dylbug🌱!

But blazed or not, Enjin still has a job to do. Umbreaker sweeps him across the trash dunes in a speedy blur, but by the time he arrives he is already too late and the show is over. 

All that’s left is you: a young woman passed out in a pile of demolished trash beast remains and other junk. The giant kaiju-like plushie—now inanimate and no bigger than a hand—lay beside you tethered to your person by a keyring. 

Happening upon another giver in No Man’s Land wasn’t out of the ordinary, sure, but if Enjin thought he was high from seeing your jinki in action he had to be damn near in the clouds once he recognized your clothes.  

Similar to when Enjin discovered Rudo, he could immediately tell by your dress you are a Spherite. But unlike the threadbare attire of the scrappy tribesmen teen, yours practically screams wealth. They are the finest clothes Enjin has ever laid eyes on. Appearing as if they are woven from gold itself, despite the fresh layer of grime that settled on them.

You aren’t just any ol’ Spherite—you’re a Spherite noblewoman.

Keh, interesting. 

With a shake of his head Enjin scoops you up, heading back to HQ. They aren’t gonna believe this…

Enjin digs out a backup mask from his satchel—clearly not made for your face, because it slides right off. With an annoyed sigh, he holds it in place himself. Guess that’s his job now… at least until you wake up.

Although Enjin soon discovers a pattern of how unnecessarily difficult Spherites can be upon arriving to the Abyss—as the first thing you do upon waking in Enjin’s arms is to slap the everloving dogshit out of him. 

Fuck, you have a mean right hand. 

Enjin tongues a tooth to make sure it’s still there. 

“Let me go this instant, you filthy kidnapping degenerate! I demand you to take me home!” You cry out. 

Tears fog up the mask on your face as you clearly mistook Enjin for some kind of criminal with his ‘full face’ on. Enjin sighs, tightening his grip on you and taking the not-so-painless beating you’re dishing out until you reach the nearest city. 

The very second you both are in a habitable area for breathing, Enjin unceremoniously dumps you to the ground. He catches the mask, yet he leaves you to fall straight on your ass. The fall shocks you but Enjin’s sure what’s really got you stunned is the strange bustling city surrounding you.

Removing his fullface, Enjin crouches down to eye-level with you. Overwhelmed and overstimulated by the foreign place, your eyes dart around helplessly. You’re frantic, looking everywhere for some sort of bearing of where you are and avoiding the man in front of you.

Yet Enjin just waits, clicking his tongue and rocking back on his heels, for you to quiet your hysterics enough for him to get a word in.

When your eyes, still wide with panic, finally meet, he has the nerve to raise a brow—like you’re the one being dramatic and not the guy who literally kidnapped you.

“So, as you may have noticed by now…this ain’t the Sphere,” Enjin says, balancing a cigarette between his lips. 

You look at him skeptically—he says it like it’s nothing, while your world is actively falling apart. What is he even talking about?!

“I know this ain’t the welcome wagon you posh Spherites are used to but…”

Enjin pauses, exhaling smoke to the sky. Your gaze follows up, widening once you see the oddly shaped dome covering the city, a strange yellow fog in the atmosphere.

“....welcome to the Abyss, Girlie. Name’s Enjin.” 

Blankly staring at Enjin, you say nothing. The both of you in a mini stare down. Although you’re the first to give by suddenly bursting into sobs.

Rolling his eyes, a thought briefly flashes in Enjin's head that he should have just left you for the raiders. Hell, he could still leave you now—you’re calling way too much attention to yourself.

However, Enjin also figures that with you all but swimming in luxury on the Sphere, you probably thought of the Pit—your so-called Hell, or its inhabitants as mere fairytale.

Enjin’s inkling is confirmed when you calm down enough to piece together that your now ex-husband had hired a bunch of shady tribesmen to kidnap and dispose of you—all to collect your inheritance. 

Yeah, not your fault.  Enjin thinks and cuts you a break. 

For your own sake, Enjin somehow convinces you to come back to Cleaner HQ with him. He can’t return you to the Sphere himself—but he knows another Spherite who’s trying to make their way back. That small glimmer of hope is enough to lift your spirits, just barely. This time, you follow him willingly—though you still cry the entire way to HQ.

Shame how prone to hysterics you are, otherwise Enjin actually thinks you’re pretty hot. Noting how the expensive silk of your dress clings so damn well to your every curve. He’d sell your clothes while you were near the shopping district—but unlike Rudo, he doubts he could talk you out of them. 

At least—not yet.

But that thought is drastically short lived as Enjin spends more time in your presence. Sure, you could have gotten along. You could’ve even been Enjin’s type. Yet there’s one glaring problem: 

You’re an annoying, needy-ass brat.  

Besides looks, you tick off nearly every one of his dealbreakers. You’re ditzy, dependent and whiny. Basically Enjin’s nightmare.

Plus your snobby little ass never once thanked nor apologized to him over the following weeks.

Not after he saved you.

Not after he brought you back to HQ where you were welcomed with skeptical, yet open arms—as a new, very reluctant (you had no other options really) recruit in-training.

And you certainly never thanked Enjin, even after all his shit luck, when he was assigned to be your teacher and look after your haughty ass. You have the most indignant pout on your face when Corvus announces that since Enjin found you, you're Enjin’s problem.

“You have to be kidding me? I’m stuck with Trashy Poppins here!?”

“Yo, Trashy—what!?” The reference doesn’t land with Enjin but he knows it isn’t good.

Semiu nods curtly in agreement of the pairing, amused that Enjin finally has someone to keep him on his toes as she ushers you off to get settled in.

The fuck?! 

Lamenting being stuck is supposed to be Enjin’s line. Enjin had figured the logical move was to pair you with Zanka—the closest thing to nobility among the Cleaners—and let you bond with Rudo, a fellow Spherite, even if he was a tribesman.

But it doesn’t take long to realize neither boy can handle a grown ass woman like you. One flutter of your lashes and they’re useless saps—like the big sister he never had, you could soothe Rudo’s worst moods with a mere head pat. 

While Zanka, older and appreciating your more ‘robust’ qualities, trips over his own tongue trying to talk to you.

Both ready to do anything just to earn a few sweet coos—unless someone steps in.

It had to be Enjin. He was the only one who could ‘resist’ your charms.

Still, Enjin’s got his work cut out for him when it comes to you—especially training you for combat and figuring out how the hell you’re supposed to use that so-ugly-it’s-almost-cute vital instrument.

He tries not to judge. Really, he does. Jinki are personal—he knows that better than anyone. But still…the fact that you even have one? That’s wild.

A Spherite? A noble Spherite, no less—the same pompous assholes who treat the Abyss like a dumping ground—actually caring enough about something to pump it full of anima?

Yeah, that’s impressive, he’ll give you that. What wasn’t though was the name you gave the lil thing: Bubu.

Tsk. Wack as hell. Vital instruments deserve names with some bite. Something like—Umbreaker.

Still, credit where it’s due—you’re picking things up faster than expected. 

However, that doesn’t spare him from your nonstop bitching, though. The complaints come daily: the strange smells your hair absorbs, the absence of your sacred skincare routines, not being able to take a 30 minute shower, and how everything down here always tastes just a little off.

But the most absurd? The cherry blossoms.

You complain the most about not being able to frolic in your lush, petal-covered garden full of rows of cherry blossoms. Enjin’s never even seen a damn tree like that, let alone the acres of grass and flowers you describe like some bedtime fairytale. You haughtily anoint yourself as a floral herbalist, an expert when it comes to your pretty little flowers.

It’s shit like that on top of everything else that irks Enjin when it comes to you.

And yet?

Enjin thinks the most irritating thing about you is the fact that he can’t seem to stay away from you. 

Sure, you’re annoying as fuck—but in spite of his own objections, Enjin keeps finding ways to keep your time occupied. He makes up excuses to train you longer and drags you along on missions that are solely meant for him. 

Moreover, since you can never keep that pretty little mouth shut, anyone you meet clocks you as a Spherite within seconds—which means you need Enjin’s constant protection, whether you like it or not.

Enjin ends up spending less time drinking or chasing women, finding a far more amusing pastime instead—the way your face twists in indignation every time the Ground doesn’t live up to your so-called “noble standards.” 

He gets a kick out of it, really. Agitating you on purpose, just to watch you squirm.

“Goddamnit, Enjin! Watch it!” 

You’d shriek every time your short skirt went flying from a sudden gust of wind he’d whip up with Umbreaker. Enjin saves that lil trick for No Man’s Land when the others’ backs are turned.

“That’s Enjin-sensei to you, Princess.” 

“Choke—slowly, Trashy Poppins.”

You’d lunge for his mask like you actually meant to rip it off, but at 6 '3, Enjin’s tall enough that you never have a chance at reaching it. It’s all worth it too—Enjin’s already got every pastel scrap of lace you own burned into memory, each one tucked away like a reward for getting under your skin.

It’s a little sadistic, sure—the way he taunts you nonstop, delighting in soiling that polished image of yours to grind you into the dirt of the ground right along with him. 

There’s a fire in your eyes every time Enjin dubs you as “Your Royal Trash Princess”—or just “TP” if he’s feeling lazy. You never fail to rise to his bait, eager to prove yourself—and prove him wrong.

Enjin feels he’s owed a bit of amusement for all his troubles.

Doesn’t mean anything.

Yet the more Enjin pushes, the harder it is to ignore that your bratty spark isn’t just an attitude problem. It’s energy. Real, raw passion. The kind that could actually cultivate anima. He sees it best when you’re snapping at him, flushed and defiant, too stubborn to back down.

It’s trouble to be sure, but fuck if Enjin doesn’t love coaxing it out of you.

All it took this time to get you going was him doubting your so-called knowledge of plants and remedies— “what kinda ‘floral herbalist’ hasn’t toked one?”  

So now here you are, in the HQ lounge, about to smoke your first joint as a ‘pre-game’ to the happy hour Corvus organized for all the Cleaners.

You and Enjin sit shoulder to shoulder on a worn, black quilted-leather sofa that’s seen better days. The cushions creak as you nervously smooth your skirt and settle in, unhooking your jinki—Bubu—from your belt to set her gently on the table.

Enjin rolls a few joints with unhurried precision—like he’s got all the time in the world, and watching you squirm is part of the ritual.

“Bet ya didn’t have anything like this in your lil’ garden, eh TP?” Enjin quips, breaking the silence.

Nose already upturned, your face scrunches as Enjin tosses an extra bud from his stash into your open palms. You hated the nickname ‘TP’ most of all, too easily mistaken for ‘toilet paper’ and Enjin knows that.

You shoot Enjin a dirty look before letting your focus drift back to the brittle sprig in your hands—the first real plant you’ve touched since becoming a Ground-dweller.

You think you actually recognize it. 

Back on the Sphere, your family was among the wealthiest, and your garden was massive. You took pride in your green thumb—like Delmon, whose garden you’ve been meaning to ask about. You want to help, if only to see what kind of plants can survive in conditions this toxic. But Enjin never gives you the space—always hovering, always cutting in before you can finish a full conversation.

You brush off those thoughts but your frown stays as your fingers trace the bud’s dry veins. Even for a dehydrated sample, it feels wrong—brittle in a way that hints of sickness. 

“Hmm. We had something like this—I think. But it’s just another weed.” You say shrugging.

“Heh,” Enjin smirks at your cluelessness, “Would you believe me if I told you ‘weed’ is exactly what we call it, Princess?”

You roll your eyes at the inordinately simple name. It probably has a proper scientific designation—but expecting Enjin to know it? Please.

“We always uprooted them—weeds are unsightly in gardens, you know. A weed, let alone one sick as this, would definitely be pruned right away so as to not syphon nutrients from the other plant life.”

“HAH?!”  

Mid-seal on his joint, Enjin stops cold, staring at you like you just dared to commit some sort of sacrilege before exhaling a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in pure betrayal.

He can’t believe Spherities are probably pissing away the dankest shit ever cultivated. The thought was maddening.

When Enjin’s eyes do meet yours again, there's no amusement as he takes a rather chastising tone with you.

“Princess, for your own good, never repeat that in front of anyone down here…I mean it.”

You huff, but Enjin doesn’t blink—just starts sealing the joint again, eyes never leaving you as his tongue drags slowly across the edge of the paper.

You squirm, and that’s all the reward he needs. 

“See somethin’ you like?” Enjin drawls, holding the finished joint out toward you like it’s a gift—and not a trap with your name written all over it.

Turning on teacher mode, Enjin decides to school you.

“I know we mostly have ‘reggie’ down here, but still, it’s worth its weight in gold for its purposes. Not just for fun ya know—chronic pain, nausea, anxiety—gives a bit of relief from the ailments of Abyss-living you Spherites have so graciously bestowed on us.”

From his pocket, Enjin produces a lighter, shoulders curling as he bows into the flame to set it alight.

Your eyes flick over the sinewy stretch of Enjin arms, the way his jacket strains across his shoulders—reminding you just how solid Enjin really is beneath all that shapeless fabric. Built like a weapon, hiding in plain sight.

You watch as his ringed fingers lift the joint to his lips. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, Enjin sinks back into the sofa like gravity’s got a tighter hold on him than usual. Smoke pools in his chest before slipping out in a long, deliberate exhale.

His gaze follows it, distant—like he’s chewing on thoughts far heavier than anything you said… but somehow still set off by it.

“That’s the problem with you Spherites….you don’t see things the way they are—you see things the way you are.” 

Enjin chuffs at his own words, closing his eyes to let his high settle. Not even completely stoned yet and he’s already spouting off pseudo philosophical one-liners.

“Everything else is collateral, amirite?”

Ouch.

Toeing at the floor, you sulk in silence. Wounded from the verbal licks Enjin just dealt you. Mulling over his words in silence though, you know it isn’t that simple. Horticulture can be complicated even in the most ideal conditions. Just because a plant is viable doesn’t mean it belongs in every garden—some plants are just incompatible.

However…

You sit silently, your teeth worrying your bottom lip as you study the brittle bud in your palm.

…that doesn’t make it worthless.

Instead of exploring any potential use, you tossed the so-called "weed" out—just like everything else the Sphere deemed useless. Not even considering how valuable it could be. You can see why Enjin wouldn't want you repeating that mistake. Enough people already looked at you with disdain as it is. 

Sure there’s a lot of things you miss about it, mostly superficial things that had to do with vanity, but overall life up there was super sterile and dull. You’d never say it out loud but you are glad you fell, it was hard on the ground but it was liberating.

Sighing, you quietly concede. You hate anytime Enjin actually has a point though. It’s the worst thing imaginable—for your pride and for his already unbearable ego.

Cracking an eye open, Enjin curses under his breath. Switching tactics, he decides to replace the long look on his Trash Princess’s face. Annoyance would do just fine. Besides, there was no need for you to pout over it, you actually had a shot at redemption here… heh, the kind that might just work out in his favor, too.

“Y’knowwwww, we’re always learnin’ better ways to grow things down here, faster too...”

Enjin moves so quietly, you don’t realize how close he is until you turn—and he’s right in your face, barely a breath away. Swiping his ringed thumb across your cheek, Enjin’s touch is surprisingly tender. However his expression is entirely obnoxious, full of amusement from how fast your pouty little face flusters.

“...could be a nice little hobby that would do alotta good…and if anyone could figure out how to grow this shit properly down here—”

Enjin plucks at the heat of your warm cheeks, pinching just enough to tease and drag the moment into something more lighthearted.

“—I do believe it could be you—Trash Princess.”

Your eyes catch something deeper than just teasing in his golden gaze—but before you can dwell on it, instinct kicks in. You jerk back, swatting his hand away, shoving whatever that was out of your mind.

Enjin just laughs, unbothered, as you glare at him.

“And why can’t you get Delmon to do it?” you counter, arms folding across your chest. By now, you’ve learned Enjin usually has an angle for everything.

Right on the mark, for a beat, Enjin actually pauses. He hadn’t expected you to bring up the obvious—Delmon, the gentle giant practically martyred to the idea of saving what’s left of the Abyss. But Enjin’s roguish grin slips back into place, spreading wider as he leans in, unapologetically invading your space.

“Why? Well...’cause I asked you, Princess. The ol’lug has enough on his plate as it is. You can handle it alone, can’t ya?”

Truthfully, even knowing your interest in Delmon never strays beyond roots and soil, it still irks every time Enjin catches sight of you with him. You look every bit the noble—graceful, composed, eyes soft and curious as you gaze up at Delmon, eager to learn. It grates on Enjin more than he’d admit, knowing he’s never once gotten that look, despite monopolizing most of your time.

“Ya know—unless, your skillset just ain’t up t’par?” Enjin finishes with a shrug.

Wholly unconvinced, you see this for the bait it is from a mile away. Nevertheless, you can’t deny that you are eager to get even the tiniest bit of normalcy back in your life from your old hobbies. Planting something, anything, would be nice—even if it ends up being contraband for Enjin. Although you still aren’t quite sure why you can’t consult Delmon. 

“Ugh! Fine!”

You fall back onto the sofa and Enjin follows, his arm settling behind you, practically draped around your shoulders. You don’t even flinch. He takes another slow hit, smoke curling toward the ceiling, but this time there’s a wicked glint in his eye as he watches you. Deciding he’s babysat the joint long enough, he leans in with a lazy smirk and holds it out to you.

“Enjin—your eyes!” You blurt out, disregarding his invitation. “Is that just from smoking!? I can’t go to happy hour looking like some kinda zombie!”

Enjin sputters mid-laugh, coughing as wisps of smoke leak from the corners of his smart ass grin.

“Eh, well duh. Why else would they get so red when I smoke?”

Enjin coughs out a few more chuckles. You roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Trashy Poppins…I didn't make the connection since the air quality down here is 80% pollution! You could have anything.”

While Enjin is amused by your sass, the joint continues to burn down. Each second unsmoked is wasting precious bud. Leaning in, his voice drops to a low purr—the kind that makes your stomach flip.

Heh, time to pull out the big guns.

“Aht-aht-aht, c’mon now, Princess, you know the golden rule…”

You sigh, thinking you need that happy hour drink more than ever right now.

“You’re not serious.”

But you know he is, and of course you remember the silly motto Enjin makes an unspoken rule for his team. Although he mostly just uses it to get you to do something you’ll usually regret later.  You sigh, knowing you’ll never make it to happy hour until you appease the big man-child in front of you.

Enjin’s golden eyes shine with even more mischief than before and together like some damn mantra, you both repeat:

“...it’s not peer pressure—it’s just your turn.”

Resigned, you click your tongue, swiping at the joint in his hands. But Enjin is much faster as he pulls back with infuriating speed. You glower at him, snark locked and loaded.

“Nah, actually I’ll help you out since it’s your first time, Princess.”

Innuendo coils around his words, heat radiating off him as you tense under his gaze. You don’t want to argue with him though, the sooner you smoked, the sooner you both could be at happy hour.

“Open.” 

Enjin’s fingers graze the corner of your mouth as he holds the joint to your peach-glossed lips, eyes darkening when you part them obediently for him.

“Now breathe it in, nice and slow…deeper. Yeah, that’s it—hold it. Don’t let go until I say—good girl.”

You want to scoff at him, but you can’t—not with tears stinging your eyes and smoke burning its way down your lungs. By the time Enjin gives you the nod to exhale, you’re already choking, coughing it all back up in ragged plumes.

Yeah, this was nowhere in hell as easy as Enjin made it look.

The buzz rises in your head almost instantly, an airy haze creeping into your consciousness.

“See? Not a terrible cherry pop, eh?”

The glare you throw at Enjin is more of a squint. Still recovering from the fire tearing down your throat, your coughs earn you a few heavy-handed smacks on the back from Enjin. If it’s out of comfort or mockery, you can't tell. 

Everything in the room is spinning and becoming more distant, like a daydream.

“Easy there, breathe—it’ll hit easier when ya figure out how to grow it right, Princess. The dank shit won’t burn this hard.”

You want to bite back that even if you do figure out how to grow the damn ‘weed’ plant, you’d never touch it again. But the sudden heaviness seeping into your limbs drags you down, tilting your head on the axis of equilibrium.

“I think, no—I know, I need to lay down.”

Not waiting for permission, you flop down onto the worn cushions beneath you, curling up awkwardly with your head leaning against the armrest and your legs dangling off the seat at an angle. 

Enjin doesn’t miss a beat though—he scoops your legs into his lap, tugging off your boots so you can be comfortable.

Leaning back, perfectly at ease, Enjin holds the joint in one hand while the other rests on your stocking-covered shin, giving it a casual, reassuring pat. The way your arm drapes over your face tells him everything—yeah, you’ve got the spins.

“Keh, you’ll make it, Princess. Just let it all ride out.”

You’d make it alright, but not to happy hour anytime soon. Enjin supposes he might’ve let you take a bigger hit than you were ready for. 

Whoops.

Silence stretches in the aftermath but it’s not uncomfortable. Enjin takes a few more lazy tokes, one golden eye cracked open just enough to watch you, taking stock of your state. 

It’s in moments like this—rare ones, when you’re quiet—that he remembers just how fucking smoking hot you are.

Especially in that Cleaner uniform. Man, God bless August.

The eccentric tailor took special care in designing it thanks to a sudden burst of inspiration—August even convinced Enjin to allow him to keep some of the trim from your Spherite clothes that he repurposes. The outcome of your uniform is shinier, more fitted and much sluttier than standard issue. 

You took to it immediately, without much fuss and actually complimenting August. That was August’s gift though—whipping up pieces to suit even the finickiest of tastes—and Enjin had to admit, the man did his big one. 

But the real surprise wasn’t the craftsmanship. It was you—his oh-so-prim little Trash Princess—strutting around in something so damn naughty. Dressed up like a treat that Enjin can’t help but eat up with his eyes.

And whaddya know? Enjin has the munchies bad right now.

