felt two strong arms wrapped around you. One hand was settled beneath your breasts, the pad of his thumb pressed into the soft flesh between your sternum. The other cradled your thigh, his arm across your hips.

A soft squeak slipped from you as you stretched in Oberyn's hold. Even after your rest, your body still ached with pleasure. The few you had taken to bed before had never left you feeling how you did now. When you slunk out of their rooms, a tight knot sat in the pit of your stomach— dissatisfaction and a sense of disgust washed over you.

Here, you felt loose and limber, pliable pressed against the chest of your lover. As you shifted again, you felt Oberyn's hand squeeze you. His hold was gentle but firm as the pads of his fingers left marks in your flesh. You felt his lips press against the back of your neck and trailed along your shoulder.

"Good morning, my darling," Oberyn muttered against your bare skin. It sent a shiver down your spine, hazy memories of the night before slowly coming back to you. While it was a night you'd never forget, Dornish wine left some details muddled.

"Good morning," you murmured. You turned your head to catch his sleepy gaze. Part of you wondered if Oberyn ever looked bad— who managed to look handsome moments after waking up?

As his lips brushed against a mark he left last night, you shivered. Even after how spent he left you last night, you still felt that simmer inside you. A hunger in you that only Oberyn seemed to satiate. You thought you'd had your fill last night, but with his lips all over you...

"Oberyn," you breathed out. You lost track of what had been on your lips, some throw away comment about how nice his bed was. Instead, all you thought of was his hand on your hips and how it dipped between your thighs.

It was no secret that Oberyn was good with his hands, the way he wielded every weapon in his armory. His fingers? You believed they were crafted by the Gods above, a divine gift the Dornish prince knew how to use well. How you had been so lucky to receive their treatment, you still had yet to wrap your head around it. Not that you had time to figure out, the way they teased against your lips.

"Use your words. You had no issues doing so last night." Oberyn's low voice in your ear, his middle finger drew slow, agonizing circles against your clit. That simmer in your stomach bubbled as his other hand shifted from beneath your breast. He twisted your nipple, a smirk on his lips as you gasped under your breath. Every little sound that slipped out of you only brought him more pleasure.

"Oberyn—" You arched your back into his chest as desperation grew within you. You had your share of experience with the Dornish shores, sailed on them between fortnights, yet they were nothing compared to the divine pleasure that washed over you with every lazy circle of Oberyn's finger.

"More, my darling. Don't let yourself grow distracted." Even the way he spoke had that growing heat stretch up your spine. It battled the beating sun that began to spill into the room, the humidity thick in the air.

"Ah�� Harder, please," you pleaded. Oberyn pressed a second finger down, his fingers followed your command as they moved faster. He was willing to give you whatever you wanted if it meant he heard those pathetic little sounds you couldn't hold back. The murmurs and the soft moans that he had enjoyed the night before, had hoped to hear again.

"So obedient," Oberyn praised. His other hand moved from one breast to the other, giving your pert nipple the attention it deserved.

"Need you inside me. Want to feel you," you managed to get out. It was hard to string together words, piece together cohesive thoughts as he touched you. Whatever had been left in your mind was moot as his hand abandoned your breast to fill your cunt.

As one finger filled your cunt, your own hands grabbed for his arms. Not to stop him, but to brace yourself– his back had seen what your own hands were capable of last night. His finger curled and found the point of pleasure few- if any other lover had found. How he made such quick work, you weren't sure, and you were in no position to question it as he slipped a second finger in.

"Gods!" You cried out as both hands worked in tandem. Oberyn's name slipped from your lips between begs and please for more, more. Of those who had seen the inside of his personal bedchamber, you were his favorite. The way your voice drifted through the room, how soft you were in his hands. He wondered if you had been crafted by the Gods for his own sake.

"That's it, my darling," he murmured in your ear. "Let yourself go." It was all you needed to let yourself fall over the edge, your own fingers dug into the flesh of his arms as you released all over his hands. Oberyn's hands worked you through the pleasure until you were slump against his chest again.

You felt the ache of emptiness as his hands moved away, away from your body. Your eyes were trained on Oberyn as he brought his fingers to his lips, his eyes met yours as he licked them clean. Even as you recovered from your orgasm, you felt that simmer return as it settled in the pit of your stomach.

