#what is cognitive strain

[sesamenom-misc]

brief survey

*common symptoms include:

physiological - lingering chest pain, shortness of breath, lingering cough, heart palpitations, abnormal heart rate

neurological - brain fog, general cognitive decline, fatigue, language/word retrieval issues, short term and long term memory issues, abnormal executive dysfunction, difficulty concentrating, exacerbation of pre-existing depression or anxiety

**if you first contracted covid before vaccines were available, you can count it as unvaccinated

[amicus-siderum]

You know what's not nice?

The education system.

[hitomisuzuya]

Aventurine x fem!reader. Smut. Cunnilingus. Fingering. Edging. Soft Dom! Aventurine. Mind break

Still thinking about Aventurine. Bear in mind, I know ZERO about gambling😂 My birthday is on Wednesday.

When you innocently asked Aventurine to teach you about gambling, he adapted a rather unique method to teach you. And one that was very, very fun for him.

Cognition was utterly failing you right now, thanks to Aventurine's tongue swirling around and around your clit. He scooped your clit into his mouth to suck on, chuckling into your messy pussy as you let out a loud gasp of pleasure. Your fingers tangled in his soft blonde hair, pressing his mouth down onto your cunt as you grinded on his tongue.

If Aventurine's hypnotic eyes weren't focused solely on you, they would've rolled into the back of his head from how good your juices tasted saturating his tongue. "Tell me, princess, how many numbered slots are on a Roulette table?" He purred, releasing your clit with a soft pop to kitten lick it.

Your legs twitched as jolts of pleasure made your clit swell and throb against his tongue. You were struggling to think, and Aventurine was enjoying the show.

Whimpers as you writhed on his bed, furthering showing your struggle to think as his drool pooled between your folds. "Thir-Thir-" Pleasure burst white hot behind your eyes from his long, languid kitten licks, "Thirty six," You finally managed between moans.

"My good girl, that's right," Aventine purred into your pussy, taking your clit back into his mouth to suck on. Your walls clenched around nothing hearing his praise. Even the smallest words of praise (or degradation) made you fall apart faster for him.

You tugged on his hair, heat and tension of your approaching orgasm building tighter in your stomach. Aventurine had been working your clit over for who knows how long, always keeping you on the cusps of cumming before he quizzed you. Keeping the promise of an orgasm dangling just in front of your face.

A fun way to encourage you to think while you fell dumb on his tongue.

Aventurine brushed his nose on your clit, prodding his tongue on it before he pulled away. "Split betting on two numbers pays what?" A sadistic part of him purposely chose harder questions that required more thinking. Your struggle think while you thrashed in pleasure made his cock strain harder.

He traced the shape of your pussy with his tongue, poking the tip of his tongue and swirling it around your entrance. Your cunt clenched on the tip of his tongue. You tasted so good that he couldn't help but reach down to stroke his cock a few times.

"I..I don't know, Aventurine," You shakily said, tugging on his hair, "Please, just let me cum," You are on the verge of tears you were so desperate.

Aventurine chuckled softly. "Aww, logic is giving way to the need to cum. How cute," He circled your clit with his tongue again, tearing lewd moans from your throat, "You know the rules, sweetheart. Answer correctly, and you can cum," That keened a frustrated cry from you.

"L-Liar!" You cried out, making Aventurine's eyes glisten with amusement. You knew it was a big fat lie. You'd answered his first three questions correctly and still he denied you. All. Three. Times.

"Hmm? Use your words, sweetheart. Use your words and you can cum," He pressed delicate kisses on your sensitive clit, blowing on it teasingly.

You racked your brain, thinking. He'd told you the answer earlier when you'd discussed the rules. Only his hand had been creeping up your thigh, his knuckle grazing your clit outside of your panties.

How was anyone supposed to think or even comprehend anything in that situation?!

You tugged on Aventurine's hair again in an attempt to ground yourself. The need to feel his tongue fucking relentlessly into you was consuming you. "It pays..it pays," You were cut off when he decided to up the ante, plunging two fingers fingers inside of you.

He teasingly scissored your walls apart, stopping just short of hooking his fingers into your sweet spot. You let out a frustrated sob feeling his fingers ghost ever so slightly on your spongy spot. "Seventeen to one," You never hoped you were right so much in your life.

Aventurine smirked up at you, picking up the pace of his fingers as he lapped at your clit. "Correct, my good girl. Now for a harder one," He denied you yet again, slowing down the pace of his fingers. Fuck, you look so precious, needy and desperate for him to make you cum.

He knew he should ease up a little, knowing you couldn't take much more. Too bad he wasn't going to. You looked so pretty crumbling to pieces for him. Your eyes widened hearing he was going to hit you with a harder question. You couldn't even hold your breath, every time you did he prodded his tongue in a way that made you see stars and louder moans tear from your throat.

"Recite some of the Fibonacci sequence," This was a particularly cruel question for you, and he knew that. You have issues remembering anything numerical. This question was way beyond your scope. Back went his mouth to latch onto your clit, coiling the knot of your orgasm tighter.

Your hips bucked up into his fingers and tongue. "I don't know, okay. I don't know," You whimpered, writhing as your walls sensitive walls clamped tightly around his fingers, "I do anything, Aventurine, please. Just make me cum," If all logic hadn't been thrown out the window before, it was straight up chucked out now.

You were dizzy, aching from overstimulation, tears watering your eyes. Aventurine groaned seeing tears fall from your eyes. His cock nearly ribboned cum into his pants. Someone like you was crying in desperate need for someone like him. Someone who the world deemed at the very bottom of the barrel before he'd even grown up.

"Hmm? Anything?" He hooked his fingers into your sweet, making you twitch in bliss. "The gambler decides the odds," He taunted nonchalantly, "and I'm afraid, the odds are not in your favor," He laughed a little as you shook as you needily rubbed your pussy on his mouth, squirming and writhing as you moaned shamelessly.

[izaanagi]

‘𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌.

featuring: Choso, Zen’in Naoya, Tsukishima Kei, Bokuto Kōtarō, Itoshi Sae & Shigaraki Tomura (+ bonus: Uchiha Itachi) x fem! reader.

warnings: minors please do not interact! femdom!; submissive men, strip-tease, slight praise kink, dirty talk, degradation, orgasm denial, misuse of clothing as ropes, overstimulation, face sitting, mentions of: cock ring, sex toys.

##. Choso has never been as aroused and pliant in his life as he is when you start to slowly take off your clothes in front of him. It feels as if time stops, and the only things reeling and swirling in his mind are the way your skin looks as if was glowing, the way you want to put his hands on you to feel your skin on his but he does not dare moving, not until you acknowledge him and his already straining pants. He likes the challenge, and he likes it rough - especially when you bite your lip, and sensually caress the intern of your thigh, pussy covered by a flimsy satin piece of cloth, you’d like to discard as soon as possible. Choso is tense, his neck straining in the effort not to look like he is drooling, heat pooling into the wide orbits of his eyes, pupil engulfing the iris.

##. Zen’in Naoya would deny it to his death, but his strained pants whenever you do something that should definitely not arouse him, and the way his shaft just painfully throbs whenever you rub your shameless behaviour in, is something he greatly enjoys. Being the asshole he is, he loves to tease and taunt, but he just starts losing cognitive functions anytime you start calling him out, directly to his ear. It’s a split second, your knee directly in contact with his crotch and the words: “You are such a waste of human breath,” followed by your tongue following the shell of his ear and you feel him (and his small but girthy virility) harden. "Look at your pathetic cock getting all excited because I came near it. Aren't you ashamed to become hard every time I look at you? I bet you would cum as soon as I touched it, too, you fucking pervert."

##. Tsukishima Kei would never admit to owning any sex toy, however, it takes you just a couple of minutes looking for you to find a vibrator that looks used and well kept. It is such a waste not to use it, especially as Kei is as bashful as a virgin. “Were you planning to hide this from me forever?” You ask him, as you hold the white wand in your hand, and see Kei’s face getting drained from colour. You can feel your smile slowly spreading, as you wave the object around. “Should we take care of a small punishment for keeping secrets, sweetie?” It takes only a few minutes to have Kei pliant in your hands, his cock getting milked from the tip, his base constricted within your fist. You can see his face contorting, his vein pulsing - his small moan with his eyes close as Kei feels the orgasm building up and being unable to reach it until he is begging.

“Please, let me cum. Please,” he pleads. “Will you ever hide your little toys from me?” You ask, as you press his slit, a hiss getting past his lips, before he nods and Kei can enjoy your mouth wrapping around his cock, swirling around until you feel his coming in your throat few sucks in.

##. Bokuto Kōtarō is easy to convince for him to wear a cock ring, out in public. His cock is thick, and the way a stuttering sigh leaves his mouth when he moves a step in it, is very telling. "I hope you don't get too hard walking, love," you whisper as he just looks at you in a way that tells you exactly what he's thinking. "You promised to let me keep it in when we sleep, I will manage to keep this thing on for a couple hours," he answers. "Oh, will you?" you laugh at the confidence. You know Kotaro well, and he has no idea that your plan is that of sitting on his lap and torture his cock with soft petting until he is throwing things in the air only to finally wet his dick. "Have some faith," he says. "I always do in my obedient boy." Little does Kotaro know of the unfulfilled throbbing cock he will sport when you will keep the ring on as you jump up and down his cock and keep him whining for release until sunrise.

##. Itoshi Sae is only bashful when you are sitting on top of him, still haven’t gotten your fill, as he looks at you, his eyes watery. “I can still feel how hard you are, Sae,” you say. “I just can’t seem to keep up with your young appetites,” he grovels. “Young? They are just healthy desires of a woman that knows what she wants,” you announce as you rock on your hips, letting Sae’s cock rub your walls, clenching on him so that his oversensitive cock can get stimulated. He hisses as his cock inside of you wants to soften, but the emboldened pressure makes me unable to do anything but stare at you, his hands on your hips and try not to cum for the third time in a row. Sae is so sensitive that it doesn’t get a lot to cum again, just a few somersaults of your hips and a tug of your teeth on his nipples as he pulsates in you again, member now red and raw from the continuous rubbing; a sad sigh of relief as you let go of me and sit on his face instead, still warm from his cock.