Left to his own devices, Enjin takes his time devouring the sight in front of him. His gaze lingers down the length of your legs sprawled across his lap, to the soft, exposed flesh of your thighs—spilling over the edge of your stockings just enough to make his jaw clench.

Fuck, they look so soft. He can't help but wonder how they'd feel locked around his head as his eyes climb to the next indulgence—your crop top. Rucked up to your ribs, the thin white cotton hugs just beneath your tits. Shit, the way your cute little nips poke through the fabric makes his mouth twitch with the urge to say ‘hi’ right back—with his tongue.

Is it hotter in here, or—?

Leering at you for too long is a surefire way for Enjin to pop a boner. Enjin knows he’s not alone in that either. That uniform of yours turns heads in every city you pass through. Consequently, Enjin has split more skulls because of idiots trying to hit on you or cop a feel than he ever has for anyone trying to snatch a Spherite.

Not that he’s jealous or nothing.

Nah. Just doing his job. Watching out for you. Plenty of unscrupulous assholes out there willing to pounce on a clueless little thing like you.

However, right now, Enjin’s just as unscrupulous—‘watching out’ only for a flash of your panties as each restless wiggle sinks you deeper into the lumpy cushions, bunching your skirt higher and teasing him with a glimpse of skimpy lace.

Man, just a little more and he’d know exactly which pair you picked today.

Sobering up a bit more, you sigh at your inability to get comfortable when you could feel the very springs in the sofa. Stretching, you straighten your leg suddenly and—

“Yo! Watch the feets, girl!”  

Though there’s amusement in his voice as he jolts upright, tatted hands grabbing your ankle before you’re able to land another blow.

“Ah, sorry—” You mutter sheepishly, reeling back your foot. “I didn’t mean to kick Umbreaker.”

For what it’s worth, the apology comes quickly—you’ve learned better than to mess with a man’s jinki, especially Enjin’s. You've nearly tripped more times than you can count over that bulky extension of himself that he always keeps within reach.

You know it’s serious too when he doesn’t even bother with the stupid nicknames he usually calls you. Nevertheless, you’re left puzzled when Enjin’s laughter comes out loud and sharp. 

“...that wasn’t Umbreaker, Princess.”

Huh? What does he mean that isn’t— 

You freeze. 

Carefully peeking out from under your arm, your reddened eyes squint down the length of your body and onto his. When the realization does set in of what exactly you kicked, it smacks you harder than any hit of ganja ever could.

“O…oh…—OH MY GAWD!”

Immediately springing upright, your vertigo swirls with how fast you’re scrambling to your knees as you gawk.

Time passes for what seems like a solid minute or two and neither of you speak. 

You’re staring at the crotch of Enjin’s baggy pants and Enjin is staring at you.

“Heh.”

The devious look on Enjin’s face right now could shame the devil himself. Yet you’re still in utter disbelief.

There’s no way that’s his dick!

Still, your brain won’t stop running the numbers—high girl math with clumsy calculations drawn from the fleeting brush of your toes against the long, thick mass hidden beneath the fabric of his baggy pants. Enjin’s words ring in your mind like a gong—‘that wasn’t Umbreaker…’

“You’re burnin’ a hole through my dick, Princess—”

Enjin’s voice unfurls seductively, like the smoke curling from his lips.

“—keep starin’ like that and I’m gonna think you wanna see it.”

Your eyes meet his dead-on. 

“I do.”

“Yeah, I’m sure yo—wait, come again?!”

Enjin’s grip goes slack, the joint slipping from his fingers. He was halfway to some sassy quip, ready to taunt your denial—but your delivery is so honest, with no teasing or angle to play off, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The embers hiss against his thigh before he even registers he dropped it.

“Tch.” Cursing under his breath, he flicks it aside—it’s all roach anyway—and tries to pull himself back together.

You’re fucking with him. Yeah. That’s it. 

Smug again, Enjin leans into the bit you started.

“Ha ha…right. I know my stuck up lil’ Trash Princess isn’t asking to give me a dick inspection…”

Enjin adjusts his pants in a casual sweep that doesn’t fool either of you. He’s not brushing off the remaining flakes of ash—he’s palming his restless cock that jumped at the idea of you actually wanting to see it.

But both you and Enjin would quickly discover, despite your snobby Spherite upbringing, you lose any type of filter and sense of couth while high—blurting out your thoughts unabashedly. 

“I said I wanted to see it, Trashy Poppins. Or m’not gonna believe you’re actually that big.”

You fold your arms, huffing stubbornly.

There was no way an unbearably annoying man like Enjin was slanging actual horse cock! 

He had to be the one fucking with you here.

Well, wait, no—a cocky, stupidly sexy man having a big dick actually tracks, now that you think about it.

But still—you need to verify. For science, if nothing else. 

Yeah. Science.

Enjin blinks, taking stock of you—kneeling close, your tits straining like they’re about to burst free, and your skirt rides so high on your thighs this time, he swears one more millimeter and he’d see your panties for real. 

“C’mon now…”

Your sickly sweet coos needle at Enjin’s spine.

“...as if you aren’t always upskirting me just to see my panties.”

Shit. You knew it was intentional?

“At least you can show me your undies for a change. If you’re really that big, then I’ll be able to tell.”

The spark alight in your eyes is a challenge to Enjin, who loves pushing your limits. Now he needs to know how far you’ll go. Even if he’s completely unprepared for this turn of events, he’s sure as fuck not gonna be the one backing down first.

“S’that right, Princess? Well, I haven’t even seen yours today so—”

Enjin doesn’t even get the chance to finish before you’re lifting your skirt and spreading your knees wider. You stare up at the ceiling, the popcorn squares suddenly appearing super interesting to you. Enjin’s eyes however immediately zero-in on the pink lace stretched tight across your pussy.

Christ.

With a much closer view, Enjin picks up all the little details he usually misses—like how the hem digs into your soft curves or how the material is thin enough to see the split of your chubby lil pussy lips pressed underneath. 

Goddamn, are you intentionally buying them a size too small? 

Or is your pussy print just that fat?

Enjin gulps, mouth dry. 

His attention caught like a hook to your cunt, everything else is unimportant—including the irony of how he was just teasing you for the very same thing—it’s all utterly lost on him. His priorities shifting rapidly the longer he ogles you.

After a minute, giving him quite frankly more of his fill than he deserves, you let your skirt drop back into place. The alluring spell of your fatma breaks when your  knees snap shut and Enjin is yanked back to a world that doesn’t exist between the apex of your doughy thighs. 

All of his lecherous starring is worth it though—if only to be able to throw his own saying back at him for once.

“Now, how’s it go again? It’s not peer pressu—”

“—Yeah, yeah, I got it, Princess—My turn.” 

Enjin relents, cutting you off with a twisted grin as he shakes his head.

“Ya don’t gotta break my arm to see my dick, babe. Just makin’ sure you’re sure. Don’t need you runnin’ off telling Semiu I flashed ya.”

Semiu is already on Enjin’s ass for teasing you as much as he does. Something about him being ‘too grown’ not to ‘nut up’ and ‘come to terms with his reality’, but Enjin was never listening for long, zoning out as soon as a new lecture was underway. 

However, if your prissy ass really wants to see his dick that bad, of course he’d oblige. Hell, Enjin would get another kick outta watching your horror when you realize for real just how much he’s packing. It had been a minute since he'd seen that look on a woman.

For being as hot and charming as he is, Enjin didn’t get nearly as much play as he should’ve. He isn’t a virgin by any means, but too many women take one glance at his size and back off expeditiously.  

Life on the ground meant hustling to survive for most. Nobody could afford to be laid up for days just because Enjin’s wrecking ball of a cock tore through their walls, rendering them unable to walk—let alone go to work.

Yet with a clink, that all changes as the leather strap of his belt and gear slides free. Enjin lifts his hips enough to shove his pants down past his thighs and there it is—short red boxer briefs with a black waistband, the fabric stretched thin over the obscenely long, thick outline of his dick resting along his thigh.

Simply put, your jaw drops. There’s a static-like silence buzzing in your mind as you process the monstrous mass of phallic muscle before you.

You’ve never seen a dick that huge in your entire life. 

Clocking your shock, Enjin’s chest puffs like he’s just been crowned a king in the room.

“Relax, Princess…” he drawls, smugness saturating every word.

“I ain’t even all the way hard yet.”

Bullshit! 

Your eyes pingpong between his face and his cock before landing on the obvious conclusion—no overthinking this time.

“What are you waiting for then? Get hard.”

Enjin actually chokes for real this time, still not used to how blunt his demure lil’ Trash Princess gets when she’s high. He manages to laugh regardless once he finds his breath as he sure as hell doesn’t hate this new side of you.

“Hah?! It doesn’t work like that ya know…”

Enjin lies right through his fucking teeth. 

Just hearing that vulgar command from your prissy lil’ lips has his blood surging south, his cock swelling at rapid speed. Already on go, his dickprint thickens, straining against the fabric until threads stretch thin to form almost obscenely over him like second skin.

Yet unlike his past hookups you don’t flinch at the sight of him getting even bigger. 

There’s more than enough incredulousness on your face for sure, but Enjin half expected you to backpedal for the sake of your pussy’s self-preservation and book it out the door. Instead, the look you’re giving his dick is more akin to awe than fear.

Truly, though—you are in awe.

Men weren’t like this on the Sphere. Well, your husband certainly wasn’t.

Older than you by over a decade, your husband’s stamina was so poor he never lasted long. His size, his endurance, and his dismissive comments about your sexual appetite being perversely unbecoming for a lady of your station had you wondering if something was wrong with you this entire time—if you expected too much from sex.

But when your eyes drift back to Enjin—catching the thick vein running along his length, visible even through the fabric—you know better now. 

It was never you.

The realization brings a surge of boldness. Your gaze trails the pulse of his cock down to the wet patch blooming at the tip—so much pre spilling it seeps through the fabric. 

Enjin inhales sharply through his nose. He knows he’s proven his size, but your silence and the way you’re eyeing his cock like some kind of museum exhibit is starting to get to him. 

Enjin doesn’t want to back down as he impatiently waits for your final verdict of approval. But if you keep staring at him like that, with those big pretty eyes of yours, he’s going to come in his pants, untouched, like some fucking cuck.

“Well, Princess? Big enough for ya?”

You don’t even hear Enjin, too lost in your own thoughts. Your body, buzzed and reckless, has a mind of its own though. Reaching out, your hand leaves your lap to trace the thick ridges of his cock, mapping its shape through his briefs. 

“Oh, shiiii—” Enjin hisses. 

His lip catches between his teeth as all thoughts vanish the moment your delicate little fingers start stroking him.

“Argh—fuck. Can’t jus’ go grabbing a man’s dick like that ya know.”

Yet Enjin does nothing to stop you as your touch grows bolder. Your palm flattens around his girth—too thick for even your whole hand to wrap around, even through his boxers.

How would someone even get something that monstrous inside them!?

Encircling his leaky cockhead, you giggle as your index finger slowly tap-tap-taps the mess he’s made there, amused at how many of the small, sticky suds you can gather on your finger through the material.

Enjin’s own laugh is strangled. This can’t be real.

“Heh… fuck… you really tryna kill me, huh, Princess? Fuckin’ tease…”

You’re unfazed by Enjin’s provocations – too mesmerized by the obscenely large cock in front of you that has you squirming uncomfortably as your own panties turn swampy with heat. 

“May I?”

Meeting Enjin’s gaze, your polite innocence is accented by a wide-eyed pout that’s far too sweet for the filthy implications of your request. Like you’re nicely asking permission to play with your favorite toy—except you don’t even wait for him to give it,fingers impatiently snapping the edges of his waistband like some cockhungry slut. 

“Uh…” Enjin blanks while his dick is practically screaming at him to respond—even a damned head nod would suffice. Yet his brain blue-screens as it registers that look—the normally innocent, curiosity filled look that he's been craving since he found you in No Man's Land—now twisted into something debased and filthy.  And best of all?

Meant just for him.

Enjin’s so fucking hard right now it’s painful—and hell, if you’re planning to do something about that, he’s not about to stop you.

“Keh. Do you, boo.”

Enjin manspreads, giving you full access. You eagerly pull down his shorts just enough to release his cock, and it springs free, thick and heavy. 

Good God, he’s a big boy! 

Although you knew that, seeing the monster in all of its unleashed glory was an entirely different experience. Enjin’s dick bobs back to curve towards his abs, a shiny pubic piercing shining at his base under its shadow.

Panting, your previously dormant inner size queen activates. You have to swallow down the bucket of saliva collecting on your tongue before you choke—you can’t help but salivate at the thought of what a huge cock like this tastes like… what it feels like. 

You’re pretty sure it could break you in two, and surprisingly, the thought excites you.

Lowering yourself on all fours, the first tentative lick you give Enjin’s length has his toes curling as he grips the sofa, ripping a chunk clean off the decaying material. 

You moan out a depraved 'ahhh' once you reach the top, a little smile playing on your lips as you tongue down the hole at his tip.  Greedily, you lap up all the little dribbles of pre beading at the tip and flowing out.

“W-Woaaah—ugh. FUCK!”

Enjin’s hand flies into your hair as he clears his throat. Sure, your mouthwatering stares made a blowie likely, but diving in this shamelessly? It’s enough to make him feel like he’s losing his damn mind.

You grip his base—an insurance policy to keep him from cumming—while your other hand cups his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. His thigh jolts beneath you and you simper at how sensitive he is despite his massive size.

“T-There’s no way in hell they taught your prissy ass how to be this much of a slut up there.”

Pouting, you release his balls to cradle his cockhead against your puffed up cheek, uncaring of the amount of pre seeping across your jaw. 

“D-Do…do you hate it? My hus—um, ex said it was a turn off. H-he'd say I have 'the depravity of a slums streetwalker.”

Staring up at Enjin, your eyes are clouded with lust, yet edged with worry—like he’d threatened to rip something precious away.  But it’s only his cock you’re coddling tighter against your cheek, your lips parting just enough to chase the beads of pre that drip close to your mouth.

If you weren’t gripping Enjin’s base so hard he definitely would have blown a load all over your face. Fuck, if the thought isn’t tempting to him though – he doesn’t think you’d even mind in this state.  

Goddamn, you’re so much sluttier than Enjin could have ever imagined. 

And he’d imagined it plenty. 

Especially on nights Enjin stumbled back to HQ drunk and alone, having closed down the bar with Corvus and Gris. Left to sate his own booze-fueled boner, he’d shamelessly rut into his pillow. Yet, no matter where his perversions strayed, every faceless fantasy in the dark insisted on transmuting into you. 

You seriously think he couldn’t match your freak? 

Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.

“Hate it?” 

Enjin holds back the growl building at the back of his throat. There’s a torrent of thoughts swirling with his high all at once—all coming to settle right back into his dick. 

“Never. Show me who you really are, Princess—n’ I’ll give it right back to ya tenfold—that’s a promise.”

If you weren’t already trembling with arousal—finally free to let your freak flag fly—you might’ve shied away. Enjin’s easy acceptance of you stirs something deeper, something messy that you usually ignore before it can settle. Now, with his scent thick on your face and tongue, you’re not thinking at all—aching with the urge to all but inhale his cock.

You merely nod, flashing Enjin a coy smile before stretching your plush lips to wrap around him. Slowly, you swallow down his girth, mouth hot with suction so deliciously moist Enjin’s hips jerk up. You gag, but his firm grip on your roots keeps your head in place, forcing his length to breach your throat.

“That’s it, baby…open up f-f’er me—g-good fucking girl, Princess…”

Tears prick at your eyes as his cock pounds back of your throat. The stretch is brutal—but some desperate part of you craves more of his filthy praise. What you can’t take with your mouth, your hands make up for—stroking every thick inch your lips can’t swallow.

“Shiiiit, girl! You’re a pro at this.”

If you ask Enjin later, he’d probably call you a throat goat, however most of your “experience” came from the smutty paperbacks high-society wives hid in corsets and swapped under tea tables—not actual practice. You don’t really know what you are doing. You’re just following the book's explicit instructions. 

Still, Enjin doesn’t seem to mind being your test dummy. 

On the contrary, Enjin is more than happy to let you do your thing and he does just that. Although, the longer your head bobs along his cock, the more your skirt rides up—until it finally flips over your hips, giving him a perfect view of the cheeky lace framing your ass.

Enjin groans, gripping your ass with bruising force before sliding his fingers down to palm your pussy over your panties—fuck, you’re already dripping for him.

“Hah—uppity cunt gets this sloppy just from a lil’ dick sucking, eh?”

Enjin laughs, yet the gravel rattling in his voice betrays him. No one has ever fearlessly tried to deepthroat him and actually fucking enjoyed it. 

Unable to respond with your mouth, too busy still trying to do the impossible and fit more inside your throat, your hips respond instead—wiggling desperately against his fingers, begging for more of his touch. 

Enjin doesn’t hesitate. Slipping a tatted finger into your panties, he drags it through your folds, marveling at how wet and scorching you are. Pushing into your core, your walls clamp down, fluttering around his digit.

Oh fuck, even his fingers are big! 

A second ringed finger follows – the rough, callous fingers of a man who's seen too many fights scrape so good against all your gooey spots. Lewd squelches echo from your pussy as your throat tightens around him in tandem. The sounds, the squeeze, the heat—all of it is driving him crazy.

Shit he’s gonna cum for real this time. 

To his credit, Enjin tries to warn you—tries to pull you off before it’s too late. 

He doesn’t wanna risk pissing you off and having you refuse to ever do this again. Enjin still wants to fool around more;, he wants to fuck you. It’s that thought—your pretty pussy lips splitting open to swallow him instead—that has him busting his hot seed down your throat in thick, hot pulses.

“HAHH—FUHH!”

Releasing your hair, Enjin half expects you to pull away, furious he hadn’t warned you.  Instead, your nails dig into his thigh, steadying yourself. You moan around him, the vibrations rippling through his sensitive cock while you work him for every last drop, his hips jerking beneath you.

Only when you’re certain you’ve drained him do you pull back, swollen lips coming off his cock with a wet pop. 

“Allll go-neee S-Sheee? HAhhhhh~♡”

Tits jiggling as you heave for air, you present your tongue to Enjin as proof you’ve swallowed all of him. Every. Filthy. Drop.

“Oh fuck me… you’re a nasty lil’ Trash Princess, aren’t you?”

You can’t help but agree—your throat’s wrecked and your pussy’s aching to be used just as thoroughly. Enjin’s fingers aren’t inside you any more, although they are still on your pussy, running through your folds absentmindedly.  

“Ngh—n-eed m-more,” you slur.

All your decorum was lost to the wind the moment you asked to see his dick—you don’t even care that it’s Enjin of all people that you just gave head to. Suddenly, the obnoxious pain in your ass seems like your only deliverance. Right now, you're more frustrated that you've spent so much time bickering with him when you could have been fucking him.

You much prefer his moans to anything else coming out of his mouth.

You need him to get hard again—immediately!

Enjin, mind mushy with release, takes another joint out to light. As much as he wants to return the favor after that kind of sloppy top, the man needs a minute.  His high has his whole body tingling from the post release sensitivity.

But you can’t wait any longer. It’s been god knows how long since you’ve had a proper orgasm and those were only from your own small, fumbling fingers. Throat achy and raw, you quiver at the masochistic thought of how his cock is going to absolutely obliterate your pussy.

You slide your panties down before flinging off your jacket and top.  Taking a seat on Enjin's lap, you're now clad in just your bra, your skirt that's bunched up at your hips, and thigh highs. Grabbing his cock, you give his soggy, half-hard girth a few encouraging pumps.

Your pussy is already slobbering, a viscous string of syrupy slick drips down from your slit to land on his cockhead, connecting you to him as you line him up. 

Feeling your fingers around his length, Enjin's eyes fly open, balancing the joint between his lips as he quickly shrugs off his own jacket, checking the pockets.

“Woah, woah. Slow your roll there sweetheart—you’re skipping a few steps.”

You aren’t listening though, not giving a fuck what Enjin is talking about as you cry out, grinding your clit against his fat tip, before running it back through your folds.

Enjin grits his teeth, coughing out smoke as he holds the joint in one hand and your hips in the other. You’re being a brat again, not listening to a single word he’s saying. 

“Gotta find my rubbers…also gotta stretch you out better, Princess—you’re gonna split in two if I don’t.”

You whimper, petulant and needy. You press his cockhead against your entrance, swiveling your hips like you’re going to recklessly sink down on him at any second.

“Huh? Rubbers?” You shake your head in confusion, pouting. “m’Ennnnjiiiiin…I can’t wait that long—puh-leaseee don’t make me wait s’long, Enjiiiiin. I can take it, promiseee!”

The way you sweetly coo his name is shattering any sense of self-control Enjin has left. The urge to submit you to the ultimate corruption surges hot through his veins, but Enjin knows how big he is and while he did want to break you, he didn’t want to hurt you in the process. You are absolutely nuts to want to ride him with so little prep—now, on top of everything else, you apparently wanted him to fuck you raw.

Wait—did you just ask what rubbers were? Did you not have condoms on the Sphere?

But any lingering concerns dissipate the second you start fighting to get his tip inside you.

“Too s-slow!” You groan.

Fear is the last thing on your mind—evident in the way you impale yourself on him, defiant even against the impossible stretch. Your pussy is tight around the swollen head of his cock, strangling it as your nails dig into his shoulders. You grind in slow, desperate circles. Tears roll down your cheeks as you bite them to keep from crying out, your body fighting against every inch.

Enjin watches with a dark glint in his eyes – you trying so hard for him makes him want to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions. But he’d let you have it at your own pace…for now. 

Releasing your hip, Enjin spits into his palm, rubbing his slick fingers over your clit in slow steady circles. 

“Such a hard-headed girl—c’mere…”

Enjin takes a long drag from the joint, balancing it between his fingers as he grabs the back of your neck. His lips crash into yours before you can think.

You gasp and Enjin takes the opportunity to exhale the smoke deep into your lungs, taking the harshest of the hit himself. You're left with only the smooth, earthy flavor warming your chest before it melts through your limbs.

