inexperienced!simon sending you the most detailed voice notes while he's jacking off. he hasn't done it before... he hasn't done anything like this really, so he's very focused on descriptions since the visual won't be there.
“hi, love,” simon grunts out, sounds of a slick rhythm settled just under the rumble of his greeting. when he pauses to take a shuddering breath, you can really hear them. “uh–i had t’ start already, sorry. jus’ couldn’t stop thinkin’ about ya… oh, this is simon, by the way.”
more wet strokes sound before the audio cuts out.
onto the next.
“uhm. ‘m proper leakin’ right now. ma head won’t stop–not my head head, but the one on m-my cock. keeps crying for ya.” another punched-out groan cuts off simon’s ramble. he curses a couple times under his breath before remembering the rest of his words. “i spit on it, too. helps like y’said. haven’t even come yet, ’n i’m already makin’ a mess.”
a hissing sound ends that one. next...
“my, uh, my top is off. already was ‘cause’a the heat, but left my briefs on. the-the white ones. cock was so–shit– hard, i nearly popped outta them. when you… mmm–when you come over later, can you do th-he sniffs-that thing where ya. like. lick over the fabric? ’n nose at me, that kinda stuff? look so pretty when you do that…”
on the next note, the strokes are faster. louder. accompanied by a touch of impatience.
“fuck me, love. wish y’could see me right now. c… god, cock’s feelin’ bigger than usual. thicker, too. can feel it fuckin’ pulsing. ’n my balls, jesus. they miss ya’real bad. i think they’re–maybe aching a bit? but it’s the kind that feels good, too. like, uh. like they’re jus’ full. sensitive. and it feels nice when i do this…” there’s break in the strokes and a shuffling noise, then a deep groan. “y-you can’t see but ‘m wrapping my fingers around them. like that ring we got, ’n the pressure feels nice. gonna make me cum ‘f i do it f’too long.”
by the time the next one starts, simon’s hand is wrapped right back around himself. his breathing is louder now, accented by badly-hidden whines, and you can hear the way he’s started to squirm against the sheets of the bed.
“i-i can’t wait t’fuck ya tonight. been getting better at holdin’ it. practicin’ my form–fuuuck. oh, fuck. s’close, baby, i can feel it… auh, i wish-i wish, uh, fuck. i can’t think. my fuckin’ legs, they won’t stop shaking.” god, you can hear it in his voice. the poor thing, with his voice croaking out an increasingly wobbly tone, cock sounding wetter and wetter with each tug of his hand. he’s probably sweating, too. he always is when he gets like this–horny and flushed and damp with sweat over how good he’s feeling… how much he feels for you. “ooouh, i wanna come… i wanna come… fuck, can i blow f’you, please?”
the next audio message is the longest one and nothing but simon falling apart. the volume fluctuates, his grip on the phone less reliable with his head in other places and his throat going raw with all the noise he’s making. groans and wails of everything from your name to swears that aren’t comprehensible (thanks to the unconscious thickening of his accent) tumble out of him in between arches that puff his chest in the air and the tight gropes of his twisty, pumping hand. it feels like it’s lasting forever, simon’s release. he goes on and on, having to sniff a few times when tears try to well in his eyes.
the last note takes him a good minute to send. he starts it with a thick sigh.
“uhm… uh, t-there’s so much cum, love. hand’s covered in it… everywhere else, too,” simon makes himself laugh with that one. he lets out a deep, tired chuckle before a quiet smack sounds. “tastes good. gonna… gonna send you a pic, yeah? little preview f’later. and ‘cause it really is a lot. think this is the most i’ve ever come without ya here…”
one last buzz from your phone.
FROM SI 🤓♥️:
1 image
opening up the picture, your entire body warms with buzzy feeling.
against his cum-covered hand rests his softening cock, still appearing as thick and as heavy as ever despite the size of the load that’s oozed out all over him self. the photo is all spit and cum and slick, which forces you to have to swallow down the groan that tries to escape your throat.
you’re Kyle Gaz Garrick, you left your girlfriend after a nasty fight when you were nineteen, going straight to training. you think it’s for the best, she’ll only slow you down.
several years later, you go to the bar with your mates, you see the girl of your dreams again. rather than bitter resentment, you fall again for her.
your annoying friends notice. you tell the story in clipped words. the LT, big dark, brooding LT, decides suddenly he will be your wingman. he stands up. he goes to talk to her and you’re mortified. you prefer to remain busy with your pint.
the LT comes back, with a number scribbled on a napkin.
