one of the (many) imagines me and @notbyleth talk about teehee
“you talk funny,” is what your lips impatiently blurt out before your mind has time to process how rude it came off. it's merely an observation you make with big eyes and furrowed brows. you’ve never heard anyone speak as posh as him, especially not here on the ground.
well, maybe except for important officials that handle the politics and economics of the polluted wasteland you all had the misfortune of living in—their tones saturated in conviction and integrity as durable as withered leather—but there’s something unique about the soft lilt of tamsy’s dialect, something that’s far from orthodox.
he’d peer down at your figure lazed on his bed (he’ll chastise you later for stirring his soft pillow and taut sheets), your neck hanging off the side as you meet his gaze, your fingers thrumming on top of your stomach in curious taps. the same smile you see on his face during missions used in the quaint comfort of his room.
“oh? please do enlighten me.” it's a benign challenge he encourages but you’re uncertain whether it's laced with his signature sarcasm that prods your ego. you continue, nevertheless.
“you talk like the princes in those fairytale books my mom used to read me,” you sit up with more force than you intended, chipper to give a demonstration with a hand on your chest as you swoon. “oh, how you have bestowed your beauty upon me, my elegant maiden. would you care to share this last dance with me under the melancholic glow of the somber moon?” you finish with the bat of your lashes, grinning at the soft chuckle you successfully emitted from pierced lips.
“quite the observation, i must say.” his claps are slow, unhurried, just like how he walks up to you before crouching. his beauty is astonishing in this angle—plump skin decorated in the smoothest of velvet, cheeks rounded for a delicate smile, the lines that dwell at the curve of his lip fine like his threaded hair. he licks his lips. “you think of me as a prince?”
your stare lingers on the curl of his mouth as he speaks, watching how that gloss dissipates to reveal cracked skin, a shimmering pink reverts back to the muted salmon. it's then that you force your gaze to meet his before cowering. it was a natural response your body conjured up—too natural. as if your mind is telling you that the red glint in his eyes is far from normal and the way his cheeks wrinkle to accommodate his smile is disturbing and how the fresh blood that sprouts from his cracked lips is more than concerning.
“i said i think you talk like one,” you counter. you're unsure where this ominous presence that churns in your gut came from. if you found the will to concentrate hard enough, you'd be able to acknowledge black tendrils slowly crawling with a tension that chills the room. it was never there before, but now it's sloping across the edge of his walls in a dark fog, waiting, preying upon something to sink its teeth in, something that gushes out opaque crimson of vulnerability. you find the courage to finish, perhaps it'll give you some semblance of control. “but i wouldn’t be surprised if you were.”
his eyes dart along yours. he’s thinking of what to say, what to do. making sure it's something that sticks—something that seeps through your skull and slithers into your ivory mind with legs spiked in depravity as it sits and watches the mold fester through and through. but what he says holds the same weight, at least to a degree—the foreboding tendrils finding their way out of the room.
Rumours have spread of a ghost haunting Cleaner Headquarters in the late hours, with the only hint of its existence lying in the common room fridge, always emptied by morning. Some claim it’s something far more sinister, but most believe it’s just Rudo with the late-night munchies.
Determined to uncover the truth, Tamsy and Enjin recruit Zanka and Rudo to stage a surprise attack. While the four lie in wait, only two survive the encounter.
Or: Terribly sick and craving a snack, you run into Tamsy and Enjin, who insist they have the perfect recipe to cure your cold: a very hands-on remedy that involves turning you into their snack, all night long.
Warnings: explicit content (18+) | smut
Content: spitroasting | cunnilingus | slow build + teasing | making out | fluff
Word Count: 16.6k
Status: oneshot | completed
Read on Ao3
Preview: 6.3k
"That's right. When the veil between life and death is at its thinnest, the ghost will appear.
More accurately, she's a revenant—and quite a vengeful one you see—reanimated by grief and a rather persistent hunger for the living. You may hear her weeping as she lurks between shadows, or the faint swish of her veil dragging behind as she wanders, body and mind decayed.
Not that you'll see her first. If you're lucky, you never will…
But pay close enough attention and you'll know she's near. Her weeps will cease and everything will wither into silence—and that is your best chance to run. Ignore it, and you'll soon find yourselves devoured in darkness. The air will freeze, and your blood will slow. Soon you'll find yourselves sluggish and weak.
And if you're truly lucky, your heart will give way long before you've the chance to scream…"
Shadows creep up Tamsy's face, eating away most of his features as he dangles the lantern low beneath his chin, just as the gloom downs his warnings. The candlelight flickers again, and, for a moment, he plunges into darkness, then returns with a shade carved deeper under his eyes.
"Knowing all that," he whispers, eyes sweeping between a pair of uneasy faces, "do you still intend to stay?"
The static hum of the nearby refrigerator buzzes in the midnight air.
Leather creaks as Rudo twists his knuckles, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Beside him, Zanka wraps his arms around himself to grab fistfuls of his loose sleeves. They glance at each other, brows furrowed and mouths pulled tight, unaware of the tatted hands inching closer to their shoulders.
Tamsy hides a snicker behind his arm when he hangs the lantern above their heads. Their attention snaps to the light, then back to Tamsy, who leans forward, herding them closer to the fourth figure in the room.
"Of course, you're free to leave," he adds, smile unfurling wider—almost friendly, if not for the low light obscuring the curl at the corners. "I won't think any less of you if you do."
Zanka seems to consider it. He opens his mouth just as the hands come slamming down.
Both boys jump with loud, undignified yelps.
“Jeez, Tams.” Enjin pushes his face between the now-agitated pair. He loops his arms around their necks and squeezes them close in a headlock, disregarding their complaints and squirming. "If you're freaking me out, imagine how you're making these poor kids feel. You'll scare 'em to their graves before the ghost'll get a chance!"
"I'm merely trying to warn them of the dangers they face," Tamsy concedes. His piercing glints when he lowers it into gloved hands. "Say, Rudo. Do you have ghosts up on the Sphere? The ones down here are particularly… hostile, and I'm curious if it's the same for up there."
Rudo gazes vacantly into the lantern while Zanka chastises Enjin under his breath.
The candle has burned down significantly through the night, the long stick now reduced to a stub drowned by ripples of stagnant wax. In the crater, the wick curls to one side, singeing the corners as it fights to stay alive.
Zanka elbows Rudo in the side. “He’s talkin’ to ya.”
Startled, Rudo fumbles the lantern and almost drops it. “Hey! What was that for, you jerk?” he snaps, clutching it tight against his chest. The room plunges into temporary darkness before he moves his hands away—though it hardly makes a difference.
“Good job,” Zanka mumbles, “you almost broke the damn thing.”
“No I didn’t!” Rudo takes a confronting step the same time Zanka uncrosses his arms, ready to push back. “It was you who—”
Enjin grabs them both by their collars and pulls them apart. “Alright, alright. Why don’t we all pipe down before the ghost hears us? We’re here to see if these rumours are true, and we can’t do that if you motormouths keep running your mouths.” While the boys avert their gazes and mumble their apologies, he shoots a conniving glance at Tamsy. “I know! Why don’t you both stand guard at the front while Tamsy and I cover the back?”
Tamsy sidesteps just in time for Enjin to push the boys to the door. They stumble a few steps, and he uses the movement to slink into the cover of darkness, backing towards the sidebar as Enjin keeps his palms planted on their backs.
Once both boys show no signs of turning, Enjin lowers his hands.