But it’s the way he kisses you after that really knocks the ground out from under you. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours—hungry, messy, like he wants to steal the little air you have left until you’re only breathing him in.

Your arms wrap around his neck, hands buried in his soft buzzed undercut, anchoring yourself. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, teeth nipping your lower lip before diving right back in. All the while, his thumb keeps grinding into your clit, faster now, like he’s keeping rhythm with the pulse that’s beating under your skin.

Why does it feel this good? How is he doing this to your body? S’not fair! 

Not realizing you could feel this good from a kiss, you're unraveling in real time. Your mind goes blank with every pulse, every word, every inch. You’re not even fully seated yet, but you can already feel the blunt head of his cock grinding against your cervix, the pressure building with each centimeter you drop. You never imagined you could feel this full—like he might actually breach your womb.

The thought alone has you trembling, unstable, your aching thighs giving out, causing you to slide down a bit too fast. The thick veins along his length rake across your g-spot and your body snaps. A sharp, helpless spasm rocks you as your breath catches and a small, unexpected orgasm rolls through you.

Enjin pulls back just enough to let you breathe, though your body doesn’t stop shivering, lost in a blur of pleasure and pain.

“Eh... did you just cum, Princess?”

The question is rhetorical, full of smug amusement, as he can feel the increasing wetness leaking down his cock, making it all the easier for you to slide down.    

Teasing your earlobe, Enjin’s tongue dips in to flick at the shell of it, making you clench.

“HA! Good fucking girl! A lil’ more and I bet she’ll be a real squirter f’er me.”

Enjin beams, proud of his Trash Princess. No woman had ever taken him this deep—not even close. Enjin hadn’t expected you to be any different. And yet…when Enjin looks down, he releases a groan deep from his gut.

The sight alone almost has Enjin nutting in you -- your drooling cunt spread so wide around his girth, sitting almost at his base. A thought flashes briefly – it's kinda like he’s a virgin again. Parts of his dick had never experienced this kind of molten heat so maybe, in a sense, he is? Enjin didn’t fucking care if he was though, as he ain’t about to be with the way your pretty pussy is giving way like it’s made for him. 

“Run that back.”

Enjin takes the final drag, pinching the smoldering end of the joint between his fingers before flicking it aside. He leans in again, slower this time. There’s no rush in how his mouth seals over yours. The second shotgun is less about the smoke and more about the feel of you—your lips parting for him, your breath syncing to his, and the small whimper you make as he sucks slowly on your tongue.

The haze spreads between you both, thick and warm. Simultaneously, his knuckles tease your clit, a soft schlick sound filling the space between you from you getting wetter by the second. By the strength of some unknown force, you finally bottom out, immediately collapsing into his neck. 

You both moan. Enjin feels you quivering from the inside out and you feel him everywhere—shifting your guts into your ribs. 

“I…I did it.”

Your smile blooms soft against his inked skin, lips grazing the spot where you can feel his own pulse hammering wildly.

Enjin’s in no state to congratulate you on your impressive feat. Completely sheathed in you raw, coring out your gummy walls into the shape of his dick—something in his brain chemistry fizzles. Like a bit of pussy juice, acting as a catalyst, slipped into his dick and traveled straight to his prefrontal cortex to corrode all of his previous thoughts about you. The result is clear.

Enjin doesn’t give a fuck if you are a snobby, annoying, needy lil’ brat who never let him get away with shit and bitches at him constantly—the furtherest thing from his type.

Because honestly?

Motherfuck a bullshit-ass type. Your slutty ass pussy is fuckin’ perfect. 

For the first time, Enjin realizes he might be in love with you. 

How could he even look at another woman after this?

One thing if for certain—Enjin is going to make damn sure you never have the desire to even look at another man.

Both his hands trail up your hips, groping and squeezing the plump curves of your ass before settling at your waist. His blunt black nails dig into your skin to pull you back from his neck.

Enjin whistles, admiring the stagnant stream of spittle lingering on your chin. Look at you—cockdrunk just from sitting on him. 

Enjin doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful.

“Enjiiiiiin,” you whimper, not being able to hold yourself up. 

But your cries for him only inflame the predatory smirk on his lips, your honeyed cunt hugging his cock so beautifully. 

“Makes sense you fell from heaven, huh Princess?” 

Whether you're ready or not, Enjin forcibly winds you on his cock in slow circles. Your clit brushes up against the well placed pubic ring like a reward for being the first to experience it.

“—cause this pussy’s a fuckin’ angel.”

Your eyes are already lodged in your skull so you can’t even roll them at his cheesy line. But if your pussy is an angel, then Enjin's dick is most definitely a demon—his sinful cock tearing through your insides and condemning you straight to hell.

Moaning loudly, your body moves on autopilot—chasing more friction from the rhythm Enjin set. Good thing everyone was at happy hour or you would for sure be attracting some major attention now.

Although, to be honest you probably wouldn’t notice anyway. You don’t even notice when your bra falls away, your tits spilling out just so Enjin could watch them jiggle in his face. You only register its disappearance once his mouth latches onto one of your nipples, his tongue finally saying it’s ‘hello’.

“Shiiiiit!”

Your hips stutter, then stall when Enjin tugs at your sensitive bud with his teeth.

“Hey…I know my Trash Princess ain’t tappin’ out just yet.” 

SMACK!

Enjin brings a heavy palm down on your ass and your pussy clenches tighter around him. Enjin relishes the way your plush curves mold to his hands, each smack adding to the wet, messy sounds between you. You’ve already leaked enough on his lap to stain the sofa beneath you.

“Nah, ya just got on the ride, baby. Giddy-up.”

SMACK!

“NNNGH!” You weakly glare daggers at him. 

Any softness on Enjin’s face has since been replaced by something far more mischievous. If you thought he was obnoxious before—you’re about to learn he’s a full-blown menace inside of pussy.

Wobbling, you gather together what little resolve you have left to roll your hips forward. 

“HAAH! S’too biiiiiig,” you whine but your body can’t stop.

The juices saturated between you grant enough momentum to finally get a good, smooth bounce going.

“Fuck—that’s it, ride it like it’s yours, baby.” Enjin encourages you.

The way you cream harder every time he calls you 'baby' doesn't go unnoticed.

“Oh? You like me talking sweet to the pussy, baby girl?—Or do you just like being my filthy lil’ trash slut, hm Princess?”

Gritting your teeth, you grab on to Enjin’s shirt like reins, pulling him closer to you. 

“Y-You’re…gonna—ahshiiiit—hafta f-fuck m’better than thisss…if you want m-me to be your ‘baby girl’—Trash Daddy.”

Unfortunately, your sass falls flat—you can barely keep your head from lulling to the side. But Enjin’s thoroughly entertained nonetheless—he’ll take ‘Trash Daddy’ over ‘Trashy Poppins’ any day.

“Bet.”

Electricity runs through Enjin. He’s all charged up—now it’s his turn to unleash.

Your brow furrows from the noise Enjin makes—you’re not sure if he just laughed or snarled. But it's the only warning you get. 

Sliding down the sofa a bit, adjusting himself for stability, Enjin spreads his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he bullies his cock up into you like he's breaking in his own personal fleshlight.

All you can do is go slack, falling forward on his chest. His grip bruising your hips, not allowing you to run from the way his blunt cockhead plows into your womb like a battering ram. 

The couch beneath you groans, its frame creaking under the strain. The wood and leather protest like the entire thing might fall apart at any moment.

“Enjinnnnn, m’slowwww dowwwnnn!” 

Your cries only fuel his frenzy and Enjin knows from the way you’re gushing on him you can take it.

Fuck—this sweet lil’ pussy is just so good for him. Imagine if he never met you. 

If you never—

Enjin cuts the thought off cold. 

Moving before you can blink—your world flips. One second he’s pummeling up into you, the next you’re on your back. 

Enjin peels away his shirt, muscles flexing as he looms over you. His hands curl around your ankles to keep them pinned overhead. A single bead of sweat catches your bleary eyes as it slides down his bare chest, gliding over firm muscle. The bold ink patterns seem to come alive on his skin. He looks so fucking sexy right now and you can’t help but to shamelessly ogle him.

Yet, there’s something much too serious and somber about Enjin’s current demeanor. You’ve been staring at him far too long to go unnoticed. The highly expressive, sassy powerhouse is rarely this silent. He should be teasing you right now, asking some smartass shit like if you’re ‘enjoying the view’. 

“Enjin?”

Your sweet voice hits his ears and instantly you have his attention again. Enjin flashes you a pearly white smile.

“Heh, enjoy the break, Princess? You wont get another.”

Ignoring the question in your eyes, Enjin folds you into a mating press, thrusting to the hilt all in one motion. The sound of flesh lewdly slapping against flesh fills the room, as do your cries.

But there’s still something else burning in his eyes. Enjin knows it’s unfair not to be honest with you, but taking out his unspoken feelings on your pretty pussy is the only way he can express himself at the moment. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud creak followed by a decisive snap and two of the sofa’s legs give out. If your sweat and cum weren't like glue on the old leather you’d surely slide off head first. You yell out in alarm, but Enjin doesn’t give a fuck about the damn sofa.

His mood is still soured by the thought that wouldn’t be shaken away until he confronted it—

If you never fell.

But you did. He found you—and now that Enjin has you under him like this, he needs to fuck the point he’s concluded into you:

If Rudo ever finds a way to the Sphere, Enjin will personally travel there and see to your ex-husband himself. 

Hell, he might even rail you in front of him a few times—show him what a real man could do. Maybe even a real…husband?

If the sounds of sloshing fluids and skin slapping skin weren't ringing so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else, you would have thought Enjin had lost his mind with the way he was cackling above you.  He sounds completely deranged, laughing at the idea of him finally wanting to settle down all while continuing to pound you deeper into the broken sofa.

But despite being high off weed and your pussy, Enjin’s mind has never been more clear—he wants to lock you down.

“Hah… P-Princess, can ya feel me in your tummy? Right…” Enjin’s golden eyes lock on the ever-so-slightly distended bulge from the monstrous intrusion in your guts.

“....right, here.” 

Throwing your legs over his shoulders, his large hands splay across your sweat sheened belly. You’re squirming under the heat of Enjin sandwiching your guts between his palm and his cock. Its all far too much—you’re too full, unable to really focus on what Enjin’s saying.

“Ahh, E-Enj—m’ c-cum, g-gonna mmm…” you hiccup, swallowing your tears.

Your nails rake down his arm to ground yourself but your body is thrumming too hard, adrift in the rush rolling through every one of your wired nerves. Your tits bounce obscenely every time your velvety walls devour his cock back down to the base. Enjin’s pubic piercing bucking against your clit has you clutching onto his dick like you were about to break it off.

You feel so fucking good. Enjin desperately needs to feel you creaming on his cock, and you would be soon if your kitten nails raking down his arms– adding more red to his already inked skin– were any indication. 

“That’s it, Princess, hah—fuck, baby, I got you. Squirt for your Trash Daddy.”

As if on command, the knot inside you coils to its breaking point, prickling every nerve, releasing a warm rush of fluids. Your body tingling in ecstasy, you quickly tumble over your peak, eyes blinded by speckles of brightness as you cum.

Yet Enjin hasn't slowed, his continuous pounding forcing more of your cum and squirt to gush out of you—the melody of his now drenched balls colliding with your wet ass only growing loude

“Fuck, that’s it. Pussy cryin’ like she wants my cum, Princess…” 

You’re barely conscious from all the pleasure, eyes rolling back into your head. 

“She’s jealous that slutty throat of yours got all my cum, now it’s her turn to swallow, isn’t that right?”

It’s a rather roundabout way for Enjin to ask if he can nut inside you, but then again, he wasn’t really asking. The thought of breeding you makes him feral. 

“Ahh—f’nnghhhh!”

Non-verbal and fucked dumb, you’d probably agree to anything right now. You’re an utter mess–pussy stretched beyond anything you thought possible, face sticky with slobber rolling down to pool in the folds of your neck. 

“O’course it is…gonna dump all these trash babies into my princess’ sweet lil’ cunt.”

Although you are super turned on by the thought of Enjin breeding you, there's no way you have any idea how serious Enjin is about putting a baby in you. How could you? You don’t even realize the love confession his cock is professing to you.

“FUHHHH—take it!”

Enjin pumps thick ropes of his cum into your tummy as his body thrashes on top of yours. The primal intensity has you vibrating as another orgasm rips through your overstimulated and overworked pussy. Filled the brim, his spunk overflows, sploshing out of your pussy as he rocks his hips, urging his seed deeper to plant right in your womb.

In the afterglow, the two of you lie off-kilter in a tangled heap on the broken sofa. There’s blood rushing to your head— not the worst place for it, you think, all things considered. Enjin’s weight is heavy, his chest heaving into yours, warm and sticky as he wraps you in his arms. 

Just as you feel you both might drift off like this, Enjin stirs. Flinching, you whimper as Enjin wills himself up, his cock sliding out of your pussy with a squelchy suctioning noise. Your knees part for him with zero resistance as he inspects his handiwork, peeling apart your battered pussy lips to reveal your dug out slit. 

“Whewww,” Enjin whistles at the sight of the thick creampie glistening in your core. “All this cum your cute pussy pulled outta me—you’d think she was my jinki.”

Sober, you likely would have slapped him for referring to your pussy as his vital instrument. But ecstasy clouds your logic, so high off endorphins and other substances, you only giggle. It is kinda funny you suppose.

“Yeah—squirtin’ on command like that. Definitely an attack type.”

Spread open, the thick plug of spunk froths out of you. But Enjin simply tuts, pushing it right back in, not wanting to waste a single drop.

“Yeah, how about that, ’mma duel wielder! Yup, definitely gotta name ‘er now—what you thinkin’ I should call her, princess?”

Enjin sees the way your pretty cunny is twitching, and in his pussy drunk mind, it's an approval. The spasms that still quake through you are like tremors of Morse Code—your slutty pussy agreeing with him, begging for more. Flipping you over on your belly, Enjin is more than happy to fulfill any request of his new vital instrument.

“Got it! Cumbringer! The Umbreaker and The Cumbringer. Nice ring to ‘em, dont’cha think?”

Cumbringer!?

Later, you would definitely regret being so thoroughly fucked out of your mind you didn’t put a stop to this. Enjin is most definitely going to be insufferably proud of himself for the next 3-6 business weeks. He’d lord this over you and tease you with not-so-subtle hints around the rest of the cleaners. 

Yet, as Enjin is swabbing his huge cock through your folds, you feel the ache of loss in your core, wanting to be filled again and you can’t seem to find the fucks to care—you just needed more of his dick, like…now.

Pleased with your compliance, Enjin thumbs the dips at the small of your back, perching your ass up so your back arches real nice.

“Trash Daddy’s gonna take real good care of Cumbringer from now on, too. Make ‘er live up to the name.”

When Enjin pushes into you again, the new angle has him bullying against your g-spot with even more intensity than before. Seeing the way you jolt, he holds back from going as deep this time to directly abuse the spot. Slick runs down your legs and despite how slippery the ruined leather cushions are beneath you, Enjin still holds you firm as his cock sloshes through your ruined pussy.

“Say, how much anima you think is in my nut, Princess?”

You don’t respond but Enjin, proving to have the stamina of a beast, feels like he should give you at least two more doses just to be sure.

⛓

Fading in and out of a euphoric stupor, you’re unsure how much time passes. Absolutely cockdrunk, at some point, you’d simply just surrendered. Your pussy clearly has zero complaints about being a jinki for Enjin’s cock and you are too dumb once you get a lil dick to stop him.

Somehow, you’ve ended up folded over the wide coffee table. It’s unstable beneath you, but Enjin doesn’t seem to care what he breaks when he’s fucking you. He only moved from the sofa when the back of it finally broke.

Straining, you think you hear voices but everything feels so far away and fuzzy. The room gets darker and you realize Enjin’s thrown his coat over you. Still sheathed deep inside you, Enjin’s cock plants lazy kisses to your womb as he speaks rather casually to someone.

Hmm, did he get a call? Is that Semiu?

Semiu is likely calling, wondering why you both haven’t shown up to happy hour yet—shit. There’s no way you’re making it in this condition; your limbs are toast. You can’t even move the weight of Enjin's bulky jacket off of you, the heavy material trapping you in the humidity of your own breath and sweat. But in a way, the warmth is comforting. Your cheek resting against the wood, you allow the tent of muggy heat and his cock moving languidly inside you to lull you into complacency— in your delirium, everything feels like a nice dream.

Yet Enjin is fully alert, a shit eating grin on his face as he stares down Semiu and Gris who had just walked in on Enjin shamelessly beating your doonies down. Enjin only spared your modesty by covering you up, but he has no qualms with either Gris or Semiu seeing him in all his glory and doesn’t even bother pulling out of you.

A fact that is painfully clear as he pats the pockets of his jacket draped over you for his cigs—he might as well smoke if he’s giving you a break.

“I win,” Semiu turns to Gris, hand out expectantly.

Semiu’s cool expression never changes but there is amusement in her eyes as Gris fishes into his pockets and places a stack of bills into her hand.

“Tsk, damn…” Gris shakes his head, although he’s not shocked. 

The two of you are down so horrendously bad for each other that this should have happened long ago as far as everyone else was concerned. The tension has been at an unbearable level for those around you, the way the two of you picked at each other non-stop like a kid’s first crush.

Alas, you’re an airhead and Enjin is so stubborn he’s delusional. So the older Cleaner members couldn’t help, but place bets on when and where you and Enjin would finally slip between the sheets. Its a shame that you weren't in one of your beds right now--in between actual sheets--instead of the lounge becoming collateral damage.

“You know, after all the game you talked about winning your money back at poker tonight, Bro said you were a no-show because you knew you were gonna lose…” Gris eyes the boneless, quivering lump that is you under Enjin’s jacket. 

Enjin really did a number on you. Your nonsensical babbles pouting for Enjin to ‘make sure to tell Semiu to bring you back some fries from the bar’ obviously means you have no idea that they are actually in the room.

“But it looks like you have your ‘ace in the hole' for an entirely different game.”

Enjin chortles. His hips stutter forward a bit too hard and you squeak in protest, he just hushes you.

“Awe, so you came back all this way to check-up on us? How sweet,” Enjin says sarcastically, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Hardly. Rudo accidentally chugged an entire beer he thought was soda—then proceeded to throw it all up over Zanka,” Semiu says flatly. 

Enjin attempts to hold back his laughter as Semiu continues with a sigh. She explains thatGris helped carry Rudo back, promptly putting his little blacked out ass to bed. Zanka locked himself in the bathroom immediately upon returning.

“Although they're sure to be occupied for the rest of the night, since the kids are back in the building you need to wrap this shit up Enjin—she looks like she could use the break anyway.”

Semiu casts a sympathetic look your way. She did warn you about Enjin though, so he was your mess to deal with now. 

“Sure thing,” Enjin says, patting your form underneath his coat, “I’ve trained my new jinki well enough for tonight.” 

Semiu takes one look at the absolutely diabolical grin on Enjin’s face and decides she's already had enough of his shit for the night.

She sighs again. “Just hurry it up, alright?”

Enjin gives Semiu a cheeky salute. Yet the second her back is turned, Enjin mimes a dramatic chef’s kiss to the air for Gris. Enjin’s eyes roll back like he’s just had the best meal of his life. 

Gris snorts, shooting him a wink and a thumbs-up for a ‘job well done’ like a proud teammate before heading out of the room as well.

“One more thing.”

Semiu pauses in the doorway, hands resting on the double doors, surveying the crime scene-like state of the lounge. The sofa is toast, the coffee table’s on life support, and there's a growing puddle under you, spilling over to slowly drip off its edge onto the floor.

“If you’re just going to recklessly rawdog her, at least get her on the pill. Alice can sort that out tomorrow—right after you replace every piece of furniture you’ve both annihilated.”

Enjin simply shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“I suppose…we can stop by Alice’s too.” 

Semiu just rolls her eyes, only to wrinkle her nose as a wave of stale air wafts by.

“And for the love of god—crack a window. Smells like fresh ass in here.”

Once the doors finally click shut, Enjin rips his jacket off of you and smiles. You’re still blissed out in lalaland while your pussy, Cumbringer, is clenching around him like she has one more go left in her.

Grabbing your arm, he pulls you up. Still sheathed inside you, he sits back on his knees, bringing you with him, your back pressed against his chest.

“Mmmm—*yawns* Was that Semiu on the call, Enj?”

Call? Oh, heh.

“Ha, yeah baby girl, just Semiu on the line,” Enjin lies too easily. 

It’s for your own benefit though–no need to ruin your bliss with anything silly like embarrassment or shame from being walked-in on. Hell, unless Semiu says something, Enjin might be able to get away with not ever telling you.

“She said they ran outta fries though. I’ll get ya some later, yeah? Jus’ need Cumbringer to clock in one more time, Princess...”

Enjin rocks his hips with yours in a slow wave and your pout melts, no longer caring about the fries. Your head tips back onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you.

“Ah, mmmm, b-but—ngnh!  She mentioned something about hotdogs and getting pills tomorrow? Is that a mission?”

Enjin hums to keep from laughing as he turns your face towards him. He smirks devilishly against your lips.

Distracting you with sweet chaste kisses, Enjin rubs gentle circles over your womb. You’re gonna be so fucking hot waddling around HQ in your slutty ass uniform, tits leaking and belly full with his brats. 

The only pill he’d get from Alice would be a fertility pill.

“Nothing my slutty baby girl or my Cumbringer gotta worry about, Princess. Leave everything t’me.”

