#Remove nicotine

[daily-nicotine]

mak in the distance: THAT SHOULDVE BEEN ME!!!!!!!

[valerico]

Mate, take it from one allergy bitch to another make your peace with not being able to eat tomatoes. It'll only get worse.

(serious in tags)

[7s3ven]

German Shepard hybrid! Reader who used to work as a bomb detector but was medically discharged due to PTSD.

Laswell who hires you as a supervisor to teach other hybrids how to sniff out a bomb but tells you to take it easy.

Task Force 141 who take a liking to you and find your long twitching ears adorable.

John Price who brings you a pastry every morning, knowing fully well you have yet to eat.

Simon Riley who calms you down from a panic attack when you think you hear the ticking of a bomb (it’s a clock).

Jonny McTavish who likes to play with your ears and talks to you in a way he would talk to an actual animal or baby (you secretly like it).

Kyle Garrick who brings you cups of tea and is always restocking the cupboards in the shared kitchen with your favourite snacks.

Task Force 141 who enter the office smelling strongly of nicotine and ash after a long mission. You mistake it for the familiar smell of a bomb and before Simon can react, you’re tackling him with your ears pressed flatly against your head.

“Bonnie, ay! It’s alright, it’s alright. There’s no bomb. You’re alright, lass.” Jonny eases you off Simon, letting you bury your face in his neck as you shake.

Kyle rubs soothing circles on your back as Simon stands up, slowly walking towards you.

“No bomb, see love? Nothing.” He removes his vest, shaking it. When you’ve finally calmed down, you nod.

“No bomb.” You whisper but it’s mainly to reassure yourself that you’re safe.

Task Force 141 who adore you, even in your panic-stricken moments where you act on pure instinct.

[timmydraker]

Tim vapes.

To his friends, namely the ones at school and not so much in Young Justice, this ain’t anything surprising. It’s popular for his age group and given how he has various roles in life that cause anxiety and his poorly concealed PTSD from being Red Robin, it makes sense he’d turn to something for comfort.

That comfort just happens to be an addiction to the ‘cancer usb’s his brother Dick once went on a two hour rant about.

Jason once got grounded and forced to watch a PowerPoint video made by Dick and Bruce after he was caught with a cigarette while still Robin. Jason still kept up the bad habits, but he normally turned to a drink or smoke when things were really bad. It was both recreational and a treat that he only had a few times a year, or month in the case of alcohol.

Tim doesn’t take breaks unless he’s on patrol.

It started when he was thirteen and was so tired from starting work with Wayne Enterprise and Robin that he didn’t give his usual response to his friends offer of a hit.

The passion fruit guava flavour settled easily in his chest, most likely due to how he had a lot of self control with his body. He coughed a storm afterwards but quickly found himself coming back for a hit or two during school breaks.

It only took a month for him to buy his first one after some research. He bought the least damaging one for his body even if he knew that lessening such damage didn’t fully remove it.

He started with grape.

Then once that died, he bought sour apple.

Then fairyfloss.

Then strawberry mango.

Then birthday cake, which he genuinely didn’t think could be real but alas.

It took almost four years for anyone in his family to notice and by pure luck it was his actual father who would end up dying a few months later. Tim remembers how guilty he felt when he realised his father would no longer be yelling at him for his ‘fruity fucking stink’ and that such a thing gave him genuine relief. He shouldn’t want his dad to be dead, yet…

It was then Tim realised that maybe he should try slow down his usage, and challenged himself to go a whole hour before a hit, then two and then finally three before he decided that would be enough for a while.

It’s on a particularly bad patrol when he saw a kid get hurt and wasn’t in time to save her from some likely permanent damage that he forwent his rule of vaping in the suit and took several hits while against a wall in his Red Robin attire.

He was just stating to feel the calm fully settle in his bones as his last puff of sour rainbow exited his lunged when he heard a voice just a few feet away.

“How dare you disgrace the name of Robin with that filth!”

Tim jumps up immediately but no training would prepare him for how quickly Damian comes over and snatches the vape from his hand.

Damian is gone quicker than he can get himself together and he only just managed to shout and run after him with his growing panic.

Tim watches his youngest brother vanish from sight and knows he’s doomed.

When he gets back to the cave a few hours later after trying to hide away from his problems, he’s finished his second vape (star fruit grape) from pure stress.

He’s met with the entire family sans Jason giving him the most disappointed and concerned look he’s seen since he confessed he lost his spleen and didn’t tell anyone.

Damian won’t meet his eye but even then Tim can tell from years of studying his younger that even Damian feels a little guilty for outing him, but as Dick looks close to tears with how upset he is the others resolve clearly strengthens.

Tim doesn’t blame him, even if he’s mentally going over all the symptoms of nicotine withdrawal.

[lovebugism]

eddie fucking you in the back of his van whilst it’s raining😫

hope you like it lovie!! — after a series of ruined date nights, eddie makes up for another failure the only way he knows how (established relationship, smut 18+, 1.4k)

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

Eddie was gonna take you out, come hell or high water — literally.

It was like the universe was conjuring up ways to keep you apart. He tries to plan a date night with you, and suddenly you have to pick up your coworker’s extra shift and the brakes in his van don’t work anymore.

He takes you to a drive-in to see some black-and-white horror movie, and for the first time in weeks, things are actually looking pretty good. With some candy he brought from home, the two of you settle under the covers in the back of his van, lazing against one another as the projector flickers on.

And then it just starts fucking pouring.

It’s like he blinks and the whole thing gets canceled and the entire parking lot is empty.

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he grumbles under his breath, not unlike the black storm clouds rolling overhead.

You giggle at his dramatics. The heavenly sound melts with the wild cadence of rain, tapping rhythmically against the rusted tin roof of the van. 

You’re still being a good sport about the whole thing despite the circumstances. You don’t care what you’re doing, really. You’re happy just doing nothing with Eddie. 

“They refunded us for next week. We can just come back Saturday.”

“I wanted to do it this Saturday,” he whines, all boyishly angry. With his arms crossed over his chest, he leans his head back and bares his milky white neck. “This was supposed to be our night together— why does everything have to get so fucked all the time?”

“It’s not like everything’s totally ruined,” you assure him, practically cooing as you smooth out the frown between his brows with your thumb. “At least we’re together. Who cares about the rest of it?”

“I know, but… You were really excited about it. And I was really excited to watch you watch the movie.”

Eddie tries to be serious, but he’s grinning the second he makes you laugh.

“Shut up…”

“I mean it,” he tells you, serious and quiet with it. His cheek squishes against his shoulder when he pouts at you. “I think I might be heartbroken, babe.”

You know what he’s playing at. You lean into it, anyway.

“Yeah?” you hum with narrowed eyes.

He nods.

“Want me to make it better?”

“Please?”

You close the short distance between you to press a kiss to his mouth. It’s the chastest little peck — you’re practically gone the second you’re there. Eddie chases you when you pull away, tasting of nicotine and pink starbursts when he kisses you deeper.

You get lost in him like it’s nothing, sighing when his soft tongue juts gently against your own. He’s sucking softly at your bottom lip one second, and the next, you’re lying on a pile of fuzzy blankets.

His rings and cold knuckles brush your sides when he tugs at the hem of your shirt, a silent plea for its removal. You come to then, pulling back from him with a low click sounding between your kissed mouths.

“Wait…”

“What?” he wonders, lips rosy and swollen. His deep, chocolate eyes dart between both of yours, looking for any sign that something might be wrong.

“Won’t we get in trouble?”

“No— Everyone already left.”

He’s breathless from having been kissed so ardently. He leans down for more anyway. His stomach twists with rejection when you press against his shoulders to stop him.

With a sigh, he concedes and rises off of you again. His shirt is wrinkled and skewed around his neck from your passionate touches. Still on his knees, he reaches for the metal handle of the back door and shouts into the roaring rain — “Hello? Anyone out here?”

“Eddie!” you shout, giggling and jerking backward when rogue droplets sprinkle inside.

The van shakes when he slams the door shut again.

“See?” he lilts with a lopsided grin. “No one.”

You shake your head at him. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“You love me, though,” he mutters as he settles back over you. The weight of his body is warm against your own. With your hands on his sides, you pull him somehow closer.

“Unfortunately…” you gripe, kissing the breath from his lungs a second later.

When he reaches for the hem of your shirt again, you let him take it off.

—————

The thundering rain against the roof almost drowns out your gentle moans. Eddie’s glad you’re breathing them right into his ear, so he can hear everything he’s doing to you. 

His thrusts are slow and measured. Almost painfully unrushed. He shushes your begging to go faster — “Just let me make you feel good,” he mutters, slurred and low, “Let me hit that spot.” He pierces you with his cock, tilting his hips to hit deep inside you until you make a pretty noise for him, then he creeps back out again.

He never pulls all the way out, though, ‘cause he might die if he left the warm velvet you are around him. He keeps his pelvis pressed intently against your own, the coarse hair at the base of his cock steady on your pussy. The pressure against your clit is merciless.

“Put your legs around me, baby,” he mumbles against your mouth because he knows the different angle will make it better for you. 

He almost smirks when you obey him without thinking, but his mouth parts with an unexpected moan before he can. You pull your knees back and tuck your ankles around his waist, heels pressing gently above his ass. 

Your cunt widens and suckles him further in.

Eddie grumbles a hearty, poorly muffled moan into your neck.

“There you go— just like that,” he praises. “Doing so good for me, pretty. Always so good for me.”

You whine again, high and light, like the praise is equally as pleasurable as his cock.

His metal chain glides between your breasts when he pulls back from you. He tucks his ringed fingers into your waist and sits back on his haunches, balls resting warm and wet against your ass. He keeps rocking into you, unhurried.

“What happened to that mouth you had before, huh?” Eddie wonders, still breathless.

He smirks when you moan in response. He knows you don’t have the words to answer him. He knows he’s fucked you far too stupid.

“Thought I was incorrigible, remember? What happened to that?”

Your mouth parts in a silent whimper, back arching and brows pinching when his cock hits deeper than you think he’s ever been. The pleasure feels borderline electric — makes your spine tingle and your legs go numb.

“Yeah… For someone who loves mouthing off—” Eddie continues to tease despite his breathlessness. You clench around him, and he has to remember to exhale. “—You open up so easily for me. Don’t ya, honey?” 

You wanna say something. You think you almost do. But his thrusts are as merciless as they are slow. He presses impossibly deep within you and keeps hitting that spot until you tremble. The words get caught in your throat, along with a silent moan.

“That’s okay, honey. Just let me fuck you. Let me make you feel good,” Eddie slurs, mumbling like he’s talking to himself. “Go dumb for me like you always do. So perfect at that— god.”

He tilts his head back to howl a groan. Through fluttering lashes and a blurry vision, you see his clenched jaw and taut neck and heaving chest. 

Eddie always talks a big game when he gets you all sweet and pliable underneath him. He loves to be dominant while he tears you apart, but as his own orgasm crawls up his spine, his true colors start to show.

He leans back over you again, caging you beneath his warm weight. He stops hiding his pathetic whines and whimpers and instead buries them into your sweat-slick shoulder. He babbles in your ear, a bunch of garbled nothingness because words are starting to lose meaning.

“Fuck, honey. Oh, fuck— you’re so fucking— shit. You’re so goddamn pretty, baby, you know that? So good for me. So soft, too. Shit. This pussy’s gonna kill me.”

He tucks his face into your neck and tries to kiss you through his whines. His ringed fingers crawl behind your back, holding you like his life depends on it while his measured thrusts grow rapid and sloppy. 

Eddie begs you to cum, or rather demands it because he can feel himself about to explode. “Cum— Cum for me— right fucking now.”

You do. You’ve been hanging by a thread the whole time, really. And like you expected, Eddie’s not too far behind you. Your unabashed moans entwine, mixing with the wild cadence of the rain against the tin roof of the rocking van.

[sturnslutz]

fratboy!chris and independent!reader who..

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws .

fratboy!chris who does somewhat care about rosy.

fratboy!chris who only does hookups. only had one real relationship.

fratboy!chris who does not have feelings for rosy.

fratboy!chris who is the best known dealer on the campus.

fratboy!chris who only got in because fratboy!matt helped him with his work.

fratboy!chris who's only friends are matt, nick, nate and some of the fratboys if they dont piss him off.

fratboy!chris who plays lacrosse and hockey.

fratboy!chris who does not want a relationship.

fratboy!chris who does not have a type.

fratboy!chris who obviously deals hard drugs, but really only sticks to weed and nicotine.

independent!reader who really doesnt give a fuck about chris, but makes it seem like she does.

independent!reader who will not look desperate, whatsover.

independent!reader who's weirdly good at sports, mainly soccer and volleyball.

independent!reader who's really smart.

independent!reader who's older brothers are widely known legends on campus.

independent!reader who helps vey with her work and vey does the same.

independent!reader who's only real friends are nick, nate, matt, and vey. vey being her closest.

independent!reader who doesnt really have a type.

independent!reader who grew up very wealthy.

independent!reader who has a very mixed up aesthetic.

independent!reader whos only had one relationship.

independent!reader who grew up around parties and galas.

@muwapsturniolo @m4ttg1rl @lovergirl4gracieabrams @tyummyz @lypsiiii @sturniqlo @emely9274 @shadowthesim @mattsobvimyfav @sturnl0ve @wastelandzella @fallininlust @chrisslut04 @angeliijay12-blog @sophand4n4 comment to be added or removed.

[renthony]

Tobacco users aren't dirty or stupid, and some of y'all are deeply poisoned by DARE-style propaganda.

