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Zam knows it’s no coincidence when Wemmbu shows up at her flower field, perching himself atop her bench, right beside her, far too close, like he’s owed the space.
Aftershocks of yet another destruction of spawn at the hands of Wemmbu, Mane and Flame rings in the back of her head—less image and more the feeling that crumbles over her after. The pressure of disappointment heavy on her chest; the sick knowledge that her inability to deliver proper consequences only feeds them further.
Wemmbu’s the worst for it. He pokes and prods at her in ways that get in her head far more than Mane or Flame ever do—killing her allies in front of her, punishing her with destruction for not using his “ticket” in a way that he’d like, continuously terrorizing spawn with explosions and death like he even gains anything out of it at this point.
She’d died after picking a fight with him, so she wasn’t surprised in the slightest that he went looking for wherever she ended up lurking. He knows her spots, and he knows her well enough to know she wouldn’t walk back up into spawn after exciting him with a fruitless duel. He takes and he takes and he takes, so who’s to say he wouldn’t try to take some more? Showing her face there felt like instigation at this point.
She leaned back against the cherry wood of the bench and tilted her head up toward the darkening sky, keeping her gaze away from him on purpose.
“Are you really so bored that you have to come bother me for attention, Wemmbu?” she muttered quietly. Cherry petals from the lonesome cherry tree to their right swish in the air with the wind, complimenting the sky as the sun sets.
Wemmbu hummed low in his throat—acknowledging her words, but not offering the grace of an answer. Not like he ever does; not like he ever will.
He’s sitting half-turned on the bench, too relaxed, one knee angled toward her, shoulder brushing hers with the kind of casual contact that’s never accidental. Like he’s testing how much space he can take without her making a scene.
She doesn’t look at him. She kept her head tilted upwards and eyes still fixated on the sky, on the sparkling dots of stars across darkness. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers lacing and unlacing in anticipation of anything.
“Am I not allowed some peace and quiet sometimes?” She asked, tilting her head slightly in his direction to sneak a quick glance at his face.
She often found Wemmbu’s expression hard to read when it wasn’t cunning or snarky—unfortunately for her, his face was pretty blank. The lack of a bright grin or a sly smirk was more unnerving than she'd like to admit.
“Hey, I’ve been quiet,” he spoke finally, voice dropped a little low. The bench creaks beneath them as he shifts forward, legs spread a bit ignorantly and invading her space.
She’d scoff about it normally, but she doesn’t have the energy to fruitlessly argue with him right now.
“Had a feeling you’d come here,” he continued, leaning forward with an elbow on a knee, hand acting as a platform for him to tilt his cheek against as he looked toward her.
Her eyes drag down toward him curiously, a little huff of a sigh escaping her lips as her head tilted forward so she could look at him properly. “It’s my flower field, so…” Zam lets the sentence trail off, because finishing it feels pointless. Because of course it’s hers, and of course that doesn’t matter to him.
Wemmbu’s eyes don’t move off her face. His expression stays blank for a beat longer than is comfortable, like he’s letting her words settle somewhere inside him before deciding what to do with them.
“So?” he says at last, quiet. Flat. Like he’s genuinely curious why she thinks her ownership of something has ever meant anything to him.
Zam’s fingers lace together properly in her lap, tighter this time. Her gaze drifts back up to the stars on instinct, like she can starve him out by refusing him her eyes.
“It means you don’t get to treat it like it's—” she pauses, swallowing down the word ours that threatens to come out, “—like it's yours.”
Wemmbu’s mouth twitches. Not a smile yet. Something closer to restraint.
“You want me to pretend that means something to me?” he asks, voice still low.
Zam exhaled slowly, measured. “I want you to leave me alone.”
There’s a brief silence where the field seems to hold its breath with her. The tension shifted uncomfortably, impossible for her to ignore as Wemmbu hums low in his throat.
Then Wemmbu shifts—unhurried, deliberate—and stands up.
The bench creaks as his weight lifts away. The sudden lack of his warmth beside her shouldn’t feel like anything, but it does. Cool air slips into the space he vacated, and Zam hates herself for noticing it.
He doesn’t step away.
He steps around.
His boots press into the grass in slow, intentional steps, circling around the bench until he’s stood in front of her. Blocking the lake. Blocking the open field. Making it so the only thing directly in her line of sight is him.