“She said you better call her or she’ll trespass on the military ground.”
They were always too big, considering his behemoth size above the rest of his peers. Long, spindly fingers that over the years in the military, became thick with callouses and scars. Yellowed with cigarette butts, a knuckle here and there slightly out of place from all of the fractures and breaks.
The palms of his hands were completely webbed with delicate lines from both age and the extensive length of times he had worn his fingers in a fist. He had tried to make them look a little better, had gotten tattoos, would lotion when he could remember. The ink ran deep, little swirls and designs eating up the thick, aged skin on the back of his hands, fingers blotched on the first knuckle with little images or letters. It had started to bleed and fade that strange sort of navy that tattoos do after a prologued time under the skin.
But no amount of ink on the planet would erase the blood that they carried each day. Breaths silenced by those jagged palms, lives ended with just one pull of an index finger. His hands were dirty. Worse than the muck constantly tucked under his trimmed nails. They were forever stained crimson with decisions he would never be able to take back.
Right now, he was fighting hard to stop his fingers from trembling. He’d never felt his heart race this way. His palms were tense, outstretched to minimise the age lines that spanned them, and waiting for when the weight settled between them.
His breath stopped.
Bundled up in blankets and a tiny pink hat, those same hands that had carried grenades and guns and knives, was now so carefully balancing a tiny baby girl. No bigger than the length of his hands held open side by side, weighing nothing more than just a small few pounds and ounces.
Just her face was visible. Still a little smushed up from birth, peach fuzz coating the softest, pinkest skin. Her eyes shut, tiny lashes splaying across little rosy cheeks. She had his nose. Well the one before it has been broken four times. A little button nose, a little long, with a tiny bump down the bridge. But she had the poutiest little lips on the planet. Glossy with salvia, undoubtedly a carbon copy of her mother’s.
Simon was breathless and speechless.
This tiny thing, no bigger than this calloused, ugly hands… it had come from him. And the fact somebody loved him so much to give him one.
He could feel the hot sting of tears in the corner of his eyes.
His daughter stirred, her little face scrunching up even more before she yawned. Simon only watched, how her tiny pink tongue flexed in her mouth, how the fat of her cheeks shifted to accommodate that teeny tiny jaw to open as wide as it could go. Then, she settled back into the blankets, clearly comfortable in Simon’s hands. She squeaked quietly before settling in completely.
The first tear streamed down Simon’s cheek. Then the next. And the next.
His hands. Those calloused, ink stained, bloodied evil-doing hands. He had hated them for as long as he could remember.
But now, holding the smallest, most delicate, precious being in the world.
könig who gets so needy and whiny when he is at the apartment after a long day working and you are out studying with some friends or enjoying your friday night with drinks and music. he hates it, hates how his feet move him to your room and how his body colapses in your bed, face smushed into your pillows, he lifts his mask just enough to take a nice sniff of your bedsheets, his hand pushing his sweatpants and boxers down, letting his big veiny and leaking dick out.
when you come back home you can hear faint grunts and huffs from down the hall. your bag slides off your arm as you walk over, könig doesn't stop when he hears you come in, if anything, he starts fucking your pillow harder. "fuck, sorry" he mumbles under his breath, his hips stopping as he turn around, his body cover most of the bed, his leaking tip stands tall. "help me, ja? i was waiting for you, you know how i get when you are away" his large hand extends out to hold your hand, leading you towards the bed.
tws: smut/18+ (mdni), penetrative sex, sex in childhood bedroom (with other ppl in the house), kyle looooves attention, oral sex (mentioned), ass play (mentioned), spit play (mentioned), cum play (mentioned)
reader bringing home boyfriend!kyle garrick to meet your family for the first time. the guy goes all out for a more than decent frist impression, complete sunshine and kind smiles. dressed in a soft-looking sweater (one you didn’t even know he had?), and carrying a bouquet of as a cherry on top.
your family, to no surprise, drinks up all of kyle’s charm and then some. they just melt at the sight of his pretty eyes, not to mention the way he can warm an entire room with a couple laughs.
