Sharp Wit and a Sharpie (Patreon)

Task’s office was the cleanest room in the apartment by far. Tidy, minimalist, and organized down to the last pencil. No old mugs, no cluttered papers—just a lean, efficient setup designed to keep distractions at bay and creativity flowing.

His desk stretched wall-to-wall beneath the window, white oak with rounded edges and a perfectly maintained matte finish. Centered on it was his dual-monitor setup—two thin-bezel screens aligned with a precision that would’ve made an engineer weep. The only thing that took points away from the overall setup was the fact that they were mismatched. One displayed his reference boards and Discord messages. The other was all canvas: an expansive, brightly lit digital workspace where characters came to life under his stylus.

To the left of his keyboard sat his Huion Kamvas 16—a pen display tablet with custom shortcut keys along the side. It was smudge-free and clean, the nib of his pen slightly worn from hours of gliding back and forth across virtual paper. A slim white LED lamp arched over the setup, casting soft illumination that didn’t fight the screen’s glow.

The only thing on the desk besides tech was a little acrylic stand holding his favorite 0.3mm mechanical pencil, a habit from his sketchbook days. That, and a folded pair of wireless headphones, charged and ready but unused all day.

He hadn't listened to music today. He usually did when deep in the zone. The only sounds had been the scratch of pen against screen, the gentle hum of his computer tower, and the occasional exhale when something didn’t look right.

Task himself was hunched forward in his chair, one leg tucked under the other, his bare chest rising and falling in shallow, even breaths. He hadn’t realized how still he’d been until he shifted—spine popping, hips aching slightly from disuse.

He wore nothing but a loose pair of heather-gray boxers, the fabric soft and worn, rolled down slightly at the waistband. His brown fur was smooth, slightly flattened from hours of contact with the chair. Sweat hadn’t built up—his room was well-ventilated—but the faint warmth beneath his thighs was a reminder that he hadn’t stood up in far too long.

On screen: a half-rendered dragon with mechanical limbs and decorative piercings along its horns. It was snarling at something off-screen, tail coiled like a spring, body mid-leap. The client wanted sex appeal and menace in equal measure. Task wasn’t sure he’d nailed either.

He zoomed in on the left pectoral, added a half-opacity highlight for muscle definition, then leaned back and assessed.

“Good enough.”

Click.

He hit save. Then exported the image to PNG and dropped it into the client chat on Discord.

‘WIP. Let me know if you need tweaks!’

His eyes flicked to the user icon. Gray. Offline.

“Of course you are.” He rolled his eyes.

He leaned back in his chair and stretched—arms above his head, chest rising, back arching. His antlers bumped the ceiling fan’s cord and sent it swinging in a slow circle.

A long, deep sigh escaped him as his joints cracked and his ribs expanded. The movement made the light catch on the subtle sheen of his brown chest fur, darker at the collarbone and shading toward a faint creamy line down his stomach. His belly had a soft curve—just enough to rest a pen on, as Alex sometimes teased—and the slow rise and fall of his breathing made the fur there ripple gently.

He stood up from the chair, boxers adjusting against his hips. As he did, he hooked one hand down to scratch lazily at his balls through the fabric. It wasn’t on purpose—not at first. Just a tired, familiar motion. His hand pressed in, cupping, shifting himself for comfort.

He rubbed idly at the seam between sack and thigh, where the warmth had gathered. The soft drag of fabric against fur pulled a low sigh from his throat.

“Ugh. Fuckin’ numb,” he muttered.

He gave one last lazy tug, adjusted the waistband again, and sighed. His dick shifted under the movement, pressing forward slightly in the loosened boxers. Not a hard-on. But not nothing either. He felt heavy in a way that made his hand linger just a second longer, thumb grazing the fur below his navel.

Then—

A scent.

He froze.

Sniffed once.

Then again, deeper.

Tomato. Garlic. Onion. Oil. Spice. Sweetness. Warmth.

A sudden, involuntary throb pulsed low in his stomach.

He sniffed again, ears twitching toward the hallway.

Alex.

She was cooking. Really cooking.

He didn’t hesitate.

Task scratched one last time—slower, indulgent, almost thoughtful—then let his hand drop. His cock shifted slightly in the front of his boxers as he adjusted, half-aware of the faint stirring that came with thinking about her. About Alex, in the kitchen, barefoot in whatever soft thing she wore when she didn’t know he was looking.

He stepped into the hallway.

And followed the scent—drawn forward by hunger.

The hallway was dim, the overhead lights off, but the soft ambient glow from the kitchen painted the wooden floorboards in stripes of gold. The warmth of the apartment was subtle, not stifling—like slipping into a bed that someone had just climbed out of.

The deer’s hooves clicked softly as he padded toward the source of light, each step loosening the tension in his shoulders a little more. He rubbed a hand up the side of his neck, then over his jaw, scratching lightly at a patch of fur that had flattened funny during his long stint at the desk. His other hand rested near the waistband of his boxers, fingers hooked just under the elastic, thumb grazing the trail of fur that led down from his navel.

The scent grew stronger. Garlic, for sure. Olive oil, definitely. Something bright and slightly sweet—red bell pepper? Tomato? A hint of cumin hung at the edge, warm and earthy. It wasn’t just food. It was her food. Not some throw-together leftovers or lazy takeout, but something intentional. Something slow and built up with care.

He imagined her in there—pawing through spice jars with furrowed brows, tasting things on her finger, humming as she stirred. Probably barefoot. Probably in that loose t-shirt that barely reached the top of her thighs, tail flicking when she was focused.

His cock gave another idle twitch.

Task exhaled and rolled his neck again, letting himself ease into that image. The air felt thicker now, scented and slow. It wrapped around his senses, nudging him into a space that was softer than arousal but headed in the same direction. That lazy feeling of belonging somewhere warm and safe and sexy.

His fingers trailed absentmindedly along the curve of his stomach as he walked. He wasn’t vain, but he liked the way he looked tonight. Boxers clinging just right, a faint trail of fur darker down the centerline. His belly had a little plush to it—soft enough to sink into, firm enough to flex when he stretched. He knew Alex liked it. Said it made him look like someone who knew how to enjoy things.

The kitchen light cast a long rectangle across the hall, bright enough now to outline the curve of his shoulder and hip in warm gold. He passed the framed photos along the wall—one of them kissing at the beach, another of Alex pretending to bite his antler while he mock-screamed. Each glimpse added a subtle undercurrent to the moment. This was their place. Their rhythm. Their little world of shared rituals and in-jokes and late-night snacks.

