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cherryfcola · 1 day ago

Note

Could you please maybe write about a Reader that was from the 1 Division but transferred to the 3 Division and that's how she met Soshiro, years later she goes to pay the 1 a visit to give them her weading invitation and they're all surprised is with Soshiro? ❤️

Title: Third Time’s the Charm

Fandom: Kaiju No. 8

Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x f!Reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Rating: T

Summary: Y/N was First Division’s golden platoon leader — sharp with a rifle, lethal in close combat, and famous for her efficiency against big targets. A “temporary” transfer to Third Division puts her under Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina’s watch… and into his orbit. Two years, a countryside proposal, and far too many cake tastings later, Y/N returns to First to deliver her wedding invitations — and watch her old squad short-circuit when they see who she’s marrying.

The city’s south district was already a ruin before the Honju arrived, the asphalt cracked into black jigsaw pieces that had been trying to crawl apart since last year’s quake, but now every fracture drank in rainwater and kaiju blood in the same greedy shiver; Y/N’s voice cut through the metallic churn of the storm like a bullet through silk, orders snapping out across the comms to her platoon, each syllable a precise slice meant to keep bodies moving and guns singing in rhythm. The monster was huge even by Honju standards—its armored plates slick with rain, eye clusters glaring red as ruptured flares, each step sending a bass drum of vibration through the street that rattled teeth and knocked loose bricks from already fractured walls. Her rifle barked in three-round bursts, recoil traveling up her arms in a familiar conversation, her boots biting deep into the slick ground as she advanced in the Honju’s blind arc, a second mag already warming in her palm for the inevitable reload. To her right, Rin Shinonome’s team threaded through alley shadows, rifles up, the sharp flick of her hand signal telling Y/N they’d be in position for crossfire in thirty seconds.

“First Platoon, cut the Yoju herd! Don’t let them circle back!” Y/N’s voice barely had to rise—her people had been drilled into anticipating the pivot, the way she read a battle like sheet music and marked the notes in their blood. The Yoju—quick, ropey-limbed things—skittered between the Honju’s legs, but her squad’s suppressive fire corralled them toward an intersection where Eiji Hasegawa stood like a human barricade, shotgun braced to his hip, face set in that dry, focused calm that could out-stare a landslide. Each blast punched through a Yoju’s chest like a sledgehammer through wet clay, the sound almost swallowed by the Honju’s roar.

Above them, Gen Narumi’s voice rolled in over comms, deep and unhurried even with death a few meters away.

“Y/N, you’ve got an opening on its left flank. Take it before it wises up.”

“Already moving,” she answered, vaulting the wreck of a delivery van, the hot stink of burnt rubber clinging to her throat as she slid into position. Her next shots went for the soft seam between armor plates on the Honju’s knee joint—first volley to weaken, second to destroy. The joint blew in a wet crunch, the Honju stumbling forward and bracing itself on the wreckage of an apartment block.

“Ha!” Rin’s laugh came sharp through comms. “Nice limp you gave it—want me to finish the other leg for symmetry?”

“Focus fire on the head cluster,” Y/N shot back, already drawing her sidearm for the Yoju darting toward her flank. The pistol’s report was sharper, intimate; one shot, second shot, and the creature’s body folded before it could reach her boots.

Rain sheeted over the street, running red and black into the gutters, the metallic tang of kaiju blood mixing with gunpowder into that scent soldiers carry home no matter how many showers they take. Gen dropped from an upper balcony like gravity had just decided to collect him, twin pistols flashing in controlled bursts, carving through the last Yoju wave as if cutting a ribbon.

“Eiji, finish it,” Gen ordered, voice still maddeningly calm.

The vice-captain shouldered his launcher, thumbed the safety, and sent a high-caliber round straight into the Honju’s skull. The detonation was a thunderclap with weight, heat pressing outward in a wave that turned the rain into steam for half a second. The Honju collapsed with a groan like an imploding building, its bulk settling in a slurry of blood and rubble.

Silence dropped over the comms for a moment, broken only by the hiss of cooling barrels. Y/N swept her rifle back to ready position out of habit, scanning the scene until she was sure every hostile was down. Rin joined her at the flank, hair plastered to her face in soaked strands, grinning through the rain.

“Drinks are on you,” Rin said.

“You wish,” Y/N smirked, shaking water off her gloves.

Gen strode past, boots squelching in the gore-slick street, giving her shoulder a firm clap. “Clean work. No wasted movement. That’s why First Division is First Division.”

Eiji walked up, expression as flat as his tone. “And why Narumi keeps bragging about you to command. You’re making the rest of us look bad.”

“Then keep up,” she said, but the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed the camaraderie under the jab.

———

By the time they made it back to headquarters, the rain had slackened to a mist fine enough to cling rather than fall, beading along the edges of her hair and soaking into the tactical webbing that still clung stubbornly to her shoulders. The hallway to the debrief room was lit in that pale, flat fluorescence that made everything look like a photograph left too long in the sun; each bootstep squelched faintly against the linoleum, leaving ghost-prints of battlefield filth behind. Her platoon peeled away toward the showers in a loose tide of laughter and exhausted grumbling, weapons cradled in safe mode, while Y/N was called forward with a quiet nod from the aide waiting outside the inner office.

The air inside was a different temperature entirely—dry, filtered, carrying the faint musk of paper and the sharper bite of ink, like the war outside was only a rumor here. Isao Shinomiya stood behind his desk, posture so precise it looked carved into him, a folder open in front of him with her name printed neatly on the tab. Gen Narumi was already in one of the chairs opposite, one ankle crossed over his knee, damp jacket slung carelessly over the armrest; Eiji Hasegawa leaned against the wall near the corner, arms folded, eyes on her like he was already bracing for whatever was about to be said.

“Y/N,” Isao began, voice low and unhurried, as if every syllable had been measured on a scale before leaving his mouth. “I’ve reviewed the field reports from today’s engagement. Your unit’s efficiency and your coordination with the other platoons were exemplary. Not unexpected—but noteworthy nonetheless.”

She straightened, water still dripping from the edge of her sleeve onto the polished floor. “Thank you, sir.”

Gen’s grin was faint, but it was there. “Told you she’d outmaneuver half the grid. It’s getting embarrassing for the rest of us.”

Eiji didn’t smile. “That’s the point. If she’s better, we use her where it matters most.”

Isao closed the folder with a soft click, the sound loud in the stillness. “Exactly. Which brings me to why I asked you here.” He clasped his hands behind his back, pacing once behind the desk before facing her squarely. “Third Division is in the process of restructuring parts of its training program. Vice-Captain Hoshina has specifically requested an experienced field leader to assist in adapting First Division’s latest methods to their own troops.”

Her brows pulled together slightly. “Sir?”

“You’ve worked joint ops with them before,” Isao continued. “You’re familiar with their chain of command, and you’ve demonstrated the adaptability required to integrate quickly. This will be a temporary transfer—six months, at least. Longer, if results warrant it.”

Rin’s absence in the room suddenly felt pointed; this wasn’t a casual suggestion she could laugh off in the mess hall later. She looked at Gen, whose expression was unreadable but whose eyes held that faint flicker of approval he reserved for the rare times someone earned it.

“You’ll be working directly under Hoshina,” Gen said. “He’ll have you in the training halls, running drills, shaping their rookies into something that won’t fold in their first real fight. It’s a good opportunity, Y/N.”

“Opportunity or punishment?” she asked, trying to make the question sound lighter than it felt.

Gen’s grin widened just enough to show it wasn’t a trap. “Depends on how much you like Hoshina.”

Eiji finally spoke, his tone flat as ever. “You’ll do it. You’re the only one we’d trust to represent First without making us look like bureaucrats.”

Isao stepped forward, the weight of the room condensing into his next words. “Orders are already cut. You report to Third Division at 0700 tomorrow.”

The decision was final, stamped and sealed in his voice. Y/N felt the shift—like stepping off the edge of a familiar map into a space where the ink hadn’t been drawn yet. She nodded once, the soldier’s acceptance that comes before the mind catches up to the heart.

“Yes, sir.”

Gen rose from his chair, clapping her shoulder on the way past. “Don’t teach them all our tricks. We need some surprises left for the next joint op.”

Eiji gave a single approving nod, and then she was dismissed, the office door clicking shut behind her as she stepped back into the bright corridor. Outside, the mist had thickened again, curling in through the open window at the end of the hall; somewhere in the distance, a train horn sounded, long and low, carrying with it the weight of departure.

———

The next morning, the sky was a hard, brittle blue, the kind that reflected off every pane of glass in the city until the streets looked polished for inspection. Y/N’s duffel weighed differently than usual on her shoulder—less like gear, more like a promise she hadn’t had time to read yet. Third Division HQ loomed ahead, all clean lines and a faint scent of engine oil and ozone drifting from its motor pool. If First Division had the feel of a sharpened blade resting in its scabbard, Third felt like a hand already halfway to drawing—energy crackling in the air, voices spilling down corridors with the careless ease of people who’d survived too many near-misses to bother whispering about them anymore.

Inside, the reception was a riot of motion. Troopers hustled between rooms, the clang of training weapons and the staccato snap of gunfire from the range underscoring shouted orders. Somewhere overhead, someone laughed loud enough to make the fluorescent fixtures hum in sympathy. She caught herself scanning the crowd like she always did, logging exits, mapping where the rookies moved too slow, mentally cataloguing who would survive the first five minutes of a real fight.

And then he was there—Soshiro Hoshina—leaning in the doorway to the main training hall as if he’d been painted into it, arms folded, that easy, fox’s grin stretching like he’d been expecting her for years rather than minutes. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d either just come from sparring or from sleeping in, and his uniform jacket hung open enough to suggest he didn’t lose sleep over regulations unless someone made him.

“Well, well,” he drawled, eyes flicking from her duffel to her boots before returning to her face with a spark that was half appraisal, half something else. “If it isn’t First Division’s golden girl. Thought you folks were too busy polishing your medals to slum it down here with us.”

“Slumming?” she echoed, arching a brow. “From what I hear, I’m here to clean up your training program, Vice-Captain.”

He chuckled, pushing off the doorframe with the lazy grace of someone who could move a lot faster if he felt like it. “Careful. You might hurt my feelings. And then I’d have to make you run extra laps to make up for it.”

She brushed past him into the training hall, letting her gaze sweep the space—rows of mats, racks of blunted swords, targets at varying distances. It smelled like sweat, machine oil, and just a hint of disinfectant failing to keep up with the bodies moving through it. “You sure you can keep up with First Division drills?” she asked, voice light but with an edge underneath.

“Oh, I can keep up,” he said, stepping in close enough that she caught the faint scent of his aftershave—a clean, green note under the salt of sweat. “Question is, can you loosen up enough to survive Third’s way of doing things? We don’t just shoot straight and salute pretty. We move fast, improvise, keep the new kids from dying before they’ve even learned which end of the blade is sharp.”

“Sounds like babysitting,” she said, meeting his gaze without blinking.

“More like fox-herding,” he replied with a wink. “And now you’re part of the herd.”

She set her bag down with a soft thud. “Then let’s get to work.”

His grin widened, like she’d just passed a test she didn’t know she’d been taking. “Music to my ears. Welcome to Third Division, Y/N. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

———

Six months later, the base had learned her rhythm, and she’d learned Third Division’s — the ebb and swell of noise through the corridors, the smell of oil in the mornings, the way Hoshina’s voice carried down the hall before he appeared, like laughter had been sent ahead to scout. They’d fought side by side often enough now that she could read the twitch of his shoulders before he pivoted, the fraction of a second pause before he lunged, the way his grin flashed sharpest in the moments between danger and victory. And somewhere between drills, sparring matches, and too many shared cups of bad vending machine coffee, they’d begun orbiting each other in ways no training manual could account for.

Which was why, at 23:47 on a night when the base should have been settling into silence, Y/N found herself barefoot in the dim hallway, boots dangling from her fingers, trying not to laugh as Hoshina crept ahead of her toward the east exit. His hair was still damp from the evening shower, shirt untucked, and the soft glow of the emergency lights painted him in half-shadows.

“You do realize,” she whispered, stepping around a creaky floor tile, “that if someone catches us sneaking out like this, they’re going to think we’re—”

He glanced back, grin wicked. “—having more fun than they are? Let ‘em.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“Sure it wasn’t.” His voice was low, teasing, and the sparkle in his eyes said he knew exactly how much she was trying not to smile.

They slipped through the side door into the cool night air, the sky stretched wide and ink-dark above the compound. The city beyond was a scatter of lights, humming faintly with distant traffic. He led her across the lot toward the outer fence, a section where a gap in the shadows hid the maintenance gate.

“Where are we going?” she asked, keeping pace easily despite his purposeful stride.

“You’ll see.” He produced a key from his pocket, spinning it around his finger before unlocking the gate with a flourish. “Trust me, Y/N.”

She arched a brow. “Famous last words.”

The streets beyond the base were quieter, their footsteps echoing off shuttered storefronts and darkened apartment blocks. Every so often, his hand would brush hers — maybe accidental, maybe not — sending a little fizz of awareness up her arm. They rounded a corner and the smell hit her first: soy broth, garlic, and something fried, rich enough to cut through the night air.

“You brought me out for ramen?”

“Not just ramen,” he said, pushing open the sliding door of a tiny shop wedged between a laundromat and a stationery store. Inside, warm light spilled over four small tables and a counter stacked with bowls. The old man behind it greeted Hoshina like an old friend, already ladling broth.

They slid into a booth, the tabletop worn smooth from years of elbows and laughter. Hoshina leaned back, stretching his legs out so they brushed against hers under the table.

“Figured you needed a break from being perfect all the time,” he said. “Out here, you can just be… Y/N.”

She picked up her chopsticks, but didn’t look away from him. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you don’t always have to be First Division’s model soldier or Third’s miracle trainer. You can slurp noodles and laugh too loud and not care if your hair’s a mess.”

“You’re awfully poetic for a guy who just snuck me out for soup.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He tilted his head, smile softening just enough to make her chest tighten. “Stick around, you’ll see more.”

Later, walking back toward the base with the warmth of broth in her stomach and the echo of his laughter still threading through her, she caught his hand brushing hers again — this time she didn’t pull away. Neither of them said a word about it.

———

Two years later, the countryside was a painting come to life — rolling hills spilling into one another like the folds of a great green blanket, scattered with clusters of wildflowers so bright they seemed to hum under the sun. The sky was a pale, forgiving blue, and the wind carried the clean scent of grass, warm earth, and the faint sweetness of something blooming just out of sight. Y/N didn’t know where they were going — Soshiro had been infuriatingly vague all morning, just told her to wear something comfortable and “bring that smile, the one that makes rookies think you’re about to go easy on them.”

When they crested the hill, she saw it: a picnic blanket spread in the middle of a small meadow, a basket at its center, sunlight tangled in the tall stems around it. He’d even thought to weigh down the corners with smooth river stones.

“You did all this?” she asked, hands on her hips.

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “What, a guy can’t spoil his favorite girl without getting the third degree?”

She tried not to smile but failed, kneeling to peek into the basket — fresh bread, cheese, fruit, a thermos she suspected held coffee because he never went anywhere without it. “This is…” She paused, looking up at him. “…unexpected.”

“Good unexpected?” he prompted, dropping down onto the blanket beside her with that lazy sprawl he seemed born to.

She gave a noncommittal hum, tearing off a piece of bread. “We’ll see if you remembered dessert.”

They ate with the easy rhythm of people who’d shared a hundred meals in cramped mess halls and rainy rooftops. He told a story about a rookie nearly taking his own boot off during sword drills, she laughed until her ribs ached, and the wind combed lazy fingers through the field around them.

Then, when she reached into the basket for the thermos, her fingers brushed something else — a small, smooth box, tucked neatly beneath the folded napkins. She froze. Slowly, she looked at him.

He was grinning, but it was softer this time, something steadier under the curve of his mouth. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the box.

Her pulse stumbled as she pulled it free, the weight of it disproportionate to its size.

“Y/N,” he said, shifting so he faced her fully, legs crossed, the flowers nodding lazily in the breeze around them. “We’ve been through a lot — kaiju, rookies, your terrible coffee—”

“Excuse me?”

“—but somehow, you’re still here. With me.” His eyes crinkled, that teasing note still there but tempered by something warmer. “So… what do you say we make this a permanent arrangement?”

He opened the box. The ring caught the sunlight and tossed it back in a tiny flare.

She smiled — couldn’t help it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But I’m yours. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she said, before he could get another joke in.

The kiss started as laughter, their mouths brushing as they both tried to speak at once, then deepened into something slower, warmer. The flowers swayed around them, the blanket crumpling under their shifting weight, and the world shrank to the taste of him, the slide of his fingers through her hair, the steady thud of his heart under her palm.

When they finally broke apart, breathless and grinning, he rested his forehead against hers. “Knew you’d say yes.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late,” he murmured, kissing her again, the meadow tilting and spinning with the wind and the weight of what they’d just promised each other.

———

Their kitchen table looked less like a surface for meals and more like a forward operating base for a very specific, very absurd mission. Maps of seating arrangements had been sketched on loose printer paper, layered over color swatches that bled pastel shades into each other like a truce between crayons. Invitation samples were stacked in precarious towers that leaned toward collapse, guarded only by a salt shaker and a leftover apple from breakfast. Somewhere under it all, Y/N’s laptop played a looping video titled “Twenty Ways to Make Your Ceremony Memorable”, which so far had been used primarily as background noise for Soshiro’s running commentary.

“You realize,” he said, leaning one hip against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear like he had any intention of using it, “that half these ideas are just fancy ways to waste money.”

“They’re options,” Y/N said, cross-legged at the table, riffling through yet another stack of sample menus. “We have to pick things that actually work.”

He took a slow sip, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sure. Which is why we should go with my suggestion — serve everyone ramen in tactical mugs. Keeps it hot, easy to carry, and you can take it into the field.”

She didn’t even look up. “We’re not feeding our guests field rations.”

“It’s gourmet ramen,” he countered, but his grin gave him away.

The grin softened when her phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit with a message from Rin — When are you coming back to First for real? We can’t keep pretending we don’t need you. Y/N’s thumb hovered over it for a moment before she flipped the phone face-down.

“You’ve been ignoring that kind of message for months now,” he said, crossing the room to stand behind her chair, setting his mug down with a soft thud.

She sighed, rubbing at her temple. “Because I don’t want to think about it yet.”

The truth was, she shouldn’t have been here this long. Officially, her transfer had been for six months to “implement and evaluate” First Division’s updated training methods in Third. Unofficially, she and Soshiro had turned that into two years by quietly stretching the “evaluation phase” into a vague, ongoing project, submitting reports worded so carefully they could pass for progress notes, peppering them with jargon until no one in command had the nerve to admit they didn’t understand what she was still doing there.

It worked — so far.

“You know,” he said, resting a warm hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing her collarbone in a lazy arc, “when you do go back, it’s not like it’s the end. We’ll still go home to the same place. I’ll still hog the blankets. You’ll still drink my coffee before I get to it.”

“I don’t drink your coffee,” she protested, turning in her chair to face him.

“You drink whatever’s in my mug,” he said, deadpan, then added with a smirk, “And then you complain it’s too bitter.”

She bit back a smile, shaking her head. “It’s just… it won’t be the same.”

“No,” he admitted, crouching so he was eye-level with her. “But we’ll make it work. We always have.”

There was enough weight in that look to make her chest ache, so she grabbed a stack of swatches and shoved them into his hands. “Fine. Help me pick colors, menace.”

He flipped through them like trading cards. “This one’s nice.”

��That’s beige.”

“Beige is calming.”

“It’s boring.”

He held up a swatch of violent fuchsia. “Okay, this then. Really wakes people up.”

She snorted. “If you wear a tie that color, I’m uninviting you from the wedding.”

“You can’t uninvite the groom.”

“Watch me.”

The planning devolved from there into a mixture of ridiculous and oddly practical. He suggested seating the “fun people” near the bar and the “troublemakers” near the exit, so they could be “removed with minimal collateral damage.” She threatened to make him wear gloves to match the bridesmaids. He tried to talk her into having their cake shaped like her favorite rifle. She countered with the idea of his sword as the cake topper — still sheathed, so no one loses a finger.

By midafternoon, they were both sprawled across the table, elbows in the remains of lemon cake samples, the room smelling faintly of sugar, coffee, and the ink from the pile of stationary samples. The late sunlight coming in through the window caught on the edges of the invitation mockups, turning the gold lettering into a quiet shimmer.

“You’re gonna be a menace at the wedding,” she murmured, not bothering to lift her head from her folded arms.

“I’m gonna be the best damn husband you ever had,” he said without missing a beat.

She smirked into the crook of her arm. “Short list.”

He leaned down until his lips brushed her hair. “Forever list, if I get my way.”

Her chest warmed, the bittersweet thought of the eventual transfer hovering somewhere at the edges, but it didn’t intrude. Not yet. Today was about laughter and lemon cake crumbs, about paper swatches and ridiculous tie debates, about planning a day that would be theirs no matter what division patch they wore on their uniforms come morning.

———

The common room of First Division was half-full when Y/N walked in, but it might as well have been a stage. Rin Shinonome was the first to notice her, leaning back in her chair and letting her boots drop from the table with a dull thud. “Look who decided to show their face. Was starting to think Third had you locked in their training hall for life.” Her grin was sharp, but the flicker of relief in her eyes gave her away.

“Still alive, still technically part of the roster,” Y/N said, adjusting the strap of her duffel as she stepped inside.

At the far table, Eiji Hasegawa glanced up briefly from the rifle he was cleaning, eyes tracking her for half a second before he returned to the methodical work of reassembling the bolt carrier. “Figured Hoshina would’ve tried to make it permanent by now,” he said, voice as flat as his expression.

“Not for lack of opportunity,” she replied, her mouth quirking just enough to make Rin’s eyebrows go up.

The sound of approaching boots cut the air before either of them could fire back, and then Gen Narumi was there — coffee mug in one hand, the other tugging his jacket straighter as if he’d just stepped out of a briefing. His presence shifted the air in that way only captains could manage, half authority and half swagger. “No way,” he said, his grin spreading fast. “You’re actually here. What, did Third Division finally realize they can’t keep up without First’s methods?”

“Good to see you too, Captain,” Y/N said, fighting a smile.

Narumi didn’t miss a beat. “So? How’s my old rival holding up? Don’t tell me Hoshina’s gotten soft without me breathing down his neck.” The way he said it had an edge — not angry, but weighted, like every syllable was sharpened on the memory of that long-ago exam loss he still hadn’t forgotten.

Eiji didn’t look up from his rifle. “If anything, he’s probably sharper. No one over there’s been slowing him down.”

Rin smirked. “Might’ve even forgotten your name by now.”

Narumi’s jaw ticked, though the smirk stayed put. “Yeah, well, let’s see how long he remembers it after our next joint drill.” Then his gaze cut back to Y/N. “Seriously, though — you been running them hard? Or is he just showing off for you?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about training schedules,” she said, sliding her duffel onto the table. “I came to give you something.”

That got all three of their attention. Rin shifted forward in her seat, Eiji finally set down the rag he’d been using, and Narumi raised an eyebrow like she’d just dangled bait in front of him. She pulled three crisp envelopes from her bag, the heavy cardstock edged in gold catching the light.

Rin took hers with an approving hum. “Fancy.”

Eiji turned his over once before opening it cleanly, his eyes scanning the text in silence.

Narumi ripped his open in one motion, eyes dropping to the names printed at the top — hers. And Soshiro Hoshina’s.

The grin faltered for a heartbeat. “…You’re marrying Hoshina?”

Rin’s head snapped up from her card. “No way. You and him?”

Eiji’s brows drew together, but his tone didn’t shift. “Guess Third Division’s not a total loss, then.”

Narumi set the card down slowly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re serious.”

“I am,” Y/N said simply.

His laugh was short, incredulous. “Man… two years over there, and this is how I find out? You couldn’t give me a heads-up?”

“I’m giving you one now.”

Rin leaned back, grinning. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Eiji reached for his coffee again. “You do realize you’ve made him your problem now.”

The door at the far end of the room swung open, letting in a quick gust of hallway air. Soshiro Hoshina strolled in like he was walking into his own kitchen, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, hair just mussed enough to suggest he’d run one hand through it on the way here. His eyes did a quick sweep, found Y/N, and his grin spread instantly.

“Figured I’d find you here,” he said, making a beeline for her without a hint of hesitation.

Narumi didn’t miss a beat. “Hold up—you’re here?” He gestured at the invitation still sitting open on the table, then at Y/N. “From all the men in the world, from all the divisions… you chose him?!”

Rin nearly doubled over laughing, while Eiji’s mouth twitched like he was trying to hide his own smirk.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Love you too, Captain.”

Soshiro just grinned wider. “Nice to see you, Narumi.”

Narumi pointed at him. “Don’t think you’ve one-upped me just because you stole our favorite platoon leader’s hand. You’re still just the guy in Third Division who got lucky.”

Soshiro gave an easy shrug. “If you want to call it luck, sure.”

Rin propped her chin in her hand, grinning. “This is going to make the wedding very entertaining.”

Eiji finally leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Guess that means we’ve got no choice but to show up.”

“Damn right you don’t,” Y/N said. “I expect all of you there.”

Narumi huffed, though the grin was already sneaking back onto his face. “Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t miss it. Someone’s gotta make sure he behaves himself.”

“I behave just fine,” Soshiro said, slipping a hand to the small of Y/N’s back as he glanced toward the door. “You ready to head out?”

She nodded, grabbing her bag. “See you guys soon.”

“Congrats, Y/N,” Rin called after her.

Eiji raised his coffee in a small salute.

Narumi leaned back in his chair, calling out one last time as they reached the door. “Hey, Hoshina—marrying her doesn’t make you better than me!”

Soshiro looked over his shoulder, grinning. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Captain.”

The door shut behind them, leaving Rin and Eiji both shaking their heads while Narumi muttered something about outrageous life choices.

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cherryfcola · 1 day ago

Note

would you be open to perverted sonic x uncomfy fem reader....👀👀

About CNC & Tipsy Scenarios on This Blog

I sometimes write fictional CNC (consensual non-consent) or tipsy reader scenarios. These are fantasies that include clear signs of mutual desire, boundaries, and safety — even if the characters roleplay resistance or impaired confidence.

This does not mean I’m open to:

-Non-consensual or predatory content

-Requests framed to make the reader. “uncomfy” in a genuine, unsafe way

-Anything that sexualizes real lack of consent

If you’re unsure, ask respectfully before sending a request. Keep it safe, fun, and fictional. 🌸

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cherryfcola · 1 day ago

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Title: One Drink Ahead – Part Four

REST OF THE PARTS HERE!

Fandom: Kaiju No. 8

Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina× fem!Reader

Word Count: 9.8k

Rating: E [18+ mdni]

Genre: smut, forbidden romance

Summary: A month after the festival, you’re still trying — and failing — to put that night behind you. But when Soshiro is the one you can’t stop thinking about, and he’s just as unwilling to let go, pretending nothing happened becomes impossible.

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, strong language, pining, mutual yearning, and two idiots hopelessly into each other while knowing they shouldn’t be.

A/N: Fourth part of the One Drink Ahead series, but can be read as a standalone. Also, ignore canon living arrangements — in this fic, Soshiro lives at Tachikawa Base with the rest of the officers 🤭

MAIN MASTERLIST HERE!

Morning came with a chill that settled into the bones of the base before the sun even considered rising. Fog clung low over the gravel paths, wrapping around the training grounds like a damp bandage, and the air was thick with the kind of cold that didn't just bite—it gnawed. The world was steel-grey. Breath showed in pale clouds. Jackets zipped, hoods drawn, hands stuffed into sleeves. No one spoke much during morning drills, especially not when it was this cold. Words came out in puffs of steam and fingers were too stiff to bother with theatrics. Movements were slower, deliberate. Boots scraped against frost-damp earth, and the metallic smell of dew and oil hung in the air like it had been nailed there.

Y/N moved like the rest of them, body folded into routine, breath sharp in her lungs, eyes narrowed against the wind. Her arms burned from the weight circuits. Her thighs were still aching from the week's punishment drills. She hadn't slept well—not since that night. Not since rooftops and fireworks and a kiss that lived far too loudly in her mind for something that hadn't been spoken of again.

And still—no matter how long it had been, how normal things tried to feel since—there were echoes. Glances caught and looked away from too quickly. A silence that lived in the few feet between her and Hoshina like it had grown roots. They hadn't said a word about it. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not when they'd locked eyes across the practice mat and she'd felt her pulse leap like it had something to prove. He hadn't smiled—not like that—and she hadn't dared to stay in the same room long enough to start another conversation they weren't allowed to finish.

