#cigar enthusiast

[ikaikaaaron]

Room 101 '808' San Andres Gordo 6 x 60 A toasty aroma and pungent flavors of cocoa, citrus, espresso, leather, cinnamon, and sweet cedar.

I had this cigar in one of my humidors for 5 years.

[ikaikaaaron]

I have 3 of these in one of my 4 humidors.

[mkonz]

Good friends, nice hotel, good bourbon and cigars... can't ask for much better every once in a while.

[auroralwriting]

poker face

spencer reid x fem!bau!reader

spencer and you go to the casino to find the unsub. you think he looks pretty hot playing poker.

word count: 2.0k

warnings: making out, gambling, poker face spencer aghhh

"Forensics got a fingerprint match on the last victim. Eddie Langdon. We're looking into him." You said as you walked back into the office that held some of your team members.

Hotch came in behind you, "Hey, any luck?" Emily asked.

"No, they don't want to allocate agency funds for the buy-in. I'm still working on it." Hotch replied, looking down to his phone as he got back on another call.

Rossi chuckled, "Well, I can't imagine why not. We're only asking for fifty thousand bucks of taxpayer money so that FBI agents can play Texas hold 'em."

Emily eyed Rossi, "Hey, what about you?"

"What about me? What?"

"You could stake us the buy-in." Emily smirked.

Spencer sat down next to you, "Yeah, you're a best-selling author."

You nodded enthusiastically, "Don't forget a best-selling author and longtime FBI agent. You could loan us the money, or something."

"No," Rossi shook his head.

"Why not?" Emily frowned.

"One, it's against regulations, and I'd like to hold on to this job for a little while longer." Rossi began.

Under your breath, you muttered, "It's just a little violation, 's all."

Rossi just rolled his eyes at your comment. "And two, I prefer to spend my money on actual things, like single-malt scotch, a fine cigar, beautiful artwork."

"Poker chips are things!" JJ replied quickly with a smile.

Rossi just scoffed as Spencer spoke up again. "Maybe just think of it as like a new experience. I mean, at your age, how often does that happen?" Oh, no he didn't.

"At my what?" Rossi slowly turned his head to Spencer who just gulped and awkwardly looked away.

"Rossi, this may be our only chance to get this guy." You said slowly. "They government isn't going to give us the money. You're our only way to catch this killer. Please?" You paused for a moment. "And if it helps, you can just write a new book to get some more cha-ching."

Rossi sighed, "All right, fine. But I'm ignoring that last comment. I'm a decent poker player, but I can't promise that I can stay in the game long enough to--"

"You know what?" Emily interrupted. "I bet you're a great poker player, but what if we sent in Reid?"

"I am banned from casinos in Las Vegas, Laughlin, and Parump because of my card-counting ability." Spencer commented as if it was the most casual thing in the whole world.

You raised your hand slightly, "Why did I not know this sooner?"

"Look, I know I'm not a genius like the boy wonder here, but poker is not Blackjack." Rossi argued. "It's about bluffing, reading human nature, head games. It's not math."

That's when Spencer stood up, "That's not entirely accurate. There actually is a mathematical equation for knowing when to raise and when to fold. If P represents the size of the pot at the time of play, then P times N minus one, with N representing the estimated number of players in the final round of betting--"

"Okay! Fine, I surrender!" Rossi cut Spencer off quickly. "Just try not to lose all my money. Actually, you know what?" Rossi quickly spoke your name. "Take her with you, I don't want you losing all my money and if she needs to interrupt the game, then so be it."

Your eyes widened, "Rossi, I've never stepped foot into a casino in my life."

"You'll be fine!" Rossi waved it off as Spencer gave you a comforting look.

Oh, this was not what you expected at all.

Spencer and you had to get checked by security with the handheld metal detectors. Yours didn't go off, but Spencer's did. He played it off as just a pen. Thank god they accepted that.

The two of you walked in. For someone who stared at dead bodies and killers all day, this was the most nerve wracking thing you'd experienced in a while. It also didn't help that Hotch decided you and Spencer were to play a couple when you had such a big crush on him.

"Hey," Spencer muttered, "It's okay."

"Just nervous," You replied under your breath. The two of you made your way to the bar. Spencer got himself a drink, and you got some champagne. "Is it really just math?"

Spencer nodded, "Math, and a little bit of luck."

The moment you felt Spencer take your hand, you tried to pull away. "Spencer, what about germs--"

"I don't mind your germs, you're my friend. Plus, we have a part to play, remember?" Spencer muttered, locking his fingers between yours. Your heart pounded as you did the same.

"I'll observe as you play," You muttered, remembering the list of things you needed to look for to find the unsub. "I know you don't need it, but good luck."

Spencer smiled at you, the comment being just so sweet and innocent. "Thank you." You looked so nervous, so out of place. It made Spencer notice you more.

Spencer had taken a seat at a table, which you stood behind him, leaning over his shoulder. Your hands rested on the back of the chair. So far, no one caught your eye, until one man at another table did. Casually, you poked Spencer and he caught onto your stare.

"You know, would it be all right if I sat at table two instead of four? I have a pre-glaucoma condition and the light's kind of bothering my eyes." Spencer called over the employee, who took him to the desired table.

The men didn't just eye Spencer as he sat down, you noticed they eyed you too. Defensively, you wrapped your arms around Spencer's neck from behind. "Ah, I'm calling." One of the men said."

"I'll raise." One guy said. You stared at him, noticing his red eyes. Weird. "Eight thousand."

"Eight thousand.. That's, uh, fifty-six months wages for the average person in Bangladesh." Spencer commented casually. In reply, you giggled and played with some of hair, pushing it out of his face. Spencer hoped you didn't feel his face turn hot under your fingers. "Uh, kind of makes you think, doesn't it?"

"Hey, it's eight thou to you." One guy remarked. "Now, are you in or are you out?"

Spencer sighed, "I.. am in. And I raise."

"Three raise? That's too rich for my blood." The guy sighed. One man, the one who raised before Spencer, bored holes into him.

"Are you in, sir?" Spencer asked.

"I'll call."

"Call?"

Spencer flipped his cards, "Straight."

Based on everyone's reactions and Spencer's coy face, straight was a very good thing. Playing the act, you kissed Spencer's forehead and squealed lightly, deciding to stroke his cheek for a moment. "A gut shot straight draw? Are you kidding me?"

"That is just-- that is nuts."

It was no wonder Spencer was banned from casinos. Spencer's poker face was good. He simply just covered his mouth after a moment and stared, watching everyone's reactions. His hand slowly ran down to his chin, and in that moment, it did it for you. Sure, Spencer was your cute little nerd, but he'd never been so hot to you.

You noticed next to the man who was staring, he had an eight ball keychain. "Hey, mind if I look at this?" You asked, reaching for it.

The man was quick to grab your hand hard. Spencer jumped into action, pulling you from him.

"Hey. What's the problem, sir?" An employee asked.

"She's reaching for my chips!"

"I'm not even in the game," You remarked.

The employee grabbed your arms, "You need to come with me."

If Spencer's eyes could've gotten any wider, they would've popped out of his head. "Hey! Don't manhandle her! She can walk, let go!" Spencer ripped the mans arms off of you and pulled you into his chest. "Come on, love. Let's just go."

Spencer's words caused your chest to tingle as he guided you away. You watched as he clicked the call-device, it lit up red. The look on the mans face, your unsub, was clear. He knew.

You met up with the team as you were lead out the doors, "They're FBI agents," Hotch informed the guard.

"There he goes, plaid shirt, baseball hat." Spencer pointed.

After searching the whole casino, the unsub made a break for it. His name was Curtis Banks. You and Spencer were sent to his house to see if he was there. After a quick search, it was clear he wasn't there.

"Hey Hotch, he isn't here. There's a foreclosure sign in the lawn." You informed your chief.

"All right, you and Reid stay there in case he comes back." Hotch hung up the phone.

You shrugged to Spencer, "And we wait."

After a beat of silence, Spencer turned to you. "At the casino, you couldn't keep your hands off of me after I won." Spencer said out of nowhere. "Your physical proximity was close, you frequently stared at me--"

"I was playing my part," You argued.

"Yeah, too well." Spencer pointed out. "Were you checking me out?"

Heat rose to your cheeks, "No. Why would I do that?"

"Look at me and say it," Spencer demanded, but his tone wasn't harsh. It was simply just firm. "You won't look at me."

Slowly, you turned to look at Spencer, "I wasn't checking you out."

"You can't look me in the eyes. You've never not looked me in the eyes." Spencer continued.

"Stop profiling me," You tried to end the discussion. It was clear Spencer had caught you. You weren't interested in being turned down, especially when you were in some sort of steak-out with the genius.

Spencer frowned, "I'm not profiling you. I'm just telling you as it is."

"That's what profiling is," You countered. "We don't need to have this conversation. Was I checking you out? Yes, I was. Is that what you wanted me to say? That you looked so damn hot winning thousands of dollars with your best poker face while you let me all over you?"

Spencer said your name, but you kept rambling. It took him grabbing your chin and forcing your face closer to his to make you stop. "You think I'm hot?"

"Yeah," You stuttered. "Yeah, I do."

Slowly, Spencer trailed his finger over your bottom lip. "I always thought you were the most gorgeous girl I'd ever seen."

"Where's this confidence coming from?" You asked.

Spencer shrugged, "Gamblers frequently experience a phenomenon called the 'winning high,' it releases dopamine and adrenaline, making gamblers do riskier things than they'd normally do."

"You gonna use that high to kiss me?" Your voice was a mere mutter. Your lips were just grazing Spencers.

"Is that what you want?" Spencer lowly asked.

"What do you think?" You retorted.

Spencer's lips slammed onto your own, harder than you expected. His large hand had the back of your neck, and he pulled you impossibly closer. It was hot, just how you wanted it. Flimsily, Spencer reached to the bottom of his seat to scoot it back. His hands went to your hips, guiding you to move across the seats to his lap.

"You know, we're still on the lookout." You mumbled, pressing another kiss to the genius's lips.

"They haven't called us yet." Spencer challenged, hand running down your back to your waist.

Slowly, Spencer's hand began to creep up your shirt, just to your navel-level. His kisses descended to your neck, pressing opened mouth, warm kisses to your skin.

"Spence," You whined, grabbing his hair to push him closer. He sighed in reply.

You both jolted when your phone began to ring. You grabbed it quickly, "What?"

"Ooh, someone's frisky." Derek teased over the phone. "We got the guy. You two are all good to head back."

"Thanks, Morgan. See you back there." You hung up the phone, tossing it back to to your seat. "Looks like we have to wrap this up."

Spencer smirked, "We fly back in the morning. We'll find some time soon."

Spencer's words weren't a tease, they were a promise.

[allfearstofallto]

When it Comes to You

Yandere! Childe x Fem! Reader

TW: 18+ MDNI, Yandere content, bribery, blackmail, Dub-con, Reader works at a brothel (is not a courtesan)

AN: I've just been watching a lot of apothecary diaries tbh and I needed to write something

A job is a job, you often thought to yourself as you tried not to cough from the smell of booze and tobacco, and mora is mora. You didn't have the luxury of denying yourself a single cent. Every little piece of gold, shiny and polished or scuffed and dirty was one step closer to your goal and another away from your debt. Away from him, who didn't try to hide that he was finding his pleasure in watching you drowning under the weight of your obligations.

You were to pour drinks. Whether it be tea, water, or wine. Scurry around the large main hall, entertain the guests waiting for their chances with a lady of the night and pour their drinks. Keep a smile on their faces and their pockets empty. Keep them distracted from just how much they were spending, keep their cigars lit, keep them cheerful and drunk. All simple tasks, in theory. In practice you ran around like a chicken with its head cut off, all while the guests leered at you like a piece of meat. It was dehumanizing, but it paid well and paid quickly. You'd receive a bag of mora at the end of every shift, the amount varying based on how well you'd done that day.

Most of it, you couldn't keep. After paying for necessities, you'd walk on your aching feet to the northland bank and pay off a bit more of your debt. You were barely chipping at the high fortune that you owed, but anything was better than the alternative.

And much to your dismay, the alternative was sitting at one of your tables. With that same empty eyed smile and one long leg casually crossed over the other. He tapped his finger against the rim of his empty glass, taunting you in the one place where he knew you couldn't retaliate. Another lady approached him, head bowed while she attempted to pour his wine, but he shooed her away just as quickly with a wave of his hand. He didn't want her, he wanted you. He wanted you to see and know that he wanted you.

