sans fanfare

Narumi

Ariake Base in summer was a veritable sauna.

Situated alongside the bay, humidity weighted the air, painting the tarmac slick. Shady nooks offered little respite for the officers released from active training or field operations.

Within one of the rooms off the main motor pool, you shrugged off your lab coat, fanning at your neck while attempting to follow the rapid-fire analysis of that day's operation, presented by Kurusu to Vice-Captain Hasegawa and the platoon leaders.

Even in this air-conditioned bliss, it was hard to acclimate, having come from outside.

Your brief, half-formed thought on the possible location of the Captain was answered a moment later when the door slammed open against the wall, bouncing off with the force.

Narumi stood outlined in the doorway, hands on hips, glowering straight across at Hasegawa as if he'd done him a personal wrong.

A deep silence fell, as you all took in the state of him.

Most officers wore the standard issue underwear, consisting of a vest and tights, beneath the combat suit.

Narumi, it seemed, had eliminated that particular modesty.

The suit was unzipped all the way down to his groin, broad shoulders pushing apart the protesting edges, a wide swathe of bare, glistening skin visible.

The aggravated rise and fall of his chest only served to draw every eye to the way the zipper had lodged on either side of his nipples, pushing them to pert peaks, while the wall of muscle that formed his abdomen carved a perfect 'V' down to where the suit closed once more.

Ignoring, or perhaps not aware of the attention he had drawn, Narumi marched straight towards his second in command.

"Hasegawa."

"Captain Narumi?"

"Tell me what the fuck is up with this suit."

"I'm not following."

Coming to a stop right before him, the Captain gestured downward with an angry stab of one gloved finger.

"It's practically dragging my balls to hell!"

A harsh hacking noise sounded as Shinonome choked on her water.

Hasegawa pinched the flesh between his brows.

"What on earth are you - "

"Here, see!"

Suddenly, everyone was scrambling to look busy as Narumi grabbed the lower unzipped edge and tugged it away from his abdomen, jerking it back and forth so violently that the thickening trail of dark hair leading down to unchartered regions was actually visible.

"I'm out there, trying to move faster than some fucking kaiju's signal flow, and I can't. You know why? Because it feels like my dick's about to be squeezed right off and my ballsack's glued to my thigh!"

Calm and collected where everyone else was now covering their eyes, or red in the face, Hasegawa frowned and shook his head.

"Has it ever occurred to you that this is your fault? If you just wore the underwear - "

Narumi swept his hair back, glaring daggers. All that this served to do was emphasize how his pectorals nudged their heavy way past the confines of the suit, a sparse scattering of coarse hair over the ripple of scar-lined skin.

You tried to avert your eyes, but somehow, they didn't seem to be listening to your mental command, especially when he reached down into the suit, slid a hand between his legs and jerked, hissing with a grimace.

"That's better. Don't like the damn underwear. Even worse on a hot day. You think I wanna feel like I'm hate-fucking a sauna?

"Watch your language!"

"Might as well dip my junk in a Flaming Cheetos packet and - "

Quite suddenly, Hasegawa was no longer the subject of the Captain's ire.

Narumi had turned rapidly, and his gaze had fallen on you.

Wrenching your attention away from the visible bulge across the upper crease of his thigh, you sat up straight, eyes widening as he approached.

"Oi, you!"

"Sir?"

"You work in tech, right? Fix this!"

"Fix ... hold on, Captain, that's - "

He was standing right before you now, hands on hips, and from this angle, every ridge on his abdomen, the lean planes of his long legs, the swell of each bicep, was clearly visible, along with the translucent trails of damp that were still snaking their way down his chest to darken the folds of the suit.

The domineering expression had not wavered, and you registered, vaguely, that he was pointing at his crotch again.

"How am I supposed to be Number One when this goddamn suit is wrapping my balls like they're under a Christmas tree?"

You could see, from Shinonome's expression, that this particular turn of phrase had given her some rather vivid visuals.

From his chair a few feet away, the looming form of Hasegawa rose, an ominous gleam in his eye.

"Narumi."

Hurriedly, you waved your hands.

"I have a solution!"

The Captain paused, one short, quizzical eyebrow raised.

"Huh? You do?"

Flipping your datapad around, tracing across the surface, you tried to ignore the ample body heat transmitting across the small gap between you, the strong, musky smell of sweat more intense at close quarters.

"A while back, there was an axillary codpiece developed for just such a situation. Its manufacture was scrapped, because the underwear seemed more convenient, but we still have the early production prototypes."

He stared down at the schematic displayed on the screen, before tapping it with one finger.

"Order up. I want one, first thing Monday. And make sure it's the right size, you hear? I ain't tucking shit back every time I blow up a kaiju - "

A firm swat to the head interrupted him as you tried in vain to process this last statement.

"Stop harassing the techs and go have a shower."

Muttering under his breath, Narumi gave you a brief, surprising nod of thanks before making a bratty concession to Hasegawa's request and pulling his zipper up by a mere two centimeters.

"Fine, fine. I'm going."

As soon as he was out the door, the Vice-Captain lowered his voice, leaning slightly towards you.

"Make that an order for two. But don't tell the Captain."

Hoshina

The Vice-Captain of the Third Division was something of an enigma.

Hoshina Soshiro wore his smile as both a weapon and shield, inscrutable, playful, dangerous if provoked.

He was the image of a model officer, uniform always pristine, hair combed to a neat, sleek shine, evidence of care and routine in the way his swords were maintained and his record books and reports always updated in neat, sloping handwriting.

So, today was certainly an anomaly.

It had started with the interruption of the training camp he had been overseeing, situated in the foothills of Okinawa, a chance for the recruits to familiarize themselves with the warmer climate and dense foliage when fighting kaiju.

The collection of honju that had been rounded up for practice had attracted an unforeseen obstacle, one rarely seen in these parts: a pack of mole-type kaiju.

Smaller than usual, and densely armored, they were proving to be an irritation. While not particularly strong, they were fast, armed with razor-sharp claws, and had the nasty habit of ambushing the officers when they least expected it.

As the other platoon leaders were on duty back at base, Hoshina was the sole commanding officer present for a relatively small unit, and had taken it upon himself to be on watch the majority of the time, with a few hours of sleep snatched in-between.

Hence, the current situation.

Clad in one of his fitted compression shirts as concession to the sweltering weather, a fine, few-day's growth of stubble tracing his jaw, hair slicked back from his forehead, Hoshina presented a very different entity.

The scars on his arms had grown slightly more visible with the tan he'd picked up over the past week, mud and dust now a permanent fixture on the baggy camouflage trousers held up around his lean waist by an old belt.

Out here, it was ever more evident just how fearsome the Vice-Captain truly was, sleep deprivation only seeming to render him harder at the edges, sharper tongued, violet eyes cutting the gloom. 

Today was the last day of the camp, with the local base a day's hike from where they had been air-dropped. All the honju had now been neutralized, and it was time to head back.

Something seemed off about Hoshina, though.

His fingers twitched at his belt, as if aching to unsheathe his swords, his posture tense, shoulders set as if about to enter battle.

Just as the last recruit had bagged their belongings and was ready to receive marching orders, he spun lightly on his heel to face your unit.

"Change of plan, officers."

"Sir?"

"We head back to base as intended, with a little addition. We use a tactical retreat to lure those bastards in and take 'em out."

There was a stirring among the others, heads turning, anticipation building in the ranks.

Hoshina raised a finger, eyes open in a rare display of cunning charm.

"Now, listen close. You lot are gonna act as my bait. Fire rounds into their joints to slow 'em down, then keep drawin' 'em back to the moving core of the unit. Ten minutes out, ten minutes backtracking. Never lose sight of the main corps. I'll handle the rest."

It was testament to how much faith each of his subordinates placed in him that not one you questioned the idea of him handling them all.

Within the first stage of the impromptu operation, you had ample proof that your commanding officer was more than capable.

The mole-types had been waiting for a mass-movement, as Hoshina had anticipated.

Rifle braced and ready, your remotely-monitored suit now zipped securely, you took a moment to register that Hoshina had not completely donned his.

The suit lay, bunched around his waist, leaving arms and torso unadorned by any protective material, besides his standard-issue shirt.

"Sir?" you queried quietly, "are you not suiting up?"

He regarded the trees around you for a moment before shaking his head.

"Nope. Better like this. I can feel 'em coming."

A chill passed briefly through you, one that had nothing to do with the danger the impending kaiju posed, accompanied by what you recognized as a frisson of excitement.

The unit began their steady march through the trees, Hoshina at the epicenter, and it wasn't long before the kaiju made their appearance.

Your squad took first initiative, a burst of speed away from the main body, elbows braced against the recoil of your rifles as you aimed for the weaker joints, as you'd been instructed.

The kaiju struck back with ferocity, following you as you retreated, allowing themselves to be drawn in.

Gritting your teeth as roots rose like snares beneath your feet, you realized just how taxing this was going to be. The foliage would work against you, however you looked at it, and you had to keep such careful watch for those scathing claws -

Above you, the sound of boots striking bark.

Before you had a chance to register the movement, he was among you, blades flashing like the teeth of some long-extinct predator.

Hoshina was a blur as he dodged, weaved, spun between the flailing limbs of the kaiju, trailing vivid steaks of blood and viscera in his wake.

This was wholly unlike his refined technique back at Tachikawa, finesse substituted for something far more primal.

Within minutes of arriving, he was gone.

It happened, again and again. 

Unfailingly, using the environment with an instinct that verged on animalistic, Hoshina struck.

Tree trunks and branches transformed from obstacles to leverage, the dense canopy above a haven for the swift plunge of his swords.

He was in a zone of some kind, far-removed from anything familiar, strength and speed only seeming to grow as the going got tougher.

The suit remained unzipped around his waist, large darkened patches of sweat, edged in salt crust of long dried exertion, spreading across his back, across his chest, down from his armpits.

You saw droplets fly from the edges of his hair as he pivoted, powerful sweeps of his arms driving through kaiju carapace.

Mud tracked over his skin in damp, grainy patches, across his cheeks, neck, dampened forearms, their veins standing out even in the gloom beneath the trees.

Again.

It was your squad's turn at playing bait.

The kaiju striking at you stumbled to the side, two swift severing strokes making short work of its front limbs.

Hoshina was crouched before you, one hand laying itself on your stomach, palm flat, warm and vital, giving an almost gentle push as a signal, and you realized that he wanted you to prop your rifle on his shoulder.

Some of his own instinctual purpose seemed to have filtered through to you, and you complied immediately, sighting down the barrel.

The support gave new accuracy to your shots, taking down two of the kaiju that rushed your position, straight through the exposed cores.

The third and fourth stood no chance.

They were now within his range.

He pivoted, passed between them, slicing right down the centre seam of their armour, spilling them out in steaming piles on the forest floor. The steely edges of their claws against his arms did not slow him down. 

Sliding to a stop, he flicked his blades, sheathed them.

His chest was now heaving from exertion, violet hair in slicked, tangled disarray, eyes tracking the perimeter. Sweat was trailing down the sides of his face.

A rapid turn of the head, as if flicking away an insect.

Then, an action so wholly incongruous with his regular behaviour that it almost rendered you immobile: his tongue darting out to catch the rivulet that had bypassed one eye, then a longer, swift lick along his bicep, catching the steady trickle of his own blood.

You caught his eye as he turned, ready to make his way back to the column, and he grinned, warm, fierce, lighting an answering fire in your chest.

"There's just a few more. Think they'll want a taste of me?"

One coherent thought remained as you followed him back: that your duty-bound, proper and collected Vice-Captain had clearly enjoyed every blood-drenched minute of the wild hunt that he'd set you on.

You wondered if his hunger for battle had always run this deep. 

Hijikata

The explosion rocked the foundations of every building in the vicinity, and for a moment, you were suspended in a weightless sphere of disbelief.

Shelves, files, a keyboard, the custom mug you'd received as a gift from your mother, all slid past your half-bemused eyes as you dimly registered the terrible ringing in your ears, the dust, the disorientation, the distant wail of sirens.

