#Remove nicotine

[daily-nicotine]

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

[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.

[divab0dy]

dirty AND messy

contains: smut MDNI!!! domestic as FUCKKK, smoke weed, high sex, tired sex, nicotine/vape usage, really in love hamzah, established relstionship

authors note: erm this has been in the works for like a month and lowkey a self insert...

it was a saturday for you guys, and hamzah and you did saturdays like no one else. you had both gotten out of bed, made cereal breakfast, smoked, and promptly climbed back into bed half asleep. that damn morning indica was going to kill you.

"hamz," you whisper.

"yeah?" he matches your tone.

"are you awake?"

"no," he chuckles.

"well then wake up," you say, turning over to face him.

he smiles lazily and shifts to be closer to you, your knees moving between each others.

"why would we do that," you smile.

"i didn't know," he sighs.

"i'm so tired now, i won't be able to do anything all day."

"yeah?" he slides his face closer to yours across the singly satin pillowcase. him and his damn hair care.

"mhm," you bring your hair up towards his hair, twisting your fingers into his curls.

he closes the gap, moving slowly towards you, stopping, his lips hovering over yours. "you're so fucking beautiful," he breathes.

you let out a breathy laugh.

"i'm serious. i'm gonna marry you one day. you know that?" he smiles against your lips.

"maybe tell me again."

he laughs and finally presses his lips onto yours, capturing your bottom lip between his. you suck on his top lip, before swiping your tongue over the crease between his lips, far too high and far too comfortable with him to take things slow. he hums and lets you in, greedily, almost more excited than you. almost.

you roll back, pulling him atop you, wrapping your legs around his back, all in one motion.

"someone's eager," he breaks the kiss.

"you know how touchy feely i get when im high," you smile against his lips.

"this is a little more than touchy feely don't you think? this is more like horny needy."

you laugh and grab him by the hair, pulling him back into you, shoving your tongue into his mouth with more need now that he's said it out loud.

you tug on his shirt and the whole room feels like it's on fire, kissing each other with a passion that neither of you have felt from anyone else. he pulls back and sits up on his knees removing his shirt, taking the time to carefully slot himself between your legs again.

"want you," you whine as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

"don't you want to take things slow," he almost laughs, referencing last night, slow cowgirl, even a little candle.

"no," you hook your fingers into his boxers. "it's way to early for that," you finish.

he sits back again to take off his boxers. "isn't it a little too early for all of this?" he smiles as you shimmy your boxers off.

"it's like 11" you sigh as he gets back on top of you.

"you think you're still stretched from last night?" he asks, bringing his hand down. he runs his fingers over your leaking hole, not even bothering to press them inside.

"i don't really care, i just want you to fuck me," you wrap your legs around him.

he laughs and lines himself up. "definitely still stretched" he comments as he pushes himself in.

that couldn't be true. you're pretty sure you could fuck him thrice a day and never get used to it. it's not painful, but it's definitely a stretch.

your blunt nails grasp at his back, letting out a heady moan as he bottoms out.

"shit," you sigh. at least he knows to give you a moment to collect yourself.

whenever he fucks you like this, high and out of it, the only thing you're actually out of is everything going on around you. it's so easy to hyperfocus on him practically throbbing inside of you. the creek of the bed drowns out and all that's left is is the soft clapping of skin.

he slowly pulls out of you squeezing his eyes shut as he does so. he would never get used to the feel of being inside of you. the way you claw at his back, the way your heels dig into his thighs to pull him back in. every high you chase, every glass you break, every moan you make, it all makes him fall deeper in love with you than he ever thought possible.

he pushes back into you with little resistance, the sounds of your sopping cunt amplified through the high.

you clench down on him as he rubs against a spot only a few inches inside of you, just out of reach of your fingers. you could never make yourself feel the way hamzah makes you feel. he knows your body better than you do at this point.

you lazily reach towards your side table, grabbing your mexico mango geek bar and bringing it to your lips as he stars a steady pace. he laughs as you inhale and bow it out into his face.

"really?" he asks, pace now slowing.

"trying to kill this high," you sigh, still feeling tired from the weed.

"before the climax?" he's so proud of his own joke. no one finds hamzah funnier than hamzah.

"enough, let's pot that mouth to good work boy," you push the geek to his lips and watch as he takes a long inhale.

he grabs your face with one hand, holding himself up with the other arm and forces your mouth open to shotgun you. you inhale the smoke with ease.

"fuck that was hot," you breathe.

he reaches down and begins to rub your clit, making you gasp into him. he changes the angle, moving lower, now practically hitting your cervix with every thrust.

"hamzah im close," you grasp onto his bicep.

"i know baby, i know," with that he's rubbing your clit faster.

"fuck hamzah, i'm gonna cum." at this point your hips are undulating into him, practically fucking yourself onto his cock.

he kisses your cheek as your head turns to the side and that does it for you. you're cumming around him with a cry shaking on his cock.

it's only another thrust of pure overstimulation until he's cumming inside of you, whining as he does.

his hot break fans over your as he's overstimulating you even further, pushing his cum as deep into you as possible. he'd always been like that, even before you guys were dating, when he was still fucking you with a condom. some deep primal instinct that only came out when he was fucking you.

"fuck," he sighs, pulling out and flopping down next to you. he lazily throws an arm over you, pulling you back into him.

"that definitely killed my high," you giggle.

[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.

[gingerteafairy]

𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗼𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆

wrote after reading this fic. @ikkyfics you're my inspiration

You're his boss. He's your problem. Nothing was supposed to happen between you—theoretically.

tags n warnings: smut/mdni, tangerine x fem!reader, language, boss!reader, agent!tangerine, smoking, alcohol, piv, fingering, oral (m!receiving), power kink, praise kink, there's a lot of kinks tbh, aftercare. word count: 4.7k. masterlist

Tangerine was restless. The cigarette burned between his fingers, drawn more out of habit than pleasure, as he struggled to maintain his relaxed posture. But it was impossible when you were near. The mutual disdain hung in the air—like static electricity, ready to ignite at the slightest touch. And Tangerine hated being commanded, especially by you—a woman impatient, sharp-tongued, and cold, with a beauty so cutting it wounded the pride of anyone who came close.

A nightmare dressed as a daydream.

Your heels echoed across the station's stairs, the rhythmic click-clack of them striking against the concrete. The jingle of your earrings, the scent of your perfume—he could smell it even before laying eyes on you. And when your gazes finally met, he suppressed a curse. You were stunning. And that irked him.

"Her job is to be discreet," Tangerine muttered in his distinct British accent, grinding out the cigarette with the tip of his shoe. He could’ve done it on purpose, knowing how much you despised the scent of nicotine. But not today. Today, he had enough problems.

"They never suspect people like that," you shot back, your eyes as sharp as blades. He raised an eyebrow, surprised you’d overheard the snide remark. "Hope you didn’t ruin the notes of my perfume with that cheap cigarette."

"Nothing ruins your perfume or your pride, princess." He dragged out the last word, with that provocative cadence only he could make sound as irritating as it was seductive. He was the only one who dared to call you that. The only one who’d ever challenge your authority.

"Both are built on money and slavery," you hissed, the words dripping from your tongue like venom. You removed your sunglasses with an impatient flick of your wrist and tucked them into your bag. Your fingers ran lazily through your hair, letting it cascade free. Tangerine held his breath for a second—not because he wanted to, but because the expensive fragrance of your hair products hit him like a sucker punch.