You couldn't look angry, nor annoyed, anything less than an enthusiastic smile meant less pay. So with your lips curled too tightly, to the point of near pain, you kneeled next to his table and filled his glass with the cooled liquid. Ajax seemed pleased with your service. Although, he always seemed pleased when you were around. He kept a smile on his face in your presence , not because he had to, but because he wanted to, like he was incapable of looking anything but smug when near you. With that same expression, he took a singular sip of his wine before sitting the glass back on the table. 

“Stay,” he ordered quickly when he saw even the flicker of possibility of you leaving. You stayed kneeled next to his table as you were told, the last thing you needed was him complaining to your boss, a habit he'd made to keep you as in debt as possible. And Ajax was a high paying customer, one that they wanted to keep. His words were like law to your employers, anything less than perfection with his service would be met with the dock of your pay.

Ajax wanted you to be as poor as possible. He wanted you to be pressed under his thumb, to be weak to his will and in need of his favors. It was those same favors that'd gotten you into this mess now, and those same favors were only digging your hole deeper. You owed him a lot. Not him, per say, but the Northland bank. Usually owing money meant you'd be shaken down by a low level fatui foot soldier, yet Ajax had taken a particularly notable interest in you. One that did more harm than good. It bordered on obsession, although he'd play that observation off with a smile.

“You're late,” his words were followed by another sip of wine. He didn't have to tell you what you were late on, you knew he was referring to a payment. There was a happy chirp to the way he spoke, a playful sweetness to his tone that would've been charming, had he not been smiling at your misery.

“I paid yesterday,” you insisted. It was difficult getting your anger across with a forced smile on your face, but your strained voice and gritted teeth would have to suffice.

“You paid the principal,” he playfully tapped your nose with the cold tip of his finger and you resisted the urge to snap and bite, “Not your interest.”

“I was told I could pay it later, I'll have it by the end of the week,”

“Told by whom? Was it me?” He looked so proud of himself as he spoke watching you grow more and more frustrated while being unable to express it, “If it wasn't by me then it wasn't part of your arrangement.”

“I can pay at the end of the night if you wait for my shift to be over,” you sighed, letting the smile drop for only a moment. You thought it strange how sweetly the teller at the bank was when she insisted that you could pay the interest later. Against your better judgement, you listened. Why were you dumb enough to think you had allies on your side? To think that he wasn't still pulling strings, even when he was nowhere near.

An expression crossed Ajax's face. A familiar one. A bad one. The look he made when an idea struck him. Or, perhaps when he knew he'd finally be able to get what he wanted. That's the look he gave you, and felt your heart sink. 

“You won't make enough,” there he was again, saying those harsh words with a singsong tone, reveling in your misfortune, “With the late fee on top, you'll be short.”

You scoffed, letting the cheerful facade drop. There'd never been a late fee before, but Childe was insistent in getting what he truly wanted from you. Your one slip up was going to be your detriment, and his greatest achievement so far. You could see it in the sparkle in his dead, hollow blue eyes. He was anticipating just this, almost as if he'd plotted the entire thing himself. A conspiracy like that wasn't far off in terms of what the man in front of you was capable of, the one who was looking down upon your pitiful kneeling form in delight about the ownership of you that he dangled over your head.

“Take me as a client tonight and consider yourself cleared of this weeks payment-”

Your glossed lips parted quickly to stop his train of thoughts, but he cut you off by placing a finger against them. You couldn't see it, but you could feel the soft shade from your lips smear across his digit and onto your cheek.

“-and the next,”

You felt your world stop at this statement. Suddenly, the brothel that was so noisy and overbearing, was silent. Two weeks with no payment? Childe was never that generous. But he was also a man who was always two steps ahead. He'd been wanting to bed you since the day you walked into that bank the first time. All smiles with a hand resting too low upon your waist while selling you a loan that would essentially take your entire life to pay back. You were naive then. Naive and desperate. And somehow, you were worse now.

When things were rough and you knew you didn't have the money to pay him, he'd accept little things. A date. Handholding. A hug. There was even a day where he accepted a kiss upon the lips in exchange for a week's payment. 

A real kiss. 

He wanted you to initiate. He wanted you seated on his lap, your tongue in his mouth, he wanted to claim you completely, while making it feel like you desired it too.

The kiss was suffocating and vile, not romantic at all. It was a kiss that screamed ownership and possession, nothing close to a true affection. You couldn't even pull away when you wanted to, his hand was holding the back of your head, keeping you in place while he lapped at the inside of your mouth, slurping at your tongue while simultaneously tracing his fingertips over your cheeks.

“I don't take customer's, I'm not a-” you couldn't bring yourself to speak the word, but all he did was cock an eyebrow at your silence.

“Anything can be arranged,”

A deal that feels too good to be true, is usually just that. His smirk, mischievous and cold spoke of a desire that wouldn't end with one taste of your body. Silently, you were cursing yourself for even considering it. Having your head above the water, even if just for a week more would be like a balm to your soul, but at what cost?

“Two weeks?” You peaked up at him through your lashes. The way his smile spread told you that you were already making the wrong decision, but you didn't turn back, “You have to promise me Childe, do you mean it?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” his words made you feel even sicker as he mimicked the childish gesture.

His hand was outstretched to you, fingers long and lanky, still wet and cold from the condensation of his glass. The sight of that hand was familiar. The last deal you'd made with the man being the reason you worked yourself to the bone now. The last time you'd shaken that same, cold hand, you'd done something stupid. It was a bad deal. It was always a bad deal with him. There was always some hidden clause or play of words that you didn't decipher quick enough, always something hidden up his sleeve, especially when it came to you.

And despite your better judgement, you still shook his hand. Instead of feeling the weight of the world fall off of your shoulders, you only felt it grow heavier upon your already weak body. It was better to give it to him now, than have him take it later, right? Who knew what he had planned for you if you couldn't pay.

“Shall we take a room upstairs?” He pointed to the staircase. Only courtesans and their clients used those stairs. You were sure he knew that, yet he spoke as if he also knew that there would be one free for the two of you to use together, like he'd planned this very scenario from the get go.

The thought wasn't lost on you. Ajax always planned things to a tee, when it came to you.

[lubdubology]

At Least Out Loud

SYNOPSIS: Logan has never been one to express himself in words. But with you, it's the closest he's ever been.

PAIRING: Worst!Wolverine x fem!reader

WC: 2.9k

WARNINGS: angst; mentions of violence; brief mentions of blood; gratuitous self loathing; non-explicit intimacy; implications of smut, but nothing graphic

A/N: This was written for @princessanglophile’s birthday challenge. I was given Worst Wolverine and the song I Won’t Say (I’m In Love) from the movie Hercules. And let’s be real—Logan not using his words is like 75% of his personality, so this song is very fitting for him. This story is written a bit differently that ones I’ve written in the past, but it’s how the story organically poured itself from my brain, so I hope it doesn’t disappoint. Thank you to @saradika for the use of her graphics. And as always, I hope you enjoy this and any likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! 

Logan’s acutely aware that this universe is not his own.

Not that he mourned the loss of his old world. He didn’t miss the vitriol and loathing that burned into his skin from the stares of those around him. Those stares that officially branded him as the monster he was always designed to be. Didn’t miss the constant reminders of his selfishness, his unwillingness to see what was right before his eyes—the family that had formed around him.

The family he let burn to the ground and turn to ash; the stain of that failure inky black and poisonous, curling its tendrils into the deepest parts of him. The stain that still haunted even his waking moments.

But that stain, those dark, whispered voices pressing against his skull quiet when he met you.

Logan didn’t intend for you to happen. Didn’t mean to spin himself into your orbit and get pulled into your gravity. He came seeking solitude, a brief respite from the apartment filled with one too many people. A moment away from the cacophony and chaos that came with living with Wade.

He met you beneath the stars, the brightness of them dimmed against the yellow-black of the light polluted sky. But you didn’t seem to mind, your eyes still tracking well known constellations as you reclined against the old plastic lounge chair.

You didn’t look at him when he approached. Didn’t startle or flinch or shift uncomfortably like most people did when they felt the weight of his presence within their space. You simply gestured towards the empty chair next to you and said, “Sucks, huh?”

The question and the easy offer of your company threw him off balance and he sat, more out of confusion than compliance. Logan wasn’t sure what you meant—life? The universe? Everything? But then you pointed upward and added, “The stars. They’re prettier with less noise. Less light. Can’t see much of ‘em here.”

And that was all it took.

He reclined back onto the old rickety recliner, lit a cigar and listened with rapt attention as you pointed out all the constellations you knew by heart, even if their stars were faint dots in the night sky. For almost two hours, until his cigar had all but turned to ash, Logan watched as you drew shapes in the sky, enthusiastically recalling the myths attached to your favorite ones—Cassiopeia, Leo, Virgo, the Pleiades. 

Logan couldn’t remember the last time he looked up to the sky for longer than a second, treated the night sky as anything but a dark canvas that often mirrored his mood. But now he was wondering if his universe held the same constellations in the exact same patterns and how you would react if you saw new ones. 

He wondered if you’d be impressed, which ones you would like. If your face would light up, your eyes crinkling with mirth as you gazed upon them. Logan wondered what your voice would sound like, awe-struck and reverent, at a nighttime canvas so foreign yet familiar at the same time.

It was then he realized the roaring of his thoughts—those desperate, aching screams; those painful pleas for mercy—had dulled to a mere whisper. Having lived with the haunting of his own mind for far too many years, the silence was almost deafening.

They didn’t truly fade—Logan knew better than to expect mercy for his sins—but they had lost their teeth, their want to gnash and snarl. Instead, the seemed almost soft, brief echoes instead of claws.

Logan told himself that first night was a one-time thing, but he could taste the lie on his tongue. Because then came the next night. And the one after that. And before he realized it, he’d started looking for you when the sun sunk below the horizon, chasing that strange silence, that comforting lull in his brain that only came with your presence. 

It’s effortless, he thought, how you’d woven yourself into his life. How you’d molded yourself into all his dark and hidden corners and taken up space in his mind. Like ivy creeping up bricked walls—quiet, steady. Unfurling and sinking roots, not caring about the cracked facade or chips in the mortar, but simply filling the space with something alive and beautiful.

Logan tried to give you an out, laid out all his dirty, blood-soaked laundry so you could see him for what he truly was—something to be feared—but you didn’t flinch. 

You didn’t recoil from the sharp, jagged edges of his truths or the violence melded into his very bones. Instead, you listened, quietly, intently. Like every horrid confession was just another star in the constellation of him that you were so determined to understand. And then, when Logan had nothing left in him but silence and burning shame, you had looked and him and simply said, “Alright.”

Nothing else.

No meaningless platitudes or blanket excuses for the blood, grief or carnage he’d caused. Just alright, like you’d catalogued all of him—the wounds, the rage, the history—judged him using Libra’s scales and decided he was still worthy of the space he took up.

That simple word undid him more than an apology or absolution ever could. 

Logan had been burned by love before, and worse, he was the one who lit the match and watched as everything around him turned to ash. The scars of that self-immolation were thick and calloused around his heart. But with you, he didn’t feel that burn, that warning that alarmed in his brain and urged him to run. Instead, you had lit of a different kind of match, a gentle flame that warmed and soothed instead of burned.

It was a flame he wanted to kindle, to nurture. A want that was wholly unfamiliar to him. 

Nerves rolled in his gut as he drove down the dark gravel road and you must have sensed his unease, because without a word, you reached across the center console and laced your fingers with his. Quietly, you stroked your thumb against his palm, keeping your eyes closed like he had requested. 

While the gesture soothed, Logan could still hear his pulse in his ears and feel the weight of his breath in his lungs, shallow and unsure. For a moment, he contemplated turning around, calling the whole night off. But he didn’t. Because despite everything, the instinct in him to run and hide back into his shadows, Logan wanted to try.

Not for himself, but for you. Somehow, regardless of his attempts to convince you otherwise, you still wanted to be with him. 

After a few more minutes, Logan pulled the truck off the road and onto an open field before shutting off the ignition. He helped you out of the truck, urging you to keep your eyes closed, and then, just a few paces from the truck, he said, “Okay, you can look.”

You opened your eyes and let out a soft gasp. Above you, the sky stretched wide and endless, the inky violet canvas swathed with stars scattered in clusters so thick it was hard to tell where one star started and another began. The Milky Way glimmered faintly overhead, a band of light trailing across the heavens. 