“And why do we have to do it?” Zanka protests.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Well… yeah. But—”
“Think of this as… mental fortitude training,” Enjin says, pulling the excuse out of his ass as he backs towards Tamsy. “If you wanna get stronger, you gotta strengthen your mind as well as your body.” A hollow thunk echoes when he raps his knuckles against his head. “And what better opportunity than to brave a ghost no one else has?”
At the prospect of recognition, Zanka straightens up and puffs out his chest. “Psh. It’s not like they’re real or anything." He feigns indifference, though his bottom lip gives an excited quiver. “They’re just stories made to scare naughty children who don’t listen to adults.” His eyes crinkle as he glances at Rudo, mouth melting into a sneer. “Isn’t that right, Ru—Gah!”
Zanka topples sideways with a high-pitched squeal, arms flailing as he crashes into Rudo. The lantern flies into the air, dislodging the candle from its base, and shatters on impact; both boys gawk as the candle carves a wobbly path across checkered tiles to the closed doors, heads following as it circles smaller and smaller until it finally tips on its side and snuffs the flame
All-consuming darkness shrouds the room.
Rudo stares bug-eyed, eyebrows knitting closer and closer together, while Zanka goggles at where the candle should be in the darkness, jaw dropping lower and lower with each passing second. He turns his head, ready to chastise, just for a gloved hand to smack him across the face and shove him away.
Zanka’s hand flies to cup his tingling nose; he groans when his tailbone connects with the hard tiles.
“What was that for, shit biscuit!”
“What was that for, ya little shit! And who you callin’ shit biscuit? We don’t have any left thanks to you!”
Indignation flashes across Rudo’s face as he pounces. “I’m telling you, it wasn't me!”
“Oh yeah?” Zanka catches Rudo’s torso with his feet and kicks, sending him skidding across the ground. “Who else could it be, ‘cause I don’t know anyone else who eats that much sugar and doesn’t blow up like a fat balloon!” He scrambles to his feet just as Rudo latches onto his legs. “Get off me, you pipsqueak!”
“Not until you take back what you said!”
“Like hell I would!”
Rudo locks his arms tight, fingers scrambling for purchase as Zanka grabs fistfuls of his hair. They yank in opposite directions, exchange insults between breaths—petty words increasingly incoherent—until the scrabbling snags Zanka’s drawstrings. His pants slacken, and Rudo, either sensing an opportunity or being obnoxious, tugs at them.
Zanka panics. He lets go of the hair and clasps at his waistband, losing balance and tumbling in the process. Just as quickly, he shoves his free hand into Rudo’s face with a snarl, and tries to shuffle backwards while keeping his pants up. But Rudo uses his robes to haul himself closer, clawing up the fabric until he gets a good lock of fringe.
“My hair!” Zanka wails. Furiously, he latches onto the nearest part of Rudo and jerks.
“My ear!”
Neither lets go. They lean into each other at the wrong angle and topple sideways. Their limbs tangle as they kick and poke and shove and prod the other’s tender places, clutching and grabbing whatever comes to hand as they roll across the tiles trying to pin each other. Until their palms land in greasy wax, sending them face-first into the floor.
Rudo cradles his head in his hands, raving on about the floor being unreasonably hard—or Zanka’s childishness. When Zanka gets his bearings, he stiffens. His ears twitch; a faint sound from down the hall has him scrambling to muffle Rudo mid-rant.
“Shh! D’you hear that?”
Rudo’s teeth graze his palm. Zanka shushes him again, tightening his grip until the struggling stops.
“Listen,” he hisses, peeling his hand away.
Stomachs flat against the tiles and chins scraping the floor, the two fixate on the door—or the general impression of it. Zanka snaps to listen closer when Rudo mutters about hearing nothing. So they wait on the cold floor, for what feels like hours, staring so long and so hard that the darkness begins to move; shadow tendrils curl in at the edges, shapes and patterns form in the grainy murk.
A wisp of cool air drifts in through the crack beneath the door and tickles their noses.
Then the mist comes.
Thin, silent, and spreading across the tiles in searching waves. It curls around their bodies, nips at their ankles, follows when they stand—winding around their feet and scaling higher and higher, past their tingling fingertips and pricking through their clothes.
Breathless, their eyes dart around the room, ears strain to pick up the slightest sounds. Goosebumps rise along their arms as the cool air seeps deeper into their skin. They flinch at a crackle of electricity, jostle at a creak from somewhere in the ceiling. Until a faint snivel floats from down the hall.
Neither moves, perhaps forgetting how to. Their eyes widen, fixate on nothing in particular, hearts battering in their chests when it comes again—a small, miserable weep, slightly louder, a little closer—before fading back into the darkness.
Dread weighs them down, seeps deep into their pores. At some point, Rudo’s fingers find Zanka’s sleeve, gently tugging without either of them acknowledging it.
A groan emanates from behind the door. Low and raspy, it drags along before sinking a pitch lower, into a gurgle that almost sounds like lungs being wrung of water.
The handle rattles—Click!—and metal rasps under the weight of thick wood.
Leaning into each other, the boys squint into the void as it slowly pulls apart. They crane forward, breaths tight, as the gap widens and widens, watching until it gives way.
The doors burst.
Cold air blasts through their bones. The hinges scream as the panels slam into the walls and rebound, stuttering to a half-open. The empty corridor gapes back at them, and within it, where the shadows thicken and coil, an unassuming silhouette lingers.
Tall and soft-edged, with a face swallowed by a veil; the hems of its dress waft at its feet before dissolving into the surrounding dark. Its arms unfurl, sleeves lifting as crooked fingers extend past the frame, spreading wide as it drifts into the doorway.
Their heads swivel towards each other in janky unison. “It’s a-a-a—”
A wet noise leaks from somewhere hollow in its chest.
“Ghost!”
“Take him, not me!” Zanka’s voice cracks as he seizes Rudo by the shoulders and shoves him directly at the ghost.
Rudo stumbles forward—almost trips when Zanka hurries past haphazardly—and by the time he registers what happened, the sheer indignity of it possesses him. He shoves past the ghost, clips the door frame, and slides out into the hall to tear off after Zanka.
“You asshole!” he screeches, voice ricocheting off the walls. “You were gonna sacrifice me to save your own skin, weren’t you!”
Their voices chase each other down the hallway, echoing and eventually swallowed by the distance, until the silence closes back in.
And without so much as a thought for either of them, the ghost floats forward.
Its hems sweep across the cool tiles. It snivels. Weeps again, releasing a drawn-out moan as it drifts deeper into the room. And when it stops somewhere in the centre, its jaw opens from beneath the veil. Wider and wider, head tilting back further and further, teeth emerging one by one from the dark.
And then it sneezes.
Again.
And again.
And again, with enough force you lurch forward, nearly undoing the makeshift hood of your blanket.
You groan and hunch in on yourself, head dangling in resignation until a yawn drags it back up. Obnoxiously loud and exaggerated, it stretches the muscles in your face and pricks tears in the corners of your eyes, blurring your vision. Not that it makes a difference in the dark.
“‘Kay…” you sniffle, wiping your nose on the back of your blanket-covered hand.
You wrap the corners of the fabric around your neck then tuck them over your shoulders, adjusting so it’s tight enough to hold but not too constricting. When satisfied, you snuggle back into the warmth, padding towards the hum coming from your left.
It’s the only reason you dare to sneak through the midnight halls, to brave the cold tiles. But if it’s anything like the other night—
A sharp pain jabs between your ribs when you bump into the bar’s edge. At the same time, your toe catches the corner and bends sideways.
