The Bunny Girl

“And that’s why you’re a cunt, Tamsy,” you spat as he calmly sipped from his cup, leaning against the kitchen counter across from you. His long lashes lowered, drinking in your childish tirade with deceptive patience. “Because you never listen to me and you always think you’re right.” 

His temple throbbed. The longer your petulant whining continued, the thinner his restraint stretched. He lifted his gaze just enough for that cold, distant stare to pin you—narrowing on your furrowed brow and flushed cheeks. 

The Look. 

The one that usually sent ice racing down your spine and stole the words from your tongue. The one that sent you scurrying with your tail between your legs, fully aware you’d pushed too far and were seconds from being dragged off for corrective punishment. 

Today, it only fueled you. Expletives and accusations kept spilling out while he tried to enjoy his tea. Finally, Tamsy let out a soft, tired sigh and set his cup down with elegant finality. 

The kitchen fell silent the moment he sauntered toward you. Your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, cat finally catching it.  

“Open,” he commanded, voice low and velvet-smooth, yet carrying the unmistakable edge of authority. His expression was ice incarnate—cold, calculating, and completely unmasked for anyone who might walk in. The angel had stepped aside; only the devil remained. 

You refused, pressing your lips into a tight, defiant line, brows furrowed deeper. 

Tamsy clicked his tongue in mild annoyance. “How predictable.” 

His hand shot forward, fingers gripping your jaw with bruising precision. His thumb forced its way past your lips, pushing painfully until your mouth opened on a gasp. The pad of his thumb pressed down hard on your tongue, pinning it flat against the floor of your mouth. 

“I thought you knew better than to speak to me in that tone, Bunny,” he murmured, the words deceptively gentle while his grip remained iron. He tilted your chin upward, forcing your eyes to meet his icy golden ones. “You forget yourself so easily when you’re in one of your little moods.” 

Saliva already pooled at the corners of your stretched lips, your tongue twitching helplessly beneath the weight of his thumb. You fidgeted in his hold, heat flooding your cheeks. 

Tamsy’s smile was soft, angelic, and utterly merciless. “Need I remind you that my attention—my presence—is a privilege I grant you? Not a right you may demand, nor a toy you may throw tantrums at when it displeases you.” His thumb pressed deeper, making you drool. “You exist in my world at my leisure, little bunny. Open that pretty mouth and disrespect me again… and I’ll be more than happy to teach you exactly where your place is.” 

____________________________

Arkha 

Arkha’s deep, resonant voice cut through the quiet of his office like a blade, calm and unhurried. He remained facing the tall window, broad back straight, hands clasped behind him. 

You startled, breath catching in your throat. “How—how did you know I was watching?” 

A low chuckle rumbled from him as he finally turned, the movement deliberate and powerful. Even from across the room, his presence filled the space—tall as Bro, deep brown skin glowing under the lantern light, those cool steel-gray eyes locking onto you with effortless authority. A placid smile curved his lips, polite on the surface but doing nothing to soften the imposing aura of the Cleaners’ boss. 

“I could see your reflection in the glass,” he said simply. 

“I could see your reflection in the glass,” you parroted back in a childish, mocking tone, tilting your head with exaggerated sweetness. 

Arkha’s smile deepened, a spark of amusement flickering in those steel eyes. 

You looked up at him fully as he approached, feeling the familiar mix of intimidation and heat that always accompanied being near him. He stopped just in front of you, towering without even trying. 

“So,” he continued, voice smooth and measured like aged whiskey, “what brings you to my office, Bunny?” 

“Semiu asked me to bring these to you,” you replied, holding out the thick stack of files. He accepted them with a nod, that same calm smile lingering as his eyes scanned the top page. 

“Y’know, I wouldn’t have to climb three full staircases if you just wore your damn choker,” you complained, shifting your weight. “Or you could at least move your office closer to the foyer. I feel like I’ve climbed a fucking mountain.” 

Arkha listened without interrupting, humming softly in acknowledgment while he continued reading. You kept going, the words tumbling out faster. 

“Better yet, why don’t you come out of your fucking office and do your actual job instead of—” 

A single finger pressed gently but firmly against your lips, silencing you instantly. Your cheeks burned with humiliation at how easily he shut you down—like a bratty child. Yet Arkha’s calm smile never wavered, warm and steady, his steel eyes holding yours without a hint of anger. 