“Logan,” you breathed, “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“Yes,” he answered, but he wasn’t looking at the stars. 

While you stared up at the sky, Logan set up the truck bed full of blankets and pillows, carefully arranging them into a makeshift nest he knew he was spending longer than necessary to prepare. He dragged your eyes from the sky just long enough to help you climb into the truck bed before joining you. The late-spring air was cool and crisp, and as Logan laid down, you immediately settled down next to him, tucking yourself along his side. Pressed alongside him like it was the most natural thing in the world, like you belonged there.

If you noticed his slight discomfort, you stayed silent, instead lacing your fingers with his as you talked about the Milky Way. Logan listened, paying more attention to the way your voice softened as you spoke than about the myth behind the name, or the number of known stars and planets contained within. After a while, you fell silent, content to just watch as the stars shimmered overhead.

“Do you miss it? Your old world?” you murmured eventually, so quiet, he almost missed it.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Logan could feel your gaze turn to him, eyes searching. There were a million different reasons he could give, but none of them would quite be the truth.

Finally, he said, voice low and rough, “Because there was no you.”

You shifted until you were half-turned towards him, your hand still wrapped in his. Slowly, you leaned up and cupped his jaw with a tenderness so fierce it made his chest ache. Logan couldn’t help the way his eyes fluttered close, just briefly, and without thinking, he nuzzled his cheek into your palm. 

With your gaze darting between his eyes and mouth, you leaned forward until you were close enough that Logan could feel the damp warmth of your breath against his skin. You paused, just long enough, and then, with the stars shining in your eyes, your lips brushed his, pressing the softest, barely there whisper of a kiss to his lips. An involuntary groan tumbled from his throat and Logan deepened the kiss without thinking, his hand threading into your hair, holding you to him with a reverence he didn’t know his calloused hands were capable of. A soft noise squeaked from your mouth and you clutched at him in turn, anchoring yourself to him as much as he was anchoring to you.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t frantic. The kiss was slow and aching and full of everything Logan couldn’t say, couldn’t find in himself to voice into words. But, under the watchful gaze of the universe, that night felt like a promise.

As sure as the night fading into day, you continued to weave yourself into the fabric of his life. Morning coffee as you both got ready for work. Your laughter over dinner with Wade, Vanessa and Al and the comforting touch of your hand on his knee under the table. The way your body fit against his at night, your limbs tangled without fear, without hesitation.

Desire built slowly between you, not rushed or frenzied, but something heavier, deeper, truer. That night under the stars all those weeks ago had only been the catalyst, igniting a spark that flamed through every cell in Logan’s body, setting him aflame from the inside. And once lit, there was no smothering it.

You didn’t push him. You never did. You let him come to you on his own time, in his own broken way, always there with an open embrace and a tenderness he didn’t feel he deserved. He hadn’t had anything like this. Hadn’t let himself want anything like this.

Most nights, Logan would wake up and just stare at you, memorizing the way you looked bathed in silver moonlight. He’d lie there, feeling your fingers curled loosely against his ribs, your body soft and trusting against his side and a lump would form in his throat.

This wasn’t meant for a man like him. A man with the blood of innocents on his hands. That animal was still in him, violence and rot just beneath the surface, and his skin crawled with the need to pull away. To spare you from the disaster that loving him would bring.

But every time he pushed, you pulled, erasing that distance with a glance, a touch, a smile he didn’t know how to live without anymore.

And it wasn’t just about sex—though God, when he had you, it ruined him every time. You wrecked him slowly. Thoroughly. The way you would look at him after he came undone inside you—raw and shaken, like a man who had been starving for years—and cradle him and whisper his name like it meant something holy.

You made him feel things he didn’t have the words for anymore. Things that made him ache in places he thought had long turned to stone.

Logan’s had many firsts in his life, the majority of them mired in conflict and suffering. The first time drew blood. The first time he killed. The first time he realized just how sharp his bones could be, how heavy a soul could be burdened with regret. 

But with you, the firsts felt like the only ones that have ever mattered.

The first time someone touched him without flinching and instead sought his touch for comfort. The first time someone laughed at something he said and the first time he laughed in return—not a sharp, bitter sound, but one that warmed his chest instead of hollowing it out. The first time he fell asleep with another heartbeat close to him and didn’t wake up in a panic, sweaty and breathless with his claws unsheathed, ready to stave off the demons that continued to haunt him. 

For the first time in years he looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t want to flay the flesh off his bones just to see if anything clean still lived underneath. And that terrified him more than anything.

Because, for the first time in a long time, he had something to lose. 

When those three words fell out of your mouth, whispered soft and warm against the hollow of his throat, Logan didn’t run. 

He didn’t growl or scoff or flinch like he would have before—before you, before this, before he knew what it meant to want something that wasn’t just about survival. Instead, he laid there, breath held as to not shatter the moment, and he looked down at you like he was trying to etch you into memory.

I love you.

Simple. Honest.

Absolutely terrifying.

And then Logan’s jaw clenched, muscles tight and coiled in that all too familiar instinct to brace for the worst, to flee. Because he knew nothing good came without a price and you weren’t something he was willing to lose. But then, your hand slipped into his, fingers threading through the calloused spaces like they belonged there. Pulling his hand to your chest, you flattened his fingers against your heartbeat—sure and steady beneath his palm— and something inside of him broke in the quietest, most beautiful way.

“You shouldn’t,” he said, voice thick. Not because he didn't want it—because God did he want it. “Do you—d’you know what that means? For someone like me?”

You pulled him closer, nose brushing along the edge of his jaw before pressing a feather brush of a kiss there. “I do.” Your voice, just like you, was steadfast. “I know exactly what it means.”

And it wrecked him. 

Not the kiss, not the words, not the gentle way you held him in a way no other soul had. But the way you said them—honest and raw, as if loving him was the simplest thing in the universe. 

Logan’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard and there were so many things he could have said. That you deserved better. That loving him would cost you. That no matter how much redemption you gave him, he’d always have blood on his hands and ghosts haunting him.

Instead, he leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours, grounding himself in the press of your skin, the warmth of your breath mingling with his. His eyes closed and for the briefest moment, just a heartbeat, Logan allowed himself to exist in the stillness. 

No noise. No guilt. Just you. 

When he finally spoke, it was barely louder than a breath. “You make me wanna try.”

Your fingers curled around his hand, squeezing gently. Encouraging. Anchoring. Steadying him in that familiar way you always had.

“I don’t know if I’m built for this. For—” he faltered, jaw clenching, like he was afraid the word would burn on the way out. “—love.”

You tilted your head just enough to brush the tip of your nose against his. “You are, Logan. You are.”

One hand slid up to cradle your face, his thumb tracing along the line of your cheekbone like you were made of something holy. In the dark, his eyes searched yours, looking for any last shred of doubt. Doubt he knew he wouldn’t find because somehow, despite everything, you still believed in him.

“You don’t have to rush, Logan,” you reassure him. “I know.”

Logan’s eyes closed, lids heavy with all the words he couldn’t say. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel them thrumming through his veins. Because he did. God help him, he did. 

He dipped his head and kissed you, soft and slow, with all the reverence a violent and marred man like him could muster. A low whimper escaped your lips and Logan simply pulled you closer, mouth moving like he was memorizing the shape of you with his tongue.

He couldn’t say he loved you. At least not out loud. Not yet. Those words were still too sharp in his throat, still caught in the tangle of old scars and deeply seated fears.

Logan didn’t know how to speak love. But with you, he thought, he was finally starting to live it.

[ghstyles]

Idea for the fratrry blurb: can u do one where yn is already having a really bad day and then Harry comes around being his usual annoying self and she kind of breaks down, so he gets really concerned

Daisies | Windows Facing

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Windows Facing Masterlist

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The rain patters steadily against Y/N's window, matching her gloomy mood as she drops her backpack on the floor and collapses onto her bed. The weight of the day—no, the entire week—presses down on her shoulders like a physical burden.

Everything that could go wrong has gone wrong. Her research proposal was rejected by her advisor, who suggested she "rethink her academic priorities." She bombed the statistics midterm she'd studied three days straight for. Her laptop crashed, taking half her term paper with it. And the cherry on top: she'd just received a call from her mother, who casually mentioned that her ex-boyfriend from high school was now engaged to her former best friend.

Y/N stares at the ceiling, too exhausted even for tears. She should get up, make dinner, try to salvage what's left of her paper. Instead, she lies motionless, listening to the rain and feeling utterly alone.

The soft glow from the window across from hers catches her attention. Harry's room in the Sigma house lights up, and she can see him moving around, tossing his jacket on the bed and running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. Under normal circumstances, she'd quickly close her curtains to avoid his notice, but today she lacks the energy even for that small movement.

Harry spots her almost immediately, his face breaking into that familiar grin that usually precedes some form of teasing. He moves to his window, opening it despite the rain and cupping his hands around his mouth.

"Oi! Psychology girl!" he calls out. "You'll never guess what happened in Dr. Peterson's class today!"

Y/N sighs deeply but pushes herself up to a sitting position. Maybe Harry's ridiculous antics will provide a momentary distraction from the disaster that is her life. She opens her window reluctantly, the cool, damp air washing over her face.

"What, Harry?" she asks, her voice lacking its usual sharp edge.

Either not noticing or choosing to ignore her subdued tone, Harry launches enthusiastically into his story.

"So Peterson's going on about Freudian symbolism, right? And this freshman in the front row, complete kiss-ass, hand up for every question, he starts arguing that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." Harry's eyes dance with mischief. "And I say, loud enough for everyone to hear, 'But sometimes it's definitely not, mate, especially the way you're fondling that pen.'"

He pauses expectantly, clearly waiting for her usual eye-roll or cutting comeback. When none comes, he continues undeterred.

"The whole class lost it! Peterson tried to look disapproving, but I caught him smiling when he thought no one was looking. Even gave me a nod after class. Think I'm finally winning him over with my charming personality and deep analytical skills."

He strikes a pose, hand on his heart, looking so ridiculous that on any other day, Y/N might have cracked a smile despite herself. Today, however, the contrast between Harry's carefree attitude and her own misery only makes her feel worse.

"That's great, Harry," she says flatly, moving to close her window.

"Wait!" he calls, his smile faltering slightly. "I haven't even told you about how Louis accidentally set off the fire alarm during the pledge meeting. Or how I beat my own record at the gym today. Or—" he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively "—how I've been thinking about that green dress you almost wore to our rain-checked dinner."

It's the last comment that does it. The casual reminder of the dinner that never happened, the green dress she'd been so careful selecting, the entire emotional rollercoaster of that evening—it all crashes down on her at once. To her horror, Y/N feels her eyes fill with tears, which spill over before she can stop them.

"Just—" her voice breaks "—just leave me alone, Harry. Not today. Please."

Harry's playful expression vanishes instantly, replaced by genuine concern. "Y/N? What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, unable to articulate the accumulation of failures and disappointments. A sob escapes her, and she claps a hand over her mouth, mortified to be breaking down in front of him of all people.

"I'm fine," she manages unconvincingly, tears still streaming down her face. "Just go away."

She slams her window shut and yanks the curtains closed, then collapses back onto her bed, allowing the tears to flow freely now that she's hidden from view. She presses her face into her pillow, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Five minutes pass, then ten. The storm outside intensifies, rain lashing against the windows as thunder rumbles in the distance. Gradually, Y/N's sobs subside, leaving her feeling hollow and drained. She should get up, wash her face, try to be productive, But the bed holds her like quicksand, and she can't find the will to move.

A sharp knock at her apartment door startles her. Y/N freezes, hoping whoever it is will give up and leave. The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

"Y/N?" Harry's voice calls through the door. "I know you're in there. Open up."

Y/N sits up, staring at the door in disbelief. Why would he come here?

"Go away, Harry," she calls, wincing at how raspy her voice sounds from crying.

"Not happening," he responds immediately. "I'll stand out here all night if I have to. Your neighbors already think I'm weird. Oh, and the guy from 2D just gave me a very judgmental look on his way to the trash chute."

Despite everything, Y/N feels a tiny smile tug at her lips. She can picture Harry, soaking wet from the rain, charming his way into the building and now standing stubbornly at her door.

"I'm serious, Harry. I'm not in the mood for whatever this is."

There's a pause, then Harry's voice comes again, softer this time. "I brought ice cream. And those chocolate biscuits you pretend not to like but always steal from my plate in the dining hall."