“Ow?” you say, nose crinkling in offense as if it had the gall to run into you.
Your stomach grumbles, reminding you of your mission.
Too tired to bother with the pain, you move towards the fridge, already squinting in preparation for the blinding light, this time keeping your limbs tucked closer.
Bottles of juices and other drinks rattle and clink on the door shelf as you pry it open. Most of them are half-empty, some only have the sad bottom bits lingering, and very few remain untouched. Of the few, a dark, orange juice and some milk catch your attention, so you quickly set them on the counter before sticking your head back inside.
Shrink-wrapped confectioneries, boxes with absurd logos, and packets of platter foods—mainly crackers and nuts—clutter the top shelf, stacked, if not piled in front of each other. A slice of cake takes centre stage, then falls into the background when you note only the corner piece remains. Like the drinks, most show signs of grazing with ripped cardboards and minuscule leftovers you frown at.
A chill begins to settle against your flush cheeks, but doesn’t make it past your thick layers as you scour the second shelf, eventually pausing at a plate full of nothing but crumbs and stray chocolate chips. You pat your stomach, smiling sheepishly at it, then pluck the intact ones and eat them straight from the shelf.
Though it’s nowhere near satisfying—the taste is barely present, the chocolate far too hard between your teeth. So you pull back to check the other shelves and rummage past the uninteresting edibles to find the miracle of an unopened box of crackers hidden in the far corner.
You snatch it up, nudge the fridge closed with your hip, and reach for your drinks, only to finally notice the presence looming in the galley—tall, wide, and staring straight down at you.
The box leaves your hand faster than you can react like a normal human…
…and smacks Enjin square in the centre of his face.
“Rude.” He cups a hand to catch the box as it tumbles. “We throwin’ hands or snacks now?”
From behind, a second figure boasting antennae-like hair tucks his hands into opposite sleeves. “And so it is,” he muses. “It seems we’ve found our rumoured ghost… or perhaps she’s found us.”
You squint at Tamsy, noting the top half of his hair clipped back in a thick bunch that leaves the rest cascading over his shoulders. Then at Enjin, in his usual sweater, freshly showered from the look of his floofy hair—though residual tobacco still clings to him, thick enough to cut through your congestion. And finally, with a pout, to your box of crackers being held hostage.
“Ghost…?” you rasp, almost inaudible.
Tamsy watches you with an amused smile as Enjin laughs and cracks open your packet. You glare harder as he reaches in, grabs a handful of crackers, and stuffs his face.
“Oh, man,” he drawls between crunches, “to think they were worried about ghosts when we’ve got ourselves a real-life zombie! Girl, you look nasty!”
You scrunch your nose. “Thanks, Enjin. Really.”
Tamsy moves to Enjin’s side and leans a hip against the opposite counter. “That’s no way to talk to a lady,” he chides, unfolding an arm to pinch his nostrils shut. “It’s quite insensitive to make fun of someone who’s clearly unwell.”
Enjin throws his head back with a bark of laughter. “Dude!” he starts, before violently hacking up cracker pieces as he hunches over.
“Freak,” you mutter, taking a bottle and twisting the cap open. “What are you doing here?”
“Zanka and Rudo caught wind of a supposed ghost haunting this wing,” Tamsy says, “so naturally, we thought it prudent to investigate.”
You wipe your mouth and prop a brow, knowing there’s more to his story. “Oh, that was them?” When Enjin leans across the counter and helps himself to the other bottle, it creases into a glower. “Didn’t they know I’m sick?” you ask with a touch of vinegar.
“It seems they believed you were still on a mission. Though one can hardly fault them—you have been rather scarce of late.”
“Didn’t you tell them?” You catch his wry look. “Hey, don’t blame me! I didn’t want anyone else getting sick. So don’t—”
Dry, croaking coughs scrape up your throat before you can finish. You bark into your arm, trying to scratch its itch, until they drop deeper into long, wet wheezes that swell from your chest. The force propels you into the counter; you brace yourself, fingers curling around the edge as you lean over and hack.
“Damn,” Enjin snickers. The now-empty bottle clinks as he sets it on the counter to come up behind you and pat your back. “I ain’t surprised you’re on Team Danger with coughs like that.”
The thumping helps loosen mucus and other irritants clogging your chest as you clear your throat. When the worst of it subsides and your breathing steadies, you notice something tucked beneath the counter—a small air conditioning unit shoved against the wall, its vent joined to ribbed tubing. Beside it, a second box-like mechanism, its own tubes coiling with the first, both snaking along the floor and through the back door.
Enjin smacks your back with both palms and you shoot up.
“Enough with the baseball mitts!” You swipe him away with a strangled wheeze. “Any more and you’ll slap my spine out, you oaf!”
“I’m savin’ your life here!” he shoots back, already migrating towards the fridge. His fingers drum against the handle before pulling it open.
Plastics and ceramics rustle and clink as he rummages through the shelves, then helps himself to whatever he finds with insouciant crunching.
Fatass.
“It’s good to see your illness hasn’t dulled your spirits,” Tamsy muses, drifting to your side.
“Spirits?” You gesture broadly at yourself, scrunching one side of your nose and exaggerating a sniffle. “This is my natural femininity.”
He nods along. “At times, I forget you’re a woman.”
“Fuck off, Tamsy.”
Enjin snickers behind the fridge door as he emerges with something in hand and quickly tosses it into his mouth while still chewing something else. He sticks his fingers into his mouth and sucks, garbles in defense when you flick him a grimace.
“Anyway…” Nudging past Tamsy, you take to the overhead cupboards and scan them with as much disinterest as the fridge. “I’ve been sick since I got back, and I thought it’d be better to stay out of everyone’s way until… the—the—” You swipe at your running nose with a groan. “Until it got better.”
“And here I was beginning to think you’d finally grown tired of us.”
“That’s our Danger girl,” Enjin chimes.
You ignore them both and move onto the next cupboard—slightly closer to Tamsy—to find more of the same cardboard boxes and stacked tin cans that leave much to be desired. “But it’s still shit and I was hungry, so…” The words slip out with a soft lisp you can’t control.
With a firm huff, you shut the cupboard then fish out a crumbled tissue from your pocket to wipe your mouth before stuffing it back in. A little gross, but better to keep to yourself. Like whatever mockery the two have loaded in wait.
You point a finger at their general direction as you pivot. “Don’t make fun of me.”
Too hazed with sick irritability, you don’t notice how small the bar’s become—rather, how much closer they’ve drifted. Still near the fridge, Enjin leans against the counter at an angle that blocks the exit without seeming to; Tamsy, to the other side, turns inwards to face you.
Enjin raises his hands in mock surrender and lowers after you cross your arms. “Why don’t we fix you up with some eat out?” he suggests.
You glance at Tamsy and catch a brief flicker of surprise that mirrors your own, missing the way Enjin stiffens at his words. Then, he coughs—one hard bark into his fist—and approaches, slinging an arm around your neck and hauling you into his body despite your slack attempt at pushing him away.
Enjin pouts when you wriggle out and make a face at him. “Proper food’ll help you feel better,” he offers, rubbing the back of his neck with suspicious sheepishness.
Your stomach answers for you, far too agreeable. “Take out? Sure.”
Tamsy wears his usual cordial smile, pleasant and patient as if he has all the time in the world. Somehow worse, Enjin stands far too composed, unnaturally so with his too still, too quiet self. You squint at them, your blankets muffling the intensity of their attention—and whatever they’re waiting for.