“I appreciate the honesty,” he said evenly, the low timbre of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. “And I will take your suggestions into consideration—for everyone’s benefit.” His finger lingered a moment longer before dropping away. “Still, thank you for helping Semiu and the rest. It’s good of you to step up when you don’t have to.” 

The sincere praise hit harder than any scolding. You looked away, suddenly shy, shuffling in place as heat crept up your neck. “It’s no problem… I was just sitting around anyway.” 

Arkha nodded once, the gesture regal. “If that’s all, you can head out. And tell Semiu I’ll bring these down to her personally. Saves you the journey, right?” 

_____________________

Gris 

The jeep’s engine ticked quietly as it cooled under the hazy, dust-choked sky. You’d been driving in circles for what felt like forever, the endless cracked Ground doing nothing but making everyone’s mood worse. 

Gris stood beside the hood, broad shoulders steady, blond hair slightly messy from the wind as he studied the worn map. Enjin leaned against the vehicle, cigarette glowing between his tattooed fingers. 

“Map said left at the big rubble pile twenty meters past Durver,” Gris rumbled calmly. 

Enjin exhaled a plume of smoke. “There hasn’t been rubble for the last two hours. We’re going in circles, man.” 

You climbed out of the back seat where Follo and Tomme were still dozing and planted yourself firmly between the two Cleaners. 

“I think if we go back to that small town we passed earlier, we could use the water tower as a landmark and—” 

Neither man even glanced at you. Enjin leaned over and pointed at something on the map while Gris nodded, their voices overlapping as they kept talking. 

Your irritation flared. 

“Hello? I’m right here,” you said louder, waving a hand between them. “That town had supplies too. We’re low on gas, and if we just—” 

Still nothing. They continued scanning the horizon like you were background static. 

The heat, the dust, and hours of being ignored finally snapped something in you. 

“Hey!” you barked, hands on your hips. “Are you assholes even listening to me? You’re the ones who got us lost in the first place driving around like you know where you’re going, and now you’re just gonna ignore me when I’m trying to help? I’ve been stuck in this damn jeep for hours with you two idiots, breathing in Enjin’s cigarette smoke and listening to you both act like I’m not even here, and—” 

A large, calloused hand suddenly wrapped firmly around the back of your neck, warm and heavy. Gris pulled you against his side with calm strength, his voice low and even as he cut you off mid-rant.  

“Your opinions aren’t needed right now, sweetheart.” 

A chill ran quickly up your spine as he dominated you so easily. You looked up at him, bottom lip jutting out in a stubborn pout, heart hammering. 

“But—” 

“No buts.” His fingers flexed in warning, thumb pressing lightly against the side of your throat. Baby- blue eyes met yours, steady and patient but leaving no room for argument. “Go sit in the car. We’ll figure this out ourselves.” 

You opened your mouth one last time, purely on principle, but the pressure on your neck increased just enough to silence you. Gris held you there for a long moment, letting the quiet sink in. 

“Good girl,” he finally murmured, voice softening as he felt you relax. He pressed a brief kiss to the top of your head before gently steering you back toward the jeep. “Stay put and behave for us.” 

__________________________

Bro 

Running into your old friends from the brothel wasn’t on the to-do list when you and Bro headed into the city for errands. Yet here you were, tucked into a quiet little coffee shop, laughing loud and fond as the girls caught you up on all the latest chaos. 

Bro sat awkwardly in the dainty armchair across from you, his massive frame making the delicate furniture look like it belonged in a dollhouse. He fidgeted with the tiny cup in his huge hands, cheeks already faintly pink as you recounted life with the Cleaners. The overly sweet drink you’d recommended for him sat mostly untouched—he’d taken one sip and decided it was way too much, but he was happy just to sit beside you and watch you light up. 

“So what’s life been like with you?” a friend asked, leaning in with a grin. “Anything interesting since you left us for the Cleaners?” 

You shook your head, still smiling. “Not really. Enjin’s still… Enjin.” 

The table erupted in knowing laughter. Then another one of your friends turned to you with a sly, mischievous look. “But the sex is still great, right? Enjin might be an ass, but you’ve got big guy over here dickin’ you down too, yeah?” 