Zam’s chin tips up a fraction, involuntary. Annoyed. Watchful.
Wemmbu leans down, planting one hand on the bench backrest beside her head like it belongs there. Like she belongs there—caged beneath him. His arm lingers in the space above her shoulder without actually touching her, and the closeness feels worse because he’s making it a choice—he’s choosing to be this close, all while giving her just enough space to slip away if she so chooses.
His voice comes softer than she expects, almost conversational. “Say that again.”
Zam’s brows knit. “What?”
Wemmbu dips a little lower, close enough that his breath warms the edge of her cheek when he speaks. “Tell me to leave you alone,” he whispers. “Like you actually mean it.”
Zam’s jaw tightens, irritated. Her hands stay in her lap. She doesn’t look away fast enough, and he catches it—catches her eyes, catches her attention, catches the fact she’s still engaging even when she swears she doesn’t want to.
“You really don’t know how to shut up,” she says, and there’s no snark in it. It’s bitter, plain truth. “You don’t know when to stop. You don’t know how to… exist anywhere without taking something.”
Wemmbu’s gaze flicks down to her mouth for half a second, then back to her eyes, like he’s cataloguing the way she says it. Like he likes the shape of the accusation.
“You think I came here to take?” he asks, mild. Almost amused.
Zam’s shoulders lift in the smallest breath, then settle. “Why else would you be here?”
Wemmbu’s mouth finally curves. Not friendly. Not kind. That snarky little grin that says he’s won something even if she doesn’t know what it is yet.
“Because you came here,” he says simply. It’s not a complete lie, but it definitely feels like one in his mouth.
Zam’s throat strains. “That’s not an answer.”
Wemmbu hums low in his throat, like she’s cute when she tries to force logic onto him. His hand on the bench backrest shifts, palm scraping wood lightly as he leans in another inch—enough that his shadow falls fully across her lap.
Zam’s fingers curl into her own palms. “You already made your point earlier,” she mutters, voice gentler than the words deserve. “You already proved you can do whatever you want. Proved you can punish my attempts at stopping you however you please.”
Wemmbu’s grin widens just a hair. “Have I?”
Zam looks up at him fully now, irritation sharpening. “Yes, so stop showing up in my space to rub it in.”
He holds her gaze for a beat—too steady, too direct—then his other hand lifts, slow, and settles under her jaw.
Not a grab. Not a shove.
“Is that really what you think I’m here to do? Rub it in?”
His fingers stay curved there with quiet, possessive confidence, tilting her face up the way he wants, thumb brushing once near the corner of her mouth like he’s checking how much she’ll tolerate.
She doesn’t miss the way his eyes drag down her body, the way he licks his lips as he takes her in, all vulnerable and malleable for him.
Zam stiffens immediately, breath catching in her chest. She’s thrown off by all of this, heart pounding so hard in her chest she can feel it in her throat. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks, flustered in spite of herself.
Wemmbu’s eyes brighten at the crack in her composure.
He doesn’t answer.
He never answers that question.
“I don’t have to rub it in, Zam. You know you can’t do anything to stop me, and that’s all that matters to me.” His thumb lingers at her jaw, idle as if he’s thinking, as if he’s deciding how far he’s going to take this. It’s not a difficult decision to make by any means—not with Zam obediently sitting still, staring up at him so sweetly.
Zam huffs a small, irritated breath. “I can if I really want to,” she mumbled, uncertainty evident in her voice.
“Stop me then,” he deadpanned.
Zam’s lips part. Her pulse jumps once in her throat. She hates that he can see it.
“I shouldn’t have to,” she says, quieter than she’d like.
Wemmbu’s smile turns satisfied, pleased with the way her voice sounds small and pathetic in his ears. His fingers under her jaw shift just enough to keep her face tipped up, to keep her looking at him.
Then his hand drifts—slow, deliberate—from her jaw down to the front of her throat and rests there.
A broad palm. A steady claim. Not squeezing, not choking—just holding the place her breath has to pass through, thumb near her jawline, fingertips curving along the side of her neck.
Zam swallows. He feels it.
His eyes flick to the movement with quiet pleasure.
“You could leave if you want, Zam. I won’t stop you,” he says softly, almost mockingly. Like the bench is where she belongs because he decided it is.
Zam’s breath shortens. “Wemmbu,” she uttered, and it came out smaller than she wanted.
His grin stays in place. His hand stays at her throat.