𝐚𝐧: ahh tysm for reading, especially if you are new to my writing. enjin brain rot is lethal. i needed to get this outta my system! jjk girlies forgive me for straying from my wip list and kinktober lol. definitely down to write more of him. i have a p2 and another enjin story (an AU) idea. but i have to focus on my jjk kinktober now! ♡

His back would usually be the most of him you saw when it was the two of you alone. Red sears staring you in the face, angry bumps raised in the discoloration. His hair would be loose across his pillow and he’d have an ashtray propped beneath his cheek just to nurse a cigarette without spilling ashes on his pillow case. Smoking as he thought. Thinking as he smoked. And you would be petrified that any moment could be the one where he blew smoke out to say: Get out.

Marinating in the silence, you studied how his shoulders rose as he inhaled. How the smoke plumed over his head like a fire sparked between the vastness parting his ears. After all, how could anyone have a brain and still find themselves in his position (you contemplate, solely to comfort the fact that you are in yours)?

Between your thighs is pure stickiness, like a hard candy stuck to the counter. All sweetness stale. Not even the damp sweat slathered along your inner thighs is wet enough to pry them open and roll over the edge of the mattress. The dreaded sensation of peeling raw skin apart locks you in the same position Aki dropped you in when he first left to urinate. He had returned minutes later with a loose pair of plaid blue boxers low on his chiseled hips, cigarette hanging from his dry mouth as he scratched his stomach.

“Shouldn’t you piss?” he asked. Trampling over your strewn clothes to grab his ashtray and slide back between the tousled sheets.

“I don’t have to,” you shrugged lamely. Your stomach was entirely dull, no irritating buzzing from your bladder to be felt.

Aki made a small hum of acknowledgement before rolling his back toward you.

That was a few minutes ago. You languish in shock he hadn’t asked you to go yet.

When the trysts first began, Aki was prompt. Fuck, cum, bathroom, leave. Few minutes could be spared between steps as far as he was concerned.

You blink at his back. Eyes totally dry. So dry they burn when they’re open.

Maybe at this point he assumes you’ll assume all you had left to do was leave.

Aki’s head slowly turns over his shoulder, now you realize the smoke has gone out, he finds you still wide-eyed at his blank plain of pale skin. He moves to flatten across his side of the bed, pausing when he notices your hand limp where his shoulder would go. His eyes narrow slightly.

You draw your hand to your chest and he resumes motion. Your eyes suddenly find your hair unwound across the pillow more interesting than his sharp face. Angled jaw and low eyes survey your curled posture, surmising you truly hadn’t moved at all. His expression doesn’t change whatsoever.

Aki stares. His eyes feel good. Your cheeks radiate warmth and you have to catch your bottom lip in your teeth to keep from smiling. You can’t even bring yourself to match in case that startles him, in case the truth that you’re human too is frightening. You push hair from your face and bat your eyes, all too sweetly.

He catches the coyness instantly. His chest tightens.

You must catch the stutter in his breathing because your gaze does rise then. Just below his chin.

Aki swallows harshly, your eyes following the bob in his throat. His brows crease. Two harsh words dangle in the back of his throat, so automatic they feel as natural as hello, but this is a specialness all your own. A greeting so inverted it almost feels like he hates you. He stops himself, biting his tongue hard enough to feel the muscle sovereignly attempt wriggling away.

When you bravely match Aki’s stare, you think you see something wimpier than affection. Something mushy from rot and putrid in its unwantedness.

Pity.

Aki remembers how Himeno used to be the first one staring from her side of the bed. His lips begin trembling so he quickly tilts his head away to cough, sneaking a hand up to snag his ash tray. Then rattling around his nightstand’s open drawer. Fishing out two more cigarettes, he settles the tray in the center of his chest. Aki slots his fresh cig between his lips and holds the second one toward you.

You open your mouth, he sighs and shakes it between your eyes. You return the sigh and slither a hand from where it’s coiled in your stomach to take the roll. Orange filter in your mouth.

“Got a light?” your voice is cracked, throat dryer than the wasteland between your legs.

He charitably lights yours first. You suck down a lethal eighth off the bat, coughing just to have a reason for wet eyes.

Aki actually snorts at your fit as you ash your cigarette. Tapping the slender paper twice over the rim of his tray, grey cinder scattering upon where ‘姫+ア’ is carved in the bottom of the bowl. Pink acrylic hearts dance around either character. Himeno marked it up without asking, which makes Aki want to devour his cigarette whole and burn holes in his throat because he feels he should’ve known better. The entire time, he should’ve known the awful thing was always staring him in the face from her side of the bed.

Silence fills the room faster than the smoke, no matter how short the spaces between your drags are. Nothing beats Aki’s cool demeanour, even as he saves a final puff of the butt to relight later. No doubt just to put out against the other side of the pillow you’re resting on. Even when you discovered the black and brown circular scorches, he waved it away without a drop of sweat and said he had ‘a thing’.

“Does it really help you feel better?” you blurt.

“Better than this,” he raises the arm hidden at his other side to expose a glinting, fainting pink, circular scar. Aki already has another dart lit in his mouth, anything to sting harsher than the part of his brain telling him he’s still at fault, “Denji said if I did it again, he’d just kill me.”

“Who the fuck is Denji?”

“Oh, yeah,” Aki realizes you may be his only friend that had yet to meet the fabled Denji or Power, “My stepbrother.”

“You have a stepbrother?”

“And sister.”

“What the hell, Aki?” he pushes his head back at the sound of his name, sinking into his own pillow as if to block his ears, “We didn’t meet just yesterday… what’s with springing that on me?”

“We don’t talk like that anymore,” he reminds you.

As swiftly as fresh air filled your lungs, nicotine punches it out.

It takes four-hundred and fifteen days to meet Denji with zero minutes wasted trying to know him.

Denji opens the door to Aki’s apartment while you’re pocketing a brand new pack of the man’s favorite smokes. Plastic-wrapped with the receipt and everything, the classiest gift you have the guts to give.

His eyes scan your body, decently hidden by a plain shirt and summer shorts, not that it stops him, “Who’re you?”

Beside you, your roommate -and gateway person to the very Hayakawa- Asa frowns with crossed arms, “Let us in, Denji, it’s hot in the hallway.”

“Hot in here, too,” he grumbles back but steps aside, eyes following you as you pass, “Seriously though, who’s this?”

You pass him without thinking of how insultingly he refers to you, walking straight for Aki once your shoes are slipped off. Aki raises a brow while eyeing the hand visibly bulging in your pocket.

Grinning, you have to calm your shaking hand enough to wrap around the box before presenting the pack, “Ta-da!”

It still shakes in your palm. Nerves alight at the fact Aki’s attention is on you rather than the listless, diaphanous leering you’ve grown accustomed to.

“Don’t tell me I got you addicted,” his droning tone wouldn’t give it away, but you pride yourself on knowing he was joking.

“Not yet,” you stuff the box in his hand.

From across the apartment, staggering by the front door, Denji huffs, “Damn… don’t tell me he’s got her around his finger…”

“Don’t talk like that,” Asa’s scowl deepens, head drooping toward one shoulder to watch you interact with Aki. Pigtails hanging down her back, “I guess it looks like that. But don’t say it, it’s mean.”

“Right,” Denji does not make a mental note of Asa’s derision, “Too bad, Asa, your roommate is pretty cute.”

She groans aloud, forlorn expression deepening to genuine irritation as she bemoans, “Why can’t you men just leave her alone?”

“You not hear me or something?” Denji closes one eye, holding his hand up as if to stage you in the distance, “She’s cute as hell.”

Twelve years, eight months, one week, and five days ago, Denji barely knew Aki’s name. Referring to him solely by ‘topknot’ because of the trendy updo his new stepbrother sat at the very top of his skull. Power would comment, between fits of giggles, that he appeared to have an antenna. Though the paintbrush ponytail never faded (excluding the brief time in high school where Aki shaved his head bald), it did get centimeters lower to avoid looking as alien.

“Show him around school,” Aki’s mother would advise, her brows knotted in the center of her face, “He’s never been before…”

“Never been…? Like at all?” Aki scoffed, “Who the hell is their dad? Why’d you marry that guy?”

She had no answer at the time, or any time after, only chastising his language before waving the pair off to catch their train. Power was still very light despite being four years old, she fit into the groove of her stepmother’s hip as easily as a baby. Taiyo (my real brother Aki thought back then) prodded her tiny foot from behind his mother, laughing when she squealed with rage. Power merely babbled with the same vocabulary as a baby as well.

“Are there any girls there?” Denji asked as soon as it was him and Aki alone on the train. They sit hip-to-hip with their backpacks in their laps.

Aki had both arms crossed around the blue bag, practically hugging it to his chest as he rolled his eyes, “Duh.”

Denji had one hand loosely wrapped around the strap of his own red pack, it dangled over the edge of his seat, “Oh…” he nodded silently, seeming to perk up at the information, “Are they cute?”

“I guess,” Aki shrugged, his mind wandering through the girls in his class. A few had short bobs that ended just below their chins which he thought were charming, but nobody particularly caught his eye, “Not that cute. It’s just school anyway, who cares?”

“I do!” Denji hissed, a few older men in suits glanced at the boys from their peripherals- Aki attempted shushing him, but Denji persisted, “I gotta find a new girlfriend.”

“New girlfriend?” Aki outright scoffed, “You’ve never even talked to a girl.”

“I totally have, jerk-face,” Denji was snarling at the older boy then, jagged teeth exposed, “Her name was Makima, and she wasn’t just cute. She was hot!”

“Then where is she now? When will I meet her, huh?”

“You’ll never meet her- I knew her before our parents got married!” red stained the entirety of Denji’s face, his voice elevating as he balled his little hands tighter and tighter until each knuckle was pearly white with pressure, “Makima was my girlfriend before we met!”

“Okay, okay,” having sensed more eyes on them than before, Aki contended, “Makima. Sure… your girlfriend.”

“I need a new one now. Makima said boys need girlfriends because they make us happy.”

“And do they?” Aki once again had rolled his eyes, pure sarcasm rippling through his question.

But Denji nodded wholeheartedly, “Nobody made me happier than Makima. She was great.”

“Then why aren’t you with her?” Aki considered how much simpler the rest of his life could be without the addition of some strangers living in his house. Sleeping where only him and Taiyo should sleep and eating where only him and Taiyo should eat. And worst of all, putting their dirty, stinking clothes in the closet only his dad should be putting his clothes in.

“Oh,” Denji hummed, the most ripe frown Aki had ever seen suddenly appeared over the boy’s face, “She got taken away. That’s why my dad met your mom.”

Aki’s mother had been a prosecutor half a year ago before abruptly being terminated. Aki wasn’t sure why yet, but his stomach twisted at that.

At the time, however, he could only shake his head, “Well, you’re probably not finding another one at school. The girls there don’t even look at boys.”

Barely two days after first seeing you, Denji finds you on his brother’s doorstep again. Hair lobbed to your chin and lips painted with shiny, reddish gloss that made them look like fresh wet cherries.

“Is Aki home?” you even smell like cherries.

Aki came to the door, silently padding up behind Denji. He pauses once his eyes meet your face. Halting almost cartoonishly, one heel angled forty-five degrees in the air and both arms mid-swing, he lets out an unintentioned ‘ughhhhhh’ under his breath.

“You like?” you beam, hands bound behind your back. Palms sweating down your fingers which are knotted together seven times over. Your smile wobbles when Aki hesitates.

“It. Looks…” Aki’s nod is stunted, “Looks good.”

“Ha!” you cough out, arms straining behind you as you wrangle your own fingers frantically, knees jellied, “Jeez, try to sound more convincing, will you?”

“I like it,” Denji slices the aggravated energy between you, focused solely on your creased face as he spoke, “I think you’re cute.”

“Ah, thanks,” shit- you curse yourself- what was his name again? Dengen? Dempei? Dempei feels familiar… but not quite right for his face. Maybe his parents were attempting to be bold with Demi? You smile tighter, “Thanks!”

Considering he’s never mentioned the man before, you wonder if forgetting his stepbrother’s name is something Aki deems a deal breaker.

Asa wanders up, mouthing at you, ‘did he like it?’

She thinks she is hiding her disappointment in you, but no amount of her subpar acting can conceal her relief when you subtly shake your head. Her shoulders loosen and a visible sigh passes through her entire body. You ignore the pang. You ignore how it’s well-deserved.

“Denji,” Asa sighs again, but now the stress seems to re-enter her body with the act, “You’re still here?”

Denji! You ignite, rolling the name -Denji, Denji, Denji- in your head while staring at the man.

“I live here now,” he mumbles with a peace sign up at his side, “You don’t seem happy to see me, what gives?”

Aki snorts at the interaction, staunchly avoiding your direction as he watches the two. Later he will find you alone on the couch and whisper so just the two of you hear over the sound of Denji and Asa bickering which movie to play next,

“You should grow your hair out.”

And you will helplessly nod. Itching for a cigarette.

“Fine!” Asa shoots up from where her and Denji were crouched around the player, hands in the air, “Put whatever you want on, I’m getting a drink…” she spots you and Aki and calls your name, almost timidly, “Want to come with?”

“Uhh, sure…”

You pitter after Asa, imaginary collar swelling with sweat as you flush right behind her into the narrow kitchen doorway. She cautiously pops the fridge door open and hums at your friends’ selection of drinks, brows furrowed, “No water.”

Your own brows curl, confused, “Why are you looking for water?”

“I don’t want soda…” she mumbles, “It rots your teeth.”

“We have toothbrushes at home, you know?”

“They’re too sugary…” sugar which also happens to rot your teeth.

“What about electrolytes, they’re more hydrating than water, right?” you suggest, squeezing beside your roommate to observe each grated shelf, “Aki usually has some Pocari in the fridge.”

“Does he? And I don’t think they’re really more hydrating than water, and it tastes weird anyway,” Asa argues, even though her hand does reach for a bright blue bottle of ion rich Pocari Sweat. She swirls it in her hand while scavenging one last hopeful time to ensure she fully cannot find a single plain bottled water. Once the dismay has truly sealed she moves to shut the fridge before pausing, “Oh, did you want a drink, too? Sorry, I should’ve actually asked…”

“It’s fine, yeah, I guess I’m thirsty…” you mentally blot the Pocari Sweat out of sight before snagging an orange soda from the back of the bottom shelf. Something you’re sure doesn’t belong to Aki, who exists in the same mindset as Asa that sugar is nasty.

Returning to the crowded den, you call over Asa’s shoulder that, “We raided your fridge!”

Aki’s head swings over first, eyes burning at the can in your hand before floating toward the bottle in Asa’s. He shrugs, “Take it.”

“Uhm, Denji…?” you test the new name out -it rolls off smoother than a yawn- kneeling beside him in front of the television. His baggy house pants falling below the thread-stripped band of his boxers.

He was fumbling with the DVD tray before you waltzed over, a disc upside down hanging off the edge of the tray. Immediately he hones in on the soda already dripping condensation down your fingers.

Making friends with his awkward stepbrother has to be something Aki would look for in a girlfriend, right? It certainly feels correct to think so.

“I stole a soda, is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he agrees breathlessly, “totally fine,” the soft lull in your voice was so adorable he could have exploded, “Take whatever, I don’t care.”

“Thanks,” you smile at him again, “You’re nice, Denji.”

When his heart skips a beat, Denji thinks exploding may be more likely than fiction. He nods dumbly.

“Did you want help with that, by the way?” you offer gently, pointing at the DVD he’s picked up.

It now shakes in his hands. Rainbow pattern bouncing from the open window and onto the wall from its holographic surface. His profile hollows out the colorful lines, his heaving chest exaggerated within the shadow.

“I’m fine,” embarrassment floods him at the idea of being unable to put on a movie for you. Surely, you would never look twice at a guy that can’t even work a disc player.

“Sure you are,” you set the soda on the rug and carefully take the DVD anyway, fingertips spread around the edge to avoid smearing the reflective underside, “Then can I just do it because I really like to?”

Denji falls back, “I guess if you really like to.”

“I do,” you place the disc down and use your thumbs to gingerly pop it into place, bracing the thin tray’s frame from below with your other fingers. Once DOKURO: Act 1 is in place, you hit the little insert button and wait for the telltale whir of the tray being sucked inside before grabbing the movie case, “What’re we watching?”

The back synopsis simply reads: ‘A school is preparing to perform Romeo and Juliet and then things go wrong.’

Before you can analyze the television’s menu screen of high school girls holding each other a tad too close, Denji admits, “It’s pretty bad, but it’s got girls and a masked guy.”

Just as you nod, Aki interrupts. Marching over from the couch to eject the movie, “Absolutely not, why’d you even bring that here?!”

“I love this movie,” Denji pouts, “Why wouldn’t I bring it?”

“Watch it when nobody else is here,” Aki slams the DVD back in its case, not particularly caring if he scratches or cracks it, “Better yet, get your own TV to watch it, too!”

“Is it so bad?” you ask.

“So bad that I’m picking the movie now,” you guess that is as solid as confirmation comes from Aki with that statement.

Denji offers you the black plastic case, spine up, to point at a topless actress. Snickering.

“Oh,” you get it now. Bad enough that Aki has to pick the movie. You retrieve your soda and stand, “You’re just a big perv aren’t you, Denji?”

He shrugs, eyes dipping to your knees. He ponders if you know he can see up your skirt when you’re standing. Most likely not, he reasons as you turn to sit beside Asa again without flattening any fabric to your thighs.

“I see why you don’t like him that much,” you confess, voice low to avoid Denji overhearing.

Asa’s lips thin, she glances at him, “I like him… but… yep. Let that tell you something.”

As if rehearsed from how expected your response was, you casually shrug, “Eh. He seems nice otherwise.”

Denji is so nice, he proves, by offering to throw your empty soda can away for you when you’ve tapped the fizz dry. He even asks if he can grab you another. But once he’s around the corner, he’s running the pad of his thumb where your lip gloss cakes the mouth piece. He smears its weathered, pinkish stain across the upper shoulder and sticks his thumb in his mouth to suck off the residue. Faint cherry scent invades his nostrils first, it grows when he holds the can’s rim against his nose and inhales noisily. When the scent alone is too little for his raring heart, Denji replaces the thumb in his mouth with the can’s lip.

His tongue dances over the sharp tear line. Orange soda droplets linger there, watered down by what he hopes is spit. He scrapes his teeth over the aluminum to collect your gelled gloss stain in his mouth.

Cradling the can to his chest, Denji mourns the fate of this wasted aluminum as he would a true friend. So he resorts to stuffing it under his shirt at his stomach, the metal warm from his clammy hands, a plan rapidly spinning behind his eyes to avoid being caught for creeping.

Denji runs at you with apologetic groans once he finally returns, a fresh soda slamming onto the table in front of you while he holds his stomach with the other hand. Agony, apparently, riddling him as he wails, “Gotta shit, be back!”

“O-okay?” you murmur, following his back as he runs down the hall.

“Gross!” Aki jeers while Asa gags.

Ducking past the bathroom door, Denji sneaks into his room and slides the can beneath his pillow for safe keeping. Then, because his bladder suddenly does feel bloated, Denji retreats to the toilet in sincerity.

Past midnight, Aki declared, is far too late to have you and Asa traveling back home alone. Denji agrees. Asa, who you know keeps a switchblade in her skirt pockets and her house key tucked between her fingers walking the city at any time of day, also agreed. To you, it was a no-brainer. Easiest access you’ll have to Aki’s bedroom after a group movie night ever.

While Aki, the ever gracious host, laid down a thick comforter on the floor you two locked eyes. You raised eyebrows high enough to nearly touch your hairline and put out a thumb, slowly flipping it from upright to down. Aki pursed his lips as he contemplated, it took only a few seconds -which truly dragged like the most grueling hour of your life- for him to nod twice.

By two in the morning, you’re naked in Aki’s sheets with a shiny red lighter flickering in your hand. Extending the open flame, you watch Aki’s eyes dazzle along your curves while weighing the consequences of eating from your palm. An exchange of bodily fluids is so much less tender than letting you light his cigarette, after all.

Brief consideration lulls by, pregnant with build and sentiment before Aki simply snatches your light in his own hand, “Thanks.”

“You can keep that one.”

“It wasn’t already mine?” he turns his back to you while searching for a shirt not marred with your lip print around the collar.

“I dunno,” you roll up to the edge of his mattress, hand hovering the wood floor for your own scattered clothing, “It was in my pocket. Did I steal it?”

“Yeah,” he barks a laugh at you, “Since when do you smoke?”

“Been looking good since we met.”

Aki, fully dressed, plops onto the corner of his bed to watch you slip on your underwear, “I’m a bad influence on you.”

“You really are.” You never did things like this before meeting Aki.

“Uh-huh…” his sense of responsibility draws him to then wistfully stare at his door. Across the hall is Asa -snoring ignorantly on his couch with sunken springs and coffee stains- and to his right, separated by the bath, is Denji’s room. Perhaps on the surface, tension is tight enough to keep his mistakes from appearing as messy as they are, but beneath every overlooked impropriety the social ecosystem grows fragile.

He’s a few years your senior. He’s more Asa’s friend than your own, he could hurt her if she discovered how he lies with you. Denji stares at you in a way Aki hasn’t caught since they were in junior high and the girls started experiencing puberty. Aki will hurt Denji with this. Then you.

Aki meets your dewy eyes. He refuses to acknowledge the way he is hurting you. It hurts the gaping, bloody hole in his chest too much to think of you, “Nobody can know about this, right?”

As the eldest, by a mild few years, it is his duty to maintain the group order. You’re really sick of it. You think it’s his worst trait ever.

“It’d be easier if we didn’t have to do that…” his sullen face is stone, “Don’t you like me?” you ask.

Aki rubs a hand around the back of his neck, “Yeah, why else would I let you hang around my apartment?”

“No, Aki,” you sit up, clinging to his sheet and stuffing it under either arm like a scratchy tube top. As if it can preserve modesty or dignity now. You repeat, “Do you like me?”

“Knock it off,” he begs, no longer able to look any higher than the shirt lumped in your lap.

“I’m smart, I’m fun- you laugh with me, right? Don’t you like me?”

