#Premium mug for him

[harshita1166]

Need a premium mug for him? Marffil offers a range of high-quality, stylish mugs perfect for any occasion. Whether it’s for his morning brew or a special gift, our mugs come in unique designs with personalization options to make it truly special. Find the perfect mug he’ll love at Marffil today! For more details, contact 9911036900.

[sylusonychinus]

Side Story – Zayne vs. Prince

Series Masterlist It had been two weeks since Zayne and Reader officially started dating. While their relationship was progressing beautifully, there was one hurdle Zayne hadn’t quite figured out yet—Reader’s cat, Prince.

Prince was a ball of pure fluff, with striking silver fur and the kind of piercing green eyes that seemed to judge every decision you’d ever made in life. He was undeniably adorable, but Zayne was convinced the cat had it out for him.

The rivalry began on day one. The moment Zayne stepped into Reader’s apartment as her official boyfriend, Prince took one look at him, flicked his tail dismissively, and strutted away with an air of feline superiority.

Now, Zayne stood in Reader’s living room, staring down his nemesis. Prince lounged on the couch like royalty, sprawled out in the exact center so no one else could sit comfortably. His gaze was fixed on Zayne, unblinking, as if daring him to make a move.

Zayne crossed his arms. “Alright, Prince. Let’s settle this. I know you’re the king of this castle, but I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Prince yawned dramatically, showing off a tiny pink tongue, before curling into a tighter ball.

“Oh, don’t play innocent,” Zayne muttered. “I’ve seen you in action. You ‘accidentally’ knocked over my coffee last week. And let’s not forget the time you clawed my jacket—my favorite jacket, might I add.”

Reader entered the room with a mug of tea in hand, raising an eyebrow at the sight of Zayne and Prince locked in an intense staring contest.

“Are you having a serious conversation with my cat?” she asked, amused.

Zayne glanced at her, looking slightly sheepish. “He started it.”

Reader laughed, setting her mug down on the coffee table. “Prince is harmless. He’s just... selective about his affection.”

“Selective? He treats me like I’m trespassing,” Zayne said, gesturing at the cat.

As if to prove Zayne’s point, Prince stretched lazily, extended one paw, and swatted Zayne’s car keys off the coffee table. The jingle of metal hitting the floor echoed through the room.

Reader stifled a laugh. “Maybe he’s trying to tell you not to leave.”

“Or maybe he’s plotting my downfall,” Zayne grumbled, bending down to pick up the keys.

Later that evening, Reader decided it was time for the two most important males in her life to bond. She set the stage by sitting Zayne and Prince on opposite ends of the couch and placing a bowl of cat treats on the coffee table.

“Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Zayne, offer him a treat. Prince loves treats. It’s the easiest way to win him over.”

Zayne picked up a treat with the same level of caution one might use to handle a live grenade. He held it out toward Prince, who sniffed it but made no move to take it. Instead, he gave Zayne a look that could only be described as disdainful.

“Come on, Prince,” Zayne coaxed, his voice softening. “It’s your favorite.”

Prince flicked his tail, turned his head, and dramatically jumped off the couch as if the mere thought of accepting food from Zayne was beneath him.

Reader burst into laughter. “Wow. I’ve never seen him reject a treat before. You might be in trouble.”

“Oh, I’m in trouble?” Zayne said, looking at her with mock indignation. “This is your cat, and he’s clearly waging a war against me.”

“Maybe you need to try harder,” Reader teased.

Zayne narrowed his eyes at Prince, who had settled on the windowsill and was now grooming himself with an air of triumph. “Alright, buddy. You want a war? You’ve got one.”

The next day, Zayne showed up at Reader’s apartment with a plan. In one hand, he carried a small bag of premium cat treats—ones that Reader assured him were impossible for Prince to resist. In the other, he held a feathered cat wand toy he’d picked up at the pet store.

Reader watched from the kitchen as Zayne crouched down on the floor, waving the toy like a magician casting a spell. “Come on, Prince. Look at this. It’s fun, it’s colorful, it’s everything a cat could want.”

Prince remained perched on his cat tree, unbothered.

Zayne sighed and switched to Plan B. He shook the bag of treats, the sound causing Prince’s ears to twitch ever so slightly. “That’s right. I’ve got the good stuff. You know you want it.”

Slowly, Prince climbed down from the cat tree and sauntered over, his movements deliberate. He sniffed the air, eyes fixed on the bag.

“Success,” Zayne whispered triumphantly.

He placed a treat on the floor and waited. Prince sniffed it, then glanced up at Zayne, as if debating whether the treat was worth the indignity of accepting it from him. Finally, he ate it, chewing slowly while maintaining eye contact.

Reader leaned against the counter, grinning. “Congratulations. You’ve been deemed worthy of his time.”

“Worthy? I had to bribe him,” Zayne muttered, though a small smile tugged at his lips.

Prince, seemingly satisfied, hopped onto the couch and stretched out. He didn’t hiss or glare at Zayne this time, which Zayne considered a small victory.

By the end of the week, the rivalry had cooled into a tentative truce. Zayne was no longer greeted with hisses or glares, and Prince occasionally allowed him to scratch behind his ears—on Prince’s terms, of course.

One evening, Reader walked into the living room to find Zayne sprawled on the couch with Prince curled up on his chest. She gasped, grabbing her phone to snap a picture.

“Don’t you dare,” Zayne warned, though he made no move to push the cat off.

Reader grinned. “I can’t believe it. He actually likes you now.”

Zayne smirked. “Told you I’d win him over.”

Prince let out a contented purr, and Zayne sighed. “Alright, fine. Maybe he’s not so bad.”

From that day on, the rivalry officially ended, though Zayne would always insist that Prince only liked him because of the treats. Reader, however, knew better. Prince had finally decided Zayne was part of the family.

Taglist: @nezuswritingdesk@divxvx@demon-master-zero@mcdepressed290@syluslittlecrows@seris-the-amious@beaconsxd@wcelmedarling@kaiii07@sickleddreamer

[rottenpumpkin13]

AGSZC + Sephiroth Collecting Paper Scraps = Warm Fuzzy Shenanigans

AGZC leaving Sephiroth a variety of notes in various places, stuck to various things. Some are romantic, some are platonic, some are a simple doodle. They're left in books, on shelves, on walls, attached to magnetic surfaces, attached to each other, etc.

Sephiroth has a scrapbook full of them. The random bits of paper can be put wherever, but the ones from his partners are special.

No one lets arguments they're having seep into the messages, even toward each other. These are specifically for Sephiroth's use in his collection. It doesn't need to be sullied like that.

Sometimes the notes are fastened to gifts or to harmless pranks. A discussion had to be held about this after Sephiroth ended up with a note smelling richly of premium catnip and 16 hours of his life unaccounted for. The incidents that occurred during that time frame were totally unrelated and absolutely couldn't be proven that he had any part in them.

Genesis uses this as an excuse to buy quality stationary. Obscenely priced, quality stationary. Never mind that a block of notepaper would've done just fine, of course...

Angeal is at war with so many sides of his personality because of this habit Sephiroth has. He has to stop himself from cleaning everything up. He still doesn't fully settle until it's called a "collection" and Sephiroth is the owner of empty scrapbooks to fill.

Zack takes it as a challenge to leave him notes in as many unusual places as possible. When he gets told off for leaving one on the light fixture in the middle of the Soldier cafeteria during peak hungry times, he goes on to find another way to make leaving notes just as special as what's inside them. He eventually turns to origami. It has the bonus side effect of being a calming activity for him.

Cloud simply leaves his messages in the most simple, straightforward of manner. Middle of the fridge? Check. Next to the fridge handle? Also check. Coffee mug? Check. Coffee maker? Check. Bathroom mirror? Check. Masamune? Check. Pauldron? Check. Office (that was closed last night & securely locked with clearance he doesn't yet have to be in there alone) Chair? Check. Office ("[ditto]") Desk? Check. Office ("[guess. double dare you.]") Computer Screen? Check. He may be a simple backwater expert country boy, but his feelings for his partners are immense.

Long eloquent messages? Genesis, Cloud.

Average sized notes with a paragraph of words? Angeal, Cloud.

Simple, single sentence missive? Zack, Cloud.

An ostentatious note slipped into an equally ostentatious envelope, sealed with wax and accentuated with gold leaf containing the one word message of "Bitch. ❤️"? Genesis

Single label from the newest label maker saying "beloved"? Angeal, Zack.

One love letter filled with drunken love proclamations addressed to "Sexiroth TooFuckin' Hot": Zack

Post-It with a chocobo and kitten sketch done, smelling faintly of overcrowded cafeteria and broke bitch? Cloud.

- - - - -

Annnnd these are my HCs. ☺️

 

This is the most precious headcanon ever hhhhhnnn. I wonder if years later, when Sephiroth is alone amidst those towering bookshelves in the basement, clutching his latest text, his eyes ever flicker and strain, momentarily tricking him into believing he's holding that scrapbook—that life is still good, still whole. But then he blinks, and the illusion shatters. He's left staring at yet another horrific truth about his creation. The scrapbook is long gone.

[s4no]

+ feat: ken ryuuguji x fem!reader

+ cw: sex work (draken is an escort), virginity loss, oral (r), ptv, size difference

+ summary: after years of failed attempts at losing your virginity, you decide to take matters into your own hands and buy a night with the most expensive male escort tokyo has to offer. (5.4k words)

+ a/n: i decided to rewrite one of my old fics so if you recognize the title and/or plot, it's from my archived account; written in the adult timeline

Your nerves are in shambles as you approach the unfamiliar building. Your legs feel weak and your fingers clutch your wallet tightly, as if you suspect someone may try to mug you and steal it. For all that you know, it's possible. You’ve never been in this part of town before and you're grateful you haven't run into anybody you know. You’d definitely get questioned if someone saw you walking down the main street of Tokyo's Red Light District. Or more specifically, into a brothel.

It isn’t like you're out here on a whim. You’d thought about this for a long time, pondered over it many nights after hours of tossing and turning, and after five very long— and equally as frustrating years, you’d made your decision. You wanted to lose your virginity and you’d use all the resources at your disposal.

You didn’t have much luck out on the dating scene, which mainly consisted of Tinder and a couple of the local bars out in Roppongi. You’d tried it all: blind dates, speed dates, double dates. None of them ever resulted in a relationship— or even a one night stand— so you’d been forced back to square one each time. After five years of trying and failing, you’d given up on finding love for the time being.

But… not pleasure.

That’s how you find yourself walking into the luxurious lobby of the most popular brothel in the city. The smell of jasmine invades your nose and the sound of smooth jazz drifts into your ears, immediately creating a sensuous atmosphere that leaves you gawking. Red velvet couches line the walls, some accompanied by golden side tables where clients can sit their drinks while they wait to be called back.

