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It’s late when Kyouka turns off the main road, down a street she’s walked ten, maybe fifteen times before. After dark, Canvas Town is almost as bright as it is in the daytime, lanterns strung between store awnings and lamps humming overhead. They pick out a sea of colour, so vivid compared to the trash piles rotting in No Man’s Land and the parched landscape that surrounds them. It’s the colour that draws her back here, time and time again, artwork sprayed across every surface, a feast for the eyes that never ends.
She steps off the curb, kicking an abandoned paint can into the gutter. There’s a man waiting to cross the street, but he takes one look at her greatcoat and hurries away; a blessing, more than a curse. The Hell Guard uniform rarely invites small talk, and it means Kyouka is left well alone.
Another street, this one narrower, the scent of fried food slowly fading but the aerosol tang of paint still lingering in the air. Tonight she’s restless, so she turns left beneath the shared awnings of a cafe and a bar, lights and music spilling cheerfully from their doors. She isn’t looking for that kind of company. There’s an alley between them, darker and less welcoming, and she heads straight for it.
Kyouka smells him before she sees him; cigarette smoke in the air. She doesn’t stop, her heels click-clacking purposefully and her head held high. She hears him laugh. On her next breath, she tastes cologne.
“You’re a long way from home,” Enjin says, falling in beside her.
She spares him a glance. Taller than her, just… A rarity in the East Ward. His clothes are as dishevelled as the last time she saw him, his blond hair just as unintentional. He drags his hand across it, leaving it even more haphazard, and his cheeks dimple when he smiles.
“You don’t know where I live,” she replies, pretending to study the mural on the wall behind him.
There’s a half-eaten cheeseburger, and a cigarette balanced between his fingers. He takes a bite, then wipes the ketchup off his chin with the back of his hand.
“You’re disgusting,” she adds.
His smile widens, his reply muffled by the burger he’s eating. “You’re just jealous of my cheeseburger.”
“Unlikely.”
He swallows. “I can show you where I bought it, if you want.”
Ash falls from the tip of his cigarette, leaving a grey smudge on his boot. It’s hard not to roll her eyes. She carries on walking instead.
He follows. That’s the game.
“It’s Zanka’s favourite place,” he adds. She grunts. Whether it’s affirmative or not is up to him. “Wanna hear about him?”
“No.”
“He’s here too, you know.”
She hesitates a heartbeat too long. He notices; he always does, ‘I told you so’ scrawled across his golden eyes like the graffiti that covers the walls. Nobody tells Kyouka so, so she juts her chin out. “My brother is your concern, not mine.”
He takes another bite of his burger. “I’ll tell him you said hi.”
They’re close to the apartment she’s acquired, an expense chalked up to reconnaissance that nobody official dares question. She uses it for work, more often than not. It’s the not that’s the problem.
“And why are the Cleaners in Canvas Town?” she asks, as they near the end of the street.
He shrugs. “Road trip?”
She doesn’t believe him, and he knows that too. Lucky for him, tonight she doesn’t care. She slips a card from her jacket, and a pen. “I’m surprised you’re not keeping more of an eye on him… After all, he’s a long way from home himself.”
She doesn’t mean Zanka. A shadow passes Enjin’s face; blink, and she’d miss it, and he shoves the last of his meal into his mouth. “I’ve got eyes all over. Everywhere.”
“I see.” She jots the address on the card, flicking it towards him between her index and middle fingers as though it’s the most normal thing in the world, as though he doesn’t already know it like the back of his hand.
He doesn’t even look at it, just shoves it in his pocket.
“Eleven o’clock,” she says, turning her back on him. “Don’t be late.”
***
It’s five minutes to the hour when Kyouka arrives. Any earlier, and she might think she relies on whatever this is a little too much. One day, Enjin won’t be waiting for her and she’ll put this in the past where it belongs, but that day isn’t today. She can already smell cigarettes as she walks out onto the landing.
Enjin’s leaning against the wall, one foot on the plaster and a fresh cigarette in his hand. She walks past him, retrieving her keys from her coat. “You can’t smoke in here.”
He doesn’t blink, taking another long drag, then tilts his head back, blowing a plume of silvery smoke towards the ceiling. The movement exposes the swirls and strokes of the tattoos that cover his neck. Another heartbeat wasted; her gaze lingers, and he straightens up, catching her eye as he drops the cigarette on the floor and grinds it beneath his heel.
That smile… So cocky. So certain. One day, she’ll wipe it off that pretty face but today, she unlocks the door, holding it open as she strides through.