The only thing that had changed was her.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because even now—barehanded, breathless, freezing in a uniform layer too thin for the wind—her thoughts kept folding back to it. His hand in hers. His voice soft. The way his eyes had lingered like he wasn't thinking of war or drills or expectations, but just her.

She exhaled hard, letting the sting in her lungs ground her, sweat cold against the small of her back. She bent into the next motion, pivoted, twisted, tried to keep up with the line's tempo. Her jacket—the lighter one, meant for early autumn—did nothing against the cold that had sunk into her arms and fingers. But she didn't complain. Wouldn't. Not with Kafka somewhere behind her wheezing through the burpees, not with Reno clearly ready to fake a leg injury just to get out of the final run. She bit her tongue and kept moving. She didn't need warmth. She needed control.

Drills ended in silence. Not even a barked dismissal—just a nod from Hoshina and a wave of his hand that sent the rest of them limping toward the locker rooms. Everyone groaned. Kafka cursed. Reno muttered something about enlisting in the civilian branch next time. The squad split off into knots of laughter and exhaustion, gear rattling, zippers peeling open, steam rising from overheated skin as they made for hot water and cleaner clothes.

Y/N didn't follow them.

Not right away.

She sat down on the outer bench lining the edge of the field, ignoring the way the cold metal kissed through her sweat-damp pants. She rubbed her palms together, fingers numb, jaw tight against the ache settling into her arms. Her breathing slowed, then caught—because someone was still approaching. Footsteps. Measured. Heavy enough to be familiar. Her back tensed out of instinct, the stupid kind of instinct that came with familiarity she didn't want to name.

Soshiro didn't stop when he passed behind her. Not immediately.

But something landed in her lap with a muted thump.

She looked down.

A sweater. Thick-knit. Dark navy. Soft.

Still warm.

Her fingers didn't move at first. Her breath stuck in her chest. The thing smelled like cedar and clean cotton and whatever ridiculous, masculine soap he used in the barracks showers. It was already soaking into her skin through the knees of her pants. Still carrying his heat. Still heavy in a way that made her heart misstep.

"You'll catch a cold," he said without turning, his voice smooth, bored—like he wasn't handing her his goddamn sweater like a scene out of some cliché movie she would've laughed at three years ago. "Don't be stubborn."

"I'm not—" she started, the protest small, automatic.

He glanced back at her once. Just once.

And then walked away.

Not a word. Not a pause. Just vanished into the mist like he hadn't just branded her with something as soft and stupid and overwhelming as kindness.

She stared after him, sweater still in her lap, the heat of it blooming through her thighs in slow pulses. She should've thrown it back. Should've stood and chased after him and shoved it into his chest with a glare. But she didn't. Her fingers curled around the hem instead. She brought it up to her face slowly, like something sacred, and pressed her nose to the collar.

It smelled like a problem.

A quiet, familiar, stupid problem.

When she pulled it over her head, it swallowed her. The sleeves passed her wrists by inches. The hem bunched around her hips like a blanket she couldn't shake off. The neck was stretched, loose. The chest sagged. But it was warm. It was his. And it was the first time since that kiss she'd let herself remember—really remember—how much she wanted something she wasn't allowed to keep.

The fog didn't feel so cold anymore. The wind passed over her like a wave that had already broken.

And when she finally stood—still aching, still flushed with something that had nothing to do with exertion—she didn't take it off. Not even when she passed Kafka's questioning glance. Not even when Reno smirked and said, "Huh. That's new." Not even when she caught her own reflection in the mirror on her way to the showers and saw someone who didn't look like she'd won a prize—but someone who'd been given something freely.

And that was worse.

Because it meant she might want more.

The barracks were dark when she got back. Not just dimmed—dark. The kind of silence that only settles over a place when everyone inside it is too exhausted to talk, too bruised to complain, and too wrung out to notice one more soldier dragging themselves in through the door. A few distant murmurs echoed from down the hall—Kafka's half-snores punctuated by the occasional grunt, maybe Reno's voice, a rustling blanket, the thud of a boot being kicked off and forgotten—but it was all background noise, blurred into static. Her door shut with a soft click behind her, and suddenly even that was gone.

Her room greeted her like a quiet thought. Familiar, small, painfully tidy. A single light flickered above the desk, casting long shadows across the bed, the floor, the stupid owl plush sitting smug and wide-eyed on the shelf like it hadn't ruined her life a month ago. It was right where she'd left it. Still too cute. Still too soft. Still holding too much of a memory she hadn't dared to unpack.

The sweater went on before she could talk herself out of it.

It wasn't planned—just instinct. Her hands moved before her brain caught up. The fabric was already pulled over her head before she even realized she'd reached for it. It fell heavy against her shoulders, draping low over her thighs, sleeves too long and neck wide enough to slip one side down her collarbone. She didn't bother adjusting it. She didn't care. It was warm. Familiar. It still smelled faintly like him—cedar, sweat, that clean undercurrent of his cologne she could never name but knew by heart. It had faded in the wash, dulled by time and the fact that she'd worn it at least twice since that night, but it clung to the threads like memory, stubborn and quiet.

She crossed the room, yanked the owl down with one arm, and flopped onto the bed with the grace of a wounded animal. The mattress groaned under the weight of her exhaustion, her limbs sprawled wide, the plush pressed tight against her chest. She buried her face into the pillow and screamed—not loud, not even sharp, just a long, muffled groan of frustration that came from somewhere deep in her ribs. Her voice broke around it. Her lungs emptied. She lay there, face down, sweater bunched at her waist, legs tangled in the sheets, and wanted to crawl out of her skin.

A month.

It had been an entire month.

And somehow the kiss still lived under her skin like it had happened yesterday.

That slow, warm brush of his mouth over hers. The steady way he'd held her face like he was afraid she'd disappear. The flicker of fireworks behind her closed eyelids, lighting up the world in red and gold while his hand slipped against the back of her neck and everything else—rank, logic, rules, responsibility—had fallen away for just one impossible moment. She had replayed it a hundred times. Not because she was soft. Not because she didn't know better. But because it had meant something, and she was too honest with herself to pretend otherwise.

And yet...

Since then, there had been nothing.

Not silence exactly. Just the absence of acknowledgement. A perfect, deliberate return to normal. They spoke like always. Trained like always. He corrected her form, she shot back with snide remarks, he smirked, she rolled her eyes. They were sharp again. Balanced. Efficient. But it was hollow, and she could feel the echo of what they weren't talking about rattling around between every sentence.

Because he wasn't just pretending nothing had happened. He was choosing not to speak it aloud.

She hated how much sense it made.

And hated more that it still hurt.

Her fingers curled tighter around the owl's wing, pulling it closer to her chest. The fur was soft. Too soft. Her cheek pressed against it, and for a second, she squeezed her eyes shut like that might kill the image of him handing it to her—lightly teasing, warm-eyed, stupidly handsome even under the glow of those cheap market lights. He'd watched her cradle it like she was holding something fragile, and he hadn't said anything. Just let her have it.

Like he wanted her to carry something from that night.

Like he wanted to, too.

She rolled onto her side, the sweater slipping off one shoulder, and stared at the blank stretch of wall like it might give her an answer. Her knees curled up. Her toes pressed into the edge of the bed. The weight of the fabric settled low on her hips, warm and grounding, like a second skin she hadn't earned.

How the hell had she let herself fall into this?

She wasn't a teenager. She wasn't new. She'd been through enough to know what boundaries meant, what crossing them looked like. She'd spent her entire career proving herself in a system built on discipline, hierarchy, control. She knew what it cost to give in to something reckless. And she knew better than to romanticize someone who could never belong to her.

And yet she ached like she was nineteen again and hopeless for the first time.

She hated that feeling. That flutter in her chest. That raw, open want that had no direction and nowhere to go. She hated how he lingered in her head when she was supposed to be winding down, how she heard his voice in the cadence of her breath and felt the ghost of his hands when she tugged the sweater higher around her shoulders.

She wanted to crawl out of her skin. Out of this yearning. Out of the version of herself that had stood under the fireworks and let herself believe that something impossible could be real—just for one night.

Because it had been real.

It had burned in her mouth, her hands, the space between their ribs when he'd looked at her like she was something he couldn't stop wanting. He hadn't just kissed her—he'd confessed without words. Let the honesty out between breaths and then sealed it with silence, like that was the only way he could survive the truth of it.

I know I'm not supposed to want you. But gods, I do.

She wanted to scream again. Wanted to throw the owl across the room, strip the sweater off her skin, shove every reminder of him out the window and pretend she was clean of it all. But she couldn't. She held them tighter. Tucked her chin to her chest and let the warmth of memory seep into her bones, even though it stung like hell.

Because she didn't know how to stop wanting him either.

It was nearly three in the morning when she gave up.

The base was still and breathless, the kind of quiet that pressed against the walls like fog. No one moved. No voices cut the dark. The occasional hum of the cooling system kicked in above her, and then silence again—thick, smothering, absolute. The kind of silence that made every thought louder, every breath harder to ignore.

She stared at the ceiling. Had been for hours. His face had carved itself behind her eyelids sometime after midnight and refused to leave. Not his smirk. Not the sharp, clipped voice of her vice-captain giving orders in the field. Not the easy arrogance he carried like a second skin. No, this was worse. Softer. That low, reverent way he'd looked at her under the fireworks—like she was something he wasn't supposed to have but would beg the gods for anyway. That fleeting, almost broken smile that said I want this, even as everything else about him promised he shouldn't.

She'd been running from it all night. Letting the silence swell inside her until she thought she might scream. Letting his name echo in her chest like a pulse she couldn't steady. Her fingers had curled and uncurled around the edge of the pillow, restless, aching, willing her thoughts to change paths. But they didn't. They never did. Not since that night.

So when she finally moved, it was fast—furious in a way that didn't make sense, sharp enough to be ridiculous. She shoved the blankets down, kicked her legs free, and sat up with a huff that came out more like a growl. Her heart was pounding again. Her skin was hot. She dragged the sweater over her head in one angry, breathless tug and flung it across the room.

It hit the far wall and fell with a pathetic whisper.

The owl went next. A quick snatch from the shelf, a sharp toss, too light to make a satisfying sound when it landed somewhere near the sweater's limp pile. She didn't care. She stood in the middle of her room in nothing but her too-small pajama shorts and that cursed tank top Reno had dared her to wear once during a drinking game, the words "Daddy's Girl" splashed across her chest in faded pink block letters that clung to her like humiliation. It wasn't a look meant for confrontation. It wasn't a look meant for anything but sleep. And yet—

She stood there, seething, pacing tight circles across the cool floor, arms crossed, then loose, then dragging up into her hair where she tugged at the roots with a groan that sounded entirely too close to desperation.

"Fuck," she muttered. "What the fuck is this."

She didn't know who she was mad at. Him. Herself. The gods, probably. Every part of her felt tight, strung out, half-buzzing with the tension of a moment that never left her body. She could still feel his hand on her jaw. His mouth on hers. The weight of the confession in his voice when he said he knew he couldn't have this—but wanted it anyway. That he'd take tonight, even if it cost him everything in the morning.

And she had let him.

She stopped in front of the pile on the floor. The sweater sat crumpled beneath the owl, like a reminder that she couldn't even commit to being angry properly. She stared at it. At the soft fabric and the stupid wide-eyed plush and all the weight they held. And for a second—just one, sharp, cutting second—she bent down and picked them up again.

The sweater was still warm.

Still his.

She held it for a beat, long enough to feel the old ache creep up her spine, then folded it. Neatly. Slowly. Like it deserved care. She placed it gently on the edge of her bed. The owl went beside it, slumped but watching. Always watching. Like it knew exactly how far gone she was.

Her fists clenched at her sides. She paced again.

He hadn't even done anything.

He hadn't said a word since that night that could be considered inappropriate. He hadn't hinted. Hadn't pushed. Hadn't even looked at her too long. He'd gone back to being the perfect soldier, the calm, steady presence at the head of the squad, handing out bruises and praise in equal measure, moving like he didn't have one damn regret about any of it.

And that pissed her off most of all.

Because she couldn't let it go. Because she had fallen so stupidly, recklessly into the softness of it, like a fool, like a girl who hadn't already lived too many lives in too few years. Because she'd gone and caught feelings for the one man she was never supposed to want. And now, with the whole base asleep and the moon hanging too high and too full in the sky, she couldn't lie to herself anymore.

She wanted him.

Wanted the way he spoke to her when no one was around. The quiet steadiness. The way he didn't try to fix her sharp edges but never shied from them either. She wanted the weight of his hand against the back of her neck. The warmth in his eyes that wasn't teasing, not really, but real—something he tried to hide behind smirks and soft threats and vice-captain protocol.

And maybe, if she was honest—if she was weak—she wanted to see him again tonight. Just once. Just to make sure that the fire hadn't gone out on both sides.

She stopped pacing. Looked at herself in the mirror.

Tank top. Shorts. Sweat-slick skin and flushed cheeks and eyes full of something she didn't want to name. She looked like a mess. A chaotic, sleep-deprived, emotionally compromised mess.

"Fuck it," she said, low and final.

And then she turned.

She cracked the door. Listened. Nothing. Not even the usual cough from the hallway or the low hum of conversation from the night shift down the hall. It was silent. The kind of silent that should've stopped her. Warned her.

But it didn't.

She slipped into the corridor, barefoot, shoulders squared, trying not to let the cool air bite too hard at the stretch of her legs. The tank top was too thin. The words too loud. But she didn't care. Not anymore.

Her steps were quick. Controlled. Not panicked. She moved like a woman on a mission, like she hadn't just folded his sweater like a devotional offering and whispered curses into her pillow for the last four hours. Like she wasn't about to do something she couldn't come back from.

Because she was going to his room.

And nothing was going to stop her.

She made it to his door in under three minutes.

It felt like longer. The hallway stretched around her, dark and unforgiving, every step echoing louder than it should. She held her breath more than once. Paused at corners. Listened. But the base was silent. Everyone asleep. No squadmates peeking through half-open doors, no Kafka lurking with a bad joke and too much intuition, no Reno ready to rat her out for a laugh.

Just her. Just her heartbeat. Just the weight of the moment building like a storm beneath her ribs.

She stopped in front of his room.

It looked the same as always—bland, functional, barely distinguishable from every other officer's quarters except for the number printed on the panel beside the door. She knew it by heart now. Not because she meant to. Because she couldn't help it. Her eyes always found his door. Always tracked his shadow moving in or out. Her body knew where he was, even when she told herself not to look.

She stood there a beat too long.

Her tank top had shifted slightly from the walk, sliding higher on her hips, clinging damp where the hallway was too warm. Her shorts rode up annoyingly at the edge of her thighs, but she didn't fix them. Her arms hung loose at her sides, fists curled, heart hammering.

She didn't knock.

She was about to. She'd raised her hand—halfway, uncertain—and then the door opened.

She froze.

And there he was.

Soshiro Hoshina, standing barefoot in the soft blue wash of his room's overhead lamp, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a sleeveless cotton tee that had clearly seen better days. His hair was slightly mussed, a rare thing, curling just barely over his brow like he'd run a hand through it too many times in frustration or exhaustion. His skin looked warmer here, gold-tinged under the low light, the lean cut of his shoulders and arms cast in delicate shadow. For a second—just one—he didn't speak.

He just looked at her.

And she could tell, in that look, that he hadn't been sleeping either.

His eyes dragged down—slow, deliberate, controlled—taking her in. The tank top. The shorts. The flush creeping up her neck. Not hungry. Not inappropriate. Just... observant. Soft, somehow. Like he saw the weight she was carrying and wasn't sure what to do with it.

Then, finally, his voice—low and careful, as if saying it too loud would shatter her.

"You alright?"

It wasn't teasing. It wasn't smug. It was so normal it almost broke her. Because she didn't know what the hell she was doing standing in his doorway in the middle of the night, dressed like a heatstroke hallucination and vibrating with something that tasted like longing and rage and recklessness all at once.

She swallowed.

"No," she said honestly. "I don't think I am."

His brow creased—barely—but he stepped aside, holding the door open without a word.

She crossed the threshold like she might regret it later.

The door closed behind her with a sound that felt too final, too soft. The air between them pulled tight — charged in a way that left no room for polite lies or careful silence. Y/N stood in the center of his room, jaw clenched, eyes wild, arms stiff at her sides like she didn't know what to do with them. Because she didn't. She didn't know what the hell she was doing here, standing barefoot on his floor in a tank top that should've been funny and shorts that barely passed inspection. She didn't know why her heart hadn't stopped racing since she saw him — mussed and barefoot and so damn warm in the lamplight. And she didn't know why she wanted so badly to scream.

Soshiro watched her, calm and unreadable as always — but not cold. Never cold. His posture was loose, his hands at his sides, expression quiet in that maddening, measured way of his that only made her chest hurt worse.

She cracked.

"You don't get to just look at me like that," she said, and it came out too fast, too harsh, every syllable laced with a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. "You don't get to kiss me like that and walk away and pretend like it didn't mean anything."

His brow lifted just slightly — not surprised. Just... waiting.

"I can't stop thinking about it," she went on, voice shaking with more than just anger. "Your stupid face. Your stupid laugh. That kiss. I can't even breathe right. You did this—"

She took a breath, sharp and fast, like if she didn't keep speaking, she'd drown in it.

"You kissed me like it meant something. Like it was a promise. Like it wasn't just a stupid mistake under the fireworks. And now you expect me to just go back to drills and morning warmups and your smug fucking smirk like we're just nothing? Like that night didn't happen?"

He didn't move. Not yet. But something in his eyes darkened — not with anger, but with weight. He was listening.

"I feel stupid," she snapped, pacing now, running a hand through her hair. "Like a dumb teenager with her first crush. I lay there with that fucking owl, in your fucking sweater, and I screamed into my pillow because I couldn't stop feeling things I'm not supposed to feel. I couldn't stop wanting something I'm not supposed to want."

She stopped abruptly in front of him, the words catching on her tongue like they burned.

"I hate it," she whispered, not because she meant it — but because it was too much.

And still, he didn't stop her. He let the storm hit. Let her voice crack and splinter and fall apart in front of him.

"I hate that I want you to kiss me again," she said. "I hate that I care what you think. I hate that every time I see you now I remember how you looked at me like—like you saw right through every bit of fight I had left and still wanted me."

Soshiro's hand lifted — not like a command, not even a gesture of comfort, but something caught between hesitation and need. His fingers brushed the side of her face, knuckles dragging against her flushed cheek with such unbearable gentleness that it made her shiver. She wasn't burning. She was unraveling — and he touched her like he knew it, like he was trying to memorize the shape of her just in case this was the only time he'd ever get to hold her like this.

His voice dropped, lower than before — not soft, but stripped. All the careful edges gone.

"You think I don't feel it too?" he said, and it wasn't rhetorical. It wasn't a tease. It was raw, honest, spoken like it cost him something. "You think I haven't been trying to kill it every damn day? I look at you and I feel like I'm drowning, and I'm still standing there, letting it happen."

Her breath hitched — sharp, audible.

He stepped closer, the space between them collapsing in on itself like it had never been real in the first place. His hand slid to her jaw now, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth — and gods, he looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that made sense in this mess of rules and uniforms and unspoken lines.

"I've made peace with every sacrifice this rank demanded," he murmured. "The time, the blood, the weight of it. But this—" he shook his head once, slight but hard — "I can't make peace with this. Not when you're here. Not when you look at me like that. Not tonight. Not ever."

Her chest rose, high and tight, and his thumb curled slightly at her chin, grounding her like he could feel how close she was to breaking.

"If you don't walk out right now," he said, and this time his voice trembled just faintly with how much it cost to say it, "if you don't stop me, I'll cross a line I won't be able to uncross. Ever. And once I do, I won't pretend anymore. I won't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," she said, exasperated, voice rising, cracking as her hands curled into fists at her sides. "I'm not going anywhere until—"

But he didn't let her finish.

He kissed her like he had no time left.

There was no gentleness to it now, no warning, no careful restraint. His mouth crushed hers like a dam finally bursting, hands sliding down her arms and pulling her into him, into the heat and weight of a body that had wanted this for too long. She gasped into it, not from surprise but from relief, her hands flying to his chest, gripping fistfuls of his shirt like if she let go, she'd fall right through the floor.

The kiss deepened fast — messy, hungry, open-mouthed. Not sweet. Not clean. Just honest. It tasted like fire and frustration, like all the nights spent pretending they didn't want this, didn't need this. His hands splayed across her back, pulling her up onto the tips of her toes, pressing every line of her against every line of him, and when she let out a soft, broken sound into his mouth, he turned — just slightly — and guided her backwards.

Her knees hit the edge of his desk.

He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

She was already reaching for the surface behind her, already letting herself be lifted — not roughly, not carelessly, but with that same urgency that had always simmered under his calm.

He set her down on the desk like she belonged there.

Like she was made for this exact moment, this exact space, her thighs parting slightly around his hips, her palms bracing against his chest as he kissed her again — slower now, but no less intense. Her head tilted back, one hand tangling in the short, dark strands at the nape of his neck, the other sliding down to his shoulder, fingers curling into muscle like it grounded her. He didn't pull away. He didn't rush it either.

He just kissed her like he meant to stay.

Like he'd finally decided this was worth it.

Even if everything fell apart tomorrow.

Even if this was all they'd ever have.

And when he finally broke the kiss, his forehead dropped to hers, his breathing rough and uneven, and he whispered—half-broken, half-devoted—

"Tell me this isn't just me."

But she couldn't.

Because it wasn't.

And it never had been.

The desk creaked beneath her as Soshiro's mouth dragged along the column of her neck, open and hungry, his breath a ragged burn against her skin. His hands weren't unsure—they were reverent, anchored, moving with the kind of tension that said he'd been holding back for too long. His palms splayed against her hips, fingertips digging in just enough to make her gasp, to make her thighs tighten around him like instinct.

And gods, the way he was breathing—like every second without her had been a fucking punishment.

"You've been driving me insane," he muttered, voice rough against her jaw. "Every damn day."

His lips pressed hard under her ear, teeth catching on the skin for a second too long before he pulled back to look at her—really look at her, like she'd appeared in his hands and he didn't know how the hell to survive it.

"You walk into a room and I forget how to be decent," he said, hoarse. "I see you and I don't think. I feel. All the time."

She didn't speak. She couldn't. Her chest was heaving, hands gripping the edge of the desk like it was the only thing holding her together. Her tank top had ridden up enough to show the strip of skin just above her waistband, and his gaze caught there—hungry, worshipful. Like he couldn't decide whether to fall to his knees or drag her against him until she broke.

His voice cracked a little when he spoke again.

"You don't get it," he said, shaking his head just once. "You think I'm composed? You think I'm still the guy who handles drills and sparring and missions like it's just instinct?"

He stepped in tighter, between her knees, hands sliding up her thighs, his thumb brushing over the waistband of her shorts.

"I see you, and I lose all of it. Every bit of control. Every good decision I'm supposed to make." He pressed a kiss to her collarbone. Another, lower. "I've tried to stay away. I've tried, gods, you have no idea."

Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, dragging him closer. His hands moved to her waist again, steady, anchoring.

"Fuck," he breathed against her skin. "You're here. You came to me like this and I'm supposed to what—pretend I'm made of stone?"

He pulled back again, just enough to meet her eyes. And it was all there—laid bare. The tension. The ache. The desperate, gnawing need that had lived in him for months, now cracked wide open.

And then—without letting her go—he reached down, lifted her clean off the desk, her legs hooking around his waist on instinct. He walked them back in two long strides, barely managing to stay upright with how hard his heart was hammering. His bed hit the backs of his knees and he lowered her there, her body sinking into the mattress like it belonged there.

Her skin was warm under his mouth, velvet-soft and already trembling, and Soshiro swore he could feel the beat of her heart just beneath the surface. His hands slid down slowly, fingertips brushing over her hips as if learning them by memory. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His gaze stayed trained on her body like he couldn't quite believe she was real, like she might vanish if he looked away for even a second.

And when his fingers curled under the waistband of her shorts, he moved slowly—deliberately—dragging the fabric down her hips inch by inch, like unwrapping something sacred. He didn't break eye contact. Not once. Not even as he leaned down to press a kiss to the newly exposed skin of her lower belly, just above the crease where her thigh met her pelvis.

The shorts hit the floor with a soft rustle, forgotten, and Soshiro sat back just enough to take her in. Legs parted slightly, hands fisted in the sheets, her eyes on him like he was the only thing left holding her together. There was heat in her cheeks, a flush blooming across her chest, and the soft rise and fall of her breath made his own chest ache.

"You're beautiful," he said—quiet, certain, as if the words had been sitting behind his teeth for months. He bent forward and kissed the inside of her thigh, then again, slower this time, lips trailing over the tender skin in a way that felt too soft for how badly he wanted her. "I hope you know that. That I've been holding this in for too long."

His palms smoothed up her thighs, coaxing them apart further, and he didn't rush when he finally leaned in—just breathed her in first. The warmth. The scent. The slick softness that already gathered between her legs. And then his mouth found her.

She jolted beneath him, hips twitching upward at the first touch of his tongue, and he held her steady—hands firm, grounded against her thighs—as he licked through her folds with slow, open-mouthed attention. He didn't tease. Didn't start slow just to make her squirm. He meant it—meant every stroke of his tongue, every careful press of his mouth.

She was already wet. Warm. Her body welcoming and soft beneath the careful rhythm of his mouth, and gods, she tasted like something he could've dreamed about. Maybe he had.

"Just like that," he murmured, voice low and steady, lips brushing her skin as he spoke. "You're doing so good for me."

She whimpered, her fingers tightening in the sheets before they moved to his hair, twisting in the strands with something desperate. He groaned softly at that, not for show, not to impress—but because her sounds, the way she opened for him, the way she gave in, undid him.

His tongue moved in careful, steady circles, brushing against her clit with every pass, then sealing his mouth around it just enough to make her cry out and arch. She writhed beneath him, her body already trembling, already close, and he stayed with her—never too much, never letting go.

When he slipped two fingers inside her, slow and gentle, curling to meet the rhythm of his tongue, she gasped like it knocked the air from her lungs. He eased them in deeper, feeling the tight flutter of her walls around him, and had to steady his breathing to keep from losing control.

"You're perfect like this," he whispered against her. "So soft. So ready for me."

He didn't let up. Not when her thighs trembled, not when her breath came in broken sobs, not even when she whimpered his name like it was the only thing tethering her to the moment. He learned her pace. Adjusted when she bucked. Slowed when she gasped too hard. Every motion was calculated and kind, fingers and mouth working in tandem until she was falling apart beneath him, no walls left, just sensation and soft, wrecked sounds.

When she tugged hard on his hair—overwhelmed, sensitive, almost pleading—he slowed, eased back with a final kiss to her thigh. His mouth was slick, his jaw tight, his chest heaving. But even then, he didn't say a word at first. Just rose back over her, pressing kisses along her stomach, the curve of her ribs, the swell of her chest, her collarbone. He kissed every inch of her like it mattered.

And when he finally reached her mouth again, she tasted herself on his lips, warm and sharp and dizzying. Her hands curled against his shoulders, tugging him down until there was nothing between them—only breath, and sweat, and the weight of everything they'd both kept caged for far too long.

His body pressed flush against hers now, his hips nestled between her legs, the heat of him impossibly intimate.

"You alright?" he asked softly, lips brushing her temple.

She nodded, breathless.

He reached between them, guiding himself to her entrance, and when the head of his cock slid against her—soaked and hot and barely held back—he let out a slow, quiet exhale. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just undone.

"You feel amazing," he said—barely more than a whisper. "Been dreaming of this. Of you."

He pushed in slowly, carefully, watching every flicker of expression on her face. Her breath hitched, eyes fluttering, and her legs hooked around his waist without thought. He sank into her inch by inch, hips rolling forward until he was buried deep, fully inside, his body trembling from the restraint it took to stay still.

And then he did just that—stilled.

Just for a moment.

To feel it. To savor it. Her arms around his shoulders. The warmth of her legs bracketing his hips. Her breath hot against his jaw, the soft catch of her voice when she whispered his name again.

"You fit me too well," he murmured, voice low and steady beside her ear. "I'm never gonna forget this. Never."

He kissed her cheek, her mouth, the corner of her lips—each press slower than the last—and began to move. A slow roll of his hips, careful at first, deeper than fast, as though he wanted her to feel every inch of him, every ounce of how much he'd held back.

Soshiro didn't move at first—not properly. He held himself inside her, hips locked, chest pressed flush against hers, and let his body adjust to the sheer overwhelming heat of it all. She felt unreal—tight and warm and so close—her heartbeat fluttering against his ribs, her arms soft around his shoulders like they belonged there. And they did. She did.

