Hello ! You asked who to write for. Maybe I suggest some fluff for enjin?
I was thinking what would make him short circuit? Like something reader does that is so so cute he just blue screen?
AUTHORS NOTE: First request and iām so happy i hope itās what you expected. i didnāt know what short circuited meant so i tried my best from what i know plus trying to incorporate his personality this story is heavily inspired by a gojo fanfic i read
An artist who doesnāt stop and a man who doesnāt waste motion. You hire Enjin to āmodel,ā and somehow he becomes the one thing that makes you rest. word count: 2,500
Enjin doesnāt like waiting.
He doesnāt say it like a complaint. He doesnāt evenĀ lookĀ like heās complaining. He justā¦ doesnāt do it unless he has to.
Waiting is wasted motion. Wasted attention. Wasted risk.
And risk, out here, isnāt theoretical.
Stillāhere he is, leaning against a warped strip of metal that pretends to be a railing, eyes half-lidded beneath the shadow of his hood. The late afternoon air is dry and sharp, dust curling in thin spirals along the ground. Somewhere nearby, a vendor is shouting about batteries or scrap metal or something you could survive without. Somewhere else, something clangs and breaks, followed by laughter that sounds too loud to be safe.
Enjin watches everything without looking like heās watching anything.
His fingers drum once against his sleeve, then still. His stance is relaxed the way a blade resting in its sheath is relaxedāready, contained, patient in a way that is more dangerous than restless.
He told you five minutes.
He exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, and stares at the edge of the street like he can will you into existence.
You probably forgot. Again.
You donāt forget important things. You donāt forget appointments, routes, names, or details. You donāt forget the angle of light on a face youāre trying to capture, or the way someoneās hands move when theyāre lying.
Enjinās jaw tightens just a fraction, then loosens. Heās not angry. Not really.
Which is worse, because annoyance makes himĀ care, and caring is the kind of thing that grows teeth in the wrong places.
A shadow shifts between two stacked buildings, and then you appear like youāve been there all along.
Not running. Not rushing. Just moving with that single-minded direction you always have, like the world can scream around you and youāll still keep walking toward your next idea.
Your hair is a mess. Your sleeves are stained. Your fingers are smudged dark with charcoal and grime. Under one arm youāve got a rolled bundle of paper, tucked tight to your side like itās more valuable than food.
Enjin blinks once, slowly.
You stop like someone hit pause on you. Your head turns in increments, eyes dragging from the street to himāthen focusing, sharpening, landing.
āOh,ā you say, like itās mildly interesting. āYouāre here.ā
His stare doesnāt change.
āYes,ā Enjin replies flatly. āThat wasā¦ the arrangement.ā
You hum, as if youāre processing a note someone left you. āRight.ā
Then you step closer without asking.
Enjinās body doesnāt move, but something in his attention narrows. Not alarm. Not exactly. Justā¦ awareness.
You stand in front of him and tilt your head, eyes tracing his face like youāre mapping it. Your gaze doesnāt linger where peopleās gazes usually linger. You donāt look at him like heās impressive or intimidating. You look at him like heāsĀ information.
Your fingers twitch. Like youāre reaching for something that isnāt in your hand yet.
Enjin raises a brow slightly. āWhat.ā
āDonāt move,ā you say.
āBecause the light is doing something,ā you murmur, half to yourself. āAnd youāre standing wrong.ā
āIām standing,ā he says, tone dead.
āYouāre standing like youāre expecting someone to stab you,ā you correct, voice calm. Then, like itās obvious: āRelax your shoulders.ā
Enjin lets out a single, quiet breath.
He should tell you no. He should tell you to back up. He should remind you that youāre in the open and that any stillness can become a target.
Instead, he shiftsābarely.
Not because you ordered him to.
Because he realizes youāre not going to stop.
You tug the paper bundle free, unrolling it against your knee with brisk, practiced movements. A pencil appears from your pocket like itās been there the whole time. You donāt look down as you start sketching. Your eyes stay on him, sharp and unwavering, and your hand moves fast.
Enjin feels itābeing watched.
Not ogled. Not challenged. Not assessed like prey or threat.
Watched like heās a problem to solve.
The pencil scrapes in short strokes. The paper rustles. Your breathing is steady, your focus so intense it feels like an invisible wall between you and the rest of the world.
