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Technically, none of this was his fault; the ones up top had put the idea into his head, and he had been unable to rid himself of it ever since.
From what he’d gathered, it was a holiday of some sorts, based around giving out sweet treats and professing love—and wasn’t that his exact field? It felt like an opportunity at the time, the perfect excuse to push his plan into the next stage.
And so there Tamsy was, whistling an odd tune as he tip-toed down the stairs to the underground; he enjoyed the rollerblades too much to take them off, even in the belly of the sewers.
Taming Zodyl had been a challenging endeavor, sprinkled with a “one step forward, two step backs” system that was starting to get on his nerves—but every time he thought of Rudo, stuck in the slums of the Sphere, he felt compelled to try again, and again, and again, until he’d succeeded.
Thus came the wonderful idea of giving Zodyl the sweetest of treats, to carve himself a place in his best graces. This was a gift, he reminded himself, ripping his hairband out to let his hair down. It felt symbolic.
The journey was a quick one, when boosted by the roller skates; he had long since memorized the path, and even Jabber’s manic giggles, ricocheting against the walls, could not deter him one bit—single-minded, he slipped between rubble and mold and only stopped once faced with an overly familiar door.
He knocked, three times. “Come in,” the voice inside resonated. That was not Zodyl’s.
Cthoni’s piercing gaze was harder to get used to, but he was getting there; a negligible hindrance, whether she saw right through him or not. Tamsy wore his best smile, waved at her, and then forgot about her entirely. It was so easy to erase the obstacles from his mind, once greeted by the sharp profile of the raiders’ boss.
“Zodyl.” A purr—not seductive, merely placating, with practiced ease. “I’d like to talk.”
He was answered with a grunt, just as rehearsed. Cthoni looked at him; composed, not a single emotion fleeting on her face. She was just as hard to read as Corvus.
“Cthoni,” Zodyl said. Nothing more was needed—she left with a bow, her manhole’s light reflecting into the void of Zodyl’s eyes. Tamsy shuddered.
The silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable; Zodyl had once explained, succinctly, that he wasn’t fond of waste. His hand, large and disturbingly soft, had been gripping Tamsy’s face—convincing him there and then that this was a valuable piece to add to his board. He’d licked the palm covering his mouth then, walking his plan back about a hundred steps. No matter; the urge had been irresistible, the taste enchanting.
Still, Tamsy spoke.
“They have an odd custom, I figured you’d like to know.” Feeding Zodyl droplets of information about the Sphere had always been the fastest way to ease him into a conversation, a starter that systematically made him twitch with barely contained eagerness. To Zodyl’s standards, that translated in a simple jerk of the eye, empty pupils grazing the side of Tamsy—as if actually looking at him would be a grave mistake.
Undeterred, Tamsy pushed. “It’s a custom,” he hummed, inching a single step forward. “Yearly.” Another pause, gauging. “Involving lovers.” That got another twinge, this time in the hand. He swallowed a smile.
“Get to the point.” A simple command, gravelly voice hitting the walls almost grimly.
Tamsy licked his lips, fixated on the prey.
“The name doesn’t matter. It’s a day dedicated to exchanging food as a sign of love.” Clean, without giving out too much. Mentally, he patted himself on the back.
Zodyl’s gaze remained fixated on the TV, but Tamsy knew his attention was all his. He leaned over the back of the couch, right next to the man.
“Let’s celebrate it,” he whispered. “It doesn’t have to be real. Has anything ever been?” The back of his mouth tasted odd, for a second.
When met with utter silence, but not outright rejection, he fished through his pouch and extracted a box, shocking red and heart-shaped. He dropped it onto Zodyl’s lap, and just left his arms there—one on each side of him, bracketing him without touching. Not yet.
Zodyl was hesitant, evidently. Tamsy figured he had yet to gain his trust, if there was such a thing; a fair decision that he himself applauded, but that also made Zodyl all the more appealing. It was refreshing, to be doubted.
Zodyl opened the box, wary. Inside sat a single chocolate, just as egregiously shaped as the box, and almost just as dark as the hair Tamsy caressed with the tip of his nose. Barely there.
“You didn’t strike me as a sweets’ kind of guy so… It’s bitter.” It also had alcohol, but that was of no importance. Zodyl could probably sniff it out, anyway.
