Luuk, who still tries to rub his eyes every morning, hoping that the world has finally stopped being gray.
Luuk, who sees reality like an old film reel where the only bright color is his own blood. At least, that was the case until he met her.
Luuk, who at first feels only scientific curiosity toward her after learning that, like Rover, she is not from this world.
Luuk, who cannot take his eyes off her abilities. To him, that golden radiance is like sight returning to a blind man—even if he can see only one color.
Luuk, who follows her around like a shadow. Not out of romance, but because only near her does his existence gain any sort of meaning.
Luuk, who deliberately provokes her emotions, pushing her to anger just so she will “flare” brighter. He doesn’t care about the blows—he is ready for anything to witness that spectrum for just one more second.
Luuk, who once believed gold to be the color of power and triumph, but now realizes: his own “gold” is nothing but cheap rust compared to the true brilliance of hers.
Luuk, who with a mysterious smile offers her a candy, and when she eats it casually remarks, “Oh, looks like I mixed up my pockets… that was an experimental medicine.” And bursts into ringing laughter as she panics and tries to spit it out.
Luuk, who for a few minutes regains full color vision thanks to the resonance with her power.
Luuk, who then suffers real withdrawal when the world collapses back into gray tones again.
Luuk, who, after her light fades, sits for hours in complete darkness. Returning to black-and-white reality feels to him like losing his sight all over again.
Luuk, who in rare moments of “clarity” looks not at the sunsets of Lohai Roy, but only at her. He greedily memorizes the shades of her skin, lips, and hair so that later, in the gray emptiness, he can try to resurrect them from memory.
Luuk, who understands perfectly well how hard it is for her, because her power has become his only drug.
Luuk, who adores her dark clothing. Against it, gold seems even purer—it has nothing in common with the “dirty” liquid flowing through his own veins.
Luuk, who calls her “Goldie” or “Light of my eyes” with such poisonous irony that it barely hides something close to religious reverence.
Luuk, who for the first time felt burning hatred toward the Architect not because of his father’s death, but because, thanks to him, Luuk cannot see her “true” self all the time.
Luuk, who once joked that if the Architect ever dared to touch “his source of light,” he would make him choke on his own blood.
Luuk, who is completely certain that even if the ichor blinds him forever, he will still recognize her—by the warmth that radiates from her golden magic.
This is NOT a ship (oh god, please no). One — and two — Techno is just a character here, not a real person. I don't want any beef or anything. I just love Techno and D3rlord3. Appreciate you understanding
enjin didn’t even remember anymore when his oxygen tank broke. hell, at some point he might went unconscious from coughing his lungs out.
but he knew when he felt your hand close to his face, and how you became firm with him when you… when you pressed your fucking mask over his mouth and nose. panic had flooded through him - more than the lack of air ever could - as he had tried to push it away.
“no. stop,” he had rasped, chocking. “what are you doin’? you’ll—“
“shut up,” you had snapped, your own breath already uneven. “just breathe.”
he hated how calm you sounded. hated it more when he realized you weren’t letting go. one hand firmly pressed the mask to his face, the other had grabbed the back of his head.
no, no, no. the mask was yours, your supply.
his lungs burned, vision swimming black at the edges. the survival instinct kicked in hard, because he wanted to live… but not like this. not at your fucking expense.
he couldn’t deal with this. please, don’t make him to.
that’s why he had tried to fight you. he was stronger after all, and should easily manage to overpower you and gave you the mask back. right?
wrong.
enjin shoved weakly at your wrist, fingers that clawed at the strap desperately. he might’ve called you an asshole for doing that to him. you were stronger and you didn’t fucking budge. if anything your grip tightened.
“don’t be stupid,” you muttered, strained. “you pass out, you die. i’m not dragging your ass out alone.”
“we’ll both die like this,” he shot back, the words muffled behind the mask you forced onto him.
you didn’t answer right away.
later he’d replay this silence over and over again, obsessively. the look in your eyes that screamed determination, and love.
“then don’t waste it,” you said quietly.
and then you pushed the mask harder against his face.
he remembered trying to count your breaths after that. he didn’t know why. maybe it was panic. maybe it was desperation. maybe it was the only way he could convince himself you were still there, still fighting.
your breaths grew shallower while his steadied. it made him fucking sick to his stomach.
he tried to angle the mask, tried to share and press it between you both, but you caught his wrist immediately.
“no,” you rasped, coughing hard enough your whole body jerked. “don’t.”
“we can make it,” he insisted, even as doubt clawed up his throat. “we just—”
“enjin.” your voice cut through him, sharp despite the weakness creeping in. “for once, listen.”
your eyes met his then. fuck, he wished they hadn’t, because there was no fear in them. you looked so stubborn, and soft in a way that made his chest ache in a way the toxins never could.
“you’re not dying here,” you said. “so breathe.”
he hated you for it. hated the way his body obeyed, dragging in oxygen while yours struggled. hated the way your hand never trembled, even as your strength clearly faded. hated that you chose him so easily.
he didn’t deserve that. he never would. you did. fuck, you deserved the world.
what he failed to realize was that he was your world.
the next thing he remembered was waking up.
clean air surrounded him, voices. light that didn’t sting his eyes. blinking tiredly he immediately looked around to search for you.
it took him a moment to realize that you weren’t there.
panic hit him before reason could. raw, ugly fear clawed at his throat. this couldn’t be. this was a joke, right?
he tore the medical mask from his face and sat up way too fast. his vision started spinning.
“hey. hey, easy!” gris grabbed his shoulders, forcing him back down. “you’re alive, idiot, don’t undo that.”
“where is she?” his voice came out in frantic gasps. “where is—”
“she’s alive.”
everything narrowed down to these words.
“what?”
“barely, but yeah.” gris paused before he smiled. “you got lucky.”
lucky. the word felt wrong - disgusting. you almost lost your life to save his. how dare gris to talk about lucky?
“take me to her,” he demanded.
you had been treated in a separate room so you could sleep in peace, without the usual commotion of the infirmary.
fuck. you looked so small, enjin thought as he shuffled inside the room.
you, who had stood over him in a cloud of poison and toxin. an unshakable force and now you looked so small in that bed. the blankets almost swallowed you and you wore this big oxygen mask that covered your face.
enjin’s chest tightened so painfully and he bit back the tears.
carefully, so he won’t wake you, he approached the bed. terrified that you’d fall apart if he walked too fast. absolutely unreasonable, but made a lot of fucking sense to him.
your breathing was uneven. probably your lungs were damaged and it sounded like every inhale hurt you.
that was his fault.
“hey,” he said quietly, pulling a chair closer and dropping into it. his voice didn’t feel like his own. “you idiot.”
no response. normally you’d scold him now and then try to wrestle until he kissed you until you forgot why you were mad in the first place.
he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at your hand where it rested limply beside you. it had been so strong before - strong enough to hold his life in place.
“you weren’t supposed to survive that,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “do you get that? that was—that was a one person deal.”
his throat tightened. he swallowed uncomfortably.
“you don’t get to make calls like that. not for me.”
silence filled the room again, heavy and suffocating in a different way. he reached out before he could stop himself, his hands hugging your smaller one.
it was warm and alive, and for now that was enough. his grip tightened.
“i would’ve died,” he admitted quietly. “and that would’ve been fine.”
that was kind of a fucking lie. of course he would die for you if it meant you stayed alive. but he also wanted to live so he could have more time with you.
fuck, he wanted to grow old with you. he wanted to fucking marry you, and maybe have a kid on his own.
“you don’t get to decide i’m worth more than you.” his voice cracked then, frustration bleeding through. “because i’m not.”
there was this ugly urge to yell at you. but before the urge could take over your fingers twitched weakly in his grasp.
enjin froze.
“shut up,” you mumbled hoarsely, and wrecked beneath the mask.
he stared at you, something sharp and fragile cracking open in his chest. “you’re awake.”
“unfortunately,” you breathed, the ghost of your usual tone slipping through. “and you’re still yappin’.”
he let out a shaky laugh, half relief, half disbelief. “yeah. guess i am.”
your eyes opened just enough to look at him, tired but unmistakably you. it made his heart thump wildly.
“good,” you murmured. “means it worked.”
his smile faltered. guilt surged back instantly, heavy and relentless. a guilt he wouldn’t get rid off for a long time, even after you were nursed back to health.
“don’t,” he said, sharper than intended. “don’t say that like it was a good thing.”
you studied him for a long moment, then your gaze softened.
“you’re alive,” you said simply.
like that was enough. like that justified everything, and what you had done. he tightened his grip on your hand, jaw clenching.
“yeah,” he whispered.
never again. he swore that to himself. if such a situation would ever occur again he’d fight you until his last breath. or the best would be if you stopped going out with him and the others.
for now he had to live with that… until he found a solution.
Synopsis: You adopt two hybrids. Unironically, they always fight like the literal cats and dogs they are
Content: dog!Zanka x gn!reader x cat!Jabber, fluff, and chaos, hybrid!au, modern!au,a/n: shout out to the one anon who ingrained this concept in my brain
master list -- here w/c --3.6k
When one of your best and closest friends asked if you’d be willing to take in a stray hybrid due to overcrowding concerns at the shelter, you were hesitant.
For one, you already owned a hybrid.
Your border collie was a sweet boy, loyal and insanely protective, and you were a little worried about how he would react to a new hybrid joining your home.
And second, the hybrid Gris wanted you to take in was a rescue from an underground fighting ring.
There was a potential for this hybrid to have behavioral issues or aggressive tendencies. You weren’t confident that you could properly provide the care they needed.
Eventually, however, the humanitarian in you won out. And you agreed to take in the Bombay cat that had been rescued.
“For the past week, we’ve kept him mostly separated from the others until we could get a good sense of his health,” Gris explains as you follow him down the corridor. The halls continue to stretch for what feels like ever, the facility’s large scale making it confusing to navigate. But your friend was a frequent volunteer, and the place came like second nature to him.
“Was there anything to be concerned about?” You ask somewhat nervously.
Gris shook his head. “Thankfully, all his tests came back clear, and he’s gotten his vaccinations updated. Who knows what he could’ve ended up with while in that ring had he been there any longer?”
For that, you’re relieved.
Most of the illegal fighting rings cared more about the hybrid winning than their actual health and well-being. More often than not, those who were rescued alive either had contracted serious illness, often due to infection from untreated injuries, or were so badly wounded that it left permanent damage. This particular cat was lucky indeed.
“We did notice some minor aggressions with him,” Gris cautions. “Typical food guarding behavior and the like. Since he’s been here, he’s only ever picked a fight with Enjin, but after he realized it was a moot point, he mostly settled down.”
Enjin was a German Shepherd who also volunteered often at the shelter and was actually one of Gris’s hybrids. He was a pretty nonchalant guy who didn’t really get riled up easily. Most of the time, he ignored anyone who tried to goad him and could be a bit lazy at times. Enjin was still a guard dog at heart, though, and if Gris or their other hybrid, a young Jack Russel terrier named Rudo, were ever threatened, he would easily go on the defensive.
Behind you, a low growl emanated from the hybrid following closely. His ears flattened across his head, shoulders squaring with bristling tension. You offer a reassuring smile, reaching back to ruffle his hair.
“I have nothing to worry about because Zanka here will look out for me.”
Your border collie huffs, but faint pink dusts his cheeks at your praise.
If Zanka were to be completely honest, he despised the idea of getting another hybrid. He tried to tell himself it was because he didn’t want you taking in essentially a street fighter, but the reality was, he didn’t want someone else taking your attention.
For the past three years, it has always been just you and him. Zanka and you. And he didn’t want to have to share you with anybody else.
It was actually Gris who introduced you, so Zanka respected the man and wanted to respect his request. So when you asked Zanka how he would feel if you took in another hybrid, he lied through his teeth and said he didn’t care. But that didn’t mean he liked it either.
Besides, why did it have to be a cat you had to take in? Of all things, a damn feline? That in itself irritated Zanka. He might’ve tolerated better if it were another canine. There would be at least a mutual understanding of loyalty between them. And one thing was for certain: he wasn’t going to trust a shady alley cat one bit.
Your little group arrived at one of the last rooms in the hall. Gris knocks on the door before letting himself in. “Jabber? You have guests.”
The one word you would use to describe Jabber is that he’s pretty.
His midnight black ears twitch at the sound of the door clicking shut, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the bed. His long locs cascade over his shoulders. There are a few bandages around his arm and wrist, and he’s wearing the plain black pajamas the center offers to anyone staying at the shelter. You made a mental note to take him shopping for clothes.
Zanka is practically glued to your hip as you approach Jabber. “Hi there,” you begin awkwardly, not knowing the best way to start the convo. “Um…I’m y/n, and this here is Zanka.”
Jabber turns slightly. His eyes are a striking purple, rare for felines. They narrow slightly as they take you in before shifting over to Zanka. He seems to be trying to analyze the two of you, as if he couldn’t decide to treat either of you like a threat. But he doesn’t move to attack, which is good.
You step closer, holding up a hand toward Zanka when he tries to follow. He obediently stills, but frowns. Jabber’s brow raises ever so slightly, part in confusion and part in amusement.
Oh, he’d have fun with this.
“Listen, I’m sure you’ve been through a lot, and I can’t begin to imagine how uncomfortable all this change might be for you,” you begin. “But I ultimately want to respect your autonomy. You have a choice. I would like for you to come with us, but I want that to be your decision.”
“My decision?” Jabber repeats in a manner that suggests he couldn’t even believe that you were offering him a choice to begin with. You nod, offering out your hand.
“So what will it be?”
Jabber looks between you, your outstretched hand, then to Zanka in a split second. And what happened next, you couldn’t have prepared yourself for in time.
His claws suddenly retract, long, curved, and most importantly, sharp. Jabber lunges for you, but before his claws could make contact, Zanka has inserted himself between you two, grabbing the feline’s wrist with a firm grip. The momentum causes your collie to lose his footing, and he and Jabber tumble to the ground. But Zanka manages to pin Jabber beneath him, growling as he presses his knee into the other’s back.
“Oh my god, y/n, are you okay?” Gris asks frantically. He pulls you away from the two hybrids, thankfully so, because your knees had locked up in fear.
“I’m fine, I think,” you say shakily. “Zanka, down boy.” Zanka shoots you a look of disbelief. “Thank you. You’ve been a really good boy, and I appreciate your quick reaction, but it’s ok. You can let him up now.”
Reluctantly pulls away from Jabber, who pries himself off the floor while laughing. His nose had a slight bleed from when he hit the ground face-first, but other than that, he was fine. In fact, he was better than fine. Excited.
Before, he normally had interest in being adopted. Not by anyone so weak that it would bore him to death. But you, you were different in an odd sense. It was clear that you were no fighter by any means, and typically, that would want to steer Jabber away. That hybrid of yours, on the other hand, Zanka, was it? He was clearly completely and utterly devoted to you.
And if Jabber pushed his buttons just right, he would definitely have the fun he was looking for.
Zanka was not happy when you still decided to take Jabber home even after he tried to attack you.
He openly scowled at the feline from the time you signed the adoption papers, all the way back to your small apartment just outside of the city. And of course, Jabber was none the wiser (or he just didn’t care).
Maybe you had been hit in the head? Or perhaps you were kidnapped by aliens and replaced when Zanka hadn’t been paying attention. That had to be it.
“Zanka, your face will freeze like that at this rate,” you tease, not looking up from the stove where you were cooking.
The canine had refused to leave your side since you’ve been home. He continued to hover around your bubble and followed you from room to room, always regarding his new housemate with a skeptical eye. Said feline had taken in his new home with interest, and after showing him his bedroom, he’d been floating around and exploring the place ever since.
“I don’t like him,” Zanka says.
“He just got here. Give him a chance.”
At that, he huffs. “He attacked you. There’s no more chances after that.”
You turn off the stove and set the ladle on the counter before facing Zanka. “I believe that he’s probably hurting, so I want to give him the benefit of the doubt. Remember when you first came home with me? You didn’t trust or like me very much either.”
“That’s—“ Zanka bites his tongue.
When you first adopted him three years ago, you had taken him in after he was put out of his last home. His last owners, a couple who conducted rather shady business, didn’t see the point in keeping a rather docile-looking hybrid like Zanka. His two older siblings were Dobermans, the perfect intimidating breeds needed to keep up a fitting image; one, Zanka, as the only Border Collie, didn’t fit.
Zanka had initially tried everything to get his owners to keep him, even begging his sister and brother for help. But that didn’t stop them from casting him out into the street one night and never looking back.
It was thanks to Enjin that he found his way to the shelter and eventually your home. Of course, Zanka had major trust issues toward humans, given what had happened, but over time, he grew to love you and the little life you had built together. And ever since, he hasn’t been in contact with either of his siblings, not that he particularly cares anymore. You were his family now.
“Fine,” Zanka eventually huffs out. “But I still don’t like him.”
You laugh, reaching up to scratch behind his ears, which prompts his tail to wag. “All I ask is that you at least try to get along with him.”
Little did Zanka know that would be easier said than done.
"Today, we're building up your wardrobe, so get anything that you might need," you remind Jabber as you all enter a hybrid clothing store. "Oh, and don't worry about the price. My friend works here, so we usually get a discount on everything."
Jabber let out a low whistle as he picked up one of the shirts off the nearby rack. It was a plain oversized black tee, but he liked it. "Are you for real about me gettin' whatever I want?" His tail swished excitedly at the thought despite his attempts to keep a relatively neutral expression.
Back at the ring, nothing was ever truly his own, per se, at least, not in theory. Whatever Jabber owned could either be destroyed in a fight or taken if he wasn't strong enough to protect it. This was the first time someone actually offered to buy him anything.
"Yup," you say. "If you don't know your size, I can ask August to--"
Before you could finish, Jabber runs off toward a rack that catches his attention. You laugh while Zanka, beside you, huffs.
"Now, now. You were excited during your first shopping trip, too."
Zanka merely looks away, but his face reddens slightly. "Do you have to remind me?"
"Since we're here, is there anything you need?" You ask, trying to keep an eye on the hyperactive feline who was currently sorting through a rack of jeans with an equally enthused August. Your friend seemed all too happy to show off the recent designs he had.
"Actually..." Zanka sheepishly runs a hand down the back of his neck. "Is it okay if I get a new collar?"
You smile softly. "Let's go look and see what they have."
The two of you head over to the jewelry section, where there is an array of collar-like necklaces in a wide range of colors, sizes, and designs. Zanka looks unamused when you pull an obnoxious piece completely bedazzled in rhinestones. He eventually settles for a blue one with a thin band and circular tag.
"I'd like this one--"
"Y/n check this out!" Jabber completely shoves Zanka out of the way, getting into your personal space. He holds up a spray-painted denim jacket with graffiti lettering in your face so you don't see how your poor collie falls back into one of the displays. "Whatcha think? August said he'll throw in a discount on this if you spend $100."
"It's nice," you say fondly. "I think it would suit you well."
At that, Jabber grins. "Come on! Lemme show you the other stuff I found!" He grabs your wrist and drags you toward the fitting rooms, not before looking back at Zanka and sticking his tongue out at the canine.
Zanka growled under his breath.
Begrudgingly, he trudged over to the fitting room, not before helping reset the display and all the accessories he had knocked over to keep from making the poor employee do it. Zanka finds you outside the room, sitting on one of the chairs, hands folded in your lap.
"Are you okay, Z?" You ask, noticing his annoyed demeanor.
Trying to school his expression, Zanka exhales a sigh and forces a smile. "All good."
He'd maintain the promise he made with you and would try his best not to let Jabber get under his skin. It's all for your sake, he reminded himself.
"Okay, so August pulled out a few more things from the back to try!" Jabber returns to the fitting room with an armful of clothes, which he promptly dumps--more like throws--on top of Zanka, covering him nearly from head to toe. "I'll start with what I put in the room first, then I'll get to these."
"Well, go get changed," you instruct. "We'll wait here."
You try not to laugh at Zanka's clearly vexed expression as he shakes all the clothes off himself. Most of the items had been purposely balled up and pulled off their hangers. Picking the first item from the floor--a faded pair of jeans--you work on folding them nicely, adding them to an ever-growing pile.
Scratch what Zanka promised you the other day. He would never get along with this guy.
But he wasn't going to take Jabber's crap willingly.
No. He was going to get his payback.
They always fight where you're not watching.
You once caught them tussling in your living room, and your look of disappointment stung more than the actual reprimand. So, Jabber and Zanka always made it a point to be subtle, doing things to irk one another when they think you're not looking.
Jabber will steal food from Zanka's plate during dinner, shoving it into his mouth before the other can protest, only for Zanka to turn around and pour a bunch of salt in Jabber's drink.
When you're going to cuddle up on the couch together to watch a movie, Zanka will jump over the back of the sofa to claim the spot next to you, right as Jabber is about to sit down. In retaliation, Jabber "accidentally" trips, spilling the popcorn into Zanka's lap like the clumsy cat he is.
Ironically, the only time the two are ever in agreement is when it comes to you.
If anyone ever flirts with you, let alone looks at you funny, the two are ready to bite the other person's head off. It's the one and only way to get them to put their differences aside in a mutual truce to protect you.
"Okay..." you say absentmindedly while staring at the list on your phone.
Having two hybrids now meant that your grocery budget expanded quite a bit. While Zanka wasn't the biggest eater, you still wanted to ensure that you were always stocked up on the things he liked. And now, you had to add Jabber into the mix. You typically liked to shop alone, because it got done quicker that way, but when you mentioned leaving the house, both were ready and waiting by the door before you could even get your shoes on.
Your two boys follow behind you closely, with Zanka pushing the cart. "First, let's get the produce. I was going to make pasta for dinner, so I need an onion and a couple of bell peppers..."
You're mostly talking to yourself, but as you call out some of the things on your list, either Zanka or Jabber will grab it and place it in the cart. While you're examining the apples, riffling through the pile to see which don't have bruises on them, Jabber looks through the strawberries, mouth watering with want.
He had always wanted to try the red fruit, as such things were not common back at the ring. They always looked so sweet on top of desserts in photos he's seen. Perhaps, if Jabber asked, you'd be willing to buy--
"Ow! The hell!" Jabber jumps, hissing in pain. His tail snaps back, throbbing slightly from where the grocery cart had run over it seconds ago. Immediately, his gaze narrows onto Zanka, who conveniently stands closest to the back of the cart, looking through the display of oranges.
Zanka regards him with a dismissive look once he catches him staring. "What are you looking at?"
Jabber grins.
“Come on, you two,” you call, moving along to the next aisle. “Pick out any snacks you want. You each get your own, so you don’t have to fight later.”
Like a little kid in a candy store, Jabber stares at the snack aisle with awe. He weaves back and forth down the aisle, picking up everything that interests him and turning to ask you for recommendations.
Zanka rolls his eyes at his overenthusiasm over a bag of chips (again, ignoring the fact that he was the same at one point). He finds his usual bag of pretzels, and he’s bending over to grab his favorite cookies from the bottom shelf when suddenly, several bags rain down from above.
Quickly, Zanka covers his head to shield it. Several snack items—granola bars, cookies, and a packet of nuts—fall onto the floor with a loud clatter.
