SYNOPSIS Enjin didn’t know you were hiding all that under your somewhat baggy cleaner‘s uniform until one day August gets a new whiff of inspiration to cook you up the possibly hottest uniform among the cleaners yet.
CONTENT nsfw / fluff / sexual tension / porn with plot / resolved sexual tension / mutual pining / slow burn / friends to lovers / coworkers to lovers / service top!enjin / praise kink / submissive reader / cursing / oral f!receiving / fingering / sadist!enjin if you squint
A couple cigarettes. The rush of tearing a trash beast apart piece by piece. The relief of a joint right after. Hitting up his favorite local spots at the end of a workday, surrounding himself with gorgeous women who couldn’t deny the fact that he, too, was quite the specimen himself.
Simple.
Once you joined the Cleaners, he’d been ecstatic to finally share the burden that was being in your twenties while babysitting a bunch of brain-wrecked teenagers.
For the first time in a while, he had room to breathe—time to indulge, and not just in stolen moments.
He could prep joints at night for the next day. Take long baths. Hook up with strangers. Stumble back home high out of his mind at bonkers hours in the morning.
He wasn’t above sharing his pleasures, either. He’d invite his adult coworkers to go out with him from time to time.
Gris usually took him up on it if his day had been particularly rough—especially after some heavy trash-beast ass-kicking.
Semiu, on the other hand, decided on a whim whether she felt like tagging along or not.
As for Zanka, Enjin was already looking forward to the day he’d be old enough to become a potential drinking buddy. Fingers crossed.
He’d even invited you along a couple of times as well, only to learn—pretty quickly—that you were more of a domestic soul. You liked taking care of yourself in your room during your spare time, doing chores, sticking to your own quiet routines and little rituals.
You spent a good chunk of your time tending to your vital instrument. Other than that, you just… existed among the residents. Easy. Steady. Reliable.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tensions of the day roll off him as his thoughts drifted towards the night ahead, an unlit cigarette sitting between his lips. The places he might go, the people he might see, the things he might do.
His steps echoed through the atmosphere of low humming halls. It was easy to slip into autopilot, leave monotone routine behind—as monotone as his job could get, really— and trade it all for the simple pleasures waiting outside.
Enjin had already clocked out in his head. Cigarette, street air, somewhere loud—he was halfway there when August’s voice tore through the hall.
“IT’S DONE! HAHA! I DID IT!”
Enjin stopped. Clicked his tongue. Figures. Nothing out of the ordinary. He put his foot in front of the other.
Then August yelled your name.
The lighter stayed in Enjin’s pocket. Instinctively, he turned back around to watch the scene unfold in front of him.
You appeared like you always did — clothes draping over you like they were just a size too big, hair half-tamed (much like you).
Mildly tired, mildly irritated, yet entirely unbothered by the chaos that was August himself. He leaned back against the doorframe behind him, eyes following the way you yanked the fabric out of August’s hands.
“On my fucking life,” you groaned. “Why’re you yelling? M’right here.”
“Wow, you’re so fun and energized,” Enjin chimed in, as sarcastic as he was relaxed.
You shot him a look — flat, unimpressed. He grinned anyway, like he’d just won a prize, or something. “You asked for a new uniform?”
“Not really,”—you held the clothes up to get an impression—“he just said he’d make me one ‘cause he felt inspired, so I let him.”
He couldn’t help but notice the fabric of the new uniform— or rather, the lack thereof.
Enjin then realized, distantly, that he’d never really thought about what you looked like under your layers of much too oversized clothes.
The sweaters swallowed you whole, the pants hung low and loose, and somewhere along the line his brain had filed you away as safe. Familiar.
Not something to think about.
“August,” you said, turning the scraps of fabric over in your hands, brows knitting together, “are you sure this is for me? This is so not what I’d usually wear.”
Enjin almost agreed out loud. Almost. It didn’t match you—not the way he knew you, anyway.
You were all soft edges and practical comfort, huge sleeves and borrowed pants, a presence that blended into the space instead of demanding it. This thing looked like it wanted to be noticed.
He should’ve written it off right there, should’ve sided with you and moved on. Instead, he found himself staring a second longer than necessary, curiosity gnawing at him in a way that felt unfamiliar. He wanted—unexpectedly—to see it on you.
Wanted to know what August had seen that he hadn’t. The thought settled in his chest, stubborn, yet not entirely unwelcome.
Enjin was a simple man.
“Are you doubting the gear genius?” He teasingly tilted his head.
“Yeah? How dare you?” August scoffed.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m not doubting anyone. I’m just saying—this doesn’t really look like something I’d wear.”
August waved you off, already vibrating with confidence. “Just try it on.”
You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Give me a minute.”
And just like you’d seemed to appear out of nowhere, you were gone again the very next second. The door to your room clicked shut.
Enjin didn’t realize he’d been watching until August lightly elbowed his side, muttering to himself about unique stitching, unmatched genius, and a true artistic vision needing proper time to take shape.
Adjusting his weight against the doorframe, Enjin finally lit the cigarette that had been resting between his lips.
Huh, weird.
He’d seen people change before—hell, had undressed people before, had just been about to go out and find someone to undress again. None of this should have registered.
And yet.
Seconds ticked by, and his mind counted them anyway.
He took a drag. Exhaled. Then did it again. The burned-down bud at the tip of the cigarette fell to the floor in what felt like slow motion.
He shifted again, cigarette now between his fingers, trying to convince himself that now could be the time follow through with his original plan: go out, fool around, return at some ridiculous hour. No obligations. No reason to stick around.
So why weren’t his feet moving?
His gaze drifted toward your closed door. For the briefest moment, he imagined what it might look like. Immediately, he shook his head. He really never thought of you this way.
And yet.
The thought lingered. The thought of you—any way other than your usual comforting, gentle, easy self—refused to disappear. He heard the soft shuffle and toss of clothing behind the door until all that remained was quiet nothing.
He couldn’t lie to himself. He was curious. Whatever pleasures waited outside weren’t going anywhere, and he was entertained enough right where he was—so why force it?
There was no rush. No harm in sticking around a little longer. If nothing else, it gave him an excuse to annoy you about it later.
Another drag. Another exhale. The cigarette was now less than half its original length. A few more inches fell to the floor, slow, unimportant, meaningless.
The lock of your door clicked. And it mattered so much, for some reason.
Enjin’s head tilted, cigarette now forgotten between his lips. He imagined your last couple motions behind that door— a careful tug at a new hem, flatting a creased surface of the fabric, adjusting the fit and drape of certain places. Your hands moving along yourself in a familiar fashion.
Your hands moving along yourself.
And that was new. In spite of all the trouble he usually got up to, he’d never thought of you as a woman before. Not once.
Then, you stepped out.
The uniform fit differently than he expected. On its own, it wasn’t flashy, or anything, but it conformed to your shape in a way that made it undeniable. Attention-seeking. And you…
You made it look effortless.
The seams traced your lines perfectly, moving and folding with you in one fluid motion as if the fabric had been waiting for you.
The uniform was stripped down, tight, and sharp. The skirt hugged your hips, short enough to catch the eye without feeling ridiculous. It was tasteful.
The top clung to your torso in a way that left neither room for more fabric, nor for imagination.
Over it, the cropped jacket—Cleaners’ emblem bold across the back—fit snugly, following your every movement without losing its structure.
And the boots—chunky, scuffed, ready for anything—grounded you in a way that made the whole thing feel both dangerous and effortless.
And what shouldn’t have mattered suddenly mattered so much. Because, fuck… you were hot.
Every little shift you made—a tilt of your head, a small tug at the hem, the way the fabric moved with you—kept catching his attention. He bit the inside of his cheek. Ain’t no way you’d been burying all that under those layers.
And yet.
Something in him knew better. Your figure fit the style of the uniform perfectly. Natural. Balanced. Built in all the right places. That shouldn’t matter. And still, it did. His pulse ticked a little faster, and he kind of hated that he noticed.
What he was most shocked to have to face was the fact that you were pretty much exactly what he imagined whenever he thought of an ideal type.
His lungs tightened. Not from desire—at least, not fully. Fascination, awareness, intrigue—all tangled together. The version of you he’d filed away as “safe, familiar” no longer fit. Something was… different.
You glanced at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for judgment. Approval. Anything.
He exhaled slowly, smoke he’d forgotten in his lungs curling upwards past his curious eyes. “Fits,” he said, voice low and casual, as though he was trying to convince himself he hadn’t been holding his breath for the past couple seconds.
You blinked, then tilted your head to look down at yourself. “Yeah… I guess so.”
Neither of you moved. The hall felt quieter, smaller, like any sudden movement could cause him to bump into you. August had gone silent as well, half inspecting his work, half sensing the shift in the air without caring to pinpoint the energy.
Whether or not you had realized it, that was up for debate.
Enjin took another long drag. Exhaled. Hoping the smoke would create a barrier between him and your form.
It was then, that he realized it wasn’t just the uniform that mattered. It was the subtle shift in you, the way you carried yourself differently, the unfamiliar side of you quietly asserting itself—and him noticing, no pretending otherwise.
Your back straightened, chest lifted ever so slightly—oh, fuck—and the natural sway of your hips whenever you shifted your weight had him chasing after his own breath.
“Honestly,” you spoke, smoothing the fabric of your skirt over your hips, “I thought this would be uncomfortable, but… it’s really not. I do actually like it.”
“TOLD YA! I’M A GENIUS!” August screamed, dancing with wild pride.
Enjin couldn’t help but simply stare. An involuntary smirk grazed his features. “Yeah… you are a genius.”
He was a simple man with simple needs.
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By the time the last trash beast went down, you’d forgotten what it felt like to wear anything else.
Given the nature of your fighting, bruises were inevitable—something you hadn’t even considered when you first received the outfit. Now, black-and-blue marks bloomed along your legs, stretching from mid-thigh all the way down.
It was a sight quite familiar to you, the difference being that—with your new uniform— it was visible to everyone around you as well.
You were going to have to do something about that.
The adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off yet. Your limbs buzzed from all the movement, body feeling hot and fuzzy. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other in pursuit of some sort of relief for each limb.
And in spite of all your movements, the pieces of clothing hadn’t shifted in any unwanted way. No hems to adjust, no creases to smooth over. Nothing. The uniform didn’t just cling to your body—it practically felt molded to your physique.
You hadn’t had to think about it once during the fight, which, honestly, was the highest compliment you could pay to the resident “gear genius” who had so carefully tailored it to your needs.
You glanced over at Enjin, who seemed to be in a similar state as you. Chest heaving, skin dusted with the thinnest layer of sweat and grime.
He leaned back slightly, the ever-present teasing grin tugging at his lips—a feature that somehow only grew more pronounced after a good fight at the edge of the No Man’s Lands.
He put most of his weight onto his dear umbrella as his gaze flickered towards your form. You caught it flicking down for a split second—a questioning twitch in his lip, a curious squint of his eye—and then back up.
“Don’t start,” you said, already anticipating a comment about the state of your legs.
“Wasn’t gonna,” he replied easily, his hands up in defense and then catching Umbreaker just in time before it fell over. Then, after a beat, “You took quite a hit back there, though.”
“Well,” you looked down to properly inspect the spots this time. The bruises blossomed mostly in the areas around and on your knees, though your shins weren’t exempt of the hues of color. Frankly, it looked like it usually did. “Comes with the job.”
“Huh,” his gaze flickered down again, lingering long enough for you to take note of it. “You always bruise like that?”
“Pretty much?” You responded, putting one leg behind the other, as if it was going to do anything to hide it. “Legs usually take the worst of it.”
“Figures.” he responded, lifting a joint to his lips—his habitual celebration joint, as you’ve come to learn about him.
His attention to your legs lingered just a second longer than you’d expected it to, before focusing on lighting the end of the blunt with his lighter.
“You know,” he teased as the fire finally caught, then dropping his lighter back in his pocket, “the amount you bruise in a day feels like the amount I take in like, what, two weeks?”
“Wow, you’re so cool for that,” you shot back—unimpressed, sarcastic. “Is this your way of telling me to be more careful?”
“Nah,” he smirked, taking a drag of his joint and exhaling the smoke, a relaxed groan escaping along with it. “You handle yourself just fine.”
That earned him a look. “High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.” he retorted, a challenging expression adorning his sharp features.
“Aw, why not?” You finally took a moment to stretch.
Hands pressed together, you reached overhead, trying to ease the tension built up in your back during the fight. Even as you moved, you couldn’t help but notice the hem of your top riding up just slightly—enough to follow your motion comfortably, never restrictive, never bothersome.
It was honestly impressive.
When your arms dropped back to your sides, you caught the faintest flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—and for a moment, it felt like Enjin’s gaze was still following you. Just for a heartbeat, though.
“What’s up with you today?”
“Huh?” A cloud of smoke tore through his lips. “What do you mean?”
“You’re, like, looking at me all the time,” you said, resting a hand on your hip. “What’s up with that?”
“I’m not.” He scoffed, taking another drag, huffing little smoke circles and watching them disappear into the air.
You rolled your eyes. “You are, though.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You totally are.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, shooting you a hopelessly charming smile, eyes shamelessly flicking down and back up your figure. “Maybe a bit.”
Unfortunately for you, his charms didn’t leave you entirely unaffected.
You couldn’t help it. Anyone with working eyes knew exactly that Enjin was the unfortunate epitome of attraction.
The sharp line of his jaw catching the light as he tilted his head, the way smoke curled lazily from his lips, forming all sorts of organic shapes before vanishing into the air.
The collar of his shirt revealing the ink nestled underneath his skin, curving alongside his neck, giving him this edge that somehow fit that permanent teasing expression he always wore.
You shook your head slightly, trying to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. But your pulse had its own opinion, quickening with the small, easy awareness of him in front of you.
But no. This guy was more than likely carrying a choker filled to the brim with booty calls. There was no reason for him to be paying you that kind of attention, especially since he usually didn’t.
Something you’d always been painfully aware of, to your dismay.
“Whatever,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “Can you drive?”
“Why?” he grinned. “‘Cause your legs are busted?”
“You’re so funny today,” you mustered the most obnoxious fake-laugh you were capable of. “No, genius. I’m asking, because you’re high.”
“That would certainly be a valid concern,”—he took another taunting drag—“if you weren’t talking to me right now.”
“Silly me,”you said, not-so-subtle sarcasm yet to unlace from your voice. “No, but really.”
You walked past him toward the off-roader, unable to hide the little bounce in your step—half from the lingering adrenaline still coursing through your veins, half from the excitement you felt at the prospect of returning back to your base—home.
Heavy steps followed you until you both slid into the vehicle, him in the driver’s seat.
“I’ve done wilder things stoned,” he scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes as he inserted the key into the ignition.
“Like what?” You asked, getting comfortable in your seat.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“You’re so insufferable sometimes.” you sighed, shooting him a displeased look. “Just focus on the road.”
He smiled, eyes meeting yours as if to admit guilt. “No promises.”
His fingers moved quickly over the keys, firing up the engine before shifting gears and getting the car rolling.
“Buckle up, princess,” he said. “Just ‘cause your legs are bruised doesn’t mean I’ll be slowing down any time soon.”
The little nickname definitely didn’t go unnoticed by you—as well as the double innuendo, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for him—though you felt too something to really comment on it.
“Don’t you worry about my legs,” you shot back, trying for a casual tone. “Not like I’m made of sugar or something.”
He smirked to himself, taking a last long drag of the joint before flicking it out the window. “Good to know.”
You caught him muttering something under his breath—more to himself than to you—but decided to let it slide. Your pulse still hadn’t quite settled—whether that was from the fight or due to certain body-modded men within your vicinity was something you chose not to worry about— and honestly, you didn’t really feel like picking fights, anyway.
The motor rumbled beneath you as the off-roader stumbled over the uneven ground of the No Man’s Land, gradually leaving the chaos behind. The road began to flatten with each passing mile, though the ride already felt surprisingly smooth—especially considering it was Enjin behind the wheel right now.
You kept your hands folded in your lap. Your gaze kept wandering between the trash-ridden landscape — a rather unpleasant sight — and, of course, him — an admittedly rather pleasant side.
Despite every warning you’d given yourself, despite every attempt to keep your guard up, he slipped past it effortlessly. He didn’t need your consent to get under your skin—and you couldn’t really help letting him, either. He was just good at getting people’s guard down—at least among the Cleaners.
Or maybe it was just you.
Your gaze drifted back to him, more often than you cared to admit. His side profile looked sharper and even more defined against the warm rays of a setting sun kissing his dirt-ridden skin.
It was honestly a bit annoying how attractive he was.
You mentally traced the patterns of the tattoos disappearing beneath the nick of his shirt, wondering about the way they might continue. Your focus drifted towards the flex of his strong hands on the wheel, covered in similar shapes—how did they curl under his sleeves?
You shifted in your seat, throwing one leg over the other, and felt the faint sting of bruises along the length of your legs. Nothing severe, but enough to remind you that your fight hadn’t been gentle.
You flexed them subtly under the skirt of your uniform, partly to stretch, partly out of curiosity, playing a quiet game of “how long before it hurts too much”. Of course, it never got to that point. It’s just some light bruising.
He glanced at you then, out of the corner of his eye, and his smirk widened just slightly, like he knew about the silly game you were playing in your head to entertain yourself. A small quirk of his eyebrow, a tilt of the head—it was enough to make your chest tighten, though you pretended (miserably) to focus on your legs instead.
“So,” he said, voice casual but teasing, “you planning on sitting there looking broody all the way back, or are we gonna talk?”
You let out a soft breath, shoulders sinking into the seat. “I’ll be honest… I’m kind of tired.”
“I was wondering when you’d say that.” His tone softened, the teasing thinning out. “You can sleep, if you wanna. I’ll wake your ass at HQ.”
“Mm,” you hummed, eyelids already heavier than you’d realized. “Sounds good.”
“I’ll wake you up good,” he added lightly. “Get Delmon to hose you down.”
One eye cracked open. “Okay. I’m not sleeping.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m kidding.” A pause. Then, softer, more genuine: “I’ll wake you up real gentle. Promise. Get some rest.”
The hum of the engine filled the space between you. The road stretched ahead, steady and uneventful.
You shifted slightly, adjusting against the seat, legs stretching out a little more carefully this time. Your head tipped back. The exhaustion wasn’t dramatic — just the slow kind that settled into your bones after a long day.
You felt it before you saw it — his hand adjusting the climate dial so the air wouldn’t blow directly at you. The smallest thing. Almost nothing.
But not nothing.
Your eyes fluttered closed.
The last thing you registered was the faint sound of him muttering under his breath — something about how easily you wear yourself out — and the way the vehicle seemed to move just a little smoother than before.
You were asleep before you even realized it.
─────────୨ৎ─────────
The common area was louder than usual—music bleeding from a battered speaker, empty bottles clustering along the tables, the air thick with smoke and laughter. Someone had dragged out a deck of cards, another group arguing loudly over rules that changed every five minutes.
Enjin fit right into it.
He leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, a drink balanced loosely in his hand as he laughed along with the others. Easy. Relaxed. This was familiar territory—post-mission chaos, shared exhaustion, celebration for still being alive. The kind of environment he absolutely thrived in.
His eyes roamed the room in a moment that was supposed to be all about appreciating his weird, little family.
And then, they stopped.
You hadn’t made any sort of announcement. No dramatic pause, no random attempt at drawing attention. You just slipped into the room like you always did— quiet, familiar, reliable.
His gaze flickered down before he could stop himself.
The uniform sat on you as disgustingly well as it always did. Skirt hugged you too well, top accentuated your physique, jacket hung loose over your shoulders, sleeves slinging in the air.
He had just gotten somewhat used to seeing you this way. It was supposed to be safe. It should have been safe.
You chose trouble today.
It wasn’t the uniform that threw him off.
It was what you added.
Dark fabric hugged your legs beneath the skirt, reaching high enough to erase the bruises he knew were there. Practical. Sensible.
That, somehow, made it worse.
He knew why you were wearing them. A part of him basked in the fact that he was probably the only person here that knew why you were wearing them, that this was your attempt at hiding your bruises. And, somehow, knowing what it looked like underneath made it that much more… intimate?
Not to mention the way that the plush of your legs perfectly spilled over the hem of the fabric, which was the best part about these types of socks, anyway.
