It won't happen a third time
Summary: After making out with your best friend, you avoid him for a couple of days. Not knowing how to deal with the "after" of the situation. So, of course, he calls you out.
Warnings: pussy drunk enjin, praise kink, tons of edging, Enjin is a little mean but cute
if you would like to know the origin story of this au, you can read it here! but it can also be read without it ⚘️
Days drag into a weird limbo after that night. You dodge Enjin's calls on your chocker—simple stuff like "yo, grab food?" or "saw a piece of junk, thought of u"—with lame excuses about being busy. In the hallways, you spot his blonde hair from a mile away and duck into side rooms or crowds.
It's stupid.
You've been friends for years—sharing smokes, bitching about life, crashing at each other's places without a second thought. But now? Every time you think of him, you remember the sticky heat between your legs, his groans in your ear, and it all twists into this knot of what-the-fuck.
He lets it slide for a week. But Enjin's not the patient type.
You're weaving through the crowded hallway one afternoon, head down, when his voice cuts through the noise like a knife.
"Oi! Why the hell have you been ghosting me?"
You freeze. People glance over—curious eyes, whispers starting. Your face burns. Of course he'd do this here, loud and unfiltered, like privacy's a joke.
"Enjin," you hiss, turning halfway, praying no one hears the panic. "Not now."
He strides up and his eyes narrow, that lazy smirk nowhere in sight—replaced by a tight jaw and crossed arms. "Not now? You've been dodging me like I got the plague. What gives?"
People are staring now. You grab his sleeve, tugging him toward the nearest door, but he plants his feet. "We're friends, right? Years of this shit, and now you can't even look at me?"
"Fine!" you snap, voice low but sharp, cheeks flaming. "But not here. Everyone's listening."
He rolls his eyes but follows when you bolt for the exit, pulling you instead—his hand firm on your wrist—straight to his room down the hall. The door slams shut behind you, locking out the world.
His space is a mess, as always: tools scattered, half-empty cans, posters peeling off the walls. He leans against the door, arms folded, staring you down. "Talk."
You pace a little, avoiding his gaze, heart hammering. "I... I don't know. I didn't mean to ghost you like that. It's just... after that night, everything felt—" You gesture vaguely. "Different. I didn't know how to handle it."
Enjin's expression softens—just a fraction, that sharp edge dulling. He pushes off the door, closing the distance until he's right in front of you. His hands rise slowly, cupping your face with surprising gentleness—thumbs brushing your cheeks, tilting your head up so you can't hide anymore.
"Nothing's different," he says, voice low and steady, that familiar drawl slipping back in. "You're still the same pain in my ass who's been putting up with my shit for years. That night doesn't erase any of it."
You swallow hard, relief crashing into something hotter, sharper. His thumbs keep moving—slow, absent circles over your cheekbones, like he's grounding himself in the feel of you. The room shrinks: his messy bed in the corner, the faint scent of his cheap cologne, the low hum of the mini-fridge. Everything else fades until it's just the heat rolling off him and the way his yellow eyes hold yours—patient, almost unnervingly so.
"Fuck," he mutters, exhaling like he's been holding it in forever. "I really thought you wdone with me. Like, actually pissed or... I don't know."
You huff a small laugh, rolling your eyes even as your throat tightens. "You're so dramatic."
"Says the one who ducked into closets like I was contagious." He pinches your cheeks lightly between his fingers. "Don't do that shit again, yeah? Hurts more than you think."
You swat at his hand half-heartedly. "Sorry, idiot."
He chuckles—low, relieved—and the sound pulls a reluctant smile from you too. For a second, it really does feel like nothing's changed: just you two, trading bullshit like always.
His thumbs resume their slow circles, and a little hesitant he says “I’ve been thinking about it too,” his voice is quieter now. “While you were busy treating me like the plague. Not gonna lie—that night was fuckin’ electric. The way you shook, those little sounds you made… I still hear them when it's quiet.”
The memories slam back—his mouth on your neck, teeth dragging, the way he made you come without even getting your shorts off...
He drops one hand, sliding it down to your hip, thumb hooking just under your waistband—teasing the line without crossing it. Not yet.
“I thought...” he continues, voice dipping into that rough, lazy register that always flips your stomach. “We could keep it simple. Casual. No labels, no weekly ‘what are we’ crises. Just… us. When we want. 'Cause I liked it—a hell of a lot. And you clearly did too.” His lips curve, slow and knowing.
