hiii :3 or whatever u bitches say idk

“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.

"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.

“Did it just get—”

“—Colder?” Zanka finishes, mirroring Rudo’s concerned look.

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. 

So, you give—encourage him with a firm tug.

And he doesn’t hold back.