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.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

“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…”

─────────୨ৎ─────────

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 

Enjin was a simple man with simple needs. 

A couple cigarettes. The rush of tearing a trash beast apart piece by piece. The relief of a joint right after. Hitting up his favorite local spots at the end of a workday, surrounding himself with gorgeous women who couldn’t deny the fact that he, too, was quite the specimen himself. 

Simple. 

Once you joined the Cleaners, he’d been ecstatic to finally share the burden that was being in your twenties while babysitting a bunch of brain-wrecked teenagers. 

For the first time in a while, he had room to breathe—time to indulge, and not just in stolen moments.

He could prep joints at night for the next day. Take long baths. Hook up with strangers. Stumble back home high out of his mind at bonkers hours in the morning.

He wasn’t above sharing his pleasures, either. He’d invite his adult coworkers to go out with him from time to time.

Gris usually took him up on it if his day had been particularly rough—especially after some heavy trash-beast ass-kicking.

Semiu, on the other hand, decided on a whim whether she felt like tagging along or not.

As for Zanka, Enjin was already looking forward to the day he’d be old enough to become a potential drinking buddy. Fingers crossed.

He’d even invited you along a couple of times as well, only to learn—pretty quickly—that you were more of a domestic soul. You liked taking care of yourself in your room during your spare time, doing chores, sticking to your own quiet routines and little rituals.

You spent a good chunk of your time tending to your vital instrument. Other than that, you just… existed among the residents. Easy. Steady. Reliable.

He exhaled slowly, letting the tensions of the day roll off him as his thoughts drifted towards the night ahead, an unlit cigarette sitting between his lips. The places he might go, the people he might see, the things he might do. 

His steps echoed through the atmosphere of low humming halls. It was easy to slip into autopilot, leave monotone routine behind—as monotone as his job could get, really— and trade it all for the simple pleasures waiting outside. 

Enjin had already clocked out in his head. Cigarette, street air, somewhere loud—he was halfway there when August’s voice tore through the hall.

“IT’S DONE! HAHA! I DID IT!”

Enjin stopped. Clicked his tongue. Figures. Nothing out of the ordinary. He put his foot in front of the other. 

Then August yelled your name.

The lighter stayed in Enjin’s pocket. Instinctively, he turned back around to watch the scene unfold in front of him. 

You appeared like you always did — clothes draping over you like they were just a size too big, hair half-tamed (much like you).

Mildly tired, mildly irritated, yet entirely unbothered by the chaos that was August himself. He leaned back against the doorframe behind him, eyes following the way you yanked the fabric out of August’s hands. 

“On my fucking life,” you groaned. “Why’re you yelling? M’right here.” 

“Wow, you’re so fun and energized,” Enjin chimed in, as sarcastic as he was relaxed.

You shot him a look — flat, unimpressed. He grinned anyway, like he’d just won a prize, or something. “You asked for a new uniform?” 

“Not really,”—you held the clothes up to get an impression—“he just said he’d make me one ‘cause he felt inspired, so I let him.”

He couldn’t help but notice the fabric of the new uniform— or rather, the lack thereof.

Enjin then realized, distantly, that he’d never really thought about what you looked like under your layers of much too oversized clothes.

The sweaters swallowed you whole, the pants hung low and loose, and somewhere along the line his brain had filed you away as safe. Familiar.

Not something to think about.

“August,” you said, turning the scraps of fabric over in your hands, brows knitting together, “are you sure this is for me? This is so not what I’d usually wear.”

Enjin almost agreed out loud. Almost. It didn’t match you—not the way he knew you, anyway.

You were all soft edges and practical comfort, huge sleeves and borrowed pants, a presence that blended into the space instead of demanding it. This thing looked like it wanted to be noticed. 

He should’ve written it off right there, should’ve sided with you and moved on. Instead, he found himself staring a second longer than necessary, curiosity gnawing at him in a way that felt unfamiliar. He wanted—unexpectedly—to see it on you.

Wanted to know what August had seen that he hadn’t. The thought settled in his chest, stubborn, yet not entirely unwelcome.

Enjin was a simple man.

“Are you doubting the gear genius?” He teasingly tilted his head.

“Yeah? How dare you?” August scoffed.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m not doubting anyone. I’m just saying—this doesn’t really look like something I’d wear.”

August waved you off, already vibrating with confidence. “Just try it on.”

You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Give me a minute.”

And just like you’d seemed to appear out of nowhere, you were gone again the very next second. The door to your room clicked shut.

Enjin didn’t realize he’d been watching until August lightly elbowed his side, muttering to himself about unique stitching, unmatched genius, and a true artistic vision needing proper time to take shape.

Adjusting his weight against the doorframe, Enjin finally lit the cigarette that had been resting between his lips.

Huh, weird.

He’d seen people change before—hell, had undressed people before, had just been about to go out and find someone to undress again. None of this should have registered.

And yet.

Seconds ticked by, and his mind counted them anyway.

He took a drag. Exhaled. Then did it again. The burned-down bud at the tip of the cigarette fell to the floor in what felt like slow motion.

He shifted again, cigarette now between his fingers, trying to convince himself that now could be the time follow through with his original plan: go out, fool around, return at some ridiculous hour. No obligations. No reason to stick around. 

So why weren’t his feet moving? 

His gaze drifted toward your closed door. For the briefest moment, he imagined what it might look like. Immediately, he shook his head. He really never thought of you this way. 

And yet.

The thought lingered. The thought of you—any way other than your usual comforting, gentle, easy self—refused to disappear. He heard the soft shuffle and toss of clothing behind the door until all that remained was quiet nothing.

He couldn’t lie to himself. He was curious. Whatever pleasures waited outside weren’t going anywhere, and he was entertained enough right where he was—so why force it?

There was no rush. No harm in sticking around a little longer. If nothing else, it gave him an excuse to annoy you about it later.

Another drag. Another exhale. The cigarette was now less than half its original length. A few more inches fell to the floor, slow, unimportant, meaningless.

The lock of your door clicked. And it mattered so much, for some reason.

Enjin’s head tilted, cigarette now forgotten between his lips. He imagined your last couple motions behind that door— a careful tug at a new hem, flatting a creased surface of the fabric, adjusting the fit and drape of certain places. Your hands moving along yourself in a familiar fashion. 

Your hands moving along yourself.

And that was new. In spite of all the trouble he usually got up to, he’d never thought of you as a woman before. Not once. 

Then, you stepped out. 

The uniform fit differently than he expected. On its own, it wasn’t flashy, or anything, but it conformed to your shape in a way that made it undeniable. Attention-seeking. And you…

You made it look effortless.

The seams traced your lines perfectly, moving and folding with you in one fluid motion as if the fabric had been waiting for you.

The uniform was stripped down, tight, and sharp. The skirt hugged your hips, short enough to catch the eye without feeling ridiculous. It was tasteful. 

The top clung to your torso in a way that left neither room for more fabric, nor for imagination. 

Over it, the cropped jacket—Cleaners’ emblem bold across the back—fit snugly, following your every movement without losing its structure. 

And the boots—chunky, scuffed, ready for anything—grounded you in a way that made the whole thing feel both dangerous and effortless.

And what shouldn’t have mattered suddenly mattered so much. Because, fuck… you were hot.

Every little shift you made—a tilt of your head, a small tug at the hem, the way the fabric moved with you—kept catching his attention. He bit the inside of his cheek. Ain’t no way you’d been burying all that under those layers. 

And yet.

Something in him knew better. Your figure fit the style of the uniform perfectly. Natural. Balanced. Built in all the right places. That shouldn’t matter. And still, it did. His pulse ticked a little faster, and he kind of hated that he noticed.

What he was most shocked to have to face was the fact that you were pretty much exactly what he imagined whenever he thought of an ideal type. 

His lungs tightened. Not from desire—at least, not fully. Fascination, awareness, intrigue—all tangled together. The version of you he’d filed away as “safe, familiar” no longer fit. Something was… different.

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for judgment. Approval. Anything.

He exhaled slowly, smoke he’d forgotten in his lungs curling upwards past his curious eyes. “Fits,” he said, voice low and casual, as though he was trying to convince himself he hadn’t been holding his breath for the past couple seconds.

You blinked, then tilted your head to look down at yourself. “Yeah… I guess so.”

Neither of you moved. The hall felt quieter, smaller, like any sudden movement could cause him to bump into you. August had gone silent as well, half inspecting his work, half sensing the shift in the air without caring to pinpoint the energy. 

Whether or not you had realized it, that was up for debate.

Enjin took another long drag. Exhaled. Hoping the smoke would create a barrier between him and your form.

It was then, that he realized it wasn’t just the uniform that mattered. It was the subtle shift in you, the way you carried yourself differently, the unfamiliar side of you quietly asserting itself—and him noticing, no pretending otherwise. 

Your back straightened, chest lifted ever so slightly—oh, fuck—and the natural sway of your hips whenever you shifted your weight had him chasing after his own breath. 

“Honestly,” you spoke, smoothing the fabric of your skirt over your hips, “I thought this would be uncomfortable, but… it’s really not. I do actually like it.” 

“TOLD YA! I’M A GENIUS!” August screamed, dancing with wild pride. 

Enjin couldn’t help but simply stare. An involuntary smirk grazed his features. “Yeah… you are a genius.” 

He was a simple man with simple needs.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

By the time the last trash beast went down, you’d forgotten what it felt like to wear anything else.

Given the nature of your fighting, bruises were inevitable—something you hadn’t even considered when you first received the outfit. Now, black-and-blue marks bloomed along your legs, stretching from mid-thigh all the way down.

It was a sight quite familiar to you, the difference being that—with your new uniform— it was visible to everyone around you as well.

You were going to have to do something about that. 

The adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off yet. Your limbs buzzed from all the movement, body feeling hot and fuzzy. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other in pursuit of some sort of relief for each limb. 

And in spite of all your movements, the pieces of clothing hadn’t shifted in any unwanted way. No hems to adjust, no creases to smooth over. Nothing. The uniform didn’t just cling to your body—it practically felt molded to your physique.

