Chapter Text
It was the evening of the annual end-of-year cleaner celebration, where all district adults met East side at the best bar joint nightclub between towns to celebrate your collective efforts.
And you were going to fuck Enjin.
You don’t recall a verbal agreement, anything carefully placed or planned. But at this point, it might as well be.
The first time was a one night stand, a fun hook up you anticipated forgetting by morning—of course, you now suspect that very few things about Enjin are forgettable. The next year, gravity shifted just so and you found yourself in his lap, tasting the smoke and rum on his lips until he offered something more tempting. By the third year, it had become a tradition—if you could call something so crude that.
The thing is, you don’t like tradition. Never have, never will. It was a trap. A petulant reminder of the past, of what stands to be changed—of what can’t be changed. But this was different. Being a team leader for one of the North squads meant work first, play when you could squeeze it in, which roughly translated to “basically fucking never.” Still, you were only a human being at the end of the day. With pesky needs and an itch that you could never fully scratch yourself, not for lack of trying. You deserved some relief, to fall apart at the hands of a man who knew exactly what he was doing—at least that’s what he'd told you.
You imagined it again, his voice swimming through your head. Gravelly and warm, matching the callouses on his hands. Both had a way of dragging down your spine and making want fluoresce under your skin. Heat crawled up your neck just at the memory.
You carefully swiped some powder over the evidence of your flushed skin, appraising your appearance in the mirror as you got ready. With hair and makeup complete, you pulled your dress over your shoulders, finishing as you adjusted the hem of tight blood-red satin where it barely reached above mid-thigh.
You’d give it to him, Enjin did make an impression. So, you kept it casual because it had to be. Like a drug you only let yourself do one day out of the year for fear that you might find yourself addicted.
And tonight, you were going to get another hit.
⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘
Stepping into the bar was nothing short of a feat. The amount of cleaners that showed always managed to surprise you; a sign that spirits were good and well, you supposed. Packed wall to wall, the place was heady. Everything was dimly lit by bare warm bulbs hanging from ceiling beams, further complemented by the red glow of various neon signs marking the joint as OPEN—just in case the line outside the door hadn’t made that obvious. Smoke lingered in the air, painting everything in a sultry haze. The music inside was loud enough to be felt in your chest while still underscoring the rumble of conversations that managed to be louder.
You weaved through the crowd, greeting some familiar faces on your way as you made strides toward the bar. There was just barely an opening at the counter which you cozied up to, waiting patiently for one of the bartenders to circle by.
Before you could order, you felt arms come around both of your sides, caging you in from behind. Broad hands braced against the bar in front of you, revealing his tattoo that peeked from half-rolled sleeves of a black button-down. A smoky, deep cologne rounded out your senses as he leaned his head over your shoulder.
“How’d you know red’s my favorite color, baby?” A familiar voice purred. “Whaddya want?”
You turned to meet Enjin’s face and were quickly reminded of how tall he was. His gaze drank up your features while you considered the question.
“What’re you having?”
“Whiskey and cider,” he replied, the devil in his smile, “think you can handle it?”
The corners of your lips curved with something conspiratorial. “Sure.”
“Atta girl.” He slipped the words against your temple before leaning towards the bar to place an order for two.
Once drinks were in hand, he led you to one of the lounge areas. A few worn velvet armchairs and a marred side table that held the typical vices, ashtray and an empty shot glass, greeted you.
His hand lifted from the small of your back as he sat down unceremoniously. Compared to his stature, the chair looked like an unbefit throne.
“C’mere.” His arms and legs splayed open with a lax confidence, beckoning you to join him.
You accepted the invitation as you made your way to stand between his knees. His free hand reached to your waist, guiding you onto his lap.
There was an ease in his motions—one that shouldn’t still make your stomach flip after all these years, but it did. The drink you held sloshed at the movement as you settled into him, spilling a little down your arm that you quickly captured with your tongue on reflex. His eyes seemed to catch for a moment.
“Making a mess of yourself already?” He tsked warmly, turning to bring his mouth against the shell of your ear. “Was kinda hoping that’d be my job.”
He set his own drink down on the table, returning to rest his palm casually above the curve of your ass.
Was he always this smooth?
“Maybe,” you played coy, taking an apropos sip from your glass, “but I don’t feel like ruining my dress just yet.”
He chuckled.
“I like that about you.” He remarked, slipping a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with his other arm, tapping one out against his knee before placing it between his lips. He silently offered one to you with the raise of an eyebrow but you shook your head, declining politely like you always did. He never stopped offering though.
“Like what?” You did your best not to sound too eager, watching as he pulled the lighter up, fire quickly catching to the clean white end.
He smiled, taking a drag before blowing the smoke over his shoulder.
“That you make me earn it.”
⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘
Conversation continued to carry you for a bit. It was the kind of back and forth that came naturally despite you both knowing where the evening was headed. As comfortable as it was, you couldn’t help but want things to escalate. So, during a lull, you took matters into your own hands.
