bite it, lick it.

Your boyfriend was unbearably attractive.

Physically, he was sin on two legs. Tall—one of the tallest people you’d ever met—but not in the lanky way. His shoulders were broader than most doorways he passed through, often forcing him to angle himself just to be able to enter a room.

And whenever you touched him, you couldn’t believe it was actually allowed—that this was your normal now. Feeling the fit, hard lines of his physique under his clothes whenever he pulled you close never failed to steal your breath.

Piercing, golden eyes. Sharp undercut—you could go on and on. But seeing him like this… in action, a thin sheen of sweat glowing on his naked skin—it was downright unfair.

His shirt was tossed on some random bench, muscles flexing and pulsing with heat as he powered through his final set on the bench press.

The weight lowered toward his heaving chest, calloused hands gripping the bar with effortless control. You’d seen him dominate on the field more times than you could count—but this display of raw, physical strength was something else entirely.

As a spotter, it would’ve been quite important for you to pay attention—and you were technically paying attention. If there was anything you certainly were doing it was paying very close attention. 

To the wrong things, maybe—but at least you were paying attention.

An inch from his chest, the bar shot upward again, biceps bulging and pecs contracting under the strain, tattoos stretching and warping across his skin with every flex of his body.

You remembered the first time you’d ever seen his tattoos—after he’d made your legs shake so badly he’d had to carry you to the bathroom so you could shower together.

It was more than you’d ever dared to imagine. 

Abstract shapes of black and red spread over the entirety of his broad back, blooming down the lengths of his arms into beautiful, cloud-like patterns. 

You might or might not have had an idea of where his ink adorned his body, but one detail still caught you off guard—an intricate, circular motif right in the center of his chiseled abdomen.

The soap left for a rinse on your own skin was long forgotten.

Water ran down his alluring physique, moving along the curves of his muscular body and it did absolutely nothing to soothe your own from coming down its rather recent high—the high he was responsible for. He was to blame for.

A singular droplet cascaded down the sharp bone of his cheek. Past his jawline, his pretty neck, before continuing along the apex of his broad chest and the ripples of his toned stomach—

“See something you like?” 

Your gaze shot back up to his devilishly handsome face, smugly smiling down at you as he rinsed off his body wash, bits of soap and bubbles glistening on his wet skin and individual beads of water accumulating at the tips of his dirty blond hair and falling before him. 

He was living, breathing sex. 

And he’d proven it again. 

Of course, that wasn’t all you appreciated about him. 

He always found a way to be affectionate, no matter the occasion. Whether you were out on a date, curled up in bed, or just hanging out with the other cleaners, his arm would be draped over your frame, or his hand would rest lightly on your thigh.

You adored how he’d grown into more of a show-off in polluted zones whenever you were out on missions together, pulling out all stops against trash beasts just to impress you—you’d pretend not to notice just to annoy him, but you definitely did. 

And you loved how he wasn’t afraid to call you his girlfriend.

Instead of calling you by name, he’d refer to you simply as his girlfriend. It wasn’t, “[Y/n] handled that trash beast really well.” From him, it usually sounded a lot more like, “My girlfriend made that thing her bitch.”

But the truth was he hadn’t laid those hands on you since that time he had you breathless and chanting his name—and it was getting harder and harder to watch him be all hot and sweaty without feeling your thighs tense with restless want and not also notice how fit he was.

Winding down in your room had been so nice and relaxing—until he decided to shatter your day with his unchecked sex appeal. 

You wanted him. Bad.

He was treating you like a precious wallflower when what you really wanted was for him to pin you down, whisper sweet nothings into your ear, and make every nerve in your body ache with a mix of pain and pleasure.

He’d long proven to you that he was capable of that—you’d never expected him to keep his hands off you now. 

Quite the opposite.

Toeing the line between not forcing him into bed and still getting the point across that you wanted him to drill you into the mattress was proving to be more difficult than expected. 

Your hands were more than full just trying to keep your clothes on while watching him lift heavy weights.

“Fuck,” he groaned, lowering the bar back onto the rack with careful precision, before sitting up on the bench, wrapping up his final set.

As if that hadn’t cut straight through you, your feet moved on their own, carrying the towel you’d been holding onto around the construct to hand it to him. “Why’d you even call me here? You didn’t need my help at all.”

Also, being this damn sexy in front of your twitching, frustrated girlfriend was currently illegal. 

The corner of his lips quirked up as he dragged the towel over his chest—and you couldn’t even pretend to focus, because fuck… he looked like he’d been ripped straight out of a magazine. 

“Are you mad I didn’t get hurt?” he mused.

“M’not mad,” you admitted, pulse ringing in your ears. “I don’t think I could’ve helped you even if I wanted. You lift more than I weigh, I think.”

An eyebrow quirked, clearly curious. “What do you weigh?”

Turning your attention back to the bar, you ran your hands over the plates, trying to calculate how much you’d have to take off.

Carefully, you slid a few plates off, one by one, the metal discs clinking against one another as they came free—first on one side, then the other. You stepped back, giving the bar a measured glance. “About this much?”

He glanced at the numbers for a moment, then back at you—and then at the weighted plates again, like he needed to make sure they really added up to what he thought they did. 

“You’re joking.” 

Whatever that meant. 

“I’m… really not?” 

With narrowed eyes, he laid back down onto the bench, his gaze lingering on you as he settled into position to press the weight you’d just adjusted—or rather, the weight you’d taken off—his focus sharp, tinged with a hint of disbelief.

His fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the bar as he braced himself, muscles tensing like he was about to lift a mountain… and then, somehow, the bar practically floated up and down, barely offering any resistance at all.

One rep became two. Two became four. In the blink of an eye, he‘d done well over ten—and you’d completely lost track of how many times the bar had gone up and down already. 

“Damn. This is easy.”

Your focus shifted to his arms, the way the muscles contracted and relaxed with each controlled movement, cords of strength rippling beneath the skin as if every fiber of him was sculpted to perfection.

You felt your stomach twist, a bullet of pure heat shooting right through you. He was literally lifting your entire body like it was nothing. The bar floated almost on its own, his muscles flexing and rippling without really breaking a sweat at all.

His brows furrowed in amusement and a laugh escaped his lips. “I could lift this with both arms broken.” 

“Wanna bet?” You threatened. 

Without a response, he shifted his grip on the bar. It barely budged as he pressed the weight—your weight—up and down with effortless control. 

His gaze found yours again, that smug, infuriating grin still in place. 

“Wanna hop on?” he teased, just enough to make your blood boil for more than just one reason.

“You wish.”

“Mm,” he hummed, lowering the weight back onto the rack without so much as a struggle, then sitting up and swinging one leg over to the other side of the bench in one swift motion. “I should start lifting you as a warm-up.” 

His hand found yours, guiding you to stand directly in front of him, thumb softly grazing the skin of your hand as he gently looked up into your eyes. 

He had this talent—something about him—where his soft smile never really left his face, but he knew exactly how to tilt it to get under your skin. He knew how to provoke you with it, or how to annoy you with it.

And somehow, he also knew exactly how to make your heart flutter—how to make you melt.

“You’re so wound up today, baby,” he said, absentmindedly tracing patterns on the back of your hand. That faint, smug glint in his eyes stayed as he pulled you closer to stand between his legs. “What’s bothering you?”

His genuine tone and his soft puppy eyes almost made you fall to your knees. He had no idea—wasn’t even the slightest bit aware of the effect he was having on you.

You sighed. “Nothing.”

He chuckled, gently letting go of your hands as he pushed himself up and off the bench, staring you down from his usual towering height. “You sure you’re not mad at me, pretty girl?”

And even standing over you like this, chin tilted downwards to be able to get a look at you, there was nothing sharp about him. His expression stayed soft, almost concerned, like all he really wanted was to figure out how to make things right—like your comfort mattered more to him than anything else at the moment.

And that just made it so much worse.

