FSE

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"That Dante better be able to pay up if I need a new kidney after all this." You quip to yourself, boots sagged to the brim with sand and smoke singeing your eyes as the jeep that dropped you off sputters off into the darkness. By the time you rub them dry for comfort, it's already long gone, leaving nothin' but noise and trails in the desert. You glance down at the card the big wolf left in your mail this morning; stark black that brightens into a dusky velvet in the right light, and in the blazing spotlights beating down on you, you make out the name of the place in one long stroke of unmistakeably Arab curved lettering that ends with a splash of ink resmebling a lunging snake, gold-print: Serpent Siesta.

Clashing stereotypes aside, you shield your eyes with your hand and scan the area, since your ears aren't doin' ya any good. The sands are clogged with roaring muscle cars, enormous, dust-caked pick-ups loaded down with Corona-swilling apes bellowing at each other's jokes, and every flavor of jalopy, pinto and camino stacked in irregular, zigzagging rows. Thrown on top of all the belching engine noise is an extra layer of atrocious cholo hip-hop blasting out of speakers so overloaded the sound warps and frays like rags, and the throbbing bass makes your teeth quake and stomach lurch. You'd be lucky not to be shivved and skinned for upholstery in a dump like this, but Dante would never send you someplace you'd be in any real danger, right? The black stud of a wolf seemed way too good to be true, far too eager to please, and this Pack nonsense still sounds more like prostitution than your ideal fantasy when you say it all out loud, but still, there was something in those baby blues of his, something unmistakeably guileless, that entices you, however briefly, to trust him.

So you did, and here you are, trudging through the sand and light and dust with express purpose, that purpose being to get inside and away from all this godawful fucking hellnoise. You got something of a good look at the place as the scruffy pangolin with arms like Popeye and tats to spare("He's good people," Dante's letter assured. "Anyone who kisses like that's gotta be.") drove you out into the badlands. Beaming like a holy star in the midnight dunes, the Serpent Siesta was a small, dome-shaped hut swaddled in vibrant silk and satin rugs. Tall posts connected with ornate, summer-colored banners encirled the area, cordoning off where "customers" could park, and tinny speakers hoisted on the curved walls fought and lost in their battle to add some semblance of culture to the ruckus erupting outside nearly all hours of the night. The entrance was marked with indigo drapes, leading to a smaller arched alcove opening into the larger interior. From afar, it looked like a cross between some Middle Eastern fascimile of a tepee, and a forgotten vase left on its side to rot among the banks. An oasis of debauchery hidden like a gleaming treasure in the fabled sands...of Jerome.

Yeah, whatever. Kitschy mystique aside, there's another, very pressing reason you decided to take the enigmatic wolf on his offer and venture way out into nowhere, a reason that apperantly isn't kept too hush-hush if the block party outside is any indication. You brush the curtains aside, take your first steps inside, and already it's like the aural muck outisde is cleansed form your system. Your hearing ebbs back to you, your thoughts are clearler. Hell, even your feet feel a little lighter, like you could glide across three miles before breakfast. Just to be safe, you dump the shoes out of your boots anyway for courtesy, as there's no real "floor" until you enter the building proper, thrumming with din and life from here beyond the boundary of bead curtains leading inside.