"Sweet," Oberyn muttered to himself as his fingers slipped out of his mouth. You shifted in his hold to face him, your arms around his neck as you kissed him. The taste of you still lingered on his tongue.

Of all the things you had heard about Oberyn's bedchambers, none had prepared you for this. Had you been the only one to receive such treatment, to be pleasured by the Dornish prince with care as the sun rose? Were others blessed by the Gods by way of a man such as him?

Whether they were or not, it didn't matter to you. Not when you were the one who kept his bed warm in the moment, the one with your name on Oberyn's lips and his cock inside you.

[aventurineswife]

You’ve probably gotten plenty of asks starting with “Hear me out,” but like, hear me out. 😆

Reader and one (or more) of the Stellaron Hunters trying to give Sesame Cake a bath.

As you can imagine, it probably goes very poorly. 🤣

(Also, I think I saw a post while scrolling calling Sesame Cake one of those orange cats. At the very least, Sesame certainly looks like he has the brain cell of an orange! Absolutely nothing behind those eyes. 😂)

A Cake-Cat’s Revolution

Summary: You and Kafka engage in a light-hearted experiment with an eccentric creature known as Shader Cat, a hybrid of a cat and a cake. After attempting to bathe the creature, it escapes and causes a bit of chaos, eventually settling in Kafka's lap.

Tags: Kafka x Reader, Humor, Whimsy, Mischief, Absurdity, Lighthearted, Surreal, Creature Interaction, Unpredictability.

The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the plush sofa where Kafka lounged, looking every bit the epitome of cool detachment and calculated elegance. She leaned back against a set of cushions, arms crossed, the dark pince-nez perched playfully atop her head, her hair cascading into a messy ponytail. Meanwhile, you stood before her, holding the enigmatic purple creature known as Shader Cat — a whimsical combination of a cat and a cake, with its spider-web patterns and sunglasses.

"Why are we doing this, again?" Kafka inquired, a slight air of bemusement tinging her otherwise smooth voice.

You cleared your throat, attempting to keep the situation under control. "I thought it might be… fun?" you said, though the conviction in your voice sounded more like a question than a statement.

Kafka raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes scanning the bundle of confusion in your arms. "Fun," she echoed, and you noticed the slight curl of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I suppose it might be an interesting test of patience."

With a deep breath, you gently set Shader Cat down in the bathtub. The creature blinked lazily, large eyes staring blankly up at the overhead showerhead. Its tail flicked once, then settled back into an inert state.

"Alright," you said, adopting a tone of forced optimism, "Let’s start with some warm water. A bath always does wonders for the stress."

Kafka leaned back further, crossing one ankle over the other. "I’m intrigued," she said, "Let’s see how long it takes before it starts plotting a rebellion against us."

You turned on the tap, adjusting the temperature of the water. Meanwhile, Kafka watched with detached interest, sipping an invisible drink that existed only in the aura of her calm demeanor. You carefully stepped aside to grab some soap and shampoo, leaving Shader Cat to its own devices — or, so you thought.

It was just as you reached for the shampoo that you heard a soft rustle behind you. When you turned back, the air seemed to shift, and you found yourself facing a small, purple blur. Shader Cat had apparently decided to make a break for it, its striped tail whipping wildly as it hopped out of the tub in a clumsy rush.

"Oh, no," you said, half-amused and half-worried, as the creature skittered towards the living room, narrowly avoiding the coffee table.

Kafka watched in bemusement, the glassy look in her eyes shifting slightly. "I believe it’s… escaping," she observed.

"I noticed," you said, as Shader Cat continued its flight, careening into the couch, then under a nearby armchair.

You scrambled to catch it, but it was surprisingly fast for a cake-cat hybrid. "Come back, Shader Cat," you pleaded, but it seemed intent on proving just how little interest it had in the bath.

"Remarkable," Kafka said dryly, watching with a hint of amusement in her eyes. "It seems quite… defiant for a dessert-like creature."

"Yeah, it really does," you said, a slight tinge of frustration creeping into your voice. "I didn’t know they could move that fast!"

Suddenly, the creature paused for a moment, as if considering its next move. With a sudden leap, it pounced onto the couch — right onto Kafka’s lap.

Kafka’s face remained a mask of calm, but you could detect the slightest twitch of surprise in her eyes. The Shader Cat settled down, curling up in her lap, the sunglasses slightly askew, as if it was making a statement.

