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The flickering lamplight cast long, dancing shadows across the upturned metal drum that served as their card table. Around it, a quiet tension hung in the air, thick with the smell of damp earth and stale oil. Enjin, Zanka, Rudo, Gris, and Follo were locked in a game of chance, the stakes a mix of bragging rights and a winner-takes-all dare. The only sounds were the soft slap of a card hitting the rusted metal and the low, collective grumble of a bad hand.
Enjin, with his infuriatingly calm demeanor, was raking in chips with a quiet, efficient grace. Zanka, however, was in the midst of a spectacular losing streak, his usual luck seemingly having abandoned him for the night. The final round saw him toss his cards face-down onto the table with a frustrated groan, his face a mask of irritation.
Gris, a sly smirk on his lips, leaned back in his scavenged chair. "Well, well," he drawled, his gaze sharp and calculating. "Looks like you're not as good with cards as you are with a fight, Zanka."
Enjin, counting his impressive pile of winnings, finally looked up, a lazy, amused smile playing on his lips. "It seems so. And as the overall winner, I get to decide our little loser's fate." He held Zanka's gaze, his eyes glinting with a mischievous light. "I think the loser should have to spend a day in a dress. A nice, frilly one."
A collective groan ripped through the group. "What? No way!" Rudo whined, slapping his cards down on the table. "That's a stupid punishment. I'm not doing that." Follo crossed his arms over his chest with a pout. "That's pointless. Who cares about that?"
Enjin just sighed, leaning back in his chair and giving them a look of mock disappointment. "You guys are such spoilers," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "It would have been funny. Fine, fine. We can forget it."
He pushed his winnings toward the center of the table and began gathering his cards. The moment was over, the bet dissolved by a lack of enthusiasm. Everyone else moved on, but Zanka couldn't.
Over the next few days, as he and team Akuta patrolled the dusty, dangerous streets, Zanka couldn't stop thinking about it. His cheeks would burn with mortification every time the memory surfaced, but beneath the shame was a quiet, insistent pull. It wasn't just about losing the bet; it was about the way Enjin had looked at him, the amused glint in his eyes, the almost gentle way he'd proposed such a ridiculous idea. Everyone else had dismissed it as childish, but for Zanka, it felt like a silent challenge—a moment of shared, secret nonsense just for them. A promise. It began to settle in his mind that, even if no one else was watching, he had to see it through. He had to prove he was good for his word, to Enjin, and to himself.
Zanka found August in the workshop, surrounded by bolts of salvaged fabric and half-finished garments. The air was thick with the scent of cloth and the quiet hum of a sewing machine. Zanka’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The conversation from days ago, the forgotten bet, felt impossibly large now.
"August," Zanka began, forcing the word out. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "I... I need you to make me something."
August, ever the artist, didn't look up from his work. "Oh? What an honor, Zanka. What a piece of me can I craft for you?"
Zanka stared at the floor, his cheeks burning. "A dress," he mumbled, the word barely a whisper. "A woman's dress. A... a maid outfit."
August’s sewing machine fell silent. He looked up slowly, his eyes wide with a gleeful, unhinged light. A broad, knowing grin spread across his face. "Ah," he said, the sound dripping with theatrical delight. He didn’t question the request, didn't ask for a reason. He simply clasped his hands together in a sort of prayer. "I knew it. Little Zanka has a hidden... kink."
"What?! No!" Zanka snapped, his voice cracking with mortification. "It's not that! It's for a bet! It's a punishment! I lost a card game, okay?!"
"Of course," August said, his grin never faltering. "A punishment." He stood up and began to pace, his mind clearly already racing with ideas. "We must make it authentic. The fabrics, the cut... and of course, the level of modesty is key. Do we go for classics, or do we go for... something more revealing?"
August paused, holding up a few sketches. The first was a traditional maid uniform, a simple black dress with a modest white apron and cuffs. "Safe," August mused. "But uninspired. It does not do your figure justice, Zanka."
"That one's fine!" Zanka blurted out, a desperate plea in his voice.
August ignored him completely and pulled out a second sketch. This one was shorter, the hem of the skirt ending just above the knee. The apron was a sheer, delicate lace, and the top was a corset-like design that would have been completely impractical. "More playful," August said with a theatrical flourish. "It shows off your legs. A shame to hide them, no?"
Zanka’s face was now a deep, furious red. "Are you listening to me?! I said the first one is fine!"
