I canât believe I have to post this since I literally only come on here to reblog fics & artwork and I donât really interact with anyone but pls donât tag me in discourse , I keep myself out of everything so pls donât involve me, thank uđЎđЎđЎ
yoshiki confessing to 'hikaru' while he's *him* and not in hikaru's body is everything to me. i love you for you. i love you in all your monstrousness and because of it, and because of that i love myself too
and it really ties back into the early story. yoshiki's capacity for loving 'hikaru' as a monster was always there. he was very quickly interested in learning to know 'hikaru' as he is, saying that he shouldn't be held to human standards since he's not a human. he was scared of him in the beginning, wanted him to stop hurting people, but he never wanted 'hikaru' to change past that. he never wanted 'hikaru' to be more like hikaru. he found out about 'hikaru' and said nice to meet you. nice to meet you. i love you.
The Summer Hikaru Died is like. what if you believed you were a disgusting monster for being gay. but then you meet a real monster, and over time you start to believe that even this monster deserves to be safe and happy, and it's the first time you start allowing yourself to believe that maybe you do too. what if I cried one million tears forever
⢠SUMMARY: What goes around comes around. Post-sex conversations have become the most Enjin ever commits to, but at the same time, they are inching towards their final catastrophe. Holding you through the tears-drowned sex is all comfort he can offer to someone whoâs a bit rough around the human edges. You have yet to realize how deeply you have fallen into the trap of needing another breathing body beside you, even if the relief you seek is always inadequate. Heâs not any better, circling his teammate with his own compulsion.
⢠CONTAINS: dark content, cleaner!reader, dub-con due to readerâs emotioniality during sex, hurt and angst/little comfort + bittersweet/hopeful ending, possible canon divergence due to an extended timeline and weather-based worldbuilding, cycles, dark imagery, unhealthy fwb situation, unhealthy coping and co/dependency, bad aftercare, reader has an avoidant personality and unspecified traumatic past, animal death, using painful sex as comfort (but Enjin stops reader), bleeding during sex, reader always cries and dissociates during sex, catharsis, discussion of having children, (kind of) pregnancy scare but reader isnât pregnant, non-explicit smut, suggestive, swearing, unsafe sex, smoking, manga spoilers. WORD COUNT: 16,3k.
⢠NOTE: 1. Hello for the first time, or hello again. â¤ď¸ Iâve been working on this fic for weeks now, rewrote some scenes, but it is finally here. 2. Since Enjinâs past is still a big mystery, I wonât lie, this fic has a major flaw: me assuming things and creating theories about him that are not yet cleared up about his character to fill in some canon gaps. I still aimed to keep the reasons for the certain behaviors of his in this story as vague as possible. (This is the price I pay for not being patient enough but who knows when weâll know more about him. Enjin just makes me want to write.) 3. I hope youâll enjoy your read (angst or not)! Itâs much longer than I originally planned for it to be. I focused on the dynamic a lot.
NOVEMBER 22ND OF THE CURRENT YEAR, FALL.
Itâs hard to tell what's still real at this point, albeit troublesome things are a guarantee of the fact that youâre still there â they hit with a double force enough to keep your senses awake, an eddy pushing itself down to your toes.
In moments like this, Enjinâs voice becomes a distant whisper, lost among the broken gears in your mind, muffled by them igniting sparks against as they collide with the tar of contemplations that your body struggles with expelling. Overwhelmed with the malaise that can be heard ricocheting with every of your sobs, itâs only the cheap thrill of another touch that allows you to erase the weight of your own existence.
Despite what your lips call for, you still can't hear him. You suspect youâre inaudible too, your lips moving on their own with the voice you canât claim as your own; you at least would find it equally disturbing and shameful how fast itâs crumbling in its cadence. âHarder⌠EnjinâŚâ
The fulfilling is as distant as ever, as it is close â teasing with its balmy touch, only to never develop into a sun in full. The taut, searing pressure blooming between your pelvis is the closest you come to feeling like something, somewhere â youâre full of him, hidden gaps filled by his wide size.
The fantasy bursts when the anticipated wreck on your nerves is cut short, forcing you awake.
Itâs just you. Itâs just him, panting above you, motionless, scrupulous in watching you with conflict, as youâre holding onto his arms. Even the creaky, wooden bed placed under the window stands still, reminding you of the closeness it keeps dragging you back into â as if waiting for the moment it can bind you to itself forever, just as Enjinâs arms pinning you to the sheets are doing now.
Thereâs no concern visible clearly â it has become the luxury he no longer works hard for to be able to afford. Pointless, if he knows youâre perennial in your fissuring he canât stop; burdensome, that he refuses to let you take him down there with you. Heâs only restless, frustrated with the fact heâs incapable of understanding why.
You think heâs handsome, with eyes full of piercing honey; through the mirage of your tears especially, distorted just enough not to startle you with whatever judgment might lie there. You think youâve known him all your life; after seeing that face so many times as you unravel beneath him, you can recall every detail of his features and tattoos. Thereâs more worship in that habit than most of the trash rain on the Ground will ever receive.
This ritual is still never welcome, if it had crept up your mind at your weakest.
He still doesn't know you, his coworker who remains as secretive as he is. Enjin can see youâre real, Enjin can comprehend the idea of you wearing your troubles, but Enjin cannot fix whatever youâre making up for by letting him use your body, nor can he fix himself.
You realize heâs speaking to you when his hand ends up over your jaw, warm and real, but hesitant to offer anything else that wonât be a false promise. Stuck in the daydream, you nearly grab his in return.
âYes? Whatâs up? Why stop?â you pose the question drowsily, dazed by the world being blurred for at least a few minutes. Youâre melting in his arms holding you securely enough for you to not slip away entirely; heâs heavy and tobacco-pungent on top of you, leastways anchoring your physique to present.
A few minutes are hundreds of seconds, hundreds of seconds swell into hundreds of thousands of milliseconds. In this light, the fleeting moment stretches into near eternity. With each minuscule breath with pleasure blooming over your long-hardened essence, youâre temped to stay here forever.
He grimaces, lips and brows tightening, as he observes how annoyingly unaware you are of your own unmooring. âYou were cryingâŚâ his rasped voice falters with uncertainty as he explains, though his aches for you havenât lessened inside of you.
The verbatim acknowledgment of your state â one that never stopped him in his pursuit of your body â sends a defensive pressure into your muscles, turning them rigid under the bitter for you reminder. You suffocate his biceps for a second.
He fucks you in his room, both bodies screaming for a raunchy release. Halfway through, tears come unbidden â the only time your walls youâve held up for years crack under the weight of your vulnerability. Unable to be raw and console you, he can only hold and fuck you harder until sobs fade into your exhaustion. If you're too sore to go with tears still unyielding, he eats you out until you're done. It wasnât like this originally.
âI always do, what about it?â you scoff, threading a right amount of playfulness into your weeping to fight his intention of denying you. Hurry, Enjin, hurry, you plead inwardly, feeling that youâre regaining awareness of the tearsâ molasses sticking to your throat, your skin drying under the salty tracks, and the soreness transcending the pleasurable level â youâre coming down to reality too soon.
âItâs different. I canât explain why, but it is. You sure you don't need a break?â he grabs your chin, firm yet gentle, insistent in his demand for a sound answer from you. The honesty heâs seeking is not about the true nature of your tears. Enjin doesn't believe he could soothe you the way youâd need it â if youâd even let him â but he refuses, at the very least, to make you worse.
âIâm just tired more than usual. You know, the Raidersâ mess just keeps piling up for us Cleaners,â you argue casually. âI can take it. Donât you dare to stop when Iâm about to finish,â the need in your tone slips out too easily, even as your heart is busy tearing itself apart before it can mend itself enough to live another day. A greedy creature is the role you fall into the most earnestly when sex is the one thing everyone is known to desire, and the one indulgence you need most of all.
Enjin scrutinizes you again. Before he could decide you are underestimating your strengths, you beat him to it â wrapping your lips around his thick finger, sucking with all the wantonness you know he loves, showing you're still not about to become a pulp, squashed by your own emotions coming in deadly tides.
The next press of your body into the mattress has you thanking him.
After youâre both done and he wipes his own mess from your body, he covers you to then pull you close. Itâs merely an arm being thrown across your waist, yet you still are inclined to force down the visceral urge to move him away from you. As if curling yourself into his arms would account for the image of him letting you close being out of pity only, with you proving to be far from the solid mass you he once knew.
But he keeps your two sweaty bodies under the blanket close, burning you with his presence and not allowing distance for the sake of whatâs been brewing in you for the last few months.
Your eyes go through a drought soon enough. Now they burn, each sting honing the lines of the desaturated reality for you. At least itâs quiet now; still with ataraxy beyond your reach. Thereâs only a torpor pressing itself between your bodies like an intruder, then raising its ghostly hand to smooth over your head until it is empty again. Youâre most peaceful post-orgasm, even if you canât feel your legs.
âYouâre good now?â he asks, casualty betrayed by the awkward undertone, fitted for the man unaccustomed to dealing with crying women.
He can sense the strain you have never allowed to drip and bleed on the surface of you â neither during the missions you have run together, nor during the moments you fooled around for giggles like old friends. However, between the two of you who refuse to pry about each other's histories, âgoodâ is only the synonym for ânot willing to cry againâ, no âare you actually doing alright?â
For your answer, you can only nod your head on his shoulder, comfortably numb. Tender, spent, and already having forgotten the nasty ghosts of your past that had tried to resurface through your first tears before Enjin made you cry these out properly. Lock them, open the cage storing them, lock them again.
You typically avoid looking at him right after your display of emotion in all kinds of colors, worried that the vulnerability still hanging loose in you will firm up the risk of attachment to Enjin â a little of intimacy goes a long way. Being naked as the day you were born is just the tip of the issueâs iceberg. As his other arm is shuffling around his bed, your eyes are tracing the lines of the Too Lily poster instead.
Under the terrible light of Enjinâs rusting desk lamp barely scratching the gloaming atmosphere, she's almost mocking you with her eyes full of something you don't have. Sheâs painted into an inanimate object, yet itâs you lacking vitality. Sheâs scraping your ears too, the upbeat notes Enjin put in the background before youâd come still playing.
You shake yourself off the dream with the laughter, charmed at the cigarette being placed between your lips, not the rightful ones. Youâre reanimated, finally looking at him looking at you with no clear emotion. âYou're quitting smoking or something?â you tease, watching him scowl â Enjin doesn't share his tobacco treasures easily.
That earns you a scoff, safely played as nonchalant a veil for his next words, âNot worth with the withdrawal guaranteed to be the pain in the ass. I deserve little something when everyone around is so demanding. Itâs you who looks like she might use one.â
You raise your brow at his proposal, as if saying âyou care?â, also safely light. Ultimately, you donât protest against extending sharing the poison even after the sex is over.
And yet, you think him then lighting up the cigarette for you is the most romantic thing he has even done for you â the proximity of your face this close to his, in this position, for sure awakens your heart, just as it wraps it in anxiety.
The smoke doesn't hit your tear-scraped lungs well, coming as an unappreciated guest and forcing your features to twist into a caricature of your face. The glee you hear in response is heightened after your cough you canât help either.
âDamn,â he barely stifles his mocking guffaw, one grinding your gears.
You roll your head on his shoulder, shaking it with disapproval. âShut up, I havenât smoked in ages, andâwhat the hell do you put in those! Itâs a whole bomb! How do you even smoke that?â You wave the cigarette in front of yourself, staring at it with disgust, as if pointing out its intoxicating quality. The stench soon takes over his entire room, adding to the smell of sex, and adding up to the invisible layers heâs been building up here for years.
Then the leftover of smoke you exhale settles in you. Goes into the crisp that provokes your post-sex dizziness, as well the empty stomach begging for food, until the velvet layer is coming with cathartic peace and sticks to your chest. Thrumming your heart, lively, for at least a second. He hands you over the ashtray, setting it on your stomach.
âYou mean to say: you screamed louder for more your throat is all rough. Enjin, Enjin, pleaseââ
His crass taunt is interrupted by you throwing a pillow at him, pretending you find being the butt of his joke funny yourself. Pretending you're not instead humiliated by the reminder of your pleas. Scared he doesnât mean the pleas that come out as innocent at first â full of lust and desperate to be fucked â but the later ones, that develop into being full of sorrow, over who knows what.
âHey! Donât get your panties in a twist, takinâ everythinâ so seriouslyâŚâ he grumbles, knocking your shoulder with his, as if to shake off your supposed stiffness, turning his head to grin at you.
The silence that falls after is not as funny. Your exhaustion would have appreciated it if his silence wasnât something you tend to find dreadful. Youâd much rather hear him say something both so appalling and humorous, than be made to think heâs quietly evaluating you and your todayâs actions.
Although, he really is romantic â you realize that after noticing no separate cigarette is being lit for him, as heâs stealing it from your moist lips instead. You glance down at his fingers, shivering from them brushing you gently as he departs it from here.
âJust a half today?â you remark, looking away again.
Now itâs him turning oddly defensive, furrowing his brows with irritation at his being perceived. He looks away too. ââm tired. Doubt I can stay awake enough to smoke the whole thing⌠and who can afford burning two cigarettes, at the same time?â
The scintilla of sadness that comes in at the thought heâs doing no more than using you to avoid the cigarette waste feels comical to you.
And yet, something within you tries to split open again when he places a light hand on your arm he then starts stroking. He has recognized your todayâs particular restlessness, and the fact he did startles you; on top of the lingering skin sensitivity heâs provoking. You hate being scrutinized, analyzed, assessed, assumed aboutâ especially by him who seems in tune with emotions of those around on another scale, oddly for someone who still refuses to commit to a woman.
The second stroke, and you remind yourself itâs still not given to you with the embodiment of happy to, merely, not cruel enough to leave you be. Whatever is there to Enjin himself, he also cannot leave a root heâd regularly come back and tend to, watching it grow into a flower with time.
The fourth brush, and you wonder if his silence is exposing heâs beating himself up for not addressing the elephant in the room: what has happened to you that you cry as if the world is ending? Crying is self-explanatory, but Enjin doesn't know what youâre crying for, as heâs never asked or started a conversation about those tears⌠or who you really are, at the core of yourself.
The eighth touch, and you think you donât want him to ask anyway. Heâs just your teammate and friend you fuck. Heâs not someone that owes you responsibility for your blues. Heâs not a person that deserves a right to speak about the consequences of withholding past. Heâs not your boyfriend especially; he does not want to be any womanâs anyway.
The twenty-eighth kiss and youâre so absentminded again, you donât notice him looking at you this close to him. Youâre busy observing through the lenses of his room, heart rhythm synced with his. Youâve been here many times, youâre trying to crack his mystery over and over.
The hefty smoke produced repeatedly had jaundiced some things â curtains and sheets especiallyâ yellow, and you wonder if you had made the effect worse, with your presence alone.