You hadn’t had to think about it once during the fight, which, honestly, was the highest compliment you could pay to the resident “gear genius” who had so carefully tailored it to your needs.

You glanced over at Enjin, who seemed to be in a similar state as you. Chest heaving, skin dusted with the thinnest layer of sweat and grime.

He leaned back slightly, the ever-present teasing grin tugging at his lips—a feature that somehow only grew more pronounced after a good fight at the edge of the No Man’s Lands.

He put most of his weight onto his dear umbrella as his gaze flickered towards your form. You caught it flicking down for a split second—a questioning twitch in his lip, a curious squint of his eye—and then back up. 

“Don’t start,” you said, already anticipating a comment about the state of your legs.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he replied easily, his hands up in defense and then catching Umbreaker just in time before it fell over. Then, after a beat, “You took quite a hit back there, though.”

“Well,” you looked down to properly inspect the spots this time. The bruises blossomed mostly in the areas around and on your knees, though your shins weren’t exempt of the hues of color. Frankly, it looked like it usually did. “Comes with the job.” 

“Huh,” his gaze flickered down again, lingering long enough for you to take note of it. “You always bruise like that?” 

“Pretty much?” You responded, putting one leg behind the other, as if it was going to do anything to hide it. “Legs usually take the worst of it.” 

“Figures.” he responded, lifting a joint to his lips—his habitual celebration joint, as you’ve come to learn about him.

His attention to your legs lingered just a second longer than you’d expected it to, before focusing on lighting the end of the blunt with his lighter. 

“You know,” he teased as the fire finally caught, then dropping his lighter back in his pocket, “the amount you bruise in a day feels like the amount I take in like, what, two weeks?” 

“Wow, you’re so cool for that,” you shot back—unimpressed, sarcastic. “Is this your way of telling me to be more careful?” 

“Nah,” he smirked, taking a drag of his joint and exhaling the smoke, a relaxed groan escaping along with it. “You handle yourself just fine.” 

That earned him a look. “High praise.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” he retorted, a challenging expression adorning his sharp features.

“Aw, why not?” You finally took a moment to stretch. 

Hands pressed together, you reached overhead, trying to ease the tension built up in your back during the fight. Even as you moved, you couldn’t help but notice the hem of your top riding up just slightly—enough to follow your motion comfortably, never restrictive, never bothersome.

It was honestly impressive. 

When your arms dropped back to your sides, you caught the faintest flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—and for a moment, it felt like Enjin’s gaze was still following you. Just for a heartbeat, though.

“What’s up with you today?”

“Huh?” A cloud of smoke tore through his lips. “What do you mean?”

“You’re, like, looking at me all the time,” you said, resting a hand on your hip. “What’s up with that?”

“I’m not.” He scoffed, taking another drag, huffing little smoke circles and watching them disappear into the air.

You rolled your eyes. “You are, though.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, shooting you a hopelessly charming smile, eyes shamelessly flicking down and back up your figure. “Maybe a bit.”

Unfortunately for you, his charms didn’t leave you entirely unaffected.

You couldn’t help it. Anyone with working eyes knew exactly that Enjin was the unfortunate epitome of attraction. 

The sharp line of his jaw catching the light as he tilted his head, the way smoke curled lazily from his lips, forming all sorts of organic shapes before vanishing into the air. 

The collar of his shirt revealing the ink nestled underneath his skin, curving alongside his neck, giving him this edge that somehow fit that permanent teasing expression he always wore.

You shook your head slightly, trying to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. But your pulse had its own opinion, quickening with the small, easy awareness of him in front of you. 

But no. This guy was more than likely carrying a choker filled to the brim with booty calls. There was no reason for him to be paying you that kind of attention, especially since he usually didn’t.

Something you’d always been painfully aware of, to your dismay.

“Whatever,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “Can you drive?” 

“Why?” he grinned. “‘Cause your legs are busted?” 

“You’re so funny today,” you mustered the most obnoxious fake-laugh you were capable of. “No, genius. I’m asking, because you’re high.”

“That would certainly be a valid concern,”—he took another taunting drag—“if you weren’t talking to me right now.” 

“Silly me,”you said, not-so-subtle sarcasm yet to unlace from your voice. “No, but really.” 

You walked past him toward the off-roader, unable to hide the little bounce in your step—half from the lingering adrenaline still coursing through your veins, half from the excitement you felt at the prospect of returning back to your base—home.

Heavy steps followed you until you both slid into the vehicle, him in the driver’s seat.

“I’ve done wilder things stoned,” he scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes as he inserted the key into the ignition.

“Like what?” You asked, getting comfortable in your seat. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You’re so insufferable sometimes.” you sighed, shooting him a displeased look. “Just focus on the road.”

He smiled, eyes meeting yours as if to admit guilt. “No promises.” 

His fingers moved quickly over the keys, firing up the engine before shifting gears and getting the car rolling.

“Buckle up, princess,” he said. “Just ‘cause your legs are bruised doesn’t mean I’ll be slowing down any time soon.” 

The little nickname definitely didn’t go unnoticed by you—as well as the double innuendo, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for him—though you felt too something to really comment on it.

“Don’t you worry about my legs,” you shot back, trying for a casual tone. “Not like I’m made of sugar or something.”

He smirked to himself, taking a last long drag of the joint before flicking it out the window. “Good to know.”

You caught him muttering something under his breath—more to himself than to you—but decided to let it slide. Your pulse still hadn’t quite settled—whether that was from the fight or due to certain body-modded men within your vicinity was something you chose not to worry about— and honestly, you didn’t really feel like picking fights, anyway. 

The motor rumbled beneath you as the off-roader stumbled over the uneven ground of the No Man’s Land, gradually leaving the chaos behind. The road began to flatten with each passing mile, though the ride already felt surprisingly smooth—especially considering it was Enjin behind the wheel right now.

You kept your hands folded in your lap. Your gaze kept wandering between the trash-ridden landscape — a rather unpleasant sight — and, of course, him — an admittedly rather pleasant side. 

Despite every warning you’d given yourself, despite every attempt to keep your guard up, he slipped past it effortlessly. He didn’t need your consent to get under your skin—and you couldn’t really help letting him, either. He was just good at getting people’s guard down—at least among the Cleaners.

Or maybe it was just you. 

Your gaze drifted back to him, more often than you cared to admit. His side profile looked sharper and even more defined against the warm rays of a setting sun kissing his dirt-ridden skin. 

It was honestly a bit annoying how attractive he was. 

You mentally traced the patterns of the tattoos disappearing beneath the nick of his shirt, wondering about the way they might continue. Your focus drifted towards the flex of his strong hands on the wheel, covered in similar shapes—how did they curl under his sleeves?

You shifted in your seat, throwing one leg over the other, and felt the faint sting of bruises along the length of your legs. Nothing severe, but enough to remind you that your fight hadn’t been gentle. 

You flexed them subtly under the skirt of your uniform, partly to stretch, partly out of curiosity, playing a quiet game of “how long before it hurts too much”. Of course, it never got to that point. It’s just some light bruising. 

He glanced at you then, out of the corner of his eye, and his smirk widened just slightly, like he knew about the silly game you were playing in your head to entertain yourself. A small quirk of his eyebrow, a tilt of the head—it was enough to make your chest tighten, though you pretended (miserably) to focus on your legs instead.

“So,” he said, voice casual but teasing, “you planning on sitting there looking broody all the way back, or are we gonna talk?”

You let out a soft breath, shoulders sinking into the seat. “I’ll be honest… I’m kind of tired.”

“I was wondering when you’d say that.” His tone softened, the teasing thinning out. “You can sleep, if you wanna. I’ll wake your ass at HQ.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyelids already heavier than you’d realized. “Sounds good.”

“I’ll wake you up good,” he added lightly. “Get Delmon to hose you down.”

One eye cracked open. “Okay. I’m not sleeping.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m kidding.” A pause. Then, softer, more genuine: “I’ll wake you up real gentle. Promise. Get some rest.”

The hum of the engine filled the space between you. The road stretched ahead, steady and uneventful.

You shifted slightly, adjusting against the seat, legs stretching out a little more carefully this time. Your head tipped back. The exhaustion wasn’t dramatic — just the slow kind that settled into your bones after a long day.

You felt it before you saw it — his hand adjusting the climate dial so the air wouldn’t blow directly at you. The smallest thing. Almost nothing.

But not nothing.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

The last thing you registered was the faint sound of him muttering under his breath — something about how easily you wear yourself out — and the way the vehicle seemed to move just a little smoother than before.

You were asleep before you even realized it.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

The common area was louder than usual—music bleeding from a battered speaker, empty bottles clustering along the tables, the air thick with smoke and laughter. Someone had dragged out a deck of cards, another group arguing loudly over rules that changed every five minutes.

Enjin fit right into it.

He leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, a drink balanced loosely in his hand as he laughed along with the others. Easy. Relaxed. This was familiar territory—post-mission chaos, shared exhaustion, celebration for still being alive. The kind of environment he absolutely thrived in.

His eyes roamed the room in a moment that was supposed to be all about appreciating his weird, little family.

And then, they stopped. 

You hadn’t made any sort of announcement. No dramatic pause, no random attempt at drawing attention. You just slipped into the room like you always did— quiet, familiar, reliable. 

His gaze flickered down before he could stop himself. 

The uniform sat on you as disgustingly well as it always did. Skirt hugged you too well, top accentuated your physique, jacket hung loose over your shoulders, sleeves slinging in the air.

He had just gotten somewhat used to seeing you this way. It was supposed to be safe. It should have been safe.

You chose trouble today. 

It wasn’t the uniform that threw him off.

It was what you added. 

Dark fabric hugged your legs beneath the skirt, reaching high enough to erase the bruises he knew were there. Practical. Sensible.

That, somehow, made it worse.

He knew why you were wearing them. A part of him basked in the fact that he was probably the only person here that knew why you were wearing them, that this was your attempt at hiding your bruises. And, somehow, knowing what it looked like underneath made it that much more… intimate? 

