bite it, lick it.

By that afternoon, Gris and Enjin have had enough of you. They decide fresh air and a change of scenery might cool whatever storm has you snarling at the entire Cleaner HQ. Before you can protest, strong hands grab you—Gris’s large, calloused palm firm around your upper arm, Enjin’s tattooed fingers digging playfully into your waist—and you are half-dragged, half-tossed into the back seat of the old jeep like a misbehaving sack of supplies. The door slams. The engine roars to life. And just like that, you are barreling away from headquarters toward a distant city a few hours out, dust kicking up in thick clouds behind the tires. 

It doesn’t help. Not one bit. 

The Ground’s cracked, uneven roads jolt the jeep constantly, every pothole and chunk of debris sending you bouncing hard against the worn leather seat. You bite at Enjin’s fingers when he reaches back between the seats to ruffle your hair in that lazy, teasing way of his. He yanks his hand away with a low chuckle that sounds more amused than annoyed, but you catch the way his yellow eyes narrow in the rearview mirror, that infuriatingly smug grin sharpening at the edges. 

You bark at Gris next when he tells you—calm and measured as always—to quiet down because your aggravated shouting is echoing too loud inside the cramped shop they are browsing for spare parts. He turns his head just enough to pin you with those steady blue eyes. “Sweetheart,” he rumbles, voice gravelly and patient even now, “you’re pushing it.” 

Both of them are being worn thin, their usual easy dominance fraying at the seams under the weight of your nonstop attitude. Gris keeps one big hand on your knee for a while, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles like he is trying to soothe the beast inside you. Enjin cracks jokes, offers you the last cigarette from his pack, even tries to feed you a piece of street vendor bread with those long tattooed fingers. Nothing works. If anything, their attempts only stoke the fire higher, turning every kind gesture into fresh fuel for your brattiness. 

The ride back is worse. 

Enjin sighs heavily, forehead dropping to rest against the top of the steering wheel as the jeep bounces over another stretch of ruined terrain. You have been kicking the back of his seat for the last twenty minutes straight—sharp, rhythmic thuds that make the whole vehicle shudder. He gave up asking you to stop after the tenth kick, jaw tight, knuckles white where they grip the wheel. 

He lifts his head again, shoulders slumped, those tired yellow eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. Gris watches you too, quiet and unreadable in the passenger seat, one thick arm draped over the backrest so he can keep those calm blue eyes locked on you the entire time. 

“Y’know, you’re acting more childish than Guita and Dear right now, trouble,” Enjin comments, voice laced with that familiar lazy drawl even as frustration simmers underneath. 

You huff, folding your arms tight under your chest and sinking deeper into the backseat until the worn fabric creaks. “If you didn’t drive so stupidly, I wouldn’t have to kick you.” 

Enjin lets out another long sigh and fishes a cigarette from his coat pocket with one hand, the other staying steady on the wheel. The lighter clicks. A small flame sparks to life just as you slam your foot into the back of his seat again—harder. The jolt makes the flame catch the tips of his fingers. He hisses, drops the lighter into his lap, and the jeep swerves sharply for a second before he regains control. 

“You okay?” Gris asks, already leaning over to check the other man’s hand, voice low and steady. 

Enjin shakes his head, slowing the vehicle as he examines the fresh red mark blooming on his fingertips, the unlit cigarette still clamped between his lips. “Little brat’s got some fight in her today.” 

Gris turns in his seat then, slow and deliberate, those broad shoulders filling the space as he fixes you with a look that makes heat coil low in your belly despite the defiant scowl on your face. “Apologise. Now.” 

“No.” 

“Bunny,” he says, voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that always sends a shiver racing down your spine, “you could have really hurt Enjin.” 

“So?” You shrug, arms still crossed, thighs pressing together on instinct as you feel their combined attention settle heavy on you. “We have Eishia back at base. He’d be fine.” 

The silence that follows is thick, charged. Gris turns back around without another word, eyes facing forward, jaw set. Enjin follows suit, his facial expression now stern as he flexes his burned fingers around the wheel. The air inside the jeep feels suddenly too warm, too small, the engine’s growl vibrating up through the seat and you realise you’ve finally poked the bear too much.  

The rest of the drive home is thick with a heavy, suffocating tension that wraps around the inside of the jeep like smoke. Your pulse hammers in your throat, a messy cocktail of anxiety and dark, electric anticipation twisting low in your belly. Every bump in the ruined road sends fresh jolts through your body, but it’s nothing compared to the way Gris’s steady blue eyes keep finding you in the rearview mirror. Those eyes—calm, unblinking—don’t hold their usual warm patience. They pin you in place, heavy with promise. This punishment is going to be nowhere near a funishment. 