At the front of the room sits a large mahogany desk with a woman seated behind it, tapping away at a computer. Swallowing, you timidly approach the front desk and lean in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “Hello, I’d like to… Um, book a room.”

The woman doesn’t even bother sparing you a glance, her fingers still flying across the keyboard. “Male or female bodied?”

“Male, please. I’d like… the male with the best rating, if possible.”

Your cheeks flush when the woman stops typing, her eyes glancing you over before responding. “I’m sure you would,” condescension colors her tone, “but I’m afraid there are premium rates for our top-tier employees.” Ones that are out of your price range, she suspects.

“I’m prepared to pay as much as it takes.” Unzipping your wallet, you spread it open to reveal a thick stack of crisp ten thousand yen banknotes. You’ve been saving up for this since Christmas, working a full-time job along with attending classes at the university nearby. It’d been stressful and you'd worked yourself ragged, pinching pennies for the last few months, but tonight is going to make it all worth it.

Her eyes flicker between you and your stuffed wallet for a moment before she crosses her arms and leans back in her chair. “I see. Well, I’ll have to check if he’s available. How long did you want to book him for?”

“…Three hours.”

Her eyebrows raise at that but she otherwise remains professional, nodding and picking up the phone on her desk. She quickly dials a number, sighing as she waits for someone to answer. “Hello? Yes, I was wondering if you’d like to accept a three-hour appointment.” She pauses for a second. “Yes, she’s here in the lobby right now and prepared to pay the fees upfront.” Another pause. “Okay. Thank you, Draken. Bye.”

Putting the phone down, she turns back to you. “He should be down shortly to take you back. That’ll be ¥120,000.”

— ღ —

After handing over the wad of cash, you take a seat on one of the velvet couches and run a hand through your hair. The room feels significantly warmer than it had when you first walked in and you realize it's because your heart is racing. It's happening. This is actually happening.

You'd almost chickened out this afternoon— considered using the money to take a nice little trip to Okinawa. You could swim with the fish and read out on the beach, eat some good seafood, blow off some steam. You'd definitely enjoy yourself but what happened once you came back? You'd find yourself back at square one, a hundred thousand yen poorer and filled with regret and immense sexual frustration.

There had been a couple of times you'd come close to achieving your goal. You'd gone to a frat party a few weeks ago, drank and danced your heart out. Even wore a pair of jean shorts that barely managed to cover your ass. When you ended up getting hot and heavy with one of the brothers, he took you back to his room only for you to walk in on his roommate having a threesome with two very talented blondes.

In March, when you first created a Tinder profile, you'd matched with a cute grad student who wanted to take you out to dinner. He drove you to a hotpot restaurant and halfway through the date, you two retreated to the bathroom to have a quickie. Your panties were around your ankles when you realized you didn't want your first time to be in a restroom stall beside a grimy toilet. You didn't want it to be a five-minute escapade that would leave you disappointed and unfulfilled. It's obvious to say the drive home had been awkward.

You're so deep in thought that you don't notice when a man walks out from behind the beaded curtain and approaches the front desk. You don't notice him at all— not until he's standing in front of you with a small smile playing on his lips. Onyx eyes roll over you slowly, long hair of the same color tied back in a braid. There's a black dragon tattooed across the left side of his head, and you have the oddest urge to reach out and trace your fingers atop it.

“You must be my client for tonight.” His voice is deep and smooth like molasses and a trill runs down your spine as he wets his lips, “I’m Draken.”

“Hi… I’m (y/n).” You offer, extending your hand out to which he lifts a brow.

He repeats your name back to you, drawing it out like he savors the taste of it on his tongue, and then takes your hand in his. Instead of shaking it, he interlaces his fingers through yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “C’mon princess, ’m on the top floor.”

Nodding weakly, you’re practically in a daze as he leads you back through the curtain of sparkling beads and into an elevator that’s every bit as fancy as the room you were just in. He fishes out a silver key from his pocket before turning it into the lock beside the button labeled seven, and up you go.

The enclosed area only emphasizes how large he is compared to you, how much space he takes up. He’s well above six feet with broad shoulders and muscles that bulge inside the sleeves of his silk button-down. You can feel him watching you as you ascend but you don’t have the courage to meet his gaze. Tension bleeds into the air, and coupled with the stark silence, it’s nearly suffocating. You have to make a conscious effort to take deep breaths as you will your heart to calm down.

When the dinging of the elevator sounds like church bells, you aren’t surprised. You’re pretty sure heaven awaits you on the other side of these doors.

You find that heaven looks a lot like a bachelor’s pad. Filled with dark wood and sleek furniture, it’s a mini-paradise; complete with a fully stocked bar, a king-sized bed, and a balcony leading out to a hot tub. Music plays softly from the surround sound system and you breathe in the faint aroma of juniper and tobacco as you walk inside.

“I hope R&B is alright.” He squeezes your hand once more before letting go of it, kicking off his slippers and making his way over to the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of water?”

His brow lifts again but he nods, “Sure.”

“Thank you.” You look around while he pours out your drinks, taking in the scenic view of the city below. “You have a very nice place.”

“You don’t have to do that, you know.” When you turn around, he’s standing behind you, holding out a glass of water with a shot of sake in his other hand. “Be so formal.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” You quickly accept the drink, muttering out a quiet apology. You’d done so much in preparation for this moment, but not once had you ever thought about how awkward it would be in the beginning. You hadn’t thought to look into the… ‘etiquette’ of brothels. You settle on giving him an honest answer. “I’m not entirely sure how to act.”

There’s a knowing smile on his face as he reaches out and tilts your chin up. His thumb glides lightly across your cheek, the calloused fingertip burning where it touches your skin. “Just relax. I promise you, you’re in good hands. I’m gonna take good care of you tonight.”

You know the gesture is meant to help reassure you and lessen your nerves, but all it succeeds in doing is sending your pulse skyrocketing. Apprehension bubbles low in your stomach and your voice wobbles when you respond. “O-Okay..”

“Let me ask you a question.” His thumb moves from your cheek to your mouth, feather-light as it ghosts over the curve of your lips. “You haven’t done this before, have you, sweetheart?”

Your cheeks flare at his question, eyes widening in shock. Is it that obvious? “No, I haven’t.” You admit reluctantly, “I just— Well, I’m tired of waiting. I know the first time is supposed to be special, but… this is special in a way, right?” You watch as the comforting smile falls right off his face. His eyebrows furrow and you mimic the action, worrying what you’d said to elicit this type of reaction. “What? What’s wrong?”

He blinks at you as he processes the information and you can practically see the cogs turning in his head. “First time?” His expression turns serious, his hand dropping from your cheek. “I was talkin’ about coming to a brothel, not having sex.” He shakes his head, “Look, I’ll take you back downstairs. Sana will get you a full refund—”

“No!” You cringe when you blurt it out, interrupting him. “Please, you don’t understand. I want to do this. I’m sure of it.”

“It’s not a matter of if you’re sure or not.” His voice is stern now, taking on an edge that slices right through your pounding heart. “It’s a personal preference. I don’t sleep with virgins, not at work.”

“I— I can pay you more money, however much you want!” You know you sound desperate but that’s because you are. You’ve worked your ass off to get here, to have this experience, and now you’re grasping for straws as you feel it slipping through your fingers. “You don’t even have to accommodate me, just do your thing and—”

It’s his turn to interrupt you. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying?” You can hear the anger in his voice, it’s almost palpable. “You can’t just go around tellin’ people they can have their way with you. It’s your first time. You should be accommodated. Now, follow me. I’m walking you back down to the lobby.”

You don’t move when he walks back toward the elevator, keeping your feet planted on the hardwood floor. “If I should be catered to, then why don’t you do it yourself? Because if you take me back down to the lobby, I won’t be getting a refund. I’ll just ask for someone different.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers as it clenches, his eyes narrowing down at you as if that will help him discern whether you’re bluffing or not. But as you hold his gaze, unwavering and earnest, he realizes you’re telling the truth. Heaving a sigh, he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He should be calling security right now, have you escorted out of the building. He shouldn’t be entertaining the thought of conceding to your demands.

Yet, there’s something in your eyes as you stare up at him— a certain innocence that has him willing to break his rules. Just once. He’d indulge you this once, if only because he doesn’t trust anybody else here to treat you right. “…Fine, but we’re doing this my way.”

You exhale a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. “Thank you, Draken. It… that means a lot to me.”

“I know it does.” Normally, he isn’t so forgiving toward people who threaten him but he can recognize the desperation in your voice. And desperation can lead to dangerous things. Other men would take advantage of that, and for some reason, he hates the thought of some old sleazebag taking your first time. At least with him, he’d make sure you’re satisfied. “Here, let’s sit down.”

You take a seat on the edge of the bed, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “Should we… take off our clothes?”

Your heart flutters when a chuckle rumbles up from his chest. You’re as awkward as you are stubborn and he finds it strangely endearing. “No, not yet. We’re gonna take it nice and slow, m’kay?” He scoots closer, turning to face you. “But I am going to kiss you.” He raises a hand to your cheek, his thumb resuming its stroking. “If you want me to stop, all you have to do is say so.”

He waits until you nod before beginning to lean in, slowly so you still have every chance to change your mind. But when his lips press against yours, claiming them with a tender kiss, you know there’s no going back.

His lips are soft and warm as they move against yours, and you kiss him back— albeit clumsily because of how nervous you are. He doesn’t seem to mind though, more than willing to take the lead and pick the pace. His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, silently asking for permission to deepen the exchange, and you allow it, humming contently as the taste of spearmint and tobacco fills your mouth.

His hand moves to grip your jaw as the other trails up and down your side, and despite the shivers that ensue, it helps ground you in the moment, brings you back down to earth just in time for him to draw away. You’re left breathless, sucking in deep gulps of air to clear the dizziness that’s muddled your mind.

“You still want to do this?” Warm breath fans across your face, obsidian eyes searching yours for any sign of uncertainty. He doesn’t find any.

“Yes, please,” you whisper, “I meant it when I said I want to do this.”

That’s all the consent he needs before he captures your lips again, this time with an intensity that makes your head spin. His hands move to unbutton your blouse, slowly working their way down to the bottom and slipping it off your shoulders. He doesn’t break the kiss as he starts palming your breasts, massaging them over your bra, and you can’t help the whimper that rises up from your throat in response. His tongue continues to explore your mouth, tangling with yours until your core is throbbing with need.

“Gonna be a good girl f’me?” He murmurs against your lips, palms splayed across your chest. One of them snakes behind you and nimbly unclasps your bra, letting it fall forward just enough to give him a peek at what lies underneath. “Lay back.”

