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 iâm so happy i hope itâs what you expected. i didnât 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 doesnât stop and a man who doesnât waste motion. You hire Enjin to âmodel,â and somehow he becomes the one thing that makes you rest. word count: 2,500
Enjin doesnât like waiting.
He doesnât say it like a complaint. He doesnât even look like heâs complaining. He just⊠doesnât do it unless he has to.
Waiting is wasted motion. Wasted attention. Wasted risk.
And risk, out here, isnât theoretical.
Stillâhere 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 heâs watching anything.
His fingers drum once against his sleeve, then still. His stance is relaxed the way a blade resting in its sheath is relaxedâready, 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 donât forget important things. You donât forget appointments, routes, names, or details. You donât forget the angle of light on a face youâre trying to capture, or the way someoneâs hands move when theyâre lying.
Enjinâs jaw tightens just a fraction, then loosens. Heâs not angry. Not really.
Which is worse, because annoyance makes him 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 youâve 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 youâll 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 youâve got a rolled bundle of paper, tucked tight to your side like itâs 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 himâthen focusing, sharpening, landing.
âOh,â you say, like itâs mildly interesting. âYouâre here.â
His stare doesnât change.
âYes,â Enjin replies flatly. âThat was⊠the arrangement.â
You hum, as if youâre processing a note someone left you. âRight.â
Then you step closer without asking.
Enjinâs body doesnât move, but something in his attention narrows. Not alarm. Not exactly. Just⊠awareness.
You stand in front of him and tilt your head, eyes tracing his face like youâre mapping it. Your gaze doesnât linger where peopleâs gazes usually linger. You donât look at him like heâs impressive or intimidating. You look at him like heâs information.
Your fingers twitch. Like youâre reaching for something that isnât in your hand yet.
Enjin raises a brow slightly. âWhat.â
âDonât move,â you say.
âBecause the light is doing something,â you murmur, half to yourself. âAnd youâre standing wrong.â
âIâm standing,â he says, tone dead.
âYouâre standing like youâre expecting someone to stab you,â you correct, voice calm. Then, like itâs obvious: âRelax your shoulders.â
Enjin lets out a single, quiet breath.
He should tell you no. He should tell you to back up. He should remind you that youâre in the open and that any stillness can become a target.
Instead, he shiftsâbarely.
Not because you ordered him to.
Because he realizes youâre 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 itâs been there the whole time. You donât look down as you start sketching. Your eyes stay on him, sharp and unwavering, and your hand moves fast.
Enjin feels itâbeing watched.
Not ogled. Not challenged. Not assessed like prey or threat.
Watched like heâs 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.
Enjinâs mouth opens, then closes.
He is not⊠used to this.
People look at him and see a figure. A rumor. A weapon. A man who lives where other people donât survive.
You look at him like heâs a shape with meaning youâre trying to translate.
He doesnât know what to do with that.
âYou do this a lot,â he says after a moment, voice low.
âYes,â you reply immediately.
He waits for an explanation.
Enjinâs eyes narrow slightly. âWhy.â
Your pencil pauses. Not long. A heartbeat. Enough that he notices.
Then you keep drawing like you never stopped.
âBecause you donât pose,â you say quietly. âYou donât perform. You donât try to be anything.â
Enjinâs gaze sharpens. âThatâs not a compliment.â
âItâs accurate,â you correct, still sketching. âAnd accuracy matters.â
Your tone is so calm itâs almost cruel.
Enjin exhales. The air tastes like dust. âSo Iâm convenient.â
You finally glance down at the paperâjust for a secondâthen back up at him, eyes narrowed like youâre annoyed heâs interrupting.
âNo,â you say. âYouâre difficult.â
You gesture with the pencil, barely moving it away from the page. âYour face changes too fast. Your eyes donât stay still. Your hands are always⊠ready. I canât pin you.â
You donât look embarrassed. You donât look flustered.
You look irritatedâlike heâs a stubborn angle you canât get right.
And for the first time in a while, Enjin doesnât have a response ready.
You finish the sketch fast, tearing the page free with a practiced rip. You donât show him. You just roll it back into the bundle like itâs nothing.
âAll right,â you say, stepping away. âWe can go.â
Enjinâs eyes follow you.
ââŠThatâs it?â he asks.
He repeats it, suspicious. âFor now.â
You nod once, firm, like youâve already decided something and he has no part in it.
Enjin watches you walk ahead like you expect him to follow.
Because apparently, heâs letting you drag him into your orbit now.
It doesnât 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 donât build a routine unless youâre daring the world to take it away.
But it becomes one anyway, slowly, inevitablyâlike water carving a path through stone.
Sometimes you find Enjin.
Sometimes Enjin finds you.
Sometimes you just⊠appear.