Because while he was being patient and sweet and perfect, you could barely keep a straight line of thought together. He was out here just trying to be a good boyfriend, and meanwhile you were so hopelessly distracted by him that even forming full sentences at all came close to a miracle.

“I told you—I’m not… mad,” your voice trailed off, not entirely convinced by your own words. Although you weren’t mad—he wasn’t exactly wrong about you being worked up, either. 

“That’s good,” he murmured, slinging the towel around his neck and reaching for his shirt—whose existence you’d honestly completely forgotten about. “Can I do anything to cheer you up?”

Yeah.

But how were you supposed to tell him that for the past thirty minutes your mind had been stuck in one place—on what it felt like when his hands were on you, when he‘d pulled you into him like the hungriest man alive? On how you wanted him to take your breath away in more ways than one? 

How were you supposed to explain that just being around him lately was enough to throw you off completely—that his mere presence had your thoughts spiraling and your legs feeling unsteady in a way you couldn’t quite hide?

Like your body had already decided something long before you had the chance to?

You sighed again, shoulders dipping just a little. “Kiss me?”

“Oh?” The corner of his mouth lifted, that familiar teasing glint slipping into his eyes. “S‘that what the attitude was about? You want my attention?”

Your face warmed immediately. “Never mind, you’re insuffera—”

You didn’t get to finish.

His hand caught lightly at your side as he leaned down, closing the distance in one easy motion, lips meeting yours before you could take it back. Warm and unhurried, like he’d had all the time in the world to do exactly this.

His other hand lifted to your chin, fingers brushing softly as he tilted it just enough to guide you closer, adjusting the angle with effortless, subtle command.

Short circuit.

You could feel the heat of him through every point of contact, and for a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you. His soft lips lingered against yours a few moments longer, each brush and press melting you into pure putty under his touch.

When he pulled back, that same smug softness lingered on his face, his fingers still resting lightly on your chin, gently tilting it so you couldn’t look away, making sure your eyes stayed locked with his.

“Should’ve just asked sooner,” he murmured.

He didn’t even know half of it.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

Enjin might’ve wanted a moment to himself with you, but that tiny skirt hugging your hips was enough to cheer him up for the time being.

You hadn’t really been able to talk to him all day—running up and down the halls, tackling one task after another, just back from a quick mission—and all that in that glorious uniform that had set this whole thing in motion in the first place.

Aside from actually being with you, nothing beat sitting in the common area, getting high, and watching you strut around in his favorite outfit like you owned the damn building. 

The type of entertainment he didn’t know he needed. 

He wasn’t even sure if you’d noticed him yet. You moved through the halls like you were in your own little world—maybe looking for something, maybe delivering something—but honestly, he didn’t know. 

And right now… he didn’t care.

His mind currently only had the capacity to imagine what would happen if he got up and dragged you to his room right now. The things he’d want to try with you. The things he’d want to do to you.

How you’d whine his name and say please so often that for the rest of the day, those two words would be all you could remember.

He could only dream. At least for now.

He leaned back into the couch, letting the haze settle in the back of his mind. The restraint only made it worse. He’d started going through more cigarettes than usual—and he already went through a lot.

The temptation was killing him, but he wanted his approach with you to be different from how he usually handled things like this. Maybe it was to prove something to himself, or maybe a part of him was afraid he might scare you off—he wasn’t even sure—but he wanted this.

He wanted to wait. For you. 

And he wasn’t really used to feeling that way about women.

And while every nerve in his body was screaming to bridge the space between you and claim you any and every second of the day, he held back. Not out of disinterest—far from it—but because this wasn’t about his satisfaction. It was about yours.

For once, he was willing to let desire simmer until you called the shots.

But the moment you’d cross that line, there’d be no guarantee for you to come out unscathed. He might just end up breaking your back—accidentally, of course. 

He’d gotten a taste of it the day he’d barged into your room like a maniac—part of him regretted it, part of him was just grateful it had happened at all. Grateful to have seen you like that. Heard you. Felt you. Tasted you.

Because—while having your thighs tighten around his head in bliss would always be worth it—maybe waiting would’ve been easier if he didn’t already know what you were like when the lights went off. 

How quickly you unraveled for him, how effortlessly you melted into his hands—like that was exactly where you were meant to be. You trusted him with all of yourself, and he hadn’t even done anything to earn it yet. At least he didn’t think so.

He’d expected you to be the type with more edge—that was how you carried yourself in every other part of your life—but he definitely wasn’t complaining.

He could handle you with edge, no doubt—maybe one day you’d feel more of a bite, and he’d bask in the pleasure of putting you in your place with nothing but commanding affection. But he just adored how completely honest and polite you could be when you begged for his attention.

If you begged him right now he wouldn’t even waste his time taking you to his room. He’d probably take you against Semiu’s desk. Or a wall. Or this couch.

Could you keep it together in your uniform? You fought in it, after all—faced down the nastiest trash storms and survived. That thing was built for chaos.

He wasn’t a trash storm, not exactly—but right now, watching you sway like that, he was pretty sure he could summon the force of one.

His need for you was borderline alarming—for him as well as for you. The longer you waited, the more wound up he’d get, and he’d already made it his personal mission to see your legs trembling by the next day.

But more than anything—he just wanted you. In every way. 

You could take a month—or even two—before finally asking, and he’d wait it out. Because even just being able to look at you like this, watch you work, and be your candid and pretty self—he was grateful to have anything of you, really.

He watched your shoulders lift and fall in a quiet sigh as your hands settled on your hips. Whatever it was you’d been working on, it looked like you’d finally finished. Or maybe you were taking a break.

As if you’d felt his gaze, you finally tilted your head toward him, eyes glinting just a little.

Your hand lifted from your side to give him a small wave, and he felt his heart hammer in his chest. It was almost laughable how easily you had this effect him. You could ask for almost anything—he’d be incapable of saying no to you. 

What got him the most, though, was knowing you felt the same way.

“Don’t you have anything to do?”

Oh. You’d walked over. Stood right in front of him, arms crossed loosely, head tilted—curious.

“Nope,” he said, leaning back into the comfort of the couch, arms draped casually over the headrests behind him, one leg lazily bent at the knee. “It’s my day off.”

“I wish,” you sighed, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear and scratching the side of your neck. “I’m exhausted. My back is killing me.”

“How was your mission?” he asked, tilting his head, eyes tracking your every movement,

“Hm? Oh, it was good. For the most part,” you rubbed the back of your neck with one hand, the other resting on your hip. “Well… Guita went kaiju without permission and getting her back was… kind of a struggle. Rudo and Zanka also started fighting over… something—I don’t even know—”

He watched you with half-lidded eyes as you recounted the events of your day. His focus wasn’t really on the details—gaze flicking to the way your features caught the light, the curve of your neck, the small gestures you made while talking.

He traced the length of your torso—over your prominent collarbones, past the swell of your chest, and down to the dip of your waist. The lines of your body, the subtle stretch of your arms… his head tilted instinctively, eyes following the curve of your hip. 

Committing your silhouette to his memory with closest attention to detail.

The haze from the blunt clouded his senses—and his judgment—for better or worse, stripping away nearly every filter and leaving him dangerously close to acting on every thought he’d been holding back.

“…Yeah, yeah, sounds intense,” he cut in, his fingers curling around yours as he gently guided you closer—before abruptly pulling you onto his lap in one smooth, fluid motion.

You froze for a heartbeat, caught between the surprise he read on your face and the warmth of him suddenly beneath you. 

His hands rested lightly on your hips—careful to keep the blunt caught between his fingers angled away from your soft skin—steadying you. There was nothing rough or forceful about it, only the small measure of proximity he allowed himself.

“Enjin…?” your voice wavered, caught somewhere between disbelief and the pull of something a little worse.

He leaned back a fraction, letting you settle fully on his lap, thumb lazily tracing circles along your hip. “Continue,” he murmured, voice low, almost amused, eyes locked on yours. “I’m listening.”

“…Like this?” 