He hadn't meant to groan, but it ripped out of him anyway—quiet, raw, right against the shell of her ear. His hands trembled where they braced on either side of her, fingers curling into the bedsheets as though that alone could tether him back to control. Her walls fluttered around him again, already clenching, already pulling, and Soshiro had to breathe through his teeth just to keep from breaking.

"Fuck—" he exhaled, barely above a whisper. "You feel so good."

She moved beneath him then, just the smallest roll of her hips—and it nearly undid him. He growled low in his throat, forehead pressing against hers, eyes shut like he could steady himself with her breath alone.

"Don't do that," he said roughly, not angry, not sharp—just struggling. "You keep doing that and I'm not gonna last."

A soft breath of laughter slipped from her lips, half-dazed, half-challenging, and he felt it all the way to his spine. His eyes opened—just barely—and the way she looked up at him, flushed and wrecked and wide-eyed with want, nearly drove him past the edge he was clawing to stay on.

"You think this is easy for me?" he murmured, voice ragged. "You think I haven't thought about this every night since that kiss?"

He started to move then. Slow. Purposeful. A long drag of his hips out, then back in—deep, deep enough that she gasped and arched, her hands clinging to his back like she didn't know where else to hold. And he moaned again, low and wrecked, because gods, she was perfect around him. Too perfect.

"Every damn time you looked at me like you wanted to fight," he panted, his mouth trailing heat along her jaw, "I thought about this. About making you feel good. About hearing you fall apart for me."

His hips rocked again, steadier this time, deeper. Not fast. Not rushed. Just enough to make her legs twitch, enough to pull a broken sound from her throat. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing her slow and consuming, his hands moving to cradle her face like she was something he could never get enough of.

"You feel so good," he whispered between kisses, praise slipping from his lips like confession. "Every part of you, Y/N. I don't think I can stop."

She whimpered into his mouth, her hands sliding down his back, gripping tight. Her thighs tensed where they bracketed his hips, holding him close, dragging him deeper—and that did it. He cursed again, softly this time, his control slipping as his thrusts picked up pace. Still steady. Still careful. But no longer slow.

Soshiro buried his face in her neck, breathing hard, trying to pace himself even as her body wrapped tighter around him with every movement.

"I'm trying," he admitted, hoarse. "Trying to make this last. But gods, Y/N—you're making it so fucking hard."

She only moaned in reply, high and breathless, and he felt her tighten again, walls fluttering like she was already close. That sound—that reaction—it gave him focus. Gave him purpose.

He shifted slightly, adjusting her hips, sliding a hand down between their bodies to find her clit again. The moment his thumb pressed against it, she gasped, full-bodied and open, and he groaned with her, thrusting deeper.

"That's it," he murmured, kissing her temple, her cheek, her lips. "Let me take care of you."

And he did.

Each movement was crafted to drive her toward the edge, to give her what she'd never let anyone else see—that soft, shaking surrender. That breathless unraveling. He kissed every part of her he could reach, whispered praise between thrusts, held her like she was something sacred, and when she clenched hard around him and cried out his name like it was a prayer, he knew—

She was his.

And he wasn't letting go.

The moment she came undone beneath him, he felt it — all the tension coiled in his spine snapping loose with her shuddering breath. Her body arched, clung, fluttered around him like she didn't want to let go, and he chased the sound of her moan with his mouth, kissing her like he could swallow it whole.

She was flushed beneath him. Glowing. And he couldn't stop looking at her — hair clinging to her damp forehead, throat exposed in a soft arch, mouth parted in the aftermath of something he'd given her and wanted to give again.

But more than that — she looked content. His. Just for this night.

He should've stopped there. Should've held her, whispered something reassuring, tucked her beneath his arm and let them sleep, let her drift down easy from the high he'd just drawn from her with lips and fingers and quiet praise.

But the sound she made — that soft, needy whimper when his hips shifted again, still nestled inside her — lit every nerve in his body like kindling.

And Soshiro wasn't made of stone.

Not with her.

He kissed her once more — tender, almost apologetic — before sliding back, hands gripping the swell of her hips as he slowly pulled free. Her breath hitched. Her fingers reached blindly for him, catching only the sheets, and then—

"Turn over," he murmured, voice rough at the edges now, but still low, still gentle. "On your stomach."

She blinked up at him, dazed. Her body already trembling with aftershocks, her cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet.

"I—" she breathed.

"Trust me."

He watched her hesitate — not from fear, but from surprise. Then, slowly, she turned. Every movement languid, unsure, her limbs boneless from the release he'd already given. She settled onto her stomach, her legs spread just enough, her arms tucked under the pillow, and when she looked back at him, it was with a question in her eyes.

He leaned over her. Pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades.

"I need to feel you again," he whispered. "All of you."

She shivered.

His hands mapped her like sacred ground — from her lower back to the curve of her ass, to the backs of her thighs. Touching, not rushing. Palming her gently, letting his thumbs press soft circles into her skin, coaxing her to melt into the mattress.

Then, with the same reverent care, he lined himself up again. Pressed forward — slower this time, dragging the head of his cock through her folds, slick and hot and so ready for him — and slid back inside.

The sound she made was nothing short of broken.

And gods, it nearly undid him.

She arched beneath him, the new angle tighter, deeper, her body greedy for him, and Soshiro had to brace a hand against the headboard to keep from burying himself in one brutal thrust. He didn't want to break her. He wanted to ruin her slowly.

"You're perfect like this," he said, breath catching, thrusting into her with a roll of his hips that made her gasp. "Taking me so well. So fucking good for me."

She moaned again, louder this time. Too loud.

His hand slipped over her mouth — not harsh, not forceful. Just enough.

"Shhh," he breathed, leaning over her, his chest flush to her back now, voice a warm rasp at her ear. "I know, baby. I know. You feel too good."

Her moans spilled against his palm, muffled and frantic, and he could feel the way her body tensed and trembled under him. She was still so sensitive, still fluttering from her last orgasm, and it made every slow, deep thrust feel intimate. Electric.

"You're gonna get us caught," he whispered, his hips never stopping. "As much as I want the whole damn division to hear how pretty you sound saying my name—" he thrust harder and she choked on a moan, eyes fluttering shut— "we can't let anyone know."

She whimpered, teeth grazing his palm.

He kissed her temple. His free hand slid down, cupping her hips again, angling her just right until he could grind deeper — and when her body shook beneath him, legs kicking slightly at the sheets, he groaned against her skin.

"That's it," he murmured, mouth at her ear, fingers tightening where they held her. "Just like that. Let me have it, sweetheart. Let me have all of you."

And she gave it.

Without words. Without hesitation. With her body, her breath, her soft muffled sounds against his hand. And with every thrust, every drag and push and grind, Soshiro let go of another piece of the control he'd worn like armor for months. Not because he wanted to dominate her — but because he wanted her to feel safe. To feel wanted. To know this wasn't just lust. This wasn't just a moment.

It was him — all of him — finally, finally touching the one thing he'd forbidden himself from needing.

Soshiro didn't stop.

He couldn't. Not now. Not with her spread beneath him like this, flushed and breathless, trembling from every deep, precise stroke. Her body rocked with each thrust, legs parted wide, thighs trembling, hands clinging to the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring her to earth. His palm still covered her mouth, thumb brushing her cheek, and her eyes—gods, those eyes—looked up at him with something close to surrender.

And Soshiro had never seen anything more beautiful.

"Fuck," he groaned, voice low, raw. "You feel so good. So tight—gods, you're driving me insane."

He pressed deeper, hips grinding into hers, and her body welcomed him like it had been waiting. Her back arched. Her moan vibrated against his hand. He could feel every shiver, every tremble, every time she clenched around him like she didn't want to let go.

"Do you know what you're doing to me?" he whispered against her ear, his breath hot on her skin, his thrusts steady but thick with tension now—desire pressing against restraint. "You think I can ever forget this? After tonight?"

Her body tightened under him in answer. She was close again. He could feel it in the way her hips bucked, in the little gasps she tried to hold back, in the soft, aching sound she made when he brushed that one spot inside her again and again.

He pulled back just enough to slip his hand away from her mouth and replaced it with his own—kissing her deeply, hungrily, swallowing every broken moan as she melted beneath him. Then he pulled back, only far enough to murmur against her lips:

"I want to see you."

He slipped his hands under her arms and guided her up—still buried inside her—pulling her against his chest until she was straddling him, breath stuttering, knees shaking around his waist. His hands cradled her hips, holding her steady.

"Look at you," he breathed, eyes flicking down to the place where their bodies met, then back to her face. "You're everything."

She whimpered, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, and he kissed her again—slow, long, tongue brushing hers as he rolled his hips up, deeper now, deeper still.

She gasped. He caught her.

"Just let go," he murmured, voice soft now. "You're safe. I've got you."

She moved with him—tentative at first, then more sure, her hips finding a rhythm that had him cursing into her neck. His hands roamed again, down her back, over her ass, up her spine, pressing her closer.

"I've wanted this for so long," he admitted against her skin. "Every night you walked into the training room, every time you looked at me like you could see through the uniform... I wanted to touch you like this."

She clenched around him again, and he groaned—loud, unrestrained, barely holding back now.

"You're perfect," he said. "You're so fucking perfect and you don't even know what you do to me."

She was losing it. Her thighs trembled, her body shook, her fingers tangled in his hair. He leaned back just enough to see her face again—eyes glazed, mouth open, cheeks glowing from sweat and ecstasy. She looked undone. Divine. And his.

"Come on," he whispered. "Let me feel you again. Just once more."

She didn't need much more. One hand slid down, finding the space between them, and when his thumb brushed her clit—soft, slow, practiced—her breath shattered in her chest. She collapsed against him, whimpering, her hips stuttering as the orgasm hit her hard.

She broke. Her walls clamped around him, tight and fluttering, and he nearly lost it right then—buried so deep inside her he couldn't tell where she ended and he began.

"That's it," he whispered, arms wrapping around her, holding her through it. "That's my girl."

She came down slow, breath ragged, heart pounding against his, and he kissed her cheek, her temple, her jaw.

But he wasn't done.

Not yet.

With a deep breath, he shifted again—gently lowering her back to the bed, his body following her down, still inside, still pulsing with need.

She blinked up at him, lips parted, eyes wide and spent.

He braced himself above her, hands on either side of her head.

"This is your last chance," he said, voice low but calm, full of something that bordered on reverence. "Because I'm not gonna stop this time. I'm going to make you feel everything."

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

The look in her eyes was enough.

So he moved—slow at first, like a tide, pulling back and pressing in, deeper, fuller, until her breath caught again and her hands scrambled to hold onto him. Then his rhythm grew stronger, faster, and she matched him, hips rising to meet every thrust, their breath colliding in the space between their mouths.

Soshiro was losing himself.

In the heat. In the slick slide of her body. In the gasps she made and the way her nails dug into his shoulders. In the quiet, desperate way she whispered his name like it meant something holy.

He buried his face against her neck, kissing her as she clung to him, fucking her like it was the last time he'd ever be allowed to.

And when he felt the wave coming—when his spine tingled, his rhythm faltered, and his breath came in shallow bursts—he slowed just enough to look at her.

Her eyes. Her mouth. Her flushed, exhausted, blissed-out expression.

"Let me come inside you," he said, breathless. "Let me fill you. Please—just this. Let me have it."

She nodded.

He kissed her.

And then everything broke.

Her body was still trembling, not from exhaustion alone, but from the weight of it all — the months of tension, the line they'd walked and finally crossed. Her limbs were heavy, her pulse stubborn and slow, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and quiet ruin. She hadn't moved from his arms. Didn't think she could.

The room was warm. Soft in a way that didn't belong to barracks or briefings. Moonlight cut through the slats in the blinds and fell across the sheets in broken fragments, dancing against her bare shoulder as she lay half draped across him, skin to skin. The mess of sweat and heat clung to both of them, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was grounding. Real.

Soshiro hadn't let go. His hand smoothed absent patterns along her spine, the pads of his fingers warm and slow. Not a command. Not a claim. Just quiet reassurance, like he needed to feel her beneath his hand to believe she was still here. Still his.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

She nodded faintly, too drained to pretend otherwise. Her hand pressed against his chest, palm splayed right over his heartbeat. It was steady. Certain. Anchoring. Something about that rhythm soothed the ache in her ribs. Made it easier to breathe.

"I can't feel my legs," she whispered hoarsely.

His breath hitched with a soft sound — not a laugh, exactly, but close. Too gentle to be teasing, too warm to be detached. The corner of his mouth brushed her temple.

"Sorry," he said, even though it was a lie. They both knew it. And neither of them minded.

He kissed her again—first her hairline, then her cheek, barely grazing her skin like the moment would shatter if he pressed too hard. Then he stayed there, forehead to hers, his nose brushing hers with every slow inhale. He didn't trust himself to move. Not when her skin was still flushed and her lips swollen and his entire body was humming with the weight of her.

It was stupid, maybe. Irresponsible. Forbidden. But the gods could burn him for it later. Because right now? She was in his arms, and that was the only truth he cared about.

"This changes everything," she said, her voice so small he barely heard it. "Doesn't it?"

He didn't rush to answer. Just exhaled slowly, his hand moving to cradle her face, thumb brushing just under her eye. He watched her like he couldn't bear to look anywhere else.

"No," he said. "It just made everything clearer."

Her lashes fluttered, her breath caught. She looked at him like she was standing on the edge of something she didn't know how to name.

"I don't know how to be casual about this," she admitted, voice fragile but steady.

"Good," he said, and the faintest smile curved his mouth. Not smug. Not teasing. Just warm. "Because I don't want casual."

His hand lifted again, cradling her face like she was something precious, like if he let go now, she'd vanish. His thumb brushed her cheekbone with featherlight care, and his gaze searched hers — not demanding answers, just memorizing the way she looked like this. Soft. Unarmored. His.

"I want whatever this is," he said. "However we can have it. Even if no one knows but us."

Her chest pulled tight again — not with fear, not even with nerves, but with something worse: the understanding that she wanted that too. Desperately. Enough to hurt.

She leaned in, her forehead pressing to his.

"Okay," she whispered.

And when he kissed her again — slow and careful, like she wasn't just someone he wanted but someone he couldn't afford to lose — she let it settle. Let it sink deep. Because no matter what waited for them in the morning, this wasn't up for negotiation.

Not anymore.

He kissed her once more, then pulled her in tighter, tucking her head under his chin, his arms wrapping around her like a shield. The silence stretched, full but not heavy. Their bodies were too tangled to tell where one ended and the other began, and neither of them tried to separate.

Finally, she whispered, "You're not allowed to act like nothing happened."

"I wouldn't survive it," he answered, breath brushing her hair.

She laughed — quiet and wrecked and still glowing. And he smiled against her crown, then murmured:

"Not just tonight."

And for now... that was enough.

35 notes · View notes

cherryfcola · 2 days ago

Note

Thank you for the meal (Every Hoshina fics you made), I'm so blessed. 🙏 ❤️

Art eaten.

— 💭

Aaaa I’m so glad you liked it!! 🙇‍♀️❤️ I guess I just can’t stop myself when it comes to our fave vice-captain 🤭💫

Art… will continue to be served. 🍽️

3 notes · View notes

cherryfcola · 2 days ago

Text

Title: One Drink Ahead – Part Three

PART ONE HERE! PART TWO HERE! PART FOUR HERE!

Fandom: Kaiju No. 8

Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x Fem!Reader

Rating: T

Word Count: 7.3k

Summary: A festival night, a rooftop, and everything they shouldn’t want—but take anyway.

Notes: Third installment in the One Drink Ahead series. Can be read as a standalone, but hits harder if you’ve read the earlier parts.

MAIN MASTERLIST HERE!

The noise started before the color did—rising from somewhere past the gates, a layered orchestra of laughter and music and the chaotic clatter of vendor stalls, the low hum of voices rising and folding like tides over gravel. Evening light spilled across the paved walkway in streaks of gold, catching the glint of metallic balloons and vendor tin roofs, the sharp flicker of sparklers waved too close to open flame. The air smelled like oil and sugar, like grilled meat skewers and roasted sweet potatoes and fried batter thick with powdered sugar, all of it wrapping around them like a haze as the squad filtered in one after another, voices raised and bodies looser than usual, civilian clothes tugging them out of their formationed selves and into something warmer.

It was a rare day off. A rarer evening out. And rarer still—Soshiro had come.

No uniform. No weapons. No clipped orders. Just him, hands in the pockets of wide-legged black pants, a sleeveless white shirt half-tucked into his waistband like he hadn’t even glanced in the mirror before stepping out. The shirt hung slightly off his collarbone on one side, the fabric worn soft around the neckline from use, thin enough to pull with breeze and movement, the kind that clung when the air got too damp and pulled taut when he raised a hand to fix his hair. A chain hung loose at his neck, catching on his collarbone with every breath. He had a drink in hand—non-alcoholic, maybe, but that never mattered when he sipped like he had all night to enjoy the silence—and a faint smudge of black along his wrist from something Reno had scrawled in marker on the walk over.

Y/N had seen him when they all met at the gates, of course. Had felt her stomach lurch when he turned toward her in that half-casual way he always did, looking like a contradiction—lazy posture, sharp eyes. It was the first time she’d seen him without sleeves in a public setting and the damage was… well, internalized. Quiet. Devastating. She wore black too—tight shorts and a crop top, layers balanced out by the oversized red-and-black racing jacket she’d thrown on out of panic. She hadn’t realized how warm the night would be. Or how much she’d sweat through the damn thing after fifteen minutes walking the stalls.

She hadn’t realized he’d be looking.

Not directly, of course. He was too composed for that. Too deliberate. But she’d seen it—subtle, quiet, a flick of his gaze when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. He looked once when she adjusted the jacket sleeve, again when she bent to pick up her phone, and a third time when Kafka offered her a stick of grilled squid and she made the mistake of licking a drop of sauce off her thumb without thinking.

Now, half an hour in, the squad had scattered to the wind. Kafka and Reno had already thrown themselves into a beanbag toss competition with stakes Y/N didn’t want to know. The rest of the team wandered between stalls, drinks in hand, someone already slurring about yakisoba three bites in. Lanterns hung from every post, strung like constellations above the main street, swaying with the breeze that smelled faintly of river water and jasmine and summer heat.

She walked a little behind the others, drink in one hand, other tucked into her jacket sleeve, trying not to look like she was stalling for something.

“You’re quiet,” Soshiro’s voice came from her left, sudden and warm, the words low and conversational like they’d been talking all evening.

She glanced at him sideways, startled by his proximity. “I’m pacing myself.”

“For what?”

“For whatever Kafka’s planning. He bet Reno five thousand yen he’d cry before sundown.”

Soshiro made a sound—half-laugh, half-sigh. “I give it twenty minutes.”

Y/N took a sip of her drink and smirked into the rim. “You’re generous.”

The space between them was deceptively small now—just enough for their arms to brush when she adjusted her sleeve, just enough for her to feel the heat from his body when the breeze shifted behind them. She didn’t mean to keep walking with him. It just happened. The crowd thinned on either side, the paper lanterns above stretching like veins of firelight across the evening sky.

They passed a goldfish scooping stall where a group of middle schoolers were screaming over their failed nets. A few meters down, a taiko drum performance was warming up, the thrum of the bassline rolling beneath her feet.

“I didn’t think you’d come out tonight,” she said eventually, more to the air than to him.

“Didn’t think I’d be invited,” he replied, tone easy.

“Kafka makes everything a public invite.”

“Mm.” He sipped his drink. “You think I’d let the squad run off unsupervised?”

She gave him a dry look. “This is what counts as supervision now?”

“I’m very attentive.”

“Right. All that eye contact with the mochi stand proves it.”

He smiled—not big, not sharp, but small and real and so casual it nearly threw her off balance. The kind of smile that felt like a secret shared between lines of dialogue.

“I was watching your jacket,” he said. “It’s loud.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Loud?”

“Red suits you.”

There was no humor in his tone. No smirk. Just fact. Like he’d said it without needing to turn it into something. And maybe that was worse.

The noise around them folded louder again as a group of teenagers rushed past, all laughter and high-pitched shrieks and candy apples. One of them bumped into her shoulder, and before she could stumble, a hand—his hand—curved lightly around her arm to steady her.

She looked down at the contact. Then up.

He didn’t move immediately.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice coming out a little thinner than she liked. “Just got caught off guard.”

“Lot of that going around,” he murmured.

And maybe it was the night air or the flicker of firework prep off in the distance or the fact that for once, she wasn’t sweating in full uniform, but the tension between them felt heavier now. Different. Not like it had been during the warm-ups or the sparring. Not even like the training room, when he’d pinned her to the mat and whispered fire into her bloodstream. This was quieter. A beat that had stretched out, long and uncertain, strung between them like the low-hanging paper lanterns swaying overhead.

Soshiro’s hand dropped away, finally.

But the warmth stayed.

“I’m gonna check out the shooting booth,” she said, pretending not to notice the way her voice cracked at the end. “Make sure Kafka doesn’t lose an eye.”

“Want backup?”

She hesitated. “From you?”

He didn’t blink. “I’m a great shot.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You just want to show off.”

He gave her nothing but a tilt of his head. “Maybe. But you’re walking that way anyway.”

And—goddammit—he was right.

The shooting booth was tucked into a crooked corner of the festival grounds, half-shadowed by overgrown ivy curling over a rusted drainage pipe and just far enough from the main path to smell faintly of dust and sawdust, old wood and cheap gunpowder. The paper lanterns here hung a little lower, swaying gently with every footstep, their light casting soft amber against the fabric tarps that served as canopies. The crowd thinned near the edges—families peeling off, couples drifting into quieter alcoves—and the noise of the festival mellowed into something pulsing and warm rather than chaotic.

Y/N arrived just in time to see Kafka squinting down the barrel of a plastic rifle with all the discipline of a toddler wielding a stick of dynamite. Reno was slouched on a stool nearby, mouth full of candied chestnut, hand halfway through signaling a bet to a group of junior officers who looked like they’d already lost their rent money on him. A pyramid of cheap prizes loomed behind the stall counter: keychains, plushies, a knock-off replica sword in faded gold plastic, and a few dusty drink coupons probably expired two seasons ago.

Kafka fired.

The cork bounced off the rim of the prize shelf, ricocheted into the vendor’s forehead, and dropped to the floor with a soft, anticlimactic thud.

The vendor didn’t blink.

Kafka did. Then: “You moved it!”

The vendor sighed, rubbing his temple. “Sir, the targets do not move.”

“They moved!” Kafka insisted, half-wheezing, half-hysterical. “I had the pink one!”

“You closed your eyes,” Reno said flatly, licking syrup off his thumb. “I watched you. That was a war crime.”

Y/N leaned against the edge of the booth, jacket sleeve half-slid off her shoulder, drink still in hand. “Are you trying to lose?”

Kafka whirled toward her, eyes wild. “I was winning! I had it lined up! The air betrayed me.”

“Was it the air,” she asked slowly, “or the four cans of chu-hi you had on the way here?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at the gun. “Rematch.”

Reno groaned. “Give it up. You’ve got the coordination of a drunk eel.”

“I could do it,” Kafka growled. “If someone wasn’t breathing down my neck.”

“You begged me to spot you.”

“Only because—”

Y/N tuned them out after that. The bickering was background music now—familiar, rhythmic, comforting in the way only close-quarters friendships built under fire could be. Reno was already swiping another skewer off someone’s plate and Kafka was gesturing so wildly he nearly knocked the whole stall over.

And beside her, still as a held breath, was Soshiro.

He hadn’t spoken since they’d arrived. Just stood there, half-casual, one shoulder leaned into the bamboo post at the edge of the booth, drink still untouched in his hand. The shadows cut across him in clean lines—light carving the side of his jaw, collarbone catching the gold where the fabric dipped loose. He was watching. Not them. Her. Not staring, not openly—but tracking. She could feel the attention on her like static, quiet and unblinking.

He moved only when the booth owner called out for new challengers, voice low and strained and clearly eager to get Kafka as far from the gun rack as possible.

“I’m in,” Soshiro said simply.

Y/N blinked. “You’re what?”

He pushed off the post. “Gotta uphold my reputation.”

Kafka barked a laugh. “As what? A mood killer?”

Soshiro didn’t even glance at him. He picked up one of the rifles, turned it once in his hand, checking for balance like it was standard-issue, then looked over his shoulder at Y/N. “You want in?”

She hesitated, glancing at the gun, the target, then back at him.

“Why not,” she muttered, shrugging her jacket further off one shoulder. “I could use a win.”

Kafka made an ooh sound that died instantly when Reno elbowed him in the ribs.

Two rifles. Three shots each.

They lined up side by side—Soshiro standing loose and upright, legs just slightly parted for balance, shirt shifting faintly with each breath. Y/N rolled her shoulders, adjusted her grip, and squared herself in a stance that felt ridiculous in civilian clothes but instinctive all the same. The weight of the plastic gun felt like nothing in her hands, but her pride made it heavier.

Soshiro fired first. One cork. Straight through the middle of a tin can, which spun once on its base before falling with a clatter.

He didn’t react.

She fired. Hers missed left.

Reno let out a sound like a wheeze-choke.

She clenched her jaw. Fired again. A hit. Barely. The can tipped sideways but didn’t fall.

Soshiro fired again. Second can. Down.

She shot. Missed.

Third shot. He paused—just briefly—before flicking the rifle up in one smooth motion and hitting the third can dead center.

The prize bell dinged.

Y/N lowered her gun and exhaled, watching as the vendor fished out a worn plush and handed it across the counter without enthusiasm.

“Congrats,” she said, half-under her breath.

Soshiro turned the prize over in one hand—a round, unevenly stitched owl plush with eyes slightly off-center.

Then—without preamble—he handed it to her.

She stared. “What’s this?”

“You said you wanted a win,” he said, tone too mild. “Take it.”

She looked down at the plush. Then at him. Then back.

Kafka muttered something in the background about being robbed. Reno whispered, “just say thank you before I scream.”

She took it. Quietly.

Their fingers brushed for half a second.

Then he stepped back again, gaze flicking past her toward the firework scaffolding being set up beyond the temple wall.

“They’ll start soon,” he said.

The others were already wandering again—Kafka chasing Reno with a sparkler, voices fading down the path, laughter echoing off the stalls. The crowd swelled again, scent of fried batter thick in the air, the paper lanterns overhead swaying just slightly closer now, casting moving shadows across the booth floor.

Y/N clutched the owl in one hand, drink in the other, and looked at him from the side.

“You’re full of surprises tonight,” she said.

He didn’t smile. Just watched her with that same unreadable quiet.

“Stick around,” he said softly. “I might have more.”

And just like that—he turned and walked into the crowd, slow and unhurried.

She followed. Because of course she did.

The fireworks started late.

By the time the first one cracked open the sky, the festival had shifted—no longer loud and chaotic, but slower, gentler, the edges softened by sugar and smoke and too many drinks. The crowd moved differently now. Less a current, more a tide. Small groups peeled off in every direction—toward the food stalls, the festival games, the edge of the temple hill where the view opened out into the dark horizon. The warm amber of lantern light gave way to indigo night, and every breeze that moved through the treetops smelled faintly of summer: dry grass, charcoal, wild plum.

They’d climbed the old steps behind the shrine in near silence. No Kafka. No Reno. No squad banter to fill the gaps. Just the quiet shuffle of boots over stone and the sound of distant laughter rising and falling like ocean waves. Y/N didn’t know why she followed him. Maybe she hadn’t needed a reason.

They stopped at the overlook—an old, crumbling guardrail that curved around the temple’s highest point. The sky opened above them, deep and wide, the stars half-eclipsed by cloud banks but still flickering between patches. Below, the city stretched in veins of gold and steel—glowing windows, pulsing neon, tiny moving dots that might have been cars or lives or something in between.

And there—right in the middle of it all—the next firework bloomed. Red. Then blue. Then gold.

Y/N leaned against the rail, jacket draped loose off her shoulders, hands curled around the worn plush he’d won for her. The heat had finally begun to break, replaced with a faint breeze that pulled strands of hair loose from her clip and swept them across her cheek.

Behind her, Soshiro stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottle of water he hadn’t opened. His hair had fallen slightly out of place with the wind, and the white of his shirt stood out even in the dimness—just bright enough to look ghostlike in the flashes of colored light overhead.

Neither of them spoke. Not at first. There was no reason to. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It never had been. It settled between them like a second heartbeat, something slow and steady, pulsing beneath the sound of the world carrying on without them.

“You ever sneak out like this when you were a trainee?” she asked, eventually. Her voice was low, casual—just enough to cut through the breeze.

He glanced over, eyes catching the edge of green light from a firework’s arc. “Once or twice.”

“Alone?”

“No.”

She huffed. “Of course not.”

“Why would I?”