##. Shigaraki Tomura is one of those men that likes teasing you until you have him in your bed, and there is nothing more that breaks him than you slowly kissing his chest, his pecs and as soon as he is relaxed enough not to be aware of it, you slowly wrapping your mouth around his cock and tugging slowly with your teeth. He would hiss and let his hips buckle. Clamping a hand on his soft flesh, you raise your eyes to meet his, wide, the pupil swallowing his irises: "If you don't stay still, I'll have to tie you up, bunny dear." And when he does nothing but moan and involuntarily thrust into your mouth, his hands grabbing your head to keep it attached to him, as his cock twitches in your mouth, all you can do is grin wide and grab his discarded shirt and loop it through his wrists, and then tie one end to the head of the bed. "You move again and I'll tie your ankles next. Patience, bunny. Or you can walk with your cute balls being blue for the next week. Are we clear?" All Tomura does is nod, before his cock is heavy on your tongue again, pre-cum smeared on your lip.

+ bonus:

##. Uchiha Itachi would give you his life willingly, and he does not care, not one bit, if you fuck yourself on his cock and use him for your own own pleasure. He wants you to use him, if that is what makes you feel good, because Itachi is first and foremost a giver (and he’d be the gentlest service dom if you’d ever wanted him to) and one that cares about your utmost comfort. He loves to see your face contorting in pleasure, and loves to feel you clench around him every time that your orgasm hits, not even hesitating to eat you out afterwards, cleaning everything he can just with the use of his tongue - because just your hands grabbing his soft locks, tugging on them enough for it to be felt on his scalp, but not hard enough to hard and not letting him move from that exact spot is enough to make him hard and yearning, but still not wanting to separate from your hot heaven, and stopping feeling your taste on his palate. Itachi loves it when you ride his face, his nose digging deep into your flesh, his breath hitched with lack of available oxygen but just thoroughly enjoying the feeling of being able to make you moan, writhe while he holds your clit between his lips, fingers sometimes slipping in between your holes just to augment the heat travelling inside you, and breathing in your every little single sound when it is his turn to drill into you, making you scream on top of your lungs (exactly the way he memorised you like it: rough on the edges).

sans’ corner: if you are asking yourself why did I write Itachi, well, I did it for me - because lately he’s all I have been thinking about. I apologise. However, interactions are welcome and reblogs are highly appreciated.

© izaanagi, 2024. please do not edit, copy, repost any of my work on other platforms.

[teine-mallaichte]

We need to expand our use of dilirium within the whump community I think.

When people see the prompt "dilirium" or "dilirious" in a whump event most jump to fever, illness, infection. And that's fine. That's valid. But there is SO MUCH MORE to dilirium.

Delirium is a complex psychological state that can indeed be triggered by illness and fever, but it can also result from a wide array of other causes. It’s a state where cognition and coherence deteriorate, where reality may start to frey at the edges leaving the whumpee confused, disorientated, maybe unable to even distinguish reality.

You can drive a character into a dilirious state without any external factors. A characters cognition and coherence can be picked to the brink by so many things.

1. Extreme Sleep Deprivation: this is a favourite of mine. A whumpee kept awake for days on end, their cognitive functions begin to deteriorate, the boundary between wakefulness and sleep blurs, leading to fractured and disjointed thought processes. The mind starts to struggle to maintain coherence, resulting in hallucinations and a profound disorientation.

2. Substance Withdrawal: Not one I've explored much, but can totally count. The body and mind in chaos, craving what they can no longer have. The physical symptoms can be brutal, but the psychological torment can drive them into a state of delirium, where reality becomes a shifting, unreliable landscape.

3. Psychological Torture: Another one I tend to gravitate to. Intense psychological manipulation, sensory deprivation or overwhelm can also drive the mind into delirium. Continuous gaslighting, isolation, or exposure to disturbing stimuli can erode a characters grasp on reality, leading to a state where they can no longer distinguish between truth and illusion.

4. Emotional Trauma: this a mental breakdown. Severe emotional trauma pushing a whumpee into a to their mental limits. The overwhelming stress and fear fracturing their mind, causing confusion, disorientation, dissociation, hallucinations as their psyche tries to protect itself and struggles to make sweetheart if what's happened/happening.

5. Overwhelming Physical Pain: Pain, just pain, if relentless and severe enough, can lead to delirium. A whumpee in constant, excruciating pain might find their mind breaking under the strain, leading to confusion, disorientation, and a detachment from reality.

6. Fever: and just because it can't really be left of the list, fever. Infections, illness, etc. But did you know there is more than one kind of dilirium? Yes there is the sick whumpee who is too weak too most and admits all their insecurities and secrets in a slurred disjointed major. But there is also the type of dilirium where the character becomes energetic, erratic behavior, pacing incessantly and speaking rapidly, refusing to rest. Frustrating and worrying for those trying to help.

And this is just the ones of the top of my head. There's so much potential here! And yes this is a very self indulgent and selfish post that I wrote while writing a fic where I am inducing dilirium in a character through acute stress and an identity crisis 😅 but in short - I want to see more varied portrayals of dilirium in whump.

An extension of this post A similar post about hallucinations A similar post about fever

[moonsaver]

Warning: yan!jiaoqiu x reader, hints/implications of cannibalism and drugs.

Note: its 1.3k words, which is surprising considering i dont usually write that much. Anyways i tried to incorporate a different kind of horror feeling into this work. Hope you guys like it.

-

Jiaoqiu lives up to his name. Medicinal chef, although one part is hidden, and he willfully lives up to the other half. But both seem to work in cognition when he meets you.

There you are – where he always hopes you'll be. A small twitch of his ear, the flurry of his tail. His eyes creak open ever so slightly to behold your silhouette in the golden frame of his irises. 

There you are – where you always will be, he hopes. Or rather, he wills.

Jiaoqiu has taken a rather different approach when it comes to medicines, and food.

The chilli sizzles in the oil, loud and crackling in short bursts through the growing warm air surrounding his workspace, his tender hands working swiftly through the assortment of spices. But really, he wouldn't need much, especially considering the chillis he's going to be using. Although, he changes his mind, going back over to dutifully sprinkle in a few spices anyway. At least, he does this for you.

Quiet, ever so silent. Curt responses. Flitting eyes. You're a curious little thing. Well, it doesn't matter how brooding or moody you may be. To him, you're interesting. To any sly fox, interesting means plaything. He's learned how to really risk the delicate balance of spice and flavour. And he's also sure how to deal with bitterness.

Strangely enough - you seem to like it. The bitterness slowly but surely pierces through the food, seeping into your mouth like poison. He's sure to take inspiration, but for now, he watches with a closed eye smile. A smile you're always too familiar with, ever since he's started making things special for you.

His chin placed delicately on the palm of his hand, elbow slightly straining the smooth wood underneath, as his hand gently fans away the ghat of the chili, still wafting in the air, making a few people cough in the distance. “Do you like it?” He asks, often. “I've added just what you might like”, “you'll keep coming back”, and, “my, aren't I seeing you too often?”

...

You don't know what's gotten into you. Dazed, but also hypervigilant at the same time. You think you're losing your mind – the reality you were so grounded in, losing your footing, the dissonance of your mind pushing you far into the cacophony of distressed thoughts, until his calm voice snaps you of it.

“Hm? Perhaps my new recipe will help soothe you. If the feeling persists.. meet me after hours.”

You take another bite, another walk back home, and another episode of hyperventilation. You breathe in, eyes flitting to the mirror you can't seem to reach – or rather you can't seem to keep yourself standing despite your fearful heart lurching in your chest.

And as per Jiaoqiu's predictions, you do meet him after hours. But you can't tell with the blend of reality and your hallucinations. You're not sure if it's the moon, but you're sure Jiaoqiu stares down at you, silver and gold melding into your delicate vision.

—--

Jiaoqiu has many characters of a cat than he does of a fox

Or rather, you say that because you probably haven't interacted with a fox before.

All the times you were sick and bedridden, Jiaoqiu made it almost his personal mission to look after you. He wouldn't be around for too long, thankfully. Long hours at work or the other. But he comes back and makes the best soup you could ever have, especially with your illness.

But you find the meat makes your body slightly reactive, at least when you're sick. Jiaoqiu brushes it off and insists you eat regardless.

His cheek rubs against your shoulder when you wake up, telling you how dearly he missed you. You yawn, eyes still closed and heavy from sleep while you wake up, but you can notice the slight grazing of his pointed teeth on your skin. 

You watch as he dutifully grinds up herbs and other malleable herbs into the mortar. He grew them himself, he tells you. It's simply better to alter and enhance them when you can get your hands on them, he tells you.

That's a beautiful flower, you tell him. His dutiful hands temporarily withhold in the air above the mortar, the soft stem bent and almost breaking in his fingers. He chuckles softly. You've been tasting it for a while in your food now, he informs you. You hum as he grinds it into the powdery mixture. Was that the source of bitterness?

-

Jiaoqiu has a taste for many peculiar things. But he also has a taste for humans. Or, more or less, just you.

Ever since you've become a regular, Jiaoqiu has been eager to offer you a sneak peek into the kitchen. He sits you down for the milder part of the cooking process, chatting away with you as he waits for one or the other thing to marinate, rise, or separate. His hand not so subtly itching to yours over the countertop, forcing your hand to slip into his glove. When you whine or complain about the constriction of the material, Jiaoqiu only responds with a quiet smile, his ears twitching the slightest bit. 

Sometimes, he lets you look around the kitchen, with sanitary limitations, of course. You eye the meat that looks a bit too red, or the one with a few too many strings in it to be written off as normal. You gaze at the blood seeping into the water. Myoglobin, he tells you. But you think your eyes are keener than that.

He feeds you well, isn't hesitant to add in a few extra medicinal herbs to your food, serves you the special tea he prepares only for momentous occasions.

And the best meat he finds.

Its a beautiful red, in his opinion. You stare as the knife cuts through the meat, the strings loosening and tearing. The blood– myoglobin, he corrects you, taints his hands, ungloved. Its far easier to determine the cleanliness without gloves. They tend to give you a false sense of it. He tells you.

You watch, the smell of the raw meat making you scrunch your nose the slightest bit. He chuckles fondly when he sees that on your face.

He finds you to be one of the people he's met, that he's taken a liking to. As for the one that he considers distasteful.. well, he's sure he can find some use of them. Especially if you dislike them, too.

-

You're sure something is wrong.

The soups make you dizzy, your body bursts into hives, your heart rate goes up. Something in it is causing you severe distress, but you can't understand what exactly it might be. You've staved away from his shop for a while. 