“Yeah,” he said, lifting the blunt to his lips and taking a slow drag, eyes fixed on yours—as if the inhale carried you with it, like he was breathing you in, drawing you deep into his lungs before letting the smoke slip back out. “Why not?”

With a slight hesitation, you eased into his touch, hands rested on his chest as you continued on with your little rant—something about files that needed sorting, how Semiu needed help with something.

He liked that you felt comfortable enough to ramble on around him without a second thought, that he could give you a space to be yourself and let anything off your chest—good or bad, it didn’t matter.

He just liked hearing your voice.

Every subtle movement you made, every slight shift, made his mind race. He imagined how it would feel if you leaned closer, if you let him take the lead—if you let him cross that line he’d been dying to cross.

When would you finally ask him? 

“…pretty much done for today, so that’s nice at least. I really need to tackle my laundry, though.” Your sigh swallowed the last few words.

He hummed, dragging his attention away from just how down bad he was and back to you—to the conversation at hand. “Could I sneak some of mine in with yours?”

“Depends,” you said after a moment’s thought. “What do I get in return?”

“Mm, great question.” He leaned back slightly, his hands running along the warmth of your bare thighs, fingertips teasing beneath the hem of your skirt before pulling away again. “What would you like, pretty girl?”

He could read it in the subtle shifts of your body, the way his hands on you made you grow restless. He wasn’t going to initiate anything—but you were tempting as hell, and he couldn’t be blamed for wanting to touch you, even if only in quiet affection. Not his fault it affected you the way it did.

Though he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy seeing you squirm in his lap like this.

“Can I… be honest?” Your eyes dropped, watching your fingers toy nervously with the loose fabric of his sweater. It looked like you’d already thought of something—just searching for the right way to say it.

“Of course, babygirl.” His hands slid up to rest fully on your hips, measured and controlled, like a quiet reminder that he could move you himself if he wanted to. “Anything you want.”

He felt you shift in his lap and tried—unbelievably hard—not to notice the friction.

He was dying to know what it would feel like to have you like that—pressed against him, wrapped around him. Watching you come undone was a sight in itself, and more than once had he caught himself thinking back to that time he’d focused on nothing but you, because it had been the only thing he’d wanted to do.

But he couldn’t help but wonder what you’d look like once you chose to take him there, too.

Probably real fucking pretty.

Your back arched naturally into the shape of his hands as your gaze found his again. He couldn’t help the flicker of expectation that stirred in his chest. Whatever thoughts drifted behind your slightly dazed eyes, you seemed more than content right where you were. 

The subtle tension you both agreed not to mention—hanging there, unspoken. The way his hands held you, the grip growing just a little firmer with each passing second. Your small, restless movements in his lap, nervous and barely contained.

Then you sighed.

“Maybe some company while I do the laundry?”

He blinked. Once. Twice. 

“Damn,” he said, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips, loosening his grip slightly as one hand reached up to the back of his neck. “Kinda thought you’d ask me to kiss you again.”

Or a little beyond that.

He felt your back straighten in a quick, almost imperceptible twitch. Your subtle nervous energy flared for a moment, then faded just as fast—but not before he caught it.

“I think you’re the one who wants to kiss me, Enjin.”

He took another drag from the blunt, a soft hum escaping instinctively. Then, letting the smoke drift out, he stretched both arms back along the headrest, tilting his head and releasing a low sigh that mingled with the curling smoke.

“M’not denying that.” He wanted a lot more than just kiss you—but you didn’t need to know. Not yet. 

“If you want one why don’t you ask?”

His head tilted back up, taking in the sight of you once more. The skirt rode up just slightly with the way your legs rested over his, your back still arched as if his hands were holding you, as if he’d molded you into place.

“Alright, then, pretty girl.” A faint grin tugged at his lips. “Can I kiss you?”

“Mm,” you murmured, as if in thought, adjusting yourself slightly on his lap. “No.”

He blinked again. Once. Twice.

A smug smile tugged at your lips as you continued moving in his lap, and the sensation ran straight through him. He couldn’t tell if you even realized what you were doing—or if you were just naïve.

A sharp pulse ran through his body, but his face remained unreadable, almost bored, jaw set. He’d rather die before giving you a reaction.

“Wow,” he half-laughed, brow quirking in amused confusion, entirely caught off-guard. “That’s cold.”

“Yeah, well…” Your hands slid down to rest on his stomach. “…just don’t feel like it.”

And he would’ve believed you—really, he would—if you hadn’t then scooted upward just enough to position yourself in a way that was extremely unfavorable for him.

The knowing look on your face, the teasing hint of fake pity. This entire time, you hadn’t just been trying to get comfortable. You knew exactly what you were doing. 

Every little shift, every subtle movement was deliberate. The friction, the way you pressed into him—it was all to rile him up. And you had yet to stop doing it.

Now that you were sitting directly on it, he felt everything: the subtle flex of your thighs, the roll of your hips with every tilt, the way you pressed just enough to make him ache. It was intentional—he could tell—and damn if it wasn’t working. You were trying to make him cave, and every inch of him wanted to.

“Uh-huh.”

Two could play that game.

He lifted his hips effortlessly, carrying you with him, and shifted slightly in his seat. On the surface, it looked like he was just getting comfortable—but really, he wanted to send a little shock through your system. 

A soft gasp escaped you, and just like that, everything he was about to do felt entirely worth it.

“Shame,” he sighed, flicking the blunt aside, his hands finding your hips once more, settling into that firm, possessive grip. “You sure you don’t want to?”

His gaze never left yours as he began subtly guiding your movements, easing you back and forth over him. There was nowhere to go, no way to stop—you were moving exactly how he wanted, completely at his mercy.

Just the way he knew you’d crumble for him. 

A faint look of surprise crossed your face, as if you’d just realized he’d caught you in the act. It didn’t last long—soon it melted into that hazy, unfocused expression that he’d been hoping to see on your face again.

“Yeah…” you murmured, uncertain.

Yet, he picked up on you moving with him under the guidance of his hands.

Your palms pressed flat to the firm curve of his flexing stomach, grounding yourself while your head dipped as you chased the sparks of pleasure he teased from you. Every subtle press and sway had him biting back a groan, utterly captivated by the way you responded.

“Yeah? I don’t know, sweetheart,” he murmured, his hands on you gripping a little firmer, a quiet warning—and a promise—of how badly he wanted more. “Looks like you’re enjoying yourself a lil’ too much for that.”

He was certain that if he let go of you right now, you’d keep moving without hesitation. He could lean back, tuck his hands behind his head, and just watch you—watch you use his body to chase your own pleasure.

So many things he could be doing to you—and all you had to do was ask.

Your heat pressed against him, and it did little to calm his own rising tension. His body responded despite his restraint, pants tightening, every nerve on edge.

“C’mere, pretty girl,” he purred, voice low and teasing, letting the warmth of his body brush against yours. “Kiss me.”

The words hung between you, loaded and intentional, and he watched, half-expecting, half-daring, as you considered whether you’d take him up on it. 

Every subtle movement you made, every flicker in your eyes, only wound the tension tighter—and he couldn’t help but revel in it.

Finding a moment of resolve, you leaned in.

And he turned his cheek.

His hands stopped you, iron-strong, holding you in place so you couldn’t move either way. You pulled back, brow furrowed in confusion, but before you could speak, he carefully nudged you to the side, letting you land on the couch with a small yelp.

“Actually,” he said, rising from the couch and stretching theatrically, “nah.”

“What?” you blinked as realization hit you square in the face. “What the fuck? That’s so rude!”

“Yeah, well,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips as he threw your own words back at you. “Just don’t feel like it, y’know?”

A blatant fucking lie—but totally worth the offended look on your face.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

“Enjin—think you can grab that box up there?” Semiu gestured toward the top layer of the tall file shelf. “Don’t think we can reach it comfortably.”

He glanced up from the papers he’d been sorting, eyes flicking to the shelf as he processed the request. “‘Course. Give me a sec.”