"Well," Kafka said, looking down at the cat, "It seems to have found its new resting place."

You could only nod, a mixture of amusement and disbelief settling in. "I… I think that’s probably the best it’s going to get," you said, still holding back a chuckle.

Kafka reached out to pet Shader Cat’s top, and the creature gave a small, nonchalant purr — or, rather, an effort to emit a sound that might be construed as a purr.

"It’s… oddly charming," Kafka said, half-rolling her eyes. "Almost like it has no idea of what’s happening in the universe — or, perhaps, it just doesn’t care."

You nodded, finally able to accept the situation. "Yeah," you said, letting out a soft laugh, "That’s probably a good way to put it."

Kafka leaned back into the couch, Shader Cat still comfortably nestled in her lap. "I must say," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice, "You were right. This was certainly… interesting."

"I’ll take that as a win," you replied, relieved that the mishap was finally over.

As the two of you sat there, watching the peculiar creature bask in its unexpected triumph, you couldn’t help but think that perhaps, in the most Kafkaesque way, everything had turned out perfectly after all.

[serbarris]

Offer Me That Deathless Death

Chapter 12 of At Best You Find a Little Remedy Dragon Age: the Veilguard, some spoilers for plot, spoilers for Emmrich's romance  Pairing: F!Rook Ingellvar x Emmrich Volkarin  Rating: E Summary: Their first time, from Emmrich's POV, under the cut as nsfw! Words: ~600 read the chapter on ao3

He knew the implications of what he asked.

“Have you touched yourself while thinking about me?”

As if her pleasure (or lack of) hadn't consumed his every thought since her admission in the library. It should be sacrilegious to leave someone so bereft. Maker knows he indulged himself enough over the years. It was thrilling, to be the solution to her predicament, to be the one to coax unfounded pleasure from the indomitable Rook. To be her first and only pleasure.

He asked her as if she hadn't been the one haunting his fantasies for months. He had barely touched her and yet his fantasies paled in comparison to the real thing. She lay before him, her honey hair a halo in the veilfire-lit room, her lips swollen from their earlier attention, her lipstick leaving the faintest stain. He traced her tattoo with his tongue, feeling the heat of her skin as she blushed so beautifully for him. He nipped and sucked at her skin, tracing the soft curves and hard bones, the strong muscles that made her so fierce in battle. As he descended, he mapped every mole, mark, scar, and freckle. He kneaded her flesh, so soft and malleable. He decided he wouldn't mark her, not tonight. Not when he intends to leave his presence etched upon her soul.

“I want you, Emmrich. In any way you'll have me.”

Oh, the ways he would have her. Not tonight, tonight was for her to experience le petit mort and for him to build the foundation of his eternal veneration. She had him enraptured. Far beyond the novel curiosity that she had piqued, the lust she ignited within him, she plagued his dreams.

His tongue explored her wet heat. He wanted to know what made her gasp and moan. What left her boneless and begging for more? What would put his name on her lips spoken with devotion meant for a prayer to the Maker?

He pulled away.

Her pupils were blown, he was barely able to tell the difference between the colour of her irises. Her parted lips framed her breathy moans, her legs squirming against the grip he had on her thighs. He knew it was torture for her, to be brought so close to the precipice of release but denied once again, especially by his touch.

It had been years since he felt such delicious warmth around his cock. He savoured it. He would sin a thousand times over to repeat this moment. His thrusts were slow and deep, he could feel Calliope tremble under him, whimpering. The leg wrapped around his hips was insistent, fighting his pace.

He will give her what she wants, eventually. If she is to come undone then it will be on his cock, where he can watch her tumble off the cliff, witness her muscles flex, her chest heave and the shape of her mouth as she reaches her peak.

She bites his lip. Oh so softly, so gently, he wonders if she even noticed she did it. Her nails etched scriptures on his back that would fade with the rising sun.

He relents, his stamina waning, his resolve shattering. All penitence for his pride. She writhed beneath him, her swallowed gasps a sweet aria that he conducted until they reached a grand crescendo—pleading each other's name like a chant that would have the Maker forgive them for their sins.