“Yeah?” he croons, close enough that she can feel the word.
It’s impossible to ignore the half-lidded eyes digging into her—reading every bit of expression she offers him. The way her eyes avoid contact because she’s embarrassed, the way her bottom lip trembles before she opens her mouth to pathetically mutter out words that are lost on him. The flush on her cheeks, the anxious twitch of her fingers in her lap.
Zam’s lips part briefly, struggling to find the words she wants to say. She doesn’t even know what she wants to say. The tension coils low in her stomach, every bit of touch a spark she’s struggling to ignore the longer this drags on.
She can’t help the way her eyes flicker up and down, taking him in.
This is the same man who just terrorized her at spawn again. The same man who killed her mere hours ago—and yet, despite it all, she still finds herself beneath him. Like she was always meant to be beneath him—lesser than him.
Though the hungry gaze he holds as he leans above her makes her feel as though she is above anyone and everyone.
Wemmbu leans closer, still braced over her, still caging her with his body. His mouth hovers dangerously near hers—not kissing, never that.
“Tell me to stop, Zam,” he whispers, and Zam can’t ignore the soft brush of warm air against her lips.
She should tell him to stop. That is what she should do. Wemmbu’s been nothing but trouble for her, and even despite his greed, even despite his neverending cycle of taking, and taking, and taking from her and spawn and everyone she’d sworn to protect—
She can’t even mouth the words.
“I hate you,” she breathed instead, hardly a hiss or a snarl.
“Sure you do.”
Wemmbu’s smile stays snarky and pleased, like her faux hatred is a compliment he knows how to wear proudly. He doesn’t back off after it. He stays braced over her, close enough that her next breath brushes him, close enough that the quiet of the field amplifies the tension tenfold.
Zam’s hands twitch in her lap, anxious and useless. She hates the way her body keeps reacting before she can decide what to do with it.
“Are you—” she starts, then cuts herself off, jaw tight. She refuses to give him a full sentence.
Wemmbu watches the refusal like it’s a game. Then he shifts, impatient in a way that doesn’t look hurried—just decided.
His hand at her throat stays there, warm and possessive, thumb sliding along the line of her jaw as if he’s choosing her angle. But his other hand slides from the back of the bench, finding purchase lower.
Not grabbing. Not yanking.
Just closing around her hip with a firm, practiced certainty, fingers hooking at her side like he’s found the handle he actually wants.
Zam’s breath stutters. “W-Wemmbu, what are you doing?” she snaps, fluster scraping the words thinner than she intended. Even through the fabric of her clothes, his touch burns against her skin in a way that makes her almost shudder.
Wemmbu’s grin widens at the sound of it. “You tell me,” he murmurs, and of course he doesn’t answer.
He pulls.
Not enough to drag her off the bench—just enough to slide her closer to the edge, to make her posture shift, to make the wood creak under her. The movement forces her to catch herself.
Her hands fly out automatically, planting on the bench beneath her for leverage. Now she’s propped up, chest lifted, shoulders tense, throat still under his palm—open and exposed in a way that makes her skin feel too awake.
Wemmbu looks down at her hands braced beneath her and makes a quiet, pleased sound, like he’s proud of how easily her body does what it needs to do for him.
Zam's not stupid. Sure, she's been avoiding any kind of contact that might make the situation even more difficult for her brain (and body), but to be crowded around by Wemmbu, left at his disposal to truly do whatever he'd like…
It's painstakingly difficult to keep her eyes away from the obvious tent in his pants.
“Behave,” he says softly.
“I’m not—” Zam tries again, breath catching. “We’re not doing this.”
Wemmbu leans closer by an inch, still not kissing, just letting his breath warm her mouth like a threat. “Then stop me,” he whispers.
His hand tightens at her hip—not painful, just claiming—and he uses it to keep her exactly where he put her. He steps in between her knees, crowding the space without apology. His thigh presses in, a subtle wedge that keeps her from closing herself off.
Zam’s fingers grip the bench slat hard enough that her knuckles pale. She could shove. She could slide away. She could do anything that matches her mouth.
She doesn’t.
Her breathing turns too loud. He hears it.
Wemmbu’s eyes drag over her face—half-lidded, hungry, reading every crack: the flush, the tremor in her lip, the way she keeps looking anywhere but at him and still can’t stop tracking his mouth with her gaze.