Enjinās mouth opens, then closes.
He is notā¦ used to this.
People look at him and see a figure. A rumor. A weapon. A man who lives where other people donāt survive.
You look at him like heās a shape with meaning youāre trying to translate.
He doesnāt know what to do with that.
āYou do this a lot,ā he says after a moment, voice low.
āYes,ā you reply immediately.
He waits for an explanation.
Enjinās eyes narrow slightly. āWhy.ā
Your pencil pauses. Not long. A heartbeat. Enough that he notices.
Then you keep drawing like you never stopped.
āBecause you donāt pose,ā you say quietly. āYou donāt perform. You donāt try to be anything.ā
Enjinās gaze sharpens. āThatās not a compliment.ā
āItās accurate,ā you correct, still sketching. āAnd accuracy matters.ā
Your tone is so calm itās almost cruel.
Enjin exhales. The air tastes like dust. āSo Iām convenient.ā
You finally glance down at the paperājust for a secondāthen back up at him, eyes narrowed like youāre annoyed heās interrupting.
āNo,ā you say. āYouāre difficult.ā
You gesture with the pencil, barely moving it away from the page. āYour face changes too fast. Your eyes donāt stay still. Your hands are alwaysā¦ ready. I canāt pin you.ā
You donāt look embarrassed. You donāt look flustered.
You look irritatedālike heās a stubborn angle you canāt get right.
And for the first time in a while, Enjin doesnāt have a response ready.
You finish the sketch fast, tearing the page free with a practiced rip. You donāt show him. You just roll it back into the bundle like itās nothing.
āAll right,ā you say, stepping away. āWe can go.ā
Enjinās eyes follow you.
āā¦Thatās it?ā he asks.
He repeats it, suspicious. āFor now.ā
You nod once, firm, like youāve already decided something and he has no part in it.
Enjin watches you walk ahead like you expect him to follow.
Because apparently, heās letting you drag him into your orbit now.
It doesnāt start as a routine.
Routines are fragile out here. They get interrupted by hunger, by weather, by violence, by people with bad intentions and good weapons. You donāt build a routine unless youāre daring the world to take it away.
But it becomes one anyway, slowly, inevitablyālike water carving a path through stone.
Sometimes you find Enjin.
Sometimes Enjin finds you.
Sometimes you justā¦ appear.
You donāt ask permission. You donāt make it a big thing. You donāt show up like you want something from him.
You show up like heās already part of your process.
The first time you drag him into your āworkspace,ā he expects something official. A studio. A proper setup. Somewhere safe.
Instead, itās a corner of a half-collapsed building with a sheet of metal wedged at an angle to catch light. A crate turned into a table. A ragged tarp hung like a wall. The air smells like dust and old paint and the faint metallic bite of solvent.
You step inside, shrugging off your coat, and immediately start arranging brushes and paper with a kind of precise care that makes the chaos around you feel irrelevant.
Enjin stands in the entrance, surveying.
āThis isā¦ your place?ā he asks.
You donāt look up. āYes.ā
āItās exposed,ā he says. āIf something happensāā
āIāll hear it,ā you reply, calm.
Then he says, more quietly: āYou wonāt.ā
That makes your hands still.
You glance up, eyes narrowing. āAre you here to argue or to model.ā
He stares. āI didnāt agree toāā
You lift a sheet of paper toward him. On it, scribbled in your blunt handwriting:Ā Hourly rate. Supplies cost. Cash upfront.
Enjin looks at it. Looks at you.
Because youāre not joking.
āā¦Youāre paying me,ā he says slowly.
āFor standing still.ā
āFor existing in a controlled angle of light,ā you correct.
Heās had people offer him things before. Money, favors, threats disguised as deals. Heās had people bargain with him like heās a tool they can rent.
You look like youād pay anyone if their face had the right lines.
And somehow, thatās worse.
āI donāt need your money,ā he says.
You tilt your head. āThen why did you come.ā
Because he doesnāt have a clean answer.
He shouldāve walked away. He couldāve walked away.
Instead, he finds himself stepping inside, letting the tarp fall behind him like heās stepping into your world.
Enjin eyes it like it might bite him.
āItāll hold,ā you add, like you read his thoughts.