Even from people who are supposedly "supportive" of addicts and users, I see so much hateful vitriol toward smokers, as if nicotine addiction is somehow The Worst Kind, and it's okay to target them as Terrible Monsters, even from people who should know better.

"But I have TRAUMA--" Trauma doesn't give you the right to be cruel to every single smoker in the world. It does not give you the right to assume the worst of every single smoker you meet.

"But they pollute my air--" Designated smoking spots in public areas have been a thing for decades now, and I have never met a single smoker who wasn't perfectly willing to move to another location to smoke, as long as they are asked respectfully and not treated like criminals or monsters just for smoking. If you approach a smoker and treat them like a criminal and act like they're intentionally trying to poison you, they have every right to get annoyed at you. And if an individual smoker is a dick about it? That's still the individual, not smokers as a whole.

"But it sets off my asthma--" This is what is known as a "competing access need." Smokers deserve space to smoke, because drug withdrawal is severe and is a legitimate medical issue. Non-smokers and those with respiratory issues deserve smoke-free air. Two things can be true at once, and the answer is not, "so we dehumanize smokers!" Also, y'all may be shocked to learn this, but there are asthmatic smokers. I know several. Using asthmatics as a gotcha against smokers is not productive or kind to either group.

"But tobacco companies--" Are not the individual smokers, and are not responsible for tobacco companies' actions. Blaming Joe Schmoe Smoker for the actions of Big Tobacco is the exact same as blaming someone for climate change because they bought a pack of Walmart-brand hamburgers. Not only is it not effective, it doesn't target the core issue, and it's a douchebag thing to do.

"But it's bad for you--" Suicide and self-harm are worse, and cigarettes are the only thing keeping some people alive. Blame the system, not the individual.

"But vaping is obnoxious and bad for kids--" Vaping originated as a way to help people stop smoking, and it is not the fault of individuals that vaping became another predatory industry. Removing access to vapes, which are commonly still used as a tool for addicts to help quit, is not the fucking answer.

Stop being cruel to smokers and pretending you're progressive for it. Unlearn the DARE propaganda, kill the cop in your head, and recognize that someone's humanity is not dependent on their drug habits.

[scientia-rex]

I made that post about how smoking is bad—actually, no, I’ve made two relatively popular posts about how smoking is bad for you. Raises your chances of dying from multiple factors including heart disease and stroke in addition to lung (and mouth, throat, and bladder) cancer.

I am always so baffled by the responses going “well I could die from something else!” Yes. You could. Statistically speaking, you will most likely die of heart disease, stroke, or cancer, if you live in the US. Your average life expectancy is somewhere around 78 for women, 76 for men. Many people die younger than that, for a lot of reasons. Many of my patients have illnesses that will shorten their lives. I hate to split it into “fault,” as if there’s some kind of perfect way to live a blameless life. (There isn’t.) The numbers, however, are both clear and pitiless. People who smoke are more likely to die younger than they otherwise might have.

Medicine is a numbers game. My job is not to psychically predict exactly what will punch your ticket and when. It is to improve your odds. I want you to both live as long a life as possible but also as high-quality a life as possible. I want for you to live a life you enjoy.

It’s that simple; it’s not sinister. I’m not out here going “I’ll tell them not to smoke so they can have LESS FUN before getting hit by a bus at 30!”

Because smoking isn’t actually fun. What it is, is a very quick (and faster = more addictive) reduction in physical feedback systems that heighten anxiety. Withdrawal of an unpleasant stimulus is rewarding. (Technically, it’s a negative reward; the negative doesn’t refer to a moral judgment, but the addition or subtraction of a stimulus.) Something that is very rewarding very fast will be very addictive. It’s why crack cocaine is also so addictive—it is also a very fast and very potent reward. It’s also why benzodiazepines like Xanax are so addictive to so many people; it’s a slower peak blood level but the removal of severe anxiety is profoundly rewarding.

So smoking can make you feel better when you do it. But your body will try to fix any broken signals. It doesn’t just want to be able to signal to you when you need to feel stressed: it has to be able to signal you, or your long-ago ancestors would have been eaten by predators. So it ramps up the signaling. Now you’re not smoking because you feel better than baseline; you’re smoking to get back to baseline.

That’s why quitting sucks. When you quit smoking, all of the sudden your body’s signals of stress that got dialed up to 11 to overcome the nicotine are just out there at full blast, making you feel scared and jittery and irritable. It’s why when you quit benzos (or daily alcohol) cold turkey you can get life-threatening seizures. It’s why when you stop alcohol you’re likely to have sleep disruptions that can persist for weeks to months.

That’s why things that help reduce the suckage can help. Nicotine patches, lozenges, or gum. Chantix. Wellbutrin. Slowly stepping down the nicotine level on your vape. Eating more, eating things you like. (I would 1000% rather have a patient be fat than be smoking. I know other people will be shittier to you if you gain weight. Living is worth it.) Being kind to yourself helps you quit smoking. You need to recognize that “quitting smoking you” is not your baseline you. It is you with an invisible illness that will take weeks to months to get over.

And sometimes you can’t face that hump right now. But if you want to maximize your odds of the longest and healthiest possible life, knowing that any number of terrible things can happen to you at any time, making the effort—over and over again, if you need to—is the best shot you have.

There are a couple of conditions where smoking does markedly reduce symptoms. The well-known ones are schizophrenia and Crohn’s disease. If you feel not just better, but better like this is a medication for you, like you poop blood or hear things without it, talk to your primary care provider, because there are other medicines that might be safer and/or more effective for you. The landscape around pharmaceutical research has shifted dramatically over the last 30 years. We have more options than we’ve ever had before. Maybe this doesn’t have to be the expensive, dangerous medication that half-works for you. And if what you’re self-medicating is your anxiety, nicotine is a pretty crappy medication for that, because it doesn’t fix you; it changes your baseline to an even shittier place.

You have bodily autonomy. You can make your own choices. I will never go to a patient’s house and slap the cigarette out of their hand. But if what you want is the longest and healthiest possible life, smoking makes your odds worse.

The number of people who think that I, as a doctor, would be unaware of how profoundly unfair bodily health can be amazes me. It’s like the first Father Brown story, where Father Brown is explaining to the villain that someone whose main job is to hear about all of the terrible sins people have to confess cannot remain naive. My job is watching people age, or filling out their death certificates. One or the other. I prefer watching them age, but everyone will die. Someday my doctor will be filling out my death certificate. I’ve removed one potential contributing factor from that line—maybe I’ll get diabetes, maybe I’ll get cancer, maybe I’ll have a workplace accident, but “smoking” isn’t going to be on that line anymore. That’s the best I can do. I can’t psychically predict my own death, either; just play the numbers, try to do my best, and hope.

[daily-nicotine]

woofnic

[macgyvermedical]

Reference Guide to Writing Drug Withdrawal

So your character has a substance use disorder (or physical dependence to a substance for another reason). This post will tell you how to write a scene (or story) in which they go through withdrawal.

NOTE: THIS POST DOES NOT INTEND TO COVER ANYTHING EXCEPT WITHDRAWAL, WHICH IS A VERY SMALL PART OF SUBSTANCE USE DISORDER AND PHYSICAL DEPENDENCE.

Substance Use Disorders and Physical Dependence:

Substance use disorders are chronic illnesses in which a person continues to use a substance (commonly nicotine, alcohol, cocaine, opioids like heroin or fentanyl, benzodiazepines, etc...) even when acquiring or using the substance can be dangerous or cause significant problems in their life (such as problems with money, safety, law enforcement, job security, child services involvement, or physical problems like wounds, infections, side effects, hangovers, and withdrawal). Substance use disorders are a common cause of physical dependence.

Physical dependence is also it's own problem and can occur for other reasons too. For example, many people take prescription medications that they would go through withdrawal from if stopped abruptly (say, because the pharmacy couldn't fill it in time and they ran out). Assuming that the medication is being taken as prescribed, physical dependence in itself does not mean someone has a substance use disorder.

So what is withdrawal? Withdrawal (sometimes called "detox") is the process by which a body stops being physically dependent on a substance. Generally speaking, it is unpleasant. This is because when a body is exposed to a substance repeatedly, it changes how it functions to accommodate that substance. When the substance is removed, there is a period of time where the body has to re-adjust to not having the substance.

For example, alcohol is very similar to the neurotransmitter (brain chemical) GABA. If you drink a lot of alcohol (more than about 4 drinks per day) for longer than about a month, the body decreases the amount of GABA it makes naturally to accommodate the "fake" GABA from the alcohol. If the alcohol is suddenly removed, the body doesn't have enough GABA, and the effects of not having enough GABA result in withdrawal symptoms.

The difference being, someone taking a medication they no longer want to take can slowly reduce the dose to minimize withdrawal symptoms. Someone with a substance use disorder usually finds cutting back nearly impossible. Because of this, managing physical dependence in someone with substance use disorder generally means giving them a similar substance which they get from a pharmacy and take continuously (methadone, buprenorphine), or a similar substance they can then taper off of in a controlled way (benzodiazepines, gabapentin).

Specific Withdrawal Syndromes:

Alcohol/Benzodiazepines:

These are the only two substances that result in a potentially life-threatening withdrawal syndrome, and it's essentially the same syndrome. As stated above, when taken for either 2 weeks for benzodiazepines or 4 weeks for alcohol, the body decreases the amount of GABA it produces naturally. GABA is the "brake pedal" in the brain, slowing things down and decreasing the amount of activity. If you don't have enough GABA, you get too much activity, which can result in severe anxiety, insomnia, seizures, hallucinations, high blood pressure, temperature, and pulse rate, heart arrhythmias, and confusion.

6-12 hours after a person's last drink, they will experience insomnia, anxiety, tremors, and headache.

12-24 hours after a person's last drink, if untreated with benzodiazepines or gabapentin, they may start to experience hallucinations (they typically know they are hallucinating at this point).

24-48 hours after a person's last drink, if untreated, they may start to experience seizures.

48-72 hours after a person's last drink, if untreated, they may start to experience a severe symptom known as delerium tremens. This is a state where they are hallucinating severely and they don't know they are hallucinating anymore. This is also a state where the person has heart rhythm problems that could result in death. This is the most dangerous period during withdrawal.

If a person makes it through 72 hours, they are usually in the clear as far as life threatening symptoms go, though they may experience mild symptoms like headaches and insomnia for long periods afterwards.

Note that medication for alcohol or benzodiazepine withdrawal like other benzodiazepines, phenobarbital, and gabapentin are given only for the first 5 days of withdrawal, tapering to lower doses each day. This gets the person through the dangerous part hopefully with no life threatening symptoms. It does not mean all symptoms are controlled, but they are hopefully kept on the milder end while the brain learns to make it's own GABA again.

Opioids:

Opioids include a range of drugs including prescription medications like oxycodone, hydromorphone, and morphine, as well as street drugs like heroin. Today, the street drug supply in many places is heavily adulterated. Many samples of heroin (and even "pressed pills" made to look like prescription opioids) contain the much stronger opioid fentanyl (which increases risk of overdose) and the sedative xylazine (which causes wounds) in addition to the expected heroin or oxycodone.

Opioids work by pretending to be endorphins- another neurotransmitter usually used by the body to reduce pain and stress. Similarly to GABA in alcohol use, the body reacts to having sustained high amounts of fake endorphins by decreasing the amount of endorphins it makes itself. This means, when the opioids are no longer present, the body can't make itself feel good or recover from pain.

There are many parts of the body that endorphins work in, including the brain, gut, nerves, and spine. When they are removed, symptoms include:

Nausea and vomiting.

Diarrhea.

Insomnia.

Anxiety.

Increased body temperature.

Racing heart.

Muscle and bone pain.

Sweating.

Chills.

High blood pressure.

There is not really a universal timeline for these symptoms like there is with alcohol. For someone who primarily uses short-acting opioids, withdrawal begins 8-24 hours after the last use (though anxiety and cravings can start much sooner). For people who primarily use long-acting opioids, withdrawal can take up to 36 hours to begin following the last use. Generally, symptoms peak within 1-3 days after they start, and acute symptoms last 10-14 days.

Unfortunately, someone who has an opioid use disorder will frequently experience cravings for very long periods of time (potentially the rest of their life) after they stop use. For this reason, people do significantly better at reducing or stopping use over the long haul if they are taking an opioid replacement drug like methadone or buprenorphine.

Methadone and buprenorphine are prescription medications that a person goes somewhere each day to get (methadone) or picks up each day from the pharmacy (buprenorphine). The drugs essentially make it so the person won't go into withdrawal and will have significantly fewer cravings for as long as they take the drug.

The management of opioid withdrawal is usually done by switching the person from a street drug to one of these opioid replacement drugs. However, it is important to note that methadone doesn't work immediately (usually it takes about 2-5 days of titrating it up to get it to a high enough dose to work, longer if the person has a very high tolerance). Buprenorphine requires a certain amount of time in withdrawal (usually a day or two) before it can be given, or it can make withdrawal worse instead of better (something called precipitated withdrawal).

Once someone is on one of these medications, they can choose to stay on them (recommended) or taper off (nice to be off meds in theory, but high rates of return-to-use).

Cocaine/Amphetamines:

Instead of pretending to be a neurotransmitter, stimulants like cocaine and amphetamines prevent the body from re-absorbing the neurotransmitter dopamine, leading to a whole bunch of it hanging out in the brain. This increases concentration and energy and boosts mood. However, taken over long periods of time, the brain kind of burns out and fails to respond to the high levels of dopamine.