Until one day – Jiaoqiu senses your hesitation. His smile is no longer on his face, despite his closed eyes. He quietly allows you to inspect the kitchen after hours, his back turned to you, grinding, crushing, snapping the herbs into the mortar. You especially eye the red meat he stores away, and this time he doesn't tell you off. He continues to grind the herbs, shuffling through a few cabinets for them, before continuing. You've insisted on calling it blood and not myoglobin. Because you can taste it in your food.

He tells you, you're hallucinating. It's a side effect of your sickness he's had to help ward off lately. But you're sure he's wrong. He hums, and continues quietly. The darkness of the kitchen only illuminated by scarce yellow lighting, and the sterile, white glow of the fridge as you continue staring at it. Your eyes wander at the various meats before–

You spot something behind it.

His meats are sourced from various animals, with smaller organs, incomparable to the size of humans.

Was this animal mutated? Or simply particularly large?

You gently kneel down, hearing Jiaoqiu snapping the stem of a flower and continue grinding the herbs, your eyes settled fiercely onto the incomprehensible.. thing.

Your shaking hand reaches out, the coldness of the fridge making you shiver, although it's not exactly the cold, is it?

Your fingers touch the strange surface of the unidentifiable meat. Pericardium. Your fingers reach further and gently grasp it. It's about the size of your fist.

You breathe out, your heart thudding in the quiet of your mind as you stare at the one in your hands.

…

Has it always been this quiet?

You look back and are met with Jiaoqiu's golden eyes.

His default smile returns to his face, but this time, his golden eyes are staring directly at you.

You should have stayed out of his kitchen. Who knows what he'd been feeding you?

-

[my-turn-with-the-batdad]

I think alot of people like the Batfamily— because the dynamics are so flawed. Especially when it comes to Bruce. It's SO rare to see dysfunctional families in media and its even rarer to explore the trope without a clear resolution. The diffrent writers and interpretations have created a behemoth of a family dynamic.

They are messy and they stay messy but that doesn't mean they don't try.

When it comes to Bruce the man is a walking contradiction. Protector vs. Prosecutor. Father vs. Mentor. Batman vs. Bruce. There are a thousand different reflections of him as a character.

His obsession with justice clashes with his ability to connect emotionally—leading to strained relationships marred by both unhealthy expectations on all sides but also this overwhelming need to protect.

It's fascinating and from a psychological standpoint it definitely speaks of Ambivalence and some form of Cognitive dissonance. I think the man is in alot of perpetual internal conflict about his beliefs and actions.

This creates a pattern of thought that seems contradictory, but to Bruce it makes perfect sense; he often rationalizes his absence from family life by convincing himself that his role as a protector justifies the sacrifices he makes. The same with certain actions we as readers see as 'inexcusable' for example take Gotham war.

In another instance, his complex feelings toward Damian—who embodies both the potential for greatness and the risk of darkness.

Ultimately, Bruce's journey as a dad for me—reflects his struggle to balance his dual identities, the man both seeking redemption through his children while also grappling with his past and what made him Batman in the first place.

This kind of patterned thinking can often be a direct result of trauma and unknowingly, it's been the best representation of it I've seen in any media. Ever.

And plus,

It's a lot more fun to take this approach than the good fathers vs. bad father Bruce debate.

[luckshmi]

Retrograde Planets in your Birth Chart

In Vedic astrology, retrograde planets in a natal chart carry deep significance and unique implications. A planet is deemed retrograde when it appears to move backward in the sky from Earth's perspective. This apparent reversal can alter the planet's energy, leading it to express itself differently than it would when moving direct. Retrograde planets often highlight areas in our lives where we have unresolved issues from past lives or where we need to focus more intently in this life. Understanding the benefits and challenges of retrograde planets can offer profound insights into your life's journey.

Mercury

Having Mercury retrograde in your birth chart means you process information and communicate in a unique way. You possess deep insights, particularly when it comes to introspection and understanding complex ideas. This can lead to innovative solutions and profound personal insights. However, communication can sometimes be tricky. You might find that others misunderstand you or that you have to work harder to express your thoughts clearly. Issues with technology or travel plans may also arise more frequently. To manage this, practice mindfulness and patience in your communication. Double-check important messages and take your time to articulate your thoughts. You can also calm your mind with Brahmi oil massages, an Ayurvedic practice that enhances clarity and cognitive function.

Venus

With Venus retrograde in your birth chart, you have a deep understanding of what you truly value in relationships and personal finances. This can lead to a stronger sense of self-worth and more meaningful connections. Your approach to beauty and aesthetics is unique and deeply personal. However, you might experience challenges in love and financial stability, feeling strain in relationships or difficulties with self-esteem. Focusing on self-love and healing past relationship wounds can be beneficial. Use Ayurvedic rose oil for self-massage to open your heart chakra and promote self-love, helping you attract healthier relationships and financial stability.

Mars

Mars retrograde in your natal chart endows you with inner strength and resilience. You can be strategic and thoughtful about how you use your energy and pursue your goals, making you a powerful force when you decide to act. However, there might be a sense of frustration or impatience, as it can feel like your efforts are often delayed or blocked. Channeling your energy into long-term projects and practicing patience can help. Regular physical activity, like yoga or Ayurveda-recommended exercises, can manage frustration and keep your energy balanced. Incorporating Ashwagandha supplements into your routine can also reduce stress and boost vitality.

Jupiter

Having Jupiter retrograde in your birth chart gives you a profound capacity for inner growth and spiritual wisdom. You’re likely to develop a strong set of beliefs and philosophies that guide you throughout life, making you wise beyond your years. However, external growth might feel slow, and opportunities for expansion could be limited, requiring you to work harder for your achievements. Focus on your inner journey and trust that external success will follow. Including turmeric in your diet promotes overall health and well-being, supporting both physical and spiritual growth.

Saturn

Saturn retrograde in your natal chart means you have a deep understanding of responsibility and discipline. This can help you build strong foundations in your life and deal with karma and past life issues effectively. However, you might feel increased pressure to revisit old fears and insecurities, and responsibilities could feel more burdensome. Embrace the opportunity to strengthen your foundations. Practice grounding techniques, like walking barefoot on grass, and use Ayurvedic grounding oils like sandalwood to help you stay balanced and focused.

Retrograde planets in your natal chart bring both challenges and unique strengths. Embrace the lessons they offer, and use these insights to grow and transform. By incorporating Ayurvedic practices, you can balance these energies and navigate their influences with greater ease. Remember, each retrograde planet offers an opportunity for profound personal growth and a deeper understanding of your life’s journey.

[leonkennedynendoroid]

NSFW/GN READER. idk what this is sorry if it doesn’t make sense at any point(s) i just kept pressing keys until words appeared on the screen….i need to have es E. ex with leon :P

grrrrr i need my sweet little bf leon losing his mind the first couple of times he has sex. i’m talking about him biting his knuckles with every inch he slides in deeper, groaning low in his throat when he drops his head forward to watch the movement with wide eyes and— fuck, no more. that’s a lot. he needs to look away, somewhere- anywhere else if he wants to hold back.

his eyes travel up your body quickly, chewing on his bottom lip in desperate concentration as his gaze lands on your face. it feels as if he’s walked straight into a trap; your eyes on his, although unfocused, every open-mouthed breath, even the gentle rise and fall of your chest makes heat pool low in his stomach… he needs to cut himself short, again. he can’t catch a break, so caught up in you he’s nearly embarrassing himself. you deserve so much better, he thinks with a rough swallow. in an attempt to pull himself together, he opts to quickly shut his eyes. just for a second.

it’s always the first thrust- slow and controlled that makes him hiss through his teeth, knees going weak when he sinks back in. he has to fight to keep his eyes open now, repeating the movement with a long, shaky sigh. if you had the cognitive capability at this very moment in time, you’d be able to notice the prominent strain of his abdominals present each time he plunges into you. it’s still so new for him, yet addictive enough to have his body screaming more. a kind of pleasure that runs up his core and spreads down his thighs.

only momentarily is he aware of his grip tightening on the back of your thighs, sweaty palms and thick fingers digging into your skin acknowledged in but a passing thought. it’s getting harder, so much harder to keep his pace gentle and sweet like he believes you deserve, leaning forward and dropping a little more of his weight on top of you to plant a chaste kiss on your head in apology, eager hips meeting yours in a syrupy grind he could revel in for hours. it’s a rhythm he could get lost in and deliciously impatient with, his dick throbs at the idea. he’ll need to find another time to explore it.

knowing you’d probably kill him— maybe not kill, just a slap to his shoulder, calling out his name in a harsh complaint of embarrassment— if he confessed to taking it easy on you melts the guilt right out of his system as his body continues to perspire. the shift in angle has you crying out as he begins hitting even deeper now. seeing, hearing, and feeling you like this has an airy moan leaving his lips, shuddering against you hard in unison.

leon absolutely does not have it in him to stop now- the intensity of the ache in his pelvis growing impossibly difficult to ignore with every sloppy, wet thrust. seeing you arch underneath him with a whine, feeling your fingers encircling his wrists tightly as he pumps into you, is dizzying. he’s growling with it, the power behind his hips sending hot licks of pleasure right up your spine. god, he never wants this to end.

the state of you right now- and the sight too, he thinks, is the closest he’ll get to heaven. to feeling heaven. it makes his strong hips stutter, rhythm faltering as he begins to give in. it makes his whole body jostle above you, his eyes clenching shut with a long drawn-out whine, and it makes him cum. it makes him cum, over and over, and over again. how has he gone most of his life without this? without you? he thinks deliriously, collapsing against your thighs still lifted and folded at your chest as he ruts into you insistently a few more times, in hopes of prolonging his orgasm. greedy.

he did better this time, with holding off and all. leon’s sure of it. he definitely lasted longer than last time, right? he opens his eyes back up with a content sigh to scan your face, looking for reassurance and a confirmation on that thought. he’s immediately met with the sight of a stupid grin plastered on your face instead, lips trembling gently as if you’re biting back a hard laugh. ugh, was he that far off? he must’ve gotten ahead of himself. maybe next time.

who is he kidding? this is going to take a lot of practice.

[slightlypossessed]

Synopsis – Steve let's someone take care of him, for once in his fucking life

Who? – Steve Harrington x Fem!reader

18+ content – MDNI // handjob, thigh riding, marking and kissing.