But this was you. Cozy, unchanging, reliable you.
With a single addition to your work attire, you’d managed to take it from blurring the lines of professionalism to… well, overstepping them entirely. At least, in his eyes.
He couldn’t tell if he minded or not. Or he just couldn’t admit the truth to himself.
The card game, the drink in his hand, the music running in the background—all of it faded as he took his sweet time observing you.
He eased back into the loveseat he was occupying, spreading his long legs like he owned the space, as if waiting for you was the most natural thing in the world.
You greeted a few people, checked on the kids at the children’s table, but never seemed to settle in one spot.
And so, he called your name before he could stop himself.
Your head snapped toward him, eyes locking with his as you made your way to the poker table.
“Hey there,” you greeted, arms loosely crossed.
“Hi,” he replied, flashing that infuriating grin. “Sit down. We could use another player.” He shifted over, leaving just enough space for you to slide in, and you did—probably closer than you’d expected—after greeting everyone at the table.
His hand draped over the back of the two-seater, half-encasing your frame. His legs stretched, one brushing the side of your thigh, claiming the space with casual confidence, yet leaving enough for you.
“So… what are we playing?” you asked, voice light, like you were trying not to notice the proximity.
“It’s called Bluffing,” he said, eyes flicking toward you briefly. “Basically, the deck is evenly split among the four of us and we have to place cards in order of Ace to King facedown. The catch: You won’t always have the right card at the right turn.”
“Ah,” you murmured as you took the drink from his hand and sipped, the weight of his gaze lingering on you. “So—you’re gonna have to bluff.”
“Right,” he replied, brow quirking just slightly. “You can place in multiples, though. If you gotta place an Ace and you have two on your hand, you can place both.”
“I see,” you replied, voice casual and airy. “How do you win? Or lose?”
“Oh, yeah—anyone can call a bluff at any point. If you’re right, the person who bluffed gets the entire pile on the table. If you’re wrong, you need to take the pile,” he responded. “Whoever has no cards left wins. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He leaned back slightly, letting his arm drape lazily over the loveseat, the movement deliberate, stretching closer to you without touching… yet. The proximity was ridiculous, and he knew it, and of course, so did you.
He could feel the subtle brush of your leg against his, hear the faint shift as you adjusted your seat, the way your hand lingered on the drink he’d gotten himself.
His mind did a quick double-take, because… damn. You smelled good. Closer than he’d ever been, and now it was impossible to ignore.
Enjin reached for the full deck on the table, shuffling it, before he split the cards evenly between the four of you, movements smooth and practiced. Cards slid across the table in neat stacks.
“Alright,” he said, glancing around. “Who’s got the Ace of Hearts?”
Everyone checked their hand.
A beat.
“I do.”
His eyes flicked up immediately.
Of course you did.
“Then—you start.”
He leaned back, watching from the corner of his eye as you looked down at your cards. You took just a second too long. Your lips pressed together, like you were holding back a smile.
That was new.
You placed a card face-down.
“Ace of Hearts.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Bluff.”
The word came easy. Calm. Certain.
Bro snorted. “Already?”
You turned toward him slowly. “You don’t even know what I put down.”
He tilted his head, studying you openly now. “Don’t need to.”
It wasn’t about the card.
It was the way you sat a little straighter. The way your fingers lingered on the edge of the card a fraction too long. The almost imperceptible satisfaction in your eyes.
You were asking for it, really.
“Flip it,” Delmon urged.
You held Enjin’s gaze for half a second—a silent challenge—before turning the card over.
Six of Hearts.
Bro burst out laughing.
Enjin didn’t. He just smiled—slow and smug—because… well, there it was.
“I knew it,” he said quietly.
“You didn’t know anything.” You rolled your eyes.
He huffed a low laugh. Then, using the arm that wasn't draped casually behind you, he reached down and lightly poked a spot on your leg he knew was bruised. You yelped, just enough to make him grin wider.
Meanwhile, he couldn't help but savor the fact that he was the only one who knew what your legs looked like beneath the thigh highs. It was his way of telling you that—at least in split second—you belonged to him.
“I know you.”
You muttered something under your breath as you took your card back, clearly annoyed—but not really.
“Alright,” he said, settling back again. “Go on.”
You drew in a breath, adjusted your grip on your cards, and this time when you placed one down, your expression was steady. Almost neutral.
“Ace of Hearts—for real this time.”
He watched you carefully.
No lingering. No spark. No tiny flare of pride.
Just calm.
He held the silence for a second longer than necessary—just to make you feel it.
“Alright. Continue.”
Delmon cracked his knuckles. “Two.”
He placed two cards down in a neat stack. No hesitation. No theatrics.
Bro eyed him briefly, but didn’t bite.
“Three,” Bro said next, tossing one card onto the pile with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Stil, no one called anything.
Then it was Enjin’s turn.
He looked down at his hand. The next number was four.
He just so happened to have two.
A small part of him considered holding one back for the next cycle.
He didn’t.
He slid both cards into the center. Calm. Clean.
“Two fours.”
He didn’t look at Delmon.
He didn’t look at Bro.
He looked at you.
Your fingers were still resting on your cards. But he saw it — that tiny shift in your posture. The way your shoulders squared. The way your eyes flicked to the pile and then back to him.
You were thinking. Good.
He leaned back slightly, arm still draped along the seat behind you.
“You gonna call it?” he asked lightly.
Delmon scoffed. “Here we go.”
Enjin ignored him.
His gaze stayed on you—not challenging. Just steady.
He wasn’t bluffing. But he almost hoped you thought he was.
For the most part, you upheld the eye-contact—eyes flicking towards the cards in his hand from time to time, as if questioning the legitimacy of them.
“I wanted to,” you murmured, eyes flicking toward him, wary, “but… now that you want me to call it, I won’t.”
Enjin huffed a laugh.
“Fair enough. Your turn.”
You placed your three cards with a smile. “Five.”
Delmon’s brow furrowed as he eyed the pile.
“Bluff,” he finally muttered, leaning forward, elbows now resting on his knees.
You blinked, keeping your expression calm. “Oh?”
Enjin watched from his spot, leaning back slightly, arm still stretched behind you, smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t need to see your cards to know what was coming.
“You sure about that?” Enjin asked lightly, just loud enough for the table to hear. His voice carried a teasing edge, though he kept his own cards close.
Delmon hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “What are the odds of having three fives on your hand? I’m calling it.”
You flipped your first card — five. Then the second — five. And the third… five.
It was true.
Delmon froze, eyes widening as realization hit. “Huh?”
You leaned slightly toward the center of the table, a faint, triumphant smile tugging at your lips, sliding the small pile towards him. “There you go.”
Enjin’s gaze lingered on you, amusement and something warmer flickering in his chest. You weren’t even aware of the way you’d slid closer, your side almost fully pressed against him.
He felt a soft nudge against his chest — your shoulder lightly stabbing into him. He didn’t move. He could feel the warmth radiating from you, the faint brush of your side against his, and the subtle weight of your presence.
He looked down at you, catching your eyes before you looked away. The next second, you muttered something under your breath, too faint to carry over the pounding bass from the speakers. Enjin might have only noticed because—well—he'd just been looking at your lips anyway.
An idea struck him.
As if the proximity weren't already enough, he inched closer, letting his body press lightly against yours as he
leaned down, silently signaling that you should repeat yourself.
His arm draped over you more than it did over the seat, head tilted ever so slightly as his gaze locked with
yours, faces just inches apart—a challenge you were doomed to fail. He caught the brief flicker of your eyes
down toward his lap, though you didn't pull back.
He caught your gaze again, right as your pretty lips began to part. “I just asked if we start from ace again,” you spoke, almost in a whisper.
“No,” he replied, voice casual, but he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Next is six.”
You fit against him perfectly, your frame settling into the dip of the cushions at his side, curves aligning just so. You seemed comfortable there, either unaware of how close you’d slipped toward him or simply finding it as natural as he did.
Everyone eyes shifted to Delmon now that it was his turn. He placed one card down. “Six.”
Right after, Bro laid down a seven. Supposedly.
The turn circled back to him.
Enjin looked at his hand. Not a single eight. It was time to bluff. No big deal.
He slid two cards into the pile, careful, measured. “Eight,” voice calm, almost casual. Not rushed, not nervous—just like always. He let his gaze flick toward you out of the corner of his eye. The way you were watching him, that slight narrowing of your eyes.
“Bluff,” you said, quiet, steady, like it wasn’t a guess—like you already knew.
He froze just for a fraction of a second, more amused than concerned.
“You think so?” he murmured lightly, leaning into the seat a little more. Not defensive. Not worried. Just curious what you’d do.
You held his gaze, unwavering. Calm. Confident.
Enjin exhaled slowly, sliding the pile toward himself. “Alright, fine,” he said under his breath, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You got me.”
He was just flattered to know you’d watched him so intently.
“Damn,” Bro sighed, hand on the back of his neck. “You guys are really good at this.”
Enjin hums. “Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”
Minutes passed, then stretched into what felt like hours. The pile grew steadily, now close to a quarter of the deck, and no one could afford to lose. Yet somehow, bluffs hadn’t been called in forever.
“You’re taking forever,” you groaned, tapping your cards lightly, fidgeting.
“I’m thinking,” he replied evenly, though the tiniest twitch of a smile betrayed him.
“Thinking about what—bluffing?”
“Wanna call it? I dare you.”
He glanced at his cards, then back at you, then back at his hand, before cautiously sliding a ten onto the ever-growing pile.
“One king.”
It was intense.
“You’ve got to be lying, man!” Delmon exclaimed, eyes fixed on the pile as if staring harder would reveal the truth.
“Okay, call it then. See what happens.” His empty threat earned groans all around—Bro rubbing his forehead in frustration, Delmon gripping his knees like he needed an anchor. And you… still. Too still. Still in a tense way, like you were frozen in time.
He didn’t know if it was reflex, instinct, or just a quiet urge, but his hand had started tracing lazy shapes along your shoulder. You seemed to relax into it, even if only slightly, and he was quietly glad to be of some comfort.
It also seemed to distract you from the game, which was a bonus.
It was your turn now. The pile demanded an Ace.
You picked a card and slid it onto the pile, voice even, airy. “An Ace.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly. He could tell.
The way your fingers lingered on the card before letting it go, the tiny pause in your voice, the way your gaze flicked to him and then quickly away—you weren’t enjoying the lie as much as you should have been.
He considered calling it. Just for a moment.
But he couldn’t bring himself to let the pile crash down on you.
He leaned back just slightly, letting his gaze rest on you for a beat longer than necessary, noting the faint lift of your chest as you exhaled, and the subtle tension easing from your shoulders. Not because he needed to, not because he wanted to punish you—just because he could.
Just because he liked it.
─────────୨ৎ─────────
You played round after round after that, the hours slipping by unnoticed. The table shifted, drinks were replaced, the music grew louder and then blurred into the background.
By the time the night began to thin out, he’d walked you through the halls and left you at your door, talking about nothing and everything at once—recent expeditions, Rudo’s progress, who had handled the trash beasts better on the last mission (obviously you). You said your goodbyes like you hadn’t half-sat in his lap just moments earlier.
And you just couldn’t shake the thought of him.
His lingering looks.
That honeyed tone to his voice.
The way his words always seemed to push just enough to see what you’d do with them.
You’ve been trying to catch sleep for a couple hours, but the phantom sensation of his finger lazily tracing circles into your shoulder hadn’t faded. Neither had the warmth of his body pressed against yours, or the image of his sharp, calloused hands working the deck.
You groaned into your pillow, kicking your feet against the mattress (which was dumb, because your legs still hadn’t recovered—it hurt really bad).
This was frustrating.
Even now, your body felt as though it was running just as hot as it had when pressed right against the side of his hard chest. Tingles ran over every bit of skin that touched him. Your thoughts wandered places you usually always tried to keep them from and you were failing miserably tonight.
His naked, inked skin.
His strong, broad frame.
His stupid hot fucking smile.
The way his hands would feel…
You’d usually always been able to handle him, but something was just different this time.
This wasn’t the same old big-ego Enjin. It was him threading himself into your thoughts, somehow playing with the pace of your heartbeat, the temperature of your skin, the electric feeling in your stomach.
Sleeping was pointless. You were lucky you had nowhere to be in the morning.
Maybe you should take a shower.
You begrudgingly lifted your face from the squished pillow and pushed yourself up, heading to grab a change of clothes before shuffling toward the bathroom.
By the time you reached it, your resolve had wavered enough that you didn’t even bother shutting the door fully before peeling off your sleep shirt, carelessly throwing it onto your pile of laundry you had yet to find a day to tackle.
The water felt relieving against your skin. Today felt like the kind of day that justified turning it really hot—which Enjin always hated, since it usually meant a cold, miserable shower for him the next morning. After tonight, you figured he kind of deserved it.
If he was going to occupy your thoughts, you were claiming the hot water.
The sensation of the water running down your body seemed to numb the pain in your legs, but it did little to wash away the feeling of his skin pressed against yours—because of course it wouldn’t. This wasn’t a physical sensation, it was him in your head.
You turned the temperature up a notch.
It burned, but it felt good.
Single droplets pierced you like hot needles—a type of pain you actually welcomed. All the tension of the day seemed to wash off your body, disappearing down the drain along with the water.
You could stay here for hours, maybe even fall asleep like this. All your senses felt cut off from the outside world, with no room for any unwanted thoughts. Just the unbearably hot water, close enough to feel endless.
And then, there was a beep.
You froze. You hadn’t taken your choker off yet.
Someone was calling.
You feared you knew exactly who.
“Enjin, what the fuck? It’s, like, 1 a.m.!” you whisper-shouted, covering the choker as best you could with your hand, as though that was going to shield you in any way.
“Huh? It’s almost 3. And I can hear you,” he replied.
“Yeah, I know, we’re in a call!” you said, exasperated.
“No, like… I can hear your shower,” he clarified, a faint chuckle in his tone.
“And you thought it’d be a good idea to call me in the shower?”
“You picked up, didn’t you?” His grin practically radiated through the call.
What you hated most in this moment wasn’t that he called—it was the fact that you were excited about it.
And the fact that he was right.
“You don’t even know how hot my shower is running right now.” you challenged him, hoping to get him right where you knew it hurt.
“That’s fucked up,” he laughed, like he wasn’t taking you seriously at all. “Just to tick me off? Or you just felt like showering hot?”
“I don’t have to answer that.” you mumbled, reaching for the shampoo bottle.
“And that says so much,” he replied. “Why’re you taking a shower in the middle of the night? Didn’t you say you were tired?”
“I was tired,” you admitted, letting the water cascade over your shoulders. “I just couldn’t fall asleep.”
“Mm, same,” he replied. “It’s kind of your fault for turning on the shower, though.”
“Thats on you.” And you regretted these words the moment they escaped your lips.
“What’d I do?”
Because what were you even going to tell him? That you couldn’t stop thinking about how good he smelled? That you wished his arm had fully encased you? That you actually kind of liked it when he pressed down on your bruises? That just thinking about any of it made your body react in ways you could never, ever admit out loud?
“I just don’t like you.” you muttered, scrubbing shampoo into your hair, trying to keep your voice even.
“I know that’s not true, sweetheart,” he said, his smile as audible as ever through the line.
Again with that pet name.
“I’m just gonna stop talking.”
“You could also just hang up.”
“Why don’t you hang up?
“I don’t want to,” he chuckled lowly. “I feel like you don’t really want to stop talking, either.”
You heard him shuffle on his end of the line—things cluttering and moving around.
“You’re very confident in yourself.”
“Hang up, then.”
You didn’t reply. You didn’t hang up, either.
“Thought so,” he murmured with a faint exhale—was he smoking?—“Wanna come over?”
“What. Now?”
“Yeah. Or, you know what?” The sound of shifting feet, a quiet grunt. “I’m coming over.”
Your fingers clenched slightly around the shampoo bottle, as if it was your lifeline. “I’m in the shower!”
“Well, hurry, my foot’s out the door already.” And the click of his door shutting was, indeed, audible on the other end.
The moment you felt the shampoo rinse completely from your hair, you stepped out of the shower, grabbing the first towel within reach.
“At least wait, like… two minutes,” you said, tugging it tighter around yourself. “Please.”
“But then I’d have to walk all the way back.”
“Our rooms are next to each other!” you shot back, exasperated.
“Yeah… way too far. Damn, you should lock your door.”
“Are you in my room right now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, as if that settled everything.
“Just wait—sit down somewhere. I’ll be right out.” you replied hurriedly, dropping the towel after drying yourself off and getting into your giant sleep shirt.
Shutting the bathroom door behind you and quickly shuffling your way back to your space, you find him splayed out on your bed, staring at the ceiling—or perhaps following the pattern of the smoke as it rose into the air.
“Well?” he asked, his focus not shifting toward you quite yet. “You gonna keep me waiting?”
You crossed your arms, trying for irritation. “Do I look like I had a choice?”
Then, he spared you a glance, eyeing your frame for a moment. Then two.
He smiled. “You look good.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Sorry?” you asked.
“You look good.” He met your eyes after letting his attention wander all over you. “Like… really good.”
You shifted on the spot, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Don’t start with me, Enjin,” you muttered, though a faint warmth had already started spreading through your chest.
“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he said, propping himself up against the wall. He made space on the mattress, patting the newly free spot as a silent invitation for you to get comfortable.
He brought the blunt to his lips and took a long, unhurried drag. You could practically see the smoke fill his lungs, his chest expanding before he leaned his head back slightly and exhaled, the haze curling lazily toward the ceiling. The sound he made—low, pleased—had no business shooting right through you the way it did.
You took a short breath, grounding yourself, then crossed the room and settled into the space he’d made for you. You leaned back against the pillows, angling your legs carefully so they didn’t tangle with his, even though the mattress dip made closeness unavoidable.
When you glanced over, he wasn’t looking at you anymore.
His gaze had gone distant, unfocused, like he’d drifted somewhere else entirely as the drug settled in. For a moment, you just watched him—his relaxed posture, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way the smoke still lingered around him.
The thought that he looked kind of ethereal quietly passed your mind.
Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, his eyes found yours again.
“Wanna try?” he asked, holding the blunt out toward you. You blinked. Once. Twice.
“What—smoking?” you echoed.
“Yeah.” His smile was lazy, unpressuring. “You don’t have to.”
You hesitated. You’d never really felt the urge before—never saw the appeal. Still, curiosity nudged at you, persistent and annoying.
“…If you teach me?”
Something softened in his expression, just briefly, before a faint smile took over.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
He held it closer, waiting. You took it carefully, immediately aware of how little you knew about what to do with it. You’d seen people smoke before, sure—but holding it yourself felt strangely intimidating. For something so small, it suddenly felt like it carried a lot of weight.
And you were supposed to breathe that in?
“It’s pretty intuitive,” he said, watching you with open amusement. “Just don’t inhale too deeply.”
“That’s your instructions?”
“To be fair,” he chuckled, lifting his hands in lazy defense, “you’re probably gonna start coughing anyway. Just a heads up.”
Your eyes rolled on instinct.
You studied the blunt like it might give you some sort of guidance if you stared long enough. Then you brought it to your lips and took a tentative inhale.
Nothing.
Frowning slightly, you tried again—deeper this time.
Instant regret.
The burn hit fast and sharp, ripping the air straight out of your lungs. You sputtered, coughing hard as smoke escaped in uneven bursts, shoving the blunt back into his hand while you struggled to breathe. You were hunched forward, absolutely wrecked, eyes watering.
Enjin was already laughing beside you, completely unapologetic.
“I told you not too deep,” he said between laughs. “I gave you one instruction.”
You wanted to snap back—had a dozen words lined up—but air still hadn’t fully returned to your lungs, and all you could manage was a glare that only made him grin wider.
“Easy,” he said, laughter still in his voice as he shifted closer. His hand came up to your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
He guided you gently back against him, your spine settling against his chest.
You coughed again, sharper this time, eyes stinging as you tried to suck in air that didn’t burn. “You—” you rasped, grounding yourself with a hand on his leg. “You’re evil.”
He hummed, clearly entertained. “Yeah, yeah. Deep breaths. In through your nose. Just like that.”