She tilted her cup toward Bro. 

The table went quiet as every eye turned to him. Bro felt his face burn instantly. His hand, which had been resting comfortably on your thigh under the table, suddenly tensed. He swallowed hard, golden-brown eyes flicking to you. 

You wouldn’t… right? That’s private. Girls don’t just— 

You smiled sweetly at your friends. “Well…” 

Bro’s grip on your thigh tightened in warning. 

You ignored it, bratty sparkle in your eyes. “Bro’s got one of the biggest dicks I’ve ever seen. One of the thickest too—” 

His hand squeezed harder. 

“And he loves being called—” 

The chair clattered loudly as Bro shot up. Before you could finish, his massive hand wrapped around your wrist and he hauled you out of your seat like you weighed nothing. Awkward goodbyes were muttered as he dragged you out of the café and down the busy street, your complaints falling on deaf ears. 

He didn’t stop until he shoved you into a quiet alley, pressing your back against the wall with his enormous frame. One huge hand clamped firmly over your mouth, muffling your squawk of protest. His other hand pinned your hip, caging you completely. 

“Chiquita,” he rumbled low, warm chocolate eyes now filled with disappointment and a hint of embarrassment. “You don’t go spilling that kinda business in public. Not about me. Not about anyone.” 

You tried to mumble against his palm, but his hand stayed sealed tight—big enough that his fingers easily covered your mouth and part of your cheeks. The sheer size difference made your knees feel weak. 

Bro sighed, forehead resting against yours for a moment. “I hate disciplinin’ you like you’re Dear… but sometimes you need it, huh?” 

He kept his hand over your mouth a little longer, thumb brushing your cheek almost tenderly while he let you squirm. Only when your struggling eased did he slowly pull it away, replacing it with a gentle but firm kiss to your forehead. 

“Just… don’t do it again, okay?” 

___________________

Enjin 

You were bent over Semiu’s desk, palms flat on the cool surface as she pointed out the latest mission notes. Too engrossed in the conversation to notice the heavy footsteps approaching from behind. 

You definitely felt him, though. 

Enjin’s large, tattooed hand cracked across your raised ass so hard the sound echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot. You yelped, fingers gripping the edge of the desk as you whipped your head over your shoulder to glare at him. 

“The fuck was that for?” you snapped, cheeks already burning. 

He just grinned—that lazy, shit-eating grin that carved deep dimples into his face—and gave a nonchalant shrug, golden eyes sparkling with pure mischief. 

Your blood boiled. 

You spun on your heel to face him fully, fists clenched at your sides. “You wanna die, asshole?” 

Enjin’s smirk only deepened. In one smooth motion he stepped in close, one big hand shooting up to grab your face. His palm cupped your jaw as his thumb and fingers dug into your cheeks, squishing them together and forcing your lips into a perfect, helpless little O. 

“Damn, trouble. You kiss your favorite Cleaner with that mouth?” he drawled, voice low and rough. 

“Fuck you.” 

You tried to wrench away, gripping his wrist with both hands and kicking uselessly at the floor, but he didn’t budge. The more you struggled, the wider his grin got. Heat flooded your face—anger, embarrassment, something hotter underneath. 

So you did the only thing left. 

You gathered every bit of saliva in your mouth and tried to spit at him. 

It didn’t work. 

Because of the way he was holding your face, all that spit just spilled helplessly over your forced pout and dripped down your chin in a thick, embarrassing trail. Enjin’s golden eyes darkened instantly, the playful glint sharpening into something dangerous. 

You fucked up. 

He yanked you forward by your face, crashing his mouth down onto your pouted lips. You gasped against him as his tongue shoved past the forced O and invaded your mouth, hot and demanding. He didn’t give you a chance to recover—his tongue slid over yours, pinned it down, licked deep like he was punishing every bratty word you’d tried to say. The grip on your face stayed firm, keeping your cheeks squished and your lips soft and pliant for him to devour. 

Wet, messy sounds filled the quiet foyer. You could feel the drool on your chin mixing with the kiss as he claimed every inch of your mouth, tongue fucking into you until your knees felt weak. 

When he finally pulled back, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before it broke. Your eyes were hazy, cheeks flushed dark red, chest heaving. 