4.05k – 17 mins

words are lost on him

it's not that there are none coming to mind — they are, they're just not sticking: light flash-bangs that don't last enough to know if he's really seen or imagined them.

the words are too quick for him to grasp onto, nerve endings fried as they spark alight with every stroke of your hand.

The movements you so torturously inflict on him are gentle, yet cruel. ministrations calculated and precise to ensure the most damage to his mind and fragile, vulnerable, state as he lies bare beneath you.

Body bare and soul rested on a silver platter for you, laid prettily at your feat for you to take as much as your heart, and lust, desire.

"Baby..." his whisper is husky, voice wrecked and all scratching-on-metal as he tries not, but fails, to beg.

Cognitive dissonance is a killer thing, Steve decides as you give a particular rough tug to his straining cock, more so than he's realised now that he's in the deep cusps of it. On one hand he's trying to hold himself together, trying to be man — in his mind, he's made to please, to be a caretaker — it's why he puts up with the bloody kids that he knows will make his hair go gret by the time he's 32, it's why he's there after every argument max has with her father, every time dustin feels lonely, every time Lucas has a falling out with the rest of the boys — always there, an invisible hand on the back, guiding, cautious, caring.

And it's why it's typically the other way around with you two than it is now. Steve's gotten comfortable with the unintentional routine: you beneath him, mouth and sex hot as you beg and scratch while he wrecks you piece by piece. He's your boyfriend, he's yours, and it's his job to please you. He's gotta care for you, for your pleasure — because he's your man, and because he goddamn wants to.

But as his darned luck would have it, your hands feel too good on his cock for him to push you away: far too gentle to push him over, but determined to press all the delicate parts of him, your fingers deft and rubbing down the areas you know to be sensitive — just enough times with every stroke to keep him constantly on edge.

He's lost time, how long it's been: maybe five minutes? ten? fifteen? maybe just the one? a torturously slow minute of pure ecstatic and exhilirating agony? He's doesn't know, all he knows is that he's at your mercy to grant him what he most needs.

And right now he needs more of what you're giving, just – god, please, more – enough to quiet the voice in his head telling him he's failing... something. Your pleasure? His supposed boyfriend duty? he doesn't know, but he wants it quiet — you've already told him you want to take care of him.

However long it was ago, his brain is half-mush and he can't quite remember, you took in your arms mid make out session and told him you wanted him, your tone different than every other time you've said those words, your hold on him more tender and enveloping.

"let me take care of you," you'd whispered against his lips, your hands on his chest and steadily caressing lower, "please."

He couldn't say no to you then, can't say no to you ever — his sweet girl, whatever you want, you'd get — and he's decided then that he'll be most compliant for you, he'll relent underneath you as you take care of him, in whatever way you'd wished to do that.

and fuck, he wasn't prepared – doesn't think his brain has relaxed ever since you pushed him against the headboard and straddled his legs and fucking told him to just relax.

How can he? when the prettiest girl he's ever seen is on top of him looking so pretty with earnest eyes tracking every emotion and expression that passes over his face. You're so keen, attention completely tuned in on him.

Nerves firing blast rapidly, blinding white light behind his eyes, whether his eyes are closed or not.

He's not even sure anymore if they're open or closed, there's just glimpses of you, and he's not even sure if his short-circuiting brain is catching up a moment late, doesn't know if by the time he's caught to the beautiful sight of you as you stoke more heat in his belly, he might've already drifted in another mini ecstasy and closed his eyes again.

Fuck, he needs more — he's not sure he can handle it — so much going on in his brain, so much pleasure emitting from your soft hands on his hard cock, but he needs more. Maybe it'll quiet his mind, maybe it'll ramp up the frequency to a million, maybe he'll completely lose it and go insane by your hands — but he craves what you give.

"Please," his voice is foreign to his own ears, broken and pleading. If he were to really think about it, you haven't even done that much to warrant his half-wrecked state. But he's there, and he seems relenting to the idea of you completely breaking him.

Maybe the idea of you taking care of him has done more to him than he thought it would.

A low moan escapes his throat as his hand previously gripping the sheet moves to anchor itself to your hips.

"Fuck," another broken sound, "please, honey, more." He isn't sure more what, faster? harder? both? he just needs your hands on him and to forget all his thoughts before he even has them.

"shh," you soothe as your hand tightens around the tip of him– and by god, you're evil, a wicked little thing— you know he's most sensitive there, and if you'd had any doubts about that, they were now for sure quelled by the debauched moan that escapes his throat. "I've got you, sweetheart, just relax for me."

But he can't relax, oh god, what are you doing to him?

Evil, he's decided.

Heavenly, his heart argues, as you lean down to give him a saccharine kiss on his parted lips, your tongue swirling with his.

Deep down, you're aware that your torturous and slow pace over the last few minutes has built him yet kept him consistently at bay, kept him all achy and squirmy underneath you – all because of you, for you.

He whimpers quietly, the sound low and vulnerable against your lips, and you pull back to hear his sweet sounds better – and immediately he gifts you another desperate sound as he chases your lips.

Usually, hand jobs are quick business in your relationship. Quick things done in foreplay before Steve's putting his tongue on you and making you cum a few times as he gets hard again to fuck you – sometimes he's even pushing your hand off him before he cums, choosing to sink himself deep inside you instead.

But it's been on your mind for a while now, this urge to just take care of him. You're brain constantly wandering to how he'd look like, sound like, if lets himself loose and handed over the reigns of his pleasure to you. He's stretching himself too thin everyday — acting as a brother, a father and a friend to a group of 15-year-old kids united by other-worldly trauma. He's the perfect boyfriend 24/7, small gifts every now and then, dates every week, fucking you silly almost every night – and on top, he's got a full-time nine-to-five.

You want to do something for him, get his mind of off everything for a while. And maybe this opens the door for more later – it's not that Steve doesn't let you take charge often, but even then he's still very much a giver rather than a taker, and this time you want him to just take and be as selfish with you as he'd wish to for once.

And so you stroke him faster in your hand again, your grip tighter this time.

A low groan sounds from his throat when your hand squeezes him at the base. Electric shocks from the centre of him to his brain.

You can't deny him what you want, can't ignore his pleas for more pleasure, not when he's so pretty underneath you, face red and flush, and his hair a mess all over a place with a few strands down his forehead.

Beautiful, in every sense. Debauched facial expression: eyes heavy-lidded and mouth agape, heavy pants in and out.

So pretty, and so you really can't even think to deny him what he aches for. Your hand moves faster without meaning to, just wanting to see more of him in this state. He rewards you with another groan, his hand tightening on your waist.

faster and faster, the sudden change of pace makes his back arch of the headboard bringing his chest closer to yours and he can feel your hardened nipples from beneath your thin shirt. The feel of it makes him shudder and he feels the need to be closer to you.

He can't think to even lift hands to take the shirt you're wearing of you, feel you closer to his skin, his heart – but he can lean his face up towards you and hope you understand his polite request.

And you do, instantly, because you were already halfway down to laying another kiss on his soft, pink lips.

Your lips meet his, gentle and tender as you feel his soft lips between your own. Your hand moves even quicker now, your thumb pressing down on the on spot you know makes him keen — and his reaction is instant. His mouth opens mid-kiss as he moans unabashedly against your lips as you continue to press over that one spot over and over again.

He's going to go insane, by god, you're going to drive him to the crazy house, because the things you're doing to him are effectively frying his brain.

You leave his mouth, and choose to kiss his exposed neck instead.

He's welcoming of it; without meaning to, he tilts his head to give you more access to suck and bite all kinds of marks along his neck – and he'd wear them with pride, let everyone now how good his girl takes care of him, how good she makes him feel. Fuck, he just wants you all around him, your soft lips on his neck and hands on his cock. He can feel your thighs against his, your calves rubbing against his knees – with every brush of your skin against his the fire in his belly grows warmer, moving from his core and spreading to his chest, his head, his limbs – rendering him tingly all over and loose beneath you.

Your hand move down as you caress his balls in slow circles as your other hand moves to continue stroking his cock.

And Steve keens, whimpers uncontrolled rolling out of his lips. And you time your hand encircling and tightening against his taut balls as you bite down on his neck, your lips suck on the tender flesh of his neck, suck and bite on a tender point on his neck.

And Steve? fuck

Steve's mind goes blank.

No thoughts, no words, nothing.

Just pleasure.

White, hot, blinding pleasure.

He feels it deep within him, a feeling like hot, melted honey so visceral it moves along from his center to spread all over him in intense waves.

In a haze, he's aware his thighs have begun to shake, his sartorius muscle clenching and rippling underneath his skin as the feeling begs to claw out of bones and release.

He's keening, hot moans and whimpers flowing through his lips in a steady flow. You can feel the sounds before you hear them, your lips still pressed to the length of throat.

Both of his arms are now gripping your hips hard, urging you closer to him. He wants– no, needs you closer. There's some part kf him that feels like he can't handle anything else, that if you were to repeat the same movements you've just done, of you were to press down on that spot along his tip, he might just go insane. Maybe lose all cognitive ability as your constant infliction of pleasure fries his nerve endings.

But these thoughts don't last, nerves frayed and through barely able to keep grip as your hands continue to jerk him quick8and quicker, unaware of how intensely you've just wrecked him.

— it's quiet and yet he can't think.

"Please," a voice he doesn't even register as his own, "please, baby, I lov- fuck, love you —oh – fuck, oh, honey–"

He's not sure what words he's saying, not even sure if he's speaking or thinking them, but the desired effect comes anyway.

The precum on your fingers help keep your movements quick, and you continue to move your fingers up and down as your other hand massages his balls.

On one particularly hard jerk, his legs twitchs beneath you, resulting in his thigh rubbing hard against your center, brushing your clit the way you've been abstaining of doing for the past god knows how long now.

shit, you might just come from this slight touch. You hadn't even realised how hot and wet you've become over the duration of pleasuring your boyfriend.

He's always been so hot to you (to everyone really, if his reputation so implies), and one look from him would've been enough to have your underwear ruined.

But, god, he's given more than just a look. He's given you his pleasure, his bare form against yours – he's given you his moans and mewls, his vulnerability. He's given you full control over his body and his pleasure – hadn't even tried once to flip you over and switch roles (not that he'd even be able to with how week in the knees you've rendered him)

So, how can you not be all hot and bothered by this? by the lascivious site of him beneath you as he desperate and weak cries fill the room around you?