You watched him take a last hit of the cigarette, then press the remaining bud into the ashtray set neatly on the table. A thin plume of smoke curled from his lips as he stood, stretching his back with a slow arch after what felt like hours hunched over sorting papers.

Most of the other cleaners were tied up—training or out on missions—leaving just Semiu, Enjin, and you to tackle the mountain of overflowing files and forgotten clutter.

Usually, you didn’t mind menial tasks like this—shutting your brain off, sorting things by category, maybe letting some music run softly in the background. It was a welcome change of pace from your otherwise demanding job.

Still, even with the low bass humming through the room, your focus kept slipping from the matter at hand. You found yourself watching the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, the subtle flex of his arms as he lifted the box, the smoke drifting around him like bitter fog. 

The memory of his hands on your hips lingered, impossible to shake even after days had passed—him guiding you through what was essentially dry-humping him right there in the middle of the common area.

You really couldn’t have made it clearer without drafting him a written invitation. And still—he’d pushed you off him.

To be fair—you’d started it. You couldn’t even be mad at his petty comeback; in all honesty, you’d probably have done the same if the roles had been reversed.

But that didn’t stop your pride from taking a little hit.

He’d just thrown your own game right back at you when he pushed you into the figurative cold water, and you knew you weren’t exactly in a position to fight back. You really shouldn’t have been throwing stones from the big fat glass house you were sitting in in the first place. 

Oh, well. Consequences of your own actions.

Those split seconds where everything finally clicked—the heat, the pressure, the way he felt under you—were everything. All you’d been yearning for this whole time; feeling wanted in every way—not everything but. 

And then it was gone. Replaced by a smug curve of his mouth and the maddening view of his back as he walked off like it hadn’t meant anything at all.

A ridiculous thought dawned on you—so absurd it made you wince just for entertaining it.

But the quieter, more fragile part of you couldn’t help but wonder if he even wanted to touch you at all.

He’d never been shy about who he had spent his off nights with. Not like he’d bragged about women in the past, but he certainly didn’t bother to hide the haze of his high whenever he’d returned from a rather pleasant hookup the next day. 

So why had it been so easy for him to get into bed with someone random, yet with you, he acted like the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind?

Sure, he’d kiss you, hold you, let you curl up against him. But that was about as far as the physical intimacy ever went.

You didn’t even think you were being subtle about what you wanted. But still… you couldn’t exactly stroll up and say, “Hey, please fuck me!”

That just wasn’t how it worked.

One person initiated, the other caught on. It was about reading each other, noticing the signals, not spelling everything out in words.

Right?

Either way, you knew you needed space—some time to steady your nerves around him, and the closest thing to a guarantee for him to not get ambushed by you every time he did as much as roll his sleeves up.

A soft exhale left your lips as you tried—unsuccessfully—to drag your attention back to the files. Tried, that is.

You watched him straighten again, stacking the box carefully on the table, then leaning back, rubbing the back of his neck with a slow, almost distracted motion—unconscious movements that made your chest tighten and your pulse spike a little.

The smallest habits of his you’d never really noticed before made themselves apparent—the way his hand reached up to fidget with his piercings as he scanned a line of text, or the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek while he was concentrating. 

Yeah. You couldn’t be around him and then also be expected to function. At least not right now.

“Are you done with this stack?” 

Semiu appeared in your peripheral vision, leaning casually on the table as she glanced at your progress.

“Huh?—Oh, yeah,” you mumbled, blinking yourself back into focus.

“Neat, good job. Think you could carry them over to the other finished ones?” She nudged the nearest pile lightly with her fingertips. “Just to free up some space.”

“Sure,” you said, sliding the stacks toward the edge of the table, fingers squaring the corners before you moved to pick them up. “I’ll get right to—“

“Hold on,” Enjin cut in, focus half-fixed on the papers laid out in front of him.

He finished sorting the last few sheets in his hands first, tapping them into place before setting them down on their respective piles. Only then did his attention fully shift to you—to the stacks you were about to lift.

“Let me.”

He swiftly moved around the table, so much so you noticed yourself leaning back to make room. His hand brushed past yours as he took hold of the stack, steady and matter-of-fact, before dragging the stack toward himself along the tabletop.

For once, there actually was no particular intention behind it. He wasn’t trying to get a rise out of you or pull you into anything.

He was just being… attentive. Doing his job. Or rather—doing your job for you.

And it sucked, because things like this just made it so clear to you that—of course—he did care. He cared enough to always keep you at the back of his mind, to watch your movements in the corner of his eye and just be there for you in any way he could. 

It dawned on you that, oddly enough, people more often than not found themselves in the exact opposite predicament that you found yourself in—that they couldn’t be sure whether their partner actually cared for them or if they’d just sought out pretty-looking bed warmer. 

Unless you were the most gullible person on the planet, he never made you feel like he didn’t care for you. The fact that he wasn’t initiating anything, however, just made you feel… unattractive, maybe? 

Like, just maybe, the women he had slept with on his nights out had something you didn’t? 

And another part of you was embarrassed for feeling this way at all. It was just a big mess piling up under the rug you desperately tried to sweep it under. 

But there you stood, feeling oddly empty-handed, as if your fingers still expected to be holding something.

He probably didn’t even realize what he was doing to you right now—and you couldn’t help wondering if he’d always been this attentive, or if it was something that had started with your newly blossomed relationship.

Your eyes lingered on him a second too long as he carried the stack across the room, setting it down with the others before turning back without a word.

He didn’t sit down again.

Instead, he walked straight back toward you, as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he’d handle it all for you.

“Still some here,” he said almost absently. His golden eyes flicked up to meet yours for a brief moment before returning to the remaining piles—probably nothing more than a passing glance to him, but it landed heavier than it should have, settling somewhere warm and unsteady in your chest.

“Thanks...”

This was why you needed a break. Just a couple days to keep yourself in check. 

You stepped aside before he even had to ask, watching as he gathered the last couple stacks, balancing them with practiced motions. His sleeve rode up slightly as he lifted them, revealing the familiar clouds of ink along his forearm. 

Nothing dramatic or showy to impress anyone. 

Just unhurried efficiency. Flow-state.

He carried those over too, disappearing again between the shelves and the finished piles, leaving you standing there with nothing left to organize but your own thoughts.

Youreyes lingered on where you last watched his frame a second too long as he turned away, stacking the papers neatly with the others before returning to his seat like nothing had happened.

Which, to him, it probably hadn’t.

But it stuck with you anyway.

“[Y/n], you’ve been here for hours. I think Enjin and I can handle the rest,” Semiu said, clapping her hands lightly as if signaling the end of your shift. “Thanks for your help—you did great.”

Perhaps she’d caught wind of your odd demeanor, but you didn’t have it in you to entertain the idea. Because you had really been here for a couple hours longer than the two of them and you were starting to feel a little tired. 

“You sure?” you asked, tilting your head. “In that case… my pillow is calling my name. Thanks, Semiu.”

You took a moment to straighten the scattered papers on your desk before taking hold your jacket on the chair and draping it over your shoulders.

“See you later?” you murmured, brushing past him and planting a soft, unhurried peck on his cheek, fully aware it would probably be the last time for a little while that you could interact with him so naturally.

Not for long. Just a day or two—until you finally calmed down a little. 

He barely turned—just a second or two—flashing a tired smile and that look in his eyes that made you melt. “‘Course, baby.”

You don’t think you’d ever get used to him calling you that. 

And the moment the archive door shut behind you, your thoughts began spiraling all over again. 

About why he’d even asked you out in the first place.

What, exactly, had drawn his attention to you after months of working side by side, rifling through smelly trash? It wasn’t as if you’d suddenly changed—you were pretty much the same you had always been. Same habits, same routines.

So what had possessed him, all of a sudden?

Had there been some moment you’d missed?

And if it had appeared that suddenly… could it disappear just as quickly?

The thought made your stomach twist.

Maybe that was the question that had actually been quietly eating at you all along—not why he’d asked you out.

But whether he’d already started to change his mind.

Somehow, that possibility lingered louder in your head than anything else.