He popped the chocolate in his mouth, surprising Tamsy himself—truth be told, he had fully expected this experiment to backfire, and perhaps get him banned from the sewers altogether. It could have felt mocking, after all, to bring news of such an inconsequential event.
Ah, Tamsy finally thought, he hates waste. Was he grateful, even? His face was unreadable, from this angle.
“How is it?”
“Disgusting.”
Hah.
Tamsy snickered, and looped an arm around Zodyl—light, airy, hardly touching. “Yeah? Pity. Luckily, I have another treat.”
He circled the couch, stopping right in front of Zodyl; knelt down to take his rollers off, and stayed there. The new box he presented was smaller, and less ostentatious. A slick, black container, innocuous and thrust in Zodyl’s hands almost meekly.
This was perhaps his most dangerous move, the one that’d break or make it. Deep down he was trembling with excitement, watching raptly as Zodyl opened it, and paused.
Inside the box lay a finger, slender and thoroughly washed. The bone protruded, cut clean but a knuckle too long compared to the mangled flesh.
“I took the nail off, should make it easier to eat,” Tamsy sing-sung, teeth bared in a delighted grin.
Zodyl finally looked straight at him. The silence felt feather-light, supplanted by the enthusiasm that buzzed through Tamsy’s veins.
“Whose is that?”
Ah, what a stupid question.
“Mine, who else?” Tamsy, crouched all prim and proper in front of Zodyl, raised his right hand. He took the glove off with pearly teeth, revealing a bloody bandage, a little sloppy—it had been a rather impulsive decision, after all, and he had underestimated how badly it’d bleed.
He watched, carefully, every little twitch and tremor that danced over Zodyl’s face. It was art in and of itself; irritation and confusion swirled in his eyes, followed by a kind of guarded curiosity, bottom lip jutted out in concentration. Tamsy was elated—whether it worked or not, it was still a massive improvement. He was now able to see emotions in that stoic figure, and that alone made his blood rush and his mouth tremble with contained joy.
Zodyl’s voice cut through the tense silence. “I see.” But he didn’t move.
He merely looked at Tamsy, his gaze characteristically piercing. Tamsy had always found givers’ lightless eyes a tad tacky, even when it happened to him; but it suited Zodyl so strangely, making him even more intimidating. He looked like a beast, eyebrows furrowed—Tamsy took a shuddering breath, and a suicidal leap.
“Should I feed it to you? I’ve heard they do this, sometimes.”
Zodyl stayed quiet for a while, and he feared he’d blown it; the sea trembled all over the man’s features, elusive. Tamsy was about to retract his statement when he saw it: a barely perceptible nod, even as his face looked mildly confused. As if it had been instinctive, his body responding before he could make up his mind.
Tamsy jeered.
“Very well,” he purred, and placed a hand on Zodyl’s lap—slow, so as to not frighten him—, leaning closer and closer and closer. He was basically hovering over him, deft fingers dipping to take the box back.
It was odd, in a way, to see his own pinky sit so innocuously on the velvet cushion. When he severed it, he wasn’t entirely sure he’d go for it; a terribly impulsive decision, made more real by the blood gushing than the excruciating pain. But now that he was a few inches over Zodyl, holding the twisted gift with his wounded hand, he found himself… unbearably excited.
It felt sacred, in a way. He had meant for it to be a mocking present, something gnarly to trigger some sort of reaction—but now he found it almost holy. Tamsy was both the sacrifice and the executioner; so, as meekly as a lamb, he plucked the limb from its soft bed, and lifted it to the lips of a god.
His wrist trembled, a twinge of pain traveling from the maimed knuckle up to his shoulder then down his back—he let a gasp slip out, stumbled a bare inch closer. His other hand remained firm on Zodyl’s lap, and Tamsy found himself staring right into the dark pits of his eyes, exhilarated.
“Open up,” he said, quiet as a whisper.
Zodyl did, lips parting beautifully, and Tamsy came to terms with how hard he suddenly was. This had not been a part of his design.
He took the time to trace the pulp of Zodyl’s mouth, his own dry and open on a silent pant. He was distantly aware of the precarious territory he was breaching, but the soft puff of air that caressed his knuckles did him in. He slipped the finger between the sharp maws, his entire attention zeroed in in the way it disappeared behind it, sitting on a pleasantly wet tongue.