Enjin smiled down at you, canines flashing as his thumb dragged across your spit-slick chin. 

“You done talking now?” 

Your only answer was a soft, broken whine as your thighs pressed together, the fight completely kissed out of you. 

There’s nothing in the world that gets him harder than sinking his cock down your tight throat and fucking your mouth like a second pussy. He’ll lounge back against the headboard, one tattooed hand lazily tangled in your hair, golden eyes half-lidded and that shit-eating grin carved deep into his cheeks while he guides you exactly how he wants it—slow and sloppy at first, then ruthless when you start to drool. 

He loves the way your throat bulges, the wet gagging sounds, the tears that spill when he holds you down just a little too long. He’ll buck up lazily, chasing that tight heat, cursing low and filthy when you swallow around him. And when he finally spills down your throat? He keeps you there, grinding through it with a low groan, making sure you take every drop like the good little barrack bunny you are. 

But when he does eat you? He’s mean and greedy about it. 

You never see it coming. One minute you’re teasing him—maybe straddling his lap in the common room after everyone else has crashed, grinding against the growing bulge in his pants just to watch those golden eyes darken. The next, he’s got you pinned on your back on the nearest flat surface, knees shoved up to your chest, his broad shoulders keeping you spread open. 

Enjin doesn’t tease. He devours. 

His mouth is hot and relentless, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s starving, sucking hard on your clit until your hips jerk and you’re crying out. He’ll growl against your soaked cunt when you try to close your thighs, strong tattooed hands gripping harder, holding you wide open so he can bury his face deeper. Two thick fingers curl inside you without warning, pumping mercilessly while his tongue flicks and laps at your clit in messy, greedy strokes. 

He eats you like he’s trying to ruin you—loud, wet, obscene sounds filling the room as he sucks and licks and fucks you with his fingers and tongue. He’ll pull back just when you’re about to tip over, grinning that infuriating dimpled smirk while you whine and try to chase his mouth. 

When he finally lets you tip over the edge, he doesn’t stop. He keeps going—greedy, mean, overstimulating you through it until you’re shaking and sobbing, thighs trembling around his head. Only then does he pull back, lips shiny and chin wet, looking far too pleased with himself as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

__________________________

Zanka:  Zanka also prefers to be eaten. Finally using your mouth for something other than teasing him with your bratty quips. 

He’s not as openly cocky as Enjin, but there’s a quiet intensity to it that makes it even hotter. He’ll sit on the edge of his bed or lean back against the wall in some shadowed corner of HQ, legs spread just enough for you to settle between them. One hand rests on the back of your head—firm but not forceful—guiding you slowly down his cock with that familiar stern expression. 

His lips press into a tight, controlled line, navy eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to prove he’s completely unaffected. But his leaking cock gives him away, twitching hard against your tongue every time you swirl it around the head or take him deeper. The faint flush creeping up his neck and the way his fingers tighten in your hair betray how much he’s fighting not to thrust up into your warm, wet mouth. 

He loves the eye contact, even if he denies it—those big, watery eyes looking up at him while your lips stretch around him. It makes him feel in control, even when his cock is leaking steadily down your throat and his breathing starts to hitch. He won’t moan loudly, but you’ll catch the quiet, shaky exhales and the way his abs tense under your hands. 

But when he does eat you? He’s totally mean about it—in that stubborn, childish Zanka way. 

He’s weirdly squeamish about going down on a woman, muttering about how it’s “gross” or “not necessary” even while his fingers are already buried inside you. He prefers using those long, bony fingers—fucking them past your folds with precise, almost clinical strokes, calloused pad grinding firm circles against your clit when he feels like being generous. 

You’ll be spread open on his lap or pinned beneath him, whimpering and rocking against his hand while he watches your face with that stern, slightly flushed expression. Complaining that you’re squirming too much.  

Only when you start begging—really begging, praising him in that breathy voice he secretly craves—does he finally relent. Despite complaining about how much of a spoiled brat you are and that this is just to shut you up.  

But once his mouth is on you? The complaints don’t stop, even as his lips attach to your clit in gentle, almost reverent sucks. He’ll grumble between licks, while his tongue flicks and circles with surprising skill, fingers still pumping steadily. He acts like he’s doing you a huge favor, but the way he presses his face closer, the soft hums vibrating against you, and how he refuses to stop even after you’ve come once tell a different story. 