You step closer, gaze flicking over him with that same unnerving focus. You donāt touch him at first. You justĀ look, eyes narrowing, head tilting.
Then you click your tongue.
āYour shoulders,ā you mutter.
Enjinās jaw tightens. āWhat.ā
āYouāre holding tension here,ā you say, and your fingers hover near his collarbone without quite touching. āDrop it.ā
Enjinās gaze sharpens at the proximity.
Heās used to people getting close for bad reasons.
You get close like youāre trying to fix a composition.
He exhales slowly, forcing his shoulders down.
You watch him like you can tell heās forcing it.
āBetter,ā you murmur. Then: āDonāt move.ā
Enjin snorts softly. āThatās a bad habit.ā
āItās an instruction,ā you correct.
He studies you for a long moment. āYou talk to everyone like this.ā
He huffs a quiet breath, something like amusement without the sound.
The first session is silent except for pencil on paper and the distant creak of metal in the wind. Enjin stays still longer than he thought he could.
Not because heās obedient.
Because you lookĀ satisfiedĀ when he does.
And Enjin realizesāunpleasantlyāthat he wants to see that look again.
You donāt show him your work.
When he leans to glance, you turn the page.
When he asks, you answer, āNo.ā
No explanation. No softness. No apology.
Enjin doesnāt like being told no.
But heās alsoā¦ curious.
He starts noticing things he didnāt before. The way you set your brushes in order, bristles aligned. The way your hands are steady until they arenātāuntil a line doesnāt land right, and your fingers tighten like youāre restraining violence.
He notices you never play music. Not once.
He notices you donāt eat unless someone interrupts you. He notices the way your eyes go distant when youāre deep in work, like your body is just an inconvenient container for your mind.
He notices youāre always cold, even when the air is warm.
He notices you donāt talk about yourself unless someone forces you, and even then you do it in short sentences like youāre trimming the fat off your own life.
The more he notices, the more he finds himselfā¦ lingering.
Not leaving right after sessions. Not disappearing back into his world.
Heāll stand in the entrance while you clean your brushes, watching you with the same quiet attention he gives a street before crossing it.
You donāt ask him why heās still there.
Itās late when it happens the first time.
Youāre working on a piece that isnāt cooperatingāEnjin can tell without understanding art, because youāre silent in a way thatās sharp. The pencil scratches harder. The eraser smears paper until itās thin. Your jaw clenches so tight he can see it.
Enjin sits on the stool, still as ordered, watching you out of the corner of his eye.
You pause, stare at the page like it personally offended you, then exhale.
āI hate this,ā you say quietly.
Enjin blinks. āThe drawing.ā
You look up slowly, expression blank. āNo.ā
Enjinās brow lifts. āWhy not.ā
āBecause itās wrong,ā you say, like itās obvious. āIf I leave it wrong, it stays wrong.ā
Enjin watches you, something in his chest tightening.
āThatās not how that works,ā he says.
You stare like heās speaking nonsense.
He exhales, then says, more carefully: āYou can fix it tomorrow.ā
You shake your head once. Firm. āTomorrow changes the light.ā
He sees it thenāthe way your fingers tremble, just barely. The way your shoulders are too tight. The way your breathing isnāt even.
āYou havenāt eaten,ā he says.
Enjinās jaw tightens. āYou havenāt eaten.ā
āIām fine,ā you say automatically, not looking up.
The stool scrapes the floor, sharp in the quiet.
You flinch at the sound, eyes snapping upāalert, defensive.
He steps closer, gaze steady.
āYou say that every time,ā he says.
You blink once, slow. āWhat.ā
āThat youāre fine.ā
Then, very calmly: āYouāre lying.ā
Your lips part, offended. āIām notāā
āYou are,ā he says, still calm, still controlledāexcept his voice has dropped, weight settling into it. āYouāre pale. Your hands are shaking. Your focus is sloppy.ā
Your eyes narrow like you want to argue.
He reaches past you, grabs a small packet from the shelfāone of the emergency rations he keeps for bad daysāand sets it on your table.
You stare at it like itās an insult.
āIām not asking,ā Enjin replies.
Something in your expression flickers. Not anger.
Something more complicated.
You look away, jaw tight, then reach for it.