Without meaning to, your hips rock against his thighs, moving in tandem with the rhythm you've set with your hand against his cock.

The feel of your dripping centre against him weakens him further, his eyes closed and head burying in the pillow. To know that his pleasure affects you that much makes his cock twitch in your fingers, makes his heart swell with an affection that is so foreign to him.

He's felt it before with you, with his tongue on your center and fingers buried deep – he's cum many times as he ate you out, unable to control himself from letting go as your pretty sounds spurred him on.

But it feels weird for the script to flip, for his immense pleasure be reason for your own, even as you remain untouched above him.

Your lips move from one spot on his neck to the other, biting and sucking as you go, feeling the vibrations of his throat down to even your core as you steadily grind yourself back and forth along the thick expanse of his muscular thighs – feeling every bulge of his muscles, every twitch of his form against the folds of your pussy, the curve of your clitoris.

His voice gruff and broken as he whimpers for you.

And despite the oath you took to only focus on him tonight, you can't stop your hips from moving even faster, motivated by lewd noise he makes.

You are human after all, and the intimacy of the atmosphere around you can't be ignored. The sight of his heaving chest gone red from blush of pleasure tempts you to feel him against your skin – to feel more of him as you make him (and yourself) cum.

You can feel it now, the shift in the atmosphere as your fingers keep moving and your hips keep rocking – it's all coming to a crescendo.

Maybe when your done milking him till you're both reasonably satisfied, you'll kiss him stupid as he recovers and then ride him till he's coming inside of you — maybe he'll sound even prettier then, cock deep in your cunt as you bounce up and down the length of him. You'll kiss his pretty neck all over then, too, feel the whimpers as they form his throat and kiss his lips as he moans for you.

or maybe you'll let yourself go now, core molten against his thighs as he cums for you spurt after spurt.

You can already feel yourself growing weak and weightless with euphoria, filled with a fever-like weakness that pulls you lower and lower to the throes of passion.

Before you can register your movements, you're pulling your hands away from Steve and ripping his shirt that still on your body off you.

The moment of reprieve, or perhaps frustration, shocks Steve, and he mewls against your throat for more.

"so close, bab– oh god–" his pleas are cut short as your hands resume their earlier position, moving faster and harsher now, more determined to get him to his high before you lose it yourself.

Your thumb drags over his slit and down to his pleasure points, up and down gripping the base. Up and down and a squeeze to his balls. Faster, gentler, more – Steve can't think, can't hold it together anymore. It's too much, please, oh please– too much yet he needs more, needs that final push to euphoria. Needs it, fuck– wants it and can't take anymore.

You lean down to kiss him on the lips again, and your nipples bush against his chest – the feeling making you both keen against each other. The soft curve of your breasts rubs against the peaks of nipples. Each rock of your hips against his thigh moving your body against him, electrifying touches all over his body and your chest rubs against his.

You bite his lips as you kiss, taking his plush bottom lip between your own and awarding it a slight tug, before letting go and soothing his tender lips with your lips.

You pull back a moment to admire your handiwork. His lips are red and kiss-bruised. His eyes are heavy lidded and you can see the dreamy and half-present look in the crescents of his eyes. He pants against your lips and tilts his head upward to kiss your lips and intertwine your tongue with his own. You watch his eyes fully close before your own do and you kiss him back.

And it appears that Steve's torture has gotten the best of him, because beneath you his chest hitches as his back begins to arch the way it always does before he cums. The sounds escaping his throat and vibrating against your lips are sporadic and disjointed. He's less kissing you now, more letting you kiss and suck at his parted lips.

His muscle tense and twitch against you, and you know all you need to do is just give him a little more, an extra nudge, and he'll topple over.

Your thumb presses against his slit as you jerk him, and your other hand massages and circles his balls just a tad bit harder.

And Steve feels himself fall.

He's not sure if the sounds he hears are his own or yours — pitches and tones melting into one, sounds coming in and out of focus as his eyes roll back and his body breaks out into tremors.

The feeling is intense, hot and burning and too much, spreading from his cock to his guts to his chest and head.

Steve shakes beneath you, body vibrating as shot after shot of hot cum fills your fist and releases over your hands and onto the sheets.

His abdominal muscles twitch as you milk him for all he's worth, your hands continuing to move as he experiences his high. Your hips rock harder and harder against his thighs, clit brushing faster as your wetness soaks his thighs.

You only slow your hand when Steve begins to thrash beneath you, his silent scream turning to aching cries.

"Steve," you moan against his lips as you rock harder, electricity filling you as your head begins to buzz and your eyes roll.

"Fuck," his whisper is quiet and rough with use, "cum for me, baby, come on," his hands, despite weak with euphoria, grip your hips with all his might to help rock your hips faster against him. "cum, honey. I love you– come on."

Steve, despite barely able to even blink his eyes open or keep his head straight, moves a hand to the back of your head to bring you closer, granting you the same intimacy you'd given him for his own orgasm.

He pulls your face to his lips, biting your plush lips in the same manner you did to his lips moments prior.

Despite the fact that Steve's brain is so euphoria-riddled that everything he experiences feels as if through a haze, he's completely and acutely in tune to your pleasure – to the hitch in your throat as your whimpers grow breathier, to the jerk of your hips against him, to how you seem to burrow yourself closer to him as you approach your own high.

Desperate and nerves frazzled to meet your own high, your hand moves to your own centre.

You bow your back as you begin to circle your clit, using Steve's sticky cum to intensify the feeling.

As your hand moves, Steve pulls back from kissing your neck, tilting his head to watch you make yourself cum with his own spend.

"oh, steve– I love you, fuck, baby–gonna cum fo'you," your words are just ramblings, breathless and desperate as you near your high.

A whimper releases from his throat as he watches your fingers circle your clit – one, two, three tugs before your body tips forward, tremors and twitches racking through your body. Your front presses against your boyfriend's chest as soft, gentle pressure fills your core and your body, leaving you weightless and pliant in the aftermath.

Those gentle waves of euphoria render you speechless against Steve, your limbs are jelly as you melt against your lover.

If Steve wasn't so spent, if his head wasn't already far too high in the clouds of venus, he might've gotten hard all over again and fucked the mix of yours and his cum deeper into your cunt.

But that'll wait, maybe a few minutes, or an hour – maybe...

His eyes are already closing.

Bone-deep euphoria induced exhaustion pulls him deep into a restful slumber.

He'll clean you both up later. You know he'll repay the pleasure you've given him with a hundred acts of care and praise. But for now you'll let him pull you down again him, let him bask in the intoxicating feeling of intimacy that comes after your love making. He settles you close, his hips against your own as you lay over like a weighted blanket.

A soft, comforting, supple blanket.

His hands fumble next to him as he reaches for the tissue box on his bedside and hands you one to wipe your fingers, eyes still closed. The rest of you can be cleaned...later, in the shower, or with his tongue; he'll decide later.

Right now, he just needs you against him.

As a final act of love before he's out, his hand moves to the back of your head and kisses your lips one last time, slow and tender, and another against each eyelid, before coming back again to your lips.

"Steve..." you break the kiss to whisper against his lips, "you gotta let me take care of you often." your words barely even a slur. Despite your love-drunk state and sensitivity, you already know that you want a repeat of this night; of the gratifying feeling as you give your lover pleasure.

Before you can respond to his weak chuckle, you're both out like light, his arms wrapped tight against you as yours rest around his neck, keeping him close to you as you bask in the post-euphoria quiet intimacy.

Like it? >> Give this a go

A/N – wasn't really sure how to end this. It's been almost two years since I've written anything at all so it feels great to get back into it. Feel like I've forgotten how to describe things??? but oh well Feedback is always wanted and appreciated

Requests are open <3

[nerdanel01]

Lectionary Pursuits

Emmrich/F!Rook, Emmrich POV 3k+ wc | NSFW No spoilers for Veilguard, just smut.

EXCERPT: By now, Emmrich was not reading, not really—he was just using his eyes to recognize sound-shapes on a page, and using his tongue and his lips and his teeth to pass those same sound-shapes through his mouth. That language passed through him without leaving the faintest impression on him, without remotely registering in the cognitive centers of his brain; he was simply a transmitter, focused on the barest essentials of his task.

Every other iota of self-control and attention and discipline he could muster was being used to resist the urge to start driving his hips upward against hers.

“You can do this, Emmrich, you’re doing so well. Keep going.”

Rook’s encouragement was only a little breathy, just the slightest twist of mischief in her voice as she praised him and taunted him all at once. Her eyes were hooded, lazy and drunk with desire; from him, however, she demanded nothing but the sharpest attention and focus. 

Firmly, she instructed him: “Pick up where you left off.”

The subaqueous glow coming from the meditation room’s fish tank cast Rook’s self-satisfied smile blue; an unearthly, dangerous beauty.  Emmrich swallowed. A thin trickle of sweat was cooling sweetly on his neck; the chaise was firm beneath him. His trousers had been rucked untidily around his thighs, and atop him, Rook sat—naked as the day she was born—her warm legs bracketing either side of his hips, warming his lap… his half-hard cock fully sheathed inside the warmth of her body, so slick and wet and dripping around him that he was sure, if Rook moved but an inch, he’d find the thatched grey hair at his groin was soaked. 

After dinner with the others, they had slipped off together—something that now happened with such regularity it no longer warranted comment from the rest of the team. They would spend what was left of the evening, then, in the pleasure of each other’s company, in conversation or companionable silence, often reading together into the night: Emmrich, catching up on the latest necromantic scholarship or perusing collections of poems; Rook, reviewing missives from their contacts abroad or (more likely) engrossed in the latest romance recommended by the Randy Dowager. 

Tonight, however, Rook’s copy of Vigor Mortis lay abandoned on the shelf behind the chaise—because tonight, Rook had asked Emmrich to read aloud to her.

Of course, when she had asked him, this was not exactly what Emmrich had pictured.

She had curled up next to him, her head tilted sideways onto the chaise’s back, giving Emmrich her full attention while he began to read from his book, pausing only intermittently to catch her up on references to theorems or proposals made in earlier chapters. Emmrich had warmed with affection, but otherwise thought nothing of it when her hand had crept across the space between them to cover his knee; he had found it mildly distracting, but had made no comment, as that same hand began to climb up his leg, singeing the skin in its wake with desire. 

