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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."

not for him, though. it's when they call for you.

to be completely honest, as the son of one of the most prestigious families in kaiju-killing history, marriage has always been a consideration, not out of his own will but for the sake of his family. his father had brought it up a good few years ago, but soshiro was never that interested and neither was soichiro.

when you're out there risking your life, what's the point? the best thing to do is keep to yourself and grow stronger so that you don't ever fall into the horrors of everyone's nightmares.

yet when hoshina soshiro met you, it genuinely changed his world.

now, as a happily married man with a woman who bears his last name, he now understands why love is such a big deal. before, if someone had told him that love makes you do ridiculous things, he would've scoffed, mocking the idea in his mind, but never did he imagine that it would be him so soon.

on top of that, being a vice-captain means your title is exactly the same. to hoshina, there's nothing more hilarious than that, but with the problems that arose from it, you were forced to simply change to 'vice-captain (name)' to avoid any more confusion.

knocking on hoshina’s door, you creep in, shutting it behind you with a small click.

he looks up from his desk, his straight face immediately replaced with a child-like grin people would pay to see.

"well, if it isn't hoshina-san," he chuckles, standing up. he tucks his chair back in with the tip of his feet as he approaches you.

he tries wriggling his arms around your waist, but you deftly swoop in by pushing a massive folder into his hand.

"sorry, hoshina-san," you say, trying your best not to laugh at his defeated expression. "i'm here on delivery duty. these came to me, but i don't think i'm hoshina soshiro."

you point to his name on the papers and he sighs, reluctantly taking it from you. he tosses it onto his desk without a care before leaning forward to bury his face in your neck.

your skin tingles as he presses light kisses in between his words. his bottom lip grazes the spot just above your collarbone and he lifts his finger to trace the inner path of your arm.

"so, ya weren't here to see me," he mumbles with another kiss, "but to just give me something."

"oh, fine, let me take a look at my beautiful husband," you tease, reaching up to delicately take his face in your hands. you brush a thumb over his cheek as he remains unmoving, unimpressed with thin furrowed brows as if he’s pouting, and hoshina soshiro never pouts.

"what're ya doin'," he says, his tone completely flat as he stands still under your control. he ignores your quiet laughs. "are ya tryin' to mess up my face?"

"my husband looks soo handsome no matter what i do," you coo. "have i ever told you that i love your genes?"

he tuts and tilts his head, his face still a mush in your palms. "ya have, and every time ya do, i say i prefer yours more.”

─ narumi gen

sometimes, you joke that narumi's forgotten your name.

every time he comms you, every time he demands anything from you or asks someone where you are, he never uses your first name. you're sure that even the officers of the first division don't know either.

it's always 'vice-captain narumi'. ever since you got married, your family name is simply forgotten as if it got pushed into the back of everyone's heads. narumi is more than adamant on making it known to the entire defence force, even chief itami, that you're his darling wife, his weapon, his woman and life.

if someone dares to mention your first name, he's quick to snap at them. you will not go by anything but narumi (name).

"captain, sir, vice-captain (name) is─"

his words are never sharper and his head never turns as faster. "narumi? she's off duty right now, what do you want?"

it's almost embarrassing when people fumble in front of you, too. you tend to stand there, blinking with your hands behind your back as you wait for your fellow officers to choose a name or title to call you. it's bad that they're overly terrified of narumi's outbursts, but it's not like you're going to give them the same fate of pissing their pants because they used a name you've been given... since birth.

currently and much to his growing stress, you're staying a few nights in tachikawa for a meeting with captain ashiro. he was absolutely devastated when he had to send you off, but he's started to deal with it bit by bit by calling you every night.

you're sprawled out on the guest bed with your phone resting between your ear and shoulder, listening to narumi drone on and on about how dull today was without his player two, you, by his side. he mentions watching kikoru pummel his platoon leaders to a pulp, interrogating kafka in the corridors because they made eye contact and also about hasegawa's habit of cleaning his room without permission. there's not a moment to breathe.

you hear him click his tongue on the line, his voice flat as if he's caught you staring off into space.

"oi, narumi."

you perk up, reaching for you phone. "hello, i'm still here."

"you're ignoring me, aren't you?"

a sigh flows out your mouth. "no, but i'll be honest, i'm getting a bit tired, gen. i'll call you tomorrow?"

there's an echoing groan that you can practically sense from miles away, but his voice returns in a second.

"you little─you don't even want to call me, huh?"

you rest your head on your arm, letting it dangle off the bed. closing your eyes, you try let the images in your head form a comforting sketch of narumi lying in front of you, but from how much your body is drifting in and out of sleep, you're forced to peel them open, suppressing a massive yawn.