You did as he said, partly out of necessity, partly because the weight of his hand made it easier. The coughing eased little by little, your chest still tight but no longer on fire.
“There you go,” he murmured, closer now, voice lower. “See? Still alive.”
Without really thinking about it, you leaned back, letting your head rest against him for just a second as you caught your breath. “I hate you,” you muttered—though it came out far less convincing than you meant it to.
His thumb traced a lazy line along your shoulder. “Mhm. I can tell.”
You exhaled sharply, shoulders tense. “You absolutely set me up.”
“I warned you,” he said, lifting the blunt past your frame and bringing it back to his lips. “You just didn’t listen.”
That’s when two things hit you at once.
One—you felt it.
Your thoughts began to loosen in a way they never had before. The constant noise in your head softened, blurred, fading into something distant and manageable.
And two—the position you were in.
Your hand resting on his thigh.
Your back pressed flush against his chest.
His arm lazily draped around you, like you just did this all the time.
It was a dangerous combination. With your thoughts dulled and hazy, you didn’t have the energy to filter your thoughts about how much you actually liked it anymore.
He shifted slightly behind you, just enough that the pressure of his chest against your back deepened, and you felt the subtle weight of his attention resting along the back of your head.
“See?” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Knew you’d feel it.”
You frowned faintly. “Feel what?”
“The quiet,” he said, his finger lightly tapping against your temple. “You stopped fidgeting.”
That caught your attention. You‘d usually try to deny it—but you couldn’t. Your thoughts felt slower. Softer.
He sensed it before you even said anything—the way your breathing evened out, the tension in your shoulders easing, the subtleties of the things you didn’t do—like pulling away, or fighting back.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, almost cooing. “So calm… seriously, this might be the longest stretch you’ve gone without barking at me.”
“Shush,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “M’not calm. N‘ I don’t bark.”
“Sure, baby,” he said, that word curling around your spine. “Whatever you say.”
And you didn’t even have it in you to fully process the new pet name.
His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it lightly between his fingers, testing the fabric against your skin. Not enough to pull it up, not enough to be overt—definitely enough for you to notice.
You felt the faint brush of his thumb against your side with each little pull, a whisper of contact that made your stomach tighten.
“You’re kind of comfortable.” you muttered, trying for casual as you pulled your hand back—slowly, like you didn’t want to draw attention to it.
“Only kind of?” he asked, voice easy, almost amused. His fingers flexed once against your side, just enough to be intentional.
“Okay,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “You’re really comfortable.”
“Mm, sure seems like it,” he let out a soft hum. “You feeling tired?”
“No,” you replied, letting your words trail just slightly. The warmth of your body pressed into his was dizzying. “M’just very good right now.”
His hand moved lazily along your side, brushing your hip with an absent-minded care that made your stomach twist. “Mm,” he murmured. “Want me to stay?”
You nodded.
“Okay.”
The room fell into a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just… present. No teasing, no jokes—just him and you.
Slowly, his fingers traced the curve of your waist, mapping the gentle swell of your sides as if committing every line to memory.
Each movement was bold in intention yet measured, teasing—like he was daring you to react, and you found yourself holding still, caught between hesitation and anticipation.
The warmth of his touch spread through you in ways that weren’t just physical; it was the attention, the quiet focus of him exploring without words.
His hand was no longer just playing—it was present, outlining the frame of you, leaving you aware of every point of contact, every subtle press of skin against fabric.
His other hand slowly lifted, fingers weaving through your hair. With a practiced ease, he swept it over to one side, letting your thick sleep shirt slip just enough to expose your shoulder. The fabric pooled lazily around the curve, leaving your neck bare to the warmth of his gaze.
A content sigh left your lips.
“You like that?” he whispered, his warm breath brushing along your ear. You already knew he didn’t need an answer—he just wanted to hear it from you.
You complied with a soft hum.
He took one last slow drag of the blunt, the tip glowing faintly in the dim light. You caught the plume of smoke in your peripheral vision as he exhaled, and it curled lazily over your shoulder, teasing your bare skin.
With a subtle flick of his fingers, he sent the finished blunt spinning onto the floor. You were too caught up in the moment to care, letting the tension in your body unravel under his attention.
You don’t think you’ve ever been this relaxed.
The hand that had been tracing your side drifted lower, slipping past the hem of your shirt. It moved agonizingly slowly, skimming over the soft skin of your bare thigh, his thumb drawing lazy, teasing patterns—just a little too far up, just a little too far in.
Just a little too much to pass off as friendly.
He was giving you just enough—enough to make your skin burn—but never enough to truly satisfy the ache that had built up inside you. The moment felt charged, but it wasn’t as simple as just raw intimacy.
His breath skimmed the skin of your neck in slow, even intervals. “You’re really soft.” It almost sounded like a question.
You could feel his attention on you—the hazed focus of his gaze lingering along the line of your neck, the faint feeling of his hair grazing your skin. Then he inched in closer—slow, gentle kisses traced along the length of your neck. And despite all the tension coiled in your body, they weren’t meant to provoke—just soft, unhurried.
He pulled back, resting his head atop your shoulder.
Part of you was relieved he didn’t take it further. Another part of you screamed at the loss of the feeling.
“You’re not telling me to stop,” he whispered into your shoulder.
And, yeah. You weren’t.
You swallowed, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “Yeah,” you said quietly, words slower than usual, “Should I?”
There was a pause. Not the heavy kind. Just enough to let your words settle.
“Up to you,” he replied easily, his thumb returning to trace an absent-minded line along your side. “I’d be a bit butthurt about it—but, you know. Whatever.”
That made you laugh.
He stuck to caring strokes and gentle touches.
You drifted off to sleep in his embrace that night.
─────────୨ৎ─────────
He was a simple man. At least, he’d always thought he was.
Things just failed to feel simple lately.
Enjin sat at the table, leaning slightly forward as Semiu traced patrol routes on the worn map spread across the surface. Corvus flipped through the mission logs, scribbling notes in the margins with a pencil that had long since lost its eraser.
He answered questions when prompted, offered minor adjustments to the routes, corrected a timing estimate—on the surface, he was engaged.
His thoughts were entirely elsewhere.
They’d gotten stuck with you in your bedroom that night, about a week ago.
The memory lingered at the edge of his mind, pulling his attention away even as Semiu traced the eastern perimeter—and he was fucked, since he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she was outlining it in the first place.
The scratch of Semiu’s pencil across the map, the rustle of papers, the muted scribbling of Corvus’s notes—they all faded into the background.
He could almost feel your warmth, hear the soft sighs you’d given him, see your eyes closing at the subtle pleasure of his touch.
He understood heat, understood want—the easy kind, the kind you didn’t have to think too hard about. Touch, tension, release. He’d never been precious with it. Never needed to be.
So this—this gentle kind of caution—sat wrong in his chest.
The way his hands slowed before touching you. How instinct kept telling him to pull you closer, but something quieter told him not to rush. Like moving too fast might shatter something he didn’t quite have a name for yet.
That part confused him.
You’d always felt safe. Why did that matter so much right now?
And then that uniform.
It should’ve been the usual—charming smiles, lingering touches, the spark of attraction he knew how to handle. Instead, it had hit him sideways. Like the sight of you had shifted something into place rather than set it on fire. Pride, maybe. Something that settled instead of burned.
The realization crept up on him slowly, unwelcome in how obvious it suddenly felt.
He wasn’t being gentle because he didn’t want you.
He was being gentle because, somewhere along the way, you’d started to feel precious.
And that thought lingered far longer than he wanted it to.
He absently rubbed the back of his neck as Semiu asked about polluted zones by the border of a No Man’s Land near the eastern perimeter.
“Uh… yeah, those are clear,” he said, eyes drifting to the empty chair across the table, imagining you slumping into it, hair damp from a shower, in nothing but that huge shirt you’d worn that night.
Corvus glanced up sharply. “You even paying attention, Enjin?”
He blinked, shook his head slightly, and forced a nod. “Yeah, just… thinking ‘bout the deployment,” he muttered, realizing how transparent that sounded.
He’d like to get deployed with you again.
No. Stop. Not now.
It wasn’t about him seeing you for the first time when he laid eyes on you that day in the hallway. Something in him had been stirred awake, something that had been dormant for quite some time.
Granted, the way you looked definitely didn’t hurt.
He just hated how smitten he felt about it.
Once he realized you’d fallen asleep, breathing slow and even against his chest, he’d chosen to give you space. He’d tucked you in carefully—too carefully, if you asked him—pulled the blanket up to around your shoulders and all that. Left without waking you.
He took a shower after. Cold.
For once, he didn’t even mind that you’d used up all the hot water. He’d planned on it anyway.
He just couldn’t believe the way he was treating you.
Enjin wasn’t selfish—just a bit indulgent. A hedonist in the simplest sense. He liked what felt good and had never been shy about reaching for it.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with want. He knew exactly how far he could’ve gone, how easy it would’ve been to guide you there with him. You would’ve let him. He was sure of that. And he would’ve taken care of you — that wasn’t the issue.
Because, fuck—he wanted to.
So why didn’t he take you?
You hadn’t been tense. You hadn’t been provoking. You’d been safe.
Again, safe.
He was starting to get fed up with safe.
He clenched his jaw. It annoyed him, the way he’d held back. Especially considering the things he could’ve done to you—wanted to do to you. Thinking about making you call out his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say anymore—over and over again.
And yet.
He didn’t.
He replayed it in his head more times than he cared to admit—the way you’d leaned back into him without thinking. The way your voice had softened. The way you hadn’t told him to stop.
You would’ve let him.
That was the problem.
It wouldn’t have taken much. A slight shift of his hand. Turning your face toward his and closing the distance. You were already pliant in his arms, hazy and warm and trusting.
Trusting.
His jaw tightened again.
Of all the things he could’ve done—wanted to do—he’d chosen restraint.
His mouth had found your neck, yes—but only in the softest way. Slow, measured presses of his lips against your skin. It was the one thing he couldn’t quite stop himself from taking.
Even then, he’d been careful.
And when had he ever been careful?
Enjin didn’t do careful. He did instinct. He did desire. He did taking and giving in the same breath. Going with the flow of things.
This time, something in him had paused.
Not out of uncertainty. Not out of fear that you’d reject him.
Out of something worse.
He didn’t want to cheapen it.
The thought irritated him more than anything else. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose.
Even here, surrounded by stained papers, pencils, and scattered mugs, the thought of you was impossible to shake.
Seeing you in your uniform hadn’t started this. It had just made it harder to ignore. The way you carried yourself. The way you focused. The quiet competence. It had sharpened something that had already been there.
When had he become so aware of you? Of the way you looked at him differently lately. Of the way his body reacted to even the smallest shifts in your tone.
He wasn’t used to wanting something slowly.
It was unsettling.
Because if this was just lust, he would’ve satisfied it already.
And he was only just starting to realize it.
Semiu and Corvus started gathering their things. Somehow, the word dismissed drifted into his awareness, and before he fully realized it, he was up as well, tidying alongside them—hands moving almost automatically, thoughts still elsewhere.
Moments later, he waved them goodbye and stepped out of the briefing room, moving through the low, humming halls.
The day had passed in a blur.
He’d looked for you briefly, only to be told you’d been cooped up in your room all day, finishing reports you had let pile up and procrastinated—you really hated paperwork.
And he just knew that about you.
At some point, he’d bumped into Semiu in the common area. She had finished her work for the day early and didn’t really have anything left to do—she figured she’d like to use the evening to enjoy herself, or something along those lines.
Enjin had agreed.
That’s how he found himself in a crowded bar—or club—he wasn’t even sure and it didn’t really matter. He was perched at a table, smoking his blunt—as per usual—while Semiu sipped a drink across from him, seemingly enjoying the light buzz in her system.
The music did most of the work in drowning out his thoughts. Around him, people were dancing, some were flirting, touching. Others were getting wasted, a couple were fighting. The colorful light pierced through the clouds of smoke all over the place.
The kind of environment he usually thrived in.
Usually—
Oh. Semiu was talking to him.
“…many prank calls. Like, seriously, it pisses me off,” Semiu ranted, leaning back in her chair, fingers tapping impatiently on the table.
“Totally,” he replied, taking a slow drag from his blunt. The smoke curled around his fingers as his gaze drifted over the crowd, half-present, half-lost in thought.
“I’m too nice on the phone. I bet the hell guards don’t get calls like that,” she continued, voice rising slightly with exasperation.
And he tried so hard—genuinely—to listen to his coworker and friend he held so close to his heart. He really, really did.
“Yeah, seems unlikely,” he murmured, blowing the smoke upward and letting it dissipate into the dim light.
“Enjin. What’s up with you today?” Semiu pressed, leaning forward now, her eyes narrowing slightly as she caught the distracted set of his eyes.
“Hm?” He blinked, realizing she’d actually addressed him, fingers flexing absently around the blunt.
“During the briefing, too. You, like, disconnected from the world or something?” Her arms crossed over the table, resting the weight of them on it.
“Nah, I’m good,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips, taking another slow inhale. “Why? You worried about little ol’me?”
“A’ight. Imma take your word for it. For now,” she sighed, shaking her head. “But also only because I’m so fed up by the calls I don’t really have the capacity to listen to you right now.”
“Honestly,” he said, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs before flicking the blunt into the ashtray on the table, “works f’me.”
“You’re welcome, boo.”
Enjin felt a dip in the seat next to him.
In his peripheral, a woman, about a head and a half shorter than him. It almost slipped his mind that things like this happened to him more often than not—that he usually waited for them.
“Hey,” she smiled at him, feigning innocence, though they were both well aware of her intentions. “Your name’s Enjin, right?”
Ah. So he’d spoken to her before—somewhere, sometime.
He finally spared her a proper look. She sat upright, legs elegantly crossed, hair cascading over one shoulder like a deliberate portrait. A subtle flush colored her cheeks, softening her features.
And—usually—she’d be just the type of woman he’d go for.
But today was not a usual day.
“Nope.” He popped the p with unnecessary emphasis. “Name’s Goostaf Hurgenskurk.”
The look on Semiu’s face in his peripheral was priceless—her eyebrows shot up, mouth half-open in a mixture of shock and amusement, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or glare.
“Oh, sorry,” she stammered, stepping back a little. “Must’ve confused you with someone.”
She turned on her heel and hurried away, leaving him with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He watched her retreat, letting the brief amusement linger before his thoughts drifted back to… well, everything else.
“So,” Semiu said, raising her glass to her lips, holding his gaze deliberately as she took a slow sip before setting it back on the table. “Goostaf.”
“I don’t even know,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “I was just trying to think of a weird name.”
“Why, though?” Semiu leaned back, tone soft with genuine curiosity. “She’s pretty. You always let a pretty girl take you home with them, no?”
“You make me sound like a manwhore,” he muttered, a defeated chuckle escaping him.
“Well…” Her voice trailed off, insinuating—just letting the thought hang in the air.
Enjin groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. “I just don’t feel like it today.”
“I feel like,” she said slowly, tilting her head up, a knowing look slipping into her expression now, “you’re just feeling someone else.”
And—however she figured it out—he knew that she was right.
The thought settled heavier than he expected. He’d been circling it all day, avoiding it, dressing it up as confusion or exhaustion. But now, sitting in the middle of a crowded bar with music pounding around him and with his good friend sitting across him, it finally landed.
Properly.
“Fuck, Semiu,” he groaned, dragging his hands down his face before letting his forehead fall briefly into his palms. The realization hit harder than any drink or drug in the room ever could.
Her brows lifted. “Is that what’s been bothering you all day?”
“Yeah,” he exhaled, sitting back again, staring at the table instead of her. “I just—I haven’t really seen her for a week. We keep missing each other at work,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s rough.”
“You should just stop ogling her every chance you get and man up,” Semiu said, tapping her fingers lightly on the table, eyes fixed on him with quiet insistence.
“Ogling is a kind of a strong word for it.”
“She ogles you too.”
“Yeah, I know,” he let out a short laugh, shaking his head, before letting out a sigh. “I’m losing my mind.”
“No, man,” she said simply. “You’re okay.” A small pause. “Just let her know.”
He looked up at her. “Now?”
She shrugged lightly. “Depends—do you want to tell her now?”
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You. Despised. Paperwork. With. A. Burning. Passion.
Hours had passed since you’d started, and the stack of reports in front of you had barely shrunk. Every form felt the same as the last, every column and checkbox an endless, mind-numbing loop.
Your pen scratched across the page, filling in numbers, ticking boxes, repeating the same information over and over, trying desperately not to make mistakes. Your eyes ached, your back was stiff, and your brain was screaming for even a single moment of entertainment.
You slammed your pen down. Enough. You needed a break.
For a moment, you leaned back in your chair. The room was quiet, the night outside slanting through the window casting a cold light on the mess of papers. You hadn’t moved from that spot all day, and it showed.
Boredom clung to you like a second skin. Attention fractured. Thoughts wandered.
You missed everyone. Watching Zanka train Rudo from the corner of the training yard, hearing Semiu’s voice echo from the common area, even the occasional gruff comment from Delmon — all of it made you wish you could be anywhere else right now.
But you’d told everyone to stay out of your room unless it was an emergency. No distractions. No interruptions. You needed to get through the paperwork, and the last thing you wanted was someone leaning over your shoulder asking questions or chatting.
It was definitely what you wanted, though.
Still, even in the quiet, your thoughts kept drifting. You missed him too.
No. Focus.
You let out a long, tired sigh, shoulders slumping as you rubbed at the ache in your neck. The pen hovered uselessly above the next form.
Your eyes wandered across the room, landing on the stack of completed reports next to you—neat, precise, and utterly soul-crushing. You pushed it away with a flick of your wrist.
Enough of this.
You’d finish the rest tomorrow.
You leaned back in your chair, stretching your legs and letting the tension in your body ease slightly. Somewhere in the corner of your mind, you imagined him there—on your bed, attention drifting into nothingness as smoke swirled gently around him, unhurried and soft—and him looking utterly peaceful. Pretty.
A knock at the door froze you mid-stretch.
Your heart skipped. You’d told everyone to stay out unless it was urgent.
Another knock. Louder this time. Your chest tightened. You hesitated, staring at the door, mind racing through every possible scenario.
Slowly, cautiously, you approached and cracked it open.
To your surprise, it was Enjin.
And as much as he didn’t look like he was about to deliver bad news, something about him had shifted. The air around him felt different.
No performative expression. No mischief in his eyes. No provoking glint. Something much softer had settled over his sharp features—a contrast that made your chest ache a little.
“Hey,” you said, brows knitting slightly. “Did something happen?”
“No,” he answered simply. His voice was calm. Certain. “Not at all.” A beat. “Can I come in?”
You studied him for a second longer, searching his face for anything you might’ve missed. Finding nothing urgent—just your own curiosity—you stepped aside.
He moved past you without another word. Not brushing against you, not lingering—close enough that you felt the warmth of him as he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound louder than it should’ve been.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He took in your room—the desk crowded with papers, the stack you’d shoved aside, the pen lying abandoned where you’d dropped it. His gaze lingered there briefly before returning to you.
The silence wasn’t awkward.
It was heavy.
And whatever he’d come here to say—you felt like it mattered.
Just that he didn’t say anything. He looked at you, held your gaze as though he had all the time in the world. Like it stood still, right here in this room—with you.
You caught the faintest dip in his gaze—just slightly, brushing over the lines of your shoulders, the skin underneath the collar of your shirt—the smallest of shifts of his irises—before returning to your eyes.
You felt like you were being… scanned. For something. But you didn’t have the capacity to commit your mind to what that could possibly be, because your focus was on something entirely unrelated.
The breadth of his shoulders.
The vivid reds and blacks inked into his skin.
The loose curl of his hair falling near his temple.
He didn’t say anything. Not with words, at least. But you were beginning to understand.
He stepped toward you, slow and unhurried, closing the space without breaking eye contact—which felt like a bit of a crime in and of itself. It was unbelievably nauseating, made you feel powerless, but in kind of a good way.
Had he always been so tall? He really towered over you—couldn’t even look at him anymore without folding your head back.
His hand found yours first, fingers curling gently as he drew you in. You could feel sparks at the tips of your own—and it hurt. It hurt so much, because all the tension in your body seemed to come crashing down on you all at once and it hurt so much it felt good, somehow.