August only chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mad genius. He then pulled out his final masterpiece, a drawing so elaborate it looked like it belonged on a stage. This one was all dramatic flair and exaggerated features, with a pleated miniskirt, a large, almost absurdly oversized bow at the chest, and delicate straps that would expose his shoulders. "This is it! The perfect look!" August declared. "This look is a statement, it's art! It's a maid, yes, but a beautiful and defiant one. No one could possibly be embarrassed in this!"
Zanka’s jaw hung open. He couldn't speak. He just pointed a trembling finger at the last drawing, his voice a strangled sound of protest. "That's... that's not... Are you insane?!"
August simply beamed, completely ignoring Zanka’s escalating panic. "Insane? No, Zanka. I'm a visionary. Now, give me your measurements. I must begin at once! Your little 'punishment' will be a gift to us all."
Zanka’s room was little more than a small, private space, a meager comfort that felt like a sanctuary in this moment. The maid outfit, a ridiculous vision of black and white, lay folded on his worn-out mattress. He stared at it for a long time, the garment an object of both his humiliation and his strange sense of obligation. He sighed, the sound heavy with defeat. "It's just a bet," he muttered to himself, as if saying the words aloud would make the act any less insane.
Slowly, reluctantly, he began to undress. He shed his uniform, the familiar weight of it leaving him feeling exposed. He picked up the maid outfit, the fabric feeling stiff and alien against his skin. The lace was surprisingly soft, almost silky, a deliberate, maddening detail. He slipped into the dress, struggling with the small buttons on the bodice. It fit perfectly, just as August had promised.
He found a piece of reflective metal, scavenged and polished into a makeshift mirror, and held it up. The sight that greeted him sent a fresh wave of mortification crashing over his face. He looked absurd. The crisp white apron, the puffy sleeves, the ridiculous headpiece—it was all a grotesque parody of what he was. His hands, calloused and scarred from fighting, looked completely out of place against the frilly cuffs.
He turned, trying to get a better look, and that's when he noticed the details August had added. The skirt, which had looked demurely knee-length when folded, was actually cut much higher, revealing a shocking amount of his thighs when he moved. A thin, black strap, entirely pointless and laced with tiny bows, was attached to the inside of the skirt, as if meant to hold up a stocking. He traced the lines of the bodice, noticing the intricate lacework on the back that was designed not for support, but for a delicate, suggestive reveal of his skin.
A furious blush spread across his entire body, hotter and more intense than the initial embarrassment. This wasn't just a costume; it was a joke, a vulgar, humiliating prank. Zanka’s jaw clenched. The feeling of betrayal, sharp and sudden, was almost as bad as the humiliation. August wasn't just having fun—he had made this dress with a deliberate, and decidedly erotic, intent. He felt a fire ignite in his gut, a mix of pure rage and mortification. He had to go find August. Now.
Zanka, his face still burning with a furious blush, was in the middle of unbuttoning the absurd maid dress when his door was violently pushed open. He was about to yank the garment off and storm off to find August. He hadn't even heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
And then he saw him. Enjin stood in the doorway, his arm still raised from pushing the door, his expression one of serious concern. "We need to talk," the older man began, his voice low and firm. He was about to continue when his eyes finally registered the sight before him.
Zanka froze, his hand midway through unfastening a button. The dress, with its ridiculous frills and short skirt, felt like a public spectacle. His humiliation, already at a boiling point, surged to a new level. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. All he could do was stare at Enjin, his eyes wide with a frantic, silent panic. The room, so recently a private sanctuary, was now the stage for his ultimate mortification.
Enjin’s serious expression melted away, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief. His gaze swept over Zanka, taking in the black-and-white fabric, the delicate lace, and the bare skin of his thighs. For a moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—a brief flash of surprise, maybe even embarrassment, as if he knew he had just stumbled into a moment that was not meant for his eyes.
But that flash was gone in an instant. It was replaced by a different, quieter emotion. A slow, genuine smile touched Enjin’s lips, a smile that didn't reach his eyes but seemed to settle deep in their depths. He didn't laugh or mock. He simply looked, a thoughtful, almost appreciative expression settling over his features. The silence stretched between them, thick with Zanka's shame and Enjin's unspoken reaction. The taller man felt a strange warmth spread through his chest. It was a sight he knew he shouldn't be seeing, but he couldn't deny the unexpected, quiet pleasure of it. He had to remind himself to look away, to say something, anything to break the tension.
The younger boy, still mortified, was the first to move. He stumbled forward, his bare legs feeling exposed in the short dress, and pulled the door shut with a soft click. He couldn't meet Enjin's gaze as he turned back around.