A few fellow patrons shoot you knowing, almost predatory glances as you take a breath to steel yourself. Your cheeks flush and you nearly choke on your own air, but at least you've got a good feel for the clientele base already. The furs milling around out here are the very definition of "masculine", monstrous, broad, powerfully built specimens of every denomination of species you could name. Horses built like powerlifters, avians with pecs like wrecking balls and massive wings framing their impossibly broad shoulders, muscle daddys in tortutrously tight leather that glinted in the light as they kept their giggly rail-thin charges clucthed to them with arms bigger than three of them combined, and most of that would be their asses. Some of them already had three or more bitches huddling around them like ducklings. A moose towers over you to your right, leaning back on a bench with his battleaxe arms raised behind his head, his pecs and traps a mountain range of muscle around his head. You can't read his expression behind his tinted aviators, but the way his tongue sliiiiides over his front teeth and the subtle rolling buck of his hips scream he knows full well you've been staring. His antlers are almost comically small for a buck of his stature, like an ailing bonzai tree sticking out of the Matterhorn, but when your eyes take their inevitable trip downwards, over dipping valleys of bulging abs, you spy the searing pink of an obviously straining thong and all thoughts of overcompensation seem like blasphemy. A rust-furred coyote in nothin' but a leather vest and chaps strecthed so tight around his log-thick legs they look like liquid skin emerges from the doorway before you. The phantasmagoria of smoke and sound explode around him, but it's all a void of silence to you. All your senses; your cone of vision, the ringing deep within your ear drums, the surge of blood racing around in your head; are honed precisely on that one miniscule point of time and space in which that coyote's goddamn massive, dense, cut-like-a-diamond pectorals bunch, roll and mash together as he kneels down. Not with a clumsy stumble as his size would suggest, but with a poised grace akin to a titan kneeling in prayer. The glittering bead curtains stream along the collosal slabs of canine muscle, clinging and then slipping up and over his traps as he squeezes through a portal too pitifully small to accomadate the albatrossian span of his shoulder blades. It's the door's fault, really. His gorgeous pecs stretch back outward with the rolling of his arms but never fully relax as he again rises and you just make out a sly glint in his eyes at you as he strides past, lifting you millimeters off the ground from the quakes of his heavy footfalls. You follow him with your gaze as he tragically takes his leave and sigh, but make a happy mental note, though it's more like a correction; Assless chaps.

With that happy thought in mind, you find a renewed sense of purpose. Oh yeah, this was a great idea. Remind yourself to thank Dante later for the friendly suggestion. Though really, something told you this was going to be a good day when you got outta bed this morning. A little hunch. Maybe you'll remeber exactly what. You march forward with pride in your step and reach for the jingling bead threshold with eager, trembling arms.

You don't even see what lies beyond so much as get steamrolled by it, experience it. Hypersensual shock and awe. The spacious inner dome of the hut sprawls outward like a riotous Arabian fairy tale of steam, sensuality and brilliant color. Velvet. Velour. Silk. Satin. Vast swaths of these fabrics of kings are slung across the flattened sandbar upon which the club is built as if tossed about in the stupor of some aristocratic pillow fight. Doused with the deepest violests, reds and golds, strewn over plush sofas and chairs and hung from finely-carved darkwood beams, railings and walls, the Siesta howls with palatial splender. The air is choked with spice and smoke. No, fuck that. The atmosphere here lives and breathes with more verve than any soul alive, gushing with wisps and clouds of spice-hewd haze. Stings like hell for those first agonizing seconds, but you almost hate yourself for pussing out to shut them tight till you can wipe the tears away. The ruckus booming around you bleeds into the blackness behind your eyelids, igniting your wildest dreams and tempting you to come back and join the fun. When you reopen them, it's like diving underwater for the first time and opening your eyes to the Great Barrier Reef. What was seconds ago a wash of skittle-colored smog is now a rich kaleidoscope of bright smoke and fairy dust, each vivacious color clear and seperate from the others. Puffs of cottony blue billow amongst sprays of fiery reds and yellows. Licks of flame waver in wrought-iron lamps swaying high above, their lazy arcs aligthing the wisps of spice with flashes of orange. On the periphery of your sensory awareness, the stacatto plucking of some sitar-like thing your born-and-bred ears could never identify hides over the clatter of dishes and clamor of chatter. Scathing scents burn through your lungs. It all thrums and throbs around and through you in a way travel guide hacks would describe as "exotic." It almost makes you feel dirty just being there, but in a cloudy, contact high sort of sensation.

You suddenly feel dizzy from taking it all in at once, your stomach lurching. You stumble forward in search of a place to park yourself and find an empty bar stool. Heh, even the cushions on these are plush and delicately embroidered. The bartender, a cute albino boa with a sea-blue sash wrapped around his waist and some of the most shredded obliques you've ever seen, beams a sympathetic smile down at you and whips you up a lil somethin' on the house. First-time's free, he says. They must be good about remembering faces here. Nice to see the place has a personal touch. Watching the milky reptile jiggle his bubblebutt away reminds you of the club's name. Serpent Siesta. Taking a swig of whatever fruity thing you were given; can't identify the exact blend, but has that rum bitterness and a pleasant citrus kick; you give your surroundings a closer look and hit the realization that the theme is more than cosmetic.