“Oops~” Jabber drawls. He stands above Zanka, pulling a bag of Takis from the top shelf. The feline smiles mischievously. “Excuse my reach.”
Zanka rolls his eyes, but picks up all the fallen items with a huff.
In the frozen aisle, you allow them each to pick out an ice cream they want and a quick meal to make while you’re at work. Jabber’s excited about the different frozen pizzas, and you have to explain why you can’t afford to buy all three that he wanted, but next time, he could try a new one.
“Okay, but what if instead of the chicken nuggets, we get—ow!”
“Found the frozen vegetables,” Zanka says nonchalantly. He hands you the bag you had asked for, completely ignoring the fact that he just opened the nearby fridge and slammed the door against Jabber’s shin. “What’s next on the list?”
Jabber tries to bite back the scowl that threatens to appear on his face, his ears twitching in annoyance. Especially as you don’t seem to have noticed his intentional clumsiness, having the nerve to thank the damn mutt for being “oh so helpful.”
By the time you check out, both are thoroughly irritated with the other, and you’re none the wiser. Their silent little feud continues as they load the groceries into the car for you, trying to one up the other in who can carry the most stuff.
Suddenly, the bag Zanka holds rips at the bottom. Several cans spill out from the hole, many landing harshly on his foot before rolling under the car. He bites back a swear, each of his toes now throbbing in pain from the contact.
“You—“ He growls at Jabber, who snickers at his misfortune. The feline’s claws retract right as you return from putting the cart away.
“Is everything okay?” You ask.
“Looks like one of the bags snapped,” Jabber says, pointing to the broken plastic bag innocently. “These things are cheap as hell.”
“It might’ve been too heavy. Did anything break?”
“Nope,” Zanka grits through his teeth, but his foot might’ve. “Just a few things rolled under the car.”
“Great,” you sigh. “You think you can reach them? Both of you have longer arms than I do.”
Since you’re watching, neither of them tries anything funny as they retrieve the couple of items that rolled under, though Zanka was very tempted to step on Jabber’s tail. But he doesn’t for the simple fact that you look so happy with their short-lived cooperation.
“Thank you both for all your help today,” you tell them after closing the trunk. "My boys are so good, aren't they?"
You give Zanka his usual head scratch, his tail wagging happily despite the annoyed look he still gives Jabber. You turn to do the same to your feline, but pause short when he flinches. You smile softly and slowly reach out to run a hand through his hair gently. Even Jabber himself looks surprised at the low purr that rumbles through him. The faint blush on his cheeks darkens as Zanka silently snickers under his breath.
Your expression softens. “Come on, you two. Let’s go home.”
Did you just legitimately tell me that a person who draws wolf ass is more competent than a dude who spent 8+ years in a university to give you your lung transplant?
doctors are bullshit and furry artists perform an infinitely more valuable service to society compared to them
It took doctor’s like 10 years to diagnose what was wrong with me, some insisting I was faking for attention while a furry artist I knew just went “that sounds like crohn’s” after hearing me complain once and ended up being right
Also I can’t go to a doctor and ask them to draw Rouge the Bat wider than she is tall with tits to match, now can I
[ID: a comic illustrating the above thread as if it was happening in a theater. The users are mostly shaped like their icons, pukicho is a pikachu and hokuto-ju-no-ken is a gengar. The last panel is gengar looks back where a speech bubble comes out of the crowd to say, “you could if you weren’t a fucking coward.” /end]
᪤ obviously fawning!zanka nijiku x oblivious!reader ╱ zanka is hovering, again… does he need something or…?
zanka is not the type of guy who follows people. he just somehow always happens to be where you are. totally on accident, of course. what kind of creep pursues someone around like a lost puppy?(he’s completely unaware of the fact that he resembles a lost pup trailing behind you all around cleaner HQ).
you’re talking to semiu at the reception, he peeking out around the corner like he afraid to walk on by. you’re hanging out with riyo, and he’s there, watching you, hoping to get a word in. but far too scared to go up and join the conversation. you’re enjoying dinner and he’s there at the other table eyes boring into you. a question always at the tip of his tongue but he just can’t seem to find the time to ask it.
and now, you’re stilling on the lounge couch, all alone; well except for the ever present zanka walking back and forth just a few meters in front of you like he’s about to confront you about an evil secret you hold that he knows all about.
you think your eye might start twitching if he doesn’t stop. you put your book down and look at him. he looks sick. too pale and an unreadable expression on his face. is he coming down with something…? you think again.
“do you need something?” you ask, tilting your head to the side trying to get a better look at his almost disgusted face.
he stops his pacing and stands in your direction. he swallows the acidic bile that threatened to come up further and speaks swiftly: “no.”
you know he’s lying. too quick to deny, and like always too quick to turn his head away from your warm gaze. you move your head back and lean forward to catch his eyes. “then why are you staring at me like you need something?”
he denies. again. “i ain’t.”
“yes, you are.” you call him out on his bluff and all he does is further avoid your stare. and you totally notice the blush he seem to be trying to suppress. what a dork, you think.
you lean back against the leather couch relaxing into it, and huff out a laugh that says ‘you’re full of shit’. “you do this all the time, zanka,” don’t say my name like, fuck… “is there something you want to ask me?”
he attempts to say something but the words wither like a flower in dehydrating heat in his throat. he thinks he’s choking.
you press him, you know there’s something. and you’re very curious, very. “out with it, come on.”
the words are on the very tip of his tongue daring to fall, but he can’t… ’m madly in love with’y. i want ya. i need ya. can’t you see that? haven’tya noticed? walk away. move your feet and leave.
zanka rubs his hands over his face, putting them back to his sides and giving you a look that you can’t decipher yet again and turns on his heels, making his way to the door.
“hey! where are you going?” you ask, confused. you move and get off the couch to stand and make your way after him. “don’t leave me hanging, dude.” you wave your hands in the air. why is he so difficult? you’re frustrated and beyond puzzled why he’s so afraid to say whatever it is he’s been practically itching all over to say.
he’s out in the hallway, storming off, clouds of thunder above his head. he whispers to himself “dude? am i jus’ some kinda friend to ya? why do i even bother anymore…”
you run out into the hallway, “zanka?” but he’s already gone.
once enjin got your hand he never let it go. it was his hand now and he took good care of it.
at first you both had been so shy about it. his long tattooed fingers brushing yours. pinkies hooked together, like he was afraid he took too much too quickly. until one day you grew bold and slipped your hand in his properly. something in him clicked like a switch flipped, and broke clean off.
after that… oh boy. he held your hand everywhere.
you walked through the base together? his hand engulfed yours.
you sat beside each other? your hand was in his lap and his large hands hugged yours.
you got food together? his thumbs brushed your knuckles lovingly.
enjin was crazy about your new little development in your relationship. for him it was proof of life, like if he let go the world might took you back, and he can’t have that.
you thought it was cute when he rushed towards you and laced your fingers together, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knuckles without realizing he was doing it. sometimes he’d tug you a half-step closer, all instinct, no thought. if someone talked to you too long, his grip tightened always a little.
he was greedy, and yet soft about it. also a little desperate in a way that made your chest warm. with each time he held your hand you fell a little more until that tiny crush turned into something more intense. more beautiful.
and it even changed into something raw as one night you came home late from a cleaner’s job. you swallowed uncomfortably around the dust in your lungs and fought the exhaustion in your bones. at least the base was quiet at night, and the lights dimmed low.
you yawned quietly, and squeezed enjin’s hand. “thanks for coming with me today.” he didn’t need to, but he’d rather not sleep for 48 hours than letting you go out there alone.
“always,” he said immediately before he caught himself and added softer. “anytime.”
you stopped outside your room, rocking back on your heels. “i should let you sleep.” he nodded, but didn’t let go. a tired, but soft smile graced your features as you tugged on his hand. “c’mere.”
you rose onto your toes, and aimed for his cheek. a simple little goodnight kiss. should’ve been easy, simple. except for the fact that enjin was annoyingly tall, and didn’t get the hint to lean down.
your foot slipped slightly against the floor, and your balance tipped forward. instead of cheek your lips missed entirely, and awkwardly landed somewhere near the corner of his mouth.
you could barely call it a kiss, but enjin short circuited. he froze for a moment, his pupils blew wide, breathing stuttering. then he made such a quiet wrecked sound, and grabbed your waist instinctively.
“huh.” you laughed softly at your own clumsiness.
nothing could’ve prepared you for what came next.
enjin dipped his head down, and crowded you against the wall. his mouth found yours, messy and uncoordinated, like he had been starving to kiss you finally. it wasn’t smooth. it wasn’t practiced. it was raw unfiltered need. his lips massaged yours too eager, too wet. enjin lost it completely, and now he didn’t know how to stop once he started.
you squeaked quietly, laughed and he swallowed that noise up. your hands found his jacket as you kissed him back - slow where he was frantic, grounding where he was spiraling.
“enjin,” you breathed against his mouth, half-giggling, half-sighing.
that did undid him completely.
he pulled you even closer with a broken groan as he kissed you more softer this time. he memorized each part of you, tasted your lips, your tongue. it left you breathless and tingling everywhere, and you secretly mourned the loss of his lips when he pulled back.
“i—” he swallowed hard as his forehead dropped to yours. “sorry. i just—”
he looked at you like he might actually blacked out, or eat you right fucking here. his golden eyes almost glowed with the sheer intensity of his emotions.
you smiled up at him with a soft blush, eyes bright. “that was… enthusiastic.”
he laughed breathlessly, and pressed his face into your hair. “i’m so gone for you,” he admitted muffling. “it’s embarrassing.”
“none of this, enjin. it was a good first kiss.” you leaned in and hugged him tightly. “goodnight.”
he nodded and walked away dazed. lips and hands, and everywhere it was still tingling. his brain fully offline.
Hey, I love your writing, especially how you write Zanka.
Can I request Zanka having a huge crush on a gender neutral reader who comes off as apathetic or emotionless to others but is actually super clingy/affectionate. I'm fine with either headcanons or oneshot.
Sorry if it's too confusing, English isn't my first language. Have a good day!
ridiculously special or specially ridiculous?
zanka swears it’s nothing serious, just a little crush. still, he can’t help but be jealous of how close you are with riyo.
ft. zanka nijiku x gn!reader | 1k words. fluff. | masterlist.
zanka sees how you keep a safe distance from everyone in the headquarters… maybe except for riyo who happens to be a close friend of yours.
it’s not like he’s observing you, but he just happened to notice how you barely open yourself to anyone. you only talk to people when necessary, appear in functions when your presence is absolutely crucial, laugh when the situation is completely ludicrous, so seeing a smile from you is a huge achievement for him. and again, he was definitely not observing you.
but when there are barely any eyes around, he sometimes witnesses you clinging to riyo’s arm, comfortably close to her. laughing ridiculously at her equally ridiculous jokes. hell. who the hell was riyo to make you laugh like that?
riyo noticed how zanka would click his tongue when he sees the two of you laugh together, and she’d grin at him like the gremlin she is when you aren’t looking.
“if you wanna be me,” riyo proudly pointed to herself. “so bad, you gotta make your moves, zanka.”
zanka tries. tried. he tried getting close to you—for work purposes, of course. a little more closer in proximity, which in response, makes you scoot a little farther from him. a small chitchat, even if he hates doing so, just to hear your voice—but to no avail, it always ends after two sentences from him.
when enjin noticed this, he tortured zanka into endless teasing, but he swore it was all for work. being in the same field of work and all, he claims he needs to be on good terms with everyone he works with.
“since when did our lil zan-zan care about that?” enjin questioned him, wriggling his damn eyebrows at the poor boy.
but of course, a master in this field ought to help this average joe.
so, enjin starts conspiring with riyo. how can they make the two of you interact comfortably?
“you just need to get to know them,” riyo advised.
“i don’t wanna force them,” zanka said. “if they don’t want to talk to me, then so be it.”
it starts with the cliche, “sorry, can you give this [thing] to zanka?” requests from riyo.
then often getting missions together with zanka (as per enjin’s request to semiu—for improving the workers’ relationship with one another, he claimed).
zanka smiles to himself when he thinks he did something cool or impressive during a mission, ‘cause that would mean you saw it. or maybe not… because when he turned around after taking down the trashbeast, he saw riyo carrying you in her arms, twirling you around—or sometimes, it’s the other way, it’s riyo in your arms, and you were showering her with praises with a huge smile on your face.
whatever, he can live with that—just a small, silly, happy crush, nothing serious. he’s just a little bit jealous of riyo. that’s all.
or maybe not…
because the moment you where inside the car, struggling to stick on your seats on the bumpy road, zanka wished he didn’t sit right next to you. because what if enjin does something stupid and he ends up getting in physical contact with you? will you get mad at him? will you tell riyo to tell him to ‘fuck off’ next time? what if you don’t sit next to him anymore? will you hate him? will you— okay.
okay.
okay.
because of course, enjin is foolish enough to try something like that—zanka should’ve known.
riyo braced herself, holding on to the handle above her head as enjin took a sharp turn to the right.
sitting in the middle, you didn’t have anywhere to hold on to. you felt your whole weight slide to the right, shoulders bumping with the boy beside you—your head almost slamming to his.
zanka heard himself internally scream from the impact, and with the incoming impact.
you felt your body fall sideways even more, the turn still not finished (is this car fucking turning around in circles?), and you swore to the sphere above you’re gonna have to kill enjin after this.
before your head could slam against the door, zanka’s hand caught your shoulder firmly, steadying you to protect you from getting hurt.
“woo~ enjin, you’re such a bad driver,” riyo commented, her eyes wide at the tableau scene beside her.
enjin mimicked riyo’s whistle. “my bad, kids! are y’all good over there?”
zanka stared at you with wide-open eyes, his mouth hanging a little open in shock, his hand still holding your arm, his brain telling himself to curse enjin at this very moment.
he was in an utter state of stupefaction.
but you… you looked at zanka with the same, usual expression you have—cool and unaffected. like nothing happened, like it didn’t affect you, like what enjin did was typical and okay and safe, and like this is a normal situation to find yourself in.
“—still there?”
riyo’s voice brought the two of you back to your senses. you cleared your throat, and sat properly once again, zanka still unmoving but less in shock.
the rest of the way back was awkward… and still bumpy as hell.
what he didn’t know was that it affected you in more ways than one.
he may have wanted to kill enjin at that time, but after that day, zanka can’t help but notice how you scoot less when he’s near, say more than a word, and sometimes he’s surprised when you initiate a little conversation with him.
you were slowly warming up to him—or so, riyo told him in a teasing tone.
zanka couldn’t help but bite back a smile as soon as you turn around after talking with him. he chokes down a triumphant laugh and resists the urge to pump his fist when he sees a sign or a possibility of a smile forming on your lips because of him.
but he absolutely loses it when you start chuckling whenever he says something ridiculous. he has memorized the way you raise your hand to cover the upward turn of the corner of your lips as you stifle a laugh.
and when you start giving him a pat on the shoulder after completing his training or mission? he felt himself feeling like a little kid again, giddy after getting praised by someone he admired.
and the best thing? you don’t do it to anyone else—just to him and riyo.
maybe there was no need to be jealous of riyo at all.
it was ridiculous, but he felt special.
🚯 couldn't think of a title, so i'm sorry if it's ridiculous... (anon, im so sorry this took so long i wasnt able to write reqs AURRRR) was supposed to be shorter but ended up yapping again oh kill me
when i love a series, i get DEEP into the lore, which is what i did here lol. but just to clear up some communication, it’s not stated in the manga that tamsy knows about the chokers or if gountess knows about tamsy’s real identity (even though tamsy was seen wearing a choker in his day off chapter). i wrote this oneshot ASSUMING that tamsy knows about the choker maker and since the doll festival arc is coming to an end, i theorize that tamsy will go after gountess now.
the first part of this oneshot (the convo between tamsy and rudo) also did happen in the manga, but rudo unfortunately brushes it off, like BRO YOU WERE SO CLOSE </3
ac goes to marushi_0y
synopsis: exposing tamsy, but this time, for who he really is.
the health room smells like antiseptic and metal and something faintly burnt, probably from the generators outside. the lights hum overhead, too bright, too clean for someone like amo, who looks painfully small in the bed.
she stirs.
it’s subtle at first. a twitch of her fingers. a shallow inhale that turns into a sharp gasp.
“amo,” you say immediately, stepping closer. your voice is gentle on instinct, like you’re afraid anything louder might snap her back in half. “hey. hey, you’re okay. you’re safe.”
amo’s eyes fly open.
they’re wild. unfocused. they dart around the room like she’s counting exits that don’t exist, until–
she sees the IV.
and she freezes.
then she starts shaking.
no sound at first. just pure terror locked in her chest, eyes fixed on the thin tube disappearing into her arm like it’s a snake that might strike if she breathes wrong.
“amo,” you say again, softer. you reach out, but stop short, giving her space. “it’s okay. that’s just medicine. it’s helping you, alright? you were hurt, so they put it there to make you better.”
she swallows. hard.
“i–” her voice cracks. she shakes her head, curls in on herself as much as the bed allows. “i’ve never… i’ve never had that before.”
oh.
that’s it. that’s all it takes for your chest to ache.
“yeah,” you murmur, nodding like that makes it less scary. “i figured. it looks worse than it is, i promise. it won’t hurt you. no one here will.”
behind you, you can feel tamsy before you hear him – leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, posture relaxed in that way that always feels just a little too rehearsed. rudo stands closer to the bed, stiff, eyes flicking between amo and the IV like he’s ready to rip it out himself if she so much as shakes again.
tamsy clears his throat.
“amo,” he says, smooth as glass. “do you remember anything? about who took you?”
the room goes quiet.
amo’s fingers curl into the sheets. she hesitates, eyes flicking nervously – not to rudo.
to you.
you nod encouragingly. “it’s okay. take your time.”
she breathes in. out.
“… a long-haired,” she starts, then stops. swallows again. “a woman.”
the word lands wrong.
not loud. not dramatic.
just… wrong.
you feel it immediately, like a stone dropped into still water. the ripple spreads in your chest, slow and cold.
tamsy doesn’t move.
doesn’t blink.
doesn’t even tense.
“a woman…” he repeats thoughtfully, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “are you sure?”
amo nods, small and frightened. “i think so. i really can’t remember her face no matter how hard i try to. but i know… her hair was long.”
rudo’s jaw tightens.
you glance at tamsy.
he hums. “interesting.”
that’s it. no follow-up. no push. just that calm, almost pleased little sound before he straightens and smiles down at amo like he’s proud of her for remembering at all.
“you did great,” he says. “get some more rest, yeah?”
later, the lights are dimmed.
amo sleeps again, breathing steady, IV still in place, but no longer shaking like it’s a death sentence.
the three of you step into the hall.
the door clicks shut behind you, and something in the air shifts.
tamsy stretches his arms over his head, casual, unbothered. “so,” he says lightly, glancing at rudo. “you went to see the information broker, right? about the watchman series? and the choker maker?”
rudo freezes.
just for half a second.
but it’s enough.
he shoots you a look – sharp, panicked, because you and enjin explicitly told him not to say a word. because his brain is replaying that mission, the choker maker, the way sound itself didn’t feel safe anymore.
his shoulders tense.
“yeah,” he says stiffly, way too stiff. “uh. he said he has no idea… where to find the cho–choker maker. seriously. he’s such a piece of shit.”
the lie drops like a brick.
you can almost hear it crack.
tamsy studies him.
not angrily.
not suspiciously.
just… patiently. like he’s watching a bad actor forget their lines.
then the elevator dings.
“hm,” tamsy says, stepping inside. “that’s a shame.”
the doors start to close.
you move on instinct, slipping into the elevator beside him. rudo stays where he is, fists clenched at his sides.
tamsy turns back to him, smile easy. “you’ll keep chasing amo’s kidnapper, right? and the sphere.”
rudo nods.
tamsy’s eyes glint. “good. sometimes the hints are closer than you think.”
the doors slide shut.
“good night,” tamsy adds pleasantly.
the elevator descends.
and standing beside him, your stomach twists.
because amo said woman.
because rudo lied badly.
because tamsy didn’t react at all.
and because suddenly, everything feels too close for comfort.
the elevator hums softly as it descends.
it’s just you and tamsy now.
too quiet.
he stands beside you with his usual easy posture, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly like he’s already halfway checked out of the day. the fluorescent light paints him in pale gold and shadow, catching on his hair, his lashes. everything about him still looks harmless. approachable. polite. one could even say he looks like an angel.
your brain, however, refuses to shut up.
amo’s face flashes behind your eyes.
the way she froze at the IV. not confused – terrified. like her body recognized something before her mind could catch up.
a tube. thin. pale. trailing from her arm.
like a rope.
your stomach drops.
tokushin.
tamsy’s distaff. the rope it produces – smooth, obedient, alive in his hands.
your fingers curl slowly at your sides.
that wasn’t fear of medicine.
that was trauma.
and then – another piece clicks.
watchman series.
your pulse spikes.
no one told tamsy about that.
you, rudo, enjin, follo – only the ones who went on that mission knew. you were careful. paranoid. because of the choker maker. because sound itself couldn’t be trusted.
you step out together, walking down the corridor toward his room. your thoughts are racing now, colliding, stacking on top of each other until the picture becomes sickeningly clear.
amo’s kidnapping.
the “woman” with long hair.
the IV that resembles rope.
the watchman series.
the sphere.
it’s all him.
tamsy chuckles softly as he unlocks his door. “you didn’t have to walk me all the way here, you know. kind of you, though.” he glances at you sideways, teasing. “acts of service, i assume?”
you stop.
your voice comes out steady, even though your heart is trying to punch its way out of your ribs.
“can i come in?” you ask. “i want to talk.”
something flickers across his face.
just for a split second.
hesitation.
then like flipping a switch, his warm, polite smile is back in place. “sure,” he says easily. “if you insist.”
the door closes behind you with a soft click.
the sound feels final.
you don’t sit. you don’t pace. you just stand there, staring at him as he turns to face you.
and you drop it.
“no one told you about the watchman series…” you say calmly. “so how do you know about it?”
silence.
tamsy freezes.
not figuratively.
his entire body goes still, like someone hit pause.
inside his head, it’s chaos – idiot, idiot, idiot!, the word ricocheting as his smile dies mid-curve. he can feel the mistake burning under his skin, replaying the moment in the hallway over and over again, every inflection, every word.
too casual.
too confident.
he stares at you.
then he exhales.
long. slow.
his shoulders drop.
“… damn,” he mutters.
and just like that, the tension drains from him. not fear, but pretense. he rubs a hand over his face, then laughs quietly to himself, low and tired.
“you’re sharp,” he admits. “sharper than i gave you credit for.”
your blood runs cold.
he’s not denying it.
so he tells you everything.
about amo – how easy it was, how she struggled, how he made sure she lived. about the watchman series, how he doesn’t just know about it, but owns part of it. how the sphere and the ground are connected in ways no one else has figured out yet.
“i’m the closest thing you have to the truth,” he says softly. “whether you like it or not.”
your body shifts before you can stop it.
just a step back.
just enough.
his eyes follow the movement.
and his smile fades.