He clicked his tongue, his hands sliding into his suit pockets. "There are only three reasons a woman wears sunglasses at night."

You didn’t avert your gaze. "I’m not asking."

He laughed—a low, sardonic laugh that carried a weight of irony. "You’ll hear it anyway."

“Of course, big mouth,” You crossed your arms, and he leaned forward ever so slightly, taking advantage of every inch that narrowed the distance between you.

"Number one, exhaustion. Dark circles so deep no makeup can hide them." He studied your face for a beat. "Which isn’t your case." Your face remained impassive, but your lips pressed into a thin line. "Number two, to avoid being recognized. Could be I’m right…"

You blinked slowly, exasperated. "And the third?"

The subtle shift in your breath didn’t escape him. A tiny slip-up, but enough to make him smile. That damn smile, half amusement, half cruelty.

"Oh? You interested, princess?"

You rolled your eyes, looking for distraction in your bag, pulling out a mirror and lipstick. But it was too late. He’d already read you. "Sometimes, I try to please my employees," you said, cold as ice.

Ah. The power move. The dirty play. But curiously, today, it didn’t bother him. Tangerine pulled out another cigarette, lighting it slowly, each movement meticulously calculated to irritate you. He let the smoke linger, watching the particles dissipate in the cool night air.

"Third reason?" He repeated, leaning in slightly, his eyes locked onto yours. "She was crying."

The blow was direct. And precise. For a moment—just a single, rare moment—you hesitated. "Yeah... maybe."

Tangerine saw it. "Ah..." He exhaled, a victorious edge to his tone. "In the end, it always comes down to you and me, innit?"

You maintained your unreadable expression, taking your time to apply the lipstick with exaggerated calm. But now he knew. And once he knew, he’d use it. Tangerine watched, mesmerized, as the crimson slid slowly across your lips, marking them with careful precision, almost meticulous in its application. The color blended seamlessly with the natural contour of your mouth, perhaps a shade darker, a detail anyone else would overlook—but not him. Tangerine always noticed. Too much.

Shit. The thought came before he could stop it. The drag he took was longer than necessary—not just for the cigarette, but to keep his hands busy while you tucked your tools back into your bag and returned your attention to him.

"You know why I’m here?" Your voice sliced through the silence like a blade, bringing up the subject both of you had been pretending didn’t exist. A hint of disappointment crept into the question, subtle but impossible to ignore.

He turned his face away as he exhaled the smoke, as if to spare you the smell, but deep down, he just wanted to hide the half smile that threatened to appear. “I let someone escape. Theoretically.”

You raised your eyebrow, analyzing him with that look of someone who already knew the answer before he even asked.

“Theoretically?”

He held your gaze, inhaling deeply before answering. “The truth,” he began, taking another drag, “is that he tried to escape. He tried to call the boss. But I intercepted him before he could.”

The word intercepted carried a particular weight on Tangerine’s lips. An implicit code between you. You knew immediately what he meant, and the tension in your shoulders eased slightly.

“Good job.” There was a moment of hesitation, minimal, but Tangerine caught it. The compliment came out of you like something forbidden, almost unwanted. He couldn’t hold back the low, hoarse laugh that followed.

“You’re welcome, little fox.” The nickname slipped from his lips like a dirty joke, steeped in his usual teasing tone, full of blatant flirtation.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re dirty.”

He tilted his head slightly, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Only a fitting name for someone like you. Live up to it and go out with me.” The suggestion came with a mischievous smile, shaped perfectly by the cigarette that balanced between his lips. You laughed sarcastically. 

“You smell like cigarettes.”

“I can shower at the hotel.”

The answer came quickly, effortlessly, as if Tangerine were a master at turning everything into a game of catch and release. He knew he was playing. You knew it too. But still, you smiled. There was no cause or circumstance for that foolish and persistent flirting, but somehow, it always found space to exist. You moved a little closer, making the height difference irrelevant in the face of the tension that vibrated between you.

“I’ve learned that when life gives me lemons, I make lemonade.” Your voice was low, engaging. A challenge.

Tangerine arched an eyebrow, interested. “Oh, really?”

“In your case,” you continued, moving just close enough for him to smell the perfume disguising the nicotine in the air, “I make Tangerine juice.” His smile widened immediately. A spark of something indefinable shone in his eyes. “Is that enough of a threat for you?”

For a moment, Tangerine just watched you. The cigarette dangling from his lips, his mind processing every nuance of your tone, your gaze, your challenge. And then he laughed. That low, insolent, amused laugh.

“I don’t know. Can you take it all?” he retorted, forcing his head down to meet your eyes. You were so much shorter, so much more delicate. Anyone would think you couldn’t handle it. But damn, Tangerine knew you would take everything from him if he let you. And God, he was willing to do that…

“Like a good girl,” you whispered, like perdition itself. His mind working on every dirty scenario he could do to you, completely surrendered to him. Your heels hanging on either side of his face. The only order being ‘faster’. Your mouth opened not to scream, but to moan every letter of his name, savoring as you came undone.

“If you’re so brave, then tell me why you were crying.” Tangerine’s voice came out slurred, firm, unhurried. Another cigarette fell to the ground, crushed under the toe of his shoe and kicked under the carriages, as if the subject were as disposable as the butt. But his eyes said something else.

You clicked your tongue, looking away.

“Nothing at all. Nonsense.”

He remained silent, just watching you, that unshakable confidence reflected in his gaze. And for a second—a measly second—you considered opening up. That irritating, foul-mouthed man had something almost paternal about his posture, in the way he held his broad shoulders as if he were carrying the whole world, but at the same time, he made jokes about everything.

“Family,” you finally let out, in a tone that bordered on tiredness.

Tangerine slowly rolled her neck, cracking her vertebrae, relieving the accumulated tension. “Are you married?” The question came without much weight, but you noticed the way he said it too casually, as if he already knew the answer.

“No.”

The word came out simple, without flourishes. Your fingers slid through his hair, an automatic gesture, while your eyes stopped on him for a second longer than necessary. The suit he wore was not tight, but his muscles were still visible, a discreet reminder of the strength he carried under the appearance of a man always ready to make a joke.

“What a shame,” he muttered, panting before looking away—a well-rehearsed act. Then he turned back to you with that damned playful smile. “I like committed women. I like those little power games. It’s more interesting that way. Married women are powerful.”

You laughed, for real this time. A light, rare, almost forgotten laugh. “That’s a free ticket to death, you know?”

Tangerine shrugged. “What’s the point of our job if we don’t take risks?”

This time, he was the one who observed you, unhurriedly, memorizing every detail. Your genuine smile was something different. More valuable than all the jewelry you insisted on wearing. And maybe that was why you blurted out: 

“That must be why I want to go out with you.”

The admission hung in the air, intentional, but masked by the futile effort to hide the smile that threatened to appear on his cheeks. Tangerine arched an eyebrow, that half smile widening as he looked around, ever on guard. Then he turned his eyes to you, this time more intense.

“Theoretically.” The word was loaded with an unspoken meaning coming out of you.

He held out his hand. “Shall we?”

You hesitated for a moment. Not because you had any doubts, but because you knew exactly what you were getting into.

“Sure.”

And your hand found his. They were rough, hands of heavy, dark work. Hands that you had ordered to work and now they were here, not stained with blood, but mingling between nicotine and your hand cream, brushing against the softness of his touch.