He was almost there now. Just a few steps from the threshold. He could hear her—soft clinks of metal against pan, a low hum barely above a whisper, maybe the tail end of some song she’d forgotten the words to. The scent of garlic was deep now, mellowed by heat, folded into something richer.

He stopped just before the doorway.

Paused.

Let the heat wash over him.

This moment—this transition from solitude to presence, from screen-glow to stove-glow—always hit different. It was like stepping out of his own head and back into her gravity.

He scratched lightly at his stomach, adjusted himself once more—gentler this time.

Then, with a smile curling the corner of his mouth, Task stepped into the kitchen.

Warmth enveloped him—not just the heat from the stove, but the unmistakable presence of her. The light had turned golden with the late afternoon, spilling through the apartment windows in soft slants that made everything look dipped in honey. The scent of garlic and crushed tomatoes hung in the air, thick and inviting, the quiet sizzle from the stove blending with the rhythm of her movements.

Alex stood barefoot on the cool tile floor, her back to him, the hem of one of his old white t-shirts fluttering just above her thighs. The shirt was loose on her, stretched at the collar, and hung off one shoulder in a way that looked almost staged—except it wasn’t. It was just how it always ended up on her frame. Worn from sleep, comfort, and a hundred evenings like this one. Her pink boyshorts peeked out every time she shifted. Her tail swayed gently behind her, an unconscious mirror of her mood—content, focused, in her element. She definitely felt like she was Gordon Ramsay without all those wrinkles from saying “For fuck’s sake!” with her eyebrows constantly raised to the moon.

Task’s eyes lingered on the tigress—the subtle flex of her calves as she leaned forward to adjust the heat, the curve of her back rising and falling with each breath. Her shirt clung lightly at her waist, where the steam from the skillet met her fur.

The pan hissed like it had secrets to spill. Onions and peppers softened into a glossy confessional of scent. Garlic bloomed in olive oil with a sigh, its golden shards melting into sweetness, leaving behind only a crispy acidic bite. She stirred it slowly as she sang along to an upbeat song she had playing through the in-ceiling speakers.

“Champagne, champagne. Santé, tchin-tchin, champagne.”

Champagne, champagne. Cheers, cheers, champagne.

To the side, a bowl of crushed tomatoes waited—already peeled, already bruised into submission, glistening with promise. Their red pulp shimmered with olive oil, thick and glossy, catching the light like a drag queen’s wet lip about to say something sassy.

“Promis j'fais pas d'scandale ce soir.”I promise I won't cause a scene tonight.

A neat row of spice bowls stood by like accomplices—smoked paprika, ground cumin, coriander, chili flakes—all lined up like they’d been summoned to a very flavorful interrogation. Each one brought its own voice to the table: smoky, warm, citrus-bright, tongue-prickling. She didn’t measure; she intuited. A pinch here, a flick there. The way a poet might sprinkle alliteration, or a lover might press kisses just below the collarbone.

There was a sensuality to her movements that wasn’t exaggerated. The curve of her spine as she bent to retrieve a spoon. The small hitch in her breath when she tasted the food. The way her pinky lifted like punctuation when she carried a ramekin of chili flake to the pan.

“Hey,” Task finally said, his voice low, like he didn’t want to break the surface tension of the moment.

Alex turned her head just enough to catch him in her periphery. Her smile was instant, automatic, like muscle memory. “Hey. All done with work?” She reached a hand that was covered in spices to turn the music down from her phone.

The deer nodded, stepping behind her, his arms sliding around her waist, palms meeting in the cradle just above her navel.

“For now,” he said, his breath brushing the top of her shoulder.

She leaned into him like she was falling back into something soft. Her head tilted, cheek nuzzling against his jaw. “Wrist okay?”

The deer flexed it absently against her stomach. “Sore. Been drawing since morning. Think I’ve got carpal tunnel from rendering mechanical parts.”

The tigress snorted softly. “Ah, yes, mechanical parts and cars, your very own Kryptonite. The suffering you endure for art.”

“I’m a martyr,” Task whispered dramatically into her neck. “A soft, aching, underpaid martyr.”

Alex turned and gave him a look. Not scolding. Not quite sympathetic either. Just that familiar narrowing of her eyes that said: I love you, but also you’re ridiculous.

Task smiled.

Alex kissed his jaw, then turned to the freezer and retrieved one of the small gel ice packs they kept on hand. She pressed it into his hand like a priest handing him a communion wafer.

“Sit,” she said.

He obeyed, sinking into one of the kitchen stools. She knelt beside him, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, thumb brushing the inside where the pulse beat steady and quick. Her touch was warm. She pressed the cold pack to his tendons with the same care she’d used to sauté the garlic.

“You’re not going to make me stop cooking to take care of you, are you?”

“Tempting,” he said. “But no.”

She smiled—small, satisfied. But her fingers lingered on his wrist like she wasn’t quite done reading him.

When she rose, he caught her hand and pulled her back in. This time she stood between his knees, and he leaned into her, forehead against her belly, breathing her in. Warm cotton. Skin. Spice. Her.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Her hand found his antler, traced the edge like a question mark. “I know. I love you too.”

They stayed like that a little longer—his hand resting lightly on the back of her thigh, hers threaded through his hair—until the pan hissed at her, demanding attention.

“Since when do you speak French?” Task asked with a snort and a raise of his brow.

Alex furrowed her brow as a wave of confusion temporarily washed over her, before she realized he was talking about the song that was still softly playing in the background.

“Pffft, I don’t. I can just sing in French.” She cackled.  “Wanna help me stir?” she continued. “You can use your other hand.”

He stood and moved beside her. One hand cradled the ice pack. The other took the wooden spoon.

She poured in the tomatoes. The skillet welcomed them with a wet, hungry sound—a soft splatter, a hiss, a sizzle. The bright acidity of the fruit hit the air, met the sweetness of the onions and the funk of garlic, and alchemy began.

He stirred slowly, and the sauce deepened in color, shifting from fire engine red to something a little closer to rust, like ripe cherries, like the blush that rose in Alex’s cheeks when she was tipsy from one too many glasses of rosé.

