especially those quiet moments in the dead of night, the ones that come so rarely when you both are awake. the ones where enjin isn't leading or a stand in brother of five. he's just enjin, the man that wears cartoon printed pajama bottoms with no shirt.
those quiet moments where you touch his hands, trying to commit every line of his fingerprint to memory. it isn't love, not yet, but its something adjacent. those three words burn your tongue and you extinguish them with a kiss.
he should close his eyes, but its his turn to sear this version of you into the depths of his mind. you're breathless from just that one and he laughs, it's dry and quiet.
there's bags under his eyes and his hair has gone flat from hours of laying on it. these quiet moments are the only times he can really be selfish. indulge all he wants from someone so happy to give. he kisses you again, watching your eyes flutter close. his fingers toy at the hem of his shirt, the one that he begrudgingly gave to you. the one he'd never clean again.
his other is sandwiched between the pillow and your head, his thumb pulling at your bottom lip whenever the kiss breaks. you two don't dare to look away, the pads of his fingers ghosting your underwear now. he smiles, its natural, genuine and reassuring. he isn't teasing you, he couldn't unless you asked, but he knows you're tired. he's tired, but you're worth the lack of sleep.
you nod, pushing your hips forward. its eager, but he doesn't shame you. he encourages you. enjin stills his hand, but tempts you to rub against the stiff tips of his fingers. through the thin fabric, you feel the wear of his fingers. the weathering and scars that embed them.
he doesn't let the sigh fall from your lips, instead pressing his back to your own. it isn't enough, but he feels the way you work yourself up. the damp heat that covers his fingers in a sheen. he relents, moving his lips to your forehead before pulling your head against his chest. his hand that held your cheek is now stroking the back of your head while his other finds their way into your underwear to do the same.
it's testing, wanting to see which makes you shiver and which makes you grind harder down. the hilt of his palm rubs against your clit while his fingers slide through your folds. each muffled sigh is rewarded with another kiss to your temple. enjin's hands are big, basically spreading your legs just to accommodate him cupping your cunt.
if he moves his fingers quick enough, he can hear how wet you are. just feeling it isn't enough, hearing it probably won't be either, but he's not worried about himself. not now. the tip of his middle finger slides over your hole, your body jolts expectantly, but he just pulls it back away.
there's a silent plea in the way you ball your hands up against his chest. his skin is hot, but yours feel like an inferno. he gives in so quickly, moving his finger back to where you want. he'd never make you take his thickest finger first, pressing in his pointer instead. you're dripping down his finger already, it makes his mouth water. he swallows thickly.
he can't see your face, but he knows each one you make by heart. he groans at the memory, damning his own expectation of salacious silence. you hear the sound through his chest and you tighten around that singular finger involuntarily. his thumb rubs your clit, unsheathing his drenched finger langourously.
he sets an unhurried pace, one that sluggishly gets you close yet keeps you at the edge of begging for more. his voice is smooth and gentle in your ear – you're doing so good, just hold on a little longer, please, for him. you betray your body, nodding longer than necessary as you try to deny yourself your release.
its almost torture, those few minutes, but they feel like an eternity of ragged breathing and sharp inhales. he relents suddenly, his quickened thrusts surprise you and you cry out. he pulls you against his chest, whispering how good you've done for him and how you deserve to finally cum.
it's like he held the missing link to your orgasm, those words pushing you to finish. you're shaking, riding out the intensity. he can feel each spasm, the way you clench around his finger. he curses, pulling his pruned finger free.
that took a lot out of you, he can tell by the way you curl up against the crook of his body. he's confident that you're asleep when he says those three words.
you tiredly say them back. these quiet moments in the dead of night will always be the most important ones.