Tangerine raised a hand and hailed a taxi, a simple movement, but loaded with intention. He opened the door for you, a gentlemanly gesture disguised as indifference—but you weren’t naïve. He wanted to watch you a little longer, the way your dress rode up, your soft thighs, and his predatory gaze. You got in first, and he quickly slid into the seat next to you, indicating the first hotel that came to mind in that vibrant immensity that was Tokyo. 

The neon lights danced across the car window, coloring his face with changing hues, sometimes red, sometimes blue. You looked away, taking your time to capture how the light beams shaped his features. Every contour of his jaw, every shadow cast by his mustache, and the deep eyes that, from time to time, slid down to your legs before lazily moving up to meet yours. He was beautiful. Dangerously beautiful. In the literal sense. 

“You’re handsome, Tangerine,” you said, your voice tinged with mischievous amusement. “Charming.” His eyes narrowed slightly, surprised by the sudden compliment, but not enough to hide the obvious appreciation as he stared at you.

“Three compliments in one day?” He arched his eyebrow, his mouth curving into that half smile filled with mischief. “I don’t even recognize you.”

“I like to please my slaves.”

Slowly, he placed his hand on your knee, his fingers brushing against the fabric of your clothes in a gesture as casual as it was calculated. The space inside the taxi was tiny, forcing closeness. Your knee didn’t move. He noticed. His fingers lightly caressed the spot, the touch almost absent-minded but full of purpose, lightly lifting the fabric and caressing without restraint.

“Have I been demoted to slave now?” he teased, laughter stuck in his throat, trying to mask the fact that, for some reason, he was acting like a damn teenager.

You tilted your head, your gaze filled with interest. Your voice came out low, engaging.

“Thought you liked powerful women.”

Your body moved forward a few millimeters, enough for him to notice. The heat of your presence seeped into the space between you, transforming the cab into a silent game of intentions.

“Slave.”

Tangerine laughed, that low, gravelly laugh that vibrated in his chest before transforming into something even more dangerous.

“Princess.”

The word escaped him with surgical precision, carrying a weight that made you hold your breath for a second. Your tongue slid across your lips, instinctively moistening them, even with the lipstick still intact. He noticed it too.

“You’re beautiful,” Tangerine murmured, and this time, there was no joke in his tone. Only the truth.

You held his gaze, a glint of something indescribable dancing in your expression.

“Thank you.”

The taxi stopped smoothly in front of the hotel. Tangerine, without hesitation, pulled out his wallet and paid the fare before you could even think about moving. He already knew what to do, he knew what made you happy—what pleased you.

You opened the door, but before your feet touched the wet floor, his hand slid under yours, offering support naturally. There was no need for words. When you stood up, Tangerine closed the door behind you and, with his other hand, opened an umbrella.

It was only then that you realized it was raining.

The sound of the rain against the umbrella's fabric created a soft rhythm as he guided you through the hotel's brightly lit lobby. The smell of polished wood and expensive perfume hung in the air. Unhurriedly, he paid for the room, taking the card before heading to the elevator. Your hand rested on his arm, and, amidst the comfortable silence, one thing was clear: you were happy.

Maybe you should have always followed this path.

The elevator door slid open with a clang, and you walked down the carpeted hallway to your designated room. Tangerine slid his card into the electronic lock—green light, unlocked. As soon as you were inside, he turned to you, his deft fingers sliding over the fabric of your overcoat. His touch was deliberately slow, purposeful, sending a shiver down your skin before he hung the garment on the hanger.

You walked around the room, your eyes taking in every detail of the sophisticated decor, but what really caught your attention were the two champagne glasses on the table. A smile played on your lips as you filled both, feeling his presence approaching from behind. Tangerine took the glass without taking his eyes off you, bringing the glass to his lips and drinking in one gulp. 

“You don’t like cigarettes, but like alcohol,” he commented, his voice full of gentle provocation. Before you could respond, he picked up the bottle and filled the glasses again. “It’s poison, you know?” 

“Everyone has their battles,” you murmured, bringing the glass to your lips and pausing for a moment to just watch him. "Mine's alcohol."

He placed the glass on the headboard, and before you could react, his hand was already in your hair. His fingers lightly sank into the strands, pulling one of them closer to his face. He tilted his head and inhaled your scent, his eyes closing briefly before he released the strands, letting them slip between his fingers.

“You didn’t ask permission to touch me,” you teased, your voice coming out lower than you had planned. Your body, treacherous, was already getting closer without you realizing it.

“Should I?” Tangerine asked, his voice thick, and took a step forward.

“No.”

It wasn’t a warning. It was a request.

He understood.

His hand slid to your waist, his touch warm and firm. Then Tangerine leaned in, placing a soft kiss on your cheek. You held your breath. His mustache brushed against your skin as he moved to your forehead, then to the other cheek, tracing an adoring path before finally moving down to your chin. His bottom lip slid against your skin, exploring, before touching your mouth in a subtle, almost torturous brush.

“You’re calm,” you whispered as you released your breath, your eyes slowly opening to meet his. The blue depths were darker, filled with something that made you shiver. 

“You want more?” The question was spoken in a low, husky tone, full of promise. You held his gaze and, without hesitation, murmured:

“I do.”

The smile that formed on his lips was dangerous, following with another teasing peck. Another. And another, which turned into a slow kiss, savoring every part of your mouth, his hand stopping at your waist, his grip becoming tighter. You returned the intensity, allowing yourself to finally tangle your fingers in those waves that you had found yourself thinking about so many nights.

His touch traveled to your hips, a silly hand reaching under your ass to grab your leg, squeezing tightly as he hiked up your dress to the hem of your panties, pulling the elastic, making a tugging noise to let you know he was there. A silent request for consent. Oh, how you loved being pampered by this man.

“You’re my best man, you know?” You purred, leaning against Tangerine’s shoulder, while he still played with the hem of your panties, his smart fingers going to the center, pulling the elastic so they fit inside you.

“Yeah?” He gasped, his mouth opening at the feeling of your wetness, inserting a finger into the slit to feel the texture of your walls squeezing his finger.

“Yeah.” You groaned, biting your lips to suppress the lewd moan that insisted on coming out of your throat, while he did a slow dance inside you, circling that special spot that made you tremble.

“If I knew it was necessary to make you wet to tell the truth, I would’ve fucked you a long time ago.” He whispered against your lips, chasing them for another kiss as he added another finger to that delicious game inside you. It was as if you were a map and he knew the exact location for his pleasure.

“I would’ve punished you.” You tried to threaten, throwing your head back at the pleasure of his thumb joining the teasing, circling your clit. “Shit.”

“You’ve already punished me enough.” He replied, his fingers becoming faster on the spot. He wanted you to stay awake, aware, knowing that it was him, your best agent, who was causing you this pleasure. “I heard I’m the only one who does small talk after making a mistake. You cut or kill the others. Tell me, is there something special with me, princess?”

“Fuck you.” You cursed, grinding against his hands to get more friction, but every time you ground your hips for more, he stopped for a few seconds before going back. “Fuck, Tan!”

“Fuck yourself on my fingers, then.” He teased, returning to the fast rhythm of his fingers that you needed so much. Even in that uncomfortable position, you were coming undone sublimely, trembling with your leg resting on his waist, on your tiptoes even in your heels. “That’s it…”

He waited for you to calm down, gradually decreasing the circles on your clit little by little until the spasms stopped and you could get back on your feet. You swallowed hard, fixing your hair as you tried to control yourself in that situation where Tangerine’s cock seemed to throb inside his pants, the pulse being visible.