The tires screech to a sharp halt outside HQ, gravel crunching under the wheels as Enjin kills the engine with a low growl of the motor dying. The sudden silence feels louder than the drive ever did. He flips his palm up in the dim glow of the dashboard lights, inspecting the fresh red burn across his fingertips again. The skin is already blistering faintly at the tips. When he drags his thumb across them, he winces—sharp, involuntary—and that tiny sound hits you like a punch to the gut.  

Guilt floods hot and immediate through your chest, souring the defiant spark that had been fueling you all day. You fumble with your seatbelt, fingers suddenly clumsy, heart sinking straight to your stomach. 

You try to slink out of the jeep unnoticed the second the men climb out from the front, keeping your head down and your steps light across the dusty lot. Their low conversation drifts back to you—casual on the surface, but edged with that familiar undercurrent of control. 

“You should get that checked out,” Gris suggests, voice low and gravelly as he rights his belt. The long drive has his pants riding up uncomfortably, the fabric stretched tight over those powerful thighs. He rolls one broad shoulder, looking every bit the steady, exhausted dom who’s about to put you back in your place. 

“Nah,” Enjin replies, voice flat, the usual easy drawl stripped away. “Some burn gel and I’ll be back to a hundred by tomorrow.” He’s not smiling. He closes the driver’s side door with a solid thunk, the sound final. No smirk, no joke to ease the worry etched into Gris’s face. Just quiet, simmering displeasure. 

You’ve nearly made it to the heavy doors of HQ, boots scuffing softly against the ground, when Gris’s voice cuts through the night air like a command you can’t ignore. 

“Bunny.” 

The single word stops you cold. Your spine snaps straight, skin prickling as both men turn toward you in perfect sync. Gris’s large frame is silhouetted against the jeep’s headlights, arms crossed over his broad chest, jaw set like stone. Enjin stands beside him, shoulders tense, yellow eyes narrowed with none of their usual lazy warmth. The air between the three of you crackles—thick with everything they haven’t said yet. 

You suddenly feel the need to run — a raw, animalistic panic that screams if one of them catches you right now, it will be a one-way ticket straight to hell. 

You whirl on your heel, boots scraping against the gravel as you lunge for the heavy HQ door handle with sheer desperation, fingers outstretched, heart slamming against your ribs like it wants to claw its way out. But before you can even brush the cold metal, a large hand clamps down on your forearm like a steel vise. The grip is bruising, unforgiving, yanking you back so hard your shoulder twinges and your feet skid uselessly on the ground. You twist and struggle against the assailant, yanking, shoving, nails digging into the thick forearm that refuses to budge an inch. It’s like fighting a wall. The hold only tightens, planting you exactly where you stand. 

You finally snap your head up, chest heaving. 

Gris towers behind you, expression carved from stone. No warmth in those steady blue eyes. No fond rumble in his gravelly voice. Just an emotionless stare that pins you harder than his hand ever could, jaw locked tight. You can feel the disappointment rolling off him in waves — thick, heavy, suffocating — the kind that settles deep in your gut and makes your knees want to buckle. He exhales once through his nose, calm and controlled, but the air between you crackles with the weight of everything you broke today. 

Then Gris begins to pull you back, his large, calloused hand sliding from your forearm down to your smaller one. His fingers trap your digits in an iron fist—no give, no gentleness, just the unyielding clamp of someone who has run clean out of patience.  

You begin to struggle again, yanking hard against the hold. “Gris—please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to burn him, I promise.”  

Your boots scraping across the gravel as you try to plant them over and over again, pleading for forgiveness over and over again like it would help your case.  

He suddenly stops dead beside the jeep. The abrupt halt nearly yanks you off your feet. Before you can draw another pleading breath, Gris spins you hard and slams your front against the warm metal hood with a dull metallic thud. His broad palm lands heavy between your shoulder blades, pinning you there like you weigh nothing. 

“Enough.” 

The single word drops from him in that low, gravelly voice you know so well—but there’s no warmth in it tonight. No “sweetheart.” No measured patience. Just flat, exhausted steel. His usual calm has finally cracked, jaw locked so hard the muscle jumps. 

Enjin leans against the side of the jeep, arms crossed, cigarette lit between his fingers. He says nothing. Just watches, yellow eyes dark and unforgiving, letting Gris take the lead in some kind of silent agreement.  

Gris’s free hand yanks your skirt up over your ass in one rough motion. Cool night air rushes over your skin, and your cheeks burn with fresh humiliation as your tiny panties are left fully exposed — thin fabric stretched tight across the plush curve of your ass, the crotch clinging obscenely to your folds. You feel the weight of both men’s stares on you, bent over the hood like this, but the shame only makes your thighs press together harder. 

His palm comes down hard — no warm-up, no teasing sting, just a measured, punishing crack that echoes across the empty lot and makes your whole body jolt. 

