After finding out that you were feeling insecure, Sukuna makes sure to remind you that there’s no need for that.
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Pairing: fem!reader x husband!Sukuna
Genre: Married human Sukuna AU, 18+, smut, comfort, established relationship
Warnings: MDNI, fingering(f receiving), unprotected sex(don’t do it!), soft!Sukuna, porn with some plot, very slight angst, aftercare, he says princess a lot
Word count: 2.4k
A/N: Hey! So, this is my first time posting any written work since 2019 and the first smut I’ve ever written, so please go easy on me! I have several fics I’ve either started and scrapped or just haven’t finished but somehow wrote this in a whole day! I’m very excited about this and I hope everyone enjoys!❤️
Disclaimer: I don’t own any rights to Sukuna or the JJK franchise, this is solely from my intellect and it in no means tied to anything other than my imagination.
“Princess, can you please tell me what’s wrong?” The man standing in front of you in your kitchen asked for the thousandth time since the two of you got home. He currently had you caged against the counter because he knew the moment he moved, you’d avoid him and go to sleep without talking to him about it. He refused to let another second go by without knowing what was wrong. Once you could tell him, he’d fix everything he could in an instant. Seeing you this upset was absolutely destroying him. “I don’t know what happened or what to say unless you tell me and you know that.”
You hesitated. It was stupid but it still bothered you more than it should have. Having to listen to a group of girls at Yuji’s party talk about this man and what they would do to him, knowing he had a wife (not knowing it was you). Then hearing that they couldn’t care less who she was because they had seen her and there was no way she’d be able to keep him loyal for that long… it ruined the whole rest of your night, shattering every thought and expectation you had for your relationship. Sukuna was your world, but were you enough? Would he really get bored of you? What was it about you that made them think he wouldn’t stay with you?
“Do you think about sleeping with other girls, Kuna?” You finally said just above a whisper. You kept your head down, looking towards his stomach, afraid to see the look on his face.
“Wha-“ Sukuna’s grip on the counter tightened for a split second as he tried to grasp what you were asking. Was his wife, of all people, really standing here questioning if he thought that or not? “Why would I…You…Ring…What? Why would you ask me something like that, love?”
You looked up and saw the utter confusion in his eyes and slowly started to realize how stupid that question was. He searched your face trying to find any reason you could have. You took in a deep breath and held back tears as you answered. “Because there was an entire group of girls at Yuji’s party that were graphically detailing what they wanted from you. One of them even said that it would be easy to do because they had seen your wife and that she wasn’t worth staying loyal to and I was literally sitting right ther- “
Sukuna’s arms wrapped around you tightly and pulled you into his chest. You curled into him as you felt him bring his head down to nuzzle into your neck. “My sweet princess, there is no one else ever on my mind.” He pulled back slightly and grabbed your left hand and held it up in between the two of you. “Do you understand what this means?”
“Of course, it means I married you and…” You trailed off as you looked up and saw his knowing look.
“And that I married you, Princess.” He said sweetly. “It means that I have made a promise to devote myself to you and love you and not a single soul else.”
You nodded and gasped as he brought his mouth down to your ear, purring gently. “It also means that you are the only one I want to fuck as well. The only person I want to watch fall apart on my dick every night and make love to any chance that I can get.”
“K-Kuna.” You cried as he pushed you back up against the counter and hungrily latched his mouth to your neck. His hands ran down the sides of your body and then raked back up your thighs. He covered your body with his as he ran his tongue down your shoulder and back up. Your arms wrapped around his waist and your fingertips digging into the hard flesh on his back.
“It means that you are the one I’ve chosen to devour and consume for the rest of my life. The one I’ve chosen to relentlessly fuck in our bed every night. The one that I have to give these reminders to every time she thinks I would choose anyone else.” He grabbed the back of your thighs and picked you up as his mouth continued its attack on your soul. He carried you through your house and towards your bedroom. You clung to his desperately as he pressed you up against the wall in the hallway. You could feel his dick hardening against you as he ground his hips into yours.
“I have never wanted a single soul other than you since the day I met you, princess. If I need to keep reminding you like this, then I will happily do so.” He growled before smashing his lips into yours. Your mouths worked together, trying to express the emotions and promises swirling through the air around you. Sukuna’s tongue slipped into your mouth and you groaned at the feeling.
He hummed happily and pushed further into your mouth. You kissed his back with just as much force, wanting to show him how much you wanted, no, how much you needed this. Then he pulled you from the wall and turned into your room. He continued towards the bed, not skipping a beat in trying to devour you, nipping at your bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth. You huffed as he separated long enough to toss you onto the bed and strip your clothes off. He ripped your shirt over your head, then removed your bra, then quickly removed both your jeans and panties as well. You shivered as the feeling of cool air washed over your body, but Sukuna was quick to cover your body with his own again. He kissed you again as he ran his hands over your body. He brought them up to massage your breasts and you could feel him grin against you as you moaned into his mouth. One of his hands moved to hold your waist as the other continued down to settle in between your legs. “Gotta make sure my princess is prepped for me.”
He pushed one of his fingers past your folds and slowly began to push it into you. He watched in awe as your pussy swallowed his finger. You gasped as he began thrusting it in and out of you. He head shot back up and he grinned at your as he began thrusting it faster. Soon, he added a second finger and your moans got louder. “K-Kuna. Kuna. Kuna. Kuna.” You chanted hid name as a third finger went in and he curled them up just right. He hit that spot repeatedly and just stared at his hand disappearing into your cunt over and over again.
Then your orgasm hit your like a truck and you screamed his name. He smirked at you, licking his lips as he continued to coax the rest of it out of you. The squelching noises coming from your pussy made him even harder and he had to be inside of you right now before he lost his mind. Seeing your eyes blown out and your body trembling made his own body feel hot.
He pulled his hand out and made sure you were watching as he sucked your juices from his fingers. His eyes were also already blown out as you watched him crawl back off of the bed. He grabbed the bottom hem of his short and pulled it over his head. You ogled at his body as he began discarding his pants, your eyes raking over his tattooed chest before finally resting on his cock as it sprung out of his boxers. You tried to press your thighs together but Sukuna was too fast and was in between them in an instant. His cock rubbed against you, causing you to mewl and grab for him wherever your hands could reach. “Fuck, princess, you are so fucking wet for me.”
“J-just for you S-sukuna.” You stuttered as he began rutting against your clit. The stimulation was just enough to make the heat start spreading through your body but that alone wasn’t what you wanted. “P-please..”
“Yeah? You feel that, princess. That’s just for you.” Sukuna purred into your ear as he continued grinding down onto you.
“Then give it to me, Sukuna.” I used whatever sense in your mind you had left to spit your demand out. You needed him, all of him, so desperately and couldn’t wait any longer.
“As you wish, my princess.” He growled as he pushed his dick all the way in until you could feel his balls pressing against your ass cheeks. You shrieked at the stretch and the immaculate pleasure that came with it. He held himself up on his hands and watched at your face contorted with ecstasy. Your pussy welcomed him quickly and squeezed around him as began to slowly thrust in and out of you. The moans the two of you were swallowed as he leaned back down you pull you into a passionate kiss. He moved his lips against yours sensually as he used his hands to cup your face.
He began thrusting slowly, more caught up in how it felt to kiss you in this moment, trying to pour all of his emotions into it to show you how he truly felt. The love and longing and needing and knowing you were everything he could ever want and more. The bliss in being your husband, relishing every second of it. You hummed and moaned against his lips as his hips found a sweet spot in his pace to keep your toes curled without pushing you over the edge. Just enough to keep you right at the top without spilling over just yet.
Sukuna pulled away and pressed his forehead to yours, sighing deeply. “My sweet, sweet girl. Fuck, you feel so good every time.”
You moaned in response and he grinned down at you. Your hands ran up and down his back, following the contours of his muscles, locking them into your memory. “You feel so good, Kuna. I feel so full.” You panted as you began to feel the heat in your stomach intensify and your moans began to turn into whines and whimpers. “Faster…please.”
Sukuna moaned at the sound of your begging and he braced himself with his hands back on the mattress. His thrusts pick up into a very fast pace that had you mewling and begging with in coherent words. He marveled at how you looked underneath him falling apart. The best sight he could ever imagine.
Sweat begins to pour down his face as he continues a brutal pace. You feel so fucking good around him and he doesn’t want to stop. Your pussy sucks him in and the way he feels your walls drag along his dick as he pulls out with every thrust. It’s intoxicating and he can’t get enough. “Just. For. You.” He chants with every thrust. His jaw clenches and he can feel the release coming quickly as you rake your hands down his chest. You begin to get tighter around him with every thrust and he almost loses his breath.
He pushes through the fight of coming already to keep the sight of your shaking with pleasure underneath him. He licks his lips and growls more as he watches your boobs bounce up and down with every moment. There’s sweat all over his body now and he sees your skin begin to shine with a thin layer of your own on your body.
He dips his head down to swipe his tongue up in between your breasts. You push your body up into him and squeeze his shoulders as he trails his mouth up to your neck once more, nipping and sucking and whispering praises into your ear.
One of his hands runs over your breasts, twisting your nipple just to feel your whole body arch into him again, then down your stomach until you feel his thumb rubbing circles into your clit. You instantly feel yourself unravel around him.
“Gonna…gonna…gonna cu-“ Your whole body tenses and Sukuna grunts and goes faster as he feels your pussy clamp down onto his dick. He moved his hand back and continues picking up the pace until the whole bed is shaking and you’re screaming his name. He moans out your name as he pushes his dick as far into your pussy as he can and comes hard. His whole body twitches as you both come down from your highs.
He slowly pulls out of you and kisses you gently as you whine at the overstimulation. He pats your hair and copes to you as you come down from the last bit of your orgasm.
“Shhh princess, I’ll be right back.” You nod in response and listen as he runs into the bathroom, turns the shower on, and comes back into the room with a wet cloth. “Let’s clean you up and then go take a shower, princess.”
“Mmk, Kuna.” You hum, still feeling euphoric. He cleans you, then scoops you up and walks you to the shower. You sigh constantly as you feel the warm water cascading over your body. Sukuna places you down where you can stand, then grabs subs up a loofa to clean both of your bodies.
“Such a sweet princess, aren’t you?” He asks sweetly as you finally peel your eyes open to look up at him. He grins down at you and kisses you softly. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Sukuna.” You reply, wrapping your arms around him. “My Kuna.”
“Yes, princess,” he chuckles. “All yours.”
He finishes cleaning your bodies and then you take turns washing each other’s hair. He giggles when he has to lean down so you can reach his and kisses your pout away.
Once your shower is over, you both dry off, slip into cozy pajamas, change the bedding, and slip into bed together to go to sleep. Sukuna hums the tunes of the song you danced to at your wedding and cards his fingers through your hair as you quickly fall asleep. Then he wraps his arms around and drifts peacefully off with you.
This was so nerve wrecking to post, but I hope you all enjoyed it! Thank you so much for reading!
In which you finally found your mate after years of longing, only for it to be someone you can never have.
Tags/Warnings: Alpha!Jimin, Omega!Reader, Idol!Jimin, omega struggles, alpha problems, stereotypes and judgmental 'fans', angst, fluff, strangers to lovers
Additional Chapter Warnings: lil angst, sorry, flirty jiminie
Chapter Length: short
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You're staring Jimin down like he's your newly found arch nemesis, while he can't help but be absolutely bewitched. You look adorable sitting there with a death grip on the blanket, staring daggers at him while he knows you don't mean any real harm. "so you took it." you say quietly, accusingly, and he chuckles, leaning his head against the back of the couch. He's sitting sideways on it to face you sitting across, pressed into the corner of the little sofa to gain space from him.
"Found it is a better fitting term." he corrects, still smiling amusedly at you, and it's very much not pacifying your temper.
"stole it then." you say, and his eyes sharpen a bit. Compared to the big sparkly eyes and distressed scent earlier, you've now visibly gained confidence as you challenge him openly. It only further cements his suspicion that you're actually mates- that it's him, his presence making you feel this way. Equally so, he's never felt this at ease ever before- like nothing matters, like the world just waits for him.
"no. It was laying on the floor near the changing rooms, and I picked it up." he explains. "and yes, kept it. Who'd just leave it there all enticing with your mate's scent all over it?" he chuckles, though he does notice the way you visibly deflate. "what is it?" he wonders instantly, not liking the change in energy one bit.
He's already painfully protective of any shift in your behavior, instantly trying to make the situation better for you. It's an exchange however, not a dependence; an omega-alpha couple works best after all because of that. While the alpha feels needed and wanted, validated and calmed by his partner's presence, an omega receives protection, a feeling of safety, of belonging. It's a give and take- balancing each others needs and cravings at a constant.
"I.. It's just unfair." you say, not looking at him any longer as your fingers toy with the edge of the blanket. "I searched all my life until now.." I find out that my mate is someone I can never have, you think to yourself. your don't need to openly say it for him to realize what you're thinking, however. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out.
"hey, I'm not that bad of a catch now." he tries to lift the mood, but you just shake your head. His fingers are itching to hold and comfort you, but he knows there's still boundaries he needs to accept.
"you are, no doubt. You're.. One of the most sought-after alphas after all. For good reason." you say. And while it does stroke his ego, it doesn't help the mood at all- if anything, it's kicking it even further.
"but?" he gently asks, trying to find your gaze, but to no avail. You're avoiding his eyes, and he doesn't like it one bit.
"I can't have you. Like, ever." you mumble. "I'm sorry it's me for you." you say, and he immediately scoots closer, carefully lifting your chin so you look at him. He can't have you say something even remotely demeaning about yourself, his mate.
"hey hey no, don't-" he looks at you earnestly. "don't see me as BTS's Jimin." he says, and you look at him.
"what else am I supposed to see you as?" you whine in frustration, his presence and scent making you almost dizzy, and there it suddenly is again; that smile, eyes turning into half-moons as he leans his head to the side.
"see me as Park Jimin." he offers. "Your alpha."
And you just know you turn crimson red at that, hiding underneath your blanket from him while he laughs.
You shouldn't ever be sorry that it's you for him. If anything, he should be thankful it's you.
summary: you've always been the older one, and he's always been the younger best friend. you two thought living together would be easy, but it proves difficult when you catch feelings- especially when nicholas shows you that he could care less about your age.
pairing: childhoodfriend!nicholas x olderfemale!reader
warnings: childhood friends to lovers, slight age gap but she's older (4 years), nicholas is so down bad for reader, he calls her baobei, fluff, slight angst (mostly reader freaking out about her age), smut, dom!nicholas, sub!reader, use of toys, nipple play, oral (female receiving), squirting, unprotected sex, overstimulation
word count: 4.6k
notes: as promised here is the nico fic. again thank you so much for 1k!! i did try to read over this for mistakes, but i'm very tired and probably missed some. this was requested! i hope you like it. likes and reblogs appreciated!
you always said you liked guys your age. it always seemed easier than admitting the truth- that you liked him. nicholas. the guy who you grew up with since you were kids. the guy who was younger than you.
your's and nicholas' moms were best friends. they grew up together, and they wanted you two to do the same. they even got houses right next to each other to make sure of that. the only thing was that your mom got pregnant a lot sooner- 4 years to be exact.
growing up it never made a difference to either one of you. you two often forgot that you weren't the same age until it came to schooling when you had to go your separate ways. you two were inseparable.
that was until college.
the two of you slowly drifted apart though neither of you wanted to. you two still talked, and you came home as often as you could. but the distance and schooling made things harder. you had two completely separate lives now, and even though it was a lot harder being away from him than you thought, you two managed.
you were about to go into your last year of college when he graduated high school. you were the first to congratulate him, nearly screaming when he picked you up and swung you around. he wasn't the small kid you remembered. he now towered over you- something he now made fun of you for. he was also well liked. girls were constantly trying to get his attention, but he brushed them all away, keeping his focus on you.
"ready to be stuck with me, baobei?"
it was something he made you promise when you were younger- that after he graduated high school, you two would live together. you didn't think he would still remember that, or even want to for that fact, but he did. and a month later the two of you were living in your small 2 bedroom apartment.
that leaves you to where you are now. you both have graduated college, but you two were still living together. you just kept making the excuse that living expenses were too high, but you knew the real reason. you had developed feelings for him- someone who you had grown up with.
it started about a year after you two had moved in together. the two of you were in the kitchen baking because nicholas saw this cookie recipe he wanted to try. you had threatened him multiple times to leave, so you could bake, but he wouldn't. you ended up throwing flour on him which resulted in a food fight. nicholas ended up slipping on flour and falling. you tried to help him up, but he pulled you down with him. you didn't think you ever laughed so hard, but it's when you noticed the shift- that you were thinking about him in a way you never had before.
you had tried so desperately to break these feelings. you tried dating which didn't work because every time you would just picture him to the point where you embarrassingly almost moaned out his name while you were having sex with one of your ex boyfriend's. that was 6 months ago, and he was the last person you were with, so to say you were pent up was a bit of an understatement. you were fine at first, but now everything you relied on wasn't enough anymore. the ache never went away anymore, and it seemed to intensify every time you were in the presence of him.
every time it hit you, your stomach would twist in fear. you weren't supposed to want him. not only he was your best friend, but your mom's were best friends. what would happen if something happened and didn't work out? you would still have to see him. that's not to mention the age gap. you weren't supposed to want someone younger than you, and you didn't think he would want someone older because he hasn't said otherwise. all of his girlfriends have either been his age or younger.
but lately he's been acting weird. he's been more distant, spending the night at his friends more often than he was here. the times he was here he's been distracted- locked away in his room. the two of you haven't spent any time together which made you nervous. you kept feeling like any moment he was going to come to you and tell you that he wanted to move out.
tonight was yet another night nicholas was staying with one of his friends, or at least that's what you thought because it was late. you were in the kitchen, phone blasting music while you were making you a snack when you heard a deep chuckle come from behind you.
"is this what you do when i'm not home, baobei?"
you jump in fear, nearly cutting yourself with the knife you were holding before turning to a smirking nicholas. "what the hell is wrong with you?"
"i feel like i should be asking you that." he says walking up to you, stealing some fruit you had just cut. "what if i wasn't alone? what if i had a friend with me?"
you looked at him confused before looking where he was. "what do you- stop looking!"
your stomach dropped, face flushing when you realized what you were wearing in front of him. since you weren't expecting him to be home, you didn't put much thought into what you were wearing. that included one of nicholas' old sports shirts that he had grown out of. it was the perfect length for him to see the lace of your underwear peaking out.
"but i don't want to." your eyes widen at his words, and with you being on edge like you were, you could feel your entire body heat up. you move away from him, but he stops you, arms blocking you from moving. "where do you think you're going?"
"to put on some shorts." you answer, needing to get away from him before you embarrass yourself any further.
"don't change on my account." he says, tugging at his shirt you were wearing and showing more of you to him. "besides, i quite like this look on you."
"nicho." you warn, though it was quiet. "can we pretend this didn't happen?"
"why would i do that?" you groan at nicholas' question.
"because we're best friends, and it's easier."
"i don't want easy anymore." he mumbles making you look up at him. his eyes were already locked onto yours. "i'm not forgetting this. just like i know you're not."
"what do you mean?" he lets out a small chuckle at your question.
"come on, baobei. we both know what you're going to do once you go back to your room."
your eyes widen slightly as you try to move past his arms, but he wouldn't budge. "i don't know what you're talking about."
"don't lie to me." his voice was low. "we share a wall. i can hear every time you turn on one of those stupid toys. and you know what else i can hear?" you keep your gaze on the ground, not answering him. "you moaning out my name."
you felt mortified, wishing that the ground would just swallow you whole. "nicholas, please."
"begging already? i haven't even done anything yet." he smirks making you bite your lip. "you look so cute like this. red faced and flustered. do you even notice how tightly your thighs are clenched together?"
"this can't be happening." you mutter loud enough for nicholas to hear it. "nicho, i- we can't."
"give me one good reason why because i know you want this just as much as i do." he says as he finally moves his arm, fingers drifting across your cheek.
"i'm too old for you. it's wrong."
"too old?" he questions. "do you really think 4 years matters to me? because it doesn't. only you do, and it's been like that for a long time."
"nicholas-" you start but he stops you.
"look at me." his thumb tilts your head to look up at him. "if you don't want this, walk away. right now, and i will do what you say and forget this happened."
he watches you as you stay still, staring at him with as much need as he was staring at you with. and before he could even think about it, his hands grip your cheeks, body pressing you into the counter as his lips possessively claim yours. you freeze for just a second before melting into him, feeling as he smirks against you as your hands grip his shirt.
he pulls away just seconds later, keeping your body pressed into his as his forehead rests against yours. "tell me, baobei. did that feel wrong to you?"
"no."
as soon as the word was out of your mouth, his finds yours again. you sigh into his mouth, instinctively parting your lips when you felt his tongue ghost against them. his hands pull at your shirt just enough for his hands to rest against your flushed skin, thumbs tracing along the lace of your underwear.
all thoughts of your doubts went out of your mind with every passing second. not that you could think of anything other than him. the way his lips claimed yours like you already belonged to him. his hands desperate, feeling every inch of you that he could reach.
you pulled away first, desperate for air, but nicholas wasn't. you gasp when his lips find your neck, teeth nipping at your skin. "nicho."
"yes, my baobei." he pulled away with dark eyes and swollen lips, resting his head against yours. "did you want me to stop?"
"no." he smiled at your instant response. the way your hands gripped his shirt, so he couldn't move away from you.