And it hurt more than you would’ve liked to admit. 

You weren’t even sure when you’d made it to your bed, how many hours had slipped by while you mulled it over—but it sure did a number on your self-esteem.

You could already hear exactly what he’d say if you brought this up. “Stop being silly, baby—of course you’re important to me.”

And then… you’d have to ask why he wasn’t the one initiating anything. And you just didn’t it want to go there.

It would have to happen eventually. You knew that.

But not yet. First, you needed a second to brace yourself for the awkward conversation… and to wrestle your hormones back under control.

Just a little space. Just a little time.

He wouldn’t even notice.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

Enjin had been trying to get a hold of you for a couple days now. 

But—somehow, almost every time—there was some chore to do, an errand to run, or work that demanded your attention. Being a cleaner kept you busy, sure, but not like this.

Missing one or two chances was understandable. But it had been so long since he’d spent time with you that he was starting to worry he might forget the cute roll of your eyes whenever he’d say something that pissed you off.

On top of that, he couldn’t shake the worry that he’d somehow upset you. And, honestly, more than a little frustrated that you weren’t telling him anything.

Yesterday morning, he’d caught you having breakfast with Eisha. When he asked about when he should be there to keep you company for the laundry, you said you were busy.

Not busy with what, not a single detail—just “busy.” And then you were gone, leaving him with nothing but the empty space where your answer should have been.

He checked with Semiu. Riyo. Zanka. Eisha. Corvus. Rudo. You’d been nowhere in sight all day. After an hour of looking, late evening was already creeping in, and his worry was starting to thrum.

He wasn’t stupid. You were avoiding him. He just didn’t know why—what he might have done to upset you like this, or how terrible it could be for you not to tell him right away.

He trusted that you knew him well enough—if he’d messed up, he would apologize. And that was that. 

So—where were you? 

He’d knocked on your door. No answer. Checked the common area, the mess hall. Still nothing. He even tried your choker—silent.

You definitely hadn’t left the building; going out at this hour wasn’t your style. He knew that much. 

With all that pent-up energy inside him, thinking clearly was nearly impossible.  All he wanted to do was cuddle up with you, watch a dumb movie, and try the new Viander sweets that came in today. 

He hadn’t realized how much he relied on seeing you every day until now. The silence was unbearable, the not knowing was worse.

You’d usually spend your time together like this—nothing special, just keeping each other company. Well… “usually.” It had been nearly a week since you’d done anything together.

For two people who lived in the same building he sure felt like he hardly even saw you around anymore.

It hadn’t started like this. About two weeks ago, he’d already noticed you acting a little off. Every time he put an arm around you, you’d stiffen or shift away. He’d assumed it was just mission fatigue and didn’t think much of it.

But then, suggesting hanging out later made you restless, fidgety.

He felt like a frog only now realizing the water was boiling—wandering the halls without a single clue where his girlfriend had disappeared to.

Until a flicker of pink caught in his peripheral vision.

Something small. Carelessly forgotten in the middle of the hallway.

A cute, frilly pair of panties.

A pair he knew a little too well. The same ones he’d shoved aside a few weeks ago, too busy getting high off the taste of you to care where they ended up.

He stilled, eyes sweeping the corridor to make sure no one was watching—no one ready to mistake him for some perv stealing his coworkers’ underwear. Although, he technically was right now—but not like that.

Swiftly, he bent down and scooped them up in one smooth motion, curling the fabric into the center of his palm before closing his fist around it.

Then he kept walking, stride steady, the soft bundle hidden in his hand as his feet carried him toward the room he was almost certain you’d be in.

And if he was right about where that was, you were going to have a lot of explaining to do.

His steps came to a halt in front of an unassuming door, identical to all the others, the low hum of washing machines vibrating faintly through the walls.

He stood there for a second.

Then his free hand lifted to his choker—only for the sharp chirp of an incoming call to sound from the other side of the door.

He blinked.

“Huh—oh, shit—”

“[Y/n]?” he called, brows pulling together.

A beat of silence.

“…No?” came your less-than-convincing reply from inside.

With a defeated sigh that barely carried through the wall between you, you cracked the door open for him.

Seeing you like this made it nearly impossible to stay mad—just a little sundress hugging the curves he adored, your hair slightly tousled from hours in the laundry room, a faint sheen of sweat catching the light on your skin.

“Are we playing some kind of naughty scavenger hunt, or why’ve you been hiding from me all day?” he asked, holding your cute underwear between his fingers. You gasped at the sight, snatching it from him and clutching it to your chest in embarrassment.

The door stayed open as you walked back to lean over the dryer, hands braced on its edge, arms stretched, body curved and the hem of your dress hitching along your curves, teasing him just enough to make his mind race—but never enough to give it all away. 

Your eyes were fixed on the spinning drum like it was the most interesting thing in the world right now—and you were genuinely so fucking lucky to be as cute as you were, because it did wonders to soothe Enjin‘s rather agitated nerves. 

“I haven’t been hiding,” you mumbled. “Just… busy.”

Busy. Again. The word stuck in his mind like a parasite.

He moved without a second thought, shutting the door behind him before settling onto the washing machine at the far end of the cramped laundry room. As he brushed past you, his fingers dragged lightly along the frilly hem of your dress, just enough to make his presence known.

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to help with the laundry?” he pressed.

“Yeah… but I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted, as though you were unsure of whether that was even the reason—like you were asking him if that was your true intention.

“You’d never bother me, baby,” he said, leaning his weight back on his arms, hands flat against the surface of the machine beneath him. 

“At least not with stuff like that. What does bother me,” he continued, eyes locked on your backside, as you refused to turn towards him, “is when my girlfriend avoids me for days on end and doesn’t give me a single fucking clue about what I did wrong.”

The air between you thickened, and he knew you could feel the weight of his words by the way your shoulders tensed ever so slightly. 

“It’s not like that.” You shifted, pulling your weight back onto your feet, fingers fiddling with the frilly underwear in your hands as if you’d forgotten what they were. Still, you didn’t turn to him, and his patience was starting to fray.

“So,” he said, leaning slightly forward, arms crossed, “you haven’t been hiding from me?”

“No,” you replied, tossing the pink fabric into the basket beside you, a little frustrated. “Well… kinda—but it’s still not like that. I promise.”

“Then what is it like?” His brow furrowed, arms tightening across his chest as he edged closer, agitation creeping into his voice.

You sighed, unsure what to do with your arms, finally settling on clutching one to your side for comfort. “I’m not mad at you or anything.”

“Okay,” he tilted his head, trying to catch a glimpse of your face you stubbornly refused to show. “Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

─────────୨ৎ─────────

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

There was an edge to his voice—frustration, maybe—but beneath it sat something softer. Concern. And it pulled at your heartstrings so bad, because you had never meant for any of this to spiral like it had.

You hadn’t meant to make him worry. Of all the reasons to upset him, this had to be the stupidest one imaginable.

You just needed time. But it turned out you needed a lot more than you first anticipated, because every interaction just felt more awkward with each time you talked and it was all your fault. 

Unlike him, you didn’t have the patience of an angel. You weren’t able to keep it in your stupid pants. How were you supposed to learn how to control yourself if your boyfriend looked like that?

You stared down into the working dryer like it held the secrets of the universe. Like the answers might be hiding somewhere between the spinning metal and the faint scent of detergent.

You knew you had to tell him.

It was just so fucking embarrassing.

“Could you…” Your voice faltered. You forced yourself to turn, finally looking at him properly for the first time in days—

—and immediately regretted it.

Your brain hadn’t been exaggerating. It hadn’t romanticized him. He really was just unfairly good-looking.

And kind. And caring. And unbearably generous. 

His arms were crossed loosely over his chest. Leaning back against the washing machine and intently focused on you. Brows slightly drawn, but his expression soft—achingly fond, even now.

He just wanted to help.

Get a fucking grip, woman.

“Could you… turn around?” you asked quietly.

He blinked. “Is there something on my back?” His head tilted, genuinely confused.