he makes sure to remember everyone’s names. doesn’t touch his hands any lower than the small of your back. helps you, your mother, your sister, and your grandmother get settled in your seats with plates of food before even thinking of anything for himself.
by the end of the night, he’s the star. a few of your uncles and an entire crowd of cousins, who said goodbye over twenty minutes ago, are still busy cackling over inside jokes when your eyes start to droop. the pillow is calling your name as you attempt to drag kyle up the stairs and to your old bedroom so you can finally sleep.
kyle, however, possesses other ideas.
being liked has never been too much of a hassle for your boyfriend. his kindness never feels fake, and isn’t. he meant every bit of the respectable actions and shared humor with your family tonight. the time he had was a ball, and he can’t wait to do it again tomorrow…
…especially after tonight.
“fu–augh!”
kyle clamps a hand over your mouth, only able to muffle the tail of your whined curse. from behind, he’s rolling his hips and fucking you into the bed with absolute delight over the fact that the newly-crowed golden boy–the man of the hour–is doing things that would get him kicked out if the rest of the house were to ever know.
the both of you are buried under the blankets, making the dangerous assumption that the cover is enough to damped the wet sounds of kyle smacking his weight into yours. if anything, it’s making it worse with all the sweat and cream mixing together where the two of you join… kyle slicking his chest against your damp back the times he really wants you to feel him.
speaking of–
“feel that?” kyle breathes, flexing himself inside you after a particularly deep thrust. one that makes you forget your own name. "right there... feel it?"
“mmhm,” is all you can mewl, drooling a bit against his hand with thick breaths through your nose.
“mmhm,” kyle mocks, smirking around the him. his lips curl themselves with more confidence than usual, and that’s saying something. he just… he can’t help but feel all giddy over how much everyone liked him and the attention accompanied with such a feat, juxtaposed against how filthy the two of you can fuck.
to anyone else, the two of you are the perfect, sugary-sweet couple.
he kisses your cheek.
you hold his hand more often than not.
he calls you love.
your parents think him the utmost gentleman. and you’re their pride and joy.
but kyle, well, he knows the truth.
he sees it every day in the darkening of your stare when he spits in your mouth and tells you to swallow. when he wakes with his cock halfway down your throat and your thumb circling his clenching asshole. when he smears his load into your stomach so your skin shines just right in the nighttime air.
the both of you, freaks. completely in love. on your best behavior around family who have not one inkling of awareness of what’s going on in your childhood bedroom. and what's going to happen every night until the end of your visit.
Simon who’s s/o is relatively tall (idk like 5’8/5’9 or something) and he likes that about them because it means that he doesn’t have to bend down at an awkward angle to kiss them or to look at them in the eyes. He’s a tall fella himself so of course he appreciates his lovie not adding to his already worsening back issues.
Anyways he comes home one day and the house is suspiciously quiet. Way too quiet.
He knows you’re home because your car is on the drive, so why is the TV off and you aren’t rushing to the door to get him like normal?
His feet thump against the wooden floors. Something feels wrong. Did something happen to you? Fuck, what if someone got in-
“Simon?” His heart literally melts when your voice calls from your shared bedroom.
“Whatcha doing luvie?” He calls, beelining for the bedroom now.
“Um, nothing! Don’t come in!”
Don’t come in? Yeah, right.
He approaches the door, which is shut tight, and pushes in. Then stops dead in his tracks.
You’re stood in the centre of the room, pair of tiny shorts and a tee and the biggest pair of heels he’s ever seen. They must be six in chest at least, the height so tall they have a big chunky platform under the balls of your feet.
Your legs looks devilishly long in those hells. Just metres upon metres of soft skin and muscles and leg.
So much leg.
Simon has to school his face to something dangerously controlled.
You turn, looking at him a little sheepishly.
“They’re too much, right?” You chuckle nervously.
“No.” Simon grunts too quickly. “Gimme a twirl.”
“I don’t think I can.” You breathe a laugh, but try anyway. Slowly, you turn, and Simon gets a wonderful view of the way the expanse of your legs work to keep you upright and balanced, how much more perky your ass looks with heels under your feet. God.
“Yeah you can, look at tha’.” He breathes. “C’mere. Now.”
His expression has darkened. You feel it in your gut and are your hardest to not fall. After the first step or two, you find your balance and can place one foot easily in front of the other, hips swinging with every step. Simon watches hungrily. Your hips snapping with every plant of your feet on the carpet. As soon as you are in reach, Simon’s hands are pulling at your waist. You’re almost perfect height with him now.
