#zanjin

Chapter 1: Caught in the Act

The corridors of Cleaner HQ are never quite silent, even this late at night. Pipes rattle somewhere in the walls, footsteps echo with a tired irregularity, and from outside, the metallic sigh of wind slips through battered grates. But tonight, as you and Enjin tumble side by side along the old wooden floorboards, shoes half untied, laughter bottled up beneath your tongues, the hallway feels cocooned in a private, boozy haze.

Enjin stinks of cheap shochu and stale smoke, the kind of scent that seeps into your hair and the cuffs of your shirt after too many rounds at the local bar. Underneath, there’s that clean, mineral note of rain-damp concrete, the evidence of half a lifetime spent coming home too late and never quite shaking the city from his skin. You suspect you’re no different, though it’s always more noticeable on someone else. It’s not unpleasant; it’s a smell you’ve gotten used to after so many nights spent drinking with Enjin over the past year, ever since you became a Cleaner.

He’s warmth and recklessness beside you, a familiar shape in the midnight corridor, the night’s trouble written in the way his laughter clings to your ear. His arm curls protectively around your shoulders, steering you toward your separate rooms at the far end. You barely manage to keep quiet as he fumbles for his keys.

That’s when a sound breaks the fog of giggles and liquor—faint at first, so subtle you think you might’ve imagined it. A restless shuffling, like knuckles dragging across fabric, muffled by the heavy door across the hall. Then a low, unmistakable groan, rising and then bitten off, as though someone is struggling not to make a sound and failing.

You catch Enjin’s eye, wide and wild in the yellow spill of the hallway lamp. Both of you freeze, heads cocked like feral animals. You mouth: Is that—?

Enjin’s mouth drops open. “No fuckin’ way,” he whispers, leaning in so close you can feel the heat of his breath at your ear. He presses the side of his head flat to the battered door, and you mirror him, the wood cool beneath your cheek. Another gasp—clearer now. Zanka, breathing all ragged and shallow. Underneath it, the desperate, relentless rhythm of a hand beneath a blanket.

For a split second, you’re both statues—then Enjin’s shoulders start to convulse, silent laughter rolling through him. You clamp a hand hard over your mouth to stifle the giggle, eyes stinging from the effort.

The next sound from inside leaves no room for doubt: the bedframe creaking, the unmistakable sticky beat of a cock worked slick and eager, and then a strangled little whimper.

You risk catching Enjin's eyes. His grin is a crime—sharp, delighted, gleaming with wicked intent. You both lean in, face to face at the door, biting your tongues bloody. The hallway might as well be the centre of the universe.

Inside, Zanka’s breath hitches, falls, and then: a sound you’ve never heard from him, not even in the heat of a fight—a broken, bitten-off groan, followed by the soft thump of someone collapsing backwards, utterly spent.

For a long moment, nothing. The building creaks. A moth batters itself against the hallway light. Enjin lets out a dramatic, whispered “phew,” mouth stretched in an open-mouthed grin, equal parts awe and amusement. You bite down on the inside of your finger, tears streaming from the corners of your eyes, both of you shaking with the effort not to explode.

You don’t dare speak until you’re out of earshot. When you're finally outside your rooms, Zanka's room safely behind you, you both dissolve into fits. Enjin wipes the tears from his eyes, then smirks, stretching his arms overhead like a cat.

“Hell of a show, that,” he murmurs, eyes glittering. “Almost feel bad for not leaving a tip.”

You try, valiantly, to keep your voice level. “Wonder what gets him off. Maybe he’s into safety manuals. You know—‘in case of emergency, break glass’ gets him every time.”

Enjin chuckles and leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What d'ya say we dig around and see what he’s hiding?”

You both break off and fumble your way into your separate rooms, still reeling as you duck inside.

Chapter 2: Professional Cleaners, Amateur Snoops

By the time you see Enjin again the following evening, the sun is already melting into the horizon, shadows drawing long across the battered HQ. A day of training and dust clings to your skin, fatigue humming in your bones, but nothing could keep you from falling into step beside him as the corridors fill with that familiar end-of-shift energy—tired voices, the slap of boots, the distant rattle of metal doors.

The sun sets orange across the shingled roofs, painting everything watery gold as you both slip into the sleeping quarters hallway, silent this time, heads clear and senses sharp with the purposeful kind of mischief that only sobriety brings. With everyone else tucked away in their rooms or already out drinking and eating at the local bar, the air is still and heavy with the day’s heat and the lingering scent of rust and old sweat.

Enjin beams at you as you jimmy the latch. Zanka’s not one for locks, not in his own space. Old habit, maybe—trust, or just the stubborn idea that nobody would dare touch his things. His room is neater than you expected: the bed made tight, shelves lined with battered paperback novels, clothing hanging in strict order. Only one corner betrays him—a battered box beneath the bed, tucked behind a pair of mud-covered boots.

You haul it out, surprised by the weight. Enjin drops to his knees beside you, one eyebrow arched, smirk already twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Moment of truth.”

As you peel back the flimsy flaps of cardboard, haphazardly taped shut, you're greeted by a collection of ancient porno mags, the covers faded and curling. The first issue falls open to a collection of oiled, naked bodies—bronze-skinned and white teeth. You pick up another and flip—two men, all muscle and tattoos, sprawled across cheap motel sheets. In the next, along with some pages glued stubbornly together, are various pin-up girls in high-waisted stockings, lipstick smudged, eyes rolled back.

“Holy shit, he’s got everything in here.” Enjin whistles low, gripping a magazine at one end and letting the centrefold drop open. “Didn’t take Zanka for a connoisseur.”

You snort, peeling two pages apart, a little of the image sticking behind, torn and blurry, as you hold the battered magazine up between your fingers like a clue in a crime scene.

“Wonder which one did it for him last night. This?” You jab the magazine in Enjin’s face—a handsome couple, tangled up, mouths open on each other’s necks.