“No, not at all,” you said quickly, heat creeping up your neck. “I just… don’t want you looking at me while I say this.”

There was a small pause.

“…Okay. Sure.”

No teasing. No pushing. He simply pushed off the machine and turned around, resting his hands on the edge of it in front of him. Giving you his back without hesitation.

It barely helped to calm your racing heart. 

You inhaled slowly.

“This is stupid,” you muttered.

“Probably,” he replied calmly. “Still want to hear it.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“I’m not avoiding you because I’m mad,” you began. “Or bored. Or… whatever you think.”

Silent. Attentive. Waiting.

“I just—” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can’t… function around you lately?”

No reaction. He stood still, anchored to the ground, molded into place. 

“…What does that mean?” he asked, slower now.

“It means,” you rushed out before you could lose your nerve, “that you’re just standing there doing normal things and I feel like I’m losing my mind. And it’s embarrassing.”

You swallowed.

“And you’re so… restrained. All the time. You don’t touch me unless I initiate it. You don’t— you don’t start anything.” Your voice dipped quieter, your words beginning to sound more like questions than statements. “It makes me feel like I’m the only one that… wants it.”

The confession hung heavy in the small laundry room.

For a moment, he didn’t speak—and you could merely watch the rise and fall of his back with every breath as he processed the information. 

“…That’s what this is?” he asked softly.

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it.

“I just— I don’t know if you’re holding back because you don’t want me like that or because you’re just being polite or—”

“You think I don’t want you?”

If you didn’t know him, you might’ve called it anger—the edge in his voice. But it wasn’t that. It was something else—something tight, something sharp, something that didn’t quite have a name. And you knew, without being able to explain how, that it wasn’t anger at all.

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

A beat of silence.

Then you heard him exhale slowly through his nose.

“…Can I turn around now?” he asked, voice lower.

You hesitated. “…Okay.”

He turned.

Time seemed to stretch, every second drawn out as he studied you. His expression gave nothing away, and you couldn’t tell if that was because he was unreadable—or because your own nerves were blurring everything.

He just watched. Quietly. Intently. 

It felt like he was silently putting you in your place, and you couldn’t help but feel like the dumbest person on the planet.

Like it was some sort of punishment. 

You dropped your gaze, letting it settle on the floor, chest tight, cheeks warm. Embarrassed, sure—but also strangely relieved.

Mostly humiliated, though. 

Then you heard him shift, pushing off the washing machine. He took a single, measured step toward you.

Your heart jumped.

Another step, and the space between you seemed to shrink faster than it should.

You hoped he wasn’t upset, or that he wouldn’t laugh at you. Maybe he’d just acknowledge it and let things stay… normal.

What did you even want him to say? 

One more step.

And suddenly, his presence was undeniable—his feet planted firmly on the ground you’d just been fixated on.

Then, the warmth of a few gentle fingers slid beneath your chin, lifting your gaze to the face of the man they belonged to.

He wasn’t upset. And he wasn’t laughing, either. 

Another step brought him closer, and you had no choice but to step back with him—until the backs of your legs pressed against the cold surface of the dryer behind you.

Then his lips were on yours.

Not careful. Not restrained.

Hungry.

You were pushed back against the dryer, the cold metal biting through your clothes while he held you like he’d finally allowed himself to. Your hands fisted into his shirt, grounding yourself against how solid he felt—how real. 

Weeks without this, without him touching you like this, had left you unbearably desperate.

“I’m still just a fucking guy, [Y/n],” he muttered against your mouth, barely pulling back before diving in again.

His kisses were relentless, overwhelming in the best way. “You think I don’t look at you and think about what surface to bend you over?” he breathed, voice rough. “M’not really subtle about it.”

The filth he shamelessly spewed made your stomach flutter and the desire for him progressed into more of an undeniable, carnal need. 

You could hardly keep up. He was consuming you, and yet your own hunger surged right back at him. You needed this. Needed him.

He pulled back just enough for air, both of you breathing hard. His forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m so fucking into you,” he said, quieter now—but no less intense.

You stared at him, dazed. The part of you that had been spiraling for weeks couldn’t quite compute that this man—this unfairly attractive, infuriatingly self-controlled man—wanted you just as badly.

But the girlfriend in you was still stuck on one thing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you managed, words brushing against his lips.

His jaw tightened slightly, but not in anger. Something steadier.

“Because I wanted you to tell me when you were ready,” he said. “I didn’t want you thinking you had to rush into anything just ‘cause we’re dating.”

You blinked at him. “I’ve been waiting for you to make a move and have your fucking way with me, you idiot.”

His brows lifted slightly, something dark flickering in his eyes, before quietly speaking his next couple words. “Is that what you want?”

Your confidence faltered for half a second.

“…Yes.”

His grip on your waist tightened—not rough, just certain. Like he couldn’t wait to finally get his hands on you.

“Let’s have it my way, then” he murmured, gaze locked on yours. 

With that, he kissed you—slow, sweet, and intoxicating enough to make your head spin.

And then he moved.

In one smooth motion, he turned you around, the front of your thighs hitting the dryer with a muted thud as he stepped in close. No rush. No wasted movement. Just the solid heat of him at your spine, boxing you in without effort.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hand slid up, fingers hooking beneath your chin again—this time with unmistakable authority. He tipped your face to the side, angling you exactly where he wanted you.

And then he kissed you again.

Deeper. Slower. Possessive without being reckless. Like he wasn’t trying to overwhelm you—just remind you.

You weren’t going anywhere.

He didn’t waste any time as his other hand started roaming your body.This wasn’t about coaxing you or checking in every second. He decided what you got—and you’d just have to look pretty, take it and be grateful for the attention. 

Something hard pressed against the small of your back, and under any other circumstances, you’d have felt a mix of respect and awe at its sheer size—but this wasn’t anything close to normal. 

You were frustrated, hungry, greedy, so astronomically down bad for him that seconds seemed to pass like hours—hours he wasn’t sheathed deep inside you, kissing your cervix and making you preach his name over and over again. 

You wanted it. Any way he’d give it to you. It really didn’t matter anymore.

His hand tightened on your jaw, tilting your face as his lips met yours with a relentless intensity—just to make you choke on it.

Without warning, his hand reached around and made itself home between your legs—no layer of fabric or lace separating his warm fingers from your needy fantasies. 

“Nothing under?” 

“Why do youthink I’ve been—fuck—been stuck doing laundry all day?” You tried to reply through unsteady breaths and all sorts of moans and whines.

If all your life boiled down to watching him haul boxes, muscles flexing, tossing casual touches that wrecked you in ways no one else would understand—then yeah, there was no hope left for a single clean pair of underwear.

“Fuck,”the bulge against your back seemed to swell at the feeling of your own desire against the pads of his fingers and your brain fully shut off—your conscious merely running on lust and basic instincts. “You’re so fucking cute like this.”

“Enjin—” you gasped into the kiss, your voice lost between breaths and the weight of him.

He just ignored you, forcing your face against his as he smoothly ran his warm fingers through your folds with no regard for your ability to balance yourself, before immediately dipping into your dripping wet, needy walls. 

His fingers curled into you, winding desire and tension into something almost unbearable, repeatedly torturing that spot inside you that made your legs tremble and your heart race miles an hour. No regard for getting you used to anything—solely focused on using you. 

“Enjin, it’s s’much, please—“

“I don’t care,” he said against your lips, eyes boring into yours, raw and unrestrained.“you don’t get to ignore me for a week and then expect me to play nice.”

He held your jaw with an iron grip, tilting your face forward and then to the side, exposing your neck. His lips traced the skin, biting and pressing with a heat that promised marks you’d remember.

His assault on your poor body didn’t falter whatsoever, digits pumping in and out of you as if it was their sole goal to make you lose your composure—or your sanity. 

“Really want me to fuck you, baby?” he breathed against a fresh mark he sucked into your skin, the pain of it pulsing through your nerves.

You nodded.