Weird.
The silence stretches far too long before you finally speak up. “I left my choker in my room,” you say, glancing at their necks. “Oh.”
They both stiffen imperceptibly before Tamsy takes to your side, both hands settling on your shoulders. “That’s hardly a problem,” he says, guiding you towards the doorway; Enjin steps aside and falls in step behind as you’re steered out of the common room. “Your room is closer than ours.”
You sigh, too tired to argue. “Just stay out so you don’t get sick.”
They did not stay out.
Something wooden clatters to the floor the moment Enjin crosses the threshold and bumps into the cabinet beside the entrance. He bends to pick it up, only to knock something else over in the process of returning it; more items clink, clatter, and clank as he fumbles around to tidy the shelf.
“Enjin.”
“I got it,” he says, as another thing topples with a thunk.
“Enjin…”
“I said I got it—shit.”
You push him forward before he can make a mess of anything else, and he stumbles deeper into your room, bumping into the corner of your bed with a loud “Yeowch!” before plopping onto your mattress and collapsing backwards. Sheets rustle around him as he sprawls.
“It’s impressive your eyes haven’t turned square,” Tamsy remarks, deciding to fix the poor lighting with a soft click.
An orange glow spills across the room, catching on the mountain ranges of blankets and pillows piled on your bed—and the couch at the foot of it—the overflowing bin by your door, the tissues littering around it, and then even more tissues scattering outwards across the floor.
Shrinking into your blanket, you drag it over your eyes with a groan and make for your couch to burrow deep into the corduroy cushions. A tissue sticks to your sleeve and you peel it off, sweep up a few more strays around you to roll into a semi-solid ball, and lob it vaguely towards the bin. It hits the wall with a wet thump, then falls behind your cabinet to become as long lost as the reason you returned to your room.
“Yee-uck!”
Springs creak as Enjin launches himself off your bed. A second later, the couch cushion sinks beside you as he drops onto it and directly onto your blanket. You tug at the trapped corner. Again, with more force. When it doesn’t budge, you poke your head out from your cocoon, scrunching your nose as you pull harder, then accept your losses when you notice Enjin surveying your room with complete, idiotic obliviousness.
“Damn, girl. Since when have you been living inside a trash beast?”
“Fuck off, Enjin.”
Something rattles from behind. You twist, squint beyond him to Tamsy hovering over your desk, picking through the items left in the open. “And whatever you’re doing, stop it—stop touching my shit!”
The back cushion slumps as Enjin drapes his arms along the back and spreads his legs wide, hogging well over half the couch without shame. You shuffle sideways to avoid being absorbed into his mass, giving up on reclaiming your blanket from under his thigh as you settle, leg pressed against his and far too stubborn to part from it.
You groan, adjusting so your blanket fully covers you again. “What are you doing?”
“Hanging out,” he says, like it’s obvious. The light catches the dimples indenting his cheeks as he tilts his head and grins, collar slipping to show the cut of his inky collarbone.
“Ugh. You’re such a man.” And yet, amusement crinkles your eyes as you add, “It’s called a playdate, Enjin.”
“How childish,” Tamsy muses as he approaches the couch.
You snatch up the edges of your blanket before he joins on the other side, protective of what little fabric remains uncaptured by Enjin’s thigh. Unlike Enjin, he takes up nothing more than he needs—exactly enough space to compress you thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder, while leaving no room to move without brushing against them.
Tamsy gives you a warm smile before reclining into the cushion. You purse your lips in response.
Somewhere between not wanting to jostle and suppressing another coughing fit, you drift closer to Tamsy’s side—mostly because Enjin’s absurdly broad shoulders make it impossible to comfortably sit without overlapping. An uncomfortable warmth curdles low in your stomach, half irritation at your space being invaded, half resignation because there’s little you can do about it.
Your fingers curl into the soft blanket as you go still, eventually spacing out at the television across you. Three reflections stare back from the dark screen. The largest tips his head back and lounges, while the other remains composed, almost unbothered as he takes in your room.
Enjin exhales through his nose and slaps both hands against his thighs. “Alright! This is boring,” he declares, pushing himself up and cutting your view of the television with a decisive step. “Up you go.”
Your protest barely forms before he hooks both hands beneath your arms and lifts.
Your wrists flop over, arms stick straight out as your shirt rides up and your blanket slides from your shoulders, pooling to the floor. With no way to fight his antics—and knowing he’d see them through regardless—you glower, imagining a flower sprouting from his dirt-for-brains head as his gaze drifts.
All too slow and attentive, he wanderers down your chest, to the tips of your toes, and back up. His grin fades as he looks you over a second time, then doubles back like something just registered; he lets out a slow exhale, eyes widening, and tilts his head as though reassessing you entirely in one spot.
Even Tamsy hums.
Your lower eyelid twitches. “What.”
Embarrassment rushes across your face, blurring into the fever flushing under your skin. You belatedly clamp your thighs shut and draw them in, trying to salvage what little dignity—fabric—you can, but your strength-sapped limbs give in almost immediately, dropping back into a useless dangle.
Futile—the way his name falls short off your tongue.
Half-lidded eyes peer through his caramel fringe, lingering on your mouth with an intensity that tightens your core. Despite yourself, your own attention wanders: down the angle of his jaw, to the vivid swirls framing his neck, then back up into the brass etchings of his irises.
His throat bobs as his gaze returns to the cotton swathing your hips and disappearing between your thighs.
It should bother you—being crudely displayed in front of two… nuisances, with one shamelessly ogling you—and yet under the heat fogging your thoughts, some form of zeal kindles deep and elusive. So when Enjin’s thumbs swipe closer to your chest, the feeling finds its name.
Arousal.
Your jaw clenches at the prospect. “Put me down,” you breathe, less a demand and more a yield.
Enjin blinks, and the haze in his eyes dilutes. He steps to the side and lowers you with more gentleness than his demeanour suggests, placing you into Tamsy’s lap as neat as perching something delicate on a shelf.
You stiffen when hands steady your waist as your legs drape over closed thighs—comfortable, with enough firmness to not feel precarious. They ease you back until your spine meets Tamsy’s unexpectedly solid chest. Instinctively, you straighten, then mellow while Tamsy guides you flush against him. And when you seem comfortable, Enjin lets go.
Wordless, he sinks before you, hands on your knees and far too close for you to look anywhere else. You catch sight of lace peeking beneath your shirt just his tatted fingers brush along your skin, waning high with the pads before waxing with the edge of his nails.
Blond hair spills across your skin when he presses his cheek against the curve of your thigh. Fine and ticklish, you reach over and comb back an unfairly soft tuft, thumb sweeping wide. Strands fall back across his face, and you repeat the motion, enjoying the texture.
Golden eyes tilt up to find yours as he leans into your palm. “Body heat,” he murmurs, “makes an excellent remedy for a cold.”
“Like huddling for warmth?”
Enjin hums something noncommittal. His fingers trail up to rest at your hips, thumbs tracing the mesh patterns of your waistband as he holds you there, painstakingly tender.
Tamsy lowers his voice into your ear, saccharine. “That’s one way to take it.”
“My blanket was fine,” you mumble quieter than you mean to, fingers still working through Enjin’s hair, slower now, almost thoughtful. “But… I don’t mind seeing what you mean. Do whatever, I guess.”
A soft laugh bristles against the shell of your ear. “Whatever we like?” he echoes, caressing the shape of your waist. “That’s quite a dangerous thing to say.”