"It's just... the bet," Zanka mumbled, gesturing awkwardly to his outfit. "From the card game. I lost."
Enjin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. He hadn’t thought Zanka would actually go through with it. "I didn't think you were serious," he said, the amusement from before replaced with a look of genuine disbelief. "I figured you'd just let it go."
Zanka's embarrassment was a physical weight. "Of course I did," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. He ran a hand through his hair. "I always follow through on a promise. Even if it... even if I'm just making a fool of myself."
The silence in the room deepened, the air now thick with unspoken meaning. Enjin finally looked away, his gaze settling on the peeling paint of the wall. He was quiet for a long moment, a faint flush on his cheeks. "It suits you," he said softly, the words quiet and sincere. He then turned his head back to Zanka, his eyes filled with a vulnerable honesty Zanka had rarely seen. "And I... I didn't think you would do something like that. For me."
Zanka subtly tugged at the hem of the short maid dress, a self-conscious gesture as he felt Enjin's gaze on him. "Of course I did it for you," he mumbled, the words feeling both bold and impossibly small. He finally met Enjin's eyes, his own filled with a fierce, unwavering conviction. "I would do anything for you."
Enjin let out a long, weary sigh, a sound full of a complicated mix of exasperation and affection. "I swear," he muttered, shaking his head slightly, "I'm going to end up in hell for getting into situations like this."
Zanka’s face fell, and he opened his mouth to apologize, to say he was sorry for putting Enjin in such an awkward position. But before he could get the words out, Enjin closed the small distance between them. He wrapped his arms around Zanka's waist, pulling him into a tight, secure embrace. He buried his face in the crook of Zanka's neck, the scent of cologne and the lingering smell of the cigarette a surprising, heady mix.
Enjin held him close, his arms a firm, secure presence around Zanka’s waist. The gesture was a raw, honest comfort, and Zanka, with a soft sigh, leaned into the embrace, resting his hands on Enjin's shoulders. The sudden intimacy was both overwhelming and welcome.
"Where did you get this?" Enjin murmured, his voice muffled against Zanka’s neck. His fingers, which had been resting at Zanka's sides, began to move, lightly tracing the line of the dress’s hem. The unexpected, gentle touch sent a shiver through Zanka. Enjin’s thumb brushed against his bare thigh, a feather-light caress that made Zanka’s breath catch in his throat.
"August," Zanka managed to whisper, his voice a little strained as he tried to keep his composure. He told him about the trip to August's workshop, about the designer’s crazy ideas and the way he had ignored his pleas for a simple uniform. As he spoke, Enjin’s fingers continued to move, the casual touch now feeling deliberate and electric. He could feel the warmth of Enjin’s hand through the thin fabric, the phantom touch on his skin where the lace ended.
Enjin’s fingers traced the lace trim of the apron, a slow, deliberate movement that made Zanka's heart pound. "I should thank him," Enjin said, his voice a low rumble. "He has an eye for… details."
The heat from Enjin’s hand was a searing brand on Zanka’s skin. He felt himself tremble, his own desires rising to meet the unspoken tension between them. Zanka's explanation became more frantic, a rush of words to fill the intimate silence. His body, however, was telling a different story, leaning further into Enjin’s touch, his breath now coming in short, uneven gasps.
Enjin’s hands slid from Zanka’s waist, his palms flat against the smooth skin of his thighs, pushing past the lace and fabric. He cupped Zanka’s hips, the touch both firm and impossibly gentle. Zanka let out a soft, involuntary gasp, his own hands coming up to grip Enjin’s shoulders. The embarrassment was still there, a ghost of a feeling, but it was being drowned out by the overwhelming surge of pleasure that coursed through him. He was a mess of contradictions: mortified and desperate for more, ashamed and yet so completely willing.
Enjin gently broke away from the embrace, his movements slow and deliberate. He settled on the edge of the mattress, then patted his lap, a silent invitation for Zanka to join him.
"I don't need you to call me 'Master' or anything," Enjin said with a faint, amused smirk, his voice a low rumble. "I just want to be with you for a little while. We rarely get a chance to do this."
"I didn't think you had this kind of perversion," Zanka said, the words a nervous whisper as he slowly approached.
Enjin's lips curved into a wry smile. "Look who's talking," he retorted, his eyes holding a familiar, teasing light.
Zanka, his cheeks burning, slowly climbed onto Enjin's lap, straddling him. The sudden weight and closeness made Enjin's back hit the mattress with a surprised grunt. Enjin let out a dramatic, theatrical sigh, his hand disappearing under the ridiculously short skirt. "At least you could have worn proper panties," he commented, his voice a low rumble.