She moved around him, adding spices like footnotes to a love letter. Paprika spilled like powdered velvet. Cumin melted into the oil with a nutty murmur. Coriander popped like citrus on a summer tongue. Chili flake bloomed into the heat, its sharpness curling into the air like the tail end of a good joke.

She tasted. Hummed. Added a pinch of salt, then tasted again. Then offered the spoon to him.

He leaned in. Their faces were inches apart.

He sipped. The sauce clung to the spoon like it didn’t want to let go. Rich. Complex. Spicy. Sweet. The kind of flavor that settled in your chest.

“That’s perfect,” he murmured.

“Damn right it is.”

She bumped her hip against his, a slow, smug little grind.

The eggs were ready—six perfect orbs, room temperature, nestled in a ceramic bowl that made it look like a nest. Nearby, feta waited: damp and crumbled, a snowfall of tang. Parsley glistened, freshly chopped.

She made shallow wells in the thick sauce, careful and precise. Each one curled in like a crater. Task helped her crack the eggs one by one into them—white silk, golden yolk, each a small sun.

Alex sprinkled the feta—liberally—then sumac for brightness, and parsley for a final flourish. The pan looked like a painting, a little messy, but in that pretty 20 million dollar Picasso sort of way.

“It’s kind of beautiful,” he said quietly.

Alex glanced sideways. “We are,” she said.

She opened the oven that she had preheated earlier. Heat billowed out in a strong wave. Then she slid the pan in. And kicked the door closed like Beckham.

“Thirty minutes.”

Task turned to her and held out his hand. “Come here.”

She took it.

He led her to the couch in the living room. He sat first, pulled her into his lap. She curled into him easily. Her thigh draped over his. The gel pack sat forgotten on the counter now.

The smell of shakshuka filled the kitchen. Garlic, heat, cumin, home.

---

The kitchen had quieted to a low hum. Task and Alex remained tucked together on the couch, wrapped in the last warmth of the sun and the slow build of oven heat. The timer ticked softly in the background, counting down, but neither of them seemed in a rush to move.

Task’s arm cradled Alex around the waist, and her head rested easily against his shoulder. She was reading from her e-reader, thumb occasionally tapping to turn the page, while he scrolled his phone with a lazy finger, screen casting a faint blue tint across his relaxed face. Every so often he would shift just enough to kiss the crown of her head, his muzzle brushing lightly against her curls, then settle back in with a little contented hum.

Her feet were tucked beneath her, toes grazing his thigh, and whenever she adjusted, her knee would nudge into his side gently. She had a habit of occasionally blowing on her screen when a smudge annoyed her, or clicking her tongue when a sentence amused her. He’d learned to read her book mood just by those sounds.

The scent of shakshuka was everywhere now—smoky, sweet, sharp with spice and mellowed by melting cheese. It filled the space between them, between seconds, in the way only something cooked with love could. Every breath tasted like cumin and tomato.

Task shifted slightly, tucking one arm tighter around her. He felt the faint ache in his drawing wrist but didn’t mention it. The weight of her, soft and warm against his side, was balm enough.

Then he gave a soft huff through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Just a breath of amusement. A signal flare in the quiet.

“Hah.”

Alex glanced up from her reader, her voice quiet and fond. “What’d you find now?”

He angled his phone toward her.

A meme. Stunningly rendered, high-res and hyper-detailed, anime-esque in the way it blended glossy skin and outrageous proportions with perfect linework and dramatic lighting. A naked deer woman stood against a table, legs slightly apart, her vulva carefully drawn with the kind of reverent artistry usually reserved for classic figure studies. Over it, a cartoonish cat face had been drawn—single line eyes, whiskers, cheeks puffed in greedy delight. Her hips were pressed up against the table edge, and the placement made it look like the cat was enthusiastically devouring the wood.

The caption read: “when ur pussycat is hungry 😼”

Alex blinked. Then made a sound between a snort and a groan. “Jesus.”

Task grinned. That shit-eating, smug little smile that meant he was proud of how stupid it was. “Come on. Tell me that’s not art.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s inspirational.”

“You’re suggesting I draw a face on my cooch and hump the kitchen table,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “That’s your big artistic vision?”

“Correct.”

She tilted her head, mock serious. “You want me to press my pussy against our kitchen table so it looks like Garfield is trying to eat it?”

“Yes,” he said, with the certainty of a man who had seen God and found Him hilarious.

She stared at him. Then blinked. “You are so fucking lucky you’re cute.”

Task just kept smiling. That was the thing with him. He could toss out the most deranged shit with a tone so earnest you wanted to laugh and punch him in equal measure.

Alex sighed, setting down her reader. She twisted toward him, one leg sliding over his lap, her thigh warm where it pressed against his. “I mean, I'd have to shave. It's a jungle down there right now.”

He shrugged, hand absently running up and down the back of her leg. “I like it when it's a jungle. Wild. Mysterious. Adventure-pussy.”

“I can't Sharpie on adventure-pussy,” she said flatly. “You ever try to draw on a shag carpet?”

Task paused to consider. “Fair point.”

The tigress looked down, then smoothed his hair with both hands, brushing her thumbs over his antlers. “Also,” she added, voice lilting, “you're not getting off easy.”

He raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You think I’m going to Sharpie a cat on my pussy solo? Nah. If I go down, you're going down with me.”

He smirked. “What do you have in mind, Miss Michelangelo?”

She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You're doing the elephant version.”

He froze.

“Elephant ears on your thighs. Tusks, too. Little eyes above your shaft. And your dick?” She pulled back to look him dead in the eye. “The trunk.”

Task blinked. Once. Twice.

Then he wheezed.

“That is so fucking stupid,” he choked.

“It’s perfect.”

“It really is,” he agreed.

“It’s proportionally accurate,” she said sweetly.

He stared at her, mock affronted. “Are you calling me a trunk?”

“I’m saying if you swing it just right, it might look like it’s reaching for a peanut.”

He doubled over, clutching his chest. “Jesus Christ, Alex.”

Task looked up, breathless, and saw the gleam in her eyes. There was real heat there now, under the humor. The kind that started as a smirk and ended with fingernails on skin. Playful.

Alex leaned in again, her voice lower now. “Come on. It'll be fun. Dumb, hot fun.”

He tilted his head and studied her. That loose shirt of his barely covered her thighs, the hem dancing at the curve of her ass. Her mouth was wet, parted, her breath just a little faster than before.

She wanted this.

Wanted to strip down and draw on each other like giggling idiots.