"then what do you want?" he questions, noticing that you wanted to say something. he nudged you when you stayed quiet. "talk to me. tell me what you want."
"you." you finally answered, face warming when you noticed him smirk. "i want you."
"finally."
you gasp when he pulls you away from the counter before throwing you over his shoulder. "nicholas!"
"yes?" he questions, and you can hear him laugh when you hold onto him tightly as he starts walking towards your room. "relax. i would never drop you."
"are you sure about that?" you question, mind going to this one time he picked you up, so he could throw you into the pool. he ended up losing his balance, leaving you bruised for weeks.
"i was 13." he defended himself. "and i made sure you fell on top of me."
he entered your room, easily navigating the dark room before placing you on the bed. you had just enough time to turn on the lamp before he grabbed your ankle, pulling you towards him. you land beneath him, gripping at his arms that have you caged to the bed as he leans down, warm breath brushing against your skin.
"you said you wanted me, right?" you nod your head at his question, eyes trailing down to his lips when he bites them. "how bad?"
you meet his gaze, cheeks flushing when he stares at you- clearly waiting for an answer. "so bad, nicho."
"are you sure, baobei?" he questions, making you say yes. "then why did you try to push me away? and your age better not be your answer."
"i was scared." you answer. "you're my best friend. you're all i've ever known. i just- what if we tried, and it didn't work out?"
"bold of you to assume i would do anything to let that happen." you roll your eyes at his response.
"you can't predict the future."
"oh but i can." he says making you scoff. "i knew growing up that there would be a day that you would be mine, and look at where we are baobei. what a dream come true."
"you're ridiculous." you tell him, though he could tell the effect that his words had on you. your legs twitched, tightening around him.
"i'll be insane if it means i get you." he watches your expression soften, leaning down to meet you halfway in a much softer kiss than before.
"then i guess you're insane." you mumble against his lips.
you could tell that his patience had ran out when he kissed you again, teeth nipping at your lips. his hands disappeared under your shirt, pulling it up as his hands travel towards your chest. you moan into his mouth, arching into his touch when his hands find your breasts, squeezing them. he let out an almost pained sound as he pulled away. you jump when you feel his lips touch your stomach before he starts to kiss his way to your chest.
"do you know how hard it was to lay in that bed and hear you? to hear these pretty sounds and not being able to do anything about it?" you tried to apologize, but he stopped you before you could. "you'll just make it up to me, right?"
"how?"
he smirked as his mouth hovered over your nipple. "by making sure i'm the only reason these sounds come out of you from this day on."
he didn't even let you respond before latching to your nipple. you choke out a moan, hands tangling in his hair as he sucks on your nipple. you feel him hum against your skin as he leaves no part of your chest untouched.
"nicho..."
suddenly he pulls away from your chest, lips glistening as he looks up at you, smiling when he notices your pouting. "do you have any plans for the weekend?"
you blink at him in disbelief that he paused just to ask that. "no."
"good." he mumbles as he tugs at your shirt as he pulled it off you. "because we're not leaving this room until i've memorized every sound that you make."
"oh my god." you mutter, slightly embarrassed. he moved his attention to your underwear, hand tracing along the edge before he hooked it around his finger, but he once again paused.
"tell me baobei." he said, resuming when he heard you whine, slowly dragging them down your legs. "what did you think of when you used those toys?"
"do i have to answer that?" he laughs at your question.
"if you want me to continue, yes." he answers, making you sigh out.
"it differed depending on what i was feeling, but the person stayed the same- you."
he liked your answer, smiling down before kissing you. you pulled away when you heard him rumbling in your drawer. "i want to try something."
"okay?" you say, watching as he pulls out the toy that you use.
"this is what you've been using instead of coming to me?" you reluctantly nod your head. "i want to see which makes you come harder. this, my mouth, or my dick."
he clicks the toy on, turning the vibration on high. he leans down, letting the toy trace around your sensitive nipple, making you jerk. "is that okay, baobei?"
"yes." you say almost begging for him to do something at this point. he could tell, smirking as he lets the toy trail down your stomach. he teases you, stopping right above your clit before stopping, waiting until you begged him to keep going until he did. you throw your head back, moaning his name as he finally gives you some relief.
"tell me. did you play with the pretty breasts while you toyed with my pussy?" nicholas asked, watching as it took you a moment before the question registered. once you nodded, he let his lips attach back to your chest.
"nicho... fuck!"
he pressed the toy harder to your clit making you cry out, teeth biting at your flushed skin. he refused to leave any part of your chest untouched by him. "louder, baobei."
you couldn't begin to imagine how you were going to feel when it was just him and not the toy because you never felt like this when it was just you. it normally took you what felt like forever to get off, sometimes even going as far as watching videos, but here he is edging you even though he just started.
you hand finds his wrist, nails digging into his skin as you squirm underneath him. "nicho- please."
"please what?" he asks making you whimper when he lifts the toy off just a fraction.
"please don't stop." you beg. "i'm so close. please keep going."
his lips release your bruised nipple, slamming his lips onto yours while he returns the toy to your clit. you arch into him, crying out as your orgasm slams into you. "there we go, baobei. such a pretty sight."
he removes the toy when you unconsciously pull away from it, meeting your gaze as he holds up the toy. he clicks it off before his tongue darts out, cleaning your arousal from it. once it was clean, he carelessly tossed it behind him, turning to watch as it clatters to the floor. "i think i may have broken your toy. guess you'll just have to use me from now on."
"you're a menace." you couldn't help but laugh when he shrugs his shoulders.
"you say that like you're surprised." he mumbles, watching as your eyes widen as he moves down the bed. "besides, i think you like it based on the way you just came for me, but there is something i want to know."
"i'm scared to ask what." you felt the vibration of nicholas' chuckle as he kissed down your stomach. you watch him as he settled on the bed between your thighs, eyes dark as he kept your gaze.
"i want to know why you thought some stupid toy was better than this."
you gasp as his mouth latches to you, tongue running along your slit before his lips wrapped around your clit. "fuck- nicho!"
you felt his nails dig into your skin as he opened your thighs wider, holding you down when you tried to close them again. you couldn't help but agree with him. why did you ever think some toy would be better than him? the way his tongue flicked at your clit, messy and fast. the way you could tell he was totally into it, eyes hooded while you could hear him mumble into you.
one of his hands left your thigh, causing you to whine when you felt him circling around you entrance. "nicho- please."
"louder, baobei. i need to know that you need me more than you need that stupid toy." you did as he said subconsciously when he eased his fingers inside of you. "there we go. nice and loud for me. such a treat my sweet girl."
he worked his fingers, quickly finding out what made you squirm. your breath came in short gasps, moaning out his name when his fingers curled deeply inside of you. his mouth never leaving you for more than a second.
you dug your hands into his hair as you felt your orgasm fast approaching- much faster than anything you've felt before. your stomach twisted in anticipation. "nicho- fuck... wait."
"no can do baobei." he mumbled against you, feeling you jerk at the vibration. "i'm not stopping until i feel you fall apart around my fingers."
"but- nicho!" you felt your orgasm slam into harder than you think it ever has. you felt it gush out of you, completely soaking the bed along with nicholas' face and hand. he held you tightly through it with a smile on his face, making sure to clean every drop from your skin before pulling away from you.
"my baobei." you opened your eyes when his nose brushed against yours. you could see the glistening on his face and lips from you, but he didn't care, slamming his lips onto yours. "such a messy girl. squirting all over me. think you can do it again?"
you blink at him before his words hit you. "i didn't even think that was possible."
"so i really am the best, aren't i?" he smirked, chuckling when you tried to push him away from you. "don't push me away, baobei. i'm not nearly done with you yet."
he ground his hips into yours, making you moan out as you felt him through his sweats. he did it again, slower as he watched your reaction before his lips found yours. your hands grabbed his shirt, tugging on it as you pulled away. "off."
"bossy little thing, aren't you?" he said but raised up on his knees, removing his shirt and watching as your eyes trail down his body- stopping at his hands as they grabbed his sweats. "do you want these off too?"
you nod your head. "i do. please."
"you know when i do, everything changes right?" he questions as he leans back down again. "we're not going back to before. you'll be mine."
you smile, hand brushing his cheek. "i already am, nicho."
"fuck, baobei." his lips were slow, coaxing a sigh out of you as he pulled you close to him. your hands explore his warm skin, making your way down his body before stopping at his sweats. "go ahead sweet girl."
you start to push them down his legs when nicholas pulls away from you, pushing them the rest of the way down. he springs free, flushed and begging for your touch. he lets out a low groan as soon as your hand wraps around him. you move slowly, wanting to memorize every sound he makes just like he was doing to you. you added pressure causing him to thrust into your hand when your fingers lightly squeeze him.
his hand wraps around yours when you lead him closer to you, moaning out his name when he runs down your folds. he does it again, making sure to run over your sensitive clit and having you clenching around nothing.
"please, nicho." you beg when he repeats the action. "i need you."
your words make him move, positioning himself at your entrance before pausing to look at you. you nod your head when you see the question in his eyes, sighing into his mouth when he kisses you. with one hand on your thigh, he slowly eased into you. he took his time with you, wanting to feel everything- from the way you clench around him to your nails digging into his arms.
you groaned at the stretch, throwing your head back as nicholas buries his head in your neck, whispering how well you were doing for him between each kiss.
"fuck, baobei. you're so fucking tight for me. i can barely move." you whimper at his words as his hips meet yours, pausing once again to give you a second to adjust. he knew you were ready when you squirmed beneath him- a whine slipping past your lips. "what was that, sweet girl? i didn't quite hear you."
"please move." you beg quietly. he stayed still, making you think that he wanted more, but he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth before starting to move. you let out a moan when he found the speed that had your legs tightening around his waist. "oh my god, nicho."
he hummed against your neck, lips gliding along your skin as he kissed along your jaw. "does that feel good, baobei?"
"so good."
"what about this?" his hands grip your thighs, pulling them higher up his waist before rolling his hips against yours- smiling when you let out a loud moan. "god, you sound so good. you look good too, pretty girl. all spread out for me as you only think about me."
your face flushes at his words. "god nicho."
"what? you know it's true. just like we both know who you belong to, isn't that right?" you whimper when nicholas' hips snap into yours. you nod your head, but that wasn't what he wanted. "say it, baobei. who's are you?"
you cry out, clinging to him when his hand finds your clit before trying to bring you over the edge, but you knew he would let you before you answered him. you could tell when he slacked off when you were right on the edge. "you, nicho. i'm yours."
"that's right." he praised, kissing your forehead. "now be a good girl and let me feel you come around me."
as soon as he applied pressure to your clit once again, it was enough for your orgasm to crash into you. you heard him groan as your entire body went tense before you were able to relax again. your body felt exhausted, never having so many mind blowing orgasms like this. you didn't know how you were even going to move tomorrow.
you let out a gasp as you were flipped, landing on top of nicholas as he now rested back against the bed. he shifted his hips, making you groan as you felt him ease inside of you once again. "you can handle one more for me, can't you baobei?"
though your body felt spent, you found yourself nodding your head, moving your hips with his help. he guided you until he felt you take control, gripping his shoulders as you once again become lost in pleasure.
"do you know how hard it was to lay in that bed and hear you in here?" nicholas questioned, fingers digging into your waist. "to hear these pretty lips make the most beautiful sounds and not being able to burst in here and be the cause of them."
you let out a gasp as his hips met yours, nearly sending you crashing into him. "if it makes you feel better, you were the cause of them."
"is that what you wanted, baobei?" he questioned, his hands now controlling your speed. "for me to have come in here and claim this perfect body?"
a whine fell from your lips at his words, wordlessly nodding as you felt your orgasm creeping up again. you didn't think you were going to last much longer, and he didn't look like he was either. "nicho-"
as soon as his thumb brushed your clit, you felt your orgasm slam into you. you collapsed on top of nicholas, clinging to him tightly as his lips found your cheek. you heard him let out a low groan as you clenched around him before feeling him release inside of you.
"i knew you could do it again, my sweet girl." he praised as you rested your head on his shoulder, feeling as his warm hand run along your body.
he's gentle when he pulls away from you, completely different than a few minutes prior- pressing a kiss to the side of your head before moving you back onto your bed. he cleaned you, softly peppering kisses to your sore body before making sure you put his shirt back on. once you were settled, he cleaned himself up before sliding in next to you, pulling your exhausted body towards him.
you lay facing him, eyes barely opening as his thumb brushes against your cheek. "still think you're too old for me?"
that caused you to look at him, laughing when you noticed how hard he was trying not to laugh. you weakly shoved his shoulder. "shut up. you still need to respect me. higher authority and all that."
"oh please." he scoffs, pulling you further into his arms. he smiles against your lips when he kisses you, feeling as you relax into him. "we both know i do."
"you weren't a few minutes ago."
"you sure didn't sound objected to it at the time." you roll your eyes at him before resting your head on his shoulder, feeling his lips kiss your forehead as you closed your eyes. you knew that the two of you still needed to talk about this, but right now you just wanted to sleep- preferably in his arms.
"shut up and go to sleep."
"yes ma'am."
an: i feel like i got too carried away the the whole older aspect... whoops.
summary: you weren’t expecting your grumpy best friend to come and save you, on a rainy day.
pairing: nicholas wang x reader
genres & tropes: grumpy!nicholas, reader is not really a sunshine but describe as a yapper (a small ray of sunshine, maybe?) fluff, best friend to ???
word count: 2,476 words (excluding summary)
author's thoughts: this was actually meant for euijoo because he's a little weatherman. but then I thought hey... why don't we expand it a bit and make it fit nicholas instead (because Euijoo fics are plenty in my blog... can you tell who's my bias is?) anyway this wasn't proofread, I write this under 4 hours of sleep, so I apologize if the reading isn't smooth :(( hope you'll enjoy!
You look out of your office window and exhale a deep, heavy sigh, as the rain doesn’t seem like it’s going to subside anytime soon. The forecast predicted light rain, so you only bring an umbrella with you – the situation outside is a stark contrast to the forecast: it’s practically a thunderstorm.
“You’re not going home?”
Yunjin taps on your shoulder while asking, making you turn to her and presses your lips into a thin line.
“I don’t… know…”
You reply – you’re truly contemplating whether to stay a bit more, or to take a risk on a journey to go back home. You need to catch a bus, a subway, another bus, and a five minute walk from the bus stop before you reach home. So you really have to choose wisely, or else you’ll end up drenched from head to toe.
“My fiance is here, so I’ll get going first. Let me know if anything, yeah?”
You nodded at Yunjin’s words and waved your hands, bidding her goodbye. Yunjin too, waves her hand at you, before she exits the office. There’s still plenty of people in the office, so staying back until the rain stops isn’t really a bad idea since you’re not going to be alone. But a part of you wants to go home, as you begin to feel mentally sick from staying in your office for a long time, and after a long, rough day too.
You feel your phone buzzed, making you check your notifications – you’re surprised to see Nicholas’s name on it.
| Nicol the grumpy cat: home alrd?
You immediately send out a reply. And you get another surprise – he’s replying to you immediately. Nicholas always reads your texts, and replies later – by later, it ranges from 10 minutes to 10 hours later. You’re used to being left on read, and didn’t mind it as Nicholas is always like that.
You’re not sure if he’s an avoidant person or he just finds it a hassle to reply to chats, but you didn’t really care. You don’t really mind a one-sided chat, because to you, as long as you have expressed yourself, you don't care if they replied or not.
That’s how you and Nicholas ended up being friends. Well, best friends, per Nicholas’s words. You were surprised that he considered you as one, but you do think that you’re close enough to him – you just didn’t think that he would feel the same, that’s all.
| You: nope, rain is too heavy, so I’m staying at the office. scared if I get stuck in flash floods…
| Nicol the grumpy cat: until?
| You: until the rain stops…?
| Nicol the grumpy cat: come down in 10 min
You blinked your eyes repeatedly after reading Nicholas’s reply – thousands of questions arose in your mind, but instead of questioning him back (sometimes, asking him back will scare him away. Like a cat. Hence why his nickname is the grumpy cat. You have to be really careful in approaching him), you just type a simple ‘okay’ and send it.
You begin packing your things, causing Mijoo who’s sitting across you perked her head up.
“You’re going home already? It’s still raining heavily,”
“Oh. My best friend is coming, so,”
“Is it a boy? That best friend of yours?”
You freeze for a moment as you ponder if it’s worth telling the truth to Mijoo – she’s the type to act like a cupid, always shipping people together against their own will. Mijoo takes your silence as a yes, and begins to look at you with a face full of excitement.
“It’s a boy then! He’s coming to pick you up? He’s definitely going to be your boyfriend soon, Y/N!”
“Uh…”
You truly don’t know how, and what to respond – you thought freezing up will get you away from this situation. Apparently, it’s not.
“Why? You don’t believe me? He’s going through hassle to just pick you up!”
“Maybe he’s just in the area…”
“Maybe he’s in love with you!”
You shake your head and bid goodbye to Mijoo, refusing to listen to her nonsense any further. It takes you about 4 minutes to get to the lobby as your office is located on the 18th floor – there’s quite a lot of people crowding in front of the exit gate, probably contemplating to continue their journey or to stay, so you had to squeeze in to tap your card and finally enter the lobby area.
Surprised is an understatement when you found Nicholas waiting for you in the lobby, with an umbrella in his hand. You tilted your head as questions began crowding your mind again, because Nicholas never did this to you ever since you became his friend. And you’ve been his friend best friend for 8 years now.
“Nicol?”
“Hey there.”
You smiled widely at him, and Nicholas responded to you with a small smile before he began walking, heading to somewhere. You didn’t ask – you just followed him around, plus, after a long day at work and being involuntarily trapped in your office, you don’t really have any energy to initiate a conversation.
He leads you out of your office and instantly opens his umbrella, sheltering both of you from the heavy rain. He brings you to an outdoor parking area, which you figured out by yourself that he probably parked his car here. And you were right. The blinkers go off twice and you can hear the sound of the door lock being unlocked, before he opens the door for you and motions to you to get in.
“Thank you, Nicol.”
He just nods, and gently closes the door. You make yourself comfortable in the passenger seat – it’s not the first time, but you’re definitely not used to being in his car. Every hangout, you will catch a bus to go to the meeting place – you do have a driver license, but you’re more comfortable catching a bus, and using public transport to go somewhere.
Silence fills the car as Nicholas drives both of you away from your office – the navigation screen shows red, meaning that the traffic is heavy. There must be a flash flood somewhere, you think to yourself before pries your phone out of your pocket to check on the news.
“Rough day?”
You turn your head to Nicholas as you hear his questions, before you nod.
“Yeah. I had a long presentation session today. Exhausted. And being held hostage in the office thanks to heavy rain just drained me more,”
“Did you have dinner?”
“No, not yet. I don’t feel like having one, I just want to go home and sleep. You?”
“Not yet. Plan to stop by the dumpling restaurant,”
Your body perked up at the mentions of your favourite restaurant – a rush of energy surges through you, and your excitement immediately revived.
“That dumpling restaurant? The one we always go to? If we’re heading there, I’ll definitely grab something to eat! Can’t pass the chance to have a hot, nourishing soup after a cold, rough day,”
Nicholas chuckled over your reaction – he can’t believe that you instantly brightens at the mention of your favourite restaurant. He was sure that you were going to fall asleep, as you were quiet – you aren't really a cheery and lively type, but you sure do talk a bunch. So when you weren’t talking, he was positive that you will fall asleep, sooner or later.
“Let’s dine there.”
Nicholas said as the red line on the navigation screen goes quite far, and stopping by to wait for the traffic to clear sounds a good choice for now.
“Okay!”
You begin to hum as you think about the food that you’re going to order – a bowl of hand pulled noodle beef soup, a plate of pan fried dumpling, and a cup of hot lemon tea sounds heaven. Paired with the chili oil? You’re sure it’s going to heal your soul.
Nicholas smiled at your hums, knowing well that you’re now in a good mood. It takes both of you about 20 minutes to reach the restaurant, and both of you were greeted warmly by the waiter. 10 minutes after placing your orders, a bowl of hand pulled noodle beef soup together with a cup of hot lemon tea appears in front of you, making your lips curled into a wide smile.
You didn’t devour it right away – Nicholas’s food is yet to arrive, so you waited for it.
“Just eat,”
Nicholas said as he noticed that you didn’t touch your food yet. He ordered fried rice, so it’s going to take a little bit longer as his food isn’t pre-prepared like yours.
“I’ll wait,”
“You sure?”
“Okay, maybe not. I’ll eat first,”
Nicholas chuckles at your words and shakes his head. You can’t help but do a little dance after having a spoonful of soup – the warmth of the broth hits just right, and makes you feel livelier (you’re a firm believer that corporate jobs will suck your soul out of you).
Nicholas’s food arrives together with the pan fried dumpling – his fried rice looks and smell delicious, so you can’t help but have your eyes on it.
“Here.”
Nicholas scooped a few spoons of his rice and put it in the dumpling plate, before pushing it to your side.
“Eh?”
“Don’t act surprised. You wanted to have a taste, didn't you?”
You smiled sheepishly, and Nicholas sighs while shaking his head again – he always looked like he’s done with your antics. You’re 70 percent sure that he’s actually not done, and find your antics amusing sometimes. Because if he does, he wouldn’t be here. Like, a cat. Cats will walk away from situations that they don’t want to be involved in, so if they stayed, it means that they’re interested. Despite appearing as uninterested.
Nicholas paid for the meals even though you insisted on paying for it – he was quicker in tapping his card on the reader than you, making your lips form a pout.