“You wanna add some benefits to our friendship? Is that your idea?” The idea feels… tempting. You have to admit. “I don’t know, Jin… I don’t wanna fuck things up between us. You’re still my best friend.”
“I know, I know…” He runs a hand through his messy hair, thinking about what to say next. “But we’ve always been honest with each other, right? There’s no reason it could go wrong—because if something ever gets weird, we talk. That’s it.”
He does have a point, but it’s crazy to think that Enjin—who you’ve known for years now, who sleeps on the floor in your room when he’s too tired to head back to his after a late conversation, who has a whole library of shitty dates that make you laugh—is now trying to convince you to let him hit it.
“You’re crazy,” It's the first thing that leaves your mouth.
“Maybe.” He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “But I’m also right. It’s better than hooking up with some random asshole who doesn’t know shit about you. And—” his gaze drags down your body and back up, shameless “—I think you’re hot as hell. Always have. Just never said it out loud before that night.”
The room is dead quiet except for your breathing. He tilts his head, studying you. “So what’s the answer?”
You bite your lip—hard—trying to think through the fog of want that’s already settling low in your belly. His hand on your hip tightens just a fraction, grounding you and pulling you closer at the same time. Again, You don’t push him away.
And that little act of yours is enough for him to understand that you want him just as much.
“I didn’t answer yet,” you whisper, watching him get closer slowly.
“Yes, you did,” he says, brushing his lips against yours with a cocky grin on his face. “You fuckin’ did already.”
The next second, he's kissing you.
Soft at first—almost tentative, like he's testing if you'll bolt. His lips move slow, coaxing, that familiar citrus scent wrapping around you. You don't stop him. Can't. Your hands find his waist instead, pulling him closer, and he takes it as permission. But then his hand slides up your back, fingers threading into your hair, and he angles your head just right and suddenly it’s not careful anymore.
Tongues sliding, teeth catching your bottom lip, a low groan rumbling in his chest when you press yourself closer. He walks you backward until your thighs hit the edge of his bed; you sink down onto it without breaking the kiss. He follows, getting on top of you and crushing down a little with his weight.
It feels like ignition. Like striking a match in a room full of gasoline—fire spreading hot and wild, consuming everything. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct, pulling him flush against you, and he grinds once—hard—reminding you exactly how this started last time.
It felt so good it scared you a little...Maybe this was a mistake. But it felt so damn right to have him on top of you again.
When you finally pull back for air, his forehead rests against yours. Both of you are breathing hard.
"Still think I'm crazy?" he murmurs between kisses, voice rough, smirking against your lips.
You laugh—shaky, a little breathless. "This won't happen a third time."
"You think so?" He asks kissing you softly while his hand slides down your side, dipping under your shirt, fingers tracing your skin in a that makes you shiver. "Guess we will see."
Fucking cocky bastard
"Fuck you." You say giggling at his confidence and his other hand is already pushing past the waistband of your pants, fingers finding you soaked and ready. He groans when he feels it and kiss to nip at your jaw.
"Funny thing to say when you are dripping f'me, princess."
His fingers don’t rush. Instead, he lets them hover—just barely grazing your folds, tracing lazy lines up and down without giving you what you’re already aching for. You shift your hips instinctively, chasing the contact, and he chuckles low against your jaw, the sound vibrating through you.
“Uh-uh,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to make you whine. “Not yet.”
He finally presses the pad of his middle finger right where you need it most—your clit—but only with the lightest pressure, drawing slow, wide circles around it. Not on it. Around. Teasing the swollen bundle without direct contact, letting the slickness make everything glide too smooth, too maddening.
You gasp, thighs tensing around him.
“Look at you,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction. “Already squirming. You want me to touch you right here?” He adds the tiniest bit more pressure on the next circle, brushing the sensitive peak for half a second before circling away again. "You better use your words...You stopped talking to me for a week. I wanna hear you talk now, y'know?"
“Jin—” Your voice cracks, half protest, half plea.
He smirks against your neck, nipping lightly. “That’s not begging, baby.” Another slow circle, this one tighter, closer, but still not quite there. Your hips buck up, trying to force his hand, and he presses his palm flat against your mound to hold you still—firm, possessive.