You eat, slow and reluctant, eyes still stubborn.
Enjin stays standing beside you, arms crossed, like heās guarding you from yourself.
When you finish, you set the wrapper down like it weighs too much.
āThere,ā you say, voice clipped. āHappy.ā
Enjin watches you for a long moment.
Then he says, quietly: āA little.ā
Itās the first time heās said something like that without edge.
Your gaze flickers toward him, then away, like you donāt know what to do with it.
And for some reason, the room feels warmer.
The short circuit doesnāt hit him like lightning.
Like warmth in your hands after youāve been cold too long.
It starts with him bringing you things.
Not grand gifts. Not dramatic gestures. Enjin doesnāt do dramatic.
A bottle of water placed beside your papers without comment.
A small heat pack tossed toward you when your fingers go stiff.
Food left within reach when youāre too absorbed to notice youāre starving.
You donāt thank him at first. You just stare, suspicious.
āWhat is this,ā youāll ask.
āFood,ā heāll reply.
āYou didnāt,ā Enjin says simply.
Then youāll eat anyway, quietly, like youāre conceding but refusing to admit it.
Enjin learns your habits. Your tells. The way you chew the inside of your cheek when youāre unhappy with a line. The way you press your thumb to the edge of your paper like youāre grounding yourself.
He learns the way you go quieter the more tired you are, like exhaustion strips you down to something raw and stubborn.
He learns youāre the type of person who will fall apart silently if nobody notices.
And Enjināunfortunatelyāhas started noticing.
You donāt talk about feelings.
You talk about shapes. About light. About composition.
Sometimes, if youāre in a strange mood, youāll talk about why you draw at all.
āBecause it makes sense,ā you say once, voice quiet as you shade. āThe world doesnāt.ā
Enjin watches your hand move, careful. āYouāre trying to control it.ā
āIām trying to understand it,ā you correct.
He studies you for a long moment. āAnd me.ā
You donāt look up. āYouāre part of it.ā
It should be a neutral statement.
It sits in his chest like a hook anyway.
It happens on a cold night.
Not winter-cold, but closeāthe kind of cold that makes metal bite your skin and makes your breath visible if you exhale too hard.
Youāve been acting off all day. Not dramatic. Not obvious.
Your pencil pauses too often. Your eyes unfocus. Your shoulders sag in a way that doesnāt match your usual stubborn posture.
Enjin doesnāt say anything at first. He watches. He waits.
It hits the floor with a softĀ tick.
Enjin moves before thinking.
One second heās across the room, the next his hand is on youāarm around your waist, steadying you as your weight sags like your body finally remembered itās allowed to stop.
āāHey,ā Enjin says, voice sharper than usual. āStay with me.ā
Your head tips forward, forehead grazing his shoulder.
He shifts you, careful, guiding you toward the cot you use as a bed. He lowers you down like youāre something fragile.
You blink up at him, eyes glassy. āIām fine.ā
Enjinās expression goes flat.
āNo,ā he says. āYouāre not.ā
You frown weakly like youāre offended by the accusation.
He kneels beside the bed, eyes scanning you like heās counting injuries.
āYou didnāt eat,ā he says.
You blink slowly. āI did.ā
Enjinās stare sharpens.
You make a small sound, somewhere between a sigh and a defeated hum.
Enjin exhales through his nose, something tense in his chest.
He reaches for the water he left earlier, presses it into your hand.
You fumble it like your fingers forgot how to grip.
Enjinās hand closes over yours, steadying it.
And something in his brainā
Because youāre looking at him.
Not with that analytical focus you usually have. Not with the cool distance.
With something softer. Bare. Too tired to hide.
Enjinās breath catches.
Itās subtle. He hates that it happens at all.
You swallow with effort, sip water, then let your head sink back to the pillow.
Enjinās hand is still on yours.
Your fingers tighten weakly around his.
He can handle fights. He can handle chaos. He can handle blood and fear and terrible decisions.
He cannot handle you holding his hand like itās normal.
He cannot handle you looking at him like heās safe.
Enjinās throat tightens.
āSleep,ā he says, voice low.
You hum, eyes half-closed. āStay.ā
Enjinās brain refuses to compute.
You blink at him like heās dense. āStay.ā
Itās not a plea. Not dramatic. Justā¦ certain.