Enjin laughs, dropping his chin to your shoulder. “Nah, I bet it was this one.” He brandishes the centrefold: a woman, bent over, staring brazenly at the camera, legs wide and glossy. “He probably reads the stories, too, the big softie.”

You both dissolve into cackling, hamming up fake moans, hands clutching at your chests in a parody of ecstasy. “Mmm—yeah, baby, all oiled up for me—fuck, that’s hot—” you gasp, nearly choking on the words.

Enjin barks out a laugh so loud it startles you, head thrown back, golden hair falling away from his eyes. “Don’t underestimate the quiet ones,” he wheezes. Then, with a wild grin, he launches into a full-body parody—pretending to jack off with frantic gusto, rolling his eyes back, pumping his fist, and pretending to come all over the walls. You double over, choking on your own laughter, begging him to stop before you pull a muscle.

The door swings open.

Zanka stands in the threshold, frozen in place—mouth parted, eyes stretched wide, every line of him taut with disbelief. You watch him register it in slow motion: first his gaze lands on you, then flicks to Enjin, then to the battered box on the floor with its burst of crumpled magazines, and for a heartbeat, he looks like he might be sick. A flush blooms across his face, stark and furious, shame written in the tremor at the corners of his mouth.

You’re caught mid-laugh, the sound dying in your throat, centrefold still in one hand like a kid with their hand in the cookie jar. A tiny flicker of guilt twists in your gut when you see the look on Zanka’s face—vulnerable and ashamed.

Enjin, on the other hand, doesn’t even bother to hide. He just grins, all teeth.

“Hey, Zank. We were just—uh—sampling your collection.”

The colour bleeds from Zanka’s face, leaving him blotchy and slumped—like all his bravado’s been stripped away in an instant. His eyes flick again to the mess of magazines, then drop to the floor.

He opens his mouth, searching for words, but what comes out is thin, small and ragged: “What… why the hell would you do that?” He looks like he’s praying for the floor to open up beneath him.

“Didn’t know you swung both ways,” Enjin says, waggling the magazine with the men on the cover. “Kinda hot, honestly.”

“Agreed. And these are vintage,” you add, flipping another sticky page. “They still do the trick, though, yeah?”

Zanka’s eyes snap to you, wide with panic—like he’s just realised you know exactly what he was doing last night. His jaw works uselessly, but he’s cornered and exposed.

“What the hell—” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “Just get out.”

You and Enjin trade glances, grins faltering as you both try—badly—to look apologetic.

“Relax, Zanka. We’ve seen worse,” Enjin teases, tossing the magazine back into the box. “Need a hand tidying up, or you got it covered?”

“Out!” Zanka shoves you both toward the door, jaw tight, blue eyes dark with embarrassment. “And don’t—just—don’t say anything. To anyone.”

You’re both still chuckling as he slams the door behind you, the sharp crack of it chasing you down the hall. Enjin still has one of the magazines tucked under his arm, just to wind him up.

“Poor guy,” you say, voice warm with affection. “Didn’t know he could go that red.”

Chapter 3: Operation: Loosen Him Up

The bar is a long, narrow den lined with bottles behind a scuffed wooden counter, walls panelled in old red brick and honey-coloured wood. A battered rug softens the floorboards by the entrance, and cheap yellow lamps spill their light in patchy triangles across faded picture frames and scratched tables. The air is thick with the smell of spilt liquor and old smoke, tangy with something metallic that always clings to your teeth.

Enjin’s already halfway through a bottle when you join him at your usual spot—a shadowy table near the back, backs to the wall, eyes on the door. Over by the counter, a few regulars nurse their drinks, and a sullen, blonde bartender polishes glasses under the tired glow of neon that flickers white over everything.

He slouches, legs spread, hair a mess, coat flung open like he owns the place. You match him shot for shot, the cheap whisky burning a path straight to your chest. For a while, you both just let the noise soak in, watching other Cleaners drift in and out, the occasional laughter bubbling up from a nearby table.

Eventually, Enjin nudges you with his knee. “Think we went too far?” He grins, but there’s a thread of real guilt in his voice, rare and a little sheepish.

You shrug, swirling the amber in your glass. “He’ll survive. But… shit. Did you see his face? Poor bastard looked like he wanted to fall through the floor.” The memory makes you smirk, then sober. “...maybe we did cross a line.”

“Couldn’t help it.” Enjin leans back, arms folded behind his head. “He’s just… so easy to rile up. Like a cat pretending not to care if you scratch its belly, but the second you get close—” He slams his palm down on the table, rattling the empty glasses. “Wham.”

You both break into helpless snickers, but something softer lingers. There’s a pause, heavy and a little unsure, before you speak again.

“He's a good-looking guy, you know.” You say it low, honest. “All that moody energy, the way he acts like he doesn’t want attention—makes you want to give him all of it.”

Enjin snorts, tossing back another shot. “You’re not wrong. Honestly, he just needs to get laid. Maybe he’d stop acting like he’s got a stick up his ass.”

You smile to yourself, because it’s true. Zanka’s always wound tight, always holding something back, and you’ve seen those cracks before—tonight just put them on display. You lean in, voice conspiratorial. “We should go and apologise, shouldn’t we? But like—really apologise.”

Enjin’s yellow eyes light up, wicked and golden. “What... like…?”

You nod, a sly smile starting to form. “Go to his room. Say sorry. Teach him a little confidence.”

Enjin whistles, low and appreciative. “You know we'd break him, right?”

“Not break,” you say, letting your nails click softly against the tabletop. “Just... loosen him up a bit. Give him something to remember.”

“Hell,” Enjin says, immediately pushing up from the table, “let’s do it. Before we sober up and get all responsible.”

You toss back the last of your drink, a pleasant buzz humming under your skin. The two of you are reckless, a little drunk, hungry for trouble and something sweeter, too—a chance to pull Zanka into the heat where he belongs.

As you leave the bar, Enjin throws an arm around your shoulders, voice pitched deep and bright in your ear. “You think he’ll let us in?”