But when she had raked her nails along the inside of his thigh—when he had felt himself begin to strain, unseemly, against the confines of his trousers—he had snapped the book shut with a satisfying dull fwump of closed pages and turned his head, ready to chastise her. “Rook—”

And then she had dragged the heel of her palm firmly over his trousers, along the swollen underside of his shaft—and all capacity for language swiftly abandoned him.

In the shock and excitement of reaction, his hands had seized upon the book, holding it tightly shut; now, even as the pressure of Rook’s palm was breaking the rhythm of Emmrich’s breathing and leaving him tight-legged and light-headed, the fingers of her free hand gently pried his loose, and opened the book again in his hands. 

Told him simply, in her tone that brooked no argument, “Keep reading.”

And so, because he loved her (and loved her, especially, like this: commanding and demanding his obedience, unguarded and unabashed of her still somewhat inexplicable desire for him) he did��though the effort it took was tremendous. His eyes followed the words in the flickering candlelight, carried them to her ears in an embarrassingly breathy, hitched voice.   Rook gently guided him so he was lying back on the chaise, then unfastened his trousers and stroked him to hardness. 

It was a small miracle, then, that he could string a sentence together at all, never mind read from a page. When his cock was weeping and her hand was sticky from it, she stood—the sudden rush of chill in her absence left Emmrich gasping—then began, slowly, to pull her shirt over her head, to work on the fastenings of her pants. 

He had thought he had paused only the length of heartbeat to admire at her—to watch as cloth peeled away to reveal the final layer of warm, soft, fragrant skin—but he lost his place on the page, fumbled, ended up reading the same line over three times as Rook stepped out of her smallclothes, smiling with amusement. 

Then, without warning or prelude, she had draped one leg over his, aligned herself to him, and sank onto him fully.

She took him beautifully: warm and already wet, wetter than she had any real right to be, as untouched as she was. Emmrich could not help it, it was instinct as much as anything—a ragged gasp escaped him, and his back arched off the chaise as he tried to drive his hips against hers, to drive himself deeper into her warmth—but, 

“No,” Rook told him, firmly, a hand on his stomach to push him back down. “Lie still. Behave. Here, let me help you with that…”

And with the very same hand that she’d been spreading his slick around his cock, she plucked the book daintily out of his hands. With two of hers, she spread it wide for him, just in front of her stomach. Large though it was, it did not provide nearly enough modesty to conceal the swell of her breasts… nor the dark hair between her legs, where she had sank herself around him.

“Don’t stop now,” she’d teased him, tapping the opened page with her finger for emphasis until he had begun, again, to read aloud to her.  

And she had sat like that—by Emmrich’s count— for nine entire pages. 

“Emmrich.” The first hint of a warning in Rook’s voice. “Pay attention.”

Emmrich swallowed around the lump of need in his throat. “Yes, dearest,” he told her, then resumed the passage. Rook followed his eyes as they scanned back and forth; when he reached the end of the page, he did not need to ask her to turn it. She did so, obligingly, her fingers delicate on the thin parchment of the pages. Emmrich used the half second it took her (time when, despite however good or obedient he would have liked to be, he could not possibly have been reading) to drink in the sight of her—the quirk of her mouth, the hairs on her arms raised in the cold—before Rook spread the book for him again, and dutifully, without needing to be asked, Emmrich began against to read aloud.

It was hell; it was heaven; the warm ooze and drip of her around his half-swollen cock (the firmness of which had flagged, somewhat, in the lack of attention or stimulation Rook had been offering it—but if she had noticed, she seemed unbothered by it; she had kept him still sheathed securely inside her warmth) and the siren-like look at her eyes as she stared at him hungrily over the top of the pages. By now, Emmrich was not reading, not really—he was just using his eyes to recognize sound-shapes on a page, and using his tongue and his lips and his teeth to pass those same sound-shapes through his mouth. That language passed through him without leaving the faintest impression on him, without remotely registering in the cognitive centers of his brain; he was simply a transmitter, focused on the barest essentials of his task while every other iota of self-control and attention and discipline he could muster was being used to resist the urge to start driving his hips upward against hers. He could feel a flushed heat in his cheeks, in his neck; he was sure he was red. She was warm in his lap and his legs were shaking underneath her with every minute shift of her hips, any adjustment in her posture on top of him. The quirk of her smile—

The self-satisfied grin imploded on Rook’s face as it tightened, eyes screwed shut; she dampened a strangled cry through clenched teeth, resolved the sound into a hiss. Emmrich was on the verge of keening himself, with the sudden flood of warmth and wetness that gushed out of her, smearing across his groin and trickling between his legs. 

“I said behave, ” Rook told him, between deep breaths to steady herself, “or I won’t let you cum at all.”

“I am, dear,” Emmrich said, blinking at her in wide-eyed innocence. “Or, I genuinely thought that I was…?”

Rook let out a little huff, half amusement, half disbelief. Her best shorthand for, ‘get a load of this crap.’ One hand released the book to land, ever so lightly, on his stomach. “That wasn’t you flexing?” she asked him, running her fingers down the quicksilver path of hair that traced from his navel to his hips. “Misbehaving, making your cock jump inside of me?”

Andraste forgive him, but he loved the sound of the word ‘cock’ in her mouth, crass as it was—and this, in addition the teasing touch of her fingertips along his stomach was enough to have him swelling inside of her with renewed enthusiasm. Had he clenched his core, as she alleged, knowingly or unknowingly? “That—that wasn’t my intention.”

Rook huffed again. “Sure it wasn’t.” But whatever sudden rush of want or need had seized her then, she’d regained control of herself, now; her fingers traced back up his chest, circled pensively. A sudden gleam in her eye, she told him, “If you can make it to the end of the chapter without trying to fuck me again, I’ll start squeezing.”

A proposal she promptly demonstrated by tightening the clench of her cunt around him.

He could not help it: his back arched off the chaise; his eyes slammed shut; he practically shouted in surprise of the sudden blessed satisfaction, a sound he was not entirely confident had not made its way down the passage and out into the Lighthouse library. It petered out into breathy gasps, and supplications lined up to parade off his tongue. “Rook—”

“Mmm,” she practically purred. “You like that idea, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“Enjoying this, still?”

“Very much.”

Her delighted grin widened, sharp enough to cut her face in two. She spread the book wide for him again.

Used her lowest, most obscene voice when she told him, “So keep reading, Professor. Don’t leave me hanging about the unexplored connections between veil lustration and fade harmonics.”

Fade harmonics? Is that what they were reading about? It was hopeless—he’d be re-reading this passage again tomorrow evening, and now he’d be lucky if he ever managed to get through it without becoming aroused. She was warm above and around him, and he was loose and tingling with arousal from his head to his toes, which were curling in his boots, ankles carefully dangling off the edge of the chaise so he did not grind mud into Rook’s furniture. His tongue was starting to feel thick and clumsy in his mouth, muddy, inarticulate; simply the vague promise of imminent tension and friction had eroded terribly what very little cognitive capacity he had left. 

But he loved her, and he wanted to please her—wanted her wrapped and snug and secure in his complete surrender to her, as he was—and so he dragged his eyes back to the book spread in front of her stomach, held in her beautiful fingers (and he must not let his attention wander by thinking of all places he’d much rather those hands be holding him) and bound his eyes back to the page in front of him. 

“ For further explication, we may look to the early experiments of Ligeia Argyra…” 

Though Rook nearly undid all of the effort that had taken him in one fell swoop by smiling at him over the top of the book and mouthing, silently, good boy .

Then shattered his concentration utterly when she clenched herself around him.

Emmrich’s hands tightened around Rook’s thighs; the experiments of the late mage Argyra dissolved into a litany of overwhelmed, half-choked gasps of surprise and pleasure. 

“You said— hha, Rook!” the accusation cut cleanly short as Rook deliberately tightened all the muscles in her thighs and her core around him, “ you said, ‘the end of the chapter.’”

“Did I?” Rook replied, innocently, sweetly. 

“Rook.” He shaped her name into a devotion, a plea. “Rook, that feels—”

“Keep going,” Rook told him. Her voice was noticeably breathier now, a rosy tint to her cheeks. “Keep reading, or I’ll stop.”

Dizzy with need, the words on the page swam before his eyes—then, after a few deep breaths, finally settled. If he had thought this a struggle before, that was nothing. His progress down the page had slowed considerably, interrupted by terrible gaps where Emmrich had to close his eyes or catch his breath, when Rook was gripping so tightly around him he thought he might simply finish and spill inside of her without her ever moving her hips an inch. 

“In the thirty-eighth year of the Towers age, after—after her first s-successful sublimation of the malign en-haa!—energies concentrated around—concentrated around—Aurelius’ Reach, Argyra began her study….”

And so desperate was Emmrich to focus—to behave, as instructed—to be good, for her—eyes glued to the page, he did not notice as one hand slipped free from the book and disappeared behind it. Did not notice Rook’s fingers circling between her thighs until, with a sweet, low moan, her hips gave an impulsive thrust against his.

It took him a moment to register the accompanying rush of slick warmth dripping out of her; a moment longer to realize she was so wet because she was now touching herself, and when it finally clicked his whole body shuddered deliciously. He watched, enraptured, as she stroked herself with middle and ring finger; felt his legs begin to shake behind her at just the sight and the sound of her bringing herself pleasure. 

Faintly, in the recesses of his mind, a nagging—with a rush of urgency, Emmrich realized: she has not told me to stop.

Her thighs were trembling with coiling pleasure; the book had become unsteady in her grasp. Emmrich lifted one of his own from her thigh to secure it, had to lick his lips and swallow against the sudden dryness in his throat. And as the contractions of her soft, swollen sex began to accelerate, signaling her imminent finish, he forced his eyes back to the book.

“...of the phenomenon—scholars—would later t-term veil lustration, though of course—of course, no such designation existed in her time…”

Above him, Rook’s eyes widened. Gone, now, was the haughty, controlling demeanor with which this encounter had begun. She looked at him now with only open adoration. Emmrich kept reading, though he did not think she really heard a word that he was saying. But the look on her face only became softer and more vulnerable when confronted with such relentless obedience, and it was not long before adoration was slipping into desperation, need—

“Emmrich!”