Task stood, the couch creaking beneath him.

“Bathroom?” he said.

Alex rose with him, stretching her arms overhead like a cat—spine arching, tail flicking. The shirt rose even higher, flashing the bottom curve of her ass.

“Bathroom,” she agreed.

They walked in sync, bare feet whispering against the hall floor, shoulders bumping. The timer kept ticking behind them, but the shakshuka could wait.

“Shave first, right?” he said, glancing sideways.

“Yeah,” she said. “We need a clean canvas.”

He exhaled through a laugh. “I haven’t shaved in ages. This is gonna be a landscaping project.”

“You’re gonna need scissors first,” she said. “That thing is the Hanging Gardens of Babylong-dong.”

He groaned. “Alex, please. I’m begging you.”

“Begging is later,” she said, grinning. “Right now? You're shaving your dick so I can draw Dumbo on it.”

“You say the most romantic things.”

“That’s why you love me.”

And with that, they stepped into the bathroom together, laughter still hanging in the air like steam from the tap.

The bathroom was echoey and slightly damp. Warm light poured over the tiles and mirror, soft and golden, turning fur to velvet and breath to fog. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and skin-warmed jojoba oil, mingling with the clean, subtle spice of shaving cream.

On the counter: scissors, razors, a bowl of hot water, two towels, a bottle of moisturizer, and a spray can of sensitive shaving cream. They’d laid it all out like a ritual. A shared act. Ridiculous, yes.

Alex was already naked, one leg propped up on the bathtub rim, towel beneath her. Her pink nipples were perked, not from cold, but from the slow-burning, ridiculous arousal humming between them since the moment Task had shown her that meme. Her fur shone slightly in the misty light, every curve haloed by condensation and sweat. Her thighs gleamed where the steam clung to them, and a single bead of moisture traced its way down her sternum and disappeared between her breasts.

She looked over at him, already seated on the closed toilet lid with a towel over his lap, scissors in hand. “You ready?”

He gave a lazy smirk. “You first. I’m gonna need a minute to prepare.”

She snorted. “Coward.”

But she was already lathering her inner thighs, legs spread just enough to expose the dark, plush softness of her mound. Her fur was thick, curling in tight waves, damp now from the warm cloth she’d pressed against herself. She picked up the scissors and began trimming with short, careful snips.

Task tried not to stare. He failed completely.

Alex’s hands moved with practiced confidence—fingers pulling the skin taut, lifting and spreading, holding herself open just enough to angle the blades. Every so often, she reached for the warm cloth, wiped herself down, and resumed. She worked lower, trimming close to the lips, then on either side of them.

Her breathing deepened the closer she got, chest rising in slow, full waves. When she moved her fingers to spread herself wider, Task caught the sudden, breathtaking sight of her inner lips parting—shiny pink beneath the dark fuzz, folds glistening slightly from the steam and her own dampness. As she used two fingers to pull herself open, her cunt pulsed. He could see it, actually see the subtle throb and twitch, like it was already aching for touch, already sensitive from the anticipation alone.

Task let out a low breath, audible this time.

Alex looked at him sideways. “You’re not even pretending not to stare.”

“Why would I pretend?” he said hoarsely. “You’re giving me a front-row seat to a one-woman porno.”

She smirked but didn’t look away from the mirror. She picked up the sensitive formula shaving cream.

The cold foam hissed as she worked it between her legs—coating her mound, the curve of her lips, the crease of her thighs. Her fingers moved slowly, rubbing the cream into every contour. She moaned, soft and under her breath, as she pressed the cream into the jungle of her pussy. Her folds opened more fully under her touch, the soft inner walls glistening now with a little bit of arousal.

Task shifted under his towel, adjusting. His cock had thickened with blood, swelling with heat, but not fully hard. The want was low and coiled, deliciously restrained, burning like a coal instead of flaring into fire.

Alex picked up her pink razor.

Starting at the top, she shaved in slow, methodical strokes. With the grain of her pubes at first. The sound was soft but unmistakable—scrrrk, rinse, repeat. Her fingers stayed busy, pulling herself taut so the skin would be safe, lips held open as she worked down, slow and steady. Her concentration made her brow furrow slightly, and every so often her breath would hitch as the razor glided over a particularly tender patch.

As she got to the inner curve, her canal flexed again, the pink walls fluttering with the motion of her thighs. She moaned again, quietly, and Task could see her glistening now, not just from the oil or the lather, but from wetness. Real, rich slick. A creamy sheen that clung to her inner lips as she shaved.

Task adjusted again, shifting the towel down. His cock was getting heavy in his lap. It twitched visibly when she spread herself wider and brought the blade close.

Alex reached between her legs again, this time needing to brace a hand on the edge of the tub to get the right angle. Her pussy gaped just slightly under her fingers, folds glossy with lather and her own juice. The razor passed close to her clit, and her hips twitched.

“Almost done,” she murmured, but she sounded a little breathless now.

When she rinsed off, she reached for the warm cloth, her motions slower, more sensual now. She dabbed at the bare fur with care, lifting her leg higher for one last pass, then pressed her hand down flat against her mound as she reached for the oil. The way she massaged the jojoba in—slow, circular strokes, spreading the oil down between her lips, thumb brushing briefly over her clit—was too much.

Task swallowed.

Her pussy was bare now—utterly smooth, dusky-pink folds gleaming with oil and steam. Her lips were parted slightly, and he could still see the subtle flex and clench of her core, like her body hadn’t quite let go of the sensation of the blade.

She let her leg down slowly and turned to him. Her eyes sparkled.

“Your turn,” she said.

Task let the towel fall.

His cock lay thick and warm against his thigh, not fully erect, but plenty flushed. The tip glistened faintly with precum. It twitched when the cool air hit it, and again when her eyes dropped.

She said nothing, but her mouth curled in a knowing smile.

He picked up the scissors.

He trimmed in silence, fast and focused. The thick hair at his base curled stubbornly around the blades. He worked around the shaft, along the inner crease of his thighs, jaw tight. The closer he got to his balls, the more his cock twitched—a slow, involuntary roll of movement that made the trimming harder. When he had to lift his sac to trim underneath, his breath hitched.

“Doing okay?” Alex murmured.

“I feel like I’m defusing a bomb with one hand while jerking off with the other,” he muttered.

She laughed. “Sounds about right.”