Not to mention the way that the plush of your legs perfectly spilled over the hem of the fabric, which was the best part about these types of socks, anyway.

But this was you. Cozy, unchanging, reliable you.

With a single addition to your work attire, you’d managed to take it from blurring the lines of professionalism to… well, overstepping them entirely. At least, in his eyes.

He couldn’t tell if he minded or not. Or he just couldn’t admit the truth to himself. 

The card game, the drink in his hand, the music running in the background—all of it faded as he took his sweet time observing you.

He eased back into the loveseat he was occupying, spreading his long legs like he owned the space, as if waiting for you was the most natural thing in the world.

You greeted a few people, checked on the kids at the children’s table, but never seemed to settle in one spot.

And so, he called your name before he could stop himself. 

Your head snapped toward him, eyes locking with his as you made your way to the poker table.

“Hey there,” you greeted, arms loosely crossed.

“Hi,” he replied, flashing that infuriating grin. “Sit down. We could use another player.” He shifted over, leaving just enough space for you to slide in, and you did—probably closer than you’d expected—after greeting everyone at the table.

His hand draped over the back of the two-seater, half-encasing your frame. His legs stretched, one brushing the side of your thigh, claiming the space with casual confidence, yet leaving enough for you.

“So… what are we playing?” you asked, voice light, like you were trying not to notice the proximity.

“It’s called Bluffing,” he said, eyes flicking toward you briefly. “Basically, the deck is evenly split among the four of us and we have to place cards in order of Ace to King facedown. The catch: You won’t always have the right card at the right turn.” 

“Ah,” you murmured as you took the drink from his hand and sipped, the weight of his gaze lingering on you. “So—you’re gonna have to bluff.”

“Right,” he replied, brow quirking just slightly. “You can place in multiples, though. If you gotta place an Ace and you have two on your hand, you can place both.”

“I see,” you replied, voice casual and airy. “How do you win? Or lose?”

“Oh, yeah—anyone can call a bluff at any point. If you’re right, the person who bluffed gets the entire pile on the table. If you’re wrong, you need to take the pile,” he responded. “Whoever has no cards left wins. You’ll get the hang of it.”

He leaned back slightly, letting his arm drape lazily over the loveseat, the movement deliberate, stretching closer to you without touching… yet. The proximity was ridiculous, and he knew it, and of course, so did you. 

He could feel the subtle brush of your leg against his, hear the faint shift as you adjusted your seat, the way your hand lingered on the drink he’d gotten himself.

His mind did a quick double-take, because… damn. You smelled good. Closer than he’d ever been, and now it was impossible to ignore.

Enjin reached for the full deck on the table, shuffling it, before he split the cards evenly between the four of you, movements smooth and practiced. Cards slid across the table in neat stacks.

“Alright,” he said, glancing around. “Who’s got the Ace of Hearts?”

Everyone checked their hand.

A beat.

“I do.”

His eyes flicked up immediately.

Of course you did.

“Then—you start.”

He leaned back, watching from the corner of his eye as you looked down at your cards. You took just a second too long. Your lips pressed together, like you were holding back a smile.

That was new.

You placed a card face-down.

“Ace of Hearts.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Bluff.”

The word came easy. Calm. Certain.

Bro snorted. “Already?”

You turned toward him slowly. “You don’t even know what I put down.”

He tilted his head, studying you openly now. “Don’t need to.”

It wasn’t about the card.

It was the way you sat a little straighter. The way your fingers lingered on the edge of the card a fraction too long. The almost imperceptible satisfaction in your eyes.

You were asking for it, really.

“Flip it,” Delmon urged.

You held Enjin’s gaze for half a second—a silent challenge—before turning the card over.

Six of Hearts.

Bro burst out laughing.

Enjin didn’t. He just smiled—slow and smug—because… well, there it was.

“I knew it,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t know anything.” You rolled your eyes.

He huffed a low laugh. Then, using the arm that wasn't draped casually behind you, he reached down and lightly poked a spot on your leg he knew was bruised. You yelped, just enough to make him grin wider.

Meanwhile, he couldn't help but savor the fact that he was the only one who knew what your legs looked like beneath the thigh highs. It was his way of telling you that—at least in split second—you belonged to him.

“I know you.”

You muttered something under your breath as you took your card back, clearly annoyed—but not really.

“Alright,” he said, settling back again. “Go on.”

You drew in a breath, adjusted your grip on your cards, and this time when you placed one down, your expression was steady. Almost neutral.

“Ace of Hearts—for real this time.”

He watched you carefully.

No lingering. No spark. No tiny flare of pride.

Just calm.

He held the silence for a second longer than necessary—just to make you feel it.

“Alright. Continue.”

Delmon cracked his knuckles. “Two.”

He placed two cards down in a neat stack. No hesitation. No theatrics.

Bro eyed him briefly, but didn’t bite.

“Three,” Bro said next, tossing one card onto the pile with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Stil, no one called anything.

Then it was Enjin’s turn.

He looked down at his hand. The next number was four. 

He just so happened to have two.

A small part of him considered holding one back for the next cycle.

He didn’t.

He slid both cards into the center. Calm. Clean.

“Two fours.”

He didn’t look at Delmon.

He didn’t look at Bro.

He looked at you.

Your fingers were still resting on your cards. But he saw it — that tiny shift in your posture. The way your shoulders squared. The way your eyes flicked to the pile and then back to him.

You were thinking. Good.

He leaned back slightly, arm still draped along the seat behind you.

“You gonna call it?” he asked lightly.

Delmon scoffed. “Here we go.”

Enjin ignored him.

His gaze stayed on you—not challenging. Just steady.

He wasn’t bluffing. But he almost hoped you thought he was.

For the most part, you upheld the eye-contact—eyes flicking towards the cards in his hand from time to time, as if questioning the legitimacy of them. 

“I wanted to,” you murmured, eyes flicking toward him, wary, “but… now that you want me to call it, I won’t.”

Enjin huffed a laugh.

“Fair enough. Your turn.”

You placed your three cards with a smile. “Five.”

Delmon’s brow furrowed as he eyed the pile.

“Bluff,” he finally muttered, leaning forward, elbows now resting on his knees.

You blinked, keeping your expression calm. “Oh?”

Enjin watched from his spot, leaning back slightly, arm still stretched behind you, smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t need to see your cards to know what was coming.

“You sure about that?” Enjin asked lightly, just loud enough for the table to hear. His voice carried a teasing edge, though he kept his own cards close.

Delmon hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “What are the odds of having three fives on your hand? I’m calling it.”

You flipped your first card — five. Then the second — five. And the third… five.

It was true.

Delmon froze, eyes widening as realization hit. “Huh?”

You leaned slightly toward the center of the table, a faint, triumphant smile tugging at your lips, sliding the small pile towards him. “There you go.”

Enjin’s gaze lingered on you, amusement and something warmer flickering in his chest. You weren’t even aware of the way you’d slid closer, your side almost fully pressed against him. 

He felt a soft nudge against his chest — your shoulder lightly stabbing into him. He didn’t move. He could feel the warmth radiating from you, the faint brush of your side against his, and the subtle weight of your presence.

He looked down at you, catching your eyes before you looked away. The next second, you muttered something under your breath, too faint to carry over the pounding bass from the speakers. Enjin might have only noticed because—well—he'd just been looking at your lips anyway.

An idea struck him. 

As if the proximity weren't already enough, he inched closer, letting his body press lightly against yours as he

leaned down, silently signaling that you should repeat yourself.

His arm draped over you more than it did over the seat, head tilted ever so slightly as his gaze locked with

yours, faces just inches apart—a challenge you were doomed to fail. He caught the brief flicker of your eyes

down toward his lap, though you didn't pull back.

He caught your gaze again, right as your pretty lips began to part. “I just asked if we start from ace again,” you spoke, almost in a whisper.

“No,” he replied, voice casual, but he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Next is six.”

You fit against him perfectly, your frame settling into the dip of the cushions at his side, curves aligning just so. You seemed comfortable there, either unaware of how close you’d slipped toward him or simply finding it as natural as he did.

Everyone eyes shifted to Delmon now that it was his turn. He placed one card down. “Six.”

Right after, Bro laid down a seven. Supposedly. 

The turn circled back to him. 

Enjin looked at his hand. Not a single eight. It was time to bluff. No big deal.

He slid two cards into the pile, careful, measured. “Eight,” voice calm, almost casual. Not rushed, not nervous—just like always. He let his gaze flick toward you out of the corner of his eye. The way you were watching him, that slight narrowing of your eyes.

“Bluff,” you said, quiet, steady, like it wasn’t a guess—like you already knew.

He froze just for a fraction of a second, more amused than concerned.

“You think so?” he murmured lightly, leaning into the seat a little more. Not defensive. Not worried. Just curious what you’d do.

You held his gaze, unwavering. Calm. Confident.

Enjin exhaled slowly, sliding the pile toward himself. “Alright, fine,” he said under his breath, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You got me.”

He was just flattered to know you’d watched him so intently.

“Damn,” Bro sighed, hand on the back of his neck. “You guys are really good at this.” 

Enjin hums. “Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”

Minutes passed, then stretched into what felt like hours. The pile grew steadily, now close to a quarter of the deck, and no one could afford to lose. Yet somehow, bluffs hadn’t been called in forever.

“You’re taking forever,” you groaned, tapping your cards lightly, fidgeting.

“I’m thinking,” he replied evenly, though the tiniest twitch of a smile betrayed him.

“Thinking about what—bluffing?”

“Wanna call it? I dare you.” 

He glanced at his cards, then back at you, then back at his hand, before cautiously sliding a ten onto the ever-growing pile.

“One king.”

It was intense.

“You’ve got to be lying, man!” Delmon exclaimed, eyes fixed on the pile as if staring harder would reveal the truth.

“Okay, call it then. See what happens.” His empty threat earned groans all around—Bro rubbing his forehead in frustration, Delmon gripping his knees like he needed an anchor. And you… still. Too still. Still in a tense way, like you were frozen in time. 