“More dangerous to be near me right now.” A sniffle emphasises your proposed risk: “You could get sick.”
“We’ll take the risk. Isn’t that right, Enjin? Tamsy says.
He answers with his hands—twitching at your sides before caressing lower, thumbs dipping into the inner crease. His chest rises and falls in shallow increments as he draws idle, back-and-forth strokes over your thighs, kneading them apart as he massages in the warmth from his palms.
Lip caught between your teeth, you slide your other hand atop Enjin’s. His knuckles jut firm against your palm as you lace your fingers through his and squeeze. He answers with equal pressure, steady in acknowledgement.
They’re so much larger than yours to no surprise. Sculpted and burly, ringed with bands of black and red inks across his fingers—nearly double the width of your with prominent knuckles ridging the sides—and veins splitting subsurface, branching over the back of his hand and into the scalloped ink cuffing his wrist—the same colours, edged with black dots.
Slender hands lift the hem of your shirt, exposing your stomach to the cool air. Tamsy, you barely register, giving Enjin more to see and you an unfiltered view of his hands enveloping your thighs—of the promising thickness of each digit idling higher. How close his thumbs inch to your pussy.
You clench inward and Enjin squeezes firm, anchoring you down before you can shrink away. A dull pinch throbs on your lip as you bite harder, eyes darting around your room to escape the different kind of heat warming your face when he fixes entirely on your navel.
The mirror hanging near the door catches your attention, reflecting Tamsy feathering your temple with light kisses. You flinch away at the sight of your dishevelled face and find no reprieve—the ceramic cave tucked in the corner offers its own betrayal, mirroring the silhouette of Enjin kneeling before you: the sheer width of his shoulders, the dimples of his lower back where his sweater has ridden up.
The glossy screen across from you is perhaps the worst offender, throwing back the full, helpless image of you trapped between the two, spread and clothes stripping away, with no angle that doesn’t display the spectacle.
There’s nowhere left to look. Nowhere to hide.
“Relax,” Tamsy coos. “Focus.”
Your body registers the words before your mind, and you soften into their hands. Just a little.
“There’s a good girl.”
Enjin hooks his thumbs into the lacy band before you can locate where the praise came from—from who it belongs to—digging where the fabric edges your cunt.
You will yourself still, hiss in a breath of air.
In one slow motion, he pulls it up, exposing your soft mound and the regrowth of hair curling inwards.
He sighs hard.
“Look at that,” he murmurs to himself, fixated on your semi-clothed cunt. “You got any clue what you’re doin’ to me, pretty lady?”
You arch back as your thighs ease apart and spill over Tamsy’s lap. The movement pushes you closer to his face, angling you to catch the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip—the way he stutters forward, hesitating from leaning in.
He curses beneath his breath and your mouth runs dry.
Without meaning to, your hand slides down to cup his ear, grazing the coarse texture of his undercut. His gaze climbs to yours, mouth falling open for a fraction before pursing shut. The muscles in his jaw flex; hunger burns in his eyes, eclipsing the twinkle of anticipatory delight.
Gone is the tactless, crass man that ate your crackers and choked on them.
“You’re not making this any easier on me, y’know?” he muses, thumbs twitching beneath the fabric.
Questions surface before you can stop them—making what easier?—and, again, you stiffen. Tamsy must’ve felt it, because he repeats himself, removing his hands and allowing your shirt to fall into place over your hips. The sudden absence of his touch pulls you out of your head and back to Enjin, kneeling patient and waiting before you.
You swallow, shake your head and then huff as you gather his hair in a fist. “Easier said than—”
Tamsy shifts beneath you, pressing hard into your ass, and the words leave with the breath that goes with them. His hands trail up your torso and stop below your breasts, squeezing into your ribs before replacing palms with knuckles.
Featherlight and maddening, he caresses the outer curve of each breast. Along your ribs and up the sides, sweeping to the swell just below your collarbones and back down again. Deft and controlled, circling the shape of you without grazing anywhere that matters, and with no intentions of moving closer.
It’s frustrating.
Your skin prickles as you lean into his touch, hoping that he slips and gives you what you need. But he takes account of your greed and moves away, ensuring you don’t steal more than what he provides; you grind harder against the length beneath you.
Long and slotted perfectly into the curve of your ass, your pursuit of his fingers shifts you against his cock. Tantalisingly hard and desperately close to your flush cunt, it’s enough to feel and never enough to spark the relief of growing friction.
A curious sound hums against your neck. “Comfort over decorum? A bold choice,” Tamsy purrs, dragging the syllables over your skin.
You open your mouth.
Enjin beats your retort with a whine. “No bra? Baby, c’mon.”
Your panties dig into your mound as he strings it higher with a pout—his grievance of being left out from your dirty secret. You clench when he grazes the inside of your knee with his teeth, inducing stings that dissolve into your flesh, before planting a kiss over the mark. Then another, slightly higher. Then drags his nose up the slope of your thigh as he peppers hot kisses in his wake.
Tamsy spreads his legs beneath you, parting your wider to allow Enjin to fill the space. “You’re encouraging him,” he teases into your lobe, rolling his hips in a gentle suggestion of a thrust.
The gasp it pulls is embarrassingly small. As is your denial—nonexistent—fingers already curling in Enjin’s hair, guiding him to nestle between your thighs and right where you want him.
His breath fans hot against your cunt, and you can almost hear him gulp as he inhales. “Fuck,” he sighs, releasing your panties. “Let her.”
The moment the lace snaps back into place, Enjin’s eyes travel the entire length of you. He lingers at your mouth before meeting your gaze. And there, it stays. As firm as the hem pinned beneath his tatted fingers, though whether in preparation to rip the fabric off or to stop himself from doing so, you’re unsure.
Your heart pulses heavy as he marvels at you with such severe longing. Like you’re the only thing—the only one—that matters in the here and now.
Devoted, almost.
He presses his mouth to your upper thigh, parts his lips to drag a long, languid strip along your skin, never once breaking eye contact; the heat of it moves through you like a current, surging excitement and fervour straight into your core.
All there is is a wanting man—a man so close to desperate. On his knees, patient and obedient, watching you with the same burning stillness, waiting for you to say so.
i couldn't stop thinking abt bundus calling himself daddy (thx, @notbyleth) so my coochie decided to perch at her desk once more and write this for me
tags: mild daddy kink + fingering.
wrd count: 1.3k+
you slot perfectly between bundus' meaty thighs. your back is pressed against his chest and you can feel bits of his chest hairs that peek over the horizon of his ribbed tank top tickle the nape of your neck. with a catalog in your hands, you scoot back and your ass feathers the trace of his bulge covered in denim.
not too long ago, bundus was struggling to read the small print of his daily catalog, one he tends to read every day, paired with a cup of joe as black as coal and a slice of toast doused in salted butter (something you scowl him for consuming each morning). he grumbles something along the lines of youngins and their frivolous need for aesthetic before handing the paper to you, spreading his legs, and patting the tantalizing space between them as though you're a cocker spaniel.
but you obey, gleefully, and with the wag of your tail, you gift him a wide-toothed smile when he calls you his good girl.
you hold the catalog and bundus turns the page to where he last left off—a page filled with pastel pinks and greens as they advertise for the local bakery down the street. it undoubtedly catches your attention because your eyes start to scatter around the lighthearted pages.