He’s mean in his reluctance, but thorough once he gives in. And the whole time he’s eating you out, he’ll keep that tight-lipped control—until you praise him again, then watch his ears turn red as he doubles his efforts just to shut you up. 

____________________

Gris: Gris lives for your pleasure. 

Of course, he likes having you between his legs like any other man—those big, calloused hands gently guiding your head as you take him into your mouth, his low, rumbling groans vibrating through his chest while he praises you in that deep, steady voice. But it’s never his main focus. 

There’s something about watching you fall apart for him that hits different. That’s where he truly thrives. 

He’s more than happy to spend hours between your plump thighs while you lay comfy on his bed, completely relaxed and taken care of. Gris will kneel right at the edge of the frame, broad shoulders settled between your spread legs, giving you the entire bed to sprawl out on. No rush. No selfishness. Just pure, focused devotion to making you feel good. 

He starts slow and thorough—large hands gripping the soft meat of your thighs, holding you open as he kisses and nips along your inner legs, working his way up until his warm breath fans over your already slick folds. When his mouth finally closes over you, it’s with a deep, satisfied hum, like he’s the one being fed after a long mission. 

Gris doesn’t tease for the sake of being mean. He teases because he wants to draw every little sound, every shiver, every roll of your hips out of you. His tongue is broad and patient—long, slow licks through your folds, circling your clit with just the right pressure, then dipping inside you like he can’t get enough of your taste. He’ll suck gently on your clit, then firmer when your fingers thread desperately into his blond hair. 

He can stay down there for ages, strong arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you anchored while you squirm and cry out. When you get close he doesn’t pull away—he doubles down, groaning encouragingly into your pussy as you come on his tongue, working you through it with steady, relentless strokes until you’re shaking and oversensitive. 

And even then? He doesn’t stop right away. He’ll keep licking you softly, almost reverently, cleaning you up while you catch your breath, pressing gentle kisses to your inner thighs and mound like he’s worshipping you. 

Only when you’re boneless and glowing does he finally rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up the bed to pull you into his arms. Then he’ll kiss your forehead, voice low and warm against your hair and praise you about how well you did for him.

_______________________________

Follo: Poor Follo can’t decide. 

He loves the feeling of sinking into your soft throat, rutting into your mouth like a desperate mutt in heat—whining and panting, hips jerking forward in short, eager thrusts while his honey brown eyes flutter half-shut in bliss. But he also loves having his head between your thighs, lapping at your clit with such ferocity it makes your head spin. The way he buries his face in your pussy, moaning like he’s the one getting spoiled, tongue working desperately against your swollen clit and slick folds. 

So most nights, you two end up in a messy, eager sixty-nine—with Follo on top so he can have the best of both worlds. 

He’ll crawl over you with that needy, flushed expression, sharp black bangs falling into his eyes as he swings a leg over your head. The second his cock slides past your lips he lets out a broken little whimper, hips already twitching forward, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. At the same time, he drops his face between your spread thighs like a man starved, arms wrapping around your hips to pull your pussy flush against his mouth. 

Follo doesn’t do anything halfway. While he’s fucking your throat in shallow, greedy rolls of his hips—leaking steadily, balls brushing the bridge of your nose—he’s devouring your cunt like it’s oxygen. His tongue is relentless: messy, wet circles around your clit, long licks through your folds, sucking noisily whenever your thighs start to tremble. He moans and whines the whole time, the vibrations shooting straight through you, hips stuttering harder every time you gag or swallow around him. 

You're just along for the ride—a warm, slick hole for that eager, puppy-like boy as he devours you completely, from top to bottom.

He sets the pace—frantic and needy—rocking between your mouth and your pussy like he can’t decide which feels better. Hands usually ending up gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you right where he wants you while he loses himself completely. 

When he gets close he gets even sloppier, face pressed so tight against your cunt he can barely breathe, tongue flicking wildly over your clit as he fucks your throat with desperate little snaps of his hips. 

He’ll whimper against your pussy about being close, the words vibrating deliciously before he tips over the edge with a muffled, broken cry, spilling hot down your throat while he keeps licking you through your own orgasm like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. 