Then, it snaked around your waist, steady, holding you close. You didn’t quite grasp what was actually happening, you just knew you wanted more, but also anticipated possibly throwing up butterflies any second now.
His body was so unbelievably warm and big—the scope of it so up close was a bit hard to grasp. You feel the outlines of his defined body through his thin sweater and you forgot how to breathe for a second.
His other hand came up to cup your face, gently—so unbelievably gentle, like your skin might crack under anything more; it almost made you cry.
His fingers slipped into your hair, careful, slow. His thumb moved back and forth along your cheek, steady and soft. Tender—and you started wondering when you would have ever described him that way.
You were beginning to understand.
Your initial hesitance vanished into thin air along with the ability to think straight.
And all the what-ifs and maybes that had been crowding your mind melted away the instant he pressed his lips against yours
The sound of your heart pounding mixed with the ringing in your ears; you were certain you were about to die, if it wasn’t for the way he was squeezing your frame against his, like he promised to catch you if you were going to fall.
He was slow. Tentative. Testing the waters, as if silently asking for permission you’d already given him a million times over in your head.
His grip on your waist tightened just slightly, almost accidental—trying so hard to hold back, yet his true immediacy shone through the cracks of his performative reluctance.
He had been just as desperate to do this to you as you had been to have it happen.
You felt the butterflies do their thing again—and it was fucked up how easily he’d given them to you, with something as simple as a kiss and a couple touches entirely unraveling you.
Shivers trickled down your spine at the sensation of him, of it all; his warmth radiating through the fabric of his sweater, his lips moving with your own in a painfully—agonizingly—slow tandem.
Then he pulled back—no more than an inch—your soft, warm breaths mingling in the small space between you. A lazy, faint smile on his face.
“Hey,” he exhaled.
A simple word. It didn’t mean anything, really—but it did. And you understood.
“Hi.” Your voice almost ran out. Airy. Barely even there.
His grin widened, before he leaned back in again. Initially soft and merciful touches turned more intense, intentional; a firmer grip on you, a stronger tug on the back of your head, tangling into the strands of your hair at the nape of your neck.
Your body, your mind, your everything seemed to solely focus in on him. There was nothing more important than this, him kissing you senseless and holding onto you like you were going to disappear if he didn’t.
You felt him grow impatient with each passing moment—pulling your body even closer by the small of your back—and you couldn’t help but notice how large his hand felt there. He angled his head just right to deepen the kiss with natural finesse. He was everywhere—filling all your senses, overwhelming your system in ways you never thought possible.
He smelled of faint hints of tobacco, though he tasted a lot fresher than you’d expected—almost minty in flavour. The mix of cigarettes and mint made for a spicy tingle on your tongue and all you could think about was how it kind of fit the man you were holding onto like a lifeline.
Your hands found the nape of his neck, feeling up the short hairs of his sharp undercut.
You were trying to catch a thought—any thought—at least a single word—but you hadn’t taken a proper breath in nearly half a minute, and it was definitely starting to affect your ability to think clearly.
That he hoisted you up by the underside of your thighs with controlled ease a moment later—not breaking away from you for even a second—did not help in the slightest. He took a few steps somewhere—before your back met the hard surface of the wall behind you.
Your legs comfortably tangled around his waist as he pinned you against it with his hips, hard. The hand previously on your cheek joined the other on your waist, fingers digging into your side, abandoning any idea of slow and tender.
Your own hands traveled beneath his collar, nails dragging across bare skin and if he didn’t have this tattoo you were sure there’d be deep, red scratches there.
Groans rippled through him with every drag of your nails, the sound shooting straight through your stomach. It only seemed to provoke him further—pulling you closer by the arch of your back and pressing you against him, his fingers digging in just enough that you knew you’d feel it the next morning.
The kiss turned messy. There was no sense or rhythm to it, only pure instinct and insatiable hunger for the other. No matter how close he was—how deeply his fingers dug into your skin—you still felt like he couldn’t be further away. You wanted him closer, as close as physically possible and more.
He moved on towards your neck and it was nothing like the faint pecks he’d left there that night a week ago. This was him devouring you, moving right on the edge between pleasure and pain. His kisses stung as he bit them into your skin, likely tainting it with red and blue hues. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, basking in the way your body twitched—your sweet gasps nothing short of music to his ears.
Once he felt like he was done with one place, he’d continue his assault further down along the blank canvas of your skin, leaving only stinging spots behind, before finally returning to your swollen lips, leaving one single, slow and deep kiss.
“Enjin,” you heaved—the first time you were able to take a long breath in a hot minute.
“Mm?” He hummed, leaving lazy pecks on your lips, eyes entirely dazed. Sometimes, he’d move it to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw—just peppering you with gentle kisses, taking his sweet time with it.
His grip on you told a whole different story.
His huge hands encasing more of you than you could have ever expected, pinning you against him with little to no effort, like your weight meant absolutely nothing to him. And why would it? He was easily two times your size, if not more.
“I need—“ kiss. “—more,” another kiss. “Please.”
He pulled back an inch or two, a faint yet devilish smile adorning his face. “More of what, sweetheart?”
His head dipped back into the crook of your neck, lips grazing the newly mark-ridden parts of your skin, leaving a couple more soft kisses along their pattern. “More of this?”
And he was well aware that that was not what you meant. You knew he knew that was not what you had meant—and it was frustrating to no end. The ache between your legs was getting more unbearable by the second. “No—want you to touch me,” you whined. You tried to ease the tension by pulling him closer, shifting your hips against him—every attempt in vain.
He had you pinned securely in place, and there was no adjusting it without his help. Without his permission. “Please, Enjin.”
“I am touching you, baby,” he huffed a breathy laugh, before holding his hand out to you, offering it. “Here. Move it to where you want me, sweetheart.”
You held his gaze for a moment, weighing your options. It hurt your ego to have to admit this to him in such a degrading way—and still, a part of you felt so cared for. Your pride urged you to save face, but given the position you were in, there wasn’t necessarily much ego left to save. If accepting his offer meant getting the itch scratched you so desperately needed attention for, then it was simply what you had to do.
And so—without breaking the eye contac—you took his hand in your own and first guided it down the like of your body and underneath the hem of your shirt. His brow quirked slightly, eyes darkening as it met the plush of the inside of your legs.
Ever so slowly, you moved it a couple inches further in and further up, until his fingers finally met the sole layer of fabric separating you from what you’re asking of him.
The smile that grew on his face was something else.
He shifted, properly supporting your weight on one leg while keeping you steady with a hand snaked around the small of your back. Then, without hurry, he tugged the fabric aside, running his fingers along your sore, wet folds.
His gaze tilted down to where his hand disappeared beneath the fabric of your shirt. “Damn, baby. You’re soaked,” he let his fingers dip into you for nothing more than a couple inches before running them up and down again—tracing you. Memorizing you. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
The sounds that left you would have left you feeling quite embarrassed, if you weren’t so distracted right now. The relief of the friction did a lot to sate your desire for a moment—but you could already feel yourself wanting more.
He seemed to have picked up on it as his fingers moved upwards to solely focus on your wanting and waiting clit. Your eyes shut close at the sudden feeling of him finally giving you what you’d needed, gripping at his shoulders for dear life as if you’d fall if you didn’t and whining his name through broken breaths like a personal mantra.
He hummed. You felt his muscles shift beneath your palms, like his head had tilted upwards—like he was looking at you again. “Yes, pretty girl?”
“S’really good,” you exhaled, opening your eyes only to see Enjin already fully focused on you through your hazed vision.
“I know, baby, I know,” he cooed, corner of his lip faintly quirking upwards. “Wasn’t even gonna do this with you,”—he leaned in, eyes falling to your lips before catching them with his in a short kiss—“was gonna come here and tell you how I feel. Wanted to spend more time with you, ask you out on a nice date, do it right this time—but you,” his eyes met your gaze again—this time, more intense.
His previously tender attention towards your clit turned overwhelming in an instant. The pad of his finger moved a little faster and harder now—each deliberate stroke drawing a sharp, involuntary twitch from your body.
You’d never felt so overstimulated, every sensation heightened to the brink, and yet some reckless part of you was completely, helplessly into it.
Soft whines slipped from your mouth, and if anyone happened to be on the other side of the wall you were pressed against, you were certain they’d be able to hear you.
“Looked up at me all doe eyed like that. Said ‘please’ like that.” His fingers dipped into you without warning, two of them filling you more than two fingers ever should be able to, but, of course, Enjin and his blessed, huge hands, took little to now effort to make you see stars. “This what you wanted , sweetheart?”
“Mm, yes,” you breathed, pure instinct taking over as you pulled him back in by the nape of his neck.
It drove you insane—the way you felt his jaw shift against your palm, the slow graze of his tongue along your bottom lip, the steady curl of his fingers inside you, again and again and again.
“Mm,”—he separated from you for a moment—“s’just for you, baby,”—before leaning back in. His fingers curled inside you again and again, brushing that sensitive spot that made your insides tighten and your skin burn in ways no one had ever made you feel before.
He had something about him—some kind of chemistry that felt entirely unique to Enjin. That towering height, those striking features, paired with his addictive charisma that showed in the way he talked to you—in the way he touched you, kissed you.
It wasn’t demanding in a forceful sense. It was unraveling. It was simple. You were willing to hand yourself over completely—without him ever having to ask. Like some sort of spell.
Without breaking away, his fingers slowly slipped from you ever so slowly, drawing a soft whine from you straight into the kiss. You felt the faint curve of his smile against your lips. Then his hands were on you again, firm and sure as he hoisted you up against him and carried you away from the wall.
The edge of your desk met the backs of your thighs as he eased you onto it with controlled care, settling you against the surface. You felt the edges and corners of the sheets of paper you’d just been working on minutes ago right beneath you, itching and poking at your skin.
With one last, teasing bite to your bottom lip, he pulled back from your kiss-swollen lips with a devilish glint in his eyes.
He lifted his fingers to his mouth—the ones previously teasing you beyond measure—and licked them clean of you without breaking his hazy gaze from you. You could tell he was doing it just to mess with you—and it was working unfortunately well.
Your attention drifted to the thing repeatedly pressing against your inner thigh, and a mix of curiosity and anticipation washed over you.
Given the size of him—his body, his hands, his limbs—you had expected him to be a certain… size. And in a way, he met those expectations. But to feel the bulge of him so intimately pressed against you made it hit you all at once—now that your bodies were pressed close to flush against one another.
This man was big.
Your hand reached towards the hem of his pants, almost instinctively, before his own hand caught yours by the thin of your wrist. Looking back up at him you noticed the corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Not now, pretty girl.”
Your head tilted in response. “Why not?”
“Some other time. Jus’ wanna focus on you today,” he brought your hand within his towards himself, leaving a couple of gentle pecks along the inside of your wrist.
“But what about you?”
“I’ll enjoy you, baby,” he leaned back in, pausing just an inch before, a devilishly charming smirk resting on him. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”
His lips found yours again, trading a few more heated kisses before drifting to the corner of your mouth, along the line of your jaw, and down to your already tender neck.
He roamed your body with no shame, tracing your every line—from the swell of your chest to the plush of your hips. Groping at your sides and circling your waist with his hands, before pushing you backwards for you to lean against the wall behind you, forcing himself between your legs, casually.
His hands found their way between them again, collecting the slick on his fingers, before lazily drawing patterns over your pulsing, sore clit, drawing all sorts of sounds and reactions from you as passively pumped his fingers in and out of you every now and then, like it was just second nature to him.
His kisses trailed downward—past your heaving chest, along the curve of your stomach, across the warmth of your thighs—before his head finally settled between your legs, where he left a mix of teasing love-bites and gentle, lingering pecks on the insides of your thighs.
“You’re very kissable,” he commented from his position on his knees, looking up at you as he guided your legs to rest atop his shoulders.
The sight was charged—this huge man, both in height and breadth, overwhelming in body mass and bearing the authority of the head of your team, kneeling there in front of you. Something about the commanding way he held himself even in that submissive posture.
It didn’t make him any less impressive—or any smaller—in your eyes. If anything, the juxtaposition only made him more magnetic.
He looked fucking hot.
His hair all messed up, lips kiss-swollen, mirroring your own, skin covered in a thin layer of sweat, eyes dazed with pleasure and radiating the sheer power he naturally carried. His brow was quirked ever so slightly, a faint, mischievous smile on his face.
“Is that why you bit my neck raw?” you asked, looking down at him through your own daze, fingers grazing through the short strands of his hair, not much bite in your voice despite your words.
He huffed a laugh, and your heart skipped a beat.
“M’about to do much worse than just eat your neck, babygirl,” he said lowly, his hot breath traveling past the thin skin of your inner thighs, his gaze traveling downwards.
And with that, his tongue dipped through your folds, dragging a slow lick up your heated, pulsing core. Your breath shuddered, your hand gripping at his hair to anchor yourself as he worked you up.
His hands wrapped around your thighs, your feet resting on his shoulders as he pinned you against his face, tongue dragging up and down through your folds and making a point to flick your sensitive, aching clit in the process.
“E–Enjin… ah—s’ so good.”
You felt him suck it into his mouth, toying with it between his lips before letting it go in a wet kiss and continuing his assault. You felt like the meal of a starving man.
He had no shame in the way he was eating you—the sounds he was making, the way he was practically making out with you. What you’d yearned to feel was finally coming true, and your body and mind seemed to sing with the relief he was finally granting you.
He pressed the flat of his tongue against your clit, rhythmically dragging it up and down. His fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, holding you against him as to leave no room for escape—at least not until he was done with you.
This man you’d known to be so indulgent in his own pleasure now shifting his focus entirely onto you left an impact that would haunt you for the rest of your life. No one had ever treated you the way he did, touched you the way he had—made you feel the way he was making you feel.
You’d certainly never experienced anyone going down on you of their own free will—let alone seeming to take pleasure in it themselves.
No man, no less.
And yet, here he was, caging you against him, just in case the pleasure he was giving you became too much to handle—which, judging by the way it was building up, it already was starting to feel that way. He definitely wasn’t letting you go.
The friction drove you crazy, made you feel as though you were floating and falling all at once. You couldn’t decide whether to pull him even closer or push him away, but you knew that everything about him felt so fucking good and something was building up inside of you that only he could unravel.
One of his hands loosened its grip on your thigh, sliding down and around it, before two fingers began pumping into you, curling against the spot Enjin had claimed the moment you had guided his hands between your legs.
“Ah—please don’t stop,” you writhed and you whined, eyes shutting close at the overwhelming feeling of him flooding your senses.
“M’right here, baby,” he breathed against you, before turning his attention back to your puffy clit, fingers deep and curled inside you.
Pleasure twisted into an intoxicating kind of pain—the rare kind that made you ache to explore it even more. It burned, it stung, sharp and sweet all at once, and yet you knew with absolute certainty that if he stopped right now you would shatter into a million miserable pieces.
Without warning, he suckled your clit into his mouth again, flicking his tongue over it as his fingers pumped in and out of you with relentless rhythm. Your legs instinctively clamped around his head, trying to shut out the overwhelming sensation, to push him away—to no avail.
Your body reacted on its own, trying to relieve the strain he was putting on you, but your mind wanted nothing more than to keep him as close as humanly possible.
“M‘ gonna… please… s’so much,” you whimpered, forever torn between pulling him closer and trying to escape.
That only seems to edge him on as he raised the intensity, moving harder and faster in every way imaginable and making you see stars and cry his name like a desperate prayer.
“Enjin—fuck, s‘so good, please-”
Your climax crashed over you, leaving you trembling in the wake of it.
Like the good man he’d proven himself to be, he guided you through it, helping you ride the wave, tracing lazy circles over your clit with his tongue while his fingers moved in slow, languid rhythm. Finally, he pulled back with one last, gentle kiss to your now tender and abused clit.
He slowly rose to his full height, hands flat on the surface of the table, encasing your pleasure-drained body, your torso leaning half against the wall.
“If I had known you taste this good I’d have done this a lot sooner,” he smiled, catching your lips in a kiss you couldn’t resist if you tried.
“Mm,” you replied in a haze, returning the pecks he was giving you and tasing yourself on lips tongue. “Can I return the favor?”
“As much as I’d love to see you try, baby,” he smiles, helping you off the desk as he scoops you into his arms effortlessly, making his way to the bathroom with you. “How about we take a hot shower together and I take you out on a date first?”
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PT2 >>> detergent & sweets
CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE :3
thanks to my amazing beta readers @zukunyy and @imjusttrashignoreme
thanks to my boyfriend who helped me write a service top because he just can
and thanks to @pixopix for the dividers :3
A/N: AND THANK U GUYS FOR READING <333 I’m planning a part 2 to this because I need me so dom Enjin and I’m actually more of a fan of oral m!receiving anyway sooo yeah that’s gonna happen hopefully :3 again, thanks for reading—I’d appreciate a reblog if you liked it ･:*+.\(( °ω° ))/.:+ if you have any requests you can definitely lmk
pls pls im begging u to do some headcannons for souske aizen and also if you can do what he would look for in a partner✌️😭 my life will be all yours
What he looks for in a partner - Aizen Sosuke
Wc: 614 words
Character(s): Aizen Sosuke
Tw: sfw, possessive, aizen sosuke, love language?
Summary: aizen sosuke headcannons yk the typical
A/n: i am SOOO SORRRYYYY it took this long, uni stuff taking my time away but you asked AND I DELIVERD
from: @jintuna
Aizen Headcanons
He is always observing. Always.
He is always on the lookout. Even when he seems relaxed he’s actually studying people—how they talk, how they stand, their habits. You cannot catch him off guard easily. Most of the time he already knows what you’re going to say.
• Soft-spoken menace energy
He rarely raises his voice. If he does, it’s terrifying because it means something has genuinely shifted. Most of the time, he controls situations with calm words and eye contact alone.
• Reads… a lot
Like, library-level consumption. Philosophy, psychology, history, just anything that helps him understand human behavior and power structures.
• He enjoys intellectual teasing
Not in a loud or playful way but more like subtle prodding. He’ll ask questions that make you overthink yourself, then give you that small knowing smile when you realize he’s ten steps ahead.
• Emotionally… complicated
He feels, but processes emotions differently. Instead of reacting outwardly, he internalizes and analyzes them. Love, frustration, attachment, it all gets filtered through logic first.
• Lowkey lonely (but would NEVER admit it)
He separates himself from others because he believes no one truly matches him intellectually or emotionally. That isolation? Self-inflicted, but also something he quietly resents.
• Physical affection is rare but intentional
If he touches you e.g a hand on your shoulder, brushing your hair back, it’s deliberate. Nothing he does is accidental.
• Protective in a quiet way
He won’t hover. But if someone crosses a line with you? They’ll never do it again and they might not even realize why.
What Aizen Looks For in a Partner
This is where i think it gets interesting because imo Aizen is extremely selective.
• Intelligence
Not just “book smart” he wants someone perceptive. Someone who can keep up with him, question him, maybe even surprise him.
• Independence
Clinginess would push him away. He respects someone who has their own identity, goals, and doesn’t revolve entirely around him.
• Calm confidence
Not loud or attention-seeking but someone grounded. The type who doesn’t get easily shaken, even by him.
• Someone who isn’t afraid of him
This is a big one. If you’re intimidated to the point of submission, he’ll lose interest. He wants someone who can look him in the eye and stand their ground. (this is like 50/50, but i like to headcannon aizen loves someone who can talk back)
• Loyalty
He doesn’t want a follower. He wants someone who chooses him, even while seeing all his flaws.
• Patience
Because getting Aizen to open up emotionally? That’s a process. He’s not giving himself away easily.
How He’d Be in Love
• He’d test you at first
Not in a toxic way, but he’d observe how you react under pressure, how consistent you are, how you think.
• Gradual softening
You’d notice things first, he stays in conversations longer remembers tiny details about you seeks you out more often..
• Possessive
He wouldn’t act out openly, but there’s an underlying “you are mine” energy. It shows in how he looks at others around you.
• Rare vulnerability = huge deal
If he ever opens up about his thoughts or past? That’s massive. That’s him trusting you in a way he doesn’t with anyone else.
• He’d choose you consciously
Aizen doesn’t "fall" in love impulsively. He decides. Once he does it’s deep, calculated and hard to break.