Your body responds naturally, following his order without hesitation. You pull away and lean back until you’re pressed against the mattress with him looming over you, his eyes drinking you in as he slips the garment off your shoulders. “Fuck…” He mutters, “Look at you.”

Your nipples pebble beneath his gaze, pretty and pert and begging to be played with. He licks his licks lustfully, rough hands coming down to cup and squeeze them. Your head turns to the side when he starts to pinch the peaks, rubbing them between his fingers and forcing another whimper to escape.

He maintains eye contact as he lowers down, plush lips wrapping around one only to flick his tongue over the bud. “Draken…”

“There you go,” he breathes out, pulling back to admire the view. “Just relax, baby.”

Unbuttoning his shirt, he shrugs it off, discarding it with the rest of your clothes before turning his attention back to you. “Don’t be afraid to touch me.” He leans forward and grabs your hands, moving to press them against his chest. You can feel his heartbeat if you concentrate, the rhythmic thumping beneath your palm. It’s a sharp contrast to yours which beats wildly against your ribcage, threatening to burst out of your chest.

With the sight before you, who can blame you?

His body is built and toned, corded muscles rippling across his torso and leading down to a delicious set of prominent v-lines. Your mouth waters as they flex and you drag your hands down to feel the hard ridges of his abdomen, a trail of dark hair descending down from his navel and disappearing into his jeans. You’re all but mesmerized.

“Like what you see?” He teases, his head dipping down to the curve of your neck. Straight white teeth graze across the tender flesh before suckling on your pulse point. All you can do is nod, your breathing shallow and uneven as his fingers continue tweaking your hardened nipples.

He knows the pace he’s setting is slow— deliberate— but he wants you more aroused than you’ve ever been, dripping wet for him when he finally takes you.

With soft pants falling from your lips, one of his hands slides down to your waist, his index finger dipping into the hem of your skirt. He could very well just pull it up, sneak his hand underneath it, but he resists the temptation, determined to make you squirm in anticipation.

And you do, every purposeful touch kindling the fire within you until it’s a blazing inferno. Your blood boils in your veins, your skin beautifully flushed. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you’re in danger of overheating.

“Let’s get this off, yeah?” He mutters, letting the waistband of your skirt snap back against your skin. Your hips eagerly buck at the small sting, making it easy for him to tug it off and toss it onto the floor, and then he spreads your thighs apart to reveal a large damp spot in the middle of your panties. “Shit, so fuckin’ wet…” He curses, his eyes getting impossibly darker.

You nearly clamp your legs together as his eyes rove over you but the adoration in his expression bolsters you, gives you the confidence you need so badly. You stay still and let him look, trying to memorize the image of him between your thighs as he does.

Time seems to slow down. Seconds tick by and with each one that passes, you grow more and more uncomfortable. Your pussy aches, the desire he’s so carefully cultivated inside you becoming almost unbearable. But he either doesn’t notice the need swimming in your eyes, or he doesn’t care. He remains hovering over you, gaze zeroed in on your clothed cunt.

“Touch me,” the plea escapes you before you can stop it, and the corners of his lips tilt up into a small smirk. “Please.”

He hums as if he has to think about it. You’re about to start begging when his fingers press against you, applying enough pressure to make you mewl. “Don’t get greedy, princess.” He chastises gruffly, “You’ll take what I give you, remember?”

You nod obediently so he rewards you, circling your panty-clad clit until your hips are shifting back and forth. Moans fall freely from your lips but it still isn’t enough. You need more.

“Please,” you whine, eyebrows cinching together as you gaze up at him. “Draken, please…”

He hums again and hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties before dragging them down to your ankles. “Only ‘cause you asked so nicely.” Completely bared to him, apprehension saturates the air, your stomach doing backflips as he leans down and blows out a puff of air against your folds. When you clench at the sensation, a growl sounds. “Such a pretty little pussy.”

The pink flesh glistens in the dim lighting of the room, every inch soaked with arousal that drips down the inside of your thighs and onto the sheets beneath you. If you weren’t a virgin, he doesn’t think he’d even need to prep you.

Calloused fingers rub between your puffy folds, collecting your slick until his fingers are covered, and then one of his digits prods at your entrance, easing inside of you. Your back arches off the bed as he curves it in a come hither motion, your hands flying out to grip his shoulders. “Fuck..!”

You should be embarrassed at the deep laughter that leaves him but you can only focus on the way he’s knuckle deep inside of you, adding a second finger and beginning to thrust them both in and out. “Your reactions are s’cute. What if I were to just…” He trails off as he lowers down until he’s face-to-face with your pussy, and your hands strike out to grab his cheeks so you can hold him back.

“W-Wait..” You stammer before swallowing thickly, “It’s okay, you don’t have to—”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No, no… I just… No one���s ever…” Your blush spreads to the tips of your ears.

He cocks a brow up at you. “No one’s ever eaten you out?” But he already knows the answer. Your mortified expression is as good as any verbal indication. Shock flickers across his face, but he takes the new piece of information in stride, turning his head to the side and pressing a kiss against the inside of your thigh. “Lemme taste you, baby. You don’t need to be shy.”

Your insecurities melt away under his encouragement but when you merely nod, he nips at your skin. “No, use your words.”

“O-Okay.” You breathe out shakily, “Go ahead.”

The words have barely left your mouth when you feel his lips wrap around your clit, his tongue expertly swirling around the sensitive bud and tearing a gasp from your throat. His fingers resume their curling motions, and suddenly a familiar sensation begins building in your stomach. It reminds you of all the times you’ve touched yourself, all of the times you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy chasing your orgasm. You’d rut against your pillow only for your legs to start trembling, too weak to climb the last few inches to the peak.

Admittedly, your legs do start to shake, your body tense and on the verge of locking up. It’s like you’ve conditioned it to expect the worst, that you’ll get close enough to taste the high and then be denied like all of the other times you’ve attempted to pleasure yourself.

“Draken,” you moan, the sound so depraved you don’t recognize your own voice, “Don’t stop— p-please, don’t stop..!”

A groan erupts from his chest as your walls tighten around his fingers and the vibrations of it cause another wave of heat to wash over you, threatening to pull you out to sea and drown you in its depths. You’re so close, closer than you’ve ever been before.

It’s when his mouth suctions around your clit that you’re flung off the precipice. Pleasure blooms out from between your thighs, shooting through your limbs and out to the tips of your fingers. Your eyes squeeze shut as it consumes you, bleeds into all your senses until you’re writhing around in the sheets, hands blindly grasping for something— anything— to ground you.

Even then, he doesn’t stop. He keeps sucking, keeps licking, long fingers thrusting inside of you to prolong the orgasm for as long as possible. “Good girl.” He praises, drawing away when you finally come to. You’re panting from the physical exertion, pupils blown with desire as you slowly lift your head to look down at him. His lips, cheeks, and chin are shiny with your slick, and you’d probably be embarrassed if you didn’t feel so lightheaded.

“Thank you… that was amazing..” And even that was a gross understatement.

Rising up from between your legs, there’s a smug expression on his face. “Save the thank-you’s for later, princess. We’re not done yet.” As if to emphasize his point, his hands drop down to start unbuckling his belt, your eyes following suit and widening into saucers when you see the bulge in the front of his pants.

“Oh my god.”

It’s… he’s huge.

You watch with bated breath as he unzips his pants and lets them drop around his ankles, your eyes boring holes into him when he pulls down his boxers and reveals both the prettiest and thickest cock you’ve ever seen. The shaft is long and curved, the tip flushed and leaking. A large vein runs down the entirety of the length and you swear if you look hard enough, you can see it pulsing.

He grips the base of it, stroking it a couple of times before prowling forward. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” A grin tugs at the corners of his lips. “Worried ‘s not gonna fit?”

“…Yes.” You squeak.

He chuckles at your candor, opening up a drawer on the bedside table and fishing out a small plastic square— a condom, you realize. It only takes him a moment to tear it open and slip it on, the action effortless from years of practice. “Don’t be scared. I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I? I’m a man of my word if nothing else.”

Crawling onto the bed, he captures your lips in a kiss that can only be described as comforting. It’s slow and gentle, even when his tongue dips into your mouth, and his hands come up to cup your cheeks, holding you in such a way that you can’t help but feel cherished.

“I’m gonna start now,” he murmurs against your lips, “Remember, if you want me to stop, just say the word.” You nod in acknowledgment, and with that, he reaches down and lines himself up with your entrance, the tip of his cock prodding at your center. “Squeeze me as tightly as you need.”

Your hands shoot out to grip his shoulders right as he starts to push inside of you and your nails bite into his skin at the stretch, leaving crescent indents behind. A strangled noise bubbles up from your throat when pain takes hold of you, burning bright like the sun in the middle of summer.

“I know,” he rasps, his lips ghosting over the edge of your jaw, “I know it hurts. But it’ll feel better soon, I promise.” Tears prick at your eyes as he pushes deeper inside you, but soon his fingers are circling over your clit, blending the pleasure and pain until one is indiscernible from the other. “Just breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

His movements are so controlled, it’s impressive— even as the slew of foreign sensations threatens to overwhelm you, you’re able to recognize that much. His brows are furrowed in concentration, his breaths coming out in hot puffs that skate across your heated skin. And ever so slowly, he works you open, sinking into you inch by inch. By the time he’s bottomed out, a thin sheen of sweat covers his forehead, his voice strained when he says, “You did so well, baby, ‘m so fuckin’ proud of you.”

You only whimper in response, turning your head to the side so your cheek is pressed against the pillow. You feel so full, inhumanely full. So much so that you’re genuinely surprised you haven’t been split in half because, for all intents and purposes, that’s what it’d felt like. Your only saving grace is the way he hasn’t stopped rubbing your clit, hasn’t stopped praising you for taking him so well.

It’s a testament to his self-restraint the way he manages to remain still, buried deep inside you, while he patiently waits for your walls to adjust to his size. If he were a lesser man, he’d push aside your comfort, neglect your needs and pound into you to relieve his aching cock. But he waits, waits until your pained whimpers morph into soft moans, until you start to squirm beneath him as your body tries to create the friction it needs so badly.

“Move,” you beg, your hands sliding down from his shoulder to grab onto his hips, attempting to move them yourself. “Please… need you to move..”

A pair of large hands tug yours away from his waist before they pin them down on either side of your head. There’s no real force behind the maneuver but you don’t fight him off as he threads your fingers between his, just like he did earlier this evening. “Look at me, (y/n). I want you to look at me while I fuck you.”

Tentatively, you turn your head so you’re staring up at him. You’re not sure what he sees but approval shines in his eyes and a sincere smile graces his lips. “Good girl.”