You may have heard that amphetamines and cocaine don't have withdrawal states. That would be a myth. People who use stimulants repeatedly for long periods frequently have a withdrawal that is essentially the opposite of the effects of stimulants- they feel very tired, have trouble focusing, and feel depressed because their brains can't use dopamine the same way they did before the drug use. This may last for weeks after cessation of stimulants.

Unfortunately, unlike with alcohol and opioids, there's not a ton that can be done for this withdrawal. There have been several studies, including testing medications like the antidepressant mertazapine, the migraine medicine topiramate, as well as naltrexone and buproprion (also an antidepressant).

In Conclusion:

There is so much more to drug use, substance use disorder, and physical dependence than I am covering in this post. I am just covering a small part of physical dependence, however the cause, by discussing the effects and common treatments for withdrawal.

Thank you all for reading this far! I hope you learned something and will use it in your writing!

[houseofhyde]

“aemond, i’m out shopping…”

pairing. modern!aegon targaryen x fem!reader synopsis. ...but you’re under aegon and he’s not stopping. ( read part one here ) warnings. modern au, best friend's brother!aegon, drummer!aegon, fuckbuddy!aegon, references to alcohol & drug usage, smut ( aegon is giving switch vibes ngl, f oral, fingering, m masturbation, pussy pronouns bc aegon straight up talks to it like it's a sentient being independent of the reader, exhibitionism, hair pulling, sweat kink?, spit as lubrication, cum tasting, one single slap, mentions of sex toys & tribute pictures, dubcon but only bc the reader protests even though she doesn't mean it ) word count. 5.2k hyde’s input. my modus operandi is making a silly smut fic ( that involves aegon or aemond fucking around with their brother's love interest ) and then ( quite some time later ) writing a part 2 that accidentally trips and falls into a whole load of plot that simply must be further explored, and then oh no! a series is born! the horrors! read on ao3.

Aegon Targaryen is no stranger to waking up naked in a stranger’s bed.

It’s an occurrence that’s marked his formative years, truly. Drinking hard, partying late. Crashing harder, waking later. Last night's clothes strewn across the bedroom, bathroom, kitchen floors, an arm gone numb with the weight of the head that rests upon it. Hair of black, blonde, brown, red, blue tangled on the pillow next to his own. He’s never been picky with who he takes to bed. A warm body is a warm body, and Aegon Targaryen is but a creature of cold blood searching for some reprieve.

This, however, is new to him.

Awakening to unfamiliar walls still dressed in last night’s clothes and laying completely alone. There’s a pounding in his head that beats at his skull, harder than his foot kicks a bass drum. The smell of cheap liquor sticks to his skin — vodka, or tequila, or rum; he can’t pinpoint which he drank more of. The spot next to him is empty, cold to the touch as a hand stretches across the mattress, searching for some sign of life.

Last night is a blur of nicotine in his lungs, glitter in his hair, and far too many broken drum sticks. He needs to stop snapping them over his knee at the end of every solo. The band had been playing at some new bar, that much he does remember. Then, their set finished, and the drinks began to flow, and more than once he was called into the bathroom for a sniff of snow.

When things can’t get worse, they often do.The scream of an alarm clock, somewhere to the left of him and completely out of arm’s reach. With a groan and a grimace, Aegon’s rolling over, tangling himself in floral sheets and, there he finds the damn noise-maker, sitting pretty on a nightstand, living in the space between a pile of well-read books and a scented candle burnt down three quarters of the jar it lives in. An ashtray filled with trinkets, and earrings, and necklaces, and a single cigarette butt, sits right next to a phone, a glass of water, and two unlabelled white pills, one simple note attached. 

Went 4 run. Don’t burn down apartment.

Aegon can’t even get offended by the comment. He once set Helaena’s carpet on fire, with nothing but a bottle of nail polish remover, a box of matches, and a whole lot of morbid curiosity. More than once, he’s left a pot on the stove and come back to find flames engulfing it. In a world of pyromaniacs, Aegon is a pyro-misfortunate, too typically present when things go up in flames — literally or figuratively.

Right now, the only fire is in his head, and the safety of water lies within a glass. His fingers scramble along the bedside table, grasping at straws to pick up the two pills. As one presses into the palm of his hand, the other slips off the edge. He tries to catch it as it falls. It has the opposite effect, the pill he’s captured slipping through the crack between his fingers and crashing against the floor, exploding in a powder of white. The other tablet is in no better state.

He could cry. He almost does, as he throws the upper half of his body off the bed, dangling down to scrape up the salvageable remnants of his pain relief.

“Every time I think you can’t get more pathetic, you prove me wrong.”

The voice of Aegon’s salvation.

You appear to him, an angel in the doorway. Upside down, clad in a sports bra, running shorts, and mismatching socks, your skin glistening with its own sweat, backlit by the unforgiving shine of an afternoon sun. And it’s all a hallucination, no doubt, because Aegon has not so much as heard from — never mind seen — you.

Not since that last Sunday you’d spent kneeling on his van floor.

He thought your words were nothing but a bluff. This can’t happen again. It was a bluff every other time, a silly thing to comfort the part of your conscience that feels it owes Aemond some kind of unwarranted loyalty, only to then forget about it the next time his text buzzes in, a misspelt nmeed you, or lemmesee you 2moro, or ur pxssy my mouth pls? lighting up the screen. Nearly a month since he watched you slip out his van door, it seems the only way to see you is in a come-down, hungover state of delirium.

But you’re moving towards him, and crouching down to grasp the tablets he’s left to perish, and sitting him up right, leaving his limp body to collapse back against the bed — your bed? A hand racks itself through his disjointed hair, a momentarily soothing touch, until it tightens into a fist and tugs at his roots, angling his head till his blues meet your eyes. A moan slips its way past Aegon’s lips, the delicious burn at his scalp waking his easily aroused mind.

“Look at you,” you practically spit your disgust at him, but the pity in your stare lessens the blows of your anger-laced voice. Your voice, oh how he’s missed it. “There’s a little more life in those eyes than last night, but, god, you look like shit.”

“Hmm, love it when you degrade me, baby,” he says, a shit-eating grin stretching his lips. “Gets me so hard.”

You recoil within an instant, hands off him like he’s a flaming ball of fire and you’re a barrel of oil, impending doom awaiting when both casualties collide. Aegon chases after you, however, and so you don’t make it far, his arms snaking around your waist and pulling you down into the sheets with him.

Twisted limbs, wrinkled sheets. You weakly thrash against his hold, his arms tighten around you. Burrowing itself in the crevice where neck kisses shoulder, Aegon’s face seeks the refuge of darkness and burrows itself in the smell of skin, your skin.

“Ew, Aegon!” A cry from above, his warm tongue slivering out the cavern of his mouth and dragging itself along a patch of sweat stained skin. Salty, sweet, musky. Everything he likes, everything you. “Let me go, I’m all- You’re making me sweat all over my sheets!”

“Well, that’s no fun,” the pout practically drips off his voice, giving away his expression as if you can’t already feel it pressed right up against your neck. Mind of their own, his hips grind against the leg trapped between his, the swell of his waking cock slowly making itself known. “I’d rather make you sweat, without the s.”

“Weat,” the cooling damp of your skin soothes his burning headache, the perfect remedy to last night’s cocktail of bad choices. Undulating hips, setting an unsteady rhythm that nurtures the hardness between his thighs, feeds its growing hunger slowly. Too slowly. Too long since Aegon last felt you, since Aegon last felt anything. “You’re saying you want to make me weat.”

“Wet. Sweat without the s,” seizing the opportunity, he takes it upon himself to grab a hold of control, flipping you onto your back with a lack of elegance that can only be justified by his hungover state. With your earlier protests still echoing in his mind, you seem to have no issue spreading your legs and making a space for him between them, inviting the Targaryen boy to drape himself over you, face in neck, crotch against crotch, sweaty skin against sweaty skin. “Phonetically.”

“Wow, that’s a big word for you, Aegon!” Despite your grinning mouth and facetious words, deft fingers slip into the crack between your bodies and work at the buckle of his belt, worn leather leaving speckles of itself on your fingertips. “Did Aemond teach you it?”

“Ha, ha.” His hands pinch at your side, an unseen eye-roll at the mention of his younger brother. Perfect Aemond, always finding a way to make things about himself, even when he’s not in the room. The cut feels a little deeper when you’re involved, the only thing of Aemond’s that Aegon has ever dared try take for himself, a sick prize in the depths of his perverted mind. “Who needs big words when you have a big coc-”

The doorbell rings and interrupts him.

Both of you freeze, hands burrowed in hair and fingers tracing over flesh. Aegon’s quick to recover, dragging his attention back to the shape you make up beneath him, a sight that brings him physical ache. He lets his gaze wander over the length of your torso, over the slopes and curves and dips of your body, and hooks his thumbs under either side of your nylon shorts. 

“Ignore it,” he says, relishing in how easily the tenseness in you melts away as your eyes find his again, stiff muscles melting as easily as candle wax.

Layers of clothing shed away, his liquor-stained shirt now a pile of cotton by the door, your shorts tossed blindly over his shoulder. He sinks back down, your own limbs following suit, folding beneath his on-coming body. Mouths find one another, like a moth finds a flame, and refuse to part.

Aegon’s missed you. He won’t say it, but he feels it. In every brush of his tongue against your own, and every spine-tingling touch your hands drag over his naked back, and every breath he pulls in stained with the smell of your shampoo. It’s too overwhelming to think of, and so he forces himself to focus on a far more pressing matter: his fingers dipping beneath the waistline of your panties.

As thumb meets navel, a phone screen lights up on the bedside table.

He tries, so desperately, to chase your mouth as your head flees, and one less hand, five less fingers touch his skin, reaching out to grasp your buzzing phone, the name on the screen rousing contempt within him.

“Don’t answer,” he’s pleading, even as he watches your thumb swipe up on the green. “Please, don’t.”

Your eyes refuse to meet his own, you put the phone to your ear.

“Aemond,” a sucker punch to the gut, a name that reminds him of the pounding in his head. Aegon recoils from you, resting back on his haunches, the pathway to your thighs a trail laid out before him. “Hi, sorry.”

He wants to admit defeat. Crawl off your bed, scoop up his shirt, lace up his boots — wherever they are. Spare not even a fleeting glance as he takes his leave, let you stay focused on the brother that clearly owns more of your attention than him. And the worst thing is, Aegon cannot pretend this feeling is rational.

Aemond is your friend, your best friend. The one you call when you need saving, the one who pulls the weight of your textbooks out of your arms and into his own, the one who wins a smile out of you like it’s as easy as breathing air. Whereas Aegon can’t even claim he’s losing the race to his little brother, because he’s not even on the same track. 

Unfortunately, defeat just isn’t in his nature.

“Oh. Yeah, I’m,” his hand on your knee, you don’t even flinch. Still won’t even look at him. The hand smooths up your thigh, a light squeeze of flesh as it reaches halfway. “Not in. Aemond, I’m out shopping.”

He snorts back a laugh and, finally, your eyes are on him. Wide, panicked, and pleading for silence.

Aegon ignores it.

Fingers dance up the expanse of your thigh, a pleasant hum rumbling out his chest at the warmth of your skin. He can hear his brother on the other end of the line, unintelligible words blending with the familiar sound of his voice. He can almost picture Aemond, a wrinkle free shirt and tailored trousers, looking up at your building from the entrance, phone pressed to his ear and frown creasing his forehead. The image stays fresh in his mind as his fingers smooth over the soft skin that melts your thighs into the curve of your hips, and sneak their way under the elastic band of your panties.

He pulls at it and releases, watches the way it snaps back down onto your skin. A foot weakly kicks at his side, that stare of yours growing deadlier.

“Are you okay? What happened?” God, the way you want to comfort Aemond, it makes him sick. Or maybe that’s just his hangover. Yeah, that makes more sense.

All is forgotten, for a moment, as he traces over the slope of your mound, finger flexing to press against your clit, hidden out of sight beneath damp cotton. You try to play it cool, like his touch doesn’t faze you, but Aegon’s too quick to notice the hitch in your breath, the way you seem to take a moment too long to reply to his brother.

“Can’t you try to speak with your professor about it, Aim?”

The nickname you speak has Aegon laughing again, a facetious chuckle he presses into your knee, spine curved as he bends down to kiss it. Another kick, this one hits his ribs. Like a saddled horse, it spurs him on, tells him to move faster, touch you more.

It’s hard to pick which sight gets him harder: the peeling back of your panties to reveal the mouthwatering view of your cunt, shining with slick and inviting him to dive right in, or the way your faux composure crumbles, for an instance, back arching reflexively and teeth pressing down against the pillow of your bottom lip, your eyes glued right on his.

“That’s bullshit,” you seem to remember Aemond’s still there, ranting along his own woes in your ear. Again, Aegon wonders if he’s outside. “You’re literally the top student in your year. Hell, you’re probably one of the top students on our whole campus.”

Aegon can’t even disagree. Resident brainiac, the younger Targaryen has always been the overachieving student, winning every useless award and wearing every golden medal. And maybe, were you not two feet below him, dripping wet in nothing but a sports bra, he’d be interested in hearing where this conversation goes, find out what exactly his do-no-wrong brother has fucked up enough not even his flawless grades can save him. His finger is dipping into you before he can even let the thought repeat itself.

“My poor girl,” he mutters aloud, eyes glued on the pretty sight between your legs, hypnotised with how the digit disappears into your pussy, all the way in till knuckles kiss the pillowy soft lips. “So tight. Has mummy not been taking proper care of you, hm? Not letting someone stretch you out, fuck you real good like you deserve?”