"narumi!" he shrieks into the call, making you wince, "i heard that! that was intentional right now, wasn't it?!"

you chuckle as you roll onto your other side. "no, gen. i love talking to my husband."

"shut up, you suck at being a wife."

and so you find yourself staying up for a few hours, fighting yourself from falling asleep while he turns on his game. he gives the occasional commentaries on how ugly a character looks or how his controller is drifting out of control, which you do your best to respond to, but by the third hour, you're genuinely seeing the fuzz of an exhausted mind and narumi's voice is growing more distant.

your chest slowly rises up and down as your body succumbs to rest, and somehow, narumi notices this when he realises your soft mumbles have come to a stop.

"narumi? oi," he calls, a little quieter than before. he pauses his game and leans into the silence of the call. "are you dead?"

he gets no response, so he scoffs, setting his controller down before he taps his phone to check the duration of the call. it reads four hours twenty-two minutes and it's also one in the morning.

+ "gen," you speak, but of course, it gets lost in the angry outbursts your captain shouts every second. it's been twenty minutes and you're starting to get a migraine. "gen, it's a game, please."

+ "tell me," he seethes, finally sitting up on his knees. he pushes your phone into your face. your character's relationships data is on the screen. in first place, there's narumi at the maximum level the game allows you to have and those who you don't know right at the bottom. to you, you can't . . . really make out the issue.

+ he starts prodding your face with the corner of your phone. "why do you have a level 1 relationship with hoshina?!"

+ you scowl and swat his hand away before crouching down to pinch narumi's nose as hard as possible. he screams and doubles down, cradling his face with a series of swear words streaming out his mouth.

+ "agh! you! woman! what the hell was that for?!"

+ "it's a level 1 relationship, gen," you sigh. "i'm literally level 30 with you."

+ "but you still talked to him!" narumi yells, rubbing his nose furiously until it grew pink. "you don't need to talk to anyone let alone him!"

+ "do you know how long it took me to get to that level with you?! your character is such an ass!"

+ "take that back, TAKE─"

+ "gen, i needed to speak to him to complete one mission. you know what that mission was?"

+ "no mission requires you to talk to that bowl-cut of a─"

+ you snatch your phone out of narumi's hand and shove him back with a huge grin on your face. he goes hurtling onto the floor and immediately, you sit on him, doing your best to balance your weight on top of a man who possibly has the same energy level of a 9.0 fortitude daikaiju. you throw one leg over the other and rest your chin on your palm, idly scrolling through your character's profile as narumi thrashes from underneath.

+ "get off of me, woman!" he yells. "ugh, get off! you'll break my back!"

+ half of you wants to believe that you're genuinely winning by beating him down, but the other realistic half of you knows that narumi must also be playing along because there's no way he's unable to make you go flying. i guess . . . you're grateful about his thoughtfulness?

+ "gen, let's go through this together," you say calmly as though you're talking to a child. "you and i are level 30 in this game."

+ "i'll contact the developers to make more levels because 30 isn't enough."

+ "ok, what level are you with me?"

+ narumi gawks at you.

+ you shift your position, your eyes turning dark. "narumi gen, give me your phone."

+ "I'M NOT─"

+ with hard work, blood, sweat and tears . . . you manage to wrestle narumi's phone out of his pocket and with a few quick swipes, the game screen loads, revealing narumi's awful character design. you tap on the profile and hastily mash the relationship button. the sight makes you want to hurl.

+ "you're mad that i'm on level 1 with hoshina," you grit your teeth, "but you're only on level 27 with me?!"

+ at this, narumi shoots up, his hair a mess from rolling around. he has one palm resting on the floor and the other hand pointing with extreme accusation at your flabbergasted state. "YOU'RE THE ONE AT FAULT FOR THAT!"

+ you cannot believe your eyes and ears.

+ narumi continues, his mouth opening and closing so wide his entire face is just mouth. "I WAS ON LEVEL 30, BUT YOUR STUPID ASS KEPT BEATING ME AND GROWING BORED, SO THE LEVEL DROPPED! YOU DROPPED IT, NOT ME!"

+ it's . . . hard to keep a straight face whenever narumi talks. especially right now. all you know about this man is that his pride in his abilities soars above all, but still, it really is hilarious.

+ "aww . . . my poor little snookie wookie pookie dookie," you sing, putting your phone down and sliding down so that your body aligns with his. "did the level drop make you that sad?"

+ narumi huffs. "get away from me. whatever you're doing right now, it's absolutely disgusting."