You shoot Enjin a look, all spark and intention. “He will. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Chapter 4: The Idiot Apology Tour

The knock comes tentative, as if you and Enjin are giving Zanka one last chance to lock the world out. He doesn’t answer at first, but eventually you hear the thud of a chair raking over wood, a drawn breath, the reluctant scrape of the latch. The door opens just enough to reveal a few inches of darkness and his narrow, guarded silhouette.

The door swings open onto a room washed in shadow—lights down low, shapes blurred, the air cool and still. The neat bed is half-lit, sheets smooth and undisturbed; the battered shelf of paperbacks melts into the gloom. Zanka stands awkwardly just inside the doorway, shoulders tight, blocking the little pool of lamplight behind him. One sharp, blue eye flicks from Enjin to you, taking in the smell of liquor and your easy grins, the other veiled behind that curtain of mousey hair. He looks tired, wary, arms folded defensively across his chest.

Enjin hangs back in the corridor, hands buried in his pockets, a lazy grin fixed like armour. With him behind you—solid and unbothered—you find it easy to lean in, stepping just over the threshold, all reckless energy and nerves, smoothed with whisky.

You offer a smile that softens your edges, hands loose and unthreatening. “We’re only here to apologise...”

Zanka hesitates, a wild animal considering the trap. For a second, you think he’ll just tell you to fuck off again. Then, after a reluctant sigh, he shifts his weight and steps back, just far enough for you both to enter, a small surrender. “Just—get in, then.”

Inside, it’s close and quiet. The room smells faintly of cologne and wool, of something nervous and lonely—a scent that belongs only to Zanka. You see his hands—flexing and fisting at his sides, giving him away even as he tries for calm.

Enjin drops onto the chair at Zanka’s desk, stretching out as always like he’s at home. His finger traces an idle circle on the old wood; casual, bored, waiting for the fun to begin. You perch at the edge of the bed, feeling the tightness in Zanka’s posture as he sits a careful distance away, jaw set.

“So... Earlier... We were acting like idiots,” you say, watching his profile, the slope of his cheekbones, the way he’s refusing to look at either of you. “It was out of line. It was supposed to be funny, but… shit, I wouldn’t want you going through my stuff either.”

Zanka’s face works through a storm of feeling, jaw ticking—annoyance, pride, something raw and pink. His eyes still won’t settle on you—he watches the far wall, the ripple of your sleeve, the floor at Enjin's feet.

“You are fucking idiots,” he mutters, voice low and scraped rough. “Shoulda left it alone.”

Enjin lifts his chin, a flicker of regret in the tilt of his mouth. “We know. Swear it won’t happen again.” He lets the words sit, then adds with a wink, “Well, unless you want it to.”

Zanka’s ears burn crimson, visible even in the dim light. He tries to find a retort, but all he manages is a helpless, irritated exhale.

His hand squeezes the back of his neck. “Just drop it, alright? I’m not mad.”

But you see the way his shoulders are bunched, the lines bracketing his mouth. You scoot closer, thigh pressed against his. The old mattress squeaks under your weight, a private little sound.

“You sure? You've barely said a word. Don’t want you thinking we were laughing at you. Just… surprised, is all. You’re always so put-together, it’s easy to forget you’re—” You let it hang, gaze fixed on his face. “—just as horny as the rest of us.”

Zanka goes rigid. The blush creeps down his neck, along the edge of his collar. “You finished?” he mutters, but there’s no anger, just a cringe, a wish to disappear.

Enjin watches, arms folded, the picture of patience. But you can feel his anticipation humming—a live wire, silent encouragement for you to keep going.

You let the silence settle for a moment, the three of you gathered in the glow of the lamp and the hush of a radio's static off somewhere in another room. Then, gently, very carefully, you rest a hand on his knee—you're sure not to grab, just offer a warm, steady weight. He stiffens, gaze jerking to your hand.

“We’re not teasing,” you say, voice barely a whisper, “you know we care about you, right? We mean it. You’re… We both like you. A lot.”

The silence comes again, and thickens, Zanka’s discomfort so vivid it feels like a fourth presence in the room. He snorts, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but you.

“Cut it out,” he mutters. “You two had your laugh—no need to drag it out.”

His fingers curl, restless, thumb rubbing at the blanket beneath him as if he might erase the memory of his embarrassment with sheer friction.

You let your hand drift higher up his thigh, impossibly slow, palm gliding over the loose fold of his trousers. He tries to draw away, but you don’t let him. You feel the solid line of muscle beneath, his whole leg wound tight with nervous energy—every part of him coiled, as if he might snap or bolt at any second.

“Don’t,” he says, but it’s a whisper, the word stripped of real warning. You see the war in his eyes—pride and panic, want and shame.

Enjin watches, golden eyes sly, a little feral. “Come on, Zan, when’s the last time you let yourself have some fun?”

Zanka shoots Enjin a glare, but it’s all surface. Underneath, his pupils are blown wide, pulse ticking fast at his throat. He glances from Enjin’s easy grin to your hand on his thigh, to your focused, predatory smile—no safe ground left. There’s tension all through him, shoulders bunched, breath faltering and shallow in his chest.

He looks like he wants to pull away—but doesn’t. His throat bobs with a swallow. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and rough around the edges, snapping out half a second too late to hide the tremble in it.

“I don’t need whatever this is. I’m fine.”

You see your opportunity and lean in, cautious, letting your nose brush the curve of his neck. He smells clean—like tea and lavender—and when you nuzzle gently into the soft skin just below his ear, you feel him shift, a tiny, awkward jolt of his thigh beneath your palm. His breath catches.

You pause there, close enough to catch the warmth radiating off his skin, to feel the tension in his muscles trying not to respond.

Then, voice low and velvet-soft, you whisper, “Do you want us to stop?”

Your breath ghosts along his cheek, and under your hand, his pulse kicks hard.

He shakes his head, just barely.

Your head tips, eyes dragging across him, hands already sliding higher, between his thighs. “Good.”