“Take everything but the shoes off.” He grumbles. “Wanna see how long those legs look when they’re in the air.”
simon becomes very protective of you, he tends to hold his breath when he lets go of your leash, watching you bolt inside of an abandoned house to search. he finds his hand resting between your ears most of the time, giving you treats even when you are just sitting close when he trains.
simon almost said no, almost, but when soap said something about hitting a bar your tail started wagging, you loved people and praises, and bars meant people who would want to pet you. it felt weird to walk besides someone that wasn’t simon, it felt weird to not feel him tug your leash, the vest around your body preventing you from running off, it felt wrong to not have a leash on.
when you push inside of the bar, the music and chatter fill your ears, they go down and press into your head to protect them from the fuzz. a small pat on your lower back makes you keep walking, "heel" simon whispers near your ear as he walks past, your feet start moving before you can process what he said, your body close to his as you made it to the table where the others sat at. his hand pats the side of his thigh, “sit” he points at the chair besides him, you sit down, your tail wagging against the leg of your chair.
“jesus, give ‘em a break, we ain’t are relaxing” soap says with a big smile, he has seen how simon can get with you, his jaw clenches below his plain black balaclava, his eyes drifting back to you. “go on, relax” his voice is low, it carries that authority he never leaves behind, yet, your brain doesn’t register it as a command, he sees the small tilt in your head, how your ears perk up slightly. from the other side of the table, you can hear the faint laugh of soap, he is having the best night watching you two.
simons eyes never leave yours, “for fucks sake, sure” he mumbles under his breath. “fetch” he says in the same tone he uses in the field, serious, you feel a shiver run down your spine. “cold beer, biggest one they have and whatever you want, go” as soon as simon says go you stand up, walking towards the bar, your tail wagging so hard it accidentally bumps into people on the way there.
once you get back with two drinks, simon stares at you and points at the chair, you sit down. “good pup” he whispers once you are sat besides him, “we need to work on your own decision making, yeah? out of the leash, you do wha’ever you want, yeah? speak” your small nod turns into a quiet yes, sir, it defeats the whole purpose of what simon wants to do, which he doesn’t really want to, he likes how you cling to him everywhere, he likes you on the leash, waiting for commands, smiling when getting praised, he just hates how teasing johnny gets at times. “okay! let’s go” after a few drinks johnny is dragging out of your chair and into the bar, away from simon, you want to protest, to sit back down, to tell him that you don’t have permission. “we ain’t working, relax” he says, and you try to remember how simon said you can make your own decisions. after ordering a round of shots of tequila, johnny is nowhere to be found.
“hey, i like your jacket, do you come here often?” a deep voice makes your head turn, your tail slowly moving to hide between your legs. “no… thank you” the guy smiles at your answer, he is nice, he talks about his job, asks about what you are doing there, how is the night going, normal small talk. until he buys you a drink. before you can even touch the cold glass in the bar a familiar voice makes you stop, that voice, that tone. “leave it” simon has said that many times, it’s a simple command, to let go of whatever you are holding onto, your hand jerks back.
his hand pats the side of his thigh twice, still staring at the guy trying to flirt with you. “he ain’t friendly, you should always ask owners before trying to pet dogs” one of simons big hands grabs the end of your belt and drag you out of the bar, he thinks seriously about making you wear a leash next time, or not going out at all.
“stay, sit” your knees drop to the ground, he stands tall besides his truck. “you called me a dog” you mumble out, it makes him raise a brow. “you were acting like one, no good puppy, no good pet when you wag your tail at anyone that gives ya’ attention” you shake your head, you weren’t wagging your tail at that guy, never, but before you can speak simon grabs your jaw, his fingers digging into your soft cheeks. “i didn’t say speak, forget about making your own decisions, it seems like you can’t take good ones, is that why they gave you to me, so you can be handled”
Best of luck explaining to the Lieutenant what fan fiction is, you dumb animal.
As a n00b here, it’s been super cool and encouraging to receive positive feedback and gain followers after my recent chapter for Murder for a Whiskey (18+). Please enjoy this little Hellcat!Snack, written on mobile as a big fat ‘aw shucks gee thanks guys.’
