#my feets just got cold what if this is ca ca poo poo (as my students say)

[theloveinc]

enjin x reader - in sickness and in—

(enjin hates going to bed when you’re mad. the least he can do is get you off—even if you’re sulking the whole way through.)

warnings: afab!reader, gn pronouns, use of pet names, 2k words, PWP!!!!!!!!!!!

You refuse to look him in the eye when Enjin calls to you.

The acknowledgment is there—you’re in the room, you’ve halted your trivial slights and huffs, letting him voyeur your bedtime routine of rubbing lotion all over you body—even if you did sideswipe his attempt to pull you into his side for a brief kiss after dinner (which had Zanka in disbelief, Riyo giggling, and Rudo averting his eyes like the two of you were two big piles of steaming crap).  

The fight was over something stupid, something petty, something to do with Rudo and whether or not he needed more or less babying.

(You had said he gets enough slack from everyone as it is, that Enjin doesn’t need to go out of his way to act as the kid’s personal assistant. Then, Enjin countered by claiming you were guilty of doing the same thing, and so you accused him of not taking you seriously, and so on and so forth until you both ran out of breath and examples.)

It wasn’t drastic by any means, more smart and nippy, still, you hate the way flippancy can still get the best of Enjin even between the two of you, his caliber as a giver sometimes overwhelming his natural (far from earned, really) charm. And when he uses that condescension to outwit you in a fight where your argument is equally as reasonable as his (or maybe, simply, just as dumb), you’re not so inclined to sit back and take it.

(In more serious spats, ones that feature more fight than fuss, and between you, more than mutual glowers and snitty remarks, he does make his mistakes up to you. In the dark, in between the heat of your bodies, he’s able to turn back into the charming man you fell in love with, the one who forsakes all others, one who can actually make you swoon in word and action alike. In the interim, however? He's not above pushing buttons. )

He gestures to you, watching the way you slow your digging through the dresser to stare at him from out of the corner of your eye.

You’re topless, as you sometimes are right before bed. Normally, you’re happy to call one of Enjin’s loose shirts pajamas, but tonight you’d rather spend the extra three minutes picking out something of your own to wear to bed, as petulant as that makes you look. A subtle dig you know won’t bother your handsome, sweet-mouthed schmooze of a boyfriend… but one he will definitely pick up on.

“We don’t have to talk,” he says from where he sits, perched on the edge of the bed as if to remind you of the fact he’s inescapable. “I hate going to bed when you’re mad at me, you know that.”

There it is, even though he technically started the fight by poking the bear that is wiping Rudo’s ass for him. Enjin is eager (always eager) to push the tension behind you (it’s taken you a long time to determine when he’s being genuine or not, even if most of the time, you’re sure his phrasing isn’t meant to blame but rather… highlight his unspoken surrender) without acknowledging his fault in the matter; it’s never him who’s mad at you, rather, vice versa, as proved by your clear attempts at withholding from him.

The bastard croons again. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” then he rubs it in for good measure. “Please.”

You roll your eyes, but approach him anyway. You can’t say you hate it when he calls you sweetheart, but he’s stingy with the endearment, often saving it for times like this; times when he’s wiggled his way under your skin and wants to feign his innocence in the matter of upsetting you. It’s not that he’s actually of the mind that he is free of blame, but… he’s always been the weasel of the both of you, thick-skinned (aside from his oddly distant, secretly-concerned attachment to abandoned children) and forbearing.

Enjin opens his legs wide enough for you to take your place between them, his big hands reaching to rest on the divots of your hips, and his chin lifting so that his eyes can shift from your bare chest to your face. His fingers tangle in the elastic of your sleep shorts, and he’s quick to roll the band over the soft curve of your ass until he has you stepping out of them entirely.

There are things you could say, slim and biting, or lewd and stout, but you decide to stay quiet. You’d much rather soak in the three seconds of his faux-pleading-turned-admiration than risk losing a losing potential orgasm, peeved as you are.

It’s always been an effort to be as forgiving as Enjin, especially in a place as tough as on the ground, where grudges do more to keep you safe than going soft on dimpled, butter-eyed boys… but you know Enjin could never hold your care for Rudo against you, even if it means he’ll get an earful tomorrow when he admits you’re right about needing to remember the little turd’s not a hapless kid anymore—

For now, you let your bodies do the talking, let his face find a place in your chest so he can press quick kisses to your sternum and suck little hickeys onto the innermost fat of your tits. For the first time since the spat, he’s fully absorbed in the moment, his eyes closed to focus in on his attention of you, whether as a deliberate distraction from his own feelings of guilt… or not. Sexually, he still manages to keep you at the forefront of his thoughts.