[ceph]

yes, I can teach you magic...look up, look down, look through things, and around. look left to analyze. look right to float in possibility. look left to reconsider. look right to wonder what might happen if you look up, up, up, so hard that you look at your own "third eye," right in the center of your forehead. if you look at your own third eye long enough, you'll overthrow yourself, and you'll be interfacing with your own mind directly. aren't you always? a little, but this is more. the difference is like standing next to a well vs. leaning over the edge and looking in. rolling your eyes up for long enough can give you a disoriented feeling adjacent to vertigo: this is what it feels like when you're looking in; looking up and in, into the inner depth that is bottomless. it's like when you hold one mirror in front of another: there are recursive reflections going as deep as you look, and the better the mirrors are aligned - the more perfectly straight - the longer the "mirror corridor" will be. so - this is a little strange, but as you're rolling your eyes up, imagine that there's a third eye right in the center of your forehead, inside your head, and now with that third eye, look down, while you're looking up with your normal eyes. when the third eye looks down, and your normal eyes look up, your eyes will start to be looking into each other, and a subtle sparking sensation will intensify to more your third eye is looking straight down while your normal eyes are looking straight up and when they're looking straight into each other, they lock together, and here, there are unpredictable sensations, as you're overthrowing yourself, looking deep into yourself, and seeing deeper, deeper, as deep as you look, deeper, and deeper. this sensation is so intense that it can be exhausting to experience for more than a few minutes. if you imagine holding one mirror up in front of another, and try to follow the infinite mirrors as far back as they go, the effort is visually exhausting, because the mirrors are constantly shifting with every subtle motion of the mirror in your hands. and so, right now, when your third eye is looking down and your normal eyes are looking up, and you're looking into yourself, as deep as you can look, it's just as exhausting to keep your bearings, because every twitch and tremble of any little muscle in your eyes reverberates through every reflection of yourself in your eyes. that is to say, while you're looking up, if your eyes happened to look a slight little bit to the left, your third eye looks to the left. test that out, and see how they look left together, and when you look left, you can analyze trance a little, and you notice a little pull that pulls your eyes back straight when you look left. your third eye looking down and your normal eyes looking up are magnetically locked together, so you can look left for a second, but then your gaze gets pulled back straight up and down. and if you look left with your normal eyes, your third eye looking down gets pulled left a little. try that. and if you look left with your third eye looking down, your normal eyes looking up get pulled left a little. try that. and pulling to the right will be a little different. when you pull to the left, you analyze trance, and you notice how it feels when your third eye and your normal eyes are magnetically locked together like this, and you're staring deeply into yourself. when you look to the right, you'll float away into imagining what's possible in such a state: how open you are to imagining all sorts of things, and how much more powerful that imagination is in this state. you are staring so deeply into yourself that you can see, as if you are standing high on the side of a mountain, a wide green forest below you, rolling to the horizon in low hills. there's a river running through this valley, cold and clear, and you can hear it trickling down below. now here's a trick: with your third eye, looking down, you can blink just once, and in a moment you'll be transported right down to the pebbled bank of that brook.

this works because your normal eyes, looking up, are seeing what your third eye looking down is showing. so when your third eye blinks, your normal eyes are seeing nothing, even inside your mind, and after that blink, your third eye can change, and show your normal eyes anything new that it likes. now, blink, and there you are, standing on the cool, smooth pebbles by the bank of that brook. imagine kneeling down at the edge of the rushing stream. trail the tips of your fingers through the clear water. in the clear sun, it would feel incredible to dip into the water, and there's no one around anywhere that you can see, but you were here for a magic lesson, and you can stare into yourself like this for as long as you like by yourself, so you can find your way back here on your own later if you'd like to swim in that stream. it would be cold, almost shockingly cold, but it would feel like nothing else, and dipping in, going under, then coming up into the sun would be even better. we, however, have to move on to another subject, so in a moment i'll ask you to look away from your third eye, and you'll blink, with your normal eyes, and open your normal eyes, and it might take a few seconds to pull away, but you won't be looking at your third eye anymore once you blink a few times. it can take the third eye a little time to drift off on its own and start looking at something else, so you might still feel sort of half out-of-it for a little while, as if you had the uncanny feeling of staring at a cold rushing stream in the empty woods at the very same as you're here in real life with us. sit up straight, now, eyes still looking up, third eye still looking down, still locked together. look left, look right, still locked together, locked up tight until I say the word -- blink.

