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Enjin twirls his finger in the air, sat on the edge of the bed, and on the floor, on his knees, Zanka spins immediately, clothes shuffling. It’s funny; Zanka’s a cute one, of course—there’s never been any doubt about that—but he’s usually so stoic, or, well, tries to be, at least.
Right now, he’s panting, face flushed, lips shiny with saliva; right now, his bangs are plastered to his forehead with sweat and his pupils are so blown out that it prickles in Enjin’s body in arousal; right now, Enjin says, “Bark, okay?” and Zanka does, deep and throaty, quite desperately so, drool dripping down his chin.