“I sat on your lap.” you say, as if presenting evidence.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, you did.”
“You got hard, didn’t you?”
The bluntness would have shattered a lesser man. Hiromi’s jaw tightens. He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit you remember from years ago. The physical act of swallowing words he refuses to let exist.
“You already know that.” he says.
GENRE: alternate universe - modern au;
WARNING/S: r18, angst, explicit, smut, romance, fluff young love, exes to lovers, second chance romance, divorce, toxic relationship, slandering, pet names, complicated, protective, possessiveness, mutual pining, cursing, crossing boundaries rekindled romance, emotional baggage, whirlwind romance, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, reputation, scandal, trauma, smoking, cheating, alcohol, explicit sexual content, naked bodies, office sex, desk sex, oral sex, female receiving oral, fingering, creampie, morning after, p v sex, different sexual positions, rough sex, dominance, praising, dirty talk, size difference, unprotected sex, pregnancy, remarriage, actress! reader, lawyer! higuruma;
WORDS: 16k words.
NOTE: this got delayed yesterday because i didn't think it was okay and now here we are with such a long fic......but thats okay i guess, since today is valentines day anyway. that being the case, i hope everyone has a good valentines day. i have nothing to do and no one to spend it with, but im glad im able to give yall something to make you all have some enjoyment with me!!! anyway, i'll see you for nanami's tomorrow. i love you all!!! happy valentines!!!
main masterlist
if you want to, tip! <3
buono san valentino, 2026;
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” was the first thing he says to you after all these years, and you can’t pretend you didn’t expect it. He has always been brutally honest. Even back then, he had been too quick to strip a moment down to its barest truth, no matter how it cuts. You did not expect anything other than that now.
Even so, the question lands quieter than he means it to, the edges worn rough by disuse. He sounds like a man unused to speaking your name, to shaping words meant only for you. It almost felt like something so foreign to the tongue that mastered it all.
And despite himself, he leans toward the warmth that lingers in your proximity. Once, you had an open door, it was as though spring was waiting on the other side. And it frustrates him to no end. He thought he had left that all behind.
Yet, how wrong he was. For you were just waiting, waiting in what felt like a door sealed for years and years, now forced open all at once with your tender palms, letting that same youthful season rush back into his life whether he wants it or not.
Divorce lawyer Higuruma Hiromi no longer resembles the man who used to fall asleep on open law books and wake with ink smudged across his cheek in your dormitory late Friday night, clumsily whispering what he had learned even in his sleep.
He was the man who argued with every footnote, who treated precedent like holy scripture, and yet, the same man who still let you doodle in the margins of his case files because, he said, the law should remember it was written by human hands.
Hands soft enough, you used to joke, to strangle him gently every night with such passionate conundrums that can rival every argument in the law books. You had giggled at that thought so viciously, almost so innocently, unsure about what he was saying. Yet you were no fool. And neither was he.
Now he looks like a verdict.
And you expected that, too.
Ten years have carved themselves into him.
His tie hangs loose, collar unbuttoned, his body folded into a leather accent chair that probably costs more than your first apartment. You could remember, the one with the flickering kitchen light and the neighbor who played ballads at two in the morning.
The office is dim, lit only by the city bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Tokyo Metropolitan could only hum with humble extravagance beneath you both. The neon blazing, sirens wailing, headlights crawling like arteries carrying the restless.
He looks tired to you. But not the soft kind that invites sympathy. Not the kind you once soothed with cheap takeout and your feet in his lap while he read passages you pretended to understand, pouting as his fingers drifted absently through your hair.
This is a different exhaustion.
The kind that calcifies into bone.
You think in some ways he did not change at all.
You lean against the doorframe like you own the building. As though you had the right to own the night. You stand there daringly, as though the tabloids haven’t spent three weeks dissecting your marriage like carrion birds.
Each and every time, they foolishly, cleverly, disgustingly followed you about. They were picking up the spectacle of your smile, your rings, the way your husband stopped touching you in public months before anyone noticed. You were sure they’re writing about this moment now.
You take a drag of your cigarette, slow and deliberate. "Haven't you heard?” you whisper, blowing the nicotine into the room, a smirk curving your mouth like a blade. “I’m getting divorced.”
The smoke curls between you like a dare. It was like the ghost of every almost-confession you both buried under timing, under unruly, shameless pride. Under the simple cruelty of choosing other people. People who offered advances, advances that Hiromi could not offer to you.
He exhales through his nose, long and measured, as if filing the statement under expected disasters. Of course you would arrive like this. Of course you would burn your life down and come to him for the ashes, to feed it to him until he was choking in it.
“Well, congratulations.” he whispers back, starting to straighten, vertebra by vertebra, as though assembling himself for court. He finally meets your eyes. “What do you want me to do about it, [name]?”
The way he says your name in that flat, careful, tone sends shivers down your spine. It was like evidence he refuses to mishandle words and tones he chooses with intent to underpin the other party. You let the smoke enthrall you whole, for the childish feeling comes and goes, his words land harder than the headlines.
You push off the doorframe. “Well, one simple thing, really.”
He raises a brow, that same precise arc that once dismantled a witness in under three questions. “And that is?”
You step fully into the office, heels silent on polished wood. The city lights catch on your fine gold rings, your glistening watch, the immaculate tailoring of a suit chosen to look effortless and cost a fortune. Armor, tailored. War paint in neutral tones, the red lipstick sharper than anything man had ever known.
“Settle my divorce.” you whisper, mirth flickering in your eyes like something dangerously close to relief. “And destroy my husband.”
Silence.
A long, echoing, courtroom kind of silence echoes in the room. The kind where truth stands up slowly, adjusts its cuffs, and prepares to ruin everyone and everything in its path. His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps.
“……Are you fucking kidding me?”
The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it. Almost too bright and unrestrained Something that sounded more reckless than a confession to a murder. But you were certain that it was more authentic than anything you had let out in these ten years.
You think that you had portrayed so many people that you found yourself unsure what sort of laugh you truly had now. And it would seem that this is all that was left. After playing the part of a happy wife, there was nothing left but this. This grating, irritating, disgusting guttural laugh of a pitiful woman like you.
You cross to his desk, set the cigarette into his ash bowl like you’ve done it a thousand times before. He watches your every move, eyes dilated. It was like the years between never existed, Everything about it felt like muscle memory to you.
In that instant, it was as if it could resurrect entire versions of yourselves that never got to live, versions of yourselves that had long been forgotten. Yet it did not come naturally. Instead, it came in a cage. Before he can move, you close the distance and sit squarely on his lap.
His entire body goes rigid.
Not with desire.
At least not yet.
With restraint.
“[name], this is—”
“Why not?” you murmur, fingers sliding up his tie, smoothing the crooked knot, the gesture intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin. “Can't the best divorce lawyer get me out of this trouble?”
His massive hands, those massive familiar hands that were once all over you, now hover in the air beside you, suspended between instinct and refusal. Almost as though he’s forgotten what they’re for.
Almost like the law has finally presented him with a case he cannot argue without perjuring his own heart. Almost like the act of touching you is a crime he’s already been convicted of, and a crime he cannot know if he wants to flee or stay for.
His voice, when it comes, is lower. Far too careful for its own good. “You don’t need a lawyer to destroy your husband.” he says to you. “You married him, you were with him for ten years. Certainly as his wife, you already know where he’s weakest.”
A beat.
A frown.
He expected that.
“And you…..” he adds, eyes searching yours with a precision that used to feel like safety. “You don’t come to me unless you’re already bleeding.”
Your smile falters, just for a second. A crack in the verdict. “Do you find that insulting?”
“No.” He says far too quickly than he should. “I find it foolish. But then again, foolish decisions are the antithesis of the better.”
He still hasn’t touched you.
And that, somehow, is the most intimate thing of all.
Your fingers remain at his tie, smoothing a crease that no longer exists. A nervous habit masquerading as control. Up close, you can see the faint shadow along his jaw where he forgot to shave, the tiny scar near his chin from the time he slipped on courthouse steps during a downpour and laughed while you scolded him for bleeding on legal documents.
He doesn’t laugh anymore.
At least not as he used to.
Not to you, most especially.
“Get off.” he says quietly.
Not harsh.
Not pleading.
Judicial.
You tilt your head, studying him like you’re trying to remember the exact moment he stopped being yours to ruin. “You used to like it when I ignored your instructions.” you murmur.
His eyes flicker somewhere. Not to your mouth, not to your hands but to the window behind you, to the city lights smeared across the glass like fingerprints. He’s looking for distance. For precedent. For anything that isn’t you, warm and breathing and sitting in his lap like a closing argument he cannot object to.
“That was before you decided to marry up for the contacts.”
There it is.
Not jealousy. Not accusation.
A fact entered into record.
“I told you that was my managers—”
“Well certainly you still did it.” he whispers to you, his eyes intently away from you. “Just because you did it with someone else’s intentions, does not mean it was not your actions.”
You inhale, slow. The cigarette smoke clinging to your hair mixes with the clean, dry scent of his office. paper, leather, something faintly medicinal. He has built a life that does not require you. You can feel it in the geometry of the room. Everything was too precise, too deliberate, ever so impersonal.
And yet you are here.
On his lap, like you used to be.
Disrupting the symmetry.
“Still….I didn’t come here for nostalgia.” you say.
“Good to know.” he replies. “because i don’t practice it.”
But his hands are still hovering.
Not pushing you away.
Not pulling you closer.
Waiting for a ruling.
You lean in just enough that your forehead almost touches his. Your voice drops, stripped of performance. “He’s going to bury me.”
The confession lands between you like broken glass. You feel it in the way his breath changes. It was a quiet hitch, quickly suppressed. In the way his fingers curl slightly, like muscle memory trying to remember the shape of your waist and stopping just short of treason.
“Financially?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No, he can’t steal my money. That’s secure, in some way.”
“Then in what way?”
“Reputation. Custody of everything, of my pets. Everything that can’t be itemized.” you say to him. “And….you know that he’s a big shot in the industry. He’s going to make sure I never get roles or work again.”
His eyes sharpen. The lawyer is back now. At that moment, you were not with a man. You were with a sphinx. This version of him is dangerous in a different way. He was focused and surgical, merciless to systems and the people who weaponize them against everyone else. He knew best how to do it. You know that too well.
“Did he hit you?” he asks.
The question is so blunt it knocks the air from your lungs. “No.”
A pause.
“He didn’t have to.” you whisper, your eyes lowering. “He can’t use me if he breaks my face.”
Something in his expression fractures. At least not outwardly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you see it. You’ve always seen the microcracks first. The tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way his molars press together when he’s holding back fury that has nowhere to go.
His hands finally move.
At least not to hold you.
To grip the arms of the chair.
Control, reasserted.
“Get off my lap, [name].” he says again, softer now. “Go on and sit like a client.”
You search his face for a trace of the man who once let you steal his fries and his sleep and his carefully constructed boundaries. You find him. He’s the one refusing to touch you. You pursed your lips in a tight line.
Slowly, you slide off his lap. The loss of contact is immediate, a draft where warmth used to be. You take the chair across from him, almost like a stranger in that client’s chair. A little further, a little lower. Deliberately so. The distance is obscene.
He adjusts his tie where you smoothed it, fingers lingering for half a second too long. He was starting to reset. No, he was certainly doing more than that. He was armoring. “Go on and start from the beginning.”
You almost laugh. There are too many beginnings. The first lie. The first headline. The first time your husband introduced you as if you were an acquisition. The first time you realized love, in his hands, was a transaction with better lighting on the sound stage.
Hiromi Higuruma listened to the details of your life he had not been privy of with focus. He tried to settle himself in that role of an outsider, as a lawyer and not that man he was. Not the man he still was who gets angry, emotionally overblown when it comes to you.
“He filed first.” you say to him, a second cigarette now on your lips. “It was a sealed motion. Allegations I can’t respond to without violating the injunction.”
His brows knit. "On what grounds?”
“Irreconcilable differences, apparently.” you say, a humorless smile ghosting your mouth. “And with such audacity, moral instability.”
Silence once more.
He sits more straight.
Then, very quietly, he repeats it.
“Moral instability.”
You nod. “Yes.”
“He has photos. Messages taken out of context. Staff willing to testify to things they were paid to misunderstand.” Your fingers lace together in your lap to stop them from shaking. “He’s building a narrative against me. I’m the unfaithful, erratic wife. He’s the patient, dignified husband forced to protect his legacy.”
“And the truth?” he asks.
You hold his gaze.
“I was lonely and I was isolated.” you say with such a morose look. “And he knew it. He orchestrated it… No one could be my friend, or my confidant unless he approved of them. How could I….I could be the one at fault if he’s doing this to me?”
The admission sits heavy in the room. Not infidelity. Not denial. Just the small, devastating truth of neglect. His jaw flexes again. This time he doesn’t look away. “Do you want to win this case?” he asks softly. “Or do you want to survive?”
The question startles you. “Aren’t they the same?”
“No.” His voice is iron. “Winning is a spectacle. Surviving is silence. The law can give you one, it takes good framing. But of course, your choices determine the other.”
Outside, Tokyo Metropolitan’s lights flicker as if the city itself is holding its breath. You lean back in the chair, studying the man across from you as smoke releases from your lips. This was the one you didn’t choose, the one you left, the one who still looks at you like you are both evidence and wounded.
“I want him to never do this to anyone again.” you say to him more honestly. “For him to pay for every bit of those ten years.”
You did not beat around the bush. You said something colder. Something far more cleaner in the dirt you surround yourself with. His eyes soften even more, perhaps just a fraction. But it was echoing with approval. Still every bit of him seemed reluctant. Yet ever so ready to be dangerous.
“Then we don’t destroy him.” he says in reply. “Instead, we document him.”
“Document him?”
“You have the money to drag it along. Why not? Let's make the truth so boringly precise…..” he adds as he narrows his gaze. “That no one can look away.”
Your throat tightens. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone to believe you without spectacle. “Does this mean….you’ll take the case?” you ask.
He studies you for a long moment. He was not searching for who you were, but measuring who you’ve become against the cost of letting you stand here again. Many things rush in his head, things he could not comprehend yet, things that he cannot say yet. But he does not move. Nor does he speak.
The office is too quiet once more. Even the city feels distant, muffled by glass and altitude. He looks at you like a man standing at the edge of a familiar cliff, aware of exactly how far the fall goes because he survived it once.
“There are a dozen reasons to refuse you.” he says at last.
Your chest tightens, but you hold his gaze. “And?”
His jaw shifts. “None of them change the outcome.”
You don’t breathe. “Is that so?”
“This is a conflict of interest, between us.” he says.
Your stomach drops anyway. The words are procedural, expected and still they land like loss. “Then—”
He doesn’t look away. “I have prior…involvement.”
Your laugh comes out thin. “We dated in our twenties, Hiromi. You’re not going to lose your license over bad timing and worse decisions.”
“That’s not the involvement I’m referring to.”
The air changes. Perhaps not in the way you would have expected. It came so quietly. There was nothing dramatic about it. There was no thunderclap, no cinematic revelation. Instead, it was just a subtle pressure shift, like a courtroom before a verdict is read.
You go very still. He wasn’t talking about who you used to be to each other. He’s talking about the way his voice lowers when he says your name. About how his hands refused to touch you, certainly not because he didn’t want to, but because he did.
Hiromi cannot let it be. He lets it fester, especially about the fact that you came here first, before the statements, before the damage control, before the world could tell you what your marriage was worth. Your pulse trips over itself.
“Are you refusing me?” you ask, quieter now.
He leans forward, forearms resting on the desk. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows, the one that only appears when he’s choosing restraint over instinct.
“No, not really.” he says. “I’m…merely setting terms.”
“Terms?” you repeat, tasting the word.
His gaze flicks briefly to your left hand. Your expensive ring is still there, still gleaming under city light like a lie with excellent marketing. Then it lifts and returns to your eyes. You could feel your heart skip a beat.
“If I take this case, [name]...you know what I’ll do.” he says, each word placed with deliberate care, “I will dismantle him. Methodically. Publicly if necessary. There will be no ambiguity when it’s over. No narrative he can hide behind.”
The promise is not cruel.
It is precise.
It was why he was good.
“And when it’s done….” he continues, softer now, “There will be nothing left tying you to him. Not legally. Not socially. Not in the quiet spaces where people pretend vows still echo.”
Your throat tightens. “I know.”
“But you don’t walk out of that clean.” he adds.
You blink. “What?”
His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.“You don’t get to burn your life down and pretend you’re untouched by the smoke. If I do this, you lose the version of yourself that survived by smiling beside him. You lose the safety of being misunderstood.”
A pause.
“And you don’t come back here….” he finishes quietly to you. “Unless you’re prepared for the possibility that I will ask for something you can’t litigate.”
The words settle between you, heavier than any threat could be. It is not a threat. But it certainly wasn't a confession either. It’s a door that was closed, but not locked. It was with the understanding that opening it will cost you both the illusion of restraint.
“I sat on your lap.” you say, as if presenting evidence.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, you did.”
“You got hard, didn’t you?”
The bluntness would have shattered a lesser man. Hiromi’s jaw tightens. He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit you remember from years ago. The physical act of swallowing words he refuses to let exist.
“You already know that.” he says.
No denial.
No apology.
Just a fact.
You turn away first, not in retreat but in consideration, letting the cigarette die in the porcelain ashtray. The ember collapses inward, a soft surrender. Smoke curls up, thin and fading, like the last excuse either of you had.
When you face him again, you don’t return to the client’s chair.
You close the distance.
Slowly at first.
More animalistic now.
More deliberately.
You kneel in front of him. Not submission, not performance, but proximity stripped of pretense. The city light spills across the polished floor, catches in your hair, turns your eyes bright in a way he hasn’t seen in years. Not since before careful smiles and strategic silences replaced whatever this was.
Hiromi’s throat tightens. You see it in the movement of his swallow, in the way his fingers flex once against the arm of the chair before going still again, as if he’s afraid of what they’ll do if he lets them move.
“I thought about finding you again.” you say softly. “Years ago. Even when I was married.”
The admission lands like a dropped glass. It was not loud, but irreversible. His brow furrows. “Was I meant to be your secret, then?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. Never that.”
Your lips curve. Perhaps not into a smirk, not into cruelty but into something tired and honest. “You would’ve been as visible as his mistress.” you say. “An open scandal. No shadows to hide in.”
He exhales, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Then why didn’t you?”
You look down at your hands, at the faint tremor you can no longer disguise as poise. “Because I wanted to believe I was better than him….That if I stayed, endured, kept choosing the respectable ruin, I could pretend I took the higher ground.”
Silence stretches between you.
Not empty nor was it depraved.
Instead, it was full of the lives you didn’t live.
“But I’m lucky, aren’t I?” you add, lifting your gaze back to him. “Now I don’t have to pretend.”
Your hands come to rest lightly against his thighs. You were not grasping, not pulling. Your palms were simply there, the contact almost formal in its restraint. You feel the tension in him, coiled and controlled, the rigid discipline of a man who has built his entire life on not reaching for what he wants.
“And besides….you know I’m no good.” you smiled at him. “But still….you want me anyway.”
“[name], you shouldn’t—” he begins.
You huff a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. Your other hand settles opposite the first, mirroring the contact, a balance he cannot misinterpret as accidental. “Let me make it up to you, Hiromi. Let me love you.”
Hiromi’s hot breath catches in his throat as your hands settle on his thighs. The contact is light, almost innocent, but the implications are anything but. He swallows hard, his eyes locked on yours as he tries to process your words.
"You don't know what you're offering to me, [name]." he says hoarsely. "What I want from you." His hands twitch, hovering just above your shoulders as if he's fighting the urge to pull you closer.
"I've waited too long for this. If we start down this path, I won't be gentle. I won't hold back." He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'll take everything you're willing to give and then some. Are you sure this is what you want?"
His voice is low and intense, filled with a hunger that has been building for years. You could feel your heart beating harder and harder against your chest second by second. You meet his gaze steadily, your own eyes filled with a determination that matches his intensity.
"I'm sure." you say quietly to the man you left ten years ago. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. "You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his as you speak. "Take me, Hiromi. Take everything I have to offer. I'm yours."
Your words are like a match to gasoline, igniting the desire that has been simmering between you for so long. Higuruma Hiromi's control snaps. With a growl, he pulls you onto his lap, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he kisses you with a ferocity that steals your breath.