“… you’re going to tell the others,” he says quietly.
you don’t answer.
you don’t need to.
he sighs, almost disappointed. “that’s a shame.” he looks at you, genuinely regretful. “i was hoping you’d stay on my side. i really do like you, you know. i would’ve spared you.”
before you can react, tokushin unfurls.
rope snaps out fast, too fast. it coils around your wrists, your arms, your torso, binding you tight before you can even inhale properly. another strand wraps around your mouth, gagging you, swallowing your shout whole.
you stumble, restrained, heart slamming against your ribs.
tamsy steps closer, unhurried.
“shhh,” he murmurs. “don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
he reaches into a drawer and pulls out a book.
your heart drops.
black cover. familiar logo.
the watchman series.
panic floods you, hot and suffocating.
“this,” tamsy says calmly, flipping it open, “can alter memories. rewrite them. erase things that get… inconvenient.”
your thoughts are screaming now.
i’m screwed. i’m so screwed.
his smile softens as he looks at you, almost tender. “don’t look at me like that. this is just another act of love.”
in your head, you spit back at him, venomous.
is love redacted from your dictionary? you’re fucking sick.
tamsy tilts his head. chuckles.
“love is subjective,” he replies smoothly, like he heard you anyway. “and i’ve always been very… thorough with the things i care about.”
ramadan is putting me on a chokehold GUYS I CANT TAKE THIS ANYMOREE. I lowk read your fics I love the fluff in them so much ugh I love YOU, and I love Tamsy too heh. GIVE ME A TAMSYYYYY he lowk manipulative but I like em a lil toxic HEH 🤣🤣✌️✌️👅👅👅, wait what am I doing 💔 I MISSED UUU KURSS (yes I’m an arab I feel special here)
a/n: okay but the song cake by melanie martinez is literally perfect for tamsy bc (SPOILERS) he ate the cake in front of amo and he’s an angel so -> slice of heaven all makes sense???
also i gotchu ☄️ anon, respect to you for celebrating ramadan! and i missed you and love you too 😚 please take this oneshot that's been sitting in my drafts for weeks now
wish i knew art credits, so sorry </3
the city is louder than the mission site ever was.
after the grime and the blood and the quiet focus of surviving, the noise feels unreal – vendors shouting, neon signs buzzing, footsteps overlapping like static. you walk half a step behind tamsy, still riding the leftover adrenaline, your body sore in that dull, familiar way. he looks untouched, as always. coat neat. expression easy. like violence never lingers on him the way it does on everyone else.
he stops suddenly in front of a bakery.
you almost bump into him.
“wait here,” he says, already stepping inside.
you blink, then frown. cake is the last thing on your mind. by the time he comes back out, there’s a small box in his hands, white cardboard tied with a thin string. neat. deliberate.
you tilt your head. “didn’t take you for the dessert type.”
he hums, amused, like you’ve said something charming instead of skeptical. “i’m full of surprises.”
you assume it’s for him. he has that look – indulgent, self-satisfied, like someone rewarding themselves after a job well done. so you don’t say anything when you sit on the low concrete ledge nearby, watching people pass.
he sits beside you instead.
too close.
he sets the box between you.
“share with me,” he says.
you glance at him. “i thought you bought it for yourself.”
“i did.” his eyes slide to yours, slow. “and now i’m offering you some.”
the way he says it makes your stomach twist – not with hunger, but memory.
he opens the box. inside is a single slice of cake, soft spongy layers visible, whipped cream smooth and fluffy under the streetlight. sweet. harmless. your mouth waters despite yourself.
you shouldn’t.
“you don’t have to,” you say, though your fingers already itch.
he chuckles quietly. “you always say that.”
you take the fork. the cake is lighter than you expect, melting as soon as it touches your tongue. sugar blooms warm and rich, almost comforting. for a second, you forget everything else.
tamsy watches you eat.
really watches.
“still taste it?” he asks.
you pause. “taste what.”
his knee brushes yours. accidental. intentional. impossible to tell with him.
“last night,” he says softly. “you liked the way i took my time.”
heat creeps up your neck.
you lower the fork. “tamsy.”
“you liked how close i was,” he continues, voice smooth, almost fond. “how quiet you got. how you leaned in like you didn’t want to miss a second.”
your grip tightens. the city noise fades, replaced by the echo of his voice and the phantom memory of warmth, of breath, of the way the world narrowed until it was just sensation and restraint and wanting. nothing explicit – just pressure, proximity, the slow, deliberate crossing of lines you both pretended weren’t there.
“why are you bringing this up now,” you ask, sharper than you mean to. “it’s daytime. we’re outside.”
he smiles.
that’s the worst part.
“does that matter?” he asks. “you’re still you. i’m still me.”
you swallow. the cake suddenly tastes too sweet.
“we agreed this was just…” you trail off, gesturing vaguely. “not this.”
“friends with benefits?” he supplies easily. “oh. you mean coworkers who unwind together.”
you nod. “yeah...”
he leans back on his hands, eyes on the passing crowd, perfectly at ease. “funny,” he says. “you always get nervous when i remind you what you enjoy.”
“that’s not–”
“isn’t it?” he turns to you again, gaze steady. “you didn’t stop me last night.”
the words aren’t loud. they’re not angry. they’re worse – calm, certain, confident, like a fact he’s filing away.
you look down at the cake. at the neat fork marks you’ve left behind. “that doesn’t mean–”
“it means something,” he interrupts gently. “to me.”
your chest tightens. “you’re twisting this.”
he laughs under his breath. “no. i’m clarifying.”
he reaches out, thumb brushing a smear of frosting near your mouth. you flinch, but he doesn’t pull away. he brings it to his mouth instead, tasting it, eyes never leaving yours.
“a slice of heaven,” he murmurs. “i gave you something sweet when the world wasn’t.”
there’s something off in the way he says it. possessive. proprietary. like the sweetness belongs to him because he offered it.
“you didn’t give it to me,” you say quietly. “i chose it.”
he tilts his head. “did you?”
the question hangs between you, heavier than it should be.
you stand, heart beating too fast. “this is why i don’t like when you do this. you make it sound like– like i owe you.”
his smile thins. not gone. just sharpened.
“owe me?” he repeats. “no. i just think you should be honest about what you want.”
“and what if i don’t know,” you shoot back. “what if it was just last night.”
he rises, too, closing the distance without touching you. his voice drops, intimate enough to feel like a secret.
“then why are you still tasting it.”
you hate that he’s right.
he steps back, easy again, already reclaiming the box. “finish it,” he says, like it’s nothing. like he hasn’t just unsettled something deep in your chest.
you hesitate. then against your better judgment, you take another bite.
sweet. soft. cloying.
he watches, satisfied, as the sugar melts and leaves something bitter behind.
and you realize, too late, that this was never about cake at all.
a/n #2: here’s a breakdown of this oneshot for better understanding if it came across as confusing:
this is about control dressed up as intimacy.
tamsy is a walking red flag and i am not trying to romanticize it, i’ll list it instead:
he reframes your desire as something he gave you. when he says “the slice of heaven i gave you last night,” he’s quietly rewriting the story. not two people choosing each other, but him as the source, you as the recipient. that’s why it feels sour.
he drags private intimacy into public spaces. daytime. city. people around. he’s not being sloppy. he’s being deliberate. he wants you to feel off-balance, to realize the boundary only exists if he respects it.
he turns your choice into proof. the moment you take another bite, it’s not about hunger. it’s about him thinking, see? you still choose what i offer.
it’s not necessarily about cake, it’s about this:
how easily can i make something sweet feel like it belongs to me, and how long before you start questioning whether it ever belonged to you at all?
SYNOPSIS Enjin didn’t know you were hiding all that under your somewhat baggy cleaner‘s uniform until one day August gets a new whiff of inspiration to cook you up the possibly hottest uniform among the cleaners yet.
CONTENT nsfw / fluff / sexual tension / porn with plot / resolved sexual tension / mutual pining / slow burn / friends to lovers / coworkers to lovers / service top!enjin / praise kink / submissive reader / cursing / oral f!receiving / fingering / sadist!enjin if you squint
A couple cigarettes. The rush of tearing a trash beast apart piece by piece. The relief of a joint right after. Hitting up his favorite local spots at the end of a workday, surrounding himself with gorgeous women who couldn’t deny the fact that he, too, was quite the specimen himself.
Simple.
Once you joined the Cleaners, he’d been ecstatic to finally share the burden that was being in your twenties while babysitting a bunch of brain-wrecked teenagers.
For the first time in a while, he had room to breathe—time to indulge, and not just in stolen moments.
He could prep joints at night for the next day. Take long baths. Hook up with strangers. Stumble back home high out of his mind at bonkers hours in the morning.
He wasn’t above sharing his pleasures, either. He’d invite his adult coworkers to go out with him from time to time.
Gris usually took him up on it if his day had been particularly rough—especially after some heavy trash-beast ass-kicking.
Semiu, on the other hand, decided on a whim whether she felt like tagging along or not.
As for Zanka, Enjin was already looking forward to the day he’d be old enough to become a potential drinking buddy. Fingers crossed.
He’d even invited you along a couple of times as well, only to learn—pretty quickly—that you were more of a domestic soul. You liked taking care of yourself in your room during your spare time, doing chores, sticking to your own quiet routines and little rituals.
You spent a good chunk of your time tending to your vital instrument. Other than that, you just… existed among the residents. Easy. Steady. Reliable.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tensions of the day roll off him as his thoughts drifted towards the night ahead, an unlit cigarette sitting between his lips. The places he might go, the people he might see, the things he might do.
His steps echoed through the atmosphere of low humming halls. It was easy to slip into autopilot, leave monotone routine behind—as monotone as his job could get, really— and trade it all for the simple pleasures waiting outside.
Enjin had already clocked out in his head. Cigarette, street air, somewhere loud—he was halfway there when August’s voice tore through the hall.
“IT’S DONE! HAHA! I DID IT!”
Enjin stopped. Clicked his tongue. Figures. Nothing out of the ordinary. He put his foot in front of the other.
Then August yelled your name.
The lighter stayed in Enjin’s pocket. Instinctively, he turned back around to watch the scene unfold in front of him.
You appeared like you always did — clothes draping over you like they were just a size too big, hair half-tamed (much like you).
Mildly tired, mildly irritated, yet entirely unbothered by the chaos that was August himself. He leaned back against the doorframe behind him, eyes following the way you yanked the fabric out of August’s hands.
“On my fucking life,” you groaned. “Why’re you yelling? M’right here.”
“Wow, you’re so fun and energized,” Enjin chimed in, as sarcastic as he was relaxed.
You shot him a look — flat, unimpressed. He grinned anyway, like he’d just won a prize, or something. “You asked for a new uniform?”
“Not really,”—you held the clothes up to get an impression—“he just said he’d make me one ‘cause he felt inspired, so I let him.”
He couldn’t help but notice the fabric of the new uniform— or rather, the lack thereof.
Enjin then realized, distantly, that he’d never really thought about what you looked like under your layers of much too oversized clothes.
The sweaters swallowed you whole, the pants hung low and loose, and somewhere along the line his brain had filed you away as safe. Familiar.
Not something to think about.
“August,” you said, turning the scraps of fabric over in your hands, brows knitting together, “are you sure this is for me? This is so not what I’d usually wear.”
Enjin almost agreed out loud. Almost. It didn’t match you—not the way he knew you, anyway.
You were all soft edges and practical comfort, huge sleeves and borrowed pants, a presence that blended into the space instead of demanding it. This thing looked like it wanted to be noticed.
He should’ve written it off right there, should’ve sided with you and moved on. Instead, he found himself staring a second longer than necessary, curiosity gnawing at him in a way that felt unfamiliar. He wanted—unexpectedly—to see it on you.
Wanted to know what August had seen that he hadn’t. The thought settled in his chest, stubborn, yet not entirely unwelcome.
Enjin was a simple man.
“Are you doubting the gear genius?” He teasingly tilted his head.
“Yeah? How dare you?” August scoffed.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I’m not doubting anyone. I’m just saying—this doesn’t really look like something I’d wear.”
August waved you off, already vibrating with confidence. “Just try it on.”
You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Give me a minute.”
And just like you’d seemed to appear out of nowhere, you were gone again the very next second. The door to your room clicked shut.
Enjin didn’t realize he’d been watching until August lightly elbowed his side, muttering to himself about unique stitching, unmatched genius, and a true artistic vision needing proper time to take shape.
Adjusting his weight against the doorframe, Enjin finally lit the cigarette that had been resting between his lips.
Huh, weird.
He’d seen people change before—hell, had undressed people before, had just been about to go out and find someone to undress again. None of this should have registered.
And yet.
Seconds ticked by, and his mind counted them anyway.
He took a drag. Exhaled. Then did it again. The burned-down bud at the tip of the cigarette fell to the floor in what felt like slow motion.
He shifted again, cigarette now between his fingers, trying to convince himself that now could be the time follow through with his original plan: go out, fool around, return at some ridiculous hour. No obligations. No reason to stick around.
So why weren’t his feet moving?
His gaze drifted toward your closed door. For the briefest moment, he imagined what it might look like. Immediately, he shook his head. He really never thought of you this way.
And yet.
The thought lingered. The thought of you—any way other than your usual comforting, gentle, easy self—refused to disappear. He heard the soft shuffle and toss of clothing behind the door until all that remained was quiet nothing.
He couldn’t lie to himself. He was curious. Whatever pleasures waited outside weren’t going anywhere, and he was entertained enough right where he was—so why force it?
There was no rush. No harm in sticking around a little longer. If nothing else, it gave him an excuse to annoy you about it later.
Another drag. Another exhale. The cigarette was now less than half its original length. A few more inches fell to the floor, slow, unimportant, meaningless.
The lock of your door clicked. And it mattered so much, for some reason.
Enjin’s head tilted, cigarette now forgotten between his lips. He imagined your last couple motions behind that door— a careful tug at a new hem, flatting a creased surface of the fabric, adjusting the fit and drape of certain places. Your hands moving along yourself in a familiar fashion.
Your hands moving along yourself.
And that was new. In spite of all the trouble he usually got up to, he’d never thought of you as a woman before. Not once.
Then, you stepped out.
The uniform fit differently than he expected. On its own, it wasn’t flashy, or anything, but it conformed to your shape in a way that made it undeniable. Attention-seeking. And you…
You made it look effortless.
The seams traced your lines perfectly, moving and folding with you in one fluid motion as if the fabric had been waiting for you.
The uniform was stripped down, tight, and sharp. The skirt hugged your hips, short enough to catch the eye without feeling ridiculous. It was tasteful.
The top clung to your torso in a way that left neither room for more fabric, nor for imagination.
Over it, the cropped jacket—Cleaners’ emblem bold across the back—fit snugly, following your every movement without losing its structure.
And the boots—chunky, scuffed, ready for anything—grounded you in a way that made the whole thing feel both dangerous and effortless.
And what shouldn’t have mattered suddenly mattered so much. Because, fuck… you were hot.
Every little shift you made—a tilt of your head, a small tug at the hem, the way the fabric moved with you—kept catching his attention. He bit the inside of his cheek. Ain’t no way you’d been burying all that under those layers.
And yet.
Something in him knew better. Your figure fit the style of the uniform perfectly. Natural. Balanced. Built in all the right places. That shouldn’t matter. And still, it did. His pulse ticked a little faster, and he kind of hated that he noticed.
What he was most shocked to have to face was the fact that you were pretty much exactly what he imagined whenever he thought of an ideal type.
His lungs tightened. Not from desire—at least, not fully. Fascination, awareness, intrigue—all tangled together. The version of you he’d filed away as “safe, familiar” no longer fit. Something was… different.
You glanced at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for judgment. Approval. Anything.
He exhaled slowly, smoke he’d forgotten in his lungs curling upwards past his curious eyes. “Fits,” he said, voice low and casual, as though he was trying to convince himself he hadn’t been holding his breath for the past couple seconds.
You blinked, then tilted your head to look down at yourself. “Yeah… I guess so.”
Neither of you moved. The hall felt quieter, smaller, like any sudden movement could cause him to bump into you. August had gone silent as well, half inspecting his work, half sensing the shift in the air without caring to pinpoint the energy.
Whether or not you had realized it, that was up for debate.
Enjin took another long drag. Exhaled. Hoping the smoke would create a barrier between him and your form.
It was then, that he realized it wasn’t just the uniform that mattered. It was the subtle shift in you, the way you carried yourself differently, the unfamiliar side of you quietly asserting itself—and him noticing, no pretending otherwise.
Your back straightened, chest lifted ever so slightly—oh, fuck—and the natural sway of your hips whenever you shifted your weight had him chasing after his own breath.
“Honestly,” you spoke, smoothing the fabric of your skirt over your hips, “I thought this would be uncomfortable, but… it’s really not. I do actually like it.”
“TOLD YA! I’M A GENIUS!” August screamed, dancing with wild pride.
Enjin couldn’t help but simply stare. An involuntary smirk grazed his features. “Yeah… you are a genius.”
He was a simple man with simple needs.
─────────୨ৎ─────────
By the time the last trash beast went down, you’d forgotten what it felt like to wear anything else.
Given the nature of your fighting, bruises were inevitable—something you hadn’t even considered when you first received the outfit. Now, black-and-blue marks bloomed along your legs, stretching from mid-thigh all the way down.
It was a sight quite familiar to you, the difference being that—with your new uniform— it was visible to everyone around you as well.
You were going to have to do something about that.
The adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off yet. Your limbs buzzed from all the movement, body feeling hot and fuzzy. You shifted your weight from one leg to the other in pursuit of some sort of relief for each limb.
And in spite of all your movements, the pieces of clothing hadn’t shifted in any unwanted way. No hems to adjust, no creases to smooth over. Nothing. The uniform didn’t just cling to your body—it practically felt molded to your physique.
You hadn’t had to think about it once during the fight, which, honestly, was the highest compliment you could pay to the resident “gear genius” who had so carefully tailored it to your needs.
You glanced over at Enjin, who seemed to be in a similar state as you. Chest heaving, skin dusted with the thinnest layer of sweat and grime.
He leaned back slightly, the ever-present teasing grin tugging at his lips—a feature that somehow only grew more pronounced after a good fight at the edge of the No Man’s Lands.
He put most of his weight onto his dear umbrella as his gaze flickered towards your form. You caught it flicking down for a split second—a questioning twitch in his lip, a curious squint of his eye—and then back up.
“Don’t start,” you said, already anticipating a comment about the state of your legs.
“Wasn’t gonna,” he replied easily, his hands up in defense and then catching Umbreaker just in time before it fell over. Then, after a beat, “You took quite a hit back there, though.”
“Well,” you looked down to properly inspect the spots this time. The bruises blossomed mostly in the areas around and on your knees, though your shins weren’t exempt of the hues of color. Frankly, it looked like it usually did. “Comes with the job.”
“Huh,” his gaze flickered down again, lingering long enough for you to take note of it. “You always bruise like that?”
“Pretty much?” You responded, putting one leg behind the other, as if it was going to do anything to hide it. “Legs usually take the worst of it.”
“Figures.” he responded, lifting a joint to his lips—his habitual celebration joint, as you’ve come to learn about him.
His attention to your legs lingered just a second longer than you’d expected it to, before focusing on lighting the end of the blunt with his lighter.
“You know,” he teased as the fire finally caught, then dropping his lighter back in his pocket, “the amount you bruise in a day feels like the amount I take in like, what, two weeks?”
“Wow, you’re so cool for that,” you shot back—unimpressed, sarcastic. “Is this your way of telling me to be more careful?”
“Nah,” he smirked, taking a drag of his joint and exhaling the smoke, a relaxed groan escaping along with it. “You handle yourself just fine.”
That earned him a look. “High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.” he retorted, a challenging expression adorning his sharp features.
“Aw, why not?” You finally took a moment to stretch.
Hands pressed together, you reached overhead, trying to ease the tension built up in your back during the fight. Even as you moved, you couldn’t help but notice the hem of your top riding up just slightly—enough to follow your motion comfortably, never restrictive, never bothersome.
It was honestly impressive.
When your arms dropped back to your sides, you caught the faintest flicker of movement out of the corner of your eye—and for a moment, it felt like Enjin’s gaze was still following you. Just for a heartbeat, though.
“What’s up with you today?”
“Huh?” A cloud of smoke tore through his lips. “What do you mean?”
“You’re, like, looking at me all the time,” you said, resting a hand on your hip. “What’s up with that?”
“I’m not.” He scoffed, taking another drag, huffing little smoke circles and watching them disappear into the air.
You rolled your eyes. “You are, though.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You totally are.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, shooting you a hopelessly charming smile, eyes shamelessly flicking down and back up your figure. “Maybe a bit.”
Unfortunately for you, his charms didn’t leave you entirely unaffected.
You couldn’t help it. Anyone with working eyes knew exactly that Enjin was the unfortunate epitome of attraction.
The sharp line of his jaw catching the light as he tilted his head, the way smoke curled lazily from his lips, forming all sorts of organic shapes before vanishing into the air.
The collar of his shirt revealing the ink nestled underneath his skin, curving alongside his neck, giving him this edge that somehow fit that permanent teasing expression he always wore.
You shook your head slightly, trying to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. But your pulse had its own opinion, quickening with the small, easy awareness of him in front of you.
But no. This guy was more than likely carrying a choker filled to the brim with booty calls. There was no reason for him to be paying you that kind of attention, especially since he usually didn’t.
Something you’d always been painfully aware of, to your dismay.
“Whatever,” you muttered, more to yourself than him. “Can you drive?”
“Why?” he grinned. “‘Cause your legs are busted?”
“You’re so funny today,” you mustered the most obnoxious fake-laugh you were capable of. “No, genius. I’m asking, because you’re high.”
“That would certainly be a valid concern,”—he took another taunting drag—“if you weren’t talking to me right now.”
“Silly me,”you said, not-so-subtle sarcasm yet to unlace from your voice. “No, but really.”
You walked past him toward the off-roader, unable to hide the little bounce in your step—half from the lingering adrenaline still coursing through your veins, half from the excitement you felt at the prospect of returning back to your base—home.
Heavy steps followed you until you both slid into the vehicle, him in the driver’s seat.
“I’ve done wilder things stoned,” he scoffed, playfully rolling his eyes as he inserted the key into the ignition.
“Like what?” You asked, getting comfortable in your seat.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“You’re so insufferable sometimes.” you sighed, shooting him a displeased look. “Just focus on the road.”
He smiled, eyes meeting yours as if to admit guilt. “No promises.”
His fingers moved quickly over the keys, firing up the engine before shifting gears and getting the car rolling.
“Buckle up, princess,” he said. “Just ‘cause your legs are bruised doesn’t mean I’ll be slowing down any time soon.”
The little nickname definitely didn’t go unnoticed by you—as well as the double innuendo, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for him—though you felt too something to really comment on it.
“Don’t you worry about my legs,” you shot back, trying for a casual tone. “Not like I’m made of sugar or something.”
He smirked to himself, taking a last long drag of the joint before flicking it out the window. “Good to know.”