Tamsy, so keen on splitting his focus at all times between his cleaner and his high up selves, ended up unequivocally enraptured with the scene unfolding in front of his very eyes. His hand remained pressed against the mouth, ajar and so inviting—he followed an instinct that hadn’t zipped him for years, and pressed his thumb on Zodyl’s tongue, both gauging his reaction and noting the way his pinkie rolled against the taste buds.
“How does it taste?” He asked uselessly, well aware that it was only skin and dried blood—and that Zodyl couldn’t even answer, jaw held open by Tamsy’s hand.
Then, Zodyl did something that he hadn’t expected: he reciprocated.
His lips closed around the digit, broad hand coming up to close around Tamsy’s wrist. He kept him there, grasping his undying attention with a mere twitch of the eyebrow and, fuck, he sucked.
It was discreet, at first; almost an accident, or a reflex. The kind that had Tamsy wondering if that was just a swallow—then he did it again, harder, clearer. There was no mistaking the tight suction surrounding Tamsy’s thumb, the hint of teeth caressing his knuckle. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle an undignified sound, and thought he saw Zodyl’s mouth twitch—like a smile. Little shit.
They stayed like that for a second, Zodyl’s grip holding Tamsy in place; Tamsy’s free hand squeezing the meat like a warning, or a promise. He figured, curiously, that it was his turn to reciprocate. He tried it out.
His thumb pressed, insignificantly, on the thick tongue. Zodyl gulped around it. Alright then, he thought with a crazed grin, and pushed it deeper. He felt the severed digit roll right between the jaws, so small and fragile, warmed deliciously by the heat of that mouth. His nail dug into the nerves, curious and prodding.
Zodyl bit.
Not hard enough to pierce the skin, but it stung all the same, and ripped a breathy noise from Tamsy. Clearly, he’d lost this round, and Zodyl declared himself sole winner by taking his hand out—there was another moment, charged and silent, where the tip of his tongue played with the pinky. It swirled from one side to the other, like he was savouring the taste, familiarizing himself with the texture.
Tamsy was seconds away from creaming his pants.
He took in a steadying breath, leaning more heavily on Zodyl’s thigh; watched him with unbridled desire, strangely mirrored in the other. Oh. The finger was now trapped between two sets of molaries, peaking out from between the lips. It looked obscene, and Tamsy was eating it up. He nodded, as if giving permission.
The jaws closed brutally, the noise of the tiny bone shattering absolutely sinister. Shards pierced the half Tamsy could see, swiftly licked off and into that daunting mouth. It broke in two, one half trapped in Zodyl’s mouth and the other dangling out almost temptingly.
Unconsciously, Tamsy leaned in—eager to see it as clearly as possible. The crunching continued, mandibular muscles straining against the thin skin of Zodyl’s jaw and neck. Soft fingers brushed against them, the wounded hand still held firmly by the wrist; Tamsy caressed along his chin, up to his ear. He watched the movements of the muscles, until Zodyl stopped and just looked at him pointedly. The severed half remained intact, held firmly by plush lips. Tamsy took it as the sign it probably was.
He inched closer, and closer still; parted his mouth like a beast and plucked the tiny bit of finger with delicate precision. Zodyl watched it all, and watched even more attentively as it disappeared between two sets of deceptively small teeth.
Tamsy waited all of three seconds before he returned that intent gaze, and bit down just as brutally. The taste of stale blood and flesh flooded his mouth, but he was more focused on the depravity of it all—he was hovering between Zodyl’s legs, chewing at his own finger like gum. He allowed himself a single moment to wonder what the cleaners would think, if they saw him like that; what the higher ups would do, were they to hear of how he let an appalling runt taste him like that. He found that he wanted to do even worse.
His fingers travelled down to the other side, but stopped at the jugular, listening to the riveting pulse of a heart. Settled on his adam’s apple, finally, when he started swallowing the bits of mangled meat to feel it go down that disgusting pipe. Fuck.
He was out of his depths, but so seemed Zodyl; his eyes had glazed over, tiny specks of dried blood coloring the corners of his mouth, and his pants were audible. It was breathtaking, a distorted kind of desire pooling low in his stomach.
Zodyl did not waste a single word—his other hand snaked around Tamsy’s waist, and simply pulled him in, unceremoniously dropping him square on his lap. The hand stayed on his hip, a solid weight holding him in place; he thought better than to protest.
This was in another realm entirely, and Tamsy needed to focus, to recalibrate, but Zodyl clearly had other plans. The tip of his index prodded around the bandage, slipping under it almost obscenely—it made the cloth rub against the not-quite-healed wound, the pain dizzying. Tamsy dug his nails into the thigh, taking in an even sharper breath.