“Would you shut up?” You hiss from the pillows, interrupting his reunion with his best friend. He curls his finger up, gently, pressing into the spongy wall of your cunt, just to delight in how easily the animosity flees your eyes as they roll back. Only to shoot wide open again, pressing the phone tighter against your ear. “Sorry, that wasn’t aimed at you! There’s- There was just some creep harassing me about the queue. Yes, I’m okay. No, you don’t have to come get me.”

“This is a private conversation,” Aegon’s free hand pinches the skin of your thigh, that devilish grin of his unwithering as he watches the subtle grind your hips give, fucking his finger deeper into the heat of your cunt. Even in anger, you want him. “Think I need to give her a present, something to keep her nice and stuffed,” he draws the word out, slipping a second finger into you.

You squirm away, for a moment, but his hand chases after you and you’re giving right in, at his mercy, one hand clutching the sheets, the other keeping the phone pressed tight against your ear. Two pumps of his fore and middle finger, until he lets them drift apart, a gentle stretch to your clenching walls.

“Or is my baby more of a Rose toy kind of girl, huh?” Whether on purpose or on instinct, words fall louder each time he opens his mouth. The very same mouth that’s leaning down to meet you in a gasp-worthy kiss, lips pressing sweetly against the throb of your clit, tongue coming out to play in a flurry of three kitten licks, all the while he works his wrist into a dull ache, each thrust forcing his fingers deeper than the last. “Something to soothe this little clit and something to fuck this tight pussy, is that what she needs?”

The hand on the mattress finds his hair, a harsh tug that has him parting with a few strands. He doesn’t care. In fact, he hopes the near-white locks get lost in your sheets if only to be found by a curious Aemond next time he can’t be bothered masking his way home and crashes at your place. What he wouldn't give to see the look on his brother’s face, holding up the hair to see it’s not even half the length of his well-groomed, pin-straight hair.

You’re talking again, doing your best to keep your voice neutral and your breathing even, hand still tangled in Aegon. He half expects you to pull again, kick him again. Tell him to focus on getting off of you, instead of getting you off. But you don’t do that. No, actually, you’re pulling him closer, keeping his mouth pressed to your soft skin, making sure his tongue continues to dance along the nerve-buzzing runway of your cunt, lapping up the taste of you till he’s sure it’s going to seep into his DNA, alter his genetic make-up so you’ll always be a part of him, even when you’re apart from him. 

The throb between his own legs is growing, pulsing your name in morse code. As much as he wants the sweet release of flipping you over, arching your back, and feeling your walls clench around the girth of his cock, he’s too attached to the taste of your skin, head burrowing itself deeper, nose smushed against your clit as the tip of his tongue knocks at your slit, soaked fingers spreading your lips open. His own desire will need to find a different method of salvation.

A free hand, switching between gripping at your waist and squeezing the meat of your thigh. It departs from your body with a muted hesitation, a momentary pause before it shrugs away his empty belt buckle and fishes out the lever to his zipper. A swift tug, his pants loosening their snug fit around his hips, leaving his fingers with the freedom to dip beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs and grasp at his aching cock.

“Mhmm,” you almost moan, disguising it as an agreement to whatever his brother is saying to you now. In turn, Aegon lets himself give into it, moaning loud enough for the two of you, letting the sound vibrate into your soaked cunt. “Sorry, repeat that, I- I can’t hear you.”

Shameless as he’s always been, he lets his cock spring free from the confines of the nylon material, standing to attention and slapping against his lower stomach, the tip already dribbling with pre-cum.

“See how much I’ve missed her, baby?” This time, he’s talking to you, lips in a wicked grin, shining with your own wetness. Brushing dry fingers over the mess he’s made between your thighs, a mix of spit and arousal, he relishes in watching how easily you get his fingers soaked. One curl of three fingers, pressing teasingly at that spot he knows too well, then he’s pulling away, extending his hand out towards you. “Spit. Now.”

Your eyes watch his, wide and impatient. The cool air must be soothing, he thinks, brushing against your now abandoned pussy, yet he doubts you find any solace in it. You’ve always been the kind who wants to melt, not freeze.

Phone angled away from you, Aemond’s voice still pouring out its speaker, you lean forward and let it drip: a string of spit.

Basking in the proper attention you’re finally giving him, Aegon wraps the newly soaked hand around his cock, letting the head of it slap back against his torso before he really puts the mixture of your fluids to use. Tight fisted, lips parted, he finds himself leaning back on his haunches, free hand splayed out behind him and holding the weight of himself as he puts on a show for you, stroking his cock. The bed beneath you both creaks as he lets himself fuck up slowly into his hand, a cacophony of pretty moans and desperate whines filling the space between you. Can Aemond hear? God, he hopes so. 

The sight of your own hand snaking its way down between your legs is enough to remind him of his mission, the whole reason he’s not given into his want, his need to bury his cock inside you.

You barely brush over your clit before he’s slapping your hand away with a tut, a non-verbal protest as his lips reunite with your cunt, the hand between his own legs beginning a new pace, stroking over his hardness in rhythm with the strokes of his tongue and the speed of his fingers pumping into you.

Hang up, he wants to demand, but he’s got a mouthful of you and he intends to savour it until the end.

“Aemond,” your teeth bite down on your lip in sync with how his own drag over your clit, a silent warning against saying his brother’s name again. Next time, I’ll bite harder, he’s promising, only partially wishing you’ll tempt fate. “Shit, sorry, I have to go, I’m- yeah, next in line.”

Not even a goodbye.

Your thumb presses messily at the red button, the caller ID fading off your screen as the phone fades away into obscurity, left to get lost in the sheets as you give him what he’s been missing all alone, the sweet melody of moan, after moan, after moan falling from your lips, fingers pulling once more at the tresses of his hair.

“Hmm, d’ya think he can hear us, baby?” A nano-second, lips parted from your skin, his eyes flickering to the open window. “Think he’s out there waiting on your doorstep like a loyal hound, while you’re letting me get a taste of heaven?”

You’re close. He can see it, feel it, taste it, each stroke of his tongue greeted with a fresh wave of your sweetness. Both of you are a mess of unintelligible noises, hips rising off the mattress, and thrusting into open palms, sullying yourselves in the paint of pleasure. 

He calls your name softly, whiplash against the intense feeling swelling within you.

“Let me see it,” he’s begging, no shame. Glassy eyed, hungover, pussy drunk, wishing you’d give him the one thing he’s been missing all these weeks without you. “Cum. Go on. Cum for me. Please.”

The chord of tension snaps and at last you’re an uncontrollable mess beneath him. Eyes rolling back, back arching up, thighs shaking with a force of nature, the prettiest cries of his name. He’s there with you, the whole time, tongue, and mouth, and hand coaxing you through the maze of lust that consumes you in your orgasm, guiding you safely to the end.

You don’t calm with ease, still trembling as he places one last chaste kiss against you before he lets his face rest on the warmth of your thigh, smearing the stains you’ve left upon him onto your own skin as he continues bucking into his hand, each thrust more desperate, erratic, pathetic than the last, chasing the fast-approaching end.

Until your hand tugs at his hair and he’s frozen beneath your gaze, mouth hanging open, chest heaving in shallow breaths, hips stuttering as he fails to fully control his urges, the tip of his cock blushing red with angry desire, desperate for release. He’s awaiting your dismissal of his own touch, waiting for you to replace it with yours, remind him of just how well you know his body. Your hand does meet his skin, but not how he expects.

You slap him.

A sting in his cheek in the wake of it, and a rush of blood to his groin, eyes rolling back for a split second. “Hmm, next time hit me harder. Promise I won’t break.”

“How could you do that?” You heave out, no doubt intending your voice to hold more power, but it’s weak, and breathy, and turning him on even more. “Aemond was- He could’ve- Fuck, this wasn’t supposed to happen again.”

“If it’s any consolation, you tried. Haven’t answered my texts in weeks,” he’s aware he sounds desperate. Because he is. Or is that just his hangover again? “Would think you’d died or something, if I didn’t have to hear your name come out of Aemond’s mouth everyday.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he’s the one in the wrong.”

A blanket of silence engulfs you both, heavy and uncomfortable over your sweaty bodies. His hand still sits tight around the base of his cock, begging for attention, but he can’t bring himself to move.

Not until he knows you’re okay.

“I’m sorry,” the shape of it is foreign on his tongue, scarcely said and never with a speck of honesty. “I shouldn’t have put you in that situation. I just- I guess I just thought if you remembered how I could treat you… thought if I could just make you feel good, you’d-” He cuts himself off, words hardly making sense in his own head.

You heave a sigh, smooth your hand down the side of his face that still stings. “You don’t just make me feel good. You make me feel better than anyone else, and that’s the problem. First man to touch me, and now all the others can’t compare.”

Aegon is a fiend for praise, so used to words of disappointment and looks of disgust. But then one day, he dove between a woman’s thighs and heard her calls of pleasure, listened as she praised his efforts, revered his good job, delighted in his skills upon the mattress. It’s no wonder he began to find solace in the pleasures of the flesh, the first and only thing he’s done right in his life. 

“You let others touch you?” A silly thing to get hung up on, yet he can’t let it slip away. The hand around his cock skates forward, stroking slowly before smoothing over the sensitive tip with the palm of his hand.

You nod your head.

“Sometimes. Guys can get touchy at frat parties, but I’m sure you know all about that.” He doesn’t bother to negate it, he knows you know him too well. No doubt Aemond shared every anecdote of Aegon during his short-lived frat days. A hiss slips past his lips as he continues the slow caress of his aching length. You clear your throat. “Stop denying yourself. Just cum, it’s okay.”

Sometimes, he can follow orders.

Especially one like this, that leaves him reaching once more for the sweet relief of release, wave after wave of it rolling down his spine as his hand works himself to completion.

“Can I,” he stutters over a moan, cutting himself off and getting swept away in the rapid currents of reignited lust, each touch more frantic than the last.

You finish the thought for him. “Cum on me, Aegon.”

White, thick, hot. Rope after rope of his spoils spill down onto your naked skin, a painting so beautiful he almost wants to picture it and sell it on as modern art. It’s better than anything Aemond’s ever made with his easel and brush.

Time melts away into nothing, fading to obscurity as he floats on cloud nine, body weightless, mind rested. Tingles down his spine, up his thighs, on his face where you still touch him, thumb smoothing over his cheek.

A giggle pulls his mind back into his body.

“I told you this wouldn’t happen again, and now look at me!” Your tone is softer than earlier, even if your voice has regained its usual energy. “God, I just might be the biggest idiot.”

“Don’t say that. You’re smart,” you shoot a sceptical look his way, wanting to negate him, but he doubles down. “You are. Don’t forget I know your best friend, I hear all the shit you’re achieving on that campus. You’ve got me beat, at least. Couldn’t even make it past my first year before I dropped out.”

“I look like I belong at some conceptualist’s art exposition on tribute pictures.”

“I could give you a real tribute picture,” his eyes are glued to yours, even as he swipes a finger over his cum upon your lower belly and brings it up to his mouth, teasing his tongue with the salty taste. “Just need my phone camera, a nice big cheesy grin from you, and a printer.”

“Keep dreaming.”

“Oh, I will.”

Throwing a leg off the bed, he tests his stability, hand reaching down to tuck his limp dick back into his trousers and zip the fly up halfway. Despite the dizziness that threatens to cloud his mind, he manages to get his second foot on the ground.

“I’ll leave you to your shower, sweaty,” he calls over his shoulder, making his way over to the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” He could almost coo at you, wide-eyed gaze, legs tangled in floral sheets. You’ve sat up, and don’t seem to care about the way his cum drips down you onto the bed. All you care about is him, even if it's just for a moment, and Aegon has to physically stop himself from stumbling back over and engulfing you with his body once more.

Instead, he leaves you with a shrug and a simple explanation, “you fed me, now let me feed you.”

By the time he’s got eggs cooking on the stove and bread warming in the toaster, the sound of running water fills your apartment. A familiar buzz rings out, leading Aegon over to where his phone lays, buried in the cracks between your couch cushions. The screen lights up.

One missed call - Mother. 

Unlocking at the sight of his face, he swipes up on the screen. It opens onto a chat log. Your chat log. His stomach drops as he scans over the messages, dreading what inebriated-Aegon had gone and texted.

Needyou - 04:47 am

Plase - 04:49 am

Thinik Imgonna K Hole in nnnnn bathroOm - 04:52 am

All three messages are in blue.

Beneath them, your reply lives in a muted grey bubble, yet it somehow has his eyes watering. Maybe he just needs to turn the screen brightness down.

Send me your address. I’ll be there ASAP - 04:53 am.

The pop of the toaster scares him out his own skin. He turns his head only to curse under his breath. Flames engulf the small frying pan, the food within charred black. He gives a gentle call of your name.

“I hope you like your eggs well-done.”

+extra hyde.

so, how are we feeling? do we want more of these two weirdos ( affectionate )?

i stopped doing taglists a while back bc i lowkey always forget about them but @481theralicat dmed me a while ago asking to be tagged if i ever wrote a second part to drummer!aegon and that message was partially what gave me the motivation to finish part 2, so i feel like the least i can do it tag them. i hope you enjoyed it & the wait was worth it <3

[bettymylove]

hello! I really love your work and I was thinking if you could write a one-shot of theo inspired by the song " Open Arms by SZA ". but somehow make it a good ending? idk 😓 ( like a slow burn or something ) reader had to let theo go but theo is kind of begging..? for reader to stay in his life and so on! idk if I explained it good enough but you can search up the song and take a look at the lyrics, you'll see what topic I'm going for!

thank you if your write this! you're an amazingg writer ‼️

never leaving

pairing: theo nott x reader

content: your insecurities push you to break your friendship with Theo, only to realize you were wrong all along.

a/n: hope this matches your expectations, I'm sorry if it didn't<33 (also I feel like I'm apologizing in every a/n)

You could say that Theo took you in, he was the only person in your life that ever made you feel too comfortable. When you were on the train, he had befriended you and he never let his friendship falter.