You caught him muttering something under his breath—more to himself than to you—but decided to let it slide. Your pulse still hadn’t quite settled—whether that was from the fight or due to certain body-modded men within your vicinity was something you chose not to worry about— and honestly, you didn’t really feel like picking fights, anyway.
The motor rumbled beneath you as the off-roader stumbled over the uneven ground of the No Man’s Land, gradually leaving the chaos behind. The road began to flatten with each passing mile, though the ride already felt surprisingly smooth—especially considering it was Enjin behind the wheel right now.
You kept your hands folded in your lap. Your gaze kept wandering between the trash-ridden landscape — a rather unpleasant sight — and, of course, him — an admittedly rather pleasant side.
Despite every warning you’d given yourself, despite every attempt to keep your guard up, he slipped past it effortlessly. He didn’t need your consent to get under your skin—and you couldn’t really help letting him, either. He was just good at getting people’s guard down—at least among the Cleaners.
Or maybe it was just you.
Your gaze drifted back to him, more often than you cared to admit. His side profile looked sharper and even more defined against the warm rays of a setting sun kissing his dirt-ridden skin.
It was honestly a bit annoying how attractive he was.
You mentally traced the patterns of the tattoos disappearing beneath the nick of his shirt, wondering about the way they might continue. Your focus drifted towards the flex of his strong hands on the wheel, covered in similar shapes—how did they curl under his sleeves?
You shifted in your seat, throwing one leg over the other, and felt the faint sting of bruises along the length of your legs. Nothing severe, but enough to remind you that your fight hadn’t been gentle.
You flexed them subtly under the skirt of your uniform, partly to stretch, partly out of curiosity, playing a quiet game of “how long before it hurts too much”. Of course, it never got to that point. It’s just some light bruising.
He glanced at you then, out of the corner of his eye, and his smirk widened just slightly, like he knew about the silly game you were playing in your head to entertain yourself. A small quirk of his eyebrow, a tilt of the head—it was enough to make your chest tighten, though you pretended (miserably) to focus on your legs instead.
“So,” he said, voice casual but teasing, “you planning on sitting there looking broody all the way back, or are we gonna talk?”
You let out a soft breath, shoulders sinking into the seat. “I’ll be honest… I’m kind of tired.”
“I was wondering when you’d say that.” His tone softened, the teasing thinning out. “You can sleep, if you wanna. I’ll wake your ass at HQ.”
“Mm,” you hummed, eyelids already heavier than you’d realized. “Sounds good.”
“I’ll wake you up good,” he added lightly. “Get Delmon to hose you down.”
One eye cracked open. “Okay. I’m not sleeping.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m kidding.” A pause. Then, softer, more genuine: “I’ll wake you up real gentle. Promise. Get some rest.”
The hum of the engine filled the space between you. The road stretched ahead, steady and uneventful.
You shifted slightly, adjusting against the seat, legs stretching out a little more carefully this time. Your head tipped back. The exhaustion wasn’t dramatic — just the slow kind that settled into your bones after a long day.
You felt it before you saw it — his hand adjusting the climate dial so the air wouldn’t blow directly at you. The smallest thing. Almost nothing.
But not nothing.
Your eyes fluttered closed.
The last thing you registered was the faint sound of him muttering under his breath — something about how easily you wear yourself out — and the way the vehicle seemed to move just a little smoother than before.
You were asleep before you even realized it.
─────────୨ৎ─────────
The common area was louder than usual—music bleeding from a battered speaker, empty bottles clustering along the tables, the air thick with smoke and laughter. Someone had dragged out a deck of cards, another group arguing loudly over rules that changed every five minutes.
Enjin fit right into it.
He leaned back in his chair, one arm slung over the backrest, a drink balanced loosely in his hand as he laughed along with the others. Easy. Relaxed. This was familiar territory—post-mission chaos, shared exhaustion, celebration for still being alive. The kind of environment he absolutely thrived in.
His eyes roamed the room in a moment that was supposed to be all about appreciating his weird, little family.
And then, they stopped.
You hadn’t made any sort of announcement. No dramatic pause, no random attempt at drawing attention. You just slipped into the room like you always did— quiet, familiar, reliable.
His gaze flickered down before he could stop himself.
The uniform sat on you as disgustingly well as it always did. Skirt hugged you too well, top accentuated your physique, jacket hung loose over your shoulders, sleeves slinging in the air.
He had just gotten somewhat used to seeing you this way. It was supposed to be safe. It should have been safe.
You chose trouble today.
It wasn’t the uniform that threw him off.
It was what you added.
Dark fabric hugged your legs beneath the skirt, reaching high enough to erase the bruises he knew were there. Practical. Sensible.
That, somehow, made it worse.
He knew why you were wearing them. A part of him basked in the fact that he was probably the only person here that knew why you were wearing them, that this was your attempt at hiding your bruises. And, somehow, knowing what it looked like underneath made it that much more… intimate?
Not to mention the way that the plush of your legs perfectly spilled over the hem of the fabric, which was the best part about these types of socks, anyway.
But this was you. Cozy, unchanging, reliable you.
With a single addition to your work attire, you’d managed to take it from blurring the lines of professionalism to… well, overstepping them entirely. At least, in his eyes.
He couldn’t tell if he minded or not. Or he just couldn’t admit the truth to himself.
The card game, the drink in his hand, the music running in the background—all of it faded as he took his sweet time observing you.
He eased back into the loveseat he was occupying, spreading his long legs like he owned the space, as if waiting for you was the most natural thing in the world.
You greeted a few people, checked on the kids at the children’s table, but never seemed to settle in one spot.
And so, he called your name before he could stop himself.
Your head snapped toward him, eyes locking with his as you made your way to the poker table.
“Hey there,” you greeted, arms loosely crossed.
“Hi,” he replied, flashing that infuriating grin. “Sit down. We could use another player.” He shifted over, leaving just enough space for you to slide in, and you did—probably closer than you’d expected—after greeting everyone at the table.
His hand draped over the back of the two-seater, half-encasing your frame. His legs stretched, one brushing the side of your thigh, claiming the space with casual confidence, yet leaving enough for you.
“So… what are we playing?” you asked, voice light, like you were trying not to notice the proximity.
“It’s called Bluffing,” he said, eyes flicking toward you briefly. “Basically, the deck is evenly split among the four of us and we have to place cards in order of Ace to King facedown. The catch: You won’t always have the right card at the right turn.”
“Ah,” you murmured as you took the drink from his hand and sipped, the weight of his gaze lingering on you. “So—you’re gonna have to bluff.”
“Right,” he replied, brow quirking just slightly. “You can place in multiples, though. If you gotta place an Ace and you have two on your hand, you can place both.”
“I see,” you replied, voice casual and airy. “How do you win? Or lose?”
“Oh, yeah—anyone can call a bluff at any point. If you’re right, the person who bluffed gets the entire pile on the table. If you’re wrong, you need to take the pile,” he responded. “Whoever has no cards left wins. You’ll get the hang of it.”
He leaned back slightly, letting his arm drape lazily over the loveseat, the movement deliberate, stretching closer to you without touching… yet. The proximity was ridiculous, and he knew it, and of course, so did you.
He could feel the subtle brush of your leg against his, hear the faint shift as you adjusted your seat, the way your hand lingered on the drink he’d gotten himself.
His mind did a quick double-take, because… damn. You smelled good. Closer than he’d ever been, and now it was impossible to ignore.
Enjin reached for the full deck on the table, shuffling it, before he split the cards evenly between the four of you, movements smooth and practiced. Cards slid across the table in neat stacks.
“Alright,” he said, glancing around. “Who’s got the Ace of Hearts?”
Everyone checked their hand.
A beat.
“I do.”
His eyes flicked up immediately.
Of course you did.
“Then—you start.”
He leaned back, watching from the corner of his eye as you looked down at your cards. You took just a second too long. Your lips pressed together, like you were holding back a smile.
That was new.
You placed a card face-down.
“Ace of Hearts.”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“Bluff.”
The word came easy. Calm. Certain.
Bro snorted. “Already?”
You turned toward him slowly. “You don’t even know what I put down.”
He tilted his head, studying you openly now. “Don’t need to.”
It wasn’t about the card.
It was the way you sat a little straighter. The way your fingers lingered on the edge of the card a fraction too long. The almost imperceptible satisfaction in your eyes.
You were asking for it, really.
“Flip it,” Delmon urged.
You held Enjin’s gaze for half a second—a silent challenge—before turning the card over.
Six of Hearts.
Bro burst out laughing.
Enjin didn’t. He just smiled—slow and smug—because… well, there it was.
“I knew it,” he said quietly.
“You didn’t know anything.” You rolled your eyes.
He huffed a low laugh. Then, using the arm that wasn't draped casually behind you, he reached down and lightly poked a spot on your leg he knew was bruised. You yelped, just enough to make him grin wider.
Meanwhile, he couldn't help but savor the fact that he was the only one who knew what your legs looked like beneath the thigh highs. It was his way of telling you that—at least in split second—you belonged to him.
“I know you.”
You muttered something under your breath as you took your card back, clearly annoyed—but not really.
“Alright,” he said, settling back again. “Go on.”
You drew in a breath, adjusted your grip on your cards, and this time when you placed one down, your expression was steady. Almost neutral.
“Ace of Hearts—for real this time.”
He watched you carefully.
No lingering. No spark. No tiny flare of pride.
Just calm.
He held the silence for a second longer than necessary—just to make you feel it.
“Alright. Continue.”
Delmon cracked his knuckles. “Two.”
He placed two cards down in a neat stack. No hesitation. No theatrics.
Bro eyed him briefly, but didn’t bite.
“Three,” Bro said next, tossing one card onto the pile with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Stil, no one called anything.
Then it was Enjin’s turn.
He looked down at his hand. The next number was four.
He just so happened to have two.
A small part of him considered holding one back for the next cycle.
He didn’t.
He slid both cards into the center. Calm. Clean.
“Two fours.”
He didn’t look at Delmon.
He didn’t look at Bro.
He looked at you.
Your fingers were still resting on your cards. But he saw it — that tiny shift in your posture. The way your shoulders squared. The way your eyes flicked to the pile and then back to him.
You were thinking. Good.
He leaned back slightly, arm still draped along the seat behind you.
“You gonna call it?” he asked lightly.
Delmon scoffed. “Here we go.”
Enjin ignored him.
His gaze stayed on you—not challenging. Just steady.
He wasn’t bluffing. But he almost hoped you thought he was.
For the most part, you upheld the eye-contact—eyes flicking towards the cards in his hand from time to time, as if questioning the legitimacy of them.
“I wanted to,” you murmured, eyes flicking toward him, wary, “but… now that you want me to call it, I won’t.”
Enjin huffed a laugh.
“Fair enough. Your turn.”
You placed your three cards with a smile. “Five.”
Delmon’s brow furrowed as he eyed the pile.
“Bluff,” he finally muttered, leaning forward, elbows now resting on his knees.
You blinked, keeping your expression calm. “Oh?”
Enjin watched from his spot, leaning back slightly, arm still stretched behind you, smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t need to see your cards to know what was coming.
“You sure about that?” Enjin asked lightly, just loud enough for the table to hear. His voice carried a teasing edge, though he kept his own cards close.
Delmon hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “What are the odds of having three fives on your hand? I’m calling it.”
You flipped your first card — five. Then the second — five. And the third… five.
It was true.
Delmon froze, eyes widening as realization hit. “Huh?”
You leaned slightly toward the center of the table, a faint, triumphant smile tugging at your lips, sliding the small pile towards him. “There you go.”
Enjin’s gaze lingered on you, amusement and something warmer flickering in his chest. You weren’t even aware of the way you’d slid closer, your side almost fully pressed against him.
He felt a soft nudge against his chest — your shoulder lightly stabbing into him. He didn’t move. He could feel the warmth radiating from you, the faint brush of your side against his, and the subtle weight of your presence.
He looked down at you, catching your eyes before you looked away. The next second, you muttered something under your breath, too faint to carry over the pounding bass from the speakers. Enjin might have only noticed because—well—he'd just been looking at your lips anyway.
An idea struck him.
As if the proximity weren't already enough, he inched closer, letting his body press lightly against yours as he
leaned down, silently signaling that you should repeat yourself.
His arm draped over you more than it did over the seat, head tilted ever so slightly as his gaze locked with
yours, faces just inches apart—a challenge you were doomed to fail. He caught the brief flicker of your eyes
down toward his lap, though you didn't pull back.
He caught your gaze again, right as your pretty lips began to part. “I just asked if we start from ace again,” you spoke, almost in a whisper.
“No,” he replied, voice casual, but he couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips. “Next is six.”
You fit against him perfectly, your frame settling into the dip of the cushions at his side, curves aligning just so. You seemed comfortable there, either unaware of how close you’d slipped toward him or simply finding it as natural as he did.
Everyone eyes shifted to Delmon now that it was his turn. He placed one card down. “Six.”
Right after, Bro laid down a seven. Supposedly.
The turn circled back to him.
Enjin looked at his hand. Not a single eight. It was time to bluff. No big deal.
He slid two cards into the pile, careful, measured. “Eight,” voice calm, almost casual. Not rushed, not nervous—just like always. He let his gaze flick toward you out of the corner of his eye. The way you were watching him, that slight narrowing of your eyes.
“Bluff,” you said, quiet, steady, like it wasn’t a guess—like you already knew.
He froze just for a fraction of a second, more amused than concerned.
“You think so?” he murmured lightly, leaning into the seat a little more. Not defensive. Not worried. Just curious what you’d do.
You held his gaze, unwavering. Calm. Confident.
Enjin exhaled slowly, sliding the pile toward himself. “Alright, fine,” he said under his breath, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You got me.”
He was just flattered to know you’d watched him so intently.
“Damn,” Bro sighed, hand on the back of his neck. “You guys are really good at this.”
Enjin hums. “Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”
Minutes passed, then stretched into what felt like hours. The pile grew steadily, now close to a quarter of the deck, and no one could afford to lose. Yet somehow, bluffs hadn’t been called in forever.
“You’re taking forever,” you groaned, tapping your cards lightly, fidgeting.
“I’m thinking,” he replied evenly, though the tiniest twitch of a smile betrayed him.
“Thinking about what—bluffing?”
“Wanna call it? I dare you.”
He glanced at his cards, then back at you, then back at his hand, before cautiously sliding a ten onto the ever-growing pile.
“One king.”
It was intense.
“You’ve got to be lying, man!” Delmon exclaimed, eyes fixed on the pile as if staring harder would reveal the truth.
“Okay, call it then. See what happens.” His empty threat earned groans all around—Bro rubbing his forehead in frustration, Delmon gripping his knees like he needed an anchor. And you… still. Too still. Still in a tense way, like you were frozen in time.
He didn’t know if it was reflex, instinct, or just a quiet urge, but his hand had started tracing lazy shapes along your shoulder. You seemed to relax into it, even if only slightly, and he was quietly glad to be of some comfort.
It also seemed to distract you from the game, which was a bonus.
It was your turn now. The pile demanded an Ace.
You picked a card and slid it onto the pile, voice even, airy. “An Ace.”
His eyes narrowed just slightly. He could tell.
The way your fingers lingered on the card before letting it go, the tiny pause in your voice, the way your gaze flicked to him and then quickly away—you weren’t enjoying the lie as much as you should have been.
He considered calling it. Just for a moment.
But he couldn’t bring himself to let the pile crash down on you.
He leaned back just slightly, letting his gaze rest on you for a beat longer than necessary, noting the faint lift of your chest as you exhaled, and the subtle tension easing from your shoulders. Not because he needed to, not because he wanted to punish you—just because he could.
Just because he liked it.
─────────୨ৎ─────────
You played round after round after that, the hours slipping by unnoticed. The table shifted, drinks were replaced, the music grew louder and then blurred into the background.
By the time the night began to thin out, he’d walked you through the halls and left you at your door, talking about nothing and everything at once—recent expeditions, Rudo’s progress, who had handled the trash beasts better on the last mission (obviously you). You said your goodbyes like you hadn’t half-sat in his lap just moments earlier.
And you just couldn’t shake the thought of him.
His lingering looks.
That honeyed tone to his voice.
The way his words always seemed to push just enough to see what you’d do with them.
You’ve been trying to catch sleep for a couple hours, but the phantom sensation of his finger lazily tracing circles into your shoulder hadn’t faded. Neither had the warmth of his body pressed against yours, or the image of his sharp, calloused hands working the deck.
You groaned into your pillow, kicking your feet against the mattress (which was dumb, because your legs still hadn’t recovered—it hurt really bad).
This was frustrating.
Even now, your body felt as though it was running just as hot as it had when pressed right against the side of his hard chest. Tingles ran over every bit of skin that touched him. Your thoughts wandered places you usually always tried to keep them from and you were failing miserably tonight.
His naked, inked skin.
His strong, broad frame.
His stupid hot fucking smile.
The way his hands would feel…
You’d usually always been able to handle him, but something was just different this time.
This wasn’t the same old big-ego Enjin. It was him threading himself into your thoughts, somehow playing with the pace of your heartbeat, the temperature of your skin, the electric feeling in your stomach.
Sleeping was pointless. You were lucky you had nowhere to be in the morning.
Maybe you should take a shower.
You begrudgingly lifted your face from the squished pillow and pushed yourself up, heading to grab a change of clothes before shuffling toward the bathroom.
By the time you reached it, your resolve had wavered enough that you didn’t even bother shutting the door fully before peeling off your sleep shirt, carelessly throwing it onto your pile of laundry you had yet to find a day to tackle.
The water felt relieving against your skin. Today felt like the kind of day that justified turning it really hot—which Enjin always hated, since it usually meant a cold, miserable shower for him the next morning. After tonight, you figured he kind of deserved it.
If he was going to occupy your thoughts, you were claiming the hot water.
The sensation of the water running down your body seemed to numb the pain in your legs, but it did little to wash away the feeling of his skin pressed against yours—because of course it wouldn’t. This wasn’t a physical sensation, it was him in your head.
You turned the temperature up a notch.
It burned, but it felt good.
Single droplets pierced you like hot needles—a type of pain you actually welcomed. All the tension of the day seemed to wash off your body, disappearing down the drain along with the water.
You could stay here for hours, maybe even fall asleep like this. All your senses felt cut off from the outside world, with no room for any unwanted thoughts. Just the unbearably hot water, close enough to feel endless.
And then, there was a beep.
You froze. You hadn’t taken your choker off yet.
Someone was calling.
You feared you knew exactly who.
“Enjin, what the fuck? It’s, like, 1 a.m.!” you whisper-shouted, covering the choker as best you could with your hand, as though that was going to shield you in any way.
“Huh? It’s almost 3. And I can hear you,” he replied.
“Yeah, I know, we’re in a call!” you said, exasperated.
“No, like… I can hear your shower,” he clarified, a faint chuckle in his tone.
“And you thought it’d be a good idea to call me in the shower?”
“You picked up, didn’t you?” His grin practically radiated through the call.
What you hated most in this moment wasn’t that he called—it was the fact that you were excited about it.
And the fact that he was right.
“You don’t even know how hot my shower is running right now.” you challenged him, hoping to get him right where you knew it hurt.
“That’s fucked up,” he laughed, like he wasn’t taking you seriously at all. “Just to tick me off? Or you just felt like showering hot?”
“I don’t have to answer that.” you mumbled, reaching for the shampoo bottle.
“And that says so much,” he replied. “Why’re you taking a shower in the middle of the night? Didn’t you say you were tired?”
“I was tired,” you admitted, letting the water cascade over your shoulders. “I just couldn’t fall asleep.”
“Mm, same,” he replied. “It’s kind of your fault for turning on the shower, though.”
“Thats on you.” And you regretted these words the moment they escaped your lips.
“What’d I do?”
Because what were you even going to tell him? That you couldn’t stop thinking about how good he smelled? That you wished his arm had fully encased you? That you actually kind of liked it when he pressed down on your bruises? That just thinking about any of it made your body react in ways you could never, ever admit out loud?
“I just don’t like you.” you muttered, scrubbing shampoo into your hair, trying to keep your voice even.
“I know that’s not true, sweetheart,” he said, his smile as audible as ever through the line.
Again with that pet name.
“I’m just gonna stop talking.”
“You could also just hang up.”
“Why don’t you hang up?
“I don’t want to,” he chuckled lowly. “I feel like you don’t really want to stop talking, either.”
You heard him shuffle on his end of the line—things cluttering and moving around.
“You’re very confident in yourself.”
“Hang up, then.”
You didn’t reply. You didn’t hang up, either.
“Thought so,” he murmured with a faint exhale—was he smoking?—“Wanna come over?”
“What. Now?”
“Yeah. Or, you know what?” The sound of shifting feet, a quiet grunt. “I’m coming over.”
Your fingers clenched slightly around the shampoo bottle, as if it was your lifeline. “I’m in the shower!”
“Well, hurry, my foot’s out the door already.” And the click of his door shutting was, indeed, audible on the other end.
The moment you felt the shampoo rinse completely from your hair, you stepped out of the shower, grabbing the first towel within reach.
“At least wait, like… two minutes,” you said, tugging it tighter around yourself. “Please.”
“But then I’d have to walk all the way back.”
“Our rooms are next to each other!” you shot back, exasperated.
“Yeah… way too far. Damn, you should lock your door.”
“Are you in my room right now?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, as if that settled everything.
“Just wait—sit down somewhere. I’ll be right out.” you replied hurriedly, dropping the towel after drying yourself off and getting into your giant sleep shirt.
Shutting the bathroom door behind you and quickly shuffling your way back to your space, you find him splayed out on your bed, staring at the ceiling—or perhaps following the pattern of the smoke as it rose into the air.
“Well?” he asked, his focus not shifting toward you quite yet. “You gonna keep me waiting?”
You crossed your arms, trying for irritation. “Do I look like I had a choice?”
Then, he spared you a glance, eyeing your frame for a moment. Then two.
He smiled. “You look good.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Sorry?” you asked.
“You look good.” He met your eyes after letting his attention wander all over you. “Like… really good.”
You shifted on the spot, tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Don’t start with me, Enjin,” you muttered, though a faint warmth had already started spreading through your chest.
“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he said, propping himself up against the wall. He made space on the mattress, patting the newly free spot as a silent invitation for you to get comfortable.
He brought the blunt to his lips and took a long, unhurried drag. You could practically see the smoke fill his lungs, his chest expanding before he leaned his head back slightly and exhaled, the haze curling lazily toward the ceiling. The sound he made—low, pleased—had no business shooting right through you the way it did.
You took a short breath, grounding yourself, then crossed the room and settled into the space he’d made for you. You leaned back against the pillows, angling your legs carefully so they didn’t tangle with his, even though the mattress dip made closeness unavoidable.
When you glanced over, he wasn’t looking at you anymore.
His gaze had gone distant, unfocused, like he’d drifted somewhere else entirely as the drug settled in. For a moment, you just watched him—his relaxed posture, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way the smoke still lingered around him.
The thought that he looked kind of ethereal quietly passed your mind.
Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, his eyes found yours again.
“Wanna try?” he asked, holding the blunt out toward you. You blinked. Once. Twice.
“What—smoking?” you echoed.