He didn’t know if it was reflex, instinct, or just a quiet urge, but his hand had started tracing lazy shapes along your shoulder. You seemed to relax into it, even if only slightly, and he was quietly glad to be of some comfort.

It also seemed to distract you from the game, which was a bonus.

It was your turn now. The pile demanded an Ace.

You picked a card and slid it onto the pile, voice even, airy. “An Ace.”

His eyes narrowed just slightly. He could tell. 

The way your fingers lingered on the card before letting it go, the tiny pause in your voice, the way your gaze flicked to him and then quickly away—you weren’t enjoying the lie as much as you should have been.

He considered calling it. Just for a moment.

But he couldn’t bring himself to let the pile crash down on you. 

He leaned back just slightly, letting his gaze rest on you for a beat longer than necessary, noting the faint lift of your chest as you exhaled, and the subtle tension easing from your shoulders. Not because he needed to, not because he wanted to punish you—just because he could.

Just because he liked it.

─────────୨ৎ─────────

You played round after round after that, the hours slipping by unnoticed. The table shifted, drinks were replaced, the music grew louder and then blurred into the background.

By the time the night began to thin out, he’d walked you through the halls and left you at your door, talking about nothing and everything at once—recent expeditions, Rudo’s progress, who had handled the trash beasts better on the last mission (obviously you). You said your goodbyes like you hadn’t half-sat in his lap just moments earlier.

And you just couldn’t shake the thought of him. 

His lingering looks.

That honeyed tone to his voice.

The way his words always seemed to push just enough to see what you’d do with them.

You’ve been trying to catch sleep for a couple hours, but the phantom sensation of his finger lazily tracing circles into your shoulder hadn’t faded. Neither had the warmth of his body pressed against yours, or the image of his sharp, calloused hands working the deck.

You groaned into your pillow, kicking your feet against the mattress (which was dumb, because your legs still hadn’t recovered—it hurt really bad).

This was frustrating. 

Even now, your body felt as though it was running just as hot as it had when pressed right against the side of his hard chest. Tingles ran over every bit of skin that touched him. Your thoughts wandered places you usually always tried to keep them from and you were failing miserably tonight. 

His naked, inked skin. 

His strong, broad frame. 

His stupid hot fucking smile. 

The way his hands would feel…

You’d usually always been able to handle him, but something was just different this time. 

This wasn’t the same old big-ego Enjin. It was him threading himself into your thoughts, somehow playing with the pace of your heartbeat, the temperature of your skin, the electric feeling in your stomach.

Sleeping was pointless. You were lucky you had nowhere to be in the morning. 

Maybe you should take a shower. 

You begrudgingly lifted your face from the squished pillow and pushed yourself up, heading to grab a change of clothes before shuffling toward the bathroom. 

By the time you reached it, your resolve had wavered enough that you didn’t even bother shutting the door fully before peeling off your sleep shirt, carelessly throwing it onto your pile of laundry you had yet to find a day to tackle. 

The water felt relieving against your skin. Today felt like the kind of day that justified turning it really hot—which Enjin always hated, since it usually meant a cold, miserable shower for him the next morning. After tonight, you figured he kind of deserved it. 

If he was going to occupy your thoughts, you were claiming the hot water. 

The sensation of the water running down your body seemed to numb the pain in your legs, but it did little to wash away the feeling of his skin pressed against yours—because of course it wouldn’t. This wasn’t a physical sensation, it was him in your head.

You turned the temperature up a notch.

It burned, but it felt good.

Single droplets pierced you like hot needles—a type of pain you actually welcomed. All the tension of the day seemed to wash off your body, disappearing down the drain along with the water.

You could stay here for hours, maybe even fall asleep like this. All your senses felt cut off from the outside world, with no room for any unwanted thoughts. Just the unbearably hot water, close enough to feel endless.

And then, there was a beep.

You froze. You hadn’t taken your choker off yet.

Someone was calling. 

You feared you knew exactly who. 

“Enjin, what the fuck? It’s, like, 1 a.m.!” you whisper-shouted, covering the choker as best you could with your hand, as though that was going to shield you in any way. 

“Huh? It’s almost 3. And I can hear you,” he replied.

“Yeah, I know, we’re in a call!” you said, exasperated.

“No, like… I can hear your shower,” he clarified, a faint chuckle in his tone.

“And you thought it’d be a good idea to call me in the shower?”

“You picked up, didn’t you?” His grin practically radiated through the call.

What you hated most in this moment wasn’t that he called—it was the fact that you were excited about it. 

And the fact that he was right.

“You don’t even know how hot my shower is running right now.” you challenged him, hoping to get him right where you knew it hurt. 

“That’s fucked up,” he laughed, like he wasn’t taking you seriously at all. “Just to tick me off? Or you just felt like showering hot?”

“I don’t have to answer that.” you mumbled, reaching for the shampoo bottle. 

“And that says so much,” he replied. “Why’re you taking a shower in the middle of the night? Didn’t you say you were tired?” 

“I was tired,” you admitted, letting the water cascade over your shoulders. “I just couldn’t fall asleep.” 

“Mm, same,” he replied. “It’s kind of your fault for turning on the shower, though.” 

“Thats on you.” And you regretted these words the moment they escaped your lips.

“What’d I do?”

Because what were you even going to tell him? That you couldn’t stop thinking about how good he smelled? That you wished his arm had fully encased you? That you actually kind of liked it when he pressed down on your bruises? That just thinking about any of it made your body react in ways you could never, ever admit out loud?

“I just don’t like you.” you muttered, scrubbing shampoo into your hair, trying to keep your voice even.

“I know that’s not true, sweetheart,” he said, his smile as audible as ever through the line.

Again with that pet name.

“I’m just gonna stop talking.” 

“You could also just hang up.” 

“Why don’t you hang up?

“I don’t want to,” he chuckled lowly. “I feel like you don’t really want to stop talking, either.” 

You heard him shuffle on his end of the line—things cluttering and moving around.

“You’re very confident in yourself.” 

“Hang up, then.” 

You didn’t reply. You didn’t hang up, either. 

“Thought so,” he murmured with a faint exhale—was he smoking?—“Wanna come over?”

“What. Now?” 

“Yeah. Or, you know what?” The sound of shifting feet, a quiet grunt. “I’m coming over.” 

Your fingers clenched slightly around the shampoo bottle, as if it was your lifeline. “I’m in the shower!” 

“Well, hurry, my foot’s out the door already.” And the click of his door shutting was, indeed, audible on the other end. 

The moment you felt the shampoo rinse completely from your hair, you stepped out of the shower, grabbing the first towel within reach.

“At least wait, like… two minutes,” you said, tugging it tighter around yourself. “Please.”

“But then I’d have to walk all the way back.”

“Our rooms are next to each other!” you shot back, exasperated.

“Yeah… way too far. Damn, you should lock your door.”

“Are you in my room right now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, as if that settled everything.

“Just wait—sit down somewhere. I’ll be right out.” you replied hurriedly, dropping the towel after drying yourself off and getting into your giant sleep shirt. 

Shutting the bathroom door behind you and quickly shuffling your way back to your space, you find him splayed out on your bed, staring at the ceiling—or perhaps following the pattern of the smoke as it rose into the air. 

“Well?” he asked, his focus not shifting toward you quite yet. “You gonna keep me waiting?”

You crossed your arms, trying for irritation. “Do I look like I had a choice?”

Then, he spared you a glance, eyeing your frame for a moment. Then two. 

He smiled. “You look good.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Sorry?” you asked.

“You look good.” He met your eyes after letting his attention wander all over you. “Like… really good.”

You shifted on the spot, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Don’t start with me, Enjin,” you muttered, though a faint warmth had already started spreading through your chest.

“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he said, propping himself up against the wall. He made space on the mattress, patting the newly free spot as a silent invitation for you to get comfortable.

He brought the blunt to his lips and took a long, unhurried drag. You could practically see the smoke fill his lungs, his chest expanding before he leaned his head back slightly and exhaled, the haze curling lazily toward the ceiling. The sound he made—low, pleased—had no business shooting right through you the way it did.

You took a short breath, grounding yourself, then crossed the room and settled into the space he’d made for you. You leaned back against the pillows, angling your legs carefully so they didn’t tangle with his, even though the mattress dip made closeness unavoidable.

When you glanced over, he wasn’t looking at you anymore.

His gaze had gone distant, unfocused, like he’d drifted somewhere else entirely as the drug settled in. For a moment, you just watched him—his relaxed posture, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way the smoke still lingered around him.

The thought that he looked kind of ethereal quietly passed your mind. 

Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, his eyes found yours again.

“Wanna try?” he asked, holding the blunt out toward you. You blinked. Once. Twice. 

“What—smoking?” you echoed.

“Yeah.” His smile was lazy, unpressuring. “You don’t have to.”

You hesitated. You’d never really felt the urge before—never saw the appeal. Still, curiosity nudged at you, persistent and annoying.

“…If you teach me?”

Something softened in his expression, just briefly, before a faint smile took over.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

He held it closer, waiting. You took it carefully, immediately aware of how little you knew about what to do with it. You’d seen people smoke before, sure—but holding it yourself felt strangely intimidating. For something so small, it suddenly felt like it carried a lot of weight.

And you were supposed to breathe that in?

“It’s pretty intuitive,” he said, watching you with open amusement. “Just don’t inhale too deeply.”

“That’s your instructions?”

“To be fair,” he chuckled, lifting his hands in lazy defense, “you’re probably gonna start coughing anyway. Just a heads up.”

Your eyes rolled on instinct.

You studied the blunt like it might give you some sort of guidance if you stared long enough. Then you brought it to your lips and took a tentative inhale.

Nothing.

Frowning slightly, you tried again—deeper this time.

Instant regret.

The burn hit fast and sharp, ripping the air straight out of your lungs. You sputtered, coughing hard as smoke escaped in uneven bursts, shoving the blunt back into his hand while you struggled to breathe. You were hunched forward, absolutely wrecked, eyes watering.