You donât ask permission. You donât make it a big thing. You donât show up like you want something from him.
You show up like heâs already part of your process.
The first time you drag him into your âworkspace,â he expects something official. A studio. A proper setup. Somewhere safe.
Instead, itâs 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.
âThis is⊠your place?â he asks.
You donât look up. âYes.â
âItâs exposed,â he says. âIf something happensââ
âIâll hear it,â you reply, calm.
Then he says, more quietly: âYou wonât.â
That makes your hands still.
You glance up, eyes narrowing. âAre you here to argue or to model.â
He stares. âI didnât agree toââ
You lift a sheet of paper toward him. On it, scribbled in your blunt handwriting:Â Hourly rate. Supplies cost. Cash upfront.
Enjin looks at it. Looks at you.
Because youâre not joking.
ââŠYouâre paying me,â he says slowly.
âFor standing still.â
âFor existing in a controlled angle of light,â you correct.
Heâs had people offer him things before. Money, favors, threats disguised as deals. Heâs had people bargain with him like heâs a tool they can rent.
You look like youâd pay anyone if their face had the right lines.
And somehow, thatâs worse.
âI donât need your money,â he says.
You tilt your head. âThen why did you come.â
Because he doesnât have a clean answer.
He shouldâve walked away. He couldâve walked away.
Instead, he finds himself stepping inside, letting the tarp fall behind him like heâs stepping into your world.
Enjin eyes it like it might bite him.
âItâll hold,â you add, like you read his thoughts.
You step closer, gaze flicking over him with that same unnerving focus. You donât touch him at first. You just look, eyes narrowing, head tilting.
Then you click your tongue.
âYour shoulders,â you mutter.
Enjinâs jaw tightens. âWhat.â
âYouâre holding tension here,â you say, and your fingers hover near his collarbone without quite touching. âDrop it.â
Enjinâs gaze sharpens at the proximity.
Heâs used to people getting close for bad reasons.
You get close like youâre trying to fix a composition.
He exhales slowly, forcing his shoulders down.
You watch him like you can tell heâs forcing it.
âBetter,â you murmur. Then: âDonât move.â
Enjin snorts softly. âThatâs a bad habit.â
âItâs an instruction,â you correct.
He studies you for a long moment. âYou talk to everyone like this.â
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 heâs obedient.
Because you look satisfied when he does.
And Enjin realizesâunpleasantlyâthat he wants to see that look again.
You donât show him your work.
When he leans to glance, you turn the page.
When he asks, you answer, âNo.â
No explanation. No softness. No apology.
Enjin doesnât like being told no.
But heâs also⊠curious.
He starts noticing things he didnât before. The way you set your brushes in order, bristles aligned. The way your hands are steady until they arenâtâuntil a line doesnât land right, and your fingers tighten like youâre restraining violence.
He notices you never play music. Not once.
He notices you donât eat unless someone interrupts you. He notices the way your eyes go distant when youâre deep in work, like your body is just an inconvenient container for your mind.
He notices youâre always cold, even when the air is warm.
He notices you donât talk about yourself unless someone forces you, and even then you do it in short sentences like youâre trimming the fat off your own life.
The more he notices, the more he finds himself⊠lingering.
Not leaving right after sessions. Not disappearing back into his world.
Heâll stand in the entrance while you clean your brushes, watching you with the same quiet attention he gives a street before crossing it.
You donât ask him why heâs still there.
Itâs late when it happens the first time.
Youâre working on a piece that isnât cooperatingâEnjin can tell without understanding art, because youâre silent in a way thatâs sharp. The pencil scratches harder. The eraser smears paper until itâs 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.
âI hate this,â you say quietly.
Enjin blinks. âThe drawing.â
You look up slowly, expression blank. âNo.â
Enjinâs brow lifts. âWhy not.â
âBecause itâs wrong,â you say, like itâs obvious. âIf I leave it wrong, it stays wrong.â
Enjin watches you, something in his chest tightening.
âThatâs not how that works,â he says.
You stare like heâs speaking nonsense.
He exhales, then says, more carefully: âYou can fix it tomorrow.â
You shake your head once. Firm. âTomorrow changes the light.â
He sees it thenâthe way your fingers tremble, just barely. The way your shoulders are too tight. The way your breathing isnât even.
âYou havenât eaten,â he says.
Enjinâs jaw tightens. âYou havenât eaten.â
âIâm fine,â you say automatically, not looking up.
The stool scrapes the floor, sharp in the quiet.
You flinch at the sound, eyes snapping upâalert, defensive.
He steps closer, gaze steady.
âYou say that every time,â he says.