It occurred to you, when you returned to consciousness, that your office was now open to the elements.

One wall seemed to be missing.

Saved you the trouble of redecorating, really. That painting of a dancing fish your boss had brought in was a little more avant garde than your tastes allowed for.

It lay somewhere in the road below, frame shattered.

Good.

Come to think of it, the road was a long way down, and your leg didn't seem very keen to hold your weight.

Was that blood?

Why, yes, it was.

Better not to look too closely.

Still, there was that dilemma of how to get down, and it was beginning to seem more pressing by the minute.

Somewhere to your left, a man's voice, calling out over the shift and screech of metal and concrete.

“Oi, you! You hurt?"

Oh, he was handsome.

Unfairly so, for such a situation. After all, here you were, half buried under the remains of the upstairs cleaning closet.

Your would-be rescuer had now emerged into the remains of your office, dusting himself off.

Dark hair fell across a deep set, intimidating gaze, the remains of some kind of uniform jacket barely hanging onto broad shoulders, something that looked suspiciously like a bottle of mayonnaise protruding from one inner pocket.

He set aside the jacket with a put-upon sigh, as if it had personally offended him, and rolled up his sleeves.

What nice arms, which you definitely shouldn't be looking at right now.

"Can you talk or what?"

Nice voice too.

Deep, gravelly, a smoker's husky intonation.

Clearing your throat, you managed a reply.

"I'm not in good shape, I guess. My leg."

He regarded you for a moment, shadowed eyes inscrutable. Then, he rose, squatting on his haunches close by.

When he touched you, it was a lot gentler than you'd anticipated, rolling up your pant leg to expose the gash there.

His fingers were warm against your skin, surprisingly comforting.

"Hmm. Not broken. But you can't put pressure on this."

"Then how am I supposed to get down?"

This close, you could see the dust that had settled over his clothing and hair, the tears and grimy smears on his once-pristine white shirt.

The heat of the day was intense, so much so that he grimaced for a moment before tucking one finger behind the stifling cravat he sported, tugging it loose.

The movement exposed the strong line of his throat, moisture building at his clavicle.

"I'll have to carry you down."

"What? This office is four stories up. You'll never - "

"I'll make it. Don't think you can give me orders."

With this surly reply, he placed both hands under your elbows, lifting with an ease that put paid to your earlier doubt.

This man was strong, unusually so.

You could sense it in the bunch and shift of muscle beneath the sleeves of his shirt, the sturdy shoulder offered for you to put your weight on.

Once you'd acquired adequate balance, he turned away from you, crouching slightly.

"Get on my back."

"Huh?"

"How the fuck else will I carry you down? Between my teeth?"

"Right, right."

It wasn't that you weren't paying heed to his impatient tone, you were a little more preoccupied with the looping of your hands somewhere beneath his chin, the clinging damp of his shirt against his skin, turning translucent in patches with sweat.

"Aren't you hot in that?"

"Yeah. Gotta deal with it somehow."

He shifted, and suddenly your knees were lodged somewhere against his sides, the solid lines of his torso trapped between your thighs.

With a grunt of effort, one that reverberated through the close proximity of your bodies, he swung himself with frightful agility over the ragged lip of the fourth floor, where you were currently situated.

Breathing hard, you closed your eyes, not willing to scope the distance between you and the ground far below.

"Try not to crush my windpipe."

"Oh, sorry."

He half-glanced over his shoulder.

"Stop worrying. I got you."

The reassurance was delivered with gruff aplomb, an easy, quiet confidence that you couldn't help but believe.

Hand over hand, gripping the unstable, jagged edges of rock, jutting metal pipes, sweeping shattered glass away so that his fingers could find better purchase, he made a slow, but controlled descent, with you hanging on for dear life.

He was breathing hard by the time you both reached the respite of the third floor, letting go of the ledge to land heavily below.

Catching you as you almost tumbled from his back, he steadied you at the waist, mopping off his brow with the other arm.

He blinked against the sting of sweat in his eyes, cursing under his breath.

"Can't do it like this," he muttered.

Before you had a chance to ponder that, he'd taken a step away from you, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Can't climb with the shirt."

"Oh, of course."

You were certainly not about to complain about this turn of events.

The shirt was shrugged off with careless frustration, peeled away from where it had been sticking to his arms and back. Beneath it, the sizeable curve of biceps, the play of sinew between forearm and elbow.

His back and shoulders were wide, well-muscled, the skin slick and slightly freckled, marked with numerous old scars.

Ah, of course.

You should have known from the uniform.

He was Shinsengumi, and quite high in the chain of command, if you recalled correctly. His face had seemed awfully familiar, and you knew you'd seen it on television before. 

It had taken your memory a while to catch up, and quite frankly, who could blame you?

"Uh, Mister ... "

"Hijikata."

"Mister Hijikata - "

"Look, lose the 'Mister'. We've got more important things to deal with here."

"Right. There's another passage around this floor. Leads to a ramp out back. That might save you the trouble of climbing all the way down?"

He hummed in acknowledgement, rolling one shoulder, then the other.

"Worth a try. Show me the way."

Once again borne aloft, this time with nothing separating you from the bare skin of his back, you helped him navigate the littered and crushed landscape of the building that had once housed your workplace.

"So, what happened, Hijikata? Was it a gas leak?"

"Nah. Some moron decided to test out an Amanto weapon. They've had it stored at the museum, and whoever tried it didn't realize it wasn't inactive."

"That's - "

"Dumb as fuck, is what it is. Some people haven't learned shit."

You couldn't help but agree, but your conversation was cut short by another obstacle: the pathway you'd described had collapsed halfway across, and the only way down was via more climbing.

"Ah. So this is out too."

"Not completely.."

"But - "

"Look."

He was pointing, tracing out a track in the air with his finger.

"It's actually easier to climb down from here. More staggered."

It didn't look much easier, but you weren't going to question him. He was the one doing the climbing after all.

Part way down to the next level, a sharp steel strut, deceptively angled, ripped his pants, scoring a scrape along his thigh.

"Hijikata! Are you okay?"

You'd heard, then seen the rip all too clearly.

He swore under his breath, tugging himself free. This only served to exacerbate the issue.

A flap of his trousers tore, all the way from knee to groin.

"Fuck!"

Uttering another litany of curses, Hijikata dropped the last few feet, and you clung to him tightly before easing away to check if he was injured.

Seeing the damage, you breathed a sigh of relief.

"Oh, good, you're only scratched."

His head raised slowly, the look in those dark eyes verging on murderous.

"My pants are fucked."

"Okay, but your leg is not."

"I won't be able to wear these."

"Then take them off?"

"And climb down naked?"

"You'll still have your underwear on!"

"I'm the Vice-Commander of the Shinsengumi. If they catch me on camera after I get us out - "

"Then you'll look brave, sweaty and muscular?"

He shot you a sour glance and you raised both hands in surrender.

"I'm just reporting the news."

"Report, my ass."

"I just might."

"I'll leave you here."

"All right, sorry."

Scowling, he blew out a breath, before getting to his feet once again.

He started to unbuckle his belt, and the idea that you probably should look away did briefly cross your mind.

The idea was ignored.

With a brisk shove, the ruined trousers dropped to his ankles, kicked away in aggravation, revealing the ripple of thighs you knew had been honed through hours of sword work.

Long, lean, powerful, tapering at the knee only to widen again to calves that you could now appreciate the heft of, Hijikata's legs were nothing to sniff at (as was the rest of him).

The dark hair on his thighs was more sparse, thickening down the shin. Here were more scars, not as deep as those that decorated the ridges of his abdomen, as if he'd always been cavalier with the rush of his attacks.

Sweeping back his hair with one hand, Hijikata closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

When he glanced at you again, you could see some form of resolve building there.

"Let's get this over with.”

The final stretch of the descent loomed, and this time, you were hard pressed to focus on staying alive, and restricting your movement, when the man carrying you down was doing so in a largely unclothed state.

Without the barriers of simple modesty, Hijikata shoulders rolled beneath you like the shift of smooth rock beneath earth, sweat tracing through dust across his back, chest and temples.

Those large, capable hands were as steady as ever, feeling their way, inch by inch, across the safest nooks and niches.

The only sign of the strain he must experience showed in the taut lines of arm and thigh, veins rising to prominence against skin, the heave of his chest beneath your palms each time he navigated a particularly tricky gap.

Even as focused as he must be on the placement of hand and foot, he never neglected to check on you, pausing at intervals to cast a look over his shoulder, or to abruptly nudge your legs into tightening their grip.

Eventually, beyond all expectation, you both reached the road below.

Fortunately for Hijikata, there was no camera crew waiting.

You let go of him, and he dropped into a squat, panting freely, all reservations apparently forgotten as he spreadeagled in the road in his grimy, forest-green boxers.

"Hijikata ... thank you. For getting me down."

"It's my job."

"Still. I owe you."

He took a moment to reply, catching his breath.

"Damn it. Left it up there. Coulda used it about now."

"You mean these?"

You produced a slightly squashed pack of cigarettes from your own pants pocket. He turned his head, staring across at you.

"Where did you get those?"

"Your jacket. I thought you might not want to leave them behind."

Still lying supine, he reached out one hand, fingers making a grabbing gesture.

You placed the cigarettes within them, before realizing your glaring oversight.

"Ugh, forgot the lighter."

"Doesn't matter."

He tugged a bent cigarette free and tucked it between his teeth. You heard a slight sucking noise.

Ah, so not just an addiction, but an oral fixation.

Interesting.

Perhaps this additional discovery would shed more light on this increasingly strange enigma of a man.

"I also found this in your jacket. You had it in an inner pocket, so I assumed it was important. Is it evidence in a case of some kind?"

This time, his head snapped towards you, and he sat bolt upright in the street.

You'd produced the bottle of mayonnaise you'd found along with the cigarettes.

Before you had a chance to register his actions, he'd scrambled towards you, snatching the bottle out of your hands.

It was also somewhat dented, the plastic top smeared in dust, but none of this proved any deterrent to Hijikata who twisted it open and proceeded to squeeze the condiment straight into his mouth.

After a whole minute of gratuitous chugging, he let out a deep groan of relief, slamming the bottle down as if he'd just had a taste of the finest whiskey since the Amanto Invasion.

Here he was, the strong, dutiful, surprisingly kind officer, who'd in all probability saved you from a crushing fate, drinking mayo on all fours in the street in his underwear, like it was a gift from the Gods.

When he'd finally regained his senses, the hooded eyes met yours once again, as if you were now party to some soul-deep connection, bathed in the tangy off-white substance still present at the corners of his mouth.

"Thanks for ... saving my mayo."

Vaguely, you registered that the current situation might be largely off-putting to most.

You dabbed at his lip with a corner of your sleeve, smile growing. 

"My pleasure, Hijikata."

Gintoki

"Yorozuyaaaa, at your service."

The drawling voice came drifting over the counter, and you straightened from behind the display, where you'd been arranging a tray of croissants fresh from the oven.

With the opening of a new station nearby, the lunchtime rush at your small cafe and bakery had increased exponentially, and while it was good for business, today promised to be challenging when two of your small staff had called in sick.

Someone had once handed over a small card with the details of an odd-jobs agency on it, and you'd rifled through your drawer to locate it before calling the number.

It was just for a day, after all.

Here, it appeared, was your helping hand.

A tall man with wavy silver hair, questionable posture and a decidedly unmotivated gaze, with a wooden sword at his belt, and a short, bright-eyed girl, her vivid hair set in two buns and one finger lodged firmly up her nose.

The man raised a lazy hand in greeting.

"Sakata Gintoki here, and this is Kagura."

Hurrying over to the other side, you made your own introduction.

"Ah, welcome to Flour Power. I'm the owner, the one who contacted you yesterday."

Kagura pointed at your sign above the door.

"I like the name! Very strong. Are you gonna crush all the other bakeries? I can help you."

"I certainly hope so! But we're a small operation right now, which is why I needed someone else on board."

Gintoki leaned towards you, one hand over his mouth.

"Hey, just a head's up. Don't tell Kagura you want to crush the competition. She'll take that literally."