“Easy. I’ve got you.” His finger dips lower for a second, gathering more of your wetness, then returns to those torturous circles—slower now, deliberate, letting you feel every slick drag. “Fuck, you’re so wet it’s dripping down my hand. You like when I play with this pretty little clit, don’t you? All swollen and needy just from me barely touching it.”
His fingers keep up that maddening rhythm—slow, wide circles around your clit, never quite landing where the ache is sharpest. Every time you think he’s about to give in, he drifts away again, slick and teasing, letting the anticipation coil tighter in your belly until your thighs tremble around his hips.
You’re breathing in short, desperate bursts now, hips twitching uselessly under his palm. He’s watching your face the whole time—eyes dark, half-lidded, drinking in every little hitch in your breath, every flutter of your lashes.
“E-enjin…” Your voice comes out small, cracked. What the fuck was he doing to you?
He hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck where his lips are pressed. “Yeah, princess?”
You try to form the words. They stick in your throat—embarrassment and need twisting together until your cheeks burn hotter than the rest of you. His thumb brushes the hood of your clit again, feather-light, then pulls back completely. The sudden absence makes you whimper.
This is so mean. Even for him.
“Say it,” he murmurs, lips curving into that smug, knowing smile against your skin. “Tell me exactly what you want. I’m not touching this pretty clit until you ask for it properly.”
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, thighs squeezing his sides like that might force the words out. It doesn’t. All it does is press him closer, let you feel how hard he is against your thigh, how much he’s enjoying this slow torture, which honestly makes everything worse.
You cursed him one million times inside your head and swore you would slap him later for it, but now all you need it's his finger moving on your clit. So swallowing your pride for a second, you manage to say "Please..."
It's barely a whisper, shy and shaky while your face is half-buried againts his shoulder.
He stills. Lets the silence stretch just long enough to make you squirm.
Then he exhales a soft, pleased laugh.
“That’s cute,” he says, voice rough with want. “Real fuckin’ cute.”
It isn't the whole sentence but he'd let that slid for now. He finally—finally—centers his touch, rubbing slow, firm circles directly over your clit now. The relief is instant and electric; your back arches off the bed, a broken moan slipping out.
"Aah~"
“There she is,” he groans, low and wrecked, like your reaction is turning him on as much as the feel of you. “That wasn't so diffult, huh?"
He keeps the rhythm steady but varies it—tight little circles, then broader ones, then flicking lightly over the tip before going back to circling. His other hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple in the same lazy rhythm over your bra.
“Like this?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Nice and slow… just how my shy little princess likes it when she’s too embarrassed to ask for more.”
You nod frantically against his neck, a broken little sound slipping out—half moan, half sob of relief. Your hips roll up into his hand on instinct, chasing the friction, but he keeps the pace torturously even, never speeding up, never pressing harder. Just circling, circling, letting the pleasure simmer low and deep instead of exploding.
“Fuck, you’re so sensitive,” he groans quietly, like he’s the one suffering. “Clenching around nothing already… bet you’d come so fast if I went faster, huh?”
You can only whimper in response, fingers digging into his shoulders. He kisses the corner of your mouth—soft, almost sweet—then murmurs against your lips:
“Say ‘please’ again… nicer this time… and maybe I’ll give you a little more.”
You shake your head in a no, moaning low and broken, the last frayed threads of pride holding you together by sheer stubbornness. But they’re ripping fast. Every lazy pass of his finger sends another gush of wetness, and you’re so soaked it’s almost embarrassing how loud it sounds when he drags his fingertip through your folds.
Enjin smirks—that pure, infuriating jerk smirk—and without warning, he taps your clit. Hard. Not enough to hurt, but sharp enough that the sudden jolt of overstimulation makes your whole body jerk, thighs clamping around his hand on reflex. A strangled gasp rips out of you; it’s too much and not enough all at once, making your poor clit throb under the brief sting.
“Say ‘please’,” he drawls, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Have some manners, princess.”
You want to punch him. Right in that smug fucking face. But the words won’t come—only another pathetic whine as your hips buck uselessly, chasing the contact he’s already pulling away.
"I hate you"
Enjin chuckles under his breath, low and dark as a response. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and panties in one smooth tug, dragging them down your legs and tossing them somewhere behind him without looking. Cool air hits your soaked skin and you instinctively try to close your thighs, but he’s faster—knees nudging yours apart, spreading you wide on the bed.