You blink once, slow. âWhat.â
âThat youâre fine.â
Then, very calmly: âYouâre lying.â
Your lips part, offended. âIâm notââ
âYou are,â he says, still calm, still controlledâexcept his voice has dropped, weight settling into it. âYouâre pale. Your hands are shaking. Your focus is sloppy.â
Your eyes narrow like you want to argue.
He reaches past you, grabs a small packet from the shelfâone of the emergency rations he keeps for bad daysâand sets it on your table.
You stare at it like itâs an insult.
âIâm not asking,â 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 heâs guarding you from yourself.
When you finish, you set the wrapper down like it weighs too much.
âThere,â you say, voice clipped. âHappy.â
Enjin watches you for a long moment.
Then he says, quietly: âA little.â
Itâs the first time heâs said something like that without edge.
Your gaze flickers toward him, then away, like you donât know what to do with it.
And for some reason, the room feels warmer.
The short circuit doesnât hit him like lightning.
Like warmth in your hands after youâve been cold too long.
It starts with him bringing you things.
Not grand gifts. Not dramatic gestures. Enjin doesnât 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 youâre too absorbed to notice youâre starving.
You donât thank him at first. You just stare, suspicious.
âWhat is this,â youâll ask.
âFood,â heâll reply.
âYou didnât,â Enjin says simply.
Then youâll eat anyway, quietly, like youâre conceding but refusing to admit it.
Enjin learns your habits. Your tells. The way you chew the inside of your cheek when youâre unhappy with a line. The way you press your thumb to the edge of your paper like youâre 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 youâre the type of person who will fall apart silently if nobody notices.
And Enjinâunfortunatelyâhas started noticing.
You donât talk about feelings.
You talk about shapes. About light. About composition.
Sometimes, if youâre in a strange mood, youâll talk about why you draw at all.
âBecause it makes sense,â you say once, voice quiet as you shade. âThe world doesnât.â
Enjin watches your hand move, careful. âYouâre trying to control it.â
âIâm trying to understand it,â you correct.
He studies you for a long moment. âAnd me.â
You donât look up. âYouâre part of it.â
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 closeâthe kind of cold that makes metal bite your skin and makes your breath visible if you exhale too hard.
Youâve been acting off all day. Not dramatic. Not obvious.
Your pencil pauses too often. Your eyes unfocus. Your shoulders sag in a way that doesnât match your usual stubborn posture.
Enjin doesnât say anything at first. He watches. He waits.
It hits the floor with a soft tick.
Enjin moves before thinking.
One second heâs across the room, the next his hand is on youâarm around your waist, steadying you as your weight sags like your body finally remembered itâs allowed to stop.
ââHey,â Enjin says, voice sharper than usual. âStay with me.â
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 youâre something fragile.
You blink up at him, eyes glassy. âIâm fine.â
Enjinâs expression goes flat.
âNo,â he says. âYouâre not.â
You frown weakly like youâre offended by the accusation.
He kneels beside the bed, eyes scanning you like heâs counting injuries.
âYou didnât eat,â he says.
You blink slowly. âI did.â
Enjinâs 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.
Enjinâs hand closes over yours, steadying it.
And something in his brainâ
Because youâre looking at him.
Not with that analytical focus you usually have. Not with the cool distance.
With something softer. Bare. Too tired to hide.
Enjinâs breath catches.
Itâs subtle. He hates that it happens at all.
You swallow with effort, sip water, then let your head sink back to the pillow.
Enjinâs 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 itâs normal.
He cannot handle you looking at him like heâs safe.
Enjinâs throat tightens.
âSleep,â he says, voice low.
You hum, eyes half-closed. âStay.â
Enjinâs brain refuses to compute.
You blink at him like heâs dense. âStay.â
Itâs not a plea. Not dramatic. Just⊠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, heâs doing that now.
When you wake, itâs quiet.
The air is colder. The light is dim. For a second you donât 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 wasnât asleep at all.
âYouâre awake,â he says.
Your voice is hoarse. âHow long.â
Enjinâs gaze flicks to the window, then back to you. âLong enough.â
You stare at him, then glance at his position on the floor.
ââŠYou slept there.â
Then, very calmly, like it doesnât matter: âYes.â
Your chest tightens in an uncomfortable way.
You look away quickly, as if you can dodge the feeling by not acknowledging it.
Enjinâs eyes narrow just slightly.
âBecause you asked,â 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.
âEat,â Enjin says, like itâs the only thing that matters.
You frown. âYouâre not myââ
âEat,â he repeats, firmer.
Enjinâs 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 wonât 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, youâll be focused and forget heâs there, and Enjin will glance down and see a sketchâhalf-finishedâof his hands.
If he comments, youâll 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.
âHold still,â you mutter.
You stand suddenly and step closer.
Enjinâs gaze flicks to you automatically, tracking.