“You look ugly when you pout. Stop pouting.”
“Next meal is on me,”
“We’ll see. Let’s go,”
“Let’s go, Nicol,”
The traffic does get better – probably due to the rain slowly subsiding. The previous ETA shows that it will take 1 hour 38 minutes to get to your house when you arrive at the restaurant earlier – now, it shows 47 minutes.
“You should drive instead of taking public,”
Nicholas said, as it only takes 40 to 50 minutes from your house to the office by driving, depending on the traffic. Taking public transport consumes about 1 hour 40 minutes of your time – almost doubling the time taken by driving.
“I don’t really like driving,”
“Weird. Why did you get a driving license then?”
“Because my dad won’t stop forcing me to get one. I just prefer catching the bus, and riding subways, you know? I like watching people. Seeing the scenery. Get immersed in the surroundings. I can’t do that if I’m driving, you know? I have to focus on the road,”
Nicholas nods, acknowledging your words. Before the silence finds both of you again, you decide to ask the question that has been in your mind since earlier.
“Why did you pick me up? Were you in the area?”
Nicholas works as a freelance fashion consultant, so it won’t be weird if he was in the area, given that there’s a fashion magazine company near your office. Plus, even if he wasn’t in the area for job related things, you still won’t be surprised – given that he loves to drive around.
“Nope. I just felt like it.”
His answer surprises you, and you can feel your heart go tender at his words. See – he acts just like a cat. He will go through trouble if he wants to be troubled.
“Oh. Thank you,”
“And, because the forecast in the morning and evening are different. Figured out you won’t be prepared,”
“Yeah. Only brought an umbrella with me… wait. Oh my god… I left my umbrella in my office…”
You heaved a deep sigh as you mentally blamed yourself for forgetting your umbrella. You didn’t notice its absence as Nicholas shared his umbrella with you earlier – you’re pretty sure it’s on your desk, because you placed it down while packing your things.
“Just use mine.”
“Nah, I think the rain will stop soon. So I’ll be fine.”
“Just, take mine. In case if it rains tomorrow morning,”
You press your lips together and decide to not fight Nicholas on this – plus, the rain is unpredictable nowadays, so an umbrella is crucial to keep you dry.
“Okay,”
“If it rains too much, just let me know. I’ll… pick you up.”
You tilted your head as you wonder why he’s suddenly acting very differently. Your lips part as you want to ask why, but you hold yourself back, not wanting to scare him by your questions. I’ll just ask Euijoo, you think to yourself – just like you, Euijoo too, is Nicholas’s best friend.
“Okay,”
You replied – you deem that as the best response you can ever give, without making things escalate differently.
Your words were right – the rain stopped as soon as he arrived in front of your apartment complex. But still, you take his umbrella with you, as he insisted earlier.
“Thank you for picking me up, Nicol. Have a safe drive home,”
“You’re welcome. Get inside first.”
“Okay. Bye bye, Nicol,”
“Bye, Y/N.”
You waved your hands at him, and turned on your heel, walking away from his car – one step, two, three – then halted. He went through trouble just to pick you up, you think to yourself, he deserves a proper thank you. You turn back and approach his car, making Nicholas roll down the window.
He didn’t verbally ask, but his facial expression shows that he’s wondering why you’re returning.
“Thank you for going through the hassle to pick me up. I know you love driving, but the traffic is still annoying… right? So, thank you. Thank you for the meals too,”
“It’s… not a hassle.”
You blink your eyes at his response.
“It’s not a hassle if it’s about you… you’re never a hassle to me.”
Your heart melts at his response, and a wide smile finds its way to your lips. You truly wonder what makes your grumpy-cat-like-best-friend become soft today.
“Ditto. Goodnight, Nicol.”
“Goodnight, Y/N,”
You later found out through Harua (you called Euijoo, but Harua picked it up) that Nicholas had a bad dream about you and was worried for you the whole day. He was restless – per Harua’s words – but he tries his best to not show it (Maki was cackling because it was obvious to everyone, despite him trying to play cool).
Oh, what an adorable grumpy cat, you think to yourself as you find Nicholas cute.
additional notes: thank you for reading until the end <3
GIRLLL I am so FERAL over how mean you wrote Hoshina in that office bj fic 🫣🤭 obv obv we know he loves us and treats us like a princess butttt I wanna see him lose it again and be more dom/less gentle 😩 could we get angry bf Hoshina after a difficult mission and gf reader offering to be his stress relief pretty please hehe. I feel like he’d refuse bc he’s been raised to be suchhh a gentleman but we end up convincing him bc after all, arent gfs supposed to be there for their bfs (and vice versa) 😘
p.s I am a WHORE for this man
⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 𝕾𝖈𝖆𝖗𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝕳𝖚𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘
Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x fem!reader
Fandom: Kaiju No. 8
Genre: Smut / Suggestive
Warnings: explicit content, rough sex, choking, mean praise, marking (bites/hickies),messy creampies, possessive language, idk Hoshi already needs a warning to him
Word Count: 9.1k
Summary: He warned you he wouldn’t be gentle. You didn’t realize how much you’d love him for keeping that promise.
A/N: Thank you anon for the idea 🤍 I hope this is close to what you had in mind! Also… I’ve been really into Kaiju No. 8: The Game lately, so if I vanish for a bit, blame that lmao.
The lock turned with the soft, clean click of a mechanism that had been oiled by habit, and Soshiro shouldered the door inward like he was stepping past an invisible line and leaving the worst of himself outside. He didn't slam anything, didn't curse; the quiet that followed him in was the kind that had edges. He set his keys on the dish with unnecessary precision, the metal barely whispering against glazed ceramic, then stood in the entry long enough for the hall light to sketch him in hard planes: hair damp at the temples from a too-fast wash at headquarters, jaw tight enough to notch a muscle along one cheek, mouth composed into that familiar, boyish half-smile that meant absolutely nothing when his eyes looked like that. The compression shirt did him no favors—black, thin, second skin—stretched over the wide, carved shelf of his chest and the compact power of his shoulders, dark with sweat along the collar and sternum where the heat of the night had settled in. Veins ridged his forearms in pale relief when he reached down to tug at the laces of his boots, the backs of his knuckles split in tidy half-moons that had already started to scab; he flexed his fingers once like something in them hurt and refused to give the ache more attention than it deserved.
He toed off one boot, then the other, using the arch of his foot to flip the rubber heel away with a neat, efficient snap. The jacket went next—flicked from his shoulders in a single, practiced shrug, caught at the collar before the fabric could slide to the floor, hung on the hook without so much as a sigh of weight. He moved like a soldier unwinding a ritual: shed, square, stow. And still the anger—quiet, winter-cold, the kind he never showed the rookies—held to him like static. Up close, it had details: the fine salt of dried sweat clinging to the soft points of his sideburns; the clean, expensive bite of cedar and clove that lived in his collarbones and now threaded sharp through the apartment's still air; the tightness in the set of his shoulders that never belonged to him unless something had gone wrong and he was holding it alone.
"Hey," Y/N said softly from the living room, the syllable warm by intention, not by accident. She had not turned on the overheads; the room was all lamp glow and the city's distant, twitching neon through the glass, enough light to gild and not expose. She closed the distance without hurry, the hush of bare feet on wood and the faint sway of her tee at her waist. It took one breath to see everything he thought he had hidden. It took another breath to decide to ask for none of it. Her hands went to him first, not to the face where answers lived, but to the waist—fingers sliding under the hem of the compression shirt at his hips, palms catching on warm skin and the low, hard curve of his obliques; thumbs smoothing slow circles where the band of the fabric bit into him. "You're home," she said, and the sentence did what it needed to—named the place, claimed him inside it.
His chin lowered like the weight of her touch had pulled it there. "Mm." The sound lived low in his chest, clean and even, polite as ever. He tipped a smile at her that could've fooled a stranger. It didn't fool her. Up close, the red cuts on his knuckles were cleaner, the crescents neat as bites; a dark smear of something—rubber? track dust?—lurked along the heel of his palm. The shirt did the rest of the talking: how it clung to the spread of his pecs, how it wrinkled where sweat had dried at his sternum, how it dragged faintly when he breathed deeper than he meant to, outlining every saw-tooth of his ribs for a second before the fabric settled again. He smelled like outside and the training floor and the particular warmth that was only his, something skin-deep and impossible to bottle. He looked at her then, all the way, and the focus there was surgical—affectionate, yes, but also the kind of precise attention he gave a threat, a wound, a blade. "Sorry I'm late."
"You're right on time," she answered, because the clock was irrelevant and the body in front of her was not. One hand left his waist for his jaw, her thumb settling into the shaved-smooth notch under his ear. "Sit."
His mouth bent, pleased at the authority in it, the fox showing a flash of white teeth; then he let her turn him by the hips, obedient not because he had to be but because he could. The mattress took him with a quiet, expensive sigh when the backs of his knees found its edge. He sat where she put him—the compression shirt pulled tight across his chest, the hem rucking an inch to show a cut slice of lower ab when he spread his thighs without thinking. He set his forearms on his thighs the way he always did when he was about to pretend he was fine. The lamp caught the glossy pull on his lower lip where he had been biting it, the faint shadow of beard that always showed after nineteen hours, the iron line of control drawn clean from temple to mouth.
She climbed into his lap as if there were no alternative configuration for their bodies in this room. Her knees bracketed his hips, the soft weight of her on his quadriceps making the muscle jump and then settle under her. Up this close, he was unbearable to look at in that very specific way—everything too much and exactly enough: the corded slope of his neck disappearing into the dark, sweat-damp collar; the press of the shirt over nipples that were already pebbled with leftover cold and fresh heat; the way his breath caught for a bare quarter-second when her thighs sank and the soft skin of her inner knee kissed the hard seam of his hip bone. She brought both hands to his shoulders and dug her thumbs into the rope of muscle where it met the neck, kneading with deliberate, measured pressure. His eyes half-lidded; his mouth parted just enough to show a sliver of teeth. She stroked down—over the rounded cap of deltoid, over the sweep where tricep feathered into tendon, over the road-map veins that ran like bright cords along his forearms—and the gooseflesh rose in a slow wave that her palms warmed flat.
"What's wrong?" she asked, not to pry the story out, but to give the anger a name if it wanted one.
He exhaled and chose the easier lie. "Long day." The timbre of it was wrong—too level—and the knuckles told the truth anyway, small as they were. He lifted one hand and set it on her outer thigh and squeezed—firm enough to anchor, firm enough to warn. "I don't want to put it on you." The courtesy was real; the warning was too. He angled his face, saw her in three-quarter profile, and let the smile sharpen into something that wasn't quite safe. "You sure you want me like this?"
"I want you," she said simply, and the word was touch when she said it. Her fingers slid along his jaw, slow, to his mouth; she traced the bottom lip once, watched him track the movement from under lashes that made him look much too soft for the thoughts living behind them. "Here," she added, and guided his hand to the line of her waist and held it there until his palm molded itself to the curve as if the muscle underneath belonged specifically to that spread of fingers. "With me."
He didn't move for a beat. He just looked at her and weighed the cost of that permission like a man who had spent the last twelve hours paying for everyone else's mistakes and wasn't sure he could afford even the things he wanted. Then the decision clicked somewhere behind his eyes, small and final. The smile went away. His hand on her waist tightened; the other slid to her jaw and bracketed it, fingers spreading to her ear, thumb tilting her face a fraction. He didn't bother with preamble.
"Open," he said quietly.
Her lips parted on instinct, as though her body had been waiting for the word, tongue curling helplessly against the pad of his thumb. His gaze tracked the movement with a kind of brutal tenderness, then his palm left her jaw and pressed down, steady, directing her lower until her knees sank into the rug at his feet. The compression shirt pulled tight across his chest as he shifted forward on the bed, thighs spread, cock already heavy and straining against the thin fabric of his sweats. The lamplight turned the curve of muscle into a sculpture, veins rising faintly along his forearms as he pushed the waistband down with unhurried precision.
He freed himself with a hiss between his teeth, thick and flushed, precum already beading at the head. The heat of him was immediate, obscene in its nearness as he rested himself against her waiting mouth. His fingers curved under her chin again, tilting her face up until her eyes met his. Crimson, sharp, unwavering.
"Good girl," he murmured, satisfaction cutting low through the words. He pressed forward, parting her lips with the heavy weight of him, feeding inch after inch onto her tongue. Her jaw stretched, spit catching at the corners of her mouth, and he groaned softly, head tipping back, as though the sight alone unraveled him.
Her throat fluttered, and he felt it—tight, desperate, clutching at him like it wanted to keep him there. He exhaled through his nose, rough and shaky for the first time all day, and guided her head with one broad palm at the base of her skull, controlling the angle, the depth, every shuddering swallow. Tears gathered bright at the corners of her eyes from the stretch, catching the honey light of the lamp. He wiped one away with his thumb almost lazily, like he was collecting proof of how perfect she looked like this.
"Pretty," he said, voice husky with approval, and pushed just a little deeper, watching her lips shine around him, watching composure slip from both of them in real time.
His palm settled heavy at the back of her head, fingers threaded through the strands like reins, and that was all it took to turn patience into rhythm. He drew her down slow the first time, savoring the stretch of her lips around him, the wet glide of spit slicking his cock. Then he set the pace—brutal, uncompromising, but never careless. Each thrust was measured, a soldier's precision, sinking her mouth onto him until the head nudged deep against the back of her throat and her body seized around the intrusion.
She gagged softly, throat convulsing, and he groaned at the feel of it, low and dangerous. His hand tightened in her hair, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her she was his to move, his to use, his to break down into the perfect mess kneeling at his feet.
"Yeah," he rasped, voice rougher now, smoke-edged. "That's it. Take it, sweetheart. Take all of it."
Tears slipped hot from the corners of her eyes, streaking down her flushed cheeks, catching on her chin. Saliva strung between her lips and his cock, dripping down her throat, soaking the collar of her shirt. He tilted her face just so with his grip, forcing her to look up at him through the blur of tears. The sight nearly undid him—the glassy sheen of her gaze, the wet ring of her lips stretched around him, her throat working to obey every push of his hips.
"Look at you," he said, a laugh curling through the words, low and merciless. "My perfect little thing, crying on my cock like you were made for it." His thumb swiped under her eye again, catching a fresh tear. "Fuck, you look beautiful like this. Ruined, dripping, all mine."
He set the tempo harder now, driving her down with a sharp snap of his hips, then dragging her back only to do it again, ruthless in the pace. Every wet choke, every muffled gag, was a hymn to him, a pulse of heat that made his grip iron at her skull. His thighs flexed under her hands where she clung for balance, muscles taut and unforgiving.
"Don't you dare stop," he muttered, breath hissing through his teeth as she gagged again. "You wanted this—now take it. Take what I give you, baby. Show me how good you are for me."
Her nails bit crescents into his thighs, her chest heaving as she fought for each breath he allowed her between thrusts. Her spit soaked him, glistening down his shaft, coating his balls, a messy crown to her devotion. And still he praised, mean and sweet in the same breath.
"That's my girl. Cry for me. Choke on it. God, you're perfect like this—obedient little mouth, watering for me like you've got nothing else to live for."
Her moan vibrated around him, broken and raw, and his eyes rolled back for a heartbeat before fixing on her again, hungry, unrelenting. He rocked into her throat once more, deeper than before, and held her there just long enough to feel the desperate flutter of her body fighting for breath. Then he eased back, letting her gasp through swollen lips, tears spilling faster down her cheeks.
"Breathe," he ordered, gentle only in the word, then shoved her back down with a groan. "Now do it again."
Her throat worked around him, the slick walls convulsing each time he drove himself deep, and he swore the sound of her gagging was louder than the clock ticking on the wall. He fed her his cock like it was oxygen, measured thrusts that pressed his length to the very back of her throat, pulling back only to slam forward again. Her body shook with the effort, spit bubbling from the corners of her mouth, tears cutting raw tracks down her cheeks.
Soshiro tilted his head back, teeth clenched, a growl ripping low from his chest. He looked down again almost instantly—he couldn't not look. She was too beautiful wrecked like this. His perfect girl on her knees, glassy-eyed and ruined, drool slicking her chin, hands clutching at his thighs like she'd fall apart without the anchor.
"Fuck, sweetheart..." His voice cracked into a groan, rough and guttural. "You're a sight. My sight. Nobody else gets this. Nobody else ever sees you like this—on your knees, gagging, crying—only me."
Her moan buzzed against him, vibrating through the thick vein of his cock, and his hips stuttered forward on instinct, his composure fraying at the edges. His hand cupped the back of her skull and held her steady while his other thumb stroked over her damp cheek, smearing the tears he'd made like war paint.
"That's it," he panted, eyes dark, jaw sharp as he fed her every inch. "Good girl. Take it. Take it all for me—fuck—you're perfect like this. My perfect mess."
Her throat convulsed again, choking, but she didn't pull back. Didn't flinch. She looked up at him through her tears, lips swollen around his cock, and the sight tore the last of his control to shreds. His hips snapped hard, brutal, rutting into her mouth with a pace that left her gasping between thrusts. He felt himself throb against her tongue, heavy and hot, the tight coil in his gut burning fast toward release.
"You're mine," he snarled through his teeth, voice breaking into a groan as his body tightened. "Every fucking tear, every breath—mine." His thrusts grew frantic, shallow and fast, his cock twitching hard as the pressure broke.
He came with a guttural growl, hips jerking forward, spilling thick and hot down her throat. His hand pressed her flush to him, forcing her to take every pulse of it, filling her mouth until she gagged around the flood. Cum dripped from the corners of her lips when she couldn't keep up, streaking her chin, stringing down to her chest. The sight alone nearly undid him again.
"Swallow it," he ordered, voice wrecked but firm, thumb tugging at her jaw to make her look up at him. "Every drop, baby girl. Show me."
She swallowed shakily, throat working around the mess he'd given her, a sob breaking into the motion. The tear-streaked, cum-stained picture of her hit him so hard his chest ached, his cock twitching even as he softened in her mouth.
"God..." His voice dipped, softer but still rough, thumb brushing a wet streak of spit and seed from her lip. "You're so fucking beautiful like this. My good girl. My perfect girl."
He leaned down, catching her mouth in a messy kiss, uncaring of the taste of himself smeared there, groaning low into her swollen lips. He kissed the tears at her cheeks, her damp lashes, her jaw, marking her not with cruelty now but with devotion.
Pulling her up from her knees, he crushed her against his chest, his arms banded around her tight. His cock still dripped against his sweats, his thighs wet with spit, but he didn't care. He buried his face in her hair, breathing hard, voice muffled but fierce.
"If you ever cry, it'll be for me," he rasped, raw devotion bleeding through the roughness. "And only like this."
His grip eased just enough to let him kiss her temple, tender and trembling in contrast to the brutal edge of his words. "My girl. Always my girl."
His eyes lingered first—slow, cutting, crimson fixed on her body like he was memorizing every inch he was about to uncover. When he finally moved, it wasn't rushed. Soshiro Hoshina was never rushed when he didn't have to be. He let his hands speak for him, broad palms sliding to the hem of her shirt, calloused thumbs brushing deliberately against the bare skin of her waist. He dragged the fabric upward with unhurried precision, baring her inch by inch until the cool air kissed the underside of her breasts. His lips curved faintly when goosebumps followed in the wake of his touch.
"Arms up, sweetheart," he murmured, not asking so much as expecting.
She obeyed, and he peeled the shirt over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without a glance. The sports bra followed, his thumbs slipping beneath the elastic and stretching it wide before he tugged it upward, letting her breasts fall free into the cool air. His eyes lingered on the sight—soft curves, peaked nipples already tightening under the weight of his gaze—before his hands came up to cup them briefly, thumbs brushing hard across the tips until she shivered.
Then he moved lower.
Fingers hooked in the waistband of her shorts, dragging the fabric down slowly enough that it was closer to torture than a favor. The cotton clung to her skin, peeled away from her thighs inch by inch, until it joined the rest of her clothes on the floor. He crouched lower as he worked, his mouth brushing deliberately along the bare skin of her stomach, her hip, the sensitive inside of her thigh as he knelt fully. Her panties were the last barrier, a small, soaked thing that he didn't remove immediately. He tugged them aside with his thumb just long enough to glance at the wetness already gathering between her folds, and his smirk sharpened at the sight.
"Look at you," he muttered, voice dropping to a husky rumble. "Already dripping, and I haven't even touched you yet."
He slid the panties down her legs, let them fall, and then guided her carefully backward until the backs of her thighs pressed against the edge of the mattress. He steadied her there with a firm hand, pushing gently at her hip until she perched right where he wanted her—spread, waiting, helpless in the face of his focus.
Then, finally, he dropped to his knees between her legs.
The sight alone could have undone her: Soshiro Hoshina, Vice-Captain, the soldier who never faltered in battle, kneeling bareheaded and hungry in front of her. His eyes flicked up, crimson locking on hers as his big hands slid up the length of her thighs, spreading her wider until there was no mystery left between them.
"Better savor this," he said, his grin slow, dangerous, voice velvet-edged steel. "Because tonight, sweetheart, this is the only mercy you're getting out of me."
And then he bent forward, mouth hot and devastating as it closed over her clit, tongue circling with unerring precision until her head tipped back and a broken sound tore free from her throat.
His mouth sealed over her like a man who had been starving all day, all week, all his life and only now had been allowed to eat. The first drag of his tongue was deliberate, slow from the bottom of her folds all the way up until it curled around the swollen peak of her clit. She jolted at the contact, thighs quivering, hands immediately reaching for his hair. His short, dark strands were damp still from the shower earlier, and she curled her fingers tight in them without thought, desperate for something to anchor herself to.