blink. look forward. here with us. deep breath. can you sense your third eye still? is it still looking at that stream? can you feel a ghostily image of it, like you're daydreaming, some part still there, even when you're here? look at my finger. I can move it back and forth, and your eyes still follow it. your third eye is still looking down. if you follow my finger with your eyes for a little while, you might think that your third eye would look up at my finger too, and you might feel that happening, which would feel like total focus on my finger, or you might feel your third eye still looking down, still sensing the ghost of that stream by itself while your normal eyes are following my finger. usually it will take quite a long time for the third eye to shift its focus to where your normal eyes are looking. sometimes you might feel your third eye's focus start to drift up to my finger, and then drift back down to the stream, or float back and forth somewhere, or float off somewhere else totally. it would be easy, however, for you to roll your eyes up again, and look into your third eye, and go right back to that stream, but right now, like I was saying, we should get to another subject -- so in a moment, i'll put down this finger you're following, and i'll say blink, and your normal eyes will blink. sit up straight, now - following left, following right, following right here to my eyes -- blink.

hello! are you looking in my eyes now? staring into them? you should be careful who you take for a teacher. you seem sort of like you want to learn all there is. you'll have to stop looking into my eyes like that if you want to move on. can you? or are you mostly back at that stream already? let's try student-directed teaching. when you'd like to go further, look away from my eyes -- and try not to think too much about that stream, or you could slip back into staring inside yourself. if you do, remember, that's called "self-overthrow" - when you imagine your third eye and your normal eyes staring into each other, that leads to "self-overthrow." you'll remember that now, I think, either knowingly or unconsciously. take as long as you like to look away from my eyes. as far as myself, I am excellent at staring contests. it doesn't matter if I blink - it doesn't break your focus. you might want to work a little harder at looking away, because I can see that your eyes are getting tired. every time you blink, I notice that your eyes are a little more tired. I can see that your eyelids are just the slightest bit lower after every blink. this might be almost imperceptible, but every time you blink, they're slightly heavier, and slightly lower. and if your eyes get so heavy that they close down past halfway, your eyes will roll back automatically, and you'll be right back at that stream. so you ought to try and look away from my eyes before that happens. I only have another twenty or twenty-five minutes, so...well, it's up to you if you'd like to be here or there. you'll have to fight pretty hard with your normal eyes to win against your third eye, which usually can do what it likes, and if it wants your eyes closed, and rolled back, looking straight up into your third eye, completely locked in, there may not be much you can do. just so you know, I'm not waking you up if you totally zonk out. that could take, like, forever, and I have things to do. you'll have to work out how with your own third eye, anyway, if you're going to put any of this to use, aside from staring into yourself. so you can work on that, or maybe eventually work out some sort of bargain with your third eye if it won't let you come up -- maybe if you promise yourself you'll stare into yourself for longer again later, your third eye will let you come up. or maybe you'll just be zonked out in here until someone shakes you awake. I'm sure people oversleep a nap in these rooms all the time. and if no one can wake you up, you'll be whoever's teaching the next class's problem. and that class is...hmm...demonic summoning ii: offerings. and today's subject is "pseudovoluntary offerings: deception & domination." you're lucky it's that bunch of larpers. i volunteered in that class once as an undergrad and resisting whatever they did was easier than anything. i literally don't even remember what they did, it was that much of a nothing. so yeah, i'm pretty sure you'll be fine. see you next week.

The Power Of Gazes

The gaze of a sorcerer or witch is a powerful thing. Many of the fabled magicians of old were said to be able to peer into the spirit world at a glance, or to curse someone with just their gaze alone. Regardless, gazing is a valuable skill to have.

The Wide Gaze

The wide gaze is a very simple technique where you relax your eyes and take in as much of the periphery as you can without actually changing your focus. Try for a full 180 degrees. The trick is to pay attention to everything that is happening, especially at the edges of the periphery, as it is here that you will begin to see spirits and astral forms. You must not refocus your eyes to observe what appears on the edge of your vision; simply pay attention and allow the information to be processed without looking directly at it.

The Empty Gaze

The empty gaze is a slightly more radical version of the wide gaze. In the wide gaze, though you are paying attention to the 180 degrees of vision before you, your eyes will naturally focus on an object in front of you. This is just like the 180 degree gaze except that you will be focusing your eyes on empty space rather than letting your vision rest on a physical object.