Her whole body shuddered, curling around herself as reached her own satisfaction, drawing her climax out with tight little twitches of her fingers on her clit, and it felt—it almost never felt this good just to watch her finish, to feel her grip and writhe on him as her body sang with pleasure, but perhaps because she had done nothing more than sit on him until now, it was nearly enough to tip him over the edge. 

But not quite.

It took Rook a moment to recover, breathing deeply, eyes squeezed shut. Still, she kept the book adamantly fixed in her grasp. And when she finally opened her eyes, she looked at him with such a smouldering, devastated look—a wild look—a predator daring prey to run, eager for the chase. 

Emmrich swallowed. He turned his eyes back to the book. 

“These early ventures would later form the basis of—”

Rook wrenched the book out of his grasp and in one swift, dismissive movement, tossed it to the floor. 

Emmrich had about half a second to be consternated about this rough treatment of such a precious volume before Rook had pinned his shoulder in one hand and, leaning over him, began to fuck him in furious earnest. 

It was too much, all at once; the stimulation; the friction; the brisk chill of the air in the meditation room every time she withdrew from him; the ecstatic warmth and velvety wetness of her when she took him inside of her again. The way she spoke to him:

“By the Maker, Emmrich, but I love your voice.” Nothing practiced or sultry about, pitched in a frantic, keening sort of tone that told Emmrich she really meant it; if he hadn’t already been red he’d be coloring from head to toe. “And you were so good. So, so good, so patient. So focused, even with your cock twitching like that inside of me—”

“Rook.” He practically wept her name. He could barely think, nevermind speak, body so alight with pleasure it had begun to crowd out everything else. “Darling, please, may I…?”

“Yeah,” Rook answered, emphatically—enthusiastically. “Yes, Emmrich, you can cum—cum inside me now, cum for me.”

And she began to thrust against him in the way she knew by now he liked best: grinding in his lap, long, smooth rolls of her hips against his, driving him fully to the hilt within her. Emmrich felt his own hips rolling to meet her, to match her rhythm—this time, Rook did not stop him. Then with a gasp and a shout every muscle in his body was diamond-tight and scintillating, though he shook like so much dust; and he spilled himself inside of her as she moaned his name and clenched around him, meeting his orgasm with her own.

…the warm weight of her in his lap; her sharp huffs as she caught her breath, her breasts rising and falling—the world came back to Emmrich slowly. With the book discarded, he could see plainly now the damp sheen on his stomach, the mess Rook had made leaking over him. A situation not likely to be improved in the short term, Emmrich thought, as he could already feel the the thick warmth of his own seed beginning to spill out of her, around his softening shaft. 

And Rook looked at him… like he was everything. With a love that he had coveted in others but had come to believe he would never really possess himself. 

Rook looked at him with a love that would make Death itself quake. 

Slowly, delicately, she leaned her face down to his. Emmrich sighed, closing his eyes, expecting a kiss. 

Instead, Rook pulled away; and opening his eyes in his ensuing confusion, Emmrich saw she had plucked the book back up off the floor, and was spreading it open again in her lap. 

He was practically flaccid inside of her, but she had not unseated herself from him; it seemed, she had absolutely no intention of doing so. At least, not yet.

“Now, pick up where you left off,” she told him, “and keep going while you drip out of me.”

[feminist-space]

"Long COVID has destroyed my life

I would love nothing more than to “finally ignore COVID,” as the headline to Dr. Ashish Jha’s July 31 op-ed reads (“With a few basic steps, most of us can finally ignore COVID”). As a healthy, vaccinated, and recently boosted 35-year-old, I did what he said: I ignored COVID-19 on a weekend trip with friends in September 2022. But the infection I got as a result has all but destroyed my life.

A week after my infection, I began to experience intense fatigue, overwhelming headaches, and cognitive challenges that continue to this day. These symptoms are debilitating: I can no longer work, socialize, or travel. My finances are dire. And if I am unable to avoid another infection, my condition may deteriorate even further.

Jha wrote of long COVID “treatments” being promising. Perhaps he could clarify what treatments he is referring to, because my doctors say that there are no approved treatments for long COVID.

A recent study funded by the NIH’s RECOVER initiative showed that 10 percent of adults infected with COVID still have symptoms six months later, even with vaccination. By downplaying the prevalence and debilitating outcomes of even moderate long COVID, Jha is signing thousands of people up to the misery and despair with which I live every day.

Ezra J. Spier

Oakland, Calif.

Another view from infectious disease doctors

As infectious disease doctors, we disagree with Dr. Jha’s contention that it is time to ignore COVID-19.

Yes, being vaccinated and taking Paxlovid thankfully decrease the risk of severe disease. But only 43 percent of people age 65 and over and only 17 percent of all Americans had received an updated COVID vaccination by May 2023, and access to Paxlovid treatment is inequitable by race and insurance status.

Long-term complications of COVID can be devastating, including after second infections.

More than half a million Americans have died since the summer of 2021, when sufficient vaccine doses were available: COVID death rates in the United States continue to be double those of Canada. Termination of free tests and “commercialization” of medications as implemented by the federal government will only widen our country’s grisly COVID-related health disparities.

Inevitably, ignoring COVID leads to ignoring the slow-motion epidemic of long COVID. Standing up against such neglect, leaders like Boston Mayor Michelle Wu and Governor Maura Healey can promote meaningful measures to protect our communities: air purification in all schools and public spaces; free COVID-preventive masks (KN95 or N95, not surgical masks); tests, vaccines, and Paxlovid for all who cannot afford to buy them; and concern for and support of long COVID victims.

Dr. Julia Koehler

Boston

Dr. Regina LaRocque

Wellesley

We remain vulnerable to long COVID

Ashish Jha’s position as former White House COVID-19 Response Coordinator is a conflict of interest masquerading as a qualification for his op-ed. Researchers who study long COVID stated in a recent paper in Nature Reviews Immunology that “the oncoming burden of long COVID faced by patients, health-care providers, governments and economies is so large as to be unfathomable.” Rapid tests, which are less accurate with recent strains while PCR tests are less available, and low death rates give a false sense of security.

I agree that despite progress, more buildings need the air filtration and ventilation that would make public life safer. But Jha omits our vulnerability to long COVID after even mild infections, its devastating effects, and higher death rates for hospital-acquired COVID-19, combined with a lack of collective protection in health care settings with unmasked, untested people who prefer to ignore COVID-19.

Aside from advocating vaccines, he describes an everyone-for-themselves approach, not mentioning responsibility to protect others or access to essentials.

Jha dines in a restaurant with his friends while patients even in leading cancer hospitals are forced into Russian roulette, thanks to this approach.

Kathryn Nichols

Cambridge

Vigilance is necessary to prevent long COVID

While I understand the desire to promote optimism amid the ongoing pandemic, I am deeply concerned about the potential consequences of downplaying the importance of COVID precautions and the significant risk of long COVID. As a person living with long COVID for the last 16 months despite being vaccinated and boosted, I have experienced post-exertional malaise, fatigue, headaches, joint and muscle pain, cognitive dysfunction, and more symptoms that have continued to today. I have tried numerous medicines, supplements, and even participated in a clinical trial, only to find limited relief from the persistent effects of this virus.

Such a stance overlooks the reality that millions more people could end up with long COVID if we fail to remain vigilant in our efforts to combat the virus. Long COVID is a devastating consequence of this virus, and we cannot rely solely on vaccinations to end the pandemic. Even with widespread vaccination, the risk of contracting long COVID remains high. A recent study funded by the NIH’s RECOVER initiative showed that 10 percent of adults infected with COVID still have symptoms six months later. Minimizing the significance of long COVID not only neglects the suffering of long-haulers but also risks undermining public health efforts to control the spread of the virus.

By raising awareness about the risk of long COVID, media outlets can play a pivotal role in educating the public and promoting continued vigilance. Responsible reporting on the enduring impact of long COVID can serve as a reminder that the pandemic is far from over and that we must remain committed to taking necessary precautions to protect ourselves and others. Highlighting the struggles of long COVID survivors and the lack of proven treatments can spur further research and medical advancements in addressing this condition. Empathy and support for those living with long COVID are essential in paving the way for better understanding, compassionate care, and better health outcomes for everyone as COVID rates increase again this summer.

Travis Hardy

Norwalk, Conn.

Link https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/08/05/opinion/cant-ignore-long-covid-jha/

[thatsdemko]

ruin that friendship - l.norris

masterlist

requested: n

pairings: lando norris x fewtrell!reader

warnings: playful banter + playful teasing + goes from 0 to 100 towards the end

a/n: thank u to @userlando’s anons and thank u to my love cay( @oconso ) for helping me with the plot 🫶

the mattress shifts, you can feel the dip beside you. a groan escapes your lips knowing what time it is. morning had come far too early, and whoever was making themselves comfortable in your bed had no right to do so.

“get out.” you grumble, the grogginess takes over your voice, it strains your vocals making you sound faint and tired—which you were.

he chuckles, whoever it was, sounded awfully familiar to your ears, but not enough to recognize with your eyes closed. your face is pushed further into your pillow to block out the light that comes from the hallway.

“you’re not going to get up and greet me?” he asks, and the mattress shifts once more, his body is closer to yours. you can smell his cologne, the scent fills your lungs and you instantly remove your face from the pillow due to familiarity.

your eyes flutter open, despite the crusties that refuse to let your lashes lift up. there he, lando, is sitting in your bed, “get your shoes off my comforter!” you launch your body at his lower half, pushing his clean air Jordan’s off the white linen.

“god you’re still annoying.” he gets up off your bed in content of officially waking you up, “also, I want that shirt back, I never said you could keep it.” he adds before closing the door behind him on the way out of your bedroom.

the silence allows you to get comfortable against the mattress again. you feel sleep sink into your body, eyes just beginning to fall heavy, “hey! I found your notecards on the kitchen table, did you want to study?”

you take a pillow beside you and throw it in the direction of his voice, “get out!” you sit upright pointing your index finger towards your bedroom door that’s open once again, allowing the light in.

he chuckles, settling himself back against your mattress, he begins to flip through your note cards, “cognitive dissonance? what the hell is that?” he asks, half expecting you to respond, “it’s called get out of my room, asshole.” your voice is muffled against the pillow, middle finger shoved into the air to show him how you feel.

he laughs once more grabbing a hold of your hand, pushing the finger back into your palm with the rest of them, “come on, I’m bored max left to get bagels like twenty minutes ago.” he whines, you can feel him kicking his legs against your mattress making you turn your head in his direction.