His wet fingers slowly drew out of you, only to find their way back to your wanting clit, teasing it with a slow, agonizing pressure that made it oh-so unbearable.

“Words, [Y/n],” he murmured, sinking his teeth into your skin just enough to draw a pathetic whine from you. 

The slow, careful tempo of his fingers shattered, replaced by a rapid, unyielding rhythm. Each movement was exact, intentional, and edged with a cold insistence that left your nerves stretched taut.

“Yes,” you breathed, mind hazy, caught in the relentless push and pull of the sharp, consuming sensations he was pressing into you. “I want you… so bad, Enjin. Please.” 

“Then be a good fucking girl—” he withdrew his fingers slowly, before pressing them to your lips with a weight that was no invitation, but rather a quiet, undeniable command, “—and get on your knees, yeah?” 

You opened your mouth, getting a taste of yourself on his fingers as you sucked them clean of you.

Then, with a swift, controlled motion, he shifted you both, leaning his weight against the dryer as you came to face his already commanding height—a presence that only seemed to grow as you sank to your knees.

He eyed you every inch of the way down, expectantly. And you swore not to let him down today, no matter the cost. 

You barely even took the time to process the impressive bulge that you’d felt pressing against your lower back not too long ago, as you loosened the baggy fabric and slid it down by its waistband.

You wanted him—his attention, his touch, and every single inch of him.

And as he finally sprung free from the restraints of his pants, you really couldn’t help but take it in for a moment. At his height, being well-equipped was almost a given… but actually seeing it was a whole different story.

The slight curve of it. The subtle veins that ran along his length. 

How fucking hard he was. 

There wasn’t a single thought you could summon other than the image of it claiming you in every way imaginable and finally—finally—being allowed to touch him. 

With all the care you could summon within you, you reached for it, wrapping a tender hand around his girth and giving him a couple tentative strokes as the most beautiful hiss trickled from his lips. 

Then, without further thought, you left an experimental lick on the tip of it, before fully encasing it within the warmth of your mouth. 

“There you go,” his fingers threaded through your hair as they found the back of your head, guiding you along the length of him while gently reminding you of the position you were in. 

With every stroke, he urged you to take an inch more down your warm and waiting throat—slow and steady, getting both of you used to the feeling of him using your mouth. 

Your tongue moved along his soft tip as if it were second nature,taking it deeper as your hands folded neatly in your lap—like the good girl you wanted to be for him.

“Mm, just like that,” his voice dropped, rougher and deeper than you’d ever heard it, as a sinful groan tore from his throat, his grip tightening just slightly in your hair. “You’re so fucking lucky you’re pretty—being way too nice to you right now.” 

The salty taste, tinged with something unmistakably Enjin, made you moan around his girth. He fucked your mouth with practiced ease, guiding you up and down his length, your thighs squirming beneath you with every movement.

“Should wear that dress more often,” he said, that slow, teasing smile tugging at his lips. “The view up here is great.”

You felt it—the heat stirring low inside you, crawling up your skin in a slow, insistent way, leaving your mind dizzy and sharp all at once.

Sundresses weren’t your usual HQ attire, but laundry had been put off for so long that this was the only thing left that wasn’t a stained pair of pajamas.

But now, under his gaze, every glance felt like it was marking you, making you intensely aware of yourself in ways that were both intoxicating and terrifying.

It was possibly the skimpiest—bordering on unwearable—piece of clothing you owned.

And yet, all you could think was… if this was enough to make him look at you like that, maybe you’d start wearing dresses a size too small around him more often.

“Wanna impress me, baby?” 

You looked up at him all doe eyed, mouth stuffed as you nodded at him through fluttering lashes.

“Mm, so good f’me,” he murmured, his hand brushing your cheek as you leaned into his warmth, before sliding back to the nape of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair. “Relax your throat, sweetheart.”

And with that, he gently eased you down his inches, getting the length of him a little wetter with each passing second, your tongue flat against the bottom.

You could feel the restraint in his hand on the back of your head, the patience it took for him not to slam you down and fuck your face in. How he’d again chosen to be merciful—to take care of you the best way he could. 

You were starting to feel him at the back of your throat, tip naturally curving along the roof of your mouth as a soft hum escaped you in an attempt to relax your gag reflex. 

“Fuck—that’s it,” his hand tightened in your hair as the sensation dragged him deeper into it, keeping you close while the tight warmth around him flexed and pulsed, making him lose himself in the moment. 

“Taking me so good, baby—doing such a good job, just f’me.” 

At this point, you lost all control over your movements, no longer yours to guide. 

You glanced up to see Enjin’s head tipped back, lost in the feeling and revealing a sinfully attractive sight to you that got you all the more worked up—like his strong, inked neck, or his broad, heaving chest—before his gaze dropped back down to catch your own. 

“So prettylike this.” 

Your legs trembled at his praise, moaning around his dick as your fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs. 

All your worries suddenly felt trivial. Every part of you that had felt unwanted now burned under his commanding attention, your pulse stuttering with the weight of his focus on you.

“You restless, baby?” he spoke, readjusting his grip on your hair to better control your movements—like he knew he needed to with what was about to come. “Go ahead—touch yourself.”

Entirely drunk on him, there was barely a moment to feel flustered or embarrassed before your hand obeyed his command, moving as if it had a mind of its own, and disappearing under the frilly hem of your dress.

The warm pads of your fingers came in contact with your now soaked folds, collecting some of the abundance of slick that had accumulated between your legs, before tending to your needy clit and imagining it was his calloused fingers instead.

His hand on you left to hold onto the edge of the dryer instead, as you balanced your own pleasure alongside bobbing your head to please him.

“Patiently waited for dick for so long,” he huffed, watching the length of him disappear in the warm cave of your wanting mouth. “Would never deny my baby anything.”

His hazed expression—knowing that you were the cause of it—pulled at something deep inside you, a thrilling reminder of how utterly yours he was in that moment.

“You really missed me, huh?” 

With your neck straining through the motions, you halted to simply focus on his pink tip, sucking on it with your tongue running flatly across, before releasing it from the vacuum of your mouth with a subtle pop and licking him clean of the leaky white streaks you pulled from him. 

“Eager girl,”he let out a quiet laugh before his hand gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Come back up here, sweetheart.”

With a final, longing kiss to his tip, you rose to your feet—and before you even fully stood, he’d yanked you to stand in front of the dryer, hands flat on the surface of it as you found your balance. 

You felt him shift behind you, inching closer as his aura of pure heat hit the skin of the back of your legs. “How about I grant you your wish now, pretty girl?”

“But, Enjin—we can’t, I don’t have a—“

The rustle of plastic filled the room as your boyfriend effortlessly tore open a small square package between his teeth.

“What is it?”

“You just… have condoms on you all the time?” 

“No,” a hand ran down your back, gently pushing you forward for you to properly lean on the dryer and support your weight on your forearms instead. “I had it on me, because I figured if you’d ever get around to asking me and I didn’t have one on me I wouldn’t trust myself not to just do you raw.”

“Fuck, that’s kinda hot,”you couldn’t help your remark, back naturally arched in this new position, as the grip of a strong hand on your hip guided you closer to him, before you felt something nudge at the entrance of your fluttering walls. 

“Let’s not waste any time then, baby,” his hand reached further into your hip, hooking itself around it for the best grip to pull you into him. “Let’s fuck some sense into you, yeah?”

He said it like it was nothing, but the words sent a shiver crawling all the way down your spine, instinctively backing into him in order for him to finally fill you, though his iron grip on you prevented any sort of control. 

“Shit—thinking I don’t want you is the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.” 

And with that, he’d crossed into annoying-you territory—because you hadn’t endured days of frustration and neglect just for him to poke fun at you now.

“Well, what am I supposed to do if—“

He started inserting himself into you and the world suddenly started spinning, words getting stuck in your throat and sealed with a quiet gasp. 

“Much better,” his other hand joined your free hip, effortlessly pulling you down his length with the most sinful groan you’d heard in your life. “Don’t need you to do anything, baby—just need you to look pretty for me right now.” 