You think heâs messy, as he is wild, exactly replicated in his room: from the cigarette maker spilling scobs on the tiny TV stand, through the bottles clinking over the collapsing dresser, to the laundry on his chair still waiting to be stored. You notice some porn magazine youâd tease him about more awake too, and then the wallpaper peeling off youâd gladly tear off to hide yourself under. He also needs to clean that nasty dust from his dark furniture.
Youâre glad itâs not your own room he takes you in, as youâd remember him in your own items, or the scent you suspect you can never wash off from yourself or your room.
Your mind stretching thin, youâre next watching his fogâs wisps curl like inside of a shaken snow globe, twisting into different ribbons, wings, and flowers, tiny dancers coming onto the scene of the grimy room. Elaborate but jagged, mesmerizing and distracting you with a fleeting beauty in the trash land. Something enthralling your own mind cannot ever be. Youâre blinking only every time he presses the ash onto your stomach.
By the thirty-fourth contact, he hands you the leftover of the cigarette to roll on his side, his touch gone yet still all over you. You take a drag without thinking, pressing your lips to where his own were just seconds ago; clinging to the kiss you stupidly imagine it is, for a heartbeat feeling like a real one he never gives.
Only then do you start theorizing heâs lied about being practical, has extended his cigarette to comfort you instead. About to fall asleep, he could have claimed he was avoiding waste this one time you also smoked â but if that were all, wouldn't he have just handed you a neat half? Something as small as taking turns still feels too intimate for a man like him. This tiny gesture is the only way youâll see him show empathy; Enjin never does it verbally nor through âgrandioseâ gestures.
You really need to go, before that fantasy would get to your head. Heâs really weird today.
With the first rather obnoxious snore you hear, once you gathered your clothes and shit together, you and the smoke are gone from his room.
On your own in your cold room again, feeling much emptier than his, you are forced to acknowledge the shift in the air. You can feel it in your bones: the upcoming dry winter on the Ground will be harsh, and so you go back to past to recount your moments with him â and he does too, from across the building.
Back to not the first winter together, but the first winter written this nightmarish way. Then the cycleâs seasons after. Until another winter will come.
The idea of winter or any season described in the texts about the Sphere that weren't redacted is difficult to follow without a calendar. The seasons in the Sphere are artificially created, yet based on real, ground-based seasons before they raised themselves into the air and before the trash became all there is to the atmosphere.
Solstices and equinoxes down here manifest only in the shifting length of days, though on the Ground the light is perpetually dim, obstructed by dust anyway. According to the Cleaner's archive, weather on the Ground differs drastically from that above the Sphere, warped and disordered by the pollution. Itâs always somewhat warm and dry here, with an often stagnant wind, heavy with smog.
Youâve become obsessed with using the idea of seasons to track your own relationship with Enjin.
DECEMBER 21ST OF THE LAST YEAR, WINTER DREAM RECOLLECTION.
Many pages of your calendar have been turned with a nagging sense of something going amiss. The past left lacunas that you taped shut; not enough to avoid the cold zephyr of something or someone occasionally flying through. Some memories are blurred, difficult to identify; and some are vivid as blinding neons of the Canvas Town, coming to you at nights with Enjin.
The type of incompleteness no of the beautiful spectacles world shows could satisfy, food satiate, and people fix. No remedy for it thatâs not as useless as licking your own wound.
Even your Vital Instrument is only a cement to fill the desiderium from the surface, not inside, and you wrapped its meaning around what you wish would have been protected. Like a dependent non-Givers call your kind, youâre nurturing your precious item over and over; you let it shine under the light and appreciate its detail, you let it destroy, you let it turn worn from the usage like you do to yourself. And yet, nothing changes.
You used to manage the hovel yourself, not letting anyone have a glimpse on it or offer something to restore it, knowing that most prioritize the importance of their own survival above someone elseâs problems. Letting yourself bleed in front of the sharks is not an option.
And Enjin had to ruin that safe management for you.
He yanked you out of the jungle of emotions you had learned to navigate, its vines always carefully avoiding your steps. Instead, he threw you into its deep and acid waters, forcing you to confront them until you were drowning and begging for help, not knowing how to swim.
Seeking hedonistic things do is the closest you ever came to achieving at least the temporary kind of completion in your entire life; at some point, it started as an episode, the first point being a bar before you even joined Cleaners per his request.
Enjin has been the nearest in your reach, as he was the one you clicked with the most, and outings regular enough to meet your demands would have been daunting to schedule anyway.
But this one night, any motives born purely out of need for pleasure were shifted into personal, the oxytocin from another warm body cracking you open. In hindsight, worrying about having to sleep with a stranger instead maybe wasnât so bad, in comparison to doing so with someone youâre associated with.
This one blunder you made â one of those originally only lusted midnights ended with you allowing the intimacy of sex to unleash the Pandora box of your stored up emotions. The storm of sudden tears was unanticipated by you both. In your defense, you never had any chances in defending yourself â let someone close, open a tiny of gap of your heart and legs for them, and the dams you had built up for years start cracking on their own.
They can store a lot, but their material is still fragile.
The first time you cried mid-sex, Enjin thought he has hurt you. Heâs never seen you cry before, and while he believed you naturally carried your own baggage like anyone else on the Ground or between the Cleaners, he assumed you had learned to keep it in check. Learned to like he did himself, which is why he wasn't afraid to get close enough to end up in the same bed; to be able to let go of horny consistently was all that he wanted from you at first.
The instinct to stop was immediate, but with you so inconsolable, he quickly realized this is no physical pain â someone like you would handle it better. He should have stopped, but with you vitreous and breaking in front of him, the pull on his heartstrings still working to this day was enough to win over. Holding you, while still fucking you through your tears, hoping exhaustion would obfuscate your pain â that was all his obdurate brain could have thought of.
He has never held a woman properly, in a way devoid of motives. A normal man would have cuddled you on your side, trying to talk to you; he did so on top and still inside of you, silently.
And oddly to him, you let him, blurring the lines of pain and pleasure with each sob, until there was nothing left in your memoryâs evanescence. Nowadays, this act of capitulation holds the title of the worst mistake you have ever made since knowing him.
You both knew you should have walked away the moment he suffocated you with silence after, unable to offer anything real and empathetic. No proper worry more other than clean and tuck you in, as the decision to send back you this small would have haunted him all night.
You didnât anticipate the relief of crying your heart out would be of this magnitude, forcing you to realize you have underestimated the tension you carried under all the debris you were suppressing for years.
You couldn't go back to living normally after only single time he held you like this, having had the taste of both comfort and release you thought youâd never require enough to need another person. Something you had never admitted aloud to him, playing the role of a woman not needy or clingy that he hates, but of a woman free and adventurous, seeking out to indulge herself.
Chasing relief, except itâs stuck in the loop, as you need one more after the first ends, and then another, and thenâ
So this cycle will keep happening, like a recrudescence. Too caring to let you just cry, too closed up to take care of you properly. Too hopeless to stay away, too proud to admit you need someoneâs hand to hold.
He knows how to provoke, what to stroke, and what to scratch; being fucked over and over will get you in this headspace the closest to nothing and everything.
You will always end up all over him, eager to do no more than handle your sex drive; you will always end up under him, singing threnodies and telling him itâs about to rain. The only words that will leave his mouth during the act are affirmative about his pleasure, purposely avoiding the topic of your tears at hand, saving his dignity and yours.
One heart open is a lot between you two, and unraveling his own is not worth the pain or responsibility.
It will be both of you getting to know you again, meeting the real you for the first time, previously unaware of who you are without the self-modifications.
It will scare him when sometimes will see himself through you, vicariously reliving his own past without having to cry about his own too â because you will cry for the both of you, the warm and cold air coming together.
MARCH 20TH, EARLIER THIS YEAR, SPRING.
Sometimes, you dream of a single red circle, porous red ember, burning bright against the dark. The cigarette guides you, but the space never gets truly lit up by it â it only chokes you with its cancerous smoke. Enjin has been already corrupting your dreamscape by the time spring came.
The next sharp turn Enjin takes with the jeep car jolts you awake.
Youâre still on your way back from the Polluted Zone, exhausted after a successful mission â the beast itself was not the problem, as it was the fact call you received came in very early of this morning. Nestled between Riyo and Rudo, the latter is mutually growling something at Zanka next to him, but is also too tired to make it a proper fight. In the row behind sits Tomme, resting her legs across the free space comfortably.
The serpentine trash beast fell apart, mostly by its own undoing, ironically after trying to outsmart you all by burrowing under the trash-sand. It bit its own tail, snapping with its fangs pointlessly when it could have dodged both its own teeth and your blows, choosing to stay stuck in a loop instead.
The caller behind the job was mysterious, asking to stay anonymous, with a promise of a sweet extra bonus as an incentive.
Yawning, you stare at the desertâs red clouds of aerosolized trash forming and sticking to the windows from outside, sad that you can't see the mythical sun thatâs supposed to linger at the sky. Its only substitute is the weather unbearably hot today, air warmed by the trash.
You imagine the artificial springs of the Sphereites is much more beautiful, something that could actually make you happy: green, lush, petals and leaves coming alive, pollen making you sneeze, blue sky. In the Pit, thereâs not even flies to feast on the rotten garbage, that would work almost as hard as bees once did.
At least, you hope it is better like that up there, not daring to ask Rudo about the truth.
When a familiar tune Enjinâs currently blasting suddenly reaches your ears, you tense up into a more awake state. Looking at him in the front, you get to see a cheeky glance given to you in the rear-view mirror. Unable to believe this asshole is playing the same music he did last night, you glare at him.
âHeâs bothering you again?â Riyo asks with a knowing smile, used to the little games between you two that whirl around the Headquarters daily.
She only wonât show if her knowledge about your dynamic goes beyond the evident friendly banter, in the ways that would be clear to you, not insinuated. You wouldnât put that past her, knowing sheâs a smart girl. In the narrow space of the truck, the weight of what she might know makes it hard to breathe.
Sheâs still loyal to Enjin. If she does know something, she won't ask about that.
âBy having a shitty music taste? Definitely,â you reply dryly, closing your eyes again. You're so tired today you manage to sleep even though Enjinâs rocky driving.
Youâre forced to reopen few hours later them when Tomme yells from behind you, âEnjin, watch out! Youâre about to hit a cat!â
The force of the carâs sudden stop sends everyone flying to the front, soon weaving you into a bundle of limbs.
âNow. Why would a cat be right in front of us instead of moving out of the way?!â he yells dramatically, making it everyoneâs problem. Then hits the steering wheel with his face, gripping the edges of the leather.
Youâre surprised he managed to stop a car in time with his driving skills at all. Which doesnât save Enjin from thrown groans at his incompetence any more.
âMaybe itâs blind and deafâ Hey, get away from me!â Rudo yells.
âItâd still feel the vibrations,â Zanka says bluntly, pushing the boy away from him.
âBut why would a cat be here in the first placeâŚâ Tomme hums with worry and straightens her body, patting her clothes down.
âWe can at least guess itâs in a bad condition,â you realize, untangling yourself from Riyoâs hair. âLet me see.â
Before Enjin could stop you, youâre already stepping out of the car with Tomme and Rudo trailing behind you like a cat rescue squad, everyone putting their masks on.
âGreat,â he grumbles under his nose. He follows you all anyway, too curious and maybe a bit protective, while Zanka and Riyo stay to shut an eye for at least a minute without being thrown around or growled at in the sardinesâ can.
The assessment of the catâs state is not bringing promising results. You all gather around a female, gray-tinted white fur feline. Even with everyone now closer to the Headquarters, the lighter dust here is not something to ignore either.
âPoor thing. She must have been abandoned by someone from the nearby town, then poisoned by pollution⌠look at her heavingâŚâ Tomme murmurs, brushing her hand away when the cat flinches from the pain. âI doubt she has much time left. She still stayed strong for so longâŚâ
You absentmindedly rub Rudoâs shoulder as he tries to not cry, his shoulders shaking and he biting his lip. You imagine it feels personal especially to him.
You eye the nearest rock. You donât want it to suffer, and suspect letting the cat go quickly would be more merciful, but you doubt Rudo would forgive you.
Then it starts raining; you flinch under the drops, having forgotten how rare rain is with the trash pollution stopping any coalescence. The first taste of Spring, cleansing, as it is staining with acid. Rain always makes the moldy and sour stench around worse, amplifying the deadly mixture of burning plastic, rotting food, chemicals, human waste and decomposing bodies.
Lost in your thoughts, you forgot about Enjin standing above you all lamenting over the cat as well. You narrow your eyes when he extends his umbrella over the cat. Heâs not letting her run cold for at least the last moments of her life.
None of you say anything for a while, like a silent prayer in funeral. Youâre given time to think about your own past, staring at a glass item spilling out from one of many trash bags around.
Enjin finding you in your favorite bar, some spring, you drinking away your soul. You barely remember what was that shitty flirt like he threw at you, also curled embarrassingly drunk, eyeing his big hands and sharp jaw instead. Both strangers meant to do no more than hook up in a love hotel, until you alcohol-vulnerable blurted out you also were a Giver, curious to know what it means exactly, in the pink bed after. Soon, he was chasing you week by week, strict, aiming to convince you to join the Cleaners, and then preferably his team.
Then you remember coming closer as some kind of friends â if friendsâ definition only was supposed to be knowing how to joke, not unite â still sleeping with each other, no tears coming to ruin things just yet.
You might as well be the cat lying at your feet, defeated by some kind of poison. But unlike her, thereâs no umbrella for you to be protected from the toxic rain.
The cat is soon gone. As Tomme walks poor Rudo shaking back to the car, you watch Enjin give the cat a proper burial from whatever trash heaps he could utilize â an old shoebox sheâs put in, a barely torn blanket sheâs wrapped in, the contraption covered with a pall some Sphereiteâs white silk scarf is.
âAlright, letâs go.â he says laconically, then turns around towards the car. You wonder just how familiar and friendly with death Enjin is.
You trace his steps, allowing yourself to watch his back for a moment as you pick up the object of your previous attention, then speed up to be in front of him, shaken by the rain and the whirlwinds that are forming.
He doesnât see the tiny snowball you slip into his coatâs pocket.
Back inside the car, Riyo poses you an interesting question. âThey say cats have nine lives. Wonder what eight lives this one went through previously,â she muses. âAnyway, can I do your hair once weâre back? Pretty please?â she clings to your arm like a child refusing to be denied.
Your eyes widen, more so to mock than criticize her choice to stay imperturbable. âYouâre discussing hair styling right after discussing death?â
âWell, sadly animals die all the time⌠if I had to stop to cry about every, where would I be right now?â
You suppose antipathy to death is only natural. However, how many lives do you have left? Youâve been through so many, youâre worried it might be your eight already.
You guess only a demiurge would know, for now covering you in caducity.
JUNE 21ST, EARLIER THIS YEAR, SUMMER.
The summer has fooled you, allowing a lighter day to turn into a lighter mood between you both, as if everything was over and you were allowed to go home. In reality, it was only a momentary fantasy of the longest day in year.