“you do this often?” You asked, sighing as you turned so he could unzip your dress. He brushed your perfect hair aside so it wouldn't get caught in the device. Damn, you'd never been so grateful to hear that metallic sound of a zipper opening and the rustling of fabric on the floor.

“Being your sex slave?” He whispered in your ear, making every hair on the back of your neck stand on end with his hot breath. “Can make it frequent, if my princess wants.”

You fell silent, your breathing uncertain, almost a moan. Tangerine laughed, calculating his breath in the hollow of your neck.

“Too sour for your sharp tongue, little fox?”

You turned your ankles, his eyes immediately traveling over your curves, the ones he fantasized about when you were scolding him, under that tight dress and black coat, bigger than you, to hide your weapons. And there you were, unarmed, perfect, almost naked.

“Fox got your tongue, Tan?” You teased, your hands going to the hooks of your lacy bra, throwing it to the floor.

“Pleasantly.” He replied, licking his lips. You were determined, he knew. You could take off all your clothes by yourself without his help, not that you didn’t want to, but because somehow, you knew it would drive him crazy. The trait he hated the most before was what turned him on at that moment. Dominance.

He aimed at you, placing your fingers on the hem of your panties and letting them slide down your ankles, picking up the fabric and placing it in his palm. He suppressed the urge to smell that fabric. Holy shit, how he suppressed it. Using all his military and divine training to remain nonchalant, just putting the cloth inside his pants pocket, before unbuttoning his shirt.

“Leave the heels on.” He commanded, throwing the shirt to the floor, giving the divine view of every damn defined muscle of his. Shit. He had no right to be like this.

“Fetish?” You asked, not taking your eyes off Tangerine’s hands working to remove his tight pants, throwing them in the same fate as the other discarded clothes on the floor.

“One of ‘em.” He answered, stopping only with the white boxers that were transparent at the tip. He was excited. Much more than he had ever been in his entire life. On the edge. “C’mere and take ‘em off, princess.”

“Giving me orders?” You flirted, getting closer and playing with the hem of his underwear, the softness of your palm touching his erection with surprising delicacy.

“m giving you a break from your job.” He gasped, feeling your fist go up and down his length.

You were open-mouthed, feeling pleasure as if he were touching you and not the other way around. You swore you had never felt such a delicious cock in your life, your desire forcing you to get on your knees and enjoy it more. You needed to taste it, position be damned. Tangerine had you even before this stupid game.

“Holy shit.” He cursed, watching you take off your underwear in a second, lifting your feet to help you, being graced by your mouth warming his throbbing member. Saliva comforting your pain, your tongue licking the right places, your eyebrows knitted in pleasure. “Fuck, you looking like you’re enjoying this makes me… shit.” 

You wrapped the extension in your hand, maintaining eye contact with him, your tongue swirling around the tip, your hand following the movements of your mouth. His taste was better than you’d ever tasted, a salty touch balanced with sweet and bitter. Tangerine could go down to hell to see that vision again. 

“Shit, stop. I’m gonna cum if you keep going like this.” He grunted, pulling away, but you grabbed his thigh, giving one last suck before letting go of his cock. “Fuck. You were made for this.” 

“Glad for your feedback.” You smiled, wiping some of the drool that ran down the corner of your mouth, lying down on the bed.

Tangerine took off his shoes and socks, which were thrown somewhere near the clothes that were no longer important. You laid your head on the huge pillow of that king-size bed, spreading your legs to accommodate Tangerine's body in the middle.

“Main course?” You teased, catching a glimpse of Tangerine crawling on the bed, kissing your knee, your thigh, the inside of your body, giving you a little lick before moving up the trail to your breasts, ending on your lips.

“It's been the main course since flirting at the station.” He responded, kissing you, his hands squeezing every curve of your body with gusto, with force, almost painful.

You kicked off your heels. Screw his fetish. You needed to feel him, skin to skin, as much as you could. You wanted him to possess you completely, becoming one, entwining himself in the mess that was Tangerine. Your head fell back, a soft, submissive moan escaping your lips as you felt his cock in your hole, entering you shamelessly.

“Hmmm, Tan…” you moaned, pulling his head to kiss him passionately, while he moved his hips, going deeper and deeper inside you.

You held him with your thighs on his waist, the position being more intimate, deeper. His belly rubbed against your clitoris, you were completely stimulated. Tangerine leaned on one arm, his free hand roaming your body, squeezing your breasts, lowering his head to take one of your nipples in his mouth. Completely at the peak. Just like all his work, this was explosive. Tangerine’s own signature mark.

Not sure if it was the overstimulation that had happened before or if Tangerine was a damn who knew how to fuck too well, you felt yourself painfully close to cumming, arching your back, scratching his skin, he grunted in response, increasing the pace.

“Tangerine, shit…” you moaned in a thin scream, your body tensing. Your voice matched the staccatos of the strong thrusts. “Fuck, Tangerine.”

“I know, I know. Me too.” He groaned, grabbing your thigh and then your waist, pulling you as close as possible as he felt his own release getting closer.

He continued to increase the pace, until with one last round of his hips, strands of cum began to squirt inside you, while he felt your walls tighten around him. You were cumming too. Hard. He felt it, which made him force himself to move his pelvis a little more to prolong that sensation for both of you, both moaning in hypersensitivity.

Tangerine gradually slowed down his movements, until he was completely still inside you for a while, enjoying the few seconds left of the orgasm. He rolled to the side, panting, running his hand through his hair and then his mustache, in an attempt to fix it.

“I really need a cigarette right now.” He confessed, turning his face towards you, eyes roaming over your naked and destroyed beauty until returning to your eyes, so sincere and submissive at that moment.

“Are you one of those people who smokes after sex?” You said, pulling the sheets up to cover yourself and admire him more calmly. “I expected more from you, agent.”

“Gimme a break, princess. I worked hard here.” He joked, trying to fit in with you there inside the warm comforter. Tangerine’s hand went to your face, touching your cheeks and then your messy hair. “God… you’re beautiful.”

“Don’t think I’ll treat you any differently after this. You’re still my man.” You joked, returning to that same cocky posture from before. But something was different, the way your eyes betrayed you through your words.

He noticed. But he simply loved that little game too much to argue back.

“Understood, little fox.” He joked, lying on his back and pulling you to his chest. You played a little with the hairs on Tangerine’s belly, reviewing every detail of that night. The tangerine juice and a clever fox make-believe. It was stupid. A stupid word game. One you wanted to play forever if you could.

Actually, you could. He was your agent. The best of them. Theoretically.

[daily-nicotine]

woofnic

[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.

[buckysslut]

idk if you do AUs but rockstar bucky bringing a fan backstage to fuck her while he's still coked up (basically lots of debauchery, degradation, and filth pretty please 🥺)

𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲

Your moans echo loudly through the dressing room. The slap of skin on skin reverberates. You desperately try to grab onto anything you can, trying to latch onto the dressing table and staring yourself dead in the eyes in the streaky and messy mirror. Never did you think you’d find yourself backstage with your favourite artist. You definitely didn’t predict you’d be getting dicked down by him either. “Fuckin’ slut! So tight, dumb fuckin whore..” He growls, slapping your ass harshly. You squeak in surprise at the mix between pain and pleasure.