She shrugged. “Thought you might’ve been a brooding loner type.”

“I’m not Reno.”

That earned a small, breathless laugh. “You say that like it’s a brag.”

“It is.”

The fireworks were slowing now, easing into longer pauses—no longer a spectacle but an afterthought, distant echoes of the earlier rush. The sky above the hill had gone darker, and the crowd below had started to thin into pockets of silhouettes and tired laughter, flickering beneath strings of lanterns and the last glimmers of sparklers handed off to children by booth vendors packing up for the night. The cicadas had returned. Their steady rhythm filled the space between firework blasts and made the mountain feel alive again, like the quiet was crawling back in once the chaos had settled.

Y/N leaned against the railing at the edge of the overlook, shoulder pressed into the worn wood, the soft cotton of her jacket folded beneath one arm with the plush owl hugged idly against her ribs. The warmth of the summer air lingered on her skin, sticky-sweet with sweat that had long since dried. Her hair, loose now, moved with the wind each time the breeze caught high, strands shifting across her cheek. Her lips were chapped from laughing earlier, her feet sore from chasing Kafka through the goldfish booth, and her voice low from shouting herself hoarse trying to cheat a ring toss win out of Reno. It was the kind of exhaustion that settled behind the eyes and in the corners of the mouth—where adrenaline gave way to the ache of memory. The ache of feeling too much at once.

She didn’t hear Hoshina step up beside her.

But she felt the space change.

He didn’t speak right away. Didn’t lean into her or make his presence known with a joke or a hum like he usually did—he just existed there, beside her, filling the quiet without forcing it to bend. His arm hovered near hers, close enough to feel the heat of him, the scent of his skin still tinged with the faint trace of summer soap and worn cotton. In the low light of the mountaintop lanterns, his profile looked different. Softer. The edge of his jaw caught the warm flicker of the overhead bulbs, and the scar at his temple—the one she’d memorized without meaning to—was cast into gold. His hair had dried where it curled faintly above the collar of his dark shirt, and when she looked over, she caught the way his lashes threw shadows onto his cheekbones.

He was still in casual clothes. Still every inch the same man who’d knocked her flat on the mat two weeks ago and left her breathless from more than just exertion. But something about him tonight felt entirely out of uniform.

She didn’t realize she was staring until he finally spoke.

“Long day.”

His voice, always low but sharp when it needed to be, sounded different without orders behind it. Less clipped. More human. She nodded slowly, lips parting around a breath, and turned just enough to see him clearly without facing him head-on.

“Good one, though.”

He didn’t look at her right away. His eyes lingered on the sky above them, where another late firework went up—a weak orange flare that barely reached high enough before fizzling out in an anticlimactic spark. She expected him to make a comment about it. A tease. But he didn’t.

“You look beautiful.”

Her breath caught.

It didn’t land like a flirtation. It didn’t sound like something practiced. There was no hesitation in it, but no arrogance either—just warmth. Certainty. And for once, no smirk. Just him, saying it plainly. Like it had been on his mind and there wasn’t any reason not to say it now.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Her head turned back toward the view almost immediately, eyes falling on the scattered lights of the booths and wandering festival-goers below, her lips twitching faintly but not into a smile. Her hand tugged the jacket tighter around her side, and for the first time all evening, the warm night air felt too heavy against her skin.

“That’s not something a vice-captain should say to one of his officers,” she murmured.

The words tasted bitter and weak in her mouth, more reflex than defense. She hadn’t meant to say them. But they were safer than thank you. Safer than letting him see the way her chest had fluttered when he said it.

And then his hand was on her face.

Slow. Careful. Not sudden—never sudden—but enough to still her breath. His fingers brushed against her cheek, knuckles warm from where they’d been tucked into his pockets, and his palm found the angle of her jaw with such easy precision that it made her dizzy. He turned her face gently, thumb barely pressing against her skin, guiding her eyes back toward his.

His expression hadn’t changed.

His voice, when it came again, wasn’t soft in the way people described soft. It wasn’t delicate. It didn’t tiptoe.

It just was.

“I’m not your vice-captain tonight.”

The words settled between them like a line drawn in sand—quiet, confident, and impossible to take back.

Y/N felt heat crawl up the back of her neck again, but this time it didn’t crest into panic. It lingered instead, slow and full, pulsing somewhere beneath her ribs. She blinked, trying to pull air into her lungs, but the air was full of him, of everything she couldn’t define between them. He was still holding her jaw. Still looking at her with those same steady eyes that always saw too much. But there was no smugness. No bite. Just—him.

“Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Make it easy.”

“Why not?” he asked.

Her eyes dropped, but he didn’t let her turn away again. His thumb brushed the edge of her cheekbone, a bare shift of skin against skin.

“It is easy,” he said, quieter this time. “That’s the point.”

She wasn’t used to this kind of calm. Not from him. Not from herself. And definitely not from anything between them. The teasing she could handle. The sparring. The tension thick with unspoken taunts. But this—this quiet, certain kind of kindness? This kind of closeness that didn’t demand anything?

It made her want to lean in.

So she did.

He met her halfway.

His lips found hers with the kind of slowness that didn’t test or ask—it simply happened. Soft. Anchored. Real. There was nothing sharp in it, no surge of heat or rush to deepen—just pressure, gentle and sure, the kind that came from someone who knew exactly how to hold a moment without breaking it. His fingers curled slightly at her jaw, holding her still, while her other hand fumbled for balance, landing lightly against the side of his shirt. The fabric was warm, slightly damp from the heat, and the faint rhythm of his chest beneath her palm was steady. Unbothered.

When they pulled apart—barely, just enough to breathe—his eyes were still on hers.

She searched them for something she could use. A joke. A smirk. Anything that would give her permission to hide behind the fire again. But all she found was him, looking at her like he didn’t need anything back. Like being here, now, was enough.

“You’re serious?” she asked, her voice raw.

He didn’t blink.

“I wouldn’t kiss you if I wasn’t.”

The silence returned, wrapped around them now like the last bit of summer humidity. Her pulse roared somewhere behind her ears, too fast, too loud. Her fingers twitched against his shirt.

“You’re cute when you don’t know what to say.”

She groaned, mortified, and shoved at his chest with one hand, but it was weak—barely a nudge. He didn’t move. Just smiled again, barely.

“Don’t be nice to me,” she muttered, eyes darting toward the sky to escape his face.

“Tough,” he said, leaning in just enough for his temple to brush hers, the barest contact of skin that made her knees threaten mutiny. “You’ll live.”

She wasn’t so sure.

And far below, at the foot of the hill, the last firework of the night finally went up—quiet, thin, silver streaks breaking into slow-burning light.

But she didn’t see it.

Neither did he.

They didn’t talk about the kiss. Not with words, not right away. But it lingered between them like warmth trapped in fabric—slow to fade, stubborn in its presence. Every step they took through the thinning festival crowd felt heavy with it, like a wire pulled tight between their bodies, connecting something unspoken. The air had changed. Softer, quieter, even though the streets were still alive with laughter and the last notes of festival music echoing through speakers draped in faded paper streamers.

Y/N walked beside him, owl plush pressed against her ribs like a barrier and an anchor all at once. The weight of the kiss hadn’t left her chest—it pulsed beneath her ribs with every heartbeat, a quiet throb of disbelief and confusion and something warmer she refused to name. Her cheeks hadn’t cooled. Her fingers were still tingling. And every time the back of his hand brushed hers, she felt it like a shot to the spine.

They passed a stall selling leftover candy skewers, the sugary scent thick in the warm air. Another, abandoned but still lit, spun glass marbles in a shallow pool, reflecting the low-hung lanterns in liquid reds and blues. People were peeling off now—families bundling sleepy children into arms, teenagers weaving between booths, couples retreating toward alleyways and shuttle stations. But she and Hoshina kept walking, wordless, like neither of them knew how to end the moment. Or maybe neither wanted to.

The path curved past the edge of the main road, toward a smaller, quieter lane lined with darkened shops and shuttered carts. Overhead, the sky had turned deep violet, the last streaks of gold vanished behind the low-roofed buildings. Another firework cracked behind them in the distance, lighting up the side of his face as they walked.

She caught the light on him—flickering through soft smoke and haze, touching the line of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbone, the faint shine of sweat on his temple that hadn’t faded from the heat of the crowd. He looked less like the man who led squads through danger and more like someone untouched by rank—someone warm. Still. With eyes that didn’t search for threats but lingered on the things he didn’t usually let himself want.

“You’re really quiet,” he said at last, voice low.

Y/N blinked, startled by the sound, even though she’d been waiting for it.

“I’m thinking,” she said.

“Dangerous.”

Her lips twitched. “I can think.”

“I know you can.” His voice had no edge. No smirk. Just something soft at the edges. “That’s why it’s dangerous.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped to the cobblestone street, the way the broken light caught the uneven edges and painted everything in warm, flickering gold. The owl in her arms sagged slightly, and she adjusted her grip.

“It’s not usually like this,” she said. “Us. Out here. Like normal people.”

He hummed—a sound of agreement more than anything—and glanced up at the rooftops where another round of fireworks cast streaks of green and silver against the clouds.

“It’s nice,” he said. “You like it?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile this much since I met you,” he added.

She stiffened. Just barely. “I smile.”

“Sure,” he said, his tone lighter. “But not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not thinking three steps ahead.”

She felt her face warm again, like the heat of the day had never quite left her skin. She didn’t know how to answer that. And worse—he knew it. She could feel him watching her even when she didn’t look. Like he was still seeing something she wasn’t ready to admit was showing.

“I’m off duty,” she said finally.

“Exactly,” he murmured.

That was all.

But it wasn’t, not really.

Because when she glanced up, he was still watching her—not like she was something fragile, or something to figure out, but like he already understood and was waiting for her to catch up. The look in his eyes didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t demand anything. It just was. Steady. Unapologetic.

And in that moment, with the night pressing close and the firework haze softening the edges of every shadow, she didn’t feel like an officer. Didn’t feel like anything but a girl standing next to a man who had kissed her like it meant something, and was walking beside her like it didn’t have to.

The crowd had faded behind them like the end of a dream—bright and loud and distant now, swallowed up by the crooked turns of quiet alleys and the soft scuff of their footsteps against weatherworn stone. Paper lanterns strung between narrow buildings swayed faintly in the breeze, their red and orange bellies glowing like embers in the dark, throwing fractured light across the ground in dappled patches. Somewhere nearby, the air still carried the scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet soy, and every so often, a burst of laughter or a fading echo of festival music reached them—just enough to remind them the world hadn’t stopped, even if it felt like it had. They hadn’t spoken in several minutes, and yet nothing about the silence felt awkward. If anything, it stretched between them like something tender—unguarded, unrushed, comfortable in its weight. Y/N’s shoulder still burned faintly from where it had brushed against his. She didn’t remember when their arms had started swaying so close. She didn’t want to check if they still were.

They’d turned down a side path, absentmindedly following the edge of a shuttered tea house with wooden beams and potted plants spilling over the stone ledge, when she saw it. A cat. Small, narrow-faced, charcoal-dark with pale eyes, perched at the end of the alley as if it had been waiting for them. It didn’t run. Didn’t flinch. It only stared—with the slow, imperious calm of something that had seen too much to be impressed.

Y/N blinked, stopping mid-step, and Soshiro came to a halt beside her, following her line of sight. She felt the subtle shift of his posture before she saw him move, the ease with which he tilted his head and squinted slightly like he was assessing a target. But all he said was:

“Huh.”

The cat blinked.

Then, with the same quiet self-importance, it turned and padded straight toward her—neither quick nor cautious, just confident. And before she could react, before she could even laugh in disbelief, the cat was curling its body against her ankle, pawing lightly at the cuff of her jeans before stepping into the crook of her leg and hoisting itself without hesitation into her lap.

She dropped to a crouch on instinct, hands out as if to catch it, but the cat settled like it had known her for years, spinning a tight circle before collapsing into a soft heap of fur against her thighs, its tiny sides rising with slow, contented breath.

For a moment, she could only stare.

Then she looked up at Soshiro.

He was watching the cat. His expression unreadable. But there was something lazy about the way his arms remained folded, something fond in the curve of his mouth as he glanced back at her, eyes flicking from the cat to her lap and back again.

“Friend of yours?”

She snorted, her fingers already sliding through the soft fur along the cat’s back. “Apparently.”

“It picked you. Must’ve sensed something.”

“Oh, please. If this thing sensed anything, it was a warm lap and poor boundaries.”

He crouched next to her then, not too close, just beside—his long legs folding in that careless, casual way that somehow made even stillness look balanced. His forearms rested on his knees, and in the flickering lantern light, she could see the edge of his smirk again—less sharp now, less teasing, more like something private. Something meant only for this quiet, unlikely corner of the night.

The cat let out a tiny sigh, fully melting into her. She watched it nestle in, stretching its legs out with a kind of trust that made something warm bloom in her chest.

“He looks like you,” she said after a moment, fingers still stroking between its ears.

Soshiro quirked a brow, turning his gaze toward her. “Should I be offended?”

“Not unless you’ve got a secret habit of invading people’s space and pretending you belong there.”

He let out a breath through his nose that was almost a laugh, but not quite. “Bold of you to say, considering you haven’t moved him.”

She glanced down at the cat, who had now begun purring—loudly, insistently, like it owned her. Her lips curled, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. The amusement settled into something softer, more thoughtful. Her thumb skimmed absently across the cat’s ear, but her mind had already drifted, chasing shadows she hadn’t meant to.

Because despite the quiet, despite the comfort of the cat in her lap and Soshiro beside her, she was thinking. Too much. Too hard. The kiss—the weight of it, the warmth, the quiet certainty in his mouth against hers—it hadn’t faded. It had buried itself under her skin like something permanent. And yet here they were, sitting in an alley like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t just crossed a line no one ever acknowledged aloud but everyone knew existed.

He was her vice-captain.

She wasn’t naïve enough to think that didn’t matter.

Their closeness had always been dangerous. Not in the way knives were dangerous, or even feelings—but in the way blurred lines could sneak up on you. One day it’s sparring and banter and grudging respect, the next it’s one step too close, one look too long, and suddenly she was sitting on a curb, heart still knocking against her ribs, the echo of his mouth still lingering on hers while the rest of her tried to pretend the night was normal.

It wasn’t normal.

She hadn’t felt this off-kilter in years.

She didn’t notice the cat slip away until the warmth vanished from her lap. Her hand hovered mid-air, the last brush of fur gone. The silence that followed didn’t feel comfortable anymore—it felt loaded. She looked down at her knees, eyes unfocused, mouth pressing into a thin line.

And then—softly, carefully—his hand was on her face again.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t possessive. Just steady. Warm fingers along her cheek, the heel of his palm anchoring her jaw. He didn’t force her to look at him. He just held her there, like he was waiting for her to come back to him. His thumb brushed lightly against her skin, and his voice followed—low, even, but impossibly gentle.

“Don’t.”

She blinked, throat tight.

“Don’t start pulling away,” he said. “Not yet.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.

“We’re not supposed to have this,” she said finally, barely above a whisper.

His eyes didn’t move from hers. “We already do.”

Her chest ached. It wasn’t fair. He was always so composed. So impossible to shake. Even now, even here, he was calm—his voice never wavering, his touch unwavering. Like he knew exactly how this would play out. Like he’d thought about it more than once.

“This doesn’t mean—”

“I know,” he said, quiet again. “I know what it means. I also know what it doesn’t.”

She looked away. His hand shifted, coaxed her face back toward him. His touch was careful. No pressure. Just insistence.

“Stop fighting me,” he said, like it wasn’t even a request. “Just tonight.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out.

“Don’t think about rank,” he added, softer now. “Or the job. Or tomorrow. You don’t have to make sense of it. You don’t have to explain it. Just let it be what it is.”

The lantern above them flickered again. His face was half-lit now, half in shadow—the kind of light that made him look younger, softer, less like a soldier and more like the man who’d looked at her across a rooftop an hour ago and kissed her like he’d meant it. His thumb swept once more across her cheek, and when he didn’t speak again, it was because he didn’t need to.

She exhaled slowly, all the breath she’d been holding slipping out like a surrender.

Just tonight.

She could give them that.

The rooftops sloped gently downward into a mosaic of paper lanterns and festival lights, the laughter of distant crowds muffled by height and hush. Below them, the city pulsed with color and sound, a glowing tapestry of movement, but up here—it was quiet. Removed. The kind of quiet that wasn’t absence, but permission. A silence thick with the residue of everything unsaid.

Y/N stood near the ledge, arms crossed loosely over the stuffed owl still clutched to her chest, her body turned halfway toward the sky, not looking at Soshiro but not pulling away either. The breeze was light, enough to lift the hem of her skirt and send stray strands of her hair fluttering across her cheek. The lanterns strung behind them cast a soft wash of amber over the rooftop’s edge, but it was the moonlight—silver, forgiving—that really found them. Pale beams brushed across her jaw, kissed her cheekbones, lit the curve of her lashes like frost. She looked undone by the night. She looked like she’d fallen straight out of it.

Soshiro stood beside her, not close enough to touch but close enough to feel it. Her presence, the way she breathed, the way she stilled when fireworks began climbing the sky again. The light painted him in flashes—gold, red, pale blue. Each burst a new portrait: his hair catching the wind, his eyes narrowed slightly in thought, his mouth set in something caught between calm and hunger. He looked softer like this. Less like the precision he carried in daylight and more like something unguarded. Something paused in the middle of deciding what to want.

He hadn’t spoken in minutes. Neither had she. But the weight between them kept growing, stretching out like a held breath, like a bow drawn back and never released.

And then he said, very quietly, “Thank you.”

She turned to look at him. Not sharply. Just enough to let the question show in her eyes.

“For tonight,” he added. His voice was low—measured—but not unreadable. There was no mask on his face now. Just tiredness, warmth, something old and aching in the corners of his eyes. “I hadn’t had a night like this in a long time.”

The owl shifted slightly against her chest as she adjusted her grip. “You mean a night where no one was bleeding?”

He huffed softly through his nose, mouth twitching like he might smile. But it didn’t quite reach that far. Instead, he kept his eyes on her—not intense, not sharp. Just steady. Like watching her anchored him to the moment.

“I mean a night where I wasn’t holding myself at arm’s length from everything I wanted.”

That stopped her breath for half a second. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She only stared.

The wind carried faint music from somewhere below—flutes, laughter, the metallic rattle of a prize wheel spinning—but none of it touched the rooftop. Up here, there was only him and her and the sky above them trying not to break open too early.

“I know,” he said, after a beat, and his voice had shifted now—rougher, gentler, deeper in the way men spoke when they were carrying something too carefully to risk breaking it. “I know what this is. What it isn’t. I know what I’m not supposed to want.”

She still didn’t speak. But her fingers tightened against the owl’s fabric.

“I know there are lines,” he continued, not pushing, not pleading. Just stating it aloud like something sacred. “Ones I’ve never been careless enough to cross. I know the way this ends. I know that tomorrow we wake up and return to what’s expected of us. The roles. The responsibilities. The distance.”

Another firework flared behind them—silent, for a moment, before the thunder rolled in.

He looked at her now, fully, his eyes drinking her in like something he didn’t want to forget.

“But gods,” he whispered, “do I want to cross it tonight.”

That hit harder than anything else. Not the confession. Not the ache. But the quiet reverence of the word tonight. He wasn’t asking for more. Wasn’t asking for a promise or a future. Just this—just a single stolen hour carved into the sky.

“I want to carry this with me,” he said, voice still soft, still reverent. “Whatever this is, however fleeting. I need it. I’m selfish enough to admit that now. After everything. After months of all this… teasing, and tension, and holding back.”

The space between them felt like it had shrunk to a breath. Not by inches. By weight.

“I won’t ask you for anything beyond this. I can’t. But I need—” He broke off, barely audible. His throat worked once. “I need not to waste it.”

Her heart stuttered, hands trembling slightly where they held the owl. She looked up at him—and this time, it was different. There was no mask on her face either. No smile to cushion the heat behind her cheeks. No wry comeback to deflect the thunder in her chest.

He leaned in, just enough to let the whisper of space burn between them.

“Can I…” His breath faltered. Just slightly. “Can I kiss you again? Just once more. Before the night ends.”

The world paused. The music from below faded. Even the wind seemed to still.

She nodded. Not slow. Not hesitant. Just sure. A quiet answer spoken entirely through breath.

And then he kissed her.

Not the first kiss of new feelings or the second kiss of temptation. This was different. This was deliberate. This was carried. A kiss made of everything he’d never let himself say out loud. His hand lifted to her jaw, gentle, reverent, not to possess but to steady. His thumb brushed her cheek like he needed to remember the curve of it, like he was trying to memorize her skin against his fingertips. Her lips parted to meet his, and when he kissed her, it wasn’t with fire—it was with hunger disguised as restraint.

The final firework cracked behind them—red, bright, wild—shattering across the sky in a spray of jagged flame. The light caught on the angles of his face, the line of his brow, the slope of his nose, turning him into something impossibly soft and painfully sharp all at once. She could feel the thunder of it in her bones. In his chest. In the way his hand stayed just barely at her waist, not dragging her in but holding her steady like she might float away.

They didn’t break apart quickly. They didn’t shatter. They unraveled—inch by inch—until breath returned to them like a privilege. When he finally leaned back, just far enough to see her, he didn’t smile.

He looked at her like she was the consequence he’d been waiting for his whole life.

And he would pay it gladly.

#let’s ignore that Soshiro is probs a bad shooter #kaiju n8 #kaiju number 8 #kaiju no. 8 #kaiju #hosina soshiro x y/n #soshiro hoshina x reader #kn8 soshiro #soshiro x reader #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina #i’m baiting you with narumi mb #narumi x y/n #gen narumi x y/n #gen narumi x reader

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cherryfcola · 2 days ago

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Title:One Drink Ahead – Part Two

PART ONE HERE! PART THREE HERE!

Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x Fem!Reader

Fandom: Kaiju No. 8

Word Count: ~6.3k

Rating: T (language, suggestive tension, combat)

Summary: Y/N wakes up hungover, victorious, and unfortunately in charge of morning drills—while wearing a shirt that says “I always come first.”

Hoshina’s amused.Too amused.

MAIN MASTERLIST HERE!

Waking up felt like breaking through concrete—slow, suffocating, and strangely damp. Y/N came to with the hazy, thudding pressure of her own heartbeat echoing inside her skull, her eyelids refusing to open until her brain processed that she was, in fact, alive. Barely. Her limbs were heavy with the kind of weight that came after something shameful—legs too hot under the blanket, head swimming from dehydration, and stomach already threatening rebellion without any provocation. Her senses were dulled, but even through the fog, she registered the smell of stale sweat, grilled meat, and something metallic that might’ve been the aftermath of bad alcohol or the remnants of a nosebleed. Her skin felt clammy. The back of her neck was damp. And her mouth—dry as sand, tongue stuck to the roof, lips cracked at the edges—tasted like she’d swallowed a bottle cap somewhere between shot three and blackout four.

She didn’t move at first. There was a stillness to her body that wasn’t peace, but rather preservation. She knew—deeply—that something had gone wrong. Not wrong like a lost wallet or a missed alarm, but wrong in a way that settled into the joints and marrow. Her pillow was warm, sticky. Her knee was bent at an angle that defied basic human physiology. Her hip throbbed like she’d thrown herself onto concrete. Her fingers twitched and found only sheets, slightly damp, definitely not tucked in. Her mind, when it began to flicker with recognition, did so in short, punishing flashes: the scent of grilled skewers wafting through the bar, jazz humming from ancient speakers, Kafka’s voice slurred and too loud, the heat of bodies pressed close in laughter and competition. And somewhere in all that noise—a hand. A grip. A smirk. Hoshina’s. Steady. Smug. Awful. Arm wrestling. The squad chanting. The weight of her victory crashing like a bomb when she slammed his knuckles into the table and threw back not one, but two celebratory shots.

Then she remembered the deal.

Her body recoiled instinctively, curling in on itself with a pitiful groan that scratched against her throat. Her forehead met the pillow, and she clutched it like a lifeline as her memories came back with a vengeance. She had won. She’d dragged the vice-captain of the Defense Force to the edge and won. And in the euphoric chaos of post-match adrenaline, she’d declared—loudly, publicly, drunk out of her skull—that if she won, he had to ease up on the squad’s drills. And he’d agreed. Smiling. Calm. Utterly composed as always. But then he’d leaned in—voice low, smug, entirely too smooth—and added his own clause. If she lost the next round, she’d lead the next morning’s warmup.

But she had won.

Hadn’t she?

She cracked open one eye and reached for her phone like it was a live grenade, her hand shaking with the kind of dread that only came after a night of triumph that had gone just a little too far. The screen lit up with a flash of light that stabbed through her corneas, and she hissed between her teeth as she blinked against the glare. The notifications were waiting. Loud. Blunt. Cruel.

Kafka (7:14 AM):

“WAKE UP STRETCH QUEEN. HE SAID YOU’RE IN CHARGE.”

Reno (7:16 AM):

“He’s calling you ‘champ.’ Like. That’s it now. You’re the champ.”

Kafka (7:17 AM):

“HOSHINA IS ACTUALLY SMILING HELP.”

Hoshina (7:19 AM):

“Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late. – V.C.”

Fifteen minutes.

She dropped the phone to her chest with a dull thud and stared at the ceiling with the hollow stillness of someone awaiting a firing squad. It wasn’t the hangover. It wasn’t the stomach cramps or the sore arm or the parched tongue. It was the memory. Clearer now. Vivid. Horrifying.

She had promised to lead the warmups.

And he had let her.

She shot upright—too fast. The room spun, lurched to one side. Her vision blurred and her stomach rose threateningly, but she powered through it on sheer panic. Her body stumbled toward the dresser as she peeled off the thin tank top she’d been sleeping in, reaching blindly for the nearest shirt and pair of shorts within reach. Her fingers found fabric. Soft cotton. Cool elastic. She yanked them on without hesitation, heart pounding in her ears. Her eyes skipped the mirror, skipped everything. There was no time for vanity. Only damage control.

By the time she was halfway across the base, shoes mismatched—one boot, one sock—the sun was a blade pressed against her temples. Her mouth still tasted like last night’s decisions. Her legs burned with each step, the gravel crunching beneath her boots with every unforgiving impact. Her throat was tight. Her head, pounding. And yet, the dread that climbed her spine was worse than all of it. The squad would be there already. She would be late. He would be there. Waiting.

The field opened up in front of her like a stage. She saw them before they saw her—Kafka slouched against a low railing, Reno crouched and nursing a bottle of water, a handful of others chatting in small knots, laughter drifting faintly. The usual morning haze lingered in the air, dust and dew clinging to the edges of shadow, the sun still low enough to cast everything in soft gold.

And then she stepped into view.

And silence fell.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t like a movie. But it was absolute.

The slow fade of voices. The breathless pause of laughter. The sudden shift of focus, subtle but unmistakable.

And she knew.

She knew before she looked down.

But she looked anyway.

And what she saw would haunt her forever.

The white shirt was familiar now—too familiar. Her sleep shirt. The one Reno dared her to buy at that discount market on a dare, back when they were still trying to out-humiliate each other. It was soft, oversized, comfortable—and cursed. Simple black text stretched across the front of the shirt, neatly centered and impossible to ignore:

“I always come first.”

There was no context. No punctuation. Just implication.

Worse—so much worse—were the shorts. Basic black. No writing. No glitter. Just short. Too short. They clung to her hips like they’d been tailored for sin, baring the full length of her legs and riding just high enough on the thigh to make eye contact with anyone feel inappropriate.

She stopped. Frozen. Mid-stride.

And the squad saw everything.

Kafka was the first to react. He made a noise somewhere between a wheeze and a dying animal, his hand flying to his face as he turned around and bent double with laughter. Reno—who she now remembered forced her to buy these exact shorts—let out a sharp, uncontrollable snort and turned so fast he nearly dropped his water bottle.

“Oh no,” someone whispered, hushed and reverent.

Reno barely managed to get out, “I told you they’d fit!” before breaking into helpless laughter.

Her heart thudded behind her ribs. Her skin burned. Her limbs stiffened like she’d been caught in enemy spotlight. Her mind screamed for her to run, to cover up, to die instantly.

And then—of course—there was Hoshina.

Standing at the front, arms folded, back straight, watching her. No reaction. No open grin. Just a slow, focused drag of his eyes down her body and back up, steady and unhurried. Her face. Her shirt. Her legs. The shirt again. And then their eyes met.

That was when she realized.

He was having the time of his life.

There was a glint in his eye—subtle, private, and devastating. His lips twitched, the barest suggestion of a smirk threatening the corner of his mouth, but his composure never broke. He looked like a man who had trained for war his whole life and had finally been gifted the battlefield he deserved.