You ask him this after sex: âWhere the hell did you come from? Iâve known you for quite a while now, but this dilemma remains unsolvedâŚâ
Itâs supposed to be a jab at the mystery surrounding Enjin, pronounced as frivolous and non-binding by the soft circles you draw on his forearmsâ tattooed clouds. Itâs quite frustrating you can comprehend only the idea of himself heâs made for others as if some wannabe enigma; this itch of curiosity is against your will. Information is a currency itself, here on the Ground.
Just his tattoos alone are a whole conundrum. Itâs a shame you canât afford Kuroâs services.
You even question if the place Semiu told you about is in actuality the place he has a wanderlust for â the town he runs to chase skirts. Considering he was in the Polluted Zone on his own when he found Rudo, this being an occasion he definitely had to come clean about, who knows where else he goes, under a disguise being a womanizer would give him? Who he sees is something you have never asked about anyway⌠for the sake of your peace.
Itâs not as if he needs more of good sex than you already give him, as the only thing he thinks heâs supposed to want from you.
It's not as if Givers had ever won a good reputation among other people.
Although, you for sure believe him when heâs claiming he can't handle womenâs emotional needs. Yours especially are of high maintenance to him.
The shivers previously drawn out by your touch bristle harder under the pressure of the question that still lands as oppressive for his cherry Enjinâs past-picking ears. âWell, where did you come from?â he deflects playfully, tone low and relaxed enough to fool.
Heâs even sexy to you today, relaxing his body against the headboard. Sweaty from what he did to you and the heat outside, warm hair ruffled from your hands that you want to touch it again.
Everything seems just right today: the weather less windy of trash, the whisky in your hands, his smile, you wearing his t-shirt and bruises. Enjinâs room is particularly clean today. You only hope you could see Sun and blue sky, filtered of dust in the clouds. Must be summer â youâre fully thawed after winter, yet youâre only another six months away from it coming again.
Now itâs your turn to turn tense and pivot. âOut of my mamaâs womb, duh,â you scoff dryly.
Enjin bursts into a booming laugh, enjoying the ridiculousness of your answer, having to hold his stomach. The sound rings nicely in your ears, and so you lean closer to him on the white sheets.
From the point on staying down on your belly, your face above his, itâd be very easy for you to kiss him⌠till this day, you donât know what kind of kisser he is â soft and then rough, rough and then soft, always soft and gentle, always rough and hungry? Youâd let him steal all of your breath, if only he could hold you close while heâs at fondling your lips. They itch for him sometimes.
âNah, thatâs come out from, not come from,â he highlights the difference with an annoying to you lilt.
âI asked first anyway,â you slap his bare shoulder, earning yourself his petulant look, but almost flinch at skin touching skin. Sometimes you forget how his closeness veils you with odd and contradictory feelings. Apparently, post-sex hormones are not something youâre being spared from either.
You sit up and extend your arm above his body, giving him a view of your breasts under his t-shirt bunching up and adhering to them, as youâre reaching for the box of cigarettes. Back to next to him, you raise your brow at him having no banter to your slap; an ass slap is the least heâd do.
âWell? Or are you thinking about something else right now? Two somethings, round-shaped?â you tease, then on your knees, you put a cigarette between his lips.
He looks at you with a question. It almost turns you nervous, but how do you tell him you donât like changes, attached to stagnation and no hurricanes unpredictable is? âYou always smoke. I thought you forgot to⌠or something,â you shrug your shoulders and flick the lighter youâll steal again, soon watching him inhale.
He is your vice, so you expect him to keep up with his own, just to keep things balanced.
He doesnât pry at your âkindnessâ behind helping him smoke. Nor does he tell you cigarette today felt unnecessary with you as his vice here. âHm, very mindful of you,â he finally speaks, muffled by the filter in his mouth.
You roll your eyes. âAnd Iâm still waiting.â
âLike Iâd tell you,â the response is a murmur, as if maintaining quietness to dim the topic of his life, before it could develop into more inquires. âBesides, Iâd be looking like a loser if I were one upped by you having some story thatâs far more tragic than mine,â he jokes and takes the stick from your hands. âNot that Iâm saying mine is tragic,â he adds quickly and takes a drag, wanting no assumptions.
You pout, regardless of being glad heâs maintaining the distance as always. This dramatic expression has him wrapping an arm around you and pushing you down next to him. âAnyway,â he yawns. âPlaytime is over, firecracker. Weâve got a mission tomorrow, and I donât want you slacking off because youâre tired.â
âMe? Youâre the one slacking off,â you grumble, knowing youâre not wrong.
âYouâre sorely mistaken,â he drawls⌠characteristically lazily.
âCome onâsorely?â you frown, suddenly remembering how sore you are. How will you even walk tomorrow, let alone fight? You want to blame him â his size and roughness â regardless that you begged for it.
âSee what I did there?â he grins, satisfied at the successful distraction from you making accusations.
âYou know, Enjin, nights are my favorite. Itâs quiet, so you can think in peace. But with you next to me, all I can think about is murdering you,â once you say the petty stuff and he snickers, you turn away from him in bed. Itâs too many sensitive questions for today anyway. Itâs snowing the Sphereâs stardust outside the headquarters again, the wind is restless from the heat tonight, but thatâs something to lull you into sleep.
When the biting words are soon replaced by your light snores, that gives him enough time to reflect. For once, he lets you sleep next to him, the first day of summer. If he spoils you only one day out of three hundred thirty-five, thatâs still not an exception to the rule â if he had to make excuses. His free hand rests on your head.
He knows it's wrong. He knows what this â whatever excuse of intimacy using you through your tears is meant to be â is doing to you. Heâs always been self-aware of his own shortcomings, as well of those belonging to those around. Believed in learning from the mistakes, always improving his mind, thinking youâre never too old to be without something you still have to outgrow. With you, he fell into inertia.
Youâve become unable to go about your days without being held this way, no matter if previously you were self-sufficient. Heâs become unable to deny you, especially with the sensation of your nails clinging to his back with desperation, them begging for him to not let you slip into your own head, now fully written into his bodyâs wires.
The storm brewing under his ceiling coils into a vortex, pulling in every dark thing left unsaid â poised to strike you with feelings neither of you can handle, or destroy you entirely. Youâre already wearing your heart on your sleeve at nights together.
Above all, you and Enjin still have a mission to fulfill. There is no time to fuck around, literally as well figuratively.
He should have not begun this, the thought passes through his mind for the one hundred thirty-seventh time in the last months, as heâs adjusting a blanket draped over your body and veiling you from him. If he did, where was he, not refusing to let it happen again for at least another, fourth, eight, twenty-eighth time?
You wouldnât know this: heâs a coward, wanting you too much to let go and not doing enough to keep you properly. The coward to bang his fist at the gates of your citadel while never inviting you in to his. Suspecting youâd turn away from him eventually, this was the only way to make you stay.
Enjin takes in the big, sixth puff, and stubs it out on the ashtray, hissing sound making him wince when it shakes him awake.
He likes picking up broken people and pushing them until they think they have gained a new sense of self-purpose. With you, heâs helpless without fail. You're frozen in time, focusing on holding and hiding the pieces he now knows are more fragile than at their face value, instead of reorganizing them until they make new contours, or not having enough of them left. Thereâs a big difference in advising someone and holding them anyway.
Seasons change and start things anew, but maybe you wouldnât know with no trees around to tell time, and youâre also poisoning the soil, with salty tears as the accomplice to the ever-present trash doing its labor. Itâs summer and youâre still stuck here.
Enjin finally lies down beside you. He counts the empyrean stars heâll never see along the constellation of your spine, fearing they might dim if he comes too close. Although as his hand brushes your back, he finds out nothing falters in your glow. You only press closer, and it is he who must pull away, shielding himself.
He has learned to move with the seasons, only taking shelter under his umbrella when the rain comes, silently wishing youâd find your way beneath it. In the crowd, you donât even spot it. Outside, you tell him thereâs not enough space under the canopy. He agrees without a word.
Sleep barely comes to him this night. He already has many troubles on his plate (read: his own teammates significantly younger and brattier than him or you, in need of his guidance), and lately heâs been thinking a lot about you too.
DECEMBER 20ST OF THE CURRENT YEAR. THE ANTICIPATED WINTER HAS COME.
It hurts. It hurts so terribly. You've never felt more alive, embarrassing anything vapid in your vicinity.
The one taking you roughly and wringing your hips is still unaware. Heâs assuming the moans mixed into the typical wallowing are of pleasure. Afraid of him stopping, him being disappointed even, you donât announce any discomfort. Instead, you let the flame burst and crinkle in you and your sting, as itâs pushing away any thoughts and overheating your nerves â your glow of life almost shines above your sweat.
You barely hear the mattress coils ripping each other apart through the sobs and earsâ ringing, not disconcerted in the slightest bit about how hard Enjin is going at your body.
âF-fuck⌠you keep squeezing and squeezing on meâŚâ he growls through his teeth, blissed out by the tightness that turned shortened like a belt tonight, so suddenly.
Eager, he pushes your legs closer to your chest, needing you deeper and harder, with one skillful hand and the other between your thighs. He hits your insides hard, sending another wave of dizziness the pain brings, swirling down your shaky limbs.
The pleasure turns dimmer, shoved away by the aches demanding their space and your attention, but you welcome them. Theyâre much more pulsing, bright, vivid on your nerves, tickling you with both scorching sun and gentle kisses, than you have known pleasure to be. Youâre begging them to ruin you, invigorated by the notion.
No pain up there if the pain is down there.
As for Enjin flying on the cloud nine, he has to take in the view of whatâs almost a torture wrapped around him, watching himself disappear too.
The blood he spots is not the part of his typical fantasies about you, coming out as tiny flares and cigarette burns on him.
You give him a whiner type of cry when his pace turns uneven, startled by your harm. Heâs used to be your rough, but so is he used to your bodyâs durability currently rejecting him. âEnjinâŚâ
He stares at you with disbelief. âYouâre bleeding. I think we shouldâŚâ
âNo!â you butt in immediately, clinging to him with your fingers on his shoulder blades, making indents for the sweat to flow here. Instead, you sense heâs so cold today, the sweat condensing into beads of a dew instead. âItâs just a bit of friction. I took worse lacerations,â you assure, giving him your best wanton look.
When you squeeze purposely to stimulate his body again, heâs almost convinced to keep going. The cruelty behind stopping you amid your desperation would be hard to swallow, as if it would consist of denying you something crucial to your poor excuse of haven.
His keen eyes glance all over your body, watching every twitch and rigid form, then your lashes drowning in your tears. Your sight is supposedly no different from the usual âArenât you in pain though?â His stomach knots unpleasantly at the thought â it took him a whole year to have to consider the possibility of your limits being violated past what even he could allow. You crying, he let slip you away with; you showing physical manifestations of your torment is what he needed in order to fully hesitate in letting you disintegrate.
âBarely,â your response is met with even more skepticism brewing behind his gaze. âOkay, maybe just a bit, but itâs a background noise, pleaseââ you try to convince him, dragging him closer, the heat in your eyes now becoming deliquescent, a dysphoriaâs victim.
Only to expose yourself, wincing as he with the next shallow move, he angles himself into the places already raw and torn.
He stops any movement immediately, taking in you, a grim realization knocking at his face. Enjin gulps, then closes his eyelids for a second, before giving you an anger knitted between his brows â the type of frown you see only if someone in the Akuta did something particularly irresponsible. You can't tell if his revulsion is directed at you enjoying this or himself for aiding you in hurting yourself, and as his mouth opens to scold severely, you brace yourself for the impact of his words.
âWhy on earth would you not tell me itâs that bad. I was hurting you and you just took it,â he's fuming, confused and concerned, there above you, raising himself to rest his palms on the sides of your head than still crushing you with his weight.
Youâre surely wide-eyed right now, a prey trapped under him and the pressure of his observation coming after your entire existence. Having been caught self-harming yourself, you find yourself feeling the smallest you have been in a while, abject and laid-bare. âSome people are into painâŚâ your excuse is flimsy and you know it, stuttering on the words as if youâre believing in their liability yourself.
Thereâs just no way youâd make the admission of your abased state of mind, regardless of the face value speaking for you. Things like that make no logical sense, and Enjin himself struggles with it â showing or implying something is wrong with you or him, only to contradict yourselves by playing oblivious about it, as if saying those things aloud hurt physically.
It does. You wish he would shut up and change the topic already, feeling susceptible to his disappointment.
Enjinâs anger is spun by your indifference again, willing to shake in some sense into you â his hands move to grip your shoulders. âThey are. They can get off to whatever, I don't give a shit. But itâs different when theyâre punishing themselves with malice!â Each harsh word is being accentuated with a forced wriggle on your bones; althought Enjin still controls his strength, circumspect to not bruise you if he only wants to shake you awake from your conjectured reality.
âI'm not punishing myself! Iâm just into this!â you argue back, a bit scared; frozen under him, even if the old you would be kicking him already. The sight of him loosing his cool in a way separate from dramatic is a vagary in his weather, and you are worried about what kind of forecasting this is â the end of this world?
âWhile youâre crying at the same time and thinking about whatever past memory is fucking up with your mind? I don't buy that.
I wonât help you destroy yourself either.â
Your desperate attempts to keep him inside are futile. Heâs pulling out, leaving your needy hands hanging in the air for nothing.
Why does he even care? Why now?
He's far away from you, so suddenly. He is on the bed next to you, but the iceberg between you two is splitting in half. You donât ask him if heâs mad at you, him at the ceiling like it might crack open if he concentrates his anger at you here telltale enough.
The silence is killing you, each second drawn out with you, your trepidation, and your vein-deep-Weltschmerz anticipating heâs going to kick you out into the cold weather of your own room; you wouldn't blame him for that unkindness.
No languor comes this time after, filling you with lassitude instead. The winterâs here for sure, filled with another angst and disappointment, and youâre unmoving as if frost got to you. Has he also gone cold-hearted?
âIâm sorry,â he eventually blurts out, laconic. No turn of his head is made, Enjin worried about seeing a mirror reflection in your eyes again.
âAbout what?â your voice is full of surprise. You think itâs you who owes him an apology for alarming him with your weirdness.
âBeing aggressive. Must have scared ya.â He did see the eyes you have given him a moment ago.
â⌠Donât mention it. I should have told you Iâm ruining your sheets,â no melancholy escapes your tone, as you keep on staring ahead, just like heâs been doing.
âItâs not about those damn bedsheets, you stupid woman,â he grumbles. He rubs his forehead, and already is turning to the side for a cigarette box, willing to forget what happened a moment ago.
You finally defrost and wipe your eyes, hoping for the same.
Settling straight on his back against the headboard, arms safely away from yours, he sighs deeply and puts the sparks into his cigarette. âYou need something? Ointment of some kind? Maybe Eishia has somethingââ
âNo. I can barely feel any pain. Itâll heal up on its own,â you say dismissively, ignoring how swollen you feel from the inside.
And he knows better than to argue with you, pretending the shake of your legs has never been spotted. Enjin says nothing.