Even after he finishes, Follo stays buried between your thighs for a while longer—nuzzling, licking softly, pressing lazy kisses to your oversensitive clit like he just can’t help himself. 

______________________________

Bro:  Bro is the perfect mix of Gris and Follo. 

He truly loves eating you out. At thirty-five, the massive Cleaner knows exactly how to make you cum—how to work that huge tongue in ways that leave you shaking and sobbing. But none of that experience stops him from devouring you like a starving man who’s finally found salvation between your thighs. 

He eats you with the raw, passionate hunger of an inexperienced teenager—long, dragging licks of that broad tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit, groaning deep in his chest like your taste is the best thing he’s ever had. His hands grip your ass or thighs with reverent strength, pulling you closer as he laps messily and noisily. Sucking gently on your folds before flicking that thick tongue against your swollen clit over and over. 

He’ll rumble, voice low and commanding, that you sit on his face.  He doesn’t ask. He demands it. No matter how embarrassed the position makes you, no matter how much you hesitate—he’ll simply grab your hips and pull you down until you’re properly smothering him. 

And once you’re there? He’s in heaven. 

Bro’s huge tongue works you relentlessly—long, fat licks that cover your entire pussy, swirling around your clit before dipping inside you. He moans and hums the whole time, the vibrations shooting through your core as he eats you like he’ll die if he stops. His massive cock is rock hard and leaking profusely in his pants, throbbing painfully against the fabric, but he couldn’t care less. He won’t let you touch it. Growling against your dripping cunt if you try to reach for him, his focus wanting to be solely on you.  

When the orgasms start hitting you hard and you eventually fall forward, exhausted and trembling against his broad chest, Bro simply wraps one massive arm around your waist and holds you there— trapping you against his warm, solid body. His other hand stays on your ass, guiding you to keep grinding against his face while he continues slurping and sucking on your clit like it’s his favorite treat. 

He won’t stop until he’s satisfied. Until your thighs are shaking uncontrollably and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you cum. Only then will he finally ease up, pressing soft, almost apologetic kisses to your oversensitive pussy before gently maneuvering you off his face. 

__________________________________

Tamsy:  Honestly? Tamsy doesn’t actually care for either. 

What he does care about is the psychological edge. The delicious power of having you completely at his mercy, whether you’re choking on his cock or falling apart under his fingers. He thrives on control, on watching that sharp, bratty mouth of yours reduced to desperate, broken sounds. 

When you’re on your knees for him, he’s merciless in the most elegant way possible. He’ll hold you down on his cock with one graceful hand tangled in your hair, forcing every inch down your throat until your cheeks burn red and your eyes water. Your fists pound weakly against his thighs while he coos at how cute your fighting is, in that velvet-smooth voice, golden eyes half-lidded with dark satisfaction. 

He keeps you there right on the edge—until your vision starts to blur and your lungs scream—only releasing you at the very last second. He watches impassively as you pull off gasping, coughing, and sucking in desperate gulps of air. Saliva drips down your chin while you struggle to recover, him just watching you with that soft innocent smile of his while his eyes beam with sadistic cruelty under long lashes.

When it’s your turn to be on the receiving end, he’s even more devastating. 

He’ll have your arms bound tightly behind your back, face pressed flush into his mattress as he fingers you with cruel precision. Two elegant fingers curling perfectly against that spot inside you, over and over, until you’re squirting all over his hand and the sheets. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going—pulling orgasm after squirting orgasm from your exhausted body until you’re delirious, shaking, and babbling from dehydration and overstimulation. 

Only when you’re truly begging for mercy, voice hoarse and broken, does he finally give you something new. 

He’ll hook his thumb into your ass, using it as leverage to yank your hips higher. Then that refined, angelic mouth latches onto your abused clit in a nasty, messy suck—tongue swirling and lips slurping loudly, completely at odds with his usual pristine image. The contrast is filthy and overwhelming. He’ll keep that thumb buried deep, tugging and pressing while he devours you until you’re screaming into the sheets.

"Tamsy’s an asshole..." 

"What? No, he isn’t!" Rudo immediately protests, voice muffled around his food. He swallows hard, golden eyes narrowing in genuine confusion and a spark of defensiveness. "He’s a good guy! He’s nice, he’s funny, and he helped me find Amo when I was losing my shit over it!" 