Today was a good day, you decided. You hadn't done anything to deserve it, but that didn't mean you couldn't let yourself have it anyway. Even if you were still at work. Still stuck behind the bar.
Your phone lights up on the bar by the register. You pick it up. Click it open. Smile. Then flip it facedown.
Across from you, the Lieutenant watches over the rim of his glass. You try not to notice. The place might as well be empty except for him, seated in his usual spot by your register. His jacket takes up the stool beside him like it's been instructed to guard the space between him and the rest of the Copperline’s patrons. There's half an inch of bourbon left in his glass and a wet ring beneath it you haven't bothered wiping away.
Your phone lights up again. Click. Smile. Down.
The Lieutenant shifts in his seat. He's been watching you for the last twenty minutes. Giving a shit or not giving a shit. Trying to collect every one of your grins that you usually reserved for him when it was just the two of you. Tonight, something else kept getting to you first.
"Wot's that, then?"
You glance up. "What's what?"
He nods towards your hand just as you flip the phone facedown again.
"That."
"My phone?"
"Not that. That."
He gestures towards your stupid grin. It widens as you press both palms on the bar.
"This?" you ask, pointing to yourself now, exaggerating your teeth. "This is called a good mood, Lieu. You should try it."
He scoffs, studying you for a second. No doubt deciding how much dignity he's willing to lose by asking the real question he wants the answer to. You busy yourself with a cleaning rag until he’s tallied his thoughts a few minutes later.
"Wot's 'is name then?" he asks, letting go of his drink to lean back in his seat. He waves his hand like he's ushering in a report as he continues: "Or hers. Theirs. Wah'eva."
Idiot.
"Why?" You grin, letting the question glisten on your teeth as you ask it: “Jealous?”
"Never," he says, as he spreads himself across the barstool. One arm stretches across the back of the empty one beside him. Makes himself bigger. Manspreads his knees. Rolls his shoulders back. Wrangles the shapes under his mask until they match his answer.
"Well, good." You pluck the same glass you've been polishing for several minutes. "Because there's like 20 of them."
"Twenty?"
You nod gravely. "At least."
His tuts. "Busy bird."
You can't help but laugh. His expression collapses into restraint, as though the number is a personal insult. You feed on it for a moment, enjoying the marrow of his misery before you've had your fill.
"Nah, it's not that. It's a stupid side project..." you start, setting the glass down before you polish a hole through it. It was easy to say, just hard to explain: "It’s a little writing thing online. S'not important."
"S'got you smilin' like that though, eh?" he gestures vaguely at your face again.
You open your mouth to dismiss him. Something that will shut the door on the conversation. But your phone lights up again. Your eyes drop automatically. The smile gets you before you can stop it. You turn it facedown.
"Well, yeah. I mean..." you trail off. Answering him is a trap. You know this. You know this. But constantly keeping who you are behind your teeth makes the bait of being known too tempting.
You look at your hands. "Writing's personal."
He says nothing.
"There's always some little piece of yourself in it," you continue. "Even if it's made up. You still build it out of something that comes from you."
The Lieutenant's posture changes. Only slightly. The arm draped across the empty stool lowers. Knees draw in. Leans forward. His indifference packs up as you speak, silently watching as you run a thumb along your phone case.
"So when people go out their way and like it...I don't know," you grimace, regretting the words before they even leave you: "It's like someone likes a piece of you."
His eyes stay on your face.
"Not real like, yknow. S'just like a little heart sticker or something."
Your phone lights up again, face down. He glances at it.
"Twenty-two heart stickers," he says.
"Twenty-two heart stickers for my brain-heart."
"Ah. Brain-heart," he nods. "Terminal."
"Hopefully."
You grin at each other and the little lines that gather at the edges of his eyes slap a sticker on your chest-heart too. It sits there for exactly three seconds.
Until he says, "Let me read it."
Your smile dies so violently it deserves a chalk outline.
"No."
He blinks. "No?"
"Fuck no." You snatch your phone off the bar and shove it into the pocket of your jeans. His eyes follow the movement.
"I'll find it," he muses. "You know I will. Nick your IP from yer 'ouse and-"
"You abso-fuckin-lutely will not," you snap.
"Wot's it about then?"
"Nothing."
"22 people like nothing?"
"They're very supportive, what can I say."