Theo was everything, he was all you could ever need and it scared you how much you were dependent on him. You had never needed anyone, always doing everything by yourself but you could see that changing.

Friends weren't a usual sight in your life and Theo had changed that, but you still had your doubts and maybe that's why you had decided to tell him.

You always had a lingering feeling, that he was taking pity on you because who would willingly spend so much time with you, call themselves your best friend, he had no reason to do it.

You spotted Theo in the hallway along with Mattheo and Enzo. The former two were smoking, and Theo's eyes met yours, and he immediately threw down his cigarette, crushing it using the sole of his shoe.

His eyes stayed on you while yours diverted here and there, ashamed to even meet his gaze. You wanted to be with him, but he was ruining his life for you, he was way too enamored and you wanted to help him.

You reached the group and scrunched your nose at the nicotine smell, Theo noticed this and dragged you away. Why does he have to be sweet and make this harder? you thought.

"Theo, I-" You questioned yourself, he was the only person who knew you but it would be too selfish to make him stay, so you continued, "I don't think we should be friends anymore"

Maybe friends wasn't the right word to describe you two, you weren't dating but he never dated anyone else and it's not like you could. You always hoped it was because he harbored some feelings for you but that had been a foolish fantasy.

"Y/n, I'm sorry sweetheart, I won't ever smoke again, I mean this was the first time in weeks, I really am trying" what? he thought this was about him smoking?

"No, Theo it's not about that." you simply stated trying to make him understand about you suddenly pulling away. He stared at you, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something but really could find the words.

"You can't do this, you cannot wake up on a random day and decide to remove me from your life as if I'm a pawn in your chess board" he was almost yelling, Theo had never yelled at you nor had he ever gotten angry at you, it was always you being mad and him picking up on it.

You remembered a scenario from second year and how different times had gotten now, you had changed and him not so much but you guess it was for his better.

"Where's y/n?" The twelve year old Theodore Nott asked his friend and said friend just shrugged in response before saying, "She hasn't been talking to anyone."

You're mad, he knew you were you always shut everyone out when you were, falling silent and Theo knew just how to better your mood and so he headed in your direction.

Your flashback stopped when you saw a tear fall from his eyes, you had never seen Theo cry either, only once and that too not intentionally. He was showing every emotion of his and you stood there unable to think, mumbling a sorry before leaving him stranded in that hallway.

Theo was shocked, hurt, angry and was feeling all these emotions at once. He had known you for six years and you had left him in six minutes. He loved you and you couldn't see it.

He knocked on your door for the fifteenth time, and you finally opened it. Your eyes were red and puffed up, you were crying.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked in a small voice unlike the one he used in the hallway, he was scared to lose you.

"You don't need to take anymore pity on me, Theo, go live your life" you said with a sniffle in the end and your statement had only made him more confused.

Pity? he had never taken pity on you, and it hurt himself that you believed that nonsense. "You can't replace me y/n, I'm forever, no matter what."

You so wanted to believe him, you so wanted to be in his arms right now, you so wanted him to stop as he was doing right now but you just couldn't.

"I'm sorry Theo, but I have to" Those were last words to him before you shut the door and Theo couldn't sleep that night.

It had been 2 months, 18 days of you ignoring him and he thought he might go mad, you were driving him crazy, you not being there was so much worse than he had anticipated.

It was late in the night when he spotted you leaning against a railing, breathing hard, and when he got a bit closer he noticed you were crying.

He went to stand beside you, you flinched but then sort of relaxed when you noticed who it was. You laid your head in your hands and started crying even harder and without missing a beat or saying something spiteful, Theo took you in his arms.

It was much later that you realized that you could not live without him, he was your Theo. Your tears wet his shirt but he didn't seem to mind, he never seemed to mind.

"You won't leave again, would you?" He asked as if he knew you were coming back and he was right. "You could try, but this time I won't let you."

You smiled at him, god he was the only person in the world who would never make you feel bad about what you did, and you realise it was only your insecurities holding you back from him.

He kissed your forehead lovingly and hugged you even tighter, "I love you" he whispered, half hoping you didn't hear him, but you did.

[youryanderedaddy]

tw: female reader, captivity, possessive behavior, non - consensual touching, hinted past stalking, hinted non - con, i keep making fairy tale references kfjhks My ko - fi <3

You actually feel calm now, almost at peace - although you can never be truly peaceful in the forest, you guess this is as close as it can get. You flip through the pages of the book, scanning the fireplace with the corner of your eye. It needs more wood, but it still keeps the cottage nice and warm. You tug at your big fluffy sweater - and think about just how domestic, how cozy this scene would be if you couldn't hear his footsteps creeping up behind you. You clear your throat and clutch the book closer to your stomach, trying to ignore him - hoping he'll go away if you pay him no mind. And just like the last few times, he sticks around like mud.

"Are you reading those fairytales again?" Raven calls out mockingly, the click of his tongue teasing your ear. He grasps your shoulders lightly, trying to take a peek at your book from behind the chair. You try to close it, but his hands quickly find your wrists, holding them in place. Now hyper - aware of his chest pressing against your back, you give in and let him look as his body heat spreads to your neck. "Such a pretty illustration, isn't it?" He hums to himself, a fox - like grin ruining his delicate features. When you don't respond, he just keeps going. "The knight kills the monster and rescues the princess." He reads the caption under the drawing, playing curious. "They live happily ever after." He flips the page. "The end." He mouths, averting his gaze.

You clench your fists and try to count to ten before you say something you will regret. You don't know why or how, but just one look at his face is enough to set you off nowadays. And anger is a losing battle - anger has you laying across his knees with your panties in your mouth, muffling your pained cries he likes to pretend are moans as he paints your butt red. So you shut up and bide your time.

"How sweet." The man chuckles with malice, quickly turning towards you just like a snake would curl around an unsuspecting little mouse. "I guess life really imitates art. Just like you and me." He observes with a self-satisfied smirk, reaching to light his cigarette. You hate when he smokes inside the house - the nicotine fume sticks to the walls for hours and you start choking and coughing, but he shows little concern for your heath; not that it's a huge surpirse to you.

"What do you mean?" You raise one eyebrow, hoping to at least take your mind off the nasty, overwhelming smell. If he sees your unease, he doesn't mention it, choosing to inhale even deeper, with his full chest. "You're the pretty damsel in distress." Raven explains calmly, charcoal eyes sinking into your vision like claws. It makes you feel naked, vulnerable - dissected to your very molecule. "And I am your knight." He lets his sharp teeth reflect in the dim light. "I saved you from those pesky insects who kept sulling you." You cringe at the way his tongue piercing drags against his canines. Track - track. "Aren't you glad I removed those obstactles for ya?" He gives you a crooked, sarcastic smile. "I think your hero deserves a little reward for all the trouble he went through just for you."

You blink away the tears as you are forced to remember it all in one breath. The police sirens - the investigation. The blood on your family's threshold. The used condoms hanging on your door for all neighbours to see, and the thousand messages calling you ugly names for months on end.

"You're no hero." You mumble under your breath, digging your nails deep into your palms - desperate to keep your tongue behind your teeth. But he hears you - he always does, and he just nods in agreement, coming close. Coming to take you.

Raven stands before you, hovering over you with one hand on the ashtray and the other tilting your chin up so you'd have no choice but to look at him and him alone. "Perhaps you're right." He admits, taking a puff off his long cigarette and blowing it in your face right after - simply in love with the way your eyes narrow in frustrated defiance as you wave away the thick smoke. "Perhaps I am not the hero, but the monster. The dragon." He laughs to himself, stubbing out the burning fag. You don't know what it is that he finds so funny, but you wish you knew so you could laugh along instead of crying.

He cages you in against the sofa, causing you to press even harder against the soft backrest. The message is clear - you'd let the house consume you before you let him as much as kiss you.

"It fits the story nicely, don't you think?" The man remarks, playing with a strand of your hair gleefuly just like a child would. You assume he derives some sick pleasure from touching you so casually - from caressing you, petting you, holding you. It's not even sexual, but it always shakes you to your core, and maybe for him that's the best part - where you can't go anywhere, but in his arms.

"Huh?" You break from your thoughts, growing confused. "Your analogy." He explains while still all over you. "It makes sense. I fought for you, and I won you fair and square." His eyes light up with the ferocity of a hunter. "I wanted you so I took you like the greedy bastard I am. I have no regrets - and if that makes me a villain, then so be it. I will burn the world down if it means you'd be all mine." His fist wraps around your loose locks, almost gentle, but not quite. There is something unnatural in his smile - you can't help, but imagine blood dripping from his chin. "But there is something your magic tales get wrong." Raven whispers diabolically, snapping his fingers. Everything goes dark - and his coat slips down on the floor.

"W-what?" You ask, shaking like a leaf - both afraid and deadly curious. You try to sharpen your senses, but you remain blind to his shadow - and the way it moves right between your legs, positioning them around his hips. You feel his manhood prod at your pubic bone, and you heart sinks to your stomach. "The ending." Your captor mutters, pushing you on your back, and you curse the electronic chair when it goes all the way down with little fight. "The moment when the cards are on the table..." He all but tears off the first button of your shirt. "And the princess is all alone with the monster. Face to face - with nowhere to go."

His tongue is hot on your neck - you try to push him off, but he pins down your wrists with feral force, growling like a wild beast. "And this time no one is coming to save her."

[chinolondoner]

Author looking for readers

I'm not sure of the best way of getting people interested in the work of an unknown writer...

Plopped down in the middle of a tropical, Latin American setting, Lullaby for Bishop is set to be a hard-boiled detective series with four main characters: a veteran private investigator in the twilight of his career; a muscle-bound professional wrestler fulfilling one of his pivotal, childhood ambitions of solving strange and wild mysterious; as well as a pair of rumbunctious, teenage, high school girls constantly causing a scene and tagging along for the thrills.

You can preview the first half of chapter one further down below and catch up on the remainder, along with the totality of chapters two and three, all completely for free if you visit my Patreon. It's going to be a little while before this first book in the series is actually finished and officially published, but I feel the smarter move would be to try and elevate as much of a buzz for the featured world and characters before then as possible. I also plan to put out additional pre-release chapters in the near future (likely three at a time). If I have somehow managed not to bore you and you're still eagerly reading, then I do hope you enjoy the launching meta in this tender work in progress and stick around for future updates. Thank you for your interest!

---

Chapter One

Nervously, Donny Boy had begun rubbing his fingers on the back of his neck, seated patiently a narrow foot away from the front of the desk while waiting for our bastard detective to stumble back into his office, suddenly realizing that the price tag had not yet been plucked away or removed from the fanciful hat he was wearing and was still dangling off the rounded edge of the brim.

Looking around the room for a trash bin he could use, Donny Boy's eyes gradually panned across the office, taking note of a few of the usual mosquitoes left splattered on the frosted, scarlet-lettered glass on the door. Dizzying groves of zigzagged patterns tying in the décor on the wallpaper, he spotted an old, unused desk tucked-away in the far, opposite corner of the room, heavy with dust and weighed down by sprawling stacks of postcards and unrecycled newspapers.

His wandering eyes glancing up the rearing rays of shattered sunlight filling in through the narrow, broken blinds on the window, Donny Boy had noticed the row of fancy kettlebells neatly arranged across a flat and sturdy, iron bench scooted against the wall, a dirty, rolled-up yoga mat, along with this stationary, exercise bike for the purposes of one's daily, cardio workout.

Looking up at the rougher dust build up over the years along the edges of the blades on the ceiling fan, Donny Boy was suddenly lured back from his current distractions after Detective Howl Bishop slid back into his office, tossing a used washrag onto his desk after wiping his face and smelling of minty, nicotine gum and aftershave.

“So, what do I call you, kid?” Howl had asked while taking a seat in his chair behind his desk.

“Don should be perfect. Growing up, my next-door neighbor used to call me Donny Boy.”

“Donny Boy, huh?” Howl fought against his urges to fidget with a stack of papers in his drawer. “Sounds good to me, kid. So… are you some sort of circus performer or something?”

“I'm not sure I know what you mean…”

“Your arms… They're freaking huge!”

“Oh… Yeah… I do struggle at times finding clothes that can fit me properly. Also, I wasn't really sure whether or not I should've worn a suit jacket.”

“Yes…” Howl would peek over the top of his desk and study Donny Boy up and down, a salient tone of fascination in his voice. “You really are quite the physical specimen, aren't you?”

“I suppose I do enjoy a good workout,” Donny Boy replied, a little bit bashful.

“You do have a basic understanding of the type of job you're here applying for today, don't you?” Howl asked.

“I believe so… The ads in the newspaper said Experienced private investigator in search of young and capable partner…”

“That's right. And being a private eye, it's important to have a plethora of tools at your modest disposal. One of those tools being the ability to effortlessly mesh into your surroundings. It's important not to stand out too much when in a public crowd or when casually photographing somebody's license plate from across the road. At the moment, I'm having some doubts on that possibly being a strong suit of yours given your current… how should I say… physique.”

“Oh… Well, to be completely honest with you, Mr. Bishop, I haven't even paused to consider that as a possibility.”

“Yeah, well, thinking a few steps ahead is also an invaluable tool to have.”

With more than a quarter of a century of busy detective work under his belt, his hair having grown white as Winter's ashes and the once buoyant Spring in his footsteps having lost some of its feather throughout the years, Howl Bishop was originally from the lands of sunny, Southern California, born on a weekday in a rushed and overcrowded hospital in the blighted city of Los Angeles.