You turn your head just enough to scowl up at him, cheek still pressed to the table. "Rudo... You wouldn’t understand—" 

"Understand what?" 

That smooth, melodic voice cuts in with perfect timing. You don’t even need to look up to know who it is. 

You lift your head slightly, keeping your face half-smushed against the table, and there stands Tamsy in all his irritatingly pretty glory—platinum hair catching the light, that angelic smile already in place like he’d been summoned by the complaint itself. 

You drop your face back down with a louder, throaty groan. 

"Bunny was calling you an asshole," Rudo explains bluntly, still working on his meal but gesturing with his spoon. He doesn’t sound apologetic at all—just stating facts like the straightforward kid he is. "Said I wouldn’t understand why." 

You groan even louder as Rudo unwittingly throws you under the bus. Tamsy chuckles softly and takes the seat right across from you, resting his chin delicately in one hand. "I also don’t understand why you’d call me that, Bunny. Aren’t I always nice to you?" His tone is sweet, almost hurt, but you know better. 

You peek up at him with a deep scowl. He just smiles back—soft, radiant, and utterly fake-innocent. 

So you kick him under the table. Hard. Your foot connects solidly with his shin. 

Tamsy barely reacts outwardly, but his golden eyes sharpen with that cold, knowing glint only you catch. His smile doesn’t waver for the others, but the temperature around him seems to drop. 

Then his foot strikes back—precise, twice as hard—driving straight into your shin. 

You hiss sharply through gritted teeth, wincing as pain flares hot up your leg. Your head drops back onto the table to hide your face while Rudo blinks at the two of you, utterly confused. 

"Uh… you guys okay?" he asks, still chewing, completely missing the under-table war. 

Tamsy truly was an asshole. A childish, sadistic, deceptively angelic one at that. 

How are we genuinely feeling about possibly losing Enjin?

For me? I'm nervous as I wait on bated breath of what is to come from him.

But I personally don't think Kei Urana would kill him off. She's done so many half deaths before and even if a vital instrument can't magically whisk it away, I doubt a needle and thread is going to be magically pushed out of his body if they do actual surgery on it.

That would be silly imo.

But also I don't think Zanka and Riyo are ready to lose Enjin, let alone Rudo. The three of them all need him as a pseudo brother/ father/ guardian figure. If Enjin was to die, I see Riyo leaving the cleaners to go back to assassin stuff as well as Zanka maybe going off on his own, in a dazed/ hopeless wandering sense. Enjin did help give both of them a purpose.

And also, if Kei Urana is gonna drop his backstory just to kill him off, I personally see that as lazy writing to get us to feel something for it. We'd be riding the dopamines of learning who he was and then us, the audience would majorly crash.

But today, something ugly was gnawing at him. 

It wasn’t the usual flash of possessiveness that hit when some outsider let their gaze linger too long on your curves or your smile. No, this was sharper. Nastier. It twisted low in his gut every time he glanced across the common room and saw you chatting with Tamsy—easy laughter, that angelic bastard leaning in just a little too close, platinum hair catching the light like he was posing for it. 

Tamsy wasn’t his best friend. Most of HQ knew that. The two of them could cooperate on missions, trade dry jokes over dinner without starting shit, but that was the limit. Enjin had never pried when he knew you’d just slipped out of Tamsy’s room, even when the urge to drag you straight to his own bed and remind you who you really belonged to burned hot under his skin. You were the barrack bunny. You could fuck whoever you wanted… as long as you came back to him and the people who actually mattered. 

Still, watching you now—head tilted as Tamsy said something that made you laugh soft and fond—made Enjin’s jaw tighten. His tattooed fingers flexed around the half-empty mug in his hand, knuckles whitening. 

He could play nice for you. 

He would play nice for you. 

But fuck if that pretty platinum-haired asshole didn’t make it hard today. 

Enjin’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache when Tamsy’s elegant fingers reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with that infuriatingly casual grace. You didn’t pull away. And just like that, the last frayed thread of his patience snapped. 