In one hand, he held your hip (occasionally removing it to slap your ass) and in the other, he held a cigarette which was held to his lips at present. He took deep drags of it. Whenever he took a drag from the cigarette, his hips would slow down as he allowed the nicotine to course through him. As soon as he was done with each puff he went straight back to fucking you hard. You moan desperately, your mini skirt pushed up and panties discarded god knows where. His hips slap against your ass, fucking you like a rag doll. “You’re such a lucky fuckin’ slut.. you’re lucky you got chosen.. coulda’ picked any of those girls out there.. picked the cheapest whore.. at least you’re tight, I guess..” He grumbles, moaning and grunting between words and thrusts. “Little slut, do anything for some dick, huh?”

IF YOU LIKED THIS, I MASSIVELY RECOMMEND THIS POST BY THE WONDERFUL @magicaloneandmystery !!

(A/N: I’ve never actually written anything like this so i’m not sure if it’s great :/ i apologise if it’s not the best but i tried my best and all i can say is that i hope you enjoy reading!)

@chrisevansleftnipple , @homiesexual-or-homosexual , @httpsells , @avengemepercy , @multiversefanfics , @raikan624

[spicycinnabun]

@118dailydrabble for day 95 prompt smoke ⚙︎ rated: t ⚙︎ pair: buck/tommy ⚙︎ tags: part 13 of android au

“You don’t usually smoke,” EB observed with a frown.

He was probably going to give Tommy a speech on how unhealthy it was, especially considering their line of work.

“I know,” Tommy replied tiredly, turning his gaze away.

They’d had a tough call. One that hit close to home. Too close.

“EB, can you—”

Tommy froze as EB stepped forward and embraced him.

“There's an eighty-nine percent chance that physical affection will be more effective than nicotine for relief,” EB murmured.

Tommy felt a lump rise in his throat. His cigarette fell from his fingers. “This is embarrassing.”

His voice shook.

“Would you like more pressure?” EB asked, even softer.

Tommy made a helpless noise. “Yeah.”

EB complied.

⚙︎

tag list: @brassm-tagged @leashybebes @thesuspiciousflyingjellyfish @setmeatopthepyre @bibuckeroo @station18908 @hmg621 @buffaluff @disastardly @figuringitoutaloud @bblouleelou @ambernotember @theredrenard @hyperfocusthusly @tedious-waffle @screamlet @xmidhel @nochance-noway @rcmclachlan @popfly @powersuitup @nonotyourspumoni @espressopatronum454 @loulou-land @all-the-feelss @comeon-intothemadhouse @jake-is-screaming-in-tune

just let me know if you want to be added/removed

[romaine-arts]

categorizations for mudokons, through the skewed perspective of industrialist society. a collaboration between me and @lair-of-the-white-worm

SCRUBS Nicknames: Workforce (formal), Cattle (derogatory) Scrubs are Mudokon workers that have been industrially bred for factory labour. Due to the artificial breeding process that is preformed on enslaved queens, Scrubs are usually inbred and suffer many deficiencies and mutations as a result, most commonly a lack of feathers. Scrubs are raised to never know of their mothers, nor their enslavement, and are forced into manual labour the moment they are capable of lifting. A diet of processed foods, lack of vitamins, and horrible working conditions usually results in incredibly poor posture, joint pains, breathing problems, oral health issues, etcetera. Scrubs are fed propaganda to believe these health problems are entirely normal for their species. A Scrub's lifespan is approximately 40 years due to poor health and addictions to alcohol and nicotine products. Scrubs are considered "rude and stupid" by Mudokons that grow up in more urban environments. Scrubs are mass-produced and typically undergo artificial de-sexing processes to ensure that they remain workers (i.e. won't immediately undergo drone development if exposed to sexuality) while under "employment". Scrubs make up an uncomfortable majority of the Mudokon population in midwest Mudos.

CRIMPS Nicknames: Show-muds (offensive) Crimps are Mudokon workers that have been cosmetically altered by Vykkers to be more aesthetically pleasing. Mostly found in the servitude of high-class industrial elites, Crimps are likely to be seen taking on the role of butlers, maids, or other forms of personal servant. While Scrubs may undergo a de-sexing process, Crimps undergo complete chemical castration and are completely incapable of ever developing further. This castration process also ensures Crimps remain youthful and will never be able to develop beyond their worker physique, even if exposed directly to sexuality. Due to Glukkons finding Mudokon pinky fingers and pinky toes unsightly, Crimps have them surgically removed to appear more kempt and clean to their masters and mistresses. They will also have their two remaining toes grafted together in order to fit their feet into more fashionable shoes, or simply to walk more elegantly. Other plastic surgeries Crimps can be seen with are lip fillers, face-lifts, brow-lifts, chin augmentations, and boob jobs (Mudokon workers cannot grow breasts naturally unless they are future queens. As Crimps are completely castrated, any seen with breasts have had them applied surgically or chemically). Crimps will commonly get their natural feathers plucked (if they have any) and undergo transplants to have a fuller, thicker, artificial head of unnaturally coloured feathers. In more urban areas, modelling photos of Mudokon Crimps will be put on posters to serve as an example of what a "high class" Mudokon looks like.

CORRECTIVES Nicknames: Rekties (informal) Mudokon workers born in the wild and captured for enslavement are known as Correctives. Corrective workers are seen as feral, wild animals that need to be tamed and trained in order to serve, hence the necessity of 'Corrective Facilities' from which they get their name. Correctives are captured during military Slig raids on Mudokon villages, from tribes that refuse to relocate or comply to industrial developments. Mudokon workers captured and sent to Corrective facilities seldom ever undergo any form of de-sexing. Also, due to being hatched in the wild naturally, Correctives are not born with pre-existing medical conditions, and only risk developing them overtime if exposed to harmful environments. These factors are advertised by the sales representatives of Corrective facilities. They do, however, undergo immense abuses such as whipping, branding, beating, and degradation in order to "correct" things such as their posture and attitude in order to appear more "proper". Their use of the Mudokon language, culture and traditions is beaten out of them. It's commonplace for enslaved Mudokon queens to be sourced from these Corrective facilities, as the captured Mudokons are not de-sexed and are left intact. Due to this, female Correctives are highly desirable and go for a high price. Correctives in these facilities are brainwashed into a distaste for the native Mudokon tribes and a warped hatred for Mudokon Scrubs in factory environments. Correctives that comply with orders will be forced into whipping and beating other Mudokon Correctives. Despite the grueling process of "civilizing" Mudokon correctives, aside from the underground trade of developing Mudokon queens, purchasing a Corrective otherwise is seen purely as a status symbol. The sheer amount of resources that go into training a 'decent' servant from a corrective is often seen as a waste of moolah, with the advent of industrial queen programs. Very few Corrective Facilities still exist, as their products and services are seen as obsolete.