+ ignoring him, you thread your hands through his hair, the tips of your fingers giving him a massage so good that practically has him buzzing. in the moments where he's calm, it's almost like he purrs under your spell, but at the same time, you use this manipulation to make him shut up. it works. always.

+ "i'm right here, though," you grin, resting your forehead against his. "you don't need a silly game to know that."

+ "game you is better than real you," he says and as though all that previous anger just dissipated into the air, he leans closer, his nose tickling yours, his lips a breath away.

+ you snort. "well, i don't think you get to do this with game me."

+ "shut up," narumi retorts, but before you can say anything back, he seals the gap between you in seconds, the both of you silent as you kiss the frustration away.

It has to be something else. Well that's what Gen thinks. And he's kind of right because what makes you so respected among the others? Was it your overwhelming strength? Your excellent ability to lead others?

Maybe everything together. But there are so many others who are capable of your job? Why are you so popular? Honestly, those questions are torturing Gen for the last few days

Until he experienced the reason himself.

It was unspeakable kindness.

Like last time when he stalked you for a whole day—

"Wahh! I forgot my wallet!"

"That's alright. Today's my time to invite you." your lips curled into the faintest smile, a rare sight for your solemn gaze.

"Ah..! Thank you so much, vice-captain [lastname]!"

Or in the middle of the battlefield—

"My apologies, vice-captain! It's entirely my fault for being distracted!"

You shook your head and placed your hand on top of his shoulder, ignoring the burning pain in your other arm. "It's alright. Everyone gets distracted once in a while." you were quick to brush off.

"But you got badly hurt!"

"Make sure to stay focused from now on so this won't happen again. Yes?"

"I-I understand, vice-captain!"

Not to forget on your day off—

"Oh? It's unusual to see you out on a day off." you blinked in surprise.

The black-grey haired boy twitched as he immediately lifted his head, tearing his gaze from his phone to you. "Y-You..!" he spluttered in total shock, not expecting to see you around.

"T-That's [lastname] [name], vice-captain of the first division!" a young girl gasped in shock, her excitement vivid.

"Who? Who's that, old man?" another kid spoke up, who sat next to him on the bench.

"Oi, I'm not old at all! I just turned twenty!"

"Right, explain that to your white hair."

"It's obviously grey, brat!"

"Oh, I didn't think you would be the type to understand yourself with children." you patted the head of the girl, who clung onto your leg.

"I don't!" he denied, "they just came out of nowhere."

"Gen-chan visited us!" the little girl giggled.

"Really?" you crouched down to her level.

"Yeah, he visits us once in a while. The orphanage we live in isn't in the best condition, so he makes sure to check up on us." she whispered, a big smile adorning her chubby face.

"That's sweet of him." you hummed, returning her smile with your own.

"I'm not checking up on them..! Just because I decided to hang out here, doesn't mean I intended to visit you brats..!"

"Wow, that's totally something what an old man would say..."

"Right?" you agreed, deciding to humour them a little.

You rose from your crouching position and sat down beside him, the girl not hesitating to follow you and making herself comfortable by leaning her head against your arm. "Can I get an autograph?!"

"Sure, you just have to give me a marker." it's not like you're a celebrity. But it doesn't hurt to bring a little joy for children.

"You want an autograph from her!?" Gen froze, his thumbs halting mid air. "Could've asked me too, y'know?"

"No, thank you."

"Old man, you died!"

"It seems like you're pretty loved." you chuckled as you faced him, "next time you check up on them, make sure to call me too."

"I'm not..!"

You are kind. It might not look like that upon first glance but the longer someone spends time with you, the more aware they are of this side. And then they start cozying up on you.

Because you respect them, you understand them, you recognise them. Sometimes you're tough to them but later on, they realise that you did this for them. For them to improve and learn out of their mistakes.

That's what makes you so respected. Not only in the first division but also in the whole JAKDF. And lastly by Narumi Gen himself.

"Spar with me, vice-cap'!"

"Clean up your room first, Gen."

"I will do it later."

"No. Do it now or you have to spar with Hasegawa."

"...fine."

It was a quiet murmur before Gen left the room.

"Oh, I expected it would take longer for vice-captain to tame that beast..."