Soshiro didn't complain. He leaned into it, the pull at his scalp only deepening the growl that reverberated low in his chest. His hands clamped firmer around her thighs, spreading her further, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just shy of bruising. He angled her hips subtly upward, pinning her in place on the edge of the mattress, ensuring she couldn't wriggle away even if the pleasure burned too sharp.
He was precise. Of course he was. The same man who could split a kaiju in half with a single swing now used that focus on her body, tracing every flicker of reaction, every gasp, every tremor. His tongue circled her clit in a steady rhythm—tight spirals, fast flicks, then a long, flat drag that made her choke on a whimper. He knew exactly when to switch, exactly how much pressure to apply, like he'd mapped her nerves down to the millimeter.
Her breath hitched again, sharp and desperate, and he pulled back just enough to murmur against her, voice thick with amusement. "That's it. Shake for me, sweetheart. Let me feel it."
Then he was back at it, this time sucking gently, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth and rolling his tongue over it until her thighs clamped reflexively against his head. He only chuckled against her, the vibration shooting straight through her, and pried her legs back open with merciless ease.
Her thighs trembled under his grip, every muscle strung tight as a bowstring, and still he held her open, mouth locked to her like nothing in the world could pull him away. His tongue worked in relentless patterns—flicking, circling, dragging slow and hot until every gasp that broke from her throat was sharper than the last. The mattress creaked faintly beneath her, the sheets gathering in her fists as she writhed, but he pinned her there, unmovable.
When she choked on his name—half moan, half sob—he hummed low in his chest, and the sound vibrated against her clit until stars burst behind her eyes. His crimson gaze flicked up briefly, locking with hers through her haze, and the raw hunger there nearly undid her.
"Beautiful," he muttered, lips brushing slick against her. "All mine."
He buried himself deeper then, tongue plunging past her folds to thrust inside her, curling with precise, devastating strokes. One of his hands left her thigh to press flat against her stomach, pinning her hips down when she tried to buck up into his mouth. The weight of it made her feel trapped in the best way, every nerve lit up and helpless under his mercy. His tongue fucked her with the same skill as his blades—measured, relentless, merciless—until wet sounds filled the room, obscene and slick.
Her legs kicked weakly, her voice breaking into a keening cry, and still he didn't stop. He swallowed everything she gave him, groaning into her like her taste was the only thing keeping him alive. His hand on her stomach slid higher, until his broad palm pressed just beneath her ribs, pinning her flat. His other hand tightened on her thigh, spreading her wide again when instinct tried to curl her in.
"Stay open for me," he growled against her, his mouth never ceasing. "You can take it. I know you can."
And then he latched onto her clit again, sucking hard, his tongue flicking mercilessly against it until her body bowed sharp off the bed, a sob breaking ragged from her throat. Her orgasm hit sudden and brutal, tearing through her so hard her vision whited out, and he didn't let her go. He held her there with his mouth, dragging her through every spasm, drinking down every drop of slick that spilled against his tongue.
When her body finally collapsed back onto the mattress, trembling and boneless, he didn't stop. He slowed, yes—long, lazy licks that teased and soothed, his tongue broad and heavy as he cleaned her up—but the promise in his eyes said he was nowhere near finished.
Her chest heaved, damp hair plastered to her temples, voice barely a whisper when she gasped, "Soshiro—please—too much—"
He looked up at her again, chin glistening, mouth swollen and slick, and grinned that sharp fox's grin that carried no mercy.
"Too much?" His voice was dark velvet, amused and dangerous all at once. He leaned back in, kissing her clit with obscene tenderness, then whispered against her, "Sweetheart, I'm only getting started."
Her chest heaved like she'd just been dragged out of deep water, the shine of sweat glistening down her sternum. Every nerve still twitched with aftershocks, her thighs trembling where he held them wide. She reached weakly for his hair, as if she could plead with touch alone, but Soshiro only caught her wrist midair, pressed a kiss to her pulse, and set it back down against the sheets.
"I told you to savour it," he murmured, crimson eyes gleaming up at her from between her thighs. His voice was rough velvet, every word soaked in promise. "Because that was the only soft thing you're getting from me tonight."
Before she could answer, his teeth sank gently into the tender flesh of her inner thigh. She gasped, the sharp sting cutting straight through the fog of pleasure, and his tongue soothed over the mark instantly. Another bite followed, higher this time, harder—enough that her hips jerked, her voice breaking into a desperate cry. He growled against her skin, low and satisfied, before laving over it again, painting the ache with his tongue until a bruise began to bloom.
"Fuck, look at you," he rasped, pulling back just enough to admire his handiwork. His mouth was wet, chin glistening with her slick, lips swollen from the force of it. He dragged his teeth up the length of her thigh, biting, sucking, marking his way toward the heat of her cunt again. Each bruise bloomed under his mouth like a claim, his chest rising sharper with every sound she made. "Mine. Every inch of you. Mine to mark, mine to ruin."
She tried to plead—his name spilling weakly from her lips, her thighs twitching like they might close—but he pinned them down again, broad hands bruising into her flesh as his mouth sealed back over her. No warm-up this time, no slow indulgence. He devoured her, tongue thrusting into her with brutal precision, groaning like she was feeding something starved in him.
Her body convulsed, raw sensitivity tearing sobs from her chest, but he didn't relent. He sucked her clit hard, teeth grazing just enough to make her scream, then plunged his tongue inside her again, fucking her with wet, merciless strokes. She was shaking, voice breaking into incoherent cries, tears sliding down her temples to dampen the sheets.
And he loved it.
"God, you're beautiful like this," he muttered against her, before latching on again, dragging her up another peak. "Crying for me. Falling apart just from my mouth. You were made for this, sweetheart—made for me."
When she shattered the second time, her body clamping down around his tongue, he growled into her, drinking it down like he'd never get enough. Her thighs clamped tight around his head this time, but he only pressed harder, grinding his face into her until she sobbed his name like prayer.
Her body was still twitching when he rose, mouth slick, chin shining, eyes dark as fresh blood. He wiped the back of his hand across his jaw only to smear her wetness further, then caught her chin in that same hand, tilting her face up. She was dazed, lips parted, cheeks blotched pink from crying, and he smiled—sharp, dangerous, hungry.
"Good girl," he rasped, voice shredded from groans he hadn't bothered to hide. "You took it all. But you think I'm done with you?" His thumb pressed into the spit-slick bow of her bottom lip, forcing her to keep her mouth open as he leaned down. "Not a fucking chance."
He guided her back onto the bed, her body pliant under his hands, and stripped off what little he still wore. His cock stood flushed and thick, the tip gleaming, heavy veins running down its length. He stroked himself once, deliberate, letting her watch how his fist barely closed around the girth, then lined up at her entrance without preamble.
The first push stole both their breath—her body, soaked and trembling, clenching around him, his jaw locking tight as he sank in inch by inch. He didn't stop until he was buried to the hilt, her walls fluttering madly around the stretch. Her scream cracked into a sob, arms wrapping around his shoulders, but he didn't move. Not yet.
"Feel that?" he growled, breath hot against her ear. "That's all of me. Splitting you open. Filling you so deep you won't remember what it's like to be empty." He pressed a kiss to her temple, tender for one heartbeat, then bared his teeth at her neck and bit down hard enough to make her cry out again. His hips flexed once, shallow, just to feel the way her walls clung. "Better hang on, baby."
Then he pulled back and slammed into her.
The bedframe cracked against the wall, the sound obscene as his pace turned brutal, each thrust sharp and claiming, his pelvis grinding against her clit with every snap of his hips. Her voice was wrecked instantly, babbling pleas tangled with his name, tears streaking hot down her temples. She clung to him like she'd fall apart otherwise, nails raking down his back, but he only groaned at the sting.
"That's it," he snarled, one hand sliding up to her throat, palm wide and warm as it pressed down—not cutting her air, not fully, just enough to make her eyes roll at the pressure. His thumb caressed her jaw even as he squeezed. "Take it, sweetheart. Take every fucking inch like you were made for me. God, listen to you—can't even talk. Just whimpering my name like you're cock-drunk already."
He bit at her shoulder again, sucking hard until another bruise bloomed purple-red. His hips didn't falter, driving into her with vicious precision, her slick coating his length, dripping down between them, making every thrust loud, wet, filthy.
"You love this, don't you?" he hissed, tightening his grip on her throat, watching her mouth open on a silent moan. "You love when I ruin you like this. Love when I fuck you so hard you forget your own name. All you know is me. My cock. My marks. My fucking voice in your ear."
Her answer was incoherent, just a broken sob that made his grin sharpen. He leaned close, lips brushing her damp cheek.
"That's right, baby. Cry for me. Beg without words. You're mine—my perfect girl, my cock-drunk mess—and I'm never letting you forget it."
The pace he set was merciless. His hips crashed against hers with a rhythm so sharp the headboard rattled in protest, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing through the room, filthy and loud. Sweat ran down his temple, slid into the hollow of his throat, then further down the carved lines of his chest and abs, catching in the dips of muscle before dripping onto her trembling body beneath him. It was nothing but hot skin against hot skin now—her nipples dragging over the hard planes of his torso with every brutal snap of his hips, her slick smearing messily down his thighs as he fucked her deeper, harder, like he was carving his name into her with every thrust.
Her voice was nearly gone already, cracked to breathless whimpers, moans spilling without control. Her nails left red crescents down his back, but he only groaned at the sting, his body shuddering with it, driving into her harder. Her head tipped back against the mattress, eyes glazed and unfocused, lips parted, and he laughed—low, cruel, delighted.
"Look at you," he rasped, his voice ragged with lust and heat, his hand clamping back down on her throat, steadying her head so he could watch her fall apart. "Eyes rolling back, drooling on yourself, too cock-drunk to even beg. Fuck, baby, you're perfect like this." He leaned closer, dragging his teeth over her jaw, biting down just hard enough to make her cry out. "Maybe I should always use your pretty little body like this. Bend you open, fuck you stupid, leave you wrecked so all you can do is lie here and take it."
Her answer came out as nothing but a sob, the sound vibrating against his palm. He chuckled darkly, the fox's grin curved mean and hungry above her. "That's it. Don't even think, sweetheart. Don't even try. Just be good and let me fuck you."
He adjusted his grip, one hand braced on the headboard now, the other holding her throat steady, and changed the angle of his thrusts. The thick head of his cock ground against that spot inside her that made her body convulse, and the cry she let out was raw, guttural, the sound of someone undone. Her walls squeezed around him like a vice, fluttering wildly, and he groaned deep in his chest, the sound rough enough to scrape.
"God, I can feel you clenching... you're close, huh?" He drove harder, his brutal tempo never faltering, every thrust punching the air out of her lungs. "Yeah, I know. This tight little pussy's screaming for me. Begging for me. You want to cum on my cock, don't you? Want to soak me, make a mess all over me while I pound you into the mattress?"
Her nails clawed helplessly at his shoulders, words gone, only broken gasps spilling from her swollen lips. He laughed again, dark and triumphant, biting at her collarbone until another bruise bloomed under his teeth.
"Go on then, baby. Cum for me. Show me how good I fuck you. Show me how much you love being ruined by me."
Her body convulsed under him, shuddering violently as her orgasm ripped through her, back arching off the bed, her cunt clamping down so hard he cursed aloud. He didn't stop—didn't even slow—just fucked her through it, his pace still brutal, hips slamming against her trembling body until her eyes rolled back again, tears streaking down her temples.
"Yeah, that's it," he groaned, his own voice breaking now, forehead pressed to hers as his thrusts turned ragged, relentless. "My perfect girl. My cock-drunk mess. You'll take everything I give you. Every fucking drop."
The pace built until it was nothing but fury and devotion made flesh, his cock pounding into her with a brutal rhythm that left her voice broken, eyes glassy and rolled back. Every sharp cry she let out only drove him harder, the sound threading straight through his veins until his jaw clenched and his muscles locked tight.
"Fuck—" The word tore from his throat as his hips jerked forward in one last, vicious thrust, burying himself to the hilt. He came with a guttural snarl, thick and hot spilling deep inside her, each heavy pulse wringing another helpless clench from her wrecked body. His hand gripped her throat as if to hold her still for it, forcing her to take every drop, and when she whimpered around the stretch, his groan deepened into something feral.
Warmth spilled out around him, slick and messy, streaking her thighs and the sheets beneath, but he didn't move, didn't soften. He ground himself in deeper, grinding his cock against her swollen walls as if to brand her from the inside. His teeth found her jaw, biting down hard enough to bruise, his voice hot and ragged against her ear.
"Look at you... dripping full of me. My perfect little mess. You were made for this—made for me."
She shuddered under him, whimpering broken nonsense, already glassy-eyed and undone. He watched her with something close to reverence, chest heaving, cum still leaking warm between them—then gave a sharp, wolfish grin.
"Don't think I'm finished, sweetheart," he rasped, pulling back just enough to slam into her again, the wet slap obscene. His cock was still iron-hard, still hungry. "That was just the first. You've got a long night ahead of you."
He didn't give her a chance to catch her breath. One second she was limp under him, still trembling from the mess he'd made inside her, and the next she was gasping as he hauled her over, face down into the sheets with a roughness that bordered on cruel but never tipped into harm.
She barely managed to shift before his hands were already moving her, spreading her across the bed like he owned every inch of her body. He shoved a pillow under her hips, lifting her ass high until she was open and waiting, his cum already trickling down the insides of her thighs in sticky trails. The sight made his cock twitch violently, his chest heaving as he lined himself up again.
A sharp smack cracked across her ass, the sting blooming hot under his palm. She yelped, face burying into the mattress, and he laughed low, a dangerous rumble in his chest. "That's right, baby. Keep that pretty head down for me. I want you face-first in the sheets while I fuck you stupid."
He pushed in with one hard thrust, the stretch even rougher this time, his earlier release slicking the way. The wet sound of him forcing his cock back inside her made his teeth grit, his eyes dark as he watched his own cum spill out only to be shoved right back in by the brutal rhythm of his hips.
"God, look at that..." he groaned, voice jagged with lust. "Already fucked full of me, and this pussy's still taking it—greedy little thing."
His hands found her shoulders and shoved her harder into the mattress, her cheek pressing into the damp sheets, muffling her broken cries. The pillow under her hips kept her ass high, perfectly angled for every ruthless snap of his hips. The headboard slammed against the wall, the slap of skin echoing in filthy rhythm, punctuated by the occasional smack of his palm against her ass until the skin there burned under his touch.
"You feel that?" His voice was sharp, mean, but trembling with how hard he was holding himself together. "Every thrust—pushing it deeper. Making sure you don't waste a drop." His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back just enough so her cries spilled free again, her voice wrecked and trembling.
Her walls fluttered helplessly around him, already clenching hard, already begging for more without words, and he leaned over her, pressing his chest to her back, his mouth at her ear. "You're mine like this. No one else will ever get to see you ruined this way. No one else will ever get to fuck you this full."
Her answer was a strangled sob into the sheets, her body giving out against the brutal tempo, every thrust rocking her forward until her arms collapsed under her. He just pinned her harder, pushing her head down into the mattress with one big hand while he pounded into her from behind, relentless, a starving man taking what was his again and again.
Her arms gave out, her cheek pressed into the sheets, but Soshiro wasn't done—not even close. He caught one of her wrists, dragged it behind her back, and pinned it there in his fist like she was nothing more than a doll. She gasped, hips jerking helplessly as the new angle made him hit even deeper, harder, every thrust punching the breath out of her lungs.
"Stay right there," he growled, tightening his grip until she whined. "You don't move unless I move you."
His other hand slid low, rough fingertips finding the swollen bud of her clit and circling it with brutal precision, exactly how he knew would shatter her fastest. The contrast made her scream into the mattress—the ruthless tempo of his cock pounding into her from behind and the sharp, deliberate pressure of his fingers on her most sensitive spot. Her thighs trembled violently, knees threatening to give out even though she was already pinned down and helpless.
"That's it," he rasped against her ear, sweat dripping from his temple onto her back as he leaned over her, his cock dragging through her slick heat like it owned her. "Come for me, sweetheart. Make a mess on me. I want to feel you lose it all over my cock."
Her body obeyed before her mind could catch up. The orgasm tore through her, violent and consuming, her walls clenching so hard around him he nearly lost his rhythm. She sobbed into the sheets, trembling uncontrollably, her body convulsing as his hand never let up, his thrusts just as punishing, milking every last spasm out of her.
"Fuck—look at you," he groaned, voice wrecked but thick with satisfaction. He pressed her wrist harder into her back, holding her down through the quake of her climax, his fingers grinding relentless circles against her clit until her scream broke into raw, breathless whimpers. "So fucking perfect like this... shaking on my cock, crying for me."
He finally eased his hand off her clit, but not off her wrist, his grip still unyielding as he continued to rut into her soaked, fluttering pussy, his chest heaving against her back. "Good girl," he murmured roughly, biting down on the curve of her shoulder hard enough to leave the mark blooming. "My good girl. I could fuck you like this all night."
Her body was still trembling, her pulse still scattered from the orgasm he'd wrung out of her, when his grip shifted. Without warning, Soshiro grabbed her other wrist, yanking both arms behind her back and locking them in one brutal fist. She gasped, body arching as he hauled her upright by her bound arms, her chest pressing into the sheets, ass high, legs spread wide and trembling.
"Mine," he growled into the shell of her ear, and then he drove into her with the kind of force that rattled the headboard against the wall.
The new angle was devastating—his cock slammed into her with every stroke, thick and merciless, filling her so deep she could feel him in her ribs. She couldn't move, couldn't fight it if she tried; he used her body like it was built for him alone, dragging her back onto him with the leverage of her pinned wrists. She cried out, the sound muffled against the mattress, her body bouncing helplessly with every brutal snap of his hips.
"Fuck—just like that," he groaned, voice dark and raw, his chest heaving against her back. "You feel that, baby girl? You're nothing but a pretty little sheath for my cock right now. Taking me so fucking deep, letting me use you."
Her eyes rolled back, mouth falling open around broken, incoherent noises. He didn't slow. Every thrust was harder than the last, his balls slapping wetly against her with obscene sound, sweat dripping from his temples to her skin. Her arms strained in his grip, but he only pulled them tighter, holding her steady as he fucked into her like she was his ragdoll, pliant and perfect.
"You love it," he snarled, biting down on her shoulder, sharp enough to make her squeal. His cock twitched deep inside her, dragging over every trembling spot until her legs shook violently beneath him. "You love when I take you like this. Don't you?"
Her answer was nothing but a sob, high and wrecked, her body clenching tight around him as though begging him not to stop.
"That's it," he muttered, mean praise pouring from his lips as his thrusts turned reckless, chasing his own pleasure now, hips slamming into her with bruising force. "That's my good girl. Letting me fuck you like a toy. Letting me ruin you."
Her arms were useless against his grip—both wrists pinned in one of his hands, wrenched back until her spine curved into a perfect arch for him. He moved her like she weighed nothing, like she was just an extension of his own body, dragging her back into every thrust until the sound of his cock slamming into her was drowned in the wet slap of skin on skin. Her voice was wrecked already, breaking into hoarse, high sounds that barely formed words, her cheek pressed into the sheets.
"Christ..." he groaned low, every breath hot against her ear as he bent over her back, "look at you, sweetheart—can't even keep your head up, can you? Just lying here letting me use you. Fucking perfect for me."
She whimpered, body jolting forward with each vicious snap of his hips. The pillow he'd shoved beneath her stomach only lifted her higher into the relentless rhythm, letting him hit deep enough that every stroke punched a broken cry out of her lungs. Her hands twitched helplessly in his hold, but he only tightened, the veins standing out on his forearm as he pulled harder, keeping her open for him.
Her walls clenched hard around him, slick and needy, and the sensation made his head spin. Sweat dripped down his temple, rolling off his jaw to dampen the soft skin between her shoulder blades, and he pressed his mouth there without slowing. A kiss first—hot, almost tender—then a bite, sharp enough to make her flinch and moan.
"Yeah..." he rasped against her skin, his teeth grazing the mark he'd just made. "That's it. Give me every sound. Don't hold back. I want it all."
Her voice cracked, babbled nonsense spilling into the sheets, and he groaned deep at the sound. He tugged her arms higher, forcing her deeper onto him, his thrusts turning shorter, rougher, driven by pure hunger.
"God, I love you like this," he admitted, raw and low, almost reverent despite the brutality of his pace. "Fucked dumb on my cock, tears in your eyes, too wrecked to even beg right." He pressed her head gently into the mattress with his free hand, his hips slamming forward with punishing rhythm, the slick mess of him and her coating their thighs, dripping down to the sheets.
The sight nearly undid him—her flushed skin glowing under the low light, her body quaking with each thrust, her pussy clenching around him like it was made to keep him there. His chest swelled, his voice catching as he bent low over her.
"Sweetheart... fuck, you don't even know what you do to me," he panted, his pace unrelenting. "You're everything. My perfect girl. And I'm not stopping until every part of you knows it."
He drove into her harder, sharper, his groans mixing with her broken cries, and he knew he was close—too close—but he didn't care. Not when she was trembling like this under him, not when she was squeezing him so tight he thought he might break apart inside her.
