semiu doesn’t get paid enough to play wingman for enjin while he’s standing right beside you with his fists clenched.
“so… what’s your ideal man?” she asks you in the lobby. no calls, no papers to oversee, she’s bored, and luckily for her you seem to have a day off. you’re perched on the corner of her desk playing with a loose string on your jacket.
enjin doesn’t usually linger when you’re around, but today he manages. mostly because he’s swallowed his pride to face you, and also you’re hot as fuck.
semiu likes to tease for the free entertainment. she doesn’t even need to peer through her glasses to know what’s going on.
you think for a moment. “uh… tough–” score. “–patient–” nope. “um… and tattoos. i like tattoos. they’re cool.” two out of three. best day ever.
enjin comes back after a week with an entirely new sleeve. you’re more worried about how inflamed his skin is rather than gushing over how ‘cool’ he looks. either way, you dote on him, and that’s all he needs.
do the silly thing. if you do not do the silly thing time will pass and it will not be the same silly thing it could have been. it will still be silly, and it will still be yours, but it will not be the same. this is both a blessing and a curse, but so is living; and if you do not do it now when will you? who will? it has to be you, it was always meant for you, waiting for you.
Sometimes I am too paralyzed to write even though I have the story in my head. It's really hard sometimes to get words onto the page. It's like fear is blocking me, and majority of the time it is.
good afternoon we are celebrating the ttt anniversary by writing the most heart wrenching flapjack hurt/comfort fluff fic that i can't get out of my head. thank you for your time
@exltwounds told me they were having a shit day so i wrote this depravity that i’ve had unfinished in my works for so long because we don’t write fluff on this channel. happy saturday!!!!
warnings; 18+, no gendered terms but reader is afab, slight dubcon, improper use of tokushin but i mean that literally, tamsy is an obsessed reprobate
“Get that thing away from me,” you snap from beneath him.
Tamsy pouts. “You don’t like her?” He twirls his wrist and the loose string rewraps itself around the staff.
“‘Her?’” you repeat.
“Tokushin is a pretty girl,” he claims. “And well behaved. Well, better behaved than you.” He stares at the object for a moment as if it speaks directly to him.
“Of course it is, it’s an object.”
“An object that does my bidding,” he corrects. He wishes you were the same. He’ll get you there eventually. He can’t wait to memorise your expressions.
You feel the staff and the harsh wool slide up along your leg, just shy of your pelvis.
“Wait a second…”
You feel his hand shift. He holds onto the larger part of the distaff, keeping the thread tightly locked around the cage. The small handle taps once along the bone, harsh and hard.
You try to close your legs. You manage with some success before he pries them back open and slots his hips in the middle. The bed dips with the added weight.
He stares at you almost like he’s bored. His free hand creeps from beneath your thigh and loops upwards until his fingers find the skin along your hip below your panties.
To this, he looks displeased. “Why do you even have these on?” He tugs once at the fabric. His lips pull to the side. His fingers are skittish, wildly feeling the expanses of skin he’d otherwise never access. Your stomach pools beneath his touch. Your thighs lock around his waist, desperate to just close so you can get up and leave.
“You’re not serious, right?” you ask nervously.
“About?” His thumb presses to your clothed clit. He grinds down, careful not to let his nail snag on the fabric. It catches easily against malleable flesh he wants to ruin.
His thumb then dips around the hemming of your panties and slides curiously until he’s pulled the fabric to the side. He almost laughs at the glitter pooling around your hole. You visibly clench once exposed, and you grit your teeth.
Something cold slides along your navel. It’s solid, like wood.
You bark out a cry, “That’s enough!”
“I haven’t even started yet,” he says. “Just relax.” The rounded wooden tip of Tokushin’s handle presses gently to your clit. It circles the bundle once, twice, three times, then again and again, and you realise he’s not teasing you.
He pushes down harder, angling left and right slightly until your hips eventually twitch. You let out a sob when he hits you just right. His free hand holds you down by the stomach. You can’t help but try to squirm. The ache is awful; the nerves fire up into your belly and deep inside. It’s almost painful. It’s a slow crawl to finish, and Tamsy only lets up just before you can cross the edge.
“See? Isn’t it lovely?”
You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the distaff in his hands. You clench again. He removes his jinki for a moment before his thumb returns to rub gently at your clit, almost like a reward. Almost in praise of laying there and letting him have his way with you.
He’s not really looking at your face though. His eyes are glued to the glitter between your legs. It glimmers tauntingly, and his thumb slides easily to encompass the wetness pooling over your cunt.
You’re so easy.
He shifts for a moment. He flips his hair back with a quick turn of his head before he shrinks down and tastes the pad of his thumb. He almost drools before he lowers himself enough for a gander with his tongue.
He ignores, with effort, your swollen clit. His nose nudges unintentionally against it and you gasp. He needs you wetter than this, and he decides his spit will do the trick. His tongue glides easily against your cunt, tracing the rim of your hole with a dizzy groan. You reel your hips back to pull away from him, but he simply chases.