"Oh ... right."

Now that you were closer up, you could see that these were no ordinary odd jobs folk.

Kagura had the air of a smiling baby tiger, right before it disembowelled you, and Gintoki's wooden sword did nothing to detract from the clear definition of his visible arm, the grace and power of a seasoned swordsman disguised under a lackadaisical air.

Perhaps customer-facing interactions might not be their forte, but you could certainly use the help backstage in the kitchens.

This was where you led them, apologizing profusely for the temperature inside.

The central cooling unit was under repair, and the heat of such a day would be magnified by the ovens, but neither Gintoki nor Kagura voiced any objections. They'd evidently worked under worse conditions before.

After setting them on the basic tasks of mixing and kneading (ensuring, of course, that they both washed their hands first), you made your way back to the front of the shop.

The lunch hour rush had become increasingly hectic, also due to the demands of customers. Many of the new faces were not quite so friendly, and some were quick to pass judgement, or comparison to other bakeries in the area.

Not that this cut too deep.

Developing a thick skin was part and parcel of being in business, but the comments sometimes stayed with you.

As the bell above the door began to ring more frequently, you heard an almighty crash from the kitchen.

You supposed that things had been going too smoothly to believe, either way, considering the brand new hands on board, but you sincerely hoped the damage wasn't too bad.

Uttering a quick apology to the impatient faces across from you, you ducked back into the kitchen.

It was quite the sight.

Kagura had apparently decided that the mixer wasn't doing a fast enough job, and had taken it upon herself to combine the ingredients by hand. In doing so, she had grossly underestimated her own strength.

A thick layer of batter coated almost every surface, including Gintoki, who, you now noticed, had taken off his shirt and yukata, and donned the apron you'd provided over his bare chest, as concession to the heat.

While you'd noticed his physique when he'd first entered, nothing quite prepared you for the naked breadth of his shoulders and biceps, the apron barely able to sit over the stretch of his pectorals.

All of this, now covered in pink cake batter.

He was in the process of cursing at Kagura, but paused when you entered, reaching one hand up sheepishly into hair that was now a lot less voluminous, plastered to his forehead and the nape of his neck with sweat.

"Look, I apologize for this. We'll get it cleaned up in no time. I'll make sure Kagura doesn't do her own thing, okay?"

"Can you really clean this up? I've got so many in the queue out front, so I won't be able to - "

"Nah, we'll handle it. Kagura, get off your ass and start the mixer up again."

She was sulking a little, but complied, shooting you a muttered apology.

As you made your way back out, a loud voice called out their irritation from the counter.

"Are you alive back there? I've got a shift in half an hour!"

"Coming, coming!"

The customer you'd kept briefly waiting was tapping her fingers with an unnecessary show of impatience.

"About time! Thought I'd just leave instead of coming to this shitty place again. No better than the last time I was here."

"My apologies, ma'am we've had an incident in the kitchen, and - "

"Stop with the excuses and just pack my order. I don't have all day."

Biting down your response, you began to do as bid, but not before Gintoki poked his head around the doorway.

"Oi. Don't be so fucking rude."

"Excuse me?"

Turning rapidly to hush him, you heard a stir amongst the customers as he pushed through into the room fully.

He'd obviously tried to clean up as best he could, but there were still traces of batter dried in stripes and patches on his forearms, cheek and the burgeoning skin of his chest, right beside the borders of the apron which sat alarmingly close to his nipples.

His hair had been swept all the way back, sweat glistening on forehead, shoulders and back as he came forward and leaned over the counter.

The apron now bunched all the way forward, barely holding together.

More than one set of eyes glanced nervously at the strings which held it precariously in place, including the irate woman, who had now adopted a dumbstruck expression.

"I said, don't be fucking rude. She's handling this place all by herself, and we're just hired for the day. Wait in line or go somewhere else."

The woman's mouth opened once, then closed again.

Gintoki reached down and snatched a strawberry cupcake from the display, cramming it whole into his mouth. The icing smeared across the sides of his face as he chewed, all while meeting her gaze with an unblinking intensity.

"Yeah. Fucking delicious. You'd be real stupid not to buy this shit. Don't make all her hard work go to waste."

He wiped the sugary crust off with his fingers, pointedly and loudly sucking each one in relish, before slapping a hand across the apron to clean it and loping back into the kitchen.

"Please wash your hands, Gintoki," you called faintly after him.

"Yes, ma'am."

Payment and parceling proceeded in complete silence after this exit. It seemed, however, that word of Gintoki's antics had gotten around.

The bakery was even more crowded within the hour, the audience mostly craning their necks to see past you into the kitchen.

Kagura emerged at some point to assist you at the till, a stick of konbu between her teeth.

She had even less of a filter than Gintoki, if that was to be believed.

At one point, you'd cleared your throat.

"Kagura, why'd you leave the kitchen door open?"

"Huh? Aren't all these aunties here to check out Gin's ass?"

From the kitchen, a lazy protest, even as he heaved bags of flour over his shoulders, trapezoids rippling beneath a glorious sheen of sweat and the melted butter that Kagura had managed to spill on him half an hour ago.

"Kaguraaa, I'm gonna call my union. This is super objectifying, ya know?"

"You don't have a union. Now bend over more so they can see your silly butt."

She shot you a sideways look.

"Hey, you make cupcakes with konbu in them?"

"Uh, not right now, but ... I'm open to trying new things."

"You hear that, Gin? She's open to trying new things," Kagura shouted towards the back.

"Now, just hold on - "

"Oh?"

Gintoki popped into the room once more and a few of the customers present began to fan themselves as he leaned one elbow on the counter and eagerly wiped his face, smearing almond cream across his damp forehead.

"So, have you ever thought about a nice, big chocolate log, maybe with some fruit pieces, and then you take it, like this, and shove it deep into a strawberry sponge, and drizzle it with strawberry syrup to keep things moist, 'cos the sponge dries out real easy, and -  "

"Um, Gintoki?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll ... definitely look into your suggestion later, but maybe help me with these boxes?"

"Ohhh, how'd I miss these? But this convo isn't over, you hear?"

"Of course!"

You turned back to the man at the till who's face was presumably as heated as yours currently felt.

"Would you like some coffee with that?"

"S-sure."

Later, when the store had been closed for the day (in the face of more customers eager to spy the attractive kitchen employee who'd managed to spill ever-more indulgent sweets all over himself), you breathed a sigh of content and undid your own apron.

Turning, you beheld the sight of Gintoki and Kagura, both in dire need of showers and clean clothes, but waiting all the same, faces bright with anticipation.

Uttering a small laugh, you pushed off the shelving behind you.

"Let's get to work then?"

"Oh yay! Gin, you hear that? Nobody's ever made seaweed cupcakes for me before!"

"She's making my chocolate log first! Hey, look, there's still some melted butter on my chest. Wouldn't wanna waste that - "

"I think we'll manage, Gintoki."

You're not sure what compels him to keep arriving like this at your door, no explanation given, one hand grasping the frame above your head as he toes off his boots.

A stray seeking shelter from the rain, is what you teasingly wish to call him, but you watch the slow raise of his eyes to yours, and you know that no charity will fall from your lips tonight.

He takes his time, moving close enough for you to register the vital heat of his body, the warm, sweet wash of his breath over the side of your neck, the way his yukata brushes the front of your own robe.

Then he is moving past you, drawled greeting snaking over your ears as he invites himself in.

Well, not quite.

You've allowed him in enough times that it now goes unspoken.

Your home is his domain too, and he leaves his mark on it, because his marks lie on you, from lips, to hair, to throat, to the softness of your thighs, and the flesh of your hips.

It's a landscape he's traversed with familiarity, but you try to keep your thoughts away from that for now, because he really has come in from the rain, and even though he's making his way dutifully for the towels, he's left traces of damp on the floorboards.

You manage to reach the towels before he does, snatching one from the pile. Before he can protest, you've started to dry off his hair a little more vigorously than you should.

"Ow."

"Stop dripping water on my floors."

"Come on. It's not that - "

"I could go fishing in the lakes you've created."

"But you like me wet."

You snap the towel down and away from him, raising an eyebrow.

Oh, there he is, your first clear glimpse of the evening.

Beneath the thoroughly disshevelled peaks of silver hair, eyes that you know turn amber in the sun, now darkened beneath lowered lids, the slow curve of his lop-sided smile, the harder angles of cheek and jaw that could turn him from nonchalant wanderer to warrior in an instant.

With Gintoki, it's all about choice, and your freedom to make such choices.

You're the one who let him in, and here he's lodged himself, a stubborn stone in the seams of your life.

He'd never stay if you didn't want him to.

He does know that you want him, though.

It's in the way you touch him, lingering on the solid lines of chest, arm and abdomen. It sighs across the breadth of him, in the passage of the towel. It rests briefly on his cheek and lips, as you dab moisture off those areas too, rather unnecessarily, in feigned innocence that fools nobody.

He allows you, indulges you as you play your role on a makeshift stage of your own making. He'll hand you this luxury, and other better luxuries, as a reward after all.

"I'm still kinda clammy."

"You know where the bathroom - "

The sentence isn't given a chance for completion as he begins to strip right there in the hallway.

The sodden yukata is off the fastest, shrugged away, tossed towards the back of a nearby chair.

It misses, lands in a heap on the floor.

Your eyes are far too occupied with what comes next to lend much attention to its plight.

He unbuttons his shirt, fingers flicking aside hidden hooks with long practice. The length of his throat, the slight sheen of water dampening his clavicle, the shift and slide of muscle beneath fabric, all visible, and with a rustle, a quick tug sideways on either end, the shirt has been shrugged off.

You take a step back, and he takes one forward.

"Gintoki - "

"I'm cold."

"I can run a bath for you."

He pauses, a moment of supreme attention, his eyes traveling from the way your hair curls around your ear to the silky folds of your own nightrobe, held fast with a clasp between your breasts.

His glance is always frank in its assessment, in its desire. There is nothing he needs to hide from you.

Gintoki wants you too, something else he is fully aware of. There are no nuances here, just your need and his.

"A bath? Sounds good. Don't worry, I do know where the bathroom is."

He tilts his head, taps you lightly under the chin, turns away, and you can't help but watch the bulge and shift of his shoulders as he stretches his arms leisurely over his head.

When he reaches the end of the corridor, right before the bathroom door, he reaches down, casually unbuckles his belt, unzips his trousers.

The dark edges hang free on either side of his exposed pelvis, and even though you can't quite make it out in the dim light, you're well aware of the slightly coarse trail of pale hair that roots down, towards other places you have seen.

"I'll have the water run in ten minutes. You joining me?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, and disappears within.

The sound of water running echoes down towards you, and though you busy yourself briefly in the kitchen, you know exactly what is about to occur within, through that entry rimmed with gold from muted lamplight.

He's going to sit on the edge of the tub, slumped slightly, watching the doorway. The tub will fill slowly behind him as he yawns, stretches again, runs his tongue along his teeth, reaches up to scrub fingers through his hair.

Then he'll pout slightly, stand, swaying, dropping his trousers in one swift push. He'll drag one ankle through, fighting with the clinging material as if it's a piece of sticky tape, before successfully kicking it in the general direction of the laundry basket.

His boxers will follow, peeled away nonchalantly from the curve of his buttocks, sliding down the powerful heft of his thighs ...

This is the point at which your desire gets the better of you. 

You turn your back to the kitchen counter, palms resting briefly against the cool surface before pushing off it.

The bathroom door still beckons, a light waft of steam revealed.

He is exactly as you pictured, wholly comfortable in his nudity, rubbing traces of soap off his chin as he readies the scrubbing cloth.

"Hey. Want me to wash your back? I'll wash yours if you wash mine."

It's the same dry joke he always makes, but you know he's not trying to amuse you.

Gintoki likes the routine you have together, even if he doesn't put a name to it.

You shrug and slip into the room.

"Don't forget my - "

"Ticklish spot. I know."

He grins, and you laugh, allowing the robe to fall away from your form.

Gintoki doesn't look away, lingering on your shoulders, elbows, the dip of your waist, your thighs, the way you reach up to bind and cover your hair. He beckons you over.