When he finished trimming, he soaked the cloth and pressed it between his legs. He groaned at the contact, more from heat than pain. His balls pulled up again, the skin crinkling tight as he held the cloth there, breathing slow.

Then he lathered.

The cold foam shocked his skin, making his shaft twitch again, foreskin rolling forward then back as he spread it around his base. His cock swelled a little more, but still didn’t rise. It was weighty now, curved slightly over his thigh, veins more visible beneath the surface.

He shaved slowly, carefully. Scrrrk. Rinse. Scrrrk. Rinse. The blade dragged with quiet menace. He had to lift and adjust constantly, angling to avoid nicks.

Alex watched silently, chin still on her hand. Her breathing was a little heavier now too.

He shaved the underside last. Leaned forward. Braced one hand on the sink. His cock shifted again, a single drop of precum forming at the tip. He caught it with his thumb, wiped it away, then rinsed the blade again.

When he finished, he wiped himself down and reached for the oil.

He applied it like she had—slowly, almost sensually. Down the base. Over the freshly shaved pelvis. A long glide over the shaft. His cock twitched in his grip but didn’t rise further.

It just sat there, plump and flushed and slick with oil.

His balls shone. The skin was soft and tight, perfectly smooth. His shaft gleamed like polished wood, rosy where the blood filled it, paler at the freshly bared root. A lazy, beautiful mess.

He looked up.

Alex was closer now, standing before him, marker in hand.

Her eyes moved from his face to his cock, to his sac, then back.

She licked her lips.

“Now,” she said, voice thick and low. “Drawing time.”

---

Alex and Task padded back into the kitchen naked. Clean. Shaved. Flushed. Lightheaded. Their skin still tingled from the drag of razors and the way heat had lingered just beneath the surface, waiting to be pressed on. The smell of shakshuka had deepened while they were gone—tomato sweetened and darkened, spices blooming fully now, eggs quietly setting in the oven.

Alex reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out the markers—Sharpies, of course, glossy black barrels worn smooth from use. She tossed them onto the dining table with a clatter and stretched, arms raised high over her head, spine arching. Her bare body moved without self-consciousness, breasts lifting, stomach elongating, thighs flexing. A faint sheen of oil still caught the light on her fur.

Task’s eyes dropped immediately to her pussy.

Completely bare now. Smooth and exposed. The dusky-pink folds sat plump and slightly parted between her thighs, still dewy, still reactive. Glossy with leftover juice and oil, catching the light in obscene little glimmers. The way it had clenched earlier—empty, needy—replayed behind his eyes.

Alex caught him staring and smirked. “Down, boy.”

“No promises,” he said, voice already rougher than he meant it to be.

She tapped the table with two fingers. “Sit. Legs apart. Let’s give Dumbo a face.”

He obeyed without hesitation, easing into the chair and spreading his knees. His cock hung forward, heavy and semi-hard, freshly shaved and sensitive to the air. The base was flushed, veins faint but visible, the head darker and glossy with the beginnings of precum. A string clung to the underside, sticky and clear, stretching as it dripped.

Alex knelt between his legs, close enough that her breath brushed his inner thighs. She picked up a Sharpie, uncapped it with her teeth, and tested the tip on her thumb.

Then she wrapped one hand around his shaft.

Her grip was firm, anchoring him, thumb pressed lightly into the underside where he was most sensitive. She moved his cock gently from side to side, repositioning it so she could get to the canvas of his inner thighs.

And then—she angled her head.

It looked like repositioning. Innocent enough. But she was sneaking a sniff.

A subtle breath through her nose. Quick, practiced.

‘Snff.’

The smell was immediate and dense—thick heat, the sour tang of sweat deep in the crease where thigh met groin, bitter salt dried into shaven skin. The deeper layers hit a second later: fresh precum, the slow brine of balls left to sweat and throb as he worked on those drawings in his office. It coated the inside of her nose and curled into her throat. Not clean. Not supposed to be. She kept her face blank. Professional. But the scent wormed its way inside her and her happy cat sounds betrayed her.

‘Prrrrrrr.’

She brought the marker to his inner thigh and began to draw.

The felt tip made contact with his fur and skin—a tiny, soft drag. A pinpoint of cold, then friction, then warmth. She drew the first curved line of an elephant ear, and as she did, the skin bunched slightly under the movement, creasing just enough to guide the ink. His inner thigh twitched.

The Sharpie glided slowly. She didn’t rush it. Every stroke had to pull the skin slightly taut, and she used her free hand to brace against his leg, spreading his thighs a little wider so she could flatten more of the flesh. Her palm was oily from their earlier antics, and it left faint prints along his short brown fuzz as she shifted.

He could feel everything. The tip caught on the nearly invisible grain of his fine fuzz, dragging over his follicles, tugging minutely with a faint rasp. She traced lines that curved and dipped with the muscle beneath, detailing the floppy contour of the elephant’s cartoon ear with surprising care.

She finished the outer edge of the ear and pulled back for a better angle, rotating his thigh inward with one hand while keeping his cock pulled aside with the other. The movement made him hiss through his teeth.

“Jesus. That’s… fucking sensitive.”

“Shh. He needs symmetrical ears. Stop distracting me.”

The tigress leaned closer and blew on the ink to help it dry, the gust of air cooling his thigh and brushing just under his balls. Goosebumps rippled up his legs.

She started the second ear on the opposite thigh, using slower strokes this time, and adding a little flick at the tip for flair. Her cheek brushed his inner leg as she leaned, her hair grazing against the top of his groin. The movement of the marker dragged more slowly now, and Task became acutely aware of every place his skin shifted and rebounded, the fine trembling of muscle beneath as she worked.

Then—another quick breath.

‘Snff, snff.’

She didn’t even lean closer this time. Just inhaled softly where she already was. The scent was fuller now, opened up by heat and arousal and the closeness of skin to skin. She could smell where he’d been sweating. Where the razor had missed. Where precum had run down and stuck in the crease. A swampy, dizzying punch of male scent. It was her favorite smell. But she couldn’t let it distract her, she kept drawing.

She tapped his pelvis lightly. “Eyes go here. Hold still.”

Task swallowed hard and nodded.

With surgical precision, she dotted two round eyes just above the base of his cock. The skin there was delicate, tight. The felt tip left a dark bead of ink with each touch. She gave each dot a careful little tap, letting the pressure sink in. The area twitched under her attention, the fur shifting under the gentlest prod.