“Count,” he says, voice low, gravelly, and perfectly calm. The usual steady composure is still there, only now it’s edged with quiet authority that leaves no room for argument. 

You cry out, legs trembling, trying to push up onto your toes, but his broad palm between your shoulder blades keeps you bent and exposed exactly where he wants you. “I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I’ll be good, I swear—” 

Another firm smack lands, precise and unrelenting, the heat blooming deep across your cheek. 

He waits, hand hovering. “Count, Bunny.” 

You whimper, hips twitching uselessly against the hood, voice cracking. “O-one…” 

“Good girl,” he murmurs, steady as ever. “You’ve been way too bratty today.” His palm comes down again, heavier this time. 

“Two,” you choke out, tears already pricking at your eyes as the sting sinks in. 

“Three.” Another measured crack, right where your ass meets your thigh. “Snapping at everyone. Kicking Enjin’s seat. Biting at him.” 

You sob against the cool metal, thighs shaking, still trying to twist away even as slick heat soaks through your panties. “Gris, please—not out here, someone could walk by—I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll do anything— Four!” 

The smack is deliberate, controlled, letting the burn settle deep before the next one falls. “Nearly wrecking the jeep because you couldn’t control that attitude.” 

“Five,” you whimper, legs trembling harder, the heat building between your legs into a deep, throbbing ache. “I’m sorry—I’m really sorry, Gris, please, it hurts—Six!” 

His hand never falters, steady and unhurried, each strike precise so the lesson sinks in without crossing into real harm.  

“S-Seven.”  

He pauses just long enough for the sting to bloom fully, thumb brushing lightly over the warm fabric of your panties like he’s checking his work. 

You keep struggling, twisting your hips, voice breaking on desperate little sobs. “Gris, please, I know I was awful, I’ll never do it again— Eight!” 

 Another firm smack. 

“Nine.” 

Your breath hitches, tears slipping free now as the tenth lands — heavy, deliberate, the final one that leaves your ass glowing hot and stinging under the thin barrier of your panties. 

“Ten,” you gasp out, voice shaky and small. 

Gris stops. His large hand runs slowly over your ass, smoothing across the heated skin and the thin fabric of your panties, admiring the way your cheeks glow red beneath them. Even after a long day of dealing with your nonstop attitude, even with the fresh burn on Enjin’s fingers still fresh in his mind, he remains perfectly composed. 

He gives your sore cheek one last firm squeeze, then lets his fingers drift lower, pressing the damp crotch of your panties against your soaked folds. 

“You took your ten like a good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and even, thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit through the soaked fabric. 

“Thank you, Daddy…” you moan softly as Gris’s thumb draws slow, lazy circles over your clit through your soaked panties, your thighs twitching weakly against the hood. 

He replies with a deep, rumbling groan of his own, the low sound vibrating straight through his chest — a wordless praise that says he is no longer mad at you. 

But what about Enjin? 

You try to push up from under Gris’s heavy hand. He lets you, though he only allows you to lift onto your elbows. You blink through clumped lashes, searching for the other blond. Enjin is looking down at you now, that cold stare finally gone, replaced by a content, shit-eating smirk that makes your stomach flip. Your heart skips hard, a soft, relieved murmur slipping out when you realize both of your men are happy with you again. 

But then Enjin moves. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you, trouble. Those spanks were for Daddy’s temper, not mine.” 

You whine, a sad little sound that catches in your throat because the giver is still possibly upset with you. 

Gris’s thumb on your clit stops. His hand moves to smooth over your burning ass one last time, steady and deliberate. His voice stays low, gravelly, but the raw edge of exhaustion is still there. “He’s right, sweetheart. That wasn’t cute. It was dangerous.” 

Enjin exhales hard through his nose, still staring at the fresh blister on his fingers. The that cocky, dimpled smirk has disappeared again. Now he just looks tired. “Yeah. We’re done playing for tonight.” 

He doesn’t say it mean, but the words land heavy. No round two. No carrying you to bed like a spoiled princess. Gris helps you stand on shaky legs, tugs your skirt back down, and presses a kiss to your temple — gentle, but distant. 

“Go to your room, Bunny. Get some rest.” 

You blink up at them, the high from the spanking crashing fast. The guilt hits different this time. Not the cute, horny kind that leads to more dick. The real kind — the kind that sits heavy in your stomach and makes your eyes sting for a whole new reason. 

“I… I’m sorry. For real.” 

Enjin nods once, but he doesn’t smile. “We know you are. We’ll talk tomorrow when heads are clear.” 

Gris gives your shoulder one last squeeze, then they both walk you back to HQ in silence. No teasing. No possessive hands on your ass. Just the quiet weight of two men who are genuinely disappointed in you for once.