"read this line here," he points to the tiny paragraph of text on the left page. "whatever the hell it says, maybe it's somethin' good."
so you adjust your seating, a lovely grin decorates your lips as you give a faux cough before starting. "come and try our sweetest thing on the menu, tempting tiramisu," you give your butt a wiggle in delight. "our coffee-soaked ladyfingers topped with our creamy mascarpone and dusted with rich cocoa powder will keep you coming back for more! so, make time to stop by and grab a slice before you end up eagerly waiting for a fresh batch the next day."
its been a while since you've craved something sweet on your tongue. you've tried tiramisu once and you fell in love with the creamy goodness. fortunately for you, this quaint bakery is only a few blocks away, and you're sure bundus wouldn't mind handing you an unreasonable sum of money for a quick dessert.
you look back at him with a grin. his eyes still wander along the girlish design.
"this sounds good, doesn't it? you shouldn't really be eating a lot of the sweet stuff, but we can share!" bundus squints at the page before letting out a disappointed huff, causing your shoulders drop at the subdued tension.
"it does sound good, darlin', but you know i'm not a fan of false advertisement," he scratches an itch under his chin, the grating sound pouring out from his beard. "stops people from steppin' foot in their stores. that'll just ruin the brand. keep 'em out of business if ya' ask me."
the tilt of your head and the blinks of your eyes were to be expected—what was he talking about? everything read as legit to you; the tiramisu, the enticing description, the pretty design, all of which would have you bolt through the doors of their bakery and order their newest item on the menu plus more.
so what was it that bundus claimed as false advertisement?
"i don't get it." you begin, confusion slips with each beat of your words. "i think they did a good job," you let out a defeated shrug. "i would like to go." and to that, bundus tuts and gives a small disapproving shake of his head.
"now that's no good, sugar. thought i taught you better than to be fooled by pretty words on pretty pages."
he taps at the line you just read and glares at you under olive hues— if you look harder, there's a flicker of mischief that flies past his pupils. "read daddy this here line for me again." you gulp and your thighs twitch at the keyword that draws from his lips like bourbon whiskey.
your eyes meet the page once more. you let out a cough and this time its genuine, "c-come try our sweetest thing on the menu, tempting tiramisu-" you're interrupted by a meaty finger on your bottom lip which stimulates you to turn to the side and take in the smile that rises on your lover's face.
"hear that?" it's a question with a touch of a quip. "'sweetest thing on the menu', they say." bundus rests his chin on your shoulder, his mouth hovered dangerously over your ear, the warm smell of coffee beans whirled to your nose. he spreads your legs wider before he submerges you in his liquid charm.
"how can that be true when i got the sweetest pussy right here in front of me?" his eyes are lidded as he says it, like an old dog that never lost its sly edge.
"ooh, bundus…" you squirm when his right hand reaches down to cup the gusset of your cotton panties, feeling you drench the fabric with your wetness. he prods at your entrance in teasing bumps, cherishing your delicate moans that slip from your tongue.
"look at you, your cunt is already soaking for daddy, ain't that right?" the soothing bass of his voice leaves you feeling hot and restless. your hand falls from the catalog to lie among the thick muscle of his thigh as you buck your hips into his hand.
"bundus, you know what that word does to me." you croak. his fingers trace along your covered slit for a few strokes before reeling up to your sensitive clit and rewarding it with tiny circles.
his hulking form leans closer to your back, smothering you in notes of sandalwood and coffee as he nibbles at the lobe of your ear.
"i know what it does, that's why i'm gonna keep sayin' it. c'mon now, baby. play along." he slaps the side of your thigh that forces a mewl from you.
"daddy don't need no bakery when i can just get a taste of that sweet cunt right here." he slides your panties to the side to gain access to your sweltering heat, delving his fingers in your sopping pussy. his fingers are thicker and longer than yours, and they reach areas your own can't reach. you grind against his digits when he curls his fingers upward, hitting that spot that encouraged you to clench around him.
but he pulls out before you can get too comfortable. his moist fingers find purchase under his nose, which he gives a deep sniff before pushing them between his lips. he grunts while doing so, it's low and airy and the sounds make you rut your ass against his already hard dick.
omg I LOVE THE DETAILSSSS ARGHHHHHH!!!! black coffee butter toast bundus with his newspapers, meaty thighs, and spaniel bc they're good for old people 😭😭♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
and when he.. when... when he.... h... when the.. when he flirted and caught me off guard bc i wasn't expecting it 😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩😩
all 17 bundus fans NEED to read this, non-negotiable!!!!
i couldn't stop thinking abt bundus calling himself daddy (thx, @notbyleth) so my coochie decided to perch at her desk once more and write this for me
tags: mild daddy kink + fingering.
wrd count: 1.3k+
you slot perfectly between bundus' meaty thighs. your back is pressed against his chest and you can feel bits of his chest hairs that peek over the horizon of his ribbed tank top tickle the nape of your neck. with a catalog in your hands, you scoot back and your ass feathers the trace of his bulge covered in denim.
not too long ago, bundus was struggling to read the small print of his daily catalog, one he tends to read every day, paired with a cup of joe as black as coal and a slice of toast doused in salted butter (something you scowl him for consuming each morning). he grumbles something along the lines of youngins and their frivolous need for aesthetic before handing the paper to you, spreading his legs, and patting the tantalizing space between them as though you're a cocker spaniel.
but you obey, gleefully, and with the wag of your tail, you gift him a wide-toothed smile when he calls you his good girl.
you hold the catalog and bundus turns the page to where he last left off—a page filled with pastel pinks and greens as they advertise for the local bakery down the street. it undoubtedly catches your attention because your eyes start to scatter around the lighthearted pages.
"read this line here," he points to the tiny paragraph of text on the left page. "whatever the hell it says, maybe it's somethin' good."
so you adjust your seating, a lovely grin decorates your lips as you give a faux cough before starting. "come and try our sweetest thing on the menu, tempting tiramisu," you give your butt a wiggle in delight. "our coffee-soaked ladyfingers topped with our creamy mascarpone and dusted with rich cocoa powder will keep you coming back for more! so, make time to stop by and grab a slice before you end up eagerly waiting for a fresh batch the next day."
its been a while since you've craved something sweet on your tongue. you've tried tiramisu once and you fell in love with the creamy goodness. fortunately for you, this quaint bakery is only a few blocks away, and you're sure bundus wouldn't mind handing you an unreasonable sum of money for a quick dessert.
you look back at him with a grin. his eyes still wander along the girlish design.
"this sounds good, doesn't it? you shouldn't really be eating a lot of the sweet stuff, but we can share!" bundus squints at the page before letting out a disappointed huff, causing your shoulders drop at the subdued tension.
"it does sound good, darlin', but you know i'm not a fan of false advertisement," he scratches an itch under his chin, the grating sound pouring out from his beard. "stops people from steppin' foot in their stores. that'll just ruin the brand. keep 'em out of business if ya' ask me."
the tilt of your head and the blinks of your eyes were to be expected—what was he talking about? everything read as legit to you; the tiramisu, the enticing description, the pretty design, all of which would have you bolt through the doors of their bakery and order their newest item on the menu plus more.
so what was it that bundus claimed as false advertisement?
"i don't get it." you begin, confusion slips with each beat of your words. "i think they did a good job," you let out a defeated shrug. "i would like to go." and to that, bundus tuts and gives a small disapproving shake of his head.