Y/N stares at the door, torn between wanting to be left alone in her misery and being genuinely touched by the gesture. With a deep sigh, she pushes herself off the bed and crosses to the door, not bothering to check her appearance in the mirror. Harry has seen her cry now; a blotchy face and red-rimmed eyes hardly matter anymore.

She opens the door to find Harry standing there, hair dripping from the rain, holding a plastic grocery bag in one hand. His usual cocky expression is nowhere to be seen, replaced by genuine concern that only deepens when he takes in her tear-streaked face.

"Jesus, Y/N," he says softly. "What happened?"

The simple question, asked with such sincere worry, almost sets her off again. She steps back, allowing him to enter rather than answering immediately.

Harry follows her inside, closing the door behind him. He sets the grocery bag on her small kitchen counter and shrugs off his wet jacket, hanging it carefully over a chair. There's none of his usual swagger or teasing as he moves around her space with unexpected consideration.

"You didn't have to come over," Y/N says, wrapping her arms around herself. She's suddenly acutely aware that she's wearing old leggings with a hole in the knee and a Northwestern sweatshirt that's seen better days.

Harry looks at her, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Yes, I did."

He begins unpacking the grocery bag: a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Therapy, a package of the imported chocolate biscuits from the international foods section of the campus store, a bottle of red wine, and—surprisingly—a small bunch of daisies, slightly bent from being stuffed in the bag.

"The flowers were an impulse buy," he explains, looking almost embarrassed. "The cashier was judging my ice cream and alcohol purchase pretty hard. Thought they might make me seem less like an alcoholic with a sweet tooth."

A small laugh escapes Y/N, surprising both of them.

"There she is," Harry says with a gentle smile, holding out the slightly crushed flowers. "Want to tell me what's going on?"

Y/N takes the daisies, twirling them between her fingers. "It's nothing. Just... a bad day."

Harry raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "A bad day makes you sniffle a bit during a sad commercial. Whatever this is—" he gestures to her tear-stained face "—is more than a bad day."

He moves to her kitchenette, opening drawers until he finds a glass that he fills with water for the flowers. His easy familiarity in her space should irritate her, but somehow it doesn't.

"You don't have to talk about it," he continues, locating spoons for the ice cream. "We can just eat our feelings and get drunk on cheap wine. But if you want to talk... I'm told I'm a surprisingly good listener when I'm not being an insufferable prat."

The self-deprecating comment draws another small smile from Y/N. She watches as Harry efficiently opens the ice cream and pours two glasses of wine, all without his usual performative flourishes or innuendos.

"It's just been..." she starts, then sighs heavily. "Everything's falling apart. My proposal got rejected. I failed my stats midterm. My laptop crashed with my paper on it. And my high school boyfriend is marrying my ex-best friend."

She hadn't meant to share all that, but once she starts, the words tumble out. Harry listens quietly, handing her a glass of wine when she finishes.

"Well, that's properly shit," he says simply. "All of it."

His straightforward acknowledgment of her problems, without immediately trying to fix them or minimize them, loosens something in Y/N's chest. She takes a sip of wine, grateful for its warmth spreading through her.

"Yeah," she agrees. "It is."

Harry guides her to the small couch, setting the ice cream container between them with both spoons stuck in it.

"For what it's worth," he says, digging his spoon into the chocolate therapy, "your ex is an idiot. And your advisor probably has a stick up his arse the size of Big Ben."

Y/N laughs softly, taking her own spoonful of ice cream. "Dr. Winters is a woman, but yes, definitely something large and uncomfortable lodged up there."

Harry grins, and for a moment, they eat in comfortable silence. The rain continues to drum against the windows, but the sound feels cozy now rather than depressing.

"You know," Harry says eventually, "I failed my first university exam. Back in London, before I transferred here."

Y/N looks at him in surprise. "You did?"

He nods, taking another sip of wine. "Spectacularly. Like, set-a-new-record-low kind of failed. My professor actually called me into his office to ask if I was feeling alright or if I'd suffered a recent head injury."

Despite herself, Y/N smiles at the image.

"What happened?" she asks.

Harry shrugs. "I panicked. Stayed up all night studying, then my brain just... empty. Completely blank during the exam." He twirls his wine glass thoughtfully. "I was so embarrassed I didn't tell anyone. Just smiled and nodded when my mates asked how it went."

"What did you do?" Y/N asks, genuinely curious about this glimpse into a less confident Harry.

"Wallowed for about a week," he admits. "Considered dropping out, changing my name, maybe becoming a shepherd in the Scottish highlands."

Y/N laughs, the sound more natural this time. "A shepherd?"

"I look good in wool," he defends with a mock-serious expression, before his face softens again. "But then I talked to my sister. She's always been the smart one in the family. And she told me something I've never forgotten."

He sets down his wine glass and turns to face Y/N fully, his expression earnest.

"She said, 'Harry, failure isn't falling down. It's refusing to get back up again.'"

Y/N absorbs this, feeling something shift in her perspective. She's always seen Harry as someone who glides effortlessly through life—charming, confident, unbothered by the academic pressures that weigh on her. The idea that he's faced similar struggles and insecurities is both surprising and oddly comforting.

"So what did you do?" she asks.

"I got back up," he says simply. "Went to the professor, asked for extra help, studied my ass off for the next exam. Still didn't get top marks, but I passed." He smiles, a genuine smile without his usual cockiness. "And more importantly, I learned I could handle failing without it being the end of the world."

Y/N nods slowly, understanding dawning. "Is that why you're always so... confident? Because you know you can handle it if things go wrong?"

Harry considers this, head tilted thoughtfully. "Maybe partly. But also—" he grins suddenly, a flash of his usual self "—I'm just naturally charming and devastatingly handsome. Can't help that part."

Y/N rolls her eyes, but she's smiling now—a real smile that reaches her eyes.

"And there's the Harry Styles I know," she says dryly. "I was starting to worry you'd been replaced by a surprisingly decent human being."

"Nope, still me," he assures her, popping the 'p' sound. "Just showing you the premium version. Limited time offer, exclusive to crying girls with good taste in ice cream."

They fall into a comfortable rhythm after that, sharing the ice cream and wine as the conversation flows more easily than it ever has between them. Harry tells stories about his childhood in Holmes Chapel, his sister Gemma, and his decision to study abroad. Y/N finds herself reciprocating, sharing anecdotes about growing up with strict parents and her passion for psychology.

As the ice cream disappears and the wine bottle empties, Y/N realizes that her earlier despair has receded. It's not gone completely, her problems still exist, but they no longer feel insurmountable.

"I should probably go," Harry says eventually, noticing the late hour. "Let you get some rest."

Y/N nods, walking him to the door. There's an awkward moment as they stand there, neither quite sure how to end this unexpected evening.

"Thank you," she says finally, meeting his eyes. "For the ice cream and the wine. And... everything else."

Harry smiles, softer than his usual grin. "Anytime, psychology girl. I mean that."

He hesitates, then reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. "For what it's worth, I think you're brilliant. One setback doesn't change that."

The simple sincerity of his words catches Y/N off guard. There's no teasing, no hidden agenda, just honest appreciation that makes her chest feel warm.

"Even if I'm not in a sorority?" she asks lightly, referencing his protest after she'd beaten him at Game Night.

Harry laughs. "Even then. Though it does make it harder to justify why I let you keep winning at poker."

"Let me?" Y/N raises an eyebrow. "I believe I earned those victories fair and square."

"That's what I let you believe," he says with a wink, and just like that, they're back on familiar ground, the teasing banter that defines their relationship.

Except it's not quite the same anymore. Something has shifted between them tonight, a new understanding that can't be undone.

"Goodnight, Harry," Y/N says softly.

He nods, stepping into the hallway. "Goodnight, Y/N."

As she closes the door behind him, Y/N leans against it, a small smile playing on her lips. Her problems haven't disappeared—tomorrow she'll still need to rewrite her paper, talk to her advisor, and study for her next exam. But somehow, they all seem more manageable now.

She moves to her window, pulling back the curtain just in time to see Harry crossing the street back to the Sigma house, hunched against the rain. As if sensing her watching, he looks up, catching sight of her at the window. He gives her a small wave, which she returns before letting the curtain fall back into place.

Y/N turns to survey her apartment—the empty ice cream container, the wine glasses, the slightly crushed daisies now standing in a water glass on her counter. Physical evidence of the evening that has somehow transformed her worst day into something unexpectedly meaningful.

For the first time since meeting Harry Styles, Y/N finds herself looking forward to seeing what happens next between them—not dreading their next encounter or planning her defensive strategies, but genuinely curious about the person behind the cocky exterior he shows the world.

Taglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstyleszzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhundTaglist: @hisparentsgallery @toosarcastic03 @practistyles @sstyleszzz @sassamanda77 @wheredidmyeyesgo @pbandnutella @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @spinninc @spargelhund @loloooo1989

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Elvis teaching reader how to use vibrators one day then catching her using the, by herself one day..then using them on her til she can't take it anymore.

Dolly

A/N: oooh this was a fun one! Elvis is a little mean 😈

Pairing: 1970!Elvis x reader

Word count: 4.3K

TWs: Elvis is dominant, reader calls him daddy and sir(!), dollification (kinda), exhibitionism (if you squint), praise kink, orgasm control, pillow humping, mean!Elvis, teasing, forced orgasms, overstimulation, little bit of choking, general smut.

You sit on the sofa with your legs crossed demurely at the ankle, flicking through a magazine. Elvis has been out all morning, leaving you alone in the house to make your own entertainment. You’re not sure why he didn’t want you to go with him, and you find yourself worrying your lower lip with your teeth again, wondering if you did something wrong. The bang of the door opening and the chatter of conversation make you sit up, putting down the magazine and quickly smoothing down your little dress. 

“Where’s my little dolly?” Elvis’ voice booms out through the downstairs of his LA house. 

You spring to your feet, pushing them into your kitten heels and trotting towards the source of the noise, eager to see him. 

“Here, Daddy!” You exclaim as you reach him. 

One arm pulls you against him, his palm flat on your lower back as your face turns up towards his expectantly. You feel yourself enveloped in a cloud of cologne and cigar smoke as he leans down to kiss you. He lets you go to run his thumb over the bitten skin of your lower lip, eyes narrowing with concern. 

“Need ta take better care a these here lips, dolly.” His thumb presses just that little bit more firmly, making your lips part a little. “Want ‘em nice an’ soft, sweetheart. Not like my old calloused fingers, here.” 

He laughs then, eyes flicking around to the rest of the Mafia who’d come through the door with him. As if on cue, they all start laughing too. You’re not sure they could’ve all heard what he said, but they know which side their bread is buttered on. 

“Yes, Daddy,” you breathe. 

He hums, seemingly satisfied, and steps back, holding out a bag that he’d been hiding behind his back. 

“A gift for my pretty little doll.”

You beam with delight. He must've gone out without you to buy you a surprise. He knows how much you love surprises.

“Oooh, Daddy.” 

Your hands go to either side of your face in girlish excitement and his lips curl into a slightly smug smile at such an enthusiastic response.

“Go on, take it baby.”

Your hand closes around the handle and he lets it go with a satisfied hum. 

“Why don'tcha take it into your bedroom?” 

You feel him watching you as you trot off with it, your ass jiggling in the tight little dress he'd set out for you to wear that morning. He follows at a more sedate pace but when you pause to open the door he catches up, and you feel the flat of his hand against your ass cheek. You giggle. 

“You like my dress?” You tease, coquettishly, looking over your shoulder at him through your big false lashes. 

“I love yer dress, baby,” he coos in response, moving his hand to press his groin against your ass instead, showing you just how much he likes it. 

“Mmmm. Daddy!” Wiggling against him, one hand over your mouth, pretending to be scandalised. 

“C'mon,” he clicks his tongue, back to using his hands again. “Don'tcha wanna open yer gift?”

You nod quickly, affirming him with a “yes, Daddy,” before moving quickly into the room and sitting down on your plush, pink bed. You'd asked for a heart-shaped one, almost as an unreasonably bratty demand, but he'd got it for you anyway. 

His thigh presses up against yours as he sits down next to you, and you feel a familiar warmth start to spread between your legs. Peering into the bag, you dip your hand in to pull out a small pink box. You open it, rifling through the layers of pink tissue until you find another, smaller box. 

You frown. What could it be? Perfume? It's kind of long and thin… opening one end you shake it carefully into your palm. 

“Daddy? What is it?”