"Don't take all day. My back hurts."

"Age catching up to you?"

"Okay, you try carrying Sadaharu around all day, on your shoulders."

"Why on earth - "

"He had a thorn in his paw."

"Aren't you the sweetest."

He grunts in indignation, obviously having had enough of your teasing, because those large, warm hands are on your shoulders, and he tugs you closer, until he's situated right behind you.

"Lemme show you how sweet I can get."

"As a strawberry parfait?"

Warm breath traces the side of your neck, and then, the slow, full press of his body against the length of yours.

When he speaks, his voice drops to a lower baritone, the rumble of it a secret known only to you.

"I'm sweeter than that."

Inhaling sharply, you take your lower lip between your teeth as he works up a lather on the washcloth.

"Gintoki, stop."

"Huh?"

"Bedroom."

"Damn, you're bossy toni - "

You cut him off, lips sliding firmly into place over his. He utters a small sound of surprise, immediately responsive, leaning into you with a need that is always intoxicating.

Your hands move up, up, across the swell of his arms, along his shoulders, tracing the broad width of his neck and into his hair.

He breaks for breath, panting, pressing further forward so that you can feel the hardness of him against your thigh.

"Gintoki - "

"Yeah, yeah, bedroom. On it."

Your laughter trails you into the room in question, his arms lifting and bracing you from beneath the thighs.

"Hey, you're lighter than Sadaharu."

"And I know what you have in common with him."

He deposits you flat on your back across the bed, rather unceremoniously.

"In common?"

"You both like to be scratched behind the ear."

He stops dead, eyeing you in the way he did when you were acting, as he calls it, 'dangerous'.

You smile coyly, leaning back on your elbows, crooking a finger.

"What, you're scared now?"

"Frankly, yes."

In lieu of reply, you reach up, fingers trailing over the outer edge of his ear, an echo of his own temptation in the bathroom earlier.

He remains very still, muscles coiling on the verge of action.

Ears, the bridge of his nose, the length of his forehead, you traverse them all, ending your exploration with a light, but firm grip within the soft, messy tangle of his hair.

"Oi, you - "

You didn't give him a chance to go further, grip tightening, tugging him down to you once again.

This time, his lips met yours with a soft groan, tongue prising your mouth open, tasting you with relish, being tasted in turn.

You hold him there, back rising off the bed to press into him, thighs falling open beneath the downward shift of his body.

Tongues swirl and dip into each other, warmth smeared over your lips, across the sides of them as the kiss grows messier, more desperate.

Gintoki bucks against  you, harder than he was before, drawing a small gasp from you.

He seems to like that, because he does it again, and again, his slick length finding its unerring path across your abdomen.

His height has rendered him a little further above where he needs to be, and so, grasp still firm in his hair, you guide him, pushing him further down.

Tugged lower, he lets out a sound that has you pause, a soft, half-groan, on the edge of pleading.

Oh, he likes this.

So did you, come to think of it.

You like every new facet of him that you learn of, every scuffed page in the well-thumbed book of his life that he'd invited you to be part of.

It was a privilege, that you got to see him like this, unwound until he didn't have any defences left.

Before you had a chance to turn the tables, Gintoki took initiative himself. Hands curling around your waist, so big, so warm, he swaps places dizzyingly fast, lifting until he is lying prone, and you are hauled upright to straddle him.

His eyes gleam up at you, and in the light from the bedside lamp, he looks like some kind of spirit of the night that had wandered into your bed, wild, playful, the ripple of unyielding strength beneath supple skin, marked with old scars.

"Come on, ride me."

"Thought your back was hurting."

"Well, if I could lug Sadaharu around all day, my back could probably hold out. Bounce on it all ya want, not gonna do me any damage."

"Is that so?"

Taking him up on his challenge, you pass a hand between your bodies, grasping his firm, heated erection. He jerks forward in your grasp, but you have other plans for him.

Gintoki is heavy in your palm, a slight lean to him, not overly long, but thick in a way that made every entry feel like you were being stretched anew.

It seemed that you needed to re-acquaint yourself with every vein and ridge on him, and as far as you were concerned, there was only one way to accomplish this.

Settling over him, now that both of you are aligned correctly, you begin to rock against him, sliding along his length until the tip is just about to breach you, before falling back and repeating the motion.

His eyes are fixed on where your folds part, embracing him on either side, the sheen on your inner thighs that has been slowly building since before you'd taken your clothes off, serving to make your movements easier.

"Hmm ... so worried about puddles on your floor, and look how wet you are."

If he wants to be mouthy, you have no choice but to respond.

You slow your pace, pressing harder against him, massaging his flesh with yours, all while still denying him entry. Hips working purposefully over his, you give him a prelude to what you intend for later.

His eyes have glazed over, seemingly mesmerized by the sight of you on him, hands gripping you tighter.

Pleasure was building with every stroke, mounting to a gentle pressure that threatened to spill all over him.

You yelp slightly as a hard smack stings your buttocks.

Gintoki is now red in the face, breathing hard, sweat beginning to bead his brow.

"Oi, don't come without me. So fucking rude."

A breathless laugh escapes you, truncated as he drags you down towards him. Mouth beside your ear, he holds you in place.

"Put me inside you."

Half-complying, you closed your eyes briefly, allowing his tip to penetrate just past your entrance.

God, even with only this much inside, the stretch is so good.

"There, you're inside."

"You wanna play like this?"

You lean down, kiss him lightly, teasingly.

"Say 'please'."

"I'm gonna - goddamn vixen. Please."

A sudden sharp exhale as you take him all at once, a downward plunge of your hips as he slides home, that burning stretch eased by how wet you are for him.

Gintoki's whole body draws taut, mouth falling open, hands now clutching convulsively at your hips.

"Fuck. Fuck."

It was your turn to whisper to him, a promise laced with subtle mischief.

"Is that another command, sir?"

"God, you're so tight, so fucking hot - "

You drag a palm down his chest, reveling in the ripple of his abdomen as he fights to maintain control.

It isn't as if you are entirely unaffected.

Gintoki fits so perfectly inside you, that intoxicating blend of hard with yielding edges, solid enough to pierce and fill you, flexible enough to reach places inside you that send bursts of silver-flamed heat running through your body.

Fingernails sinking slightly into him, you anchor yourself before allowing him to slip further and further out, until just the tip is within once again, then sheathing him fully.

In spite of the heat building between you, your movements are controlled, within the bounds of awareness of how good you can make him feel.

Riding him with intent, just like he wants, rising to an upright position once again, you brace your knees on the bed and do as you please with him.

He is harder than ever inside you, the heat of him threatening to brand you with familiarity, pearly white traces building along his cock from your mingled arousal.

The way he watches you ignites like a forest fire across your skin, drinking in every lift and drop of your hips, the way he sinks so deep inside, the undulating of your body as you work up a rhythm.

Pausing in your movements, you placed a hand right above where you are joined, tilting your head back as you squeeze him inside you, muscles fluttering on the release.

He rises spasmodically beneath you, heels digging into the bed, a sound somewhere between a growl and a sob tumbling out of him, uncontrolled.

Nipples stiff and peaked beneath your wandering fingers, arms and thighs rigid and trembling, you know exactly how much he is holding himself back.

Gintoki can give as well as he takes, and there is beauty in that symmetry.

You start up your motions again, still steady, making an erotic game of it.

He is still transfixed by the sight of you, the way your hair has come undone, the bounce of your breasts, the soft, wet slaps of your skin against his, the way you ride him just the way he likes.

The next clamp of your walls around him catches him unexpectedly, as you intend. He utters a breathy moan, higher than the low, raspy sounds he'd been making before.

"Hnnnn, don't - I'm gonna - "

A finger over his lips, softer than the harsh buck of your hips.

"You won't. I've got you."

Power, ah, that was it.

He'll let you have this battle, laid out for your pleasure, because he knows you'll let him ruin your body as you do his.

You bait him with guerilla tactics, drawing him into your petal-soft heat, lulling him into the known dance of lovemaking, trapping him in your predatory vice, and he responds every time as you desire.

His hands never know where to settle, from grasping like a drowning man at your thighs and waist each time you grip him, to winding his fingers in the bedsheets above his head, grip white-knuckled, biceps and shoulders rolling and tensing.

The sounds he makes, however, are what drives you to distraction.

All pretense of holding back has deserted him.

Each scrape of your nails through the short, coarse hairs of his chest, each slow drop and squeeze around his cock, each playful tug on his hair has him whimpering, crying out, begging in fits and starts, low guttural moans torn from his throat before they're fully formed.

"Aaaah, fuck, I can't - killing me with that - hnnng - pretty, wet pussy, I - if you keep fucking going like that - "

You respond with a circle of your hips, the sheet beneath where he pierces you now thoroughly soaked.

This proves to be your undoing, surrendering to him in the hubris of your own climax, as the curve just below his tip strokes against that place inside you.

Every nerve in your body thrums to a white-hot, lancing stand-still, sweat tracing down the quivering curve of your spine, one last grasp of his flesh within yours.

These final throes prove too much for him too, and his arm comes up, circling your waist hard, trapping you against him as he howls out his own pleasure, broken and rough-edged.

For a few minutes you lay motionless, slumped against him, both of you breathing as if you'd just run a hundred miles.

Turning your nose into the side of his neck, damp from his exertions, scented intoxicatingly with his sweat, you manage to speak.

"Probably ... woke up all the neighbours."

He has one hand cast backwards over his eyes, hair standing in wild tufts from your repeated tugging.

"Your fault."

"Okay, it is my fault."

"Probably ... packin' their stuff. Must think ... world's gonna end."

"Oh, come on."

"Fuckin' me like it's our ... last day on earth. Woke the dead with your ... witch pussy."

You're laughing now, shoulders shaking with breathless mirth, because Gintoki's mindless pillow talk, right before he drifts off, is always priceless.

"Then you've got what? A warlock cock?"

He sniggers as you tug his hand away, revealing his sex-dazed expression.

"Warlock cock. I like that."

"You would. Hey, don't fall asleep. The sheets are in a state."

"Hmm. Nah. Let's sleep here. In our puddle."

"No. Bathroom. Now."

As you drag one of his heavy arms across your shoulders and pull him out of bed, it occurs to you that thios must feel something like carrying Sadaharu's dead weight around all day.

A mess of soft, pale hair pushes against your cheek, a decidedly fake snore reaching your ears as he pretends to fall asleep.

Eyebrow twitching in annoyance, you can't help but feel a simultaneous rush of deep affection.

'Warlock cock' or not, Gintoki has certainly woven some kind of enchantment over you, one that has little to do with each occasion you happen to fall into bed with him.

It's in the tramp of his boots on the cobblestones outside, the way his head falls with perfect timing into your cleavage after a long day, the walled distance in his eye when something jogs darker memories of times long past.

As with most parts of his life, you've been allocated your own precious niche, tucked somewhere between the demarcation of lover and friend. It's a space you have no choice but to occupy, because he chose to have you there.

It means that even if you decide to end this, he'd be at your side the instant you needed help, because the people he chose mattered far more to him than he ever let on.

It was worth it, that burgeoning, unspoken warmth you always felt at the mere sight of him, fluttering in some secret space of your own.

It was well worth it, you tried very hard to remind yourself, as he almost dragged you face first into the toilet on your way to the bathtub.

A few weeks prior…

To think that this all started with a pair of fancy, comfortable house slippers.

With his book in one hand and a freshly brewed cup of matcha in the other, Nanami had just settled onto your couch beside you, fully emulating a Sunday morning languor that mirrored the quiet mid-winter day outside.

You’d wrenched your gaze from your phone just in time to watch him set his mug onto the coffee table before leaning back into the plush pillows with a gentle sigh.

He now had his leg extended, outstretched and slightly lifted off the ground as he idly rotated his ankle in an absent-minded, lazy motion that caused his slipper to repeatedly slide halfway off and on with each unthinking movement.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the amusing sight.

“You seem to be enjoying those,” you remarked.

Nanami set his book on his lap and glanced at you, lips twitching into a sheepish smile.