"now that's no good, sugar. thought i taught you better than to be fooled by pretty words on pretty pages."
he taps at the line you just read and glares at you under olive hues— if you look harder, there's a flicker of mischief that flies past his pupils. "read daddy this here line for me again." you gulp and your thighs twitch at the keyword that draws from his lips like bourbon whiskey.
your eyes meet the page once more. you let out a cough and this time its genuine, "c-come try our sweetest thing on the menu, tempting tiramisu-" you're interrupted by a meaty finger on your bottom lip which stimulates you to turn to the side and take in the smile that rises on your lover's face.
"hear that?" it's a question with a touch of a quip. "'sweetest thing on the menu', they say." bundus rests his chin on your shoulder, his mouth hovered dangerously over your ear, the warm smell of coffee beans whirled to your nose. he spreads your legs wider before he submerges you in his liquid charm.
"how can that be true when i got the sweetest pussy right here in front of me?" his eyes are lidded as he says it, like an old dog that never lost its sly edge.
"ooh, bundus…" you squirm when his right hand reaches down to cup the gusset of your cotton panties, feeling you drench the fabric with your wetness. he prods at your entrance in teasing bumps, cherishing your delicate moans that slip from your tongue.
"look at you, your cunt is already soaking for daddy, ain't that right?" the soothing bass of his voice leaves you feeling hot and restless. your hand falls from the catalog to lie among the thick muscle of his thigh as you buck your hips into his hand.
"bundus, you know what that word does to me." you croak. his fingers trace along your covered slit for a few strokes before reeling up to your sensitive clit and rewarding it with tiny circles.
his hulking form leans closer to your back, smothering you in notes of sandalwood and coffee as he nibbles at the lobe of your ear.
"i know what it does, that's why i'm gonna keep sayin' it. c'mon now, baby. play along." he slaps the side of your thigh that forces a mewl from you.
"daddy don't need no bakery when i can just get a taste of that sweet cunt right here." he slides your panties to the side to gain access to your sweltering heat, delving his fingers in your sopping pussy. his fingers are thicker and longer than yours, and they reach areas your own can't reach. you grind against his digits when he curls his fingers upward, hitting that spot that encouraged you to clench around him.
but he pulls out before you can get too comfortable. his moist fingers find purchase under his nose, which he gives a deep sniff before pushing them between his lips. he grunts while doing so, it's low and airy and the sounds make you rut your ass against his already hard dick.
i couldn't stop thinking abt bundus calling himself daddy (thx, @notbyleth) so my coochie decided to perch at her desk once more and write this for me
tags: mild daddy kink + fingering.
wrd count: 1.3k+
you slot perfectly between bundus' meaty thighs. your back is pressed against his chest and you can feel bits of his chest hairs that peek over the horizon of his ribbed tank top tickle the nape of your neck. with a catalog in your hands, you scoot back and your ass feathers the trace of his bulge covered in denim.
not too long ago, bundus was struggling to read the small print of his daily catalog, one he tends to read every day, paired with a cup of joe as black as coal and a slice of toast doused in salted butter (something you scowl him for consuming each morning). he grumbles something along the lines of youngins and their frivolous need for aesthetic before handing the paper to you, spreading his legs, and patting the tantalizing space between them as though you're a cocker spaniel.
but you obey, gleefully, and with the wag of your tail, you gift him a wide-toothed smile when he calls you his good girl.
you hold the catalog and bundus turns the page to where he last left off—a page filled with pastel pinks and greens as they advertise for the local bakery down the street. it undoubtedly catches your attention because your eyes start to scatter around the lighthearted pages.
"read this line here," he points to the tiny paragraph of text on the left page. "whatever the hell it says, maybe it's somethin' good."
so you adjust your seating, a lovely grin decorates your lips as you give a faux cough before starting. "come and try our sweetest thing on the menu, tempting tiramisu," you give your butt a wiggle in delight. "our coffee-soaked ladyfingers topped with our creamy mascarpone and dusted with rich cocoa powder will keep you coming back for more! so, make time to stop by and grab a slice before you end up eagerly waiting for a fresh batch the next day."
its been a while since you've craved something sweet on your tongue. you've tried tiramisu once and you fell in love with the creamy goodness. fortunately for you, this quaint bakery is only a few blocks away, and you're sure bundus wouldn't mind handing you an unreasonable sum of money for a quick dessert.
you look back at him with a grin. his eyes still wander along the girlish design.
"this sounds good, doesn't it? you shouldn't really be eating a lot of the sweet stuff, but we can share!" bundus squints at the page before letting out a disappointed huff, causing your shoulders drop at the subdued tension.
"it does sound good, darlin', but you know i'm not a fan of false advertisement," he scratches an itch under his chin, the grating sound pouring out from his beard. "stops people from steppin' foot in their stores. that'll just ruin the brand. keep 'em out of business if ya' ask me."
the tilt of your head and the blinks of your eyes were to be expected—what was he talking about? everything read as legit to you; the tiramisu, the enticing description, the pretty design, all of which would have you bolt through the doors of their bakery and order their newest item on the menu plus more.
so what was it that bundus claimed as false advertisement?
"i don't get it." you begin, confusion slips with each beat of your words. "i think they did a good job," you let out a defeated shrug. "i would like to go." and to that, bundus tuts and gives a small disapproving shake of his head.
"now that's no good, sugar. thought i taught you better than to be fooled by pretty words on pretty pages."
he taps at the line you just read and glares at you under olive hues— if you look harder, there's a flicker of mischief that flies past his pupils. "read daddy this here line for me again." you gulp and your thighs twitch at the keyword that draws from his lips like bourbon whiskey.
your eyes meet the page once more. you let out a cough and this time its genuine, "c-come try our sweetest thing on the menu, tempting tiramisu-" you're interrupted by a meaty finger on your bottom lip which stimulates you to turn to the side and take in the smile that rises on your lover's face.
"hear that?" it's a question with a touch of a quip. "'sweetest thing on the menu', they say." bundus rests his chin on your shoulder, his mouth hovered dangerously over your ear, the warm smell of coffee beans whirled to your nose. he spreads your legs wider before he submerges you in his liquid charm.
"how can that be true when i got the sweetest pussy right here in front of me?" his eyes are lidded as he says it, like an old dog that never lost its sly edge.
"ooh, bundus…" you squirm when his right hand reaches down to cup the gusset of your cotton panties, feeling you drench the fabric with your wetness. he prods at your entrance in teasing bumps, cherishing your delicate moans that slip from your tongue.
"look at you, your cunt is already soaking for daddy, ain't that right?" the soothing bass of his voice leaves you feeling hot and restless. your hand falls from the catalog to lie among the thick muscle of his thigh as you buck your hips into his hand.
"bundus, you know what that word does to me." you croak. his fingers trace along your covered slit for a few strokes before reeling up to your sensitive clit and rewarding it with tiny circles.
his hulking form leans closer to your back, smothering you in notes of sandalwood and coffee as he nibbles at the lobe of your ear.
"i know what it does, that's why i'm gonna keep sayin' it. c'mon now, baby. play along." he slaps the side of your thigh that forces a mewl from you.