“Interesting choice for a warmup,” he said at last, voice dry, measured, and far too smooth. “Champ.”

The title still echoed in her ears as she stood at the front of the field, back straight, breath shallow, blood rushing too loud in her ears for how quiet the squad had become. Champ. It had been flippant, deliberate—delivered with the same smooth voice Hoshina used when casually issuing threats in combat, the kind that didn’t need volume to carry weight. His voice wasn’t raised. It never was. He didn’t have to raise it when everyone already knew exactly who held the knife.

The soldiers had fallen into formation without protest. No laughter. No commentary. Just the solid, synchronous scuff of boots shifting across gravel and the low rattle of a few armor straps adjusting against sore shoulders. But even without noise, Y/N could feel them. The heat of their attention. The awareness that her outfit was not standard-issue and not a choice she would have made sober. She didn’t need to look down to remember what it said. She could feel the black text stretching across her chest like a target: I always come first.

She swallowed, adjusted her stance, and cleared her throat.

“Formation set,” she said, projecting her voice just enough. “We start on my count.”

Boots dug in deeper behind her. The squad didn’t question it. There was no room to question when the Vice-Captain was standing a few paces back, arms crossed, observing. And that was the problem—he was watching. He’d been watching since the second she arrived. Not openly, not unprofessionally, but with the kind of quiet interest that made her feel like she was moving through his test rather than her own commands.

“Neck rotations,” she said. “Left, slow. Ten seconds.”

The squad moved with trained efficiency, necks tilting in unison. She matched the motion, jaw tight against the pull of a muscle that didn’t want to stretch. Her spine creaked. Her pulse thundered in her temples. The headache pulsing behind her right eye had turned into something hot and full-bodied, like someone had lit a fire beneath her skin and left it to smolder.

“Reverse.”

The air was cold enough to bite the tips of her fingers, but she was already sweating. The oversized cotton shirt clung faintly at the back, catching sweat between her shoulder blades. Her thighs prickled where the wind hit skin, and she resisted the urge to tug the hem of the shirt lower. She couldn’t show it bothered her. Not with this many eyes watching. Not with his eyes watching.

She heard his voice again before she saw him.

“Back straighter, fifth row,” Hoshina said—calm, not loud, not sharp. But effective.

The soldier in question straightened immediately. The rest of the line followed, all of them subtly adjusting posture like they’d collectively been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“Good,” he added, almost conversational.

Y/N didn’t turn, but she could feel it—he was smiling.

“Shoulder rotations,” she said, breath evening out. “Back, full. Begin.”

Movement resumed. She rolled her shoulders, each motion tugging uncomfortably at her upper back, and heard a quiet, suppressed grunt from behind her somewhere in the ranks. Kafka, probably. She didn’t need to check. That man couldn’t survive thirty seconds of warmup without acting like he was being tortured for intel.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

“Reno,” she called instead. “You’re tilting your stance. Again.”

A pause. Then Reno’s voice, dry and resigned.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Fix it.”

The shuffle of feet. A readjustment.

“Again. Same rotation.”

Her command voice was steadier now, deeper, the pulse behind her temples subsiding into background noise. She wasn’t thinking about her clothes anymore, not consciously. She wasn’t thinking about the way her shirt moved when she lifted her arms or the way the shorts rode too high on the backs of her legs when she stepped into motion. She was thinking about rhythm. Control. Order.

She was thinking like a soldier again.

“Arms up,” she said. “Reach. Hold for ten.”

There was a delay. A slight hesitation in the line. No one said anything, but she could feel it—that reluctant rise in movement. The shirt stretched with her posture. The fabric pulled. Her breath caught.

And then she heard it again.

His voice. Unmistakable.

“Keep going,” Hoshina said, quieter this time, but clear. “You’ve got more to prove, right?”

Her jaw clenched.

She held the position for the full ten count, refusing to let the tremble in her limbs show.

“Release.”

They dropped arms in sync.

She turned just enough to project without needing volume.

“Lunges. Alternating. Ten left, ten right.”

Gravel shifted. Boots planted. The line moved.

Her own legs shook as she dropped into the first one, thighs tight, muscles angry. Her hamstrings hadn’t recovered from yesterday, and her quads burned halfway down. She forced herself through them anyway. Beside her, she caught Kafka’s breath hitching mid-rep, and out of the corner of her eye, saw Reno muttering something under his breath as he struggled to maintain depth.

And still, no one complained.

They grunted, they sweated, but they moved. And she made them move. That power settled somewhere beneath her ribs, warming something in her chest that had nothing to do with pride and everything to do with survival.

And then, when the set was done, she stood straight, hands on hips, and called out one final command.

“Recovery jog. Five laps. Start now.”

Silence.

Flat, disbelieving silence.

Reno turned his head so fast she thought his neck might snap.

“What?”

Kafka, already pale, blinked like he’d misheard.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” she said, crossing her arms, tilting her head toward the perimeter of the field. “Five laps. Go.”

“You’re hungover,” Kafka hissed. “You can barely see straight.”

“I just led the warm-up in this,” she replied, gesturing to her own shirt like it was a war wound. “You can run. Move.”

There was a beat of frozen resistance. Then one boot moved. Then another.

They started jogging.

Kafka cursing under his breath. Reno muttering something about betrayal. A few groans. A lot of heavy footsteps.

And she followed. Not because she wanted to. Not because she needed it. But because if she was going to burn alive this morning, she was dragging them with her.

She passed Kafka before the end of the first lap.

“You’re unhinged,” he gasped.

She just laughed.

Behind them, she heard it again.

Not loud. Not gloating. Just steady and amused.

Hoshina’s voice.

“Pace looks good, champ.”

The field had turned into a graveyard.

Soldiers dropped like shot arrows across the dust-dried training grounds, limbs splayed, chests heaving, the collective energy of the Third Division reduced to a barely conscious sprawl of gasping bodies. Gravel crunched under shifting weight, water bottles emptied with desperation, and the sun—which had only barely crested the rooftops—already felt like a punishment overhead, the gold light baking into backs slick with sweat. Y/N stood at the center of it all, shoulders heaving, thighs trembling, but upright—barely. Her white shirt, plastered to her skin from five laps of effort and adrenaline, clung in all the wrong places, and she couldn’t decide which burned more: her calves, her lungs, or the mortification blooming hot beneath her skin with every passing second she remained visible.

The lettering on her shirt hadn’t faded with effort. In fact, if anything, the sweat only made the black text darker, bolder, clearer.

I always come first.

It stared out from the center of her chest like a personal crucifixion.

And as if the shirt weren’t bad enough, the tiny black shorts—basic cotton, no embellishment, traitorous in their cling and exposure—hugged her hips and thighs in a way that had not been tested in a professional setting until precisely ten minutes ago. There had been laughter. There had been choking. Kafka nearly passed out on sight. Reno still hadn’t recovered from the scream-laugh hybrid that burst out of him the moment she jogged past the water station. And through it all, Hoshina hadn’t said a word.

Not a single one.

But he’d watched. And that was worse.

Now, as the squad slowly peeled themselves off the dirt, dragging their ruined bodies toward benches and shade like hungover zombies, she swallowed the dryness in her throat and tried not to wobble on her feet. Her head pounded. Her skin felt sunburned. Her pride had left her body on lap two.

Hoshina’s voice cut through the air then, low and effortless but sharp enough to still a few stragglers mid-grumble.

“That’s enough.”

The words weren’t barked, weren’t aggressive. Just firm. Enough that even Kafka, bent over with his hands on his knees, straightened on reflex. Reno mumbled a weak “thank god,” and the rest of the squad shuffled off with the grateful, semi-dazed resignation of soldiers released from purgatory. Footsteps faded toward the locker rooms, the field thinning, the air slowly returning to the sound of distant drills and humming cicadas.

But she hadn’t been dismissed.

She felt it before she heard it—his attention. The way the space between them shifted, narrowed, as if gravity itself was folding them into the same stretch of earth.

“You stay.”

The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t even commanding, though they came from the mouth of a man who never said anything he didn’t mean. They were… amused. And that was worse.

Y/N swallowed, adjusted her stance to keep her knees from visibly shaking, and turned to face him fully.

Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina was every inch the man she’d remembered through her headache and shame. His uniform sleeves were still rolled, forearms tanned and corded with lean muscle, hair slightly wind-tousled but unfairly composed. There was a single bead of sweat at his temple that had not moved the entire morning, as if his body operated on a different level of reality from the rest of them. His eyes, sharp and dark and far too observant, settled on her like she was something worth inspecting.

She resisted the urge to fold her arms over the shirt.

He didn’t speak immediately. He walked a slow circle instead, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, the faintest suggestion of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth—not mockery, not quite. More like he’d just heard a joke no one else had caught and was still quietly delighted by it. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and conversational, but there was a glint beneath the surface. A flicker of something more.

“Well,” he said. “You certainly woke them up.”

She didn’t respond. Her mouth was dry and she wasn’t entirely convinced her voice wouldn’t crack if she tried. He stopped beside her, just slightly behind her left shoulder, gaze lazily drifting across the field before returning to her profile.

“I needed a laugh,” he added, and that was the first hit—clean, direct, no malice. “Didn’t expect to get it from morning drills.”

She exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a beat as the sweat on her back cooled and clung harder to the shirt’s fabric. “Glad I could provide… entertainment, sir.”

He made a sound—half-hum, half-breath—that might’ve passed for agreement.

“The shirt was a bold move,” he said lightly, tone like he was commenting on the weather. “Did you mean to wear that?”

“No,” she ground out.

“Ah.” The smirk returned. “Shame. It suits you.”

Her entire face went hot. Not just cheeks, not just ears—everything. It bloomed across her skin like a sunburn layered over adrenaline, prickling and unbearable.

“It was laundry day,” she lied. “I grabbed whatever was clean.”

“Clearly.”

She looked away, blinking against the sun. He lingered beside her, unmoving. The heat between them—physical and otherwise—pressed into the space left behind by the squad, too close, too quiet. Her body ached. Her shirt stuck to the small of her back. Her thighs stung from exertion. But it was his nearness—calm, composed, knowing—that made her pulse thrum like a warning in her ears.

“You held up better than I thought,” he said. “For someone who nearly passed out in a bar last night.”

Her jaw twitched. “You trying to provoke me?”

“Wouldn’t take much, would it?”

She turned toward him then, slowly, the movement dragging sweat-slick fabric across her skin. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

“Enjoy your laugh, Vice-Captain,” she muttered, “because when I’m not hungover, I’m gonna put you on the mat and make you regret ever making fun of me.”

There was a beat of silence. A shift in the weight of the moment. His brows lifted just slightly—barely a motion, but enough to tell her she’d piqued something. His eyes trailed over her again, slower now, more measured. Less teasing, more curious. He tilted his head.

“You can try,” he said, and there was no challenge in his voice—just quiet, inevitable confidence. “But you’ll lose.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the finality of it.

“You’re welcome to amuse me, though,” he added, lips curling. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Her throat tightened. She held his gaze anyway. She didn’t speak. Not right away. Then—without ceremony—she raised her hand and flipped him off.

He laughed—freely, fully, with a grin that finally broke through all his composure. It hit her harder than she expected. Less like being mocked, more like being seen. And somewhere in that laugh, she felt the danger of it—that this game they’d started might not stay a joke for long.

“Get outta here,” he said, voice still warm with leftover amusement. “You’re done for the day. Try not to flash the shirt at the Captain.”

She turned without answering, her face still hot, her limbs still aching, her body already plotting a rematch.

He was still watching her when she walked away.

And she knew it.

The gym after hours was a different beast.

Gone were the crowded rows of bodies, the metallic clang of sparring gear being passed around, the relentless, sharp cadence of instructors barking drills over the whirr of conditioning fans. Now, the air was still. Heavy. Almost humid in its silence. The overhead lights had dimmed to half-strength, casting long shadows across the mat and equipment, broken only by the occasional flicker of a motion-sensor lamp flicking on in the back corridor. It was quiet in the way that made every breath feel louder than it should have. Every movement echoed. Every drop of sweat hit the floor like a countdown.

Y/N stood in the center of it all, framed by the muted glow from the ceiling and the faint blue cast of a vending machine screen tucked in the corner. Her tank top clung like second skin, the thin fabric darkened at the spine and underarms from a light circuit warm-up. Her shorts—small, black, practical, sinfully fitted—moved with her, exposing the full stretch of muscle in her thighs each time she shifted her stance. Her hair was tied up and off her neck, damp at the base where it stuck to her skin. Her breath came slow. Steady. Not exhausted, but focused. The type of rhythm that lived somewhere between anticipation and habit.

She’d tossed the cursed “I Always Come First” shirt to the deepest, most unreachable part of her drawer the second she got back to her room. Buried under emergency winter gear, old socks, and a tactical belt she hadn’t used in months. Just seeing it on the floor had made her want to commit war crimes. And now—hours later, long after lights-out and squad curfew—she was in the one place she could think clearly. Sweat out the humiliation. Burn off the frustration. Work through the endless loop of smug grins and clipped praise and “you’ll lose” echoing in her head.

She dropped low, hit another set of squat-kick combinations, rotated into a wide stance, and stretched her spine until it cracked.

And then a voice slid across the air like a knife dipped in smoke.

“Training for our rematch?”

She startled.

Not visibly—not enough to admit it—but the shift in her posture gave her away. Her shoulders rolled back instinctively, her chin tilted. She turned.

And there he was.

Soshiro Hoshina leaned just inside the threshold of the room, shoulder against the wall, arms crossed. His uniform was gone—replaced with a fitted, black sleeveless compression shirt and loose training pants that sat low on his hips. His hair, slightly damp at the ends, curled faintly above his nape, suggesting he’d either just showered or had been sweating earlier. But his body? Composed. As always. No tension in his shoulders. No evidence of fatigue. Just that same steady energy he always carried—measured, observant, unreadable.

She narrowed her eyes, shifting her weight to her back foot. “I don’t need to train for a rematch.”

His mouth twitched. “Is that so?”

“I already won once.”

“You won because I was being nice.”

Her scoff echoed. “You weren’t nice. You were smug. And still lost.”

He stepped forward—only a few feet, but it closed the space between them enough to make her pulse thrum. The floor barely made a sound under his approach. He moved like something born for combat—deliberate, efficient, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath the stretch of his shirt in a way that made it difficult to look anywhere else.

“You think that was my full strength?” he asked, tone deceptively mild.

“I think,” she said, steady despite the ache still simmering in her limbs, “you’re just afraid of being taken down when no one’s watching to save your ego.”

That pulled a real smile out of him—slow, crooked, and far too self-assured. It wasn’t mocking, not entirely. There was something annoyingly warm behind it, like he found her funny. Or charming. Maybe both.

“No,” he said, voice dipping just enough to drag goosebumps across her skin. “I just figured if you were going to throw a rematch at me, I might as well wait until the outfit was worth the wait.”

Her face burned—instantly, violently—flushing so fast she could feel the heat climb her neck. She didn’t need to follow his gaze to know it was deliberate. Calculated. His eyes were trailing slow across the curve of her bare arms, the line of her tank top clinging too close, the sweat-slick skin of her legs he hadn’t had the audacity to comment on until now. And he was doing it with the kind of quiet, unbothered confidence that made her want to punch him in the face.

Instead, she drew a tight breath, ignored the pulse hammering in her throat, and jerked her chin toward the nearest mat.

“Let’s go, then. Unless you’re only brave when the crowd’s around.”

He gave a low hum, somewhere between a laugh and a challenge, and stepped forward.

“Alright, champ,” he murmured, eyes never leaving hers. “You want the rematch?”

She nodded, sharp. No hesitation.

He tilted his head slightly, that smirk still playing at his lips.

“Then show me what you’ve got.”

The mat felt different when it was just them. No boots thudding against polished floors, no squad shouting cadence nearby, no clipped voices timing drills—just the soft whir of a fan high in the corner, and the hum of overhead lights casting the room in a half-gold, half-shadowed haze. It was quiet enough to hear every breath, every shift of weight, every drag of bare soles against canvas. Y/N rolled her shoulders once, twice, feeling the tight pull of exhaustion still lingering from the morning’s chaos but letting it fade beneath the rise of adrenaline clawing its way back up her spine. This wasn’t some alcohol-fueled bar stunt. This was the real thing. A match. A rematch. On even ground. No crowd to cheer, no Kafka to scream encouragement, no Reno to choke on his own water bottle. Just her, standing beneath the buzz of cheap gym lighting, and Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina, who looked like he hadn’t been caught off guard by anything in years.

He circled her slowly, loose and unhurried, hands relaxed at his sides, expression unreadable save for the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. There was no tension in his stance, not yet. He looked like he was out for a stroll. Like she wasn’t even a threat. And that was exactly why she wanted to land at least one hit—because even if she lost, she needed to make him feel it. He’d handed her that first match like it was a party favor. He’d let her get close enough to taste victory, only to pull it out from under her when it amused him most. And tonight, with the sweat still drying between her shoulder blades and her tank top clinging like second skin, she was determined to take something back.

They moved at the same time. A near-silent beat passed between them—unspoken but mutual—and then the floor cracked with motion. She lunged first, fists raised, pivoting into a quick jab meant to test his reaction. He dodged it effortlessly, a sidestep so smooth it barely registered, and his hand brushed the edge of her elbow as she passed him, just enough to throw her center of gravity off by a hair. She caught herself, gritting her teeth, already spinning into a low sweep aimed for his legs, but he jumped back—graceful, practiced—and landed with one foot behind the other like he’d been expecting it.

“Fast,” he murmured, voice low and amused, but not breathless. Not even close.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t waste the energy. Instead she came at him again, this time feinting high with a shoulder and slipping under with a sharp elbow aimed toward his ribs. It was a move they drilled endlessly—nothing fancy, just efficient—but her speed came with intention, with desperation, with bite. She wanted to make him sweat. Wanted to see even a flicker of strain crease that maddeningly calm face.

But he caught her. Not hard—nothing brutal, nothing punishing. Just his hand on her forearm, firm and immovable, the pressure of it shifting her momentum enough to send her stumbling past him again. He didn’t shove. Didn’t twist her arm. Just redirected. Like she was wind and he was steel.

She turned too fast, grit scraping against the mat as she adjusted. He was already watching her. Not mocking, but focused—sharp-eyed, mouth tilted just enough to tell her this wasn’t a challenge for him. Not yet. He wasn’t even warmed up.

Her muscles burned with every strike she threw after that. Punches, knees, low kicks meant to bait out a weakness, but he read her too easily. Slipped past each attempt, countered without commitment. She could feel how strong he was in every parry—each block barely restrained, each dodge just an inch shy of putting her flat on her back. He didn’t need to show off. He was demonstrating control. He was giving her the illusion of pace, of balance, while keeping the real tempo tucked inside the slow curve of his hips, the shift of his shoulder, the heat of his eyes.

They locked up for a moment—brief, brutal—and her hand caught the back of his neck, fingers curling in sweat-slick hair as she dragged herself into a knee meant for his side. But he was faster. His arm looped around her waist, his palm flat against the small of her back, and he twisted, pulling her with him as he turned. Her balance broke instantly, her footing gone, and for a breathless second she felt the room spin.

She hit the mat with a thud—but not hard. He cushioned the fall, lowered her like it was choreography, and knelt beside her with maddening ease.

She gasped for breath, chest rising and falling beneath the clinging fabric of her top, strands of damp hair stuck to her cheek. He didn’t speak right away. Just hovered there, one hand still against the mat near her head, the other resting loosely on his knee. His eyes scanned her—sweat-slick skin, flushed face, parted lips—and something in the corner of his mouth twitched like a smirk trying not to show itself.

“Still don’t need to train?” he asked, soft and far too close.

She glared up at him, panting. “You’re… playing.”

“Maybe.” He leaned in slightly, just enough for her to feel the breath on her jaw. “But even when I play, I don’t lose.”

Her pulse spiked violently. Her muscles screamed to move, to fight, to flip him over and pin him down and shut him up, but her body wasn’t listening. Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, not submission—but it was hard to tell the difference when his presence pressed so heavily into her space.

He straightened slowly, stepping back, offering no hand this time. Just the freedom to stand. To try again. Her hands braced the mat. She pushed up—barely—and wobbled to her feet with a grunt.

“You good?” he asked.

She threw her arms out, breathing hard. “Again.”

His smile widened, and this time, it reached his eyes. “You sure?”

“No crowd,” she hissed through her teeth. “No excuses.”

He rolled his shoulders once, slow and predatory. “Alright.”

The second round didn’t give her space to think. Her movements had sharpened—less desperation now, more calculation, her instincts bending around what she’d already learned from him. She was adjusting, adapting, correcting her balance mid-step and faking high before aiming low, using speed in place of strength. She’d always known he was faster than he looked—faster than he should be—but now she was starting to feel where his rhythm wanted to lead her. And instead of following it, she tried to cut across it, disrupt it, throw herself into the small, reckless gaps he left behind like traps disguised as opportunity.

But Soshiro wasn’t simply reading her—he was writing her next move.

She lunged again, feinting a low sweep with her leg before twisting into a tight pivot meant to throw her elbow into his side. It would’ve landed. On anyone else, it might’ve landed. But he turned into the blow—not away from it—and caught her momentum against his chest, closing the distance in a heartbeat. She staggered, breath knocked from her lungs, and before she could recover, his arm curved around her waist, pulling her forward as he spun them both, her heels skidding against the mat with a sound like ripping cloth. The world tilted. She hit the floor hard—spine flat, breath punched out of her—and in the time it took her to gasp, he was already on her.

One knee braced beside her hip, the other leg angled for balance. His weight pressed down—not enough to hurt, but just enough to pin. Her arms were wrenched above her head, both wrists locked in one of his hands, held steady against the mat with a grip that didn’t even strain. His other hand—firm, deliberate—settled against her hip, fingers splayed over the waistband of her shorts, steadying her even though she wasn’t going anywhere. Couldn’t. Her legs shifted out of instinct and failed to find leverage, her breath caught between protest and something far more dangerous.

And then—then—he leaned in. Slow. Controlled. The heat of his breath touched her cheek first, then her jaw, the space between them narrowing until she could feel his lips beside her ear.

“Don’t pick fights,” he murmured, voice smooth, deep, and far too close, “you have no chance of winning.”

A shiver cracked down her spine, sharp and involuntary. Her throat went dry. His hand didn’t move. Neither did hers—held helpless above her head, trembling faintly from the strain and the contact. The scent of him—faint steel, sweat, clean cotton—wrapped around her like smoke. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not when his mouth was still hovering just beside her ear, his breath ghosting over the curve of her neck.

“And don’t forget,” he added, quieter now—lower, more intimate, almost cruel in its softness, “why I’m your vice-captain.”

Then, just as effortlessly as he’d pinned her, he let go.

His hand left her hip. Her wrists were released. His weight disappeared. He rose in one fluid motion, rolling to his feet and adjusting the hem of his shirt like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just whispered control into her bloodstream and left her body buzzing with every unspoken consequence.

Y/N lay there for half a second longer than she should’ve, lungs fluttering, blood surging hot behind her ears. The mat was damp beneath her, slick with sweat, and her tank top clung to her skin like a second brand. Her hands dropped to her sides, fingers twitching, her throat tight with things she wasn’t stupid enough to say.

Soshiro didn’t look back right away. He walked two steps off the mat, brushing sweat off his brow, shoulders relaxed—like this had been a casual cooldown.

“Wash up,” he said over his shoulder, voice cool again. Detached. Back to protocol. “And sleep.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, still catching her breath, still burning.

“Tomorrow?” he added, finally glancing back at her with a smirk so sharp it felt like a second blow to the chest. “I won’t be so nice during drills.”

And then he walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving her on the mat—blushing, buzzing, furious—and very aware she was going to be thinking about this all night.

#kaiju n8 #kaiju number 8 #kaiju no. 8 #kaiju #hosina soshiro x y/n #kn8 soshiro #soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina #i’m baiting you with narumi mb #narumi x y/n #gen narumi x y/n #gen narumi x reader #narumi gen

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cherryfcola · 4 days ago

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Thank you for writing my request, I love it so much that I have to hold my laughter snd giggles. ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

—💭

That honestly made my day. I’m so glad you liked it — knowing it made you laugh means everything. Thanks for taking the time to say that, it really means a lot! 🤭🌸

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cherryfcola · 4 days ago

Text

Title: One Drink Ahead

PART TWO HERE!

Fandom: Kaiju No. 8

Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4.8k

Rating: T (language, alcohol use)

Genre: Humor

Summary: A rare night off turns into a Defense Force drinking game disaster. Y/N swore she wouldn’t get roped into Reno and Kafka’s nonsense, yet somehow she’s tipsy, laughing, and facing down Vice-Captain Hoshina in a drinking showdown she has no business winning.

MAIN MASTERLIST HERE!

The Defense Force rarely allowed itself moments of celebration, but tonight was one of the rare exceptions. The bar they’d commandeered—one of the few cozy establishments near the base—glowed with amber lights that cast long, lazy shadows across polished wood and scattered tables. The hum of conversation drifted through the warm air, broken by sudden bursts of laughter or the clink of glass against glass. The faint scent of grilled skewers and soy sauce mingled with the sharper bite of sake, and the longer the night stretched on, the more the warmth of drink seeped into every soldier’s bones.

Y/N sat at a corner table surrounded by her squadmates, the edges of her awareness softened by the gentle buzz of two drinks she hadn’t meant to finish so quickly. Her fingertips tapped against the wooden surface to the beat of the music—a soft, jazzy tune looping from an old speaker—while her eyes scanned the group with a half-smile tugging at her lips. Kafka was loud as usual, his broad gestures nearly knocking over a half-full glass. Reno sat across from him, his cheeks already pink, valiantly trying to keep up with the conversation while silently sipping at his own drink. A few other Defense Force soldiers had drifted toward a makeshift game at the center of the room, where sparring challenges and dares had become the unofficial entertainment of the night.

And then there was Soshiro Hoshina.

Even in an off-duty bar, he had a presence that was impossible to ignore. Leaning casually against the edge of the table, his dark hair slightly mussed and his jacket slung over the back of a chair, he looked every bit the relaxed version of the vice-captain… yet there was an alertness in his posture, a predator’s patience wrapped in a smile that was just a little too polite. He had the kind of easy charm that drew eyes without effort, and Y/N found hers straying to him far too often. Maybe it was the way he swirled the amber liquid in his glass before sipping, or the subtle curve of amusement in his mouth every time Kafka said something ridiculous. He hadn’t drunk much—she could tell by the clarity in his gaze—but there was a warmth in his expression that the usual rigid hours of training didn’t allow.

“Oi, Y/N!” Kafka’s voice boomed, snapping her out of her quiet observation. He was grinning like a fool, waving his chopsticks toward her in a gesture that nearly sent grilled chicken flying. “You’ve been sitting there all night like you’re watching a movie. Get in on the game!”

“What game?” she asked, raising a brow, though the answer became clear a second later when Reno’s nervous laugh drifted in her direction.

“The arm wrestling and reflex challenge!” Reno piped up, clearly already anticipating her refusal. “You go against someone, and if you lose, you drink. If you win, they drink. Easy rules.”

She shook her head with a soft laugh, ready to decline—until Kafka’s grin stretched into something almost wicked.

“You should go against Hoshina.”

The chatter around the table stilled just enough for the words to land like a thrown gauntlet. Soshiro’s dark eyes flicked to hers, curious but calm, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as if he was weighing the entertainment value of the idea.

“Me?” he asked, his voice smooth, a low timbre that managed to carry over the surrounding noise without effort. “You’re really trying to get her drunk, aren’t you?”

The challenge hung in the air, unspoken but thick with expectation. Y/N could feel heat creep up her neck, not from embarrassment exactly, but from the sudden attention. The table seemed to lean closer. She had sparred with Soshiro before in training, but that was all strict rules and professionalism—this was different. Here, in the honeyed glow of a bar, with her pulse thrumming a little quicker and the air rich with the smell of grilled meat and warm alcohol, it felt… charged.

“I can take him,” she said before she could stop herself.

That earned her a round of laughter, Reno’s startled snort included. Kafka slapped the table in delight.

Soshiro raised his brows, a hint of surprise flashing across his features before it was replaced by that easy, infuriatingly composed smile.

“All right,” he said, setting his glass down with a soft click. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”

He straightened, rolling his shoulders once, and motioned toward the center of the room where an empty table waited for their match. The other soldiers cheered them on, forming a loose circle. Y/N stood, her legs steady despite the alcohol, and followed him to the table. The heat of the room seemed to press closer now, the clamor of voices blurring at the edges of her focus as Soshiro settled into the chair opposite her. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt with deliberate ease, revealing forearms lined with lean muscle, the veins catching the light in a way that made her throat a little dry.