He stands abruptly, lifting you easily as if you weigh nothing. He carries you to his desk, sweeping the papers and books onto the floor with a single swipe of his arm. He sets you down on the edge of the desk, stepping between your legs as he continues to ravage your mouth with kisses.
Hiromi’s big hands roam over your body, squeezing and kneading your flesh through the fabric of your clothes. He tugs impatiently at your shirt, popping buttons in his haste to bare your skin to his hungry gaze.
He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the swell of your breasts, his tongue darting out to taste the soft skin. His fingers hook into the waistband of your dress skirt, pushing it up around your hips as he steps closer, pressing his hardness against your core.
You can feel the heat of him even through the layers of clothing, and it sends a shiver down your spine. Hiromi’s cold lips trail up your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. He finds a particularly tender spot and bites down hard enough to leave a mark.
"You’ve decided but I decided on something too…." he growls against your flesh. "The only payment I’m taking is you.”
Your eyes widen at his words, a mixture of shock and arousal coursing through you. A while ago he was ruminating with the past, with the spring of your youths and the distance that was left behind. Yet it was as if the door had been fully opened.
The implication is clear.
He's not interested in money or any other form of payment. The only thing he wants is you. After a decade, it was still you he wanted. Even when you had abandoned him and made his life a misery and lonely desert, he still wants you to blossom in it.
Your heart races as you consider the implications. This is more than just a one-night stand or a fleeting affair, you were aware of this. This is Higurama Hiromi, your ex-boyfriend, the lawyer you just acquired to defend you in your divorce, was now claiming you as his own, demanding your complete surrender.
"And if I refuse?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Hiromi chuckles darkly, his hand sliding up your thigh and beneath your dress skirt. "Then I'll just have to convince you otherwise." he says, his fingers brushing against the lace of your panties. "I can be very persuasive when I want to be. And I want you. More than anything."
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them aside as he seeks out your most intimate flesh. You couldn’t help but release a gasp as he finds your clit, circling it with a gentle touch that sends shockwaves of pleasure through you.
"See how wet you are for me already?" he murmurs to you. "Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind is still resisting." He slips a finger inside you, pumping slowly as his thumb continues to tease your clit. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me to take you right here on my desk. I need to hear you say it."
His voice is low and commanding, leaving no room for doubt. He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants, not until he hears the words from your own lips. He has waited for so long for spring to come. He was not going to let it go.
You bite your lip, torn between desire and hesitation. The rational part of your mind screams at you to stop this, to push him away and walk out the door. But the ache between your legs is impossible to ignore, and the way he's touching you feels too good to resist.
"I...I want it…I want you." you whisper finally, your voice barely audible. "I want you to take me. Right here. Right now."
As soon as the words leave your lips, Higuruma Hiromi's control snaps in its entirety. With a growl, he lifts you onto his desk, sweeping the remaining court documents, other papers and all those law books onto the floor with a single swipe of his arm.
Higuruma Hiromi doesn't hesitate. He lowers his body, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them further apart. He leans in without hesitation, his breath hot against your core as he inhales deeply.
"You smell so fucking good, you always have." he murmurs to you. "I bet you still taste the same."
He doesn't wait for a response before burying his face between your legs. His tongue slicks through your folds, teasing and tasting as he explores every inch of you. He finds your clit and sucks it into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud in a way that makes you see stars.
Your hands all but fly to his darkened hair, gripping tightly as you grind against his face, chasing the pleasure he's giving you. Hiromi’s masterful tongue delves deeper, the nostalgia of pleasure hitting you as you scream.
He keeps plunging into your entrance as he fucks you with his mouth. His hands grip your ass, lifting you closer to his face as he devours you. He can feel you getting closer, your walls fluttering around his tongue as he pushes you towards the edge.
He pulls back suddenly, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. "Come for me, [name]."he commands. "Come on my tongue like a good girl."
He expertly dives back in, his tongue circling your clit rapidly as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head. It only takes a few more strokes before you're crying out his name, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Higuruma Hiromi doesn't let up, continuing to lick and suck through your climax until you're a trembling, boneless mess on his desk.
You do not remember much after that.
But you knew that you felt good, far too good.
You hadn’t felt like this in a long time.
WHEN YOU WAKE, IT ISN’T BECAUSE OF THE SUNLIGHT GLEAMING IN. It’s to the low murmur of a voice you know by muscle memory. For a moment, you don’t move. Your body is warm everywhere, especially down there where his cum dwelled ceaselessly.
It was still heavy with sleep everywhere, with the dull, satisfying ache of muscles used and reused, with the unfamiliar safety of not being alone when you open your eyes. The air smells faintly of tobacco and paper and the ghost of your perfume clinging to borrowed cotton.
You’re wrapped in a blanket. Not tucked. You were fully wrapped, securely. With intention to keep you comfortable. Beneath it, a long dress shirt drapes over your skin, the fabric soft from years of laundering, the cuffs hanging past your wrists. It smells like him in a way cologne never could. The starch, smoke, and something clean and dry, like old books and winter air.
You are naked underneath.
The realization arrives without panic.
Only memory.
Dawn, filtered through half-closed blinds. His name in your mouth is like a verdict you chose.The way restraint finally broke, not with the ardent violence that could have been, but with the quiet, tender inevitability of something deferred too long.
You turn your head.
Hiromi Higuruma sits at his desk, backlit by the pale gray of early morning leaking into the city. His upper body is bare, dress shirt discarded somewhere out of sight, tie gone, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. A cigarette rests between his lips, forgotten more often than smoked, its ash grown long and precarious.
He looks like he hasn’t slept.
Not in the frantic, unraveling way you’ve seen in tabloids and courtrooms, but in the deliberate stillness of a man who chose wakefulness over vulnerability. The kind of sleeplessness that comes from watching the shape of a life shift in real time and refusing to blink.
“…No, we have to do it immediately.” he says into the landline, voice even. “Go and file the response by noon. We’re not contesting jurisdiction and I am not arguing more about something ridiculous.”
A pause. He listens, eyes flicking briefly toward you. Somehow not surprised to find you awake, as if he’s been aware of every shift in your breathing. He takes a moment to look at you, taking in the sight of you before he ends up talking back to the other line.
“No, that’s not important.” he repeats, quieter. “And there will not be a statement. That’s not advised right now. That’s it. Yeah.”
Your chest tightens.
Not she.
Not the client.
Not your name.
Just a boundary placed between you and the world.
He exhales, finally taking a drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before dimming again. Smoke curls upward, dissolving into the dim office air. You find how perfect this sight of him was. How focused he was about his craft, about your business. It made you feel something wanton.
“…Because there is nothing to clarify about it.” he says into the receiver. “The filings will speak for themselves, as they usually do. Fine, yes. Goodbye.”
He hangs up with a soft click. Silence returns in the room. Yet this time, it was not empty. But rather it was dense. Delicately layered with everything that happened between midnight and dawn, everything that still hasn’t been said.
You push yourself up slightly, the blanket slipping enough to reveal your shoulder. The shirt shifts against your skin, cool where it’s lost your warmth. He notices. You can tell by the way his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before he deliberately looks back at the paperwork in front of him. Restraint, reassembled.
“You’re up.” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is rougher than usual, worn at the edges.
“You didn’t sleep.” you reply.
He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray without looking. “I had calls to make.”
You study him more closely. You could tell the tension in his shoulders, the faint marks at his collarbone you don’t remember leaving but know you must have, the way he sits perfectly straight despite the hour, as if posture alone can impose order on what you’ve done.
“What time is it?” you ask.
“Six twenty-three.”
Too early for the world. Too late to pretend this was a dream. The realization settles over you with the slow certainty of daylight creeping through the blinds. The thin, pale bands stretching across the floor, the couch, the edge of his desk. Morning makes everything real. Night allows for ambiguity. The morning files it into record.
You gather the blanket closer, the wool warm but not warm enough to quiet the awareness of bare skin beneath borrowed fabric. His long shirt hangs loosely on your frame, the hem brushing your thighs, cuffs swallowing your hands.
It smells like starch and smoke and something unmistakably him, a scent that feels more intimate than anything that happened before dawn. You could feel nostalgic, remembering when you were much younger. How he would always smell so good, full of smoke and old oak scent.
Daylight makes you aware of the consequences.
Everything about you two is easily fractured.
You hadn’t realized how fragile this quiet is.
But then again, you had left him to boost your career.
Everything about this is going to be fragile.
“You covered me, huh?” you say.
Your voice is soft, rough with sleep, carrying across the immaculate stillness of the office. Shelves of case files stand in perfect order. The city hums faintly beyond glass. Everything here is controlled, except the space between you.
“Cleaned me a bit…” You attempt a smile that doesn’t quite land. Honesty has made a habit of slipping past your defenses in this room. “But not down there—”
The words hover, intimate and absurd in equal measure. Across the room, Higuruma Hiromi stills. It’s subtle to you. The pause of ink on paper, the faint tightening along his shoulders. But you’ve always noticed the small fractures in his composure. His pen hovers over the document as if the next word suddenly requires more care than the law usually demands.
“I was still inside for quite a while.” he says.
The statement is delivered in the same tone he uses to cite statute. Every bit of it is factual, unembellished, yet just as much impossible to misinterpret. You could feel your ears turn red. He sets the pen down with deliberate precision.
“I didn’t have the heart to see my hard work disappear.”
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. It is the closest thing to humor he’s allowed this morning. It is also not entirely humor. Heat rises beneath your skin. Not embarrassment, not shame, but the quiet recognition of care expressed in a language that borders on claim and stops, deliberately, at respect.
He finally looks up. There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones, barely visible in the cool morning light. The cigarette in the ashtray has burned itself into a thin column of ash, forgotten mid-thought.
“You were asleep for a while, though,” he adds, quieter now. “You looked…peaceful.”
The word sits strangely in the air, as if it does not belong to a room built for litigation and controlled ruin. It sounds unfamiliar in his mouth, like something he rarely permits himself to witness, let alone protect.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
Outside, the city continues its orderly ascent into the day. The morning trains gliding into stations on the minute, crosswalk chimes repeating their polite insistence, the low murmur of a million lives resuming their scheduled negotiations. Tokyo does not pause for private upheavals. It absorbs them, files them away, moves on.
Inside, your chest tightens with the weight of what he’s admitting without saying. He chose to let the night remain intact. He chose not to erase you from it. And more than ever, he wants more of it. Not wholly in the reckless, devouring way of midnight, but in the dangerous quiet of morning, where wanting becomes a decision.
Your fingers tighten on the blanket, knuckles whitening beneath the wool. “You could have woken me up and sent me on my way, Hiromi.” you say again. “My driver is downstairs.”
The reminder lands between you like a line drawn in chalk: escape is available. Logistics are intact. The world you built, the one with schedules, staff, and careful exits, is still waiting at the curb. You were certain you even had a schedule to fulfill today.
His gaze lifts to you, steady, searching. Not pleading. Not apologizing. Simply present. “Dl Yes.” he says. “He is.”
Not was. Not might be. He knows. Of course he knows. He noticed the car idling before dawn, the silhouette in the front seat, the quiet discipline of a driver trained not to ask questions. He leans back slightly in his chair, the movement measured, buying himself distance without retreat.
“I could have woken you, like I used to do, when you had auditions.” he continues. “Ensured you left before the building filled. Before anyone could speculate. Before this became… complicated.”
A pause.
“I did not.”
The admission settles into the room like dust in sunlight, still visible, yet so inescapable. You swallow. “Why?”
He studies you for a long moment, as if weighing which truth will do the least damage and finding none that qualify.
“Because you were not a problem to be managed.” he says at last. “You were someone who finally stopped running…At least that’s how I took last night.”
The words land somewhere deep.
You were bypassing your practiced defenses.
Outside, a train departs. Inside, you feel very still.
“And…I know you would have left and discarded it.” he adds, voice lower now. “Sending you away would have made it easier to pretend this was a lapse.”
The words settle into the space between you. It was not accusatory, nor was it pleading. The way you heard it, you think it was simply a truth he has carried long enough to recognize on sight. Many things can be real at the same time. He will see the truth differently from you, most of all because you were sure you had jaded him as much as his profession had.
You purse your lips, the instinct to deflect rising like muscle memory. “You wanted to cage me.”
His gaze holds yours, steady and unflinching. “You caged me first, sweetheart.” he says.
“I know.” you whisper, wanting to look away in shame.
No heat. No bitterness. Just facts laid bare. “You did so ten years ago. And I still am now. What do you think I feel?”
The question lands harder than any raised voice could. The city hums beyond the glass, indifferent. Inside, the air feels thinner, as if honesty has displaced the oxygen. You open your mouth. You wanted to argue, to dismiss his words, to reach for the practiced defenses that built your life and find none of them fit.
“I know and I just—” Your breath catches.
It was not a lapse. You couldn’t even call it an accident. Not even a moment of weakness you could file under is regrettable but necessary. His eyes do not leave yours. He is not rescuing you from the sentence. He is waiting to see if you will finish it.
Your throat tightens. “It wasn’t.” you try again, softer now. “And that’s the problem.”
The admission changes the shape of the room. His shoulders ease at your words. Perhaps not even in victory, but in recognition. As if a tension he’s held for a decade has finally been named aloud. You think you hold your breath for a long time, transfixed in his gaze.
“You think I wanted to cage you.” he says quietly. “I wanted you to choose me.”
The simplicity of it steals the air from your lungs. So plain and so simple. The boring truth you thought to yourself long ago could not be enough. That safety you had risked for this starlight on the stage. Yet they were words you think you were more fond of hearing now.
“I did choose you.” you whisper. “Once.”
“Yes, you did.” he says to you, as you find yourself standing to move towards him. “And then you chose a life that required you not to. After all, the glamor was tempting, wasn’t it?”
Your fingers curl against the edge of his desk. “You think I didn’t feel it? Walking away like I’d amputated something and calling it maturity?”
His jaw tightens. “I thought you were relieved to see your dreams come true.”
The words are so quiet you almost miss them. You stare at him. “Relieved?”
“You didn’t look back,” he says. “Not once.”
Because if you had, you might have stayed.
Because if you had, you might have ruined him.
Because if you had, you might have ruined yourself.
Both of you would have been miserable, you think.
“I couldn’t.” you say, the truth scraping on its way out. “If I looked back, I would have run. Because I would have been miserable….if I didn’t get to enjoy the life I lived—”
“I know.” Hiromi affirms your words as you stand before him, his clothes pooling over you, hiding nothing but the upper half of your body. He lifts your head, your chin tight in his fingers. You were forced to meet his eyes.
“But now you don’t have that excuse.” He speaks to you, a small smile on his lips.
“No, no…I do not.”
YOU DON’T SEE HIGURUMA HIROMI FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS. But he doesn’t disappear at all like he did many years ago. Instead, he takes the time to tell you about many things happening with the divorce proceedings.
He updates you thoroughly, yet all the while still finding it to be brief and concise, polished to the point that you wonder if he’s talking to you more like a client and not the person he seems to be infatuated with. He sent at odd hours, the kind that suggest he drafted them between hearings or long after the office emptied.
Filed motion to expedite proceedings.
Opposing counsel acknowledged receipt.
Estimated timeline shortened by two weeks.
No emojis. No pleasantries. No mention of that night.
You appreciate it more than you can say. The efficiency. The care hidden inside professional language. He’s using his reputation, his firm, his time to make this easier for you in a quieter, faster, cleaner way. A kindness disguised as procedure.
You type thank you more times than you send it.
Because what are you supposed to say to a man whose life you walked out of once, a decade ago, in pursuit of a future you weren’t sure would love you back? What do you say to the man you reappeared before, all the sudden, so desperate and distressed, asking for help dissolving a marriage you built in the aftermath of leaving him?
What do you say to the man you slept with in his office, as if ten years had folded in on themselves, as if the versions of you that never happened were trying, briefly, to exist? And worst of all, what do you say after confessing the things you should have told him ten years ago?
That you were terrified of staying.
That you loved him in a way that made you feel small and enormous at once.
That you chose your dreams not because they mattered more but because you were afraid you would disappear if you didn’t try.
You had watched the words land in his silence, heavy and irreversible. Now there are only his messages. Far too efficient and distant for your liking. But you supposed it was your karma now. You did break up with him.
Work fills the space where he used to be. You went ahead with a coffee in your hand to the early call times, ate some good instant ramen at the late-night shoots, the mechanical repetition of lines you’ve said so often they no longer feel like yours while drinking bourbon.
Wardrobe racks being brought to your trailer, the beam of the harsh lighting on your skin, the directors and staff calling your name. You move from film set to soundstage, from one role to the next, slipping into other lives so you don’t have to sit too long with your own.
It’s easier that way. On set, you are decisive, luminous, untouchable. You hit your marks. You deliver tears on cue. You fall in love with co-stars beneath artificial rain and forget them the moment the director calls cut.
No one here knows that your phone lights up with legal updates from the man you once almost built a life with. No one here sees you stare at his name until the screen goes dark. No one knows that you are starting to become more fond of him again.
It’s easier than thinking about the last time you saw him. His office lights dimmed, case files pushed aside, the city lights glowing through the windows behind him. Easier than remembering how his hands hesitated before touching you, like he was already bracing for the consequences. Easier than the quiet afterward, when neither of you said what you were both thinking to each other.
This changes everything.
But the world doesn’t stop for complicated feelings. Contracts are signed. Scenes are shot. Your manager reminds you of schedules. Your lawyer reminds you of dates. You could feel your phone buzzing from your trailer table again.
Court confirmed hearing date.
You stare at the message for a long time. The sound behind you disappears into nothing. You try your best to think of something. All the sudden your heart skips a beat. Your thumbs hover over the screen, the cursor blinking in the empty reply field like a pulse.
You type: Thank you for doing this.
Delete.
You type: I’m sorry.
Delete.
You type nothing.
You groan aloud, frustrated.
“You okay, [last name]–san?”
You looked up, feeling a bit embarrassed being caught in the moment. “Y–yes….I’m fine. Just some updates on the divorce.”
“Oh, that’s right!” The staff gasped. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you, [last name]–san. It’s really rough to leave a marriage that lasted that long.”
Not really. You think to yourself. I already slept with my ex turned divorce lawyer….
“Uh…thank you.”
Before long the days passed.
The weather changed.
All of a sudden, you were in court.
The courthouse looms ahead in stark gray, all sharp lines and unforgiving symmetry. You arrive early, sunglasses on. You don’t do it for the press, even when they get your best side of the face in the shot. Instead, you do it for the illusion of distance.
Your heels echo against the marble floors as you step inside, each click too loud in the cavernous lobby. First hearing. Divorce proceedings. Routine, procedural, impersonal. You tell yourself that’s all it is. You can get through this.
And then you see him.
He stands near the courtroom doors, dark suit immaculate, posture straight in that way that always made him seem taller than he is. Higuruma Hiromi looks exactly as he always does in court.
He looked handsome in his suit, standing with severe composure. But you notice the details no one else would: the faint crease between his brows, the way his fingers tighten around the folder in his hand, the fraction of a second he freezes when his eyes meet yours.
It’s the first time you’ve seen him since that night.
For a moment, the courthouse noise fades. The murmur of other cases, the shuffle of papers, the distant echo of a gavel. There is only the space between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You wonder if he regrets it. You wonder if you do.
He inclines his head in a small, formal greeting, the kind reserved for colleagues and opposing counsel. Not for someone whose name he whispered like a confession just days ago.
“Good morning.” he says, voice even with professionalism.
Your throat tightens anyway. “Good morning.” you reply, matching his tone.
You compose yourself as he does. You know that the courtroom doors are opening and the world is watching, and whatever you were in his office cannot exist here. Not for anyone else, not for the press and not even for him. Not today.
He steps closer, stopping at a careful, neutral distance. But it was close enough to speak without raising his voice, far enough that no one could mistake the interaction for anything but legal. You found your lips in a tight line.
“What is it?”
“I received confirmation from the clerk.” he says, eyes flicking briefly to the folder before returning to you. “The judge assigned is known for efficiency. If both parties remain cooperative, this should proceed without delay.”
You nod. “That’s…good.”