Aki’s hands brush through his undone hair, pulling over his ears like he could sham abrupt deafness. Almost instantly he drops that facade and twists to stare you down. Jaw firm, eyes lacking their sardonic sheen you enjoyed studying when he kicked you into his bedroom. His shoulders raise, bracketing both ears, then go dead.

“Why don’t you like me?” you whine.

“I do. We’re friends,” he responds casually. And brutally. Then shrugging a second time as if it’s normal. He looks you over as you fall onto your back.

Aki's schoolyard girlfriend in junior high had a bowl cut. His first kiss as a second year in Forth East High had black hair that barely touched her shoulders with blunt bangs she might’ve been trimming at home. His first first had a bob shorter in the back that followed her jawline, slowly getting longer but still never touching her collarbone. Aki blinks and sees Himeno.

Himeno.

Aki blinks.

He sees Himeno. She’s on her side and smiling like everything is still the same.

He sees you, trimmed ends flared across the pillow. Himeno.

Making out his wide eyes through the dark, you scoff, “Do you like it now?”

Aki is stunned, immobile except to mutter, “You should really grow out your hair.”

Regaining sense in his limbs, Aki reclines and rolls onto his side, then curling in half like a fetus.

Another barely audible mutter is the last you receive of him that night, “Asa might notice you're gone…”

You withhold the argument that ‘Asa knows’ because you can already see it would change nothing. Could even make everything worse; per the agreement of no survivors, Asa knowing blows his entire secrecy plan out of the water. So you comply, slowly redressing and mentally replaying every romantic movie’s climax where the man will dramatically cry for his love interest to stop, to stay, to hear him out. You do this knowing Aki would never.

Cracking his door just enough to slip out, you’re greeted by Denji standing only two-and-a-half steps back from you. You slip the door shut before seething, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Denji stutters, taking that last half step backward, “I was- I was- thirsty!” he raises a pointed finger, it’s shaking so bad it can’t stay in your face long enough for his own accusation, “Wh- what about you, h-huh?”

Now your own lack of a lie becomes apparent. You wordlessly blink at Denji’s flushed face for a near minute before stupidly saying, “I… had a question?”

He couldn’t possibly call you out without exposing himself in the process. So he just bops his head as if he believes you, “Okay.”

“Okay,” you copy, surprising yourself with how calmly you feel about the scenario. You’ve done nothing wrong- sex between adults is not a crime. You and Denji are not dating. Denji is the criminal here ten times out of ten, and yet you’re letting him stiffly turn and skulk back into his room (no drink in hand, you note).

The easy answer is how Aki would feel, knowing Denji knows, but the more difficultly excused one is the more honest. You’re really considering how long he was out here, how if he stuck out the whole time maybe he thought you sounded pretty.

You’re sick. You go to sleep pretty well that night after sneaking back into Aki’s room and taking a sweatshirt. You stuff it under your pillow for safe keeping.

By next week, Aki had said one word to you:

“Bye,” when he closed the door after you and Asa walked out, the lock loudly clicked into place before you two could even step away.

Three days and ten hours later, you’re deranged on the subway home from a failed quest to visit the Hayakawa apartment. You hadn’t made it onto the second stop forward before cowardice consumed.

Old women simply have no control over their own eyes when they see their juniors being idiots. Maybe one day you will be able to do the same, if you ever make it out of the dark, cycling pit Aki seems to have you trapped within. And if the tear-stained collar of your stolen prize doesn’t choke you to death first, then your prospects will certainly go up.

A hiccup escapes your bulbed throat, barely caught in time in your elbow as a scrambled effort to pretend you aren’t crying in the middle of a subway car with other women. Both hands tighten around the shiny gold pole keeping you upright. Squeezing until you feel the skin harden as it stretches, scabbing over in crusty white reminders of your crude stupidity. On the toe of your blurry sneakers lands a watery splotch. The sneakers get a little clearer with each new stain. You sniffle.

When you arrive at the landing for your unit’s floor, the release in your gut can’t be called relief. What has settled there is still sore, just not as throbbing . It still feels hot enough to kill you.

Until you turn the final corner to your sacred door. Sight of another person, let alone him, makes your intestinal tracts cramp up in one stabbing sensation.

Messy orange hair poofs between two arms, rested parallel over his bent knees. Sweatpants a darker grey than the shirt you don, his own shirt is not a centimeter spared of wrinkles which you can see all the more clearly because it’s starch white. At his bouncing feet lies a black book with gold characters engraved across the spine.

“Denji?” you croak. Rubbing your eyelashes apart where soggy mascara glued them together. It feels silly; are you trying to appear more sane to Denji of all people?

“Hey!” he flies up at your voice -book so forgotten he accidentally kicks it as he darts toward you. Two hands finding your biceps, “I was looking for you! …were you crying?”

“You were looking for me?” you shrug off his hold and slip your key into the door, glumly wandering inside while Denji follows.

“Yeah, I knocked and asked if you were here. Asa said ‘no’ so I just waited outside and now you’re here,” he explains it as if you’re going to go ‘a-ha! total sense!’. Before that can (or would ever) happen, Denji suddenly remembers he left something outside, “Oh, shit, her book.”

As surely as you watch him whirl around and head for the door, you’re certain he will welcome himself back inside. So you turn and find your bedroom exactly as you left it. Much nicer clothes litter the carpet, all tried on and thrown off and tried again and thrown once more in favor of…

You make the fatal mistake of gazing into your vanity mirror.

A grey sweatshirt, with wide-legged jeans. Both too large for your frame and making it apparent that you have extra shame stowed where other girls might not. Bad luck seems to wave from your hunched form, and at one point you had been sure it was your younger self that cared more. Recently, you teased the idea of not craving a warm body so much anymore but on days as grey as this you can’t help the way you immediately deflate. A shriveled wail is met violently with both of your hands slapped over your shamed face, soaking and streaked with black dye. You allow another sob to hotly waft into your palms before inhaling sharply.

Worming the pants down around your ankles, you kick them off like an unruly child and send them far into the corner of your bedroom. You peel the shirt off similarly, clenching your eyes shut until your humiliated hunchback is facing the mirror so you’re not cursed with looking at yourself.

Unfortunately, you find a less cursory, more bizarre, sight upon turning. You haven’t fully made eye contact to confirm, but you’re 99.9% and nine out of ten optometrists convinced that Denji’s face is smushed against the floor outside your door. As if he could crush his cheekbones into the wood as fair trade just to peek at your body. He has come so close that his hair even passes beneath the undercut.

Against what you know you should be thinking, the attention doesn’t feel too bad.

If you made a show of catching him, if you screamed then Asa would hear, and she’d humiliate him. And she’d tell Aki and he may even disown his own brother, and you could ruin his feeble social life. Denji has to know that. He has to simply not care enough. Instead wholeheartedly believing the sight of you is more important than the relationships he spent years moulding before you two had ever met.

So unclasping your bra is now a special occasion, unhooking with one hand while the other pushes the cups up. Holding the worn, stretched, decidedly unsexy and sweat-into beige material against your breasts as if it were a lavish corset. As if.

Waiting to drop it until you’ve found another shirt, your own shirt, to tug on -- getting the aged cotton just over your nipples before dropping the bra. Clinging over the round well, your ancient high school band shirt rests more effectively as an extreme crop exposing just beneath your areola. Feining frustration, you huff and drag both hands along your sides to wrench the shirt down your midriff; both tits wholly squeezed into the old shirt.

Now comes the more difficult act: removing your underwear without showing anything censored in porno.

You find blue shorts hanging out of a half-thrown drawer. One leghole stretched over the handle and the other limp, almost scaled to the floor. The material is soft, it waves in your hands so wildly you have to brace yourself against your dresser to keep from tipping over. A slow breath almost proves standing on one foot to be possible. You breathe until you feel physically stable, all the oxygenized parts of your brain solely responsible for maintaining your upright position.

Fully slating yourself into the hard corner of your dresser, you slip one leg after the other into your shorts. While both hands are at your hips, you curl them under your shorts to peel down your underwear. Plain. Plain white with discharge discoloring that makes you ashamed to be alive all over again.

Surprisingly, you see that Denji hasn’t lost interest, but shoves himself into the door with a rattle inadvertently encouraging you to swallow the shame. Freeing one leg from the cotton cufflinks so you can drop the garments around your other ankle and step free. Denji’s labored breaths from beneath the door sing his appreciation. You can hear his gulped saliva from across the room.

Carpet burns your soles as you blister to the door, slowly enough that Denji has time to snap out of his mental replays and clamber onto two feet. His socks don’t match. One is black and the other is white. You choose to stare at that when the door opens.

You clear your throat, no phlegm, all nerves, “Did you seriously wait outside my door the whole time?”

He might know you know. He might not. You don’t know if his response would change, “I was peeking, actually.”

He laughs at the end like it was a joke. He might be trying to make you call him out, prove that you know he knows you know he’s gross. But as far he needs to be sure he knows, he is just flat out gross.

“Ew. Better not,” you swat, his arm is burning hot, “You’re on thin ice already, you know?”

Denji peers effortlessly over your shoulder, “Your room is pretty dirty.”

“God, thanks, I’m- !” doing great and that makes me feel better

He doesn’t let you finish, “Want me to clean it?”

“Huh?” you lower your head, whispering as if a camera crew is hidden around the corner, “Why?”

It’s hard to read his eyes when he refuses to look at you directly, focusing on the spiral of clothes and shoes.

“You’ve been bummed lately,” he no longer waits for an answer, using the book -you now recognize as Asa’s- to suade you aside. He uses it to weigh you against your door as he enters.

Cradling Asa’s book seems to make up for the rocks in your gut that all dropped to your feet at his answer. Denji scoops up shirts and skirts and shorts by the armful, laying pants over both shoulders. Pajamas on the right, jeans or corduroy or denim on the left. He lays what he snatches on your bed in even piles, going as far as pulling the cloth taught to prevent further wrinkling. An odd courtesy you doubt he provides himself.

Of course, he makes his way to the pair you striped only minutes ago. Lingering as if you aren’t actively watching his hands twitch over the garment.

“I guess I’ll give Asa her book back,” it’s definitely not permission.

“Forgot about that, thanks,” Denji says, rolling your underwear in tight, neat bundles. His thumbs caress each different fabric (the waistbands, the butts, the seats, and you assume the inside of the seat when you weren’t in the room), leaving each one sated for affection, “Aki asked me to return it, but I wanted to see you before I left.”

“Sure,” you don’t say anything except, “Thanks, Denji.”

He nods. Not looking at you yet. It makes your skin crawl, the fact he won’t just look at you. He liked doing it so much before, what’s changed now? Why are you different now-

You turn and walk out to slide the thin book beneath Asa’s door.

As you expect, the plain pair is miraculously missing from your underwear pile when you return. The only pair missing, might you add. Among exposed thongs and uncomfortable lacey pieces, he has the grossest thing visibly bulging, waded up in his pocket.

“That shirt, the one you had on, it -euh- it smells familiar,” he nods at the sweatshirt you pried off, now resting in the corner. You don’t remember it being so far away.

Sweeping the floor, you confirm it to be the last article needing picked up, “Did it?”

Denji looks down at his knees, grinding the caps together, squishing an imaginary head to death between his thighs, “I know what that jerk’s cologne smells like.”

Between clenched teeth, you choke, “Do you?”

“It’s a more expensive version of the one I got him once. It smells worse because it kind of stings, doesn’t it? How you can tell there’s a million chemicals all jammed up in there…”

You say nothing.

He returns the silence.

You prolong it.

He stares and you stare back.

If he has an accusation he can shove it up his ass. It’s none of his business. Why is he even here? He doesn’t belong in your room. He’s gross.

You look at him with all the disgust you would a bug smeared on the pavement, “You’re smelling my stuff?”

“Why do you have Aki’s shirt?” he glares at the clump. Sight alone offends him, yet when his eyes return to you they have no malice. Only hunger. A predator verging the great beyond that has found a fat, soft rabbit, “Why is it here?”

The worst thing about Denji’s staring habit is that the attention is almost flattering, if not totally unnerving. Or maybe that is more accurately the worst thing about yourself. Besides lying.

“I don’t remember,” for instance, you lie right now.

He knows. Not the playful knowing of before. He frowns because of the outright cover up.

“I’ll cut them apart, if you want?”

“Huh?” again, he shocks you.

“Or I can burn them,” Denji laughs loudly, so boyishly dashing you almost forget what odd offer he presents, “You can imagine Aki’s still wearing them when I do, too, I don’t care.” When you fail to give the outraged reaction he needs, Denji continues, “Or do you wanna wear it when we fuck? You can huff all that chemical shit he soaked it in.”

“Ugh!” you snag him by the cheap collar and wrangle him out into the hall, spinning and turning him and shoving him out the door by both shoulders, “Gross!”

Asa has now crept out of her room, blinking sleep from her dazed eyes while holding the black book, “Was Denji here?”

“Yeah,” you grumble, already trekking back to your sorted room.

“Did he seriously wait for you to give me my book back?” she yawns, “Weirdo.”

“Tell me about it,” is your response, clipped by your bedroom door.

Six years ago to the day, Denji had said something that made Aki want to vomit in the middle of his childhood home. Both of his lithe hands were taken with a wrapped box, Aki and Power’s names scribbled on the front by his mother. It had been bought by his mother, too. Aki thinks Denji doesn’t consider that, though. He knows his brother is going to hug the two of them and say how much he loves his gift and how much he loves them. Aki will say it back because today is his birthday.

Aki realized that day he loved his brother, Denji, and sister, Power, as much as he loved his first brother, Taiyo. So much love that fills him from head to toe that what Denji says thoughtlessly makes Aki want to peel his own skin off.

Six years ago today, Aki realized it was possible to want to protect someone from things that happened before you knew them.

“This is my new favorite present ever,” Denji holds the handmade card to his chest, sniffing your perfume from the folded paper. Vanilla floods his nostrils, he flicks a tongue out to test if he could taste the scent as well. He fails, only managing to look stupid on his birthday.

His praise fills your cheeks with heat, balls of your cheeks aching when you realize how wide your smile became, “I need to know what your last favorite present was if this beats it… it’s not that special, you know?”

Aki tenses- eyes whipping down to his brother, who holds your card flat to his ribs- is Denji going to say it? Would he dig up what they haven’t visited since Denji’s legal childhood ended? What Denji swore to lock behind a million doors?

So far, my best present was when Makima took my virginity.

All over again, the way Denji’s shifting voice broke around each vowel and his pockmarked face hid into his shoulder haunts Aki. It replays as if Power is still beside him, her hand winding tighter in the sleeve of her hooded zip-up.

In the moment, Denji snaps Aki from his waking coma by saying, “Don’t even remember, this one’s too good.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, pretending not to preen beneath his toothy smile. Tucking untrimmed hair behind your ear just to undo the act by twisting that very lock around your finger. “It’s just a card.”

Denji prudently slides the card shut and navigates it back into the bright orange envelope decorated with dog stickers, little Sharpie daisies, and a giant “21!!!” inked in the very middle- mentally threatening to cut his own fingers off should they betray him and crease a single corner, “It‘s a lot more than just a card.”

The polaroid of your naked body taped into the center means enough to him to bomb the rest of the world.

When presents have finished -concluding with a letter, two hundred yen, and a picture of Power pigging out on the cake she claims to have made in honor of Denji sent from her boarding school in Fukuoka- Denji declares boredom that could only be aided by drinking games.

“Never have I ever cum from sex,” Denji calls, merely three rounds deep and deciding to bare teeth. He craves bloodshed in the form of making everyone else empty their cups as fast as possible.

“That’s targeted,” Aki sneers, drink rising to his lips at the same time as you.

Despite yourself, the unison makes your heart leap into your throat. It feels as fated as you feel pathetic.

“I’m going for targeted,” Denji promises.

“Boo!” lightweight Asa heckles, skipping your turn to shout, “Never have I ever been kissed!”

Not a second after her premature go, Asa sinks behind her cup when everyone in your little party except for her takes a sip.

“No, I wanted to get Denji!” she wails, balling a hand in the hair she let down ten minutes ago (“It’s way too hot and it’s giving me a headache and I don’t like them anymore,” she said of her pigtails before unsuccessfully unsnapping the bands and having to ask you for help). A deep glower worms across her face as Denji takes a second, longer sip to rub in her incorrect assumption.

Aki snorts, nose still buried in his rum, cola mixture from his previous tip, then saying, “I got it, Asa,” he turns to his brother directly, “Never have I ever eaten a cigarette.”

“Fuck you! That’s not fair!” Denji points at his betrayer (which is hypocritical, you think) before dunking another mouthful of his vodka and orange juice. When Denji spots your curious face, all scrunched in scrutiny, he clarifies, “I got paid to!”

Before you can say that you don’t actually care, Asa gasps so loud it echoes around the boys’ cramped apartment. She stares at the ceiling like God delivered her a message, then her head descends to where you sit beside her on the rug. Dark eyes wet and rosy lips quivering as she pouts, “I skipped you…”

“You did,” you confirm, giggling at her mournful expression.

“Nooo,” she whimpers, leaning into your side sadly. Practically wilting against you like a flower, “I didn’t mean to… I should’ve- erugh!” she yanks at the ends of her hair. A bead of sweat distresses her nose.

“It’s fine, Asa, I don’t care.”

“Never have I ever had a roommate named ‘Asa’,” Denji ruins your cooing.

“Make him die!” Asa commands Aki, you watch his slow gaze flick toward his brother before he shrugs:

“I’ve never had a roommate named ‘Asa’.”

“Boo,” you mirror Asa’s prior jeer before sipping from your own cup. The ice has melted, an appreciated dilution to Denji’s heavy-handed mixology skills. Denji hones on your tongue mopping up leftover liquor on your bottom lip without blinking.

“And I’ve never ever had I ever been engaged!” she fires at Aki- skipping your turn for a second time.

“Really?” genuine irritation seems to cross his features before stilling, he draws a slow breath and lets it out slower. Gazing into his cup for a few stiff seconds before eventually drinking. Drinking and drinking without lowering the cup until even the ice slides to clack against his teeth. He grimaces- swallowing the way 姫 never asked permission with his rum- and stands, “I’m getting another drink.”

Ice rattles in his now barren cup as he leaves. Asa nibbles her nails to the bed, using your shoulder to push herself onto two unsteady feet, “I feel bad…” and stumbles after the man.

Denji doesn’t even wait for her to have fully entered the kitchen, he squeezes the pool of fabric over his crotch and states, “I’m definitely jerking off to you later.”

“Shh!” you reprimand, waving a hand in his smug face with intent to cast a spell that steals his mouth away, “I wouldn’t have given it to you if you’d go being loud about it.”

He burns his knees along the rug to sit thigh-to-thigh with you. He juts an elbow out to let it sap heat from your bare knee, “I think you would’ve,” he denies, not looking you in the perturbed face- rather focusing on how you don’t move a muscle to push him away, “I think you like having the attention… you’re a freak like me.”

“I am not…” you bleat, but you can’t bring yourself to shift away. Not when his elbow looks so comfy where it lays. Not when his bare arm feels so good pressed to yours.

Drunkenly, he murmurs, “Makima said liking it made you worse.”

“Who the fuck is Makima?” and you also wonder who the fuck invented saying random names the way the Hayakawa siblings did?

Denji sniffles dryly, eyes so devoid they’re red around the ridges. A pale, blank slate swallows Denji’s expression in his place beside you. Breath falling shallow and unassuming to your personal bubble, his hands retreating between his knees to twiddle his thumbs. He stares ahead without the oafish glimmer that typically fondles your form, “Nobody anymore.”

Jealousy devours you. You attempt smothering that boiling open wound by softening your voice, “You two dated?”

“U-uhm…” the pace of his breathing heightens, eyes darting sideways at useless things like the television remote and the den’s big, blasting, black fan, “Yeah? Yeah… S-something like- …something like that.”

“Was it complicated?”

“No,” he answers far quicker than before. So quick the word is barely a sound off his lips. Denji rises, balling his shorts’ legs in his hands like a nervous child, “I’m going… to…” he visibly comes up with the excuse in real time, “piss.”

Now you feel bad. He stormed off so unlike himself. Asa and Aki remain holed in the kitchenette, batting whispers between one another. The unmistakable sound of her repeatedly apologizing is made out a dozen times before you stand and drag your feet down the hall. As you bypass the empty bathroom, you brainstorm the most effective way you can make Denji happy.

Tapping your knuckles against his door earns the sight of his shiny face. Moonlight beaming through his window and reflecting off the cocktail of snot, sweat, and tears he smeared all around before answering. He’s backlit in a soft orange hue, nearly dead as it stretches from his bedside table to the door.

“Did I ruin your birthday?” you slot a foot into the doorway.

If he didn’t have the opportunity to thoroughly study your bent expression, Denji could’ve taken the question sarcastically. You smell too sweet, though, he argues with himself and the way your eyes go gooey on him is even sweeter. You must be genuine, he swears. You must really, truly care.

“Nah,” he sucks up coagulated snot. Wiping the back of his wrist beneath his eyes.

“Good,” you flatten your hand on his door, “Can I give you your second gift?”

“Wh-what is it?” his lids peel back to the socket, open mouth sucking all the oxygen between you.

Pushing against the door, you find easy entrance to Denji’s room. Stepping inside and switching his lock into place without a single protest from him, “Exactly what you’re hoping.”

“Yeahhhh,” he grins, sharp teeth stabbing his bottom lip so excitedly he draws blood, “Yesss!”

“Shh,” you spout between giggles, hands gingerly taking his shoulders and guiding him backwards until his knees hit his bed. His sweaty palms have found your sides, all nervous energy funneled into wrenching your shirt above your stomach before you pause his hands. You move to sit on his lap, barely supported by the edge of the bed, “So, have you ever had real sex before Denji?”

The familiarity of the question makes him shudder in a bad way, he looks down. His gym shorts tented over the denim hiding the part of you he craves most, “Not really for real.”