“You hate me,” he murmurs, almost fond, almost cruel. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Fuck you,” Zam breathes, and it comes out ragged with how close he is. She’s unsure if she’s just handed him an invitation or provoked more tension.
Wemmbu smiles knowingly.
His hand at her throat slides just enough to tilt her chin—forcing her to look up at him, forcing eye contact before sliding away. His other hand stays locked at her hip, holding her in place on the bench edge like the decision has already been made.
“Sure,” he says, soft and satisfied.
Wemmbu doesn’t waste time. He never does.
He's shifted his weight closer, crowding her space until she can feel heat through fabric, until her arms have to tense harder to keep herself propped up, until every small movement becomes about balance and breath and the fact that she’s still here.
Both his hands grasp at her hips now, impatient fingers finding purchase at her waistband and tugging.
Zam opened her mouth to say something, anything that might aid her in this situation, but a hitch in her throat and a shudder as cool air began to brush on quickly exposed skin had her occupied.
Wemmbu tugged her pants off haphazardly, tugging her boots off in the process and tossing everything aside. He hummed a pleased noise low in his throat, eyes catching hers as she stared down at herself flustered. He leaned toward her, dipping towards the side of her head as his lips ghosted a soft breath against her ear.
“Last chance to back out,” he whispered lowly, hands returning eagerly to her hips as fingers hooked on the hem of her panties. It’s almost sweet how many outs he’s given her.
The silence he’s met with is as good as spoken consent between them.
He pulls her undergarments off painstakingly slow, the cool air against her cunt making her twitch. Her head’s tilted away now, eyes trying to fixate on anything but the way Wemmbu’s eyes gaze upon her hungrily. She hears a clink, the rustle of fabric.
“Just get it over with,” she says, a pitiful attempt at pretending she isn’t aching for this.
Wemmbu’s soft laugh rings loud in her ears, and she can’t help but shift closer. “You don’t want it?” He croons, leaning closer, closer, closer. His lips ghost over the side of her neck, his hands returning to her hips and tugging her slightly closer.
“Of course I don’t want it,” she lies, bucking her hips toward the press of his cock against her folds because she doesn't want it. A soft gasp escapes her lips with how sloppily it slides against her wetness, brushing against her clit and making her jolt.
There's a soft, curious hum before she feels Wemmbu properly line himself up against her entrance, the tip of his cock pressing against the opening of her cunt almost curiously. There's a painstakingly long pause of rubbing the tip of his cock against it, barely pressing in enough for her cunt to wrap around his tip.
Zam huffs impatiently, glaring at Wemmbu through half-lidded eyes with her brows furrowed. She opens her mouth to speak, but just as her lips part, his fingers grasp roughly at her hips and pull her impossibly closer. He presses in without warning, hissing through his teeth at the heat wrapping tightly around his cock. He bucks into her as he tugs her body til it’s flush with his, slotting the entirety of his length into her before groaning low and hungrily.
Zam’s breath stutters as a gasp is punched out of her, the feeling of being filled so suddenly—without so much as a finger to maybe make the intrusion easier. Her arms reach out to wrap around his back after being carelessly pulled closer, the feeling of the wood beneath her uncomfortable as it digs into her lower back.
They stay like that for a while—Wemmbu panting against her throat while Zam trembles against him, her nails digging into the fabric on his back. Zam wants to say something, anything, but she can’t help but wait for Wemmbu. It’s easier to be snarky when he says something stupid to piss her off.
It’s even easier to be snarky when he does something stupid, which she could consider the act of fucking her stupid, but her head is not quite there to consider it.
Wemmbu’s hips stuttered briefly, impatiently pulling himself back just to slam his cock back into her. “F-fuck, Zam—” he groaned low into her ear, pathetic whines threatening to spill from his mouth. “Still don’t want this?” he breathed out, pulling out just enough again before pressing back in.
Zam pressed her face against Wemmbu’s shoulder, her moans muffling as he inevitably picked up a rhythm. It wasn’t too quick or rough, much to her surprise. “N-no, I don’t want this,” she uttered against him.
It was frankly disgusting the way his pace picked up a significant margin in hearing that.
She supposed it should have been obvious, given his behaviors, that Wemmbu would get off on fucking a Zam who didn’t want to be fucked.
But she wasn’t exactly the best at pretending she didn’t want it, so she’s sure he knows that she’s okay with it.