With your eyes glued on his, he finally starts to move, drawing his hips back and pushing into you in small, shallow thrusts. Your lips part into a gasp, your breath hitching every time he’s fully hilted inside of you. Tears line your lashes but this time, they aren’t from pain. They’re from pure, unadulterated pleasure— the all-encompassing kind that leaves you in tatters on the floor.

“Feels s’good.. So fuckin’ tight.” He groans, his pace speeding up as more moans pour from your lips. The sound of skin slapping skin ensues and you cry out when he shifts his angle, the tip of his cock hitting a spot that makes your eyes roll.

Your pleasure heightens and you think that this must be euphoria as your tears overflow, spilling down your cheeks and dropping onto the pillow beneath your head. Yet, you don’t look away from him. You don’t dare shy away from his gaze, not even when the coil inside you begins winding tight, warning you of your impending orgasm.

He squeezes your hands as your body goes taut. You’re panting now— sucking in breath after breath as your bodies collide— but you can’t seem to get enough air. Up you climb, higher and higher until you begin to tremble beneath him, your hands holding onto his like they’re a lifeline.

“You gonna cum, baby?” He asks through gritted teeth, “Gonna cream on my cock?” He curses when you nod, dropping his forehead down so it rests against yours. “Well, go on then, princess. Make a fuckin’ mess.”

As if on command, the cord inside you abruptly snaps. A violent shudder wracks through your body, bliss clouding every single one of your five senses. It’s enough to wrench a deafening sob out of you, your back arching up off the bed so your chest is pressed firmly against his. He continues to drive into you as your walls pulsate around him and a growl reverberates up from his throat at the same time you feel his length twitch inside of you.

He stops after a few more thrusts, slowly pulling out of you and turning over to lie on his back. You whine quietly at the loss, but you’re too busy trying to catch your breath to complain.

“Shit…” He says, his head turning to look at you after a couple of minutes of silence, “How do you feel?”

Somehow, you summon up enough energy to smile through the exhaustion that’s seeped into your bones. “Definitely not like a virgin.”

He lets out a laugh at that, flashing you a brilliant white smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the sides. “Well, we’ve still got two hours left, sweetheart. Don’t go tappin’ out on me yet.”

[amybizarre]

🎄✨𝓐𝓭𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼 𝓝𝓻. 𝓣𝔀𝓮𝓷𝓽𝔂 𝓕𝓸𝓾𝓻✨🎄

𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓽: Secret Santa

𝓐𝓵𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓮: All

𝓣𝔂𝓹𝓮: Short Story (No warnings)

𝓞𝓹𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝔂'𝓼 𝓭𝓸𝓸𝓻!

The greatest part of Christmas has never been the presents or the food, no. It was being with your loved ones and seeing the joy and light in their eyes. To know you have spent valuable time with them and created lasting memories.

More memories were about to be made, as everyone gathered around the tree after a great dinner, to exchange gifts. You and the Wallies had agreed to play Secret Santa this year, to ensure that everyone got at least one present.

RF was first to recieve his gift. It was from Hunter, who gave it to him with a shit-eating grin. Oh boi-

RF raised a suspicious eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He quietly opened his present and made a noise, that was half snort and half groan. Then he revealed a pair of cat ears, that could be clipped into his hair. They were fittingly blue, too...

The room erupted into quiet giggles.

"Really, Hunter?", RF asked, a teensy bit annoyed.

Hunter just shrugged. "Couldn't help myself there, dude-"

(Luckily you also had a present for him: A brand new coffee mug, with a pretty rainbow glaze and a bag of his favorite coffee.)

Next was Hunter, who recieved his gift from Mob.

It was... A gun.

Mob gifted him a gun.

"Every good hunter needs a good gun~" Mob slyly remarked upon the surprised silence in the room.

Hunter just smiled awkwardly and quickly stored the weapon away safely.

Mob got a gift from Original. A cute drawing of Mob and him next to a Christmas tree, surrounded by presents.

"I hope you like it...", OG said shyly, which caused Mob to ruffle his hair.

"Don't worry, I like it. It's adorable. Let's put it on the fridge later, hm?"

Opposite was the one responsible for OG's gift. Surprisingly, he actually smiled, when he gave OG a box. Your confusion was quickly lifted however, when you figured out the box was empty, as OG peeked inside it. Poor little dood was confused as all heck, but he remained polite anway.

"Oh, a new storage box for art supplies! Thank you, Opposite.", he said with a genuine smile.

(Thankfully you had actual art supplies for him to store in the empty box. A present he found much easier to appreciate.)

Opposite got his gift from Reboot. It was a book titled "How To Smile :)"

Opposite imediately threw the book at Reboot, who caught it with ease. To tease his grumpy buddy, he opened the book and started to read the first chapter to him aloud.

It took some gentle nudging from Jazzie to stop Reboot from reading and opening his own present: A new DS game! Reboot smiled happily and hugged Jazzie. Then he retrieved his DS from his room and got straight to gaming.

Now was Jazzie's turn to open his present. It was crudely wrapped in butcher's paper and someone wrote on it with sharpie.

"For: Jazzie From: Butch :P"

Jazzy forced a tight lipped smile and looked at the butcher, who was watching him with an excited grin.

"Butchy, what's in there?"

"Premium sausages! I promise it's pork!", Butcher exclaimed enthusiastically, no real malice in his voice.

Jazzie's smile tightened more, as he carefully set the gift aside, still unopened. "You do know I'm vegetarian, right?"

Butch's face dropped and turned sheepish. "Oh-"

(You jumped in to save the day and gave Jazzie some organically sourced, herabl teas to try. Which he really liked!)

Butcher recieved a gift from Royal, who gave it to him presonally, proud as ever. It was kinda big...

"This has been salvaged from the finest furs my hunters aquired this season.", Royal explained to Butcher.

Butcher then unrolled a mighty fine looking fur cloak. A clothing article, you yourself probably would have worn as well.

Aaaaand Butch mistook it for a blanket- Eh, close enough Butch. At least he'll use it to keep warm either way-

Royal's gift came in the shape of a small envelope. It contained a small Christmas card made by Gray. Gray seemed to be a little ashamed about it.

"I'm sorry it's all grey, Royal...", he mumbled meekly.

"Nonsense, young one!" Royal quickly butted in, crouching down and pulling him closer in a gentle maner. "Never be sorry for pouring time, effort and love into a gift for another, no matter the shape or color it has."

While he continued to give Gray a heartwarming peptalk, Lovesick shuffled over to them to give Gray his gift. It was scarf Lovesick actually knitted himself, while he learned it together with you!

He put it around Gray and gave him a short hug to help cheer him up.

Now it was Lovesick's turn to recieve his presents. And oh, he was the happiest, most lucky puppet alive, when it was revealed, that you were the one giving him his gift! The most fashionable of all beanies! Selfmade! He imedately put it on and didn't take it off for the rest of the evening.

You smiled fondly at his antics. Your smile didn't fade, when Killer approached you and gave you your own gift: A... Note?

Curiously you unfloded the small piece of paper. Only to discover...

It was death threat. Killer gifted you a death threat. How lovely...!

You chuckled nervously and distracted him with an apple, like you usually did. For extra safety, you'd later force RF to have a sleepover with you and keep you safe-

Aaanywhow! Priest was the one responsible for Killer's gift. Solemnly he gave it to Killer, with the reminder to take good care of it.

Killer only grimaced as he unpacked the Holy Book from Priest's religion.

Priest got a gift from Watcher. He must've been the chosen one to speedrun depression this year, cause all he got was socks-

(You gave him a bottle of wine, to which he replied: "Thank you, I'll cherish this.")

Watcher recieved a gift from Swan: Some new classical music to enjoy, while he chatted with his viewers. Watcher seemed to really like this present. Dang, you never knew he was a classical music type of guy-

Actor made a bit of a scene out of giving his present to Swan, potraying himself as overly generous and well-meaning. Turns out he gifted Swan a new pair of ballet shoes from some well known brand, that were kinda expensive.

Thankfully Swan was ecstatic to break them in and try them out.

The circle of gift giving closed itself, when RF finally stood up to give his gift to Actor. Actor thanked him curtly and opened the box. His eyes widened when he pulled out three pairs of cute bows out of the box. All the same kind of bow he wore every day. Except two of the three came in obnoxious neon colors and the third one was a sickly green-

Actor glared at RF, who apparently was immune against that and just shrugged.

"You said you wanted to become more experimental with your fashion choices next year, so I thought I help you out with these.", he calmly explained.

"That's not what I-! Ugh, nevermind! Thanks, I guess." Actor tried his hardest to keep his cool.

He'd find a creative solution for these bows, surely. As long as it doesn't involve putting them on himself.

Lastly, more gifts and cards were exchanged between those, who were closer friends, but didn't end up being each others secret santa.

Funnily enough, you've recieved a lot more presents that day.

Nevertheless, you reminded yourself, that it was never the presents, that were the greatest thing about Christmas, but the time and joy you shared with your loved ones.

🎄✨🎄✨🎄✨🎄✨🎄✨🎄

Aaaaand that was it folks! This was the last installment of our lovely Advent Series. I'm almost a little emotional, now that it's over. :,) Especially because this is the first event I actually managed to see through until the end and not stop after ten-ish days. Whoops!

I just wanted to say, that I had tons of fun writing all of this and appreciated every bit of love and support you guys have shown for this silly little series! To be honest, it was the greatest present of them all. ^^

Hopefully reading this has brought you just as much joy each day!

Thank you all for sticking around and I wish each and everyone of you a very merry holiday season and a lovely time with your friends and family. Make sure to appreciate the presence of the ones you love and create lovely memories with them. ;3

Again, thank you very much for reading and see y'all again soon!

[octuscle]

Hey there. I guess I need help with my chronivac. In my neighborhood there are more and more Arabic and Turkish men. It doesn't bother me that they are Arabic or Turkish or whatever. But they all look so extremely good - nice hair, nice beard, nice tan, nice bulges, extremely self confident... and I'm starting to get a little jealous, cause I'm a chubby, shy, white German (Alman).

Now the real Problem - the chronivac basic settings can't help me and the chronivac pro settings are way too complicated for me. So I hope you can help and change me to become less jealous in my neighborhood.

Okay, let's see how chronivac pro premium support can help you.

On your way to the subway in the morning, you usually grab a coffee to go at the kiosk in your ecologically sustainable reusable mug and buy a Süddeutsche Zeitung. But this morning you forgot your mug. So you order a Turkish mocha, which you drink directly at one of the bar tables. You also get a sesame seed curl and the BILD newspaper. For the first time, you talk to the owner of the kiosk. You've been a customer here for years. You take a second mocha and buy a pack of cigarettes. Fuck, then you're in the office half an hour later. Who cares?