“Zodyl,” he panted, a warning turned into a plea. Whatever it sounded like, he was heard.
Something wet slithered over the bandage, and it took Tamsy a second to fully register the scene: his wounded hand held tightly, raised to tantalizing lips. A tongue wetting it, dark eyes still decidedly focused on him.
Tamsy was definitely seconds from creaming his pants.
He refused to let out a whine, and instead elected to regain some sort of control; this was becoming embarrassing.
He let go of the leg he was holding, his claws shooting out to grab the offender by the back of his head—they scratched at the scalp, tugging on the hair just sharply enough to hurt. Zodyl grunted, the sound going straight to Tamsy’s crotch. He ignored it and jerked Zodyl’s head away, tilting it back and watching the way his throat worked around a strained gulp. God, this was torture.
“Bad dog,” he tutted, willing his voice to remain steady. “I did not peg you for a disobeying mutt, Zodyl.”
Whether it was the high of gobbling a fucking finger or some underlying appetite he had hidden from Tamsy all along, something glinted in the blacked-out eyes, almost making the cleaner falter.
Zodyl’s voice was almost grating. “Your orders were unclear.”
Tamsy rose on his parted knees with a sneer, towering over the other with an ease that made him shiver excitedly, and grasped his chin. He angled it back, lengthening that maddening throat, and pried his jaw open with two fingers, looking into it with an eagerness he hadn’t felt in years.
Tamsy had rarely seeked out physical relationships—unless it was a mean to an end, it felt superficial, entirely unneeded. He could’ve tried to argue that this was merely a goal, a muzzle he was clasping on Zodyl’s maw, but he saw no point in denying himself: he wanted that man, disgustingly so. He also saw no point in letting Zodyl know that, however.
His voice turned sickly sweet.
“Ask nicely, and perhaps I’ll let you suck on the bone.”
The amount of satisfaction he experienced when feeling the disgruntled growl vibrate up to his arm was bewildering. Riling up Zodyl had always been a bit of a gamble; but there, the man feral between his fingers, he looked more gullible than ever.
Drool had started to drip down his wrist, and Zodyl had not taken his eyes off of the prize—it dangled just out of reach, still held in the raider’s hand.
There was something to be said about making a man this massive all pliant and tamed; but Tamsy wasn’t one to put the cart before the horse, and he treaded these waters carefully. Zodyl could bite both of his fingers off and, as deliriously tempting as that was, this was not the objective.
He took the time to really look into that mouth; traced each and every tooth with the edge of his eyes, noting with elation the crooked ones and the unnaturally pointy canines. That sent a shiver down his spine, the legs bracketed around Zodyl’s hips squeezing briefly. Fuck, he was getting off tracks.
Zodyl tried to swallow, and the noise it made, the helpless movement of his throat, it all went straight to Tamsy’s cock. Fuck.
He sealed his fate. “Alright.”
He slipped his fingers on the right corner of the lips, keeping those jaws open, and looked straight at Zodyl as he lowered his wounded hand, the bandage soppy with blood and spit. It was heady in its decadence, and he felt drool gather in the back of that throat, mirrored by the dryness of his own—the gauze touched lips, and all hell broke loose.
Zodyl’s grip tightened almost painfully, keeping the hand there. His tongue wiggled out of his open maws, lapping at the covered lesion as if autonomous and starved. Alright. Tamsy gnawed on the inside of his cheek, dazed by both the pain of the cut being prodded at so crudely and the—frankly gross—pleasure he was draining from it. His own hold on Zodyl’s mouth slackened, the digits twitching against sharp teeth, but it didn’t matter. Zodyl kept his lips parted, if only to have blood dripping directly in his throat.
Shit, he had reopened the wound.
It hurt like a bitch, and that was close to making Tamsy squirm with glee; he couldn’t decide where to put his attention, torn between the feelings cascading down his body and the indecent display in front of him. His eyelids were fluttering, thighs jerking here and there with the need to either squeeze or part in offering.
“Zodyl,” he whispered, uselessly. The man was simply possessed, his entire mind dedicated to getting rid of the bandages with only his tongue. It made for a grotesque display, like a giant dog licking at a sealed package just to get a taste of the goods. Tamsy ate it all up.