For a moment he’s nervous you’ll leave, since looking up only treats him to the annoyed way your face is pinched. Like he’s slapped you with his words; teeth grit like you could just rip through him for that stupid answer. Denji briefly considers if it would’ve been more worthwhile to lie and let you find that out later.

“Fine,” you raise your hips enough to yank his shorts down, letting his cock slap against his stomach before sitting back down where the band fights to rise for his modesty, “I guess that’s not bad.”

The way your soft hand wraps around his shaft makes him shudder in a good way, he looks up with fluttering lashes. His cheeks beet red and bangs beginning to stick to his forehead with sweat.

“Not even boxers,” you purr, “You were basically asking for this, weren’t you?”

A beat passes before Denji nods, hips jerking against your gliding hand. He peeks at you through his curtaining bangs, “Ca-can you suck it?”

“‘Suck it’?” you feign scandal, gasping, “Isn’t that nasty?”

His resulting nod is quicker this time, he falls back onto his elbows; spine melting into his organs. Hisses pull from between his clenched teeth as his chin sinks between his collarbones, eyes immovable from how you twist your fist over his stiff cock.

“So fuckin’ nasty,” he whines, bucking impatiently into you, “Come on, mama, i-it’s my birthday, r-right?”

Thumbing just beneath his scarlet tip pushes a pearl of translucent spend from his slit, you shrug and agree, “I guess it is, Denji.”

His head could fall right off his shoulders if he nods any more.

As you sink to your knees, Denji’s shoulders raise his elbows spreading further back on the bed to closer watch your pink tongue flick over his sensitive head. He nibbles the plump bow of his lip, lids halving his eyes before you’ve even put him in your mouth. Instead, you’re digging your chin into his thigh with his cock in your hand, bracing it beside your cheek and musing how big he is compared to your head. Denji raises one hip, miserably angling himself toward your mouth.

“So impatient, you’re greedy,” you shake your head. He shamelessly agrees with babbled pleas for you to stop teasing- he’s waited enough, he wants it so bad, it’s his birthday of all days, “You’re lucky it’s your birthday.”

“So lucky!”

You smile up at him, “You’re sweet.”

“You’re- !” whatever compliment it was died when you tongued up to his head again, this time punctuating the contact by slipping him between your smooth lips, “Fuck yeah… thank you, thank you!”

The sound of such earnest gratitude encourages you further down his groin, his praise of -good, fuck wet, thanks- making you confident enough to bury your nose into his untamed navel hair. One of his hands snakes down to lay on your head, fingers unbent and if his palm is placing any pressure you feel none of it. He pushes stray hairs from your face with an unhinged jaw, then letting himself take your cheek -swollen with cock- and press his thumb over the bump.

“You’re -fuck- so cute with it in your mouth,” he groans, it bangs around the walls of his room loudly with how wide open he’s left his own maw, and his eyes stubbornly remain on you. Denji blinks in short milliseconds paced as far as possibly apart so as to not miss a moment of the action, “You’re n-not real… too fuckin’ hot. W-way too fucking hot…! Too good… I don’t wanna cum yet, please don’t let me cum yet,” his begging crawls to ragged sobs, “Don’t wanna be over yet.”

“Mmm,” you hum around him, pushing your tongue into his throbbing veins, and mildly impress a headshake.

“Fuuck, no, please?” Denji whimpers, nearly distraught with the hand caressing your cheek now attempting to push you away, “No, I want to inside, please? Please, can I fuck you?”

Involuntarily, he thrusts into your throat at the mere thought. You gag around him, saliva gushing through the partition of your lips.

Thick spit pools between your chin and his thighs. Denji hangs his head, clenching his eyes as he asks, “Can I just put it in? D-do I have to cum now?”

Interest fades as soon as his eyes closed anyway, his attempt to stave the impending orgasm making your stomach coil unpleasantly.

“You didn’t like that, Denji?” you push your soaked mouth into his bare thigh so he can feel your frown.

“I did,” he heaves, eyes opening. Pupils so wide you can see yourself beneath his lamp’s orange glow, “Really did- promise… just…” those starved eyes cave to where his mattress still obscures your crotch, “Fuck, mama…”

“Not enough? You really are nasty.”

Denji gulps as you shift onto your heels, “I know.”

Coughing salty, thin film back onto your closed fist, you claw up his thin red sheet to be decently face-to-face with your paramour.

“Are you sure you want this?” mascara is smudged beneath your eyes, drool webbing down your chin.

Denji’s lips are sore and bitten so hard his blood flows each dry crack while they bruise, “I don’t want to stop.”

“Good,” you roughly yank his loose tank up his chest, “Off.”

He returns the favor, white-knuckling your spittled shirt so hard the seams threatened to tear in his grasp. Slinking out of his own shirt, Denji hides yours behind his pillow -undoubtedly where the panties he stole also rest- as if it wasn’t right in front of you.

While his dick is still shiny and wet, you smear his flushed tip over the hot well between your thighs. He’s longer than Aki, but he’s not as thick… something immediately made up for in the obsessive way he begs you to fuck him.

Stunned, Denji crooks his neck forward, the top notch in his spine aches at the stretch to no avail because he only continues forward until he can catch a shadowy glimpse of your depravity. He outwardly moans appreciation. It isn’t until you slip onto his jumping erection he gives anything verbal. Nigh silent wheezes chopped at either vowel by a whine or groan, “yes, yes, yes…!”

Leaning back, you tilt your hips far enough to direct his tip along the spongy, welcoming flesh that makes you feel tingly and friendly the next morning. Then balancing both hands on Denji’s wobbling knees.

As you sink onto him, his lean cock spreads you open with an affectionate lack of stinging. Pressure separating clenching, unworn muscle but it feels as heavy and filling as a first meal. Slot in your stomach as if he was destined to one day be there- you feel so hot you even consider the chance, you jitter as he twitches knocking around your walls.

“Oh my God,” he whimpers, eyes leaking tears fixed on where he’s tucked inside you before jolting quickly to your swaying tits. Clammy palms fondle fat, squeezing and rolling your flesh with unbridled moans racing out, “Oh my God, you- ‘re fuckin- sexy as fuck,” he strains his hips to drive up into yours. Sloppy with no rhythm but so wanton it makes you stutter.

“Do- do you… like me, D-Denji?” you mewl, entire face pinched and tight with the soothing intrusion of Denji’s cock.

“Super!” he keens, squeezing finger marks into your chest.

“Do you like me?” you grind your clit against his wiry bush of sunshine pubes, hips shaking at the contact.

“Yes,” he grits, thrusting into you -- jostling your entire body above regardless of your hands anchored to his thighs, “Fuck yes! I like you so much…”

Denji’s hands scale down your ribs, ghosting the sensitive skin to grapple your frantic hips, strapping you into his lap -- cock secured in your tight body. Soft balls pushing into your ass as he worms up on you. Writhing purely to explore with both his eyes split wide open for full immersion. Scanning your wriggling body for dimples and stretch marks to expertly paint his knuckles with for the rest of his life. His right hand flits up, latching back onto your tit and compressing the fat to his palm; indenting him with your nipple forever. Drool shines in both corners of his cracked mouth, drizzling down his jawline and decorating his chest like pearls beneath the lamp light.

“Sooo hot and n-nice, and p-pretty and fun…” he surges between clenched teeth, staring up at you as if you hung the moon trapped behind his window.

Your nails are biting blood out of Denji’s tensing thighs and your hips quake with each slam of his swollen tip deep inside you. Every slide up revealing more slick your sticky cunt laves his cock with, yet each swivel down pushes out the thick milky drive Denji’s leaking. Both coat the inside of your thighs, rolling over Denji’s balls and spreading beneath his ass on the mattress cover.

“Fuck!” Denji blurts, both arms suddenly around your waist strapping your chest to his. His blunt nails drag starved marks between your ribs, he flails between bruising his fingers into the divots between each bone and tearing your skin beneath his nail bed, “I’m gonna cum…” he hums your name, sweeter than a church hymn, “I’m cumming,” he bends one leg higher onto the bed while the other flattens ground, digging his hips deeper. Then a hand finds the back of your neck, long fingers wrapping your windpipe just to keep you as still and as low as he can get you, “In- in- I need to…” he gasps.

Your cheek could melt into his as he pounds your pliant body. Left with nothing but the ability to whimper and wet his neck with spit and tears.

And it feels great.

So great you clumsily rock your head in his hold and babble, “Inside, pl- ease, Den-” a hitched moan captures the rest of his name from you.

A perfect empty spot in the part of your brain where you once had words enlarges when you feel him twitching in the barrel. Momentarily tumored by gasps and mewls. You claw his biceps, drawing his arms tighter.

“Inside,” he confirms, throwing his head back. Sweat dazzles his adam’s apple, pooling where his clavicle meets in the middle, “I’m cumming inside you, baby,” Denji whines through his orgasm, frantically working out every drop of cum with another pathetic jerk into your hole.

“Th-thank- eugh!” you wail, dipping your head for the oasis puddling on his chest and smoothing your velvet tongue to catch his sweat before it wastes, “Thank you, Denji!”

“Thank you,” he grovels, bending both knees high into the air to ensure his seed and cock have no chance to slip out, “Thank you, thank you, baby. Perfect and nice. Fuck- fuck- thank you, perfect…”

The hardness inside you dissipates, but Denji refuses exit despite his own overstimulated hissing and crying.

“I don’t want to let go,” he gasps. Thighs vibrating, begging to release the cradle.

“I won’t,“ your voice is crackling, harsh wind freezing the hollow of your throat, “I won’t, Denji.”

You sound pathetic.

“Huh?”

You kill his confusion with pure demonstration, easily escaping his weakened hug to sit up- perched over his stomach with his soft cock still safely tucked inside. Denji’s thighs collapse against the springs below.

“I won’t let go,” you quietly swear.

Raking your nails over his thudding heart, pausing over the organ to memorize its drum beat, down his abdomen and finally bracing against his stomach with one palm. Your other is face up, wrist bent toward your spread apex. You bat your soaked lashes and whip your salted tongue across your ironed bottom lip before asking,

“Can I?”

Denji watches you spread yourself, a swollen button of nerves he mourns to have neglected is revealed. He nods, loudly drawing for air like he’d never tasted relief so good before.

Your thighs jerk around him when you initially prod your clit. Finding your fingers too dry, you glide your middle and ring over Denji’s mouth and ask him to, “Get them wet, please?”

Without a second, he heeds command and flays his tongue from your fingertips to your knuckle’s curve. When you thank him, he smiles, “You’re so nice when you’re fucked.”

Swirling the slippery pads of your fingers around your clit twice earns the sensation of Denji throbbing. You barely get to four before he’s handsy again, blood rushing south and abused cock whirring around your own used cunt.

“Nobody,” you huff, “can know about this.”

He’d get the cuts your nails left permanently etched in ink tomorrow if you said to, but that doesn’t mean he’s delusional.