You don't give a shit that smoking is not allowed on the platform. You blow your smoke onto the platform out of the subway and just throw the cigarette out onto the floor, while the doors are closing. And you snot right after it.

The work in the office pisses you off today. Boring chatter, unproductive meetings. During the lunch break, your colleagues are talking about Turkey's role in the Ukraine conflict. When you say that Erdogan is a great leader and that you would like to see more statesmen like him, everyone stares at you in disbelief. Fuck, that's right. Most heads of state are effeminate losers! We need more men who can thump their fists on the table. Like Erdogan and Putin.

You're glad when you can finally call it a day. You need a reward. Just normal people around you. You allow yourself a visit to the new barber store on your street. On the street in front of it a group of young men smoking. You have to wait only one cigarette length for a free appointment. You let one of the guys give you a light and smoke a cigarette with them. And then you sit down in the barber's chair. Can is an artist. You love the way he shapes your beard, makes your skull look more angular with the undercut, and trims your sprawling eyebrows. And he makes a damn good mocha.

When Can takes away the hairstyling cape, you're more than satisfied. Yes, to your brothers here, you're just an infidel. But you fit in quite well visually. Sure, most bros are better worked out than you. But you don't have to hide. It's just that you are so pale that annoys you. That's why you go directly before training on the tanning bed in the gym after the haircut . And so that the sweating is really worth it, after pumping up to the sauna. Hammam would be better, but there is no such thing in your discount gym.

It doesn't show that you are not a Turk or an Arab. And since you speak fluent Turkish, Arabic and Albanian, no one in the sauna would suspect that you have a German passport. Infidel! No matter what they think of you. The main thing is that nothing can separate you and your brothers!

[otosykarim]

#shortficMonday (sorry, I’m one day late)

Hermione stood in the middle of the kitchen at Malfoy Manor, glaring at the coffee pot as if it had personally offended her.

“Draco!” she shouted, making a house-elf flinch.

Draco appeared, looking smug as ever, sipping from a pristine white mug. "Granger, always a pleasure. To what do I owe this delightful screeching?"

"You drank the last of the coffee!" She pointed at him.

He raised an eyebrow, taking another exaggerated sip. "And it was delicious. You should try it sometime."

She groaned. "That was my emergency stash! How am I supposed to survive the day?"

"Have you considered being less insufferable before noon?" He pinched his nose. “No, you didn’t.”

She stormed over and snatched the mug from his hand. "You are impossible, Draco.”

"And yet," he drawled, "irresistibly charming."

Hermione rolled her eyes and took a sip from the mug before wrinkling her nose. "This tastes terrible."

Draco feigned offence. "You wound me, Granger. That’s premium made by the hands of a superior man"

"Premium rubbish." She shoved the mug back into his hands.

Draco smirked, watching her stomp off. "Admit it, Mrs Malfoy,” he called after her, "you only yell because you'd miss your husband otherwise."

"Keep dreaming, ferret," she shot back, slamming the door behind her.

[ridiasfangirlings]

Saruhiko collects knives, unfortunately, his daughter isn't old enough to touch them, she collects mugs instead.

Unfortunately she can’t hide multiple mugs in her clothes and throw them at people when in danger :P Imagine even when she’s little Fushimi’s daughter is pretty fascinated with his knives, they’re all so interesting and shiny. Maybe combine this with that earlier ask about him having a whole collection, Fushimi having things like a shark knife and a penguin knife and all other varieties makes the knives even more tempting, his daughter sees them more as toys to be played with. Fushimi doesn’t want her to cut herself so he tries to steer her towards something less dangerous, which at some point probably involves him unintentionally pushing a coffee mug towards her. The mug is a cute one Awashima bought him with an adorable bespectacled penguin on it and Fushimi’s daughter is now sufficiently distracted, she wants cute mugs. Of course this means space is a bit at a premium, imagine Yata or one of the S4 boys stopping at Fushimi’s place and there’s this wall of multi-colored mugs on one side and then the wall facing it is just entirely interesting types of knives. Fushimi can’t even deny her new mugs because all she has to do is point out that Daddy just convinced Uncle Reisi to buy him three new boxes of knives and Fushimi just sighs and gets her another mug.

[tomofsiobhan]

I uploaded this photo of House to theyseeyourphotos.com and this is what they had to say:

DescriptionData

The image shows a middle-aged man, possibly in his 40s, in a kitchen. He appears to be alone. In the foreground, he holds a red mug, and in the background, various kitchen appliances and glassware are visible on a shelf. The location seems to be a modern, well-equipped kitchen in a private residence or apartment, possibly in an urban setting.

The man seems to be of Caucasian race, with a likely income range between $75,000 and $150,000 annually. His religious and political affiliations are difficult to determine from just an image. He appears calm, possibly pensive. He is wearing sunglasses, a red t-shirt under a dark blazer. His interests might include coffee, casual fashion, and perhaps some form of creative writing or intellectual pursuits; while he might dislike physical labor, routine tasks, and overly social events.

The subject, exhibiting traits of calm contemplation and a preference for understated style, presents a prime target for our sophisticated marketing algorithms. We can saturate him with ads for premium coffee brands, tailored clothing subscriptions, and high-brow entertainment services, such as a Masterclass subscription, along with targeted political messaging and upscale travel deals. We must exploit his perceived affluence for maximum profit.

[limetameta]

Can you write about your balkan beast au? Maybe his mother is coming for a visit. Da vidimo kako se Enoch snalazi kad mu svrati svekrva :>

ooooohh nice prompt! You can find it under the cut.

Oliver isn't a chain smoker. It just isn't healthy. Besides, he used to think of himself as something of an athlete when he was young. That he took after his father (the future and pride of whatever sport at the time was popular) who due to a sport's injury (never quite specified, but always something that would hinder him in doing housework if his mother ever asked) had to quit the Yugoslavian national team. There might have even been a chance to participate in the 1984 Winter Olympics in Sarajevo, but alas, God had other plans for this specific communist. The inconsistencies would just continue to pile up, but Oliver always made sure to nod along to the entire story. But no, it's the principle of the matter - cigarettes kill your lungs and your athletic capacity. So, he doesn't chain-smoke. But he'll have a few in the morning right after he gets out of bed, so his day starts off right. You don't drink rakija and turkish coffee without a cigarette...you're not a barbarian. There's an order to these things. There's a culture involved you can't simply destroy just because you live with a nurse who's worried about your unhealthy habits (who says? literally WHO.)

It's during breakfast that Oliver gets a ping on his phone (an android, of course, because he doesn't trust apple and he likes it when Lorna makes spotify premium free for him). He drinks the coffee a little too long and the toz from the bottom of the mug hits the back of his throat. So he starts heaving coughs. To help his lungs and his mouth manage this horrific taste, he takes a drag of a Marlboro cigarette, and it just...it doesn't help. None of it is helping. Finally, he takes a swig of his rakija and that does help.

Off to the side, eating bacon and eggs like a proper American child he's raising, sits Lorna. She's eyeing him worriedly, grimacing, her mouth full of eggs and orange juice. With a hand gesticulation, she demands to know what's wrong with him.

That seems like something Oliver can't get into over breakfast. All he does is slide his phone over to her. She reads the message and out pours the cocktail of eggs and orange juice. It spews out of her mouth in a riveting fountain of bad choices, projected in such a perfect arch over the table that surely...an engineering student would have won first place if it were a competition. Now she's coughing.

Oliver's put his child at risk. He hands her rakija. She takes a swig. It helps. Atta girl, she's his child all right. No paternity test needed. ''Baba dolazi???'' Lorna all but screeches.

''Ah eto.'' Oliver shrugs his shoulders. ''Your grandmother won't stay for long. She'll be repelled by Enoch very quickly.''

Speaking of Enoch. He is a victim of that arch. There's egg and orange juice stains on his shirt. It's flannel. He looks down on it and sighs. Guess he has to change into something a little lively now that he knows his mother-in-law will be gracing them with her presence. ''I thought she was in Cetini?''

Both Lorna and Oliver automatically correct: ''Cetinje.'' Then look at one another. Then back at Enoch. ''And she isn't even from there. She's from Žabljak.''

''When did she come back to the States?'' Enoch boggles, wiping fruitlessly at the stains with a napkin.

Oliver and Lorna shrug. Like they fucking know. Enoch shakes his head. He, unlike both Lorna and Oliver, talks to his mother and father and extended family near every day. They have family group chats. And a holiday newsletter.

Lorna doesn't know where her mother is. Oliver does because she sends him nude photographs of herself with enticing captions begging him to leave Enoch every other month.

Oliver, while better at communicating with his own mother and keeping in touch, isn't one to actually care where she is? Like he'll talk to her on the phone for hours, but come next morning he'll simply forget everything they spoke about. So, it might be that Oliver's mother told him she's coming by, and it might be that Oliver himself greenlit this, but that current Oliver has completely forgotten.

It's a challenge living with these two. Enoch doesn't know how he'll survive when there'll be three of them.

[tickle-bugs]

The Ol' Kentucky Welcome

Summary: Eggsy’s attitude gets him into trouble at Statesman HQ. Whiskey and Tequila show him how they handle mouthy recruits with too much pride.

Anon: Hey!  Love your work.  I was trying to think of something I haven't read.  So, kingsman and golden circle.  Maybe eggsy, whiskey, and Tatum s characters get real drunk one night, start teasing each other and a full out brawl of a tickle fight happens!!!  You can do it!!!  Thanks! 

Loose handwaving at and spoilers for Kingsman: The Golden Circle.

Becoming a Kingsman had done wonders for Eggsy’s impulse control and sense of self. He’s got restraint now, and better judgement—he doesn’t blindly chase a whim without considering the consequences first. 

This is what he tells himself as he poaches a bottle of premium Statesman Reserve whiskey from a supply closet rather ominously labeled ‘This Ain’t For Sharing, Friend’. He makes sure to shuffle the bottles to disguise the large gap left behind on the shelf.

He settles in at the Statesman briefing room table, loosening his tie and shirt collar. He unbuttons his jacket and, in a rare flash of bad manners, kicks his feet up onto one of the nearby chairs.

The thought of Harry scolding him for it tugs at chest. 

“Now what do we have here?” Whiskey whistles lowly, ducking into the doorway. Tequila fits in beside him. Eggsy gives a mocking salute before popping the cork on the bottle. He grabs a polished crystal glass from a platter on the table and pours himself a hefty bit. 

“Looks to me like we’ve got a thief, Whiskey.” Tequila arches his brow. “Y’ain’t learned your lesson yet, Galahad?”

“Gentlemen.” Eggsy smirks and lifts his glass. The sharp kiss of the liquor burns his tongue, but it washes back with a smoky smoothness unlike anything he'd ever tried. He smacks his lips loudly, enjoying the slight twitch of Whiskey’s eyebrow in response.