“Yeah.” His smile was lazy, unpressuring. “You don’t have to.”
You hesitated. You’d never really felt the urge before—never saw the appeal. Still, curiosity nudged at you, persistent and annoying.
“…If you teach me?”
Something softened in his expression, just briefly, before a faint smile took over.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
He held it closer, waiting. You took it carefully, immediately aware of how little you knew about what to do with it. You’d seen people smoke before, sure—but holding it yourself felt strangely intimidating. For something so small, it suddenly felt like it carried a lot of weight.
And you were supposed to breathe that in?
“It’s pretty intuitive,” he said, watching you with open amusement. “Just don’t inhale too deeply.”
“That’s your instructions?”
“To be fair,” he chuckled, lifting his hands in lazy defense, “you’re probably gonna start coughing anyway. Just a heads up.”
Your eyes rolled on instinct.
You studied the blunt like it might give you some sort of guidance if you stared long enough. Then you brought it to your lips and took a tentative inhale.
Nothing.
Frowning slightly, you tried again—deeper this time.
Instant regret.
The burn hit fast and sharp, ripping the air straight out of your lungs. You sputtered, coughing hard as smoke escaped in uneven bursts, shoving the blunt back into his hand while you struggled to breathe. You were hunched forward, absolutely wrecked, eyes watering.
Enjin was already laughing beside you, completely unapologetic.
“I told you not too deep,” he said between laughs. “I gave you one instruction.”
You wanted to snap back—had a dozen words lined up—but air still hadn’t fully returned to your lungs, and all you could manage was a glare that only made him grin wider.
“Easy,” he said, laughter still in his voice as he shifted closer. His hand came up to your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”
He guided you gently back against him, your spine settling against his chest.
You coughed again, sharper this time, eyes stinging as you tried to suck in air that didn’t burn. “You—” you rasped, grounding yourself with a hand on his leg. “You’re evil.”
He hummed, clearly entertained. “Yeah, yeah. Deep breaths. In through your nose. Just like that.”
You did as he said, partly out of necessity, partly because the weight of his hand made it easier. The coughing eased little by little, your chest still tight but no longer on fire.
“There you go,” he murmured, closer now, voice lower. “See? Still alive.”
Without really thinking about it, you leaned back, letting your head rest against him for just a second as you caught your breath. “I hate you,” you muttered—though it came out far less convincing than you meant it to.
His thumb traced a lazy line along your shoulder. “Mhm. I can tell.”
You exhaled sharply, shoulders tense. “You absolutely set me up.”
“I warned you,” he said, lifting the blunt past your frame and bringing it back to his lips. “You just didn’t listen.”
That’s when two things hit you at once.
One—you felt it.
Your thoughts began to loosen in a way they never had before. The constant noise in your head softened, blurred, fading into something distant and manageable.
And two—the position you were in.
Your hand resting on his thigh.
Your back pressed flush against his chest.
His arm lazily draped around you, like you just did this all the time.
It was a dangerous combination. With your thoughts dulled and hazy, you didn’t have the energy to filter your thoughts about how much you actually liked it anymore.
He shifted slightly behind you, just enough that the pressure of his chest against your back deepened, and you felt the subtle weight of his attention resting along the back of your head.
“See?” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Knew you’d feel it.”
You frowned faintly. “Feel what?”
“The quiet,” he said, his finger lightly tapping against your temple. “You stopped fidgeting.”
That caught your attention. You‘d usually try to deny it—but you couldn’t. Your thoughts felt slower. Softer.
He sensed it before you even said anything—the way your breathing evened out, the tension in your shoulders easing, the subtleties of the things you didn’t do—like pulling away, or fighting back.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low, almost cooing. “So calm… seriously, this might be the longest stretch you’ve gone without barking at me.”
“Shush,” you muttered, cheeks warming. “M’not calm. N‘ I don’t bark.”
“Sure, baby,” he said, that word curling around your spine. “Whatever you say.”
And you didn’t even have it in you to fully process the new pet name.
His hand found the hem of your shirt, tugging it lightly between his fingers, testing the fabric against your skin. Not enough to pull it up, not enough to be overt—definitely enough for you to notice.
You felt the faint brush of his thumb against your side with each little pull, a whisper of contact that made your stomach tighten.
“You’re kind of comfortable.” you muttered, trying for casual as you pulled your hand back—slowly, like you didn’t want to draw attention to it.
“Only kind of?” he asked, voice easy, almost amused. His fingers flexed once against your side, just enough to be intentional.
“Okay,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “You’re really comfortable.”
“Mm, sure seems like it,” he let out a soft hum. “You feeling tired?”
“No,” you replied, letting your words trail just slightly. The warmth of your body pressed into his was dizzying. “M’just very good right now.”
His hand moved lazily along your side, brushing your hip with an absent-minded care that made your stomach twist. “Mm,” he murmured. “Want me to stay?”
You nodded.
“Okay.”
The room fell into a quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable, just… present. No teasing, no jokes—just him and you.
Slowly, his fingers traced the curve of your waist, mapping the gentle swell of your sides as if committing every line to memory.
Each movement was bold in intention yet measured, teasing—like he was daring you to react, and you found yourself holding still, caught between hesitation and anticipation.
The warmth of his touch spread through you in ways that weren’t just physical; it was the attention, the quiet focus of him exploring without words.
His hand was no longer just playing—it was present, outlining the frame of you, leaving you aware of every point of contact, every subtle press of skin against fabric.
His other hand slowly lifted, fingers weaving through your hair. With a practiced ease, he swept it over to one side, letting your thick sleep shirt slip just enough to expose your shoulder. The fabric pooled lazily around the curve, leaving your neck bare to the warmth of his gaze.
A content sigh left your lips.
“You like that?” he whispered, his warm breath brushing along your ear. You already knew he didn’t need an answer—he just wanted to hear it from you.
You complied with a soft hum.
He took one last slow drag of the blunt, the tip glowing faintly in the dim light. You caught the plume of smoke in your peripheral vision as he exhaled, and it curled lazily over your shoulder, teasing your bare skin.
With a subtle flick of his fingers, he sent the finished blunt spinning onto the floor. You were too caught up in the moment to care, letting the tension in your body unravel under his attention.
You don’t think you’ve ever been this relaxed.
The hand that had been tracing your side drifted lower, slipping past the hem of your shirt. It moved agonizingly slowly, skimming over the soft skin of your bare thigh, his thumb drawing lazy, teasing patterns—just a little too far up, just a little too far in.
Just a little too much to pass off as friendly.
He was giving you just enough—enough to make your skin burn—but never enough to truly satisfy the ache that had built up inside you. The moment felt charged, but it wasn’t as simple as just raw intimacy.
His breath skimmed the skin of your neck in slow, even intervals. “You’re really soft.” It almost sounded like a question.
You could feel his attention on you—the hazed focus of his gaze lingering along the line of your neck, the faint feeling of his hair grazing your skin. Then he inched in closer—slow, gentle kisses traced along the length of your neck. And despite all the tension coiled in your body, they weren’t meant to provoke—just soft, unhurried.
He pulled back, resting his head atop your shoulder.
Part of you was relieved he didn’t take it further. Another part of you screamed at the loss of the feeling.
“You’re not telling me to stop,” he whispered into your shoulder.
And, yeah. You weren’t.
You swallowed, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “Yeah,” you said quietly, words slower than usual, “Should I?”
There was a pause. Not the heavy kind. Just enough to let your words settle.
“Up to you,” he replied easily, his thumb returning to trace an absent-minded line along your side. “I’d be a bit butthurt about it—but, you know. Whatever.”
That made you laugh.
He stuck to caring strokes and gentle touches.
You drifted off to sleep in his embrace that night.
─────────୨ৎ─────────
He was a simple man. At least, he’d always thought he was.
Things just failed to feel simple lately.
Enjin sat at the table, leaning slightly forward as Semiu traced patrol routes on the worn map spread across the surface. Corvus flipped through the mission logs, scribbling notes in the margins with a pencil that had long since lost its eraser.
He answered questions when prompted, offered minor adjustments to the routes, corrected a timing estimate—on the surface, he was engaged.
His thoughts were entirely elsewhere.
They’d gotten stuck with you in your bedroom that night, about a week ago.
The memory lingered at the edge of his mind, pulling his attention away even as Semiu traced the eastern perimeter—and he was fucked, since he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why she was outlining it in the first place.
The scratch of Semiu’s pencil across the map, the rustle of papers, the muted scribbling of Corvus’s notes—they all faded into the background.
He could almost feel your warmth, hear the soft sighs you’d given him, see your eyes closing at the subtle pleasure of his touch.
He understood heat, understood want—the easy kind, the kind you didn’t have to think too hard about. Touch, tension, release. He’d never been precious with it. Never needed to be.
So this—this gentle kind of caution—sat wrong in his chest.
The way his hands slowed before touching you. How instinct kept telling him to pull you closer, but something quieter told him not to rush. Like moving too fast might shatter something he didn’t quite have a name for yet.
That part confused him.
You’d always felt safe. Why did that matter so much right now?
And then that uniform.
It should’ve been the usual—charming smiles, lingering touches, the spark of attraction he knew how to handle. Instead, it had hit him sideways. Like the sight of you had shifted something into place rather than set it on fire. Pride, maybe. Something that settled instead of burned.
The realization crept up on him slowly, unwelcome in how obvious it suddenly felt.
He wasn’t being gentle because he didn’t want you.
He was being gentle because, somewhere along the way, you’d started to feel precious.
And that thought lingered far longer than he wanted it to.
He absently rubbed the back of his neck as Semiu asked about polluted zones by the border of a No Man’s Land near the eastern perimeter.
“Uh… yeah, those are clear,” he said, eyes drifting to the empty chair across the table, imagining you slumping into it, hair damp from a shower, in nothing but that huge shirt you’d worn that night.
Corvus glanced up sharply. “You even paying attention, Enjin?”
He blinked, shook his head slightly, and forced a nod. “Yeah, just… thinking ‘bout the deployment,” he muttered, realizing how transparent that sounded.
He’d like to get deployed with you again.
No. Stop. Not now.
It wasn’t about him seeing you for the first time when he laid eyes on you that day in the hallway. Something in him had been stirred awake, something that had been dormant for quite some time.
Granted, the way you looked definitely didn’t hurt.
He just hated how smitten he felt about it.
Once he realized you’d fallen asleep, breathing slow and even against his chest, he’d chosen to give you space. He’d tucked you in carefully—too carefully, if you asked him—pulled the blanket up to around your shoulders and all that. Left without waking you.
He took a shower after. Cold.
For once, he didn’t even mind that you’d used up all the hot water. He’d planned on it anyway.
He just couldn’t believe the way he was treating you.
Enjin wasn’t selfish—just a bit indulgent. A hedonist in the simplest sense. He liked what felt good and had never been shy about reaching for it.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with want. He knew exactly how far he could’ve gone, how easy it would’ve been to guide you there with him. You would’ve let him. He was sure of that. And he would’ve taken care of you — that wasn’t the issue.
Because, fuck—he wanted to.
So why didn’t he take you?
You hadn’t been tense. You hadn’t been provoking. You’d been safe.
Again, safe.
He was starting to get fed up with safe.
He clenched his jaw. It annoyed him, the way he’d held back. Especially considering the things he could’ve done to you—wanted to do to you. Thinking about making you call out his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say anymore—over and over again.
And yet.
He didn’t.
He replayed it in his head more times than he cared to admit—the way you’d leaned back into him without thinking. The way your voice had softened. The way you hadn’t told him to stop.
You would’ve let him.
That was the problem.
It wouldn’t have taken much. A slight shift of his hand. Turning your face toward his and closing the distance. You were already pliant in his arms, hazy and warm and trusting.
Trusting.
His jaw tightened again.
Of all the things he could’ve done—wanted to do—he’d chosen restraint.
His mouth had found your neck, yes—but only in the softest way. Slow, measured presses of his lips against your skin. It was the one thing he couldn’t quite stop himself from taking.
Even then, he’d been careful.
And when had he ever been careful?
Enjin didn’t do careful. He did instinct. He did desire. He did taking and giving in the same breath. Going with the flow of things.
This time, something in him had paused.
Not out of uncertainty. Not out of fear that you’d reject him.
Out of something worse.
He didn’t want to cheapen it.
The thought irritated him more than anything else. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply through his nose.
Even here, surrounded by stained papers, pencils, and scattered mugs, the thought of you was impossible to shake.
Seeing you in your uniform hadn’t started this. It had just made it harder to ignore. The way you carried yourself. The way you focused. The quiet competence. It had sharpened something that had already been there.
When had he become so aware of you? Of the way you looked at him differently lately. Of the way his body reacted to even the smallest shifts in your tone.
He wasn’t used to wanting something slowly.
It was unsettling.
Because if this was just lust, he would’ve satisfied it already.
And he was only just starting to realize it.
Semiu and Corvus started gathering their things. Somehow, the word dismissed drifted into his awareness, and before he fully realized it, he was up as well, tidying alongside them—hands moving almost automatically, thoughts still elsewhere.
Moments later, he waved them goodbye and stepped out of the briefing room, moving through the low, humming halls.
The day had passed in a blur.
He’d looked for you briefly, only to be told you’d been cooped up in your room all day, finishing reports you had let pile up and procrastinated—you really hated paperwork.
And he just knew that about you.
At some point, he’d bumped into Semiu in the common area. She had finished her work for the day early and didn’t really have anything left to do—she figured she’d like to use the evening to enjoy herself, or something along those lines.
Enjin had agreed.
That’s how he found himself in a crowded bar—or club—he wasn’t even sure and it didn’t really matter. He was perched at a table, smoking his blunt—as per usual—while Semiu sipped a drink across from him, seemingly enjoying the light buzz in her system.
The music did most of the work in drowning out his thoughts. Around him, people were dancing, some were flirting, touching. Others were getting wasted, a couple were fighting. The colorful light pierced through the clouds of smoke all over the place.
The kind of environment he usually thrived in.
Usually—
Oh. Semiu was talking to him.
“…many prank calls. Like, seriously, it pisses me off,” Semiu ranted, leaning back in her chair, fingers tapping impatiently on the table.
“Totally,” he replied, taking a slow drag from his blunt. The smoke curled around his fingers as his gaze drifted over the crowd, half-present, half-lost in thought.
“I’m too nice on the phone. I bet the hell guards don’t get calls like that,” she continued, voice rising slightly with exasperation.
And he tried so hard—genuinely—to listen to his coworker and friend he held so close to his heart. He really, really did.
“Yeah, seems unlikely,” he murmured, blowing the smoke upward and letting it dissipate into the dim light.
“Enjin. What’s up with you today?” Semiu pressed, leaning forward now, her eyes narrowing slightly as she caught the distracted set of his eyes.
“Hm?” He blinked, realizing she’d actually addressed him, fingers flexing absently around the blunt.
“During the briefing, too. You, like, disconnected from the world or something?” Her arms crossed over the table, resting the weight of them on it.
“Nah, I’m good,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips, taking another slow inhale. “Why? You worried about little ol’me?”
“A’ight. Imma take your word for it. For now,” she sighed, shaking her head. “But also only because I’m so fed up by the calls I don’t really have the capacity to listen to you right now.”
“Honestly,” he said, exhaling the last of the smoke from his lungs before flicking the blunt into the ashtray on the table, “works f’me.”
“You’re welcome, boo.”
Enjin felt a dip in the seat next to him.
In his peripheral, a woman, about a head and a half shorter than him. It almost slipped his mind that things like this happened to him more often than not—that he usually waited for them.
“Hey,” she smiled at him, feigning innocence, though they were both well aware of her intentions. “Your name’s Enjin, right?”
Ah. So he’d spoken to her before—somewhere, sometime.
He finally spared her a proper look. She sat upright, legs elegantly crossed, hair cascading over one shoulder like a deliberate portrait. A subtle flush colored her cheeks, softening her features.
And—usually—she’d be just the type of woman he’d go for.
But today was not a usual day.
“Nope.” He popped the p with unnecessary emphasis. “Name’s Goostaf Hurgenskurk.”
The look on Semiu’s face in his peripheral was priceless—her eyebrows shot up, mouth half-open in a mixture of shock and amusement, like she couldn’t quite decide whether to laugh or glare.
“Oh, sorry,” she stammered, stepping back a little. “Must’ve confused you with someone.”
She turned on her heel and hurried away, leaving him with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He watched her retreat, letting the brief amusement linger before his thoughts drifted back to… well, everything else.
“So,” Semiu said, raising her glass to her lips, holding his gaze deliberately as she took a slow sip before setting it back on the table. “Goostaf.”
“I don’t even know,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “I was just trying to think of a weird name.”
“Why, though?” Semiu leaned back, tone soft with genuine curiosity. “She’s pretty. You always let a pretty girl take you home with them, no?”
“You make me sound like a manwhore,” he muttered, a defeated chuckle escaping him.
“Well…” Her voice trailed off, insinuating—just letting the thought hang in the air.
Enjin groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. “I just don’t feel like it today.”
“I feel like,” she said slowly, tilting her head up, a knowing look slipping into her expression now, “you’re just feeling someone else.”
And—however she figured it out—he knew that she was right.
The thought settled heavier than he expected. He’d been circling it all day, avoiding it, dressing it up as confusion or exhaustion. But now, sitting in the middle of a crowded bar with music pounding around him and with his good friend sitting across him, it finally landed.
Properly.
“Fuck, Semiu,” he groaned, dragging his hands down his face before letting his forehead fall briefly into his palms. The realization hit harder than any drink or drug in the room ever could.
Her brows lifted. “Is that what’s been bothering you all day?”
“Yeah,” he exhaled, sitting back again, staring at the table instead of her. “I just—I haven’t really seen her for a week. We keep missing each other at work,” he rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s rough.”
“You should just stop ogling her every chance you get and man up,” Semiu said, tapping her fingers lightly on the table, eyes fixed on him with quiet insistence.
“Ogling is a kind of a strong word for it.”
“She ogles you too.”
“Yeah, I know,” he let out a short laugh, shaking his head, before letting out a sigh. “I’m losing my mind.”
“No, man,” she said simply. “You’re okay.” A small pause. “Just let her know.”
He looked up at her. “Now?”
She shrugged lightly. “Depends—do you want to tell her now?”
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You. Despised. Paperwork. With. A. Burning. Passion.
Hours had passed since you’d started, and the stack of reports in front of you had barely shrunk. Every form felt the same as the last, every column and checkbox an endless, mind-numbing loop.
Your pen scratched across the page, filling in numbers, ticking boxes, repeating the same information over and over, trying desperately not to make mistakes. Your eyes ached, your back was stiff, and your brain was screaming for even a single moment of entertainment.
You slammed your pen down. Enough. You needed a break.
For a moment, you leaned back in your chair. The room was quiet, the night outside slanting through the window casting a cold light on the mess of papers. You hadn’t moved from that spot all day, and it showed.
Boredom clung to you like a second skin. Attention fractured. Thoughts wandered.
You missed everyone. Watching Zanka train Rudo from the corner of the training yard, hearing Semiu’s voice echo from the common area, even the occasional gruff comment from Delmon — all of it made you wish you could be anywhere else right now.
But you’d told everyone to stay out of your room unless it was an emergency. No distractions. No interruptions. You needed to get through the paperwork, and the last thing you wanted was someone leaning over your shoulder asking questions or chatting.
It was definitely what you wanted, though.
Still, even in the quiet, your thoughts kept drifting. You missed him too.
No. Focus.
You let out a long, tired sigh, shoulders slumping as you rubbed at the ache in your neck. The pen hovered uselessly above the next form.
Your eyes wandered across the room, landing on the stack of completed reports next to you—neat, precise, and utterly soul-crushing. You pushed it away with a flick of your wrist.
Enough of this.
You’d finish the rest tomorrow.
You leaned back in your chair, stretching your legs and letting the tension in your body ease slightly. Somewhere in the corner of your mind, you imagined him there—on your bed, attention drifting into nothingness as smoke swirled gently around him, unhurried and soft—and him looking utterly peaceful. Pretty.
A knock at the door froze you mid-stretch.
Your heart skipped. You’d told everyone to stay out unless it was urgent.
Another knock. Louder this time. Your chest tightened. You hesitated, staring at the door, mind racing through every possible scenario.
Slowly, cautiously, you approached and cracked it open.
To your surprise, it was Enjin.
And as much as he didn’t look like he was about to deliver bad news, something about him had shifted. The air around him felt different.
No performative expression. No mischief in his eyes. No provoking glint. Something much softer had settled over his sharp features—a contrast that made your chest ache a little.
“Hey,” you said, brows knitting slightly. “Did something happen?”
“No,” he answered simply. His voice was calm. Certain. “Not at all.” A beat. “Can I come in?”
You studied him for a second longer, searching his face for anything you might’ve missed. Finding nothing urgent—just your own curiosity—you stepped aside.
He moved past you without another word. Not brushing against you, not lingering—close enough that you felt the warmth of him as he crossed the threshold. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound louder than it should’ve been.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
He took in your room—the desk crowded with papers, the stack you’d shoved aside, the pen lying abandoned where you’d dropped it. His gaze lingered there briefly before returning to you.
The silence wasn’t awkward.
It was heavy.
And whatever he’d come here to say—you felt like it mattered.
Just that he didn’t say anything. He looked at you, held your gaze as though he had all the time in the world. Like it stood still, right here in this room—with you.
You caught the faintest dip in his gaze—just slightly, brushing over the lines of your shoulders, the skin underneath the collar of your shirt—the smallest of shifts of his irises—before returning to your eyes.
You felt like you were being… scanned. For something. But you didn’t have the capacity to commit your mind to what that could possibly be, because your focus was on something entirely unrelated.
The breadth of his shoulders.
The vivid reds and blacks inked into his skin.
The loose curl of his hair falling near his temple.
He didn’t say anything. Not with words, at least. But you were beginning to understand.
He stepped toward you, slow and unhurried, closing the space without breaking eye contact—which felt like a bit of a crime in and of itself. It was unbelievably nauseating, made you feel powerless, but in kind of a good way.
Had he always been so tall? He really towered over you—couldn’t even look at him anymore without folding your head back.
His hand found yours first, fingers curling gently as he drew you in. You could feel sparks at the tips of your own—and it hurt. It hurt so much, because all the tension in your body seemed to come crashing down on you all at once and it hurt so much it felt good, somehow.
Then, it snaked around your waist, steady, holding you close. You didn’t quite grasp what was actually happening, you just knew you wanted more, but also anticipated possibly throwing up butterflies any second now.
His body was so unbelievably warm and big—the scope of it so up close was a bit hard to grasp. You feel the outlines of his defined body through his thin sweater and you forgot how to breathe for a second.
His other hand came up to cup your face, gently—so unbelievably gentle, like your skin might crack under anything more; it almost made you cry.
His fingers slipped into your hair, careful, slow. His thumb moved back and forth along your cheek, steady and soft. Tender—and you started wondering when you would have ever described him that way.
You were beginning to understand.
Your initial hesitance vanished into thin air along with the ability to think straight.