"Not gonna last, baby girl. You're too fucking good—"
The dam broke with a growl that tore from his chest. He buried himself to the hilt, holding her locked against him as his release hit in hot, heavy pulses. His cock jerked inside her with every spurt, thick cum spilling deep, spilling so much it slid back around him, wetting the insides of her thighs. He ground into her, slow, savage, as if to push it all higher, to make sure she kept every drop.
Her body convulsed beneath him, shivering from the force of it, and he couldn't help but laugh—a breathless, cracked sound of pure disbelief at how good she felt. He bent over her, his chest pressed to her slick back, his lips dragging over the flushed shell of her ear.
"That's it. Take it, sweetheart. Fuck—you're milking me dry."
When the aftershocks tore through him, he stayed buried, still pinning her wrists, still holding her like she belonged to no one else. His cum spilled out around the base of his cock in messy streaks, and the sight nearly undid him all over again.
Finally, finally, he let her arms fall, her body collapsing limp against the bed. He kissed the sweat-damp curve of her shoulder, a softer mark in contrast to the bruises and bites he'd already scattered. His breath still came rough, but his voice had dipped low, reverent, even as he was still inside her.
"Fuck... you're everything, you know that?" His hand slid over her hip, squeezing tenderly where he'd gripped too hard before. "My perfect girl. Mine."
Slowly—reluctantly—he eased out of her. The sound was obscene, wet, and his cum spilled down the insides of her thighs, streaking her skin, staining the sheets. He hissed low in his teeth at the sight, some greedy part of him already aching to put it back inside, but he forced himself to still. Not yet. Not again.
She was trembling faintly, hair stuck to her flushed face, her lips parted as she dragged in shallow breaths. Her body looked wrecked—marked with his bites, his bruises, her thighs quivering from his brutal tempo. Beautiful.
"Hey." His voice was softer now, the roughness sanded down but still warm in her ear. He smoothed his palm over her back, broad hand following the line of her spine, steadying her trembling muscles. "With me, sweetheart?"
She made a sound, something halfway between a hum and a sigh, and it made him smile. He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to the curve of her shoulder, letting his lips linger there.
Then he moved. Gentle now. He slid his arms beneath her, one under her knees, the other cradling her shoulders, and lifted her from the bed as if she weighed nothing. She curled into him on instinct, her arms draping weakly around his neck, her cheek pressing against the rapid thrum of his heartbeat. He carried her into the bathroom, nudging the door open with his foot.
The soft light flicked on, casting warm gold over the tiles. He set her carefully on the counter, steadying her with one hand at her waist while the other turned on the tap. Warm water filled a cloth, steam curling up between them.
"Easy," he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. He crouched between her knees, parting them with gentle hands, and began to clean her. The wet cloth was warm, soothing against her skin as he wiped away the mess he had made—his cum streaking her thighs, the sweat dampening her body. His touch was precise as ever, but tender now, lingering in soft strokes rather than bruising grips. He kissed the inside of her knee when she flinched at the sensitivity, whispering, "I know, baby. I've got you."
When she was clean, he pressed the cloth aside and leaned forward, kissing the inside of her thigh where he'd left his bite marks earlier. His mouth was soft this time, reverent, like he was apologizing to her skin with every touch.
Back in the bedroom, he tucked her into fresh sheets, smoothing the blanket over her bare body. He joined her a moment later, sliding in close, wrapping himself around her. His arm draped heavy over her waist, pulling her back to his chest, his lips brushing over the crown of her head.
"Too much?" he asked, his voice a murmur against her hair.
She shook her head faintly, nuzzling back into him, a tired smile tugging at her swollen lips. "Perfect."
The word melted something inside him. He buried his face in her hair, inhaled the faint sweetness of her shampoo still clinging there, and pressed a kiss to her temple.
His big hands smoothed down her thighs beneath the sheets, thumbs working slow circles into the sore muscles he'd pushed past their limit. She shivered at the touch, but it wasn't from overstimulation this time—it was from the gentleness of it, the way he touched her like she was something sacred even after he'd been so rough.
"I needed this," he murmured against her hair, voice low and hoarse with honesty. His lips brushed her temple with every word, reverent, almost like confession. "Needed you." His hands kept kneading her thighs, steady and grounding, as if he could pour gratitude straight into her skin. "Thank you, sweetheart... for letting me take it, for giving me all of you."
The moonlight poured pale silver over the sheets, over the planes of his back as he bent to kiss the curve of her shoulder. She sighed, sinking deeper into his chest, her breathing evening out under the warmth of his arms. And only then—only with her safe and steady against him—did Soshiro let his own body finally unclench, his heartbeat slowing in rhythm with hers.
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You are an angel. He is a menace. You love order. He loves chaos. You work hard to achieve your goals. He is a born-talented genius. You try to cover your body language. He sees right through you. When you get stuck together in the same apartment, it’s even worse.
You study law. He and your brother study criminal psychology. You are a closed book to everyone but him. He knows you. Better than you know yourself. And in the end, that’s what’s gonna get you trouble.
𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬 & 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: College AU, Roommates AU, Enemies-To-Lovers, Slow Burn, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Brother’s Best Friend, Smartass People, Flirty Banter, Comedy & Crack, Mild Language, Smut with plot, Light Angst
𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭
CHAPTER ONE
You’ve just finished moving in with your older brother, Soshirou Hoshina. It’s been a week since you joined the Law School at his college, and honestly? Life feels way too peaceful. No annoying geniuses mocking you in class, no chaotic surprises. Just quiet, calm, maybe even boring.
For once, you think you might actually get some studying done without someone dragging you into nonsense.
But hey, you decide to reward yourself with a little treat today—a trip to the campus café, where you’ve heard the coffee is legendary.
You pull out your phone and try to find it on the campus map. The little blue dot bobs as you navigate the corridors, and after a few wrong turns, you finally spot the tiny sign painted above a door: “Campus Brew.” Jackpot.
You push the door open and step inside. The rich aroma of roasted coffee beans wraps around you like a warm hug, instantly boosting your mood.
The place is cozy and packed with students. You scan the room for the best spot and move toward the counter.
As you wait your turn to order, your eyes wander around, soaking in the scene. That’s when you see him.
There. In the far corner. Gen Narumi.
Not just any Narumi. The one you’ve unofficially dubbed Captain Menace after enduring three years of his chaotic antics back in high school. Thank God he’s one year older.
He’s lounging with a laptop open, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, the other lazily scrolling through something on the screen. His grin is exactly the kind of “I’m up to no good” that you’ve come to know all too well.
Your heart does that annoying flutter thing—not from attraction, but pure panic.
Of all places.
You quickly look away, hoping your sudden presence here hasn’t registered.
But then, as if the universe wants to add insult to injury, your brother Soshirou appears right behind you, unaware of Narumi’s presence.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks cheerfully, leaning over to read the menu.
You peek over his shoulder, and then—there it is.
Narumi’s eyes meet yours.
That damn smirk widens.
You swear, for a split second, he looks like he’s daring you to run or stay and deal with the madness to come.
Your mind races, scrambling for a way to avoid this impending disaster.
Why now? you think. Why here? Why this campus?
Soshirou turns to you with a grin, oblivious to the tension crackling just a few feet away.
“Coffee break before class?” he asks, completely clueless.
You force a smile, your stomach twisting into knots.
Narumi’s gaze lingers on you like a spotlight.
And in that moment, you realize… your peaceful days? Officially over.
GUESS WHO'S BACK. Kaiju Alert! The captain of the First Division is in the area of ACADEMIC AU! Initiating slow-burn, rivals-to-lovers, and my first comedy. You've got that right. Comedy. This is a spicy one, of course.
If you enjoyed this first chapter, stay tuned for more! Daily updating!
𐙚⋆.˚ - Pairing: Kafka, Haruichi, Reno, Hoshina, Narumi (Separate) x fem!reader
𐙚⋆.˚ - Warnings: Multiple Orgasms/Several rounds(hoshina), Pussy eating, Fingering, Pet names, PnV, Creampies, filthy tbh, rough sex, dirty talk, praise, degrading?, solo, scent & panty sniffing (kafka), semi-public (narumi) I think that's it? written with a plus sized reader in mind. NOT PROOF READ AT ALL
𐙚⋆.˚ - Words: 4.8k
𐙚⋆.˚ - A/N: This content is 18+ minors, ageless and blank blogs WILL BE BLOCKED. It's been freeing to just write what I want too recently so enjoy!!
𐙚⋆.˚ - Notice: You can filter your content in the event it is not for you, under blog settings if any of tags used you will not see content relating to this. AGAIN MINORS, AGELESS, BLANK BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. UPDATE YOUR PROFILE BEFORE INTERACTING OR FOLLOWING.
Kafka loves everything about you. Every part of you is written into him like scripture, etched into his bones so deep that forgetting you would be like forgetting how to breathe. He carries you everywhere, in his head, in his chest, under his skin. Your voice, whether it’s snapping at him in irritation or whispering something filthy in the dark, hits him the same way: addictive. Your smile, whether sly or shy. The tilt of your chin when you’re challenging him. The way you tip your head back and laugh, exposing the smooth line of your throat. He’s memorized it all.
But there’s one thing that nothing and no one could ever come close to replicating.
Your scent.
It’s not just perfume or body wash. Not entirely. Maybe it’s the whisper of your shampoo mixed with the warmth of your skin, the faintest trace of sweat after a long day, and something deeper, something purely, unmistakably you. Kafka doesn’t know if it’s alchemy or instinct, but the moment you’re close, he breathes deeper without realizing it. His lungs get greedy. His brain fogs. His cock stirs.
You’ll catch him in these moments, when he thinks you’re not paying attention—pressing his face into your neck like a man who’s been underwater too long. His nose drags along your skin, inhaling like he can store you inside himself. A kiss starts at your jaw, soft and casual, then another. His mouth opens. His tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, tasting the faint salt of your skin as he drags it up the column of your throat. By the time his teeth graze your jaw, his hands are already on your hips, pulling you closer like proximity alone isn’t enough.
You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull, not enough to hurt, but enough to make his whole body jolt and a sound tear from his throat. That sound is low, needy, almost pained, and you feel it vibrate against your skin. He loves when you pull. Loves the tension of it, the way it makes him feel like you’re holding him in place while he’s about to come apart.
And when he finally sinks into you.. when your slick heat wraps around him, it’s never just physical. It’s a full body, nerve-ending deep reaction. You’re hot, wet, impossibly tight, gripping him in a way that makes his knees weak. The first thrust has him curling forward over you, his breath stuttering in your ear.
“Fuck… fuck!” he mutters like a prayer, voice already shaky.
You squeeze around him, and he shudders like you’ve just ripped the air from his lungs. His hands roam without focus. One gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, the other sliding up your spine, over your ribs, into your hair. His hips stutter because you feel too good. Every slow drag of his cock through your slick walls makes him groan, makes his abs clench, makes him fight not to spill into you too soon.
Kafka tries for control, sometimes. Tries to keep the pace steady, to drag it out. But you always undo him. A small shift of your hips. A clenched muscle milking him deeper. A whisper of his name in that voice you only use for him, and he’s gone again. His thrusts get rougher, more erratic. He starts panting against your skin, almost whimpering into your neck.
And when you’re not there?
He’s pathetic. Painfully so.
You’ve come home to find him sprawled on the bed, clutching your sweatshirt to his face like it’s oxygen. Sometimes it’s your shirt, sometimes your pillowcase, sometimes your panties, soft, worn, still carrying the scent of you. His eyes are shut tight, hips rolling slow and desperate into the mattress.
Other times, he’s stripped down, rutting into a pillow with your underwear clutched in one hand, his face buried in it as muffled groans escape him. He’ll inhale sharply, nose pressed to the damp crotch of your panties, groaning like he’s tasting you through scent alone. His cock leaks against the fabric beneath him, smearing precum in messy, needy circles as he ruts harder, chasing a high that never feels the same without your heat wrapped around him.
He always finishes wanting.
The pillow is too soft. The air is too cold. The smell is fading too fast. He’ll spill over himself with a choked sound, thighs trembling, but instead of satisfaction there’s only the ache of absence, the hunger that only you can satisfy.
And when you are there?
He uses it. Every kiss turns hungrier, every inhale deeper. He’ll push you down, spreading your thighs wide with impatient hands, his mouth hot and messy on your skin before he even thinks about lining himself up. His nose brushes your inner thigh, inhaling again, and you feel the shiver ripple through him before his tongue finally finds you.
He devours like a starving man, one arm hooked under your leg to keep you open, the other hand splayed over your stomach as if to feel every twitch you make. And when he can’t take it anymore, when the need to be inside you overrides everything he pushes in deep, the sound he makes low and guttural, his whole body curling over you like he’s trying to disappear inside you entirely.
He fucks like a man chasing his own sanity, hips grinding, pressing as deep as he can with every thrust. His mouth finds your neck again, his voice rough in your ear:
“You’re in my head all the time.. fuck.. you don’t even know what you do to me.”
And you do know because you can feel exactly what you’ve done to him.
You’ve ruined him.
And he wouldn’t change a single fucking thing.
Haruichi has always loved marking you, loved it in a way that’s almost primal. There’s a heady, possessive satisfaction in watching bruises bloom under his mouth, in feeling the heat of his bite fade to a dull, aching throb while your skin darkens over hours into a living reminder of him. He doesn’t just leave them where they can be hidden; no, he wants them everywhere. Your shoulders, where his teeth have left you sore; your chest, littered with violet blooms; your hips, his fingerprints embedded in faint purple shapes. But his favorite, his absolute weakness, is your thighs.
There’s something about them that drives him insane. Maybe it’s the way they quiver when he grazes you just right, or how they open instinctively when he slots himself between them, as if your body was made to accommodate him. Maybe it’s the softness that yields so perfectly beneath his palms, the way he can grab, squeeze, and feel your flesh spill against his fingers until you gasp from the pressure. Whatever it is, Haruichi is obsessed, and when it comes to your thighs, he’s greedy.
When he gets you beneath him, he doesn’t tear into you right away, oh no, Haruichi takes his time. Always. He’s deliberate, almost reverent, undressing you in unhurried motions like he’s peeling away the last barriers to something sacred. His gaze never leaves your face, but his hands map every curve as if memorizing them all over again. He starts achingly slow, trailing his lips down your throat, along your sternum, across the gentle dip of your stomach. His fingers hook into your waistband and ease it down until you’re bare before him, and then he sees them. Your thighs. His favorite canvas.
That’s when his hunger sharpens.
He presses the first kiss to the inside of your knee, almost sweet, almost innocent, then drags his mouth higher, closer, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. Every inch gets claimed. His lips scatter soft kisses at first, then deeper ones, open-mouthed, wet, before his teeth sink in just enough to make you yelp. He sucks the skin into his mouth until you’re left with a swollen mark, groaning low in his throat when he pulls back to admire it. He does it again, higher, and again, until the inside of your thigh is a galaxy of blooming colors. Some fresh, some fading from the last time he had you.
You’re already shaking, thighs twitching beneath his hands, but he’s nowhere near satisfied.
His hands spread you open, palms digging into the crease where thigh meets hip, thumbs stroking idly as if he’s lulling you into a false calm. And then his fingers dip lower, finding your cunt already slick, heat radiating against his touch. He slips two inside with the kind of slow, deep curl that has your mouth falling open, but he keeps his lips exactly where they are, half an inch away from your clit, maddeningly close yet refusing to close the gap.
Every time you try to rock your hips toward him, to guide his mouth to where you’re throbbing, he pulls back just enough to deny you, smirking against your skin. “Not yet,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough, vibrating into you in a way that makes your stomach clench.
He resumes kissing, biting, sucking the same spots over and over until they’re tender and burning beneath his tongue. He’s marking you so thoroughly you’ll feel him for days every time you walk. You try again to pull him closer, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging.. but his grip on your thighs tightens in warning, forcing you open, keeping you right where he wants you.
“You’re going to take what I give you,” he growls, almost too low to hear, before dragging his teeth over the inside of your thigh hard enough to make you gasp.
By now you’re dripping, your slick coating his fingers as he works them in and out at an infuriating pace, just enough to keep you on the edge, never enough to push you over. The pressure builds hot and desperate, frustration knotting tight in your chest until your eyes sting with tears. You’re whimpering his name, your voice catching, your nails digging into his forearms just to ground yourself.
He notices everything, your shallow breathing, the way your thighs tremble, the involuntary pulse of your cunt around his fingers when he crooks them just right. It’s all fuel for him, making him take even longer.
It’s only when your thighs are flushed and covered in his marks, when your whole body is twitching under him, that he finally gives in. He slides down, mouth hovering over your clit for a breathless second before his tongue drags through you slow, deliberate, devastating. You choke on a sound that’s half-moan, half-plea, your hips jerking against his mouth, but now he’s relentless.
He sucks, laps, and teases, fingers pumping harder as his tongue presses into you with filthy precision. The marks on your thighs throb in time with your heartbeat, the ache blending with the pleasure until you’re spiraling, clutching at him like you might fall apart if you let go. And that’s exactly how Haruichi likes you shaking, dripping, ruined, every inch of you carrying proof that you’re his.
Hoshina’s hunger isn’t just lust, no, it’s an obsession that drips into every movement and every breath. It’s the kind of hunger that makes him linger over you like you’re a banquet laid out for him alone, a meal he’s going to devour at the pace he chooses, because the longer he draws it out, the more he gets to watch you break.
He’s not mindless about it... He’s meticulous. A craftsman. He grips you like you’re clay in his hands, fingers digging into the fat of your hips until you can feel his nails leaving marks. He squeezes your ass like he’s testing ripeness, spreading you open just to watch you twitch around him. His touch says mine before his mouth ever does, but his mouth isn’t shy either.
“You know why I like you like this?” he murmurs, voice low enough to crawl over your skin. His thumbs dig into the dip above your ass, pushing you down harder onto his cock until you gasp. “Because every part of you gives. You can’t hide a thing from me.”
And then he moves, hips rolling up with a slow, merciless grind that shoves the air from your lungs. He doesn’t pound mindlessly; he fucks with intent, every thrust dragging along that sweet spot just to watch your eyes roll back. You’re on top, thighs already trembling from the strain, but the way he looks at you, like you’re the best show he’s ever seen. Makes it impossible to stop.
Your tits bounce with every rise and fall, and he can’t resist reaching up to catch them in his hands. Squeezing until your breath stutters. He pinches one nipple, rolls it between his fingers, then leans up to catch the other in his mouth. His tongue flicks slow, deliberate, before he sucks so hard it aches.
You try to keep moving, but your rhythm falters, your thighs burning, and you whimper, “I can’t Hoshina.. Too much..” Heavy pants passed through kiss bruised lips.
Hoshina chuckles, the sound warm and cruel all at once. “Yeah, you can.” His hands slide to your ass, gripping hard, and then he starts fucking up into you, sharp and deep, making you fold forward with the force of it. “Don’t tell me you’re quitting when you’re this wet for me.”
You can feel it. Slick dripping down the insides of your thighs, smearing across his hips. He likes it messy. He wants your cunt loud and obscene, wants to hear every filthy slap when his hips meet yours. His pace gets meaner, chasing the sound of you, chasing the way your voice cracks when you cry out for him.
And when you collapse against his chest, too wrung out to keep upright, he doesn’t slow. He hooks an arm around your waist, holding you there while he drives into you, cock hitting so deep your toes curl. “That’s it. Let me fuck you through it,” he growls into your ear. “Every drop, baby. I want the sheets soaked by the time I’m done with you.”
You’re gasping, moaning, clinging, but he keeps going, keeps pushing until you’re trembling so hard you can barely keep your head up. He doesn’t stop when you come, not even when you’re whimpering from overstimulation. He wants to feel you flutter around him again, and again, until there’s nothing left in you but the reflex to take him.
By the time he’s done, you’re ruined, body limp, cheeks wet with tears you didn’t notice spilling. Your cunt’s still twitching around him, greedy even in exhaustion, and he stays buried there, holding you against him like you’re his favorite possession.
And if you think that means he’s finished the slow curl of his mouth against your neck says otherwise.
Sometimes he lets you rest. Sometimes. But with Hoshina, a break isn’t really a break. It’s an excuse to play with you in other ways. His hand slides up to your chest, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers until you gasp and arch helplessly into him. Then his mouth takes over—hot, wet, and merciless. His lips seal around you, sucking deep, tongue circling in slow, dizzying strokes until your hips roll against him without your permission.
And then, just as you’re starting to melt into it, his hips move.
Slow, deliberate thrusts, deep enough to make your breath stutter. The head of his cock drags over that spot inside you with every pull, then pushes right back into it, over and over until your nails are digging into his shoulders.
“You wanted a break, right?” he says, voice vibrating against your chest. “Guess I forgot what that means.”
You came the first time like that, unexpected, too soon, clenching around him so hard your body jerks. But Hoshina doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow. His hands pin your hips to keep you exactly where he wants you, grinding deep so every sensitive nerve gets hit again and again until you’re shaking and spilling over the edge a second time, your voice breaking on his name.
By the third orgasm, you’re already wrecked. Slick dripping down your thighs, the sheets beneath you wet and sticking to your skin. But he’s still moving, still filling you, still coaxing your body into giving him more. He kisses the corner of your mouth when you try to turn away from the overwhelming pleasure, forcing you to meet his eyes while he keeps you riding that high.
“C’mon,” he growls, “don’t tell me you’re done when you’re still this tight around me.”
The fourth leaves you breathless, your body collapsing against his chest. But even then, he rolls you onto your back, folds your legs up high, and drives into you harder, impossibly deeper, and punishing strokes that make your vision white out. His weight pins you down, his pace unrelenting, until your voice is raw and your body’s shaking through another climax that you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to.