“are your shoes off?”

“why do you care about if I have shoes on?” he retorts back, the slight attitude that you’ve always hated since you were kids. since max met the asshole who pushed your buttons like no tomorrow.

you sit up again, facing him, due to the way you were previously laying, “because this is white linen sheets. unlike you, I cannot afford to buy another comforter.” you hiss, having enough of him for the morning, you get up out of your bed.

“you still haven’t answered my question,” he says, arms crossed against his chest watching you turn on your heel, “what’s cognitive dissonance?”

you chew the inside of your lip before a long sighs leaves your lips knowing he won’t give it up, “it’s when a persons beliefs and attitudes are inconsistent with their value.”

“can you give me an example?”

“can you shut the fuck up?”

—

the cool pool water drips onto your warm legs. the cool droplets against your body send a screech out your lips, as you pull your legs into your chest and fling open your eyes, “god, first you wake me up this morning now this?!”

he laughs, it echoes across the openness, you never realized how loud he could be— at least not until he was in front of you laughing, screaming, or talking. all things that irritated your middle school and teenage mind that seemed to carry on into later life. lando was all your brother had for years, and it seems evident the two never parted ways despite the ending of Max’s driving career.

“you don’t want to jump in?” he shakes his wet curls out with a towel, sitting down in the chair beside you. he takes the chance to notice the freckles on your nose, the pinky color to your cheeks, “you could use some sunscreen.” he notes, tossing you the bottle that’s in his chair.

you let the can hit you in the leg. his comment wasn’t much of a demand or question, rather a statement at the red and pink across your body, and you take the time to apply the white cream all across the parts exposed to the sun.

he sits in the chair, scrolling through his film and taking the chance to share what he’s captured with you. lando’s love for photography was not something you ever expected out of him, it was very sudden. one minute he didn’t have a camera, the next he’s taking photographs of your parents at dinner.

“did you finish studying?” he asks, attention shifting to you, you watch him move in his seat to face you, “didn’t I do a good job as a tutor?”

you scoff, it’s something you couldn’t control when he said it. despite the egocentric comment, he was a patient tutor. unlike max, who grew angry each time you got a question wrong, lando was kind enough to read hints off the notecards for help.

“you were something that’s for sure.” you turn back to the pool, watching your brother and his girlfriend race each other around. you find yourself turning to lando once again, reaching for the sunglasses he’s now sporting, “thanks for helping me.”

he nods, allowing you to carefully remove his expensive ray-bans and place them on the bridge of your nose, “you’re a good friend.” you say, turning away towards the pool.

while you turn away, you can’t see the lump he swallows in his throat, the eye roll he gives you, and the tiny nod, “that’s what friends are for, right?” he asks, standing up from the chair to remove his glasses from your face. his chain hovers just above your eyes, and he leans a little bit forward, lips nearly inches apart, “cause what we have? I don’t think that’s a friendship, babe.”

you can feel the leftover droplets of water in his hair hit your face, some across your bare stomach too. he’s about to pull away when you reach upward, lips desperately pressing against his.

“help a friend out, I think I forgot how to have sex?” your eyes flicker from his beautiful blue ones, down to his lips, his sweet soft plump pink lips that you desperately want running all over your hot body.

he exhales an excited but breathy chuckle, “it’s my pleasure, darling. you’re lucky you’ve got the best tutor in town.”

[slowd1ving]

[FANTASMAS] SNIPPET ゜・BLADE NSFW

clawing the walls

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

“You’re a damn headache, you know that.”

There’s no malice in your eyes, but he can feel you slipping from his fingers; he can hear the cogs in your brain turn with certainty as you look away with resolve. He’s going to move out—Blade realises, and it’s perhaps the second time in his life that he regrets letting his heart seep through his lips with that sort of confession. Suddenly, he’s stepping forward: hand wrapping tightly around your wrist, with less-than-bruising strength. 

Fuck. The back-and-forth from earlier reminds him exactly of the position he’s in: practically caging you against the wooden frame while you’re still warm and damp from the shower. He’s lucky he wore loose trousers out—and you’re too busy glancing at him in surprise to notice him straining against them. 

“Blade—”

“Yingxing.” He’s not quite sure why he interrupts. Like a gaping wound, he’s ripped past the scab and hit tender flesh. 

He can’t define where the firm line between you and him is. 

And maybe he’s your roommate and there’s a messy boundary constructed by both parties, but there’s something pressing his lungs tight against bone.

“—Yingxing,” you taste carefully: sampling the two characters in your poisonous mouth. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

The normally-collected engineering student has abandoned his wits—gazing at you like a man half-starved. 

“Making you stay,” he murmurs. “You don’t need to move out—don’t we work well together?”

I can treat you so right. His thigh cants against your legs, and he hears you inhale sharply. Fuck. 

Bringing your wrist to his face, he presses his lips to the skin—burning, as some would say, so utterly contrasting with his colder image that it brings about an effect of cognitive dissonance. What’s so good about Dan Heng?

“You’re such a prick,” you hiss, and he feels the words pierce right through him. He is. Objectively, he knows he’s a bastard—unapologetically, wholeheartedly—but you don’t make an effort to pull away. 

“I am,” he admits in a tired, low voice. He doesn’t know if it’s the steely look in your eyes, or the firm set of your mouth—yet he thinks you’ve rooted him in place instead of the opposite. 

Why? If he gets involved with his roommate of all people, it would turn blurry boundaries into cacophonous messes—and it’s not like he wants you to leave. It would be far simpler to let you move out; slice away the relationship cleanly before his heart tightens any further. 

“Do you find it fun fucking with people like this?” 

He looks at you. Really, he does. 

Guitarist. Physics student. Capable scholar. Then there’s that—Trailblazer. 

But there’s also that. 

My roommate. 

So many concepts to consider, when that’s only surface level. He’s never had to think so hard about someone before: preferring to not know them at all. 

“Hah.” You sound incredulous. “Are you this fucking indecisive with everyone?”

“No,” he finally replies. “Just you.”

It’s then that he releases your wrist. You’ll walk away. In line with his own predictions, he already knows you’ll barge past him—perhaps knocking a book or two off his shelf. 

But, no—

“Do you ever shut up?”

—you seem to defy his expectations each time. 

His eyes flicker to your mouth, and this time you take notice. 

Kiss me with amaranthine on your lips. How fitting. 

His eyes widen as you roughly grasp the front of his shirt: creasing the smooth fabric in your fist as you yank his face forward. It’s as if you’re about to punch him square in the jaw, yet for some reason his heart pounds faster and his cheeks flush ever so slightly. Delicately, yet he is anything but that. 

“Seriously, you’re so—”

The heat consuming him is sweltering and omnipotent. One that controls his limbs like a marionette; he’s already reaching to grasp your chin with his rough hand. You’re warm: exhaling in surprise as his mouth meets yours. 

“Mmh–” Hands worn from playing chords tonight slip from the front of his shirt and slide around his nape. He can feel your fingers entangle themselves in his inky hair, and for once he closes his eyes. You taste like the sweetest poison: traces of cherry syrup and the faint spice of liqueur. 

He should’ve done this sooner. 

[carnivorousyandeere]

Darling proficient in martial arts… their yandere could be a competitor, team member, coach, fan, nurse/physical therapist… imagine it’d be quite difficult to subdue someone who spends hours every day training in self-defense and maybe practicing with weapons~! Or maybe their yandere would just enjoy getting beat to a pulp?

By some types of martial arts:

In martial arts like karate, practitioners are encouraged to maintain an intense degree of self-control. Actually striking an opponent with force to injure is grounds for automatic disqualification in a sparring match, and even outside matches, you’re encouraged to be patient and avoid conflict as much as possible. A particularly spiteful yandere could probably ruin a country- or world-class athlete’s reputation if their Darling beat them up, and they knew how to spin the optics in their favor…

Martial artists like boxers and MMA fighters get injured a lot. A competitor or team member could go damn-near all out on anyone that threatens you in the ring (or their chance to fight you themself…), with an audience cheering them on as they do it. I mean, sure, the refs would hate them but it’s not like they care 🤷. Also an incredibly good setup for a nurse/medic yan. Just don’t think too hard about what they do with all the bloody gauze afterwards.

It’s also kind of funny to imagine wrestling, with the yan being a huge fuckin heel and a face Darling who genuinely dislikes them (but of course, everybody thinks their distaste is just part of the show).

By the dynamic:

Rivals are a fucking classic, and for good reason. “You’re the only one worthy of facing me.” Obsession masked as hatred, leaning in close to trash talk but failing to hide their glance at your lips… Maybe they stalk you under the guise of trying to catch you doping and cheating ‘cause they can’t accept that you’re really just that good. Losing to you while their heartbeat, quick with anger and shame, begins to beat quickly for different reasons as you stand over them and gloat, or maybe you choose to offer your hand to help them up… Besting you in competition, feeling self-satisfied and smug— or maybe they feel empty, unsatisfied— “go practice some more and try me again.” Bonus points for silliness if this whole dramatic rivalry is between a Yan and a Darling who both objectively suck at the sport

Team members/fellow students for the casual intimacy of training together, of booking hotel rooms to share for out-of-state competitions. Sharing water bottles when one of you forgets (and if you’re not forgetful, they certainly will be 🤭). Maybe they’re better at the sport than you, and so they have the responsibility to help train and guide you, or maybe it’s the opposite, and you have a cute newbie clinging to your every word and instruction. They’d certainly stalk you too, studying your routine like a rival might, though they’re certain down to their bones you can’t be cheating! You must have some special routine that makes you so strong— like extra workouts, or certain foods you eat! Extra points for angst and cognitive dissonance if Darling actually is a fuckin cheat lol

Coach/Instructor for that sweet, sweet power imbalance. Maybe they’re extra strict with you because they can see your potential. Maybe they’re extra lax ‘cause of their gigantic soft spot for you, and the other students resent the special treatment you get. Coach overseeing your training personally, instructing you, watching you run laps and do push-ups. They like watching you get all sweaty and out of breath from training. And the little strained noises you make when stretching are just too cute! It’s a little too easy for them to touch you under the guises of correcting your form, or helping you stretch. They’d barely have to stalk you, especially if you were a world-class athlete— they’d be in charge of your schedule anyway. Workouts, meals, competitions, trips, all under their control~!