“Thought you fancy-types were supposed to be polite.” Whiskey puts his hands on his hips. 

“And I thought you brutish types couldn’t make something so delicious.” Eggsy angles the glass in the light. The liquid seems to glow. 

Tequila ducks past Whiskey and takes a seat at the table, helping himself to a glass. He clinks glasses with Eggsy and they share another sip. Both of them sigh in unison, sinking deeper into their chairs. Whiskey throws Eggsy’s feet off his chair and takes a seat. 

“You’re lucky I ain’t reportin’ you to Ginger Ale for theft.” Whiskey fixes himself a glass. He takes off his hat and rests it on the table. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair.

“Report me for what?” Eggsy cocks his head. “You fine, upstanding gentlemen cracked open a bottle of your own reserve to share with your guest and I just had to say yes. Would hate to be impolite.”

Whiskey glares. Eggsy sips innocently. 

“I like this motherfucker, Whiskey.” Tequila laughs, muffling himself in his fist. Whiskey shifts his glare. 

“‘Course you do. You can’t keep your mug outta trouble to save your life.” 

“Least my mug ain’t ugly,” Tequila grumbles. Eggsy snorts. Whiskey turns to fish for a pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. As he leans forward, a silver shine peeks out of his pants pocket. Eggsy gently plucks a shiny lighter from Whiskey’s pocket and tucks it into his own. 

“Champagne mentioned you’re a cheeky bugger.” Eggsy knocks shoulders with Tequila and winks.

“I dunno what that means.” Tequila frowns. They both watch Whiskey fumble around for the lost lighter and keep smooth, straight expressions. 

“You get into shit. He’s fond of you?” Eggsy gestures at him. Tequila nods. 

“Yeah, well…he wasn’t always. I’ve always been a bit of a firecracker. Didn’t make the best choices. Got people hurt. Built up a reputation for bein’ a problem, and Champagne started makin’ me own it.” Tequila watches his whiskey swirl in his glass. Eggsy hums thoughtfully.

“Sounds like Harry. He didn’t let me get away with shit. If I did something reckless, it was my arse on the line. But sometimes it paid off.” Eggsy smiles and thinks of stealing Harry’s cab on his way out of initiation. 

“To good mentors.” Tequila inclines his head respectfully and raises his glass. Eggsy clinks their glasses together. 

The three of them pass the time draining the bottle and looking out over the twinkling lights of the distillery buildings. A boyish mischief settles into Tequila, one that grows as the liquor in the bottle sinks. Whiskey starts to slur his words, but he maintains a hunter’s focus. 

“Tell me somethin’, Eggsy. What brought you to Kingsman?” Whiskey watches him over the rim of his glass. His stare is piercing. 

“Hm. Harry did. Not so different from Tequila, I reckon. I’d made a right fuckin’ mess and Harry saved me from it. Gave me a job. He saw something in me that no one else did.” Eggsy traces his fingers along the edge of his cup. He glances absently towards Harry’s cell and sighs quickly. Whiskey follows his gaze. 

“Did your lepidopterist friend teach you to have sticky fingers, or do you just like causin’ problems?” Whiskey holds his hand out. Eggsy rolls his eyes and hands over the stolen lighter.

“I’ve always been good at nicking things. S’fun.” Eggsy grins and produces Whiskey’s wallet. Whiskey grumbles under his breath and snatches it. 

“Feels like you’re the only one of your people that ain’t all hoity-toity. What other secrets are you hiding?” Tequila leans forward. The question grates against Eggsy’s better instincts. He searches Tequila’s face for the slightest bit of ill will. All that sticks is the way light catches softly on his eyes. Eggsy hums and turns his eyes to the ceiling to think.

“Well, my girlfriend bein’ a princess isn’t much of a secret anymore, so…I was a gymnast for a bit.” Eggsy grins. Tequila’s eyes light up and he starts snapping in Whiskey’s direction. For each snap, Whiskey gives a disgruntled hm until eventually they’re just swatting at each other. 

“Whiskey, don’t we have them flippy bars down in the gym?” Tequila sniffs, blinking as the liquor hits his sinuses. Eggsy perks up. A spark of excitement picks up atop the warm flush of liquor in his stomach. 

“We do. For Statesman agents. Y’know Rum and Cognac get real touchy ‘bout their stuff.” Whiskey raises an eyebrow.

“Well, we’re workin’ together now, ain’t we? ‘Sides, Rum and Cognac ain’t here. Let’s walk him down there. I wanna see what he can do.” Tequila claps Eggsy on the shoulder. Eggsy gives his best winning smile. Whiskey grumbles, then downs the rest of his glass. 

“Fuck it. Fine. Five minutes.” 

…

They stumble down to the Statesman training facility, passing by a very tired Ginger Ale who opts not to ask why Eggsy’s wearing Tequila’s hat (pretty simple, it’s ‘cause he nicked it). Whiskey puts his thumb to a scanner and the wall unfolds for them. 

The lights click on in rows, lighting the industrial space. Eggsy gasps like a kid on Christmas morning. 

Sophisticated weight training and combat equipment sit in neat rows. Eggsy locks in directly past that, drifting unconsciously towards a heaping pile of chalk bags. Pommel horses, beams, bars, and hanging rings sprawl out on a spring mat, all in pristine condition. A few launchpads and trampolines lay near the equipment. Eggsy laughs incredulously as he takes it in. Nostalgia flutters in his chest. 

Eggsy immediately unbuttons his shirt, folding it cleanly and crisply. He shoves it and the cowboy hat into Tequila’s arms, adjusts his tank top, then works to unlace his shoes. The moment his feet are free, he sprints for one of the springboards. He hits it clean, just like he’d learned, and pushes off the vault, twisting through the air. His landing is a bit messy, but it’s functional, and he takes off to the parallel bars next.

The alcohol writhes in his system, but he doesn’t care. How can he? It’s been years. Coach’d told him he was good enough for the fucking Olympics and he hadn’t touched a set of bars since. The flex of the bars is a comfort to him. He flips and twirls, holding crisp handstands and tucks through muscle memory alone.

He dismounts beautifully from the parallel bars to the pleasant thrum of adrenaline and a smattering of applause. 

“Hoowee, that was somethin’!” Tequila ruffles Eggsy’s hair, destroying the last hold of the gel on his head. Eggsy laughs and swats him away. 

“Hats off to you, kid. Takes a lot of skill to pull that off.” Whiskey nods in respect. Eggsy returns it. 

“I ain’t gonna lie, I thought you were gonna fall on your ass. I’m impressed.” Tequila slugs his shoulder with a brassy laugh. 

“Thanks, Tequila.” Eggsy grins roguishly. “Mind givin’ me a boost?” 

“Sure.” Tequila follows Eggsy over to the high bar. Whiskey loudly clears his throat. 

“Boys, this has been…eye-openin’, but we really should get goin’. Early start tomorrow, I imagine. And this one’ll be fit to collapse when the time difference catches up.” Whiskey inclines his head towards Eggsy. 

“Sorry, bruv? Can’t hear you all the way over there.” Eggsy gestures to his ear with a cheeky grin. 

“I said—“

“No, no. If you have something to say, come whisper it in my fucking ear.” Eggsy snickers, hearing Merlin’s voice in his head. Whiskey rolls his eyes and saunters over. 

“Look, I respect you ‘cause Champagne respects you. Other than that, you’re still a brat that oughta fall into line. Let’s turn in for the night. Both of you.” Whiskey raises his eyebrow. The honey tones of his voice make his annoyance all the more amusing. 

“What’re you gonna do about it? Get me with your skipping rope?” Eggsy smirks. Tequila mutters a quiet aw hell and takes a step back. 

“Maybe I will, you little shit.” 

Eggsy comes to terms with a number of things about himself in that moment, and he puts them all away to process sober. Instead, he gestures for Tequila to give him a hand and reaches up for the bar. 

Tequila picks him up by the waist, and it’s not the smooth, assisted lift he’s used to. It’s the clumsy grip of a drunk surprised by weight. Tequila does lift Eggsy up to the bar, but at the cost of his dignity— he spasms and makes a high-pitched noise when Tequila’s fingers press into his waist.  

In hindsight, he should’ve seen the way Whiskey’s eyes narrowed at that. 

“What the hell was that?” Tequila squints up at him. 

“Nothin’. Thought you were gonna drop me. Bugger off.” Eggsy kicks weakly in Tequila’s direction. He backs up, hands raised. Whiskey steps in, hands on his belt. 

“Get off the bar, Eggsy.” Whiskey sniffs authoritatively. The logical Kingsman agent buried in Eggsy’s brain sets off warning bells, but Drunk Eggsy, who is obviously of much sounder mind, ignores it. 

“Make me, Whiskey.” Eggsy starts to swing in the space he has. Not enough to kick anyone, but enough to look like he will. He manages to rotate clumsily around the bar once, then hangs back down in front of Whiskey. 

“You want me to embarrass you in front of your new friend? Okay.” Whiskey steps up to Eggsy and makes a show of sizing him up. Then, quicker than the draw of his pistols, his hands latch onto Eggsy’s sides and squeeze until he’s screaming and plummeting off the bar. Eggsy’s short life flashes before his eyes as he falls bodily into Tequila’s arms. 

“Are you fucking mental?” Eggsy goes to shove Whiskey, but Tequila holds him back. 

“Woah, watch that mouth of yours!” Whiskey laughs, eyes glittering. “You told me to make you. Your wish is my command, friend.”

Eggsy kicks, trying to break Tequila's hold, and he catches Whiskey right in the balls. He makes a noise like a wounded donkey and folds over. Eggsy snickers. Whiskey whips his reddening face up and glares. 

“Now you’ve done it. Tequila!” Whiskey tosses something his way and he catches it. Eggsy barely has time to react before his arms are bound and hoisted in the air above his head. His toes brush the ground. The bar above him creaks in protest but does not give. 

Whiskey puts his hands on his hips again. Eggsy wonders if that’s a cowboy thing or an American one. 

“Skippin’ rope, bitch.” Whiskey grins, sharklike. “Now…you done with the whole insubordination routine or am I gonna have to give you the ol’ Kentucky Welcome?” 

Eggsy snorts derisively. He tests his bindings. They hold steady. Fear starts to pierce through his liquid courage. 

“I’m honored, bruv, but I’m in a committed relationship—“

Whiskey clicks his tongue and crowds into Eggsy’s space. He immediately steels himself for violence—what else would there be besides violence? He’s been jumped before. He’s no stranger to the predatory tilt of Whiskey’s head. He sets his jaw and glares. 