Probably.
Hopefully?
“You don’t mean that,” he croons, voice low and sweet in her ears. He pulls himself back just enough so they’re forced to make contact. It’s hard to miss the sickeningly wide smile on his face—the way his eyes light up upon seeing Zam wincing. “You’re so wet, Zam… you tell me you don’t want this, but your pussy's saying otherwise.”
Wemmbu thinks it’d be more fun if Zam put up a little bit of a fight, but seeing the way her face scrunches up every time he slams deep into her is enough to quell that desire.
“Y-you’re fucking—a-ahh—disgusting, Wemmbu—”
"Yeah?" he grunts as he fucks into Zam harder, faster—one of his hands abandons her hips to grasp a thigh, squeezing it and directing her into wrapping her leg around the back of his abdomen.
The hand on her hips finds purchase against her back, a forearm holding her up just enough for him to easily slam into her.
Wanton moans spill from Zam’s mouth, her body rocking as Wemmbu fucks her harder, faster, deeper. She feels herself getting close, and she desperately does not want to cum on Wemmbu’s cock like this. She’s trying to act like she hates this—like she wants nothing to do with the purple devil ramming himself into her eagerly despite broken up ‘stop’s choking out of her.
As all her battles with Wemmbu are, this is a losing one. At least this loss feels good.
“W-Wemmbu, stop, I’m—fuck, I’m gonna cum, please—”
A low hum in his throat is quick to follow, hips rocking into her unhelpfully harder.
“Thought you didn’t want this,” he retorts, eyes quickly fixating on hers. Her gaze is elsewhere, anywhere but meeting his, especially now. “Eyes up,” he orders, and his smile is quick to spread as Zam does as she’s told.
Words become harder to choke out the longer this goes on. She’s getting lightheaded with how fast she’s panting. The tension and heat coiling in her is reaching its inevitable peak a lot quicker than she’d like to admit, but it’s helpless trying to convince Wemmbu to stop. That’s part of the fun, though.
“You wanna cum?” He asks her.
She nods desperately, eagerly.
Wemmbu hums curiously. Zam already knows that means he’s about to ruin this for her.
She yelps as he lifts her up, cock still buried deep within her as he turns around and seats himself on the bench, Zam perched on his lap filled to the brim. Her eyes are wide with shock, barely making contact with Wemmbu’s smug face.
“Go on, make yourself cum. Since you want to so bad.”
She blinks. She blinks and she stares at him like he’s said something absolutely insane. “A-are we serious?” she croaked, shifting atop him and feeling him twitching inside her; she bites back a whimper.
“You tell me you don’t want this,” he starts, a hand reaching up to grasp her jaw harshly. “You plead for me to stop. You tell me I’m disgusting, and yet…” he trailed off, tilting her head roughly and pulling her head just an inch closer to his. “Yet you want to cum. So go ahead Zam, make yourself cum since I’m so disgusting.”
She takes a moment to process his words.
She’s never wanted to kill him more than she does right now.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” she grumbled.
Wemmbu’s stupid smile in response made her more frustrated.
Despite the undeniable urge to pull her sword out of her inventory and cut clean into him, Zam opted for winding her arms around his shoulders, carefully using him as leverage as she lifted herself up. She hissed softly at the feeling of her emptying before she slid back down, a breathless moan shuddering out of her.
She does this a few more times slowly and carefully before Wemmbu’s free hand grasps her hip and presses her down quicker than the pace she set. It punches a whine out of her, a glare quick to follow before she picks up her pace.
It’s not long before she’s panting in his lap, bouncing shamelessly, nails digging into wherever they found purchase. She keeps eye contact with Wemmbu as much as she can, intoxicated with the way his lips part and quiet growls of curses slip out of mouth.
“W-Wemmbu,” she choked out, leaning closer towards him. She kept her pace, that same hot feeling building up low in her. “Please—”
Every single nerve in his cock felt like it was on fire. He could feel her clenching around him, the obscenely wet sounds of her riding him desperately loud in his ears. “G-gonna cum, Zam?”
She nodded, pouting just a bit as squeaked out whimpers left her mouth. “I-I need—”
She barely even got to get the words out before Wemmbu’s hands grasped her hips, thrusting up into her every time she slid down on his cock. She cried out a broken up fuck, release quick to follow as Wemmbu matched her pace, fucking up into her desperately.