The main attrection, and the inspiration for the club, stand heads and shoulders above the longing and dancing heathens invited into their Eden. Snakes. Fantastically meaty, mighty, pumped snakes, serpents and vipers, resplendent with sinew and bulge and sheathed in fine robes and garment. Diamonds, stripes, and iridescent scales more vivid than the most brilliant royal embroidery bleeds and warps across their perfect, dripping physiques in the baking heat. You can barely make out some of them, dancing with voluptous grace as shadows obcured by the pungent smoke wafting about, but others are front in center, entertaining their guests and and smirking at their outreached paws. They have no tails, nor naga-like lower bodies that sprawl outward into coils; what is a snake with legs AND a tail but just another lizard? But as thought to make up for betraying their mythical expectations, they instead reach heights far greater than the tallest of men. Their heads nearly reach the hanging lanterns above, with their elongated midsections rippling with plump, frigthingly developed abdominals and obliques like inlain masonry, and legs taller and thicker than oaks. Cobras as wide as tanks splay their hoods and recline atop carpeted, ankle-high tables, rolling his scaled abs for the ravenous patrons scouring their paws across them. Garter snakes and pythons pose on the railings of raised cradles, letting their powerful legs dangle freely in the air, toes flexing. It entices the throngs below like foxes to grapes, and they smirk teasingly, freakish quads swelling as they kick the air and pull away from the overeager paws grasping for just one touch of Heaven.

You hear a holler above and to your side; the sweetheart boa and a few other serpents have taken to the bartable like a stage, regarding the crowd with sweeping gestures. The gist of their yelling is lost over the riot, but soon they bend down to take handfuls of colored dust at their feet and fling it into the crowd, blowing it from their palms and whisking it with wild swings. The milky-skinned snake then takes out what looks like a thin, slender pipe, flame hovering in its barrel, drags from it so deep his chest heaves and his back arches impossibly. With a blast, he belches a dazzling stream of flame over the audience, blazing red illuminating the deep cuts in his marbled physicque. The slung dust catches fire and bursts into a sparkling rainbow conflagration, radiating the shouting, flexing patrons with ephemeral splahes of neon. The spell draws roars through the domed palace of serpentine muscle, and you lose yourself. You don't even get what the fuck just happened and you're on your feet, bellowing with every ounce of your voice and soul like the hometeam scored the Super Bowl. It's like fucking Holi, carpetmentalized, intesified and fetishized. Siesta is a fucking terrible name. This joint is blazing brighter than the midnight sun. The haze is heavy with musk and sweat and muscle and spark. Fur, feathers, fins, whatever, all bulging and flexing and strained to its limit and warring for space, but the true emporers here wear scales.

You're so lost in the aplomb of it all that you barely notice the scaled hand wider than your face slam down on your shoulder. Two seconds later, when the tremendous weight and alien texture finally feel real, you jump and spin around. Oh, good. Your "contact" of sorts finally found ya; this hulking motherfucker of a rattlesnake wide as a caddilac, lips sagged into a nervous frown that's almost self-effacing on a guy this drool-worthy. You know him, actually, rather well, which raises suspicions in your mind about a certain wolf suitor you'll have to adress when you're not busy. An auto mechanic from back in civilization. Got some kind of peculiar, foreighn-sounding name, the kind that raises brows on state troopers and always gets corrupted into some demeaning nickname by your retard friends. "It's Eiji", he's quick to remind you with a weak attempt at a smile, probably from the expression on your face as you try to suss it from memory. Maybe you don't know him so well. His calloused, drab beige skin almost doesn't fit next to all this eye-searing wonder exploding around you, the big lug still stuffed in his oil-stained work overalls and sweat-dyed wifebeater like he just punched out. Emphasis, by the way, on "stuffed". He scans around the club nervously, eyes darting like gnats, and looking waaaay up, you notice he even has his signature panel hat on; hanging on just barely like he just threw it on and just as brown and plain as the rest of him, three orange knots from the doorags underneath poking down behind his right cheek. It always made you think of those whatsit lizard guys from that fantasy game. The Bangaas? Anyway, before you can cobble together a dumb dirty joke, Eiji's timid tongue-flicks seem to finally pick up something and he tells you to follow him. Kinda sudden, but whatever. You meekly wave one last goodbye at the cute albino working the bar, but he's too swamped with orders and groping paws to notice. What could have been...