You throw an arm over your face, hiding in the crook of your elbow, cheeks burning. You can’t look at him while he’s staring like that.
This wasn't on the list of things you planned to do with your best friend this year.
“Fuck…” His voice drops “Look at her.”
He doesn’t touch yet—just lets his gaze drag over you, slow and hungry. You feel it like a physical thing: the way he’s drinking in the sight of your pussy, glistening, swollen, clit peeking out needy and flushed.
“She’s so fucking pretty,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself more than you. “All shiny and dripping for me… fuck, baby, you’re making a mess of my sheets.” His thumb traces the crease of your thigh. “Nearly makes me wanna stop teasing you right now and just bury my face in her and lick up every drop.”
Your breath shudders out. The praise hits harder than his fingers ever could.
He leans in closer, breath ghosting over your inner thigh, eyes still locked on your core like it’s the only thing in the world worth looking at. Utterly in love with it. With you like this.
“But I’m not gonna,” he says softly, almost sweetly. “Not until you say it again."
His middle finger returns—barely brushing your clit this time, just the lightest, slowest rub. One deliberate circle. Then another. Torturously gentle, letting the pleasure build in tiny, frustrating increments while you writhe under his stare.
“C’mon,” he coaxes, voice velvet and commanding at the same time. “Don’t make her suffer any longer. Say ‘please’ for me, princess. Let me take care of this gorgeous little pussy the way she deserves.”
He doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t press harder. Just keeps that agonizingly slow rub—watching, waiting, completely fixated on the way your clit twitches under his touch, the way more wetness seeps out with every pass.
Your pride is gone. Shredded. All that’s left is the ache and the need and the way his eyes are burning holes through you.
You can barely get the word out, voice small and trembling against your arm:
“…please…E-enjin...please"
He exhales like you just handed him the keys to heaven.
“Good girl.”
And finally—thank fuck—his touch changes.
His finger finally gives you what you’ve been dying for—faster now, deliberate, circling your clit with perfect, unrelenting pressure. The slick sounds fill the room, obscene and loud in the quiet, and the sudden shift from tease to rhythm makes your whole body light up like a live wire.
You slap a hand over your mouth, biting down on your palm to muffle the moan that tries to tear out of you. It’s too much, too good, your hips jerking up into his hand on every pass, thighs shaking, back arching off the mattress.
He dips lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh—hot, wet, possessive—then drags his tongue in a slow stripe up your entrance, tasting how soaked you are for him. He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.
“Fuck...” he rasps, voice wrecked and reverent. “Come for me, princess. Let go—give it to me.”
And as if your body was just waiting for the command your orgasm hits you hard and fast, ripping through you in white-hot waves. Your legs clamp around his head on instinct, thighs squeezing tight as your hips buck wildly against him. You nearly suffocate him—trembling, every nerve screaming—and he fucking loves it. You can feel the low, satisfied growl rumble against your pussy as he keeps licking your entrance, keeps rubbing, drawing it out until you’re gasping, boneless, stars bursting behind your closed eyes.
When the aftershocks finally start to fade, your legs fall open, limp and useless. You’re sprawled out on his messy sheets, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat. Every muscle feels melted, heavy, like you’ve been turned inside out.
Enjin pulls back slowly with a stupid smirk on his face. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and licks your fluid on his finger tip before crawling back up until he’s looking at your face.
“You good?” he murmurs, voice rough from everything he just did to you.
You try to glare, but it comes out weak—more of a dazed, blissed-out pout. He laughs softly, low and pleased, then dips his head to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your lower belly, right above where the ache is still pulsing faintly.
“Can’t wait to eat you out properly ,” he says against your skin, lips brushing with every word. “Gonna take my time… spread you wide… make you come on my tongue until you’re begging me to stop.”
You’re still catching your breath, heart hammering, but the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted—makes heat flicker back to life low in your belly despite how wrecked you feel.
“Cocky bastard,” you manage to whisper, voice hoarse.
He just smirks wider, kissing your belly one more time before lowering his head to the middle of your legs again.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, smug as ever, “but something tells me you fuckin’ love it.” His eyes drop to where you’re still dripping—slick trails running from your pussy down to his sheets, pooling warm and obvious under your ass. “Quite a lot, actually.”
"Shut up!"