By the time he’s done, you’re incoherent. Your cunt still fluttering around him in the aftermath, little aftershocks making him groan as he finally stills inside you. Sweat sticks your skin to his. The air smells like heat and sex, the sheets ruined beneath you. You’re trembling too hard to move, eyes glassy, chest heaving, completely spent.
That’s when he finally kisses you, slow, deep and murmurs against your lips,
“Now you’re ruined. Exactly how I like you.”
Narumi loves you without question, without a shred of doubt. Somehow you’d taken a cocky, ego surfing, gamer boy and turned him into a shameless lover boy. Not that the gaming stopped, you still played with him, sometimes sprawled across his lap while he ran raids. However.. If there's one thing in the world that truly dismantles him, it’s your ass.
And it doesn’t take much to ruin him. Just you walking around the apartment in one of his old, soft t-shirts, the hem barely covering the under-curve of your cheeks. Every step gives him the briefest, most maddening glimpse of plush skin, the sway perfectly timed to send a heat wave through his body. The way you bend slightly when reaching for something, he swears you know exactly what you’re doing.
He stares every time. Can’t help it. His eyes follow like he’s hypnotized, lips parted, breathing slow but shallow, hands flexing at his sides. All he can think about is getting his fingers on you. Spreading, gripping, smacking, and sinking his face between those soft curves until he’s dizzy. If that's how he went out, he didn't mind a single bit.
The memories are torture. Just the thought of your ass in his hands, the way it bounces after a sharp slap, the warm give when he squeezes. It's enough to get him hard in seconds. One mental replay can derail his entire day. And when it hits at work, he’s done for.
That’s when the messages start flooding your phone.
“Baby.. Please. Just one pic.”
“You did this to me. Fix it. :( ”
“If I get caught in here it’s your fault >:(”
Because he’s now in a locked stall in some restaurant, head tipped back against the wall, cock throbbing in his pants. One hand scrolling through old photos of you, the other palming himself in short, tense strokes. Sweat beads at his temples, as he swallows back curses. His hips move in shallow grinds, just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to satisfy. Anyone walking in would hear the faint hitch in his breath. Knowing, yet not knowing humanity's strongest was crumbling to pieces in some animalistic need.
Sometimes he hisses low into his mic, his voice breaking into that raw, rough edge that has your knees going weak. The voice notes were far more vulgar than any text he would send.
“Baby I swear.. Youre going to be so fucked out when I get my fucking hands on you. You're not gunna be able to walk for days. ”
“You’re dealing with this the second I get home. Miss your taste on my tongue.. Fuck baby send me somethin’ please..”
“Fuck this.. Im coming home and I’m bending you over and fucking this out of my system. Right over those pretty counters you wanted too. Gunna make a mess of that pretty pussy.”
And Narumi doesn’t bluff.
When he gets home that night, you barely have time to greet him. His shopping bag hits the floor with a thud, shoes kicked off in a messy scatter. He stalks toward you, eyes dark and sharp, his whole body practically radiating heat.
“You think you’re funny?” he asks, voice low as his hands find your hips and pull you flush against him. You can feel him—thick, hard, pressed up against your stomach, his heartbeat thudding in time with yours. “Had me losing my mind all day.”
“Naru-” You couldn't even get his name out before his mouth was pressed against yours.
The kiss he drags you into is fever-hot, all tongue and teeth, his hand sliding down to cup you from behind, squeezing hard enough to make you whimper. He walks you backward until your hips hit the kitchen counter, his mouth breaking away just long enough to yank the shirt up over your head and toss it aside.
Then his palm lands hard across your ass once, twice.. before rubbing over the sting. “Mine,” he mutters against your neck, nipping hard.
He doesn’t waste time. His fingers hook in your waistband, tugging them and your underwear down in one motion, leaving you bare for him. The heat of his body presses close as he groans low in his throat. “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
“Narumi.. Slow down!” You laughed out, only for him to send you a glare that sent a fiery heat throughout your body. Something how his gaze seemed almost like a predator catching his prey. Putting you exactly where he's been all day.
When he sinks to his knees, it’s with a single-minded purpose. He spreads your legs open, his breath hot over your skin before his tongue drags a slow, deliberate. Thumbing your folds as he spreads you wide for him. His lips sucking harshly against your clit. His hands gripped and pawed at your skin. Like he needed to devour your body and soul.
You gasp, hands clutching the counter, head tipping forward as he buries himself between your thighs. His tongue works you over with filthy dedication, licking, sucking, pushing until you’re shaking. Fingers teasing your fluttering hole. Moaning against you, the taste of you was addictive.
By the time he stands, his chin is wet. His hands reaching to undo his belt buckle to pull his cock is out. It was flushed and leaking. Narumi was urgent, his body screaming at him. His hands wandered your frame until one hand settled on your hip, the other gripping your hair to tilt your head back so he could kiss you deep, letting you taste yourself.
Then he pushes in. Not too slow, he’s too far gone for that. The stretch makes you cry out, and he growls in satisfaction, hips snapping forward until he’s buried to the hilt. He doesn’t stop thrusting hard, driving you into the counter with each push, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the kitchen.
“Thought about this..” his voice is ragged, “every fucking second today.”
He let out a low moan with each thrust of his hips, pushing more of his thick length into your tight, welcoming cunt. "You feel fucking amazing," he panted. "So hot, so tight... I can feel every inch of your walls squeezing my cock."
His hands never stop roaming. Grabbing fistfuls of your ass, spreading you wider, delivering sharp smacks that make you clench around him. Every sound you make only drives him harder, chasing the high of finally being able to use you the way he’s been craving since morning.
Then it hit both of you. It was sudden and overwhelming, your knees almost giving out. He holds you there. Still thrusting through it, chasing his own overstimulation until he’s got nothing left to spill inside of you with a guttural groan, pressing his hips tight to keep you full.
And when he finally pulls back, he watches the way it leaks out with a satisfied smirk, giving your sore, red cheek one last squeeze.
“Next time,” he says, voice still hoarse, “you send the picture.”
Reno never warns you. He doesn’t need to. He moves like water, quiet, inevitable.. closing the space between you without a sound. One moment you’re alone, the next the air shifts behind you, and before your mind can even name the sensation, the sharp, stinging crack of his palm rings out.
The force makes your body jolt forward, hands slapping against the countertop for balance as your knees buckle just enough to keep you guessing. The sound is sharp, but the burn is instant heat blooming under your skin as you gasp, startled, your head snapping over your shoulder.
He’s already watching you. Calm, steady. Except for that low, simmering heat in his gaze that betrays every ounce of his control. That faint, smug tilt of his mouth is all the acknowledgment you get no apology, no explanation before his hand slides back over the place he just struck, pressing into the tender flesh with a slow, claiming squeeze. His fingers curl like he’s testing the give, committing it to memory.
He doesn’t rush. He kneads again, slower, thumb digging in while the rest of his fingers spread you wider. It’s deliberate, proprietary, almost grounding for him. And maybe that’s exactly what it is, because he does this often, without a word, like your body is a tether he can hold onto when the world starts spinning too fast.
When Reno’s stressed, when the quiet in his head starts to turn into something heavier, he reaches for you like instinct. Big, calloused hands sliding over your curves, mapping out familiar terrain, spreading, pulling, molding as if to remind himself it’s real. The pressure is constant but never careless, the kind that says he’s not just touching you because he can, he’s touching you because he needs to.
But when you’re riding him? That’s when his composure fractures completely.
The first bounce of your hips is enough to make his breath hitch, his fingers tightening reflexively around your waist. The second has him groaning under you, low and raw, his eyes locked to where your bodies meet. And then your ass starts clapping back against him with every downward grind, each smack of skin-on-skin sending a shock through his control until he’s gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.
His hands are greedy, unrelenting, fingers digging into your ass so hard it makes you arch, nails grazing your skin as he pulls you down harder onto him. He watches the movement like a man possessed. Gaze dragging over the way your skin ripples and jiggles under his palms, the slap of your bodies punctuating the rhythm. He’ll sometimes still your hips just to hold you there, fully seated on him, tight around him so he can savor the heat. The squeeze, the unbearable fullness before he lets you move again.
And Reno is never content with keeping his hands in one place. Even more so in the middle of fucking you, his touch wanders, sliding over your thighs, up your stomach, ghosting along your ribs until his palms cup your chest. The weight of them in his hands draws a quiet grunt from him, and then his thumbs are brushing over your sensitive buds, rolling them between rough fingers.
Your boobs, though, shit, they’re his undoing. He once joked they were his “fidget toys,” something to keep his hands busy when exhaustion threatened to pull him under. But tonight, there’s no exhaustion in his eyes. Only hunger. His thumbs work your peaks in slow, deliberate circles, then sharper rolls, pinching until you gasp and your body shudders against his. The sound that slips from your lips makes him groan, his hips jerking up into you harder.
He loves watching how you react to his touch. How your lips part, your lashes flutter, the way your breath hitches each time he tweaks you just right. And the look on his face says he’s cataloging every twitch, every moan, for the next time he wants to unravel you.
With Reno, touch isn’t casual, no, it’s an extension of his thoughts, his moods, his instincts. Sometimes it’s grounding, sometimes it’s claiming, but in moments like this, it's a raw need. A craving that simmers just under the surface until it bursts through in an all-consuming wave.
Right now, there’s nothing holding him back. His hands are everywhere. Gripping, exploring, testing, his body pressing into yours like he’s determined to leave his shape in your skin. His breath is hot against your ear when he leans forward, thrusts growing deeper, voice rough enough to scrape:
“Not letting go, sweetheart… not until I’ve had my fill.”And from the way he moves, you know he means every word.
i LOVED the grumpy x sunshine fic!! THANK YOU SO MUCH it was so perfect!! Could you please write another grumpy Reader x sunshine Soshiro where they are already in a relationship? ❤️
⋆˚꩜｡𝕾𝖚𝖓𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖊 𝖂𝖎𝖓𝖘 𝕬𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓 ⋆˚꩜｡
Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x Fem!Reader
Fandom: Kaiju No. 8
Genre: Established Relationship• Fluff
Word Count: 2.5k
Summary: After a brutal morning meeting leaves Y/N in a stormcloud mood, sunshine-leaning Soshiro drags her into the canteen and effortlessly chips away at her scowl until laughter—and something softer—slips through.
A/N: Thank you anon for this adorable prompt, I had so much fun writing their labrador x black cat chaos 💌
The meeting room had the air of a place that had forgotten it was supposed to breathe. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, unforgiving as interrogation lamps, washing out the edges of the too-early hour until the table looked like a slab in a morgue. The smell of coffee had long since soured in the corners, bitter oil clinging to the walls like it had crawled out of the pot hours ago and died on the conference notes. The voices had been worse: clipped, circling, stubborn in the way only military bureaucracy could be, filling the space with rules that contradicted each other like children fighting in the backseat of a car. Y/N had sat there through all of it, jaw tight, hands folded around a folder that felt like a shield she'd gladly ram through someone's chest if the wrong phrase left their mouth. She'd tried, more than once, to speak reason. Three directives contradicted last week's field orders. Two captains had managed to insult her platoon without insulting her directly, which was a feat in pettiness. Someone had the gall to comment on her "tone," as if kaiju would stop mid-charge if she said please and thank you.
She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't slammed the folder. She hadn't flipped the table, which counted as restraint. But when the meeting finally adjourned, when the chairs scraped and the papers shuffled and everyone left pretending they'd solved something, she'd come out of that room with her mouth pressed into a line so thin it could slice open concrete. Boots hammered the floor like a drumline announcing war. Soldiers in the corridor—those poor souls just trying to get to drills or breakfast—saw the set of her shoulders and made way as if the air itself whispered move. She didn't look left, didn't look right, because if she did the whole façade might shatter and she'd start biting, and she was supposed to be a leader, not a rabid guard dog loose in the halls.
Of course, that was exactly when Soshiro Hoshina appeared.
He came out of nowhere like sunrise bleeding into a blackout, hair a little mussed, uniform jacket unzipped, carrying a paper cup that steamed like it had secrets. He walked like he'd been born in rhythm with every corridor on base, bouncing light off the steel, the kind of gait that had no business existing at whatever ungodly hour it was. His grin hit her before he did, tilted just so, and his eyes crinkled like the morning hadn't laid a hand on him. He was already smiling when he saw her, like she wasn't stormclouds but sunlight he'd been waiting on.
Y/N didn't break stride. She narrowed her eyes, muttered, "How can you be so happy this early in the morning? Fuck off," and kept marching.
Most people would have peeled away. Most people would have saluted awkwardly and gotten out of range of the shrapnel. Hoshina, of course, took it as an invitation. He pivoted to walk backwards in front of her, sipping his coffee like she hadn't just told him to drop dead, falling into step with her boots as if she were setting the drumbeat for his parade. "Morning to you too," he said, sing-song. "Meeting go well?"
She didn't dignify it with a reply. Her grip on the folder flexed instead, paper edges bending under her thumb.
He leaned sideways to peek into her face like he was trying to read a weather report through storm glass. "Hmm, no answer. That's what I thought. Definitely a good meeting. I can practically smell the positivity radiating off you."
She turned her head and gave him a look that would have sent a recruit into early retirement. He just grinned wider, unbothered, and reached out to nudge the corner of her folder with one finger, as if she were clutching a teddy bear instead of a classified document. "You know what you need?"
"Yes," she said, flat. "Silence."
"Wrong," he said, already steering his shoulder into hers to shift her path. "Breakfast."
"I'm not—"
"Hungry, cranky, ready to murder someone—exactly the trifecta that says breakfast," he cut in, effortlessly cheerful. He slid his palm against the small of her back, not pushing hard, just guiding, and because she wasn't paying attention her stride bent to his without her permission.
The soldiers in the hall slowed, tried not to stare. Watching their terrifying platoon leader be redirected down the corridor by the Vice-Captain himself was like watching someone stick their hand in a bear trap and pull it out whole. The looks were universal: how the hell does he get away with that?
Y/N sighed through her teeth. "Soshiro, I swear to god—"
"Ten minutes," he said, unfazed, voice light but determined, herding her toward the stairs with all the casual confidence of a man walking a very large, very grumpy dog. "Just sit, eat, complain at me. Then you can go back to glowering at paperwork. Deal?"
She stopped on the stairwell landing, turned a slow, narrow-eyed glare on him. The grin didn't falter. His coffee steamed between them, the scent sharp and bitter. She thought about digging her heels in, about turning around and marching off, but the smug glint in his eye told her he'd follow anyway, and the idea of prolonging this battle in public was worse than surrendering. So she exhaled, sharp and resigned, and muttered, "Fine. But if you try to feed me like a child—"
"That's the spirit," he said brightly, already heading down the stairs. "Let's go get you some pudding."
The cafeteria was already awake when they pushed through the doors, a living machine of boots and trays and steam rolling off the breakfast line. The scent hit first: burnt toast, eggs with too much pepper, coffee so strong it smelled like melted batteries. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, making the polished metal of counters and tables gleam with surgical brightness. Soldiers talked in the clipped rhythm of people too tired to be polite, utensils clattering, chairs dragging. It was the kind of noise that usually grated on Y/N, the morning chaos scraping nerves already raw from too many hours awake. Today it nearly sent her back into fight-or-flight.
She stopped two steps inside, folded her arms across her chest like a fortress, and glared at the nearest table until its occupants looked down into their oatmeal. "This is a mistake," she muttered.
"This," Hoshina said, beaming like he'd just brought her to a five-star restaurant, "is exactly what you need." He didn't wait for her rebuttal; he guided her with one warm hand on her elbow, weaving them through the crowd with practiced ease. People looked up as they passed, conversations faltering. A ripple of recognition ran through the room: the Vice-Captain with her. And not just walking with her—escorting her like a man on a mission, like he was the only one in the building who didn't mind the storm cloud she was dragging around.
He plopped her down at a table near the window, ignoring the glare she aimed at him. "Stay," he said, and vanished toward the serving line before she could decide whether to walk out.
Y/N sat rigid, arms crossed, folder still clamped to her side like a shield. She didn't touch the table. She didn't relax her shoulders. She stared out the window at the slice of sky above the buildings, a gray smear like the morning hadn't figured out what it wanted to be yet. Around her, the cafeteria hummed. She could feel the weight of eyes stealing glances, like wolves sniffing at the edges of a campfire. No one would dare approach. They all knew she bit.
Then he returned, tray balanced in one hand, grinning like a man carrying treasure. On the tray: two coffees, a stack of toast, an egg sandwich, a rice ball, a banana, and—lined up like soldiers—four pudding cups.
He set it all down with ceremony, cracked the lid off the first pudding, and picked up the plastic spoon. "Open," he said, cheerful as ever.
Her head snapped toward him. "What."
"You heard me. Open up." He scooped a spoonful and held it out. "Doctor's orders."
The cafeteria went quiet. Not dead silent, but quieter—like the collective attention of thirty soldiers trying not to look but absolutely looking. The spoon hovered in the air between them, pudding trembling. Y/N blinked once, slow, like a cat staring down a laser pointer. "If you try to feed me like a toddler," she said, voice low, "I will bite you."
Hoshina's grin widened. "That's the risk I'm willing to take."
The room practically leaned forward. Everyone was waiting for blood. This was the platoon leader who could chew out a recruit so hard they'd forget their own name. This was the woman who could slice through a meeting with words sharper than a blade. And here was Vice-Captain Hoshina, all sunshine and audacity, holding a spoon in her face like he'd just tamed a tiger.
Y/N's stomach betrayed her first. She hadn't eaten since before dawn, too tense to choke anything down before the meeting. Hunger twisted sharp under her ribs. She considered refusing on principle, just to prove she could, but the smell of sweet milk hit her nose and the smug sparkle in his eyes told her he'd wait her out. Her pride and her blood sugar had a short, vicious argument. Blood sugar won.
She leaned forward just enough to take the bite, lips closing around the spoon.
The cafeteria collectively forgot how to breathe.
Hoshina smiled like a man who'd just won a bet with the universe. "See? Not so bad." He slid another scoop. "Again."
"You're impossible," she muttered, but opened her mouth anyway.
He hummed, satisfied, feeding her like this was the most natural thing in the world. He didn't flinch when her eyes narrowed, didn't back down when she muttered curses under her breath. He just kept scooping pudding, steady wrist, easy grin, like she was his only mission this morning.
From the outside, it looked like madness. Recruits nudged each other under the table, wide-eyed. A couple of squad leaders smirked knowingly into their mugs. One whispered, "If I tried that, I'd be in the infirmary." The answer was unanimous nods.
But at the table, the tension was bleeding out of Y/N's shoulders with every spoonful. The sweetness coated her tongue, steady and simple, and for the first time since the meeting ended, her jaw unclenched.
"You gonna tell me what happened in there?" he asked casually, offering another bite.
She chewed, swallowed, and scowled at the table. "Contradictory directives. Again. Waste of oxygen. Someone called my platoon overzealous. Someone else asked if I've considered managing my 'tone.'" The last word came out like it had claws.
He made a sympathetic noise, sliding the coffee closer to her. "They really don't pay attention, do they? You say please all the time. 'Please don't be an idiot or I'll make you regret it.' That counts."
Her lip twitched despite herself. "Fuck off."
The cafeteria felt off-kilter around them, like the hum of conversation had lost its center of gravity. People were still eating, still moving trays and clattering cutlery, but the rhythm had shifted, pulled toward the gravity of their table. Nobody said a word aloud, not daring to, but every eye flicked over sooner or later. It wasn't often you saw Y/N seated in public with her posture loose, her mouth curved, her expression unguarded. And it wasn't often you saw anyone get away with drawing laughter out of her, least of all before the clock had even hit midmorning. But Hoshina sat there like it was the most natural thing in the world, elbow propped on the table, chin in his hand, smile wide and lazy. He had the look of someone who'd already won, who knew he could sit back and watch her unravel and it would be better than any victory he'd earned on the field.
Y/N tried to hide it, arms still crossed, gaze angled toward the window, but her shoulders had betrayed her—they were no longer sharp lines of tension but sloped, eased, softened. When she shook her head at him, when that small, startled laugh escaped her throat, it was the kind of sound no one else ever got to hear. She ducked her face toward her coffee like it could swallow her blush, but the color still crept high across her cheekbones, too warm to ignore.
Hoshina leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was just for her, the grin dimmed but not gone. "You know," he said, casual as a secret, "we've actually got a day off coming up. Thought maybe we'd do something that isn't drills or paperwork. Just us. No schedules, no rank. I'll even wear something that doesn't smell like the training yard."
The suggestion made her laugh again, short and incredulous, and she glanced at him sidelong, lips caught between disbelief and fondness. The heat in her chest spiked before she could clamp it down. "Soshi—" she started, soft, caught off guard. The word sat on her tongue like it belonged there. Then her eyes widened a fraction, and she straightened her shoulders, clearing her throat. "Vice-Captain."
For a beat, the silence between them swelled, thick with something that pulled the rest of the room even further into the background. His grin didn't fade. It deepened, eyes sharpening with mischief but glowing with something more dangerous, something warmer. He tipped his head, studied her like she'd just handed him the rarest prize. "Say that again," he murmured, low enough that no one else could hear. "The first one."
She turned back to her coffee with unnecessary force, hiding her blush behind a sip. "Don't push your luck."
"Oh, come on," he said, leaning in until his shoulder brushed hers, grin wide enough to make his eyes crease. "Hearing my name out of your mouth? That's better than pudding. That's better than breakfast. You know I could live off that alone, right?"