He didn’t feel like helping, perfectly content with the dull sting a lick here and there was shooting through his nerves.
He did, however, feel like talking. Zodyl wasn’t looking at him, and it was starting to irk him.
“C’mon,” he hummed, leaning down to breathe against black hair and the shell of an ear, “I know you can do better than that sloppy job.”
Perhaps it was his own impatience, perhaps it was Tamsy’s sweet encouragement, but Zodyl caved in a matter of seconds—he used his tongue to drive a layer of gauze into his canine and pulled, grazing the fingers still in his mouth. It tore messily, and Zodyl repeated the process over and over, looking every bit like a rabid beast digging into his first meal in weeks; Tamsy giggled.
The bandages unfurled bit by bit, mauled by a single canine and an extremely determined tongue. That made Tamsy ponder—what would kissing Zodyl feel like?
He didn’t get to test it out immediately, however, because that disgusting dog had reached the last layer and ripped it off the mangled flesh unceremoniously, tearing a loud curse from Tamsy.
“Shit! Easy, you goddamn mutt!”
It was just as useless; now that the gash was in front of him, in all its misshapen glory, nothing would get to him. Tamsy watched as Zodyl’s pupils dilated impossibly, swallowing up the slightly lighter brown of his irises—and wasn’t that beautiful, almost endearing? Tamsy readjusted himself, perfectly aware that his cock was pressed against the other’s stomach. No matter; he had a show to enjoy, and he took his fingers out with a wet sound.
What a show it was.
Zodyl, surprisingly, was tentative at first. Perhaps seeing the damages directly made it too real. He let the tip of his tongue trace the edges of the wound, groaned at the taste—seemed satisfied, if the way he immediately flattened it all over the lesion was anything to go by. Tamsy was going insane. He cursed himself for wasting so much time, when the answer had been before his very eyes from the very beginning; he also congratulated himself, however, for thinking of it at all.
You couldn’t tame a beast without treats, after all.
He took a shuddering breath when the pressure on his severed finger increased, hissed when lips closed around it, and outright yelled when Zodyl had the fucking gall to suck on it. The feeling kept bordering pleasure and pain, oscillating between both in a sick dance that had his eyes shimmery and his pants sodden. All the while, Zodyl was making obscene noises, wet sucking and gruff groans. Tamsy was going insane.
He shifted, and that was when he felt it: Zodyl was just as hard as him, the firm line of his cock pressing insistingly against his thigh. That got his attention—it was like a trump card, a way to regain control and perhaps prevent him from eating his whole fucking arm.
Tamsy braced his free hand on a solid shoulder, already panting, and rolled his hips experimentally; it ripped a new sound from that open jaw, something eerily similar to a moan. He could work with this.
“That got you all hard, mutt?” He was purring again, his spine arching to get the angle right—to see Zodyl’s eyes finally leave the torn finger to travel over the curve of him. Oh, he looked so terribly hungry. The giant hand clasped on Tamsy’s waist squeezed once, and that was enough encouragement for him.
He braced himself more firmly, and started dancing; the rhythm was messy, the grind of light cloth against rough jeans making it almost more painful than pleasant; it did not deter Tamsy. Pain seemed to be a determining factor in this whole ordeal, and he made sure to file that information for later examination. For now, he needed to hear Zodyl make another sound.
And he did, beautifully. Every roll tore a gasp, a grunt—anything that Tamsy would be swallowing up. Their breaths were mingling at that point, the wound forgotten in favor of… whatever this was.
Tamsy savored the respite while he could, entirely focused on the drag of his cock against Zodyl’s; he wondered briefly how it’d feel in his hand, and which he should use. He had a feeling Zodyl would lose his mind if the lesion touched such sensitive skin, and that thought alone had him panting almost directly into the other’s mouth. This wasn’t just dangerous anymore—it was addictive.
Then it got even better: Zodyl started reciprocating again.
Subtle movements, hips jolting like he was trying to hold back. Tamsy wanted him to indulge.
“C’mon,” he breathed, grinding down slowly, cruelly. “Do it properly.”
Previously, he’d have guessed Zodyl wasn’t particularly fond of getting ordered around; but this setting seemed to bring out some obedient part of him in the best of ways. Perhaps it was his lack of experience, tip-toeing in uncharted territory with Tamsy’s demands as his only shepherd. The idea was exhilarating.