When he extended his hand for the arm wrestling grip, his palm was warm, calloused, the skin slightly rough from years of handling blades. The contact sent a little spark up her arm—one she refused to acknowledge as anything other than adrenaline.

“All right, Y/N,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel like the words were meant for her alone. “On your call.”

The grip was solid. Firm but not crushing, controlled in a way that spoke of someone who knew his own strength intimately. Soshiro’s thumb brushed the back of Y/N’s hand as they locked into position, a subtle adjustment to ensure proper leverage, but it still made her chest tighten for reasons that had nothing to do with competitive focus. Around them, the murmur of the bar faded into a thick, anticipatory hush broken by the occasional crackle from the kitchen and the faint pop of a bottle being uncorked. Somewhere behind her, someone muttered a bet.

She could smell the sake on his breath—not heavy, just a whisper of warmth—and the subtle scent of clean linen and faint sweat clinging to his shirt from the day’s earlier training. The table between them was scarred with years of use, faint scratches and water rings catching in the low amber lighting, the glossy surface cool beneath her elbow. Every detail seemed sharper now, the edges of the world pulled into focus by the tension crackling between their joined hands.

“Ready?” she asked, voice steady despite the subtle pulse of adrenaline flickering in her chest.

His smile deepened, calm and infuriatingly confident.

“Always.”

The count was given by someone in the crowd—Kafka, probably, though Y/N wasn’t listening anymore.

Three.

Two.

One.

Their arms tensed simultaneously, the muscles in Soshiro’s forearm tightening like coiled steel under his skin, a sharp contrast to the deceptive casualness in his expression. His hand was warm and steady, his grip sure without being punishing, and every nerve in Y/N’s arm sang with the effort of meeting his strength. The wood of the table creaked faintly under the pressure.

He didn’t overpower her immediately. He let the contest breathe, holding her in that perfect midpoint, giving her a fighting chance as if he wanted to see how far she could push. Her shoulder burned with effort, and the faint strain pulled across her collarbone, but she refused to look away from him. The smirk on his face was small but teasing, like he was enjoying her determination far more than he should have.

“You’ve got a good grip,” he murmured, low enough that the crowd’s chatter almost drowned it out.

She gritted her teeth, jaw tight. “Don’t patronize me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a laugh, and then—suddenly—he shifted his weight. The pressure on her arm increased, a slow, deliberate push that drew a soft gasp from the onlookers as her hand inched toward the table. Her skin prickled with heat, her heart hammering, and for a fleeting second she could feel the raw power behind his deceptively relaxed demeanor.

And then, just as her hand hovered dangerously close to the surface, he eased back, allowing her to reclaim some ground. It wasn’t mocking; it was a game, a dance, one he clearly enjoyed watching her play.

“Not bad,” he said, voice smooth as sake.

A spark of irritation—and something else—flared in her chest. She braced her feet harder against the floor, pouring everything she had into one strong push. The sudden surge caught him slightly off-guard, his brows lifting just enough to show his surprise as her hand forced his halfway down. A cheer erupted from the squad around them, and heat flushed up her neck with both effort and the thrill of turning the tables.

But Soshiro Hoshina was not vice-captain for nothing.

The smile he gave her now was sharper, all pretense of laziness gone as he leaned forward slightly, his shoulders shifting with purpose. His hand, impossibly steady until now, pressed back with measured strength, and in slow, inevitable seconds, her arm was forced toward the polished wood. She bit down on the sound of strain building in her throat, her eyes locked on his, but she could feel the tremor in her forearm.

The table met the back of her hand with a decisive thud.

The room erupted in cheers and laughter. Someone whistled. Someone else immediately shoved a drink into her free hand, and she exhaled, breathless, shaking out her fingers as Soshiro released her with a soft chuckle.

“Good fight,” he said, voice carrying just enough warmth to make her chest flutter. “You almost had me.”

She glared half-heartedly, taking the offered drink and tossing back a sip that burned pleasantly down her throat. The buzz of alcohol surged a little stronger now, mixing with the adrenaline still humming in her veins.

“You let me get that far,” she muttered, accusing but not entirely displeased.

He tilted his head, the softest shrug lifting one shoulder.

“Maybe I just like seeing you try.”

The words were casual, tossed out like nothing, but her stomach swooped anyway. Around them, the squad egged on the next challenge, already shoving Kafka into the chair to face Reno. The air filled again with laughter, the clinking of bottles, and the smell of skewers sizzling over the small kitchen grill. The warmth of the bar seemed to wrap around her like a second skin, heavy with smoke, sake, and the faint perfume of wood polish.

But she felt his gaze linger on her, just for a beat longer than necessary, and the corner of his mouth curved—not into a smirk this time, but something quieter. Something that made the back of her neck warm.

The roar of laughter and cheers hadn’t even settled before the chorus began.

“Rematch! Rematch!”

Glasses clinked, fists drummed on the tables, and the heat of the bar rose with the chant. Y/N could hear Kafka’s unmistakable voice leading the charge, Reno’s laughter high and nervous as he joined in, and even a few of the more stoic soldiers clapping their hands with grins on their faces. The whole room vibrated with the kind of rowdy camaraderie only a shared victory and free-flowing alcohol could bring.

Y/N leaned back in her chair, catching her breath, her forearm still tingling from the strain of the last match. Her heart was racing—part exertion, part embarrassment, and maybe part thrill. Soshiro, infuriatingly composed, sat across from her with that slight, lazy smile, as if the shouting was background noise and he had all the time in the world. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass once before setting it down, his eyes locked on her like he was waiting to see which way she’d move.

“Rematch, huh?” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else, but the squad took it as a cue to cheer louder.

Soshiro tilted his head slightly, his voice slipping through the cacophony like smooth steel.

“Only if you’re sure. Don’t want you nursing a bruised ego and a hangover.”

That earned him a few oohs from the crowd, and Y/N felt the challenge spark in her chest. She reached for the tray of small glasses someone had set down in the chaos—two shots of sake catching the golden light of the bar lamps—and lifted one in a mock salute.

“Well,” she said, her voice carrying just enough to silence a few onlookers in anticipation, “might as well be drunk enough not to be embarrassed by another loss.”

Laughter and cheers erupted again, the sound bouncing off the low ceiling and filling the smoky, warm air. She tipped the first shot back, the sharp burn sliding down her throat, heat blooming in her chest almost immediately. The second followed with only the briefest pause, and the world felt a fraction softer around the edges, the golden haze of the bar lights and the warmth of the crowd wrapping around her like a blanket.

“Atta girl!” Kafka whooped, pounding the table.

Soshiro leaned back in his chair, watching her with that same faintly amused expression, but there was a glint in his eye now, subtle and sharp, like he was already plotting how this round would go.

“You ready?” he asked.

She set the glass down with a decisive clink and pushed herself up, her legs steady but humming with energy. The squad made room immediately, voices overlapping in encouragement, and the wood floor creaked under the shifting weight of the soldiers closing in to watch. The smell of grilled meat, spilled sake, and faint sweat hung heavy in the air.

Sliding back into the chair across from him, she planted her elbow firmly on the scarred tabletop. He mirrored the motion with unhurried precision, rolling his sleeve up a little higher this time, the flex of his forearm catching her eye for just a second too long. Their hands met again, his grip warm, calloused, and solid, the skin-to-skin contact sending a little spark up her arm that had nothing to do with alcohol.

“All right,” she said, lips curving into a grin. “Round two.”

Soshiro’s smile widened just a fraction, that razor-sharp composure slipping into something more playful.

“Let’s make it interesting.”

The crowd fell into a hush for the count.

Three.

Two.

One.

The second their hands locked into movement, she realized he wasn’t holding back this time. The force behind his arm was steady and deliberate, like an ocean tide—relentless, calm, but impossible to fight for long. Her muscles screamed in protest, her fingers tightening against his as she dug her feet against the floor. The wooden chair creaked under her shifting weight, the world narrowing down to the burn in her arm, the heat in her chest, and the focused gaze of the man across from her.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. The cheering squad was background noise now, the smell of grilled food and the warmth of the bar fading under the sensation of his palm pressed to hers, the subtle slide of callouses against her skin as they strained for dominance. He didn’t look away, didn’t even blink, that same calm intensity pinning her in place like a physical touch.

Her arm wavered.

Soshiro’s hand pushed her closer to the table, inexorable as gravity, her knuckles inching toward the polished wood. A murmur rippled through the watching soldiers, voices rising with every small movement, and she could feel the tremor in her forearm growing stronger.

The table was close. Too close.

And his smile—God, that small, knowing smile—barely changed.

Her knuckles were a whisper from the wood now, the edge of the scarred tabletop cool against her skin. Every muscle in her arm trembled, a deep, burning ache radiating from her wrist up to her shoulder. She could feel the faint tremor in her core, the kind that came from holding back a flood. The smell of smoke and sake clung to the warm air, wrapping around her like a haze, but all she could really focus on was the heat of Soshiro Hoshina’s hand against hers.

He hadn’t broken a sweat.

That was what infuriated her the most.

He leaned slightly forward, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that was equal parts amused and devastatingly confident. His dark eyes watched her steadily, a predator’s patience behind the calm, like he could see the exact moment her strength would give out. He was letting her fight for every second, but his dominance in this small contest was as inevitable as the tide pulling back to shore.

“Y/N…” His voice was smooth, a low timbre that seemed to cut through the roar of the bar with no effort at all. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m—” She gritted her teeth, sweat prickling at her temple. “—not—done—yet!”

The crowd went wild, soldiers chanting her name in rhythm, banging their glasses on the tables. Kafka’s voice cut through above all others, slurred with delight.

“C’MONNNN, Y/N! DO IT FOR THE TEAM!”

The team.

That spark of mischief bloomed in her alcohol-warmed chest before she even thought about it. She narrowed her eyes at Soshiro, her lips curling in a breathless grin.

“If I win…” she managed, her voice rising over the chaos of the room, “you’re going easy on—” her arm wavered, his smirk deepened, “—the whole team in tomorrow’s drills!”

The room exploded.

Laughter, screams, whistles—glasses slammed on wood, someone actually toppled a chair in disbelief. Reno choked on his drink. Kafka nearly spit his sake, doubling over in hilarity as he slapped the table.

“Ohhh, she’s bargaining for all of us!” someone howled.

Soshiro’s brow arched, the faintest gleam of surprise in his eyes, but it melted into a cocky, knowing smile that had no right to make her heart stutter. He let a slow chuckle slip, leaning just a fraction closer, the golden light of the bar catching in the strands of his dark hair.

“You?” His voice dipped just low enough that she swore the air shifted. “Beating me… for the entire squad?”

He paused deliberately, letting the cheers and laughter swirl around them like a tide. His hand pressed ever so slightly, reminding her how close she was to defeat.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he said, every word deliberate. “If you win, I’ll go easy on all of you tomorrow.”

The bar howled, someone chanting, “Vice-Captain said it! He said it!”

“And if you lose…” he added, the corner of his mouth curving wickedly, “you’re taking another two shots and leading the morning warmup.”

Her pulse hammered. Her drunken confidence sparked like fire in her chest, even as her arm burned and her vision swam slightly from the effort and the sake. The heat of the room pressed in on her, sticky and electric, but she refused to look away from him.

“Well…” She let out a short, breathless laugh. “Can’t let the team down, can I?”

The squad erupted. Kafka shouted something incoherent. Someone pounded a rhythm against the bar. Reno’s voice cracked on a cheer.

And then she pushed.

The chair legs screeched against the wooden floor as she dug her feet in, pulling from somewhere deep—core tight, teeth grit, muscles screaming. The world shrank to the point of their joined hands, to the heat of his palm against hers, to the faint drag of callouses against her skin. Her arm wavered, trembled violently—

And then, impossibly, she began to rise.

The room gasped as one, the roar of disbelief breaking like a wave against the low ceiling. Soshiro’s brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face for the first time tonight, his smirk faltering into something sharper—focused. He adjusted his grip instinctively, leaning in, the lean lines of his forearm flexing under the light as he put his strength back into the match.

But she was already there, drunk determination and adrenaline pulling her forward like a current. Inch by inch, the balance tipped, their hands creeping upward, and her ragged breath mingled with the faint sound of his low laugh, soft and incredulous.

The soldiers were screaming now, a wall of sound vibrating through the warm, alcohol-soaked air. Someone chanted her name like a war cry. Kafka banged the table hard enough to rattle the glasses.

And with one last surge, her knuckles trembled—and then slammed his to the table.

THUD.

For one suspended heartbeat, there was silence.

Then the bar exploded.

For a split second after the thud, the only sound in the room was the soft drip of sake spilling from a tilted glass. Soshiro’s hand lay flat against the wood, her hand over his, their fingers still locked. Y/N’s chest heaved, her lungs burning from both exertion and the giddy disbelief swelling inside her. She blinked through the golden haze of the bar’s lights, trying to process what she had just done—what they had just witnessed.

Then the bar detonated.

The squad’s cheers were deafening. Boots stomped against the wooden floor, glasses clanged against tabletops, and someone in the back let out a shrill whistle that bounced off the low rafters. Kafka launched halfway out of his chair, both hands in the air, his voice cracking.

“SH—SHE DID IT! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

“VICE-CAPTAIN GOT SMOKED!” another soldier howled, nearly dropping his drink as he pounded the table.

Reno was doubled over laughing, tears in his eyes, barely managing to get out between wheezes, “He—he said he’d go easy on us—he said it—oh my god—”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, breathless, grinning in the soft, drunken glow of triumph. Her head felt pleasantly fuzzy, her skin warm under the bar’s dim light, and the laughter around her seemed to buzz like electricity against her ears. She shook out her arm—still tingling from the effort—and let her hand fall dramatically to her lap.

“I—” she panted, then laughed, the sound bubbling up bright and shameless. “I told you… can’t let the team down.”

The squad roared, chanting her name like she’d just soloed a kaiju. Someone slid another drink her way. Someone else demanded a group photo. The smell of smoke, fried skewers, and spilled alcohol thickened in the air, sweet and sharp all at once.

Across from her, Soshiro was still sitting back in his chair, one elbow propped casually on the table, his free hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. A soft laugh escaped him—deep, low, and maddeningly unbothered—as he shook his head. His dark hair caught the lamplight, shadows and gold dancing together, and when he finally looked up at her, the corners of his mouth lifted in a grin that was infuriatingly—impossibly—charming.

“Well,” he said, voice steady despite the chaos, “a deal’s a deal.”

The squad howled, clapping and pounding the table harder.

“YOU HEARD HIM! TOMORROW’S DRILL IS GONNA BE A VACATION!” Kafka bellowed, already sloshing sake in celebration.

“You better keep your word, Vice-Captain!” someone else jeered, and a wave of laughter followed.

Y/N laughed with them, the alcohol softening her edges into something loose and bright, her cheeks flushed with both drink and victory. She leaned forward over the table, chin propped in one hand, and said with a mock-innocent smile, “You know… I think I look even better winning, don’t you think?”

The soldiers ooh’d and whistled like school kids, egging her on. Reno almost fell out of his chair laughing.

Soshiro chuckled, slow and deliberate, and leaned in just slightly, enough for her to see the faint glimmer in his eyes—a quiet heat beneath all that composure.

“Enjoy it while it lasts, Y/N,” he said smoothly. “Because next time… we’re doing this on the training mat.”

The crowd oooh’d in unison, like they’d just witnessed a dramatic anime episode preview.

“And I promise you…” he continued, his grin tilting into something cocky, almost predatory, “there won’t be any flukes there.”

A ripple of laughter and gasps went through the squad, and Y/N, drunk on sake and victory, smirked right back, refusing to be intimidated.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to beat you again,” she said, slurring slightly but radiating an unshakable, golden confidence.

The bar had thinned to a lazy hum, the rowdy echoes of victory slowly giving way to the low clinking of empty glasses and the soft drag of chairs against the wooden floor. The air was heavy with smoke and the sweet-sour tang of spilled sake, the scent of grilled skewers long since faded into a faint, greasy perfume. The squad had begun to trickle out in uneven groups, some leaning on each other, some still laughing, others already singing some off-key victory tune into the humid night.

Y/N, meanwhile, was draped over the edge of her chair like a queen in her throne, a victorious, tipsy glow radiating off her in waves. Her cheeks were flushed with alcohol and triumph, and her hair had slipped from its usual neatness into an effortlessly gorgeous mess, the kind that could only happen after a night of too much fun. She was still grinning, half-lidded eyes catching the last golden spill of light from the bar lamps.

Soshiro appeared in her blurry vision, leaning down slightly, his shadow cutting across her glow. His hands were tucked in his pockets, his posture easy, but his smirk carried that familiar edge of amusement and something deeper—quietly assessing, as if he were cataloging just how drunk she actually was.

“You’re not walking back alone like this,” he said, voice low, rich, and frustratingly calm.

“I can walk,” Y/N declared, pushing herself up from the chair with grand ceremony—only for her knees to immediately wobble, forcing her to clutch the table for balance.

Soshiro’s soft chuckle was like velvet over steel.

“Mm,” he hummed, stepping closer, the faint scent of clean soap and steel meeting her nose over the haze of alcohol. “Sure you can. But we both know if I let you go alone, you’d end up sleeping in a hallway.”

She squinted up at him, trying for a scowl but landing somewhere closer to a pout. “You… you just can’t handle losing, so now you’re babysitting me.”

“Babysitting?” He laughed under his breath and leaned down just enough for her to see the faint glimmer in his eyes. “Nah. Making sure my arm-wrestling champion doesn’t walk into a wall.”

The night air hit her like a cool sheet as they stepped outside, the buzz of the bar replaced by the distant hum of cicadas and the faint glow of security lamps washing the training grounds in soft yellow. The gravel crunched under their boots as Soshiro matched his pace to her uneven one, occasionally catching her elbow when she stumbled. His grip was warm, steady, infuriatingly gentle.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow,” he said lightly, glancing down at her flushed face. “Might even wish you’d lost after all.”

She groaned, dragging her words like honey. “If… if I’m dying tomorrow, it’s your fault. You made the deal.”

“I didn’t make you drink half the bar,” he countered, his tone smooth but laced with quiet humor.

“You encouraged me,” she accused, pointing a finger up at him before nearly tripping on the edge of the path. He caught her by the elbow with the reflexes of a man who lived for combat, his hand firm against the bare skin of her forearm for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice softening just a fraction.

Y/N mumbled something incoherent, her head dipping forward as her hair fell into her face, and he sighed, adjusting his hold to guide her more securely. By the time they reached the barracks, the soft hum of night surrounded them, and the last traces of the bar’s noise had faded into memory.

He stopped at her door, letting her lean against the frame as he pulled her key from her slack fingers and unlocked it for her. The hallway light threw a warm shadow across his face as he glanced at her again, that same teasing smirk pulling at his mouth.

“You know,” he said, voice smooth and low, “this means tomorrow, I get to see the mighty Y/N brought down by a hangover instead of a kaiju.”

She made a noise of protest, mumbling something like, “M’gonna beat you again…” as she shuffled inside, and he laughed under his breath, the sound lingering in the quiet hall as he watched her disappear into the room.

“Sleep it off, champ,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Tomorrow’s gonna hurt.”

#kaiju no. eight #kaiju n8 #kaiju number 8 #kaiju no. 8 #kaiju #kafka hibino #reno ichikawa #soshiro x reader #hosina soshiro x y/n #soshiro hoshina x reader #hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro hoshina #hoshina #kn8 soshiro #narumi x reader #i’m baiting you with narumi mb

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cherryfcola · 4 days ago

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Hi! I really enjoy how you write confident/dom characters! They’re always so much fun to read! Would you consider doing some Kaiju No. 8 headcanons for Gen, Hoshina, Reno, and Haruichi inspired by Seven Minutes in Heaven by Mindless Self Indulgence? It could be in canon or an AU, whatever inspires you! 🩶

Seven Minutes in Heaven Headcanons

You got roped into playing Spin the Bottle at a Defense Force party, and now you’re stuck in a closet for seven minutes with them. Here’s how each of the boys would handle it- assuming they’re in a confident, dom-ish mood, per anon’s request!

A/N: Anon, if this were a perfect match to the song it’d definitely drift into NSFW territory 🌸 but since you didn’t specify, I kept it safe for now! If you ever want the full NSFW version, my inbox is open!

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Soshiro Hoshina

♡. Oh, he's thriving the second you're in that closet together. No. hesitation, no nerves.

♡. Braces one hand on the wall behind you and leans in just enough to make your knees weak.

♡. "Seven minutes, huh? Bet I can make you beg for more in three."

♡. Enjoys every flicker of surprise, every quickened breath, every tiny reaction you give him.

♡. Leaves you dizzy and wanting by the end—he loves having that effect on you.

The door shut with a soft click, cutting off the noise of the party outside. Darkness swallowed the cramped closet, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then, from somewhere in the dark, came that familiar drawl.

"Well, ain't this a fun little setup."

Your breath hitched as Soshiro shifted closer, the faint rustle of his clothes betraying his movement. He didn't need to see you to know exactly where you were—his presence filled the tiny space effortlessly. A warm hand slid against the wall beside your head, and just like that, he'd caged you in.

"Seven minutes," he said casually, voice low and teasing. "Think we can make it interesting?"

The light filtering under the door barely illuminated the outline of his grin, sharp and amused. He leaned in just enough for you to feel the warmth of him, his other hand resting lightly on your hip. His touch wasn't rough, but firm enough to remind you who was in control here.

"You're real quiet," he murmured, head tilting as he studied your frozen posture. "Nervous?"

When you didn't answer, his fingers flexed on your hip, pulling you a fraction closer.

"Mm. I like that. Makes it more fun."

Before you could gather your thoughts, he bent his head, his lips brushing your ear as he spoke.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll take it easy on you..." A beat passed, and his voice dipped lower, velvety and dangerous. "...unless you want me to do otherwise."

The shiver that ran through you was all the permission he needed. He tilted your chin up with two fingers, slow and deliberate, and captured your lips in a kiss that was both unhurried and devastating. He kissed like he had all the time in the world—deep, thorough, savoring every twitch and gasp.

When he finally drew back a breath, his thumb traced over your lower lip, smirking at the way you chased him without even thinking.

"Cute," he said softly. "Didn't take much to get you like this, huh?"

He kissed you again, harder this time, pressing you gently but firmly against the wall. His hand slid up your side, lingering at your waist, holding you steady as his mouth moved against yours. Every once in a while, he pulled back just far enough to make you whine in frustration—each sound earning a low, satisfied chuckle.

"You're squirming," he teased, lips brushing your jaw as he worked his way toward your neck. "Feels good, doesn't it? Bet you weren't expectin' me to be this much trouble in seven minutes."

By the time the doorknob rattled and light spilled into the closet, your lips were kiss-swollen and your breathing uneven. Soshiro barely looked ruffled, that easy grin plastered across his face as he leaned back.

"Guess time's up," he said, like the two of you hadn't just shared a moment that left

Gen Narumi

♡. Cocky as hell, like he already knows he's your best (and worst) decision tonight.

♡. The second the door shuts, he leans in close, voice lazy but laced with authority.

♡."C'mon, don't get shy on me now. You've got seven minutes... better make 'em count."

♡. Smirks when you fumble for words, brushing his fingers along your jaw to make you look at him.

♡. He's all confidence, all control—teasing you just to see how flustered he can get you before the timer runs out.

The closet door shut with a soft click, and the sudden darkness was almost disorienting.

There was a pause, then a soft, amused snort.

"...Hah. Wow. Out of everyone, I get stuck with you?"

The way he said it made your stomach flip—teasing, but with that unmistakable Narumi grin in his voice.

"You're awfully quiet," he said, footsteps shuffling closer on the wooden floor. "What, did I scare you already? Or are you just shy?"

You opened your mouth to say something, but before the words came out, he'd already found you in the dark. A hand landed against the wall by your head, his body just close enough that you could feel the heat of him. His other hand slid to your waist, warm and sure, and he hummed when you stiffened.

"Relax," he said lightly, leaning in so his breath brushed your cheek. "We're just playin' a game... unless you're hoping for more."

You barely had time to process the tease before he tilted your chin up with his fingers and kissed you. The first kiss was quick, testing, and then—when you didn't pull away—he deepened it, confident and a little reckless. His thumb stroked your jaw, guiding you exactly where he wanted you, and he laughed quietly against your lips.

"Mmm... yeah," he murmured, pulling back just enough to talk, "I knew you'd taste sweet."

Every time you tried to follow his mouth, he dodged, letting you chase him, obviously loving how flustered you were getting. He dipped his head to your neck, lips brushing over the skin as he muttered, almost to himself:

"Seven minutes isn't enough for me. I could keep you in here all night."

You let out a shaky breath, and he laughed softly, his hand squeezing your hip before he kissed you again—slower this time, like he wanted to savor the last few seconds.

The doorknob rattled, and light spilled into the closet. He leaned back immediately, running a hand through his hair, looking completely unfazed while you were left breathless against the wall.

"Well," he said with a lazy grin, "guess that's my cue. Fun while it lasted, though, huh?"

And with that, he sauntered out like he hadn't just left you weak in the knees.

Reno Ichikawa

♡. Nervous for about three seconds... and then something in him clicks.

♡. Smirks as he notices your eyes on him, tilting your chin up with surprising confidence.

♡. "Relax. I know exactly what you need."

♡. He's not as experienced, but he's eager and assertive in his own way, taking charge of the moment with reckless boldness.

♡. Loves the idea that no one else gets to see you like this—flushed and hanging onto his every move.

The door clicked shut, and the closet went dark.

For a moment, there was only the faint sound of your breathing—then Reno's voice broke the silence, warm and amused.

"...Well. This is one way to spend a party."

You could hear him shifting in the dark, the creak of the floor as he leaned casually against something.

"Seven minutes, huh? What do you think—just stand here and stare at each other, or...?"

When you didn't answer right away, he laughed quietly to himself.

"...Ohhh, you're nervous. That's kinda cute."

He took a step closer, and suddenly he was right in front of you. The closet felt even smaller with his body heat filling the space. He lifted one hand to the wall by your head, leaning in just enough for your pulse to spike.

"Relax," he said softly, his voice dipping into something smoother. "Promise I'll make it worth your while."

Your breath caught, and he chuckled, thumb brushing over your hip now that he'd found it in the dark.

"Whoa—see? Barely touched you and you're already twitchy."

Then he kissed you.

It was quick and warm, like he was testing you. The little gasp you made had him grinning against your lips before he leaned in again, slower this time, his hand tugging you closer by the waist. Reno kissed like he was having fun—confident, a little greedy, but unhurried enough to savor how flustered you were getting.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his voice low and teasing.

"...Heh. I could get used to that."

You barely had time to process the heat in your chest before he kissed you again, quicker this time, like he couldn't help himself. Every little sound you made earned a soft laugh from him, his thumb drawing lazy circles on your side.

By the time the door swung open, your lips were kiss-swollen, your breathing uneven, and Reno... looked like he'd just walked out of a daydream. He shot you a cheeky, lopsided smile before strolling out of the closet like nothing happened.

"Guess that's time," he said, tossing a wink over his shoulder. "Not bad for seven minutes, huh?"

Haruichi Izumo

♡. Playful and smooth—he's confident without overthinking it, moving like he's done this a hundred times.

♡. Steps into your space easily, one hand slipping around your waist with a casual grin. His voice is low and warm, but lighter than teasing: "Relax. Let's make this fun."

♡. He kisses you like he's enjoying himself, switching between soft and eager, laughing softly whenever he feels you react.

♡. Watches your expressions like he's savoring them, adjusting his pace to keep things exciting without feeling like a game.

♡. By the time the door opens, you're flushed and breathless, and Haruichi just flashes an easy, satisfied smile—like those seven minutes were exactly how he wanted to spend them.

The door clicked shut, muffling the sounds of the party outside. Darkness settled over the tiny closet, and for a second, neither of you moved.

Then, Haruichi's voice came, light and easy, like he was already smiling.

"...Well, guess we're doing this."

You let out a small laugh, nerves buzzing in your chest. He took that as his cue to step closer, his movements smooth and unhurried. Even without seeing him, you could feel his presence filling the little space.

"You're quiet," he said, amusement lacing his tone. "Nervous, or just waiting for me to make the first move?"

Before you could answer, his hand found your waist, fingers curling there with a comfortable familiarity. His other arm braced against the wall beside your head, and suddenly, he was close enough that his warmth seeped through the dark.

"Relax," he said, voice low but playful. "Let's make this fun."

Then he kissed you.

The first kiss was soft, testing, like he was easing you into it. When your breath hitched, he grinned against your lips and tilted his head, deepening it just a little. He kissed like he was savoring the moment—not rushed, not teasing, just... enjoying himself.