A pause. He studies you for a fraction too long, gaze softening in a way that would be imperceptible to anyone else. “You look tired.” he says quietly, then, as if catching himself, adds, “Filming schedule?”
You almost laugh at the awkward correction. “Something like that.”
Another pause stretches between you both, something so thin and fragile. You see him taking a breath as he nodded. “I hope you get some rest soon then.”
“I hope this ends and settles itself, so I can get some rest.”
“I reviewed the financial disclosures. You were not lying.” he continues, voice returning to its measured cadence. “There are no irregularities. Your interests are protected.”
“My interests, huh.” you repeat, the words tasting strange. “Thank you.”
He gives a small nod. “It is my responsibility.”
But you both hear what he doesn’t say: I would have done it even if it wasn’t.
The courtroom doors open wider at that moment. You could tell that the people interested in this entire clown affair had begun filing in. He shifts his weight slightly, as if preparing to step away, to return to the role the world recognizes.
Instead, he says, very quietly. “Did you sleep at all?”
The question lands like a dropped glass. You meet his eyes. “Did you?”
A beat passes. He smiles. “No.” he admits.
The honesty sits between you, raw and unfiled, with no legal language to contain it. Footsteps approach. Voices echo. The world resumes. He clears his throat, the sound soft but decisive. “We should go inside.”
You nod. “Of course.”
He gestures toward the courtroom with professional courtesy, allowing you to enter first. As you pass him, you catch the faint scent of his cologne. It was the same, you think to yourself. Everything about it was achingly familiar.
For one reckless second you are back in his office that night once again, the endless beam of Tokyo Metropolitan’s city lights burning behind him, his hand hovering at your waist like a question he already knew the answer to.
Inside the courtroom, you take your place at the table. He sits beside you, close enough that your sleeves almost touch, yet separated by a distance far greater than the width of polished wood. He leans slightly toward you, voice barely audible.
“We will get through this.” he says.
You whisper back. “I can only hope so.”
The courtroom doors close with a heavy, final sound that reverberates through your chest. You sit beside Higuruma Hiromi, your tender hands folded too tightly in your lap, exhausted eyes fixed on the polished wood of the table as people settle around you.
You could hear the loudness of the papers shuffling, the chairs scraping, the loud yet quiet murmurs filling the air like static. You tell yourself to breathe. Then you feel it. Anxiety flooded through you at that moment.
A presence across the aisle. Familiar in a way that makes your spine go rigid before you even look. Your ex-husband is there, even when he said that he wasn’t going to attend, to focus on a new movie he was working on.
He looks older than the last time you saw him. He was already older, yet this time, he was older beyond his years. Grey everywhere, somber in all of his skin. His shoulders are tense beneath an expensive suit that fits like armor.
His jaw tightens when his gaze lands on you, then flicks. It was brief yet sharp and it was towards the man sitting at your side. To Hiromi. The realization hits him in real time. You see it in the narrowing of his eyes. The way his mouth presses into a thin line. The way his attorney leans toward him, whispering something urgent that he doesn’t seem to hear.
Your pulse roars in your ears. Beside you, Hiromi doesn’t move. But you notice the subtle shift in his posture was evident. You could see how his chest puffed. His shoulders squaring, presence sharpening, like a blade quietly unsheathed.
“Do not look at him.” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear.
But the warning came too late.
You already have.
And it made you both sad and angry.
This was the man you married.
A pitiful shell of a man who took advantage of you.
Your ex-husband’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment you are dragged back into the life you are trying to leave. The arguments that looped without resolution, the silences that lasted days, the texts and calls with the other women and so much more.
The slow erosion of something that once felt unbreakable came to you, more and more. He glances again at your strident dark haired lawyer. Recognition dawns. Not personal per say. You think it was more professional.
Higuruma Hiromi was a famous high-profile attorney. He has always had a reputation for ruthless precision. A man who does not take cases he cannot win, and pushes forward without a care in the world, so long as his clients are satisfied.
Your ex leans toward his lawyer, whispering sharply. The lawyer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly before schooling their expression. You swallowed as you found your gaze towards Hiromi who seemed to not be fazed by it all.
“This is going to get messy, isn’t it?” you whisper.
Hiromi’s reply is calm, measured. “It was always going to be.”
The judge enters. Everyone rises. You barely register the formalities. The case number is read, then the names, then you got lost in all the procedural language. It goes on and on, until your ex-husband’s attorney stands.
“Your Honor.” she begins to say. “My client has concerns regarding the accelerated timeline and—” her gaze flicks toward you, then to Hiromi himself. “—potential conflicts of interest.”
The words land like a slap. "Of course he’ll bring it up.”
Hiromi doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain forward, expression unreadable. “Anticipated.” he murmurs. “Not a worry.”
Your ex-husband stands abruptly. “I’d like it on record at this moment.” he says, voice tight. “My wife’s attorney has a prior personal relationship with her.”
The courtroom stills. Every sound seems to vanish into the high ceiling. Heat floods your face. Your hands go cold. Higuruma Hiromi confidently rises slowly beside you, unhurried, composed. He looks at your ex-husband before focusing on the judge.
“Your Honor, this is not a concern.” he says, voice clear and steady. “I disclosed all relevant professional history to opposing counsel. There is no legal conflict that impairs my ability to represent my client.”
Your ex lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Professional history, huh?” he repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Your chest tightens. “Please—” you start, but your voice falters.
Hiromi’s hand shifts slightly on the table, not touching you, but close enough that you feel the steadiness of it like a barrier between you and the storm. “There is no conflict. I am her legal representative here, not anything else.”
The judge’s gaze sharpens. “Sir, you will address the court with decorum. There is no conflict here. Mr. Higuruma is a lawyer. The record shall state nothing.”
Hiromi nodded at the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Your ex’s eyes return to you, and for a moment the anger fractures into something rawer. “Him?” he says, quieter now. “You replaced me with him?”
The question is not legal. Not procedural. Not appropriate for a courtroom. It is personal. It always was. Yet it was more than likely a wound for him, even if he had been cheating first. Regardless of whether he knows you slept with Hiromi or not, he knew that Higuruma Hiromi was your ex-boyfriend. That was worth a bleed. Your throat closes.
Hiromi speaks once again before you can. “My client’s personal life is not on trial.” he says, each word precise. “We are here to dissolve a marriage that has, by both parties’ admission, irretrievably broken down.”
Silence hangs heavy for a moment, broken only by the shuffle of papers and the quiet clearing of throats as the attorneys prepare. You glance at your ex-husband. He’s sitting straighter now, jaw tight, hands clenched over the table. There’s a dangerous tension in his shoulders, like a coiled spring that’s only waiting for the right trigger.
The judge clears her throat again. “We will proceed with the matters relevant to this hearing.”
Chairs creak as everyone settles. But the usual rhythm has come and gone with all of its legal formality and its endless procedural monotony. You feel it in the way your hands tremble in your lap, the faint pulse in your throat.
You stare down at the polished table, seeing the reflection of your own face. You were someone caught between past and present, between two men who know different versions of you. Yet you do not want more of the past, even when one of the past sat beside you. You just wanted to move forward.
Beside you, Higuruma Hiromi leans close enough that only you can hear him. His breath is calm, measured, a quiet anchor. “Stay with me here, okay?” he murmurs. “This is going to be a bit long.”
You lift your head, meeting his eyes. There’s something in his gaze. He was firm with it, almost protective, a silent warning. “I know that.” you reply, forcing a steady tone. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The judge’s gavel has barely settled when the clerk begins the session. “This is the first mediation session regarding the divorce petition filed by the petitioner. Today, we will discuss division of assets, spousal support, and any other matters requiring mutual agreement. Please provide statements as necessary.”
You swallow hard, your hands still trembling slightly in your lap. Across the aisle, your ex-husband sits rigid, jaw tight, fists clenched. The air between you is sharp, charged. It was not welcoming. You don’t expect it to be when he wasn’t done with having more influence with you.
The mediator gestures to your ex. “Please begin.”
Your ex rises abruptly, voice taut. “I…I don’t accept the terms of this divorce!” His gaze fixes on you, fiery and wounded. “I don’t agree with any of it!”
You brace yourself, fingers tightening around your own notes. Hiromi leans close, his voice low. “Stay calm. Answer only when necessary.”
But your ex isn’t listening. He stands taller, chest puffed with a dangerous energy. “You can’t just walk away! You can’t—”
Before he finishes, he lunges toward you. Your body freezes. Hiromi reacts instantly. He steps in, positioning himself between you and your ex. Your ex’s momentum carries forward, and instead of hitting you, he collides with Hiromi.
The impact thuds sharply against Hiromi’s chest, but Hiromi doesn’t stumble or falter. Instead, he shifts his weight, steadying your ex-husband without letting him fall, his darkened eyes hard and commanding.
“Sit down. Now, sir. Or we’ll be having these procedures with a criminal assault case too.” Hiromi says, voice low but unyielding. Every word carries a precision that makes your ex pause mid-motion.
Gasps echo through the courtroom. The attorneys snap to attention. The mediator’s pen hovers in midair, but Hiromi doesn’t flinch. Your ex stumbles back, chest heaving, glare still locked on you. He mutters incoherent threats, but Hiromi’s calm presence is unbreakable.
You exhale shakily, hands pressed to the table. “I…I just wanted—”
Hiromi’s hand gestures slightly, firm but subtle. “You will speak only when addressed by the court. Go back to your position, sir.”
Your ex glares, mutters under his breath, but slumps back and this time, remains seated. His lawyer seems apologetic to all of you and to the judge. Hiromi sighs as he gathers his composure before going back to his seat.
You lean slightly toward Hiromi, whispering, “Thank you. I…I don’t even know what would’ve happened if you weren’t here.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slides a document slightly closer to you, the corners brushing your fingers. It’s neat, precise. It was the summary of the points the court will discuss today, written in Hiromi’s careful hand.
“Focus on what matters, okay?” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly to your ex, sharp and calculating. “Answer only what is necessary. Don’t give him more than he’s entitled to.”
You nod, swallowing hard. “I…I’ll try.”
He gives the barest tilt of his head in acknowledgment, eyes softening just enough to remind you he’s not just your lawyer today. He’s a shield. And just as much, he’s a man that cares for you above all else.
The mediator calls the session back into order. “We will begin with a review of joint assets. Please provide an account of your holdings.”
Your ex-husband leans forward immediately, voice sharp, venomous. “I should be entitled to more than half! She—she’s hiding things! She thinks she can walk away with everything while I—”
Hiromi’s eyes flick to him, icy calm. “Your Honor, if I may?” he interrupts smoothly. “My client has disclosed all joint accounts, investments, and property. Allegations of undisclosed assets are unsubstantiated.”
The ex’s face flushes red. “I—this isn’t fair! After everything—after what she did—”
You stiffen. He thinks he has moral leverage, but Hiromi’s presence is steady, unwavering. “Sir, you cannot argue with the law.” Hiromi says, voice firm but controlled. “And the law does not reward infidelity. Any personal grievances are irrelevant to the division of property. The petitioner is entitled to exactly what the law grants her.”
The courtroom falls silent. Your ex sputters, muttering under his breath, “I can’t believe this… she—she cheated me…”
You feel a flush of anger, your chest tightening. Hiromi leans slightly toward you, whispering, “Ignore him. Stick to the facts. We protect only what is yours. Nothing more, nothing less.”
You nod at him. You took a breath, letting the control of the situation settle in. When asked to provide information about your finances, you answer calmly, factually, leaving nothing out but adding nothing extra.
Your ex grows more frustrated. “And what about the house? The savings? I—she can’t just—”
Hiromi interrupts, smooth and precise. “Your Honor, the petitioner has already offered her fair share for the jointly owned home, as according to the law. Further demands are without legal basis.”
“Without legal basis?” Your ex’s voice rises. “I earned half of everything while she—while she—”
Hiromi’s gaze snaps to him, unflinching. “Your Honor.” he says, voice low and deadly calm. “The petitioner’s entitlement is calculated according to law, regardless of any personal misconduct by either party. Attempts to claim more than legally entitled are not permitted.”
Your ex freezes, jaw tight, caught between fury and impotence. He mutters something incoherent and sits down, defeated for the moment, the tension around him simmering but contained.
The mediator continues, going step by step through assets, savings, the main residence, and potential spousal support. Hiromi handles every challenge, keeping your ex’s arguments firmly grounded in reality. Each time your ex tries to exaggerate or claim more, Hiromi counters calmly, legally, without a trace of emotion.
By the end of the session, partial agreements are reached. The joint assets are divided according to law, the house’s status is clarified, and once it is sold, you share the profit. The spousal support is conceded, because your ex-husband had cheated. He has nothing beyond what the law allows and certainly nothing more.
You lean back slightly, a fragile sense of relief washing over you. The chaos through these many hours, the ceaseless verbal attacks, the endless grasping, the bitter attempts to punish you, has been neutralized for now.
Hiromi leans slightly toward you as you gather your bag, his voice quiet but firm. “Today went exactly as it should. You protected everything you’re entitled to. He won’t take more than the law allows, don’t worry.”
“I know that but I worry.”
“He cheated first. He has no moral ground here, either.” He tells you straight. “Don’t worry about how everyone will react. You are the victim here.”
You exhale slowly, feeling the tension finally begin to drain. “I…I couldn’t have done this alone.” you whisper.
“You didn’t have to.” he replies simply. “That’s why I’m here.”
THE MEDIATIONS COME AND GO, ONE AFTER THE OTHER AND YOU ATTEND EACH AND EVERYONE. Your ex-husband stops attending altogether. At first, it was excuses, vague claims of work obligations, illness. Whatever the reason, the court accepts them, and the sessions proceed without him.
When he does attend, he always causes nothing but grievances to you. The most you would say was bringing the woman he had cheated on you with, as “his most ardent support” in the proceedings. That had caused you much anger, and a verbal match ensued.
It wasn’t long before you started to become infuriated with each and everything he has said, especially with the things he had done. You asked the judge to put a stop to his attacks and the judge all together barred him from his own divorce proceedings.
With every mediation that passed, your ex-husband’s absence became the new normal. Hiromi and you were left alone at the table with his associates, the court mediators, and the procedural formalities, but no one challenged you directly. Your answers remained calm, precise, factual. There was no room for him to maneuver, no way for him to manipulate the process.
Hiromi’s presence beside you made all the difference. His posture, calm and unflinching, his voice low but firm when speaking on your behalf. Every motion, every word, seemed measured to protect you while keeping things efficient.
What should have been tense, exhausting, and emotional hearings had become almost mechanical under his guidance. You began to rely on that steadiness, letting him take the weight of confrontation while you followed his lead.
Eventually, you noticed something strange happening. The tight knot of anxiety you used to carry before each session began to loosen. Sitting across from him, listening to his calm explanations, watching him handle lawyers and mediators alike, you realized you were…calm. Comfortable, even.
It wasn’t just the court. It was everything about being with him. His patience with you in everything was impeccable. In every question, every fear, every irrational worry, it was everything to you.
And it was not limited to the courthouse. It extended into private conversations, even into the quiet moments between you in his apartment, or in the rare times when you found yourselves together at his place after long days. Even in bed, his patience never faltered.
There was no judgment, no rush, no pressure. It was just a steady, patient understanding of you. Wanting you, in ways that your ex-husband never had the patience or desire to desire. Perhaps that was what made it even more beautiful to you.
You let yourself realize, finally, that the divorce was no longer the storm it had once been. The documents, the court dates, the ex-husband’s fleeting threats. All of them existed, but they no longer defined your sense of stability. You were protected. You were in good hands. In Hiromi’s hands, most of all.
And yet, a different worry began to creep in. A worry of a more trivial, but no less real kind. You glanced down at your phone during a lunch “meeting” that everyone assumed was strictly professional.
Hiromi reached across the table to push a menu closer to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. He didn’t look up from the documents in front of him, but you felt it. You felt the warmth that had long belonged only to you.
A notification popped up on your phone: a journalist’s account of a photo snapped from outside the restaurant. Someone had caught a glimpse of you and Hiromi leaning toward each other over papers and coffee, captions speculating about more than just legal discussions.
You groaned softly. “Great. Just great. We’re officially the courthouse power couple now.” you muttered, not looking up from your phone.
“Maybe outside of the courthouse too, but well. Besides the point.” Hiromi glanced at you over the top of his folder, eyes sharp but amused. “Are you worried about what they think?” he asked, voice low, calm, and entirely too knowing.
“I can’t help it, I suppose.” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Half the time, we’re pretending this is all strictly ‘lawyer and client’ for the world to see but…everyone can see us now. They’re going to assume the wrong things.”
He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tilting in that way that always made your pulse skip. “Let them assume. We know the truth, don’t we?”
You exhaled, realizing he was right. No matter the whispers, the photographs, the attention, you and Hiromi knew what was real. That was all that mattered. Only the truth you both hold matters.
Still, you couldn’t help glancing at the phone one more time, thinking to yourself, if someone got a good photo of the two of you laughing over lunch, leaning a little too close, sharing the same umbrella after a drizzle, it would be chaos. But maybe, just maybe, it was a chaos you didn’t entirely mind.
By the time the next formal hearing arrives, something has changed. The courthouse lobby is buzzing with life. A few journalists linger near the entrance, cameras discreetly aimed at the front doors. Then there were more in other places within the facilities itself.
Many people all but flooded in the corridors and the hallways and they all whisper as you walk past them with your bodyguards and your entourage. It’s not that you did anything public, at least, not intentionally.
But your previous relationship with Higuruma Hiromi, the story of your messy, public divorce, and the glimpses of your closeness during mediations came to light, this has also made you both figures of fascination in the public eye.
“Seems we’ve become the courthouse’s most talked-about case.” Hiromi murmurs as you ascend the steps, his tone dry but amused. He adjusts his tie with that effortless composure that always makes him look taller, sharper, untouchable. “It’s been a while since I have had a cult following.”
You glance at him, smirking despite the nerves prickling your skin. “Cult following, huh? Because we’re…efficient?”
He shoots you a look, one corner of his mouth quivering. “Not because of efficiency. And you know that. I know you see the edits on the internet.”
“They’re not exactly what I think of every time we’re together.”
He pauses, his eyes narrowing, getting darker. “Then what do you think about?”
“Something else.” you say almost too confidently, looking at him, and then his body. “You know what I like.”
“Your professionalism wavers easily, it would seem.”
“So does yours.”
Inside the courtroom, the atmosphere is different. Everyone in the room started to glance toward you as you entered, a murmur of recognition passing quietly through the gallery. Some nod politely, others whisper behind their hands. Your presence here, once private and procedural, now feels performative, almost the same as it usually was when you were on the film set.
You slide into your seat, Hiromi beside you as always. His tender, caring hand brushes briefly against yours, not in a claim, but a grounding touch. You notice the slight tightening of his fingers, subtle enough that only you would feel it.
“Focus.” he murmurs, eyes forward. “They’ll stare, they’ll whisper. It doesn’t matter.”
You nod, though your stomach twists. Every eye in the room seems to measure the distance between the two of you, the ease of your closeness, the quiet familiarity that’s impossible to ignore.
The mediator calls the session to order, but the whispered attention doesn’t fade. Your ex’s absence is glaringly obvious now. His chair remains empty. The judge raises an eyebrow, but neither you nor Hiromi flinch. You are the center of the room, the story. You are the ones in control.
Hiromi leans slightly toward you, voice low. “Remember what we’ve done. All your assets, your reputation are secure. He can’t touch anything anymore. This is just…noise.”
You let out a small, almost humorless laugh. “It feels like we’re celebrities in a soap opera.”
He glances at you, expression unreadable. “If it keeps your ex from showing up, I’ll allow the end of the soap opera.”
For a moment, the tension lightens. The eyes, the whispers, the cameras. They are distractions, nothing more. But you feel it, a strange thrill: you and Hiromi, together, untouchable in the eyes of the court, and impossible to ignore.
The hearing begins. Questions are procedural, predictable. But every time your ex’s name comes up, the emptiness of his chair resonates like a victory to you. Hiromi answers calmly, legally, flawlessly, leaving no room for dispute. Every asset, every account, every legal right you have is protected.
As the session wraps, the judge nods. “The court will continue the remaining matters on the scheduled date. This hearing is adjourned.”
