╔══ஓ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔♱᧓ ꒱⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ஓ══╗
♱) ̊⋆+ᛝꩇׁׅ݊ɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ꫀׁׅܻ ℘ᨵׁׅ᥎꫶ׁׅᛝ+⋆ ̊)♱

♱)⋆ᛝ ᥣׁׅ֪ꪱׁׅꪀׁׅƙׁׅ֑꯱ׁׅ֒ ᛝ⋆)♱

. ۫ ‎ꫂ᭪݁ ℘ꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻqׁׅυׁׅꫀׁׅܻᥣׁׅ֪: 𓊆XXX𓊇

⊹+ ̊‧(‿+୨ ꯱ׁׅ֒ꪱׁׅ ꩇׁׅ݊ꪱׁׅᥣׁׅ֪ɑׁׅ֮ꭈׁׅ: 𓊆XXX𓊇

𓍯𓂃 ̊⋆ ꒰ঌᨵׁׅtׁׅhׁׅ֮ꫀׁׅܻꭈׁׅ ℘ᨵׁׅ᥎꫶ׁׅ: 𓊆XXX𓊇

♱)⋆ᛝꭈׁׅɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ᨵׁׅ ꩇׁׅ݊ᐣᛝ⋆)♱

Enjin ♱

♱)⋆ᛝ ᝯׁꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻժׁׅ݊ꪱׁׅtׁׅ꯱ׁׅ֒ ᛝ⋆)♱

✦ by @PrettyLittleVampire

ᛝ))♱))♱))♱))♱))ᛝ

♱) ̊⋆+♱𓊆ꪱׁׅꪀׁׅꪱׁׅtׁׅꪱׁׅɑׁׅ֮ᥣׁׅ֪ ꩇׁׅ݊ꫀׁׅܻ꯱ׁׅ֒꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ᧁׁꫀׁׅܻ 𓊇♱+⋆ ̊)♱

ᛝ))♱))♱))♱))♱))ᛝ

Beneath the dim hum of flickering lamps and the distant metallic groan of machinery, the world around you felt soaked in a familiar grunge grit settling on steel, dust drifting through dead air, shadows stretching like bruises along the corridor walls. The Cleaners’ compound always carried this echo of the underworld: a place stitched together with rust, purpose, and exhaustion. But tonight, the atmosphere held something else. Something warmer. Something that moved like breath on glass.

Enjin leaned with his back to the concrete wall, one boot planted flat, the other toe pushing languid circles into the ground. His coat hung loose around him, beige fabric softening his hulking silhouette. The red of his tank top glowed faintly beneath it like an ember burning slow. His tattoos lines of sharp geometry and ancient script peeked from the collar as though listening. The scar on the side of his head caught the light and threw it back in a thin, silver stroke.

He was supposed to be on break. But the cigarette between his fingers unlit, resting easy behind the knuckles had been stalled there for several minutes.

He toyed with it absentmindedly, the way a man does when he’s not sure if the habit still belongs to him.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice low, warm, shaped by that gentle, good-natured confidence he wore like another tattoo, “for someone who hates the smell of smoke so much, you’ve got a funny timing showing up every time I take one out.”

You stepped closer, boots whispering over the floor. The grunge around him seemed to bend, just slightly, as though the entire hallway leaned into his orbit. His yellow eyes flicked up to you bright, sharp, amused. Pupils pale, uncanny, glowing like thinly sliced moons.

“You don’t need that,” you said softly.

His lips curved, dimples cutting at the corners those horizontal indentations that only appeared when he grinned or smirked. Tonight, they softened him rather than sharpened him. “Don’t I?” he teased. “Helps me think.”

But he wasn’t really thinking. He was studying you. Hand pausing. Chest still.

You could tell because Enjin is calm, grounded, and humble Enjin always moved with purpose. Even his stillness was deliberate. A calculated quiet.

“What if you thought... differently?” you murmured.

His brows rose slightly, amused warmth flickering in his expression. “Differently?”

You nodded. Reaching out, you plucked the unlit cigarette gently from his fingers, felt the brush of his calloused knuckles against your own. He let it go without resistance though his eyes tracked your every motion, curious, pulling you closer like gravity.

He watched as you slid the cigarette into your pocket, He didn’t stop you, He didn’t even blink.

Then you lean in closer, hands parting his coat as naturally as breath, fingers grazing his warm shoulders through the thin tank top. His muscles shifted beneath your touch an instinctive response, like a big cat adjusting to a softer presence.

“What are you doin’, sweetheart?” he asked, though he already knew. The words dripped with a lazy affection, a slow-burning interest that deepened the gravel of his tone.

You kissed him, Not hungry just sure, The kind of kiss that replaces a habit, A vice. A need.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. Shock wasn’t common for him. You felt it in the way his hands big, warm, deceptively gentle came up to your waist only after a long, loaded pause. When he kissed you back, it was slow at first. Thoughtful. A man testing something new with reverence rather than greed.

You could taste the faint hint of tobacco on his lips ghost of a habit he hadn’t fully given up but suddenly didn’t seem to need.

His mouth moved against yours with that same precision he used in everything: deliberate, skilled, but softened by something undeniably tender. When he pulled back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath ghosted across your lips warm, steady, grounding.

“Well,” he exhaled, voice a low rumble, “you might be onto somethin’.”

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, stopping where his scar disappeared into the fade of his hair. His eyes closed briefly under your touch not out of weakness but ease, as though you’d found a switch inside him that dimmed all the static.

“You want another?” you asked quietly.

Those yellow eyes opened, Bright, Focused, Almost devout.

His smirk was slow, sinful in the softest way. “If this is the replacement...” His thumbs stroked your hips, pulling you gently closer, “...I’ll toss the whole pack.”

You laughed quiet, breathy and slid your hands down his chest. The grunge around you seemed to pulse with the warmth building between your bodies, the flickering light casting fractured shadows over the tattoos on his neck.

“You sure?” you teased.

He dipped down, lips hovering just above yours. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “I was fated to bring people together.” A soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “If you wanna be the one pullin’ me in...”

His lips brushed yours again, light but electric.

“...I’ll follow.”

The second kiss was deeper. Not rushed just sure of itself. His umbrella, slung across his back, tapped lightly against the wall with each shift of his body, as though even his Vital Instrument agreed with this new ritual.

And it did become one; A ritual., A replacement, A rediscovery.

Your hands slid through his blond hair softer than it looked feeling the warmth of his scalp beneath the strands. He tilted his head into the touch, humming low, the vibration traveling through his chest into your palms.

“Y’know,” he murmured against your lips, breaking the kiss with a breathy chuckle, “this is a hell of a lot healthier than smokin’."

“So you’ll stop?”

He leaned back just enough for you to see the sincerity glinting behind the brightness of his gaze. Despite the tattoos, the scars, the strength, Enjin possessed a gentleness that was rare. A stillness that welcomed you in instead of pushing you away.

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