You reach up and adjust his collarâtwo quick tugs, fingers brushing his throat by accident.
Enjinâs 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 againâthis 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 heâs not dangerous. Like heâs not distant. Like heâs just⊠there.
âBetter,â you murmur, stepping back.
You glance up. âWhatâs wrong.â
His voice comes out flat. Too flat. âNothing.â
You stare like you donât believe him.
Enjin holds your gaze, expression neutral, trying to reboot his brain.
You narrow your eyes. âYouâre weird.â
Enjin exhales slowly, recovering just enough to speak. âI could say the same.â
You hum, turning back to your paper like the moment didnât 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, itâs not planned.
Itâs late. Youâre both exhausted. Youâve finished a piece that finally feels right, and your shoulders drop like youâve been carrying a weight you didnât realize was there.
Enjin watches you set your pencil down.
âYouâre done,â he says.
You nod, eyes unfocused. âFor tonight.â
Enjin studies you. âGood.â
You glance at him, brow lifting slightly. âWhy.â
Then, quietly: âBecause you stop.â
Like you donât know what to do with that.
Enjin feels heat creep into his chestâunwanted, unfamiliar.
You stand, slow, and step toward him.
Enjinâs gaze flicks back automatically, tracking the movement.
You stop in front of him.
Enjin stays still, because apparently thatâs all he does around you now.
Your eyes flick to his mouth for half a second.
Enjinâs brain catches on that detail like a handhold on a cliff.
Enjinâs breath stops completely.
Then you pull back like youâre 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. âOkay.â
Enjin makes a soundâhalf inhale, half broken laugh that doesnât become anything.
ââŠOkay,â he echoes, voice hoarse.
You blink. âYou didnât⊠hate that.â
Then, slowly, like heâs rebooting: âNo.â
Then you do something that absolutely ruins him.
Interlace your fingers with his.
And then you rest your forehead against his chest like itâs where you belong.
Enjinâs entire body locks.
His hands hover uselessly for a second, as if heâs forgotten what people do.
Thenâslowlyâhis arms wrap around you.
You exhale, a quiet sound of relief that makes something twist painfully in Enjinâs 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 doesnât.
He still speaks in short sentences. Still watches everything. Still carries that calm, dangerous quiet around him.
But nowâheâs 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 donât call it anything.
And Enjinâquietly, steadilyâstarts acting like youâre something heâs decided to protect.
One day, someone makes a comment. Something careless. Something about you wasting time drawing, about Enjin letting you distract him.
Enjin doesnât react at first.
Then the person steps closerâtoo close to your workspace, too close to your paper.
Just one step forward, enough to block.
Enough to make the air shift.
Enjinâs voice is calm. âDonât.â
You glance up, pencil paused, eyes narrowing. âWhat was that.â
Then he says, simply: âNothing.â
You stare like youâre not convinced.
Then you go back to drawing like youâre pretending it doesnât matter.
But your hand shiftsâquietlyâand your fingers hook around Enjinâs sleeve.
A silent thank you that you refuse to say out loud.
Enjinâs breath catches.
He doesnât look down at your hand.
Because if he does, he might short circuit again.
The softest part is this:
You still donât show him your sketchbook.
You still guard it like itâs a beating heart.
But one night, youâre tired, curled up beside him in the corner of your workspace, both of you half dozing while rain taps against metal outside.
Enjinâs coat is around your shoulders. Your head is tipped against his arm.
Your sketchbook is on your lap.
Enjinâs gaze flicks to it.
âDo you want to see,â you ask quietly.
ââŠYes,â 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 wasnât looking.
There he isâover and overâcaptured in lines that feel too intimate to be just art.
His hands. His eyes. The way his shoulders slope when heâs tired. The way he looks when he thinks youâre safe behind him.
Thereâs a small note in the margin, written in your blunt handwriting:
he doesnât waste motion, except when itâs 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. âItâs⊠stupid.â
Enjinâs eyes stay on the page.
His voice comes out low. âItâs not.â
You swallow. âItâs a lot.â
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 handâslowlyâand presses his mouth to your knuckles.
A kiss. Brief. Warm. Reverent.
Enjinâs eyes flick up to yours.
A tiny, almost hesitant softness in his expression.
âKeep drawing,â Enjin says quietly. âIf it keeps you here.â
You nod once, firm, like youâre anchoring yourself.
Enjinâs thumb brushes your fingers once.
Then he leans in and kisses you properlyâslow, careful, like heâs still learning, like heâs afraid of breaking something.
You melt against him anyway.
Because youâre both idiots.
Just⊠in different ways.
And somewhere outside, the rain keeps falling, steady and quiet.
Inside, Enjin holds you like heâs decided:
No more running yourself into the ground.
you let yourself believe you can rest.