You're willing to gather your clothes and escape another silence weighing heavy on your paranoia, but he stops you last second. Youâre freezing, but itâs the dismantled state of no layers to hide you that you brood over. âHey, can I ask you something?"
You tense up sensitively. Questions that are not simply sex or job-practical are not predictable by you. âWhat is it?â you ask too calmly, gripping your pants above his floor.
âYouâre still taking the pill, yeah?â
You whip up your head to the side and straighten your back, hearing the serious voice your vulnerable ears translate as condemning. âAre you⌠accusing me of something?â you ask with disbelief. Surely Enjin doesnât believe youâd force a baby on him; thatâs too much to imagine regardless of your latest mood.
âGeez, no. Iâm just⌠capable of understanding itâs easy to forget about consistency when you're⌠all over the place,â he explains, weighing his words carefully. Turning on his side for you to see his tattooed chest after the sheets slipped down to drape over his hips, heâs placing an ashtray between you two. âWork⌠and all that jazz.â
Your behavior outside of his bedroom is unsuspecting. Focusing on your cleaning, drinking with the crew, shit-talking him, sometimes outsmarting him and getting him all hot and bothered when the debate inside a mess hall turns heated (and he happens to love a smart woman.) But itâs Enjin who gets the most reliable knowledge about you â from the first-row seat â and is able to gauge how youâd lose the rhythm in some routines.
There really must be something wrong with you, and you almost want to blame him for it â you can't accept the idea of becoming a disarray of a person willingly. Because, your visceral thought isnât of worry about a pregnancy scare. Imagining delusions about a baby giving you a sense of purpose when you're still exposed and susceptible to impulses is easy.
Itâs really his stressed look that allows you to remember the objective.
âUgh⌠right⌠wellâŚâ you trail off, watching him almost crush his cigarette in half from the anxiety. Poor man must be thinking heâs going to be a father.
Have you been consistent? You remember taking your pills for many days in the row, but what if you missed a dose and didnât realize? You donât want to put Enjin or yourself in this situation because you were too distracted; youâd never forgive yourself.
If there is a baby, you hope they will take after him⌠or maybe, it should turn out like none of you â grown adults who canât even communicate without using sex as a leverage.
Forget it. Your period ended three days ago. If you ever have missed a dose, you're not pregnant.
âIâm taking them. My period just ended,â you confirm, strongly enough to sound honest. âI know better than to have a kid here, as a Cleaner. Yours especially,â you stick out your tongue at him, dispersing the fog of apprehension thatâs been controlling his body.
You drop onto the pillows for one more moment, something within your instincts urging you to feel his presence properly once more.
Enjinâs shoulders slack, relieved from down here to the Sphere. No daddy Enjin. Still, he has to protect his pride, falling into the trap of your provocation like any other time. âMine especially?â He gasps with an overdone offense, hitting your shoulder, as if you uttered an insult directed at his entire excellency. âWhatâs wrong with Enjin Junior?â
You stare him down with the theatrics of disgust, looking as if you just imagined tiny Enjin running around and bothering everyone, playing out a shiver down your spine for a good measure too. âI'd rather die than name the child I birthed myself after you. And answering your question â everything,â you say pettily.
He shakes his head wistfully, taking a dramatic puff of his cigarette as if his life depended on it. âOh, okay. I get it. Iâm that bad. Same old story Iâm hearing. Iâve never done a single good thing in my life. Iâm lazy.â âI canât hold you properly and be brave, the man hiding under his childish charisma and false pretense.â âEveryone has been under-appreciating this guy and taking him for granted already anyway,â he throws more dramatics at you. âYou can say that for them. Say how bad Enjin is. Come on. Make yourself feel better.â He ruffles his own hair.
You laugh, loud enough to bounce against the walls. Itâs an insane idea, to talk about having a child with Enjin carelessly. As if at this point youâre not here mostly because of a relief thatâs still ephemeral and shortens itself every time. Soon it would be only a sunk cost bringing you back to him.
âOh, Iâm sorry, I must have forgotten something. Then, do you care to enlighten me about what am I missing?â you tease.
Enjin grins, so happy to oblige it makes him cocky. âI thought youâd never ask. One â Iâm an excellent mediator. Our team stays focused because of my advice.â
You pretend to ponder over the validity of his words, pursing your lips and looking to the side with thought. âHm, okay, letâs say Iâll give you that, but only when youâre not bothering the poor kids,â you agree, just nonchalantly â to keep him humble â despite knowing how he connects those around. You envy him sometimes.
He kicks your calf under the blanket, lightly, yet takes your âpraise.â âGreat. Glad thatâs established. Next thing: I have a pretty badass umbrella,â he says playfully, his face moving closer to yours.
Your heart races on its own, but you donât yield to his charms just yet. âI mean⌠I guess it's alright.â
Another scorned puff. âAlright? Not amazing?â he mocks, clicking his tongue at you. His eyes spot the tiny bruise he left on your neck, but they donât leer, in case his brain turns it into some ownership thing that's as dangerous for you both as anything else already has been. The last time he felt like that was when Tamsy stared at you for too long. âYou donât need to be embarrassed. You can admit that you like it.â
âI'm not doing that,â you deny him on purpose. Youâd hand lifts itself to brush his undercut from behind his head and you watch him shiver. âAnyway â is there more to you, or am I supposed to be impressed with double things?â
âSo impatient. Of course thereâs more to me,â when you smile and condescendingly lift your brow in question, he leans too close to your wellbeingâs safety. âI, for a fact, can make you come reaaaalllyyy hard,â he lowers his tone, speaking just between you two, as his hand crawls up your waist and spreads chills.
You gulp, feeling the heat coming between your legs again; you disregard the pain that flows in the current under. Heâs right, and you enjoy the memory of les petites morts as long as your brain instinctively ignores anything else that happens during sex with him. âUnless Iâm riding you. Then itâs me making you come,â you still bite back; excluding the part where no matter how you start, you always end up below.
For a second you think heâd pounce on you again, clearly aroused and challenged by your comment â his hand tightens on you, and you know heâs still hard after having to stop halfway through sex. Itâs only the remembrance about your physical state that deters him. âSmartass,â he comments lowly and leans away.
Then adds, as if itâs a reminder you might need. â⌠But yeah. Having a kid here sounds like a craziest kind of idea. No birthing babies in the HQs.â He points his manicured finger at you like a strict father, still playful, making sure you listen. âDonât need another brat running around anyway.â
And yet, kids is all heâs surrounded himself with outside of you. Stray-collecting.
You both turn silent for once more this eve.
Eventually, seeing you gather your stuff thirty-four seconds of unspoken thoughts later, one more question burns on his mind. He changes his mind about vocalizing it last second as you catch him staring with too much for his agenda worry.
Regardless, as you finally leave wobbling, he makes a note to himself to buy condoms before next time.
DECEMBER 21ST OF THE CURRENT YEAR. THE WINTER, AFTER MIDNIGHT.
Being ripped away from your sleep mid-night has you wanting to murder Enjin.
Itâs cold, and any wind howling through the tiny cracks in the window frames sinks down into your bones, trying to whisper to you about something coming. There never will be snow here like the toxic one in the North Ward staying at the higher elevation, the effect of dry air caused by pollution, but you imagine the soft fantasy happening over here too.
You're not necessarily freezing like you imagine a real winter to be, yet the coldness tonight is still a relief from the heat the pollution on the Ground easily produces.
You still wonder: what's the winter up there like?
With the last day of the calendar taking a big step everyday, you feel all the yearâs garbage piling up on top of you. Him calling disallows any proper contemplation over your mistakes.
You falsely assume that itâs your sleepiness that has turned his voice distorted through the Choker â itâs more restless than usual. The blood you shared to contact through the device is the closest you have to bonds with Enjin. âWhat.do.you.want,â you force the words roughly, through your teeth.
âIâd praise you for the ability of making a scary tone sound so hot, but you need to get your ass over to my room, right now.â
Your mind warps things real fast. âHuh? You think you get to demand when we sleep togetherââ
âItâs not about that.â
Your heart stills, and itâs as if all the sleep is knocked out of you under one, solemn line. Itâs always about that, so whatever else he wants from you, you have a bad feeling about it. âDid we lose someone?â Your stomach hurts plenty â from the moment you woke up â as if you were right about prophesying bad things catching up to you.
âNo. Just come here already,â he demands tiredly, as if been up for a while.
âAlright, alrightâŚâ you curse under your nose, gathering some slippers and a favorite worn out hoodie for a walk to his room. Watching how you step, legs still aching.
Each step through the hall is dusted with a sense of doom growing within you, foreboding, as if you're about to walk into something with a point of no return. Youâre not sure if youâre hallucinating, but you suspect the ground started breaking too, in the shapes of your footsteps you took through this corridor many times before.
Your path gets blocked by Semiu on her way back from the reception; you could easily wish owed goodnight and pass her by, but itâs her look that stops you. She needs no words to tell you her order, and her glasses sparkling under the power-emergency lights tell you sheâs seeing through you.
âEnjinâs called?â
âEnjin calls me all the time, mostly to annoy me with unsolicited information. What about it?â you shrug, playing with the strings of your hoodie.
âI mean a booty call type of harbinger.â
âHowâ how did you know?â your throat tightens, and a hot flush of shame spreads itself down your body. Not a sex shame. An Enjin shame.
She gives you an incredulous, knowing look, her smart eyes crinkling under her brows crunching. Itâs not a matter of her being smarter than most â your closeness to Enjin would be noticeable to many at this point. Be it seen taking a wrong turn out of your roomâs way deliberately timed to be at night, pairs of eyes lingering for too long, the odd stiffness between you two that appeared just a few months ago.
You smelling like bad cigarettes.
Youâve been so involved in your lethal duo of reverie and night terrors, you barely had a chance to stop and think of the outside perspective⌠or through it. The bubble bursting, its impact bringing you back to reality, you suddenly realize just how much of your life youâve made to be about him. Truth be told, the last year feels covered behind a hazy curtain when thought about; you wonder if youâre stuck in labyrinth, the next corner about to reveal the same path.
âItâs not even about the fact a pillow placed behind a headboard is still not enough soundproofing,â she says humorously; her tiny smirk dies when you shuffle your body with weariness sheâs seen in some women worried about some men.
âAlright⌠maybe we werenât sly, butâŚâ you swallow your pride and ask, meekly âAre you disapproving?â You question when did you turn so pathetic, or if you ever were not â asking for approval over staying confident.
Snowballs freeze easily, then explode upon expansion, and you think Enjin shook you too much inside of it already. You can either break free through the cracks and leave injured, or not survive the explosion at all.
âI want to say itâs not none of my business, but Iâd be lying if I said I didnât notice you turning hollow-eyed, that craze some women get when they get involved too much. Heâs been a freaking weirdo too, snapping at everyone for no reason. Sex with him canât be that good, heâs got things to worry about too, so make a wise choice yourself,â she gives her two cents with enough equilibrium of reverence and disapproval, then pats your shoulders, before departing for her own rest.
Youâre halfway through the way away from your room, halfway through the way to his. You think itâs still too early for plummeting from the high floor, mistakenly assuming itâs best to see Enjin again.
Soon, youâre standing at the doorstep of your jack of all trades again. The handle fights back, and you have to turn it twice to open, given one more chance to retreat.
Inside, Enjin greets you all solemn-faced, his body slouched on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees. For a guy who loves to laze, he does look sleep-deprived. Either forcibly awoken or has stayed up, the truth shown in the wrinkles under his eyes pronounced in the terrible light of TV on, or in his clothes creased from twisting in bed. The honey is now dull like tobacco.
âSit down next to me,â the invitation is straightforward, for once with him not beating around the bush.
When you remain dormant in the doorway, worried about the scenery of you, he pats the spot next to him. âCome on,â he insists.
Him trying to level with you spikes up your disquiet â serious-talk-Enjin seems like a bad, bad news.
âDo they ban smoking now or something?â you try to eradicate your anxiety with humor. Things just donât make sense â the meeting from hours ago was ended with a laughter; the sentiment possible only if ignoring the first half of the meeting.
He doesnât appreciate this. Enjin uses your name bluntly and sharply to summon the same attitude as his.
It sends a jolt into you, but youâre moving forward, legs stiff and made of cotton, accompanied by a pounding of your heart.
The spot you take next to him is still with you maintaining a space between you both, your eyes gluing themselves to the dusty floor.
âDid I⌠start turning you off or something?â you ask awkwardly. âI know my behavior tonight wasn't the best, butââ
The news presented Mymoâs voice mocks you through the TVâs speakers, yelling âbingo!â at something. âYou guessed correctly! It is 'hurricane', the nature's strongest storm. This isnât my usual expertise scope, but I could have felt something brewing in the air! We don't get too many of these in our polluted climate, but when they come, they always cause destruction and twirl trash particles into motion, so Iâm telling you to watch out!â
You expect a disagreement or confirmation, even if given the opening by you taking responsibility for once. Instead, he hits you with the truth, putting a light on everything thatâs been on his mind for the last year. âWe need to stop this.â Laying it out frankly, before heâd try to lose his conviction he gathered staying up to think about your incident.
Actually, itâs not the first time you hear him say that â the difference is that they're no longer a part of your mind thatâs been dreading and imagining heâll finally say them. Breaking the cycle.
Itâs them said for the first time that is too difficult to digest. You stare blankly at the floor for first few seconds, your mind refusing to accept their imposition and realness just yet.
âWho is she?â you finally ask, barely above whisper. Assuming Cupidâs shot Enjin with the arrow is far easier than taking the hindrance of admitting heâs done with you because of you.
âWhat?â he splutters with disbelief, eyes gulping as he also locks his gaze below him.
âWho is she?â you repeat, now unfairly angrily, pulling at your pajama pants. âWho is she that you can no longer sleep with me? You grew bored and tired of me, like Iâm some toy to discard?â
Concentrating your mind on the objective truth is becoming increasingly difficult, but you still try to recall any signs you could have missed about him being enamored with someone. Enjin has never owed you a type of loyalty youâd associate with romantic bonds, but your heartâs perception is so warped at this point, the thought of someone else warming his bed stings and ruins your entire worth â the void within you, always hungry, was still filled by him.
âListen up closely! A hurricane occurs when high and low pressure masses of air come in contact with one another,â Mymo drags on his show meanwhile.
âThereâs no one, you stupid girl,â he doesnât spare you any abrasive tone, slapping the side of his bed. âIâm denying you because youâre not doing well and I feel like Iâm taking advantage of you!â
You have never suspected Enjin to gloat about your dependence on him, yet not have you assumed his reluctance was wrapped into something of compunction. âThat didn't stop you before,â you point out weakly, watching his knee flinch in your peripteral vision in response.
Not that you believe heâs been taking advantage of you; you took everything, you begged for everything until now. If anything, itâs you feeling guilty, over this.