She choked on a laugh, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes darting toward him in exasperated disbelief. "You're unbelievable," she muttered, voice warm now, softer than she'd meant it to be.
"And you're adorable when you're trying to hide it," he shot back, not missing a beat. He stretched his legs out under the table, shoulders relaxed, watching her like she was the only one in the room. The smile he gave her then wasn't just teasing. It was something steadier, something that said he'd replay that slip of her voice in his head a hundred times over, that he'd carry it into battle like a charm.
Y/N shook her head again, but this time her lips curved openly, laughter spilling easier now, her whole frame lighter than when she'd stormed out of that meeting. She set her coffee down with a sigh that wasn't frustration anymore. "You really don't give me a break, do you?"
"Nope," he said, cheerful, brushing his knee against hers under the table. "Not when it comes to this."
Her blush lingered, but she didn't fight it. For once, she let it stay.
Rating: M (for heavy themes: blood, injury, grief, strong emotions, violence)
Summary: Vice-Captain Hoshina has always been steady, the man with a grin sharp enough to keep his soldiers from breaking even when the world shook under Kaiju claws. But what happens when the mask has to hold for himself, too? When the battlefield is silent, but the war is in the waiting?
A/N: I’ll admit—I never meant to write a part two for this one-shot. But here we are. Somehow the story had more to say, more to unravel, and I couldn’t leave it alone. This continuation is slower, heavier, more about the weight carried in silence than the clash of blades. I hope it finds you where it needs to.
The shop was the kind of place most people passed without ever noticing. Wedged between a shuttered stationery store and a noodle stand that always smelled of broth and smoke, the door was plain wood, the glass fogged with years of dust that no cloth had managed to fully erase. The only thing marking it as anything at all was a little placard above the frame, hand-painted once upon a time, the gold letters now dulled to brass. Inside, the air held the faint weight of polish and metal filings, warm under the steady hum of a lamp that glowed soft over the counter. It wasn’t a shop made for tourists or casual buyers—it was the kind of place you only found if you were looking for something specific, something meant to last.
Soshiro stood in the doorway like he didn’t quite belong, shoulders broad enough to block out half the morning light behind him, the silhouette of a soldier in a world that had no use for uniforms. His hair was damp still, combed back half-heartedly after a shower that hadn’t managed to scrub away the faint smell of blood clinging to his skin. His gloves hung from his belt, stiff with copper stains, but his hands themselves were bare—scarred, cut along the knuckles, trembling faintly as he held the slip of paper with the design. On his face, the smile was still there: the easy, crooked thing that made rookies trust him in the field, that had convinced a thousand men he was untouchable. But in the hollow behind his eyes, the mask slipped just enough for anyone looking closely to see the cracks.
The old man behind the counter had seen that look before. He was bent with age, his apron darkened with years of filings and polish, his hands spotted with liver marks but steady as he leaned on the counter and peered at Soshiro. He didn’t ask who he was. Didn’t comment on the Vice-Captain of the Defense Force standing in his little shop like a lost boy. Instead, he just said, voice low and even, “You’re looking for something particular.”
Soshiro cleared his throat, the sound rough, like gravel dragged across the floor. He unfolded the paper carefully, though his fingers shook as he smoothed it against the counter. The sketch wasn’t much—lines drawn quick in pencil, one band wider than the other, an inscription curved along the inner rim: forever, always.
For a moment, silence filled the space between them, thick as dust. The lamp above them flickered once, humming back to steady.
“I need them made,” Soshiro said finally. His voice carried none of its usual lilt, no teasing softness, no wink hidden in the syllables. It was stripped bare, flat but urgent. “Not in a few weeks. Not in a few months. Now. As fast as you can. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”
The old man’s eyes lowered to the sketch, lingered on the inscription. His thumb brushed the edge of the paper, then lifted to study the soldier again. He saw the way Soshiro’s jaw clenched to keep it steady, the way his shoulders squared like he was bracing against a blow, the way his chest rose sharp, shallow, like breathing itself was something learned. He saw the mask—the practiced grin that hung faint at the edges of his mouth—and he saw straight through it to the pain underneath.
“You’ll pay whatever it takes, hm?” the old man murmured, his gaze softening with something like recognition. “I had that look once too, long ago. When the woman I loved was slipping out of my hands.” He set the paper down carefully, pressing it flat with his palm. “Tell me—what kind of old man would I be if I charged extra for that?”
Soshiro blinked, his grin faltering, his throat working. For a moment, he almost argued—instinct to keep bargaining, to keep pushing—but the man’s words had knocked the ground out from under him. His lips parted, but no sound came out.
The old man didn’t wait for thanks. He simply gathered the paper, tucked it behind the counter, and straightened with a faint sigh. “Come back tomorrow evening. They’ll be ready.”
“Tomorrow—?” Soshiro’s voice caught, sharp with disbelief.
“Tomorrow,” the man repeated. His hands were steady, his expression calm. “I’ve got hours enough in me still. For something like this, I’ll work through the night.”
And he did.
When Soshiro returned the next evening, the little bell above the shop door gave a tired chime, and there on the counter was a box no bigger than a palm, the wood polished smooth, the hinges gleaming faintly. The old man slid it forward without ceremony, but when Soshiro opened it, his breath stopped.
Two bands lay nestled in velvet. Silver, polished so fine they caught the light like water. One broader, one slimmer, both engraved along the inside with the words they had once laughed about. Forever, always.
They had been a joke once. Cheesy, Y/N had called them, though her eyes had lingered on the display glass that day abroad. He had teased her mercilessly, laughed about how he’d never wear something so sentimental. And she had laughed with him—but she had wanted them. She had wanted them because even the joke of it felt like something solid, something sweet they could hold on to in a world that broke everything.
Now, staring down at the words carved into the rings, Soshiro didn’t feel like laughing. There was no humor left in them. Only truth.
His hand shook as he picked up the wider band, the cool metal heavy against the scars of his palm. He slipped it over his finger slowly, feeling it catch on the knuckle before sliding home. It sat there with weight, solid and unyielding.
The other ring, the slimmer one, he didn’t touch. Not yet. His throat tightened as he closed the box, tucking it carefully against his chest like it was a heartbeat he had to protect.
“Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough.
The old man only nodded, eyes soft. “Take care of her.”
Soshiro almost smiled, but it didn’t hold. His chest ached, his fingers closing tighter over the box. “That’s the plan,” he murmured, and turned to step back into the night, the bell chiming once, sharp and small, before the door shut behind him.
The week passed like a fever dream. One day he was pacing sterile hospital corridors, counting heartbeats against the endless hum of monitors, and the next he was being pulled back into the uniform, blades strapped at his hips, his name crackling across comms like nothing had changed. Mina had tried—he knew she had, her voice clipped and sharp when she argued with higher command that his head wasn’t fit to lead men into the field yet—but orders were orders. And Soshiro had always followed orders, even when the one person he wanted to disobey for wasn’t awake to tell him to.
When he stepped back onto the training grounds, every eye turned to him. Soldiers straightened, their faces breaking into the familiar expressions he’d seen a thousand times: relief, trust, a kind of awe that he’d never gotten used to. Vice-Captain Hoshina, back on his feet, grin easy, voice steady, blades gleaming in the sunlight like nothing could touch him.
And he played it.
The grin slid into place like armor, wide and crooked, his words sharp and teasing as he called rookies out for tripping on their stances, his laugh carrying across the grounds when someone asked if he was finally done with his “vacation.” He gave them everything they needed: confidence, bravado, the sense that if he was standing there with his hands in his pockets and his smirk aimed at the sky, then they were untouchable. He moved like himself, he spoke like himself.
But it was all a mask.
Because when the sun dipped and drills ended, when soldiers filed off to the mess hall laughing about the day’s scrapes, he didn’t go home. He walked instead to the same hospital wing, the same sterile hall that had become more familiar to him than his own apartment. Every night, without fail, a bouquet in his hand. Sometimes lilies, sometimes roses, sometimes whatever he saw in the stall outside the gates that made him think—she’d like these. He left them by her bed, cut stems neat, petals arranged just so, the vase always fresh with water.
The room was always too quiet. Machines hummed low, screens glowed faint green, the only rhythm the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the sheets. Every night he dragged the chair closer to her bed, slumped into it with the same exhaustion he’d carried from the field, and laid the flowers down where she could see them if her eyes ever opened.
He didn’t pray. Not really. Not in a world where gods had been silent against monsters that leveled cities. But sometimes, when the quiet grew heavy and the moonlight pooled across the floor, he found himself whispering anyway. Words that sounded too much like prayers. Promises, bargains, anything he could shape into sound. Stay. Stay, sweetheart. Just one more night, just one more week, just one more month. Stay long enough to say yes.
And always, when the words dried out and the silence pressed close again, he opened the book.
Her book. The one she had been voicing about weeks ago, pages dog-eared where she’d stopped to shove it into his hands and say, “You have to read this part.” It was dark and heavy, filled with twisted romance that he’d teased her for liking, but she had adored it, her eyes lit up when she talked about it. So he read it now. Out loud, his voice low, filling the sterile room with syllables that weren’t his own. He read every night until his throat went dry, until his eyes blurred over the same lines again and again, until the book itself felt worn into his palms.
Sometimes soldiers came. Quietly, respectfully, leaving gifts at the edge of the bed—flowers, cards, little charms tucked into folded envelopes. He tended those too, trimming stems, clearing wilted petals, arranging them neat so she would wake to nothing but beauty. They never stayed long. Most saluted, some squeezed his shoulder, and all of them left with the same silence pressed against their lips, like they were afraid to break the fragile line that tethered her there.
When they were gone, when it was just him again, he reached for the box.
He kept it in his breast pocket, close to his heart. Every night, he pulled it out, flicked it open, and stared at the two bands nestled inside. His own sat on his finger now, solid and cool against his skin, but hers—hers hung from a chain around his neck. He would lift it sometimes, let it dangle against his chest, the engraving catching the pale hospital light. Forever, always.
He had laughed once at the words. Called them corny, teased her mercilessly for wanting them. But sitting there, in the too-bright quiet with the sound of machines marking her borrowed time, he couldn’t think of anything truer.
He pressed the ring to his lips, eyes burning, voice a whisper meant only for her. “Forever, always, sweetheart. That’s the promise. So don’t you dare forget it.”
And then, because he couldn’t bear the silence any longer, he turned back to the book, his voice raw but steady, reading until the sky outside the window began to lighten again.
The training yard rang with the sound of blades cutting air, boots pounding dirt, the rhythm of a division in motion. Soshiro walked among them like he always did—shoulders loose, fox grin easy, voice bright as he teased one soldier about his grip and nudged another into fixing their stance. To anyone watching, he was the same Vice-Captain as always, the one who made rookies laugh when their hands shook too hard to reload. But his eyes told the truth: sharp, unrelenting, watching every angle, catching every misstep with the precision of a blade honed too many times.
He dismissed them with a clap and a smile, their relief audible in the unison exhale that followed. But as they broke off into groups, his gaze snagged on a cluster at the far end of the field. Medics—half a dozen of them—supposed to be drilling sprints, response times, the rhythm that meant the difference between life and death on the field. Instead, they were laughing. Stumbling through the motions, voices carrying light through the dry morning air, their bodies slack with carelessness.
Soshiro stopped where he stood. For a moment, he only watched, his grin still curved on his mouth, but the air around him shifted, sharp and taut, as if a wire had been drawn too tight. His jaw clicked once, his hand brushing idly over the hilt of his blade though there was no need for it here. The image rose unbidden, violent in its clarity: Y/N pinned against concrete, her blood pouring hot over his gloves, his throat raw from screaming for medics that hadn’t come. Too slow. Too weak. Laughing, maybe, like these ones, while she was choking on her own breath.
The smile stayed on his lips as he walked toward them, steps unhurried, casual even. But every medic in sight stiffened the second they noticed, their laughter drying into silence. His reputation preceded him—fox smile, sharp blades, sharper instincts. They knew.
He stopped in front of them, hands loose at his sides, head cocked just slightly. His voice was warm when he spoke, lilting as though he were still joking with rookies.
“Cute. Medics with time to laugh but no time to run. Slow, weak, useless soldiers… that’s exactly what a battlefield needs, huh?” His grin widened just enough to bare teeth. “Think a kaiju’s gonna wait for you to finish your tea party? Better pray the next poor bastard bleeding out is patient.”
The words landed like a strike, silk-wrapped steel. The color drained from their faces. Not one dared to look away. They snapped back into formation, boots hitting the ground in doubled rhythm, voices clipped as they called time.
Soshiro didn’t linger. He chuckled low, turned on his heel, and walked off as though it had meant nothing at all.
But the grin slipped the moment the locker room door shut behind him. The clang of metal on metal echoed when he pressed his forehead against the cool steel of his locker, breath tearing rough from his chest. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting through his gloves until his knuckles ached. For a split second, he let himself feel it—everything he’d swallowed in the yard. The violent urge to drag those medics into the dirt, to slam them down until they tasted blood, until they understood what it meant to lose someone because they were too slow, too careless.
The image blazed hot, visceral: their laughter replaced by screams, their bodies sprawled in the same pool of red Y/N had bled into. He wanted it. God, for one breath, he wanted it so bad his teeth ground together.
But it stayed locked in his chest, caged behind gritted teeth. He forced himself back from the edge the way she’d taught him—breath in, hold, out slow. Again. Again. The technique he’d once laughed at, said he’d never need because he never got angry enough to use it. His shoulders sagged against the locker, the cold seeping into his skin, the fury bleeding out in fragments with each exhale.
It felt good, though. He hated that it did. To lash out, even just in words. To let the mask slip just far enough for the truth to bare its teeth. But the best feeling—the only one that would ever quiet that roar inside him—was impossible. The best feeling would be seeing those medics choke on the same pain Y/N had endured, bleeding out on the pavement while no one came for them. And that, he could never let himself have.
He turned the tap and splashed cold water over his face, droplets stinging his raw eyes. He dragged a hand back through his hair, shaking off the heat of anger like it was sweat after a spar. The mirror gave him his own reflection—smile gone, jaw hard, eyes too sharp, too hollow. He exhaled, let his face relax, curled the fox’s grin back into place like slipping on armor.
Vice-Captain again. Mask restored. The roar in his chest smothered quiet, for now.
But as he left the locker room, his knuckles still ached for blood.
The market smelled of earth and rain, even though the day had been dry. Crates of flowers lined the stand in tight rows, colors bleeding together in soft waves, their stems cut short and bound with twine. Soshiro stopped without meaning to, drawn in by the blaze of yellow across the front. Carnations. Rows upon rows of them, their petals flared open in a riot of brightness, bold against the muted shades around them.
Yellow—cheerful, innocent to most eyes. But he knew better. He’d learned flower language in passing once, half a joke, a piece of trivia meant to impress. To bring carnations today, of all days, would mean disdain. Contempt, cloaked in brightness.
His jaw tightened. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was a test. Maybe the vendor had seen him, seen the crack under his grin when he barked at those medics, seen the way violence still hummed in his hands. Maybe the world wanted him to bring that poison into her room, to lay it at her bedside with a smile and a lie.
He stepped past them without hesitation. His hand stopped instead on the tulips—red and soft pink, their heads bowed like they were caught in prayer. Love, warmth, the kind of promise that didn’t need words. He bought the bundle, his voice light as he thanked the vendor, the fox’s grin still stretched across his mouth even as his chest ached.
The hospital corridors had become a second home, their white walls familiar enough that he could walk them blindfolded. When he slipped into her room, the air changed. It always did. Machines hummed in their steady rhythm, monitors glowed faint green and yellow, and the scent of antiseptic clung sharp to the air. But she softened it. Even unconscious, even tethered to wires, she made it something more.
He moved first to the shelf where her gifts had gathered. Soldiers stopped by almost daily—rookies she’d trained, captains who respected her, friends who couldn’t quite look at her but needed to leave something anyway. Flowers, small charms, a stack of letters folded and tied with string. He kept them in order, always. Today he cleared the space, trimmed the stems of wilted blossoms with the small knife he’d bought just for this, changed the water in their vases until it ran clear. He tucked the new tulips into the front, their colors rising gently against the rest. The carnations from earlier flickered in his mind like a warning, and he was glad—fiercely glad—he hadn’t brought them in.
His gloves came off. He washed his hands at the sink, the water running warm over skin still raw from training. He scrubbed until the faint trace of blood—hers, always hers—was gone. When he dried them, he flexed his fingers, like he could wipe away the violence still clinging there too.
Then he pulled the chair close. Sat at her side, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes drinking in her face. The small movements of the machine lifted her chest, fell again, steady, reliable. He let out a long breath through his nose, the kind he’d practiced all morning, the kind she’d once insisted could calm a storm.
“You’d laugh at me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough from hours of silence. “Had to use that breathing trick of yours today. The one you swore would keep me from punching people.” He huffed, a sound close to a laugh but thinner, tired. He reached into his pocket and pulled the lip balm she always carried. Unscrewed it carefully, turned her face just enough, and smoothed it across her lips with a gentleness that made his chest ache. “Guess it worked. Didn’t throw a punch. Just scared a few medics half to death.”
He leaned back, eyes tracing the faint shine it left. “Still… it’d work a hell of a lot better if you were the one here to walk me through it. Wouldn’t it?”
Silence answered him. The machine beeped. Her chest rose, fell.
He reached for her hand, folding it in both of his, and pressed his forehead against it. His grin returned—small, weary, but real. “Heal up for me, baby. Slow as you need. But heal.”
The hospital had settled into its midnight rhythm. The bustle of the day—nurses in constant motion, the low rumble of platoon leaders checking in on injured subordinates, the shriek of radios bursting alive—faded by this hour into something quieter. The fluorescent lights hummed above, their sterile glow bleeding across the polished tile floors, making the white walls shine faintly blue. Even the machines seemed softer at night: the slow, measured beep of monitors, the hiss of oxygen, the occasional shuffle of feet down the long corridor.
Soshiro sat in his usual place. The chair had molded itself to him over three weeks, his elbows always braced on his knees, his hands laced tight enough that his knuckles had gone raw. The fox-like grin still played at his lips whenever a nurse passed by, whenever soldiers from their division poked their heads in with flowers or cards. He’d smile, thank them warmly, and set the gifts on the table at her bedside. Then, the second the door clicked shut again, the smile would fade, leaving something brittle in its place.
Mina found him like this—hunched forward, hollow-eyed, refusing to blink in case the faint rise and fall of Y/N’s chest shifted in the wrong way. She didn’t speak at first. Mina wasn’t the type to waste words. She only leaned against the frame of the door, arms folded, gaze sharp but softened in a way few ever saw.
“Go home, Hoshina,” she said finally, voice cutting through the hum of the machines.
His head lifted. The grin flashed instantly, instinctive. “Captain, you kicking me out of my own post?”
“You’ve been here every night for three weeks.” No room for argument in her tone, but it wasn’t cold. It was simple truth, the kind that carried its own weight. “Go home. Shower in your own bathroom. Sleep in your own bed. I’ll stay with her tonight.”
He opened his mouth—ready with another joke, something slick to hide the ache in his chest—but her gaze held him still. Mina Ashiro didn’t command without reason. And beneath the steel in her eyes was something he couldn’t dismiss: worry. Not for Y/N this time. For him.
The refusal pressed at his teeth, but then he thought of Y/N. He imagined her waking, her voice scratchy, her first words asking when she could go home. And what then? Their apartment would greet her with silence, with dust settling in corners, with dishes still untouched in the sink. She would walk into a place that felt abandoned. Neglected. And his chest tightened so sharply he almost winced.
He swallowed, jaw flexing, then nodded once. “Just tonight.”
Mina’s lips pressed faintly, the ghost of a smile threatening but never forming. “Just tonight.”
The apartment met him with silence. Not the sterile hush of hospital corridors but something warmer, heavier. The kind of silence that remembered voices. Dust had gathered faintly along the baseboards, a soft film coating the coffee table, silvering the edges of the picture frames on the wall. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, keys still in his hand, eyes moving across the space that had once thrummed with her presence. The faint trace of her lingered even here—coffee grounds clinging in the tin by the sink, perfume woven into the fibers of a scarf left draped over the back of the couch, the faint sweetness of her shampoo caught in a sweater tossed carelessly aside weeks ago.
He let out a breath that shuddered in his chest and rolled his sleeves up.
He cleaned. Not hurried, not absentminded. Each motion deliberate, reverent, as though this too was part of his duty. He swept the hall, the broom whisking softly against the floor. He scrubbed the dishes, water hissing hot as it rushed over porcelain that had sat untouched. He wiped the counters until they gleamed, fingers lingering on each familiar groove in the wood. From room to room he moved, humming under his breath—not his own tune, but hers. That quiet melody she always carried when she folded laundry, when she watered the plants out on the balcony, when she brushed her hair in the morning. It steadied him. Anchored him. For a moment, it almost felt like she was moving with him, just out of sight.
When he reached the bedroom, he hesitated in the doorway. The bed was still neatly made from the last morning she had touched it, the blanket folded with the kind of precision only she cared for. He stepped inside, shoulders tight, and began tidying—clothes returned to drawers, books stacked in even piles, jewelry placed carefully back in their boxes. The rhythm soothed him, gave his hands something to do besides shake.
Then he saw it.
Her sweater.
The one she always wore on cold mornings, when she stood barefoot on the balcony with steam curling from her coffee cup, hair mussed from sleep, the city sprawling beneath them. It was draped carelessly over the chair, sleeves tangled, faint traces of her perfume still caught in the fibers.