Eiji huddles ahead through the boisterous masses like a self-conciouss elephant squeezing through theatre aisles, bumping shoulders with monstrously huge dancers and sugar daddies criscrossed with straps. He's mumbling some kind of intructions back at you, but God help you if you can discern any of it between the noise and his constant "excuse me, pardon me"s to the writing crowds all around you. From back here, you do pick up on one strange detail; he's the only snake in the place with a tail, appropriately thick and tantalizing(Note to self: google "tail fetish" at home). He's got a spectacular ass, too, but you already knew that. His peculiarity is not long lost on Eiji, the other serpents or the customers, as it clumsily knocks over patrons, sometimes entire benches. You're almost glad you're basically deaf when the elephant with pecs, arms and thighs that could end you with a twitch curses a storm at you for accidentally toppling his hookah pipe. The reptilian hunks running the club are more sympathetic, seeming to know Eiji's dillema at a glance and pointing him the right direction.

After what seems like an eternity of emberassment, you both tuck into a large, secluded booth, one of several lined up near the back of the club. Eiji brushes aside the sunset-colored curtains placed for privacy and allows you in first, timid smile on his lips. It's cripplingly dark when you first step inside but the noise from before is but a low murmur here. When Eiji lets the drapes fall back into place, the chamber glows a slight red-orange, and like sunlight hitting the crags of a valley, illuminates some new detail about your surroundings. You're not alone.

A dapper coral snake, an emerald tree boa with his shirt popped open and an anaconda who could be described, in a word, as "robust" lie in wait, parked on the velvet couch riming the semi-circle enclosure. Eiji's giant palm rests on your shoulder again and he assures in his whispered tone not to freak out. They aren't gonna jump ya. This was all arranged ahead of time for your benefit. Relax and take a seat. In not so many words, of course. The rattlers' never been much for those. Rather easy for him to say, though. Each of these guys have got hundreds of pounds on you at least, and you barely reach their stomachs even with them all seated. Hard not to feel like a rat dropped in a terrarium, but whatever. Suck it up. This is what you're here for. Time to take a pick and enjoy the ride.

The coral snake is just lyin back, sauve as a mug, head in his hand with one massive arm propped onto the cushions behind him. You'll never quite get over seeing snake dudes with a full row of sharp teeth, but his shine clear as day under his wickid grin, his lips peeling back more and more as you shift in place, his gold eyes bangin' you to the wall. The bold, roulette wheel-reds and blakcs of his scales melt into the rich navy blue of his tight suit, not a tear to be seen or a stitch out of place despite looking like an overstuffed briefcase with all that bulging muscle filling it out. What, was it tailored onto him in real time? His veneer of class entices a deep, weak side of you, but that predatory leer and the way he flicks a gold coin in the air in perfect rhythm is a tad too cliche, so instead you take a seat next to the boa. He beams an adorable, boyish smile at you and graciously scooches over, making it clear you hit the jackpot. Mr. Coral scoffs under his breath and catches the coin in his fist but says nothing, nor does the giant hunched over his seat on the other side of the room. Greenie slides an arm over your shoulder as Eiji shyly approaches, drawing you closer to him. Awfully forward, but you're too busy marveling at the medicine-ball bicep resting just. Behind. Your. Head to call him on it. Sheer heat radiates from that monster, and you feel every tense and twitch and flex against the space between the back of your head and the nape of your neck, filling it perfectly. Like a master sculpter, you can picture in your mind's eye exactly where the curve and cut where the bicep splits off and peaks in perfect clarity just from what your nerves tell you. Fuck, you can feel the vein pulse against your skin, pumping that sick fucking muscle full of power and might, and from it, the pulse of his heartbeat. And that's before he flexes his arm and pulls you so close you make contact with that barrel-thick torso, trapping you like an ant between hilly, steel-hard bicep at full flex and thick, dense pecmeat. And oh god, the musk from that pit, now mere inches from your face. It's intoxicating, raw and sharp. The scent alone dominates and invades you before the hunk has even done anything, crushing your will to fucking dust. You'd lick bugs off this stud's feet if it meant he'd pummel you into pulp.

Then you hear the big guy just giggle above you and get the impression he doesn't have a dommy bone in his body. Then you hear everyone else. Apperantly, you were moaning like a pig in shit for the past couple seconds just from being in close proximity to the snake of your dreams like a doofy schoolgirl. Even Eiji's chickenshit ass is barely holding it in, covering his face like that doesn't make it superobvious. Fuck that guy.(By the way, his dumb, unwanted nickname is "Itchy." I know, right? You'd come up with something related to AIG, personally, but shut up. Who the fuck makes bank jokes, seriously?) But yeah, open foot, insert mouth. Least you have an excuse to pull an ostritch and stuff your head in Greenie's pit to make the bad feels go away, but the stud instead makes a suggestion.