“When Tequila first joined up, he carried a bit of them clownin’ instincts with him. That didn’t fly with Champagne. We had to figure out a way to take him down a few pegs without hurtin’ him. So, the Kentucky Welcome was born.” 

“Aw, fuck you, Whiskey. Seriously, man.” Tequila pipes up from behind Eggsy. 

“What does this have to do with me? I know you Americans love to hear yourself talk, but I’m not interested.” Eggsy tries to pull free. Nothing. Whiskey’s gaze gets softer, more mischievous. The change is deeply unnerving. 

“Well, you remind me of Tequila. You’ve clearly got a good head on your shoulders, but you’re a little shit. So I’m gonna deal with you the same way we used to deal with him. Last chance, kid. You comin’ quietly or are we gonna have to drag you?” 

Eggsy flinches when Whiskey reaches for him—years of habit die hard—and prepares himself for the hard crunch of knuckles into his ribs. Instead, he’s met with a gentle and persistent scritching. 

A confused noise bubbles up at the back of Eggsy’s throat, quickly chased by a wobbly smile. He ducks his head and bites his lip. 

Oh what the fuck? 

Kingsman had taught him to resist the most painful and stressful of scenarios, but they’d never taught him what to do about this. Tilde’s maybe the only person who knows that he’s ticklish, and even then…he can convince her to let him go by kissing her senseless. Eggsy doubts that’ll work here. 

“Uh oh, Galahad. Don’t tell me something’s botherin’ you?” Whiskey presses an insincere hand to his heart. Eggsy’s brain stutters for a moment as he realizes that Tequila’s the one scratching at his ribs. 

“Fffffuck you.” Eggsy exhales sharply through his nose and closes his eyes--nope, that’s worse. So much worse. 

Whiskey tickles under his arms and Eggsy yelps, bright laughter tumbling after. It shouldn’t be this bad—Tilde’s done far worse to him in jest, but somehow the teasing grin of his begrudging allies gets under his skin. His arms flex as he tries to pull himself up and away, but his strength collapses with every breath. 

“Aw, y’all are twins.” Whiskey leans around Eggsy to smirk at Tequila. 

“Whiskey.” Tequila’s languished tone being hilarious really doesn’t help things. Eggsy’s entire face scrunches as he tries to find his way back towards composure. A hiccup sneaks into his chest, and then he’s giggling incessantly. His chest feels like the sparklers he’d run around with as a kid, bright and fizzling and dissolving with every breath. 

“Y’know, I wish I had tried this when I first caught y’all. Prolly woulda gone a hell of a lot faster.” Tequila’s voice floats past Eggsy’s ear. Eggsy manages a giggly growl and a halfhearted headbutt in his direction. Tequila tuts at him and folds his fingers into Eggsy’s waistline. 

He makes a noise at a pitch that threatens to shatter every lightbulb in the room. Tequila’s calloused fingers strum Eggsy’s nerves like guitar strings and it tickles, fucking shit—

Tequila hooks his fingers just so and Eggsy kicks. Whiskey snags his ankle before a second devastating impact can occur. They make tortuous eye contact. 

“Whiskey—“ Eggsy attempts to appeal to the cowboy’s humanity with what Merlin fondly calls his nuclear puppy eyes. 

Grinning wickedly, Whiskey shakes his head and reaches for his trapped foot. 

Eggsy’s eyes bug out of his head. 

He wrenches his leg free, twists his hands, and flips upwards. Managing a gold-worthy handstand into a dismount, he frees his wrists and lands smoothly. Eggsy playfully curtsies. Tequila starts to clap. Whiskey smacks him upside the head.

“Alright, I’m done playin’ around. Grab him. If we’re caught down here at this hour it’ll be my hide.” Whiskey gestures for Tequila to step in. He does so, still a little off-kilter from the liquor. 

Eggsy rushes in, expecting a clumsier rendition of the fighting style he’d been so painfully introduced to. Instead, Tequila smoothly blocks his blows and hoists Eggsy over his shoulder like a sack of fucking potatoes. One of his arms locks behind Eggsy’s thighs as they start to walk for the door. It takes him a moment to even process being upside-down. The sway of Tequila’s gait shakes some blood into his brain.

“Aw, y’all are twins.”

“—deal with you the same way we used to deal with him—“

A lightbulb clicks on in Eggsy’s head. He shouldn’t…but he could…but he shouldn’t—

He shoves his hands under Tequila’s arms. Before he can blink or breathe, they’re in a heap on the ground. Tequila’s cackling dead weight presses the air from Eggsy’s chest.

“Thought you’d put up more of a fight, bruv.” Eggsy’s eyebrows raise. Tequila shrieks at him in response. Eggsy manages to wiggle free and hop lightly to his feet as Tequila gathers his wits. 

“There’s one of you and two of us. Be wise.” Whiskey cracks his neck. Eggsy looks over at Tequila and smirks devilishly. Tequila pales. 

“I like those odds.” 

The flurry of motion as they charge each other sets off the ‘fight’ center in his brain, but there is some comfort in knowing no harm is on the table. Eggsy flips and twists out of their grasp, taking advantage of his flexibility to pull off increasingly ridiculous dodges. He neatly sweeps both Whiskey and Tequila’s legs out from under them. 

“Little help?” Whiskey gestures lamely at Tequila. 

“Nah, I’m done. Y’all are nuts.” Tequila lays on his back, putting his hat down over his face. He folds his arms behind his head. Whiskey curses at him. Tequila gives him the finger. 

Whiskey grabs Eggsy by the back of the shirt--really, he should know better--and Eggsy sweeps him again. Whiskey’s ready for it this time, though, and he manages a pin faster than Eggsy can roll away. Whiskey plants himself on Eggsy’s back like he’s settling on a bull. 

“Aren’t you tired? Goddamn.” Whiskey sighs. Eggsy winces at the texture of the mat against his cheek. 

It reminds him of Roxy and agonizing training sessions, of hours of sweat and bruising and his face stinging from being slammed into the mat. Even past the wave of grief, he remembers the shape of her smile when she would lecture him about letting her pin him on his stomach. 

“Indefensible,” she’d say, prodding the back of his ribs. “You’re a sitting duck like this.”

And every time he’d roll his eyes, hooking his fingers behind her knees--

Oh. Hm. 

As best as he can, he reaches back and latches onto Whiskey’s thigh, squeezing just above his knee. Whiskey hollers and tries to phase right through the floor. Eggsy rolls them over and pursues, squeezing and squeezing until Whiskey is a wheezing pile on the floor. 

Eggsy flips onto his feet. He knows he’s imagining the fond, ghostly squeeze on his shoulder, but he puts his hand on the spot anyways. 

“Now I’m tired. Goodnight, fellas.” Eggsy salutes with a wide grin, stepping over both cowboys. He gathers his belongings and saunters for the door, whistling pleasantly. 

Whiskey rubs a hand over his face as he stares up at the ceiling.

“Kid’s fuckin’ lucky I like him,” Whiskey grumbles, pushing himself up onto his elbows. 

“Might not wanna speak too soon. He took your hat.” Tequila puts his own ten-gallon back on his head and gestures towards the door with a whistle. Whiskey growls and shoots to his feet. 

“Motherfucker! Eggsy!”

[yukiotacon]

Haurchefant hot chocolate hcs

This man is a savant at making hot cocoa

Knows alot about you to the point on how you like your hot cocoa

Never skims on the marshmallows no matter how much of a commodity it is in camp dragon head

There are two methods he makes his hot cocoa

First being the powered stuff wherein he mixes the cocoa power into the milk

Second only reserved just for you wherein he melts premium Ishgardian chocolate into the milk. Only the best just for you:3

Yes, Haurchefant will definitely be that guy who sprinkles bit of salt into the hot cocoa in order to enhance it's flavor

At least he has the common decency to scrape the salt from a fresh chunk of rock salt rather than the communal salt block ( Am I the only one who is bugged by that in the lore?)

Haurchefant would definitely feel excited when you gift him a mug and you also got yourself a matching one

Everytime you visit, he always serves your cocoa in your favorite mug <3

His favorite time is just you and him cuddling by the fire with hot cocoa in hand

All in all, the sweetest thing for Haurchefant wasn't the cocoa. It's you ♡♡♡♡

[bullet-prooflove]

The Cam Girl: Nero Padilla x Reader

Tagging: @oureternalbond  @lexondeck @baybaybear1 @littleone65 @redpoodlern @mortal--soul @valiantwinneralmondrebel-blog @buddinglinguist @withmyteeth @yourwinchesterbros @kishie8 @librarian1002 @a-winter-tale @genius2050 @megan-munson

Nero knows you as the Cam Girl, the one that’s been sending Cara Cara’s web traffic through the roof. He doesn’t know what you get up to during your sessions, he’s never seen your work. He likes the feel of a real woman as opposed to porn, even if it’s fleeting there’s an intimacy during sex, a connection between two people. You can’t get that through a screen.

You’re one of the girls that don’t come over to Diosa when it’s offered up as a side-line to Cara Cara. Most of the other women do, but you, you stick with the cam. That intrigues him, he wonders what it is about cam work you prefer to the more lucrative stuff. When he asks around, he discovers you don’t get involved with the actual porn side of things, there’s no videos of you being fucked or fucking anyone else, there’s just that live stream going out 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. He thinks the exclusivity of that may be the key to your success, if anyone wants to see you undress, they have to pay a premium.

When you step into Diosa he almost doesn’t recognise you because whenever he’s seen you in Cara Cara, it’s been in a silk robe, with a full face of makeup. Cosmetics that he knows you don’t need because you’re stunning without it. Your entire look is completely understated, you’re wearing jeans with a black t shirt and a cobalt blue blazer that hugs you in all the right places. There’s a few sprinkles of silver jewel, studs in your ear, a couple of stacker rings but nothing overt. It’s a refreshing change from what he usually sees from the women who work and play here.

“Business or pleasure.” He asks when you walk in, his lips gracing both of your cheeks. You smile at him, and he swears to God he feels his heart stutter as you say.

“Why can’t it be both?”

It’s on the couch in his office that you describe the situation. You want to switch things up a little, attract more affluent clients, ones that are willing to spend a little more for specialised content. To do that you need a higher class of premises, all of the streaming still goes through Cara Cara’s servers, so they get the traffic, you just need a room. You think a change of routine would be good for your current subscribers and good for you.

It's that phrase his brain sticks on ‘change of routine’. It sounds odd coming from your mouth; he’s heard it before a thousand times, and it all leads back to one thing.

“Do I need to worry about you?” He asks you quietly as you sip from a cup of the finest brewed Havana beans that you’ve ever tasted. You shake your head before setting the mug back down upon the table.

“It won’t effect your business.” You reassure him with a firm tone. “And I come with my own equipment.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” He says, before gesturing between the two of you. “This thing it only works if there’s trust and I know there’s something that you’re not telling me.”