“Downward gaze,” she muttered thoughtfully, adjusting the pupils with care. “He’s shy. For now.”

Task barked a laugh but then hissed as her palm adjusted her grip again—fingers pressing in just a little tighter.

“Ahaha! Jesus, that tickles.”

“Hold still, Trunky,” she murmured, voice low and amused. “If you squirm, his tusks are gonna be wonky.”

He forced himself to stillness, though his cock thickened steadily in her grip, not rising fully, but pulsing with heat. The head throbbed visibly now, shining with clear dick goo.

She scooted closer on her knees, breasts brushing his legs. Her cheek pressed lightly to the side of his shaft as she angled herself for the final detail. Her breath was hot against him, mouth so close he could feel the faintest flick of her lip when she smiled.

Another quiet sniff. This one from lower down.

‘Snfffff.’

Her nose hovered by the base of his cock, just above the balls. The smell there was deeper, almost meat-thick. Salt and heat and something animal. The air itself felt humid with it. She didn’t linger. As much as she wanted to. Just one long breath was enough to make her mouth water.

Next came the tusks. Two small, swooping lines that curved up from the base of each ear. She adjusted his thighs again, her fingers slipping against his skin, repositioning, pressing. Her knuckles grazed the underside of his cock.

She sat back on her heels, admiring her work as she put the cap back on the Sharpie.

“There,” she said. “One bashful, well-endowed elephant.”

She stood, kissed his cheek, and pressed the marker into his hand. “Your turn.”

She turned and climbed up onto the table, leaning back without hesitation. Her legs spread wide, knees bent, feet braced against the table’s legs. Her pussy was glistening now—undeniably wet. The lips were darker, swollen, clit peeking from its hood and twitching slightly with every breath she took. Pussy juice gleamed in the low light, a sticky mess clinging to her thighs.

Task crouched between her thighs, marker uncapped. His free hand went to her inner thigh automatically, thumb brushing over slick skin.

“Jesus,” he murmured. “You’re fucking dripping.”

She grinned, breathless. “Kitty’s hungry.”

He leaned forward. Close. Like he needed a better view.

But it wasn’t about seeing. He sniffed.

‘Snff, snff…’

It didn’t even look like a breath. Just a shift in his shoulders, a tilt of his head. But his lungs filled with her.

The scent slammed into him. Hot and soaked into the folds of her cunt like syrup. There was a sour edge to it, sweet and raw sweat and that iron hint of bloodless meat. Pungent enough to sting. He didn’t flinch. He held it. Let it sit at the back of his throat and simmer.

He exhaled softly through his mouth and brought the marker to her skin.

He started above her clit, careful, dragging the felt tip in slow, delicate strokes over her mound. The tip dipped and rose with the contours of her flesh, tracing faint lines into still-sensitive, freshly shaved area. She twitched.

He drew dotted eyes and eyebrows. Triangle ears above.

And then—because he couldn’t help it—he spread her open. Not to draw. Just to see.

He took another quiet breath.

‘Snrf.’

The scent from inside her hit like a wave. Hotter. Wetter. Sweet, the way bread smells right before it burns. The sharp and pleasant smell of cunt so ready it was coming undone. Her inner lips glistened, parted wide, pink and twitching. He stared way too long.

“I’m going to come from a Sharpie,” she groaned. “I swear to god.”

He added a final detail: two sets of whiskers to each side of her mound, three lines each.

Then he leaned back, chest heaving.

“Art,” he said softly, popped the cap back on the pen, and stuck it behind his ear.

Alex let out a happy sigh as goosebumps ran up her stomach—then said, “Pose time.”

She slid forward to the edge of the table, turning so her body faced the room. She planted one hand on her hip and the other on the tabletop for balance, the wood cool and firm against her mound. As she pressed in, her lips parted slightly from the pressure, the drawn cat lining up perfectly—her pink folds closing in just enough to sell the illusion of chomping.

A thin sheen of pussy juice leaked out and smeared against the table’s edge, catching the light as she shifted her weight. She rolled her hips once, experimentally, and hissed through her teeth.

“I can’t believe I had to shave for this,” she said, half-laughing, half-breathless. “But here we are.”

Task moved to the opposite end of the table, placing his hands behind his back like a disciplined schoolboy. The Sharpie was tucked behind his right ear, pressed against hair and antler. His cock jutted forward from the elephant face, the ‘trunk’ hanging down and flopping softly against the table’s as he leaned in. It twitched and throbbed, foreskin slightly peeled back, pre leaking steadily from the tip and dotting the wood.

He looked down at himself, then back at her, cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and desire.

“God, it’s so silly,” he said, breath hitching. Then, quieter, unable to help himself: “Toot toot, heheh.”

Alex barked a laugh that turned into a moan as the table pressed just right. She reached for a stack of napkins, quickly sketching little cartoon paws with a Sharpie—pads, claws, the works—and placed them on either side of her cunt, framing the scene.

She rocked forward again, just enough to make the ‘cat’ bite.

“Hhhnnnrf.”

Task swallowed. His cock jumped, wood and precum together, but he held himself back, breathing through it, hands still clasped behind him.

They locked eyes across the table—two idiots, naked, inked, leaking, trying not to lose it.

They didn’t say anything.

They didn’t need to.

The art session was very, very over.

---

The moment Alex stepped back from the table, thighs gleaming with sweat and cunt syrup, the cartoon cat still marked in Sharpie above her glistening pussy, Task was already reaching for her. There was no ceremony in it—just a slow, steady gravity pulling them into each other, like planets drawn to collision.

His hand touched her low on the back. A bare, quiet contact, more grounding than commanding. The pad of his thumb dragged lazily across her spine. Alex moved with the pressure, guided rather than led, her hips swaying gently with each step.

Their bodies were humming. Stripped, shaved, flushed. Not just from arousal, but from proximity. From the residue of play still clinging to their skin. The lingering smell of it filled the kitchen—Sharpie fumes, tomato and cumin, raw sweat, wet cunt, and oiled up dick. The spice of sex woven into the fibers of the air like it would never leave again.

The couch was waiting for them.

It was absurdly normal in contrast to what they’d just done—slightly sunken, one armrest lower than the other, a forgotten throw pillow crumpled on one end. But as Alex backed into it, slowly sitting, spine curving as she folded into the cushions, it transformed. Became a comfortable place, a soft and intimate spot for them to fuck.