NATIVES Nicknames: Bush-Muds (offensive/derogatory), wild (informal) Native Mudokon workers in their natural environment are living in their element. In Mudokon tribes, workers serve as the main providers of all those within them. While Drones live to closely protect and breed with their Queen, the native Worker Mudokons act as farmers, fishermen, builders, shamans, and soldiers. In the wild, Mudokons live off a natural diet of fruits, vegetables, insects, fish, and occasionally Meep, though fruits make up the vast majority of their diet. They give the natives the nutrients they need to serve their tribes. Mudokon worker feathers are naturally quite beautiful. While not as dense as Drone feathers or Queen feathers, native worker feathers are a sight to behold and even serve to accessorize various regalia that they wear during ceremonies. Queens/”female” Mudokons have dull grey feathers, while developing drones will have more vibrant feathers in order to put on displays for their queens. Native Mudokons are very spiritual and connected with the land. They have immense respect for the world around them and live incredibly humbly, usually near rivers or dense forests depending on the tribe. Due to industrial development and oppression, most Mudokon tribes in the east and Midwest of Mudos live in hiding. In the wild, Mudokon workers can live up to 100 years (or longer if they choose to become a Shaman). Mudokon Workers that become Shamans take a vow of celibacy, and will not develop into drones or queens.

[lostintransist]

Hell's Spawn | Airport Cocktails

Part 1 | AO3

The warm feeling sitting in your chest rose to a simmer as Krueger sat next to you at the airport bar. Kim, Horangi, in front of his team, had popped over to the restroom.

You weren’t still mad at Krueger; you were mildly annoyed. He didn’t know that, though.

“Horangi said your interview went well. Do you wish to suffer in the desert for a job?”

Sipping your drink, you watch him.

“You don’t smell like ash and ass. You kick smoking?”

The heat in his gaze as it turns to you boils your bones.

“I am saving my frustrations being without nicotine for something special.”

Your sexual desire reared its head like a hydra. Despite best efforts, you didn’t have a God’s-damned ‘hero’ to burn the stump. One orgasm never satiated. Never. It only riled up the need more, one head removed that revealed two more.

“Interesting,” you sip at your drink. Playing unaffected was a craft you had perfected.

Observing him as you swirl your drink, the words slid out.

“What’s your first name?”

Krueger, hiding behind a ball cap, dark shades, and a medical mask, removes his sunglasses. He leans close, his eyes are brown, bordering on green. You doubt any artist could capture the chaotic streak the mossy color ringing his iris gives rise to inside you.

“Sebastian.”

The smell of his beer kisses your lips as they part without thought.

You repeat it back to him, tracing over the bits of his skin visible to you. His eyebrows are such a light shade of brown that you wonder if his hair beneath the hat leans toward blond. He moved closer, or you moved closer? It doesn’t matter. What does, though, is when your phone buzzes against the bar, you jerk upright to look at it.

Lifting and unlocking the screen, you notice Sebastian shift in his seat next to you.

Swiping down to see the notification, you have one message from Kim Possible. He had not been pleased to see what you had changed his name to after he asked you to call him by his first name.

>>My flight got moved up. Krueger is headed your way.

>He found me already.

Firing off a reply, you don’t let your gaze wander from the indication that he was typing.

>>Don’t eat him. I need him on our next job.

>I bet he would like it.

It reminded you of fireworks as Kim typed and deleted so many times until he finally settled on a thumbs-down emoji.

Laughing, you tuck your phone away and stand. Signaling to the bartender that you are finished, you pat Sebastian on the shoulder.

“Have a safe flight. I’m interested to see if pent-up frustrations can make a man explode.”

Saying nothing as you walk away doesn’t prevent the weight of him watching you.

Getting settled at your gate, you pull out your phone and settle into a fluffy little novel you have been working on reading when you’re awake and have the brain space to do so. Pages fly by. You are violently ripped from the story when a hand settles on your knee, the one crossed over the other. Whipping your head to the side, ready to tear a strip off the man who dared, there sits Sebastian. If you sit up straight, his head will be hovering over your shoulder. His gaze sears you even behind his sunglasses.

“Go on, let us read your dirty little stories.”

The husk in his voice shivers down your body. He must feel it for the pressure he grips your thigh with.

“This isn’t a dirty story,” you roll your eyes as you shift and try to settle some distance between you. He hears what you mutter to yourself, “I can recommend some if you need advice on how to treat women, though.”

“If any more thoughts enter my head of how to take care of a woman, bärchen, you will find me stalking your dreams.”

When the shivers come this time, they are tinged with panic, and all the more potent for them.

Sebastian clings until your boarding begins. The stubborn odor of his cologne stains the insides of your nose and teases you as you fall apart under your own ministrations after falling into bed for the night.

@demothers-empty-blog

Hell Masterlist | Masterlist

[millie-multifics]

Parallel Lines

Dr. Robby x Nurse!OC

Navigating divorce is hard, made more difficult by the relationships Kate built with her step-children. Robby understands her situation in a unique way and helps comfort her when one of her kids ends up becoming his patient.

Warnings: Mentions of drowning and injury, divorce, a little bit of angst, a yearning Robby with Pitt Fest Trauma, OC has step-children.

Word Count: ~1.8k

Masterlist

Part 2 | Part 3

x x x

Though quite new to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre, Kate had learned quickly that there was never a dull moment. She found herself fitting well on the dayshift; quickly falling into natural motions with the charge nurse, Dana and Chief Attending, Dr. Rabinovitch.

Kate’s switch to PTMC- or as the Emergency Department lovingly referred to as “The Pitt”, was accompanied by back-to-back life changes. Her family had moved from California, finding their way into a quiet Pittsburgh suburb. Eight months later she found herself moving from the family home to a two-bedroom walkup deeper in the city, fresh ink on divorce papers heavy in tow.

She had grown accustomed during her eight years of marriage to waking before the sun, readying herself before coaxing the kids out of bed with the promise of a delicious breakfast to start their day. Now that her apartment was empty and quiet, she still rose before the sun, spending extra long under the heat of the shower and grabbing a half-charred piece of toast on her way out the door.

The apartment was close to the hospital, so she always walked, even when the clouds opened over the city to release a downpour that surely put a damper on Saturday plans.

It had become routine to stop at the Café between her building and the hospital for coffee. She had unexpectedly gained a morning coffee buddy a few weeks prior, having quite literally bumped into Dr. Robby as he exited the very same Café on a particularly tired morning.

Kate glanced at the clock centered on the chalk written menu board; he was already running late so she went ahead and added his coffee to her. A simple black coffee, two sugars. He had confessed it was an order he had grown accustomed to when he was a smoker, needing the sweet to battle the burnt bitterness the Tabacco and nicotine left lingering in his mouth- he had quit some months ago but not without great difficulty.

She waited outside with the two paper cups. Umbrella tucked in her elbow to block out the moisture as she patiently waited. She spotted him first, the familiar navy hoodie hanging off his frame. His head was ducked to avoid the large, wet drops; it must have started to rain after he had already begun his journey as there was no umbrella in sight. She stepped forward to match his pace, the large paper cup slowed his steps as it came into his view. He glanced over at her with surprise, having not spotted her on approach. He accepted the coffee as he removed his air pods, ducking under the dry sanctuary of the umbrella as she lifted it to accompany his extra height.

“Morning, Dr. Robby.”

“Good morning, Katherine.” He sipped the warm beverage, sighing as his body accepted its first taste of caffeine of the day. “Coffee is on me next time.”

She brushed it off with a small knowing laugh; he was never early enough to beat her to the coffee counter. “Shall we?”

He nodded, stuffing his free hand in his pocket to keep it from naturally finding the small of her back to keep her close while they walked. They stepped between two parked cars, silently waiting as traffic thinned enough for them to cross the street to the hospital.