âI know,â he mutters, doing the most warmth he could muster â putting his hand on your thigh, right before heâd stab you with more consciousness. The winter is supposed to let you hibernate, but Enjinâs only letting you wake up. âAnd that was a big mistake. We shouldn't have been doing this in the first place, let simple sex turn into your pouring your heart out and me pretending Iâm helping you. I let you dig your own grave for too long.â
The answer should be obvious to you. You cling with all hope instead, placing your hand next to his on your thigh â the closest you ever were to him, only radiating cold. âBut⌠why? I donât understand. You were bringing me relief. I didnât get worse or anything,â with your tone breaking, you think this is another woman speaking.
âA significant difference in temperature between the two masses is nothing you should ever ignore!â Mymo exclaims, the colors on the screen turning rapidly and blinking over your hands with their hue.
Enjin sighs, his pinky finger coming across yours. âTake a good look at yourself. You cry harder each time. You get stuck in your head, and every time Iâm hanging above you as we fuck, I can tell Iâm making you remember something youâre not ready to face. That relief is temporary⌠and I canât offer you more, now that I did force you to face your own demons.â He takes his finger away before he could cross his heart.
You want to be a hypocrite. You want to beg. You want to cry. Instead, you throw all the venom at him, refusing to let go of everything you had just hours ago, wounded by the inevitable truth. âAnd youâre telling me this now? I know you can act dense, but if it bothered you so much, you could have opened your mouth sooner!â you stand up after almost yelling that.
You donât know why youâre like this, already growing restless for the future without him to sail with you through the night â you managed without any Enjins your entire life.
For your question, he has no defense; nor should you be able to hear him out about his own motives, in case youâll think of him as caring or mirroring you enough to keep ruining each other. âI should have,â he agrees with you, bumping his leg with nerves. âItâs only after you pushed yourself through pain, that I decided to act.â
He stayed up for hours after you disappeared into your own room, each smoke-inhale with him replaying your noises he then knew were pained. The tiny incoherent look you had after his question about birth control. The awareness another winter might be a beginning of another self-destructing, all-year long cycle if he doesn't sever the loop into a line with both endings.
To ultimately choose to push his selfish need for keeping you close to the side, in name of you learning how to be yourself through yourself again.
âOne is warm, the other is coldâŚ.â red and blue lights dance across the room and spread over your legs for once not tangled together, as the scornful and knowing laughter of Mymo reminds you of your mistakes.
You stop right in front of him and his regrets. âEnjin. What am I supposed to do now?â you put one more responsibility on his shoulder, asking him that as if your life depends on it, your voice a thinned sizzle. You wonder when did thinking for yourself become difficult as well â with you revolving on your axis around him.
He lets himself respond to your call, lifting his head to offer some strength before his departure. He nearly avoids your eyes again, overwhelmed by their trembling need for a lodestar; he reflects them with a wistful gravity, his smile caught between yearning and restraint.
âYou somehow were handling yourself before me, weren't you? You can go back there. I believe in you.â
Barely. The exsanguination of your soul happens with or without him, but at least you are sheltered from it every few nights.
âThe warm air rises, and the cool air fallsâŚ
âI-I was, but⌠itâs different now, now I know what itâs like on the other side of things. Having someone there for me for at least a moment, even when heâs just as bad as me in all this⌠feelingsâ carouselâŚâ you admit shamefully. âI canât go back just like that, snapping my finger and going about my day.â
Your confession is something he seemingly canât take easily â youâre trying to pull him back into your vortex no one else than him can enter â causing him to further realize just to which deadly point he had dragged you both to, with you as his partner in crime.His brows sink low and lips press into a downturned line in a rueful way.
Heâs so beautiful, finally human and open like this for you â why must your dreams come true only at the end?
âŚthe low pressure area slides down the sides of the high pressure area.â
âNo. Listen to me, pretty girl. You think Iâm helping you,â the words are audibly becoming harder for him to form, but he counts on you to keep looking at him. âAnd maybe, somewhere this is comfortingâ but in the longer term, Iâll just make you worse. And I can't keep fucking someone crying and hiding under me, clinging to me like theyâve lost everything, while Iâm there trying to not be too unseemly eager, and I canât do any shit about them being like that!â his raised voice cracks into something rougher, hoping to make the truth stick to your brain. âItâs like Iâm using you. Because I shouldn't be enjoying you when you're crying.â
You blink away your tears. âI doubt youâre getting off to me crying. Itâs just physical.â
âThey swirl in and around one another, creating the beginnings of the storm, speeding from the 64 knots in their lowest, to 137 knots in their highest classification in the scaleââ
That annoying âweathermanâ wonât stop talking. Enjin slaps him silent, turning off the volume of the CRT screen with a remote.
âAnd how can you know that? How can I know your pain doesn't excite me somehow, if Iâm still getting hard at the same time? Maybe itâs all physical, but maybe, I also should have been deterred by your misery.â
âI-I donât care which one it is,â you say shakily, hands clinging at your sides to not touch him again. If he were to enjoy your pain, you wouldn't care at this point â if only he could not abandon you.
âYou donât care?â he flickers his head down and pulls on his hair, frustrated by you lacking respect for your own body and mind. âYou letting me do this is another issue. You don't know what you want. You think you want to sleep with me, all giggles and shit when coming to me, but you might as well have stayed only out of desperation to be consoled. Thatâs why I think Iâm taking advantage of you.â The splintered wood heâs staring at is starts to drown and swell in your tears, but he keeps his feet steady, unwilling to go with their flow.
âWe literally fucked before it all started!â you plead, grabbing his hands and forcing them away from his head, begging that he looks at you again and can understand your rationalizations. They stiffen as he tries to pull away from you. âIâve been wanting you from the start, before I started breaking down during sex.â
Enjin gulps, unable to take you crumbling into something so small, the product of both of you. Then itâs your hands begun shaking on his, and heâs at once unable to push them away. âYeah, we did⌠butâŚâ he tries to say something delicate and groans when words are not adhesive enough. âI think you were doing this to cope from the start, the first night at the bar that Iâve met you. I think Iâve always known that and disregarded it because that's what folks here do. Because thatâs what I do. Because it served me well. Youâre⌠desperate.â
Desperate sounds like the most humbling thing you have ever heard from him, coming from the man whose tongue is sharp enough to humiliate in many different ways. Is that all you have been to him the entire time? Desperate-, needy-, fragile-looking; just like the kind of women he hates?
âThen it was me taking advantage of you. Begging you to fuck me so I can be nothing got a second, so I can feel a relief in the tension I never knew I carried for a second, even though you shouldn't have to be burdened like this,â you take the blame easily â you do believe in your words, as you are ready to try any methods. âIâm not your responsibility and I made myself that. I'm not your lover. I'm barely your friend. I'm your teammate supposed to only demand help in her job,â you ramble as quickly as possible, before he could kick you out. You turn his knuckles white, tattoos gray.
Enjin sighs again, worn out by you needing different arguments to end something that needs to be ended. âYou didnât. I could have stopped you the first time you cried and I kept going instead. Then you cried again and I let you in again. I knew I was risking a lot, but I pitied you like an idiot, I put my possible guilt above your well-being,â he pats your palm as a last kiss that has never happened and pulls separates your hands from each other. âIf you somehow did take advantage of me, I wasnât any better, soâŚ
I was opportunistic, thinking this is the only way I can keep you with me. Because when you cry, I don't have to. If I hold you, I can taste the normalcy of holding someone without paying the price for it at least a second.â goes unsaid.
ââŚWeâre even.â
âSo this is over?â you ask with bitterness making its raise once more. Then youâre breaking, shattering, collapsing like a ground breaking off when the first sob comes in.
Enjin seems incapable of taking it easily. Biting his lips hard enough to bleed, huffing as if heâs stopping the thought of letting your sadness become his again, as if you're being a bitch that refuses to let him leave in peace and as a full piece. âYes. I wonât sleep with you again. I can ask Alice if she can figure out someââ
âI don't give a shit about doctors or meds! Iâm not crazy,â you hiss out through your sobs. Then you're malleable again. âI need you, Enjin. Even if itâs just you holding me. You donât have to be mine. You can sleep with whoever you want. Please, don't leave me,â you beg, all pride abandoned, coming closer and closer. Your shadows loom over his form.
He freezes in his spot. Even he's powerless against your desperation; especially he, always have been , but now you're thrusting a knife at his heart. âDon't⌠seriously,â he says your name with an excuse of seriousness, âyou're only making this unnecessarily difficult for usâŚâ
That moment of weakness only encourages you to glue yourself to his body, arms wrapped around him. The repeated mantra of âplease don't leave meâ corrupt his ear, moving upwards to mess with his mind. So unlike you; yet itâs the real you, pulled out of the deepest corners, the vault to them finally been opened, forcibly.
He tries to push you away. Itâs a weak current at first. âHey, I said somethingâŚâWhen your body shakes with every fear pouring out in black rain, itâs instinctive to put his hand on your back. Almost enough to reconsider some things.
Until heâs reminded of another reason why he canât be with you:
âEnjin. I love you. Please, stay with me.â
These words, the most you have ever said and meant, the most arduous you have ever spoken, hang like clouds between you. They are the simplest to vocalize this moment, yet the heaviest to bear. In this singular articulation, you proffer your heart, for once in your lifetime, but they reach a receiver who scarcely possesses the fortitude to cradle his own within the first place.
Your words wrap around his neck like a snake, choking him more than tar has been doing for years. Heâs pushing you away; not just out of the shock that goes through his body at your claim. You try to touch him again but he raises his hand.
âDonât,â he orders. Youâre saying this because you're attached. Youâ you havenât been this close to someone in ages, youâve got to be confused,â Enjin says that like heâs trying to convince you both and swallows, barely stopping more fractured emotions from melting his âcoldâ scolding.
Those three most radiating words carry the weight and burden he cannot handle, a trap you made for him. The one he refuses to fall for this lifetime. Not again.
âYou should go,â he says, finally quietly and weakly; averting his gaze from you standing stuck in his rejectionâs stupor.
You think youâd handle no love yous back. Anything as long as itâs not the hurricane sweeping you away from the one man you care about, deep down under your parasitic need to latch yourself somewhere between his ribcage and the smoke frozen here.
The steps you take back to let the wind carry you, still holding him in your gaze for the last few seconds, are of a drunk person. You want to blame him. You think you canât.
The force behind you shutting the door is enough to shake off the frozen snowball on his wall shelf, knocked down as the door bounces back in the hinges. âYou hate rain, but do you hate snow also?â you were probably asking when silently slipping the item into his pocket, last spring.
Now itâs shattered, and Enjin worries itâs something even Rudo canât fix.
MARCH 20TH OF THE NEXT YEAR, SPRING.
Moving to new places is never fun. Comfortably used to avoiding arcane things, knowing what to expect, itâs hard to resettle. Home is where⌠well, somewhere.
Convincing Corvus to let you move over to the Southern Branch was (un)surprisingly easy; you moved out on the New Year's Eve, never seeing Enjin before or after again.
For who you know your boss to be, you suspect he's been acutely-aware of your relationship with Enjin. He bought the explanations you know were loose â overly perfect â officially taking them as valid, as if heâs been awaiting the moment he could be given an excuse to separate you both without being too personal. Perhaps letting you mingle for so long doesn't seem the most professional, but he believes in allowing freedom enough for you to follow him willingly and learn from your own mistakes.
The only curio of your relationship with Enjin is all the white lighters that you stole from him when he particularly annoyed you in the past; holding them is easier when you're pretending he didn't need that many anyway.
Youâre playing with one in your hand, the flame dancing lively, making up for the disappointment you went through seconds ago â having to finish on your own, because no men in the nearest town can do it right.
Itâs certainly hard to maintain your peace when thereâs no outlet in a form of a man pulling at your flesh and hair in the right ways, waiting for you like a respite (or punishment youâre finally remitted from) at the end of the week. Youâre not sure if itâs because other men lack deftness, or because they are strangers to you, lacking worrisome endeavors in common with you.
So you take it out on work instead. Trash beasts fall apart beautifully when youâre still angry sometimes, three months later, even if you occasionally see your own reflection in their eyes, brewing with dark anima.
You suppose you manage yourself better now, Enjin or not. It's only the stench of cigarettes that follows you everywhere. You smoke. Someone smokes. Sometimes, in the crowd you smell a distinctive brand of tobacco and you think it might be him, as you're barely stopping yourself from following the trail.
Months of beating yourself over one guy who didnât even do a good job at comforting you. A guy only ramming you into the mattress until you canât cry, nor even think â what would your coworkers say about this farce, if you were to tell them the truth?
A funny guy. A mean guy. A silly guy. Maybe even a bit handsome, and definitely good at making you see stars. Also the guy who never owed you any responsibility for your wellbeing but still offered the last traces of his own warmth. Also the guy who turned you addicted to him this way.
The guy who you held hands with only to get the angle right.
The guy who you miss sometimes, even if you dread the day your base collides with his orbit one day. You miss everyone, but Enjin took the only vacant seat in your head for forever.
The guy that has you reflecting what you did, what you didnât, what you could have done, and what you shouldnât have done; now that youâre calmer a few months later. How you weighed your own sense of security on him. How you wish friends stayed friends, as heâd be there next to you, laughing, only painfully reticent.
The past is in the past, and you should be moving forward; but the past, cycles, continuum also teach â they make you see what you unknowingly turned a blind eye to, lead by all kinds of desires, some selfish, some innocent.
And Enjin, he misses you too: today, yesterday, and tomorrow.
A week ago, he realized he never got to learn your birthday; he only recognized he missed it some day of the last year. Itâs Meriege that helps him in delivering it to you, today.
The knock on your door has you throwing on your clothes back on properly, until youâre facing her.
âWell, look at you, receiving gifts! Youâve got a secret admirer?â she teases with a pleasant smile.
âA secret admirer?â you repeat with confusion, wondering who this could be from.
âWell, I don't know whoâs the sender, but itâs got approved, so itâs all yours. Goodnight!â
As you settle on your bed and open the green box, you find the delivered contains funny, something you could imagine from him. A few crooked anemones: medley of purple, red, white, and blue, clearly lacking in their contrivance, but not lacking the thought put behind them.
Access to real and fresh flowers on the ground is very limited, but people do their best to replicate the language of flowers; you see the prism consisting of stained glass and metals. They win over the organic ones by being eternal.
The note confirms itâs from Enjin, and you fight your instinct to push the box under your bed and forget about it. Remission of pining is a huge riskâŚ
⌠but you need to know if he hates you.
âHappy belated birthday, whenever that was. Iâm not good at this, gifts, flowers, anything like that â but I thought you could use a little color to keep things flamboyant. Rudo and Delmon helped me make it, because I clearly canât do it alone. Donât drop those ones⌠or do. Thereâs always more flowers to make. Donât hate me for sending this, and⌠take care, pretty.
Sometimes, itâs only when the countercurrent separates us from facing each other that we can finally see life from other perspectives. I think. The water banks are dirty here anyway.
â that bastard.â
Him letting you go was the act of care in itself, you realize instead.