He pulls back, not after one kiss to your lips (which you return, delayed, to the corner of his) and puts two fingers in his mouth, taking the time to moisten each digit before sliding them down the front of your belly. He goes until they tickle the dusting of hair on your mons, when you’re quick to grab the sleeve of his t-shirt, bunching the fabric up in your fist as he reaches where you’re most doughy, soft, and admittedly needy, your body’s honesty betraying your mind’s annoyance.

He smirks when he notices the signs of wet and warmth, and you gasp softly when the pad of his finger presses into your clit. The tension in your loins wasn’t exactly unknown to you, but the throb of his touch has your stomach flexing regardless, even if this is far from the first time he’s explored you in this way.

“Enjin—“ you harsh, half whined through heated breath, half through your teeth at the nonchalance he displays; deliberately slow in finding rhythm against where you are most sensitive to his touch. He hushes you, leaning further into the moment by laving his tongue over a nipple, letting the softest part of your skin catch on his bite. The bud, already pert from exposure, tightens into something that stings from the cold when his mouth departs and returns elsewhere—reminiscent, again, of the effect of him.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he coos, nuzzling further into your breast, “‘don’t have to cry for me.”

Against your conscious will, you keen. His dedicated worship of your chest does nothing to stop the pad of his finger from starting to rub increasingly-restless little circles into your clit that change tempo as quick as he lifts and applies pressure (each switch of pace causing blood to rush to extremities you hadn’t realized had gone numb). Aided by the pull of his other arm keeping you close, your hands move to tangle in his hair and your torso arches forward as if to encourage the thorough attention. The only thing you can think, aside from the fact that you’re giving him the satisfaction of spitting out his name, is that you know it’d be less than an inch, would be less than one single breath of his, to slide his finger into where your sex flowers open entirely. As with most scenarios he puts you in, however, he enjoys his time toying with you more than he does leading you to any kind of rushed ending

As if in reward, your grip on his hair has grown tight, pulling it taut from his scalp, and Enjin is huffing right alongside you to keep up with the torment. He’s still smiling like the goon he is, but his satisfaction with the endeavor, his pleasure in pleasing you, builds right alongside your own to the point where it’s no longer simply a distraction but a desire. 

His movements are skilled, ablaze with experience that’s now solely saved for you, in how he’s able to hold his wrist despite the rhythm of his fingers, and match the slender curve of his body with the arching tangle of yours. 

You can barely stop yourself from shaking at the effort it takes you not to fold entirely, and you lean down to kiss him again, sloppy, unfocused, though he makes it easy in meeting you halfway. Your lips meet, and then meet again, and then open so your tongues can greet each other, this time, in kind rather than in argument.

“‘know I love you,” he mumbles in between your mouths, “right, sweetheart?”

You hum some type of affirmation, which has Enjin guiding your leg over his knee to open you up further and wider. He lets his thumb take over the attention of your clit, his middle fingers now sliding steady into your cunt—stretching, massaging, warming you from the inside out as the initial sting of adjustment blooms into pleasure. You can feel the way his lips tick up against yours at the receptiveness, the perfect ease with which you take to him inside you, reaching to where only he can reach with every slide in and then out again.

“Can you say it back?” he eats up your breath, thumb heavy on your clit, more harsh pressure now that he’s nudging that spot toward the front of your insides, winding something deep in your belly that’s desperate for relief. “‘wanna hear you say you love me.”

“Love you, Enjin,” you breathe, forgetting your anger, eager for your reward Even if you will resume annoyance post-climax, Enjin is thorough in making sure you’re satisfied regardless of the reason for trysts such as these, and the words egg him on to lay back, now pulling your hips to align fully over his hand. Your own slide from his face to his chest, streaking his pale skin with red where your nails rake the flesh.

With your hands resting on his navel, just like that, you come undone. A guttural moan rips from you, your pussy squeezing around him just as your sweat streaked thighs sandwich where he’s anchored his waist under you.  Despite the pressure in your belly releasing like the cork off a bottle of champagne, knocking the wind right out of your sails, Enjin’s digits continue to dance between the seizing walls of your pussy, now gooey with your release that drips down his forearm. You're sure you can be heard through the walls of HQ, your labored whimpers and pants, but the concern is fleeting as you ride the aftershocks of him pulling and pushing out again, before sagging against him like a deflating balloon.

“That’s it, baby,” his voice is soft in your ear, milking your orgasm from lightning strikes of quick and tight bliss to soft and rolling aftershocks of satisfaction. His fingers slow but don’t stop, enjoying the final twitches of your pussy  before he finally leaves you empty and cooling. “That’s it.” 

-

Later, when all is said and done, your lotion reapplied and Enjin’s fingers sucked clean, you give him his goodnight kiss after all (even if you roll your eyes when he gives you that cheeky grin when you pull back, a glint in his eye when finally let him cuddle up to you in bed).