“That’s it, I’ve got you,” he cooed a bit shakily, holding her hips as her rhythm slowed to an eventual halt. She collapses against him, face buried into his shoulder and hands splayed loosely between their torsos.
Zam’s all stuttered breaths and exhausted panting, twitching and trembling atop Wemmbu. She tries to speak but words are lost on her, not a thought to process in her tired little head.
She pulls herself back and tilts her head up, a bit lightheaded as she meets Wemmbu’s gaze. His expression is difficult to read—she can’t tell if he’s pleased or disappointed.
“W-Wemmbu?”
He hums. It’s low and a bit gravelly.
He pulls her up a bit before sliding her back down on him, sighing shakily.
“Fuck, you feel so good Zam,” he whispers, repeating the action a bit rougher despite the strangled whine that rips out of her throat.
“W-wait, I just came—could you, like, wait—a second at least?!”
“No, I don’t think I will,” he says, an almost uncomfortable calmness in his tone.
He moves inside her just a bit, grinding his cock along her walls before pulling her up and off of him. She gets to experience mere seconds of a break before Wemmbu’s manhandling her, forcing her to stand.
“What are you—”
He circles around her, pressing against her back. It’s impossible to ignore his cock poking at her thigh. Wemmbu leans forward, bending against her back so as to force her to do the same. Her hands land on the bench before she turns her head toward him, trying to read his face before his hands land on her hips again.
“Thought you didn’t want it,” he says again, like he wants to talk about it. Wants to address it—especially now, while he has her bent before him.
She huffs an irritated breath, one of her hands reaching up to grasp the curve of the top of the bench’s backrest, giving her better leverage on her posture. “Least you could do after forcing your dick into me is let me cum on it. Doesn’t mean I wanted it though.”
The familiar hum of acknowledgment coils low inside her.
He rubs the tip of his cock against her entrance, teasing himself more than anything. “Then why are you letting me continue?” He questions, though he leaves her no room to answer as he presses into her, pulling her back on his dick. The low groan that spills from him feels like praise.
Her nails dig into the wood of the bench as he fills her up, and she can’t help but feel like he’s somehow deeper in this position. Or maybe she’s still just… really sensitive.
She’s definitely really sensitive, she realizes, as Wemmbu begins fucking into her and she’s mewling like a whore immediately. His voice sounds hoarse as he leans forward to say disgusting things to her—how she feels so tight, how she’s so wet for him, how she sounds so good like this.
Wemmbu reaches forward with a hand, fingers wrapping around the front of her throat as he pounds into her relentlessly. He pulls her back so her back’s arched just a bit, making the angle just a bit better for him.
“That’s it, stay just like that for me,” he whispered firmly, eventually wrapping his other arm around her hips to keep her up. “You’re so good when you don’t fight, Zam. You feel so fucking good when you know you can’t stop me.”
She’s barely had a chance to come down from her initial orgasm, and now it’s building and winding up so tight in her and she can’t take it. Her body shakes in Wemmbu’s grasp, pathetic sobs and whimpers vibrating against the hand wrapped around her throat. If she could form words, she doesn’t think he’d listen to them anyways.
“Fuck—” Wemmbu drags out the word in a heady groan, pumping into her faster, harder—as deep as he can possibly manage. “Gonna cum, Zammy? You’re getting—fuck, you’re getting tighter.” There’s a bit of a stutter in his hips as his own release coils, tight and hot and desperate.
“You’re doing so good for me, good girl—”
“That’s it, just like that princess—”
“You feel so fucking good—”
Zam doesn’t even get to process half the filthy things leaving Wemmbu’s mouth as she cums on his cock again, and Wemmbu is quick to follow. He slows down just enough to coax his own release out of him—loud, hoarse groans spilling from his mouth—filling her up as she twitches and writhes in his grasp. She thinks she heard a whimper in there somewhere.
She doesn’t expect the way Wemmbu carefully pulls out of her, his hands quick to guide her down on the bench to sit. It’s gentle in a way that feels misplaced given the kind of person he is, but she has no complaints.
Wemmbu stands before her before awkwardly pulling his pants and undergarments back up, and Zam realizes he never actually slipped out of them throughout this. He gathers Zam’s pants and panties, hands them to her, and clears his throat.
“Um… so, were you, uhh…”
“Acting?”
“...Yes.”
“No shit.”