"daddy don't need no bakery when i can just get a taste of that sweet cunt right here." he slides your panties to the side to gain access to your sweltering heat, delving his fingers in your sopping pussy. his fingers are thicker and longer than yours, and they reach areas your own can't reach. you grind against his digits when he curls his fingers upward, hitting that spot that encouraged you to clench around him.
but he pulls out before you can get too comfortable. his moist fingers find purchase under his nose, which he gives a deep sniff before pushing them between his lips. he grunts while doing so, it's low and airy and the sounds make you rut your ass against his already hard dick.
tamsy would wrap tokushin’s ropes around the base of his dick and balls as he hammers into you, careful not to reward you with his come that awaits your hot cunt, he knows the knitted threads would only coil around him tighter to prevent him from doing such—just like his fingers that tightens around your throat, veins bulging through the pale skin of his forearm as he restricts you from catching gasps of air. your mouth is agape and your eyes rolled back to the dark pits of your head and your cheeks are wet with tears—he’d make sure to drink them off you.
if he can’t bask in the pleasure of coming, then you can’t bask in the basic necessity of air.
bro is currently sat upon your chest, but he remains mindful not to surrender all his overbearing weight on you—he still wants air channeling through your lungs as you inhale heavy breaths of the musky scent wafting from the drop of his balls, coated with a thin layer of sweat, and curly hairs decorating the base. his closeness is so prominent that you lick your lips, hoping to steal a taste.
“nuh uh, not yet, mami. just look at them for me, yeah?” and you obey, although tentatively, the soothing tenor of his pitch leaves you still, focused as he grabs his dick and strokes from base to brown tip. you watch the velvety skin stretch with each languid stroke, delicate beads of precum twinkle above you before oozing down to caress your philtrum. your tongue darts out like second nature, but bro is all too familiar with your ardor, a desperate little thing ready to consume anything that’ll satiate that untamed desire.
his thumb firmly presses against your tongue before you seize the chance to slobber over your top lip, chuckling when he catches a spark of hopelessness glimmer in your eyes as soon as he wipes his pre off you.
“you know i can’t stand it when you look at me like that.” he coos. “but you can’t taste it. not yet, my love.” you rub your thighs together in hopes to ease the prevalent ache.
my real honest truth is that hardly anyone in gachiakuta shaves. not even tamsy is 100% bald it crawls up a little bit. they’re all bush embracers and it applies to their partner too.
tamsy with nipple piercings in which you’re glad to hear from his lips that they’ve finally healed, his blue tie and loose dress shirt puddles around his hips to reveal peach-tinted nipples adorned in shimmering silver—they glitter under the evening moonlight, and you start to believe that the sky is missing its star.
your face hovers dangerously close to the tiny heap of muscle, close enough to see how they protrude in your direction. tamsy offers you to sit on his thigh and who are you to refuse? you already feel a familiar wetness between your legs as you prop yourself on tamsy’s lean ones like an obedient doll placed on a shelf.
your lips trace the shape of his areolas, slightly nipping at the flesh as you bat your eyes up at him as though you’re always this scandalous under his controlling gaze.
your clit pulses at the song of his whispered sighs as he rests a hand on your head, his fingers massaging the surface of your scalp because he thinks you deserve it. you’ve waited so patiently, after all.
“you’re not one to waste anytime, i see.” he jests. his chuckle is subdued as he watches your head reel back, a nasty string of saliva still connected to sterling silver and firm tissue.
wet lips cast into a content smile and you grind against his thigh, to which he flexes so he can hear you groan at how good its hardness feels against your aching clit.
“been waiting for this for mooonths. wanna suck on them forever,” you buck your hips onto the hard edge of his quads and your tongue glides across the discolored marks of his skin, leading to his other nipple that you've left untouched and wanting. “they’re so pretty, tam. you’re so pretty.”
his close-lipped smile remains prominent as his head tilts to the side, dual-toned locks curtain his plump cheeks. feathered lashes flap delicately as he slowly blinks at you. he brings a hand up, fingers taunting the stretched skin of your neck.
“mmm, so is my precious girl.” he coos until he sees hearts in your eyes. “doing such a wonderful job making me feel good.” his other hand leaves your head to cup yours, guiding it towards the swell beneath the taut fabric of his pants. he jolts his hips upward and you feel the small wet patch of precum tickle the pads of your finger.
“see?” you sense a grin as the word trickles from his lips. “that's proof on how good you are. so, keep sucking, my love. i'm sure it's much easier to do than my dick.”
Since we now know Enjin is the owner of one of the Watchmen Instruments, and we know it manipulates time...
What if Enjin's fingernails aren't actually painted, rather decayed and a sign of how many times he's used it?
Obviously, he's young and doesn't have his tattoos yet—but at the same time Chapter 166 IS when he acquires the Watch, so it's plausible to think his nails may correlate to the Watch usage.
And as we know, throughout the series, we see all his nails "painted" except for his pinky.
(image of his left hand)
(it's worth noting there are a few inconsistencies with it—some shots in the anime have all his nails painted, and in some manga panels we see other)
(right hand in chapter 166; right hand in chapter 2; left hand in chapter 2; left hand from anime)
When Alto offloads the Jinki to Enjin, it's stated there's heavy consequences when it's used; he tells Enjin to never use it. And when it comes to any time manipulation power, the most common consequence is ageing.
So what if his fingernails are indicative of the Jinki's usage?
It's a bit of a stretch, but it's something.
Also, Rudo was a giver when he was born—he has no shine in his eyes.
But seeing this panel, and knowing Urana is very deliberate with her panelling...
Knowing Enjin is the holder of the Watch Jinki, what if Rudo did die after falling from the Sphere. We don't know if Alto used the Watch Jinki to "save" Rudo, but there could be a possibility each time the Watch is used it's to save Rudo?
“Look at my cowgirl go, riding my dick like she owns it.” Enjin has you in the position he loves to fuck you in (more like you fuck him). Mainly because he can see the way your cunt engulfs the girth of his cock, your glistening folds spread gradually as you sink down from aching red tip to thick base, the hairs on his pubic bone sticking to the crease of your inner thighs. You've been riding him to the point where your wet pussy gushes out milky white cream and wraps around his dick like ivory ribbon.
“Is that what it is, baby, you own this dick now?” The firm slap to your ass elicits a meek little ‘I do, I own this dick now, jin’ as you muster all of your strength to glide back to his sensitive head. He finds it downright adorable that you struggle to keep up.
But there’s another reason why Enjin loves this position, why he pleads under saliva-ridden kisses and heated caresses for you to ride him with your back facing him and your calves trapped under the bulk of his thighs:
To see your cute little asshole.
The tight ring of muscle that twitches each time you take him down to the hilt and grind against him as if he can reach past your cervix and into your fucking stomach. He finds himself relishing the thought of how fantastic it must feel for the muscle to squeeze his leaky tip as you spread the cheeks of your ass wide for him because he's a lot to take in.
He lets his passion consume him before he has the chance to suppress it and you feel a finger prod at the entrance of your hole, a quick yelp resonates in the room. You hastily grab his wrist in hopes he’ll ease his impulses.
“Oh my goodness, Jin, what’re you—fuck.”
“Relax, baby. Gotta own something too, y’know. It’s only fair.” He draws little circles around it before he pushes his thumb inside, just until it reaches the ink around it, one finger should do; it's not enough to hurt his precious girl, but to keep her wanting.
And the abrupt clench of your pussy was all the confirmation he needed—he’s grinning until the pink of his gums mischievously revealed itself.
“You like that? Hmm, good. That means I can stuff my dick in this tight little ass of yours, keep her full and happy,” He rewards the right cheek of your ass three reassuring pats, his cock pulses at its rippling effect. “But for now, you get my fingers. Gotta open you up first.”
have a WIP fanfic that i can't stop thinking about, so i wanted to work on some promo art for it, or at least draft some (amidst some ugly ass tamsy art i been doing)
gummygunk
areudirty
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
jbbartram-illu
andulkaphoto
izzy806