And all the what-ifs and maybes that had been crowding your mind melted away the instant he pressed his lips against yours
The sound of your heart pounding mixed with the ringing in your ears; you were certain you were about to die, if it wasn’t for the way he was squeezing your frame against his, like he promised to catch you if you were going to fall.
He was slow. Tentative. Testing the waters, as if silently asking for permission you’d already given him a million times over in your head.
His grip on your waist tightened just slightly, almost accidental—trying so hard to hold back, yet his true immediacy shone through the cracks of his performative reluctance.
He had been just as desperate to do this to you as you had been to have it happen.
You felt the butterflies do their thing again—and it was fucked up how easily he’d given them to you, with something as simple as a kiss and a couple touches entirely unraveling you.
Shivers trickled down your spine at the sensation of him, of it all; his warmth radiating through the fabric of his sweater, his lips moving with your own in a painfully—agonizingly—slow tandem.
Then he pulled back—no more than an inch—your soft, warm breaths mingling in the small space between you. A lazy, faint smile on his face.
“Hey,” he exhaled.
A simple word. It didn’t mean anything, really—but it did. And you understood.
“Hi.” Your voice almost ran out. Airy. Barely even there.
His grin widened, before he leaned back in again. Initially soft and merciful touches turned more intense, intentional; a firmer grip on you, a stronger tug on the back of your head, tangling into the strands of your hair at the nape of your neck.
Your body, your mind, your everything seemed to solely focus in on him. There was nothing more important than this, him kissing you senseless and holding onto you like you were going to disappear if he didn’t.
You felt him grow impatient with each passing moment—pulling your body even closer by the small of your back—and you couldn’t help but notice how large his hand felt there. He angled his head just right to deepen the kiss with natural finesse. He was everywhere—filling all your senses, overwhelming your system in ways you never thought possible.
He smelled of faint hints of tobacco, though he tasted a lot fresher than you’d expected—almost minty in flavour. The mix of cigarettes and mint made for a spicy tingle on your tongue and all you could think about was how it kind of fit the man you were holding onto like a lifeline.
Your hands found the nape of his neck, feeling up the short hairs of his sharp undercut.
You were trying to catch a thought—any thought—at least a single word—but you hadn’t taken a proper breath in nearly half a minute, and it was definitely starting to affect your ability to think clearly.
That he hoisted you up by the underside of your thighs with controlled ease a moment later—not breaking away from you for even a second—did not help in the slightest. He took a few steps somewhere—before your back met the hard surface of the wall behind you.
Your legs comfortably tangled around his waist as he pinned you against it with his hips, hard. The hand previously on your cheek joined the other on your waist, fingers digging into your side, abandoning any idea of slow and tender.
Your own hands traveled beneath his collar, nails dragging across bare skin and if he didn’t have this tattoo you were sure there’d be deep, red scratches there.
Groans rippled through him with every drag of your nails, the sound shooting straight through your stomach. It only seemed to provoke him further—pulling you closer by the arch of your back and pressing you against him, his fingers digging in just enough that you knew you’d feel it the next morning.
The kiss turned messy. There was no sense or rhythm to it, only pure instinct and insatiable hunger for the other. No matter how close he was—how deeply his fingers dug into your skin—you still felt like he couldn’t be further away. You wanted him closer, as close as physically possible and more.
He moved on towards your neck and it was nothing like the faint pecks he’d left there that night a week ago. This was him devouring you, moving right on the edge between pleasure and pain. His kisses stung as he bit them into your skin, likely tainting it with red and blue hues. “You feel so fucking good,” he whispered, basking in the way your body twitched—your sweet gasps nothing short of music to his ears.
Once he felt like he was done with one place, he’d continue his assault further down along the blank canvas of your skin, leaving only stinging spots behind, before finally returning to your swollen lips, leaving one single, slow and deep kiss.
“Enjin,” you heaved—the first time you were able to take a long breath in a hot minute.
“Mm?” He hummed, leaving lazy pecks on your lips, eyes entirely dazed. Sometimes, he’d move it to the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw—just peppering you with gentle kisses, taking his sweet time with it.
His grip on you told a whole different story.
His huge hands encasing more of you than you could have ever expected, pinning you against him with little to no effort, like your weight meant absolutely nothing to him. And why would it? He was easily two times your size, if not more.
“I need—“ kiss. “—more,” another kiss. “Please.”
He pulled back an inch or two, a faint yet devilish smile adorning his face. “More of what, sweetheart?”
His head dipped back into the crook of your neck, lips grazing the newly mark-ridden parts of your skin, leaving a couple more soft kisses along their pattern. “More of this?”
And he was well aware that that was not what you meant. You knew he knew that was not what you had meant—and it was frustrating to no end. The ache between your legs was getting more unbearable by the second. “No—want you to touch me,” you whined. You tried to ease the tension by pulling him closer, shifting your hips against him—every attempt in vain.
He had you pinned securely in place, and there was no adjusting it without his help. Without his permission. “Please, Enjin.”
“I am touching you, baby,” he huffed a breathy laugh, before holding his hand out to you, offering it. “Here. Move it to where you want me, sweetheart.”
You held his gaze for a moment, weighing your options. It hurt your ego to have to admit this to him in such a degrading way—and still, a part of you felt so cared for. Your pride urged you to save face, but given the position you were in, there wasn’t necessarily much ego left to save. If accepting his offer meant getting the itch scratched you so desperately needed attention for, then it was simply what you had to do.
And so—without breaking the eye contac—you took his hand in your own and first guided it down the like of your body and underneath the hem of your shirt. His brow quirked slightly, eyes darkening as it met the plush of the inside of your legs.
Ever so slowly, you moved it a couple inches further in and further up, until his fingers finally met the sole layer of fabric separating you from what you’re asking of him.
The smile that grew on his face was something else.
He shifted, properly supporting your weight on one leg while keeping you steady with a hand snaked around the small of your back. Then, without hurry, he tugged the fabric aside, running his fingers along your sore, wet folds.
His gaze tilted down to where his hand disappeared beneath the fabric of your shirt. “Damn, baby. You’re soaked,” he let his fingers dip into you for nothing more than a couple inches before running them up and down again—tracing you. Memorizing you. “Fuck, that’s hot.”
The sounds that left you would have left you feeling quite embarrassed, if you weren’t so distracted right now. The relief of the friction did a lot to sate your desire for a moment—but you could already feel yourself wanting more.
He seemed to have picked up on it as his fingers moved upwards to solely focus on your wanting and waiting clit. Your eyes shut close at the sudden feeling of him finally giving you what you’d needed, gripping at his shoulders for dear life as if you’d fall if you didn’t and whining his name through broken breaths like a personal mantra.
He hummed. You felt his muscles shift beneath your palms, like his head had tilted upwards—like he was looking at you again. “Yes, pretty girl?”
“S’really good,” you exhaled, opening your eyes only to see Enjin already fully focused on you through your hazed vision.
“I know, baby, I know,” he cooed, corner of his lip faintly quirking upwards. “Wasn’t even gonna do this with you,”—he leaned in, eyes falling to your lips before catching them with his in a short kiss—“was gonna come here and tell you how I feel. Wanted to spend more time with you, ask you out on a nice date, do it right this time—but you,” his eyes met your gaze again—this time, more intense.
His previously tender attention towards your clit turned overwhelming in an instant. The pad of his finger moved a little faster and harder now—each deliberate stroke drawing a sharp, involuntary twitch from your body.
You’d never felt so overstimulated, every sensation heightened to the brink, and yet some reckless part of you was completely, helplessly into it.
Soft whines slipped from your mouth, and if anyone happened to be on the other side of the wall you were pressed against, you were certain they’d be able to hear you.
“Looked up at me all doe eyed like that. Said ‘please’ like that.” His fingers dipped into you without warning, two of them filling you more than two fingers ever should be able to, but, of course, Enjin and his blessed, huge hands, took little to now effort to make you see stars. “This what you wanted , sweetheart?”
“Mm, yes,” you breathed, pure instinct taking over as you pulled him back in by the nape of his neck.
It drove you insane—the way you felt his jaw shift against your palm, the slow graze of his tongue along your bottom lip, the steady curl of his fingers inside you, again and again and again.
“Mm,”—he separated from you for a moment—“s’just for you, baby,”—before leaning back in. His fingers curled inside you again and again, brushing that sensitive spot that made your insides tighten and your skin burn in ways no one had ever made you feel before.
He had something about him—some kind of chemistry that felt entirely unique to Enjin. That towering height, those striking features, paired with his addictive charisma that showed in the way he talked to you—in the way he touched you, kissed you.
It wasn’t demanding in a forceful sense. It was unraveling. It was simple. You were willing to hand yourself over completely—without him ever having to ask. Like some sort of spell.
Without breaking away, his fingers slowly slipped from you ever so slowly, drawing a soft whine from you straight into the kiss. You felt the faint curve of his smile against your lips. Then his hands were on you again, firm and sure as he hoisted you up against him and carried you away from the wall.
The edge of your desk met the backs of your thighs as he eased you onto it with controlled care, settling you against the surface. You felt the edges and corners of the sheets of paper you’d just been working on minutes ago right beneath you, itching and poking at your skin.
With one last, teasing bite to your bottom lip, he pulled back from your kiss-swollen lips with a devilish glint in his eyes.
He lifted his fingers to his mouth—the ones previously teasing you beyond measure—and licked them clean of you without breaking his hazy gaze from you. You could tell he was doing it just to mess with you—and it was working unfortunately well.
Your attention drifted to the thing repeatedly pressing against your inner thigh, and a mix of curiosity and anticipation washed over you.
Given the size of him—his body, his hands, his limbs—you had expected him to be a certain… size. And in a way, he met those expectations. But to feel the bulge of him so intimately pressed against you made it hit you all at once—now that your bodies were pressed close to flush against one another.
This man was big.
Your hand reached towards the hem of his pants, almost instinctively, before his own hand caught yours by the thin of your wrist. Looking back up at him you noticed the corner of his mouth curled upwards. “Not now, pretty girl.”
Your head tilted in response. “Why not?”
“Some other time. Jus’ wanna focus on you today,” he brought your hand within his towards himself, leaving a couple of gentle pecks along the inside of your wrist.
“But what about you?”
“I’ll enjoy you, baby,” he leaned back in, pausing just an inch before, a devilishly charming smirk resting on him. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”
His lips found yours again, trading a few more heated kisses before drifting to the corner of your mouth, along the line of your jaw, and down to your already tender neck.
He roamed your body with no shame, tracing your every line—from the swell of your chest to the plush of your hips. Groping at your sides and circling your waist with his hands, before pushing you backwards for you to lean against the wall behind you, forcing himself between your legs, casually.
His hands found their way between them again, collecting the slick on his fingers, before lazily drawing patterns over your pulsing, sore clit, drawing all sorts of sounds and reactions from you as passively pumped his fingers in and out of you every now and then, like it was just second nature to him.
His kisses trailed downward—past your heaving chest, along the curve of your stomach, across the warmth of your thighs—before his head finally settled between your legs, where he left a mix of teasing love-bites and gentle, lingering pecks on the insides of your thighs.
“You’re very kissable,” he commented from his position on his knees, looking up at you as he guided your legs to rest atop his shoulders.
The sight was charged—this huge man, both in height and breadth, overwhelming in body mass and bearing the authority of the head of your team, kneeling there in front of you. Something about the commanding way he held himself even in that submissive posture.
It didn’t make him any less impressive—or any smaller—in your eyes. If anything, the juxtaposition only made him more magnetic.
He looked fucking hot.
His hair all messed up, lips kiss-swollen, mirroring your own, skin covered in a thin layer of sweat, eyes dazed with pleasure and radiating the sheer power he naturally carried. His brow was quirked ever so slightly, a faint, mischievous smile on his face.
“Is that why you bit my neck raw?” you asked, looking down at him through your own daze, fingers grazing through the short strands of his hair, not much bite in your voice despite your words.
He huffed a laugh, and your heart skipped a beat.
“M’about to do much worse than just eat your neck, babygirl,” he said lowly, his hot breath traveling past the thin skin of your inner thighs, his gaze traveling downwards.
And with that, his tongue dipped through your folds, dragging a slow lick up your heated, pulsing core. Your breath shuddered, your hand gripping at his hair to anchor yourself as he worked you up.
His hands wrapped around your thighs, your feet resting on his shoulders as he pinned you against his face, tongue dragging up and down through your folds and making a point to flick your sensitive, aching clit in the process.
“E–Enjin… ah—s’ so good.”
You felt him suck it into his mouth, toying with it between his lips before letting it go in a wet kiss and continuing his assault. You felt like the meal of a starving man.
He had no shame in the way he was eating you—the sounds he was making, the way he was practically making out with you. What you’d yearned to feel was finally coming true, and your body and mind seemed to sing with the relief he was finally granting you.
He pressed the flat of his tongue against your clit, rhythmically dragging it up and down. His fingers dug into the flesh of your thighs, holding you against him as to leave no room for escape—at least not until he was done with you.
This man you’d known to be so indulgent in his own pleasure now shifting his focus entirely onto you left an impact that would haunt you for the rest of your life. No one had ever treated you the way he did, touched you the way he had—made you feel the way he was making you feel.
You’d certainly never experienced anyone going down on you of their own free will—let alone seeming to take pleasure in it themselves.
No man, no less.
And yet, here he was, caging you against him, just in case the pleasure he was giving you became too much to handle—which, judging by the way it was building up, it already was starting to feel that way. He definitely wasn’t letting you go.
The friction drove you crazy, made you feel as though you were floating and falling all at once. You couldn’t decide whether to pull him even closer or push him away, but you knew that everything about him felt so fucking good and something was building up inside of you that only he could unravel.
One of his hands loosened its grip on your thigh, sliding down and around it, before two fingers began pumping into you, curling against the spot Enjin had claimed the moment you had guided his hands between your legs.
“Ah—please don’t stop,” you writhed and you whined, eyes shutting close at the overwhelming feeling of him flooding your senses.
“M’right here, baby,” he breathed against you, before turning his attention back to your puffy clit, fingers deep and curled inside you.
Pleasure twisted into an intoxicating kind of pain—the rare kind that made you ache to explore it even more. It burned, it stung, sharp and sweet all at once, and yet you knew with absolute certainty that if he stopped right now you would shatter into a million miserable pieces.
Without warning, he suckled your clit into his mouth again, flicking his tongue over it as his fingers pumped in and out of you with relentless rhythm. Your legs instinctively clamped around his head, trying to shut out the overwhelming sensation, to push him away—to no avail.
Your body reacted on its own, trying to relieve the strain he was putting on you, but your mind wanted nothing more than to keep him as close as humanly possible.
“M‘ gonna… please… s’so much,” you whimpered, forever torn between pulling him closer and trying to escape.
That only seems to edge him on as he raised the intensity, moving harder and faster in every way imaginable and making you see stars and cry his name like a desperate prayer.
“Enjin—fuck, s‘so good, please-”
Your climax crashed over you, leaving you trembling in the wake of it.
Like the good man he’d proven himself to be, he guided you through it, helping you ride the wave, tracing lazy circles over your clit with his tongue while his fingers moved in slow, languid rhythm. Finally, he pulled back with one last, gentle kiss to your now tender and abused clit.
He slowly rose to his full height, hands flat on the surface of the table, encasing your pleasure-drained body, your torso leaning half against the wall.
“If I had known you taste this good I’d have done this a lot sooner,” he smiled, catching your lips in a kiss you couldn’t resist if you tried.
“Mm,” you replied in a haze, returning the pecks he was giving you and tasing yourself on lips tongue. “Can I return the favor?”
“As much as I’d love to see you try, baby,” he smiles, helping you off the desk as he scoops you into his arms effortlessly, making his way to the bathroom with you. “How about we take a hot shower together and I take you out on a date first?”
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A/N:
THANKS FOR READING <333 I’m planning a part 2 to this because I need me so dom Enjin and I’m actually more of a fan of oral m!receiving anyway sooo yeah that’s gonna happen hopefully :3 again, thanks for reading—I’d appreciate a reblog if you liked it ･:*+.\(( °ω° ))/.:+ if you have any requests you can definitely lmk
and yes, the slap part is a reference to that one manhwa panel/trend.
pt. 1 here!
you don’t talk about it immediately.
which is insane, because the silence is worse than any argument you’ve ever had.
the next time you’re alone together, it’s deliberate. no collapsed buildings, no adrenaline to hide behind. just his room after a mission, air still, your pulse loud in your ears. tamsy leans against the wall like he owns it (he does), arms crossed, gaze fixed on you like he’s waiting for a verdict.
you break first.
“don’t ever do that again.”
his eyebrow lifts, an innocent head tilt to accompany it. annoying. smug. infuriating.
“do what?”
that’s when you snap.
your hand moves before your brain catches up – crack, loud and sharp in the silence. his head jerks to the side, neck twisting with the force of it. the sound echoes. your palm stings. there’s a red mark blooming high on his cheek, unmistakable.
for a split second, everything freezes.
then tamsy straightens slowly.
he rolls his jaw once. twice. bites the inside of his cheek like he’s holding something back.
and when he looks at you again, he’s smiling.
not soft. not teasing.
dangerous.
“… yeah,” he mutters. “figured i earned that.”
your stomach flips, equal parts vindicated and unsettled. “you don’t get to grab me like that without asking. you don’t get to decide what happens just because you were mad.”
his eyes don’t leave yours. not for a second. “you’re right.”
that stops you.
he pushes off the wall, steps closer, but carefully this time, like he’s aware of the line now. his voice drops, stripped of the usual bite. “i lost my head. won’t happen again.”
you search his face, expecting sarcasm. expecting deflection.
there’s none.
and that’s somehow worse.
“then why do you look like that?” you ask, quieter.
his smirk widens just a little. “can’t help it.”
you scoff. “you liked it.”
he huffs a laugh, low and unapologetic. “not the slap. the fact you didn’t hesitate.”
that earns him a shove to the chest. “you’re sick.”
“yeah, i know,” he agrees easily.
the tension shifts – still tight, still charged, but different now. controlled. negotiated. he waits, actually waits, for you to close the distance this time. when you do, it’s slower, deliberate. you tilt his chin back with two fingers, inspecting your handiwork like a warning stamped into skin.
“next time,” you say, “you ask.”
his throat bobs. “and if you say no?”
you meet his gaze, steady. “then you don’t touch me.”
something real settles in his expression then – respect, sharp and serious beneath the madness. “noted.”
you let go.
and as soon as you do, he reaches for you.
not your hair. not your waist.
your wrist.
two fingers wrap around it, stopping you mid-step. not tight. not rough. just enough to remind you he could be.
you look back at him, glare already loaded, and he lets go immediately.
hands up. palms open.
“i know,” he says, before you can speak. his voice is low, steady, like he’s bracing himself. “i’m not–”
he cuts himself off. jaw flexing. you can see it happening in real time: the instinct, the want, the violence of it all getting swallowed down.
he exhales through his nose. slow. deliberate.
“ask,” you remind him.
his eyes flick up to yours. dark. intent. searching your face like the answer might already be written there.
“… can i stay?” he asks.
it’s not what you expected. not touch. not kiss. not anything that would end this cleanly.
but stay.
the word sits between you, heavy.
you don’t answer right away. you step closer instead, close enough that he has to tilt his head down, close enough that your breath ghosts his jaw. you lift your hand, just to his collar, fingers brushing fabric, stopping there.
you lean in, close to his ear.
“next time,” you murmur. “you ask for what you really want.”
you pull back before he can respond, before he can ruin it, before he can grab onto you again.
behind you, he laughs once – quiet, breathless, wrecked.
“that’s fucked up,” he says fondly.
you don’t turn around.
and he doesn’t follow.
but you feel his eyes on you all the way out, burning like a promise he hasn’t figured out how to keep yet.
⋆. 𐙚 ̊ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Male Rover x fem!Reader | 𝐜𝐰: amnesia trope, brainwashing & manipulation, yandere behavior, kidnapping/restraints, drugging, possessive & obsessive undertones, dark romance, power imbalance, mutual buried feelings, action violence, emotional tension, suggestive leaning to adult/explicit intimacy 18+, fantasy setting (Wuthering Waves), 2k+ wc.
The wind on the Huanglong plains always carried that faint, electric hum, like the world itself was breathing resonance through the grass. You and Rover had been riding side by side for hours, the rhythm of your mounts a steady counterpoint to the easy silence between you. He had one hand loose on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, close enough that his fingers occasionally brushed your leg when the horses swayed. Deliberate, you knew. Everything he did was deliberate.
“You’re staring again,” he said, voice low, amused.
You didn’t bother denying it. “You have something on your face.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Dirt?”
“No. Smugness.”
He laughed, the sound warm and rough. “You like it.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. Three years of traveling together had turned you into this—constant teasing, sharp edges softened by familiarity. You had met when he dragged you half-dead out of a collapsed ruin in the Nexum Wastes. Somewhere between shared campfires, back-to-back fights, and nights where “staying warm” became an excuse to tangle limbs and mouths, partnership had become something possessive. Intense. His.
You never complained. Not out loud.
Until you did.
It started small. He vetoed solo scouting missions. Tracked your resonance signature when you were out of sight for too long. Once, during rumors of a Threnodian surge, he locked you inside a warded safehouse for three days. “For your safety,” he said. You screamed that you weren’t his fucking prisoner.
When he finally let you out, he looked wrecked—eyes shadowed, hands shaking as he pulled you into him. He kissed you like a man starving, desperate and pleading, murmuring over and over that he’d only done it because he loved you too much to risk even a scratch on your skin. And you forgave him. You always did. Because how could you not?
He always made it feel like devotion, like the only sane response to a world that wanted to tear you apart. In his arms, with his mouth promising forever, it was easier to believe the cage was protection, not possession.
But the cracks grew.
The night you ran, thunder cracked the sky open. You had fought again, words cutting deeper than any blade. You told him he was suffocating you. That his love felt like chains. He grabbed your wrist too hard, eyes wild. “You think you can survive out there without me?”
“I survived before you,” you spat, yanking free.
You bolted into the storm. He followed, shouting your name over the wind. Lightning illuminated the ravine ahead too late. Your foot slipped on wet stone. You fell.
The impact stole everything.
When you woke months later, your body was a map of healed fractures and synthetic grafts. The people in white masks told you your name. Told you Rover had abandoned you. Told you he was dangerous. They trained you relentlessly: combat forms until your muscles screamed, resonance tuning until your frequency burned violet and lethal. Nightly sessions where they whispered that your only purpose now was to eliminate the target.
You became their perfect weapon.
Two years passed before they sent you after him.
You found him in the ruined coliseum outside old Jinzhou, moonlight spilling through the shattered dome like liquid silver. He stood in the center, sword sheathed, coat snapping in the breeze. Waiting.
You stepped into the light. “Rover.”
His head snapped toward you. For a heartbeat, raw hope lit his face. Then devastation. “Y/N.” Your name left his lips like a prayer cracked in half.
You drew your blade. Violet resonance crackled along the edge.
The fight was brutal and one-sided.
You moved like a storm—feints, spins, strikes aimed to kill. Every form drilled into you by the Fractsidus flowed perfectly. He blocked, parried, dodged, but never attacked. Blood bloomed on his sleeve where your blade grazed him. He didn’t even flinch.