“Well, these are some awfully comfortable slippers.”

Even months into this budding relationship, there remained something novel about the way Grade 1 sorcerer Nanami Kento seamlessly switched into the softened, unguarded iteration of himself, something deeply endearing about recognizing the way he shed a week’s worth of job-induced tension and allowed himself to truly relax, even if for a mere few hours.

It made your heart swell with pure delight, just as much as it did back when you’d watched him lounge in this very spot the morning after he’d stayed over for the first time, no longer as a guest you were hosting in your house but as a partner with whom you were sharing a pleasant slice of home.

By now, you’d easily slipped into an alternating pattern, visiting one another whenever your weekend schedules permitted, and over time, you’d naturally stocked Nanami’s go-to toiletries and yielded him a non-negligible portion of your closet and drawer space where he’d kept several changes of the clothes, along with all the things you’d offered him to make his stays comfortable—newest among those was this very pair of luxurious slippers.

“They come in a set too, you know,” you added after a moment.

“A set?”

“Mm-hmm. It includes a silk eye mask and a matching house robe.”

Nanami let out a low, pensive hum, and you returned your attention to your phone.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever owned a robe before,” he murmured, drawing your attention to him once more.

“Wait, really?”

Nanami slowly shook his head before his gaze flickered to you. “Why, is that so surprising?”

You took a moment to truly consider his question, letting it resonate within you. “I don’t know… I just think it would really suit you. Comfort always does look good on you, Mr. Nanami.”

Nanami settled deeper into the soft cushions, a bashful blush coloring his cheeks in the kind of vulnerable display you always treasured, always felt lucky to behold.

Something softened in your chest, and it was right then and there that you zeroed in on the next addition to his gradually expanding side of your closet, unwittingly embarking on what would be an entertaining ride.

No later than the very next week, you were able to hand Nanami his gift.

With both of you having the following Monday off duty, this Sunday presented the kind of placid respite that only the middle day of a long weekend could offer. Following a lunch date at a nice bistro, followed by a fruitful trip to the local bookstore, you’d returned to his apartment together.

By now, Nanami had already slipped into what was now the second pair of comfortable slippers you’d gifted him, and stood before his full-length mirror as he fastened a wide belt into the double loops of a brand new matching house robe.

“How does it fit?” you asked from where you sat behind him on the corner of his bed, keen to confirm whether the size you’d picked out for him would provide a loose enough fit for his comfort.

With a muted swish and drag of his slippers against his hardwood floor, Nanami took the small side step that allowed him to meet your gaze through the mirror’s reflection, something not quite yet readable in his eyes. He adjusted the shawl collar that framed his neck before finally turning around to face you.

“You tell me,” he simply replied, his gaze moving over your face.

You took in the way his broad shoulders filled the width of the pale gray gown, which was composed of carefully crafted towelling and where the soft Egyptian cotton fabric no longer hung loose, molding his frame instead as it held snug along his sides and cinched at his waist by a thick, fastened belt. The robe had a wide hood and two deep front pockets just below his hips, one into which he’d slipped a hand as he brought his other hand to his hip, as if to strike a pose.

Effortlessly classy, functionally stylish, and, just as you’d envisioned, he looked damn good in it.

Your staring must have been prolonged enough to catch Nanami’s attention, which he signaled with a sudden quirk of his eyebrow and a noticeable twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, it looks perfect to me,” you replied, as casually as possible, even as you felt the inklings of a buzzing, familiar warmth come over you, driving you to briefly bite the inside of your cheek.

“It certainly feels perfect,” he concurred, his voice low and warm and his nose crinkling in a way you recognized to be whenever he was absolutely self-content.

Like was totally feeling himself. With good reason.

Later that evening, you found yourself observing Nanami while he carefully arranged one of your napkins into a makeshift bib over his new robe as he sat down to have dinner.

“It’s just too comfortable to take off just yet,” Nanami said, responding to what could only be your perplexed expression. “Surely I’m allowed to indulge in this today, right?”

Your palms shot up in mock surrender at his defensiveness from an accusation you hadn’t even considered forming. “Hey, I didn’t say otherwise!”

“Good,” he returns, with an equally playful, self-satisfied smile.

Because of course he’s allowed to indulge you thought as you snickered at the sincerity counter weighing his joking tone, at the dualities of the man before you—goofiness under seriousness, indulgence under restraint, the dutiful sorcerer who wielded a blunt sword to exorcise the most vicious curses in this existence, now deep in the plushy comfort offered by a simple cotton house robe.

So for the remainder of that sweet, long weekend, Nanami indulged in his new house robe, removing it only for the scarce occasions he stepped outside, or when he was showering or sleeping.

You could forever watch him roam around with a leisurely tempo in his step as he went about his day—it was charming, adorable, sexy in the most understated ways.

You gave yourself a mental pat on the back, relishing the idea that you’d managed to offer him a small slice of comfort, not yet realizing what you’d gotten yourself into.

It wasn’t until sometime later that you hit the absolute tip of the iceberg that was Nanami’s fondness for his robe.

He wore it so often now, nearly whenever he was hanging out at home, and this quiet, late morning was no exception.

You were seated at the dinner table, busy drafting an addendum to a recent mission report of yours in a comfortable silence that was only punctuated by the sound of a wooden spoon occasionally hitting a pot.

Keen on sharing a recipe he’d talked about at length, Nanami had taken it upon himself to prepare his twist on a risotto, a dish whose preparation doubled as a test of diligence, requiring a near-constant presence by the stove as he monitored the pot and gradually added in the stock, one careful ladle at a time.

Kento also happened to be in the middle of reading a mystery thriller novel that had him particularly hooked. It did surprise you a bit when you spotted him taking his paperback along with him to the kitchen—he usually treated his reading time with more sanctity, making it a point to separate it from any other activities.

But what truly caught your attention was what you noticed him do with it.

You’d lifted your gaze just in time to catch Nanami as he slipped his book into one of the expansive pockets of his robe before reaching for the stove and adding two ladles’ worth of broth to his pot which he then gently stirred.

You thought nothing more of this, that is, until a minute later, when you caught him fishing the book from his pocket once more, quickly thumbing his bookmark to find his page.

A moment later, he closed his book and returned it to his pocket.

By now, your mission report was long forgotten in favor of the scene unfolding before you, of Nanami Kento, whom you’ve only ever known to be a practical, efficient man, engaging in a very much less than efficient enactment of his favorite hobby, as if his main purpose was to maximize the usage of the pockets of his robe.

Surely that wasn’t what he was truly doing, you thought as you carefully observed him out of the corner of your eye.

Sure enough, it hadn’t been a fluke—he did this a few more times, each time making a point of tucking his book away into his robe pocket before resuming his cooking.

A short moment later, Kento’s eyes found yours, a quiet but undeniable thrill radiating from them.

“This story is getting wild. You must absolutely give it a read once I’m done,” he said, casual as ever, before returning to his stove.

What you brushed off at the time as one of Nanami’s amusing albeit peculiar new habits with his robe would only be the first of many others.

There are habits, and then there’s this.

Nanami has his mannerisms, many of which you’d picked up early on as you’d surreptitiously observed the man who was still only your lovely colleague who was just broaching the outer limits of your attention.

He readjusted his glasses whenever he was narrowing his focus to lock onto a target.

He often rolled up his sleeves when he was gearing up to enter combat or preparing to take on an arduous task.

When deep in thought or pondering a tough decision, his hand instinctively went to his tie, smoothing its fabric.

And now, there was a new one, one you’d been noticing over the past few days, one that you were about to put to a test.

“Nanami,” you called out to him suddenly one day, keeping your tone as neutral as possible.

You watched him freeze right where he sat on his couch, his countenance stiffening immediately as your unusual usage of his surname, well outside the formal confines of work, gradually registered.

And there it was, subtle but right on cue—Nanami’s fingers found the edge of the belt of his robe, sliding up until they found the knot and began fidgeting, adjusting something that didn’t need it.

“…Yes?” He replied after a short pause, a flicker of nervous curiosity clouding his eyes.

“I’ll be driving out to the tailor tomorrow for a few items I need adjusted. Is there anything you want to have dry-cleaned since I’ll be in the area?”

“Dry cleaned…” he began, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he tried to decipher yours, but you expertly averted your gaze before he could probe too deeply. “No, I don’t have anything to be dry-cleaned… Is there something wrong?”

“Why would there be something wrong, Nanami?”

He let out a nervous scoff, and you watched his fingers quickly find his belt again, less fidgety this time, just settling there.

“Well, good, now I know you’re just messing with me.”

“Oh, am I?” you countered as you walked right by him, but your carefully crafted composure faltered, and the snicker you’d been suppressing escaped in an uncontrolled burst.

Nanami’s demeanor relaxed as his hand slipped from the anchor of his robe’s belt to your hip, halting your stride with a gentle yet firm pull toward his lap.

“Not so fast, we ought to discuss this…” he commanded huskily.

Yielding to his tug, you savored in the moment and in the way by which, ever since you’d discovered that this particular mannerism of Nanami’s stemmed from a mix of nervousness and hesitation, you derived great pleasure in baiting it out of him just to witness him embody it at your whim.

It was on an early, unsuspecting evening that the most blatant manifestation of Nanami’s metamorphosis occurred.

Yet another particularly busy season at work made for late nights at the Tech, making your apartment the most convenient place for you and Nanami to retreat before you’d have to do it all over again in the morning.

You were spending the evening like you’d spent most of them these days: carefully planned leftovers made for a quick dinner, leaving you with just enough time to decompress before the inexorable wave of slumber came knocking at your door.

Today had been extremely brutal, and after spending ten minutes staring at your TV screen trying to determine whether you had the emotional capacity to embark on the new story arc for the program you were actively watching, fatigue made the decision for you and you ended up sitting on your couch, blankly staring at the wall instead, slowly processing the events of the day.

Nanami’s soft steps could be heard behind you as he emerged from the kitchen area. You tilted your head up in time to catch him through your periphery.

In moments like this, you admired, almost envied, Nanami’s deep delineation between work and home. On most days, he bested you at this, consistently compartmentalizing work as work and refusing, as much as he could, to allow it to encroach on his scarce downtime.

He set down a steaming hot cup onto the coffee table just before you, and it only took a few seconds for the calming, familiar floral scent of chamomile to tickle your nostrils, its scent, along with Nanami’s presence, already doing wonders to ease your tension.

You caught Nanami’s hand before he retreated it, brushing your fingers along his palm before giving it a gentle squeeze, a gesture of your wordless gratitude.

Nanami said nothing, letting a gentle press of his lips to your forehead be his silent acknowledgment before he disappeared from your focal view.

The serene quiet that had reigned between you for some time extended for a moment before it was interrupted by the gliding sound of the sliding patio door and the gust of crisp evening spring air that swept into the living area.

“Are they really still repaving that road over there?” Nanami spoke suddenly.

“On the side street?” you asked as you brought the cup of chamomile tea to your nose, basking in its calming balm. “Yeah, that’s still going on…”

“They sure are taking their sweet time with this,” he muttered.

You couldn’t help but snicker, amused by the snide delivery of his comment.

A brief silence before Nanami’s pensive hum filled the air.

“Weren’t they here recently?” you hear him mumble again, as if to no one in particular.

“Who was?”

“The landscapers. Did they not do the shrubbery in the courtyard last week?”

Your weary mind needed a moment to shift focus, sifting through your memories to grasp what Nanami was referring to.

“Right… The landscapers were here last weekend,” you confirmed as it slowly came back to you now. “We drove by them on the way to park the car, remember? You even made a comment on how good a job they seemed to be doing. Why do yo—”

“Tch,” Nanami abruptly cut in with an unimpressed click of his tongue. “Well, I definitely take that back.”

You nearly choked mid-sip.

A glance over your shoulder wouldn’t suffice—this time, you just had to fully turn into your seat to face him in earnest, this source of unusual snark.

When your gaze found Kento, he was peering out through the sliding door leading to your balcony, his hair down from its usual style, his reading glasses on, and he was casually swirling a mug of his own herbal tea, looking relaxed as he usually did at this point of the evening.

