Yasha

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flutter in your chest you ignore. You’ve been friends forever—trash-talking, hanging out, talking about his shitty dates. This is just more of the same. “Prove it, then. Show me this ‘elite’ skill.” You say, joking.

His grin widens, sharp and predatory. “Yeah? You sure? ‘Cause once I start, you might not want me to stop.”

You think he is also joking so you don't back down.

“Try me.”

Enjin doesn’t hesitate. One hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair— a little rough and clumsy and you open your eyes wide because in that second you relize he means it . His mouth slants over yours, warm and confident, lips moving with that lazy precision he applies to everything he’s good at.

And...

It’s... good. Better than good. Soft at first, testing, like he’s proving a point without trying too hard. Your heart stutters, and you pull back just a fraction after a few seconds, breath shaky.

“Wait,” you murmur, eyes still half-closed. “W-wait...I thought you were joking"

He nods and goes back to your lips. Your toes curl feeling the nicotine taste, his perfume entering your lungs and making you head spin as he pulls you close.

Is this right? Should it be this good? Cuz fuck, you don't want him to stop.

"Jin..." You mumble and he swallow your words in the kiss "Fuck, Jin we shouldn't..."

Enjin’s gaze is dark, hooded, his thumb brushing your lower lip. “I know,” he says, voice low and rough. But he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans in again, slower this time, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him.

You don’t. You can’t. The words are there—“stop”—but they die on your tongue as his lips brush yours again, coaxing, teasing. And then you’re kissing him back, tentative at first, but it builds fast.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, asking without words, and when you part them—just a little—he takes it. Slides in slow, filthy, tangling with yours in a way that makes your head spin. He tastes like the sour candy he was sucking on earlier, sharp and addictive.

A low groan rumbles from his chest, and suddenly he’s shifting, one knee nudging between your thighs as he eases you back onto the rug. His weight settles over you, hips slotting against yours, and—oh fuck—he’s hard already.

“We really shouldn’t,” you gasp when he breaks for air, but your hands are fisting his crop-top, pulling him closer instead of pushing away.

“I know,” he repeats, smirking against your mouth, but his eyes are wrecked, pupils blown wide. “But you’re not stopping me, are you?”

He kisses you deeper then, tongue thrusting in time with the subtle rock of his hips. It starts accidental—a shift for balance—but then he does it again, deliberate, grinding the hard length of him right where you need it through layers of clothes.

You arch up instinctively, a whimper escaping into his mouth, and he chuckles, low and mean.

“See? Told you I was good,” he murmurs, nipping at your bottom lip.

His hand slides down your side, gripping your hip to pull you tighter against him as he rolls his hips again—slow, obscene, building friction that has you trembling.

“Enjin—” It’s half protest, half plea, but he swallows it with another kiss, tongue fucking into your mouth now, wet and messy, mirroring the way his body moves against yours.

“Yeah, say my name like that,” he pants, breaking just to drag his mouth along your jaw, teeth grazing skin. “So fuckin’ hot. You’re soaking through these shorts already, aren’t you? All from my tongue and a little grinding.”

He grinds harder, circling his hips in a way that drags right over your clit, and you moan—loud, broken—thighs clamping around him.

“Fuck, you are so responsive” he groans, voice fraying at the edges, smugness cracking into pure need. “Hump back, baby. Let me feel how bad you want this. Such a good little tease, pretending we shouldn’t when you’re dripping for me.”

His free hand pins one of yours above your head, fingers interlacing as he keeps up the rhythm kissing you senseless while he dry humps you, making the clothes stick with sweat, the room filling with the sounds of your shared breaths and the obscene slide of fabric.

“Gonna make you come like this,” he promises against your lips, eyes locked on yours, dark and intense. “Why does it feel so damn good?"

And you don’t have the strength to argue, not when he’s kissing you like he owns you, grinding you both toward the edge with no signs of stopping.

The rhythm builds, relentless and filthy, Enjin's hips grinding down with increasing urgency. Your pajamas are thin—too thin—cotton shorts and a loose tank for you, baggy sweats and that ridiculous crop-top for him. Every roll of his body lets you feel everything: the hard outline of his cock dragging against you, the heat seeping through the fabric, the way he twitches when you arch up to meet him. It's intimate in a way that friends shouldn't be, but neither of you can stop now.

His mouth is everywhere—kissing you deep, then breaking to pant hot against your neck. "Fuck, you're killing me," he groans, voice wrecked and low, that smug tone fracturing into raw need. "So wet I can feel it through your shorts. Grinding on me like you need my dick that bad."

You whimper, hands clutching at his back, nails digging into skin where his top rides up. The friction is electric, building fast, your clit throbbing with every deliberate thrust. He's not holding back anymore—hips snapping harder, faster, chasing his own edge while he pushes you toward yours.

It hits you sudden and hard, pleasure crashing through you in waves. Your thighs lock around his waist, body arching as you grind up desperately, soaking through your pajamas in a hot rush. A broken moan escapes your lips, muffled against his shoulder.

Enjin curses—sharp, filthy—and his rhythm stutters. He buries his face in your neck, hips jerking erratically as he follows you over, groaning low and long. You feel the warmth spread through his sweats, the fabric damp against your thigh where he's pressed so tight.

For a moment, it's just heavy breathing, bodies tangled and sticky, the room thick with the scent of sweat and something more intimate. Then reality creeps in. You're adults. Best friends. And you just... came dry humping like two teenagers.

Enjin lifts his head slowly, blonde hair mussed and sticking to his forehead, eyes wide like he's just realizing what happened. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by a rare flush across his cheeks. He clears his throat, shifting off you carefully, wincing a little as he sits back on his heels.

"Uh," he starts, voice awkwardly casual, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can I... use your bathroom? Gotta, y'know, clean up."

You nod quickly, avoiding his eyes, pulling your tank down like that fixes anything. Your own shorts are a mess, thighs still trembling faintly. "Sure," you mumble, staring at the ceiling. "Go ahead."