You drove him back across broken marble, fury rising. “Fight back, you coward!”
He met your eyes, steady and heartbroken. “I won’t hurt you.”
The words enraged you more. You slammed him against a pillar, forearm crushing his throat, blade poised over his heart. One thrust and the mission would be complete.
He didn’t resist.
His pulse thrummed fast under your arm. His breath was warm against your wrist. “If you’re going to do it,” he murmured, voice soft, “don’t hesitate. You hate it when you hesitate.”
Your hand trembled.
The tremor spread through your entire body, a betrayal deeper than muscle memory. Something inside you recoiled from the killing blow. An ache bloomed in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar.
You shoved away from him, blade lowering. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”
He stayed against the pillar, watching you with unbearable tenderness. “Nothing you aren’t doing to yourself.”
Confusion and rage collided. You turned and ran.
You sprinted through vine-choked corridors, vaulted fallen arches, heart pounding. His footsteps followed, not hurried, just inevitable.
You stopped in a small grove where glowing flowers cast pale blue light. You spun, blade raised. “Stop following me.”
“I’m not following,” he said, halting at the edge of the clearing. “I’m staying.”
“You think I won’t kill you?”
His smile was tired, wounded, devastatingly real. “I know you won’t.”
Something inside you fractured. You attacked again, strikes wilder, fueled by frustration. He disarmed you gently, catching your wrist and pulling you off balance. You crashed into his chest.
For a moment you were pressed together, breathing hard. His scent hit you: ozone, cedar, something achingly familiar. Your free hand fisted in his shirt without permission.
He released you instantly, stepping back, hands raised. “Let me tell you who we were.”
You should have killed him. The mission burned in your veins, cold and clear. Instead you stood frozen, blade still in your hand, and listened.
He spoke softly, carefully. About the first night after the ruins, when your bedrolls somehow ended up pressed together and you both pretended it was only for warmth. About how you mocked his snoring and he swore your off-key humming could wake a sleeping Discord. About the time you almost set the stew on fire and he ate every charred bite just to see you laugh.
He told you quieter things, falling asleep on his shoulder during long rides, him learning to braid your hair because the wind always knotted it, you stealing his cloak on cold nights and acting like it was an accident. How you fought together like you shared the same pulse.
The memories were small, warm, painfully ordinary. They settled in your chest like embers.
Your grip loosened. The blade slipped from your fingers and hit the grass with a soft thud.
He watched your face, golden eyes cautious. He took one slow step closer. Then another. You didn’t move away.
When he was near enough for you to feel his warmth, he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb across your cheek. Then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was gentle—barely a touch at first, asking without words. You froze, startled by the way your body recognized it, the way you tilted into him before your mind could protest. He deepened the kiss just enough to make your chest ache with something you had no name for.
When he pulled back, he stayed close, forehead resting lightly against yours, breathing uneven.
You were trembling. Not from fear. From the sudden heat blooming inside you, like a locked door had just eased open.
But reality crashed in. Years lost. Brainwashing. A stranger’s memories burning in your mouth. You shoved him away. “I need time. I need to think.”
You once again turned to leave, not bothering to wait for whatever he might say.
The night air felt colder as you walked, boots crunching over fallen leaves and soft grass. Your pulse hammered in your ears. A few steps, that was all you managed, before the hairs on the back of your neck rose.
Someone was behind you.
You started to spin, hand already reaching for the blade you no longer carried, but a strong arm slid around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a solid chest. Before you could struggle, a sharp prick stung the side of your neck.
The sedative hit fast, burning, then numbing. Your limbs went heavy in seconds. The world tilted. You staggered, glaring at him through blurring vision. He caught you as your knees buckled, arms careful and strong.
“I tried,” he whispered against your ear, voice trembling with something dark and tender. “I really did. The good way. Talking. Being patient. But you kept running, baby. You’re making it so fucking hard for me.”
His lips brushed your temple. “There’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight again. Not after all this time.”
Darkness swallowed you.
You woke to silk sheets and the scent of pine. Your head throbbed. Soft golden light filtered through wooden shutters. You tried to sit up and metal clicked.
Your wrists were cuffed to the headboard with resonance-dampening restraints. Sleek, unbreakable, humming faintly. Your ankles were similarly bound, spread just enough to keep you immobile but not painful. Yet.
The cabin was small, cozy. A fire crackled in the hearth. Rover sat in a chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching you with dark golden eyes.
You yanked at the cuffs. They didn’t budge. “You fucking kidnapped me.”
He tilted his head. “I prefer ‘retrieved my girlfriend.’”
“You drugged me. Restrained me. This isn’t retrieval, this is—”
“Necessary,” he finished softly. He rose, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. His fingers traced your jaw, gentle despite everything. “You were going to run again.”
“So you chain me like a dog?”
His smile was slow, dangerous. “Like a princess who keeps trying to escape her tower.”
Heat flooded your cheeks, anger and something worse. Your body remembered his touch even as your mind screamed danger. “Let me go.”
“No.” He leaned closer, breath warm against your lips. “I lost you once because I was too soft. I let you run. I won’t make that mistake again.”
His hand slid down your throat, over your collarbone, stopping just above your breast. “Do you know how long I searched? How many nights I jerked off to memories of you just to stay sane? You were gone, and I was hollow.”
You swallowed hard. “The Fractsidus—”
“They lied,” he said flatly. “They filled the empty space in your head.”
You stared at him. “What do you mean?”
He went still for a moment, then spoke low. “That night, you were running from me. We’d fought. I grabbed you. You slipped and fell into the ravine.”
“I heard you hit the bottom. By the time I got down there, resonance fog had rolled in, thick, blinding. I searched for days. Weeks. Couldn’t find a trace of you.”
Your breath caught.
“The Fractsidus found you first,” he said, grip tightening on your skin. “They took you. Brainwashed you. Turned you into this perfect little assassin aimed right at my heart.”
It hit you all at once—too much, too fast. Your mind reeled.
His thumb brushed your lower lip. “But now you’re here. And you’re mine. And this time, I’m not letting go.”
He leaned down, mouth hovering over yours. “You can hate me all you want, baby. You can fight. But your body remembers.” His hand slid lower, cupping your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple until it peaked. “And deep down, you never stopped loving me. That’s why you couldn’t kill me.”
You turned your face away, but your back arched into his touch traitorously.
He chuckled darkly. “We have all the time in the world now. No running. No Fractsidus. Just us.”
His lips brushed your ear. “And I’m going to remind you exactly who you belong to. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until you beg to stay.”
You tugged at the cuffs again, heart racing with fear and something darker.
Startorch Academy was many things: cutting-edge, unforgiving, meticulously organized.
What it was not prepared for… was Luuk Herssan being insufferably in love.
And somehow, this was your fault.
It started with tea.
Just normal, calming herbal tea—standard procedure before deep resonance diagnostics. You’d had dozens of these appointments before. Sit still. Don’t overclock. Try not to stare at the doctor.
This time, though, your hands trembled as Luuk turned his back to calibrate the scanner.
Three drops. That was all.
Colorless. Odorless. Ancient.
You told yourself it wasn’t really a love potion. Just an emotional harmonizer. Something that nudged attachment frequencies into alignment.
You were not drugging the head physician of the academy.
You were… helping destiny.
“Ready?” Luuk asked, turning back with two cups in hand.
You nodded, heart hammering, and watched in slow-motion horror as he took the first sip from his cup.
Too late.
“…Hm,” he murmured. “Different blend?”
You laughed too loudly. “Y-Yeah! New batch?”
He shrugged and drank the rest.
You waited.
Nothing happened.
You exhaled—then—
Luuk froze mid-step.
“…Oh.”
Your soul left your body. “Oh what?”
He pressed two fingers to his temple, brows knitting as if concentrating. Then his gaze snapped to you.
And stayed there.
Longer than usual.
“…Fascinating,” he murmured.
Your stomach flipped. “Fascinating bad or fascinating—”
“You’re very pretty,” he said simply.
You choked on air.
“I’m sorry?”
He blinked once, as if realizing he’d spoken out loud, then smiled—soft, unfocused, utterly unprofessional.
“Did I say that aloud?”
YES. VERY ALOUD.
From that moment on, Luuk Herssan lost his mind.
Or at least—that’s what it looked like.
He hovered. Constantly.
“You’ve eaten today, right?”
“You look cold. Here.”
“Walk with me.”
“No, closer.”
During scans, his spectral tendrils lingered far too long, tracing your resonance with unnecessary care.
“Your frequency is lovely,” he murmured once, entirely too close to your ear.
“Luuk, that is not medical terminology.”
“It should be.”
Nurses whispered.
Students stared.
Lira, your aero-user friend, nearly died laughing when Luuk appeared behind you in the cafeteria, arms draping around your shoulders possessively.
“There you are,” he said warmly. “I was worried.”
“It’s been ten minutes,” you hissed.
“Ten very long minutes.”
“Oh my gods,” Lira wheezed. “What did you DO to him?”
“I DON’T KNOW,” you whispered back, panicking.
The worst part?
He was adorable.
Lovesick. Obvious. Entirely gone for you.
Calling you by your name like it was something precious. Smiling whenever you entered a room. Looking vaguely offended whenever someone else stood too close.
“This is definitely the potion,” you muttered one evening.
Luuk tilted his head. “Is that bad?”
“Yes!”
“Hm.” He tilts his head, studying you like a fascinating case. “Then why does it feel so right?”
Before you can answer, he leans in—but slowly. Painfully slowly. Giving you time to pull away.
You don’t.
His forehead brushes yours first. Warm. Intimate. His breath mingles with yours, and you can feel the faint hitch when he exhales.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, lips barely a breath away.
You don’t say anything.
So he kisses you.
It’s not rushed. Not desperate. His lips press against yours with gentle certainty, like he’s been waiting—testing the shape of your mouth, learning you. One hand slides up your side, thumb resting just beneath your ribs as if grounding himself.
Your knees go weak.
You make a small, involuntary sound, and that’s all it takes.
His mouth moves more firmly now, coaxing rather than taking. When you part your lips, he follows, slow and deliberate, kissing you like this isn’t a spell but a choice he’s savoring.
His thumb strokes small circles at your waist. Another hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just enough to deepen the kiss. You feel the brush of his breath, the warmth of him everywhere.
You cling to his coat without thinking, fingers curling in the fabric as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only a fraction. His nose brushes yours, lips still close enough that you feel the heat of them.
“…Oh,” he murmurs softly. “That confirms it.”
Your voice comes out breathless. “Confirms what?”
“That I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
This is wrong, you think weakly.
And yet—you lean in again.
***
You should have stopped it sooner.
You should have neutralized the elixir.
But the longer it went on, the harder it became—because somewhere between Luuk insisting on “escorting” you everywhere and pulling you into his arms during training simulations, it stopped feeling fake.
And that terrified you.
So one night, you finally broke.
You were alone in his office, sitting on the exam table while he stood between your knees, hands resting comfortably on your thighs like that was normal now.
You grabbed his sleeve.
“Luuk. I have to tell you something.”
His smile faded instantly.
That alone made your chest tighten.
You swallowed hard.
“That tea,” you blurted. “I—I put something in it. An ancient love elixir. It wasn’t real, and I’m so sorry, I just— I like you. I’ve liked you for so long, and you were always so distant, and I found it in the ruins and I didn’t think you’d ever—”
Your voice cracked.
“I never meant to trick you,” you whispered. “I just wanted you to choose me. Even if it was fake.”
Silence fell.
Luuk didn’t move.
Then—slowly—he laughed.
Not soft. Not lovesick.
Amused.
“…You know,” he said calmly, lifting your chin so you had to meet his eyes, “you’re the first person who’s ever been bold enough to drug a doctor.”
Your blood ran cold.
“…What?”
“The elixir,” he continued mildly. “Ancient emotional catalyst. Sloppy around the edges, but effective.”
Your heart dropped into your stomach.
“You—you knew?”
“I knew the moment it touched my tongue.”
Everything—the flirting, the clinginess, the chaos—replayed in your mind in horrifying clarity.
“You were faking it?”
Luuk smiled. Sharp now. Fully himself.
“I was exaggerating,” he corrected. “I never lied.”
“…Why?” you whispered.
He leaned in, forehead resting against yours.
“Because you were brave enough to reach for what you wanted,” he said quietly. “And because I already wanted you.”
Your breath shook.
“So the puppy act—”
“Very fun,” he admitted. “Your reactions were delightful.”
“You’re evil.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But tell me to stop now, and I will.”
SYPNOSIS .ᐟ you and satoru have been friends since you were 12, attached at the hip, through missions and losses, and you've been harbouring a secret from him—that you've been in love with him since you were 12. you hold the secret of your feelings close to your chest, afraid of wrecking your oldest and closest friendship, the risk too high to ever even consider if he might feel the same way. but one night you're drunk off too much tequila and years of yearning for the boy who's always known you best and you end up leaving a voicemail message that changes everything
★ INCLUDES 18+ NSFW, friends to lovers, drunk voicemails, so much pent up yearning and aching, cunnilingus, frottage, grinding, cowgirl, floor sex, rushed and desperate, handjobs, first times, cumming untouched, creampie
⌗ A NOTE FROM IVY ⸝⸝ heavily inspired by taylor's dress (riddled with references to this banger) and title taken from tloas <3
You fumble with the key in your apartment door, laughing under your breath when it slips once, twice before finally clicking. The hallway tilts a little when you step inside, your skin still humming with leftover laughter and tequila. You kick off your heels by the door, one bouncing off the wall with a dull thud, and stumble inside.
Your apartment is quiet. Soft and shadowed, hazy at the edges, the hallway light providing guidance as you stumble in, and everything seems just slightly out of focus—or maybe that’s the alcohol. You drop your purse somewhere near the couch and collapse back onto it gracelessly with a soft “oof,” hair spilling across the cushion, black mini dress riding up your thighs. It’s a pretty thing—black and silky, clings just right.
The ceiling swims lazily above you. There’s a slice of streetlight cutting through the curtains, the shadows brushing across your skin, catching on your bare legs and glittery eyeshadow. You feel warm. Soft. Loose. Like the night’s worn you down to something sleepy and aching.
When your phone buzzes, the sound feels like it’s coming from miles away. You grope for your purse, fingers clumsy, until you fish it out and squint at the bright screen.
A message from Shoko flashes across:
text me when you get home loser
You smile faintly, thumbs tapping out a reply: hjome now
You scroll through the rest—blurry photos from earlier, your friends’ stories, a flood of notifications—and then pause when you see one name.
Satoru
Your heart skips. You blink, the haze clearing for a moment as you tap it open.
saw the pics shoko posted
make sure you drink some water
or you’ll die in the morning again
we don’t want a repeat of halloween
You read it twice. Then again. The corners of your lips tug up even as your chest aches. It’s teasing and sarcastic and so him. His kind of soft teasing affection, tucked between the jokes and dry tone. The kind that’s casual and careless and yet always, always finds you right where it hurts.
You’ve known him long enough to know the layers behind his words. The way he says drink some water like he knows you need the reminder, like he doesn’t want you to wake up hungover feeling like death. The way he’s always looking out for you, without ever saying it.
You stare at the screen too long, a stupid little smile curving your lips. Too warm. Too drunk. Too lonely.
You and Satoru Gojo have been inseparable since you were twelve. Partners in everything—missions, chaos, heartbreak. He’s the only constant you’ve ever really had. You know him like you know your own reflection: the sound of his laugh echoing through quiet halls, the tilt of his smirk when he’s teasing you, the color of his eyes—sharp, brilliant blue like the sky on snowy day, beautiful enough to hurt when you look too long.
And God, you’ve been in love with him for years.
Hopelessly. Quietly. Painfully.
You never meant for it to happen. You never meant to look at your best friend and think God, I want him. It crept in slow, like a tide pulling at the shore, until one day you woke up and realized there was no version of your life that didn’t have him in it.
You loved him the way people love things they can’t touch—like fire, like the sea, like something that could burn you to the bone if you ever got too close. You loved him in secret, locking it up behind ribs that ached with it. Because he was your best friend. And you couldn’t—you wouldn’t—risk losing that.
So you buried it.
You laughed when he laughed. You let him call you sweetheart in that careless, thoughtless way that you pretended didn’t make your heart skip. You pretended your pulse didn’t race when he brushed against you, when his hand lingered at the small of your back, when his cologne clung to your hoodie after he borrowed it.
You were too afraid to say it aloud. To ruin the one thing that felt unshakable in a world that never stopped shifting. He was your person. Your constant. And if he didn’t feel the same, losing that would destroy you. So you buried it. You stitched yourself shut around it, tucked it behind smiles and laughter, and learned to live with the ache.
You told yourself friendship was enough. That being near him—close enough but never touching—was better than not having him at all. That people like Satoru, who are endlessly magnetic, who light up rooms with their smiles, are the kind you admire from afar, ache for from a safe distance.
But now, lying in the dark with your body humming and your heart too full, it feels like all that want is pressing against your chest, begging to be let out.
Your thumb hovers over his name. One wrong decision. One slip. You hit call.
It rings once. Twice. Then clicks to voicemail. He must be asleep. Distantly, you're glad. If he had picked up you would've swallowed the words down again, too good at it after a decade of practice.
You swallow, staring at the ceiling, shadows swirling above you. “Hey,” you start, voice soft and shaky, the alcohol making it too easy to ignore how stupid of an idea this is. “I don’t really know why I’m doing this, but I just—”
You sigh, pressing a palm over your chest. It aches for him like always, ribs straining under the weight of all the feelings you've been harbouring for him. On a good day you can manage, you can deal with it, but drunk and lonely at at 2am it's too much, spilling through the cracks of your ribs until you feel like you're choking on them.
“Fuck, Satoru. I’m so tired of this.”
The words spill out like they’ve been waiting for years. “I’m tired of pretending. Pretending I don’t feel anything. Pretending I can just be your friend. Pretending I didn’t wear this fucking dress tonight hoping you’d be the one to take it off.”
"And god—I don't want you like a best friend Satoru. I want—" you swallow, throat thick, eyes fluttering shut. "I want so, so much more than that. I just—I wanna kiss you and make you laugh and hold your hand and—” you exhale sharply. "I just want more. More of you. The parts nobody else gets to have. I wanna watch the way the sun hits you when you're asleep in bed, I wanna share coffee and pancakes in the morning and kiss in between bites. I want—"
You swallow. "I want you in my bed. Between my thighs. Feeling me. Touching me. Seeing me." You choke out a noise, a little desperate sound, secrets you've kept on quiet nights spilling free, needy and wrecked. “And fuck—God, Satoru, I want us to fuck. It would be so good, I know it. Sometimes I wish we could just do it once so I can finally prove to myself it can’t be as good as it is in my head. Because I think about it all the time. You. Us. It's so bad, I know it is. And I'm so, so fucking sorry but I—.”
The words spill out, tumbling, unrestrained.
"I just can't help it. Imagine it. Me and you." Heat pools between your thighs, pussy already wet at the confessions. "Your head between my thighs because God you talk so much but I swear I know you'd be good with your tongue. That it would feel so fucking good. To touch you. For you to touch me."
"And I know that's so greedy of me, and I swore to myself that being your friend was enough for me, that just being around you, seeing you smile, seeing you laugh over stupid jokes would be enough."
"But god, this thing—this feeling is devastating. You're devastating. You're beautiful and kind and loud and make such bad jokes and I want you so bad it's stupid."
You hang up before you can hear the playback. The silence that follows feels heavy. You blink through the blur of tears until your phone slips from your fingers to the carpet. Your chest hurts. Your lashes are damp as you fall asleep.
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
Satoru’s half-asleep when his phone buzzes. His head is heavy against his pillow, sheets tangled low around his hips, the city still humming faintly outside his window. His phone sits facedown on the nightstand, the faint glow of the screen pulsing once, twice, breaking through the dark. Normally, it wouldn’t. He keeps his phone on Do Not Disturb, a necessity after years of late-night calls, work emergencies, and students (Yuji) who think “urgent” means “can u buy us ramen pls" texts at 2am.
But there’s one person he lets through. Just one.
You.
So when the vibration hums against the wood, he doesn’t think twice, just blinks blearily, reaches out, squints at the screen.
One new voicemail from Y/n.
His brows furrow, a small, crooked smile starting to form. He half expects it to be a drunk message, you slurring about how you and Shoko “did too many tequila shots again,” or something equally ridiculous. But when he presses play and your voice fills the quiet of his bedroom—soft, shaky, too honest—it’s like the air gets punched out of him.
“Hey,” you whisper, voice small. “I don’t really know why I’m doing this, but I just—fuck, Satoru. I’m so tired of this.”
He sits up immediately, heart stuttering. The moonlight spills over his bare upper half, illuminating his bare chest as he fumbles to rewind, to make sure he heard you right. Tired of this?
Your voice is breathy, frayed at the edges. And as he listens, the meaning begins to click, piece by trembling piece.
“I’m tired of pretending. Pretending I don’t feel anything. Pretending I can just be your friend. Pretending I didn’t wear this fucking dress tonight hoping you’d be the one to take it off."
He freezes. Everything inside him stills—heart, lungs, even thought. He blinks once. Twice. The words don’t compute. His body reacts before his brain does; his pulse surges, hot and heavy, his fingers tighten around his phone as you continue.
"And god—I don't want you like a best friend Satoru. I want—" you swallow, let out a shaky breath he feels buzz under his skin. "I want so, so much more than that. I just—I wanna kiss you and make you laugh and hold your hand—”
You sound wrecked. Confessional. The kind of drunk where the truth slips out without permission. He wonders how many tequila shots it took you to get here, for these words to be spilling from your lips in the middle of the night.
And Satoru? He's been in love with you for years.
He remembers the first time he realized it. You’d fallen asleep on his shoulder during a movie night in his dorm, still twelve and soft around the edges, naive to the jagged teeth of the world that would soon bite. Your breaths were soft against his neck, and you'd mumbled in your sleep when you shifted—closer, not away. It had struck him then, that you were the first person to invade his space like this, the first one who didn't run from his bright blue eyes and pale hair that the other kids in his clan called creepy. You didn't fear him, or envy him. You just liked being around Satoru, like sharing convenience store snacks after class was enough for you, crumbs on your lips, cracking a smile when he looked over at you.
Something in his chest clicked into place then on that quiet night, bright light of his small tv chasing the shadows around the corners of his dorm, your face tucked into his neck like it was home. And from then on, he was done for. Every laugh, every stupid joke, every small touch made his nerves light up, made his heart feel funny and his cheeks feel hot. He had brushed it off then, too young, too naive, but the longer he stayed around you, the more years that passed, the more he began to hoard your bright smiles and laughed "Toru, you idiot—" like a dragon with treasure. Because it was treasure to him—to have someone who laughed at his jokes, who didn't run when he got defensive and mean, overworked and pressured by the weight of a world his hands were still too small to hold.
You stood by him like nobody else, through the bad nights where he'd be angry and spitting, hairline fractures running through the usual easy going facade, through the messy sobs pressed into your throat when it got too much, through the excited laughs that everybody else called annoying and obnoxious.