It was only now, as it caught and absorbed the hues of orange just beginning to tint the sky, that you noticed that he had notably changed into his favorite house robe.

Something about Nanami’s allure tonight carried something different that you couldn’t quite place.

Your train of thought trailed off as you suddenly spotted him peer up, moving to the side and closer to the edge of the sliding door as if to discern something from one of the apartment windows above and adjacent to yours.

“Oh, this should be interesting. I got here just in time,” he said as he brought his cup right back up to his lips.

“In time for what?”

He nodded towards his focal point. “She’s about to start again.”

“Who is?” you asked, feeling as though you were hallucinating from tiredness and finding it increasingly difficult to grasp the thread of this conversation.

“That loud neighbor of yours, the one who’s always engaged in those loud phone conversations.”

“Kento! Don’t be a snoop!” you said in a loud, scandalized hush.

“Well, are you not the one who first told me about her all those weeks ago?” he countered, dismissing your playful outrage as he scooted closer to the door and slid it slightly more ajar, before leaning against the frame.

An incredulous laugh escaped your lips. “I’m honestly surprised you remember that.”

“Oh, I more than remember it—she’s been airing out her fraudulent boss for the last few weeks now.” He paused and turned to you, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if sharing a well-kept secret. “Last time around, she was talking about a sting to catch him in the act. Hopefully, she provides us with an update on that…”

“Who is us? How long have you been—”

“Oh. You didn’t tell me someone finally moved into that top-floor penthouse.”

“The… what?”

Nanami paused to take a sip from his cup, shaking his head as he savored it before swallowing and continuing.

“Those curtains definitely weren’t there last week. Someone’s moved in.” Then, turning to you again, this time with the most serious expression ever, “You haven’t noticed?”

Your confusion melted away, replaced by amused bewilderment.

“Now, Kento, you know I’ve done little more than eat dinner and sleep here for the past couple of crazy weeks, when would I even have the time to notice something like this?”

Still, curiosity got the best of you, so you yielded to its draw, picked up your cup, and slowly made your way towards the window, towards Kento.

“Good point…” he started. “I do wonder what they’ve got going on, though…”

“Nanami!”

“What is it?”

“When the hell did you become this nosy, sir?” You underscored your remark with a light, teasing tap to his bicep.

When Nanami’s smile reemerged, it held something genuinely coy, as if you’d caught him in the natural act of one of the hidden sides of himself, utterly disrobed within the cocoon of comfort delimited by your presence.

There was no facade he could sustainably maintain, not that he’d want to, no sides of him he could feasibly suppress under the fissure brought on by your caring perceptiveness.

With you, it was far more reasonable to get comfortable, made all the sense in the world to lean into it.

“Ah,” Nanami said, perking up as he leaned closer into the opening once more. “She’s talking about him again. This is about to get interesting…”

“You need to close this window, it’s getting chilly in here,” trying but failing to mask your own enjoyment at all this by hiding your face behind your raised mug.

“I’m confident I can keep you warm if you come here, and we can listen in together,” he offered, his words sounding more like a question than not as he extended his free arm, beckoning you closer. “Did you know this thing is made of one hundred percent Egyptian cotton?”

“You and this house robe… What is it about it that always finds you in such rare form?”

Even as you shook your head in amazement, you couldn’t bring yourself not to take him up on his offer, and you slowly slotted yourself into his open arm. As he gently closed it around you and pressed you close, you could immediately sense the decompressing effect that had been evading you all evening starting to seep from him to you, blotting out, in real time, the vestiges of your stressful day.

Nanami drew the patio curtain, leaving only enough to match the crack in the open sliding door. “In case there are nosy neighbors…” he solemnly stated, his tone taking a cautious tenor.

“You can’t be serious, Kento,” you snickered, your tone dripping with disbelief. “Surely you realize that you are being the nosy neighbor right now?”

Present day...

A suspended moment passed between you.

“Your robe?” you asked, unable to mask the amusement overtaking your surprise at the scene before you.

Nanami must have perceived the incredulity spelled on your face. He stepped just out of the closet and straightened up, lightly clearing his throat as he visibly attempted to regain his composure.

“I looked for it everywhere,” he said in a lower tone.

“Your… robe?” you repeated slowly to confirm what was dawning on you. “You turned your place upside down searching for your house robe?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, something almost flustered settling in his allure. “Alright, go ahead, you can laugh.”

“I’m not laughing, I’m just...” you trailed off, words forever lost, buried beneath the hand covering your moth along with the sound of your own uncontrollable giggling.

Nanami allowed you the moment he now realized this situation deserved.

“Nanami Kento,” you gasped in between laughs as you took slow, trudging steps his way. “Grade 1 sorcerer. Indispensable to him are his watch to keep track of his precious time, his blade to exorcise the most tenacious of curse spirits, and at the end of the day, his fancy house robe.”

You reached into your tote bag and produced another smaller garment bag containing Nanami’s robe, carefully folded with its soft fabric tucked in on itself, with a new addition made to it. You bowed your head slightly as you handed it to him with both hands, taking on an excessively apologetic tone.

“I hope you can forgive me for borrowing this prized possession for the time it took me to have it monogrammed.”

You lift your head up in time to see the spark light up his eyes, something between relief and affection chasing away all previous signs of disquiet.

“Thank you, this is... Well, I suppose I should first tidy up…” he said, quickly turning away, but not so quick that you don’t notice the reddening of his face.

"I think it'll hold, no hairspray right?" You aim to shake your head as he clicks his tongue, keeps his pinky pressed against the recently pinned hair, the rest of his hands at the sides of your head to tilt it back in place, Nanami refuses to have an off-center pin placed into your hair. He does that thing again though, head tilts up to the side, your eyes drop to the collar of the sherwani, he's buttoned to the very top. It must be stiff, even if you told the tailor to provide enough margin because Nanami Kento is disciplined. Which means he works out, which means his measurements provided a month ago would shift up slightly. But not this much, right? You raise a hand, he stops twisting the next strand of hair, "Pause, please." Turning, your bangles, payal, and lehenga chiming. Raising your hands to undo the top most button and aht! Your eyes narrow. "Hmmm…agar isko…aisey…"* Your fingers sink down and in, another button falls victim to your curiosity as he inhales sharp, "Darling, we don't have time for this." A smirk to your lips as a song dances in your head, "And what is the this, Kento? What are you imaging, huh?" You are trying to solve his problem here, you're being productive. You are not indulging in your most favorite task of undressing Nanami Kento, please! You know better than right before an event, especially in a heavy mirror-work lehenga, "Where's your undershirt?" "My what?" "The tank top, or one of the cotton shirts you wear around the house?" Eyes finding his, gosh he really thinks there's some magic hidden in your iris, and your hands. Whatever you've done to add the shimmer and shine to your eyes, the crisp edge of the winged eyeliner—always waterproof—otherwise you're a raccoon for days, the soft smile radiates on his lips. Keeps his hand firm on your hips, least he do something stupid and let his thumb push over your carefully painted lips. He's not an animal, not yet, that's for after hours. Where all he's helped doll and dress up is also his to reset; back to his darling who wears soft clothes and rubs her eyes freely. There's that thing you use that he doesn't like, mascara was it? Makes your eyelashes long and fan out, framing the window of your soul with entice, but he's aware it gives you a major headache. Plus it's impossible to get off with that oil thing you use, what was it? Cleansing balm that turns into oil in the heat of his palms? But it's the least abrasive thing on your skin; Nanami Kento has long stopped trusting you to be gentle when it comes to makeup removal. Yes it takes longer if you triple cleanse your face and no, that's not a good reason to not wash it. Whatever, he'll help your skin breathe free from all these layers soon enough.

You're looking at him, soft smile, lips yet to be kissed by your favorite rosewood lacquer, "Kento, if you don't wear an undershirt it'll get real itchy." "Thought you said I'd get too hot, it's on a rooftop right?" "Yeah, but still, would you rather sweat and itch without protection?" He wiggles an eyebrow up, your hand finds his mouth, shushing him, "No. Don't go there." "You walked right into that." He kisses the top of your head as you turn back around and assess. "Hmm, red?" You note the rani and gulab around the sleeves, maybe using that as accent for your lips and blush would be good. When your eyes meet his you can tell he's stuck on your comment about unprotected sweating, it's an embarrassed "Shh! Forget I said it. Shoo! Go! I'll finish up." And maybe just maybe, you aren't able to forget your comment because he, very purposefully, sits on the bed, unbuttons the sherwani. It's late enough in the day that the efforts of his weekly discipline, and your cooking, are evident on his form. He's firm and squeezable in all the right places. Shouldn't take a man like that, with biceps like that, to take an eon to don an undershirt. The sherwani is met with a sigh, it's stiff and not as forgiving as the soft cotton on his skin, over his head, careful not to touch his carefully styled hair and the vibrant orange fabric is back on him.

When he catches your eyes, his deft and speedy fingers slow down exponentially, buttoning up one golden circle at a time, smirking to himself, because he knows that look, "We've got ten minutes, darling." You pull away and finish applying your lipstain, "I'm already done. Unlike someone else."

As if he didn't help you into the top, as if he didn't fight with two of the world's smallest invisible zippers known to man to get your blouse and lehenga closed. As if he didn't watch reel after reel to learn how to pleat the chunni in the style you wanted. As if he isn't aware of how many safety pins are hidden within your choli. As if he isn't back, finishing off twirling your hair and applying the juda pin. "Mmmm what should I smell like? Mother's Day Auntie Chanel or Forgotten Mother's Day Burberry Discount?" You hold up perfumes saved for these events. It's easier if you smell like the rest of the crowd, it results in less of a painful headache from all the conflicting perfumes in the venue. "How about, this?" Mohave Ghost. His scent, least it has been the last three years. "Smelling like my husband? Scandalous." But you spritz it all over, then remembering how Rihanna spritz her perfume and shower yourself with the comforting scent and Nanami who turns around so you can get his back. Resisting temptation to mess up his freshly styled hair, you nod as his hand rests at the nape of your neck, thumb pressing into clavicle bone, anchoring himself for a moment. He's not one for big functions or events like this; neither are you, but it comes with the territory of maintaining family relationships and seeking moments of celebration and joy. What was it you had said? Creating whimsy in things you simply have to do as an adult, "We don't have to go do we?" He had asked, "And what, face the wrath of my mother who ordered our outfits months ago? Nanami Kento, we, know better." A click of your tongue had stunned him into silence, "This is how you'll get old Kento, all work and no play, Family drama is the spice of life! Or at least nonsense background music we can dance to. Do you want to lead a dance-less life? Won't be me, nu uh, puh-lease." He pulled you into his lap then didn't he? Made sure to stun you right back. 🪩

It's three am and he wished he remembered the last hour because he's on the sofa of your shared space, the lights are all off. How did he get here? Goodness golly, did he make you drive? In your lehenga with the cancan underskirt? How did you even fit in the driver seat?