Enjin stares at you for a long moment, then looks away, jaw tight.
He should leave before he turns into something soft.
Instead, he sits on the floor beside your bed, back against the frame, one arm resting where your hand can still reach.
Because apparently, heās doing that now.
When you wake, itās quiet.
The air is colder. The light is dim. For a second you donāt know where you are.
Then you notice the blanket tucked over you.
Then you notice Enjin on the floor, head tilted back against the bedframe, eyes closed, coat still on.
He looks like he never moved.
He opens his eyes immediately.
Of course he does. Like he wasnāt asleep at all.
āYouāre awake,ā he says.
Your voice is hoarse. āHow long.ā
Enjinās gaze flicks to the window, then back to you. āLong enough.ā
You stare at him, then glance at his position on the floor.
āā¦You slept there.ā
Then, very calmly, like it doesnāt matter: āYes.ā
Your chest tightens in an uncomfortable way.
You look away quickly, as if you can dodge the feeling by not acknowledging it.
Enjinās eyes narrow just slightly.
āBecause you asked,ā he says.
Your fingers curl around the edge of the blanket, grip tightening.
Enjin watches you, silent.
Then he shifts, reaches into his pocket, and tosses something toward you.
You catch it on instinct.
A wrapped piece of bread. Warm.
You stare at it, confused.
āEat,ā Enjin says, like itās the only thing that matters.
You frown. āYouāre not myāā
āEat,ā he repeats, firmer.
Enjinās shoulders loosen by a fraction, as if that was the correct answer to some invisible test.
You chew slowly, eyes flicking toward him when you think he wonāt notice.
Not in a dramatic, obvious way.
Enjin starts showing up before you do.
He learns where you like the light. He clears debris from your workspace without mentioning it.
You start leaving your paper out without snapping it shut the second he moves closer.
Sometimes, youāll be focused and forget heās there, and Enjin will glance down and see a sketchāhalf-finishedāof his hands.
If he comments, youāll retreat.
Which is insane, because he hates waiting.
The second short circuit is worse.
It happens on an ordinary day.
No danger. No collapse. No crisis.
Just you, sitting on a crate, sketching, brow furrowed.
Enjin is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the street out of habit more than need.
You pause mid-line, expression dissatisfied.
āHold still,ā you mutter.
You stand suddenly and step closer.
Enjinās gaze flicks to you automatically, tracking.
You reach up and adjust his collarātwo quick tugs, fingers brushing his throat by accident.
Enjinās entire body goes still.
Not the controlled stillness he uses in fights.
The kind of stillness that happens when something in you malfunctions.
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing, then lift your hand againāthis time to push a stray strand of hair away from his eye.
Your fingertips brush his cheek.
He stares straight ahead, breathing shallow, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to flinch.
Because your touch is light.
Like heās not dangerous. Like heās not distant. Like heās justā¦ there.
āBetter,ā you murmur, stepping back.
You glance up. āWhatās wrong.ā
His voice comes out flat. Too flat. āNothing.ā
You stare like you donāt believe him.
Enjin holds your gaze, expression neutral, trying to reboot his brain.
You narrow your eyes. āYouāre weird.ā
Enjin exhales slowly, recovering just enough to speak. āI could say the same.ā
You hum, turning back to your paper like the moment didnāt happen.
Enjin stands there, heart still pounding, trying to remember how to exist.
He fails for a solid minute.
The first time you kiss him, itās not planned.
Itās late. Youāre both exhausted. Youāve finished a piece that finally feels right, and your shoulders drop like youāve been carrying a weight you didnāt realize was there.
Enjin watches you set your pencil down.
āYouāre done,ā he says.
You nod, eyes unfocused. āFor tonight.ā
Enjin studies you. āGood.ā
You glance at him, brow lifting slightly. āWhy.ā
Then, quietly: āBecause you stop.ā
Like you donāt know what to do with that.
Enjin feels heat creep into his chestāunwanted, unfamiliar.
You stand, slow, and step toward him.
Enjinās gaze flicks back automatically, tracking the movement.
You stop in front of him.
Enjin stays still, because apparently thatās all he does around you now.
Your eyes flick to his mouth for half a second.
Enjinās brain catches on that detail like a handhold on a cliff.