And from the other side of the world, Enjin paints the imagery of your reaction in his head, standing in front of the window. The surprise he finally and actually reached out. The hesitation to allow the smallest of doubt by accepting the gift. And then, hopefully a smile â sad or happy, amused or exasperated, uncertain or relieved, but definitely honest and gorgeous.
He hopes youâre doing well over there. Blooming anew. Wishing he told you he cared back then. Wishing he held you properly; buried against his chest until you canât breathe, told and asked real things, appreciated and kissed breathless.
Wishing he could have told you he loved you too, if only there had been a right moment, a right way, a right cause to do so.
Heâs never been the first to fall asleep beside you, pretending, hoping youâd leave early so he wouldnât have to watch you fall â and now he sleeps alone.
JUNE 21ST OF THE NEXT YEAR, SUMMER.
A worn little bar with restless crowd, with green neons toxic against the dark walls youâre in, stenches of vomit and cigarettes less heavily than usual. The half-dim underworld of this settlementâs bar is a short pit stop before hitting the road again with the crew,
The same bar where you first met your first love. Itâs ironic. Itâs poetic. Itâs still a salt to a wound.
The place is unchanged, suspended in the same dim glow and hum of drunk-excited voices. A few regulars still recognized you from your days of rage and abandon, offering short greetingâŚ
But what they don't recognize is you reformed, has shed old skin â the woman they once knew well was haunting the barâs velvet stools and men, for many months before a mysterious man took her with him. Now that sheâs back, thereâs no specters clinging to her shoulders; sheâs wearing a sundress.
Moving through the fog-shrouded counters and sticky floors, in search of somewhere where you could breathe, a familiar scent of cheap cologne stops you in track. Youâd mortify half of the men here for drowning themselves in too much alcohol, but you find this particular pepper to be too distinctive to be ignored.
The same brand he always wore; usually, you couldnât catch it, buried beneath the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes and skin. But one summer day, when he didnât smoke immediately after sex, it rose freely and you smelled it fully for the first time.
You doubt itâs Enjin, the avid smoker. Besides, there still could be many other people using it.
You take the opposite current behind the second part of the counter anyway; not in hopes of seeing him, if only to burn the cologne into your brainâs drive.
For a heartbeat, you think youâre stuck in a bar-heat mirage. Your pulse stops, then sprints, a tumult of endorphins surging through you.
He is here â tangible, corporeal â even with his back turned against you. Unchanged, yet different; from the angle of his head, his eyes are searching for something or someone specific. White t-shirt, eye and hair still suffused with sun. He takes the space as if he belongs here, a revenant made flesh, yet somehow renewed. You know he has been here before, doubting the fate is in mood for making such coincidence. More than once.
You should flee, vanish into the crowd, yet he has long sneaked himself into your marrow. Fear expands in your chest; this may be your sole chance to see him again.
Moving behind his stool, the cologne thickens in your nose. You wonder if there is attenuated difference in the smoke that always lingers on him â as if he has switched his tobacco, to something of its acridity softened.
It's now or never; six months not before the winter, but after the winter, you hope you both reached your own summers.
You realize you canât greet him with the same old woes, if you want him safely. Summers as something to come back to, not a cycle.
Tapping his shoulder, you almost laugh at the grimace that spreads over his face, surely anticipating some stranger obstructing his hunt for a lighter. âYeah?â he murmurs all annoyed, turning toward the touch. His frown turns into abundant shock, a cigarette dropping from his wide mouth.
âHey there, stranger. Looking for this?â You offer one of the lighters you pilfered in the past, placing it before him. Then you slide onto the seat beside him. âI saw you from across my table and thought â I could get to know someone like you.â
Not his mask. Not his humor. He.
Not your body. Not your tears. You.
Being called a stranger by someone who once vividly existed in his memory, in an enigmatic definition, confuses him terribly; yet when she smiles in ways he has never seen, the possibility of a brand-new beginning clicks into place. You donât want your pasts to define the bonds between you anymore, now that this is your homecoming.
He clicks his tongue, shaking his head too â he shall play your game called the endings but beginnings, or simply, convergence. He hides the cigarette back into his pocket. âIf youâre ready to take some risks, then I wonât stop you. Nameâs Enjin,â he grins.
Telling him your name, you shake the hand extended for you. This Enjin is familiar, as he is a stranger. It's a clean slate you need him to be first, itâs a clean slate you will be for him, before you two could learn how to flow down the same, gentle and steady stream together.
And maybe one day, heâll tell you his real name, and you will tell him yours â not the ones borrowed, not the ones stolen.
:'))))))
AFTERNOTE: If youâre still there, know that youâre awesome, and thank you for reading <3 Should any things remain unclear: additional notes. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story! Iâve been having a very stressful period in my life lately and finally finishing writing this story and adding a few scenes was cathartic. I hope my anxiety levels still allowed me to not make too many mistakes, and Iâm sorry if thereâs any.
synopsis: you were giving up on him. for real this time. after years of silently pining over your friend's brother, you were done giving him any space in your heart. until a date goes wrong and he waltzes back into your life - seemingly intent on winning your heart this time. can you resist him? or will you just be repeating history?
pairing: tattoo artist!Sukuna x f!Reader
wc: 8.2k
content: mdni, angst + smut, some fluff sprinkled in too, hurt/comfort, HEAVY JEALOUSY, sukuna is an asshole at first but he learns!, he's UNHINGED though lmfao, lowk crazy and yandere bc this man is obsessed and plotting, aspiring artist!reader, heavy pining/yearning, gojo appearance but he's a bit of a dick, fist fighting lol, Sukuna scheming to win us over, regret, tattoos, fucking in the tattoo chair, fingering, unprotected piv sex, creampie
a/n: this was a commission by the lovely @ynishalee !! sukuna art is by @/to00fu + divider by @/d-oie !!
âSeriously? You thought this shit was worth showing me?â
You flinched. Stared at the portfolio you brought in veiny hands before he tossed it back on the counter, a few pieces of laminated paper slipping out before you scrambled to pick it up and shove them back in.Â
What did you think?Â
That just because you were friends (or as close to it as you could get) with Sukuna, he wouldn't be a complete and total asshole for once in his life? That maybe he'd be impressed with your attempts at art after making a career out of his own?
âI cleared my evening for this,â he grumbled, running his fingers through his soft pink hair, brows pinched together in a scowl as his dark eyes settled squarely on you. âI couldâve booked a client. One that paid?âÂ
âSorry,â you apologized, stepping back, glancing towards the door.Â
Stupid.Â
Stupid stupid stupid.Â
You shouldâve known better. Shouldâve realized that even after fifteen years, all youâd really be to him was a nuisance.Â
âWhatever,â he groaned, grabbing his jacket from where heâd left it on his stool and stretching out his shoulders before slipping it on. âYou can buy me a beer to make up for it.â
This was what moderately nice looked like with him. And the only reason he even put up with you this much was because you were friends with his brother first. Jin was the opposite of Sukuna, soft-spoken and considerate and not a complete asshole, someone you met back in school. He introduced you to his twin brother â and that was history.Â
Youâd been nursing a childish crush on him from that very first day.Â
It still made you feel like a fucking moron.Â
All you wanted was for him to see you.Â
Maybe you were asking for too much. But the rejection burned as you buried it deep in your chest, mumbling sure as you turned away from him. Rubbing underneath your eyes before you started needing to blink back tears, refusing to let yourself cry like a baby in front of him.Â
But you were apparently still lacking in the self-respect department when you held the door open for him in one hand and cradled your now-worthless portfolio against your chest in the other.
You drove separately.Â
Following his car to a seedy club downtown, parking a couple blocks away and jogging to catch up with how fast he was walking to the doors. He nodded at the bodyguard, the brute just waving him in before you mumbled something stupid about being with him before you trailed after him inside.Â
Sukuna ordered two beers, the cheapest drinks on the menu like he didnât think you could afford more on your salary. He wasnât wrong.Â
He rarely was.Â
Youâd been working at your familyâs bookshop most of your life. Managing the finances, stocking the shelves, working the cash register. Whatever was needed whenever it was needed. No questions asked. But your mind drifted, dreamed of doing something different â where you werenât sleeping in a tiny studio apartment you could barely afford and got to express yourself outside of the stupid chalk signs you drew on to advertise on the sidewalk.Â
âAre you still all prissy because I said-â
âNo,â you interrupted him, even though you knew he hated that. You sipped the awful beer, nose scrunching as you pressed your lips together and forced yourself to swallow.Â
âGood,â he grunted. âDonât need that shit today.âÂ
You didnât reply to that. Stared ahead at the bottles of liquor lined up on the wall, the distorted mirrors behind them as you listened to the heavy music thumping behind you.Â
âFirst client was fuckinâ awful, didnât even tip after I spent-â Sukuna was still talking, grumbling under his breath between swigs of his own beer. You werenât paying that much attention though. Picking apart what you could make of yourself in those stretched-out mirrors, wondering if youâd really only be Jinâs friend to him. Someone annoying he could boss around, that he barely tolerated.Â
How much time were you wasting waiting for him to wake up and notice you were a girl? That you liked him?Â
âGod, I need to get laid,â he continued, and your head swiveled over to him, brows knitting together as it hit you what he said.
He noticed, chuckling at whatever expression you were making before slamming his now-empty beer down.
âWhat? Are you, like, a prude?â Sukuna asked, and you flinched, flustered as your mouth fell open.
âN-no, Iâm not,â you defensively said, heat crawling inside your skin, uselessly shaking your head just for him to laugh at you.Â
âCâmon,â Sukuna snickered, rolling your eyes. âIâve known you, what? Like a decade? And youâve never had a boyfriend?â
âIâve had boyfriends,â you muttered, wishing you could drown yourself in your beer when you forced yourself to take another drawn-out sip.Â
Several of them. Some longer than others.Â
But they all came to the same conclusion you had a long time ago.Â
They werenât the guy you wanted. And the one you did couldnât care less about you.
âSure,â he shrugged, all gruff and gravelly, waving over the bartender to get another beer. âWhatever you say.â Â
âYou donât believe me,â you pointed out before you could stop yourself, and all you got was another bob of his shoulders.Â
âItâs not my business.â Which really just meant he didnât give a shit.Â
You could probably pick a random guy from the dancefloor and drag him back home with you and he wouldnât blink.Â
Instead of a beer, the bartender pushed a stein of something strong to him, nodding down the bar to a pretty girl who was already looking at him, glossy lips curling up when his head turned in her direction. âOn her.âÂ
Sukuna smirked, and you wondered if heâd be leaving with her tonight.
âSomeoneâs got you beat,â he commented, glancing back over to her with a glint of interest in his eyes. It was a joke, you guessed. But you didnât laugh.Â
Just felt it sit in the bottom of your stomach like a goddamn boulder.Â
She had his attention, and she barely had to try.Â
You pulled out your purse, scrounging together enough crumpled cash to cover the bill before tossing it on the bartop, swinging your legs off to stand.Â
âYouâre mad at me,â he huffed, and you wanted him to stop you. Some sad little shriveled part of your brain desperate for him to do something to show you were more than just â well, whatever it was he saw you as.Â
âIâm not,â you insisted, even though a hot lump had formed in your throat, lungs constricting as you became acutely aware of how little air you could suck in.Â
He frowned for a second, but he didnât say anything.Â
Didnât reach out.Â
âGotta get up early tomorrow,â you excused, even though he didn't ask.Â
For the first time in forever, you didn't look back when you left. And when you got home, you blocked his number after deleting the message chain that was mostly you sending him stupid shit he probably only ever skimmed over. Â
Removed the temptation entirely to text him now, tried to call and clip the image of him from the corners of your heart when you curled back up in your bed.Â
It wasn't like it was easy. But the humiliation of wanting someone like him had sliced too deep this time, embarrassment etching into your fingers every time you attempted to draw and thought back to his reaction. His rejection.Â
So you did the only thing you could do.Â
Move on.Â
Focus on your job, your meager social life, although you made Jin come over to your apartment when he wanted to hang out purely out of fear you'd bump into Sukunaâs at his place.Â
Two weeks passed, then three, killing time while you scrubbed the ghost of him from your mind.Â
Today hadn't been much different.Â
Stuck with another hour left at an exhausting shift, feet aching as you shifted behind the counter, a pen in hand as you attempted to sketch something on the back of a sticky note. A few animals, a couple of fish, thin lines and unsure strokes as you questioned what was even the point any more.Â
âWhatcha doodlinâ?â A cheeky voice distracted you, snatching the crumpled paper from underneath your palm before you could stop him. You knew who it belonged to before you saw him.
The white-haired menace who only showed up for the sweets in the adjoining bakery, chocolate usually smeared in the corner of his mouth when he pretended to browse books. Although he'd always find some excuse to come chat with you, sometimes bringing around his friends who would buy stuff.Â
âIt's nothing-â You started, straining over the counter to yank it back, but he was too fast.Â
Gojo held it over your head, squinting at the lines you etched into it and tilting his head to the side with faint surprise.Â
âThese are cute,â he smiled, pointing at the little koi fish at the bottom.Â
âYou don't have to lie to me,â you frowned back at him, getting just close enough to grab it. You rolled it into a ball, throwing it away in the trash can under the counter. âIt's nothing.âÂ
âI meant it,â he grinned, propping himself up on his elbows and getting on your eye level. âDon't believe me?â
Gojo was full of shit.Â
You hadn't known him as long as Sukuna or Jin â but you still knew him well enough to know he liked to flirt and fawn, none of it worth anything when he was like that with everyone. He was more of a mutual friend than just a friend, but boundaries were more like suggestions he preferred to ignore, physical, emotional, every flavor of rule he rejected.Â
âNot really,â you muttered, glancing down at both his rather huge hands. All pale and veiny, long fingers that weren't holding anything. âNo treat today?âÂ
âWant something a little sweeter tonight,â he hummed, and you stared blankly at him.
âLike what?â You deadpanned.Â
âA date with you.âÂ
You blinked. But he didn't budge, waiting for an answer.Â
âLike, a date date?â It made you feel like a moron to ask, halfway thinking he'd laugh at you even when he brought it up.Â
âDuh,â he chuckled. âWhat time do you get off?âÂ
âUm, an hour, but-â You started, and since it wasn't a no, he was already smiling like it was a yes.Â
âOr we could do dinner tomorrow if it's better, yâknow, whatever's good with you is great with-â
âTomorrow,â you answered, surprising yourself a little bit at how quickly you said it. Gojo was cute, even if he wasn't exactly the type you usually went for â i.e. tattooed men with commitment issues. He probably had a big dick if it was even half the size of his attitude.Â
It might not go anywhere, but didnât you deserve a single night without him on your mind?Â
Sukuna could sleep around.Â
So why couldn't you?Â
Something was fucking wrong with him.Â
Sukunaâs life had been oddly quiet lately.