You pout as you try to comprehend the object in your hand. It's pink and plastic, shaped like a long thin ice cream cone. He gently takes it from you and thumbs a switch at the base that you hadn't noticed. It comes to life with a buzz, and he holds your hand palm up, pressing the end against your wrist. You jump.

“Ooh!”

That self-satisfied smirk reappears. 

“A treat for my dolly. Ya like that?”

The vibrations creep along your skin and the feeling between your legs intensifies. 

“Mmmm. What's it for?” You blink at him.

The smirk spreads further across his face. “Ya haveta guess, baby.”

Moving the pink toy from your wrist to your thigh, he studies your face as he drags it higher and higher. Suddenly, understanding spreads across it and your lips form a little o.

He chuckles, his other hand pushing your skirt all the way up, exposing your pink panties. Your eyes flick towards the semi-open door. 

“Daddy?”

You watch his tongue poke out to wet his lower lip. “Don't worry ‘bout that, baby.”

Hearing the Mafia as they laugh and joke in the living room, you squirm, eyes fixed on the doorway now. 

“What if they see?” 

“Then they'll have me ta answer to.”

He presses the vibrating stick against your panties, and you forget all about the open door. 

“Oh!”

A finger presses against your lips, and you flutter your eyes open, barely even realising you'd closed them in the first place. 

“Lil bit a quiet now, darlin’. Know I said I'd deal with anyone seein’ ya, but yer only encouragin’ them with those pretty little noises, ain'tcha? Could ya blame ‘em if they came in?”

You shake your head and stare back at him, your eyes wide. 

“N-no,” you whisper back. 

“Be a good girl an’ be quiet f’me then, hm?”

You tell him yes again and he starts the vibration up again, having flicked it off when you’d cried out. Your teeth start worrying your lower lip until you remember what he’d said about it being rough. You suck it into your mouth instead, tongue running over it repeatedly. The feeling between your legs is growing and with it the wetness of your thin little panties. 

Elvis clicks his tongue and switches the toy off again, making you wriggle about and let out a tiny moan. You look up into his blue eyes pleadingly, finding them dark with lust. 

“You enjoin’ yerself, little girl?”

You nod quickly. “Y-yessir.” 

His mouth curls into a self-satisfied smirk at the honorific. Your chest is heaving with your ragged breathing, you’re so turned on and desperate for him to touch you again. 

“Darlin’. Daddy is just fine.”

“Yes Daddy,” the words tumble out of your mouth quickly, giving away your desperation if it weren’t already painfully obvious. 

“Not that I don’t like it when ya call me sir…”

Your head spins. “Yes, Daddy… Sir… oh…”

He chuckles, thumb rubbing your cheek as his fingers rest underneath your chin. 

“Poor ‘lil thing. Reckon ya really like yer new gift, hm?”

You nod again, deciding to not to confuse yourself further by speaking. 

“Good girl,” he coos. “Let’s get these wet panties off, shall we?”

You shift your hips to help him as he pulls them down for you, instructing you to sit at the head of the bed with your legs spread. You watch as he closes the bedroom door, then stalks back towards you like a tiger stalking its prey. Your heart starts beating out of your chest and it takes all your concentration not to press your thighs together again. 

He sits down beside you on the bed, his hand on your face again as he starts to kiss you. You're melting into him, the way his tongue gently and patiently parts your lips and then dances with your own. The noise of the vibrating stick buzzing into life reaches your ears just before the feeling of the vibrations reach your pussy. You jolt and moan into his mouth, and you can feel him resisting a smile. Pulling away, his thumb brushes your saliva-coated lower lip and the smile appears. He looks like the cat that’s got the cream. 

“Ya can make all the noise ya want to now, dolly.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” rushes out of your mouth again, making his smile somehow even bigger. 

“Ya like this, honey?” He asks, pushing it against your clit firmly. You’re starting to sweat and you wonder if this is too much pleasure and maybe you might have to scream. 

“Y-yes. Oh God. Feels so good.”

“What about this?”

Without warning, he slips the long thin toy inside you and suddenly you’re vibrating from the inside out. Your hips buck and you moan, eyes fluttering closed. 

“So good,” you whisper. Your brain seems dangerously blank. 

He starts to fuck you with the vibrating toy and you can feel arousal spilling down your legs and onto the bed. If only Elvis’ dick did this when he fucked you. You think that his thick, vibrating dick would be even better than this feeling right now, before the feeling of his thumb pressing against your clit stops all further thoughts. 

“Oh! Daddy!” 

“Ya gonna cum fer me, dolly?”

You nod quickly, feeling the edges of your orgasm as he keeps up the pace with the toy and his thumb rolls your clit around. 

“Oh… Oh…” you moan, helplessly, your body jolting and writhing with pleasure. 

“That’s it. Cum f’Daddy.”

Your vision blurs as you feel the wave of orgasmic bliss crashing over you, the pleasure is so overwhelming you don’t know what to do. Wetness streams between your legs and you’re calling out Elvis’ name between desperate moans. You’re not sure sex has ever felt quite this good, although you know you definitely shouldn’t ever mention that to Elvis, feeling your body still and his hands move to gentle, tickling strokes of your thighs. 

“Mmmmm. Good girl,” he hums. 

Eventually your eyes flip open again and you gaze up at him in wonder. 

“You never told me what it was, Daddy.”

He laughs. “Ya still don't know? Innocent lil thing. That's a vibrator, baby. A sex toy.”

“Are there more?” You ask, breathily. “Sex toys I mean.”

Those tickling, teasing fingers are still running over your skin as he considers your question. 

“Yes dolly, lots more of ‘em. But this is all we need right now.” He moves his hand to your throat, thumb gently pressing against your windpipe. “An’ no usin’ it on yer own now, little girl.” 

The warning tone is one you're used to by now, and you reassure him quickly that you wouldn't possibly dream of using it without him. He seems satisfied by your promises, tucking his thumb away and letting his hand slide to the back of your neck. He kisses you gently and you lean into him. You've barely come down from your high and you're already thinking about when you'll be allowed to use the toy again. You hope it's soon. 

***

Elvis has been gone all day and he shows no sign of coming back. You flick through one of your magazines disinterestedly, then try reading one of his books. It's no good, though, you can't concentrate. He wasn't interested in pleasuring you last night, just teasing you until your pussy ached and then making you please him instead. Your pussy still aches now. It pulses with need, and you shuffle your legs back and forth, squeezing your thighs together as your dress rides up higher and higher.

Joe coughs.

“Uh… princess?” He has a habit of calling you princess when Elvis isn't there and you don't really like it. 

“Hmmm.”

“Your uh… your skirt…” he mumbles, and you watch the blush spread across his cheeks as he says it. 

“What about it, Joe?” 

You probably wouldn't be this bratty if Elvis were here, but he isn't. 

Another cough. “You might need ta… pull it down, honey. I don't think Elvis would like the view you're givin’ us right now…”

“Well Elvis isn't here!” You declare. Standing up, you pull your skirt down to where it belongs and huff loudly. “I'm going to bed!” 

You can hear Joe humming and muttering to himself as you leave and you have half a mind to go and find his wife and tell her that he's been looking up your skirt. But the ache between your legs is reaching a fever pitch and you have to find a way to relieve it, right now. You stride into your bedroom and close the door behind you, looking quickly around as if you expected to find Elvis hidden in some corner or other. Of course he is nowhere to be seen, but you sigh anyway. You miss him. You like him being there to tell you what to wear and what to do and, hell, probably what to think too. In his absence you always make silly decisions, and as you unzip your dress and let it fall to the ground at your feet, you feel another one coming on. Sloughing off your panties and unclasping your bra, you stand in the middle of your bedroom completely naked aside from your heels. Elvis loves you in heels, he tells you they make your sooties look pretty, so you even wear them indoors. You spin around on the spot for a moment, looking at your white peeptoes. They do make your feet look nice. Then the throbbing between your legs makes itself known again and you remember your earlier frustrations. You don't think it's fair that Elvis denied you last night and then disappeared all day today. He doesn't like you touching yourself on your own, he always tells you Daddy has to be there to make sure his pussy is being treated right. But you don't know where he is, and your pussy isn't being treated right at the moment, you're damn sure of it. 

Wandering over to the full-length mirror in the room, you take some time to give yourself a once over. You don't look bad naked, and the heels add a certain something. You turn to the side, kicking one foot up behind you and putting a hand on your hip. Pulling a pin-up style expression, you imagine Elvis behind you. Before you know it, the girl in the mirror has her hand between her thighs and is stroking herself there. She puts her other hand to her mouth in faux-surprise. Pleasure starts to pulse through your veins, excitement too, and the next thing you know you're thinking of the vibrator. Elvis did say it was a gift for you. An unhelpful part of your brain reminds you that Elvis also said you weren't to use it without him. You push the thought away, concentrating for a minute or two on the coquettish girl in the mirror, surprised at her own hand between her legs. Then you go in search of the box. 

You’re on the bed, vibrator in your pussy, humping one of your pink fluffy pillows when the door opens a crack and Elvis looks in. You don’t notice him at first, of course you don’t, he’s being deliberately quiet and you’ve got carried away, lost in pleasure. You don’t even notice him slipping into the room completely, silently closing the door behind him. Your mouth falls open as the delicious friction on your clit brings you close to orgasm. That’s when you hear it. 

“Dolly.”

At first you think you’ve imagined it. You want him here so badly that your brain has conjured up that soft southern drawl. As your eyes slowly open and your hips still, you finally register him standing in the middle of your room. 

“Daddy!” You squeak, throwing yourself backwards off the pillow and quickly trying to cover up with one of the many throws on your bed. Your hand reaches between your legs to switch the vibrator off in a way that you pray is subtle but you’re pretty sure is anything but. 

Elvis stares at you with ill-concealed annoyance. His jaw is ticking, clenching and relaxing over and over again in a way that you know spells trouble for you. He rakes a hand through his previously beautifully coiffed hair, leaving it spilling haphazardly over his forehead. You can’t help noticing how good he looks, the way his pants cling to his thighs, his rolled up shirt sleeves emphasising the muscles in his forearms. 

“Jus’ what d’ya think yer doin’ exactly, little girl?” He asks, through gritted teeth. 

“I-I was missing you, D-daddy…” you try. It’s not a lie, but it probably isn’t enough to save you. 

He purses his lips, titling his head to the side as he huffs air out of his nose. “What have I told ya ‘bout pleasurin’ yerself without me?”

You wriggle uncomfortably under the blanket. The toy is still inside you and you’d been so close when he interrupted you. It’s not as if you’ve stopped wanting to finish. If anything, the way he’s talking to you is just making you wetter, your stomach twisting and turning, body aching with want. 

“Not to,” you whisper. “‘M sorry, sir.” It’s a long shot, but maybe upping the ante will help. This might be a get-down-on-your-knees-and-beg-for-forgiveness sort of moment. If only doing that wouldn’t make it immediately obvious that not only had you been pleasuring yourself on your own, but you’d been using the toy that had been expressly forbidden too. 

“I’ll make yer sorry,” he hisses, closing the distance between him and the bed in two large strides. Okay, so maybe your kneeling and begging moment has passed you by. 

The speed with which he pulls the blanket off your body makes you squeal, and you try to wriggle away from him. Anything to stop him seeing what you’ve done, but of course he’s quick, much quicker than you and he grabs your ankles and pulls you across the bed by them. Another deeply exasperated and disappointed sigh falls from his lips and you know he’s spotted the toy. 

“What. Did. I. Tell. Ya. About. This?”

You’re on your back now and he’s pushed your legs up and apart, hands on the backs of your knees as he leans over you menacingly. 

“Sorry, sorry…” you mumble, eyes wide and afraid though you know the wetness leaking out of you is giving away your arousal. “...’m so sorry, sir.”

There’s a silence then, during which you can only assume Elvis is considering exactly what he’s going to do with you. You can almost see his brain working on his face, the way he frowns and then eventually his lips curl into a cruel smile. 

“Ya wanna cum, little girl?”

You nod slowly, unsure. It seems like a trap, but you’re not sure exactly how it could be. The smile is wolfish now, and you start to feel like his prey laid out underneath him as he flicks the switch on again and the delightful buzzing fills your pussy. 

“Well let’s see if that’s what ya want when I’m done with ya.”

Your brain latches on to the words briefly, and then stops trying to work out what they mean as he starts the same process as before, moving the toy in and out of you as he touches your clit. It’s mere moments before you’re cumming, the thrill of your orgasm rushing through your body from your core to your fingers and toes. The relief is so great you sigh with satisfaction, hands thrown above your head. You can hear him laugh a little, and you force your eyes open to try to figure out why. He’s already undone his pants by the time you look, and then his dick is in his hand. 