Enjinās breath stops completely.
Then you pull back like youāre checking a line for accuracy.
Enjin stands frozen, eyes wide in the smallest way, mouth slightly parted.
Short circuit. Full shutdown. No thoughts. Just static.
You stare up at him, expression unreadable. āOkay.ā
Enjin makes a soundāhalf inhale, half broken laugh that doesnāt become anything.
āā¦Okay,ā he echoes, voice hoarse.
You blink. āYou didnātā¦ hate that.ā
Then, slowly, like heās rebooting: āNo.ā
Then you do something that absolutely ruins him.
Interlace your fingers with his.
And then you rest your forehead against his chest like itās where you belong.
Enjinās entire body locks.
His hands hover uselessly for a second, as if heās forgotten what people do.
Thenāslowlyāhis arms wrap around you.
You exhale, a quiet sound of relief that makes something twist painfully in Enjinās chest.
And for the first time in a long time, he thinks:
After that, it becomes obvious in the worst ways.
Not because Enjin suddenly becomes affectionate in public. He doesnāt.
He still speaks in short sentences. Still watches everything. Still carries that calm, dangerous quiet around him.
But nowāheās always near you.
Always angled between you and the street.
Always the first to notice when your hands shake, when your shoulders droop, when your focus turns brittle.
Always the one who places food near you without saying a word.
Always the one who tucks a blanket around you when you fall asleep over your paper.
You donāt call it anything.
And Enjināquietly, steadilyāstarts acting like youāre something heās decided to protect.
One day, someone makes a comment. Something careless. Something about you wasting time drawing, about Enjin letting you distract him.
Enjin doesnāt react at first.
Then the person steps closerātoo close to your workspace, too close to your paper.
Just one step forward, enough to block.
Enough to make the air shift.
Enjinās voice is calm. āDonāt.ā
You glance up, pencil paused, eyes narrowing. āWhat was that.ā
Then he says, simply: āNothing.ā
You stare like youāre not convinced.
Then you go back to drawing like youāre pretending it doesnāt matter.
But your hand shiftsāquietlyāand your fingers hook around Enjinās sleeve.
A silentĀ thank youĀ that you refuse to say out loud.
Enjinās breath catches.
He doesnāt look down at your hand.
Because if he does, he might short circuit again.
The softest part is this:
You still donāt show him your sketchbook.
You still guard it like itās a beating heart.
But one night, youāre tired, curled up beside him in the corner of your workspace, both of you half dozing while rain taps against metal outside.
Enjinās coat is around your shoulders. Your head is tipped against his arm.
Your sketchbook is on your lap.
Enjinās gaze flicks to it.
āDo you want to see,ā you ask quietly.
āā¦Yes,ā he says after a long pause.
Your fingers tighten on the cover. You swallow, then flip it open.
The ones you drew when you thought he wasnāt looking.
There he isāover and overācaptured in lines that feel too intimate to be just art.
His hands. His eyes. The way his shoulders slope when heās tired. The way he looks when he thinks youāre safe behind him.
Thereās a small note in the margin, written in your blunt handwriting:
he doesnāt waste motion, except when itās for me.
His throat tightens so hard it hurts.
Because if he does, he might shatter the quiet.
You glance at him, nervous for the first time in forever. āItāsā¦ stupid.ā
Enjinās eyes stay on the page.
His voice comes out low. āItās not.ā
You swallow. āItās a lot.ā
Enjin finally looks at you.
His gaze is steady. Too steady.
Then he does something that makes your brain glitch right back.
He lifts your handāslowlyāand presses his mouth to your knuckles.
A kiss. Brief. Warm. Reverent.
Enjinās eyes flick up to yours.
A tiny, almost hesitant softness in his expression.
āKeep drawing,ā Enjin says quietly. āIf it keeps you here.ā
You nod once, firm, like youāre anchoring yourself.
Enjinās thumb brushes your fingers once.
Then he leans in and kisses you properlyāslow, careful, like heās still learning, like heās afraid of breaking something.
You melt against him anyway.
Because youāre both idiots.
Justā¦ in different ways.
And somewhere outside, the rain keeps falling, steady and quiet.
Inside, Enjin holds you like heās decided:
No more running yourself into the ground.
you let yourself believe you can rest.