But there you are, on the phone, warm amber signaling your movements around him, soft voice informing your mother you've arrived home safely. Pretty ghulaby and rani embellished blouse with soft black workout shorts, how'd you get one of those sneaky zippers open on your own? Kento reaches an arm up, outward in your direction, your head turns as your feet automatically start to walk over, still listening to your mother who is irate. How dare Seema Aunty even suggest Nanami Kento is anything but perfect? It makes your heart sing, as your hand can finally mess up that too perfectly styled pushed-back hair of his. "Why would Kento-beta do pairi-pauna to her? Her own son doesn't even fold his hands for namaste! Besides, what's she trying to show off? Knock-off sandals!" It makes you laugh as Kento's arm snakes around your torso, pulling his head into the softness of your belly, "I'm sure she didn't have anything else to nitpick, Ma, are you home now?" "Ten minutes out." In the background you hear your father correct her, "8 minutes." It's a bit of light chatter before the tell-tale sign of the garage door opening and closing occurs, "Okay I need to turn the house-alarm off, goodnight darling. I'll call tomorrow." "Not too early. Let me call you, sweet dreams." Nanami pulls you even closer the moment the phone lays on the coffee table. Your hair is half undone, some of it free and wild, still soft long curls, nothing like your usual hair texture, his hands itch to correct this. "Sleepy man, don't you wanna get out of this itchy thing?" He let's all willpower leave his arms, they fall lifeless, as you smooth over his forehead and cheek, "Oi, Kento Kento, Suno*, Mr. Nanami Kento, I'm speaking to you." "Too tired." "Then the bed, na? Chalo." "Too far, you'll have to leave me here." "Arre? Here? On this cold cold leather couch in this cold and dark room?" There's a mirth to your voice that moves closer and closer, lips to his chin as his hands find life, up the back of your neck, into your hair, all those juda and bobby-pins poke at his finger tips but it's worth it, it's worth finally getting his own lips stained ghulaby red. He expects to taste the jalebi, needlessly sweet that dessert, but from your lips the perfect potion of everything mint and joyous spills into his. Chases after the kiss as you move back, "Nu uh, I wanna wash my face and sleep on a real bed, my feet hurt Kento." There is, very little leeway in being stern with him, especially when he makes that muffled gruff sound, claims your lips as his own. Isn't it easy to get lost in this? The faded cedarwood and magnolia that clings to you both, the way starved off impatience returns with appetite—"Nain, Uth jao! Chalo!"* Reason enough for him to move quickly, with staggering accuracy, hoisting you over his shoulder, not stopping until he's carefully settling you on that bathroom counter top, hands bracket your very alarmed and slightly turned on form, "Is this what happens when you stay up past your bed-time?" Nuzzling into his neck, "Wait." He's trying to get that silly zipper on your blouse loose, it's stuck though.

He's welcome to try. You sit pretty and patient, arms on his shoulders so he can wiggle and tug fabric and a too small zipper that feels like it shrinks under his judgment, "I could cut you out of this?" "No, sleepy, I wanna wear this for the dandiya raas we got invited to, remember?" The circle dancing with sticks thing, he sorta remembers, too sleepy to understand more than a few things at once. One - you look gorgeous still, two - he needs to get you out of this blouse carefully, and maybe three - more kisses, stat. "Hey—I'll handle this, you take yours off and let's get to bed?" Ever the planner and sense-maker, he nods along. In some miraculous coordination, his heavy biceps and lead like forearms move up, unbutton, tug and shrug off the sherwani jacket. The doti is easy to slip off and damn, you were right about the undershirt.

It's autopilot after that, a quick body-rinse shower because he did sweat and was itchy, and then he finds you rubbing your face as if it's a washboard. "Aht aht—" firmly stopping your hands from going to scratch at your eyes, he gets a pouty whine, "Mascara! I hate it!" He shouldn't smile but you can't see him so he does, "Gently, darling, you like your eyelashes." A sigh, "I do." Nanami keeps his hand in your hair, as you wash your face, even though it's not necessary, hands you the towel to pat your skin dry and softly softly, brushes a finger across your lips, "There you are." "Here I am." At the tip of his lips, the word you reserve for him when he's being the utmost stubborn, jaan*, he's not stingy with the ways he addresses you, however, it feels too precious, too tempting of fate. And he hasn't had enough days or nights to gloat.

"Chalo*." He calls softly, leading you from the shared bathroom towards the softness of cool sheets lidded with promise of warmth and company. "Ah, the carafe." You're up on your elbows, ready to bounce back to the kitchen and refill the pitcher, but a kiss to the top of your head has you momentary confused. Isn't he sleepy? "Kento, I can—" He's already disappeared. Something warm expands across your heart. It's a small thing, something to aide you back to sleep, Nanami Kento doesn't even drink water this late at night. "I got it." Hmm. Hiding a smile into your pillow, considering how very sweet your husband is being. Even if this is his usual demeanor, it still makes your heart beat faster.

Warm arms embrace you from behind, lazily you turn into him. Nanami waits for it, surely you aren't too sleepy to notice his lack of undershirt this close? And when you do pull back, there's a twinkle in his eyes, "What?" "What…what. Goodnight Kento." But he doesn't let you shuffle back into him, no, you see, he was a pure and proper gentleman all night! "Darling, you aren't going to ask?" "There's—there's nothing to ask, go to bed." "Oh? You'd let me go to bed…without protection?"

"Nanami Kento!" But he's already kissing away at your protest, of it being so late and so not cool of him to use your innocent words against you. You were looking out for him, "If you had worn it raw then you'd—" "Raw." He laughs, you try to stay serious you do. You're sleepy, you're not careful with words with you're sleepy. "Stop! Unhand me—"

"Jaan." Oh oh oh, the way he says it, the way he keeps saying it into your skin, down your neck and across your chest, hands tracing up your sides.

There's a plethora of reasons why not to, the sore hands and feet, the fact it's closer to sunrise than sunset, there's some morning run or class to attend to but you only need one reason to keep going. And it's evident, his lips on your skin.

_______

Apologies if I romanized anything incorrectly, this is how I've learned to spell them. If there's anything I haven't translated or would benefit from being explained, please let me know! Thank you for reading.

Her presence, exalted as ever, served to garner some attention from the recruits who were arrayed out for today's field exercise.

Hoshina cocked his head.

It wasn't evident to most, but Ashiro seemed ill at ease about something.

He could take a fairly accurate guess as to what the root of this was.

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he nodded.

"I'm all ears."

Her gaze dropped briefly to his collar, then returned to his face.

"I heard a rumour. About your ... activities off-base yesterday."

"Ahh. You did?"

His smile was fixed in place, giving nothing away.

"Yes. Did you really go to a tattoo parlour?"

"Why is this of such concern to you, Captain?"

She took a step closer, eyes panning out over the recruits before she lowered her voice to an exasperated mutter.

"Can I assume this is to do with the request letter we received yesterday? The one from the pediatric section of the hospital?"

"I still don't see why - "

"Hoshina, I asked you to fulfill the request as my representative."

"That you did."

"I didn't ask you to get tattoos."

"The request was pretty clear, Captain. It wanted us to visit the children at the hospital, you dressed as a gyaru, and me as a rapper. I'm only doing my best to comply to the specifics of the - "

"You can get temp tattoos!"

"That wouldn't fall in with the ethics of the JAKDF, and the promise we make to serve the public."

"Tattoos are frowned upon in the defence force."

"Didn't stop some first division squad members from gettin' 'em. Or dyin' their hair. Or piercing themselves - "

Ashiro shook her head briskly.

"Look, Hoshina, all I'm saying is ... I'm sorry for throwing you under the bus. You don't have to get a tattoo."

"Oh, so is Captain goin' to join me? As a gyaru?"

She bit her lip, eyeing him sideways.

"I'll take as a 'no'."

"Hoshina - "

"Anyway," he countered breezily, "it's too late."

"What do you mean too late?"

Mina's louder tone of shock rang out, and some of the recruits looked their way.

They hurriedly turned away at her glare, shooting furtive glances back to where their respected leaders stood, Ashiro with tense shoulders and a storm brewing on her brow, and Hoshina with the smug smile of a cat that had gotten into the cream.

"Why, Captain, I've already got my tats done. And don't worry, the uniform covers them pretty strategically."

"Where? Where are the tattoos, Hoshina? Someone said that you'd got them on your neck. Is that true? You didn't want tattoos. You've never wanted them."

"Well, yesterday, I had a little epiphany. Decided to get 'em, just like requested."

"An epiphany?"

He tilted his head towards her, still watching the officers.

"Well, y'see, a certain Captain of the Sixth Division was in the neighborhood. Dropped by, as he seems to. And while I never met him - "

"You avoid him like the plague."

" - while I never met him, I overheard a little somethin' as he passed by in the corridor. He said, if I knew what was good for me, I'd let him take care of business, and come home safe, to take up the teaching position at our clan dojo. That way I wouldn't have to put up with dumb requests, like this one."

"Ah. I see."

"And Captain, I took exception to that. Dumb as the request may be, it's part of being a Vice-Captain."

"But Hoshina, getting tattoos just to spite your brother - "

"And I'm takin' it a step further. If I've got the tats, why not the whole deal, huh? Make a few videos, show 'em my lyrical skills, make it clear that I see a future career as a rap artist."

Ashiro was staring at him with wide eyes.

"Your family will be horrified."

"That they will. My brother, more specifically."

She paused, taking in his neat, feline smile, the way his fist flexed subtly, as it did before a fight.

"Oh. Oh."

Straightening, Ashiro cleared her throat.

"Well then, Hoshina, as your superior officer, I can only say that you have my complete support in this endeavour. I'll go so far as to endorse and promote your music, to show just how talented the Defence Force truly is."

The grin her Vice-Captain now wore would rival the most dastardly Cheshire Cat.

"Why, thank you kindly, Captain. Much appreciated."

The news spread like wildfire, across base, through the Defence Force, to the public at large.

Vice-Captain Hoshina, always popular among the public polls, had decided to embrace his musical side. As a rap artist, no less.

Among the younger generations, the outburst of support was enormous.

He was soon trending on most social media platforms, small snippets of interviews with him circulating, among much squealing about how 'adorable' and 'cheeky' he was.

Of course, none of this fanfare was complete without proof of his ability. As with all things he did, Hoshina had already been hard at work with his producers and assistants, coming up with some sample tracks to release to the public, as a promo for an upcoming single.

While there was uproar at other military bases, the higher ups, and Tachikawa Base specifically, seemed oddly relaxed about the whole situation, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

It seemed that everyone on base had been informed of Hoshina's grand scheme, and were playing their parts to perfection.

One afternoon, Kafka came bursting through the door of the gym adjoining the barracks, waving his phone.

"Hey, guys, Vice-Cap's new single is out!"

Reno, Iharu and Akari gathered eagerly around, while Kikoru stalked over from the rowing machine.

"Ugh, is he for real?"

Kafka shushed her, much to her displeasure.

The video on screen showed a simple, featureless room, white walls and a metal table the only furnishings present. A hooded figure was seated, slightly slumped in a chair, hands hanging at their sides.

"Is that him?"

"I can't tell!"

"Ooh, did he get his fingers tattooed? Is that why he's been wearing gloves around base?"

"That's hardcore, man!"

A beat struck up, simple, but an immediate hook, light, but dangerously quick in tempo.

The hooded figure raised their head and Kikoru's eyes bulged.

"He has neck tattoos? And chains?"

Indeed, it was their beloved Vice-Captain, but not in the sense they were accustomed to.

There was a certain edge to his movements as he picked up the chair and slammed it down closer to the camera.

The hood fell back, and there was Rapper Hoshina in all his glory, his bangs styled to one side, slightly disshevelled, eyes open to reveal their dismissive violet depths.

His words echoed from the speaker, delivered with emphatic drops, the Kansai-ben rendering his flow all the more pronounced.

"On thin ice,

With two blades

Watch how this kaiju fades,

Chew you up

Spit you out,

Not the Captain,

But the Vice."

Iharu was giggling already.

"Damn, he's got bars."

"Swords are for yesterday?

Sit back,

Watch me open the way,

With your gun

You can't touch me,

Missed that memo from the Muromachi"

Kafka and Akari were now bobbing their heads along to the beat, while Kikoru's eyebrows had almost disappeared into her hairline.

"He's ... got a lot of resentment, huh?"

"Oh, damn, are you hearing this?"

"But bro,

Was it worth it?

Did it make you feel proud?

Crack the bokken on my knuckles

And leave me on the ground?"

"Is he ... talking about Captain Hoshina?"

At Himeji Base, Vice-Captain Nagakura eyed his superior with growing concern.

Captain Soichiro Hoshina was crouched over his personal device in his office, the phone held in a white-knuckled grip.

"Has he lost his mind? Kyuji, what is this?"

"That's Vice-Captain Hoshina. Your brother."

"This is not the time for your sarcasm."

"I can think of no better time, sir."

"What has he done to himself? Kyuji, he's got tattoos on his neck."

"There are also tattoos on his knuckles."

"Huh?"

"Right there. See."

Soichiro let out a wail rather unbecoming of a Captain of the Defence Force.