A soft hum rumbled in his chest as he pulled back slightly, his forehead brushing yours.

"Mm... you're not a bad kisser," he murmured, his tone light, almost like he was giving you a compliment in passing. "I could get used to this."

Before you could reply, he went back in for another kiss—longer this time, a little hungrier, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your hip. Every little sound you made earned a quiet laugh or a pleased hum from him, not mocking, just happy.

"You're fun," he said between kisses, his voice warm with amusement. "Way better than I expected for a closet game."

He kept the pace playful—sometimes pulling back just to see if you'd chase him, sometimes catching you off guard with a sudden, eager kiss that left your heart racing. And the whole time, he was smiling, the kind of smile you could feel more than see.

By the time the doorknob rattled and light spilled into the closet, your lips were kiss-swollen and your breathing uneven. Haruichi, on the other hand, looked effortlessly put together, his hair only slightly mussed, that easy grin plastered across his face.

"Well," he said, stepping out and offering a hand to help you out, "that was seven minutes well spent."

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cherryfcola · 4 days ago

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Hi, I was wondering if you can do, like, Hoshina Soshiro x Reader where they're in secret relationship, I'm a sucker for that troupe and I know its common but... Like, it would be funny if Reader got uno reverse him back by getting him flustered after being teased for months by him, then being caught in 4k by the time that Hoshina got flustered.

—💭

Title: Pinned and Flustered

Fandom: Kaiju No. 8

Pairing: Soshiro Hoshina x Fem!Reader

Rating: G

Genre: Romantic Comedy (idk I’m bad with genres)

Word Count: 5.2k

Summary: A sparring match gets out of hand, and for the first time, Vice-Captain Hoshina finds himself completely flustered—and the squad takes notice.

💌A/N: Thank you to the anon for the request! I hope this is something like what you had in mind 🤍

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The late afternoon light seeped into the Defense Force training hall in golden streaks, slanting through the tall glass windows and scattering across the floor like ribbons of molten amber. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams, suspended in the warm, quiet air that carried the faint smell of oiled weaponry and well-worn mats. The polished surface of the floor gleamed under the sun, interrupted only by the soft scuffs of sneakers and the muted thuds of distant sparring. Y/N had been here countless times, but the room felt different today. He was here. And his presence had a way of sharpening every edge, every sensation, until her skin tingled with a restless heat that had nothing to do with exercise.

Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina stood near the weapons rack, posture casual yet deceptively alert, the same easy confidence he carried into battle bleeding into his every movement. His dark hair caught the light, and when he turned slightly, the shadows painted his features in a way that made him look carved from something timeless. He didn’t speak at first—he didn’t need to. The weight of his gaze found her the moment she stepped onto the mat, threading an invisible line between them, one she’d been toeing for months. He smiled—not the wide, showy grin he sometimes gave the rookies to keep morale high, but a private, knowing curve of his lips that was just sharp enough to make her heart trip over itself.

“Y/N,” he said evenly, nodding toward her as if she were simply another soldier under his watch. His voice was calm, professional, the deep timbre carrying easily across the hall. To anyone listening, it was the vice-captain doing his job, acknowledging one of his trainees. But to her, it was a spark against dry tinder, because she could hear the faintest warmth beneath the formality, the subtle thread of recognition only she would catch.

She nodded back, schooling her features into the same careful neutrality. “Vice-Captain.”

They had become experts at this dance, the two of them. Secret glances that lasted just a heartbeat too long. Hands brushing under the cover of passing equipment. Late nights where they lingered on the training grounds long after everyone else had gone, voices hushed and laughter caught in the dark. More than once, they had nearly been caught. She could still remember the rush of blood to her face the night he had leaned down in the armory to murmur some low, teasing comment while checking her gear—only for another officer to stride in, forcing them to spring apart like nothing had happened. Or the mission briefing last week, when he’d stood behind her, close enough that his sleeve had brushed her elbow, and whispered a joke that made her choke on her own breath, drawing several curious looks from the table.

He never lost his composure. Hoshina always had the upper hand, his smirk sharp and his voice just low enough to make her knees feel unsteady. Even now, as the squad gathered in the open space for warm-ups, she could feel him orbiting the room like a quiet storm, his presence grazing the edge of her awareness no matter where he stood.

“Alright, team,” he called, his tone brisk but not harsh, hands on his hips as he surveyed the hall. “Let’s start with drills. Two lines. Move.”

The group obeyed instantly, splitting into lines as the vice-captain began the session with a series of coordinated exercises. Y/N slipped into the rhythm of the routine, her body moving on instinct, but she could feel the tension coiled low in her stomach. Every so often, his shadow fell across her, his voice cutting through the sound of footsteps and controlled breaths.

“Adjust your stance,” he said when he passed by her, the faintest glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Feet a little wider. You’re leaning forward too much.”

It was innocuous, entirely appropriate, and yet the low rumble of his voice brushed over her skin like a touch. She corrected her form, jaw tight, but the corner of his mouth twitched as if he could read every thought she wasn’t saying. He moved on, offering corrections to others, leaving her to wrestle with the heat creeping up her neck.

The warm-ups gave way to partnered drills, and as the squad shifted into pairs, she caught his gaze again, a spark of mischief flickering in the depths. He didn’t approach her—not yet—but the awareness that he could, at any moment, thrummed in her chest. They rotated partners every few minutes, cycling through combinations, and at one point, when she was focused on blocking a blow from another officer, she felt it: a brief brush against her lower back, feather-light, gone as soon as she registered it. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was across the mat, seemingly preoccupied with correcting someone else’s footwork. But the smirk he wore was unmistakable, a private little victory he hadn’t even earned yet.

It was always like this with Soshiro Hoshina. A game of patience and control, one he played with effortless mastery. And every time, she swore she wouldn’t let him win.

The warm-up drills wound down, leaving the room heavy with the collective heat of the squad’s exertion. The mats smelled faintly of rubber and sweat, carrying the subtle sharpness of effort, and every inhale filled Y/N’s lungs with the comforting weight of routine. Her muscles thrummed with energy, a slow pulse in her legs and arms as she rolled her shoulders, already anticipating the next instruction. Soshiro Hoshina’s gaze flicked over the squad with that habitual sharpness, eyes calculating, assessing, but when they landed on her, it was like a spark ignited somewhere low in her chest. He didn’t linger—he never did, not in public—but she still felt the echo of his attention like the ghost of a touch, a reminder that he was always two steps ahead in this game they played.

“Alright,” his voice rang out, smooth and commanding, carrying over the soft sounds of shifting feet and quiet conversation. “Pair up. We’re moving into hand-to-hand sparring. Focus is close combat control. Think leverage, not just strength.”

A ripple of energy moved through the squad as soldiers sought their partners, some with eager grins, others with nervous glances. She felt the familiar rush of adrenaline flood her veins, the tingling anticipation of being tested not just on raw ability but on instinct and precision. She barely had time to glance toward the forming pairs before she heard his next words.

“Y/N, you’re with me.”

There was nothing unusual in his tone—calm, professional, the exact voice he’d use for any soldier—but her heartbeat betrayed her anyway, slamming against her ribs. A few of the squad members glanced over, interest flickering in their eyes, because of course the vice-captain sparring with anyone always drew attention. She kept her expression neutral, nodding once, but she swore she caught the faintest curve of his lips as he moved toward her, casual as ever, like this wasn’t the very thing she’d been both dreading and waiting for all day.

He stopped in front of her, rolling his shoulders back as he assessed her stance. His presence was overwhelming up close, a heat and solidity that commanded attention without ever demanding it. His voice was low when he spoke, but still loud enough for the room.

“You ready?”

“Yes, Vice-Captain,” she replied, forcing the words to come out steady.

“Good. Don’t hold back.”

The first exchange was fast, her body moving almost before her brain could catch up. He was precise, controlled, every step and strike calculated to test her reflexes. She blocked, ducked, and countered, but he was always just one move ahead, forcing her to adapt, to react on instinct. He swept her leg, and she hit the mat with a muted thud, breath leaving her in a quick rush. He offered a hand immediately, the picture of professionalism.

“Again,” he said simply, as if he hadn’t just stolen the air from her lungs.

They went again. And again. And again. Each round blurred into the next, sweat prickling at the back of her neck, her breaths coming shorter, sharper, as he pushed her harder. He wasn’t cruel, never cruel, but he was relentless, every smirk and glint in his eye daring her to match him. Each time she fell, he helped her up without hesitation, his grip firm, fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment before he released her. It was nothing, it was everything.

By the third round, the room was a cacophony of muffled impacts and grunts of exertion, the air thick with heat and effort. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing when he closed in, the scent of sweat and faint cologne a dizzying reminder of just how close he was. She tried to focus on his movements, on the way his muscles shifted under his uniform, on the sharp glint of his eyes tracking every twitch of hers. But the distraction was part of the game, and he knew it.

“Your stance is slipping,” he murmured as he pivoted around her, his voice quiet enough that only she could hear. “Thinking about something else?”

Her cheeks burned, and she lunged to cover the fluster, a strike aimed for his shoulder that he sidestepped effortlessly. He caught her wrist mid-swing, his grip hot and unyielding for a heartbeat before he twisted just enough to throw her momentum off, sending her tumbling to the mat again. A few squadmates chuckled at the dramatic sweep, but not in a mean way—Hoshina was a notoriously difficult opponent.

“Focus, Y/N,” he said, voice perfectly neutral, though the smirk tugging at his lips told a different story.

She gritted her teeth, pushing up from the mat, her muscles singing with exertion. He stood over her, hand offered again, professional, impassive, like he wasn’t the same man who had whispered teasing nothings to her in the shadows of the armory last week. The game was cruel and addictive in equal measure.

Round after round, the rhythm built between them, the space around them tightening as the squad subtly turned more attention their way. She could feel eyes on them now, could hear the murmurs of appreciation or disbelief every time she managed to last longer than the last bout. Her chest rose and fell in sharp bursts, her skin damp, her hair sticking to her forehead, and still he moved with that infuriating grace, as if this was only a warm-up for him. His smirk deepened every time her breath hitched or her eyes flicked somewhere they shouldn’t—like the line of his throat, or the way his fingers flexed before a strike.

Then came the fifth round. The one where everything changed.

He lunged, and she met him halfway, the impact of their clash reverberating through her bones. The world narrowed to the heat of his body against hers, the echo of his breath, the low hum of the training hall as the squad paused to watch them in earnest. Her mind screamed at her to focus, to block, to counter, but another part of her was screaming something entirely different, a want tangled up in adrenaline and frustration. He caught her wrist again, spun her, and she barely twisted free, landing in a crouch that left her facing him with fire in her veins.

The vice-captain straightened, a soft, knowing chuckle spilling from his chest. “Better,” he said, voice carrying just enough to sound like encouragement to the others, but the glint in his eyes told her he meant something else entirely.

The fifth round had left her lungs burning, her arms trembling with effort, but there was something in the vice-captain’s eyes—a glimmer of challenge, of amusement—that struck at the core of her stubbornness. Y/N straightened, rolling her shoulders back, forcing her breathing into something measured even as her pulse raced like a drum beneath her skin. The training hall seemed to narrow around them, the background murmur of the squad fading to a dull hum, as though the world itself had slowed to witness this one, inevitable clash. Soshiro Hoshina waited, poised and relaxed, his smirk the sharpest blade in the room. He had been in control all afternoon, reading her like an open book, letting her frustration simmer under the calm heat of his gaze. But she was done playing defense.

He moved first, the faint squeak of his shoes against the mat heralding the blur of his approach. She braced, body coiled, every nerve alight as he feinted left, then pivoted right, his hand snapping out to catch her wrist like it had so many times before. But this time she was ready. Her body twisted with the momentum, sliding beneath his arm with a sudden burst of speed that startled even him. She dropped low, sweeping her leg with a clean, decisive motion that hooked his ankle just enough to throw off his balance. His grunt of surprise was soft, almost inaudible, but it was there, and the thrill of it sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Before he could recover, she surged upward, using her weight and momentum to drive him back. The mats thudded beneath them as he hit the ground, not hard enough to hurt but enough to knock the wind from his lungs for a fleeting second. Her body followed instinctively, pinning him in place—hips pressing flush against his, thighs bracketing his waist, her knees digging lightly into the mat to trap his legs. Her hands found his wrists, pressing them down with a strength she hadn’t realized she had, fueled by determination and the electric charge that crackled in the narrow space between them.

The hall went quiet.

Hoshina stared up at her, his usually sharp composure fractured by the rarest flicker of surprise. His chest rose and fell beneath her, the solid heat of him seeping through the thin layers of their uniforms. For a heartbeat, for an eternity, neither of them moved. The air around them was thick with the scent of sweat and something headier, the pounding of her pulse so loud in her ears she almost didn’t hear the muffled reactions from the squad behind her. A murmur here, a low whistle there—half in awe, half in disbelief that someone had managed to floor the vice-captain so cleanly.

She leaned down, close enough that her hair brushed his cheek, her lips a whisper’s distance from his ear. Her voice was low, soft enough that no one else could possibly hear, but heavy with the thrill of victory and something more dangerous.

“Got you,” she murmured, letting the words linger for a beat before adding, just barely audible, “You look good down here.”

The effect was instantaneous. Soshiro Hoshina—Vice-Captain of the Defense Force, unshakable in battle, teasing and composed in all things—went utterly still. His dark eyes widened a fraction, the first true crack in his armor, and a wash of color rose along the edge of his cheekbones, faint but undeniable. He blinked up at her, momentarily robbed of that infuriating smirk, his usual clever retorts caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. It was a fleeting, precious sight: the man who always had the upper hand, disarmed in every sense of the word.

She felt the tremor of his breath beneath her, the tension in the muscles of his arms where she pinned him down, and the subtle shift of his hips beneath her weight. His lips parted, but no sound came, and the silence between them stretched taut as a bowstring. It was intoxicating, the power of it, the reversal of roles, and she let herself savor it for just a moment longer. The squad was still watching, still murmuring, probably thinking this was just the most impressive sparring victory of the day—but if any of them could see his face clearly, they might have thought otherwise.

Finally, he exhaled, a low, controlled breath that trembled just slightly on its way out.

“…Y/N,” he said, voice a shade rougher than usual, as if he were dragging the word up through gravel.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, a private little echo of his own favorite weapon.

The world seemed to hold its breath around them, the training hall bathed in late-afternoon light, the warm glow catching on the sheen of sweat across their skin. Y/N hovered over Soshiro Hoshina, pinning him to the mat like a victorious predator, and for once, he wasn’t wearing that insufferable smirk. His usual calm, cocky composure had cracked, leaving behind a rare, unguarded look—wide eyes, faint color dusting his sharp cheekbones, the barest hitch in his breath that betrayed just how thoroughly she had turned the tables. It was a sight she would burn into her memory forever.

The murmurs from the squad behind her were impossible to ignore now. Low whispers rippled across the room, punctuated by the soft squeak of shoes as soldiers shifted for a better view. A couple of voices rose in surprise—someone even let out a quiet laugh of disbelief, though whether at the takedown itself or the vice-captain’s stunned expression, she couldn’t tell. The weight of their attention pressed in from all sides, and for the first time, the heat rushing to her face wasn’t just from exertion.

Hoshina finally blinked, a subtle flicker of awareness returning to his gaze as though he, too, was realizing just how many eyes were on them. His lips parted, then pressed into a thin line, his jaw tightening with the effort of reclaiming his composure. But it was too late. She could see the minute tremor in his hands where her grip held him down, the faint flush that refused to leave his face, the way his breath came just a fraction uneven. For a man who prided himself on poise and control, it was damning evidence—and his squad had front-row seats.

From the corner of the room, a soft, distinct click cut through the quiet. Someone had snapped a photo. Then another. A hushed snicker followed, joined by a stifled laugh that spread like a spark jumping between dry leaves. She didn’t need to turn her head to know at least one of them had captured the exact moment—the vice-captain, pinned to the floor by one of his own soldiers, his usual mask nowhere to be found.

A sharp exhale left his chest, and his voice, when it came, was low enough to barely carry over the sound of the squad’s muffled amusement.

“…You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

She leaned in just enough for him to feel the warmth of her breath against his ear, letting the smile curl at her lips where only he could see it.

“Maybe a little,” she murmured, savoring the flicker of heat that returned to his face before she finally shifted back, releasing his wrists and rolling to her feet with a smooth, deliberate motion.

The moment her weight left him, he pushed himself up with a sudden fluidity, dusting off his uniform and straightening with as much dignity as a man who had just been thoroughly pinned could manage. The faint smirk returned, but it was a shadow of his usual one, tempered by the faint glow in his cheeks and the sidelong glances he refused to meet. Around them, the squad had barely resumed their training, many still sneaking glances or whispering in not-so-hushed tones.

“Good form, Y/N,” he said, voice steady now, professional on the surface but with a subtle edge that only she would recognize. “I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you, Vice-Captain,” she replied, her tone perfectly polite, though the faintest lilt at the end gave away her own triumph.

As they reset for the next rotation, a ripple of laughter broke from the far side of the room, one of the younger squad members muttering something about “never seeing that before” before being promptly shushed by a teammate. Hoshina’s eye twitched, just barely, and she caught it—a silent promise that this wasn’t over, that he’d reclaim the upper hand sooner rather than later. He leaned in under the guise of brushing a stray thread from his sleeve, his voice a velvet whisper only she could hear.

“Enjoy the victory while you can,” he said, the faintest rumble of amusement laced through the threat. “I’m getting you back for this.”

She smiled, turning away just enough that the squad wouldn’t see the expression softening her features.

“I look forward to it.”

By the time training wrapped for the day, the air in the hall felt thick with unspoken curiosity, whispers of the moment already circulating like wildfire. The vice-captain had been floored, caught off-guard for the first time in recent memory, and while no one had evidence of anything more than an intense sparring session, the image of him pinned, flushed, and uncharacteristically silent would linger with the squad for days to come. Y/N walked off the mat with her pulse still thrumming, heat still coiled low in her chest, and the knowledge that she had claimed a rare victory—one she could savor in private later, preferably when he inevitably tried to reclaim the upper hand.

And judging by the sidelong look he threw her as the squad began to disperse, dark eyes glinting with something between mischief and a promise, that moment was coming sooner than she thought.

The off-duty lounge was alive with the warmth of laughter and the low clink of glasses, the air thick with the mingled scents of fried snacks, grilled meat, and the faint tang of alcohol. Laughter rose in uneven waves, spilling over into the hum of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair against the wooden floor. Dim lighting cast the room in a cozy golden glow, softened by the steam rising from shared hotpots in the center of the long tables. It was the kind of night the Defense Force rookies lived for: a rare exhale after grueling training, surrounded by teammates instead of kaiju.

Y/N sat tucked among the squad, the edge of her thigh brushing someone else’s in the cramped space, her drink warming her hand. Across from her, Soshiro Hoshina lounged in the way only he could—relaxed yet commanding, his uniform jacket shed to reveal the crisp black undershirt stretched across his chest, the lean lines of his arms catching in the soft light. His smirk was as dangerous here as it was on the battlefield, though softer around the edges with the haze of camaraderie and the faint flush of alcohol. He bantered easily with the rookies, deflecting their questions and teasing in that infuriatingly smooth tone, earning nervous laughs and red faces in turn.

Kafka’s voice carried above the rest, animated and loud as he retold some overblown version of the day’s drills, and Kikoru’s sharp retorts punctuated his rambling every other sentence. Someone clinked a glass for a toast, and voices rose in a cheer, the warmth of the room swelling with it. Y/N allowed herself to relax into the sound, into the familiar buzz of belonging, all the while aware of the occasional brush of Hoshina’s gaze, brief and unspoken, a tether no one else could see.

The night was a comfortable blur of laughter and drinks until a sudden, collective intake of breath pulled her back into focus. One of the younger squad members—one of the same ones who had been hovering near the mats earlier during hand-to-hand training—had pulled out their phone, the screen glowing like a beacon in the dim room.

“Hey, hey, you guys…” they said, already grinning like they’d unearthed treasure. “You’re not gonna believe this—look at this shot I got during sparring earlier.”

Y/N’s stomach tightened in a rush of premonition.

Across the table, Hoshina arched a brow, his voice all easy humor. “This better not be a photo of me making you look bad. I thought I taught you all better than to keep evidence like that.”

“Nope. Better.”

The rookie turned the screen outward.

And there it was.

A perfectly-timed photo of the vice-captain himself—flat on his back on the training mats, wrists pinned, hair just slightly mussed from impact, and, worst of all, the faint but unmistakable flush painting his sharp cheekbones. His eyes were wide in that fraction of a second where his composure had shattered, his usual smirk absent, leaving him looking younger, startled, and undeniably… human. Vulnerable.

The table erupted.

“Oh my god, Vice-Captain!”

“No way that’s real—look at his face!”

“You actually blushed! I didn’t think it was possible!”

Someone choked on their drink. Another whipped out their own phone to snap a picture of the picture, the rookie half-shielding it while laughing too hard to care. The mix of cackles, groans, and gleeful commentary bounced off the walls, rising in volume until even the rookies at the far end of the table leaned in to get a look. Kafka slapped the table, wheezing, while Kikoru stared like she couldn’t decide if she was horrified or impressed.

Hoshina’s smirk had frozen, his gaze narrowing just enough to be dangerous—but the damage was done. His own squad, the rookies he commanded and mentored, were witnessing the rarest of sights: the unshakable vice-captain, caught off guard. His hand slid over his mouth for a moment, as if he could physically wipe the expression off the memory, but the subtle pink still lingering at his ears betrayed him.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice low and deceptively calm, “who’s ready for double laps tomorrow?”

The table howled with laughter, the threat doing little to cool the gleeful chaos. Someone whispered “worth it” loud enough to earn a bark of laughter from Kafka.

Through it all, Y/N nursed her drink, doing her absolute best to keep her expression neutral while heat coiled in her chest. She could feel his eyes on her, the faintest twitch of his brow, a silent message that she would pay for this later—whether or not anyone else knew the real reason behind that flustered look. She just sipped her drink and let the corner of her mouth curve ever so slightly, the taste of victory still sweet on her tongue.

The night had thinned by the time Y/N slipped away from the noise, the laughter of the squad still echoing faintly down the hallway behind her. The off-duty lounge had been warm and raucous, but the quiet of the empty corridor was almost a relief, the cool air a soothing contrast to the heat in her skin from the drinks and the lingering thrill of the evening’s chaos. She could still hear fragments of the rookies’ laughter in her head, see the glow of that incriminating photo like an afterimage behind her eyes.

The memory alone was enough to curl a small, secret smile across her lips. The great Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina, flushed and pinned, caught for all to see. Even now, the look on his face when the photo was revealed—the tightening of his jaw, the twitch at the corner of his brow—was delicious enough to make her want to laugh again. She hummed to herself as she reached the locker hall, tugging at the zipper of her jacket with the slow, lazy satisfaction of someone who had thoroughly earned their victory.

“Having fun, aren’t you?”

His voice slid out of the shadows before she could even register his presence. Smooth, unhurried, laced with the kind of quiet amusement that made her pulse skip. She froze mid-step, head tilting to the side as he emerged from the dim corner by the lockers, his undershirt clinging to his frame, his hair a little mussed, eyes glinting like a blade under the soft overhead light. Soshiro Hoshina leaned against the wall with the kind of casual grace that came from years of command, arms folded loosely, the ghost of a smirk playing across his lips.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Vice-Captain,” she said, keeping her tone even, her hands still busy with the zipper of her jacket.

“Mm.” He pushed off the wall with easy steps, slow and deliberate, and she felt the air shift as he closed the distance. “You were awfully quiet tonight. Thought maybe you were savoring something.”

She took a step back without meaning to, her spine brushing against the cool metal of the lockers, heart beginning to pound in anticipation rather than fear. He stopped close—close enough that she could smell the faint mix of soap and the sharp tang of alcohol clinging to his skin, close enough that the heat of his body contrasted with the cool metal at her back. His smirk deepened by a fraction, and he reached up—not touching her, not yet—just bracing a hand against the locker beside her head, caging her in without force.

“That photo,” he said softly, almost conversational. “You seemed… entertained.”

“I wasn’t the only one,” she replied, proud of how steady her voice sounded, though the warmth in her chest was climbing fast.

“No,” he agreed, tilting his head just slightly, his eyes catching the low light in a way that made them sharper, more dangerous. “But you’re the only one who earned it.”

She felt her throat tighten, a pulse jumping there that she knew he could see. His other hand came up, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of her jaw—not enough to startle, just enough to remind her how close he was, how easily he could close the space between them.

“You think you can just pin me like that,” he murmured, his voice lowering, a soft rumble she could feel as much as hear, “whisper things like that, and walk away laughing with the rookies?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but the way the words trembled at the edges betrayed her.

His smile turned wolfish, but his movements stayed slow, controlled, deliberate. His thumb traced a faint line along her jaw, then down the curve of her neck where her pulse fluttered wildly. The hallway felt impossibly quiet now, the distant hum of the base and the muted thrum of her own heartbeat the only sounds.

“I warned you I’d get you back,” he said, leaning in close enough that his breath ghosted against her ear. “And I don’t need a camera to do it.”

The shiver that rolled down her spine was instant, betraying her more thoroughly than any words could. He lingered for one heartbeat, two, letting the tension coil between them like a drawn bow, before finally pulling back, his usual calm composure fully restored—and that infuriating, devastating smirk firmly in place again.

“Sleep well, Y/N,” he said, turning to walk away as though nothing had happened, leaving her pressed against the lockers, pulse hammering, skin still tingling where his touch had traced.

67 notes · View notes

cherryfcola · 4 days ago

Note

Can you do Prince!Sonic x Knight!Fem!reader smut where reader feel likes that she isn't worthy of love so she keeps quiet about her feelings towards Sonic until he finds it out from her diary?

(Also could you have a hint of vanilla sex and Praise kink in there?)

Title: Under the Moon, My Queen

Pairing: Prince!Sonic x Fem!Knight!Reader

Word Count: 6.9k

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: Slow burn to full intimacy, knight/prince dynamic, heavy praise, romantic worship, oral (f!receiving), penetrative smut, filthy loving confessions, body worship, reader self-esteem issues, slight breeding talk,soft dominant Sonic.

💌 A/N: Thank you to the anon who inspired this one—you own my heart for real 🤭💙

Main Masterlist Here!

Ask Masterlist Here!

The castle was alive in its own quiet way at dusk, the halls humming softly with the muted resonance of a thousand years of history. Shadows draped themselves across stone walls, long and elegant, where torches licked faintly against the drafty air, their light making the marble floors glisten like shallow water. Prince Sonic’s footsteps were the only sound interrupting the heavy stillness, each padded step reverberating in small echoes that melted into the vast corridors. He always felt a certain freedom in these moments when the day had finally relented, when the court had dispersed, and he could slip out of his royal persona like a too-tight coat. Tonight, his thoughts were fixed on one thing, and one thing only—her. His knight, his protector, the pulse of his days. He wanted to see her, maybe coax her into a spar, maybe run under the moonlight like they used to before the weight of titles and duties began pressing down like a vise. She always laughed at his insistence that she was the only one who could keep up with him, and he always pretended it wasn’t the truth.

When he reached her chamber, the wooden door was ajar just enough to tempt him, a sliver of moonlight spilling across the floorboards in a pale, inviting line. He paused, hand hovering in the air, intending to knock—but something made him hesitate. His ears twitched, attuned to the silence. She wasn’t here. He could feel it. No gentle scrape of armor shifting, no faint inhale or exhale to mark her presence. The air smelled faintly of her soap, floral and clean, touched by steel and leather, that uniquely grounding scent he associated with her and her alone. A flicker of curiosity and the undeniable pull of missing her nudged him forward, and he pushed the door open with quiet care, slipping inside. The room was neat, lived-in but ordered, reflecting her nature. Her armor gleamed softly in the corner, blades stacked with precision against the wall. The bed was made, the sheets still tucked perfectly, which meant she hadn’t yet come to rest. His eyes wandered, cataloging the small tokens of her life—gloves drying on the chair, a satchel half-packed for tomorrow’s patrol.

Then he saw it.

The diary lay abandoned on the edge of her desk, its ribbon marker having fallen to the floor like a dropped whisper. Something in his chest tightened, a pull both cautious and desperate. Sonic was not one to invade another’s privacy. He respected her, revered her even, but the sight of that open page, bathed in pale light as though beckoning him, hit him in a place he couldn’t name. He hesitated, one hand hovering over the worn leather cover, fingers twitching with indecision. She had been distant lately, quiet in a way that gnawed at him. It wasn’t like her to shrink back, to hide behind short answers and polite smiles. He had worried that he had done something wrong, that she was pulling away for reasons he couldn’t fix. And now, here was this—this small, unguarded fragment of her heart laid bare in the moonlight.