"Dang this is a new record. Not even the platoon leader gets him to clean up his room..!"

not for him, though. it's when they call for you.

to be completely honest, as the son of one of the most prestigious families in kaiju-killing history, marriage has always been a consideration, not out of his own will but for the sake of his family. his father had brought it up a good few years ago, but soshiro was never that interested and neither was soichiro.

when you're out there risking your life, what's the point? the best thing to do is keep to yourself and grow stronger so that you don't ever fall into the horrors of everyone's nightmares.

yet when hoshina soshiro met you, it genuinely changed his world.

now, as a happily married man with a woman who bears his last name, he now understands why love is such a big deal. before, if someone had told him that love makes you do ridiculous things, he would've scoffed, mocking the idea in his mind, but never did he imagine that it would be him so soon.

on top of that, being a vice-captain means your title is exactly the same. to hoshina, there's nothing more hilarious than that, but with the problems that arose from it, you were forced to simply change to 'vice-captain (name)' to avoid any more confusion.

knocking on hoshina’s door, you creep in, shutting it behind you with a small click.

he looks up from his desk, his straight face immediately replaced with a child-like grin people would pay to see.

"well, if it isn't hoshina-san," he chuckles, standing up. he tucks his chair back in with the tip of his feet as he approaches you.

he tries wriggling his arms around your waist, but you deftly swoop in by pushing a massive folder into his hand.

"sorry, hoshina-san," you say, trying your best not to laugh at his defeated expression. "i'm here on delivery duty. these came to me, but i don't think i'm hoshina soshiro."

you point to his name on the papers and he sighs, reluctantly taking it from you. he tosses it onto his desk without a care before leaning forward to bury his face in your neck.

your skin tingles as he presses light kisses in between his words. his bottom lip grazes the spot just above your collarbone and he lifts his finger to trace the inner path of your arm.

"so, ya weren't here to see me," he mumbles with another kiss, "but to just give me something."

"oh, fine, let me take a look at my beautiful husband," you tease, reaching up to delicately take his face in your hands. you brush a thumb over his cheek as he remains unmoving, unimpressed with thin furrowed brows as if he’s pouting, and hoshina soshiro never pouts.

"what're ya doin'," he says, his tone completely flat as he stands still under your control. he ignores your quiet laughs. "are ya tryin' to mess up my face?"

"my husband looks soo handsome no matter what i do," you coo. "have i ever told you that i love your genes?"

he tuts and tilts his head, his face still a mush in your palms. "ya have, and every time ya do, i say i prefer yours more.”

─ narumi gen

sometimes, you joke that narumi's forgotten your name.

every time he comms you, every time he demands anything from you or asks someone where you are, he never uses your first name. you're sure that even the officers of the first division don't know either.

it's always 'vice-captain narumi'. ever since you got married, your family name is simply forgotten as if it got pushed into the back of everyone's heads. narumi is more than adamant on making it known to the entire defence force, even chief itami, that you're his darling wife, his weapon, his woman and life.

if someone dares to mention your first name, he's quick to snap at them. you will not go by anything but narumi (name).

"captain, sir, vice-captain (name) is─"

his words are never sharper and his head never turns as faster. "narumi? she's off duty right now, what do you want?"

it's almost embarrassing when people fumble in front of you, too. you tend to stand there, blinking with your hands behind your back as you wait for your fellow officers to choose a name or title to call you. it's bad that they're overly terrified of narumi's outbursts, but it's not like you're going to give them the same fate of pissing their pants because they used a name you've been given... since birth.

currently and much to his growing stress, you're staying a few nights in tachikawa for a meeting with captain ashiro. he was absolutely devastated when he had to send you off, but he's started to deal with it bit by bit by calling you every night.

you're sprawled out on the guest bed with your phone resting between your ear and shoulder, listening to narumi drone on and on about how dull today was without his player two, you, by his side. he mentions watching kikoru pummel his platoon leaders to a pulp, interrogating kafka in the corridors because they made eye contact and also about hasegawa's habit of cleaning his room without permission. there's not a moment to breathe.

you hear him click his tongue on the line, his voice flat as if he's caught you staring off into space.

"oi, narumi."

you perk up, reaching for you phone. "hello, i'm still here."

"you're ignoring me, aren't you?"

a sigh flows out your mouth. "no, but i'll be honest, i'm getting a bit tired, gen. i'll call you tomorrow?"

there's an echoing groan that you can practically sense from miles away, but his voice returns in a second.

"you little─you don't even want to call me, huh?"

you rest your head on your arm, letting it dangle off the bed. closing your eyes, you try let the images in your head form a comforting sketch of narumi lying in front of you, but from how much your body is drifting in and out of sleep, you're forced to peel them open, suppressing a massive yawn.

"narumi!" he shrieks into the call, making you wince, "i heard that! that was intentional right now, wasn't it?!"

you chuckle as you roll onto your other side. "no, gen. i love talking to my husband."