“Warmed up now, aint’cha?” He coos, replacing the vibrator with his dick in one quick movement. 

You yelp in surprise. You’re relaxed, but not relaxed enough to take him in one go so quickly and you feel your pussy stretch a little painfully. Elvis doesn’t care though, he barely gives you a second to adjust before he’s thrusting into you, making your body shake with each movement. The feeling is overwhelming, it’s pleasure and discomfort and a little sprinkle of oversensitivity to boot. You just lie there, being fucked, panting and moaning, barely able to string a thought together. Your ability to string a thought together leaves you completely when you feel the vibrations again, this time on your clit. You squeak. 

“Daddy!” 

“Mmmm. Want ya ta cum again, sweetheart,” he tells you, hair falling into his eyes, sweat on his brow. 

“O-Oh…” you manage, and then your brain is gone again. 

He keeps thrusting and holding the vibrator against your clit so firmly that all you can do is what he wants, and this time everything goes white and you feel like you’re floating in space, in your body and out of it at the same time. He moves the vibrator for enough time for you to catch your breath and then it’s back. And then he does something you didn’t know was possible - he turns it up. 

“Ahhh! No!” You squirm and struggle, trying to get away from him. The feeling is just too much. 

“Uh-uh, little dolly,” he chides. “Yer gonna lie here until ya cum again.”

“I-I can’t… I… oh God…”

“Ya wanted ta cum. ‘M jus’ lettin’ ya cum.”

You keep wriggling until his hand wraps around your throat. 

“Stay. Still.” 

You feel it tighten, blocking off your airway just enough to make the message clear. You stop moving your body but your head nods quickly and desperately. He presses the toy against your clit again.

“Relax and cum f’Daddy.”

His dick is still inside you as your walls flutter and then squeeze for the third time, your pussy hot and swollen. You don’t know how much more of this you can take. He’s not interested though, and he doesn’t give you another chance to try to escape after this one. Pulling out, he flips you onto your belly and lies on top of you, holding you down. Once he’s got you where he wants you, he shifts just enough to slip the vibrator between your legs and turn it up to full. 

“No… no… ‘s too much, please…” 

“One more, little girl.” His voice is gravelly, dark, dangerous. 

Your clit is so sensitive now you don’t know what to do with yourself. Not that there’s much you can do with yourself, with all of Elvis lying right on top of you, holding you against the terrible buzzing torture. You can feel his hardness against your bare ass, you know he’s getting off on this. You hear someone start to whine, and then after a minute or so you realise it’s you.

“Relax, baby.” Sudden gentleness, his lips next to your ear, the smell of him all around you. 

He kisses your neck and you’re screaming out the fourth orgasm, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes and then spilling down your cheeks, wetting the already much-abused pillow. 

“Oh, good girl.”

“No more, please Daddy… no more…” you whine, arms and legs thrashing as he rolls off you and pulls the toy away, switching it off and tossing it over the other side of the bed. 

“C’mere.”

He guides your face to his lap and your mouth to his stiff dick. Gently helping you move up and down on him, he tells you when he’s going to cum so you can prepare for it spurting down your throat. You only gag a little. The satisfied moan he makes fills you with pride, and you look up at his blissed-out face feeling warm and fuzzy now too. You lick your lips as you rest your head on his thigh, starting to feel tired. After a while he comes round from his orgasm and you feel him move you gently and stand up, tucking himself away again. 

“I’ll run ya a bath,” he announces, getting up and going into the en suite. 

Sitting up slowly, you realise your pussy feels about twice its usual size, puffy and hot between your legs. 

“‘M sorry, Daddy,” you tell him as soon as he’s back, eyes big and desperate for approval. 

The corners of his lips pull into a little smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “So ya should be, sweetheart.” 

Your face falls and you look down, studying the carpet, worried he hasn’t forgiven you and he might start torturing your clit again. Then you feel a finger under your chin as he tilts your face back up towards his. 

“I forgive ya. Think ya took yer punishment.” He smirks then, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Not well, but ya took it. An’ now I gotta look after my lil dolly, haven’t I?���

You wiggle closer to him as he sits down next to you on the bed, your arms around his neck, pouting lips and big doe eyes. 

“My pussy’s sore,” you whisper. 

He laughs and slings his arm underneath your legs, picking you up so you’re sitting sideways on his lap.

“‘M not surprised, baby. Maybe next time ya won’t try ta take care a yerself without yer Daddy around, hm?”

You nod and he kisses you affectionately, first on the lips and then on the end of your nose, finally landing on a last gentle kiss to the forehead. 

“That’s my dolly. Let’s go and check on this bath, sweetheart.”

You cling to him as he stands, holding you in his arms and carrying you to the bathroom. You can feel his pulse throbbing in his neck as your face presses against it. 

“Love you, Daddy.”

He strokes your hair, then kisses you. “Love you too, darlin’. More ‘an anythin’. Now let's get ya nice an’ clean.”

***

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[the-californicationist]

FaceTime (Price/Reader)

Warning: video/phone sex

It was around lunchtime when you usually heard from John. His deployment was stationed in some Eastern European locale, and over there, it would be late at night. He usually texted you throughout the day, and you’d wake up to his updates, but it had been radio silence for at least twenty-four hours and you were nervous.

You tried to stay busy, keeping yourself calm by talking to your friends and calling your mom, but the house was so empty without him. Sometimes you stole a cigar just to smell his smoke in the house again, lighting it on a plate like incense. He’d be cross if he found out, but you knew he’d forgive you. 

You logged out of your work email and undressed to hop in the shower. Then, just as you were about to step in, you heard your phone buzz. Abandoning the running shower, you lunged for your phone, turning it over to see John’s profile photo on the screen, smiling at you.

“John?” You panted, fear crawling up your throat. 

“Hey, love,” he whispered, his voice low and gravelly. He sounded exhausted.

“Thank God. I was worried sick. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he sounded like he wanted to say no, “Everything’s fine.”

That was his code for ‘don’t ask.’ It made you even more concerned, but you kept that to yourself, not wanting to add to his mental stress.

“I miss you, John,” you sighed. 

Then, he was video calling you. You were naked, but he was careful. He would never call you in front of anyone. You swiped up to answer it. 

He seemed surprised to see your bare collarbones. He was shirtless, too. Ready for bed, alone in his bunk. 

“Oh, hey,” he smiled, “Look at you, pretty thing.”

You blushed, 

“Right back at you, handsome.”

He grinned, rubbing his big hand across his chest. You loved it when he did that. There was something so hot about his fingers petting through his thick chest hair, flashing over his pink nipples, warming his tired muscles, rippling and rising with his breaths. 

“Mm, careful, love. I’m already missin’ ya. Start praising me and I’m gonna grab you through this phone,” he joked with you, playfully threatening, flirting through his tiredness. 

“Wish you would, John,” you moaned, testing his limits. If you were lucky, maybe he would take the bait.

You heard the fabric of his sweatpants rustle, and when he repositioned the phone, you saw his pink cock being dragged out, heavy and hardening under its commander’s grasp. You moaned again, more enthusiastically this time, 

“Oh, fuck. I miss that cock,” you propped your phone up on the sink, leaning it against a bottle of soap and the tap. 

You saw your body on the screen, tossing your towel on the counter to show him your entire naked form. Your hands found your breasts, pulling at your nipples, squeezing the flesh for him and for you, feeling better by the second. Your hands were no match for his hands, but it would have to pass. 

“This cock misses you, baby. Why don’t you touch that soft little cunt for me, hm?”

You do as he says, eagerly sinking your fingers into yourself to obey him, sending waves of pleasure through your core as you do. You’re not ready yet, and you work yourself slowly as you watch his giant hand pump his fat shaft faster and faster in the darkness of his bunk. 

“I can’t wait for you to come home, John. I need to taste you again. I want you to put so much come in me that I feel full from it.”

“You like how I taste, love?” His voice was strained. He was concentrating on watching you fuck yourself on your hand. 

“I love it,” you confessed honestly, “You want me to show you how much?”

You didn’t wait for him to reply. You gathered your wetness on your fingers and showed it to him, making sticky strings of your own come drip between your fingers. He groaned, and then he gasped when he watched you lick them clean. 

“Fuck, do that again.”

You dipped your fingers into yourself, coating them with your own fluids and bent down closer to the camera so he could see the gleam of your juices as your fingers slid into your waiting mouth. You used your tongue to show him how clean they were. 

He groaned loudly, a familiar sound, and you saw white streams of come burst from his rosy tip, melting down his shaft like a tall candle. 

“Bloody hell, I needed that.”

You smiled, making a mental note to charge your vibrator before you get in the shower. You needed to let off the insane tension he had just built up inside of you.

You blew him a kiss and he caught it with his free hand, 

“Me, too. Call me tomorrow?”

“No need. Tomorrow, you’re gonna get the real thing.”

[ikaikaaaron]

HVC Black Friday 2023 Petite Gordo 4 1/2 x 56 notes of cocoa, baking spice, cedar, and pepper.

[littlelovelunette]

my english is not the best but i hope you understand :(

could you do one where reader and sev adopt a puppy and sev is super cute with him and treats him like a son?? 😭😭 I'm a big animal enthusiast lol

you can decide whether to add some smut or not, anyway, I love your writing!! :3 byee

Tiny Paws

The first time Sevika said no to the idea of a puppy, it was automatic.

“No,” she grunted, arms crossed over her chest, a cigar dangling from her fingers. “Too much work.”

You expected that, but you also knew how to wear her down.

The next time you brought it up, you took a different approach—showing her a picture of a pitiful, scrappy little thing with dark fur and big, scared eyes.

“Found him outside the Last Drop,” you said casually, placing your phone in front of her. “Poor thing’s shivering.”

Sevika barely spared a glance before exhaling smoke, flicking ash into the tray. “Not my problem.”

“Would be if you saw him in person,” you murmured, already pocketing your phone.

You didn’t bring it up again—not directly, at least. But the next night, you returned to the apartment with a small bundle in your arms.

The puppy, barely the size of a loaf of bread, whined softly as you set him on the couch. His ribs showed under patchy fur, his ears drooping in exhaustion.

Sevika, seated in her usual chair, sighed loudly. “You brought it home.”

“I couldn’t just leave him.”

She groaned but didn’t argue.

Instead, she took a long drag from her cigar, staring at the tiny thing curled up on your lap. You braced yourself for more protests, but instead,

Sevika muttered, “What’s his name?”

You hid your smile. “Haven’t picked one yet.”

She grumbled something under her breath, but later that night, you caught her crouching near the puppy, scratching his tiny head with her flesh fingers.

Sevika liked to pretend she wasn’t invested.

Sure, she acted indifferent when you bought the puppy a proper bed, when you set out food and water bowls in the kitchen. But you noticed how she always checked if his bowl was full before sitting down for the night.

And then came the moment that sealed it—when you woke up one morning to find Sevika asleep on the couch, the puppy curled up against her chest, his tiny body rising and falling with her slow breathing.

You nearly gasped, but before you could even reach for your phone, Sevika cracked one eye open. “Don’t,” she warned, voice rough with sleep.

You grinned. “Didn’t say anything.”

She carefully shifted, making sure the puppy stayed nestled against her. “He’s gonna get spoiled.”

“Maybe,” you teased, “but I think he’s already your favorite.”

Sevika scoffed, but when the puppy stirred and whined, she immediately ran a hand down his back, soothing him.

From that moment on, she dropped the act.

She carried him under one arm like he was her son, grumbling about how soft he was making her while feeding him scraps from her plate.

She kept him close during storms, rubbing his ears when thunder made him whimper.

And when some idiot at the bar made a joke about how ridiculous it was to see a fearsome enforcer doting on a puppy, Sevika simply narrowed her eyes and said, “Say that again.”

The guy didn’t.

You never said I told you so, but every time you watched Sevika cradle the little thing in her massive arms, talking to him in that rare, gentle voice of hers, you didn’t have to.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Can you imagine a fake dating scenario where you hire Lloyd to pretend to be your partner for a family gathering because you can’t stand your family and want to spend the night watching him gleefully terrorize them? 🤣

Hehehe I wrote this on the bus...

Do You Trust Me?

No explicit warnings. Comments and reblogs always welcome. Love you all! 😍

"Look, I need you on your worst behaviour," you say as you face the grey brick manner.