Zanka gasped, his body stiffening. "I would never do something like that!" he protested, his voice high with mortification.
Enjin's hand rested gently against Zanka's hip, his thumb stroking a slow, possessive line against his skin. "At this point," he murmured, his eyes locking with Zanka's, "you shouldn't be ashamed of anything."
The younger boy’s breath hitched as he stared into Enjin's eyes, the moment of intimacy a tightrope walk between them. Enjin's hand was a warm, possessive weight on his ass, and the silence of the room felt like a shared secret.
The moment shattered. The door to Zanka's room was abruptly flung open. Standing in the doorway were Rudo, Riyo, and Amo.
"Zanka! We're going—" Riyo started, her voice chirping with excitement, but the words died in her throat. Her eyes, wide and luminous, landed on the scene before her: Zanka, straddling Enjin's lap, wearing a maid dress that defied all logic.
A moment of stunned silence hung in the air, thick and oppressive. Riyo, in a sudden panic, threw her hands over Rudo and Amo's eyes. "Don't look! Don't look at those perverts!"
"What's going on?" Rudo's voice was muffled from behind Riyo's hands.
Amo, however, was not so easily shielded. She peeked between Riyo's fingers, her head tilted in confusion. "Why is Zanka wearing a mini-skirt?" she asked in a quiet, innocent voice.
Zanka’s face was a furious, scarlet red. His blood ran cold with sheer mortification. He felt Enjin’s hand stiffen on his hip, a silent acknowledgment of the disaster unfolding before them.
The next day, the air in the cafeteria was heavy with gossip. Enjin sat alone at a table, nursing a bitter cup of coffee, trying to ignore the whispers. Just a few feet away, Riyo was holding court with Follo and Gris.
"And he was sitting in his lap!" Riyo insisted, her voice hushed but dramatic. "In a maid dress! It was tiny! And he had this look on his face, like he was the master and Zanka was his pet! It was so perverted!"
Follo listened, his brow furrowed with a mixture of disbelief and genuine horror. "Enjin did that?" he asked, his voice low.
"Yes! He forced him into it, I just know it!" Riyo continued, her hands gesturing wildly. "He's a pervert! I always knew he was up to something, and now I know. He made Zanka dress up for him!"
Gris just listened, a sly smirk on his lips as he glanced over at Enjin. He said nothing, but his silence was more cutting than any words.
Enjin felt a vein throb in his temple. He wanted to leap to his feet and defend himself, to correct their ridiculous assumptions. To explain the context of the card game, the lost bet, the embarrassment that had turned into something intimate and quiet between him and Zanka. He wanted to tell them how he hadn't forced him into anything, how Zanka had done this because he was an honest fool, and how he had done it for him.
But he couldn't. How could he explain the true, messy, intimate details without making it worse? He could only sit there, stewing in a silent fury, while the false narrative took root. His reputation, so carefully cultivated, was being dismantled piece by piece, all because of a maid dress and a foolish bet.
The whispers about Enjin's "perverted" tendencies eventually died down, replaced by the ever-present, more urgent hum of survival in the Refuse. Life, with its constant battles and scavenges, moved on. But the memory of that day, and that dress, lingered between Enjin and Zanka like a secret.
A few days later, Zanka found Enjin alone, polishing his weapon by a flickering lamplight. The quiet shink-shink of metal against stone was the only sound. Zanka approached tentatively, his hands shoved into his pockets.
"Enjin," he started, his voice a low mumble. "About... about what Riyo said."
Enjin paused his sharpening, though he didn't look up. "Hm?"
"I'm sorry," Zanka blurted out, his cheeks burning faintly. "That you got... that they misunderstood. It wasn't fair to you." He felt a fresh wave of embarrassment just thinking about it.
Enjin finally stopped, slowly testing the edge of his umbrella with his thumb. He then looked up, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, so low only Zanka could hear it.
"Don't be sorry, Zanka," he murmured, his eyes twinkling with a shared secret. "It was worth it. And besides," he added, his gaze sweeping over Zanka with a teasing glint, "that dress really did suit you."
Zanka's face exploded into a furious blush. He wanted to hit Enjin, to protest, to deny it all. But then he saw the genuine, amused warmth in Enjin’s eyes, and a reluctant, embarrassed smile twitched at the corner of his own mouth. He just shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him. The anger and humiliation were gone, replaced by a strange, contented warmth. Some secrets, it seemed, were just too good to stay hidden.