Enjin was already laughing beside you, completely unapologetic.

“I told you not too deep,” he said between laughs. “I gave you one instruction.”

You wanted to snap back—had a dozen words lined up—but air still hadn’t fully returned to your lungs, and all you could manage was a glare that only made him grin wider.

“Easy,” he said, laughter still in his voice as he shifted closer. His hand came up to your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

He guided you gently back against him, your spine settling against his chest.

You coughed again, sharper this time, eyes stinging as you tried to suck in air that didn’t burn. “You—” you rasped, grounding yourself with a hand on his leg. “You’re evil.”

He hummed, clearly entertained. “Yeah, yeah. Deep breaths. In through your nose. Just like that.”

You did as he said, partly out of necessity, partly because the weight of his hand made it easier. The coughing eased little by little, your chest still tight but no longer on fire.

“There you go,” he murmured, closer now, voice lower. “See? Still alive.”

Without really thinking about it, you leaned back, letting your head rest against him for just a second as you caught your breath. “I hate you,” you muttered—though it came out far less convincing than you meant it to.

His thumb traced a lazy line along your shoulder. “Mhm. I can tell.”

You exhaled sharply, shoulders tense. “You absolutely set me up.”

“I warned you,” he said, lifting the blunt past your frame and bringing it back to his lips. “You just didn’t listen.”

That’s when two things hit you at once.

One—you felt it.

Your thoughts began to loosen in a way they never had before. The constant noise in your head softened, blurred, fading into something distant and manageable.

And two—the position you were in.

Your hand resting on his thigh.

Your back pressed flush against his chest.

His arm lazily draped around you, like you just did this all the time. 

It was a dangerous combination. With your thoughts dulled and hazy, you didn’t have the energy to filter your thoughts about how much you actually liked it anymore.

He shifted slightly behind you, just enough that the pressure of his chest against your back deepened, and you felt the subtle weight of his attention resting along the back of your head.

“See?” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Knew you’d feel it.”

You frowned faintly. “Feel what?”

“The quiet,” he said, his finger lightly tapping against your temple. “You stopped fidgeting.”

That caught your attention. You‘d usually try to deny it—but you couldn’t. Your thoughts felt slower. Softer.

He sensed it before you even said anything—the way your breathing evened out, the tension in your shoulders easing, the subtleties of the things you didn’t do—like pulling away, or fighting back.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, almost cooing. “So calm… seriously, this might be the longest stretch you’ve gone without barking at me.”

“Shush,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “M’not calm. N‘ I don’t bark.”

“Sure, baby,” he said, that word curling around your spine. “Whatever you say.”

And you didn’t even have it in you to fully process the new pet name. 

His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it lightly between his fingers, testing the fabric against your skin. Not enough to pull it up, not enough to be overt—definitely enough for you to notice.

You felt the faint brush of his thumb against your side with each little pull, a whisper of contact that made your stomach tighten.

“You’re kind of comfortable.” you muttered, trying for casual as you pulled your hand back—slowly, like you didn’t want to draw attention to it.

“Only kind of?” he asked, voice easy, almost amused. His fingers flexed once against your side, just enough to be intentional. 

“Okay,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “You’re really comfortable.” 

“Mm, sure seems like it,” he let out a soft hum. “You feeling tired?” 

“No,” you replied, letting your words trail just slightly. The warmth of your body pressed into his was dizzying. “M’just very good right now.”

His hand moved lazily along your side, brushing your hip with an absent-minded care that made your stomach twist. “Mm,” he murmured. “Want me to stay?”

You nodded. 

“Okay.” 

The room fell into a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just… present. No teasing, no jokes—just him and you.

Slowly, his fingers traced the curve of your waist, mapping the gentle swell of your sides as if committing every line to memory.

Each movement was bold in intention yet measured, teasing—like he was daring you to react, and you found yourself holding still, caught between hesitation and anticipation.

The warmth of his touch spread through you in ways that weren’t just physical; it was the attention, the quiet focus of him exploring without words.

His hand was no longer just playing—it was present, outlining the frame of you, leaving you aware of every point of contact, every subtle press of skin against fabric.

His other hand slowly lifted, fingers weaving through your hair. With a practiced ease, he swept it over to one side, letting your thick sleep shirt slip just enough to expose your shoulder. The fabric pooled lazily around the curve, leaving your neck bare to the warmth of his gaze.

A content sigh left your lips. 

“You like that?” he whispered, his warm breath brushing along your ear. You already knew he didn’t need an answer—he just wanted to hear it from you.

You complied with a soft hum. 

He took one last slow drag of the blunt, the tip glowing faintly in the dim light. You caught the plume of smoke in your peripheral vision as he exhaled, and it curled lazily over your shoulder, teasing your bare skin.

With a subtle flick of his fingers, he sent the finished blunt spinning onto the floor. You were too caught up in the moment to care, letting the tension in your body unravel under his attention.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this relaxed.

The hand that had been tracing your side drifted lower, slipping past the hem of your shirt. It moved agonizingly slowly, skimming over the soft skin of your bare thigh, his thumb drawing lazy, teasing patterns—just a little too far up, just a little too far in.

Just a little too much to pass off as friendly.

He was giving you just enough—enough to make your skin burn—but never enough to truly satisfy the ache that had built up inside you. The moment felt charged, but it wasn’t as simple as just raw intimacy. 

His breath skimmed the skin of your neck in slow, even intervals. “You’re really soft.” It almost sounded like a question. 

You could feel his attention on you—the hazed focus of his gaze lingering along the line of your neck, the faint feeling of his hair grazing your skin. Then he inched in closer—slow, gentle kisses traced along the length of your neck. And despite all the tension coiled in your body, they weren’t meant to provoke—just soft, unhurried.

He pulled back, resting his head atop your shoulder. 

Part of you was relieved he didn’t take it further. Another part of you screamed at the loss of the feeling. 

“You’re not telling me to stop,” he whispered into your shoulder. 

And, yeah. You weren’t. 

You swallowed, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “Yeah,” you said quietly, words slower than usual, “Should I?”

There was a pause. Not the heavy kind. Just enough to let your words settle.

“Up to you,” he replied easily, his thumb returning to trace an absent-minded line along your side. “I’d be a bit butthurt about it—but, you know. Whatever.”

That made you laugh. 

He stuck to caring strokes and gentle touches.

You drifted off to sleep in his embrace that night. 

─────────୨ৎ─────────

He was a simple man. At least, he’d always thought he was.

Things just failed to feel simple lately. 

Enjin sat at the table, leaning slightly forward as Semiu traced patrol routes on the worn map spread across the surface. Corvus flipped through the mission logs, scribbling notes in the margins with a pencil that had long since lost its eraser.

He answered questions when prompted, offered minor adjustments to the routes, corrected a timing estimate—on the surface, he was engaged.

His thoughts were entirely elsewhere.

They’d gotten stuck with you in your bedroom that night, about a week ago. 

The memory lingered at the edge of his mind, pulling his attention away even as Semiu traced the eastern perimeter—and he was fucked, since he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she was outlining it in the first place.

The scratch of Semiu’s pencil across the map, the rustle of papers, the muted scribbling of Corvus’s notes—they all faded into the background. 

He could almost feel your warmth, hear the soft sighs you’d given him, see your eyes closing at the subtle pleasure of his touch. 

He understood heat, understood want—the easy kind, the kind you didn’t have to think too hard about. Touch, tension, release. He’d never been precious with it. Never needed to be.

So this—this gentle kind of caution—sat wrong in his chest.

The way his hands slowed before touching you. How instinct kept telling him to pull you closer, but something quieter told him not to rush. Like moving too fast might shatter something he didn’t quite have a name for yet.

That part confused him.

You’d always felt safe. Why did that matter so much right now?

And then that uniform. 

It should’ve been the usual—charming smiles, lingering touches, the spark of attraction he knew how to handle. Instead, it had hit him sideways. Like the sight of you had shifted something into place rather than set it on fire. Pride, maybe. Something that settled instead of burned.

The realization crept up on him slowly, unwelcome in how obvious it suddenly felt.

He wasn’t being gentle because he didn’t want you.

He was being gentle because, somewhere along the way, you’d started to feel precious.

And that thought lingered far longer than he wanted it to.

He absently rubbed the back of his neck as Semiu asked about polluted zones by the border of a No Man’s Land near the eastern perimeter. 

“Uh… yeah, those are clear,” he said, eyes drifting to the empty chair across the table, imagining you slumping into it, hair damp from a shower, in nothing but that huge shirt you’d worn that night.

Corvus glanced up sharply. “You even paying attention, Enjin?”

He blinked, shook his head slightly, and forced a nod. “Yeah, just… thinking ‘bout the deployment,” he muttered, realizing how transparent that sounded.

He’d like to get deployed with you again. 

No. Stop. Not now. 

It wasn’t about him seeing you for the first time when he laid eyes on you that day in the hallway. Something in him had been stirred awake, something that had been dormant for quite some time.

Granted, the way you looked definitely didn’t hurt.

He just hated how smitten he felt about it.

Once he realized you’d fallen asleep, breathing slow and even against his chest, he’d chosen to give you space. He’d tucked you in carefully—too carefully, if you asked him—pulled the blanket up to around your shoulders and all that. Left without waking you.

He took a shower after. Cold.

For once, he didn’t even mind that you’d used up all the hot water. He’d planned on it anyway. 

He just couldn’t believe the way he was treating you.

Enjin wasn’t selfish—just a bit indulgent. A hedonist in the simplest sense. He liked what felt good and had never been shy about reaching for it. 

He wasn’t unfamiliar with want. He knew exactly how far he could’ve gone, how easy it would’ve been to guide you there with him. You would’ve let him. He was sure of that. And he would’ve taken care of you — that wasn’t the issue.

Because, fuck—he wanted to.

So why didn’t he take you?

You hadn’t been tense. You hadn’t been provoking. You’d been safe.

Again, safe. 