Chapter 5: Hands-On Teaching

He’s trembling everywhere, cheeks gone scarlet, but he doesn’t move away—not when your hand reaches his lap, not when you find him already half-hard and aching through the thin cotton. Zanka squeezes his eyes shut, lips parted, breath hissing. You palm him through the fabric, feeling him twitch and harden, every inch betraying his desperation. He’s already leaking, already overwhelmed—his body desperate for touch even as his pride screams to stop.

You glance at Enjin—just a flick of your eyes, a flash of heat—and he meets it like a fuse catching flame. We’re on.

Careful, deliberate, you work Zanka's waistband down. The quiet is thick, broken only by the hitches in his breathing—shallow, sharp, urgent. When you draw him out, he’s flushed, heavy in your hand. Enjin lets out a whistle from across the room, still sunk into the desk chair, legs spread wide.

“Well fuck,” he mutters, tongue caught in the corner of his grin. “Where's he been hiding that thing?”

You steal another look at Enjin—his trousers are visibly tight now, straining at the front, and he doesn’t bother pretending otherwise. His eyes are fixed on your hand, then on Zanka’s face, lustful and curious.

“Keep going,” he murmurs, voice resonating, “Let’s see how long he can pretend he doesn’t want this.”

You wrap your hand around him and start to tease, just enough pressure to keep him throbbing, your rhythm deliberate, unhurried. Zanka’s breath stutters, body twitching despite himself, a deep flush blooming across his cheeks and down his neck. He’s trying to stay quiet, but every flick of your wrist coaxes a tighter clench in his jaw, a little gasp he can’t quite swallow.

Enjin watches, desire darkening his eyes, one hand gripping himself through his trousers.

Zanka whimpers softly, biting down on the sound. His knuckles dig into the bed, white at the joints. He surrenders reluctantly—helpless against it—overwhelmed by the heat, the attention, the sheer inevitability of being seen like this. Every time your thumb drags over the head, his hips jerk, needy and embarrassed.

There’s a shuffle beside you, and when you lift your head, you catch Enjin moving—fluid, purposeful, like heat given shape. He crosses the small room in one stride and lowers himself beside Zanka, close enough that their thighs brush.

Zanka's eyes are screwed shut, lost to sensation, lips parted on a trembling breath. He doesn't notice Enjin until the mattress groans beneath his weight, an unmistakable creak in the quiet. Only then does Zanka startle. His eyes snap open, panic flickering there, confusion blooming fast.

“All that sulking,” Enjin murmurs, voice rough and edged with need. He curls one hand around the back of Zanka’s neck, fingers firm against the nape, thumb grazing just beneath his jaw. “This is all you needed, am I right?”

A fierce blush climbs Zanka’s face, spreading fast—neck, collarbones, chest—like it’s chasing the fire in his blood. A choked, trembling gasp escapes him as he flinches a little from the brand new intimacy. You see it in the twist of his jaw, the way his dark lashes flutter.

Enjin doesn't wait for him to catch up. He seizes Zanka’s chin between his fingers, turning his face with ease. Zanka’s lips part—powerless—as Enjin crashes into him, kissing him deep and unrelenting. It’s messy, all tongue and heat and tangled breath, a little wild around the edges. His hand slides up to cradle Zanka’s jaw, thumb brushing over the burn of his cheek. You watch, spellbound, pulse racing as you feel Zanka swell even harder in your hand—straining and bare, utterly at your mercy. He looks smaller beside Enjin, swallowed by the press of his broad shoulders, the way Enjin leans in like he owns the air around him. And Zanka—shaking, flushed, kissed breathless—lets him.

Zanka shudders—lets out a strangled, broken sound, hips canting forward into your fist, so hard you feel the throb all the way to your own wrist. When Enjin pulls away, biting hard at Zanka's lip, there’s fear and awe in his face, want and humiliation battling for space, and you catch the moment his eyes flicker back open—dazed, wild, seeking something to hold onto.

Enjin’s other hand covers yours, strength and weight locking your fist tight around Zanka’s cock. “Don’t slow down,” Enjin rasps, mouth slick. “Let him come. He needs it.”

Enjin meets your eyes, and together, you work him—your hand caught inside Enjin's, wrists twisting, the ache of years of wanting locked behind one fragile man finally giving in. Your shared rhythm is relentless. Zanka moans into Enjin’s mouth, caught between the twin anchors of your hands and Enjin’s steadying grip. He’s shaking so badly now that Enjin has to hold him upright, huge arms braced around both of you, crooning filthy praise against Zanka’s lips.

With your palm so tight against Zanka's cock, you feel every throb, every twitch. His body bows with the effort to hold back and the impossibility of it. Every noise spilling from his mouth is—finally—utterly unguarded.

You claim his mouth next, stealing the kiss from Enjin, tasting the ghost of whiskey on his tongue. Zanka moans into it, caught between the two of you, and you sense the stutter in his breath, the full-body tremble rolling through him like something about to break. You press your lips to the corner of his jaw, dragging your mouth down the flushed line of his throat, tasting salt and damp.

“That's it, Zank...” you whisper, voice soft and coaxing. “I fucking love seeing you like this.”

Zanka jerks, thighs quivering, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the sheets behind him as if to ground himself.

You glance up—and Enjin's eyes are locked on your face, burning gold, his grin gone, replaced by something ravenous. The two of you move as one, your joined hands coaxing Zanka higher with each stroke. You tighten your grip just slightly and feel Enjin match the pressure instantly. A silent rhythm. A shared thrill.

Zanka whimpers, drowning in it, his body bowing off the mattress like it’s all too much—chest heaving, head slung back, mouth parted in disbelief at the sensation closing in.

Those blue eyes flutter open for a heartbeat, locking with yours—wide, wet, overwhelmed—and then it hits.