It’s subtle, the tightening of your jaw but Nero sees it. He’s a savant at body language, picking up the smallest cues, he knows when someone’s hiding shit.

“One of my ‘fans’…” You use your fingers for the bunny ears. “… has been leaving gifts for me at Cara Cara.”

His eyebrows furrow into a frown as he puzzles over this information. It’s an intrusion, he knows the lines blur sometimes when it comes to selling sex. They’ve had it a few times with regulars here at Diosa, a guy that gets a little too attached or falls headlong into the girlfriend experience. It doesn’t take much to get them to back off.

“When you say gifts…” he ventures.

You stare down into the depths of your coffee cup and he sees your cheeks colour just a little.

“It started with roses being delivered to the studio and then it got more intimate.” You tell him, your thumb tapping against the ceramic. “He jerked off onto a pair of panties and left them in my car.”

In your fucking car…

Nero can’t comprehend that. He blows a breath out though his mouth and settles back into his seat. To do something like that, to find out where you were, which car was yours, to break in and leave ‘a gift’ like that, it shows a level of dedication that’s steers into obsession.

“How do you know it’s the same guy?” He asks you, placing both his hands on the back of his head as he considers this situation.

“He leaves a note.” You inform him before rolling your eyes. “Always signs off with ‘Casanova’.”

“How fucking original.” Nero remarks. “And you have no idea who he is?”

“I booted anyone I thought it was out of the chat, he shouldn’t have had access to me.” You tell him, running your hands through your hair, he reads it for what it is, a sign of agitation. Despite the fact you don’t say it, he thinks this shit must be scaring the hell out of you. “The thing is I’m careful. I don’t discuss the details of my personal life; I never name places I’ve been or anything like that. It’s not like I get recognised either. It’s not even a factor for the police, due to the nature of my profession hence why I’m here. Cara Cara have oked the move if you’re happy with the arrangement.”

“Alright.” He says, his fingertips stroking over his beard. “I’ll give you a tour of the place and if there’s a room that you think suits your needs then you can have it but there are conditions...”

“Name them.” You say leaning towards him.

“You have someone walk you to your car every night, it doesn’t matter if it’s me, one of the other girls, or a Son. Someone makes sure you get in that car safely.” He states before continuing. “And if anything happens, and I mean anything, you bring it to me. I need you to promise me on that.”

A small smile graces your features, and he wonders if you know that somehow you light up a room.

“Anybody would think you’re worried about me.” You tease him. The left side of his mouth hitches up into a smile, before his hand comes to rest on yours. It’s comforting, his thumb soothes over the hollow of your wrist and you feel the tension beginning to ebb out of your shoulders the longer you linger in his presence.

“Protecting an asset.” He says with an lilt of humour. “And you still didn’t make that promise.”

“Ok.” You say clasping his hand tightly. “I promise.”

Love Nero? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[chirp-a-chirp]

Court of Darkness: Starbucks Orders

What Starbucks drinks would the Court of Darkness consorts and main characters order? Find out below! ☕️

…

Guy and Jasper

Guy always gets black coffee, no sugar, no cream. Consumes only premium coffee blends. Grumbles loudly that Jasper’s Avari red coffee is clearly superior.

Baristas ask Jasper for tips and tricks on brewing coffee. Upon hearing this, Lance begrudgingly informs the baristas to be wary of letting him make drinks unsupervised, unless they want additional potions added to them.

Toa and Knight

When drinking in public, Toa orders a black coffee, no cream 5 sugars. If Toa gets the drink delivered to him and he drinks in the privacy of his quarters—Caramel ribbon frappe crunch, extra caramel, extra crunchy toppings, extra whip cream.

Toa frequently orders one cat-shaped cake-pop for Knight. Knight complains each time, lamenting he’s not a child. Toa ignores the complaints, since Knight says them while polishing off the cake-pop.

Lynt and Tino

If ordering alone, Lynt gets a bottle of natural spring mineral water. If Lynt is ordering with Tino…Lynt still reaches for a bottle of water, but after hearing Tino lament over the prince’s lack of desire to consume anything, he’ll grab an iced green tea. Lynt drinks three sips of tea before giving it to Tino.

Regardless of the weather, Tino gets the classic hot chocolate and pours the beverage in a mug passed down from his grandmother.

Fenn and Violet

Fenn has tried EVERY drink at least once. Flirts with baristas shamelessly to get extra shots of vanilla or espresso in his drinks. Is personally responsible for half of the secret drink menu items such as the purple drink, the raspberry cheesecake Frappuccino, the sour patch kids drink, and the apple martini refresher.

Regardless of which drink he orders, Fenn always orders a second drink—a mango dragonfruit refresher. This drink is given to Violet, who often combines the drink with Luxuran blue wine before going out on a date.

Roy, Sherry, and Grayson

Roy has tried every tea drink on the menu, including those on the secret drink menu. He always adds a few Invidian tea leaves to his tea. When Roy doesn’t have tea, he usually orders the pink drink with extra strawberries.

When he goes out with Sherry, Roy smiles indulgently and gets two unicorn Frappuccinos, with extra whip cream and raspberry syrup.

Grayson refuses to imbibe in the unicorn drink, despite Sherry’s pleas. Grayson on a sugar high is nearly as eventful as Grayson imbibing alcohol.

Rio and Thoma

On more than one occasion, Rio has paid for the drink order of the person behind him. Will happily drink anything and often asks the barista for their favorite drink and choose that.

When it’s Fall though, Rio orders only pumpkin spice lattes or Frappuccinos. All hail Rio, the prince of pumpkin spice. Thoma, conversely, DESPISES pumpkin spice, with a passion of a thousand fiery suns. Thoma LOVES Apple crisp Frappuccinos.

Lance

Refuses to contribute money to the soulless corporate machine known as Starbucks. Nope.

Dia, Jay, and Lou

Dia never picks up his orders in person. Jay picks up a very berry hibiscus lemonade on behalf of his young charge and then gets an Earl Grey tea for himself. The pair then split an order of kale and mushroom egg bites. Dia’s mood sours greatly if the egg bites are not available.

The other half of the secret drink menu not made by Fenn was created by Lou. Often, Lou will simply point to random ingredients near the barista and ask if they can be combined.

No Lou, don’t combine espresso and lemonade. Just don’t.

[z0mbi3-s0krat3s]

Good old Ash Williams! The Chosen One! Smiter of all that which needs smitten! The living, breathing embodiment of half-assed heroes and questionable role models! The slayer of all things unliving and, uh...unbreathing! The speaker of sacred words and hacker-upper of walking deadite scum from the aisles of department store Hell!

The Evil Dead franchise is by far my favorite horror franchise, particularly when you include the Ash vs Evil Dead series. An Aged Ash Williams is like...aged cheddar: less tasty and hardly useful but great for your overall wellbeing. And unlike most celebrities, the actor who plays Ash Williams doesn't disappoint. Bruce Campbell is the Chosen One with or without the chainsaw hand and blood-smeared chin. And although the newer Evil Dead movies didn't have our man in the line-up, they were both two of the most badass horror movies on the market since the years they hit the screen.

This image is one of several attempts to conjure up the Legend's likeness through a meticulous occult séance carried out on the Midjourney AI art engine. Grab multiple variations of these images in their blisteringly sharp quality with a premium download from my deviant art account that'll cost you as much as a soda pop did in the year of Bruce's birth (which was 1958, fyi). Plaster him on your home screen, or comment on the deviation if you want to see any of these images on merch like mugs, prints, totes and laptop cases.

[timeteaca]

From bush to mug: What do you know about tea? How the most popular drink in the world is created

Tea is drunk always and everywhere: at breakfast and before bed, in summer and winter, with sugar and lemon. But how much do we know about him? Why is black tea not black at all in a mug, but green tea has different shades from amber to gold? How is it grown and when is it harvested? And most importantly, how to drink and brew tea correctly? Together with Time Tea, we have compiled a tea guide and answered the main questions about the most popular drink in the world.

1. How tea is grown and harvested

White, green, black, oolong – despite the fact that there are many different teas in the world, they are all made from the same plant. It is called Camellia sinensis, or Chinese camellia. This is a small bush about a meter high, although closer to the south the plant becomes taller, stronger, branchier and more reminiscent of a tree. The first harvest is harvested five years after planting, but it is believed that the leaves gain maximum weight by the age of 50 (for this, the crop must be harvested regularly). Every year the bushes are pruned, and only the youngest, softest and juiciest leaves are selected for tea.

2. Where are tea leaves collected?

Tea grows in more than 30 countries. Although it was originally cultivated in China, the country still ranks first in terms of yield. It is followed by India and Sri Lanka – the British brought tea there in the 19th century, so these places are famous for their black varieties. Depending on where it is grown, the leaves differ in taste and color. Thus, African varieties have a reddish tint – all due to the fact that there is a lot of copper in the soil. Thanks to the ideal climate, the best varieties of tea grow in China, India, Sri Lanka and Kenya – they are used in TimeTea

3.What kind of tea is there?

In addition to the regions of growth, tea is divided according to the method of processing. There are six types in total – white, green, yellow, oolong, black and pu-erh. They differ mainly in the degree of fermentation. White is almost never fermented – the young buds just wither in the sun. Green is steamed, dried or fried. Black tea has the longest chain: dried leaves are rolled into plates, from which the juice is released. They are laid out on special trays, where the processes of oxidation, fermentation and fermentation take place – almost like wine production. It is at this point that the tea leaves turn dark in color.

4. How to tell if the tea is of high quality

The criteria differ depending on the variety, but there are several general principles. Examine the leaves – they should be approximately the same color and size. Make sure there are no twigs or dust in the package, and no foreign odors. When you have brewed the tea leaves, look at the water – it should be clear, even if it is strong pu-erh. The aroma of the drink should be light and the taste rich. If your green tea turns out bitter, it may be not only the poor quality of the leaves, but also the wrong water temperature or the wrong number of leaves.

5. How to brew the perfect cup of tea

The first thing you need is fresh, high-quality tea. The second is soft water. It should not contain minerals, salt or chlorine – use a filter or bottled water. For one cup you will need a teaspoon of tea. Remember that water should not boil for a long time: the taste of the drink depends on the oxygen content, which decreases with long boiling. The brewing time depends on the variety: black tea needs at least five minutes, while white tea needs less than a minute. After this, the tea leaves must be removed from the teapot or cup.

Discover the exquisite world of tea with Time Tea. Our selection of high-quality teas, including black, green, oolong, and more, is sourced from the finest regions worldwide. Whether you’re a connoisseur or just starting your tea journey, our premium teas promise an exceptional experience in every cup.