He was starting to get fed up with safe. 

He clenched his jaw. It annoyed him, the way he’d held back. Especially considering the things he could’ve done to you—wanted to do to you. Thinking about making you call out his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say anymore—over and over again.

And yet. 

He didn’t. 

He replayed it in his head more times than he cared to admit—the way you’d leaned back into him without thinking. The way your voice had softened. The way you hadn’t told him to stop.

You would’ve let him.

That was the problem.

It wouldn’t have taken much. A slight shift of his hand. Turning your face toward his and closing the distance. You were already pliant in his arms, hazy and warm and trusting.

Trusting.

His jaw tightened again.

Of all the things he could’ve done—wanted to do—he’d chosen restraint.

His mouth had found your neck, yes—but only in the softest way. Slow, measured presses of his lips against your skin. It was the one thing he couldn’t quite stop himself from taking.

Even then, he’d been careful.

And when had he ever been careful?

Enjin didn’t do careful. He did instinct. He did desire. He did taking and giving in the same breath. Going with the flow of things.

This time, something in him had paused.

Not out of uncertainty. Not out of fear that you’d reject him.

Out of something worse.

He didn’t want to cheapen it. 

The thought irritated him more than anything else. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose.

Even here, surrounded by stained papers, pencils, and scattered mugs, the thought of you was impossible to shake.

Seeing you in your uniform hadn’t started this. It had just made it harder to ignore. The way you carried yourself. The way you focused. The quiet competence. It had sharpened something that had already been there.

When had he become so aware of you? Of the way you looked at him differently lately. Of the way his body reacted to even the smallest shifts in your tone.

He wasn’t used to wanting something slowly.

It was unsettling. 

Because if this was just lust, he would’ve satisfied it already.

And he was only just starting to realize it.

Semiu and Corvus started gathering their things. Somehow, the word dismissed drifted into his awareness, and before he fully realized it, he was up as well, tidying alongside them—hands moving almost automatically, thoughts still elsewhere.

Moments later, he waved them goodbye and stepped out of the briefing room, moving through the low, humming halls.

The day had passed in a blur.

He’d looked for you briefly, only to be told you’d been cooped up in your room all day, finishing reports you had let pile up and procrastinated—you really hated paperwork. 

And he just knew that about you. 

At some point, he’d bumped into Semiu in the common area. She had finished her work for the day early and didn’t really have anything left to do—she figured she’d like to use the evening to enjoy herself, or something along those lines.

Enjin had agreed.

That’s how he found himself in a crowded bar—or club—he wasn’t even sure and it didn’t really matter. He was perched at a table, smoking his blunt—as per usual—while Semiu sipped a drink across from him, seemingly enjoying the light buzz in her system. 

The music did most of the work in drowning out his thoughts. Around him, people were dancing, some were flirting, touching. Others were getting wasted, a couple were fighting. The colorful light pierced through the clouds of smoke all over the place. 

The kind of environment he usually thrived in. 

Usually—

Oh. Semiu was talking to him. 

“…many prank calls. Like, seriously, it pisses me off,” Semiu ranted, leaning back in her chair, fingers tapping impatiently on the table.

“Totally,” he replied, taking a slow drag from his blunt. The smoke curled around his fingers as his gaze drifted over the crowd, half-present, half-lost in thought.

“I’m too nice on the phone. I bet the hell guards don’t get calls like that,” she continued, voice rising slightly with exasperation.

And he tried so hard—genuinely—to listen to his coworker and friend he held so close to his heart. He really, really did.

“Yeah, seems unlikely,” he murmured, blowing the smoke upward and letting it dissipate into the dim light.

“Enjin. What’s up with you today?” Semiu pressed, leaning forward now, her eyes narrowing slightly as she caught the distracted set of his eyes.

“Hm?” He blinked, realizing she’d actually addressed him, fingers flexing absently around the blunt.

“During the briefing, too. You, like, disconnected from the world or something?” Her arms crossed over the table, resting the weight of them on it.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips, taking another slow inhale. “Why? You worried about little ol’me?”

 “A’ight. Imma take your word for it. For now,” she sighed, shaking her head. “But also only because I’m so fed up by the calls I don’t really have the capacity to listen to you right now.” 

“Honestly,” he said, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs before flicking the blunt into the ashtray on the table, “works f’me.”

“You’re welcome, boo.” 

Enjin felt a dip in the seat next to him. 

In his peripheral, a woman, about a head and a half shorter than him. It almost slipped his mind that things like this happened to him more often than not—that he usually waited for them.

“Hey,” she smiled at him, feigning innocence, though they were both well aware of her intentions. “Your name’s Enjin, right?”

Ah. So he’d spoken to her before—somewhere, sometime.

He finally spared her a proper look. She sat upright, legs elegantly crossed, hair cascading over one shoulder like a deliberate portrait. A subtle flush colored her cheeks, softening her features. 

And—usually—she’d be just the type of woman he’d go for.

But today was not a usual day.

“Nope.” He popped the p with unnecessary emphasis. “Name’s Goostaf Hurgenskurk.”

The look on Semiu’s face in his peripheral was priceless—her eyebrows shot up, mouth half-open in a mixture of shock and amusement, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or glare.

“Oh, sorry,” she stammered, stepping back a little. “Must’ve confused you with someone.”

She turned on her heel and hurried away, leaving him with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He watched her retreat, letting the brief amusement linger before his thoughts drifted back to… well, everything else.

“So,” Semiu said, raising her glass to her lips, holding his gaze deliberately as she took a slow sip before setting it back on the table. “Goostaf.”

“I don’t even know,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “I was just trying to think of a weird name.”

“Why, though?” Semiu leaned back, tone soft with genuine curiosity. “She’s pretty. You always let a pretty girl take you home with them, no?”

“You make me sound like a manwhore,” he muttered, a defeated chuckle escaping him.

“Well…” Her voice trailed off, insinuating—just letting the thought hang in the air.

Enjin groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. “I just don’t feel like it today.”

“I feel like,” she said slowly, tilting her head up, a knowing look slipping into her expression now, “you’re just feeling someone else.”

And—however she figured it out—he knew that she was right.

The thought settled heavier than he expected. He’d been circling it all day, avoiding it, dressing it up as confusion or exhaustion. But now, sitting in the middle of a crowded bar with music pounding around him and with his good friend sitting across him, it finally landed.

Properly.

“Fuck, Semiu,” he groaned, dragging his hands down his face before letting his forehead fall briefly into his palms. The realization hit harder than any drink or drug in the room ever could.

Her brows lifted. “Is that what’s been bothering you all day?”

“Yeah,” he exhaled, sitting back again, staring at the table instead of her. “I just—I haven’t really seen her for a week. We keep missing each other at work,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s rough.”

“You should just stop ogling her every chance you get and man up,” Semiu said, tapping her fingers lightly on the table, eyes fixed on him with quiet insistence.

“Ogling is a kind of a strong word for it.” 

“She ogles you too.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he let out a short laugh, shaking his head, before letting out a sigh. “I’m losing my mind.”

“No, man,” she said simply. “You’re okay.” A small pause. “Just let her know.”

He looked up at her. “Now?”

She shrugged lightly. “Depends—do you want to tell her now?”

─────────୨ৎ─────────

You. Despised. Paperwork. With. A. Burning. Passion. 

Hours had passed since you’d started, and the stack of reports in front of you had barely shrunk. Every form felt the same as the last, every column and checkbox an endless, mind-numbing loop.

Your pen scratched across the page, filling in numbers, ticking boxes, repeating the same information over and over, trying desperately not to make mistakes. Your eyes ached, your back was stiff, and your brain was screaming for even a single moment of entertainment.

You slammed your pen down. Enough. You needed a break. 

For a moment, you leaned back in your chair. The room was quiet, the night outside slanting through the window casting a cold light on the mess of papers. You hadn’t moved from that spot all day, and it showed.

Boredom clung to you like a second skin. Attention fractured. Thoughts wandered.

You missed everyone. Watching Zanka train Rudo from the corner of the training yard, hearing Semiu’s voice echo from the common area, even the occasional gruff comment from Delmon — all of it made you wish you could be anywhere else right now.

But you’d told everyone to stay out of your room unless it was an emergency. No distractions. No interruptions. You needed to get through the paperwork, and the last thing you wanted was someone leaning over your shoulder asking questions or chatting.

It was definitely what you wanted, though. 

Still, even in the quiet, your thoughts kept drifting. You missed him too.

No. Focus.

You let out a long, tired sigh, shoulders slumping as you rubbed at the ache in your neck. The pen hovered uselessly above the next form.

Your eyes wandered across the room, landing on the stack of completed reports next to you—neat, precise, and utterly soul-crushing. You pushed it away with a flick of your wrist. 

Enough of this.

You’d finish the rest tomorrow. 

You leaned back in your chair, stretching your legs and letting the tension in your body ease slightly. Somewhere in the corner of your mind, you imagined him there—on your bed, attention drifting into nothingness as smoke swirled gently around him, unhurried and soft—and him looking utterly peaceful. Pretty.

A knock at the door froze you mid-stretch.

Your heart skipped. You’d told everyone to stay out unless it was urgent.

Another knock. Louder this time. Your chest tightened. You hesitated, staring at the door, mind racing through every possible scenario.

Slowly, cautiously, you approached and cracked it open. 

To your surprise, it was Enjin. 

And as much as he didn’t look like he was about to deliver bad news, something about him had shifted. The air around him felt different.

No performative expression. No mischief in his eyes. No provoking glint. Something much softer had settled over his sharp features—a contrast that made your chest ache a little.

“Hey,” you said, brows knitting slightly. “Did something happen?”

“No,” he answered simply. His voice was calm. Certain. “Not at all.” A beat. “Can I come in?”

You studied him for a second longer, searching his face for anything you might’ve missed. Finding nothing urgent—just your own curiosity—you stepped aside.