Denji concedes but can’t help adding, “Keeping it secret still makes you dirty,” you clench around him as you fiddle your clit, “Wanting it makes you worse, mama.”

~~~

His back would usually be the most of him you saw when it was the two of you alone. Red sears staring you in the face, angry bumps raised in the discoloration. His hair would be loose across his pillow and he’d have an ashtray propped beneath his cheek just to nurse a cigarette without spilling ashes on his pillow case. Smoking as he thought. Thinking as he smoked. And you would be petrified that any moment could be the one where he blew smoke out to say: Get out.

Marinating in the silence, you studied how his shoulders rose as he inhaled. How the smoke plumed over his head like a fire sparked between the vastness parting his ears. After all, how could anyone have a brain and still find themselves in his position (you contemplate, solely to comfort the fact that you are in yours)?

Between your thighs is pure stickiness, like a hard candy stuck to the counter. All sweetness stale. Not even the damp sweat slathered along your inner thighs is wet enough to pry them open and roll over the edge of the mattress. The dreaded sensation of peeling raw skin apart locks you in the same position Aki dropped you in when he first left to urinate. He had returned minutes later with a loose pair of plaid blue boxers low on his chiseled hips, cigarette hanging from his dry mouth as he scratched his stomach.

“Shouldn’t you piss?” he asked. Trampling over your strewn clothes to grab his ashtray and slide back between the tousled sheets.

“I don’t have to,” you shrugged lamely. Your stomach was entirely dull, no irritating buzzing from your bladder to be felt.

Aki made a small hum of acknowledgement before rolling his back toward you.

That was a few minutes ago. You languish in shock he hadn’t asked you to go yet.

When the trysts first began, Aki was prompt. Fuck, cum, bathroom, leave. Few minutes could be spared between steps as far as he was concerned.

You blink at his back. Eyes totally dry. So dry they burn when they’re open.

Maybe at this point he assumes you’ll assume all you had left to do was leave.

Aki’s head slowly turns over his shoulder, now you realize the smoke has gone out, he finds you still wide-eyed at his blank plain of pale skin. He moves to flatten across his side of the bed, pausing when he notices your hand limp where his shoulder would go. His eyes narrow slightly.

You draw your hand to your chest and he resumes motion. Your eyes suddenly find your hair unwound across the pillow more interesting than his sharp face. Angled jaw and low eyes survey your curled posture, surmising you truly hadn’t moved at all. His expression doesn’t change whatsoever.

Aki stares. His eyes feel good. Your cheeks radiate warmth and you have to catch your bottom lip in your teeth to keep from smiling. You can’t even bring yourself to match in case that startles him, in case the truth that you’re human too is frightening. You push hair from your face and bat your eyes, all too sweetly.

He catches the coyness instantly. His chest tightens.

You must catch the stutter in his breathing because your gaze does rise then. Just below his chin.

Aki swallows harshly, your eyes following the bob in his throat. His brows crease. Two harsh words dangle in the back of his throat, so automatic they feel as natural as hello, but this is a specialness all your own. A greeting so inverted it almost feels like he hates you. He stops himself, biting his tongue hard enough to feel the muscle sovereignly attempt wriggling away.

When you bravely match Aki’s stare, you think you see something wimpier than affection. Something mushy from rot and putrid in its unwantedness.

Pity.

Aki remembers how Himeno used to be the first one staring from her side of the bed. His lips begin trembling so he quickly tilts his head away to cough, sneaking a hand up to snag his ash tray. Then rattling around his nightstand’s open drawer. Fishing out two more cigarettes, he settles the tray in the center of his chest. Aki slots his fresh cig between his lips and holds the second one toward you.

You open your mouth, he sighs and shakes it between your eyes. You return the sigh and slither a hand from where it’s coiled in your stomach to take the roll. Orange filter in your mouth.

“Got a light?” your voice is cracked, throat dryer than the wasteland between your legs.

He charitably lights yours first. You suck down a lethal eighth off the bat, coughing just to have a reason for wet eyes.

Aki actually snorts at your fit as you ash your cigarette. Tapping the slender paper twice over the rim of his tray, grey cinder scattering upon where ‘姫+ア’ is carved in the bottom of the bowl. Pink acrylic hearts dance around either character. Himeno marked it up without asking, which makes Aki want to devour his cigarette whole and burn holes in his throat because he feels he should’ve known better. The entire time, he should’ve known the awful thing was always staring him in the face from her side of the bed.

Silence fills the room faster than the smoke, no matter how short the spaces between your drags are. Nothing beats Aki’s cool demeanour, even as he saves a final puff of the butt to relight later. No doubt just to put out against the other side of the pillow you’re resting on. Even when you discovered the black and brown circular scorches, he waved it away without a drop of sweat and said he had ‘a thing’.

“Does it really help you feel better?” you blurt.

“Better than this,” he raises the arm hidden at his other side to expose a glinting, fainting pink, circular scar. Aki already has another dart lit in his mouth, anything to sting harsher than the part of his brain telling him he’s still at fault, “Denji said if I did it again, he’d just kill me.”

“Who the fuck is Denji?”

“Oh, yeah,” Aki realizes you may be his only friend that had yet to meet the fabled Denji or Power, “My stepbrother.”

“You have a stepbrother?”

“And sister.”

“What the hell, Aki?” he pushes his head back at the sound of his name, sinking into his own pillow as if to block his ears, “We didn’t meet just yesterday… what’s with springing that on me?”

“We don’t talk like that anymore,” he reminds you.

As swiftly as fresh air filled your lungs, nicotine punches it out.

It takes four-hundred and fifteen days to meet Denji with zero minutes wasted trying to know him.

Denji opens the door to Aki’s apartment while you’re pocketing a brand new pack of the man’s favorite smokes. Plastic-wrapped with the receipt and everything, the classiest gift you have the guts to give.

His eyes scan your body, decently hidden by a plain shirt and summer shorts, not that it stops him, “Who’re you?”

Beside you, your roommate -and gateway person to the very Hayakawa- Asa frowns with crossed arms, “Let us in, Denji, it’s hot in the hallway.”

“Hot in here, too,” he grumbles back but steps aside, eyes following you as you pass, “Seriously though, who’s this?”

You pass him without thinking of how insultingly he refers to you, walking straight for Aki once your shoes are slipped off. Aki raises a brow while eyeing the hand visibly bulging in your pocket.

Grinning, you have to calm your shaking hand enough to wrap around the box before presenting the pack, “Ta-da!”

It still shakes in your palm. Nerves alight at the fact Aki’s attention is on you rather than the listless, diaphanous leering you’ve grown accustomed to.

“Don’t tell me I got you addicted,” his droning tone wouldn’t give it away, but you pride yourself on knowing he was joking.

“Not yet,” you stuff the box in his hand.

From across the apartment, staggering by the front door, Denji huffs, “Damn… don’t tell me he’s got her around his finger…”

“Don’t talk like that,” Asa’s scowl deepens, head drooping toward one shoulder to watch you interact with Aki. Pigtails hanging down her back, “I guess it looks like that. But don’t say it, it’s mean.”

“Right,” Denji does not make a mental note of Asa’s derision, “Too bad, Asa, your roommate is pretty cute.”

She groans aloud, forlorn expression deepening to genuine irritation as she bemoans, “Why can’t you men just leave her alone?”

“You not hear me or something?” Denji closes one eye, holding his hand up as if to stage you in the distance, “She’s cute as hell.”

Twelve years, eight months, one week, and five days ago, Denji barely knew Aki’s name. Referring to him solely by ‘topknot’ because of the trendy updo his new stepbrother sat at the very top of his skull. Power would comment, between fits of giggles, that he appeared to have an antenna. Though the paintbrush ponytail never faded (excluding the brief time in high school where Aki shaved his head bald), it did get centimeters lower to avoid looking as alien.

“Show him around school,” Aki’s mother would advise, her brows knotted in the center of her face, “He’s never been before…”

“Never been…? Like at all?” Aki scoffed, “Who the hell is their dad? Why’d you marry that guy?”

She had no answer at the time, or any time after, only chastising his language before waving the pair off to catch their train. Power was still very light despite being four years old, she fit into the groove of her stepmother’s hip as easily as a baby. Taiyo (my real brother Aki thought back then) prodded her tiny foot from behind his mother, laughing when she squealed with rage. Power merely babbled with the same vocabulary as a baby as well.

“Are there any girls there?” Denji asked as soon as it was him and Aki alone on the train. They sit hip-to-hip with their backpacks in their laps.

Aki had both arms crossed around the blue bag, practically hugging it to his chest as he rolled his eyes, “Duh.”

Denji had one hand loosely wrapped around the strap of his own red pack, it dangled over the edge of his seat, “Oh…” he nodded silently, seeming to perk up at the information, “Are they cute?”

“I guess,” Aki shrugged, his mind wandering through the girls in his class. A few had short bobs that ended just below their chins which he thought were charming, but nobody particularly caught his eye, “Not that cute. It’s just school anyway, who cares?”

“I do!” Denji hissed, a few older men in suits glanced at the boys from their peripherals- Aki attempted shushing him, but Denji persisted, “I gotta find a new girlfriend.”

“New girlfriend?” Aki outright scoffed, “You’ve never even talked to a girl.”

“I totally have, jerk-face,” Denji was snarling at the older boy then, jagged teeth exposed, “Her name was Makima, and she wasn’t just cute. She was hot!”

“Then where is she now? When will I meet her, huh?”

“You’ll never meet her- I knew her before our parents got married!” red stained the entirety of Denji’s face, his voice elevating as he balled his little hands tighter and tighter until each knuckle was pearly white with pressure, “Makima was my girlfriend before we met!”

“Okay, okay,” having sensed more eyes on them than before, Aki contended, “Makima. Sure… your girlfriend.”

“I need a new one now. Makima said boys need girlfriends because they make us happy.”

“And do they?” Aki once again had rolled his eyes, pure sarcasm rippling through his question.

But Denji nodded wholeheartedly, “Nobody made me happier than Makima. She was great.”

“Then why aren’t you with her?” Aki considered how much simpler the rest of his life could be without the addition of some strangers living in his house. Sleeping where only him and Taiyo should sleep and eating where only him and Taiyo should eat. And worst of all, putting their dirty, stinking clothes in the closet only his dad should be putting his clothes in.

“Oh,” Denji hummed, the most ripe frown Aki had ever seen suddenly appeared over the boy’s face, “She got taken away. That’s why my dad met your mom.”

Aki’s mother had been a prosecutor half a year ago before abruptly being terminated. Aki wasn’t sure why yet, but his stomach twisted at that.

At the time, however, he could only shake his head, “Well, you’re probably not finding another one at school. The girls there don’t even look at boys.”

Barely two days after first seeing you, Denji finds you on his brother’s doorstep again. Hair lobbed to your chin and lips painted with shiny, reddish gloss that made them look like fresh wet cherries.

“Is Aki home?” you even smell like cherries.

Aki came to the door, silently padding up behind Denji. He pauses once his eyes meet your face. Halting almost cartoonishly, one heel angled forty-five degrees in the air and both arms mid-swing, he lets out an unintentioned ‘ughhhhhh’ under his breath.

“You like?” you beam, hands bound behind your back. Palms sweating down your fingers which are knotted together seven times over. Your smile wobbles when Aki hesitates.

“It. Looks…” Aki’s nod is stunted, “Looks good.”

“Ha!” you cough out, arms straining behind you as you wrangle your own fingers frantically, knees jellied, “Jeez, try to sound more convincing, will you?”

“I like it,” Denji slices the aggravated energy between you, focused solely on your creased face as he spoke, “I think you’re cute.”

“Ah, thanks,” shit- you curse yourself- what was his name again? Dengen? Dempei? Dempei feels familiar… but not quite right for his face. Maybe his parents were attempting to be bold with Demi? You smile tighter, “Thanks!”

Considering he’s never mentioned the man before, you wonder if forgetting his stepbrother’s name is something Aki deems a deal breaker.

Asa wanders up, mouthing at you, ‘did he like it?’

She thinks she is hiding her disappointment in you, but no amount of her subpar acting can conceal her relief when you subtly shake your head. Her shoulders loosen and a visible sigh passes through her entire body. You ignore the pang. You ignore how it’s well-deserved.

“Denji,” Asa sighs again, but now the stress seems to re-enter her body with the act, “You’re still here?”

Denji! You ignite, rolling the name -Denji, Denji, Denji- in your head while staring at the man.

“I live here now,” he mumbles with a peace sign up at his side, “You don’t seem happy to see me, what gives?”

Aki snorts at the interaction, staunchly avoiding your direction as he watches the two. Later he will find you alone on the couch and whisper so just the two of you hear over the sound of Denji and Asa bickering which movie to play next,

“You should grow your hair out.”

And you will helplessly nod. Itching for a cigarette.

“Fine!” Asa shoots up from where her and Denji were crouched around the player, hands in the air, “Put whatever you want on, I’m getting a drink…” she spots you and Aki and calls your name, almost timidly, “Want to come with?”

“Uhh, sure…”

You pitter after Asa, imaginary collar swelling with sweat as you flush right behind her into the narrow kitchen doorway. She cautiously pops the fridge door open and hums at your friends’ selection of drinks, brows furrowed, “No water.”

Your own brows curl, confused, “Why are you looking for water?”

“I don’t want soda…” she mumbles, “It rots your teeth.”

“We have toothbrushes at home, you know?”

“They’re too sugary…” sugar which also happens to rot your teeth.

“What about electrolytes, they’re more hydrating than water, right?” you suggest, squeezing beside your roommate to observe each grated shelf, “Aki usually has some Pocari in the fridge.”

“Does he? And I don’t think they’re really more hydrating than water, and it tastes weird anyway,” Asa argues, even though her hand does reach for a bright blue bottle of ion rich Pocari Sweat. She swirls it in her hand while scavenging one last hopeful time to ensure she fully cannot find a single plain bottled water. Once the dismay has truly sealed she moves to shut the fridge before pausing, “Oh, did you want a drink, too? Sorry, I should’ve actually asked…”

“It’s fine, yeah, I guess I’m thirsty…” you mentally blot the Pocari Sweat out of sight before snagging an orange soda from the back of the bottom shelf. Something you’re sure doesn’t belong to Aki, who exists in the same mindset as Asa that sugar is nasty.

Returning to the crowded den, you call over Asa’s shoulder that, “We raided your fridge!”

Aki’s head swings over first, eyes burning at the can in your hand before floating toward the bottle in Asa’s. He shrugs, “Take it.”

“Uhm, Denji…?” you test the new name out -it rolls off smoother than a yawn- kneeling beside him in front of the television. His baggy house pants falling below the thread-stripped band of his boxers.

He was fumbling with the DVD tray before you waltzed over, a disc upside down hanging off the edge of the tray. Immediately he hones in on the soda already dripping condensation down your fingers.

Making friends with his awkward stepbrother has to be something Aki would look for in a girlfriend, right? It certainly feels correct to think so.

“I stole a soda, is that okay?”

“Yeah,” he agrees breathlessly, “totally fine,” the soft lull in your voice was so adorable he could have exploded, “Take whatever, I don’t care.”

“Thanks,” you smile at him again, “You’re nice, Denji.”

When his heart skips a beat, Denji thinks exploding may be more likely than fiction. He nods dumbly.

“Did you want help with that, by the way?” you offer gently, pointing at the DVD he’s picked up.

It now shakes in his hands. Rainbow pattern bouncing from the open window and onto the wall from its holographic surface. His profile hollows out the colorful lines, his heaving chest exaggerated within the shadow.

“I’m fine,” embarrassment floods him at the idea of being unable to put on a movie for you. Surely, you would never look twice at a guy that can’t even work a disc player.

“Sure you are,” you set the soda on the rug and carefully take the DVD anyway, fingertips spread around the edge to avoid smearing the reflective underside, “Then can I just do it because I really like to?”

Denji falls back, “I guess if you really like to.”

“I do,” you place the disc down and use your thumbs to gingerly pop it into place, bracing the thin tray’s frame from below with your other fingers. Once DOKURO: Act 1 is in place, you hit the little insert button and wait for the telltale whir of the tray being sucked inside before grabbing the movie case, “What’re we watching?”

The back synopsis simply reads: ‘A school is preparing to perform Romeo and Juliet and then things go wrong.’

Before you can analyze the television’s menu screen of high school girls holding each other a tad too close, Denji admits, “It’s pretty bad, but it’s got girls and a masked guy.”

Just as you nod, Aki interrupts. Marching over from the couch to eject the movie, “Absolutely not, why’d you even bring that here?!”

“I love this movie,” Denji pouts, “Why wouldn’t I bring it?”

“Watch it when nobody else is here,” Aki slams the DVD back in its case, not particularly caring if he scratches or cracks it, “Better yet, get your own TV to watch it, too!”

“Is it so bad?” you ask.

“So bad that I’m picking the movie now,” you guess that is as solid as confirmation comes from Aki with that statement.

Denji offers you the black plastic case, spine up, to point at a topless actress. Snickering.

“Oh,” you get it now. Bad enough that Aki has to pick the movie. You retrieve your soda and stand, “You’re just a big perv aren’t you, Denji?”

He shrugs, eyes dipping to your knees. He ponders if you know he can see up your skirt when you’re standing. Most likely not, he reasons as you turn to sit beside Asa again without flattening any fabric to your thighs.

“I see why you don’t like him that much,” you confess, voice low to avoid Denji overhearing.

Asa’s lips thin, she glances at him, “I like him… but… yep. Let that tell you something.”

As if rehearsed from how expected your response was, you casually shrug, “Eh. He seems nice otherwise.”

Denji is so nice, he proves, by offering to throw your empty soda can away for you when you’ve tapped the fizz dry. He even asks if he can grab you another. But once he’s around the corner, he’s running the pad of his thumb where your lip gloss cakes the mouth piece. He smears its weathered, pinkish stain across the upper shoulder and sticks his thumb in his mouth to suck off the residue. Faint cherry scent invades his nostrils first, it grows when he holds the can’s rim against his nose and inhales noisily. When the scent alone is too little for his raring heart, Denji replaces the thumb in his mouth with the can’s lip.

His tongue dances over the sharp tear line. Orange soda droplets linger there, watered down by what he hopes is spit. He scrapes his teeth over the aluminum to collect your gelled gloss stain in his mouth.

Cradling the can to his chest, Denji mourns the fate of this wasted aluminum as he would a true friend. So he resorts to stuffing it under his shirt at his stomach, the metal warm from his clammy hands, a plan rapidly spinning behind his eyes to avoid being caught for creeping.

Denji runs at you with apologetic groans once he finally returns, a fresh soda slamming onto the table in front of you while he holds his stomach with the other hand. Agony, apparently, riddling him as he wails, “Gotta shit, be back!”

“O-okay?” you murmur, following his back as he runs down the hall.

“Gross!” Aki jeers while Asa gags.

Ducking past the bathroom door, Denji sneaks into his room and slides the can beneath his pillow for safe keeping. Then, because his bladder suddenly does feel bloated, Denji retreats to the toilet in sincerity.

Past midnight, Aki declared, is far too late to have you and Asa traveling back home alone. Denji agrees. Asa, who you know keeps a switchblade in her skirt pockets and her house key tucked between her fingers walking the city at any time of day, also agreed. To you, it was a no-brainer. Easiest access you’ll have to Aki’s bedroom after a group movie night ever.

While Aki, the ever gracious host, laid down a thick comforter on the floor you two locked eyes. You raised eyebrows high enough to nearly touch your hairline and put out a thumb, slowly flipping it from upright to down. Aki pursed his lips as he contemplated, it took only a few seconds -which truly dragged like the most grueling hour of your life- for him to nod twice.

By two in the morning, you’re naked in Aki’s sheets with a shiny red lighter flickering in your hand. Extending the open flame, you watch Aki’s eyes dazzle along your curves while weighing the consequences of eating from your palm. An exchange of bodily fluids is so much less tender than letting you light his cigarette, after all.

Brief consideration lulls by, pregnant with build and sentiment before Aki simply snatches your light in his own hand, “Thanks.”

“You can keep that one.”

“It wasn’t already mine?” he turns his back to you while searching for a shirt not marred with your lip print around the collar.

“I dunno,” you roll up to the edge of his mattress, hand hovering the wood floor for your own scattered clothing, “It was in my pocket. Did I steal it?”

“Yeah,” he barks a laugh at you, “Since when do you smoke?”

“Been looking good since we met.”

Aki, fully dressed, plops onto the corner of his bed to watch you slip on your underwear, “I’m a bad influence on you.”

“You really are.” You never did things like this before meeting Aki.

“Uh-huh…” his sense of responsibility draws him to then wistfully stare at his door. Across the hall is Asa -snoring ignorantly on his couch with sunken springs and coffee stains- and to his right, separated by the bath, is Denji’s room. Perhaps on the surface, tension is tight enough to keep his mistakes from appearing as messy as they are, but beneath every overlooked impropriety the social ecosystem grows fragile.

He’s a few years your senior. He’s more Asa’s friend than your own, he could hurt her if she discovered how he lies with you. Denji stares at you in a way Aki hasn’t caught since they were in junior high and the girls started experiencing puberty. Aki will hurt Denji with this. Then you.

Aki meets your dewy eyes. He refuses to acknowledge the way he is hurting you. It hurts the gaping, bloody hole in his chest too much to think of you, “Nobody can know about this, right?”

As the eldest, by a mild few years, it is his duty to maintain the group order. You’re really sick of it. You think it’s his worst trait ever.

“It’d be easier if we didn’t have to do that…” his sullen face is stone, “Don’t you like me?” you ask.

Aki rubs a hand around the back of his neck, “Yeah, why else would I let you hang around my apartment?”

“No, Aki,” you sit up, clinging to his sheet and stuffing it under either arm like a scratchy tube top. As if it can preserve modesty or dignity now. You repeat, “Do you like me?”

“Knock it off,” he begs, no longer able to look any higher than the shirt lumped in your lap.

“I’m smart, I’m fun- you laugh with me, right? Don’t you like me?”

Aki’s hands brush through his undone hair, pulling over his ears like he could sham abrupt deafness. Almost instantly he drops that facade and twists to stare you down. Jaw firm, eyes lacking their sardonic sheen you enjoyed studying when he kicked you into his bedroom. His shoulders raise, bracketing both ears, then go dead.

“Why don’t you like me?” you whine.

“I do. We’re friends,” he responds casually. And brutally. Then shrugging a second time as if it’s normal. He looks you over as you fall onto your back.

Aki's schoolyard girlfriend in junior high had a bowl cut. His first kiss as a second year in Forth East High had black hair that barely touched her shoulders with blunt bangs she might’ve been trimming at home. His first first had a bob shorter in the back that followed her jawline, slowly getting longer but still never touching her collarbone. Aki blinks and sees Himeno.

Himeno.

Aki blinks.

He sees Himeno. She’s on her side and smiling like everything is still the same.

He sees you, trimmed ends flared across the pillow. Himeno.

Making out his wide eyes through the dark, you scoff, “Do you like it now?”

Aki is stunned, immobile except to mutter, “You should really grow out your hair.”

Regaining sense in his limbs, Aki reclines and rolls onto his side, then curling in half like a fetus.

Another barely audible mutter is the last you receive of him that night, “Asa might notice you're gone…”

You withhold the argument that ‘Asa knows’ because you can already see it would change nothing. Could even make everything worse; per the agreement of no survivors, Asa knowing blows his entire secrecy plan out of the water. So you comply, slowly redressing and mentally replaying every romantic movie’s climax where the man will dramatically cry for his love interest to stop, to stay, to hear him out. You do this knowing Aki would never.

Cracking his door just enough to slip out, you’re greeted by Denji standing only two-and-a-half steps back from you. You slip the door shut before seething, “What the fuck are you doing?”

Denji stutters, taking that last half step backward, “I was- I was- thirsty!” he raises a pointed finger, it’s shaking so bad it can’t stay in your face long enough for his own accusation, “Wh- what about you, h-huh?”

Now your own lack of a lie becomes apparent. You wordlessly blink at Denji’s flushed face for a near minute before stupidly saying, “I… had a question?”

He couldn’t possibly call you out without exposing himself in the process. So he just bops his head as if he believes you, “Okay.”

“Okay,” you copy, surprising yourself with how calmly you feel about the scenario. You’ve done nothing wrong- sex between adults is not a crime. You and Denji are not dating. Denji is the criminal here ten times out of ten, and yet you’re letting him stiffly turn and skulk back into his room (no drink in hand, you note).

The easy answer is how Aki would feel, knowing Denji knows, but the more difficultly excused one is the more honest. You’re really considering how long he was out here, how if he stuck out the whole time maybe he thought you sounded pretty.

You’re sick. You go to sleep pretty well that night after sneaking back into Aki’s room and taking a sweatshirt. You stuff it under your pillow for safe keeping.

By next week, Aki had said one word to you:

“Bye,” when he closed the door after you and Asa walked out, the lock loudly clicked into place before you two could even step away.

Three days and ten hours later, you’re deranged on the subway home from a failed quest to visit the Hayakawa apartment. You hadn’t made it onto the second stop forward before cowardice consumed.

Old women simply have no control over their own eyes when they see their juniors being idiots. Maybe one day you will be able to do the same, if you ever make it out of the dark, cycling pit Aki seems to have you trapped within. And if the tear-stained collar of your stolen prize doesn’t choke you to death first, then your prospects will certainly go up.

A hiccup escapes your bulbed throat, barely caught in time in your elbow as a scrambled effort to pretend you aren’t crying in the middle of a subway car with other women. Both hands tighten around the shiny gold pole keeping you upright. Squeezing until you feel the skin harden as it stretches, scabbing over in crusty white reminders of your crude stupidity. On the toe of your blurry sneakers lands a watery splotch. The sneakers get a little clearer with each new stain. You sniffle.

When you arrive at the landing for your unit’s floor, the release in your gut can’t be called relief. What has settled there is still sore, just not as throbbing . It still feels hot enough to kill you.

Until you turn the final corner to your sacred door. Sight of another person, let alone him, makes your intestinal tracts cramp up in one stabbing sensation.

Messy orange hair poofs between two arms, rested parallel over his bent knees. Sweatpants a darker grey than the shirt you don, his own shirt is not a centimeter spared of wrinkles which you can see all the more clearly because it’s starch white. At his bouncing feet lies a black book with gold characters engraved across the spine.

“Denji?” you croak. Rubbing your eyelashes apart where soggy mascara glued them together. It feels silly; are you trying to appear more sane to Denji of all people?

“Hey!” he flies up at your voice -book so forgotten he accidentally kicks it as he darts toward you. Two hands finding your biceps, “I was looking for you! …were you crying?”

“You were looking for me?” you shrug off his hold and slip your key into the door, glumly wandering inside while Denji follows.

“Yeah, I knocked and asked if you were here. Asa said ‘no’ so I just waited outside and now you’re here,” he explains it as if you’re going to go ‘a-ha! total sense!’. Before that can (or would ever) happen, Denji suddenly remembers he left something outside, “Oh, shit, her book.”

As surely as you watch him whirl around and head for the door, you’re certain he will welcome himself back inside. So you turn and find your bedroom exactly as you left it. Much nicer clothes litter the carpet, all tried on and thrown off and tried again and thrown once more in favor of…

You make the fatal mistake of gazing into your vanity mirror.