He follows. The apartment is tiny; a kitchen she’s never used in one corner, a threadbare sofa and a TV that lacks reception in the other, a bathroom through one door and a bedroom through another. No signs of life, no sentimental trinkets or books, not even a magazine. Somewhere to sleep when she needs to.
Somewhere for him.
He slouches on the sofa, legs kicked out and his hands clasped behind his head. “Nice place…”
Kyouka doesn’t reply, slipping her feet from her shoes. She places them neatly under the bench next to the door, the carpet coarse beneath her heels. Next is her katana. The polished wooden saya gleams when she sets the blade down.
“You’re chatty tonight,” he calls.
All she sees is weakness in the cracked mirror on the wall, colour in her cheeks and need in her eyes. She unclips her choker, then tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She tilts her head, and the rest hides one of those treacherous eyes from view.
“How stupid this is,” she mutters, slipping her greatcoat from her shoulders, a myriad of cruel and unusual punishments concealed within the thick red wool.
He stands behind her, crossing the room without making a sound. The knowing look in those eyes is different now. Warmer. He reaches out, skimming his knuckles along the curve of her neck, and she shivers.
The rings of ink are stark against her flushed skin. How she loves those hands.
“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, his voice light as he lowers his mouth to her throat. A whisper of a kiss. So light, and yet it trips along her nerves like an electric shock. “The women I like, they’re smart.”
She shouldn’t smile, but she does. It softens the pointed face in the mirror, eclipsed by Enjin’s waiting grin. He reaches for her obijime, those hands making quick work of the careful knot holding it in place. Another kiss, and he unwinds the golden ribbon and tosses it on the floor.
Her greatcoat, her shoes, her katana… Removed so methodically, and stowed away so neatly. Her obi crumples on the floor at her feet, and his fingers skim the hem of her kimono, leaving goosebumps in their wake. A total mess, this dirtbag of a man, who holds her gaze in the glass when he slips the silk from her shoulders. There’s a nod to lingerie beneath it, a scrap of dark lace and ribbon, and his eyes light up.
“Now here’s the thing…” He kisses her shoulder. This time there are teeth, nipping at her skin and making her knees weak. “I don’t think you bumped into me by accident, because these are my favourite—”
“Enjin.” There’s the slightest crack in her voice, and they both hear it. “You are the very last person on the Ground I’d ever want to bump into.”
He catches her wrist, twirling her away from the mirror and now his gloating eyes are all she can see.
“Liar,” he breathes.
He tastes like cigarettes when their mouths collide. She doesn’t care, curling her fists into his hair to pin him against her, the soft rasp where he’s shaved the back of his head so satisfying beneath her fingertips. He groans when she tightens her grip. Heat pools through her, one of those hands she adores splayed against the small of her back, and the other warm against her cheek.
She fits so perfectly against his rough edges. He traces the jewellery hanging from her ear with his fingertip, then slips his hand around her throat. A gentle squeeze, and now she’s so very aware when she swallows beneath his palm…
He drags her closer, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards, and when his tongue pushes past her teeth again, she meets him just as fiercely. Another heartbeat, and then they’re stumbling through the soulless apartment, leaving a trail of scattered clothing in their wake. Her fingernails aren’t gentle when she drags them along his waistband. In the spirit of retaliation, he bites her bottom lip.
This cannot keep happening… That’s a difficult thought to grasp when her shoulders hit the wall. He drops to his knees in front of her, reverence in his eyes, leaning forwards to press his mouth to her stomach. Another kiss finds her hip, and another lingers at the crease of her thigh... When he grips her ankle, hooking her leg over his bare shoulder, she twists her fingers through his hair.
It’s irritating just how talented that stupid tongue is. He presses it flat against her, staying infuriatingly still as he grins around it, inviting her to work for what she needs. She yanks his hair and moves it for him, grinding his mouth against her. He’s gleeful when he drags his fingers along her inner thigh, and mirrors her own dismissive action when she‘d flicked him her card, the tips of his index and middle finger pressing into her, just enough and nowhere near…
His mouth shines with her desire when he leans back, gauging her reaction, and this time her hands are less punishing, caressing his jaw, a reward for his good work. There’s no time to consider if it means a damn thing when he leans into her palm. He thrusts his fingers into her, his lips wrapped tight around her clit and she cries out, clinging to the wall as he sucks and licks and kisses, any other coherent thought scattered by the heat of his tongue.