He moved past you without another word. Not brushing against you, not lingering—close enough that you felt the warmth of him as he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound louder than it should’ve been.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He took in your room—the desk crowded with papers, the stack you’d shoved aside, the pen lying abandoned where you’d dropped it. His gaze lingered there briefly before returning to you.

The silence wasn’t awkward.

It was heavy.

And whatever he’d come here to say—you felt like it mattered.

Just that he didn’t say anything. He looked at you, held your gaze as though he had all the time in the world. Like it stood still, right here in this room—with you. 

You caught the faintest dip in his gaze—just slightly, brushing over the lines of your shoulders, the skin underneath the collar of your shirt—the smallest of shifts of his irises—before returning to your eyes.

You felt like you were being… scanned. For something. But you didn’t have the capacity to commit your mind to what that could possibly be, because your focus was on something entirely unrelated. 

The breadth of his shoulders. 

The vivid reds and blacks inked into his skin. 

The loose curl of his hair falling near his temple.

He didn’t say anything. Not with words, at least. But you were beginning to understand.

He stepped toward you, slow and unhurried, closing the space without breaking eye contact—which felt like a bit of a crime in and of itself. It was unbelievably nauseating, made you feel powerless, but in kind of a good way. 

Had he always been so tall? He really towered over you—couldn’t even look at him anymore without folding your head back.

His hand found yours first, fingers curling gently as he drew you in. You could feel sparks at the tips of your own—and it hurt. It hurt so much, because all the tension in your body seemed to come crashing down on you all at once and it hurt so much it felt good, somehow. 

Then, it snaked around your waist, steady, holding you close. You didn’t quite grasp what was actually happening, you just knew you wanted more, but also anticipated possibly throwing up butterflies any second now. 

His body was so unbelievably warm and big—the scope of it so up close was a bit hard to grasp. You feel the outlines of his defined body through his thin sweater and you forgot how to breathe for a second. 

His other hand came up to cup your face, gently—so unbelievably gentle, like your skin might crack under anything more; it almost made you cry. 

His fingers slipped into your hair, careful, slow. His thumb moved back and forth along your cheek, steady and soft. Tender—and you started wondering when you would have ever described him that way. 

You were beginning to understand.

Your initial hesitance vanished into thin air along with the ability to think straight. 

And all the what-ifs and maybes that had been crowding your mind melted away the instant he pressed his lips against yours

The sound of your heart pounding mixed with the ringing in your ears; you were certain you were about to die, if it wasn’t for the way he was squeezing your frame against his, like he promised to catch you if you were going to fall. 

He was slow. Tentative. Testing the waters, as if silently asking for permission you’d already given him a million times over in your head. 

His grip on your waist tightened just slightly, almost accidental—trying so hard to hold back, yet his true immediacy shone through the cracks of his performative reluctance. 

He had been just as desperate to do this to you as you had been to have it happen. 

You felt the butterflies do their thing again—and it was fucked up how easily he’d given them to you, with something as simple as a kiss and a couple touches entirely unraveling you. 

Shivers trickled down your spine at the sensation of him, of it all; his warmth radiating through the fabric of his sweater, his lips moving with your own in a painfully—agonizingly—slow tandem. 

Then he pulled back—no more than an inch—your soft, warm breaths mingling in the small space between you. A lazy, faint smile on his face. 

“Hey,” he exhaled.

A simple word. It didn’t mean anything, really—but it did. And you understood.

“Hi.” Your voice almost ran out. Airy. Barely even there.

His grin widened, before he leaned back in again. Initially soft and merciful touches turned more intense, intentional; a firmer grip on you, a stronger tug on the back of your head, tangling into the strands of your hair at the nape of your neck.

Your body, your mind, your everything seemed to solely focus in on him. There was nothing more important than this, him kissing you senseless and holding onto you like you were going to disappear if he didn’t. 

You felt him grow impatient with each passing moment—pulling your body even closer by the small of your back—and you couldn’t help but notice how large his hand felt there. He angled his head just right to deepen the kiss with natural finesse. He was everywhere—filling all your senses, overwhelming your system in ways you never thought possible.

He smelled of faint hints of tobacco, though he tasted a lot fresher than you’d expected—almost minty in flavour. The mix of cigarettes and mint made for a spicy tingle on your tongue and all you could think about was how it kind of fit the man you were holding onto like a lifeline. 

Your hands found the nape of his neck, feeling up the short hairs of his sharp undercut.

You were trying to catch a thought—any thought—at least a single word—but you hadn’t taken a proper breath in nearly half a minute, and it was definitely starting to affect your ability to think clearly.

That he hoisted you up by the underside of your thighs with controlled ease a moment later—not breaking away from you for even a second—did not help in the slightest. He took a few steps somewhere—before your back met the hard surface of the wall behind you.

Your legs comfortably tangled around his waist as he pinned you against it with his hips, hard. The hand previously on your cheek joined the other on your waist, fingers digging into your side, abandoning any idea of slow and tender.

Your own hands traveled beneath his collar, nails dragging across bare skin and if he didn’t have this tattoo you were sure there’d be deep, red scratches there. 

Groans rippled through him with every drag of your nails, the sound shooting straight through your stomach. It only seemed to provoke him further—pulling you closer by the arch of your back and pressing you against him, his fingers digging in just enough that you knew you’d feel it the next morning.

The kiss turned messy. There was no sense or rhythm to it, only pure instinct and insatiable hunger for the other. No matter how close he was—how deeply his fingers dug into your skin—you still felt like he couldn’t be further away. You wanted him closer, as close as physically possible and more. 

He moved on towards your neck and it was nothing like the faint pecks he’d left there that night a week ago. This was him devouring you, moving right on the edge between pleasure and pain. His kisses stung as he bit them into your skin, likely tainting it with red and blue hues. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, basking in the way your body twitched—your sweet gasps nothing short of music to his ears. 

Once he felt like he was done with one place, he’d continue his assault further down along the blank canvas of your skin, leaving only stinging spots behind, before finally returning to your swollen lips, leaving one single, slow and deep kiss. 

“Enjin,” you heaved—the first time you were able to take a long breath in a hot minute. 

“Mm?” He hummed, leaving lazy pecks on your lips, eyes entirely dazed. Sometimes, he’d move it to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw—just peppering you with gentle kisses, taking his sweet time with it. 

His grip on you told a whole different story.

His huge hands encasing more of you than you could have ever expected, pinning you against him with little to no effort, like your weight meant absolutely nothing to him. And why would it? He was easily two times your size, if not more. 

“I need—“ kiss.  “—more,” another kiss. “Please.” 

He pulled back an inch or two, a faint yet devilish smile adorning his face. “More of what, sweetheart?” 

His head dipped back into the crook of your neck, lips grazing the newly mark-ridden parts of your skin, leaving a couple more soft kisses along their pattern. “More of this?”  

And he was well aware that that was not what you meant. You knew he knew that was not what you had meant—and it was frustrating to no end. The ache between your legs was getting more unbearable by the second. “No—want you to touch me,” you whined. You tried to ease the tension by pulling him closer, shifting your hips against him—every attempt in vain.

He had you pinned securely in place, and there was no adjusting it without his help. Without his permission. “Please, Enjin.”

“I am touching you, baby,” he huffed a breathy laugh, before holding his hand out to you, offering it. “Here. Move it to where you want me, sweetheart.” 

You held his gaze for a moment, weighing your options. It hurt your ego to have to admit this to him in such a degrading way—and still, a part of you felt so cared for. Your pride urged you to save face, but given the position you were in, there wasn’t necessarily much ego left to save. If accepting his offer meant getting the itch scratched you so desperately needed attention for, then it was simply what you had to do.

And so—without breaking the eye contac—you took his hand in your own and first guided it down the like of your body and underneath the hem of your shirt. His brow quirked slightly, eyes darkening as it met the plush of the inside of your legs. 

Ever so slowly, you moved it a couple inches further in and further up, until his fingers finally met the sole layer of fabric separating you from what you’re asking of him. 

The smile that grew on his face was something else. 

He shifted, properly supporting your weight on one leg while keeping you steady with a hand snaked around the small of your back. Then, without hurry, he tugged the fabric aside, running his fingers along your sore, wet folds.

His gaze tilted down to where his hand disappeared beneath the fabric of your shirt. “Damn, baby. You’re soaked,” he let his fingers dip into you for nothing more than a couple inches before running them up and down again—tracing you. Memorizing you. “Fuck, that’s hot.” 

The sounds that left you would have left you feeling quite embarrassed, if you weren’t so distracted right now. The relief of the friction did a lot to sate your desire for a moment—but you could already feel yourself wanting more. 

He seemed to have picked up on it as his fingers moved upwards to solely focus on your wanting and waiting clit. Your eyes shut close at the sudden feeling of him finally giving you what you’d needed, gripping at his shoulders for dear life as if you’d fall if you didn’t and whining his name through broken breaths like a personal mantra.

He hummed. You felt his muscles shift beneath your palms, like his head had tilted upwards—like he was looking at you again. “Yes, pretty girl?” 

“S’really good,” you exhaled, opening your eyes only to see Enjin already fully focused on you through your hazed vision. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he cooed, corner of his lip faintly quirking upwards. “Wasn’t even gonna do this with you,”—he leaned in, eyes falling to your lips before catching them with his in a short kiss—“was gonna come here and tell you how I feel. Wanted to spend more time with you, ask you out on a nice date, do it right this time—but you,” his eyes met your gaze again—this time, more intense. 

His previously tender attention towards your clit turned overwhelming in an instant. The pad of his finger moved a little faster and harder now—each deliberate stroke drawing a sharp, involuntary twitch from your body.

You’d never felt so overstimulated, every sensation heightened to the brink, and yet some reckless part of you was completely, helplessly into it.

Soft whines slipped from your mouth, and if anyone happened to be on the other side of the wall you were pressed against, you were certain they’d be able to hear you.

“Looked up at me all doe eyed like that. Said ‘please’ like that.” His fingers dipped into you without warning, two of them filling you more than two fingers ever should be able to, but, of course, Enjin and his blessed, huge hands, took little to now effort to make you see stars. “This what you wanted , sweetheart?” 