"shut up, you suck at being a wife."

and so you find yourself staying up for a few hours, fighting yourself from falling asleep while he turns on his game. he gives the occasional commentaries on how ugly a character looks or how his controller is drifting out of control, which you do your best to respond to, but by the third hour, you're genuinely seeing the fuzz of an exhausted mind and narumi's voice is growing more distant.

your chest slowly rises up and down as your body succumbs to rest, and somehow, narumi notices this when he realises your soft mumbles have come to a stop.

"narumi? oi," he calls, a little quieter than before. he pauses his game and leans into the silence of the call. "are you dead?"

he gets no response, so he scoffs, setting his controller down before he taps his phone to check the duration of the call. it reads four hours twenty-two minutes and it's also one in the morning.

“Hah!? What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Katsuki stares. “How do I feel about you ordering things?”

You shrug sheepishly, feigning, to your credit, a very convincingly nervous look. “I just didn’t want to upset you.”

The look on Masaru’s face twists immediately to heartbreak—like he can’t believe his son would turn out this way. Meanwhile, Mitsuki’s eyes narrow into dangerous slits. Katsuki waves a hand gesturing at you in shock as if to ask, are you seeing this? as he stares at his parents helplessly.

“She’s messin’ around, I swear, she always does this—”

“Katsuki.”

“Don’t Katsuki me—I haven’t done anything!”

“You know,” Masaru says carefully, eyeing his son in disappointment, “sometimes people don’t realize they’re behaving a certain way until there are signs. But we have to look at the signs for what they are, son.”

“Dad—”

“No, let me finish.” Masaru holds up a hand. “You’re supposed to be equals in a relationship. If she’s worried about upsetting you over something as simple as ordering a drink, maybe you should ask yourself why she feels that way.”

“Because she’s insane!”

“Katsuki!” Mitsuki hisses, pointing a finger at him as she says, “don’t call her that! The only reason for that is because you’re driving her crazy—look at her! The poor thing! She’s shaking over there, and it’s because of you!”

“She’s not shakin’ for shit! Look—look at her! She’s fighting back a fuckin’ smug little look on her face because she’s—”

Mitsuki suddenly reaches across the table and catches him by the ear. “What have I told you about making girls feel respected, huh? This is why they’ve never liked you! And now one finally does and you’re scaring her off?”

“Ow—you fucking hag!”

She gives his ear a sharp tug. “Language.”

“Ow! Let go, you old—”

You look up innocently, “Please don’t scold him, he’ll be in a bad mood when we get home.”

Mitsuki yanks his ear harder at that, steam practically pouring from her own ears, and Masaru holds a hand to his chin in deep, concerned thought.

“Just what happens at home when it’s just the two of you, huh? Why is she scared about what’ll happen when you’re home?!”

“Nothing! Literally fuckin’ nothing, she terrorizes me at home, if anything! Look with your eyes, you old hag!”

Finally taking mercy on him, you chuckle, reaching over to ruffle Katsuki’s hair. He gives you a nasty side glare, but it softens just a smidge when you lean into his side and kiss his cheek.

“I was only kidding,” you beam at Mitsuki, “I just wanted to make him sweat a bit.”

She looks at you with a cautious gaze, her fingers still tightly wrapped around Katsuki’s poor (and red) earlobe as she asks, “Are you sure you’re not just protecting him?”

“Oh don’t worry,” you hum, patting your boyfriend’s chest as he shakes his head in irritation, “you’d be the first to know if he acts even the slightest bit out of line.”

“I never get a chance to be out of line, cause you’re the bossiest—”

Just then, the waitress arrives with your drinks. She sets yours down first. “Here you go, honey.” Then she places Katsuki’s down. The sour look she gives him could practically curdle milk. “Sir.”

Katsuki stares after her as she walks off, and you giggle as you pinch his cheek affectionately. “We should come back here next week, huh baby?”

“Yeah, if my face isn’t on a wanted poster at the door,” he grumbles under his breath.

You reach over with a cheeky grin, grabbing his drink and taking a sip before taking another from your own glass. After a moment of contemplating, you hum, “I like your drink better. I’m taking it. Here—” you slide him yours as you pull his own glass to your side of the table. “You take that one.”

He turns to his mother and waves a hand. “See?! She terrorizes me!”

“I’m not seeing a problem,” she says, giving him a less than impressed look. “All I’m seeing is a poor girl finally realizing her worth after dealing with your nonsense.”

He slumps into his seat, giving up, and you lean your head onto his shoulder, beaming up at him victoriously as he gives you a tired look. (And, much to your pride, you know are getting very, exceedingly good at getting under Katsuki’s skin—it’s a hobby you’re quite talented at.)