Eiji? Striptease and bellydance? For you?

The Rattler instantly goes pink and tries to babble his way out of it, and the cute way Greenie teases him suggests the two know each other, but you're already considering it. Big, shy, hunky snake with no idea of his monumental worth bearing all for a silly, private show? And he's got that sweaty, rugged grease-monkey appeal that's all the rage now(at least on all your favorite pornfic sites), meekness aside. Hells yes. By now, the other guests are done guffawing and trying to catcall the guy into going for it, and Greenie's gotten up to take him by the arms and help him get his nut up, leaving your arms with sadly little to grope for a few precious seconds. After a minute of needling and peer pressure, Eiji sighs, droops his nose down and he lays his baleful brown eyes on ya, leaving the final verdict to you. It is your night, after all. A shout of yay and it's decided with claps and raised glasses.

With a sigh more adorably dejected than the last, Eiji stomps his hunky frame towards you and the crowd settles down, Greenie taking his seat back next to you. All eyes are on him. You can tell the air's kinda awkard and the two guys at your sides are growing impatient, but you're just happy to see his pecs rise and fall under his denim shuoulder straps. His hands rise for them but he hesitates, gulping down his fear. Mr. Coral quips at him to get it over with, but that only makes him tremble harder. That's enough, this is too painful. Taking the iniative, you get up and meet the poor fella face to face, give or take a few feet. His eyes waver and his lips struggle to form words, but he gasps as you take him by the hips. You rub your hands up and down his sides, slow and soft in little circles. Your fingers trail over countless bumps and grooves in his brick-thick abs and grated intercoastals and the sensation is heavenly, like being allowed to touch a priceless work of art. But this is for him, right now. You strecth yourself up on your tiptoes, ignoring the snickers from the others, and whisper to him tender words of assurance.

You tell him how gorgeous he is, how lucky should consider himself for having a bod that could melt asphalt and crush i-beams with a flex. How he should shower the parents who blessed him with such god-like genes with a sweepstakes-worth of expensive shit just so the world can express something close to the extent of its gratitude. At first he responds with unconvinced grunts, but the more you keep pushing, the more his shell cracks. These arms are like nuclear fucking bombs; when they go off, the whole world falls over. That one makes him chuckle despite himself. These pecs put the Rockies to shame. I could lick these beasts for hours and never hit the same spot twice. I bet you bench Panzers with these bad boys. Stacked. Now you're getting a smile. Be honest, on bad days, you smash trucks into wrecks with your bare hands just to give your shitheel boss somethin' to cry about. Everyone laughed at that one. Before long, it starts to sound like beat poetry. You're great. You're amazing. You're a fucking stud. You're gonna break my ass and I'll be smilin'. This world is yours. The road, the cars, the sky, the stars, you're gonna take it all cause there ain't a muthafucka in this world who can cop to you. You're on top. You're a mountain, a volcano,Take us. Take me. I need it, I crave it. Give it to me. No, edit that. Give yourself what you fucking deserve and destroy me.

You hit Greenie's lap hard with a start and look up to see a fire in Eiji's eyes. His chest heaves in a raging rhythm, massively muscled bod quaking and seething with a sense of purpose. Huh, all that corny shit actually worked. Mr. Coral and tha anaconda can harly believe it's gonna happen, running their hands down their faces and chuckling. Greenie notes the lack of good striptaese tunes and the brute anaconda saves the day, fishing out a smartphone from his pocket and sitting it on the round, plush matress in the center of the room, blasting his playlist. It's just shitty, scratchy metalcore on tinny speakers, but it's more than enough to win approving woots and hollers. Eiji gives you one last blush before closing his eyes, that gorgeous chest fluttering and hardening one last time, and then it starts. His left heel starts bumping to the beat, then his head. When his hipsstart to rockin', wide as saloon doors like a good snake's should be, the cheers start. His hands creep for the straps of his overalls and he peels them off his shoulders, the denim sliding over mile after mile of rugged, scaly, mountanous muscle. They catch on the valleys of his arms, the titanic swell of his biceps too insurmountable to cross. You flinch, hoping he won't stand there floundering with the straps forever, when the motherfucker pulls one up over his bicep with his free hand, strecthes his arm far out and FLEXES faster than your eye can follow, muscles bigger than tires tearing the fiber with a loud snap. Holy shit. He keeps it pumped, arm quaking from the exertion as he lifts his other arm, snatches the remaining strap in his jaws and with a growl, rips it with a ferocious jerk of the head. Oh fuck! Do snakes even growl? Who fucking cares, his arms are fucking BEASTS, omigawd. With nothing to hoist it up, the front patch tumbles downward, revealing his washboard ten-pac, billowing and sheathed in smooth snakeskin. Greenie shoves his fingers in his lips and whistles. The brute off to the left is stompin his feet, he can't believe it. Mr. Coral just laughs and covers one eye, and you? Well, what say you?