“Mm, yes,” you breathed, pure instinct taking over as you pulled him back in by the nape of his neck.

It drove you insane—the way you felt his jaw shift against your palm, the slow graze of his tongue along your bottom lip, the steady curl of his fingers inside you, again and again and again.

“Mm,”—he separated from you for a moment—“s’just for you, baby,”—before leaning back in. His fingers curled inside you again and again, brushing that sensitive spot that made your insides tighten and your skin burn in ways no one had ever made you feel before. 

He had something about him—some kind of chemistry that felt entirely unique to Enjin. That towering height, those striking features, paired with his addictive charisma that showed in the way he talked to you—in the way he touched you, kissed you.

It wasn’t demanding in a forceful sense. It was unraveling. It was simple. You were willing to hand yourself over completely—without him ever having to ask. Like some sort of spell. 

Without breaking away, his fingers slowly slipped from you ever so slowly, drawing a soft whine from you straight into the kiss. You felt the faint curve of his smile against your lips. Then his hands were on you again, firm and sure as he hoisted you up against him and carried you away from the wall. 

The edge of your desk met the backs of your thighs as he eased you onto it with controlled care, settling you against the surface. You felt the edges and corners of the sheets of paper you’d just been working on minutes ago right beneath you, itching and poking at your skin. 

With one last, teasing bite to your bottom lip, he pulled back from your kiss-swollen lips with a devilish glint in his eyes.

He lifted his fingers to his mouth—the ones previously teasing you beyond measure—and licked them clean of you without breaking his hazy gaze from you. You could tell he was doing it just to mess with you—and it was working unfortunately well. 

Your attention drifted to the thing repeatedly pressing against your inner thigh, and a mix of curiosity and anticipation washed over you. 

Given the size of him—his body, his hands, his limbs—you had expected him to be a certain… size. And in a way, he met those expectations. But to feel the bulge of him so intimately pressed against you made it hit you all at once—now that your bodies were pressed close to flush against one another. 

This man was big. 

Your hand reached towards the hem of his pants, almost instinctively, before his own hand caught yours by the thin of your wrist. Looking back up at him you noticed the corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Not now, pretty girl.” 

Your head tilted in response. “Why not?” 

 “Some other time. Jus’ wanna focus on you today,” he brought your hand within his towards himself, leaving a couple of gentle pecks along the inside of your wrist.

“But what about you?” 

“I’ll enjoy you, baby,” he leaned back in, pausing just an inch before, a devilishly charming smirk resting on him. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” 

His lips found yours again, trading a few more heated kisses before drifting to the corner of your mouth, along the line of your jaw, and down to your already tender neck.

He roamed your body with no shame, tracing your every line—from the swell of your chest to the plush of your hips. Groping at your sides and circling your waist with his hands, before pushing you backwards for you to lean against the wall behind you, forcing himself between your legs, casually. 

His hands found their way between them again, collecting the slick on his fingers, before lazily drawing patterns over your pulsing, sore clit, drawing all sorts of sounds and reactions from you as passively pumped his fingers in and out of you every now and then, like it was just second nature to him. 

His kisses trailed downward—past your heaving chest, along the curve of your stomach, across the warmth of your thighs—before his head finally settled between your legs, where he left a mix of teasing love-bites and gentle, lingering pecks on the insides of your thighs.

“You’re very kissable,” he commented from his position on his knees, looking up at you as he guided your legs to rest atop his shoulders. 

The sight was charged—this huge man, both in height and breadth, overwhelming in body mass and bearing the authority of the head of your team, kneeling there in front of you. Something about the commanding way he held himself even in that submissive posture. 

It didn’t make him any less impressive—or any smaller—in your eyes. If anything, the juxtaposition only made him more magnetic.

He looked fucking hot.

His hair all messed up, lips kiss-swollen, mirroring your own, skin covered in a thin layer of sweat, eyes dazed with pleasure and radiating the sheer power he naturally carried. His brow was quirked ever so slightly, a faint, mischievous smile on his face.

“Is that why you bit my neck raw?” you asked, looking down at him through your own daze, fingers grazing through the short strands of his hair, not much bite in your voice despite your words.

He huffed a laugh, and your heart skipped a beat.

“M’about to do much worse than just eat your neck, babygirl,” he said lowly, his hot breath traveling past the thin skin of your inner thighs, his gaze traveling downwards. 

And with that, his tongue dipped through your folds, dragging a slow lick up your heated, pulsing core. Your breath shuddered, your hand gripping at his hair to anchor yourself as he worked you up.

His hands wrapped around your thighs, your feet resting on his shoulders as he pinned you against his face, tongue dragging up and down through your folds and making a point to flick your sensitive, aching clit in the process.

“E–Enjin… ah—s’ so good.”

You felt him suck it into his mouth, toying with it between his lips before letting it go in a wet kiss and continuing his assault. You felt like the meal of a starving man.

He had no shame in the way he was eating you—the sounds he was making, the way he was practically making out with you. What you’d yearned to feel was finally coming true, and your body and mind seemed to sing with the relief he was finally granting you.

He pressed the flat of his tongue against your clit, rhythmically dragging it up and down. His fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, holding you against him as to leave no room for escape—at least not until he was done with you. 

This man you’d known to be so indulgent in his own pleasure now shifting his focus entirely onto you left an impact that would haunt you for the rest of your life. No one had ever treated you the way he did, touched you the way he had—made you feel the way he was making you feel.

You’d certainly never experienced anyone going down on you of their own free will—let alone seeming to take pleasure in it themselves. 

No man, no less.

And yet, here he was, caging you against him, just in case the pleasure he was giving you became too much to handle—which, judging by the way it was building up, it already was starting to feel that way. He definitely wasn’t letting you go.

The friction drove you crazy, made you feel as though you were floating and falling all at once. You couldn’t decide whether to pull him even closer or push him away, but you knew that everything about him felt so fucking good and something was building up inside of you that only he could unravel.

One of his hands loosened its grip on your thigh, sliding down and around it, before two fingers began pumping into you, curling against the spot Enjin had claimed the moment you had guided his hands between your legs.

“Ah—please don’t stop,” you writhed and you whined, eyes shutting close at the overwhelming feeling of him flooding your senses.

“M’right here, baby,” he breathed against you, before turning his attention back to your puffy clit, fingers deep and curled inside you. 

Pleasure twisted into an intoxicating kind of pain—the rare kind that made you ache to explore it even more. It burned, it stung, sharp and sweet all at once, and yet you knew with absolute certainty that if he stopped right now you would shatter into a million miserable pieces. 

Without warning, he suckled your clit into his mouth again, flicking his tongue over it as his fingers pumped in and out of you with relentless rhythm. Your legs instinctively clamped around his head, trying to shut out the overwhelming sensation, to push him away—to no avail.

Your body reacted on its own, trying to relieve the strain he was putting on you, but your mind wanted nothing more than to keep him as close as humanly possible.

“M‘ gonna… please… s’so much,” you whimpered, forever torn between pulling him closer and trying to escape.

That only seems to edge him on as he raised the intensity, moving harder and faster in every way imaginable and making you see stars and cry his name like a desperate prayer.

“Enjin—fuck, s‘so good, please-” 

Your climax crashed over you, leaving you trembling in the wake of it.

Like the good man he’d proven himself to be, he guided you through it, helping you ride the wave, tracing lazy circles over your clit with his tongue while his fingers moved in slow, languid rhythm. Finally, he pulled back with one last, gentle kiss to your now tender and abused clit. 

He slowly rose to his full height, hands flat on the surface of the table, encasing your pleasure-drained body, your torso leaning half against the wall.

“If I had known you taste this good I’d have done this a lot sooner,” he smiled, catching your lips in a kiss you couldn’t resist if you tried. 

“Mm,” you replied in a haze, returning the pecks he was giving you and tasing yourself on lips tongue. “Can I return the favor?” 

“As much as I’d love to see you try, baby,” he smiles, helping you off the desk as he scoops you into his arms effortlessly, making his way to the bathroom with you. “How about we take a hot shower together and I take you out on a date first?”

─────────୨ৎ─────────

PT2 >>> detergent & sweets

CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE :3

thanks to my amazing beta readers @zukunyy and @imjusttrashignoreme

thanks to my boyfriend who helped me write a service top because he just can

and thanks to @pixopix for the dividers :3

saitama fists one pair of your panties over his stiff, throbbing cock, groaning as he cums into the ruined fabric. the other hand holds a different, used pair over his face, him inhaling your scent like a complete pervert. shame be damned—he'll worry about guilt later when this agonizing, insatiable yearn doesn't have him on the verge of tears.

he releases a muffled moan into your underwear. saitama stares, with tears on his lashline, at the ceiling, focused only on the scent of your pussy and alleviating the ache in his cock as he pumps harder, faster. the other pair of underwear is soaked with his pre and cum, yet saitama continues on.

his grip tightens around the sore length in his hand, thumbing over the tip. saitama leaves your underwear over his face, using his newly-freed hand to grope and fondle his balls like you always do. hips bucking erratically, he reaches another useless orgasm with a grunt of your name on his lips.

'fuck', saitama sighs shakily as thick cum oozes over his hand, embedding itself in your underwear. one hand collapses to his side, the other still pumping his cock. saitama starts to think this suffering will never end when he hears a knock at the door.

"sai?" his eyes flit to the door at the sound of your voice, and his mind immediately forms a visual of you naked beneath him. "got your, uh…text...doing okay in there?"

"n-no, come in." saitama barely chokes the words out.

the entire apartment smells of sex and sin when you step inside. you’re greeted with the sight of saitama, flushed crimson red from ears to neck, eyeing the drooling tip of his cock. his eyes are averted elsewhere, lids fluttering, but that’s all the shame that shows. he still pumps eagerly at his reddened cock, and you’re so fixated on your pair of matching red panties around his length, you almost miss the black ones he’s still huffing the crotch of.

“wow, this pollen really did a number on you.”, you wonder aloud.