He jerks, hips bucking, a whining, broken cry ripped from his throat as he finally, helplessly comes. The pulse of it rocks through him, long and shaking, spilling hot over your joined hands, soaking your knuckles, wrists, the front of his uniform. His whole body shudders, collapsing boneless between you as the last ragged waves roll through him.

You stay close, loosening your grip on him, as Zanka slumps between you—ruined, quietly unravelled. No one speaks. Just the sound of his breath slowing. Your mouth splits into a grin. Enjin’s follows a second later, crooked and filthy. You share the sound between you, a quiet, sticky chuckle that stretches the heat in the room a little tighter.

Zanka lets out a soft, stunned exhale as he lies, lashes fluttering low, spine slack against the wall of bodies, mouth parted like he’s still catching up to what just happened. His gaze drifts—dazed—from your face to Enjin’s, blinking like he’s surfacing from deep water, taking in every detail. You see the hint of disbelief behind his eyes, the awe, then the confused, aching need for more that he’s too proud to voice yet. It’s there, though. Inked into the breathless way he looks at you both.

“You okay there, soldier?” Enjin chuckles as you brush Zanka's damp fringe back from his forehead.

Zanka swallows. He looks at you both like he’s not sure whether to beg for more or run away. You lift his hand and press a kiss to his knuckles—light and sweet.

“Told you we like you,” you whisper, giggling softly.

Chapter 6: The Night Isn’t Over

You shift a little where you sit, suddenly aware of how your own need prickles hot under your skin, the way your thighs are slick and pressed too tightly together. Your pulse is still dancing in your neck, your fingertips tingling from how tightly you'd been holding him. But when your eyes drift back to Zanka’s cock, you pause—he’s softening now, eyes half-lidded, his chest rising slow.

He needs a moment.

So, you let him have it, smile gentle as you pull your hand back, resting it palm-down on the mattress beside his hip. Just being near him is enough for now.

But when your eyes drift—unhurried, almost accidental—to Enjin, you find him watching you both, jaw set, knuckles bone-white where they grip Zanka's thigh. His trousers are undone, the bulge there impossible to miss, a dark patch blooming where he’s leaking straight through the cotton. He’s as unbothered as ever, but his eyes glitter, heavy with arousal.

His hips press subtly forward, like he can’t help it anymore. You feel the heat coil low in your belly.

You catch Zanka’s gaze again—he’s clocked it too. And for all the haze in his expression, there’s a glint—of awareness, of interest, of all the things that were shy and unspoken beginning to edge into yearning. He goes quiet for a moment, eyes blown wide, Adam’s apple bobbing in a swallow you’d swear you can hear from here.

You feel the air tighten between the three of you, a charge in the silence. Zanka lets out a slow, shaky breath, then huffs a soft, sardonic laugh.

“Well, looks like someone’s suffering,” he mutters. His bravado is frayed, but not gone—sarcasm blunting the sharpness of his embarrassment. “You, uh…Gonna help him, or just let him soak his pants?”

You can’t help but grin. “Wouldn’t want Enjin to stain your furniture. You mind?”

Zanka snorts, glancing from you to Enjin and back again, but his gaze skitters past your face, lingers somewhere near your shoulder, as if looking straight at you might be fatal. He tries to cover the twitch in his jaw by folding his arms behind his head, chin tipping up—shoulders squaring as if trying to remember how to act when he’s not completely undone.

“Y-yeah, knock yourself out,” he says, aiming for cocky, but his voice cracks nonetheless. The pose is almost lazy—almost—but there’s a tremor in his hands, a tightness in his throat that gives away how rattled he still is.

Enjin fixes Zanka with a wolfish grin, all white teeth and dangerous intent. “Finally letting your guest get some attention, huh?” he drawls, voice gone gravelly and warm. “Was starting to think you’d keep her all to yourself.”

He glances at you, eyes shimmering, hunger written clear in every line of his body. “Come on, sweetheart. Gonna make me beg?”

You ease off the bed and drop to the battered rug, the rough weave biting pleasantly into your skin. From your knees, the scent of old wood lingers in the air, cut with the sour-sweet tang of arousal. Enjin shifts, spreading his legs wider, the lamplight cutting hard shadows over the strong lines of his thighs and the tattoos peeking above his waistband.

Zanka huffs, still trying to act unfazed, but the flush in his ears has turned crimson again. “If you start whining, I’m kicking you out,” he mutters, half under his breath.

Enjin just laughs, deep and unbothered, shifting his hips towards you. “Not my style, kid. But I’m not above asking nicely if that’s what it takes.”

He looks down at you, golden eyes burning. “You ready?” His voice drops, thick with want. “I’ve been dying for your mouth all night.”

You hold Enjin's gaze as you tug his trousers and underwear down. His cock springs free, heavier and thicker than Zanka’s, the veins standing out in the dim light. You lean in, licking a slick line from the base to the head. Enjin hisses, fingers flexing in your hair, but he doesn’t force, just lets you set the pace.

Your eyes flick towards Zanka as you work Enjin with gentle stripes of your tongue. He’s sitting up now, propped on one elbow, the other hand trailing absently down his belly toward his lap—arousal blooming again, visible in the twitch of his cock, half-hard and growing.

Enjin glances over at him, a crooked smirk curling on his lips, and his voice comes low and rough, a challenge: “Like what you see, Zank?”

Zanka arches an eyebrow, but his eyes scramble nervously everywhere but the scene in front of him, like he’s suddenly discovered a fascinating crack in the wall or the pattern on the bedsheets.

He can’t quite hide the way his gaze keeps darting back, though. His mouth twists into a half-smirk, half-flush. “Ain’t the worst thing I’ve seen this week,” he mutters, and there’s a shaky edge to it again.

You take Enjin inside your mouth, gathering saliva, your tongue working a slow circle beneath the head — and beside you, Zanka keeps watching. You hear his breathing turn uneven, chest rising and falling too fast for someone pretending to be casual.

You don’t break rhythm, mouth working Enjin deep and wet, but your hand drifts behind you, searching blind across the tangled sheets. Your fingers fumble for a moment—then close around Zanka’s cock, finding him stiff again, hot and eager against your palm. He sucks in a sharp breath.