A grey sweatshirt, with wide-legged jeans. Both too large for your frame and making it apparent that you have extra shame stowed where other girls might not. Bad luck seems to wave from your hunched form, and at one point you had been sure it was your younger self that cared more. Recently, you teased the idea of not craving a warm body so much anymore but on days as grey as this you can’t help the way you immediately deflate. A shriveled wail is met violently with both of your hands slapped over your shamed face, soaking and streaked with black dye. You allow another sob to hotly waft into your palms before inhaling sharply.

Worming the pants down around your ankles, you kick them off like an unruly child and send them far into the corner of your bedroom. You peel the shirt off similarly, clenching your eyes shut until your humiliated hunchback is facing the mirror so you’re not cursed with looking at yourself.

Unfortunately, you find a less cursory, more bizarre, sight upon turning. You haven’t fully made eye contact to confirm, but you’re 99.9% and nine out of ten optometrists convinced that Denji’s face is smushed against the floor outside your door. As if he could crush his cheekbones into the wood as fair trade just to peek at your body. He has come so close that his hair even passes beneath the undercut.

Against what you know you should be thinking, the attention doesn’t feel too bad.

If you made a show of catching him, if you screamed then Asa would hear, and she’d humiliate him. And she’d tell Aki and he may even disown his own brother, and you could ruin his feeble social life. Denji has to know that. He has to simply not care enough. Instead wholeheartedly believing the sight of you is more important than the relationships he spent years moulding before you two had ever met.

So unclasping your bra is now a special occasion, unhooking with one hand while the other pushes the cups up. Holding the worn, stretched, decidedly unsexy and sweat-into beige material against your breasts as if it were a lavish corset. As if.

Waiting to drop it until you’ve found another shirt, your own shirt, to tug on -- getting the aged cotton just over your nipples before dropping the bra. Clinging over the round well, your ancient high school band shirt rests more effectively as an extreme crop exposing just beneath your areola. Feining frustration, you huff and drag both hands along your sides to wrench the shirt down your midriff; both tits wholly squeezed into the old shirt.

Now comes the more difficult act: removing your underwear without showing anything censored in porno.

You find blue shorts hanging out of a half-thrown drawer. One leghole stretched over the handle and the other limp, almost scaled to the floor. The material is soft, it waves in your hands so wildly you have to brace yourself against your dresser to keep from tipping over. A slow breath almost proves standing on one foot to be possible. You breathe until you feel physically stable, all the oxygenized parts of your brain solely responsible for maintaining your upright position.

Fully slating yourself into the hard corner of your dresser, you slip one leg after the other into your shorts. While both hands are at your hips, you curl them under your shorts to peel down your underwear. Plain. Plain white with discharge discoloring that makes you ashamed to be alive all over again.

Surprisingly, you see that Denji hasn’t lost interest, but shoves himself into the door with a rattle inadvertently encouraging you to swallow the shame. Freeing one leg from the cotton cufflinks so you can drop the garments around your other ankle and step free. Denji’s labored breaths from beneath the door sing his appreciation. You can hear his gulped saliva from across the room.

Carpet burns your soles as you blister to the door, slowly enough that Denji has time to snap out of his mental replays and clamber onto two feet. His socks don’t match. One is black and the other is white. You choose to stare at that when the door opens.

You clear your throat, no phlegm, all nerves, “Did you seriously wait outside my door the whole time?”

He might know you know. He might not. You don’t know if his response would change, “I was peeking, actually.”

He laughs at the end like it was a joke. He might be trying to make you call him out, prove that you know he knows you know he’s gross. But as far he needs to be sure he knows, he is just flat out gross.

“Ew. Better not,” you swat, his arm is burning hot, “You’re on thin ice already, you know?”

Denji peers effortlessly over your shoulder, “Your room is pretty dirty.”

“God, thanks, I’m- !” doing great and that makes me feel better

He doesn’t let you finish, “Want me to clean it?”

“Huh?” you lower your head, whispering as if a camera crew is hidden around the corner, “Why?”

It’s hard to read his eyes when he refuses to look at you directly, focusing on the spiral of clothes and shoes.

“You’ve been bummed lately,” he no longer waits for an answer, using the book -you now recognize as Asa’s- to suade you aside. He uses it to weigh you against your door as he enters.

Cradling Asa’s book seems to make up for the rocks in your gut that all dropped to your feet at his answer. Denji scoops up shirts and skirts and shorts by the armful, laying pants over both shoulders. Pajamas on the right, jeans or corduroy or denim on the left. He lays what he snatches on your bed in even piles, going as far as pulling the cloth taught to prevent further wrinkling. An odd courtesy you doubt he provides himself.

Of course, he makes his way to the pair you striped only minutes ago. Lingering as if you aren’t actively watching his hands twitch over the garment.

“I guess I’ll give Asa her book back,” it’s definitely not permission.

“Forgot about that, thanks,” Denji says, rolling your underwear in tight, neat bundles. His thumbs caress each different fabric (the waistbands, the butts, the seats, and you assume the inside of the seat when you weren’t in the room), leaving each one sated for affection, “Aki asked me to return it, but I wanted to see you before I left.”

“Sure,” you don’t say anything except, “Thanks, Denji.”

He nods. Not looking at you yet. It makes your skin crawl, the fact he won’t just look at you. He liked doing it so much before, what’s changed now? Why are you different now-

You turn and walk out to slide the thin book beneath Asa’s door.

As you expect, the plain pair is miraculously missing from your underwear pile when you return. The only pair missing, might you add. Among exposed thongs and uncomfortable lacey pieces, he has the grossest thing visibly bulging, waded up in his pocket.

“That shirt, the one you had on, it -euh- it smells familiar,” he nods at the sweatshirt you pried off, now resting in the corner. You don’t remember it being so far away.

Sweeping the floor, you confirm it to be the last article needing picked up, “Did it?”

Denji looks down at his knees, grinding the caps together, squishing an imaginary head to death between his thighs, “I know what that jerk’s cologne smells like.”

Between clenched teeth, you choke, “Do you?”

“It’s a more expensive version of the one I got him once. It smells worse because it kind of stings, doesn’t it? How you can tell there’s a million chemicals all jammed up in there…”

You say nothing.

He returns the silence.

You prolong it.

He stares and you stare back.

If he has an accusation he can shove it up his ass. It’s none of his business. Why is he even here? He doesn’t belong in your room. He’s gross.

You look at him with all the disgust you would a bug smeared on the pavement, “You’re smelling my stuff?”

“Why do you have Aki’s shirt?” he glares at the clump. Sight alone offends him, yet when his eyes return to you they have no malice. Only hunger. A predator verging the great beyond that has found a fat, soft rabbit, “Why is it here?”

The worst thing about Denji’s staring habit is that the attention is almost flattering, if not totally unnerving. Or maybe that is more accurately the worst thing about yourself. Besides lying.

“I don’t remember,” for instance, you lie right now.

He knows. Not the playful knowing of before. He frowns because of the outright cover up.

“I’ll cut them apart, if you want?”

“Huh?” again, he shocks you.

“Or I can burn them,” Denji laughs loudly, so boyishly dashing you almost forget what odd offer he presents, “You can imagine Aki’s still wearing them when I do, too, I don’t care.” When you fail to give the outraged reaction he needs, Denji continues, “Or do you wanna wear it when we fuck? You can huff all that chemical shit he soaked it in.”

“Ugh!” you snag him by the cheap collar and wrangle him out into the hall, spinning and turning him and shoving him out the door by both shoulders, “Gross!”

Asa has now crept out of her room, blinking sleep from her dazed eyes while holding the black book, “Was Denji here?”

“Yeah,” you grumble, already trekking back to your sorted room.

“Did he seriously wait for you to give me my book back?” she yawns, “Weirdo.”

“Tell me about it,” is your response, clipped by your bedroom door.

Six years ago to the day, Denji had said something that made Aki want to vomit in the middle of his childhood home. Both of his lithe hands were taken with a wrapped box, Aki and Power’s names scribbled on the front by his mother. It had been bought by his mother, too. Aki thinks Denji doesn’t consider that, though. He knows his brother is going to hug the two of them and say how much he loves his gift and how much he loves them. Aki will say it back because today is his birthday.

Aki realized that day he loved his brother, Denji, and sister, Power, as much as he loved his first brother, Taiyo. So much love that fills him from head to toe that what Denji says thoughtlessly makes Aki want to peel his own skin off.

Six years ago today, Aki realized it was possible to want to protect someone from things that happened before you knew them.

“This is my new favorite present ever,” Denji holds the handmade card to his chest, sniffing your perfume from the folded paper. Vanilla floods his nostrils, he flicks a tongue out to test if he could taste the scent as well. He fails, only managing to look stupid on his birthday.

His praise fills your cheeks with heat, balls of your cheeks aching when you realize how wide your smile became, “I need to know what your last favorite present was if this beats it… it’s not that special, you know?”

Aki tenses- eyes whipping down to his brother, who holds your card flat to his ribs- is Denji going to say it? Would he dig up what they haven’t visited since Denji’s legal childhood ended? What Denji swore to lock behind a million doors?

So far, my best present was when Makima took my virginity.

All over again, the way Denji’s shifting voice broke around each vowel and his pockmarked face hid into his shoulder haunts Aki. It replays as if Power is still beside him, her hand winding tighter in the sleeve of her hooded zip-up.

In the moment, Denji snaps Aki from his waking coma by saying, “Don’t even remember, this one’s too good.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, pretending not to preen beneath his toothy smile. Tucking untrimmed hair behind your ear just to undo the act by twisting that very lock around your finger. “It’s just a card.”

Denji prudently slides the card shut and navigates it back into the bright orange envelope decorated with dog stickers, little Sharpie daisies, and a giant “21!!!” inked in the very middle- mentally threatening to cut his own fingers off should they betray him and crease a single corner, “It‘s a lot more than just a card.”

The polaroid of your naked body taped into the center means enough to him to bomb the rest of the world.

When presents have finished -concluding with a letter, two hundred yen, and a picture of Power pigging out on the cake she claims to have made in honor of Denji sent from her boarding school in Fukuoka- Denji declares boredom that could only be aided by drinking games.

“Never have I ever cum from sex,” Denji calls, merely three rounds deep and deciding to bare teeth. He craves bloodshed in the form of making everyone else empty their cups as fast as possible.

“That’s targeted,” Aki sneers, drink rising to his lips at the same time as you.

Despite yourself, the unison makes your heart leap into your throat. It feels as fated as you feel pathetic.

“I’m going for targeted,” Denji promises.

“Boo!” lightweight Asa heckles, skipping your turn to shout, “Never have I ever been kissed!”

Not a second after her premature go, Asa sinks behind her cup when everyone in your little party except for her takes a sip.

“No, I wanted to get Denji!” she wails, balling a hand in the hair she let down ten minutes ago (“It’s way too hot and it’s giving me a headache and I don’t like them anymore,” she said of her pigtails before unsuccessfully unsnapping the bands and having to ask you for help). A deep glower worms across her face as Denji takes a second, longer sip to rub in her incorrect assumption.

Aki snorts, nose still buried in his rum, cola mixture from his previous tip, then saying, “I got it, Asa,” he turns to his brother directly, “Never have I ever eaten a cigarette.”

“Fuck you! That’s not fair!” Denji points at his betrayer (which is hypocritical, you think) before dunking another mouthful of his vodka and orange juice. When Denji spots your curious face, all scrunched in scrutiny, he clarifies, “I got paid to!”

Before you can say that you don’t actually care, Asa gasps so loud it echoes around the boys’ cramped apartment. She stares at the ceiling like God delivered her a message, then her head descends to where you sit beside her on the rug. Dark eyes wet and rosy lips quivering as she pouts, “I skipped you…”

“You did,” you confirm, giggling at her mournful expression.

“Nooo,” she whimpers, leaning into your side sadly. Practically wilting against you like a flower, “I didn’t mean to… I should’ve- erugh!” she yanks at the ends of her hair. A bead of sweat distresses her nose.

“It’s fine, Asa, I don’t care.”

“Never have I ever had a roommate named ‘Asa’,” Denji ruins your cooing.

“Make him die!” Asa commands Aki, you watch his slow gaze flick toward his brother before he shrugs:

“I’ve never had a roommate named ‘Asa’.”

“Boo,” you mirror Asa’s prior jeer before sipping from your own cup. The ice has melted, an appreciated dilution to Denji’s heavy-handed mixology skills. Denji hones on your tongue mopping up leftover liquor on your bottom lip without blinking.

“And I’ve never ever had I ever been engaged!” she fires at Aki- skipping your turn for a second time.

“Really?” genuine irritation seems to cross his features before stilling, he draws a slow breath and lets it out slower. Gazing into his cup for a few stiff seconds before eventually drinking. Drinking and drinking without lowering the cup until even the ice slides to clack against his teeth. He grimaces- swallowing the way 姫 never asked permission with his rum- and stands, “I’m getting another drink.”

Ice rattles in his now barren cup as he leaves. Asa nibbles her nails to the bed, using your shoulder to push herself onto two unsteady feet, “I feel bad…” and stumbles after the man.

Denji doesn’t even wait for her to have fully entered the kitchen, he squeezes the pool of fabric over his crotch and states, “I’m definitely jerking off to you later.”

“Shh!” you reprimand, waving a hand in his smug face with intent to cast a spell that steals his mouth away, “I wouldn’t have given it to you if you’d go being loud about it.”

He burns his knees along the rug to sit thigh-to-thigh with you. He juts an elbow out to let it sap heat from your bare knee, “I think you would’ve,” he denies, not looking you in the perturbed face- rather focusing on how you don’t move a muscle to push him away, “I think you like having the attention… you’re a freak like me.”

“I am not…” you bleat, but you can’t bring yourself to shift away. Not when his elbow looks so comfy where it lays. Not when his bare arm feels so good pressed to yours.

Drunkenly, he murmurs, “Makima said liking it made you worse.”

“Who the fuck is Makima?” and you also wonder who the fuck invented saying random names the way the Hayakawa siblings did?

Denji sniffles dryly, eyes so devoid they’re red around the ridges. A pale, blank slate swallows Denji’s expression in his place beside you. Breath falling shallow and unassuming to your personal bubble, his hands retreating between his knees to twiddle his thumbs. He stares ahead without the oafish glimmer that typically fondles your form, “Nobody anymore.”

Jealousy devours you. You attempt smothering that boiling open wound by softening your voice, “You two dated?”

“U-uhm…” the pace of his breathing heightens, eyes darting sideways at useless things like the television remote and the den’s big, blasting, black fan, “Yeah? Yeah… S-something like- …something like that.”

“Was it complicated?”

“No,” he answers far quicker than before. So quick the word is barely a sound off his lips. Denji rises, balling his shorts’ legs in his hands like a nervous child, “I’m going… to…” he visibly comes up with the excuse in real time, “piss.”

Now you feel bad. He stormed off so unlike himself. Asa and Aki remain holed in the kitchenette, batting whispers between one another. The unmistakable sound of her repeatedly apologizing is made out a dozen times before you stand and drag your feet down the hall. As you bypass the empty bathroom, you brainstorm the most effective way you can make Denji happy.

Tapping your knuckles against his door earns the sight of his shiny face. Moonlight beaming through his window and reflecting off the cocktail of snot, sweat, and tears he smeared all around before answering. He’s backlit in a soft orange hue, nearly dead as it stretches from his bedside table to the door.

“Did I ruin your birthday?” you slot a foot into the doorway.

If he didn’t have the opportunity to thoroughly study your bent expression, Denji could’ve taken the question sarcastically. You smell too sweet, though, he argues with himself and the way your eyes go gooey on him is even sweeter. You must be genuine, he swears. You must really, truly care.

“Nah,” he sucks up coagulated snot. Wiping the back of his wrist beneath his eyes.

“Good,” you flatten your hand on his door, “Can I give you your second gift?”

“Wh-what is it?” his lids peel back to the socket, open mouth sucking all the oxygen between you.

Pushing against the door, you find easy entrance to Denji’s room. Stepping inside and switching his lock into place without a single protest from him, “Exactly what you’re hoping.”

“Yeahhhh,” he grins, sharp teeth stabbing his bottom lip so excitedly he draws blood, “Yesss!”

“Shh,” you spout between giggles, hands gingerly taking his shoulders and guiding him backwards until his knees hit his bed. His sweaty palms have found your sides, all nervous energy funneled into wrenching your shirt above your stomach before you pause his hands. You move to sit on his lap, barely supported by the edge of the bed, “So, have you ever had real sex before Denji?”

The familiarity of the question makes him shudder in a bad way, he looks down. His gym shorts tented over the denim hiding the part of you he craves most, “Not really for real.”

For a moment he’s nervous you’ll leave, since looking up only treats him to the annoyed way your face is pinched. Like he’s slapped you with his words; teeth grit like you could just rip through him for that stupid answer. Denji briefly considers if it would’ve been more worthwhile to lie and let you find that out later.

“Fine,” you raise your hips enough to yank his shorts down, letting his cock slap against his stomach before sitting back down where the band fights to rise for his modesty, “I guess that’s not bad.”

The way your soft hand wraps around his shaft makes him shudder in a good way, he looks up with fluttering lashes. His cheeks beet red and bangs beginning to stick to his forehead with sweat.

“Not even boxers,” you purr, “You were basically asking for this, weren’t you?”

A beat passes before Denji nods, hips jerking against your gliding hand. He peeks at you through his curtaining bangs, “Ca-can you suck it?”

“‘Suck it’?” you feign scandal, gasping, “Isn’t that nasty?”

His resulting nod is quicker this time, he falls back onto his elbows; spine melting into his organs. Hisses pull from between his clenched teeth as his chin sinks between his collarbones, eyes immovable from how you twist your fist over his stiff cock.

“So fuckin’ nasty,” he whines, bucking impatiently into you, “Come on, mama, i-it’s my birthday, r-right?”

Thumbing just beneath his scarlet tip pushes a pearl of translucent spend from his slit, you shrug and agree, “I guess it is, Denji.”

His head could fall right off his shoulders if he nods any more.

As you sink to your knees, Denji’s shoulders raise his elbows spreading further back on the bed to closer watch your pink tongue flick over his sensitive head. He nibbles the plump bow of his lip, lids halving his eyes before you’ve even put him in your mouth. Instead, you’re digging your chin into his thigh with his cock in your hand, bracing it beside your cheek and musing how big he is compared to your head. Denji raises one hip, miserably angling himself toward your mouth.

“So impatient, you’re greedy,” you shake your head. He shamelessly agrees with babbled pleas for you to stop teasing- he’s waited enough, he wants it so bad, it’s his birthday of all days, “You’re lucky it’s your birthday.”

“So lucky!”

You smile up at him, “You’re sweet.”

“You’re- !” whatever compliment it was died when you tongued up to his head again, this time punctuating the contact by slipping him between your smooth lips, “Fuck yeah… thank you, thank you!”

The sound of such earnest gratitude encourages you further down his groin, his praise of -good, fuck wet, thanks- making you confident enough to bury your nose into his untamed navel hair. One of his hands snakes down to lay on your head, fingers unbent and if his palm is placing any pressure you feel none of it. He pushes stray hairs from your face with an unhinged jaw, then letting himself take your cheek -swollen with cock- and press his thumb over the bump.

“You’re -fuck- so cute with it in your mouth,” he groans, it bangs around the walls of his room loudly with how wide open he’s left his own maw, and his eyes stubbornly remain on you. Denji blinks in short milliseconds paced as far as possibly apart so as to not miss a moment of the action, “You’re n-not real… too fuckin’ hot. W-way too fucking hot…! Too good… I don’t wanna cum yet, please don’t let me cum yet,” his begging crawls to ragged sobs, “Don’t wanna be over yet.”

“Mmm,” you hum around him, pushing your tongue into his throbbing veins, and mildly impress a headshake.

“Fuuck, no, please?” Denji whimpers, nearly distraught with the hand caressing your cheek now attempting to push you away, “No, I want to inside, please? Please, can I fuck you?”

Involuntarily, he thrusts into your throat at the mere thought. You gag around him, saliva gushing through the partition of your lips.

Thick spit pools between your chin and his thighs. Denji hangs his head, clenching his eyes as he asks, “Can I just put it in? D-do I have to cum now?”

Interest fades as soon as his eyes closed anyway, his attempt to stave the impending orgasm making your stomach coil unpleasantly.

“You didn’t like that, Denji?” you push your soaked mouth into his bare thigh so he can feel your frown.

“I did,” he heaves, eyes opening. Pupils so wide you can see yourself beneath his lamp’s orange glow, “Really did- promise… just…” those starved eyes cave to where his mattress still obscures your crotch, “Fuck, mama…”

“Not enough? You really are nasty.”

Denji gulps as you shift onto your heels, “I know.”

Coughing salty, thin film back onto your closed fist, you claw up his thin red sheet to be decently face-to-face with your paramour.

“Are you sure you want this?” mascara is smudged beneath your eyes, drool webbing down your chin.

Denji’s lips are sore and bitten so hard his blood flows each dry crack while they bruise, “I don’t want to stop.”

“Good,” you roughly yank his loose tank up his chest, “Off.”

He returns the favor, white-knuckling your spittled shirt so hard the seams threatened to tear in his grasp. Slinking out of his own shirt, Denji hides yours behind his pillow -undoubtedly where the panties he stole also rest- as if it wasn’t right in front of you.

While his dick is still shiny and wet, you smear his flushed tip over the hot well between your thighs. He’s longer than Aki, but he’s not as thick… something immediately made up for in the obsessive way he begs you to fuck him.

Stunned, Denji crooks his neck forward, the top notch in his spine aches at the stretch to no avail because he only continues forward until he can catch a shadowy glimpse of your depravity. He outwardly moans appreciation. It isn’t until you slip onto his jumping erection he gives anything verbal. Nigh silent wheezes chopped at either vowel by a whine or groan, “yes, yes, yes…!”

Leaning back, you tilt your hips far enough to direct his tip along the spongy, welcoming flesh that makes you feel tingly and friendly the next morning. Then balancing both hands on Denji’s wobbling knees.

As you sink onto him, his lean cock spreads you open with an affectionate lack of stinging. Pressure separating clenching, unworn muscle but it feels as heavy and filling as a first meal. Slot in your stomach as if he was destined to one day be there- you feel so hot you even consider the chance, you jitter as he twitches knocking around your walls.

“Oh my God,” he whimpers, eyes leaking tears fixed on where he’s tucked inside you before jolting quickly to your swaying tits. Clammy palms fondle fat, squeezing and rolling your flesh with unbridled moans racing out, “Oh my God, you- ‘re fuckin- sexy as fuck,” he strains his hips to drive up into yours. Sloppy with no rhythm but so wanton it makes you stutter.

“Do- do you… like me, D-Denji?” you mewl, entire face pinched and tight with the soothing intrusion of Denji’s cock.

“Super!” he keens, squeezing finger marks into your chest.

“Do you like me?” you grind your clit against his wiry bush of sunshine pubes, hips shaking at the contact.

“Yes,” he grits, thrusting into you -- jostling your entire body above regardless of your hands anchored to his thighs, “Fuck yes! I like you so much…”

Denji’s hands scale down your ribs, ghosting the sensitive skin to grapple your frantic hips, strapping you into his lap -- cock secured in your tight body. Soft balls pushing into your ass as he worms up on you. Writhing purely to explore with both his eyes split wide open for full immersion. Scanning your wriggling body for dimples and stretch marks to expertly paint his knuckles with for the rest of his life. His right hand flits up, latching back onto your tit and compressing the fat to his palm; indenting him with your nipple forever. Drool shines in both corners of his cracked mouth, drizzling down his jawline and decorating his chest like pearls beneath the lamp light.

“Sooo hot and n-nice, and p-pretty and fun…” he surges between clenched teeth, staring up at you as if you hung the moon trapped behind his window.

Your nails are biting blood out of Denji’s tensing thighs and your hips quake with each slam of his swollen tip deep inside you. Every slide up revealing more slick your sticky cunt laves his cock with, yet each swivel down pushes out the thick milky drive Denji’s leaking. Both coat the inside of your thighs, rolling over Denji’s balls and spreading beneath his ass on the mattress cover.

“Fuck!” Denji blurts, both arms suddenly around your waist strapping your chest to his. His blunt nails drag starved marks between your ribs, he flails between bruising his fingers into the divots between each bone and tearing your skin beneath his nail bed, “I’m gonna cum…” he hums your name, sweeter than a church hymn, “I’m cumming,” he bends one leg higher onto the bed while the other flattens ground, digging his hips deeper. Then a hand finds the back of your neck, long fingers wrapping your windpipe just to keep you as still and as low as he can get you, “In- in- I need to…” he gasps.

Your cheek could melt into his as he pounds your pliant body. Left with nothing but the ability to whimper and wet his neck with spit and tears.

And it feels great.

So great you clumsily rock your head in his hold and babble, “Inside, pl- ease, Den-” a hitched moan captures the rest of his name from you.

A perfect empty spot in the part of your brain where you once had words enlarges when you feel him twitching in the barrel. Momentarily tumored by gasps and mewls. You claw his biceps, drawing his arms tighter.

“Inside,” he confirms, throwing his head back. Sweat dazzles his adam’s apple, pooling where his clavicle meets in the middle, “I’m cumming inside you, baby,” Denji whines through his orgasm, frantically working out every drop of cum with another pathetic jerk into your hole.

“Th-thank- eugh!” you wail, dipping your head for the oasis puddling on his chest and smoothing your velvet tongue to catch his sweat before it wastes, “Thank you, Denji!”

“Thank you,” he grovels, bending both knees high into the air to ensure his seed and cock have no chance to slip out, “Thank you, thank you, baby. Perfect and nice. Fuck- fuck- thank you, perfect…”

The hardness inside you dissipates, but Denji refuses exit despite his own overstimulated hissing and crying.

“I don’t want to let go,” he gasps. Thighs vibrating, begging to release the cradle.

“I won’t,“ your voice is crackling, harsh wind freezing the hollow of your throat, “I won’t, Denji.”

You sound pathetic.

“Huh?”

You kill his confusion with pure demonstration, easily escaping his weakened hug to sit up- perched over his stomach with his soft cock still safely tucked inside. Denji’s thighs collapse against the springs below.

“I won’t let go,” you quietly swear.

Raking your nails over his thudding heart, pausing over the organ to memorize its drum beat, down his abdomen and finally bracing against his stomach with one palm. Your other is face up, wrist bent toward your spread apex. You bat your soaked lashes and whip your salted tongue across your ironed bottom lip before asking,

“Can I?”

Denji watches you spread yourself, a swollen button of nerves he mourns to have neglected is revealed. He nods, loudly drawing for air like he’d never tasted relief so good before.

Your thighs jerk around him when you initially prod your clit. Finding your fingers too dry, you glide your middle and ring over Denji’s mouth and ask him to, “Get them wet, please?”

Without a second, he heeds command and flays his tongue from your fingertips to your knuckle’s curve. When you thank him, he smiles, “You’re so nice when you’re fucked.”

Swirling the slippery pads of your fingers around your clit twice earns the sensation of Denji throbbing. You barely get to four before he’s handsy again, blood rushing south and abused cock whirring around your own used cunt.

“Nobody,” you huff, “can know about this.”

He’d get the cuts your nails left permanently etched in ink tomorrow if you said to, but that doesn’t mean he’s delusional.

Denji concedes but can’t help adding, “Keeping it secret still makes you dirty,” you clench around him as you fiddle your clit, “Wanting it makes you worse, mama.”

~~~