Dana was observant, she also how to be discreet when it was needed. She had noticed on the fourth occurrence of Kate and Robby arriving together, same coffee cups with distinct orange markings. They would part ways to visit their lockers and proceed with the day as if they were merely colleagues, but Dana had picked up on underlying tones, ones which Princess and Perlah had yet to notice. Dana knew the pair had two options; they could leave it unacknowledged, the ease they felt in each other’s presence that led to soft looks and subtle jokes, or they could face the unknown and just go for it.

The charge nurse knew Robby well, they had worked together for a very long time, and she had seen the various periods of struggle in his life. The breakdown of his relationship with Janey, the internal struggle with his initial feelings for a younger aspiring Dr. Collins, the choices that had to be made surrounding Adamson’s death, and in the months since Pitt Fest, the loss of Leah and growing distance of Jake. The man simply needed something good in his life, not that it would fix everything but maybe give him the motivation to face it.

Kate was quiet but she was experienced and good at her job. Dana could sense a lingering sadness surrounding the breakdown of her marriage. She had once opened up to her new friend about the circumstances surrounding the successful lawyer she had married; the two wonderful stepchildren she had the privilege of helping raise - how it had all come crashing down faster than she could breathe. But the world kept turning slow and steady.

It was around midday when Kate felt like the world had halted, flipped on its axis and spun out of control while her body froze, unable to step into Trauma One of the Emergency Department.

“Got an incoming, teen drowning victim with a head lac. ETA 4 minutes.”

Kate had been returning from her locker when Dana made the announcement, the five-minute break to devour a protein bar was much needed at this time in the day. Her chest tightened as she met Robby’s eyes, knowing their thoughts were shared. A child, a teen, the unimaginable to any parent.

“Hey, is this your phone? It’s been buzzing non-stop for the past few minutes.”

It was indeed her phone; she caught a glimpse of the contact photo before it flashed off the screen. She scooped it off the desk, panic brewing in her chest at the 15 missed calls all from the same number. She redialed, biting at her lips as she listened to the phone ring.

“Mom!” Pure panic replaced the usually small voice of the ten-year-old on the line.

“Charlie? What happened?” She tried to keep her voice level, clear of the panic gripping her chest as to not further alert the boy. Her hands shook and she had to brace herself against the tall counter as she waited for the inevitable.

“Grace.” The boy sobbed, “We went to the pool, and we were playing around, but she fell in and was bleeding.”

She angled the phone away from her mouth, reaching up to cover the microphone.

“My kids.” She breathed, choking back her own sob that threatened to escape. “Robby, those are my kids.”

Something flashed very briefly in Robby’s eyes, something akin to doubt; the reminder of Leah and the consequences of not being able to save her no matter how hard he had tried. The reminder of what he had lost before he steeled his emotions, stripping off his hoodie, replacing it with a gown and gloves as he followed nurses and residents into the ambulance bay.

The wail of sirens echoed through the phone and from outside, pulling her back into the moment. “I’ll be right there, baby.”

Her phone clattered to the floor as she attempted to put it into her scrub pocket, not bothering to retrieve it as her feet carried her into the bay.

The ambulance jolted to a stop, the door slammed open and the doctors rushed forward, vital information being shouted by the paramedics as the gurney rushed past.

Kate stood back, standing off to the side knowing her emotions were much too strong to do anything useful in the moment. There she was, her Gracie; hair wet with a mixture of chlorinated pool water and thick, sticky blood. Skin pale, lips borderline blue, pulse there but weak.

“Mom!” Charlie leaped from the back of the ambulance, arms circling Kate’s waist tightly as he cried into her hip.

Robby found her two hours later. She was sitting in the waiting room with her head in her hands- it was the only way she had been able to get them to stop shaking. He silently sat in the chair next to her, offering her a familiar paper cup containing her favorite latte. Robby had bribed an intern to go to the Café to retrieve her order; a latte with only a single pump of vanilla syrup.

“Charlie was supposed to be at home, but the sitter cancelled so Gracie took him to the pool with her.” Kate’s voice was rough. She had taken the opportunity of Charlie exploring with Mateo to let out her bottled emotions. “Gracie is a competitive swimmer, spends most of her time at the pool.”

“The paramedic’s said Charlie was the one who started CPR when the lifeguard froze.” Robby had been stunned when he first heard it. The lifeguard had lost composure when she had been pulled from the pool, not breathing and heavily bleeding. “You should be very proud.”

“I am.” She sipped the warm beverage to clear the thickness in her throat. “I am so proud of both of those kids. It hurts not seeing them every day. I still go to her swim meets and his little league games, they stay over sometimes but it just feels like someone ripped the biggest part of my heart out of my chest all the time.”

Robby gently grasped her hand from where it was gripping the plastic arm of the chair, wanting to offer her comfort in a situation he was all too familiar with. He had experienced it with Jake; adaptions in life and schedule made to accompany family time, sitting at the dinner table to help battle through math homework or just the simplicity of knowing they were safety across the hall asleep at night. Having a child brighten your life, only for it to all fall apart one day with no official claim to cling onto, that connection grown in your heart left in purgatory.

“Katie.”

The voice had her pulling her hand from Robby’s larger, warm one as if his touch burned. She stood from the chair, careful not to spill her coffee as she flung her arms around the well-suited man approaching.

“Eric.”

It was her sigh of relief as she said his name that made Robby stand, his gaze lingering at their soft touches before he wandered back to the Emergency Department. For weeks he had thought that they had the potential to be more, attempting to push away his cynical thoughts that he was not worthy of love and companionship, but now he had seen maybe that voice of doubt had been right. She was freshly divorced, the love and care palpable between the two embracing forms in the hospital hallway.

[wingedqueenlynx]

I wanna do my own Headcanons post about Arkhamverse Riddler cause I think he's neat and I wanna share my brain juice about him :3c

1. Ambidextrous.

Originally started out with a dominant left hand, he started teaching himself himself to write with both after getting jumped by school bullies. Which was further proved useful whenever Batman broke one of his hands lol

2. Ex smoker.

It's common knowledge that he did have an ashtray laying around in one of his hideouts in Arkham Origins. I headcanon that he wasn't a heavy smoker, just only having the odd cig here or there, but then quit soon after he went on the run and became the Riddler. Which makes sense for a guy who loves the sound of his own voice and is known to get loud- he'd hate the idea of his perfect voice getting raspy or subject himself to coughing his lungs out. But there are times where he gets the cravings for the nicotine during times of high stress- it would get to the point where he'll linger with the rogues that smoke in order to get the second hand smoke off them XD

3. Nearsighted, hatred for eye contacts and mildly light sensitive.

That basterd is blind without his glasses- anything further than 4 feet away from him will become blurry blobs. In Arkham Knight, he was seen with his classic orange round glasses- which turns out, the orange tint helps mute the effects of blue light, meaning him constantly sitting in front of computer screens for hours at a times had only aggravated his sight further.

He also hates the thought of putting in eye contacts in his eyes. He tried them once and hated the sensation of feeling them and the hassle of putting them in or removing them. It's probably one of the main reasons he lost the fight against Batman and Catwoman- he had no fucking clue where they were due to the lack of glasses, out of fear of getting punched in the face with them on lol

4. Poor blood circulation and scarred hands.

In every instance, we see Riddler throughout the games he always wore some type of gloves on his hands, and I believe it is not only just a style choice. If you shake his hands without his gloves on, they are cool to the touch due to poor circulation. He always had trouble warming them up, and it's even worse during the cold months in Gotham (or dealing with Mr Freeze)- with the cold hitting him harder as he'd feel them go numb with the cold. So it's rare to see him without them on.