The feeling was indescribable.

The guy you’d spent weeks waiting for, night after night, imagining, wondering what he’d feel like, was finally there—finally turning your fantasies into something real, right here in this tiny laundry room—and it felt overwhelming in the best way.

It wasn’t something for you to imagine. It was something you could remember.

All the dreams you’ve had absolutely paled in comparison. His strong arms, broad frame, his provocative charm—everything.

It’d turned you on so bad, he slid into you without any effort—inch upon inch exploring the warmth of your clenching walls around him.

“Shit—Enjin—“ 

“I know, I know,” he cooed, rubbing reassuring patterns on the side of your thigh before moving his hands up to the hem of the dress, lifting it ever so slightly. “You look so good, baby—made to get fucked like this.” 

With that, his grip to your hips returned as he bottomed out experimentally, earning him the smallest noise from you, only egging him on further. 

He did it again. And again. And again. 

You didn’t even know you could make sounds like that—soft, squeaky little hiccups that slipped out of you again and again before you had any chance to swallow them back with each of his thrusts. 

“So cute,” he teased. “You’re like a little squish toy.”

“Shut—” hic “—up.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter that dissolved into a groan, his hands tightening on your hips as he arched your back further into the dryer you clung onto like a lifeline.

It happened so quickly. 

A second ago, you were both adjusting to the sensation of him inside you, him just testing the waters and finding a rhythm with you.

The next second, his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips as his pace picks up, fucking into you with a newly summoned force. 

And suddenly nothing else mattered—nothing other than the marks he’d leave on your skin, the low grunts that drowned out every other sound in this tiny, tiny laundry room, and the overwhelming feeling of the dam that had been building inside both of you finally breaking.

“Fuck—she’s tight,“ he groaned, keeping you pressed against the cheap dryer that never fully dried your clothes—though in that moment, you’d never been more grateful for the damn thing. “This what you wanted, baby?” 

“Yes—fuck—please, Enjin—“

He thrust in. And in. And again. And while you were certain you could die from this, you also knew you’d never felt more alive than right now. 

And no matter how desperate sex over an old, half-broken dryer might seem, you felt how much affection was in the way his hands caressed your skin, how honeyed his voice resonated with his sweet words towards you, with every time he called you pretty and praised your efforts.

“Taking me so well, baby,” he said through hoarse grunts and hot breaths. “Y’feel so good.”

Any reply from you was caught between hitched noises, in sync with every time your body was pressed further into the machine beneath you.

You were burning like you’d never burned before, the heat especially concentrated in that tight knot in your stomach, coiling tighter with every passing second.

And every second felt as long as a lifetime.

It was a sweet kind of torture—chasing a release you didn’t really want to reach. Pleasure you’d waited far too long for, your desire not nearly sated enough to let it end so soon. Yet any attempt to slow it down would only dilute the bliss he was giving you.

“Tell me whose you are, baby.”

“M’yours—fuck—only yours.” 

“Damn right.”

You tried to ignore the feeling of him, to think of anything else—anything to distract yourself. But it wouldn’t be fair. Not to him, and certainly not to you.

“You’re mine and I’m yours, angel.”

The way he found those places within you far exceeded any daydream you’d ever struggled to shake. The way he held your hips, the way he made you give in—but not surrender entirely—guiding you with that quiet, commanding presence of his.

“Please—please, Enjin.”

“Such a good fucking girl.”

It dawned on you then that this was how he’d always been—or at least for as long as you’d known him as the leader of his team. Not the kind of man who demanded respect or fed his ego, but someone who simply drew it in. Someone you trusted enough to follow.

“I—“ you stammered. “I’m getting—“

“I know, baby,” he cooed, big hands readjusting their grip on your sweat-sticky hips. “Me too.” 

“I don’t wanna stop.” 

He huffed a small laugh through an exhaled breath. 

“Me neither, baby,” his pace grew more relentless, every syllable stuttering to the rhythm of his thrusts, room filled with the sounds of your bodies moving against one another, “but it won’t be the last time.” 

The knot strung tighter and tighter as stars began decorating your blurry vision and all you could think was Enjin Enjin Enjin.

“Can fuck you whenever you want, yeah?” 

“Yes—please.” 

“Just gotta ask, pretty girl.” 

“Fuck me tomorrow?” 

Another short-breathed laugh. 

“Anything you want, angel.” 

And with that, the coil snapped and the weight of all breaths you didn’t take came crushing down on you—body, spirit and soul. 

You felt yourself clench and tighten around him as he chased his own release along that same edge of pleasure, low grunts slipping from him in that voice you’d come to find so irresistibly charming, carrying you through your high.

“Fuck—[Y/n],” he moaned, thrusting into you with one final push and holding you right there.

“So fucking perfect.”

And with that, he pressed you close, relishing in his own pleasure with a low exhale that sent a hot shiver down your spine. He moved lazily a couple more times to ride out his release, drawing soft whimpers from you with each motion.

And—finally—pulling out.

You took your time coming back to your senses as he traced a few affectionate strokes along the bare skin of your thighs. Then you heard him shifting behind you—the quiet sounds of him putting himself back together, fabric rustling, zippers pulling, a buckle fastening into place.

All the while, you remained half-splayed over the dryer, slowly grounding yourself again, catching your breath as your heart rate began to settle.

And then, as if you’d never been bent over that dryer in the first place, he took your arm and turned you toward him, swiftly lifting your weight and gently setting you atop the surface he’d just had you over. He stood between your legs, holding you by the waist like he knew you couldn’t quite keep yourself steady yet.

And he kissed you.

So heartbreakingly gentle and sweet that it almost didn’t match what had just passed between you—before he slowly pulled away.

“You’re the most beautiful, irresistible, smartest girl I’ve met in my entire life—and I’ll be damned if I ever make you feel like anything less, okay?”

His golden eyes bore into you, and it was one of those rare moments with him that you cherished—when he didn’t hide behind cheshire grins or flirty humor. It was just him, speaking his mind, being genuine.

Reassuring you that he felt that thing between you—whatever word you hadn’t put on it yet. And you knew you felt it too.

“Okay…” Your hands snaked around his neck for extra support as you held his gaze, getting lost in the lines of his face and how they’d been touched by what you’d just done. His skin flushed pink. His eyes hazed with lingering heat. 

The warmth radiating off him pulled you in before you even realized it, your limbs wrapping around him to cage him in a lazy embrace. Your head rested atop his strong shoulder as his arms circled your frame, his nose nuzzling into the nape of your neck.

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know?” You muffled into the red fabric of his shirt. 

“Don’t be too nice to me right now,” he chuckled against your skin, “my ego is high off of all the please, Enjin, please—“

Your flat palm hit the back of his head.

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“Hey, Enjin?” 

“Hm?” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Shoot, baby.” 

“Why did you ask me out?” 

A beat passed, as he stared off into nothingness, barely grasping his resolve to continue on.

“Well,” he began. “How do I put this without sounding weird?” 

“Huh?” 

He sighed, before turning to you with honest eyes. 

“So, when August made you that… uniform…”

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CREDIT TIME☆*:.｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆

Beautiful, talented, intelligent, amazing BETA READERS: @zukunyy , @imjusttrashignoreme and my boyfriend <3

Dividers: @pixopix

A/N: ITS HERE !!!! I TOOK SO LONG BECAUSE IDK WHY—BUT THANK U SOOOOO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE ON TOBACCO&MINT!!! <3

This won’t be my last Enjin fic—bro attached himself to my spirit so bad i literally got a whole ass back tattoo two weeks ago…

I have a couple more idea for Enjin and it dawned on me that I could make all my established relationship ideas just be part of this series, so that’s probably gonna happen eventually as well :3

I’ll probably also explore some other fandoms :3

ENJIN 4EVER THO<3

I was rlly happy that a couple of you liked it so much u asked me to be on the taglist :3 extra thank u to u guys who asked to be tagged 🩷 made my heart go jumpy mode