"What'm I supposed to do? The clan elders'll have my guts for breakfast. They'll say I failed my baby bro."

"Well, you did crack the bokken on his knuckles and leave him on the ground."

"That was all part of the goddamn trainin'!"

"Tell that to your brother, sir."

"Father made me do it!"

"Take some responsibility!"

"I only tied his belt to a pillar one time."

"You did what?"

"It was winter, but he was a tough kid, okay?"

"How does every story about your childhood get worse and worse?"

"Look, I said I was - "

"Turned around,

Never looked back,

Now you wanna talk,

Now you wanna backtrack,

I got one Captain,

Don't need another,

She's locked and loaded

Step back, brother."

"Is he saying he ... prefers Ashiro to me?"

"That seems to be the implication, sir."

"There's no way! No way!"

At Ariake, Narumi had tuned in to the release of the single with a nonchalance that fooled nobody.

Over the past few weeks he'd grown increasingly aggravated by the attention that Hoshina was gathering online, to the point that the massive kaiju he'd taken out in the bay had lost traction due to the hype around his 'rival'.

All right, Narumi was seething, but he would deign to listen, if only to see Hoshina finally make a complete ass of himself.

A career as a rap artist?

Please.

This was all a means to draw attention away from the fact that he was weaker than Narumi, and everyone was in denial if they couldn't see it.

Ignoring the way Hasegawa was glancing at him sideways while sipping his tea, Narumi increased the volume a little.

"Huh. I guess he does have some talent for this pointless shit. Has to be good at something. I don't give a damn. As long as he leaves me out of this stupid diss track, or whatever he's going - "

"Now listen close

Bet he's locked in,

Ear to the phone

He ain't gamin'

Y'hate my hair,

hate my smile

Sir, I got game

bigger than your laundry pile."

A tense silence settled over the base, and many heads swiveled nervously in the direction of Narumi's office.

Within, Hasegawa's shoulders had begun to shake with suspicious repression as he shielded his face behind a newspaper, while Narumi had grown dangerously still.

"Did ... did he just - "

"Captain of the First,

But he's comin' in last,

Honey, I'll wait

Am I goin' too fast?

Blow up those kaiju

Wit' your bayonet

But this city's the only thing

your makin' wet

Ain't no trick, 

Swish and flick,

I kill kaiju faster

Than his Naru-mini dick."

The roar that escaped the Captain's office shook the windows with its righteous ire, along with the teacup rattling in Hasegawa's saucer.

"Bowl Cut!"

Ashiro caught Hoshina outside the children's section of the hospital, sighing as he peeled the artfully applied stick-on tattoos from his skin.

"You really had me believing they were permanent."

"All part o' the role, Cap."

"Did the children enjoy it?"

"Had to get the nurses to stop 'em from dancing on their beds."

She gave a small, wry smile as she fell into step beside him, his hair restored to its neat, ordered state as he unhooked the chains from around his neck. 

"Guess you fulfilled your role as Vice-Captain. What'll you do about the publicity, though? Your track reached number one on the charts, you know."

"Oh, nothing. Let it stay there for a while. People will forget it even happened, with time."

"Your brother's been calling my office non-stop."

"Don't pick up."

"So has Narumi. He left a message. Said he wants a showdown at the onsen."

"The onsen?"

"You called his ... size into question."

"Ahh, guess I should've predicted that."

"Guess it's back to regular duties, then?"

"With pleasure, Captain. My cute little officers must be missin' my voice on the training field."

He turned and shot her a small wink.

"Wouldn't wanna rob 'em of my flow, y'know?"

You quirk an eyebrow up, the boy returns to his task at hand. Sawing strawberries, the long ways, for cake decorations. It's a bit lopsided, but Yuji insisted every single bit of cake was necessary.

How else would his precious Papamin know how much the youngest adores him? Every single sprinkle and crumb is necessary!

You cut the blueberries for him, because those are too small and too squishy for his child-safe knife. It's cute, watching him concentrate so much, the boy has never been silent this long, if that doesn't speak to his devotion of Papamin what else would?

The lopsided cake becomes yours and Yuji's to decorate once all the fruit is chopped up. Yuji wants more fluffy clouds and you're not sure which frosting tip is supposed to make that, but selecting a 'open star' and praying it meets the critique of your harshest grader yet.

He claps happily and then carefully holds tongs to get the fruit onto the cake, though one drops a bit prematurely and his fingers go to grab the slippery sweetness. "Uh oh…." You can see his eyes water, there's a large hole where his finger previously was. You smile all the same, "Watch this."

You've binged a plethora of cake decorating videos, grabbing a flat long spatula and dropping a dollop of frosting a top, you sooth over the hole best as possible and make a flower with the tiny strawberries Yuji has cut up. "Flowers for Papamin!"

Nodding, you decorate the rest of the cake with help from the youngster, blueberries in the middle, more sprinkles on the cloud. It's no where near the pinterest photo but it's real and here. On the table where you, Yuji and Nanami will have lazy late lunch together. "Time to put it in the fridge!"

He escorts you like a bodyguard, pulling chairs and decorative vases larger than him away from your path, opening the fridge and insisting to hide the cake behind apple juice. His Papamin isn't a fan of that, after all, it's only for Yuji.

He gives you a high-five as you set about cleaning up. He's reciting all the words you've taught him today, spelling them each while he bounces around you, mostly excited the longest word he knows how to spell is birthday. Yuji did confess earlier, he didn't think it was such a long word, "B-d-a-y-, birthday." "B-i-r-t-h-d-a-y- birthday."

🎂

It isn't as if Nanami Kento is anticipating anything big, birthdays have taken new meanings once Yuji stepped into his life. Never had he imaged actually stepping in to parent his Godson, but he is nothing if not dutiful. He made a vow to keep Yuji safe always, and if that means processing his own stunted emotional baggage, then so be it.

He's brought balloons that fly, the kind Yuji will enjoy. He smiles picturing the blue and gold balloons floating around his kitchen, Yuji hidden by the island. Maybe Nanami should keep balloons on Yuji always, this way he'd always have awareness to his location.

You may not be a fan of that.

You and your sweet smile, kind eyes and, happy-to-help attitude. You work at Yuji's day care, one illness gone on too long, you staying by Nanami's side late into the emergency room, and he… he's a selfish as any man isn't he?

"You don't have to do this alone, Nanami." You had said it so matter of fact, as if the entire world would conspire to help protect Yuji if Nanami dared to look for hope.

Either way, his heart fills and is ready to spill over hearing, "Papamin!", upon entering the apartment. He tucks his shoes into the cabinet, places his coat and briefcase on the chair on the side, meant for these things, and keeps himself in a crouching position when Yuji's tell-tale feet pad across the floors. Your huff of "Yuji!" as he rounds the corner, giggling into Papamin's arms who raises to his full height.

He squeezes his arms around Nanami as best he can, "B-e-r-d-a-y! Happy Birthday!"

"Is it mine? Already?" Yuji laughs at that, you sigh, "He does know how to spell it, properly." Yuji does a 'Nu uh' and hides into his Papamin giggling, kicking his feet. "Happy Birthday Nanami, Yuji—" "Shh!"

You lift your arms, "Alright alright, all we did today was spelling." Yuji lifts his head, "Spellings." Nanami tilts his a bit, assessing your words, does he allow this little secret you two are in on? "Spellings."

🎂

The "stuffed" bear Yuji has made for Nanami is a hoot. It's tiny head and entirely too beefy middle body has the Nanami Kento laughing in ways that feel too precious to share with the world. And somehow you're allowed here, on this sofa, to watch him soften in safety. "Papamin!" Yuji lifts the bear in triumph, clearly his gift for Nanami will be the one snuggling him for weeks on end.

You pull out a miniature stuffed teddy bear, "Yujimin."

Yuji gasps, dropping Papamin teddy into Nanami's lap before crawling over the sofa cushions, stepping into your thighs and raising his arms for the teddy. It's a bit painful, he's starting to get too big for this kind of climbing adventures, but you drop the bear into his hands. He sits in your laps, tiny gasps and oohs, "Pink! Like me!" He points to the fur, you nod, brushing his pink hair from the back of his face, "Like yours."

Nanami pulls the Papamin teddy up, "Bath time."

Which is longer, because Yuji needs a story on how Yujimin and Papamin Teddy's came to be, how they found one another, where will they find honey? Do they know Winnie the Pooh? Important considerations to be made!

🎂

Yuji sleeps star fished, Papamin teddy on his belly and Yujimin teddy near his cheek. He made it through four pages of the book Nanami read to him, and then lights out. "He had a big day." You say to Nanami.

Tucking in the chairs at the dinning table, out of habit. Yuji has run into these more often than not, Kento clears the crayons and table set. A wipe down with a disinfecting wipes, down the sides of every chair's arm and he's in the kitchen. "I got this."

He notes, you trying to unload the dishwasher, it's more routine now. Him insisting on taking on the chores he can't due to his job, you meandering around the space, reluctant to leave. "How's your book coming along?"

"Hmm, still have just one fan." Your eyes dart over to Yuji's door, and then at the ground. You should get on that, finding a way to print and publish the children's book you've been working on. Nanami believes in your project, but that's Nanami, you wonder if there's anything you'd insist on doing that he wouldn't support you with.

It's not that his faith is blind, you've seen him reject the business ideas his blue eyed friend brings him, so… it's hard to say he's a bit soft on you. Cuz maybe he is, and then what does that mean?

You're an important piece of the village Nanami has mustered around him, he was suddenly thrown into guardianship. So unequipped he was those two years ago, now he understands Yuji before Yuji himself can find the right words—which he knows, he needs to break the habit of doing. Encourage Yuji using his own voice, allow him to fumble and struggle over certain words, yet he can't can he?

He wants to protect Yuji, who is too young to understand where his mother and father have gone, why Papamin is here. "Hey." A warmth that spreads only under your fingertips, your palm must be the missing piece from the sun, he turns softly, inquisitive.

A tiny blue box, a green ribbon, "Happy Birthday Kento."

You didn't have to, you know this. All the extra care you do with Yuji is the gift itself Nanami could never, ever, repay you for, but here you are again. Helplessly kind, caring, doting.

A selfish man he is, drying his hands with the sink towel, letting it rest over a broad shoulder as he takes the box, "Can I open it now or later?"

"Now." You wanna hear it, the big hearty laugh you know he'll let roar from his throat. Carefully he tugs at the green ribbon, ever gently, slides the tip of his finger into the careful folds of the paper. It's blue, which means it's Papamin, which means Yuji will absolutely want to play with it, draw on it, etc…

The plain box gives away nothing of it's contents, but as he removes the lid, the laugh he lets out is infection! Gosh, what a handsome, handsome man, he lifts the Italian Herbs & Cheese inspired seasoning, "Now, you know this could spell trouble."

"Trouble?" The smile doesn't fade from your lips, he nods, "What if Martha from Subway catches wind of this? Buying off-brand seasoning—"

"It's an artisan blend," you shrug, "if it reminds you of your precious Subway bread, that's on you." He loves when you do that, calling him out on his slightly unhealthy habit of eating at Subway almost daily. Yuji was much younger and Nanami still unprepared for what it takes to feed, raise, clothe, bathe, keep alive a toddler.

"I haven't been there in…," Gosh how he crosses his arms, hand to his chin, exaggerated thinking, "Huh, five days."

"Crazy." You lean close, hand on his forehead, "Are you catching something Kento?" You hand drops back to your side, he's tempted to catch it, you need to check again, who is he? Not eating at Subway for a whole 120 hours. And then you sing-song, "Must be all the recipes I've shown you, real food Kento, is unbeatable."

It is.

He thinks fondly of your patience in teaching him Yuji's favorite 'green sauce' pasta, an abundance of tenderness in your hands, helping him chop, stir, plate. "But… if you'd like to, scratch that craving, I guess I could be free tomorrow noon."

"Tomorrow noon?" He has a call with Gojo Satoru about thermal socks and their untapped potential, an easy thing to cancel. "Well, I can't promise a thing about the service," he holds the seasoning up, "But we could absolutely compare the two."