Zodyl put his lips to the wound again, forcing Tamsy to tilt his head away—that displeased him, until the stinging of a tongue lapping all over exposed flesh had his head spinning for a second. Shit, he was dangerously into it.
Their hips hadn’t stopped moving, with Zodyl putting more force into his. He was almost bouncing Tamsy on his lap, and wasn’t that an idea? Another time, Tamsy figured; he was way too close to coming to be bothered with anything more than that, and the other looked just as satisfied with this, as long as he could keep the bloody stump in the vicinity of his mouth.
Tamsy, in all honesty, was getting jealous of his own hand. He watched, moving on autopilot, as Zodyl tongued all over it again with as much passion as the first time, and considered the possibility of keeping the gash open just to get to feast on that vision forever. Then he considered burning it close just so Zodyl would give the rest of him a shred of attention.
“Fuck,” he groaned, and decided this could wait. For now, he needed that tongue anywhere else.
He fisted a hand in dark curls, took a steadying breath—this could backfire spectacularly—and tugged. Zodyl actually growled, snapping his jaws in an attempt to keep the stump close. But when Tamsy tugged harder, angling his head away, he saw it: a glint in those dark eyes, lust pooling within twin black holes. The dick pressed against his twitched, and he felt vindicated.
“Enough. I’ve got something better.”
Zodyl was… mildly curious, it seemed. His eyes kept switching between the prize and Tamsy himself, lips shiny with spit and blood—shit, that was unreasonably hot.
Tamsy jerked his head back with a firm grip, and dipped down to finally, finally get a taste. He mimicked what the other did to his hand: lapped at the red spots, tongued at the junction, bit the meat with cruelty. Zodyl was humping him even faster.
“Open up,” Tamsy murmured.
That first swipe was… odd. His tongue slipped inside that mouth with ease as soon as it opened, and he greedily licked at every tooth, partaking in another try at his own body—the metallic kick of blood electrified him, and he focused entirely on that travesty of a kiss.
Saliva dribbled on both their chins, but neither seemed to care; Zodyl gripped him painfully by the hip, pushed against his mouth with the eagerness of an untrained pet. That wouldn’t do, so Tamsy tugged harder on his hair, keeping him in place while he savored the taste of himself on every corner of that mouth.
He found himself addicted to it; addicted to the version of himself once alloyed by Zodyl’s own aroma. Rationally, he knew there was nothing special to it—it was just blood and spit, but the idea of licking pieces of himself out of Zodyl’s mouth made him grind with more intent, chasing something, hunting it down with predatory precision. He decided, then and there, that he’d try other parts to gobble up should they do this again.
He tilted away with a final lick to the mess, feeling the fluids drying on his chin already. Zodyl barely noticed, grabbing him with both hands to make him rock against him viciously; the movements turned brutal, both single-minded in their need to fucking come already. It was an urgent need, shared between the two of them like the breaths they panted into each other’s mouth.
And when it happened, it was just as sloppy.
Zodyl dug his nails in Tamsy’s waist, sinking through his clothes and scratching at his skin—he came with a strangled noise, head wrenched back and eyes rolling back and teeth biting the air. Tamsy followed suit; the orgasm doesn’t hit him brutally; it’s almost disappointing, compared to the pain. His entire body lit with sick glee, spurts staining his pants and pleasure licking up to his neck. He was pretty sure he still let out a howl even louder than Jabber’s worst cackles, gasping above Zodyl and tearing at his curls almost manically.
Neither of them said any words for a while, the silence disrupted by uneven panting and oversensitive groans at the barest movement. Tamsy allowed himself to bask in it, eyes still fixated on Zodyl. His hand had stopped bleeding, but he felt light-headed. He let his forehead hit the junction between Zodyl’s shoulder and his throat, breathing into the hollow of his collarbone. Zodyl stayed silent. His hands remained tight around the hips he had so viciously clawed.
“Well,” Tamsy eventually started, still a little breathless and a lot gross, cum uncomfortably drying in his pants as he leaned away. “Better go.” He pressed a kiss to stained lips for good measure; more of a swipe of his tongue, were he honest.
Zodyl stayed silent, at first, hawk-like eyes tracing every move. Tamsy found no offense in this—the raider hated waste, after all.
Yet, as he reached the door, rollerblades fastened again on his feet, he heard it, gruff voice tearing into the silence:
“I’ll be waiting for more intel about sphereite customs.”
Tamsy sneered.