His breath caught.
Slowly, he picked it up. The knit was soft against his fingers, worn in the elbows where she’d curled them on the railing, frayed faintly at the hem. He lifted it, pressed it to his face, and the scent hit him like a blow—floral, warm, achingly familiar. His arms curled around it without thought, clutching it tight against his chest as if it could anchor him to the ground.
For a moment, the mask slipped entirely. His grin, the one he wore like armor, fell away. His face pressed into the sweater, his shoulders curling inward, every muscle straining against the ache in his chest. His breath came ragged, catching hard, and he sank down heavily onto the edge of the bed.
He sat like that in the half-light of the room, sweater cradled against him, humming her tune in a broken whisper until his voice gave out.
Back in the hospital, Mina sat where he always did. The chair still held the weight of him, faint warmth lingering in the cushion. She folded her hands in her lap, watching the steady rise and fall of Y/N’s chest, the slow pulse of the monitor keeping time. For a long while she didn’t speak. She wasn’t the type for empty words.
But eventually, her voice broke the quiet, softer than it had been in years.
“I never thought he’d fall in love with anyone but his work.” She leaned back, gaze still on the woman in the bed. “Soshiro Hoshina—the golden fox, Vice-Captain, married to his blades and his duty. That’s what I thought.”
Her lips pressed faintly, an exhale slipping out. “Yet here you are. And somehow, you’ve been together for years. Do you know how rare that is? To find love like this, in a field like ours?” She shook her head slightly, almost smiling. “So you’d better not take it for granted. Wake up soon.”
She went quiet again, her eyes narrowing, heavy with something rarer still: guilt. “I put you there,” she murmured. “Ordered you into that fight. If I’d known—” She cut herself off. Mina Ashiro didn’t indulge in hypotheticals. But the thought lingered anyway, heavy between them.
Soshiro sat in their bedroom, her sweater clutched to his chest, humming until the sound cracked into silence. The apartment was spotless now, waiting. Waiting for her. And so was he.
Two weeks passed, though the word itself meant nothing anymore. Days were not days to Soshiro—only cycles. Circles that began and ended in the same places, until time itself felt less like a river and more like a stagnant pool he trudged through. He woke early, still keeping the soldier’s rhythm etched into his bones, trained his squads with the same grin sharp enough to mask the fatigue in his eyes, then slipped away before anyone could notice how quickly the mask cracked when no one was looking. From there: their apartment. He rolled his sleeves to his elbows and cleaned like a man possessed—dusting bookshelves, scrubbing counters, opening every window so the place could breathe again. He refused to let their home turn into a mausoleum. Not for her. Not for them.
Every afternoon came flowers. Always flowers. He bought them as if they were oxygen itself—roses, lilies, tulips—sometimes too expensive, sometimes humble, whatever the stand had. Vendors had come to know him, heads tilting softly when they saw him approach, hands already reaching for a bouquet before he spoke. They knew not to ask. They knew. And then the hospital: the quiet walk down white corridors, the sterile sting of antiseptic that burned his nose. He would enter her room, always the same, always too still, where machines hummed in their stead and her body lay as if frozen in time. He arranged the gifts her comrades had brought—stuffed toys, letters folded too neatly, bouquets with stems cut wrong. He trimmed, he watered, he replaced vases. He was her caretaker even when she couldn’t see it.
And then, every night, he read to her. The same book. The “stupid romance” she had been giddy about before the mission, the one she shoved at him saying he’d never understand. He’d teased her for it endlessly, called it cheesy, rolled his eyes when she swooned over some fictional bastard. Now he read it with his voice low and steady, page by page, night by night, until the words sank into the walls. He knew them by heart. Still, he read, because maybe some part of her could hear.
Routine. Ritual. Devotion carved into monotony.
But then the phone call came.
It was a morning like any other. He had been at the apartment, rag in hand, cleaning the counter until the surface shone, the sleeves of his shirt damp with suds. The windows were open wide, the air cool and sharp, and he was humming a tune she always hummed when she cooked breakfast. Something small. Domestic. The closest thing to peace he had found in weeks. When the phone buzzed against the counter, he answered without thought—expecting a soldier, a report, maybe Mina’s voice cutting brisk across the line.
But it wasn’t.
It was the doctor. Calm, clinical, measured words. The coma would be lifted. Slowly, carefully, over the next days. She would not wake at once, not in a cinematic breathless moment—but she would wake. It was time.
Soshiro froze. The rag slid from his hand onto the counter, limp and soaked. For a moment he couldn’t breathe. His chest seized, his knees nearly buckled. His mind didn’t understand at first. Words blurred together, syllables colliding until only one stuck. Wake. She would wake.
And then he smiled.
Not the fox’s grin. Not the crooked smirk that soldiers trusted because it looked unshakable. Not the bright curve of lips he’d worn for weeks to keep everyone from seeing he was bleeding inside. A real smile. Wild and unpracticed, born from his chest like sunlight bursting through storm clouds. His mouth trembled with it, his eyes burned with it, his lungs ached with it. It spread through him until he laughed aloud—short, breathless, stunned. The sound startled even him, breaking the silence of the apartment in a way that almost hurt.
She will wake.
The rag, the counter, the open windows—all forgotten. His body moved before his mind caught up. Out the door, down the stairwell two steps at a time, his boots striking concrete so hard the sound echoed. He didn’t wait for the elevator. Didn’t think of calling a car. He couldn’t. His body was too alive, too wired, too desperate to move. He ran.
Through streets blurred by the burn of his lungs. Past vendors calling out prices he didn’t hear, traffic snarling at intersections, the sting of exhaust curling in the air. He weaved through it all, his shoulders brushing strangers, curses thrown after him, but he didn’t slow. His chest ached, his legs screamed, but for the first time in weeks it wasn’t from grief. It was relief, boiling over, spilling out of him until every step felt like it was dragging him closer to light.
He saw the hospital looming ahead. White walls, too clean, too bright. He slowed only when he reached the doors, his chest burning, his breath coming ragged, but his grin—his grin was unshakable, wide enough to hurt his cheeks. For once, it wasn’t armor. For once, it was real.
The receptionist blinked at him as he strode in, sweat still clinging to his brow. He shoved damp hair back with one hand, the other gripping the doorframe for balance, and managed to rasp out the only words that mattered. “They called. She’s—” His throat broke, the grin trembling wider. “She’s ready. I’m here.”
Paperwork. The doctor would have forms, protocols, rules. He would sign every line without reading. He would give them anything, everything, just to be near her when her body stirred again.
For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t surviving. He was living.
Soshiro Hoshina, Vice-Captain of the Japan Defense Force’s third division, the man who wore grins like armor and blades like extensions of his arms, finally let himself breathe. The world didn’t feel gray anymore. The corridors didn’t feel suffocating. For the first time since the battlefield, since the blood, since her eyes had closed on him—he felt something like hope.
And it burned in his chest, warm and violent, as he walked toward her room.
The room held its same thin brightness, that particular hospital pallor that made white look like a color instead of an absence, the blinds fixed half-open so the window carried a slab of city sky no one had asked for, and the machines made their unhurried choir of hums and beeps and soft mechanical sighs that had taught him what patience sounded like; he was in the chair he had broken into the shape of his spine over the past month, so close his knee pressed a shallow indent into the mattress and his forearms could rest along the rail without jarring the lines that threaded from the back of her hand to the neatly taped length of tubing, and while everything in the room continued as it had for weeks—measured, precise, the nurse checking the taper schedule at exact intervals with a finger that never trembled—everything inside him refused to hold still, a restless animal pacing the length of his ribs and finding no corner large enough to curl into, no corridor long enough to run.
He kept his hands where he could see them because that helped, palms up on the blanket with her fingers nested in his like a smaller bird hidden in a larger wing, scarred knuckles quiet, nails cut short, the tiny crescent scars on his index and thumb pale as chalk against her warmer skin, and every few breaths he had to unclench and set himself again because the urge to move was a tide, not a whim; he could feel it in the leg that wanted to bounce and in the shoulder that ached to roll and in the wrists that remembered the rhythm of blades, and he said no to each without words, the way he said no to an ill-timed strike—by letting the refusal live in muscle and bone rather than in sound. The chain around his neck was a problem and a comfort all at once; the ring hung there with the certainty of a plumb bob, a small weight that kept finding the notch between his sternum and the left rib and settling as if it had always belonged, cool for the first contact and then warming with his heat until it disappeared into the temperature of him; every time he leaned forward, the circle slipped free of his shirt and swung in a small arc toward her, catching the flat light and laying a quick circle of shine on the sheet, and without thinking he would catch the chain against his chest with his thumb and press the ring flat to stop the swing, embarrassed by its eagerness—as if the metal itself couldn’t wait, as if it didn’t understand that promises spoken under sirens were not the same as promises offered to eyes that had only just come back from the shore.
He let himself look at her, as he always did before he tried to think anything useful; the color along her cheekbones had learned a better hue these last days, less wax, more skin; the little vein at her temple no longer made that shallow flutter that had taught him a panic he’d never met on a field; her lips were not cracked because he refused to let them be—balm, careful strokes, the smallest work done with the largest attention—and her hair had the stubborn curl at the hairline that refused to obey nurses or gravity, the one that had lived through sweat and rain and helmets and had made her swear a dozen times in a dozen quiet mornings when she thought he wasn’t listening; he held on to that curl like a landmark, proof that the person he knew wasn’t dissolved by tubes and tape, and when the air conditioner breathed and the stray strand lifted as if to check if the room had changed, he felt his pulse miscount, then force itself back into the machine’s rhythm.
Anticipation had edges today; the nurse had said the word taper in that steady voice that belonged to people who keep other people alive for a living, and had touched a dial with the gentleness he reserved for the inside of a lock he was picking; slowly, she had said, and tides, and you’ll see small things first, and then she had gone about the rest of her list without ceremony, leaving him sitting in the chair with his animal and his ring and the long flat of the afternoon to cross. It should have been relief, and in some far back chamber of him it was—like water finding its way through a dry wall—but on the front lines of whatever this was he could only name the soreness under his breastbone as the other shape of relief, the one that looks like fear because it knows the next step is doing, and doing here meant choosing a moment and opening his hands with no blade in them and offering what he had kept safe like a secret and then living with her answer, and even the versions where she smiled were frightening because he could see her doing it with the softness of someone who deserved lanterns and music and the good champagne he pretended to hate and instead was being asked to accept fluorescent light and a plastic water pitcher and the smell of saline as a backdrop for forever.
He could hear her voice in his head arguing with him—who says a hospital can’t be romantic, Hoshi?, and there would be that look in her eyes like she’d caught him missing the obvious—and because he could hear it he recognized his own habit of preempting her care with worry she hadn’t had a chance to feel yet; he dragged in a breath the way she’d taught him—deep enough the belly moved, hold for a count, let it out slow like cooling steel—and the restless thing inside him stretched, turned once, and lay down, not sleeping but watching the door with its ears up. He did not talk to her about any of it because pushing words into the air made them too real, and because he had promised as soon as you’re out and she wasn’t out yet; the line between almost and yes mattered to her and so it would matter to him; he would not steal a moment from the future to ease his present, not even this one.
He took inventory instead, which was a kind of prayer he could stomach: the flowers on the shelf were still standing straight—tulips again because he refused to bring the wrong language into the room; the water was clear, the stems trimmed at an angle that would make her roll her eyes affectionately at him when she saw how correct he’d been; the cards from soldiers had been tidied, the corners squared so the stack didn’t look like it was arguing with itself; the sweater he’d brought from home for when the air felt too cold lay folded on the chair-back, the sleeve tucked under the hem the way she did it; her chapstick sat where the nurses would not move it, not the hospital kind with the mint that made her pull a face but the one with the faint smell of vanilla she pretended she didn’t like but always reached for; the book lay face-down, spine up, the dog-ear a quiet flag marking the villain’s speech he hated and she secretly loved because it was dramatic nonsense; the ring box—a small wooden thing rubbed smooth by his thumb—remained buried where he’d left it, not on the bedside, not in his pocket where his hands might betray him, but under the folded sweater, warm from the room and safe from his impatience. He had done everything he could do that did not require asking, and still the wanting went on, which he accepted without liking.
When the nurse came again to check the numbers and lay her hand near the pump like someone reading a pulse through the plastic of a watch, he turned his head a fraction, the way you do when a noise in a forest means friend or stranger, and she gave him that small nod people who do this work offer to people who are trying not to fall apart—yes, we are exactly where we should be, yes, the tide is carrying what it must—and she changed a decimal with the care of someone turning the wheel of a safe and left him with a silence that suddenly had texture; it rasped like fine paper between his fingers, it pressed on his ears like the hush before a blade leaves its scabbard, it made the ring swing a thought closer to her sternum before he stilled it again with his thumb.
His worries circled, but they had lost their teeth; now they were shapes he could pick up and examine, turning each in the light. Too early. He watched the monitor write its patient green line and set the worry back down. Too much. He looked at her mouth—soft from balm, ordinary, the shape he kissed on mornings with coffee—and reminded himself that too much was not a thing she had ever accused him of when it came to gentleness. Not fancy enough. He let the rooftop reel play once, lanterns and that black dress and the city hung at their feet like jewelry, and then he replaced it with the sight of her hand in his on the rail, the white sheet with the small crease, the ring warming against his chest, and he recognized that sometimes the right story starts in unremarkable rooms and makes them holy after.
The chair made its little settling sound and he realized he had shifted forward so slowly he hadn’t noticed; his forearms now took more of his weight than the backrest, his knees bracketed the mattress corner like a guard at a gate, the chain pressed a fine line into his skin, and he let his head drop the smallest distance so the edges of the world blurred and only the part that contained her stayed in focus. If anyone had asked him what anticipation felt like he would have told them wire under lacquer, a tautness hidden under a smooth surface that would cut if you pressed the wrong place; he tried not to press anywhere at all. He reminded himself that she hated being hurried even when she wanted speed, that she liked being given time to decide and then laughed at him for hovering while she took it; he could do this, he could keep a perimeter around the exact size of her breath and hold it without flinching as long as it took.
He noticed, because he always noticed, the way the drug made the small muscles at the corners of her mouth loosen on each exhale and the way her fingers had a fraction more give against his—measurable to no one but the man with his fingertips learning a language they thought they would never get to speak again—and he let those details be his clock because clocks had lied to him for weeks while these little changes told the truth. He did not jolt when something in the corridor clattered; he did not crane his neck when the elevator chimed at the end of the hall; he kept his eyes where they had made their home and, when the roughest pass of wanting came, he pressed the ring through the cotton of his shirt into his sternum until the small pain cut the swell of it and left it tamed.
He thought of the old man at the bench with his lamp throwing a circle of yellow that made silver look warmer than it ever does in daylight, the way those hands had moved through hours without complaint to shape two bands around the idea of always, and he wondered—not for the first time—if there was a kind of craft to this waiting too, if he was learning the apprenticeship of it by sanding his edges down against the same hour until they fit; that image steadied him where words could not. He let it live beside the thought of her looking down at her hand and seeing a ring she would have picked for the joke years ago and for the truth now, and if his chest ached at the double exposure of those two versions of her then he let it, because pain that points you is better than pain that drags you.
The light in the window slid from harsh to tender and shadow began to discover corners again; he reached for the book but didn’t open it, his thumb finding the softened edge of the cover and stroking it like a hilt he could draw if he needed to and never would; he did not trust his voice to hold the lines steady without bleeding the want into them, and he would not borrow the book’s words to hide his own today. He breathed. He counted—not numbers, but the steady return of small things that had been gone: the way the room smelled less like bleach and more like plain air as the day cooled, the way his shoulders remembered they were part of a body and stopped thinking they were a rack for armor, the way he could separate the beeps again instead of hearing them as a single demand.
Her lashes made a decision once and then changed their mind; he saw it because he had been staring long enough to see the difference between a draft and a thought, and his fingers tightened around hers—once, a quiet squeeze that said I’m here, not come back now because he would not call her like a handler calls a dog; she would come when her body said it was time, and he would be the unmoving landmark she could use to measure her return. The nurse ghosted in, read the numbers, adjusted nothing, ghosted out; he couldn’t tell whether the smile she’d thrown him was habit or hope and he didn’t waste energy deciding; he understood now that some things you let pass through you like weather.
He imagined for the first time where he would put the words when the time came, not their poetry—he would fail at that with pleasure for the rest of his life and let the failing be part of the story—but their placement: not at the first blink when the world would be too bright, not at the first breath when the throat would be sore, not when the doctor asked about pain, but after water and before sleep, between the first hey and the second, when the room would know them and they would know the room, when her hand would search for his because it remembered and he would place the box where her eyes could decline it without shame or accept it without fanfare; the thought made something in him steady the way a table stops wobbling when you find the right chip of wood for the short leg.
Night found the blinds without asking permission; the room turned from white to the color of quiet; the lights dimmed to the level chosen by people who engineer rest, and the pump continued its insect song, patient, unafraid. His body did the thing it had learned—half-sleeping in the chair without relinquishing the post, the spine curved in a way that would have made a medic scold but gave the animal room to lie down and keep watch; he rested his forehead on the edge of the mattress and the ring settled in that familiar notch and he counted her breaths again until he stopped needing to count them because counting is for strangers and this rhythm had been living in his hands long before he ever wore steel on them.
He did not speak. He did not pace. He did not open the box. He did not take the ring from the chain. He let anticipation do what it must do to a man who intends to keep his promise at exactly the right size of time. And when the smallest flutter—nothing more than the ghost of intention—moved through the tendons at her wrist against his palm, he felt it without starting, and the animal in his chest opened its eyes and lifted its head and did not howl; it listened, the way a creature listens when it hears the first distant footfall of someone it knows returning along a path no one else would think to take.
The hour was the kind that didn’t belong to anyone—too late to be night, too early to be morning. The hospital had gone still in that strange, suspended way, where even the hum of the fluorescents seemed muted and the machines sang softer, as if aware that the rest of the world was dreaming. In her room, the air carried the faintest chill of recycled ventilation, the clean bite of antiseptic, and beneath it all the whisper of flowers—tulips, roses, lilies—layered on the shelf in careful vases that Soshiro had tended like a ritual until the room smelled less like medicine and more like her.
He was folded into the chair as always, but not sitting properly. His body had given up its soldier’s posture hours ago. The chair was pulled as close as it could be without fusing to the bed, and he had turned sideways at some point, cheek pillowed on her thighs. His hand had stayed clasped around hers even in sleep, his grip slack but unbroken, the chain of her ring pressed between his shirt and skin. The fox’s grin had long since fallen away. What remained was rawer, younger—creases softened, mouth slack, lashes casting uneven shadows over the tired bruises beneath his eyes. A man laid low, but unwilling to leave his post even in rest.
Beside him, the little wooden box waited on the bedside table. Polished smooth, no bigger than a palm, its edges caught the thin glow of the monitor like a candle’s ember. Inside, the ring gleamed in its nest of velvet, engraved words hidden but not diminished: forever, always. He had checked it before sleep, as he always did, thumb brushing over the lid, whispering nothing more than soon. And then exhaustion had taken him down into her lap, his body trusting her unconscious presence more than any bed in the city.
What woke him was not the sharp chime of machines or the shuffle of a nurse’s shoes. It was softer. Familiar. A sensation his mind had replayed a thousand times in fevered memory but hadn’t felt in weeks. Fingers. Her fingers, faint but sure, threading slowly into his hair. Not heavy, not hesitant—just the calm, absent-minded stroke of someone who had touched him this way in dozens of mornings, in bed or on the couch, her hand finding his head like it belonged there.
For a moment he thought he was dreaming, the ghost of her tenderness summoned up by how much he wanted it. His breath caught, chest tight, body frozen in the fragile space between belief and disbelief. The machine still kept its rhythm—beep, pause, beep—but now it was a harmony, not a solo. Because her hand was moving. Her fingers curled weakly but deliberately, brushing through his hair with the gentleness of recognition.
His eyes shot open. The world was blurred at first, lashes wet from sleep, but he didn’t need sight to know. He felt her. Felt her hand, real and warm, trembling with effort but steady with intent. Slowly, afraid any sudden shift might shatter the moment, he turned his head to look up.
And there she was.
Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes heavy, still swimming in the fog of too many weeks under, but they were open. Open, and looking at him. A little unfocused, a little dazed, but full of the same light that had carried him through every hour since she fell. Her lips parted, raw from disuse, but curved faintly, shakily—her version of a smile, as much as her body could manage.
The hand in his hair slipped clumsily, trying again to stroke, and he caught it instantly, both of his own closing over hers like he could anchor her to the earth through touch alone. His breath tore out of him, half a laugh, half a sob. The grin that broke across his face wasn’t the fox’s grin, wasn’t armor, wasn’t performance. It was wild, uneven, too big, splitting him open in the way only she ever could.
“Sweetheart…” His voice cracked, raw with disbelief and reverence, the word a prayer and a vow all at once. He pressed her hand to his cheek, to his mouth, kissing it like he could breathe her strength in through his skin. “You’re here. You’re—god, you’re here.”
The box sat on the table, waiting. The ring gleamed in its velvet. The promise waited in his chest, fierce and ready. But he didn’t reach for it yet. Not tonight. Not in the fragile first minutes of her return, when all that mattered was the warmth of her hand in his hair and the weight of her gaze on his face. Proposal could come later. The only vow he needed tonight was the one spoken in her touch—silent, simple, undeniable.