It builds, a wave of pleasure that’ll take her with it if she isn’t careful, pins and needles in her toes as they curl against the carpet. His shoulder moves beneath her thigh, and she sees his cock fisted in his hand. She lets him push her higher, until the rhythm of his fingers echoes the blood rushing in her ears and for a moment, it’s so tempting to let him tip her over the edge. She wants more though, tugging at his hair. He stops, interpreting her command, and her body cries out for him when he drags those thick fingers from her cunt.
She passes him on trembling legs, swinging her hips as she moves towards the bed. Of course, he follows, settling against the headboard and entirely on display. She straddles his hips, her fingers so much daintier than his when they wrap around his cock, and she works him slowly, watching his eyes turn heavy-lidded and his lips part.
She could make him suffer. He deserves it, after all he’s done to stain her family name. The wave is still within her grasp though, so she leans forward to take a condom from the nightstand. He wisely doesn’t mention that she’s prepared, her fingers still wrapped tightly around him. She’s Hell Guard. Screwing gutter trash isn’t something she plans.
He reaches out, swiping the pad of his thumb across her nipple, then leans forwards, swirling his tongue around the jewellery she wears. One last slow jerk of her hand and he twitches in her palm. When she sinks onto him, the sound he makes is echoed by her own breathless moan, and he drags her closer, knees raised to press her more snugly against his chest. Those awful fingers slip between her thighs and fuck… She’s filled to the brim, stretched so perfectly her nerves sing. She rolls her hips and the sensation builds.
He mutters something, kissing her throat as she moves. It’s a simple rhythm to set, and she’s so slick around him, his fingers painting circles against her clit and his cock so hot and hard inside her. They move, skin to skin, hands and mouths and heat... She knows the tells like the back of her hand, how his eyes flutter, and how that cocky grin fades. He’s just as close as she is…
She catches his jaw, pressing her thumb between his teeth. “Not yet...”
Those eyes turn pleading, but she’s not ready, not done losing herself in the friction between them. When she smiles, he closes his eyes for a moment, and she reads defeat in the shape of his shoulders.
“One of these days, you’ll kill me,” he murmurs, kissing her throat.
Kyouka suspects he’s right. She leans closer, her arms wrapped around his neck and presses her lips to his ear. Another roll of her hips and she’s crying out, the sound urgent, hungry… He shakes his head, exhaling through gritted teeth and surely this is worth it every time…
He doesn’t have to wait long. The first wave of her climax drags her under like a riptide. She’s drowning, panting and mewling as she falls apart. He coaxes her on, every swirl of his fingertip daring her to take exactly what she needs. He guides her through every tremor until she’s limp in his arms, and when he presses her back into the mattress, all she can do is surrender, too overstretched, too overstimulated…
He hesitates. She takes his face in her hands, kissing his jaw. “Don’t stop—”
He doesn’t, matching her previous tempo with his own tune, every thrust burning through her like a firework, as vibrant as the colours outside. He kisses her nose, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, his aim ruined by his frantic rhythm. She’s still lost, legs aching, when his hips stutter and he groans again, his pace slowing until he finally stills.
She stares up at him. Sweat beads his throat, and she reaches out to trace the veins along his forearms, and the dark swirls of his tattoos. They could stay like this, she thinks, him buried inside her and her thighs wrapped around his waist. They could find whatever the natural progression of this is. He knows her too well though and extricates himself.
It’s dark. She watches the light outside her window paint shadows on the ceiling. The bathroom bin clangs and the tap hisses, and then he flops onto the bed next to her, holding a battered cardboard packet and still only wearing his tattoos.
He shakes a cigarette free, balancing it between his lips before he lights it. Three clicks and the lighter’s flame shivers in the air. He takes a drag, blowing smoke at the ceiling and doesn’t even look at her when he holds it out.
It tastes like him.
Her clothes are everywhere. Enjin lies among the crumpled sheets and watches, smoking his cigarette in the dark. When she throws her greatcoat around her shoulders, he stretches his arms above his head. She steals a glance; she’s only human.
“He likes the job,” he says, as she reaches for her katana. Her knuckles turn white. “He’s good at it. He’s made friends.”
She doesn’t ask who, slipping the weapon beneath her obi, then fastens her choker around her neck. There’s a mottled bruise above her collarbone. She adjusts her collar.
There’s already a glass on the nightstand, left for the man she never plans to see. He knocks cigarette ash into it, then takes another long drag and tries again. “He’s doing good.”
Kyouka just nods curtly. “Check the door is locked when you leave.”
He stares, then shrugs.
She pauses, halfway through the door “Tell him I—”
Enjin clears his throat. It doesn’t matter.
The door clicks softly closed behind her.