She lowered herself without breaking eye contact. Her gaze had changed—no longer teasing, no longer daring him. Just... open. Wide and unreadable.

One leg tucked under her. The other bent at the knee and splayed, paw braced on the couch’s edge, leaving her cunt spread and shining.

She watched him.

Task took his time.

He moved toward her with a quiet intensity, his body heavy with heat. The grin of the elephant still peeked above his shaft. His cock hung heavy, flushed and wet, not even fully hard—just yet.

He knelt on the cushion beside her, one knee planting near her hip. His hand came to rest on her thigh, thumb dragging upward slowly, feeling the softness, the twitch of her muscle. He was tracing her stripes, a thing he always loved doing.

Alex’s fingers reached for his cock.

She touched him differently now. No more play. Just skin to skin, palm wrapping around the thick, half-hard length, dragging upward with the faintest twist. The tip beaded again, precum welling and catching the light. Her thumb spread it without a word.

The air between them pulsed.

She leaned in, kissed him. Gently. No tongue this time. Just lips, brushing and retreating, then pressing again. A slow kind of hunger. He kissed her back, matching her pace, breathing into her. Licking her protruding fangs. He could taste her sweat, the salt of her upper lip. She sighed against his mouth, her hand still moving on his dick in slow, lazy strokes.

He slid his hand higher on her thigh, cupped the side of her hip. His fingers brushed the edge of the cat drawing—still there, even if a little warped. He traced a line along the ink, watching her flinch faintly when he dragged his finger across her mound.

Her breath hitched.

He pulled back just enough to look down.

She was soaked.

Not just wet, not just ready. Dripping. Her pussy smeared with it, folds flushed and parted from where she'd been pressed against the table, lips still twitching slightly from the earlier teasing.

The deer lowered his hand.

Two fingers slid along her slit, slow and easy, dragging through the mess of pussy juice. He didn’t press in. Just stroked. Her hips rocked automatically, chasing the pressure. Still, he waited. One pass. Then another. Until her breath started to shake.

“Hhhhaahh…”

Then—only then—he pressed inside.

One finger. Slow.

Her cunt took him easily, greedily. She clenched down with a pulse that traveled up his arm. He added another, curling slightly, stroking her from the inside while his thumb traced light circles around her clit. Her back arched, a soft sound catching in her throat.

Still no words.

He watched her. Watched the way her mouth fell open, the way her brows pulled together. Her chest rose in slow, shuddering pulls of air. Her nipples were stiff, skin flushed everywhere—cheeks, neck, belly.

Her hand had stopped moving on his cock, but she hadn’t let go.

He slipped his fingers out of her and reached for himself, aligning his cock with her entrance. He didn’t thrust. He let the tip rest there, soaking in her cunt juice, her wetness smearing across him in thick, syrupy strings.

She looked up at him. Eyes wide. Still open. Still unreadable.

He pushed in.

Slow.

Her pussy opened around him with a stretch that pulled a gasp from her lips, her head falling back against the couch cushion. Her whole body shivered, thighs trembling, knees drawing in only to spread wider, helpless to the slow, thick push of him. The head of his cock parted her wet and sticky folds with the lewd sound of wet friction, the skin stretched taut around his girth, swallowing him inch by inch.

‘Scchhlllk.’

The cartoon cat collapsed beneath the motion—its features warped, smeared, broken apart by the pressure of his cock stretching her open. One whisker vanished beneath her fold. An eye disappeared into the seam. Ink streaked along the curve of her mound, lifted and redrawn by every tremble, every jolt of muscle that rippled through her.

He kept going. All the way in, until his fat balls rested firmly against her ass cheeks.

“Hhhhnnnnffff.” The air left her in a soft, strangled moan. When their hips finally met, she groaned low and long, the sound dragged from her lungs like it had been waiting there all day. Her legs locked around his back, ankles pressing against the backs of his thighs, pulling him tighter. Her arms looped over his shoulders, and her fingers found the ridges of his shoulder blades, clutching without grace.

They stayed like that for a moment.

Still. Joined. Breathing into each other. Her inner walls twitched and squeezed around him in slow, pulsing waves, adjusting, clenching. His cock throbbed once, buried to the hilt, thick and hard inside her. The scent of their sex was everywhere now—hot skin, musk, the thickened air of sweat and meat and ink.

Then he moved.

Just a grind at first. A shift of his hips, pushing deeper, rolling into her, rubbing every nerve ending with the curve of his cock. She rocked against him, hips lifting to meet the pressure, her spine arching into the shape of him. Her claws dug into his shoulders, her breath catching with every pass.

The first pullback wasn’t without friction, especially with how tight Alex’s cunt was gripping onto his dick. The sound of fur dragging against soaked fur, the wet, sloppy pull of her pussy clenching and releasing, echoed from between them. Every shift made a sound—squelch, smack, squelch.

It built slowly. Like a tide, rising, swelling, surging against them.

No rhythm yet—just searching. Exploring. Testing the depth of their hunger. He drew out partway, her cunt clinging to him like it didn’t want to let go, then slid back in, slower the second time, letting her feel every ridge, every vein, every inch. Again. Again. Her body rose to meet him each time, hips stuttering forward, lips parted, moans caught in her throat.

Her cunt gripped him—tight and wet, spasming slightly with every retreat. Ink and sweat and sex syrup smeared between their bellies.

She opened her eyes and found him hovering over her, watching her with something feral under the softness.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Just like that.”

“I wasn’t planning to.” He said with a smile.

The deer’s pace grew, hips finding a rhythm, pushing into her harder, faster, without rushing. Each thrust shoved the breath from her lungs in broken, stuttering exhalations. The couch groaned beneath them. The cushions shifted. Their skin slapped with wet, echoing sounds.

‘Plap, plap, plap.’

He angled deeper, hips grinding forward at the top of each stroke. Her clit dragged against his pelvis again and again, her thighs fluttering from the pleasure sharpness of it. The sounds coming out of her now weren’t words—just breathy cries, gasps, broken vowels.

Her whole body went taut.

And then she came.

It wasn’t loud, but it was sudden. Breathless. Her mouth open in silent shock as her orgasm ripped through her, muscles locking, pussy clenching so hard around him it made him grunt, hips stuttering as she milked him. Her eyes fluttered closed, a long whimper slipping free, limbs twitching under him.

But it didn’t end there.