To accomplish this, hold your finger an arm's length in front of you abd focus your eyes upon it. Now, withdraw your finger, but keep your eyes focused on the space where your finger was. Your eyes will want to focus on whatever objects were directly behind your finger, but you must keep your vision focused on empty space. Now, start to pay attention to the whole of your gaze as you did previously and you will see that your perception shifts even easier than it did before. Because your eyes are not focused on a physical object, you will find that astral and psychic perceptions will move closer to the center of your vision and not be as difficult to perceive.

It will take a bit of work to be able to perform this gaze, because the muscles in your eyes have the habit of focusing on physical objects. It may even hurt a bit, but with practice it will become second nature. In time you will be able to shift your gaze easily, whenever you want to, a very useful skill.

Dimensional Gazing

This gaze is more of a mental trick than an actual manipulation of the eyes. It is performed by taking in as much scenery in front of you as you did in the wide gaze. You don't have to worry about where your eyes are focused, just allow them to relax and take in the scene before you. Imagine that everything you are seeing in front of you is happening on a two-dimensional surface, then reach out with your mind and contemplate what might be happening on the other side of that surface. You can even try to mentally "peel back" the two-dimensional surface, folding down a corner so that you can perceive what lies beyond it.

The mind is used to perceiving space in three dimensions only. By using this gaze you are forcing the mind to perceive its usual input in only teo dimensions, leaving the third dimension a vacuum yo be filled by that which normally is not perceived. Practice this method often and you may find that it pays off fairly quickly in an increased perception of astral and spiritual phenomenon. If you use this gaze while looking at a scrying device like a mirror, you can consider that the mirror is a hole in the two-dimensional surface, which will allow images to surface all the more readily.

Overlooking

Just as the breath can be used to effect the mind and body of the practioner of be projected outward to effect the world, so too can the gaze. The most famous example of this is of course the Molocchio, the Evil Eye. Belief in the Evil Eye is as widespread as it is ancient, existing in cultures all over the world, and extending back all the way to ancient Sumeria. Generally speaking, the Evil Eye is given involuntarily by someone who is especially furious or envious and has the gift for malifica. The overwhelming spite actually overflows the channels of the subtle body and flows out through the gaze to the target.

Of course, the Evil Eye isn't always involuntary. In England, the practice of delivering a cursed gaze was called overlooking, eye-biting, or owl-blinking. The mode of delivery is essentially the same: one allows oneself to become overwhelmed with emotional force and delivers this through the gaze. The real trick is contained in the phrase "overlooking" itself. You are looking over or through the normal physical appearance of the and into their soul, where the intent of your gaze is translated as surely as a laser reading a compact disk. It is literally a piercing gaze.

But the basic technique of overlooking need not be contained to malicious intent. Love and lust can also be projected in one's gaze. As long as the emotion is strong and primal it can be projected by overlooking.

The Fascination Gaze

The fascination gaze is somewhat like overlooking except that you are not looking to pierce a person, but draw them into you. This is what happens when people describe being 'lost' in someone's eyes. Like a fly in a spider's web, they have been surrounded by the emotion of the person with whom they locked eyes.

In general, you want to fascinate yourself with your subject. Take in every detail and allow your mind to become obsessed with the target. You actually must fascinate yourself in order to use this gaze. Once you are sufficiently transfixed just mentally draw the target in with your eyes. Lock eyes for a moment and really feel their gaze. Pull it in with yours. Do not think, feel what you want to project. Gazes project emotion, not thought. You may be able to open someone up to telepathic suggestion using this gaze, but for the most part, it will convey emotion.

Directional Gazing

Lastly, we will cover directional gazes. Both occult tradition and modern psychology attribute certain qualities to looking in different directions. For instance, the gaze for overthrowing a person is to look straight at their Third Eye in an angry gaze, while you focus the eyes toward the left, while your target or their image, is also to the left. To attract the gaze should be upward to the right, with the person on the right as well.

Other teachings say that to project wrath, you should look upward with your head slightly bowed. To project calm, look slightly downward. To favor analytical qualities gaze to the left, to favor wisdom abd emotion gaze to the right. Play with the directions of your gaze to see what qualities it will evoke.