"You don't gotta ask me twice, toots," Lloyd comes around the front of the car to meet you. "I'll be sure to pay extra attention to the oysters."

You want to sigh and smack him in the face. That's a common feeling towards this man, you're sure. Yet you hate to admit, you need him. Just for tonight. You don't think your father could ever tolerate him longer than that.

"Come on," he taps your ass and you yipe.

"Hey!" You sneer.

"Gotta make it believable. Besides, gotta get my shots in where I can."

"Not part of the deal, Hansen." You push his hand away.

"Ah come on--"

"No, you got your money so stop."

"You know, if you want them to buy it, you're gonna have to play along. Spare a few smooches," he hooks his arm around you instead.

"Yep, and I'm dreading it." You charge forward, knowing it's too late to back out now.

You just need him to be himself. He never really has a problem with that. He is shamelessly genuine.

As you approach the door, it opens from the other side. Belinda, the resident maid, lets you in, greeting you with a smile and the offer to take your coat. Lloyd helps you out of your jacket before he removes his own. He's being... too helpful.

You look at his deep blue velvet blazer. He even dressed well. Goddamn, he couldn't find a pair of slides and some socks?

"Cut it out," you whisper as you follow Belinda.

"I'm not doing anything," he hisses back.

"For once," you snip.

He laughs softly and takes your hand as you enter the bright dining room, more of a hall. The chandelier shines over the polished table, gleaming off the cutlery and candelabra. So ostentatious but that's your parents.

"There you are, dear," your mother strides over, "we were afraid you wouldn't make it."

"Got her here in one piece," Lloyd declares, "all to see her beautiful sister."

"Sister?" Your mother gasps and touches her chest. "Nooo, I'm her mother. Oh silly. You must be the fiance?" She preens.

You send Lloyd a piercing look. He's charming when he tries but why is he doing that?

"Could've fooled me," he grins and takes her hand, "honored."

He kisses her knuckles and you almost recoil. She giggles. Your mother. A giggle. Like a school girl.

"Where's dad?" You ask. He's harder to impress.

"He's around. He was just going out to get--"

"Ah, you're here," your father's staunch tone carries across the high ceiling. You turn to meet him. "And this is your... addition."

He nods at Lloyd and offers his hand. The shake, veins bulging in their masculine tango. Your father hums and pulls the cigar from behind his ear.

"Lloyd Hansen, sir," your plus one introduces himself. "Is that a black dragon?"

Your father squints and dips his chin again, "you know your cigars?"

"I'm a casual purveyor, no enthusiast by any means."

"Hansen," you cough and touch your throat. "I mean, honey," you tug on him. "Can I talk to you?"

"Ah, sorry, sir, she's the boss," he says to your dad and turns to you, "yes, dear?"

"Come here," you growl and drag him away.

You take him to the corner and face him, "hullo? What are you doing? You said you would ruin this. Okay? I need out of this bloodline."

"Pfft. You don't know what you got, toots," his eyes scan the walls. "This is spectacular--"

"No, shut up," you whisper sharply. "You promised-- I paid you. Alright? I just need you to get me out of this dumb arrangement. I don't get my trust unless I marry, well, if my fiance is a clown, my parents might just pay me to call the whole thing off--"

"That's a good deal. How much is the trust?"

You tweak your brow and puff out in exasperation, "Hansen..."

"Ah, you know me, baby," he winks, "I'm no good at doing what I'm told. Besides...." he runs his hand down his chest; a designer tie under the velvet and looks around. "Googled this place and well, I like what I see." He turns back to you, "don't look so heartbroken, toots, it's not just the money. I got me a wife with a hot ass to boot."

You gasp and raise your hand. He catches it and cradles it with his other. He kisses it and chuckles.

"Don't worry, you'll get a full refund," he slithers.

[gaysindistress]

What happens if the 141 boys get asked to be groomsmen in a wedding party? (Soap should not be trusted at stag parties)

Cod masterlist

Soap:

I completely agree with you. Soap should absolutely not be trusted with anything to do with stag parties at all. He would be the stereotypical best man that causes all of the fun mischief. There will be strippers but they’re male strippers and they’re targeting Simon with a vengeance even if he’s not the groom. There’s an itinerary with every karaoke bar in the most popular part of the city because that’s where the college girls are. Soap’s entire plan hinges on said college girls tagging along and filming the night so that it goes viral and the debauchery being memorialized.

The Cap:

John was giving me such Ron Swanson vibes when I was trying to think of what he would. He would give a simple nod and acknowledgment before continuing on with his day. He’s so chill and nonchalant about being a groomsmen that you’re not even sure he remembers that he’s in the wedding party. That is until the day of the wedding. This man is the first one up with breakfast and coffee made for the whole party. He’s taking charge and making sure that everyone is on time, ready to go, and no one is drunk when it’s time to walk down the aisle. Afterwards, he’s pulling out the most expensive bourbon and cigars imported from Cuba.

Simon:

I’m torn; either he says “yeah no mate. I’m not going to be in town” or he stares blankly and then goes back to his task.

Much like John, you’re not sure if he remembers he’s in a wedding but this man genuinely makes no indication that he’s aware a wedding is even happening. He shows up right on time and is already ready so he just sits there reading until it’s time to go. At the reception, he’s basically blending into the shadows behind John because they have a dog & chosen human relationship to me.

Gaz:

He’s so excited to be a groomsmen! He’s honestly a mix between John and Soap; the enthusiastic stag party planning and on top of it day of. Gaz’s is the bride/groom’s dream come true because he’s not late, he knows what’s going on, and he’s keeping the others in check too.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Nik turns 50. TF 141 throw him a surprise party. (As the author continues to build their voices and headcanons in his head.)

cw: none.

“I can't believe Nik’s going to be fifty next week. The man's aging like a fine wine. It must be something in the water over there.”

It had been a fairly innocuous comment by Laswell over one of their frequent phone calls, but it had sent Price into an unfathomable tailspin.

Fifty.

Fifty was a big birthday where Price came from. The kind where the extended family, and wider community around them, were invited to a village hall for an old fashioned knees up, and you ended up carrying your uncle Rodney home so your aunt didn't smother him with a throw pillow after he pissed all over the doorstep.

Price had never really thought much about the families and wider lives of his contacts. They got the job done and then they parted ways. In every sense, a contact held the same position in Price's mind as the weapon in his hand; a tool to be used and then set aside once you were done.

But Nik… Nik was becoming more than a contact. A lot more. Price knew there was no uncle Rodney for Nik. There was no family whatsoever. No one special to mark half a century with, except maybe… fuck.

Price didn't share scotch with just anyone, let alone pass his cigar over for them to take a toke. As much as he respected Laswell, he was never inclined to spend hours with her chattin’ shit, until the sun broke through the blinds and they both had to slam some black coffee so they looked remotely presentable for their operators. His hand never lingered on anyone else's carrier vest, and no one else's voice made warmth and light curl in his chest.

No one else slotted against Price's... everything quite like Nikolai.

Price wasn't stupid. He knew what these signs meant, but that didn't mean he had any idea what the fuck to do about them. It was safer to just… be, too cowardly to progress any further. And yet, this felt like a milestone somehow.

“Captain, are you there? John?”

“Rog, yeah… uh. Continue.”

By the time Price had hung up, he had resolved to do something to mark Nik’s birthday. Laswell had coughed up the exact date and then slyly asked why Price was so interested. Her tone suggested she already had a hunch. “141 tradition,” he'd said, before hanging up. Rude, but she'd cope.

He finished some paperwork and turned in for the night, but sleep didn't come easy. His plans played out across the dark ceiling above his head and each time he settled on a course of action, he picked a hundred holes in it and cast it aside.

“Buy him a bottle of vodka and put a bow on your prick,” Simon said over eggs and bacon. The majority of the base was still asleep, with only a few other troopers skulking around the canteen.

Price choked on his gulp of tea and thumped his chest. “Classy, Simon.”

“You’ve been dancin’ round each other for years,” Simon murmured, rubbing at the stubble below the line of his mask. “Best time as any to pull the trigger.”

“Pot. Kettle. Black,” Price said as he stabbed at the bacon on his plate to emphasise each word.

“Fuck off,” Simon grumbled, “sir.”

Price snorted a laugh and they finished the rest of their breakfast in companionable silence. After a session in the gym, a myriad of brain-numbing meetings and supervising some training runs, Price was no closer to shaking out of his decision paralysis. If they were on mission he could have hashed out a plan without taking a breath, but he… didn't want to fuck this up. It felt too important.

Price was left with no choice but to consult professionals.

“Surprise party,” Soap said gleefully, chucking his playing cards onto the coffee table. “In th’ hanger, we invite him over tae ‘discuss an op’,” Soap lifted his fingers to emphasise the spoken quotation marks, “get Laswell tae send the invite.”

Gaz nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, then he won't suspect anything - oh, oh, I've got Farah's number, we can get her in on it. She’ll know if he’ll want anyone else, and… uh, you know, we’ll get clearance.”

“Right,” Price leaned back, arms folded over his chest. “So, what… we need food, and cake.”

“Aye, sir,” Soap said, squinting. “And booze. Gaz an’ I'll sort the logistics, and ye jus’ need tae sort the pressie.”

“We’re on it, sir. Leave it to us.”

The present. Price could do that. No worries.

Two days later, he stared down at the forty item long Amazon wishlist he had titled “Operation Black Hawk” and had no idea what to get. Something that walked the line of funny but sentimental, that said ‘you’re hot as fuck but I'm not desperate but I absolutely wank over you in the shower’.

“Fuckin Christ,” Price whispered at this office ceiling, slouched deep in his chair. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to quiet but for thoughts of Nik. Think, think.

So many conversations, ice tinkling against glass, low chuckles and borish jokes; a warm palm on Price’s shoulder and a smile so toothy it was contagious. Endless memories of time at Nik’s side. There had been that summer Nik had come fishing with him. Just a few days of peace before they both returned to the field. Nik had snoozed through most of it, exhausted by their previous mission, but in between he had surveyed the lake, watching the insects flit across the water.

“Poprygun'ya strekoza, leto krasnoye propela,” Nikolai had murmured.

“Cursing my ancestors?” Price had asked before gulping down a mouthful of beer.

Nik had chuckled. “Nyet, captain. It means a playful prankish Dragonfly, the whole summer have sung out. It is a poem by Ivan Karylov. One of my favourites.”

“Yeah? What's it about?”

“It is a fable...”

“Oh bloody hell, not another Russian morality lesson.”

“Pssh, this is good one. You will like it,” Nik had sat up in his camping chair. “It is about a beautiful dragonfly who spends her summer dancing and resting, while the hardworking ant prepares. When winter comes, she begs the ant for help, but he refuses, because he worked hard and she did not.”

“Harsh but fair. Work hard, play hard, them’s the rules..”

“You see, I knew you would like it. You are an ant. You earn your rest. This,” Nik had gestured at fishing tackle, the camping equipment, and the lake, “is the fruit of your labour, and I am privileged to share it with you, my friend.”

“And I you, mate.”

They had knocked their bottles together and moments later one of Price’s reels had begun spinning out. By that point they'd drunk so much that landing the damn carp had left them both up to their knees in lake water, pissing themselves laughing on the bank. It had been both the worst and best fishing expedition of Price’s life.

Price opened his eyes in the present and grinned at the ceiling, digging his phone out of his pocket. He knew exactly what he was going to get Nik.

The rest of the week sprinted by quicker than a RAF pilot on his way to a champagne dinner, and before he knew it Price was standing on a rickety plastic chair hanging a bloody banner from a rusty nail high on the hanger wall.

“It's wonky, cap,” Gaz said just as Price was climbing down.

“I think you'll find your eyes are wonky, sergeant.”

“Of course, sir. I'll get that sorted.”

Price pressed his hands to the small of his back and glanced around at the preparations. The sergeants had done well. Soap had even managed to draft Simon in on the booze run and there was a healthy selection of spirits on the buffet table by the birthday cake. It was a Colin Caterpillar from Marks and Spencers, one of Nik's favourite shops to visit when he was in the UK, with a joke candle stuck in the top that he wouldn't be able to blow out. Soap's idea.

The majority of Chimera had turned up to mark the occasion, as had a few faces Price recognised from previous ops with other organisations and task forces. Soap had said a few didn't quite pass the bar for security clearance, which wasn't surprising.

It was just as Gaz and Soap were bickering over the playlist that they heard the telltale drum of helicopter blades beat overhead. “Places, places!” Soap crowed from the hanger door, slamming the lights off. Booted feet scuttled across the dusty floor to find hiding places behind the vehicles and crates stacked around the edges, and Price joined Soap by the door.