Take it off? He can do that, sure. The rattlesnake stomps closer, one enormous leg at a time. You swear you can hear the gigantic, rounded quads scrape against each other, Eiji delibrately flexing them to the limit as he towers over you. Slowly but surely, the sides of his pantlegs give in, tears shooting up the seams in streaks of white. It's like a Christmas gift unwrapping itself out of sheer awesomeness. Through the tears, you get the briefest glimpes of the brown-scaled glory, but the real treasure is already more-or-less out in the open. Your eyes fixate on that one, mothwatering spot in the center of his pelvis, bunched up into stark relief from the surrounding muscles all swelling at their greatest and pushing against the denim with terrifying force. Praise Allwhoever these snakes don't have sheathes. Eiji halts millimetes from your nose, just enough to prove he's got a python of his own as he towers above you. You have to crane your neck just to see beyond the vast expanse of rolling abs, and above the crest the shelf of his pecs, and you almost want your eyes to just wander and enjoy the views, but when you do, your mouth drops. Ever seen a guy with a bull-thick neck look straight ahead from directly below? You have now. God, even his throat bulges, framed by dense chords of armor-like muscle as it soars up, up, up and crashes into his flat, rugged jawline.

Just before he looks down. His chin resting on his pecs. Eyes boring into you, through you, like a hungry titan. And he brings his arms together, forcing those massive pecs to swell two, three, four inches off his chest just to keep the same space. And he blushes with a grin and a wink, forked tongue flitting at ya.

Your mind suffieciently blown and your audatory senses pummeled into submission from everyone's hollers of elation, not least of all Greenie's, Eiji starts to kneel down, beginning the odyssey to reach level with your eyes. He raises his arms over his head, massive tris and pecs dwarfing his head from all sides. The music punches up the intesity and the rattler follows suit, shaking his hips side to side as he descends with aching slowness, crunching his abs and puffing out his stomach. Up this close, you start to notice a lot of the little details about Eiji that make him such a gem. The broad, brown diamonds painted across his scales. The slight scratches scattered about his midsection like marks in sheet metal. The way his rugged skin bulges with the muscle instead of being pulled tight against it, like he's even huger than the eye registers at first blush. The wafting scent of musk that hits you like a semi, tinged with an acidic hint of machine oil and rubber. Wallflower or no, this is a man who works for what he has, and the subtler hints of his masculinity heighten the adrenaline of being so terribly close to such a stud to horrifying extremes. Your palms sweat and fingers twitch, hungry to lash out and grope at something, anything.

Oh god. The sixth and eight set of his abs glisten with sweat like sandstone after a fresh rain. They're so close you could lick them from where you sit. Fyuck it, ya know what? Coulda shoulda woulda. Greenie's practically pulverizing your shoulder blades, he's losing it so hard at the sight of Eiji doubling backwards into a heap, cheeks cherry pink. Guess you shouldn't have shocked him, but the salty tang on your tongue makes it totally worth it. He didn't shower, either. Nice. It takes him a minute, but he shakes it off, laughing along with everyone and resuming your stripshow. He splays his legs out along the carpeted floor to lower himself the extra foot or two to finally bring you face-to-pec. Course, you're thinking of just burying yourself between them and living there, but Eiji beats you to the punch, hugging both massive arms around you and pulling you in forcefully. The loudest hissssss to ever hit your ears(loudest you've ever heard Eiji, really) sizzles in the heat as you collide nose first with muscle denser than bedrock. Something comes over you and you can't help but snake out your tongue for a good long lick. His grip tightens like a vice as he seizes up and you can just imgine him throwing his head bath, yawning jaws agape.