Brought up in a bohemian household, Howl's anxious mother was a failed, Hollywood actress turned “new-age” healer and father was a meddling screenwriter that had spent more of his time obsessing over the quality of the ink in his typewriter than ever inundating his children with any orderly grants of wisdom.

Standing at six-foot even in height, a strong, conquering jaw and with an even tan across his arms and facial features, Howl was one of the many foreign expats sailing over from the States in purge of more permanent roots in Pan de Leones. Old, brown, leather belt holding up his wide, beige-colored slacks, Howl always wore floral, Hawaiian shirts when in settled eye of the public, mixtures of white and pink and with a couple of loose buttons up toward the collar.

With his sharp, Anglo features and light attire, it was entirely common to mistake Howl Bishop for a possible tourist visiting Latin America for the first time, sightseeing across the country and falling for obvious scams at the nearby market. That is, of course, until one caught an initial glimpse of Howl's encyclopedic knowledge of the city's urban layout and sprawling geography, along with his ease of verbal fluency when communicating in Spanish, often conversating with local barkeeps and store merchants on objects ranging from the wise and esoteric to the lurched, mind-numbing, and trivial.

“I would like to procure a general gauge on how comfortable you might be interacting with the more unsavory avenues of human society,” Howl would lean back into his seat and ask, clamping his hands together and placing his palms over his stomach.

“Could you be more specific?”

“In such line of work, one all too often will find themselves having to calmly intermingle with unrested eyes of broken glass and scoundrels. Do you possess any real-world experience dealing with scum and the morally compromised?”

“Uhm…” Donny Boy appeared curtailed by Howl's question, unsure of how to respond. “I once dated a girl that refused to pay off her parking tickets,” he said.

Without managing to reply, Howl simply stared in confusion from his seat across the desk, reevaluating his initial impressions on the kid. Then, squinting his eyelids a little, he felt inclined to change the current subject and asked, “I don't mean to suddenly swerve off topic, but… have we met before?”

“What?”

“Well, I'm looking at your face, right now, and… I can't help but get the feeling that this isn't the first time that we've been in the same room. Do we know each other?”

“I do not believe we have ever met, Mr. Bishop,” Donny Boy was quick to point out in response, laughing out loud a little to himself while nervously shuffling around in his seat. “I've always done alright remembering faces and my mother had always told me it was rude to forget someone's name.”

“Hmm… I guess in my advanced age, my average perception of things has grown a bit muddy. I suppose I simply must be confusing you for somebody else.”

Wide, rugged shoulders, preposterous arms, and with a large, outward, and muscular chest, Donny Boy was young and handsome and had shaded, bronze-colored skin. His lightly brushed hair was a wild, sunflower-blonde of which he maintained in perfect tinge and kept the darker shadows of his roots regularly dyed. Along with the fancy, finely tailored fedora resting on his head, the crumpled price tag of which he had just recently stuffed into his pocket, Donny Boy wore a normal pair of rectangular, blue-framed eyeglasses, granting him a bit of a barbarous librarian kind of a look.

Dark eyebrows and with the small patch of facial hair on his chin routinely trimmed, Donny Boy had entered the office wearing a short-sleeved, white, button-up shirt, the generous, overfed muscles of his upper body appearing to want to tear through the clothing and with a clean pair of ruby-red suspenders attached to the waistline of his denim-blue slacks, tugged and strapped-up over his mountainous shoulders. He also had on a dorky, red bowtie for the occasion.

“How old are you, Donny Boy?”

“I'm twenty-eight years old, Mr. Bishop.”

“And what's your sleep schedule like?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sleep schedule. Have you developed the habit of going to bed around the same time, every night?”

“I believe so. I've never been one to indulge in any late-night festivities. Why do you ask?”

“Well, when living the demented life of a private eye, it's not uncommon to have to commit to some later hours on the unplanned occasion: car stakeouts after midnight; navigating the craze of urban nightlife on foot; purchasing some nefarious lawyer a hundred shots of overpriced vodka at the stripclub just for a few layers of common information. Do you drink coffee?”

“I've never been much of a coffee drinker, no.”

“Well, you definitely should be. Sugar highs and caffeine are going to be your most reliable friends on those late nights when you most need them. Either that or… well… you know…” Bringing his hand up to his face, Howl used his finger to tap the side of his nose.

“Oh, no way, Mr. Bishop,” Donny Boy immediately replied. “I wouldn't even think of touching that stuff. I've always had a firm stance against any illegal drug use.”

“That's good,” Howl said. “I've noted my fair share of innocent souls throughout my time wasting away from drug addiction. A found sense of longed-for excitement is what initially lures them in. And then, after enough restless days turn to night, enough sleepless nights turn to chaos, suddenly they look up and… the neon lights on the street don't seem as vibrant as they once used to…”

Donny Boy would look at Howl with a sort of strange sense of wonderment, our detective's eyes having slowly migrated across the room toward the window, perceiving what, to him, had appeared to be an expression of profound fatigue captured on his face.

The sound of the vehicle screeching to a halt could suddenly be heard outside on the street, trashcans tumbling over and followed by the angry voice of a young woman shouting profanities.

“Oh no…” Donny Boy muttered underneath his breath, his eyes suddenly wandering over toward the window.

“What about your relationships?” Howl asked. “Do you have a wife or girlfriend? One of the more unfortunate aspects of being a private investigator is the difficulty you might experience maintaining a healthy inner circle. This is often a critical detail that turns the most people away.”

Donny Boy was completely distracted and had failed to pick up a single word, a growing look of nervousness on his face.

“Donny Boy, are you listening?”

The frantic sound of sudden footsteps quickly marching up a flight of stairs could be heard just outside the door to the office, followed by the reactions from Howl's trusted secretary demanding an unknown grouping's identification and honest proof of appointment.

“Move aside, lady! You don't want to have to get injured!” a young woman's voice hollered in response.

“How have they managed to find me?” Donny Boy wondered out loud to himself.

“We have you outnumbered and we're very upset!”

“What the hell is going on out there?” Howl began to react.

Suddenly, managing not to completely fly off its hinges, the door to the office was viciously kicked open, creating a sudden gust of wind that would travel across the room, knocking over a slanted stack of printed papers off the corner edge of the desk.

Standing in the open doorway, visible tension throughout her arms as her hands were forged into concrete fists, a young, teenage girl had a rancid look of anger on her face. A dark, navy-blue blazer over a knitted, bright, yellow skirt, the young woman was dressed in a traditional, school-girl's uniform and had her hair cut down short, visible scrapes and bruises on her knees giving out impressions that the girl was perhaps a bit of a rowdy tomboy.

“Nayaiko! I found him! He's in here!” the young girl shouted back over her shoulder.

She would then come into the office, and shortly afterward, her thin silhouette appearing in the doorway, an additional and secondary, young woman showed her face and seemed equally upset at the current moment. Dressed in an identical uniform as the first, this second girl had her hair much greater in length and stood with long and beautifully braided pigtails poking out the sides of her head.

The second girl entered the office and shut the door.

Standing over Donny Boy who seemed to be trembling in his seat a little, the first girl snarled out of her nostrils and said, “This is the second time this week you tried to ditch us…”

“This honestly isn't the best time, girls,” Donny Boy said, his voice a bit shaky.

“You know, we were standing outside the changing booth for thirty-five minutes before we realized you weren't there,�� the second girl would report. “You told us you were trying on some hats!”

“I did! Look!” Donny Boy then lifted the hat up off his head to showcase. “I ended up purchasing this really awesome fedora for myself. It's really cool, isn't it?”

Neither girl seemed to want to take the time to respond. They simply crossed their arms in defiance and stood with a pair of inconsolable scowls on their faces.

Continue...

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Preview...

"A Tattoo and the Bloodsucker Blues"

(A Terry Richmond Vampire AU Fic)

Summary:

You thought the tattoo on his arm marked him as one of those Hoteps or Nation of Islam brothas that hawked bean pies on the corner with the Final Call. But little did you know it meant more than that. That's why you have to track him down and kill him... before the baby in your belly can turn into his kind.

(This fic will strictly be for the grown and sexy. Smut, Violence, Blood. Dropping October 30th at Midnight on All Hallow's Eve.)

“I don’t wanna wait for love

Every time I do

I don’t wanna wait for love

Waitin’ on him

Are you warm enough?

Coco blood

Are you warm enough?

Coco blood”

Celeste – “Coco Blood”

Celeste Profitt checked the GPS on her smartphone one more time before stepping out of her gun metal gray Dodge Charger.

She drove out to find the pale green double shotgun house, which was sequestered on the outskirts of St. Celestine Parish. Ten years previously, there had been flooding in the county her grandmother named Celeste after, and many families left the area when their insurance wouldn’t pay for water damage. The houses left behind looked like gaps in the teeth of someone with infected gums. It reeked of working class poverty, the kind of poverty Celeste ferociously clawed her way out of by holding down two jobs. One at the poultry factory, where she removed the putrid raw entrails of slaughtered chickens, and the other at a nursing home, where she cleaned shitty bed pans and kept company with neglected elders with no kinfolk nearby.

The shotgun houses left standing weren’t different from the Creole cottage she rented less than seven miles away, and she cut her eyes back to the one she needed. Damp air with the hint of rain coming caused her to sniffle. It smelled old around there, and something had definitely died in some bushes across the street. She zipped up her dark blue windbreaker and fingered the pepper spray she carried in the jacket’s pocket. Couldn’t be too careful around folks who chose to stay in a bad situation. It still smelled like floodwater and deep regrets.

She pulled a cigarette from her purse, but stuffed it back down to the bottom, reminding herself that she was pregnant now and couldn’t hurt the baby that rested in her womb. The urge to puff daily was a struggle, and she refused to toss a ten-dollar pack of nicotine in the garbage. Shit, she might sell a few loosies if she needed to. Her funds were getting low paying for all the high-priced gas she burned through looking for her baby daddy.

Terry Richmond.

That’s what he called himself, but now she wasn’t too sure if that was his real name or not since she couldn’t find his ass anymore once she decided to keep their baby. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She needed to stay calm and not think about the hurt and hate she carried in her heart for that man. Never trust a pretty boy with pretty eyes and a third leg. That should’ve been her motto from jump. But that was neither here nor there with the position she found herself in at the moment. Right now she needed some answers and the woman inside the pale green shotgun house was supposed to have the solution.

She fingered a plastic grocery bag she also carried in her purse. Inside it was a blood plasma bag she toted around every day that she fed from when the urge overtook her on some days. The cravings for blood grew worse, and the fetus inside her stayed absorbing every nutrient from her body. What it wanted most lately was the blood in her purse. The baby inherited fifty-fifty of its parent’s genes, and back when she thought things were cool between them, all lovey-dovey and real passionate in those early days…well, Celeste imagined their baby inheriting Terry’s pretty eyes and her thick wondrous hair. He was lighter than her and she figured the baby would come out a gorgeous brown that was a mix of their two different skin tones. The last thing she wanted was for her child to come out with Terry’s hunger.

For blood.

Celeste zipped her purse back up and concentrated on what she was there to do.

Talk to the Black witch of St. Celestine Parish.

The renowned Voodoo priestess down in Nawlins last weekend was a grand failure at solving her problem. That lady's Catholic ass made the sign of the cross several times throughout Celeste’s consultation, which was a bit much for her taste. Celeste grew up Catholic too, but found it irritating that a Voodoo priestess acted so scary about a bloodsucker, while also bragging about turning people who were made into zombies back into human beings. At least that’s what she claimed on her website. That phony bitch started whimpering and calling for Jesus when Celeste pulled back her shirt and lifted her bra to show the fang marks on her titties that Terry made that never healed properly. She explained how she became allergic to her silver jewelry, and fought with a three-inch bundle of developing cells over blood intake from the plasma bag.

She left the fake Madame Zeroni’s Curio shop disgusted and a hundred dollars broker.

Her homegirl Mercy texted the name of a woman who quietly practiced Hoodoo on her phone. Mercy believed everything Celeste told her because she had been there from jump, and without judgment, guided her to another root of the African diaspora tree.

Celeste lifted her foot onto the first creaky step of the shotgun house and the front door on the left opened. Behind the screen door she made out the face of a man with the skin-color of dark tobacco leaves.

“Yeah?” he said in a gruff tone.

Celeste glanced at the door on the right, which was her destination. She ignored the man and knocked on the glass window on the upper half of the wooden door. The neighbor opened his screen and stepped out.

“You sure you here to see her?” the man asked.

Without a screen barrier, his face looked younger and more handsome, his short locs pointing every which-way on his head like tiny black antennas. The front door on the right opened and a pretty, dark brown-skinned woman stuck her head out.

“Mind ya business, Bertrand. She ain’t here to see you.”

“Lynn?” Celeste asked.

“It’s me,” Lynn said.

She opened her door wider and glanced back at her neighbor.

“Come on inside before anymore noisy birds stick they heads out,” Lynn said.

Celeste stepped over the threshold and passed Lynn to get inside.

“Good Lord, gal, you got a head full of hair on you! How long you been growing it?”

Celeste touched her heavy and long bongo locs that fell down to her waist.

“Ten years now. Since I was a teenager.”

“So thick and pretty. Betcha when you go swimming it’s like fighting with an octopus, huh?”

Celeste grinned.

Lynn was much younger than she expected. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. Out in the parish swamps, there was no telling how old melanated folks could be.

“Come on back here into my kitchen,” Lynn said.

Celeste waited for her to lead the way and they walked past two rooms straight to the neat kitchen.