Several minutes passed, and then… “And you have no idea where the weapons store is?”

“None at all, Nik. Price should have more intel,” Laswell replied. She had rendezvoused with Nik in Germany as part of the plan. Her wife was currently squatting behind a crate with Gaz.

“I hope so or this will be a difficult mission.”

Soap was practically vibrating at Price's shoulder as Nik rounded the corner. He slammed on the lights and everyone erupted from their hiding places on cue. Price didn't miss how Nik’s hand dropped for his sidearm, his eyes blown wide.

“Laswell, what is–?”

“Happy birthday, Nikolai,” she said, walking by to plant a kiss on her wife's cheek.

“I–” Nik glanced around the hanger as he accepted hugs from Gaz and Syd, handshakes from others, still bewildered. “How–?”

“It was th’ captain's idea,” Soap said, jutting his chin at Price. “He told us ye were hittin’ the big five-oh, old man. Ye not gettin’ off that easy.”

“Here, drink,” Simon grunted, pressing a glass into Nik's hand. “I'm startin’ the food, Johnny. I've been patient.”

“Aye, L.T. Bust open th’ sarnies. Farah, th’ ones on the left are halal - aye, bet.”

Nik was drawn into conversation briefly and Price hung back, glancing at the badly wrapped parcel he'd stashed on top of an empty oil container. He was so focused on his internal misgivings that Nik’s hand on his elbow made him startle. “Oi, give me a bloody heart attack…”

“You did this?”

“MacTavish and Garrick did this,” Price said.

Nik, who knew that the 141 did nothing without Price's express permission, grinned toothily. They stood in silence as he surveyed the many faces scattered around the hanger, some shoving sandwiches in their faces while others swigged from freshly open bottles. “I… have never had a birthday party before.”

“What? Not even as a kid?”

Nik shrugged one shoulder. “Nyet, it was not a… priority.” He looked back at Price, dark eyes heavy with something complex and unreadable. “Thank you.”

Price swallowed and tried to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. “You're uh… you're welcome, I… got you something. But, uh…” Before he could wuss out, Price grabbed the poorly wrapped parcel and shoved it into Nik's hands. “Happy birthday.”

Nik set his glass aside. “Your wrapping skills are…”

“Bloody fantastic.”

“...unique.”

“I'll take it.”

Nik huffed a laugh as he tore the brown paper away and flipped the book over in his hands. Price was relieved to see his face brighten. “Aesop’s fables. Captain, this is beautiful…”

To be fair, it was a damn pretty book. The hardcover was illustrated with the animals from the fables, the pages edged in gold, and the inside cover was patterned. You know… posh. And then Nik found the second part, tucked about a quarter of the way through. It was a photograph from their fishing expedition. A rough selfie, with half a fish head in shot where Nik was trying to display their catch, and Price’s face smeared with mud from where he had stumbled onto the bank.

Nik's eyes lingered on it, his fingertips brushing over their grinning faces, and he swallowed.

Price panicked. “I'm sorry, it's shit, I'll uhm–”

Nik pulled him into an embrace that crushed the air from his lungs. There was definitely a stutter in Nik’s chest, and Price wrapped his arms around him in return. If he happened to turn his nose into Nik's neck, and Nik happened to press his face a little closer, then that was fine. More than fine.

Price's toes curled in his boots, his fingers tightened in Nik’s shirt, the aching in his chest becoming that much harder to ignore. “You alright?”

“Da,” Nik said tightly. “I just need a minute.”

“Take all the time you need,” Price murmured, closing his eyes as he cradled Nik against him. He didn't mark the time, happy to revel in the warmth of the solid body in his arms, and the smell of Nik's skin, pressed so close Price could feel the thrum of his heartbeat.

When Nik finally pulled away, slightly reddened eyes lingered on Price’s lips before turning to the rest of the party, who were doing a shitty job of pretending they hadn't all been watching. “Later, I would… like to spend some time with you.”

Price didn't want to examine the heat under his skin too closely, lest it be entirely misplaced. “Course.”

“Nik, get over ‘ere tae blow th’ oot before Ghostie eats yer cake’s face!”

Nik tucked his book under his arm and walked over to the buffet table with Price to a horrifically off-key rendition of ‘happy birthday’. Once Nik had worked the candles out, flicking them at Soap with a loud Russian cuss, festivities descended, as they usually did on base, into raucous drinking games and whatever the sergeants decided passed for dancing. Simon lost the Ring of Fire and had to down the filthiest pint Price had ever seen in his life, Laswell thrashed them all at beer pong and Gaz tried to teach Farah how to do the worm. As far as fiftieth birthday parties went, it definitely beat out the village hall knees up.

Later, when the majority of the party had slunk off to dark corners, fallen asleep where they sat or retired in good order, Nik pulled his captain back into his arms and kept him there until the sun rose. Except, this time, they did a damn sight more than talk.

[thedropsofblood]

I love reading a platonic yandere family with a reader who's completely different from them

Idk if this was a request or not but here we are

You'd say your family was fairly normal? Well, as normal as a mafia family can be. You had wonderful parents and two loving caring older siblings. Wonderful, right? Yeah, no, you wish it was.

Your brother was hugging you and whining about how you shouldn't get too close to your friends, meanwhile you ignored him and paid attention to your homework. Your sister looked at the scene with a frown before dragging your brother away, stealing his position and refusing to let go of you instead. They were like cats and dogs around you, constantly bickering and only shutting up once you've actually gotten mad at them.

Meanwhile your father sat on the couch a little away from you, reading his newspaper and smoking a freshly wrapped cigar. Your mother sat between your father and you, occasionally helping you out with your homework but mainly distracted by her phone. Despite all their flaws, in your opinion, they were the best family you could've asked for. You thought to yourself as you closed your textbook, leaning in to rest your head against your mother's shoulder.

You really needed a nap, especially after a rough day at school.

What you didn't know was how they acted when you're not around.

"I knew something was wrong with my poor, poor baby..." Your mother muttered after moving your jacket up to reveal your bruised arm. Your sister frowned, leaning over to look at the mark before saying with a rather harsh tone. "Are they getting bullied? Dad, did you say brother would keep an eye on them at school What about the principal? Didn't you buy that old hag out already?!"

"Your brother was preoccupied today. He needed to catch up on his missions, don't blame him for something out of his control." Your father sets down his newspaper, his attention moving over to the bruise on your arm and taking a deep breath of the cigar. "I'll deal with the hag later. Seems like she's forgotten the only reason why she's still alive."

"The death of her entire bloodline wouldn't make up for our sunshine's bruise now wouldn't it, father?" Your brother barked back, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes. He was already in a bad mood today because of his missions, this was oil on top of the already burning flame. Your mother silently nodded, her gloved hand grazing over your bruise as if she just got robbed of her most precious jewellery. No, this was even worse than her entire net worth being taken away and burnt at the stake, they injured her entire livelihood, the only ray of sunshine in their corrupted blood stained world, they deserved much worse than just death.

Her hand subconsciously tightens around your arm, causing your sister to grip onto her wrist and pull her hand away before she accidentally wakes you up, gaining a sigh of relief and gratitude from your mother.

Your father meanwhile was rubbing his temples from a supposed headache. He spoke up roughly, eyes narrowing at you as he brushed his hair out of his face. "What if we just homeschool them then? If you're all so persistent about keeping them safe?"

"Do you remember the last time we tried that? They sneaked out and almost got assassinated by your old rival, dad." Your sister frowned, tightening her hug around your torso and nuzzling her head into your chest, all to the dismay of your other family members.

Your brother seemingly had an idea that made his eyes sparkle. He said enthusiastically, hands on his hip as if he just made a major discovery. "What if we just buy out an entire school and make them move into it? It wouldn't be that expensive, just a few millions, and our sunshine will be completely safe."

Despite your brother often having horrible ideas, this, somehow, seemed surprisingly reasonable. Your mother crossed her legs as she thought about it, before giving a nod towards your father, who puffed out the smoke and muttering. "I'll assign it then, honey. Please, treat our sunshine bruises for me, I'll notify you when it's done." Your father held your mother's hand and placed a kiss on it before grabbing his phone, walking out to make a phone call.

Your mother smiled before standing up and setting you to lay down on the sofa, making your sister let go of you, albeit hesitantly. She puts a thin blanket over your sleeping body and a pillow underneath your head, before placing a kiss on your forehead.

"Come on, mom. We have a hag to take care of." Your brother said, sending your mother a glare, which she returned right back to him, causing him to look away to pack up his firearms, preparing for his upcoming with his sister. Your mother sighed, following behind them, her gaze lingering on your sleeping body for a moment before quickly setting off.

No matter how little they get along with each other, they can at least try to get along for the sake of your happiness.

A/N: This was so rough but I live laugh love through it 💔

[merbear25]

Needing release

You've found your way into the Cross Guild's heart. How you've come to entrance them, they haven't figured out yet―swirling thoughts of your grace, strength, smile, and your body, which was the focus of tonight's events.

CW: NSFW, MDNI!! gn!reader, male masturbation

Cross Guild

pt. 1, pt 2, pt.3

Mihawk: They'd entrusted missions to you in faith that you would deal with them swiftly and without a hitch. With each one, you continued to prove yourself to them, earning their respect. Complaining, tardiness, and lack of an attention to detail: none of these would ever be used to describe you. You were now understood to be one of the best.

Mihawk answered when you phoned in. You were calling to confirm your completion of the mission you'd been given. Everything went smoothly, like you expected it would. Hearing you explain each of the properties they'd find useful, caught him off guard this time. The self-assurance lacing your voice was making him fidget in his chair―trying to readjust.

Even after hanging up, the confidence coating your words were ringing in his mind, worming their way deeper into his imagination. Gripping at his thighs, he looked down at the enlarged bludge in between them.

Living in a massive castle has its advantages; taking advantage of one of these, he released his aching length and thrusted into it more enthusiastically than he'd anticipated. Thinking of how bold yet competent you were with each task was a massive turn-on.

Imagining you kneeling in front of him, your eyes on his, and your mouth open and ready for him, made it nearly impossible to keep his load from shooting onto the rug. What a waste he thought to himself having wanted to see you making better use of it.

Crocodile: Having you around was proving to be useful; you were capable, dependable, and were always ready to take on a new challenge. You'd grown on him over the time you'd spent with them.

He'd given you an assignment to gather further intel on; expecting nothing less than a thorough job, he bestowed this responsibility onto one of their best―you. The time for turning in such a vital one was drawing near, and as he was waiting for you, he took a long drag of his cigar.

Moments before the deadline was up, you came hurling into his office; you were beaming with excitement from your discoveries, and without hesitation, you began giving him the run-down.

Despite the information you were disclosing being genuinely interesting, he noticed you looked different. The outfit you'd chosen that day suited you nicely―the fabric sinched around each curve of your body perfectly. The flattering outfit was causing his mind to wander, leading him to excuse you from his office. He couldn't allow one of his employees catch him pitching a tent.

He locks the door behind you and sits back on the couch. The troublesome rush of seeing you in such flattering clothes was too prominent in his mind―he needed to relieve himself of such images.

Invisioning you standing before him, he began stroking himself. The way you'd undress for him, giving a stiptease: the image he had of you was already pushing him over the edge. Coating his own hand in sperm, he fantasized his grip being that pretty mouth of yours.

Buggy: He couldn't understand you. Even after you'd spent a considerable amount of time around them, he still couldn't figure out why you were as kind as you were to him. And even after he'd thrown numerous things at you to bate you into showing your true colors, you never broke.

Letting the warm water fall on him, he let himself get lost in his thoughts. The way you laughed at his jokes, how he found comfort in your tender words: these were the things about you he didn't think he could ever understand, yet he wasn't entirely complaining.

Thinking how lovely you looked when you laughed―showing him a genuine smile was something truly beautiful. The way you pressed up against him when you did it too. You looked breathtaking that day.

The last one was lingering, showing to be a rather favored memory. In that moment, he was okay with not fully understanding you. All he wanted now was to return the feeling you'd given him.

Fantasizing you pressed up behind him, guiding your hands along his body was making it difficult to hold back his moans. Closing his eyes, the warmth of the droplets running down his body could easily be replaced by light touches from you: dancing across his skin, trailing further down, reaching his full length. Visualizing you reaching around to be the one to guide him through his climax had him seeing stars. He let out each bit into the drain.