And even when the years hardened him, when his hands started to stain bloody and his eyes went colder, when they began to chip away at the boy he was to forge him into something untouchable—you still touched him.
He was untouchable until your hands squeezed his shoulders when he was tense, shoved him away during pillow fights through fits of giggles and gasps, pulled him into hugs when exam results came back and he predictably aced it all. You saw him as human even when the world didn't, even when they spun him more into myth than human, more god than boy. You never stopped seeing the boy underneath. The one who tripped over his own words sometimes, who got too excited over sweets, who stays up too late to binge his favourite shows.
And in return Satoru gave away pieces of his heart to you—because what else could he give to the girl who looked past the fake grins and saw the shaking hands instead? All the money in the world couldn't begin to make up what you'd done for him, keeping him human even when the world began to tear him into pieces to try remake him into a weapon. So he gave away his heart instead, surrendered it easily, locked it away with a key you'd never know you were holding.
Because he never told you. Couldn’t. Because Satoru Gojo—indestructible, untouchable—didn’t know how to be loved back. Thought it wasn't possible. That he was better as a weapon than he was human. Who could love a man that was better at killing than existing? Because loving you meant risking the one thing that’s always felt untouchable: you. You, with your laugh that cracked through his cynicism, your kindness that refused to leave even when he tried to push you away. You, who saw through every mask he wore and stayed anyway.
So he never said anything, locked it up tight, refused to let it spill. But it bled anyways, through the cracks—into the way his fingers brushed yours, the softened cadence of his voice when you were the one listening, the thump and squeeze of his heart when you came too close. He felt it viscerally, in every moment he shared with you, in every thought that ended up circling back to you. The feelings were overwhelming sometimes, so strong he felt like he was choking on them, the way they crammed in his lungs, in his breath, in his blood—until every "hi" sounded like an "i love you", until every laugh sounded like a confession, until every smile was laced with feelings he'd long tried to swallow down.
So Satoru suffered silently, alone—except for the nights when he got too drunk, when he was nursing a beer and Shoko was nursing him, lending him her shoulder and dry commentary as he rambled about how great you were, how beautiful you looked that afternoon, the way your eyes lit up when you saw a cute dog on the street and how his heart squeezed every time you smiled.
She'd listened every time and every time she'd say the same thing. "Why don't you just tell her how you feel, moron?" Dry, cutting, blunt, the way Shoko always is. And every time Satoru would give the same answer, staring at her ceiling, plush pillow hugged to his chest as he sprawled on her floor, containers of takeout scattered between them. "Because it's her," he'd mutter. She would sigh, and then ask if he wanted to watch Die Hard—she only gave him selection choices when he was particularly heartsick and pathetic. And he'd blink away the tears, sit up with a grin that was too tight, locking all those emotions back up behind his ribs and snatch the remote from her.
And now, in the dim glow of his bedroom, your voice is confessing all the things he’s spent years wishing he would hear.
"I just want more. More of you. The parts nobody else gets to have. I wanna watch the way the sun hits you when you're asleep in bed, I wanna share coffee and pancakes in the morning and kiss in between bites. I want—" you breathe, voice breaking.
Satoru presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, swallows hard. His heart is slamming against his ribs. You’re drunk, he knows that. You’re probably sprawled across your couch, the same way you always end up after a night out—but your voice is honest. Too honest. He can feel it.
When your voice slips into something filthier—I want you in my bed. Between my thighs. Feeling me. Touching me. Seeing me.—he nearly drops the phone. His breath catches. His stomach tightens. The tips of his ears burn.
Satoru's imagined it before—on desperate, needy nights where his mind was too weak to resist and play the "she's your best friend you can't imagine her like that" card, hand already creeping down beneath his waistband between his thighs to thoughts of you—but hearing it from your mouth, in that breathy, honest voice, feels like he's been set on fire, it fills every empty space in his brain, crams into his veins, his lungs. Just you, you, you.
And you sound so desperate. Wanting. Honest.
Satoru can’t breathe. Because it’s you. It’s always been you.
He’s loved you through everything—through missions and late nights and stupid arguments and laughter that echoed until sunrise. He’s loved you in the quiet ways, the subtle ones—letting you steal his hoodie, buying your favorite snack without saying anything, memorizing the way your face lights up when you talk about something you love. He’s loved you without asking for anything back. Because if he told you, and you didn’t feel the same—he’d lose you. But now, listening to you, he realizes you’ve been just as afraid. Just as careful.
He hears you choke out a laugh, small and broken. “It’s so bad, I know it is. And I’m so, so fucking sorry but I—”
"I just can't help it. Imagine it. Me and you." Heat pools low in his gut, he feels like he's on fire as confessions continue to tumble out. "Your head between my thighs because God you talk so much but I swear I know you'd be good with your tongue. That it would feel so fucking good. To touch you. For you to touch me." He bites into his palm, sinks in deep, the sting trying to distract from the way his cock has gone heavy between his thighs. "And I know that's so greedy of me, and I swore to myself that being your friend was enough for me, that just being around you, seeing you smile, seeing you laugh over stupid jokes would be enough." He swallows, jaw working, heart pounding against his ribs. He can't believe it, can't begin to process it.
"But god, this thing—this feeling is devastating. You're devastating. You're beautiful and kind and loud and make such bad jokes and I want you so bad it's stupid."
Then it's silence. The message ends with a faint click.
Satoru stares at his phone, chest heaving. His reflection glares back at him in the black screen—eyes wide, hair mussed, expression raw. He replays it. Once. Twice. Again. He needs to be sure. Needs to hear every trembling word, every soft breath that sounds like his name. By the fourth listen, he’s already halfway out of bed. His keys are in his pocket. His hoodie is tugged over his head.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. You’re drunk. It’s late. But his body moves before reason can stop him. Because for once, you said what he’s been dying to hear.
For once, Satoru's not the only one who’s been losing their mind over this.
When he steps out into the cold night air, phone still in hand, he plays your voicemail one last time. Your voice crackles through his earbuds—soft, messy, real.
Then he shoves the phone in his pocket, sets his jaw, and heads for your apartment.
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
BANG. BANG. BANG.
You jolt awake, lashes sticky from sleep and drunk tears. You blink into the darkness of your living room. Then it comes again—BANG. BANG. BANG. Except this time it's accompanied with a voice. Satoru's voice.
“Y/N, open the fucking door.”
Your blood runs cold.
You look at the phone on the floor. At the clock flashing 3:53am. At the shadow that moves under your door in the hallway light.
Oh, fuck.
“Y/N,” Satoru’s voice comes again, lower this time, threaded with something you can’t name. “I know you’re in there.”
You stumble to your feet, panic rising like bile. “Go home!”
“You can’t just leave a message like that and pretend it didn’t happen,” he says, voice tight, words muffled through the door.
“Satoru, I was drunk! I didn’t mean—”
“It didn’t sound like that when you said you wanted me between your thighs.”
Your breath catches. “Satoru!”
“Let me in,” he says, softer now. “Please.”
You hesitate. One second. Two.
Then your hand moves on its own, unlocking the door.
He’s standing there—hair mussed, hoodie half-zipped, eyes bright and wild. His chest rises and falls too fast.
“I—” your voice falters. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t.”
The word hits sharp. His jaw clenches, his eyes burning into yours. “Don’t take that back.”
You freeze, heart thundering.
“I’ve been patient,” Satoru says, voice breaking around the edges, stepping closer until his breath brushes your lips. “Waiting. Hoping. And now I find out you’ve been wanting me this whole time—while I’ve been scared shitless of ruining us?” He laughs once, a soft, disbelieving sound. “And you’re sorry?”
You can’t move.
Satoru cups your face in both hands, fingers trembling just a little. “Take it back,” he grits out, forehead presses to yours firmly, “and I’ll make you repeat every word you said on the phone.” He exhales low. “But this time, while you're sitting on my fucking face.”
Your breath tumbles, your heart skips. And then his mouth is on yours.
It’s not gentle. It’s years of wanting, years of hunger and fear and love that’s been burning in silence. It’s desperate and messy and perfect. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your face, your hair—pulling you closer like he’s terrified you’ll vanish.
You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this moment. Because you have.
You stumble backward together, door swinging shut behind you. You taste the low moan in his throat, the apology buried in every drag of his tongue for taking so long.
Your back hits the sofa and you fall into it, a sharp breath leaving you as he follows, knees braced on either side of your legs, crowding you in. He’s everywhere—too big, too warm, too close—and it’s overwhelming in the best way.
"I've been waiting years for this," he breathes, ragged and rushed against your mouth. "Years, Y/n. Do you know what that does to a man?" He kisses down your throat, open-mouthed, teeth dragging lightly at the tender skin there until you're gasping, arching, fingers tangling in his hair. "Years of wanting you from a distance, torturing myself with how badly I wanted you to want me back."
"I want you," you breathe out in a rush and he groans against your throat, low, wrecked.
"I want you Toru—" you repeat, shaky, raw, needy, and he pulls back to hover above you, those beautiful blue eyes on you, searching like he's scared it's a lie. Your hands slip up his neck, cup his face.
"I want you," you whisper. "I've always wanted you. Since we were kids. Since we—" you choke out a laugh that's half devastated, half disbelief. "Since we met that day in class. You were beautiful and loud and looked so scared," you whisper as your thumbs stroke his cheeks and his breath shudders, eyes stuck on you beneath him in the soft hazy darkness, illuminated only by the moonlight. "You looked like you were afraid of people laughing at you behind your back, being left out," you breathe. "And you looked so lonely it hurt."
His eyes squeeze shut at that, throat thick. "You still found me anyways," he whispers, raw.
"You made me laugh," you murmur back, soft and aching, stroking under his eye as he presses his face into your hand. "You shared your sweets with me. How could I not have fallen for you?"
Satoru lets out a choked laugh then, hoarse around the edges. "That's all it took, some sour gummies and a joke about Yaga's hair?"
"Yeah," you mutter with a small, soft smile. "It was."
"I can't—" Satoru swallows, and his forehead tips to press to yours. "I can't believe it. That it took this long, this many years for us to realise."
"Me either," you whisper and your lips brush his and you feel his breath hitch. A gentle touch and he's unravelling at the seams. "But I would do it all again if it got us here eventually."
That breaks Satoru then, a low, pained noise pulling from his lips as he connects his mouth to yours. The kiss is desperate, raw, aching, a lifetime of want pressed into it. You kiss back, hands on his face, tugging him down and he goes like a ship surrendering itself to the sea.
It’s all hands and heat and the sound of his name caught between your teeth. His head finds it's way between your thighs, shoving your dress up high enough, his knees pressed into your carpet.
“Fucking hell,” Satoru breathes, staring up at you like he’s seeing something holy. “You don’t even know how long I’ve wanted this. Spent so many fucking nights imagining this, about finally being allowed between your thighs.”
And then he’s between your thighs. And fuck, he almost loses his mind when he sees you. His pupils blow at the sight of your panties clinging to you, soaked through completely, the faint shape of your pussy making his fingers twitch, jaw working.
"Look at you," he breathes, low, reverent, like a priest finding something holy. You flush, cheeks hot, skin hotter as those brilliant blue eyes drag over you, drinking in the sight of your slick soaked panties hugging your cunt.
"Don't stare, Toru," you protest weakly, embarrassed and he scoffs, nipping your thigh once to make you gasp.
"Been waiting for like ten fucking years for this, m'gonna stare," he grumbles back as he laves his tongue over where his teeth had pressed. Then his fingers hook under your panties and he drags them down low till they pool at your knees. The cool air hits your slick, soft cunt that waits and Satoru groans low at the sight.
"Holy fuck," he hisses as his eyes drink you in and your cheeks burn. "You're so fucking pretty down here too. It's not fair." His fingers pry your thighs apart wider, his eyes intense and set on your pussy, drinking in the way your slick glistens faintly, wet and soaked, soft swollen pussy already messy.
"Shit," Satoru breathes as he kisses up. "Shit, shit, shit—" he breathes as his mouth finds your cunt and the first lick of Satoru's tongue makes you cry out. It’s hot, slow, filthy. He groans against you, the sound vibrating through your thighs as his tongue flattens and drags up your slick folds. You whimper, hips twitching, and he just holds you to his greedy mouth, hands wrapped around your thighs.
"Satoru—" you whine as his tongue laps at you, filthy and sloppy.
"You taste so fucking good," Satoru groans into your pussy and he eats you out like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting for this—for you—forever. His tongue moves greedily, lapping at you, circling your clit until your vision blurs and your fingers tighten in his hair.
“Fuck,” you gasp, your back arching as he sucks at your clit, tongue relentless. “Satoru—” He's relentless, so fucking good with his tongue it's insane, and you distantly can't believe this is even happening—your best friend giving you head, lapping at your pussy like it's his last meal.
That sound, your voice saying his name like that—it undoes him, he's heard you laugh it, shout it, but like this—your voice broken around a moan? It makes him feel feral. He presses in closer, his nose brushing against you as he moans into your cunt, the vibration sending a shudder up your spine. His hands are shaking, desperate, his movements rough around the edges but so, so needy. Like he needs you to finish on his tongue just as much as you do.
Every lick feels like punishment for the years you both spent pretending. Every flick of his tongue feels like a confession. You can barely think—only feel. His mouth, his tongue, the soft slick sounds of him eating your pussy filling the room. You pull harder at his hair, your hips rolling up to meet him. His response is a low, pleased growl, like he wants you to drag him closer.
"Satoru—Satoru I'm gonna—" you whine out, tugging at his hair. Your thighs start to tremble. The tension coils low in your stomach, sharp and unbearable, until it breaks—your orgasm hitting you in a blinding rush. You cry out, the sound caught somewhere between a sob and a moan, stars bursting behind your eyes.
Satoru’s own eyes roll back when he feels your cunt clench and pulse, and when your cum hits his tongue, his cock jerks in his sweats, pressing up as he moans, wrecked and loud as he cums in them, spilling into the fabric untouched. He moans into your pussy through the thick, heavy pulses of his cock, lapping and mouthing at your cunt sloppily until you're both panting for breath.
Only when you whimper, too sensitive to bear it, does he finally pull back—his lips slick, chin wet, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction and something far too tender to be just lust.
"Come here," he breathes, voice rough and wrecked, pupils blown. It barely takes a second before your stumbling off the couch and into him. He catches you easily. mouths crashing into eachother, his hands pulling you into his lap, rolling up against you, already hard again. His tongue licks into your mouth, your hands slip into his hair.
"You wanted me to take that dress off, yeah?" he breathes into your ear when he pulls back, breaths ragged. "Then I will."
Satoru’s fingers find the zip at the back, slips it down as he kisses over your throat, making you moan and gasp as he drags his tongue filthy and hot up the column of your throat. He drags your dress off, slips it off your shoulders, pulls it down until you're left in your bra and he groans low into your throat at the sight of your tits, barely contained by your lacy black bra. His lips drag down, tracing over the hot skin, find your hard nipples beneath the fabric, teeth grazing, tongue dragging over it.
"God you're so hot," Satoru groans as he pulls back, fingers finding the clasp of your bra at your back, slipping it free, your bra slipping off, leaving you completely bare in his lap. You look like a goddess—all flushed cheeks, messy hair and pretty soft skin.
"Gorgeous," Satoru breathes as his large palms slide up your hips and sides, squeezing your curves. "So so fucking gorgeous."
You blush at the compliment, like being called gorgeous is too much, even though he just had his mouth on your pussy two minutes ago.
"You next," your murmur, soft, coy, almost shy as you gently tug at his shirt and he laughs, low, breathless, wrecked. His fingers immediately go to comply—he'd give you anything you asked for right now. If you asked him to jump, he'd just ask how high. His fingers hook under the hem of his white tee and he drags it up over his torso and over his head. His muscles ripple with the movement, abs contracting and tightening, shoulders shifting.
You let out a soft noise—a breathy little thing that makes his cheeks hot. He knows he's fit—a lifetime of exorcising curses does that to you, but your eyes drag over him in a way that makes his skin hot, his cock twitch. Your eyes drink him in—the mole by his shoulder, the paleness of his skin in the dark shadows of your living room, only the distant hallway light allowing you see the way his ribs expand as he breathes, the clench of his abs, the shift of his arms.
"Good?" he breathes, a little unsure with your silence and you swallow.
"Good. So good," you whisper back, soft, breathless. His cock jerks at the sound.
You notice, eyes dragging down the thick cut of his muscles, to his soft grey sweats where they're tenting again, a small patch where he came before.
"These too," you whisper, fingers tugging gently at the strings and his heart thumps furiously as he nods dumbly, all words gone because of the way you're in his lap, looking like a goddess and his best friend wrapped in one, and his brain doesn't know how to function when you look at him like that. He lifts up with you in his lap, just a little to drag his sweats down, pulling them down low, settling back on the floor with you in his lap.
Your eyes flit to his thick, heavy cock between his thighs, flushed to the tip, already leaking precum, catching the hallway light at the tip where it's slicked. You bite your lip and he tries not to cum on the spot.
"You can—" Satoru swallows thickly, cock heavy and flushed and oozing precum the more you look at it. "You can touch it. Me." He feels so stupid, tongue tied just because you're seeing his cock for the first time, because there's heat in your eyes and it makes his pulse stutter.
"Yeah?" you breathe and your fingers slowly slip around his cock, and he bites down on his bottom lip to muffle his whimper when you touch the hot flesh. It feels so good—overwhelming to have your hand on him.
Your fingers wrap loosely, and then gently drag them down and then up in a slow, smooth stroke. "O-oh fuck—" Satoru hisses as his hips jolt up instinctively chasing the touch, his lashes fluttering and fingers curling into the floorboards as you toy with him.
"Is that good, Toru?" you ask, voice low and soft and god you're looking up at him from under your lashes, soft and coy and every wet dream he's ever had since he was fifteen rolled into one.
"Yes—Yes. Good, really good," he breathes out in a rush, and you giggle then, small, sweet, familiar and he practically melts.
Your fist drags up his cock again, slow and steady, pumping him in steady, sure strokes that have his muscles tensing and quivering, teeth digging into his bottom lip. It feels so good—better than anything he's ever felt, better than anything he could dream up.
"Don't bite your lip, I wanna hear you," you complain softly.
"The noises are embarrassing—" he starts but before he can continue before he can say that if he doesn't he'll be crying and all you've done is touch his dick, you press his thick, flushed, heavy cock to your pussy, and a gasp rips out of him. "O-oh fuck—" he gasps. You hum, soft, pleased and a shiver runs up his spine. You tilt your hips, start to drag his cock over your slick, soft pussy and he shudders, head tilting back as he stutters out moans and gasps.
"Oh my god—" Satoru hisses as you rock slowly in his lap, dragging your pussy under and down the fevered length, your folds hugging him. "Y/n—Y/n holy shit—" he hisses as his hands curl into the floorboards to keep him up and then move to your thighs, dragging you down onto him, making you moan.
"Fuck, fuck Toru—you feel so—So so good—" you gasp as your arms wind around his shoulders as you grind against him and his hands knead your thighs and ass, pulling you down tighter, savouring every hot slick drag of your pussy against him, his cockhead rolling over your clit every so often, making you cry out and whine as you guys grind harder, rushed, desperate.
"Fuck—Fuck we should've been doing this sooner," Satoru hisses as he drags you down, and you only whine back, nails digging into his shoulders and scalp as you rock down, rubbing against him desperately.
"We could've had this all this time," he breathes, ragged and desperate as he mouths up your throat as your head falls back, moaning breathless and loud. "All this fucking time, Y/n. Could've been grinding like this, feeling eachother like this. We wasted so much fuckin' time."
You moan louder, crying out softly as your drag your cunt over him and Satoru's fingers curl over your ass and he slowly sinks you down on his cock, making you gasp and him groan low. "All that time. All those years—" he hisses as you sink down, pussy stretched around him, taking him as your fingers tiwst in his hair. "Could've been doing this—" he grunts and then his fingers cup your ass and drags you up and then slams you down on his cock and you cry out.
"Satoru—"
"Yeah," he groans as you rock down again, his hands helping you, guiding you to roll down on his cock, feeling it every time you squeeze around him. "Say my name, baby. Tell me who you're riding."
"Satoru—Fuck—Toru—" you whine as your walls drag against his cock, rocking down harder, chasing the friction. He's big, unbelievably so, stuffs you full every time your hips drop. You gasp his name, clutch at his shoulders and he grunts.
"Beautiful beautiful girl—" he breathes as you ride him, and he watches as your tits bounce, your head rolled back, mouth parted open on gasps and moans. "Tell me you feel it. Tell me you want me," he breathes as his hands squeeze your ass, dragging you down on him, making you bounce on his cock. "Tell me you meant every word on that voicemail."
"I meant it—" you cry out, too filled with pleasure to be embarrassed, slamming yourself down deeper on his dick. "I meant it—I want you—"
Satoru moans at that, hand finding your jaw, dragging you down into a messy, sloppy kiss, moaning into your mouth as his other hand wraps around you, and then he rolls you guys over, presses you into the floor, sliding back into you without missing a beat and making you cry out muffled into his mouth. He swallows your cries and moans, fucking into you with heavy, fast strokes, hips slamming into you. His cock drags against your walls, rams against your gspot until you're gasping, tears beading at your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure.
"I want you—I've always fucking wanted you. Just you," he gasps into your mouth as he fucks into you with a rushed animalistic fervour, one hand gripping your thigh, pushing it up to fuck into you deeper. "It was always you. Always you. Even when I thought I was losing my mind, even when I was half dead on missions. It was you, it was only ever you."
Your arms wrap around his neck and he slams into you until you're pussy is clenching tight, a broken cry torn from your lips as you cum around his cock so hard you see stars. He groans low into your mouth, hips keep moving, pushing, fucking, until the orgasm tightens in his gut.
"Fuck—Fuck—I'm gonna—I'm gonna—" he gasps into your mouth and his hips stutter and go faster, skin smacking and slapping, moans and cries mingling as he groans deep into your mouth, the coil tightening—and then it snaps. He groans low and animalistic, eyes rolling back as his cock pulses, thick, hot spurts of cum spilling deep inside you.
You moan into his mouth at the feeling, the warmth that floods you. His hips continue to roll, stuttering, pushing his cum into you, dragging every pulse of his cock out until he's milked and fully unloaded into you. Your foreheads press together, panting, hot and heavy, skin sweaty and flushed. The shadows hug you both, the hallway light spilling into the dips of his back when he's bent over you.
"Fuck," Satoru breathes, nose nudging against yours, breaths fast and hot.
"Fuck," you agree breathlessly, brushing your nose back against his.
"Definitely not friends anymore, right?" you breathe, a little hoarse, a small tired smile tugging at your lips. And he laughs, soft, ragged, relieved.
"Are you kidding?" he laughs back breathy as he brushes a delicate, gentle kiss to your mouth. "No, we're not. Not after that."
"Good," you whisper back and he kisses you sweet and slow, years of aching and yearning collapsing, melting into this—and all those years are worth it if it ends with this beautiful boy melting into you, dizzy from his kisses and smiles.