Something was different, missing, maybeâ but he hadn't quite figured out what. Just that the world had been duller. The days dragged on longer, nights bleeding into morning in broken fits of sleep.Â
He'd never exactly been a man of emotions. Most of them he rejected entirely. But there was a pervading feeling that he could only describe as bad. One that refused to go away no matter how much he tried to drown it in alcohol or nicotine.Â
He hated half of his clients. Couldn't stand the bright city lights or boring chatter people constantly tried dragging him into. His old favorite songs sounded more like static and background noise, grating on his nerves when he turned it on to focus on new designs.Â
But despising the universe wasn't anything new to Sukuna.Â
Loathing his life was typical.Â
But this slimy pit in his stomach, balled up too tight to dislodge, stuck there and festering, that was something he wasn't used to.Â
It wasn't until he went to Jinâs to talk shit about his latest awful day that he figured out what it was.
Guilt.Â
Jin was alone, watching some boring movie on his couch, feet propped up on his coffee table without even sparing him a glance as he went straight to his fridge to find a cold drink. He glared at the healthy foods, fruits and meats neatly organized inside â only a couple sparkling waters in the back. He begrudgingly grabbed one, cracking it open and looking back to the living room just to freeze.Â
He stared at the empty spot next to Jin for a few seconds, struggling to conceive why he was looking at the couch like an idiot until it hit him why.Â
You weren't there.Â
âWhere's your friend?â He gruffly asked, bringing the drink to his lips to sip.Â
âOn a date,â Jin casually said, and he choked.Â
Drink dripped down his mouth and onto his shirt, wiping it away with the back of his hand as he cleared his throat.Â
âHer?â You?Â
It was inconceivable.Â
The girl who could barely even look him in the eye half the time? Who stuttered and stammered and could hardly get through a single sentence without getting flustered?Â
Honestly, Sukuna figured you were probably a virgin and too shy to admit it. It wasnât like you werenât attractive, but youâd always been off-limits.Â
Besides, there were always tons of other women out there â why would he stoop so low as to sleep with one of Jinâs friends?Â
âWith Gojo,â his brother added, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth, completely oblivious to the way he froze behind him.Â
Did Jin just not give a fucking shit about you? Was he seriously letting you go out with that prick?Â
Gojoâs reputation was almost worse than his.Â
But just because he took girls on dates before he fucked and fled, he was somehow better.Â
At least he didnât pretend he wanted a relationship just to get someone in the sheets. At least he didnât lead them on and let them think they were something more.Â
âAnd you just fuckinâ-â He clamped his lips shut right as Jin threw a confused look over his shoulder at him.Â
âWhat?â He asked, all confused, like he couldnât fucking perceive the very apparant problem.Â
âThat guyâs an asshole,â he protested.
Jin didnât say it, but the look on his face made it obvious that he thought Sukuna was one too.
âWhereâs the date at?â He grumbled, arms folding tight across his chest as he tapped on Jinâs fake wood flooring.Â
You werenât his friend.
So why the fuck was he walking into some upscale restaurant on the nice side of town, fixing the collar of his jacket, ignoring the stares sticking to him.Â
âSir?â A hostess tried talking to him, but he waved her off, already scowling.
âI need a drink,â he dryly said.Â
Preferably a strong one.Â
He beelined over to the bar, reluctantly ordering a ridiculously expensive whiskey in his best attempt to blend in before scanning the dining room for any sign of you.Â
He spotted you almost immediately. Sitting in one of those back booths, probably one Gojo told you would be more private â even though you were really just on display for the rest of the restaurant.Â
You dressed up. For him.Â
Sukuna didnât know why it surprised him so much, dumbly staring at the sight of you in a short dress, the kind that clung to your thighs and your chest, too much cleavage showing. Too much skin showing period. Elbows on the table as you leaned in to listen to Gojo ramble on, who was surely too focused on the sound of his own voice to pay attention to how good you looked tonight.Â
He shook the thought from his head. Strangled it, actually, tried to twist it into nothing. Glad he didn't have any utensils to gouge his eyes out so he couldn't consider the cute tilt of your head or how glossy your lips looked when you chewed on your bottom one nervously.Â
Why the fuck were you here?Â
You weren't a moron. You knew better than to buy a guy like Gojoâs bullshit.Â
His last conversation with you came back up, floating from the depths of his brain in bits and pieces, his own words echoing. Was it because he commented on your lack of a love life? Asked if you were a prude?Â
Did you just go to the biggest manwhore (other than him) that you could find?Â
If you wanted to get laid, you could've just asked-Â
No, no. That was wrong, Sukuna reminded himself, blinking hard like it would change what he was seeing. You smiled at Gojo, mouth moving as you said something that made him chuckle and lean forward, reaching over the table to grab your hand like you were a couple. His thumb tracing down your knuckles, drawing little shapes on your skin that obviously made you giddy.Â
Sukuna wasn't jealous.Â
He'd never been jealous before. Over anyone.Â
He was, uh, just doing what Jin should've been doing. As your friend. Even if every giggle and grin of yours made him feel physically fucking ill as he watched and waited for the moment to intervene.
It wasn't like he could just let this happen.Â
Leg bouncing anxiously until Gojo got up, counting to thirty in his head before he followed him to the bathroom, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure you hadnât noticed him. But you were glancing down at the table, tracing over the scratches on it, your face soft, almost serene. Pretty.Â
He kept walking, picking up the pace to catch up to Gojo, wondering how hard heâd have to deck him to make sure heâd stay down long enough for him to block off the bathroom door to prevent him from leaving. The staff would probably notice after a couple minutes â sooner if someone else tried to use it.Â
He didnât have a real plan, his brain jumping from idea to idea too fast to let him land on one.
If he was less impulsive, more in control of the monster twisting around inside of him, maybe he would have considered having a conversation with Gojo. Threatening, sure, but mature enough to make it clear that you were not a girl he could screw and scram from.Â
Instead?
He was scanning the stalls in front of him to make sure no one else would overhear, noting that they opened out instead of in. Only spotting Gojoâs ridiculously shiny loafers, listening to him yap on the phone with one of the other pricks he chose to surround himself with.
âI know, Iâve gotta go, sheâs waiting for me,â he was chuckling, his casual confidence already grating down his resolve not to dunk his head in the toilet. He laughed again at whoever was on the other line. âShut up, you know Iâve been trying to get in her panties for months.â
Anger didnât suffice.Â
Couldnât cover the heat warping his judgment, boiling into something he couldnât control at the idea of that white-haired fucker slinking around and searching for a way inside of you.Â
His body was moving on autopilot, banging hard on the stall door, fingers clenching into a fist right just in time for Gojo to hang up the phone and yank it open, his annoyingly bright blue eyes narrowing in an appalled squint at him.Â
âWhat the-âÂ
His punch connected. Busting open his bottom lip, bruising Sukunaâs knuckles too as Gojoâs head snapped to the side. He groaned, stumbling and losing his footing, probably slipping in his own piss from his surely shoddy aim.Â
âThe hell is your problem, dickhead?â Gojo grunted, pushing off the toilet seat, palm pressing on the stall as he struggled to stand up straight.Â
It was easy to push him back down, just another rough punch that he hoped fucking hurt.
But recognition was now glittering across the bloody face beneath him, amusement dancing in his dark stare as Gojo let out a low laugh.
âYouâre here for her?â He said it like it was some joke Sukuna wasnât in on. Or maybe he was just the butt of it.Â
âYouâre not getting in her panties,â Sukuna repeated in a hateful hiss, more repulsed by the word when it was on his own tongue. âSo stay the fuck away from her.âÂ
His eyes flickered from the white-haired fraud in front of him to the toilet, considering it.Â
âMaybe.âÂ
He saw the second it registered for him that it wasnât just a threat. Then Sukuna leaned down, grabbing his phone from where it had hit the ground during his first hit.Â
âWait-âÂ
He tossed his phone in the water instead.Â
Sukuna kicked him while he was down, hard enough he heard a rib crack before he stepped back, slamming the stall door shut and looking around at what he had at his disposal. Dragging over a ridiculously heavy trash can from the corner, one of the obnoxiously designed ones that was supposed to be art as if people werenât just tossing trash in it. He shoved it against the stall while Gojo groaned again inside.Â
Heâd be able to get out, if he crawled under or climbed over the stall, or summoned the strength to shove it out of the way. But itâd delay him for a while. Enough that Sukuna was able to look back out of the bathroom, getting lucky enough to see one of the staff heading into a supply closet down the hall, marked employees only.Â
âYou asshole,â Gojo snarled, voice muffled, strained from the pain of a probably broken rib.Â
But it was too late.Â
He was sneaking out and into the closet once it was empty, snagging an âout of orderâ sign from a shelf before he put it back up on the bathroom door when no one was looking.Â
Sukuna wasnât really one for fate, didnât hold any believe in some higher power pulling his strings, but he could admit that it seemed like the universe was colluding with him when he caught the attention of some overworked waitress and casually commenting that they should probably block off the menâs bathroom if there was something wrong with it, pointing to the sign.Â
It had taken ten minutes, maybe fifteen, walking back to your table with a smirk twitching up in his lips at the thought of how long it would take Gojo to pull himself off of the floor and figure out how to leave. Especially now that he managed to get someone to move a bunch of those huge ceramic fake-potted plants in front of it to stop it from opening â and no one would hear him requesting help through the thick walls and the bland dining music still loudly thumping through the speakers.
He had won.Â
A little voice in the back of his brain said, for now, added addendums to his meager victory. Marked it down with the reminder that you might not be thrilled to see him after you left the last time you were together.Â
You were still staring at the table when you came back into view, but your nose was scrunched up, lips pressed together tightly. Aware that it was taking too long for your date to come back, fear starting to seep in that youâd been ditched.Â
And then you saw him.Â
For half a second, just a brief moment he almost missed, you smiled, relaxing reflectively before you suddenly went stiff again. Forcing a frown and tucking some hair behind your ear self-consciously, defensively.
âWhat are you doing here?â You asked, all wide-eyed, fiddling with your hands in your lap. Pulling the hem of your dress down like he hadnât seen how high itâd been earlier.Â
âSaw you on a date with that loser,â he muttered, begrudgingly glancing around like he didnât know where he was. âDid he leave?âÂ
You swallowed, squirming as you shrugged.
âHe said he was going to the bathroom,â you muttered, fishing your phone from your purse to check the time, or maybe send Gojo a message. Sukuna could see the way disappointment snuck up in your face, how it crept into the corners no matter how hard, how desperately you were trying to hide it.Â
There was an awkward pause, tense and heavy as he tried to figure out how to say what he wanted to.Â
âYou wanna get out of here?â He gruffly suggested, pulling his wallet from his pocket and tossing down some cash on the table. Enough to cover your half â even though there was only an appetizer out.Â
You hesitated, your eyes finally flickering up to him.Â
Your stare was as soft as it had always been, but it was like he was seeing your face for the first time, the air in his lungs sucked out like heâd been knocked flat on his back.Â
Reassessing every little line, realizing that you werenât just pretty, or cute, but beautiful. Lashes fluttering, canines chewing on your bottom lip as you looked back in the direction of the bathroom one last time.Â
Youâd been there for so long. Lingering in the background and by his side. And heâd been completely goddamn blind.
âIâll buy you some real food,â he added, nodding towards the barely-touched plate of pretentious-plattered blobs of food with herbs thrown on top.Â
âFine.â
You werenât that happy in the passenger seat of his car, riding shotgun, knees pointed away from him while you leaned against the cool window. He turned up the heat, the lump in the back of his throat bobbing watching you shiver and curl up inside yourself.Â
He couldnât remember if youâd ever been in his car like this before. A couple years ago, heâd been stuck in the backseat with you in Jinâs sedan, crammed against the window while you were stuck in the middle, but back then, heâd been too distracted arguing with Kaori in the front seat to notice the weight of your thigh against his.Â
Now he couldnât stop himself from wishing he paid more fucking attention.Â
Eyes flitting over to your form, throat going dry at the sight of your still-plush thighs so out of his reach.Â
âWhy him?â He grunted when he pulled up to a stop light, fingers tapping his steering wheel, molars grinding as he stole another glimpse at you.Â
You shrugged, just a little raise of your shoulders while you sighed.Â
âHe said he wanted to go on a date with me,â you murmured, refusing to look back at him. âGuess he changed his mind.âÂ
âHeâs a moron,â Sukuna half-snarled, cringing when he realized how it came out.
A flash of hurt crossed your face, as he felt the fear of fumbling this chance with you rear back up.Â
âFor changing his mind,â he clarified, omitting the tiny detail that youâd be back on your date discussing Gojoâs salary or how big his cock was if he hadnât intervened. âNot for-âÂ
âDonât,â you mumbled. Stopping him before he could say what he meant.
âLook, Iâve been a dick,â he started, discomfort churning in his stomach having to apologize for anything in his life.Â
âWhen arenât you?â You muttered under your breath, swallowing hard as you continued to avoid looking straight at him. Just scanning over the road, glancing out the window or down at the floorboards, anywhere that wasnât him.
He let out a disappointed huff, brow twitching.Â
âThe last time we talked, I was a fucking asshole,â he added, gravelly and gruff, even when he was trying to sound sincere. âYou didnât deserve that shit.âÂ
You turned to face him fully, but the light turned green, and he couldnât see what face you were making as his foot shifted back to the gas pedal. He could make out your mouth starting to open in the edges of his vision, but he forced himself to continue.Â
âIâm sorry.âÂ
You made a small noise that sounded like a squeak â and he was pretty sure his heart stopped. Something small but fierce sprouting in the deepest crevices of his chest, all his organs constricting as he struggled not to react with a noise of his own.Â
âYouâre sorry?â You repeated, as if an apology was totally absurd.Â
âYeah,â he soberly said, knuckles tightening across the steering wheel, barely able to keep his eyes on the road instead of studying your reaction.Â
âFor what?â You asked, and it felt like a test.Â
One he was embarrassingly desperate to ace.Â
All of it?Â
Dismissing you and distancing himself the same way he always did? Convincing himself that all you would ever be was Jinâs friend?Â
âFor not seeing you,â he said under his breath, the answer landing in the air.Â
You hesitated, pausing before you nodded.Â
He didn't know if he got it right.Â
But you relaxed over his version of dinner. Trading in your fancy appetizer for fast food, intently watching you dip your fries in sauce as you listened to him grumble about how shitty everything had been lately, begrudgingly admitting that he missed you coming around to his shop.Â
You casually shrugged, as if you didn't miss him back.Â
âBeen busy,â you hummed, and he hated how the little curl of your lips after you said it made his stupid heart stall.Â
Somehow though, you were still free tonight.
Enough that by your fourth or fifth yawn, he talked you back into watching a movie at his place.Â
Jin would probably kill him if he knew. But then again, he hadn't stopped you from seeing Gojo. So how much could he actually care?
It wasn't like he was fucking you.Â
Even if he was beginning to consider just how much he'd like to.Â
But it felt almost more intimate for you to be this close, your thigh not quite touching his, knees curled up against your chest while you shared a blanket with him. Grabbing popcorn from the bowl on his lap and cracking jokes he might've called lame a few months ago before rolling your eyes at whatever was happening on screen.Â
âThis movie kinda sucks,â you whispered to him, as if you were in a theater instead of his apartment.