“Hungry?” Lynn asked. “Got some beans and rice on the stove. Frying up some pork chops, too. Go ‘head and sit at the table.”

Celeste took a seat at a small table with a pink plastic covering. The savory odor of red beans and seasoned, fried meat made her mouth water. Her stomach grumbled.

“Oh, yeah, you hungry. I’ma fix you a plate.”

“Please, don’t go to any trouble for me.”

“Ain’t no trouble. Got plenty. I made extra for you, anyway. Pregnant women gotta eat good.”

Celeste stared at the woman. She wasn’t even showing yet and never mentioned being pregnant over their phone call consultation. Did Mercy tell her?

“Don’t get spooked, Celeste. I work as a mid-wife. I can smell a pregnant woman a mile away. Relax.”

Celeste watched the young Hoodoo woman fix a big plate of string beans, red beans & rice and a thick cut of pork chop fried to golden brown perfection. She plopped it down in front of Celeste and fixed herself a plate, too. Her close-cropped brown hair had a cute undercut, and both her ears had at least seven small gold hoops pierced through them. She wore an off-the-shoulder white t-shirt and booty shorts for the heat. Her eyes were small for her face and were the only thing on her that looked mature. Had she not known any better, Celeste would’ve thought she was chatting with a senior in high school.

Lynn sat down across from her and held out her hand toward Celeste.

“I like to say grace over my meals,” Lynn said.

Celeste clasped her hand, and a charge of energy seeped into her palm from Lynn. She closed her eyes as Lynn said a short, heartfelt prayer, then lifted a half loaf of Wonder Bread from her table. She unfastened it and handed Celeste two pieces.

“Ooh, wait, I forgot some libations.”

Lynn jumped up and brought back a large glass pitcher of fresh lemonade. She grabbed two plastic cups and poured them each a good fill.

“I don’t have no ice cubes for it, sorry,” Lynn said.

Celeste sipped and the sweet/tart taste was delicious and cold enough. Both women ate quietly for a few minutes, and after Celeste’s third bite of her pork chop, Lynn stared at her directly with fierce chocolate eyes.

“Did you bring the things I asked for?”

Celeste nodded and pulled out a bundle from her purse and slid it to Lynn.

“I got some hair from a brush he used at my place, and summa his semen. We made love the last time I saw him and he wiped himself with a washrag and threw it in my dirty clothes hamper.”

“Semen is good. Anything liquid from the body is good,” Lynn said, collecting the items that Celeste stuffed in a little sandwich baggie.

“Tell me everything about this man you’re looking for. From the beginning,” Lynn said. “In order for me to make a root powerful enough to find him and bring him back, I gotta know every detail.”

Those chocolate eyes stayed intense.

Celeste fought the urge to sip on the blood in her purse and took another healthy swig of lemonade from her cup before she told the tale, from top to bottom, of how Terry Richmond, a whole ass vampire, seduced her out of her panties, stole her heart, bit her, then left her with something growing in her belly that she was afraid of…

A.N.:

Reminder, this long fic is dropping All Hallow's Eve at Midnight! Comment below if you want to be tagged for a sexy, supernatural treat at the end of the month!

Tag List Thus Far:

@nahimjustfeeling-writes

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

@slutsareteacherstoo

@nayaesworld

@notapradagurl17

@4pfsukuna

@yamst3rdamctrl

@sweettea-and-honeybutter

[deluluass]

It's all over now, baby blue (1/12)

Ushijima Wakatoshi/Female Reader/Oikawa Tooru

Multi-chapter sequel to "Red, like Blood. Blue, like Love."

General Warnings:  rape/noncon; nsfw; depictions of post traumatic stress disorder; a lot of negative self-talk (reader pov) Chapter Warnings:  panic attack (reader pov); internalized misogyny (reader pov) Note: nsfw stuff won't happen in this chapter since this is a slow-ish burn

“It’s bullshit,” the woman huffed. “This whole soulmate business— it’s all bullshit.”

It's the assault of nicotine that finally made you wince. Of all the things said in that room, a cigarette is what got a reaction out of you.

A cigarette .

How typical.

Crouched down to the pavement, you folded your arms above your knees and buried your nose further into the crook of them.  

Her back has yet to part from the wall behind the both of you. There's a mottled stain along the pointed toe of her left shoe. An imitation of a birthmark on this poreless, rouged lipsticked, executive coiffed up haired woman.

And it's not like it escaped your notice, but she's really quite tall, isn't she? This one; more so with three extra inches on.

You shook your head, sank your face further into your knees until you’re just about tasting your own sweat, and pressed your eyes shut. Pointless observations. 

Earlier, she made exactly zero effort to conceal her opinion about you, which essentially boiled down to: piss off . Not exactly a new one in your long and illustrious career of not being wanted in any room you walk into. No, she wasn't the kind of person you’d need to catalog observations for. You're never speaking to each other ever again. 

But then, all things considered, she tucked the pack of Seven Stars in her blazer with a swiftness that someone who has a cigarette only does when they're caught doing it in a place they shouldn't be. Last you checked, you’re both in the smoking area. There's even a large sign for it.

Right there. “ Smoking area ,” it said.

Yet she hid the thing before you could even shake your head and say, “ I’m good, thank you . Go kill yourself in peace. ” 

Because you did hate it, that smell of early death saturating the air. More importantly, you didn't bother hiding it. And you didn’t feel bad not hiding it. 

Maybe that was the most important tell about her character.

She didn't say anything. Didn't throw your words back at you– tell you to fuck off, if you're gonna be such a judgy miss despite the fact that it was you who ran here for refuge. 

You opened your eyes to take a peek at her again, nape stinging from the effort. 

She met your blank look as she dragged a cigarette, then waved through the fog of nicotine like she's shooing a stray. 

Suck in. Huff out. Smoke rushed through a grin. For all your open distaste, you let it waft through you anyway. You let her drag another and another. 

You only stared, head tilted upwards, the sun exposing phantoms that swirled around the decisive flapping of her hand, driving everything away to God knows where, and you wondered. 

How is that possible?   

It's all just cigarette smoke to this woman.

Japan wasn’t this humid as he remembered it to be. They were already in the throes of the summer season, to be fair, so maybe Wakatoshi should probably just be grateful that he wasn’t already drowning in his own sweat. Though he’s very close to doing so now. 

To the credit of the League, they did take heavy measures to avoid that from happening. 

He turned away from the boys he’s instructing, glare forcing him to squint, and finally paid mind to the trailer parked right in front of the court. It was a gigantic thing equipped with a kitchen, bedroom, jacuzzi tub (?), and an AC unit. 

On the other hand, his students– boys, stout and lanky things not older than fourteen– were no different from the freshly hatched chicks that he used to watch over when he was growing up in his grandfather’s farm. They blinked at him with wet hair matted to weak, delicate skin. Wakatoshi removed the trailer from his line of sight and, despite complaints for pausing the lesson so soon, barked for some water bottles from a nearby tent.

They rushed to him, ice cold condensation  dripping down their fingers, then passed down the water bottles from Wakatoshi to the children. 

“You wanna rest for a while?” one of the staff he came with asked. Some Chisaka or other. 

“No, thank you,” Wakatoshi replied. “Where are the younger ones?”

The man grimaced and wiped his forehead. “They’re by the food tent having some snacks. Listen, dude, massive fan, but you really don’t have to… do all this. You sure you don’t wanna…?” He nudged his chin towards the trailer again. 

Shaking his head, Wakatoshi then promptly left some pointers for the boys in the court and headed for the largest tent propped up in the orphanage grounds.

Summer breeze whispered through the trees. The tent’s blue roof rippled like ocean waves.

The boys there erupted in squeals seeing him, while the rest couldn't be bothered to give him the same attention that they're gracing the sweets bar. That was fair. Nothing could ever compare to a nice fluffy anpan, and certainly not Wakatoshi.

The trailer was still visible from here. 

Somehow, it looked even weirder from this vantage point. Massive four-wheeled chrome on barely trimmed grass. Like an alien ship that’d stopped by for some drinks.

The League spends such things on him. 

Big dinners with a bunch of suits. A penthouse suite that they insisted that he should start using. Exclusive matcha flavored floss. 

The people who Wakatoshi signed a contract with seem to have a different idea on what he came home for. When his contract had ended with Orzeł Warszawa after these couple of years, he really did mean to return to Japan and represent it in the next Olympics. 

And the one after that. 

The one after that , too, if he gets lucky. 

He wasn’t going anywhere. But–

“ Hey. Big guy, big guy. Calm. This isn't amateur hour. You know why they’re doing this ,” his agent had blabbered the moment they’d arrived at the orphanage, a way of pacifying Wakatoshi after he’d given the man a look. 

That was a warranted reaction. Wakatoshi came here expecting children who had too much energy to spare, and one named Hiro. That was the one who’d written to him in blue ink– his kanji still rough around the edges, that he’d been watching Wakatoshi play since he was in diapers (that was an exaggeration, they explained to Wakatoshi); that he’d be very extremely so, so happy if he came to see them for his tenth birthday.

He didn’t expect– nor wanted, really– a national TV crew, a couple of magazine reporters, along with a catering service waiting for him in their stead. 

“ All eyes are on Japan right now. You guys are hosting after, what, ‘98? How long has it been? ” His agent patted his back as he led Wakatoshi to an interviewer with startling white teeth. “ Not kissing up your ass or anything, but don’t go all modest on me. You know you’re the hottest player in the game right now. You’re the  guy. You’re the fuckin’ guy. So many motherfuckers across the globe are gooning to have you on their side and your team sure as hell won’t let those slimy bastards nab you. They’re showing you off and they’re showing off to you. Just enjoy the ride, yeah? Welcome home .” 

Welcome home, he said.

Wakatoshi pulled out his phone and skimmed each mail notification that had piled on the screen. More excited-to-have-you-back’s. More invitations to parties that he’d immediately swiped off. Wakatoshi scrolled through international SMS and expected one from a certain area code continents away. 

It’d come up empty.

He felt a tug at his shorts.

He looked down to eyes the size of saucers peering up at him. The creature was ninety percent uncombed black hair and ten percent child. 

“Aren’t you gunna eat, Uwaka-sensei?” the five year old boy asked. A few hours ago he’d  sprawled on the floor crying, which Wakatoshi only managed to placate by giving him a single pat on the head. Now, he’s got strawberry cream smearing his cheeks; a crumb stuck between jutted out gap teeth. 

“Not hungry yet,” Wakatoshi replied. 

The boy proceeded to raise a slice of cake to Wakatoshi’s knees. “Miss said having leftovers is bad manners,” he argued. 

Wakatoshi felt his lips quirk. 

“Alright,” he said, plucking it from (hopefully) clean fingers. 

Once the food was cleared, of course, the children sprang from their chairs and ran for the volleyball court. The warnings of upset stomachs from the orphanage volunteers went from one ear to the other. Wakatoshi followed. He watched and noted their positions, and reminded everyone about the things that they should have learned earlier. Postures were corrected. The older ones who he’d left with a few practice drills were now engaging in a match of their own. 

Wakatoshi peeked at his phone again.

Still, nothing. 

The announcement of his return was released months ago.

Excusing himself from the volunteers, he made his way far from the court and the tents, thumb still pressed on his phone. 

It wasn’t as if Wakatoshi was expecting felicitations– far from it, but it was even more out of character to not even receive…anything.  

Something like “ Can’t wait to smoke your ass ” or other comments that only he could utter without shame, in spite of his age. Their teams are facing each other once again and this time Japan is not cutting corners. Everyone involved is bringing only their best.

Everyone involved is only the best. 

There’s nothing on this earth that Oikawa Tohru would love more than that.

All of them had parted and made promises; had defeated each other and won against each other, but they hadn’t had the opportunity to be on the same court all at once in such a long time. All of them– Oikawa more so, had only gotten better over the years, like a blade that had been sharpened beyond perfection. No one would fault Wakatoshi for feeling like he’s back in Shiratorizawa again. Like his agent had said, how long has it been ? 

The image of Oikawa standing on the same side of the court comes to him like a ball that hightailed past his defenses. A sudden lightness overtakes him.  

He really is getting old, Wakatoshi mused. 

All this time, maybe he’s just chasing what he’s owed. The urge to be the first to break the silence between them cropped up—

…but the sound of glassware crashing interrupted Wakatoshi’s plan.

Phone slipped back in his pocket, he searched for the source and landed on the nearest classroom. It had been turned into a makeshift storage area, he noted upon closer inspection. 

The door was ajar. Barely a sliver of light inside. Wakatoshi opened it and saw– among the crates of napkins and crockery and table linens– a woman . 

She was curled in a ball on the floor. Shards surrounded her like star clusters.  

“Is everything alright?” Wakatoshi asked, shoes brushing sharp fragments aside. 

He searched  for signs of injury as he bent down, knee hovering above the floor. Peering at the tag pinned to her uniform, Wakatoshi tried to call out her name, but to no avail. 

Her blown out gaze was inseparable from the floor. Her hands were trembling, back rising and falling in rapid, shallow successions. Wakatoshi became conscious of his own breathing and immediately kept it even, as if tugging at the leash of a trained dog. 

His next words were uttered softly, well-practiced, while he tried to make out the movements of her mouth.

“....me,” she murmured. 

Wakatoshi leaned, careful not to get too close.  

“ Please…help……me. ”

Last Saturday, or was it Monday?, the tap stopped working. 