When his gloves are off, you can see that his hands are peppered with cuts, scars and burns from all the injuries from either building or getting beat up. Which I do have a drawn ref of :3c

Really worn work hands. There is a new scar addition every other day with the way he progresses. Most is self-inflicted from his work or moments of frustration, unfortunately :/

5. Surprisingly good with kids.

In general, I hate it when DC writers give him the Cluemaster mentality when it comes to kids, regardless if it's his own or not. Like- why would he mistreat his own kid similar (if not worse) than what his own dad did to him or bully other kids? That doesn't make a lick of sense to me. He does have some morals- professionals have standards. He'd never stoop down to Joker's level. He's a villain, not a monster.

If a kid does happen to stumble across Eddie setting up a trophy or something, naturally, they would either turn around and leave the question cladded rogue alone or ask him a million questions. Eddie would definitely answer their questions and feed their curiosity, knowing that a child can still learn to be smart. Knowing that their brains aren't fully developed yet. I think he secretly loves it when kids are willing to learn new stuff, and if they somehow tell him a fact or a riddle he didn't know (which is extremely rare, but he plays along) he might reward them with a trophy lol

Just the idea of him having deep buried paternal instincts just scratches my brain very nicely. Like he'll easily play the cold, cocky and callous asshole around the other heroes and villains, but put a crying baby in the room and have everyone panic while he just picks em up and begins yapping about the blueprints to his non euclidean traps or how he can divide PI by 10 trillon digits. Face calm as ever and his smooth talking voice slowly becoming white noise and the baby is just out like a light. Then he hands em over to Batman like it was an accomplished task.

(Which I will give Ktjl some points, with hearing the audio clips of Riddler chatting with Little Ivy over the phone and becoming besties and supporting my headcanon. I'm glad they GirlDad coded him. He was great! Everything else in that game tho...... yeah..... I have my gripes.)

6. Bisexual disaster.

It's pretty common knowledge that Eddie swings both ways. Having an eye on both Batman and Catwoman trying to gain their attention by whatever means for at least one of them to acknowledge him. Unfortunately, his attemps of doing so only pushed the Bat and the Cat closer together instead, so those plans backfired. Maybe that's why he lashed out in Knight???? He couldn't have his either option /j.

And then there is his odd relationship with Crane. Either suggesting "toxic" sexual tension or bitter exs- no in between. Crane knows how to push his buttons, and Eddie can only bitch about it.

He yearns for human connection with a partner, despite Eddie being- well, Eddie. Always making a mountain out of a mole hill- a true Bisexual Disaster smh

7. His Daddy Issues (The Depressing one)

Alright. We all know this Arkhamverse Riddler trivia when it comes to him and his Dad, whenever it's brought up. Eddie won his class contest in school and yearned a 20 dollar prize for his efforts, he showed his Dad, he got hit and was accused of cheating. I know Eddie did say in his audio tape that he did, but I think differently. It wasn't up till that point in his childhood, his Dad was mostly verbally abusive towards him, and that hit set Eddie into shock.

I think he actually did win the prize without cheating. Just the trauma of his Dad putting his hands on him, put him into such shock from it- he somehow convinced himself that he did cheat, despite him knowing that wasn't the case. All he wanted was for his Dad to acknowledge that he wasn't a moron and was capable, but regardless if he won or not, his Dad would've done the same either way. Eddie was stuck in a "Damned if I do, and Damned if I Don't" situation with his father.

So yeah. Those are the few personal Headcanons I have for him. I do have a handful more headcanons, but I didn't wanna make this post any longer than it should lol

I love this greasy green loser- if you couldn't tell

[woundedsoul12]

Did someone say... Thursday Bangers?

Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

This week's Banger brought to you by @fiberpunk027 who suggested on of my favorite songs for use.

I don't know what I'm supposed to do Haunted by the ghost of you Oh, take me back to the night we met - Lord Huron

No pressure tagging @himluv @thedissonantverses @mythals-whore @serensama @whispersleo @tarasmom @hedwigoprah @becausedragonage @kindlyfeline @davrinsleftpectoral @fenrelmercar @plasticfreckles @kai-dimir @teamtakagi @a-mumbling-nerd @fiberpunk027 @larknnightingale @jenn2d2 @hyperions-light @tkwritesdumbassassins @feelslikepants @trash-nerd @cute-ellyna @brennacedria @lottiesnotebook @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @operative-arrow @librivore42 @obsessed-with-book-boyfriends @fireheartedpup @mikylechase @bonesandivy @vime5 @notyourmamasdeerbat @griffongrey @master-of-the-elements @chaoslifeforme @carrieing0n @serstolas @beachhotdog

Reminder if you want to be added/removed from the weekly tag list just let me know. Also please tag me when you post your bangers I love to read and share them (though I also browse the tag)

Yes I know it's still Davrin week. And while these lyrics work perfectly for the Veilguard's mightiest hero, I am celebrating EMS week with @amlusa. This is in response to Caffeine, Nicotine, and Spite one of the best AUs I have ever read. So have a little Lenashur. A little Ashurook that's sad

“Medic one to med control over…”

Lena's face went pale as the radio buzzed before her. She knew that voice. Would recognize Luca's clipped accent anywhere.

For fucks sake. She had known it was going to be a bad night when she stalled out on I95. But this… this was something she wasn't sure she was ready for.

Thankfully, Lorelei appeared at her side and smashed the receiver as she grabbed a pen. “Med control to medic one. Go ahead over.” Her fellow nurse shot her a wink as she wrote down whatever was coming in. From the lazy way she rolled her eyes, it wasn't anything serious. Though Lena couldn't process the report over the rushing sound building in her ears.

It had only been a few months since she returned to her charge position in the ER at Minrathous General. She had been doing well so far. Going to therapy. Taking her meds. Actually sleeping most nights.

But now it was all rushing back. That night. The trauma. Luca calling in. His voice breaking through the static on the line.

“Lena, I'm so sorry. It's Ashur-”

Her mama always said don't marry heroes. Of course, her dad had been a Marine. And just like her Ashur, he was KIA. A nice flag in a case to press against her chest when she sobbed into the darkness. Haunted by the ghost of him everywhere she looked. Even here, at work, she was reminded of the night they met.

And the night she lost the only man she had ever loved to the duty he held above all else. Nurses and EMS. The best of the worst combo.

“Are you gonna be alright, Mercar?” Tarquin asked as looked across the nurse's station at her. He was trying to act tough, but there was a similar paleness to his face as memories flooded him as well. Ashur had been his best friend. They went through fire academy together. Hell even had matching medic tattoos. And he had been working PRN as a tech that fateful night.

She wasn't sure if she hated or loved that he went through the same hell she did. Maybe if he would have been with her love, Ashur would have made it out alive.

Or she would have just lost them both. And Maker, was she thankful to have his presence right now.

“Yeah I’ll be ok. Gotta leave the baggage at the door yanno.” She shook her head as she tried to focus once again on her work. Her nurses needed her to get her head out of her ass. There were patients to save. Docs to wrangle. Admin to appease. The usual shit.

No time for her to dwell on her broken heart.

But as a heavy hand fell on her shoulder and she looked up to see Tarquin's reassuring smile, the world seemed to still. He brought her a calmness. A peace she only knew when he was near. He had been the only reason she survived these last few months.

And she didn't know what she would do without him.

[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