Speaking to him like a friend, giggling a little as one of your buttered fingers reached up to poke the crease between his brows.Â
Were you always this fun?Â
This pretty when your the shadows from the tv flickered across your face? Did your eyes usually glimmer like that, looking up at him like he was some kind of knight instead of just another dickhead?Â
âWant me to change it?â He grumbled, already about to grab the remote before you shook your head.Â
âI still want to see how it ends,â you half-whispered, and the softness to your voice did something treacherous to the pit of his stomach. Ripped open a gash, pried him apart until all he could think of was how hollow he felt. Hyper aware of a missing piece he was pretty sure was right in front of him.Â
He wanted to see how this would end too.Â
If you were another girl, he would've made a move. Slipped a hand underneath the blanket and ran it over your thigh, leaned in to trail hungry kisses down your throat. A means to an end â all to get his dick wet.Â
But he wrapped his arm around your shoulders instead, pretended he didn't see the suspicious little glance you tossed his way. Satisfied himself just with the fact you didn't shove him away.Â
You didn't get to see the end of the movie after all. Lulled to sleep with the pressure of his arm or the quiet comfort of the dim lights and low volume. Head tilted to the side at an uncomfortable angle as you dozed off and dreamed about â well, he didn't know what, but he hoped it was about him.
He waited until the credits were rolling to creep off the couch, readjusting you until you were resting on one of his pillows instead, pulling up the blanket so you were covered.Â
Sukuna paused, just staring for a moment before he picked you up, cradling you against his chest and carrying you back to his bedroom where you'd be more comfortable.Â
You didn't wake up. Not even when he walked over to where you left your stuff by his kitchen counter. Or when Sukuna slipped your phone out from your purse, coming back to unlock it with your thumb while you were still passed out. Scrolling through your recent slew of texts to find where Gojo was basically throwing himself at you and clicking on his contact. There was a message from an unknown number too, a huge paragraph that Sukuna didn't need to read to know was from him too, pointing fingers and directing the blame for tonight right his way.Â
Blocking Gojo was easy.
Getting him to stay away from you?Â
Well, it wasnât that much harder.Â
You softened up around him the next morning when you woke up and realized he'd taken the couch, nudging him awake to thank him before ditching like a one-night-stand would. But you were smiling again when you saw him, saying yes when he offered to pick you up and drop you off at work. Beaming when he admitted your drawings were never actually bad and asked to see them again. Letting him occupy your free time by slyly suggesting you come to his shop or his place for extra lessons and tips, a new weekly occurrence he caught himself thinking of as dates as one month bled into the next.Â
It wasn't like Gojo could slip back in your life if you were too busy.Â
And he couldn't visit you at work when Sukuna had made sure your family was aware of your, ah, stalker, and suggested they get a guard â claiming it would deter shoplifters too.Â
If you were suspicious, you didnât say anything.Â
âSo what, are you like, in love with her or-â Jin stopped himself mid-scoff, staring at Sukuna from across the counter, propping himself up on his elbows as he blankly stared at his brother. âYou are.âÂ
âNo, Iâm not,â he grumbled, counting the cash left in his register as the sun set behind the trees outside. You had said so yourself. Called him a good friend for showing you proper shading on your last piece, before tucking a sketchbook underneath your arm and disappearing through his door to go back to your place.Â
Despite his best efforts, you were still keeping him at armâs length.Â
And through all his attempts at shutting down his own feelings, they only seemed to burn brighter, the flames fanned by the realization you were more than he had ever given you credit for. Far more than he fucking deserved.Â
Your awkwardness had become endearing. You were attentive and attractive and it was awful how many other things had only now started to register and rob him of his breath when you were around.Â
âDonât even think about making a move on-âÂ
The bell on the door chimed, and you were stepping through before Jin could say your name.Â
Your eyes landed on Sukuna, soft and sparkling, a lit match thrown inside his chest as your mouth curled up in a pretty smile. His brother knew him better than he knew himself.Â
Sukuna was falling for you fast. And he wasnât sure he could catch himself anymore.Â
âIf you guys have plans, I can-â
He didnât let you finish.
âJin was just leaving,â Sukuna grunted, glaring at his brother like heâd toss him out if he didnât go soon. Â
You didnât really get it. Couldnât fully comprehend his sudden shift into being a semi-decent guy. You kept waiting for him to go back to normal, to push you back into the sidelines where you always belonged.
But he didnât.
Week after week, he just seemed to worm his way deeper into your life, trying to occupy as much of it as he could. What? Did he have some weird change-of-heart and decide he didnât want to be a dick?
Or were all those lingering touches and drawn-out stares just a figment of your imagination?
You glanced up at him again, mouth twitching into a smile you couldnât help when you caught him already zeroed in on your face.Â
Jin let out a low exhale, but you didn't even turn.Â
âDon't make me an uncle,â he muttered, quiet enough you almost didn't hear him on his way out. Once it registered though, your nose scrunched up, now fully twisting towards him, ears perked like you were expecting Sukuna to scoff and say how ridiculous that was.Â
âGet out,â he grumbled.Â
You watched both of them, unsure eyes flickering back and forth until Jin left through the frosted glass doors.Â
Sukuna sighed, shutting the cash register a little too hard, his cheeks almost tinted pink under the warm lights, aware you were studying him and still not offering some snarky retort back.Â
âSurprised you didn't throw something at him,â you commented. This was it.Â
The moment he'd make it clear how he saw you and remind you of where you were meant to be in this weird relationship.
Except â he shrugged.Â
As if Jin wasn't in the wrong for suggesting there was something going on between the two of you.Â
âAre you really surprised?â He muttered, and you could only blink.Â
Holding your breath so he didn't catch how instinctively it hitched, frozen in place as your fingers fidgeted around your sketchbook.Â
And then Sukuna stepped closer, cocking his head to the side as he assessed your stunned expression.Â
âI like you,â he abruptly admitted, like he had to drag it from the depths of his stomach. Begrudgingly chewing over his next works as he walked right up to you, stopping just shy of touching before he plucked the book from your hands. âA lot.â
You waited for him to rip the rug out from under your feet and reveal that he didnât actually mean any of it.Â
âSukuna,â you started, swallowing hard like it would make it any easier to choke down.Â
How long had you been dying for him to say something like that? Dreaming of this moment right here?Â
And the best you could offer was his name?Â
âYou don't believe me,â he accused, and all you could think of was being back at the bar, when those words came from your own lips.Â
He had said it wasn't his business then.Â
But what had made him decide you were now?Â
Was it just the idea of you slipping away? Becoming someone elseâs? Faced with the fact you weren't who he thought you were when he saw you on that dumb date?Â
âShould I?â You asked.Â
âWhat can I do to prove it to you?â He frowned, thick brows scrunched together.Â
âI don't know,â you honestly answered.Â
And you didn't really expect him to try to find an answer for you.Â
It started small. Sort of. Awkward compliments he grumbled under his breath. Soda cans and snacks waiting for you when you came over. His fingers skimming over your skin, always standing a little too close.Â
But after a couple weeks of you squinting at him, convinced he was still just trying to have sex with you, something changed.Â
You just weren't sure which one of you cracked first.Â
Perched prettily on the stool behind his counter, drawing on spare paper as he cleaned up from his last client of the day, pretending you couldn't feel him staring.Â
âHey,â he grunted, grabbing your attention easily as you glanced back at him.Â
âHm?â You tilted your head, fingers pausing on the pen.Â
âYou want a tattoo?âÂ
He was a bad influence. You'd always known that. But his dark eyes dragged you right down to his level.Â
You couldn't believe you said yes.Â
Or that you agreed to a goddamn tramp stamp.Â
You readjusted, turning your head to the side, cheek squished against the cool leather as he tugged your shorts down.Â
Shivering as you tried to keep yourself from reacting, painfully aware of everything that he was doing.
Every step felt excruciatingly slow, each drag of his gloved fingers over the small of your spine as he cleaned and prepped it.Â
âScared?â He grumbled, and you barely nodded.Â
âKinda,â you breathlessly admitted.Â
âYou change your mind?â He asked, and if you were smarter, maybe you would've told him to stop.Â
Instead, you shook your head no.Â
âKeep going.â
What was a better work of art?Â
You, face-down and shivering on his chair? Or the fresh ink on the base of your spine, permanently marking you as his?Â
The design was his, one you picked and approved, his initials worked into the fine lines.Â
R.S.Â
Maybe he should've pointed it out, but then again â you spent ten minutes reviewing the mock up and said you loved it.
And besides, he could always get your name on him too. Ask you to draw something just for him, sign it all pretty.
Make it even.Â
âYou wanna take a look?â He softly asked, jaw locked as he tried to permanently imprint the image of you like this in his head.Â
âYou can take a picture and show me,â you hummed, a cute little whine to your voice that made him unfortunately hard.Â
Sukuna was still working on his listening skills, pulling his phone from his pocket and obediently snapping a few, ah, artistic photos. Ones that included your pretty ass and how your panties were pulled low on them so he had the space to work on your tattoo.Â
It would be easier to walk around and show you, but instead he leaned forward, let his chest touch the top of your back as he held his phone in front of your face.Â
âPretty,â you softly said, pleased.Â
âYou're prettier,â he automatically replied, cringing when he remembered he was putting down his own work by accident.Â
But you just giggled, trying to crane your neck back to look at him.Â
âYou did so good for me, gorgeous,â he murmured before you could mock him, purposely letting his mouth graze against your neck as you shivered. Shoulders scrunching up as you reflexively glanced up at you.Â
God, he wanted to fuck you right here. Â
And the way you were looking at him right now?Â
He'd wager you would let him.Â
âDo I have to pay for it?â You whispered, and he grunted.Â
âI don't want your money,â he scoffed.Â
He wanted something else.Â
And after so fucking long, he was finally about to have it.
Sukuna hooked two fingers in the band of your panties, tugging them down hard and letting them get caught around your knees. Pausing, waiting for you to tell him to stop just to be met with silence as he readjusted, moved to where he'd have better access.Â
Dragging his gloved hands up your thighs, spreading them apart and looking at how prettily you glistened for him. Soaked just from being in his seat.
He slowly took his gloves off, needing to feel you for real, skin on skin, truly touching instead of just skirting around it. Tracing over your ass, tender this time, taking his time to slip inside.Â
Your warmth was a fucking wonderland.Â
How many nights lately had he spent stroking it to the idea of this?
Hearing you moan was the closest he'd get to heaven, the sound reverberating inside of him as he added another digit, slowly shoving them in deeper, scissoring you open as your slick dripped down into the leather.Â
âGotta stretch you out,â he hissed, throat constricting when you clenched down around him. âMake sure it'll fit.âÂ
âY-you're so cocky,â you whined, your lip forming a cute little âoâ as your cheek smushed against the seat. Moving in time with the thrusts of his fingers, wiggling down to meet his knuckles.Â
âGonna show you why,â Sukuna promised, just to feel the way you shifted and squirmed underneath him.Â
It was addicting. You were.Â
All your reactions, all those pretty faces you would make, everything about you left him craving more, more, more.Â
His cock was leaking, aching pathetically where it was constrained in his boxers. Pre-cum dribbling out and making him aware of the dampness as he reluctantly pulled out to tug the zipper of his jeans down next, his dick springing up the second it was freed.Â
Your eyes went wide, glancing back at him with an expression that made his cock twitch. Veins pulsing Z he tried to contain his impulse just to shove it all the way in.Â
âI'll be careful,â he grunted, and you just nodded.Â
You trusted him.Â
And the thought of that made that little invisible string inside him snap.Â
Careful.Â
He repeated the word in his head, leaned against it like a crutch he could actually rely on. Shoving your shirt up higher, knowing he should probably fish a condom from his wallet for this, but unable to do anything except stare.Â
âI thought you liked me,â you murmured, hips shifting like you were trying to snare him even more.Â
âI do,â he breathed.Â
âThen show me.âÂ
He was seeing fucking stars the second his cock was inside you. Eyes rolling back as inch by inch of his girth sunk into your heat, how you fit even better than his gloves did, snug and tight as he drove in deeper. Groaning your name, grabbing your hair, trying to tether himself to your body.Â
His sanity tied to the sounds you were making, those cute whimpers as he rammed his hips down into your ass, careful not to press down on your new tattoo.Â
âMy pretty girl,â he claimed, gritty possession in his voice he no longer cared if you picked up on. So what if you did? You were his now. Not a fling or a fuck. Forever. âYou're so goddamn perfect.â
âS-shut up,â you hissed back, nails digging into the chair as your grip on your own rationality slipped.Â
You didn't need reason anymore.Â
You had him.Â
âYou like me,â he accused, cock throbbing inside you when you whined at his tip kissing your cervix.Â
âI-I-â You stuttered, so painfully pretty here. Sweat collecting on your brow, broken breathing loud in the quiet space, only the background music of his playlist joining it.Â
âYou do,â Sukuna huffed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade.Â
Maybe he'd leave another tattoo there some day. His teeth marks? Some other subtle sign to mark you as his?Â
 âM-maybe,â you half-whispered.Â
And that was enough for him.Â
Fucking into you harder, the chair beneath both of you creaking and protesting at the combined weight, his muscles straining as his thick cock continued to stretch you thin around him. His free hand slipped around your front, your body squirming at his touch, shuddering so sweetly. Rubbing drawn-out circles over your clit, massaging it with dedicated pressure, paying attention to how you liked it and adjusting properly.Â
Sukuna wanted to drag his tongue over your throat, taste your sweat and tears as you whimpered his name.Â
But he'd settle for feeling you twitch when you came, how your thighs trembled and shook, his hips rutting down as warm ropes of his cum spilled out into you.Â
You'd be dripping by the time he pulled out, but he kept you plugged full of his cum even when you were both finished, relief still some far-fetched dream when his body was burning so hot for you.Â
âDid you-â You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering as you looked back at him.
âI can buy you plan B,â he exhaled, still not pulling out â halfway hoping his seed would take anyway.Â
âOkay,â you sighed too, shutting your eyes as your face relaxed. Just accepting it. Letting him hold you like this the same way you let him leave his mark on your skin.Â
âWe can shower at my place,â he muttered. âStill have to cover up your new tattoo.âÂ
âOh,â you yawned, like the sex had made you sleepy. Content. âOkay.â
You blinked though, eyes slowly opening back up as you looked back at him one more time.Â
âYou're acting like you're my boyfriend,â you commented.Â
âBecause I am now,â he huffed.Â
One of your brows arched up, lips pressing together. But you didn't say no. Didn't turn him down.Â
Your hips shifted, and he saw the pearly-white cum starting to seep out from where his cock was slotted between your folds, connecting him to you.Â
It was probably wrong to hope you'd get pregnant.Â
But really, all he wanted was to take care of you now. And that couldn't be wrong.Â