Your eyes flick up—catching Enjin’s gaze, then Zanka’s, both of them riveted to the sight of you.

“Come here,” you murmur against Enjin's cock. Your hand leaves Zanka, slipping between his thighs, palm sliding up the inside of his leg—a silent command. You guide him forward, coaxing him to the edge of the bed, close beside Enjin.

Zanka follows, shuffling up, knees spread wide, so he’s seated shoulder to shoulder with Enjin—awkward, flushed, not knowing what to do with his hands, but unable to look away. The heat coming off both men is almost dizzying.

You shift, taking them both in hand—Enjin engorged and sticky against your tongue, Zanka getting harder with every soft sound, every flick of your wrist. Zanka's hand eventually settles on your shoulder, and for a moment you’re all tangled together, breath mingling, nerves frayed and beautiful.

You savour the sound of breath catching audibly in unison as you guide both cocks together — leaking, swollen, pulsing side by side. Your tongue traces the underside of Zanka, then Enjin, then both at once, a slow, deliberate glide between them that makes them both grunt.

When you wrap your lips fully around Zanka, a guttural sound tears out of him — unmasked and surprised. His fingers flex weakly on your shoulder, nails scraping fabric.

Zanka watches—reluctantly, shyly—his cheeks bright red. He tries to look away, tries to keep his cool, but the moment you take both of them into your mouth at once, your lips slick and stretched, the sight breaks him completely. His jaw drops, chest heaving.

Enjin leans back on one elbow, hair falling into his eyes, words rolling out, slow and dark. “God damn… look at that, Zank. Bet you didn’t think you’d see this tonight, huh?”

You pull off, saliva stringing between all three of you, and tilt your head toward Zanka, still smiling against his skin.

“You wanna try?”

Zanka goes still—completely frozen in place—as though the words hit someplace deep. You see him process it: the invitation, the want, the unbelievable reality of what’s happening.

“I—” He swallows hard, eyes flicking between your face and Enjin’s cock. “I don’t… I’ve never…”

Enjin’s hand finds the nape of Zanka’s neck, steering him down to the carpet beside you. “You ain’t gotta know shit,” he mutters, voice a low burr. “We’ll teach you everything.”

Zanka moves awkwardly, knees hitting the rug, and you can tell by the shaky way he settles that his legs are all but jelly. He keeps his eyes down, jaw tight, the vulnerability bare but edged with that old stubbornness.

You lean in, letting your shoulder brush his, and bring your lips close to his ear—close enough for your breath to tickle. “Just follow my lead,” you whisper.

Zanka’s eyes flutter, nerves sharpening into desire. Against the bright blue of his irises, his pupils are blown wide—black as dinner plates. He nods. Barely. But he does.

You guide him in, your palm gentle at the back of his head. He lowers himself, hesitant, breath ratcheting higher as Enjin brushes the tip of his cock against his lips. His blush scorches all the way down his throat. He opens his mouth just slightly, tongue flicking out in a tentative, trembling lick—a brief taste, then another, bolder, tracing the sensitive underside with a clumsy care that’s almost reverent. He glances up, uncertain, then goes again, letting his tongue swirl just under the head, exploring the newness with growing desire.

Enjin groans — a deep, visceral sound that makes Zanka jump. “That tongue’s gonna get me seeing stars, kid,” Enjin murmurs, voice gone silk and smoke. “Gotta say, I never pictured you on your knees for me, but shit—don’t stop now.”

You stay settled beside him, stroking Zanka in time with his mouth and whispering encouragement against his ear. “That’s perfect. Try a little more.”

Zanka exhales shakily, then takes Enjin deeper — shy, awkward, but eager. His lashes flutter, his brows knit tight in focus, the picture of overwhelmed determination. Enjin’s hand braces at the back of his skull, just grounding him, thumb stroking his hairline in rough praise.

Zanka moans around him—the vibration sends Enjin’s head tipping back, jaw clenched with pleasure. You watch, heat unfurling deep in your centre, as Zanka’s cheeks hollow around Enjin’s cock, eyes glassy and bright, lashes damp with effort. He tries to keep his cool, but he looks heartbreakingly pretty like this—flushed all the way to his ears, lips plump and moist, fingers twitching against Enjin's thick thighs.

You stroke his cheek, thumb slicking under his jaw. “God, Zank, you look so fucking pretty with a cock in your mouth,” you whisper, teasing, letting the thrill bite through every syllable.

Zanka’s eyes lock onto yours, torn between embarrassment and pride. Enjin catches the exchange, glancing down from where he's propped up on his elbows —then laughs.

“Pretty and eager, too. Didn’t expect you to bounce back so quick.” Enjin’s gaze drops, openly admiring, nodding toward the thick, rising swell of Zanka’s cock. He lets out a low, appreciative sound. “Look at him—hard as fucking iron, not five minutes later. You trying to prove something, Zank?”

He grins wider, the kind of grin that feels like a dare, yellow eyes flicking between you and Zanka, drinking it all in. The sight of Zanka—all tense muscle and trembling want—makes Enjin lean forward, hand sliding gently up the inside of Zanka’s thigh, possessive and inviting all at once.

“You’re gonna spoil us if you keep this up,” Enjin murmurs, voice dropping.

Zanka glares at him, but his cock jumps, leaking messily. He tries to retort, but it comes out as a muffled noise, cheeks burning hotter.

Enjin nudges him off gently, palm back firm at the nape of his neck. “Up. Clothes off, both of you. No sense pretending we don't know how this is gonna go.”

Chapter 7: Two for One Special

Enjin yanks his shirt over his head, the heavy lines of black and red ink across his chest stark in the low light—each shape bold against his skin, edges of his tattoos seem to pulse with the thrum of muscle beneath. You follow, skin prickling in the cool air, peeling your clothes away one by one until you’re bare to the night.