You rise, gathering your papers, your bag, your composure. Hiromi stands beside you, close enough that the press and onlookers can see the subtle connection between you. Nothing overt, nothing staged but undeniable.
Outside the courtroom, whispers follow you down the marble steps. People notice the way he walks beside you, the ease of your closeness, the quiet strength in your interactions. He takes your hand in his. Your eyes widened slightly.
Hiromi leans slightly toward you as you exit. “They’ll talk, either way. Close or not, holding hands or not, it’s the same.” he murmurs. “Let them all talk. It changes nothing here.”
You squeeze his hand, fingers curling instinctively around his, feeling the warmth and quiet strength radiating through the simple touch. For a moment, the chatter, the flashing cameras, the whispers, they all fade.
You are acutely aware of the weight of his presence beside you leaning closer at each moment, steady enough to ground you, entirely willing ot be yours in that small moment, as everyone's eyes, everyone's lenses turned to th two of you.
“I…” you start, unsure what to say, your voice low. “I didn’t expect—”
Hiromi gives a small, knowing smile, eyes forward. “That you’d notice? Or that you’d care?”
“Both, I suppose.” you admit, your throat is tight. “It’s……weird. Being seen like this. Everyone is staring. And yet, it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“It shouldn’t, it never should have.” he murmurs, tightening his grip just slightly, enough to anchor you without drawing unnecessary attention. “They can talk all they want. None of it changes what’s real. None of it changes us.”
You glance down at your joined hands, the simple act carrying a weight far beyond its size. The world may have spun stories around you, assigned motives and imagined scandals but here, on the steps, walking away from the courtroom, you feel a rare, quiet certainty.
“Do you think they’ll follow us?” you ask, a wry note creeping into your voice despite the tension. “The reporters, the whispers, the courthouse gossip?”
Hiromi shrugs almost imperceptibly, a small, controlled movement that somehow carries both amusement and warning. “Let them. This isn’t about them. We’re not performing, we’re…here.”
“They’ll call you no good.”
“Then let them.” Hiromi smiles at you. “We’re happy. That’s all that matters here, isn’t it?”
His words settle into your chest like a promise. Amid the chaos of everything that had been happening in that short amount of time, there is a clarity, a center you never thought you’d have.
With Higuruma Hiromi beside you, even a hand held quietly in public feels like armor as much as his words were in the courthouse. It was everything and more.
A flash from a camera catches the corner of your eye. You instinctively glance at the crowd, then back at him. Hiromi’s gaze meets yours, steady and unwavering. There’s a subtle challenge there, but also a quiet reassurance.
“Ready?” he asks.
You nod, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. “Ready.”
And together, you walk down the steps, hand in hand, letting the whispers follow behind you. The courthouse fades in the distance, the world is still watching, still talking but that doesn't matter. Not when you are happy, not when he is happy. You were aware you were no good, but so is he. But that’s better, because you can be the same together.
THE SUN WAS TOO BRIGHT. You moan aloud, the sound tearing itself free before you can think to stop it. On this day of all days, the day the divorce was officially granted, you find yourself trapped in Higuruma Hiromi’s embrace, his body pressing against yours with a weight that is both grounding and consuming.
The world outside doesn’t exist. The courthouse, the whispers, the cameras, the lingering traces of your ex-husband’s attempts to claim what was never his, everything was gone. They all dissolve into nothingness the moment Hiromi’s harsh, yet careful hands settle over you.
Skin slides against skin, slick with the heat of desire and the rawness of emotion. Every movement is charged, urgent, yet precise, a reflection of the man beside you who has guided you, protected you, and understood you in ways no one else ever could.
You arch into him instinctively, clinging to the familiar strength of his body, feeling the steady, deliberate rhythm of his control. He keeps you close, almost cruelly, his hands tracing paths over your curves with a confidence that borders on domination.
“Today…” you gasp, voice trembling. “Fuck….…I can’t…not think of you.”
Hiromi’s lips brush against your neck, his voice low and husky. “You don’t have to think. You only need to feel. Here. With me.”
He had decided earlier that morning that attending court was a waste of time, especially getting out of bed when you were underneath his sheets, tainted by his touch. One phone call led to his underlings being able to handle the paperwork and formalities.
All that mattered that special morning was claiming you, marking you as his own once again. His hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you onto his cock with each snap of his hips. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.
"Fuck, fuck…." Hiromi growled freely. "You feel so good. So tight around my cock."
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck as he bit and sucked at the sensitive skin. He knew he was leaving marks, claiming you in the most primal way possible.
But he didn't care. Let the whole world see that you belonged to him now. He felt your walls starting to flutter around him, signaling your impending orgasm. He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around it.
"Come for me, sweetheart.” he demanded. "Come on my cock like a good girl."
His thrusts became erratic, his own release barreling down on him as he chased yours. His thumb pressed hard against your clit, pushing you over the edge. You screamed his name as you came, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice. That was all it took to send him spiraling into his own orgasm. He buried himself deep inside you with a roar, filling you with his hot seed as he shuddered above you.
Even as he emptied himself inside you, Higuruma Hiromi knew he wasn't done. Not by a long shot. He had waited too long for this for a long time, dreamed of this moment with you in his bed for years and years. He wasn't about to let it end so quickly. He rolled his hips, grinding his still-hard cock against your sensitive flesh as he felt himself starting to swell again.
"I'm not done with you yet, sweetheart," he murmured again, voice rough and low, vibrating against your skin. "I'm going to take and take, push and push. We have something to celebrate, after ten years, after all."
You shivered violently, breath hitching. Your hands clutched at him, pulling him closer, needing every inch of his body. "Hiromi… please…" you gasped, words breaking into moans, incoherent, but full of longing.
He didn’t answer with words. He pulled out slowly, watching as his cum leaked out of your well-used hole. Then he flipped you over onto your stomach and entered you from behind in one hard thrust, setting a brutal pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall.
He just moved closer, pressing into you with a fierce, unrelenting rhythm that stole your breath. Every thrust, every movement sent sparks through your nerves, and your body melted against his, all thought and restraint vanishing.
You moaned loudly, arching into him, lost. Lost in the heat, lost in the feel of him, lost in the sensation of being wanted, claimed, worshiped. “Ah… I can’t… can’t hold it…”
"Don't hold back, sweetheart. Keep screaming, keep meeting me half way." Hiromi growled against your ear. "I want to feel you come apart on my cock. I want to hear you scream my name."
You do as he says, screaming loud as his gruff hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you back onto him with each thrust. The heat makes you feel like you could pass out at any moment. You feel drool pouring out the corner of your lips as he starts kissing you, his tongue pushing deep into your throat as you moan.
The more he pushed deeper, the faster he went, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room with echoes that were sure to be more thunderous than before. Your hands on his hair, his lips now kissing your neck, as much as he started sucking and biting.
Your pleasures were mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure. He could feel your walls starting to flutter around him once again, signaling your impending orgasm. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around it.
"Come for me, pretty sweetheart." he demanded of you, this time more hoarse than before. "Come all over my cock like the good babe you always have been."
Your body obeyed his command, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name over and over, losing the tone as it cracks in the flood of pleasure, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice as you came undone.
Hiromi followed you over the edge, his own release hitting him hard. He buried himself deep inside you with a roar, filling you with his hot seed as he shuddered above you. He collapsed onto you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.
Your body trembled beneath him, still shivering from the intensity of your climax, each pulse of pleasure leaving you weak and raw. Hiromi’s weight pressed you gently against the sheets, grounding you even as your mind spun from the aftermath.
You could feel the lingering warmth of him inside you, the heat of his release, and it anchored every shiver, every quiver. He stayed there, chest pressed against yours, breathing heavy, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin layer of skin between you was intoxicating.
His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns across your shoulders, down your arms, lingering in places meant only for him. “I love you. I love you more than I could ever describe. Even when you’re no good, I want to be with you.”
Your breath hitched at his words, the raw honesty in his voice sending a shiver straight through you. “Hiromi…You don’t have to…” you whispered, voice trembling. You…you don’t have to say that. You…you’ve given me everything already.”
He lifted his head slightly, eyes locking with yours, dark and unflinching. “No, no.” he said firmly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “I have to say it.”
“Hiromi—”
“Because if I don’t, you might think—” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “—that any of this is just physical. That any of what I feel can be contained by words, by touches, by…this.”
Your chest tightened. “I…I don’t deserve you sometimes, I hurt you. I broke your heart and I….” you admitted, voice breaking. “After everything—after the mess with him, after—” You stopped yourself, not trusting your voice.
Hiromi shook his head, pressing another kiss to your forehead, soft and grounding. “Stop it, okay?” he murmured. “Don’t apologize. Don’t justify. You’re not ‘no good’ to me. You’re human. You wanted a life and I just….things are different now. Nothing can prevent us from being together.”
You felt overcome with emotion at his confession. “Hiromi….”
“And I…I want every part of you. Every flawed, beautiful, messy part. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I stayed.”
You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and the lingering thrill of what had just passed between you. “I’ve never…felt this safe with anyone. Only you. Even back then….” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper
Hiromi tightened his hold, pressing his body closer. “Good.” he breathed. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. You don’t have to worry. You don’t have to carry the weight alone. Ever again.”
“Hiromi.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” He whispers to you, pressing a kiss on your cheek, then to your lips. He smiles. “Let me love you.”
You tilted your head, pressing a kiss to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I…I love you too, Hiromi. More than words could describe.” you whispered, letting yourself finally melt into the warmth of him. “I’ve been waiting…I’ve been holding back for so long, and now…I can’t anymore. I just…”
“You don’t have to say more, okay?” he interrupted softly, nuzzling into your hair. “I know. Every look, every touch, every time you let me in…it tells me more than words ever could.”
You rested your head against him, chest rising and falling against his, shivers still running through your limbs. “Thank you.”
“No, no.” He shakes his head, smiling wider. “Thank you.”
epilogue
A few months later, the same courthouse that once echoed with the hollow finality of your long suffering marriage in divorce now buzzed with a different kind of anticipation. It wasn’t exactly the same fanfare, but it was everything to you.
The Tokyo District Court was reserved compared to the grand hall wedding you had with your ex-husband. But even with all fluorescent lights, polished floors, and quiet authority, this was probably a better wedding to you than the first one.
The last time you stood there to declare your wedding after the glamorous ceremony, your hands had trembled as the clerk stamped the final page. The air had felt heavy, like something irreversible had just been carved into stone. This time, your hands were steady.
The clerk recognized you. Her brows lifted almost imperceptibly before her professional composure returned. Papers were placed in front of you again. A pen slid across the desk. Beside you stood the infamous divorce lawyer Higuruma Hiromi.
He looked as he always did. Dashing in his immaculate suit, tie aligned with near-mathematical precision, expression composed enough to intimidate a courtroom. Yet there was something unmistakably softer in his gaze when it turned to you. His hand rested at the small of your back, firm and grounding, as though the world itself might tilt without his steadying touch.
“I suppose this is ironic, isn’t it?” you murmured, glancing at the very bench where you once sat alone.
“The law is not concerned with irony. It records conclusions and beginnings with equal neutrality, sweetheart.”
You smiled faintly. “And what is this?”
His fingers intertwined with yours. Warm. Certain. “A new precedent….One I intend to uphold for the rest of my life.”
There were no sweeping violins. No dramatic audience. Only a quiet exchange of vows that felt far more binding than any spectacle could offer. Your voice wavered only once, not from doubt, but from the overwhelming clarity of knowing you were choosing again. This time, without any intention to let go.
When the final signature was placed and the declaration made, the sound that echoed in the hallway was not the hollow stamp of loss. It was your laughter. You stepped out of those courthouse doors no longer carrying the weight of something broken, but the certainty of something rebuilt.
“I’m very happy to call you my wife.” Hiromi whispered against your skin, pressing a kiss on your cheek.
You giggled. “I’m very happy to call you my husband too.”
It caused quite a stir. But of course it would. He was your long time ex-boyfriend, the one who represented you in your divorce and now after just mere months of reconnecting, you were both getting married like nothing happened. Yet that was just life.
Life was as unpredictable as the weather. But this unpredictability was more than welcome to you, to him. It was all you both could have ever strived for after such a long time being apart, suffering in the silence of your own respective chaotic worlds.
But now things made sense.
Being together made sense.
Being happy made sense.
Months later, the world was louder. The red carpet stretched endlessly beneath your heels, a river of crimson beneath flashes of white light. The premiere banner of your new film towered behind you, your name emblazoned in gold.
Reporters called out questions in overlapping waves. Microphones extended toward you like reaching hands. And beside you, as he had been since that quiet courthouse a few months ago, stood Higuruma Hiromi, your husband.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo now, the severity softened by the unmistakable pride in his posture. His hand never left your waist, ever so protective and careful. Your own hand, where your gleaming wedding band shone, rested instinctively against the gentle curve of your stomach.
You were pregnant.
You both were happy about it.
And certainly, it seems everyone is too.
The news had broken hours before the premiere, it was the right time, seeing as you were already far along. Headlines called it shocking. It was so sudden, so unexpected. It was the effect of that beautiful whirlwind romance that people did not even expect.
The internet, as always, had opinions. People always had something to say about things. But none of that noise reached you the way his quiet voice did when he leaned closer. He was all that mattered to you, as much as you were all that mattered to him.
“Are you tired?” he asked, low enough that only you could hear.
“I’m fine, sweetie.” you assured him. “I have a very capable attorney ensuring my safety.”
A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “But I’m not just your attorney now, no?”
You giggled happily. “No, no. You’re also my equally very capable husband.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” he whispers to you, kissing your lips, which makes you giggle even more.
A reporter shouted, “How does it feel to be newly married and expecting while starring in the most anticipated film of the year?”
“It’s amazing! It’s everything that one can dream of, after a long long winter.” you tell them, smiling and waving at everyone. The cameras flicker even more. “I’m with someone that makes it all easier.”
Hiromi’s gaze looked at you lovingly before it flicked toward the cameras, measured and calm. “Life rarely adheres to strict timelines. But when events align in one’s favor, it would be unreasonable not to express gratitude and contentment.”
You laughed softly, the sound warm despite the chaos. “He means we’re very happy.”
The flashes intensified even more as your husband smiled and kissed you again, everyone eager to capture every angle of that kiss. Before long, you both moved along, but even then, everyone was crazed in capturing more of you two.
The protective curve of his arm around you, the way he adjusted his pace to match yours, the softness in his eyes that only ever appeared when he thought no one else was looking. It would be on the front page of every newspaper, article and social media site before the end of the night.
Once, that courthouse had marked your ending.
Now, it was merely a footnote in a far greater story.
You leaned toward him as photographers called for one final shot. “Marrying you in that building might be my favorite plot twist.”
Hiromi glanced down at you with happiness, nothing else mattered now. “Then let us ensure…..that every chapter that follows from here on out surpasses it.”
Okay, so this was a last-minute decision I made. And it's not something I'm going to do often, but I can't help but feel the need to write something about Gachiakuta as a whole, like the series.
I love the series as a whole, and I really do want to share my ideas here about what I think will happen as the series progresses, or like theories I think will be true. Now, of course, I will still be uploading some fanfics, but I really wanted to do this first.
I don't know if y'all would like this, but if you do, please just let me know.
Also, before I start, THERE WILL BE SPOILERS, so if you haven't read the manga, now would be a good time to either pick it up or leave this post.
Also, I might have gone on multiple tangents, so please bear with me.
Sorry for the lack of spell check ;)
Now I just want to dig specifically into Enjin's character as a whole. (my man)
A lot of people in the fandom quite like him, but I can't help but think there's something suspicious about him. I mean, of course, I will feel like that because we literally know close to nothing about him, not even his real name.
So I'm gonna focus on two things here :
1. His backstory
2. Bum allegations.
So recently, in these chapters we've been getting, we see special manga panels from someone's point of view, but we've not been told by who . Most people have said it might have been Riyo or Mymo. I thought at first it was the chokermaker, but once his backstory came out, that was quickly ruled out. Then my mind instantly went to Enjin.
To be honest, I'm not sure right now why they would do an Enjin backstory, but then again, they are teasing us with images, so we might get it around the end of the doll festival, or the next arc is about Enjin in some way.
I'm going to go off from what we have so far
What makes me connect these panels to it being Enjin? We see these clocks for the first time with him when he gets knocked out during the Amo arc. From Riyo's and co.'s expressions after regaining consciousness from Amo's smells, also from what Zanka said - they all relived moments from their pasts. And since Enjin was knocked out, we can believe he had to experience all that again, but with the twist of not being able to move.
Also, clocks being the majority of the panels, I kind of had to link it to Enjin.
Here , I gathered all the clocks and tried to assign times (sorry if some are wrong). I was looking for a pattern, like if it was some sort of sequence going on, like the order of the days or just the timeline of the backstory.
If y'all know about these clocks, please let me know. I'm so curious.
The kids and the adult in the first panel seem to be welcoming the new guy, whom I think is Enjin.
He is scratching his arm (the branding/marking) - maybe because of its unfamiliarity or maybe out of nervousness.
Said arm has a brand or marking on both arms, and he isn't the only one, either. All the kids have the same marking. My first thought went to something like the Promised Neverland stuff. Maybe like an orphanage where the kids are being exploited in some way here.
The next panel is a complete contrast to the other picture; where the first was bright and welcoming, this one is darker and dirtier. The kids are now fighting, some are starving, and " Enjin " is munching on a bar. The adult from the beginning is nowhere in sight. Their clothes have also changed; they are wearing rags now. I can only assume they have been abandoned, and maybe Enjin is a leader...
(which would be less likely because I believe this was the time before he was called Enjin, so he was called by his real name here - if he even had any. I believe he was a jerk before he met the guy/person who named him Enjin.)
The last panel shows " Enjin " running away and people falling off buildings. If I'm being honest, I'm not sure where this timeline would fit, but at the end. Probably around here, he meets the person/guy who gave him his name.
Now, back to the branding - we all know Enjin has blackout tattoos, and the markings were on his arms. I love to think that one of the reasons he got a blackout tattoo was so that he could hide these marks or branding. Sure, there might be another reason he has tattoos, but I believe this to be one of them.
2. Bum allegations.
I'm going to make this quick: Enjin is lazy, but that doesn't mean he isn't strong as hell . He was paired with Fuu/Hii, so if he really fought back there, maybe it wouldn't have been a quick fight.
He also gets accused of not doing anything and avoiding fights on purpose, which I do find funny as hell .
I would like to highlight one thing : his mystery weapon.
What could Enjin have in that bag of his that could've gotten them out of the trash beast?
This might feel like a far stretch, but I think he has a series, but not the Watchman series.
Yes, I believe there are more series like the Watchman series out there due to this .
Enjin wasn't shocked as to why the Watchman series was there ; he was shocked about something else - maybe the thought that they are catching up; I don't know (now I feel like I'm waffling).
So this instrument was
strong enough to get them out of the trash beast.
His so-called "hunches" - knowing exactly when Rudo was going to fall into no man's land.
Okay, that's all it's 1 am, and im not sure if im making any sense. I hope you guys know where im coming from and maybe let me think what you guys think about Enjin. Like whats your ideas.
!Clingyjabber x reader
Summary: just what I think jabber would be like, all clingy and needy
tw: mentions of arousal, intoxication, and overstimulation
a/n: It's kinda short, but I love him so much. Not really proud of this, but I had to put something out to enjoy! ;))
!Clingyjabber After a long mission, can't wait to suffercate you with hugs
!Clingyjabber Who, while cuddling, is painfully aware how the previous fight had left him in an aroused state
!Clingyjabber Who grinds his erection into you to relieve himself
!Clingyjabber, who uses his neurotoxins to amplify himself, making his member more sensitive to friction
!Clingyjabber Who lies down obediently as you bring out his cock, giving it two pumps
!Clingyjabber who can't help but cling to your arm as you pick up the pace on him
!Clingyjabber who moans loudly as you lean into bite his neck, adding to the stimulation and his sensitivity.
!Clingyjabber Who, after cumming, starts twitching and hyperventilating from the intense orgasm
!Clingyjabber Whose moans and groans sound like music to your ears as you continue to stroke him after his orgasm
!Clingyjabber Who actually enjoys when you overstimulate him and just begs for it.
!Clingyjabber Who, after ejaculating, passes out with you in his arms