His fingers lock your thighs in place. Your legs ache from being held so far apart, and the humiliation almost outweighs the feeling of him utterly devouring you. His tongue is hotter than you feel.
Your cunt oozes with slick that he happily drinks.
He wants nothing more than to press his tongue deep inside and stay there for hours. He thinks he deserves it. He thinks the only way to get close is to have every part of him inside of you until he’s in your skin, and you’re one of the same.
His cock strains in his pants.
His brows furrow.
He refrains.
You’re hot. Your skin is on fire. The ceiling only spins. Tamsy is the only thing you can focus on, and how he pulls back every so often and you get a glimpse of his tongue flattening against your clit.
He knows it’s working. He also gets lost eventually when his hand works between his thighs. You’re slowly forgetting his intentions. You barely even register the handle of Tokushin twisting gently and coating in slick. He slides it over the rim of your hole. Maybe you just think it’s his finger; it’s certainly thin enough, but not nearly as warm.
Tamsy’s nose flattens against your pelvis as his tongue works your clit. You heave, hole clenching around the handle before he angles the instrument just enough to push in just an inch.
You immediately seize. The dull ache of his tongue becomes a needed distraction. He sucks gently and your thighs twitch open instinctively.
The ache grows worse. His tongue slides over your clit over and over again.
“Fuck,” you manage.
And it feels so good that you begin laughing.
Tamsy pushes further. The handle sinks deeper inside of you and you sigh in relief.
Ooh. Tamsy grins into your cunt.
It’s when the entire handle is inside that you squirm. The handle is cold and stiff. He twists it gently and you jerk.
“That’s…”
Tamsy pulls back. Experimentally, he pulls the handle out slowly.
You hiss when he pushes the entire length back in. You reach downward and try to shove him off with gritted teeth, but Tamsy jerks his wrist backwards and wretches the handle out of you completely. You tense up as his tongue abandons your clit.
One of his hands splays out on your hip. You stiffen in retaliation, ready to bark out at the premise of him pushing down and pinning you to the bed. He crawls up to your hips, then your waist, then both of his hands push down eagerly on your shoulders.
You huff and his hair blows out of your face.
You can see his grin in the low orange dim of the lamp.
“You look disappointed,” he observes. “Am I not good enough?”
“No…” Your chest strains beneath your shirt. “No, you’re good.” You feel small beneath him. “You’re great.”
He breathes sporadically. His breath hits your face in waves. His pupils are blown out, and his eyes dart frantically across every lift of your eyebrow, or every twitch of your nose, or the slight tremble in your lip.
Then, his smile drops.
“Do you love me?”
You blink, completely stunned by his question. “What?”
Tamsy looks expectant. “I love you.” His eyes widen at his own confession. There’s a shaky grin on his lips, open mouthed and almost too large for his face. His teeth are covered in spit, and a glimmer of saliva escapes the corner of his mouth. “A lot.”
You shift beneath his weight on your shoulders. Sweat covers your neck and every delicate piece of cartilage that weaves into your collarbone. The flesh is littered in pink and purple.
“Really?” you ask.
Tamsy hums. He’s still staring. He leans downward slightly. One of his hands abandons your shoulder to tap the yarn strewn around Tokushin against your cheek.
“I love you,” he reaffirms.
“I…” The handle of his instrument is sparkling in the low lights of your bedroom. “I love you too…”
“Oh.” Tamsy freezes. It’s like the entire world stops for a moment, and he stares through you like he can see every interaction of your veins. Like he could reach beneath your flesh and twist until every line pulled free from its place.
You hear nothing but the creaking of the bed when you shift, and the unsteady breathing emitting from his mouth. It’s so shaky you worry he’s not getting enough air.
“You okay…?” you whisper to him.
You can barely see his face.
“Hey…” you utter.
“Hi,” he responds. He bites his lip so hard it bleeds. The pain is enough to snap him from his stupour. He wants your knuckles embedded onto his flesh. He wants to burn black and blue from all the love you can promise him. “I’m okay.”
“Show me what she can do,” you say quickly. You reach upwards and cup your hand around his instrument. “You said she’s good, right?”
Tamsy doesn’t respond.
You think you’re trembling.
Tamsy’s eye twitches. Jealousy surges hot in his veins.
You screwed up. You stiffen immediately. “What can you do, with her?” Your hand jerks from his instrument to clasp his hand. Your fingers slot between his, and your forearm pressed to his own. You feel his crinkled sleeve that you’d snipped at with your teeth to tease him, and the outline of one of your bracelets he wears. “What can you do to me?”
Tamsy swoons and his nose nuzzles into your cheek.
Tokushin trembles in your grasp, and her strings whirl first around your wrist and his, gathering tight until your fingers feel fused to his. He keeps your hand locked with his. He wraps his other arm around your waist beneath you on the bed.