Clothes fall away, fabric sighing against skin. In seconds, you’re all stripped down—Enjin all muscle and scars, skin golden under the lamp; you, all curves and softness; and Zanka, who pulls off his shirt with a tense, almost apologetic shrug, as though peeling away his layers leaves him vulnerable. He glances down at himself, and you catch the way his jaw tenses.

He’s never been one to bare much skin—always wrapped in that high-collared jacket, long sleeves and gloves, every line of him masked beneath layers of fabric and careful fastenings—but now he stands there, stripped down and uncertain, waiting to see what you’ll make of him. And the effect it has on you is instant—a throb of heat, liquid and low, rushing between your legs. Broad shoulders, pale skin, muscles taut and quivering, cock rosy and wet, the tip beading slick against his chiselled belly.

You can't crawl onto the bed fast enough.

You coax Zanka to lie back, and he does, mousey hair messy on the pillow, breathing fast, his eyes darting between you and Enjin—a little defiant, but shamelessly wanting.

You move over him, knees braced on either side of his lean hips, taking a moment just to look at him—pale and naked beneath you, breath fraying, blue eyes fixed to your face like he’s not sure if he should look away or never look anywhere else again. You reach down, guiding him, and he groans, fingers coiling weakly in the sheets.

You sink, inch by inch, steady enough to feel every shiver roll through him—your bodies pressed close, heat blooming where you join. Zanka’s fingers find your waist, grip uncertain at first, then clutching tighter as you surround him. His head falls back, jaw slack, the bewilderment plain on his face.

He chokes on a sound—half-moan, half-curse. “Fuck—” His voice splinters, small and honest. “You’re… I can’t—” He's lost to the feeling, hands tightening as if grounding himself in the realness of this—of you.

You ride him slow at first, taking your time, savouring every throb inside you, every little whimper. Zanka’s body is a study in overwhelmed pleasure. His cheeks are bright red, breath coming in ragged pulls, and his cock swells—already teetering from the soft heat of you alone.

Enjin prowls closer, eyeing the two of you with predatory satisfaction. He slips down the bed, spreading Zanka’s knees wide, running huge hands up the trembling muscles of his legs. You catch the exact second it hits. He melts, momentarily glassy, like his brain’s been unplugged—his gaze distant and dazzled as Enjin slicks his fingers and circles the tight ring of muscle at his entrance. Zanka stutters, eyes flying to yours, panic and lust warring across his features.

“Easy, now,” Enjin murmurs, thumb pressing gently, “Don’t tense up—I'll take it slow.” His voice is almost gentle. But he doesn’t wait for permission, pressing a finger inside, slow but sure, working Zanka open with a patient, practised rhythm. Zanka’s breath catches, eyes screwed tight, every muscle tense as Enjin soothes him with soft praise.

A moment later, when Enjin eases in a second finger, Zanka’s hips arch, a ruined little whine escaping him. Enjin strokes deep, curling his fingers just right, stretching him carefully.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You can handle it—just relax.”

You keep riding, the angle shifting as Zanka’s legs are split wider to give Enjin room. The way his hips buck in time with Enjin's fingers, the fullness, the way you can see every naked emotion flicker across Zanka’s face—it’s altogether too much. Watching him unravel, feeling him shake beneath you, the wet slide of his cock inside you—it tips you over. You cry out, nails raking his chest, body clenching around him as you come hard, gasping his name.

Enjin crowds in behind you, big hands sliding under your arms and over your breasts, his chest pressed warm to your back. You barely have time to register before his chin hooks over your shoulder, and his mouth finds yours—kissing you through the last shudders of your orgasm, swallowing every breathless whimper. His grip is greedy, steadying you as your body jolts and clenches, and when you return to reality, he’s still there—mouth lingering at your ear, voice molten.

“That’s more like it,” he drawls, voice thick with pride and hunger. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s not keep anyone waiting.”

In one smooth motion, he hauls you off Zanka as though you weigh nothing, and sets you down flat on your back, head on the pillows, body still thrumming. Zanka blinks, startled and confused by the sudden shift, but Enjin—impatient now—is already guiding him to his knees, urging him between your open thighs.

“You just enjoy that, Zank,” Enjin growls, voice all gravel and heat as he kneels behind him. He spits into his palm, stroking it over his cock—crude and restless. His hands—broad as dinner plates—settle heavy on Zanka’s lean hips, making him look smaller, delicate in Enjin’s grip.

You arch your body, angling to give Enjin room, and cry out as Zanka’s cock drives back into you—so hard the stretch stings, so slick and hot you nearly lose your breath.

Enjin lines himself up, one thick, tattooed arm braced around Zanka’s chest, the other guiding his cock to Zanka’s virgin hole. He presses in, impossibly careful, every inch drawing a broken, high gasp from Zanka’s lips. Zanka’s hips stutter, his breath caught in his throat—a little pain, a little panic, and the overwhelming shock of being so utterly full while still buried deep inside you. His knuckles dig into your shoulders, pressing crescents into your skin, as if he needs something to hold onto.

“Fuck, Zank—you're the tightest thing I've ever had,” Enjin growls, voice dark and full of praise.

You see the stretch in Zanka’s face—his eyes rolling back, his quivering jaw, the way his whole body tenses, then yields to the pressure. You glance over his shoulder just long enough to catch Enjin biting his own lip, gaze pinned to where their bodies join, the look on his face primal and dangerous as he sinks deeper. But you can’t tear your eyes away from Zanka for long—not when he’s coming undone right in front of you—face contorting—pain, shock, pleasure, and overstimulation crashing through him in waves. Watching him fall apart on the sensation, feeling him swell inside you as Enjin fills him—nothing in the world could make you look away.

You reach up, cupping Zanka’s face in both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes. “You’re so fucking perfect like this,” you whisper, watching his pupils blow wide, his mouth fall open in a silent moan.