You pick up the same glass from before to signal an end, dropping it into the rack. Color races to your face. You don't have to look at him to know he's beaming. Not grinning like he's got one over on you. Beaming. Absolutely delighted to have found something that frightens you without hurting you.
"Fuck's sake, it's poetry innit?"
"As if," you scoff. You turn away and reach for a bottle that doesn't need to be moved. Behind you, you hear the leather of his seat creak.
"Something embarrassing though," he continues.
"Eat shit."
"Something romantic?"
You nearly drop the bottle. You close your eyes. Inhale. Turn around. He's grinning beneath the mask, like a man who heard the first tick of a safe unlocking.
"It's crime," you correct, crossing your arms.
"Romantic crime?"
"People die."
"Before or after they snog?"
Your phone vibrates in your pocket. His eyes drop immediately. You cover it with your hand.
"Number twenty three," he picks up his glass, casually rolling the melting ice around the bottom. "Don't see why twenty-fourths too much. I'm sittin' right 'ere after all."
"You wouldn't understand."
His gaze lifts. The joke is gone from his face. "Try me."
You could tell him the truth. Tell him that people online don't know you and that's why it's different. That they can like a piece you hand them without ever finding the rest. That you felt safe knowing they can press their hearts against your words and never notice the rot beneath your fingernails.
But the Lieutenant would suck them clean and spit them out. That's what made him dangerous.
You fold your arms.
"You won't like it."
His brow draws together, earnestly. "I will."
"You don't know that."
"I know you wrote it."
"That's not an answer."
"It is to me."
You stare at him until your eyes sting. He shifts, as if suddenly uncomfortable with the sincerity and adds: "Besides, if it's shite, I'll lie."
Laughter escapes you, through the words: "Fuck off."
You shake your head, turning to the register to deposit your phone out of sight.
"Never," the Lieutenant repeats with a grin.
With your back towards him, you watch him in the mirror, drumming his fingers against the bar in thought. His eyes move to the glass in front of him. The bourbon. The ice. Then up to your face in the reflection. Something shifts. You see the thought arrive in his head. He stops drumming.
"Does he wear a mask?"
Fuck. You don't know how to react, so you don't. You stay still. And that is your mistake.
His mouth becomes a scythe.
You busy yourself with the register, pressing a button that does nothing. The drawer stays shut.
“Av an accent?” He asks from over your shoulder.
You press the button again.
“A ten inch cock?”
You try to roll your eyes louder than you laugh.
“Oh please,” you say. His smug little amber eyes are expecting you as you turn towards him. “You use metric. Ten centimeters.”
He scoffs: “Yeah, wide.”
Laughter breaks you open. When people volleyed with you, they were usually the ones that dropped their jaws. Not you. Why was he funnier than you? You pinch at the brow of his mask, tugging the fabric over his eyes. He huffs, swatting at your hand before eagerly adjusting it back.
“Idiot boy,” you grin, plucking his glass while he’s distracted. You swig the dregs of his whiskey before he has it back in place. It’s mainly spit by now anyway. On instinct, you tap on the empty glass when he sees it, asking: “Another?”
”Go on then…” he says, nodding towards the rack you’re already heading towards. You swear he mumbles ‘good girl’ as you pour another round. This time a double. For him and you. You slide it into his open palm. His fingers wrap around yours when you do, pressing your touch against the glass.
“Does he get her?” He asks softly.
Hand-heart. You try to hide your smile.
No.
Idiot girl. Don’t assume.
You pull your hand away, but he holds it in place, sliding his fingers between yours.
“Get who?” You ask. His glove swallows your hand whole.
“The killer,” he answers. He suddenly pulls away, taking the glass and letting your hand drop to the bar top.
“You mean murderer,” you correct. You don’t hide the annoyance in your voice. Why touch you at all? Now your hand is dirty from his stupid gloves. You go to wipe it on your shirt, then you pause. You smile. You understand.
“There’s a difference between the two, y’know. A killer and a murderer,” you say, finding his eyes with as much honesty as the bar would allow. Sincerity was best served in streetlight, but a smile would have to do: “Just because you’re one, doesn’t mean you’re the other.”
There’s a few beats of silence where he looks at you but doesn’t see. Where he converses with the ghosts you’ll never know.
“I like that,” he mumbles. He slowly reaches towards you, extending two fingers to tap you on the forehead with a fresh grin. “Twenty five.”