She kept shaking—hips jerking, pussy spasming, body overwhelmed. Her orgasm pulsed in waves, each clench drawing him deeper, dragging more friction from the sticky mess between them. She let out a breathy moan that cracked at the edge, head tilting to the side, body limp and tight all at once.

“Hhhaaahhhyyyyhhhaaaa!”

He held still for a heartbeat, letting her body ride it out—then he pushed through it.

He growled low in his chest, something primal and cracked, and fucked her harder. Rougher. The slap of his balls against her ass turned sharper, faster. His balls tightened, drawn up and aching. He buried himself deep, and came with a choked gasp, cock twitching inside her, spilling heat in pulse after pulse.

“Hhhhhhnnnnnng!”

She took it with a shiver. Her cunt fluttered again around him, still sensitive, still gripping. She felt the warmth flood her, fill her, drip as he ground in one last time, hips flush, breath ragged.

‘Spurt, splurt, splort.’

They stilled again. Their breath loud. Heavy. Their bodies clung together, soaked and twitching.

He stayed inside her as long as he could. His cock softening slowly in the heat of her, still locked in the grip of her spasming cunt.

Then he pulled out. Wet. Spent.

A long, slow drag of skin on skin, followed by the slick sound of separation. His cock glistened with their mess, flushed and sensitive. He looked down, took it in hand, and without comment, wiped himself off on her mound.

The drawn on cat smudged from his wet dick, ink and cum blending into a deep grey stain across her mound.

Alex didn’t move. Just lay there, legs spread, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Her pussy twitched, fluttering with aftershocks. His cum was already beginning to leak from her, thick and glossy and faintly streaked with pink. It rolled from the puffy lips of her cunt and onto the couch cushion beneath her, soaking into the fabric.

She blinked slowly, dazed. Then let out a shaky breath. “Fuck.”

Task didn’t speak. He leaned in and kissed the inside of her knee. Then her thigh. Then, gently, her hipbone. A path of quiet contact back to her body.

She hummed—almost a purr—and rolled toward him. Her legs shifted and more of the mess oozed out of her, dripping onto the cushion with a soft, wet sound. He didn’t flinch. Just gathered her into his arms, pulled her onto his lap, her thighs still open, still sticky.

They didn’t care.

They sat like that for a long time, tangled and tired. Her head on his shoulder, his hand lazily tracing circles on her back. The air around them dense with sex and sweat and leftover laughter.

“Are you okay?” Alex murmured, finally.

Task nodded against her hair. “Yeah. You?”

She paused. “Better than okay.” Her hand found his, squeezed.

Task winced as the ache from his drawing hand came back and was amplified by Alex’s squeeze.

“Ow, ow, my hand.”

“Oh my god, I am sorry.”

Another stretch of quiet. Eventually, she said, “We forgot the shakshuka.”

He smiled. “It can wait.”

And it did.

Their bodies continued to leak onto the couch. The ink stains bloomed like bruises beneath them. The smell of sex was woven into everything.

Neither of them cared.

---

When they finally peeled themselves off the couch, their bodies were slow and unhurried, every movement heavy with exhaustion and afterglow. Cum clung in slick smears to their thighs, inner folds, bellies. The ink on their bodies had bled into their fur—lines softened and broken, smeared with sweat and the long, dripping aftermath of everything they’d done. Neither bothered to wipe it away.

The kitchen was warm with the over-lingering heat of the oven, a golden haze still clinging to the air. When Task cracked the oven open, a puff of fragrant steam rolled out, thick with cumin and tomato. The shakshuka had crisped around the edges—burnt just enough to give it texture, still bubbling gently in the center.

Alex leaned against the counter like her spine was made of thread, one foot tucked behind the other, posture loose and open. Her body was glowing—damp, marked, utterly relaxed. She was still dripping, a soft, glistening trickle running down the inside of one thigh, trailing over the curve of her knee. The smudge where Task had wiped himself off her earlier had turned faint and grey, almost like a bruise. She scratched lightly at her side, then reached lazily for a napkin but didn’t use it.

Task plated the food in silence. Two mismatched bowls, a little chipped on the edges. Spoons clinked faintly against ceramic. The small sound felt louder than it should have in the soft hush that had settled over them.

They sat at the table like it was any other night.

The Sharpie drawings still lingered—blurred, half-ruined, lingering in the creases of their skin like fading tattoos. His elephant’s tusks had mostly smeared across his thighs, and the cat on her mound was reduced to a shadow of ears and a few inky whiskers, distorted and stained.

Alex dug in first, her hunger casual but pleased. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, savoring every bite. Her hair was a mess, but she did not notice, or care.

Task ate slower, not because he wasn’t hungry, but because he couldn’t stop watching her. She took another bite and hummed in satisfaction.

No words passed for a while. Just the soft sound of spoons scraping against bowls, the occasional quiet breath. Recovery in motion.

Eventually, she looked up at him with a little smirk, eyes soft.

“This is good.” Alex purred.

“Little burnt,” Task said, mouth full.

She shrugged. “And whose fault is that?”

He smiled.

They didn’t bother to close their legs under the table. Her thighs were still parted slightly, careless and comfortable, folds still faintly sticky where slick and cum had dried. His cock hung loose against his thigh, soft now.

After a while, Alex reached across the table with her spoon and stole a bite from his bowl.

He blinked at her, mock-offended. She gave him a slow, shit-eating grin as she chewed.

“You’re lucky I’m too sore to fight you,” he muttered.

“You say that like I wouldn’t win anyway,” she replied.

He tilted his head in agreement.

Then, without breaking eye contact, Alex extended her leg under the table. Her paw slid slowly along his calf, then up his shin, deliberate and gentle. She nudged at his knee, then higher, until her toes brushed against the softness of his cock.

He twitched at the contact—just a little.

She grinned wider and gave a slow, clumsy stroke with the soft pads on her paws. Toes curled.

Task’s breath caught. He looked at her—flushed, amused, utterly helpless.

And that’s when she said it.

“Toot-toot,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Task let out a short, helpless laugh that cracked something open in both of them. He dropped his head into his hand and shook it.

“You’re the worst,” he muttered.

“I think you’re the one with the wurst. Get it? Mister Sausage.”

He groaned, full-bodied, head thunking against the back of his chair.

And still—he didn’t stop her.

---

Task by MinusculeTask

Art by MinusculeTask

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