With your head already at the slope of his shoulder, you teasingly traced the outline of his tattoo with your finger before then placing a tasteful open-mouthed kiss to his neck. Enjin hummed in response—a low grant of his approval. Your assailment continued slowly, just chaste enough where he found himself itching to take the reins.
After letting you have your fun, he shifted beneath you, lifting his arm to gently grip your jaw. His hold managed to be firm without being cruel—something about it made your pulse skip wildly through your veins. His eyes traced across your lips, teasing as you watched, before smoothly bringing your mouth to his own. The kiss was hot, but not intent on rushing—at least not yet. He led you through it, allowing you to melt into him. The way he felt, how he explored a rhythm that kicked up once he sensed you could handle it, was intoxicating.
His hand slid to your waist, feeling the shape of your body press into him as he deepened the kiss. A barely-there moan reverberated in your throat while his tongue moved to taste you further. Your hands, seeking something to brace against, glided up his neck, tangling in his hair with a languid tug.
It was everything you needed. Exactly what you had been craving.
Every nerve tingled with anticipation like your body couldn’t help but get ahead of itself. It was embarrassing how desperately you wanted to get under his clothes. To feel him stir under your palm. To have him between your legs, forcing you to take every inch, rewarding you with those depraved sweet-nothings that groaned from his chest—
*Chk-Chk-Chkkk* *Chk-Chk-Chkkk*
Enjin’s choker chirped to life against his throat, tearing you from your thoughts. He nipped at your bottom lip in apology before you both broke for air, taking a quick draw from the long-forgotten cigarette perched in his other hand. You felt his hold on your waist lift, not in any hurry to answer it.
*Click*
“Enjin?”
A woman’s voice. Something wrenched in your gut.
He turned away from you, giving a hushed reply that just escaped your senses. His eyes narrowed as he listened, his mind elsewhere. Only a few words were exchanged before he hung up, turning back to you with a sigh as he stubbed the end of his cigarette into an empty glass.
“. . . Girlfriend?” You asked. An unwelcome wave of nausea followed.
He looked at you, his eyebrow twitching upward in a small flicker of amusement as he realized. Then, donning an easy smile, he shook his head.
“Nah.” His hand squeezed your thigh as he helped you to your feet, standing himself before maneuvering you back down onto the chair. “Just always fuckin’ something, right?”
You stared up at him from where you sat, expectant and eyes wide. He gently ruffled your hair as he spoke.
“Have some fun for me, okay?”
And with that, he was gone.
You finished your drink in a few swallows, staring blankly to the hum of people around. Your teeth chewed at the inside of your cheek to distract from the sensation in your chest, something hollow and frustrated.
There were other options, you knew, but none you had planned on. Nothing you wanted enough to stay.
So you left.
⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘
Fate had a funny way of sorting things out. Some say the universe is giving in nature, but you’d wager it sensed you leaving the bar unsatiated that night was your last straw. Thankfully, an olive branch was extended when you were called in to talk to your boss the following week.
“We’re transferring you to the East Ward.”
A recently found spherite now in their custody had brought a number of folks snooping around: looters, raiders, the Hellguard—you name it. All unwelcome and all trouble. Plus the kid was a giver, a strong one too. And with such unwieldy power came the necessity to tame it.
“He’s training with the Akuta team and they requested a second mentor, someone experienced. At least for the time being.”
You accepted. Mostly out of obligation, but admittedly also because everyone knew Enjin was the head of team Akuta. It was perfect. A temporary fix to your temporary problem. Throwing you into his orbit under the casual guise of work. You’d do your assignment, get a good hookup in, then return to home base. No harm, no foul.
Still, unease swirled in your stomach. Imagining him seeing you outside of how you always were, drink in hand then sprawled beneath him, had you a little unsteady.
Not that it mattered, really.
You had two jobs—one professional, one practical—and would be leaving once they were completed.
⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘ ⫘
Hours had passed since returning to your living quarters for the night, but sleep seemed to hold out on you. After the third restless turn against your pillow, you sat up, flicking your bedside lamp on. You swiftly stood from your bed, giving your eyes no time to adjust before moving toward your closet.
Maybe some packing would tire you out.
The transfer was happening at the end of the week, which gave you roughly four days—enough time to assemble your things, familiarize yourself with East Ward’s protocol, and organize your team with a suitable replacement. All things considered, it was among one of the simpler assignments you had received.
You worked over your room in stations: closet, dresser, bathroom, desk—rifling through each with decisive motion until a pile formed. Meticulously, you began loading everything into bags.
Saving the biggest for last, you splayed your hand across the black shell of your suitcase, pressing it closed despite your belongings’ protests. Filled with a few carefully folded uniforms atop the rest of your clothes, some extra pairs of tactile boots and face masks designed for different zones, a couple books, and the necessary toiletries—all it took was a precise tug of the zipper for the case to close in one fell swoop.
You stood with a pleased huff, hands coming to your hips as you admired your work. You liked when things were in their place.
Neatly wrapped and airtight.
No loose ends.