Enjin starts to move, the mattress jolting, his weight and strength driving Zanka further into you. Zanka's hips lose all rhythm, Enjin’s strength and pace doing all the work. Tears prick at Zanka’s lashes, his breath coming in stuttering sobs. Then, he just crumples, the strength going out of him all at once—like his body’s forgotten how to hold itself upright. He folds against you, breath shattering against your collarbone, forehead buried at the curve of your neck. His whole body shudders, lost and weightless, as if he’s slipped out of himself and can only anchor back by clutching you close. Your arms come up instinctively, gathering him in.

Enjin loses all restraint—thrusting hard, driving Zanka forward with reckless abandon. The rhythm is no longer patient or careful; it’s wild, animal, desperate, Enjin’s hips snapping to meet Zanka’s in sharp, bruising jolts that make the entire bedframe shiver.

The soundscape is fevered: the slap of skin, the obscene, wet sounds of holes being filled, the wrecked music of Zanka’s moans. You and Enjin work him tirelessly— his body caught and shaken between the two of you, lost in sensation and unable to do anything but cling and take it. He’s gone, dizzy and hazed, sweat soaking your skin where you hold him close—the last thread tying him to the moment as Enjin fucks him right past the edge of what he can handle, chasing his own pleasure now, nothing held back.

“Can’t—I'm—I'm gonna—” he chokes, but Enjin just grunts, rolling his hips harder.

“Let go,” you whisper, stroking Zanka’s hair. “Come for us, Zanka. Let him feel it.”

One slam. Two. Then Zanka breaks—his whole body convulsing, an inhuman, shattering scream torn from his throat as he comes, hips jerking wildly, spilling inside you in molten, helpless pulses. Your body clenches tight around him, milking him for everything, and in the same ragged breath, Enjin drives deep, crushing Zanka’s hips to yours with a low, satisfied growl. You can almost feel the same thick flood of Enjin’s orgasm, pouring into Zanka’s wrecked body, all locked together—overwhelmed, undone, every line blurred.

The three of you lie knotted together, panting and boneless—limbs heavy, hearts pounding, sweat cooling between skin. A savage sort of awe ripples through you; you want all of it, want them both, want this chaos, this tangled heat, this messy, perfect belonging. The world narrows to heat, pulse, and the sound of each other’s breath.

Chapter 8: All That for a Drink?

Enjin is the first to move, rolling to the side with a satisfied, bone-deep groan. He grabs the crumpled pack from his jacket, shakes a cigarette free, and lights up with the sharp strike of a match—filling the room with smoke. It’s strange: something about it feels calming, almost gentle in its easy, habitual familiarity.

You eye him and smirk, still catching your breath. “Lighting up in his room? Bold move,” you say quietly, catching Zanka’s eye. “Any other night, he’d lecture you for it.” You follow the smoke as it coils lazily toward the dim lamplight.

Zanka opens his mouth as if to protest—habit, pure reflex—but only manages a tiny, helpless huff. He glances at the glowing tip, then at Enjin, then just lets his head fall back on the sheets. “You get a pass. Just this once,” he mutters, voice still in tatters, but the corners of his mouth curl, like he’s not sure whether to glare or laugh.

Enjin grins, exhaling slowly. “Figured I’d earned it.” He glances at you, then at Zanka, cocking an eyebrow. “Well? You still alive in there, pretty boy?”

Zanka’s still staring at the ceiling, skin blotchy, hair sticking up in all directions. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and finally lets the smallest, strangest laugh escape. “I... Didn’t know it could be like that. Shit.”

You move closer, thumb swiping a trail through the sweat at his temple. “That’s what happens when you finally let someone past all those defences, Zank.”

He turns to look at you, and something new is there—an unguarded light, pride tangled up in awe. “Yeah, well. You two are bad influences,” he says, but his voice is soft, and for once the sarcasm has no teeth.

You brush your fingers through his damp hair, smoothing it, before letting your hand rest at his temple. His pulse is still racing just under the skin. The bedsprings creak as Enjin stretches out beside him, close enough that Zanka’s shoulder presses lightly against his chest.

“You fight so damn hard to be ‘normal.’ For what? You’re something else, Zanka. Always have been.”

Zanka just breathes—steady, slow, gathering himself. Then, with a little half-shrug, he rolls his head to face you. His hand finds yours where it rests on his skin, fingers curling loosely.

“Maybe I… should try letting good things happen, now and then.” His tone is low, almost shy, but there’s something easier in it—like he’s testing the sound of his own hope for the first time.

Enjin makes a show of clapping him on the chest, smirk wide. “That’s the spirit. About damn time you caught up. Only took what, a year? Two?”

Zanka snorts, rolling his eyes, but there’s colour in his cheeks now, a kind of wary happiness. “Just don’t get used to it.”

You grin. “No promises.”

Enjin crushes his cigarette in an old dish on the bedside, stretching his arms overhead with a yawn that seems to fill the room. “Bar’s still open. Drinks on me—unless you’re too spent to show your face in public, Zanka.”

Zanka sits up, wincing, and pulls on his trousers without another word. He hesitates at the door, then glances back over his shoulder—meeting your eyes, then Enjin’s, before his mouth tugs into a real, lopsided smile.

“I’ll come,” he says. “Don’t want to miss my round.”

Enjin throws an arm around Zanka’s shoulders, steering him down the hall. Both of them are still shirtless, jackets hanging loose and open over bare skin, laughing light and easy—the kind of laughter that doesn’t come often enough in this place.

You follow, wrapping yourself in the glow of it, your own twisted pride sharp and bright as a blade. Zanka’s shoulders are squared for once instead of hunched, the two of them walking in tandem, for once unshadowed by the day.

introductions are important!

Enjin himself, huh? he seems to take pride in that, I wonder...

the team using Enjin to persuade Zanka instance 1:

2:

3:

3.5 (bro even fact-checks):

hmm... there might be a pattern–

dude. you're unwell

okay, why Enjin?

oh cool dead wife backstory, surely it won't be releva–

damn boy

bonus: the whole bloodline hates him