He set his mug down on the coffee table with a deliberate clink, the lazy swagger in his steps betraying nothing as he crossed the room. Without a word, he slid a thick, tattooed arm around your waist and yanked you back flush against his broad chest. His chin dropped heavily onto your shoulder, warm breath ghosting hot against the shell of your ear. 

You squeaked in surprise, not having heard the blond approach. “Enjin!” 

He ignored you completely. 

Under Tamsy’s watchful, deceptively calm gaze—a single elegant brow arched in silent curiosity—the blond Cleaner cupped your heavy breasts through the thin fabric of your shirt, large tattooed hands claiming them without hesitation. 

You gasped sharply, heel scraping against the floor as you instinctively melted back into his broad chest. But Enjin didn’t stop there. No, with a cold, challenging stare locked on the angelic man across from you, he zeroed in on your nipples with practiced ease. It was never hard—he knew your body better than anyone. You rarely bothered with a bra, and your nipples had a habit of visibly poking through your clothes. 

Your breath hitched sharply. Heat flooded your face as Enjin’s fingers found them immediately, rolling your sensitive peaks with practiced precision. 

Enjin had a shit habit of just playing with your body whenever the urge struck him, public perception be damned. You were his, and if the mood hit, he felt more than okay with groping you in front of anyone who happened to be around. So of course, you were completely oblivious to the quiet pissing contest happening between him and Tamsy. To you, this was just typical, perverted Enjin being Enjin. 

“What are you doing, you moron?” you hissed, voice cracking with embarrassment as Tamsy’s soft golden eyes met yours. Heat flooded your face, growing hotter as you fought to swallow the moan rising in your throat. You twisted your head toward your shoulder, trying to hide, but Enjin’s fingers rolled your sensitive nipples between them with deliberate, teasing precision. 

“Fucking stop it—” 

The protest died in a shaky gasp as your head lolled back despite yourself. A firm tug on both nipples at once made your thighs press together instinctively. You could feel the slickness starting between your legs, your body responding automatically to the intense stimulation, even as frustration and mortification burned in your chest. 

Despite your shaky protests, Enjin kept toying with your breasts—squeezing, rolling, pinching just hard enough to make your knees weak. His topaz eyes never left Tamsy’s face, boring into the other blond with possessive fire. 

Tamsy watched you fall apart with that cold, calculating stare of his own, the temperature in the room dropping as the two men waged their silent war over your trembling body. 

Enjin... Please... At least not here...” you tried to reason with him, voice breathy and desperate as the man continued turning you into a trembling mess with nothing but his hands on your breasts. 

But he refused to listen. Instead, he flicked both of your sensitive nipples with his thumbs—sharp, teasing little snaps that made your back bow hard against his chest. A loud, broken moan finally tore from your throat, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone else in the room. 

The common area went still. Heads turned. Now the whole room was watching as Tamsy slowly drank in your wrecked appearance: cheeks flushed a deep crimson, tears glittering along your waterline, mouth parted in a helpless pant while your chest heaved under Enjin’s possessive hands. 

You looked at Tamsy once, twice—pure embarrassment burning across your face. He simply returned your gaze with a slow blink, those long lashes fluttering delicately in one elegant flick. Almost sympathetic. Almost amused. 

Then he lifted his eyes to Enjin. The silent clash between the two blonds was electric—Enjin’s glare sharp enough to cut glass, while Tamsy remained cool and composed. 

“Very well,” Tamsy murmured softly, the words velvet-smooth. He turned gracefully on his heel and left the room without another glance. 

The moment his competition was out of sight, Enjin’s grip finally eased. He let you straighten up as much as your wobbly knees would allow, one strong arm steadying you. You clung to him, fingers gripping tightly into his sweater sleeve. 

“Why—why the hell did you do that?” you panted, still trying to regain your composure. You looked up at him, attempting a scowl, but it was hopeless. Your face was flushed, eyes glassy, and your lips were still swollen from biting back moans. That same fucked-out expression lingered no matter how hard you tried to glare at him. 

Enjin just clicked his tongue, his mind still clearly brooding with jealousy. Without a second thought, he bent down, tossed you over his broad shoulder like you weighed nothing, and carried you out of the room despite your protests. 

The remaining Cleaners and supporters were left staring after you both, murmuring among themselves as they tried to piece together exactly what kind of silent war had just played out between the two blonds.