No tap. No shower. The dirty dishes that you promised you’d get to washing after your shift piled up. Leftovers clumped together and fossilized on the surface of each plate, chipped at the edges. The swirl of unfinished tea and soup and juice and accumulated trickles of water when it still worked surrounded it like a moat protecting a reclusive hoarder’s tower. “ The water people came by weeks ago, pumpkin ,” the sweet old lady running the complex told you. “ You forgot again? ”

And because you’d spent everything on groceries, and overdue bills, and medicine for the cough and cold that had left you on the bed with nothing else to do because they couldn’t risk a liability at work, you could only stare at her and say, “ Right ,” and breathe. “ Sorry, ma’am, ” you breathed.

“Breathe."

Breathe. 

Weren't you just telling yourself that earlier? This morning, was it? You forgot. But you told yourself that. Inoue couldn’t come today and though it’s not your day yet you went ahead and replied sure yup I can make it :)) to the work group chat even though you’re sure you still smelled like shit. Because you could do it and you’re not weak and you are responsible and in control and–

When that little volleyball exploded on the sleek, polished floor, and you'd dropped the tray like a complete fucking idiot? You told yourself to breathe. 

It’s easy. You could do it. You pushed through it. What happened to that, pretty girl?

You're not breathing now are you? 

Oh, dear God. Dear, dear. God. You haven't even paid rent yet. What will you tell your manager? You'd just washed those. Are you still breathing now? Look at them. Twenty a piece. Five hundred. Six. You ugly little bitch. 

You said you could do this, kitten. 

"Breathe."

It’s not you saying it now. 

The voice was deeper. Just like mine. Not like that. 

"I'm going to help you stand up," he said. "We're getting out of this room."

Not like that. Not like that. Notlikethat– The voice did not tease. My pretty, pretty girl. It didn't have that rise-fall lilt that took pleasure in keeping you on your toes. 

This one's as straightforward as an arrow. 

Unbending. 

True. 

"Breathe," he repeated.

But you were breathing. What was this guy saying? You are breathing, aren’t you? The chasm in your chest may have gotten bigger, sucking in all matter and trapping everything inside until there’s barely anything to hold onto– not even air, but you are breathing. 

“Look at me,” the man said. And you followed. You felt your neck crane up. 

Green eyes, like leaves on branches. Swaying behind him. “Breathe with me.”

Odd. His chest was expanding, inflating like a balloon at a kid’s party, once, twice, then he–  woosh went his mouth. You did the same. “Inhale,” he murmured. Once. Twice. “Exhale.”

Woosh .

Wind trickled in, the chime of bells, and all at once you felt like you’d drank water after a good cry, but you hadn’t been crying. You weren’t crying, were you? 

“You’re outside now.” 

Yes, you are. No, you're not. You're still inside that dark cage, dust in your nose. Iron– hot and suffocating and angry, is molding you, tearing you apart from the insides until muscle and fat are stretched into thin ribbons. Your mother’s warnings, sharp as the squeak of shoes, clear and deafening as boys shouting. Red means run. Blue means– 

“Do you smell that? Barbeque.”

The man was incredibly tall. 

Smoked meat and onions sailed with the breeze. Birds chirped like you'd just woken up. It felt like that. You closed your eyes and opened them again, looking at the warm anchor before you. 

His white shirt was darkened by sweat.

He didn't look like the type to smile a lot, but his face seemed softer now. Severe brows sloped  down a determined but gentle gaze. Something began to itch at the back of your head, like you were supposed to remember something. 

"You did well," he told you.

And you believed him. ‘Cause he said it like he’s just saying, “ The sun is hot. ” You did well, as in “ A ball is round ” or “ Birds fly .” 

And so, you did well. 

"What do you need now?" 

The feeling of sandpaper in your grip registered in your senses. You glanced down and realized that you'd been holding his hands. For how long, you could hardly tell, but the heavy weight of them held you down, kept you from floating back to the darkness where something waited for you, its starved eyes glowing red and blue.  

His palms were rough wrapped around yours.  You found that you didn't mind. 

"I-" you began. You cleared your throat. "I'm- I'm okay. I think."

He gave a nod in response. His thumb dwarfed yours. And when he brushed the back of your hand– why, you wouldn't have believed it, but your fingers glided, cool as can be, just like dandelion fluffs through the spaces between his. 

Silence sat unperturbed between the two of you. 

It let the summer critters chatter among themselves. It let the boys playing a game of volleyball just be boys playing a game of volleyball. It let the world just be what it always has been. And it…it was warm, unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

Like being swaddled, almost. 

You felt yourself breathing in, the precious seconds right before drifting to a dreamless sleep. (Whose hand caressed whom? Was it yours?) 

The haze, however, had to be cut short. Sliced clean through by a pained, guttural noise. 

"What's wrong?" you blurted out.

He hissed. " Nothing. ”

Irritation disturbed his once calm features. You felt your heart twist as he discarded his hold on you. You almost begged for its return.

"I'm sorry," you cried, although you weren't sure of your crime. Doesn't matter now. You'd inconvenienced this man. You have to pay for it, kitten. You know what he'll do to you, don't you? Oh, beautiful. He's going to– 

He grunted, as if using all his strength to stop your derailing thoughts from setting up in flames. 

"I'm sor-"  

One sharp look was all it took. You clamped your mouth shut as he grabbed his wrist, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. Seeing his intimidating form bent over ignited prickles all over your palms. 

And there it was. Again.

That itch. You're forgetting something. Your hands were burning, but you didn't feel the pain, like they'd been scorched beyond sensation before being dunked in ice cold water. So you looked at them, just to make sure they're still there.

First, the forked lines.

Then, the dashed ones.

"Look at their palms!" 

Both of you turned to the sound of cameras clicking. Grown ups and children alike stood before you. They gaped and pointed as more people ran from the bottom of the hill. You felt your stomach drop. You searched his eyes for answers, but those keen olives were just as perplexed as you were.

Knowing that you'd come up short of explanation among the ruckus, he retrieved your hand, disgruntled expression still in place, and turned it palm side up. 

"Who woulda guessed, huh?!" somebody yelled. 

Neither of you were looking anymore. Not at the audience that you'd suddenly gathered. Not at your palms. You met his gaze, his breathing mimicking yours, chests moving in a familiar rhythm. 

Camera flashes made you wince. You could barely tell your left from your right. 

That look in his eyes didn't help either, burning you with what seemed like an accusation and– 

“I knew it. You really should stop trying to run away,” somebody had said, snickering, right up to your ear. 

Inhale. Once. Twice. 

“I knewit . You really shouldstoprunningawayfromme–”

Exhale. 

“I’ll always find you.”

You took a step backwards. 

“I’ll always always always always alwaysalwaysalways–”

The enclosing crowd are heavy double doors, rusted hinges creaking shut, and there is never going to be a way out. 

SPORTS ILLUSTRATED INTL 

Volleyball Star Scores Destiny Ahead of 2028 Summer Olympics

Temperatures are rising and the competition is getting heated in more ways than one!

Last Wednesday, FIVB Nations League MVP Ushijima Wakatoshi was caught in a first soul glow during a charity event for underprivileged orphans. “We are very happy for him,” Coach Blanchard said to NHK. “He’s been working so hard his entire career. He deserves this.” 

The video of the two gained massive attention worldwide. It has a whopping 2 million views on the VolleyWorld Youtube channel and is still gaining traction among non-volleyball fans on Twitter. 

 @rdlty12 

HE LITERALLY LOOKS LIKE A PRINCE?? LORD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS 

@_itsmejayne

it’s actually their world n we’re all just living in it i feel sick rn

@KINGPQW 

bro met his soulmate while on his way to grab an olympic medal who is doing it like him 

@strawberryhertz 

not even into volleyball like that but if you catch me watching the olympics for a grown man playing an intense version of don’t let the balloon touch the floor MIND UR OWN BUSINESS

Orzeł Warszawa did not miss the assignment and showed support to their former teammate.

@OrzełWarszawa_Official

See you, lover boy ;)) 

The identity of the Olympic favorite’s soulmate, however, is yet to be known. Ushijima himself  refused to make a statement about this momentous occasion. Nevertheless, with a home advantage, a dream team on its back, and an inspiration of a magical magnitude bestowed upon their ace, it now begs the question: 

Is Japan finally ready to take back their gold?

The last time your mother had worn that red lip gloss was when you’d won an award for something. “ Perfect Attendance ,” your teacher had announced. 

She came with you to the ceremony, cherry polka dot blouse and vibrant lips, and you couldn't quite explain it then, but you were so sure that having your mother see you win was probably the closest thing that a person could get to flying. 

That was in grade school.  

The certificate for that is now molding in a cardboard box somewhere.

"What was he really like?" she asked you as the ribs under her knife bled thick sauce. 

Her eyes twinkled. Your throat felt tight like you'd eaten too much with little to no space to store it in. You're yet to put a dent on your plate. 

She hummed and wiggled her brows, nudging you into revealing more about the man who– in the span of a day, flipped everything you'd settled to believe about your life. You limply stabbed the celery with the prongs of your fork. 

Nostalgia truly is a funny thing. Yearning handed out with a grin and a twist to the gut. 

"He's tall," you started, shrugging. 

"He is," she giggled. "Handsome, too."

A grin miraculously fought its way to your chapped lips, though you may have failed the execution. It seems that it didn’t produce the look that you were going for. Your mother made that face that she makes when she catches you mid-prayer to the porcelain deities. 

"Is there something wrong?" she eventually asked. Who wouldn't ask that when you’ve got that permanently ugly, bearer-of-bad-news look on your face?

Is there something wrong, kitten? 

You remember that? Same question, wasn’t it? When you ran home all those years ago with your school jacket wound tightly around your waist. Like it could hide shit. 

“ Is there something wrong? ” she asked you.

She should’ve stopped asking that question by now. Seriously, how old are you? Something “wrong” only happens to girls who wear their skirts too short and then wander alone at night practically begging for it, not full grown adults who should be more than capable of shelling out for their own life.

Nothing wrong should ever happen to you again. Or what would that make you? Hm? Some little girl whose life goes in circles? Fucking up then, fucking up now? 

And just like what you told her before, you said–

“Nothing, mom.” You dropped the fork. “I was just thinking that–”

“ Do you think we can go…far away.. Again? The kids here are mean and– I don't know, I- I just thought, maybe, things would be– ” 

“... Different,” you muttered.  You pushed yourself to meet her troubled eyes. “It feels…different than how I’d…imagined it to be. It’s odd, that’s all. Can’t help but think that if I hadn’t stood in for Inoue’s shift today… I don’t know–”

I don’t know. The ignoramus shrugged once more. “Woke up that day to Inoue’s message. He said he couldn’t make it. It was supposed to be his shift. I didn’t wanna– you know, I didn’t wanna say I could. I wanted to go back to sleep.” Told myself that I could do it ‘cause that’s what people who can’t do anything say. 

“You’re still not feeling well?” Her brows are knitted together. Lips dulled now by the sauce and meat.

“No, no I am. Better. I am better, Ma. All I’m saying is, it’s all just– funny, is it? It could’ve easily not happened.” 

“But you still went,” she pressed. Her smile could’ve put the sun to shame even as it’s beaming in all its glory this month. Features softened, voice firm: “It would have anyway, baby. I know that.”

Of course she did. 

The story hung above your heads, above the dining room, like motes of dust struck through by the light, waltzing in the air all untouchable, refusing to settle but always, always there. 

Sit down. Get comfortable. It goes something like this:

Once upon a time, your mother had walked around the city in the middle of the night, alone and in her pajamas– as one does when they’re nineteen and had decided to sit out on a party because they believed that their friends secretly hated them. She bought a tub of ice cream, sat by the river bank, cried her eyes out, and rode the last train going back. Then, just as the track took a sharp turn and she’d stumbled on her feet, a kind stranger had caught her before she could fall.

The man’s palms glowed as blue as hers. 

On their way home (because, yes, he walked her back to her apartment) and her friends had caught sight of the two (“ Girl, where were you?! ”), one of them perked up seeing the man  and exclaimed, “ Hey! You were at the party too, weren’t you? Aoto-kun’s classmate, right? Why’d you go home so early?”

That’s why your mother could say stuff like that with all the sincerity of a fish vendor and the finality of a god. She could boldly proclaim, “One way or another, he would have found you even if you or him decided to turn away from destiny,” because it happened to her. All of it– everything that they put in the movies to encourage young girls to hope and dream and someday leave their hearts out in the open for all the world to step on. That was her reality, once upon a time. 

But what was it to you, cutie? What will it ever be to you, other than a bedtime story and a dead man in a photograph?

Perhaps that's what separates women like her from the likes of you. Her soulmate took one look at her and immediately decided to keep her safe, swaying her hand in his like they're dancing while playing two truths and a lie.

Yours took one look at you and couldn't be more relieved to see you walk away.  

Is that it? Is that the demarcation? Did somebody up there determine who gets to be the woman that gets loved and the woman that gets ra–

Something soft and warm patted the back of your hand. Your mother had reached across the table. “Baby,” she said, prompting you to look at her again. “This is a good thing.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” you mumbled, taking a bite out of an asparagus. 

“Everything is meant to be,” she repeated. And, “When are you seeing him again?”

Your mom cooked this food. She called you here for dinner. It still tasted like how it did many years ago. Maybe even better. And don't you think she should be wearing that lipstick forever? 

When she’d called you over the phone, as soon as the news broke, she’d– “ I knew it! I knew you’d have it just like the movies. Oh, you should’ve seen Mrs. Sasaki’s face– ” sounded a lot like the angels had woken her up to the vision of her old washing machine running again without the empty clang clang clang. Like you got off your ass and stapled and clipped your insides together and it finally held together.

This time, for sure. 

You smiled. 

“Hopefully, soon,” you replied, chewing.