His thumb brushed the soft leather before he flipped the book open to the waiting page. Her handwriting was neat but urgent, slanting slightly as though the weight of the words pushed her forward faster than her hand could keep up. His eyes moved across the lines, and each sentence struck him like a stone skipping across still water, rippling deeper and deeper until the surface shattered.

I love him. I love him so much it hurts. I could never tell him. He’s a prince, and I’m… me. A knight, a brute, a wall of armor and duty. I am not soft. I am not worthy. He deserves someone graceful, someone gentle and clever with her words, someone who belongs in silks and gold. I don’t belong in love, and certainly not in his.

Sonic froze. The words blurred for a second, not because he couldn’t read them but because the sudden crush of emotion made his chest heavy, thick with something that was part joy, part ache. Relief washed over him first—because she loved him. She loved him, and the world felt like it had cracked open into light. But right on its heels came a sharp pang of sorrow and anger, a tidal pull in his gut. Not worthy? How could she ever believe that? How could she look at herself—the woman who had stood by him, saved him, understood him in ways no one else ever could—and think she was anything less than his entire world?

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe, to be still. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, feel the warmth of the diary in his hands, as though it had absorbed her own heat in the hours she had spent pouring her soul into its pages. Slowly, with care, he closed the book and returned it to its precise place on the desk, his touch reverent, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. He backed out of the room, quiet as a ghost, letting the door settle into its soft creak before it shut.

His hands flexed at his sides as he walked back into the moonlit hall, his steps slower now, deliberate. The words carved themselves into his mind, into his pulse, into his resolve. He would show her. He would shatter those doubts until there was nothing left but the truth—that he didn’t care for titles, or noble blood, or the soft facades of courtly life. He wanted her, exactly as she was. And tonight, under the full moon, he would make her believe it.

The night had draped the castle grounds in silver, every shadow stretched long and soft, every leaf and blade of grass glimmering with moonlight as if the earth itself had been dipped in frost. The air was cool and faintly damp, carrying the mingled scents of distant pine and the stone garden walls still warm from the day’s sun. Sonic walked the familiar path along the outer courtyard in restless silence, his steps falling slower than usual, his energy contained not by weariness but by thought. He could still feel the weight of the diary in his hands, its phantom pressing against his palm as though reminding him of the words that had shattered and rebuilt his heart in the span of a single breath. He had waited for hours, let the castle fall into full slumber, knowing she would return eventually, knowing that under the veil of night, she would allow herself to be free of the rigid discipline daylight demanded.

When he saw her, the world went still.

She was walking barefoot along the small cobbled path leading away from the knights’ wing, a pale silk robe draped loosely around her form, her hair unbound and cascading like dark water over her shoulders. Moonlight clung to her as if it were made for her, catching on the curve of her cheek, glinting against the soft ripple of fabric at her thighs. Sonic felt his chest tighten, his breath catch for a fraction of a second. He had always thought she was beautiful—ferociously, unapologetically alive in battle, unshakable in her armor—but this softness, this quiet vulnerability of her existing as just herself, stripped of duty… it was like seeing the first bloom of spring after endless winter. He stepped forward, letting the gravel crunch beneath his shoes to announce himself, and her head turned, startled but quickly softened by recognition.

“…Your Highness,” she said softly, though there was a hesitant smile tugging at her lips.

Sonic shook his head, his voice equally soft. “It’s just me tonight. Walk with me?”

There was a brief pause, her eyes flicking to the silver garden and back to him, some instinct warning her to retreat back into the safety of walls and shadows. But then she nodded, a quiet surrender, and together they drifted into the open grass, the tall blades brushing against her calves like whispers. For a time, they simply walked, the night alive only with the soft hiss of the wind and the occasional nightbird calling from the treeline. Sonic’s hands itched with the weight of unspoken words, his heart beating with a mixture of hope and fear that had been foreign to him in battle but felt all-consuming now.

Eventually, they came to the rise just beyond the gardens, a slope where the castle’s shadow gave way to pure silvered meadow. He led her to sit in the cool grass, and she did so with an almost wary grace, folding her legs to one side, her robe fluttering in the soft wind. The moon was full and impossibly bright, casting its light across her face so that he could see every flicker of thought in her eyes, every faint tremor of uncertainty in the way her lips pressed together. They were silent for a moment, letting the beauty of the night hold them in its delicate grasp, until Sonic finally spoke, his voice a low, steady murmur.

“I need you to hear me,” Sonic said at last, his voice low but carrying the kind of quiet command that froze Y/N where she sat. His eyes found hers in the moonlight, and they were so open, so achingly vulnerable, that her chest tightened on instinct. The silver glow caught the faint tremor of his lashes, the curve of his mouth, and though his tone was soft, there was a weight behind it that made her straighten without thinking. “Please… just listen.”

He drew in a breath, as though steadying a heart that had been pounding for far too long, and when he spoke again, every word was measured yet raw. “I love you.”

The world seemed to pause. The wind that had been stirring the grass fell quiet in her ears, the distant night-bird song dulled to nothing but the wild drumming of her own heart. The words hovered between them like spun glass, delicate, impossible, and yet heavier than anything she’d ever carried. Y/N’s lips parted, but no answer came—her mind felt blank, struck silent as though the very stars had leaned close to listen.

Sonic didn’t falter. His voice, tender and unwavering, filled the night in long, flowing ribbons. “I’ve loved you for… I don’t even know how long anymore. It feels like always. You’re the first thought I have when I wake and the last before I sleep, and every moment in between, I’m looking for you. Even in the loudest hall, the busiest court, the bloodiest field—I find you. I look for your face, for the sound of your laugh. I trust you with everything I am, more than I trust myself, more than I trust anyone. And when the weight of all this—” he glanced back at the distant castle walls, their silhouette jagged and cold against the silver sky, “—when it feels like a cage around my chest… it’s you who makes it bearable. It’s you who reminds me why I’m still standing.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of her robe where it pooled in her lap, not taking but asking silently for the permission to continue, his voice softening into something almost reverent. “I’ve carried this for so long, and I tried to bury it because I was afraid—afraid that maybe you’d never see me the way I see you. But tonight, I couldn’t hold it anymore. I couldn’t go another day without telling you that you… you are my whole heart. Everything else could fall away, and I would still choose you.”

Her breath shook, the confession striking something deep and trembling inside her chest. She shook her head slowly, unable to let the warmth of his words fully settle, her fingers curling in the soft folds of her robe as though to anchor herself. “No… no, you… you need someone worthy,” she whispered, her voice breaking like a fragile thing. “Someone gentle, someone soft-spoken, a lady who understands court and politics and how to move in that world. Someone who deserves to sit at your side. I’m…” She swallowed hard, the weight of her own truth tasting bitter. “I’m a knight, Sonic. I’m a brute. I can swing a sword until my arms break, but I can’t… I can’t give you what you need.”

He didn’t let her finish.

His hand rose to her cheek, thumb brushing her skin as if it were the most precious thing he had ever held, and then his lips found hers. The kiss was not rushed, nor shy—it was deep and certain, threaded with a devotion that shattered every wall she had built to protect herself. For one perfect, suspended heartbeat, the world disappeared. There was only the warmth of him, the firm press of his mouth, the moonlight kissing her skin, and the taste of all the years he had silently held this love.

When he drew back, his forehead touched hers, his voice low and thick with feeling, each word a vow.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever call yourself unworthy. I don’t care about crowns. I don’t care about titles. I don’t care about the politics or the nobles or what anyone else thinks. I don’t want a woman who looks perfect on paper but doesn’t even know who I am when the halls are empty. I want you. Only you. The way you are. The way you fight and burn and live without apology. The way you make me laugh when I think I’ve forgotten how. The way you make me feel like I can breathe, like I’m free, when everything else feels like a prison.”

His thumb lingered against the curve of her cheekbone, and the weight of his gaze pressed into her like a lifeline. She felt the tears before she realized they were hers, hot and stinging, breaking silently down her face as his love wrapped around her like the night itself.

Y/N’s heart felt as though it had been split wide open, every beat raw and exposed in the silver wash of the moonlight. The kiss still burned on her lips, ghosting there like a brand, and yet the warmth of it was drowned beneath the trembling tide of disbelief that surged through her chest. She wanted to fall into him, to let his words be true, to believe in the impossible comfort of what he offered—but years of being the hardened knight, the blade in someone else’s hand, had carved doubt into her bones. Her fingers clenched reflexively at the grass beneath her, grounding her against the wild rush of feeling as her head bowed and shook in a desperate little motion.

“You don’t… you don’t understand,” she whispered, the words brittle and fractured, like shards of glass slipping from her tongue. The robe she wore suddenly felt too fine, too delicate, too unworthy of touching her scarred, battle-roughened skin, and her hands twisted in the silken fabric as if to hide the calloused palms from his eyes. “I’m not… I’m not what you think I am, Sonic. I’m not soft. I’m not the kind of girl who sits on a throne and smiles like she belongs there. I’m a soldier. A sword arm. I’ve killed for this kingdom, bled for it, given everything, but I don’t… I don’t fit in it. I’ve never fit. And you…” She looked at him, her throat closing around the words like they were poison. “You deserve someone perfect. A nobleman’s daughter. Someone beautiful and untouched, someone who can give you a court and a name that means something. Someone who can walk beside you without everyone whispering behind your back that you chose wrong.”

The confession tore its way out of her, leaving her voice trembling and broken, a raw little sound in the quiet night. Her eyes burned, and she hated that he could see her like this—vulnerable, uncertain, small. She dragged in a breath, ready to keep spilling all the jagged pieces of herself, to tell him the hundred reasons why loving her would ruin him, why she was nothing but a brute dressed up in silk for a night that wasn’t meant for her—

“Stop.”

The single word, quiet and firm, cut through her like the clean edge of a blade. Sonic leaned closer, and the look in his eyes rooted her to the spot—so much heat and tenderness wrapped together, an unshakable certainty that made the air feel heavy. His voice lowered, threaded with something unyielding.

“Do you really think I don’t see you? That I haven’t always seen all of you?” he said, his hand coming up to cradle her cheek as if to hold her in place, to keep her from sinking into the self-loathing that threatened to swallow her whole. “I know you’re a fighter. I know your hands are rough, and your knuckles scarred. I know your laugh is loud, and your temper’s worse. I know you can face a dozen soldiers without flinching, but you’re afraid of letting someone hold your heart. And you think that makes you unworthy, but, Y/N…”

He drew a shuddering breath, his thumb brushing the damp trail of her tears like they were the most sacred thing he’d ever touched. “That’s why I love you. Because you’re real. You are fire and steel and everything that makes life feel alive. You’re the only one who has ever made me feel like I’m not just running in circles, like there’s something worth stopping for. I don’t care if you don’t know politics. I don’t care if the court whispers. I don’t care if you’ve killed or bled or burned to stand here now. All I care about is you. Only you. And if the rest of the world can’t see how perfect you are, then the world is blind.”

Her breath caught, her chest rising and falling in a jagged rhythm as the words sank deep into the cracks of her doubt, filling them with warmth that hurt almost as much as it healed. Sonic leaned in, his voice softening, wrapping around her like a promise.

“Let me love you,” he whispered. “Let me show you that you’re everything I’ve ever wanted… everything I’ll ever need. Please… just let me.”

The night seemed to hold its breath with her, the moon spilling silver light across their skin as her heart warred against her mind, against the years of self-denial. She felt the weight of his sincerity, the truth in his every word, and for the first time in her life, she let herself teeter on the edge of believing she could be loved.

The world narrowed to the space between them, to the warmth of his breath ghosting over her lips, to the steady drum of his heartbeat that she swore she could feel in the air itself. Y/N didn’t even realize she was leaning into him until his hand slid from her cheek to the curve of her neck, his thumb resting lightly against the fragile pulse there, grounding and electrifying all at once. The night had swallowed the world into stillness, the only sounds the whisper of the wind through the grass and the far-off song of some nocturnal bird. It was as if the world itself had decided to fall silent to witness what was about to happen, the moon hanging high and bright, spilling its light like silver silk over their entwined shadows.

When Sonic kissed her again, it was different—slower, deeper, a steady claiming of every ounce of air in her lungs. Her robe slipped slightly from one shoulder, the soft silk gliding over her skin like a second, cooler kiss, and his hand followed instinctively, tracing the line of her collarbone with a reverence that made her shiver. His touch was gentle but firm, as if he wanted to memorize her, every curve and dip, every tremor that raced through her body beneath the delicate barrier of silk. Y/N clutched at his chest in return, fingers curling into the soft fur there, her mind spinning with the contrast between his steady, deliberate movements and the chaos he left in her chest.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against her lips, his voice a low thread of warmth that pulled straight at her core. “Don’t be afraid of me… or of this. I’ll take care of you. Always.”

The words melted into her bones, and she realized her trembling wasn’t fear—it was the sheer weight of being wanted, the overwhelming, dizzying heat of his presence pressed so close. His hands moved with unhurried intent, pushing the robe aside until the night air kissed more of her skin, and the faint heat of his palms followed, sliding over her waist, her back, mapping her like she was the only terrain that had ever mattered. The moonlight gleamed on her, painting her bare skin in silver, and Sonic’s eyes drank her in with a hunger that was both tender and unrelenting.

He guided her down into the grass, his body covering hers without ever making her feel trapped, his strength caged around her like a shield rather than a restraint. The earth was cool beneath her, grounding her even as she felt herself floating in the dizzying intimacy of his touch. Sonic’s lips left hers only to travel down the slope of her jaw, to her neck, where he pressed soft kisses and occasional nips that drew breathy gasps from her throat. He lingered there, worshiping every vulnerable inch of her skin as if the act alone could banish every doubt she’d ever held about being loved.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, the words sinking into her like a vow, his breath hot against her pulse. “Not because I own you… but because I choose you. Because I’ve always chosen you.”

Her body arched into him involuntarily, a helpless reaction to the way his hands began to explore more boldly, skimming over the curve of her hips, tracing the outer line of her thigh through the parted silk of her robe. Each touch was careful yet commanding, drawing out sounds she hadn’t known she could make, little breathless whimpers that made his ears twitch with delight. He nuzzled into her neck, catching the scent of her skin beneath the faint perfume of the night air, and the deep rumble of his voice followed.

“Let me show you how much I love you, Y/N… let me worship every inch of you until there’s no room left in your heart for doubt.”

The grass whispered beneath them as he shifted, settling between her legs with a patience that somehow felt like dominance in itself, as though every measured motion reminded her that he was in control of the rhythm, of the night, of her very heartbeat. The first press of his mouth lower along her collarbone sent a bolt of heat straight to her core, and her hands instinctively clutched at his fur again, clinging as the world around them blurred into sensation and the relentless pull of gravity that drew her toward him, always toward him.

Moonlight, the soft hush of the wind, the weight of him above her, the heady perfume of grass and fur and silk—all of it wrapped around her like a spell. Y/N let her eyes flutter closed, surrendering to the slow burn of his worship as he kissed, touched, and coaxed her into forgetting that there had ever been a life before this moment.

The night air felt almost heavy with the scent of grass and earth, tinged with the faint sweetness of the flowers just beyond the meadow, and Y/N thought she might dissolve into it entirely as Sonic’s lips trailed further down her body. Every kiss was a declaration, every lingering press of his mouth to her skin a whispered promise that she belonged to him in a way that no court or crown could ever claim. He adored her, and she could feel it in the way he slowed down as though memorizing her, his hands sweeping reverently along her curves, his thumbs brushing faint circles that left tingles in their wake. The silk robe clung to her in damp patches from the heat between them, slipping open just enough for the moonlight to cast her in silver and shadow.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against her stomach, the words vibrating through her skin and sinking into her bones. “Do you even know what you do to me? What it’s like, every day, having to act like I don’t want to fall to my knees for you?” He punctuated his question with a slow drag of his tongue along the sensitive line of her lower belly, and her back arched helplessly against the soft grass, a broken gasp tumbling from her lips.

He smiled against her skin, a soft, tender curve of his mouth, and yet his hands gripped her thighs with a quiet hunger that made her pulse jump. “That’s it,” he whispered, his voice low and reverent. “Give me those little sounds, Y/N. I love your voice… I want every part of you. I want to see you come undone because of me.” His breath was warm, teasing, and she felt herself trembling under the intensity of his gaze as he pulled the last barrier of silk from her legs, baring her entirely to the night.

The first glide of his tongue against her core was devastatingly slow, like he was savoring the very taste of her, and her fingers immediately twisted into his fur as if she could anchor herself against the rush of sensation. He hummed, a low sound of approval that vibrated through her, and when he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice was wrecked with awe and hunger.

“Perfect… you’re perfect. Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted… my goddess…” He mouthed at her again, deeper this time, and she couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped past her lips, the sound pulled from the deepest part of her chest. Sonic’s hands slid higher to hold her open for him, his thumbs stroking little soothing patterns as if to remind her he was there, that she was safe in his worship.

Y/N’s mind blurred into sensation as he worked her with an almost otherworldly patience, alternating between slow, languid strokes and sudden, deliberate flicks that made her hips jerk involuntarily. Her voice rose in soft cries, and each time, he praised her through it, his words spilling between kisses and licks.

“That’s it… let me hear you… You taste like heaven… my strong, brave girl, the one I’ve been dreaming of… You’re everything. Everything.”

When his tongue dipped deeper, exploring her with a hunger barely restrained by his need to keep her comfortable, she felt the edges of herself dissolve, the world narrowing to the overwhelming heat and devotion of his mouth. He groaned against her when her thighs quivered, and the sound was so raw with desire that it dragged another broken moan from her chest.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmured, pulling back just long enough to meet her half-lidded gaze. His fur was ruffled, his mouth wet with her, and yet he smiled like she was the only thing in the universe that mattered. “You’re so good for me… the way you taste, the way you tremble… I could spend forever here, making you feel like this. You deserve it.”

And with that, he dove back in, faster now, more insistent, the praise and the heat and the endless moonlit worship rolling over her like a wave.

Sonic’s mouth left her reluctantly, as if it pained him to part from her taste, and Y/N was left trembling in the moonlight, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. The night seemed quieter now, as though the wind and the grass were holding their breath with her, waiting for what would come next. Sonic rose over her, his shadow falling across her body, silvered edges of moonlight catching in his fur. His hands, warm and trembling with restrained want, cupped her face for a moment as he kissed her again—slow, reverent, his tongue sweeping against hers with the same devotion he’d just shown her body. When he pulled back, his breath mingled with hers, and his eyes burned like molten gold in the pale light.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. “I need you. I’ve never needed anything like this before. Please… let me show you how much I love you.”

Her only response was a small nod, dazed and eager, and he groaned softly, his forehead falling to rest against hers for a brief, grounding heartbeat. His hands slid down her body, pausing to trace the curves of her breasts, her waist, her hips, like he was memorizing her all over again. Every touch was deliberate, sending sparks skittering across her skin. She shivered as he pressed the head of his cock against her, the thick, heated weight of him so much more than she’d ever imagined, and a shudder ran down her spine at the realization of just how big he was.

The first push was slow—agonizingly slow—as he eased himself into her, stretching her inch by inch, her body fluttering and clenching helplessly around him. The world blurred to sensation: the heat of his body pressed to hers, the low rumble of his groan against her ear, the way the grass bent under her splayed fingers as she struggled to ground herself against the overwhelming fullness. Sonic’s hand found hers, threading their fingers together, while his other hand stroked her thigh soothingly, encouraging her to relax.

“God… you feel like heaven,” he murmured, his voice shaking with barely contained restraint. “So warm… so tight around me… You’re perfect, Y/N. Mine… all mine…”

He waited, letting her adjust, kissing the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the soft spot below her ear, whispering little praises and confessions against her skin. And when she finally gave a soft, needy sound, he began to move, slow and deliberate, drawing almost all the way out before sinking back into her with a pace that made the night spin. Each thrust was a wave of sensation, thick and consuming, the wet sound of their bodies joining mixing with her soft whimpers and his quiet groans.

Moonlight gilded his fur, the silver sheen catching on the beads of sweat forming along his neck and the sheen on her skin where his hands had traveled. His eyes never left her face, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, as though her pleasure was his lifeblood. He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and a sharp moan tore from her throat as he hit the spot that sent a jolt of electricity through her entire body.

“That’s it,” he whispered, panting softly, his movements quickening just a little as he lost himself in her heat. “You’re so good for me… taking me so well… I could stay inside you forever… My brave girl, my love, my everything…”

The rhythm became a slow, hypnotic dance, the wet slap of his thrusts and the low rustle of the grass around them punctuating the whispered promises and sweet praises. Every sense was consumed: the smell of grass and warm earth, the taste of his kisses, the feel of his fur against her bare skin, the sound of his voice breaking into groans each time she squeezed around him. She clung to him, wrapping her legs around his hips, and he groaned, burying his face in her neck as his pace stuttered, desperate and adoring all at once.

Sonic’s control began to fray with every thrust, the careful, measured movements giving way to something rawer, needier, as if he couldn’t help but chase the heat coiling between them. His breath hitched against Y/N’s neck, warm and uneven, his fur damp where it brushed her skin. He pulled back enough to look at her, his eyes molten with love and desire, the moonlight catching in their depths like liquid gold. His hips rolled into hers with a little more force now, the rhythm gaining a hungry edge, and her soft gasp sent a tremor through him.

“God, Y/N… you don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, voice roughened with the strain of holding himself back. “You’re perfect… so perfect for me. I swear, I’ll make you my queen. I’ll worship you every night… every day… until the whole world knows you’re mine.”

His words spilled against her lips, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was wetter, hotter than before, his tongue sliding against hers as his hips pressed her deeper into the grass. Her body clung to him, helpless and pliant, and he groaned at the feel of her squeezing around him, every flutter making his vision white-hot. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the night, slick and shameless, blending with the soft rustle of leaves and the low hum of nocturnal life.

Sonic broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead pressing to hers as he whispered against her trembling lips. “You’re mine… my goddess… my everything… I’ll never let anyone else have you. You hear me? I’ll spend my whole life showing you how much I love you…” His thumb brushed along her jaw, then trailed down to stroke over her breast as he thrust into her with a slow, grinding roll that made her whimper. “Every part of you is for me, Y/N… and every part of me is yours…”

Her hands gripped his shoulders, nails lightly scraping his fur, and the sensation sent him shuddering, hips jerking as he fought not to lose himself completely. He kissed her again, desperate and consuming, swallowing the little noises she made as he moved faster, his weight pressing her deliciously into the soft earth. The moonlight painted their joined bodies in silver, highlighting the sweat glistening on her chest and the subtle tremor in his arms as he braced himself over her.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, voice breaking into a reverent whimper, “so warm, so perfect, like you were made for me… I could stay buried inside you forever… I swear I’ll fill you until you can’t think of anything but me.” He leaned down to mouth along her throat, laving her skin with slow, wet kisses, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just under her jaw. “My brave girl… my beautiful queen… let me love you the way you deserve…”

Each thrust now carried an edge of desperation, the pleasure twisting sharp and deep, his hips stuttering as he felt himself nearing the brink. He whispered in an almost prayerful tone, promising her the world, promising to love her in every way imaginable, his words breaking into groans each time she clenched around him.

The night seemed to hold its breath as Sonic finally let go of his restraint, surrendering to the tidal wave of heat and devotion that had been building in him from the first moment he touched her. His pace grew erratic, desperate, each thrust deep and deliberate, his hips driving into Y/N with a hunger that made the soft grass beneath them quiver. Their bodies moved in a rhythm that felt older than words, a dance between moonlight and shadows, love and carnal need. The sound of slick, wet friction filled the night, mingled with her breathy whimpers and his husky groans, the music of two souls that had finally found each other.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked as he pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes wide and molten, shimmering in the pale light. “You’re… God, you’re perfect… I can’t— I can’t hold back anymore.” His words broke apart with a ragged moan as her legs tightened around his hips, drawing him in deeper, her body arching beneath his with a helpless, instinctive need. He kissed her with feverish devotion, tongue tasting every soft gasp, his fur bristling with the shiver of pure bliss racing up his spine.

Every sense sharpened to the edge of unbearable pleasure. The smell of crushed grass and night-blooming flowers swirled with the scent of her skin, the faint salt of sweat on her neck that he licked in a shuddering, reverent stroke. Her body wrapped around him like the only home he’d ever known, soft and clinging, every pulse and squeeze a siren’s call that had him groaning against her throat. He could feel her trembling under his hands, her fingers curling into his shoulders, her voice breaking into sweet, desperate sounds that only he would ever hear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against her lips, the words nearly a growl now, molten with love and possession. “My queen… my goddess… my everything. I’ll love you ‘til the stars fall, I swear it… I’ll never let you go. I’ll fill you… make you remember me every time you close your eyes.” He punctuated each promise with a deep, grinding thrust that had her back arching into the cool night air, her silk robe slipping further from her shoulders until moonlight kissed every inch of bare skin he worshipped.

The pressure coiled tighter, a hot, electric knot in his core, and he buried his face in her neck, gasping, “Y/N… I—God, I love you—I love you so much…” His hips moved faster, rougher now, chasing that rapturous edge as her body fluttered around him, drawing him deeper into the molten heat of her. She cried out softly, and he swallowed the sound in a kiss, muffling it with his tongue as he spilled over the edge with a guttural groan, holding her hips flush against him as wave after wave of bliss tore through him.

He trembled, utterly undone, his chest heaving against hers as he pressed soft kisses along her cheek and temple, whispering his love over and over like a mantra, voice thick with awe and reverence. Even as the aftershocks rippled through him, he stayed buried inside her, unwilling to break the connection, his thumb stroking tender circles on her hip. The moon bathed them in silver as he whispered, low and worshipful, “You’re everything to me, Y/N… my heart, my home… my queen.”

The world felt soft and distant in the wake of their shared bliss, the cool night air brushing across Y/N’s flushed skin like a lover’s sigh. She was boneless against the grass, every limb heavy and trembling, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. Her silk robe clung loosely to her body, sliding against her damp skin as the last vestiges of moonlight traced the sheen of sweat along her neck and collarbone. She felt… spent, overflowing with warmth, her heart a hazy pulse of love and contentment. When Sonic’s shadow fell over her, she barely stirred, only managing a soft sound as he bent and scooped her into his arms with the kind of ease that spoke of both his strength and the care he always carried for her.

“Easy, love… I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice thick and low, every word laced with devotion. His chest was warm against her cheek, his fur soft and carrying that faint electric scent of him, something wild and familiar all at once. She nestled instinctively against him, her arms weakly looping around his shoulders as he began to walk, each step slow and measured, as though he were afraid to jostle her from the cocoon of post-bliss haze she was wrapped in. “You were perfect tonight… my perfect girl. My queen…”

The castle loomed silently in the distance, its tall windows catching silver shards of moonlight. Sonic’s boots whispered over the grass and stone as he carried her inside, the quiet halls amplifying the steady rhythm of his footsteps and the soft, hushed words he murmured against her hair. “You don’t know… you don’t even know how long I’ve dreamed of holding you like this. How long I’ve wanted to tell you… to make you feel how much I love you. You’re everything, Y/N… you’re mine.” His voice cracked, almost reverent, as if the truth was too big for him to contain.

She was floating somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, lulled by his heartbeat and the tender sway of his arms. Every whisper seemed to soak into her skin, weaving love and safety into the marrow of her bones. He nudged his chamber door open with a shoulder, the dim candlelight flickering over the room’s walls and casting them in gold. Carefully, he laid her on the bed, the soft sheets cool beneath her bare thighs, and pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to her cheek.

“You rest now, my love,” he whispered, his thumb stroking slow, adoring circles over her jaw. “I’ll stay right here… won’t let anything happen to you. Sleep knowing you’re my heart, my home… my most precious treasure. Always.” He pulled the blanket over her, tucking her in like she was the most precious thing in the world, and Y/N drifted into sleep to the warmth of his body curling around hers and the soft hum of his love whispered into the night.

#shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #sonic fanfiction #sonic x reader #smut #sth fanfic #sth fandom #sth sonic #sth #sonic x y/n #sonic fandom #sonic the hedghog fandom #sonic the hedgehog x y/n #sonic the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #shadow fanfic #i’m totally baiting you with the Shadow tag mb #shadow the ultimate lifeform

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cherryfcola · 5 days ago

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Do you write headcannons for multiple characters? Also will you write for kota sako?

Hi love! I haven’t written any headcanon as of yet, but I’m planning on it. I did intend to write a few Wind Breaker fics, tho I didn’t have Kota in mind! 🤭 if you’d like a Kota or multiple character headcanon post/fic, feel free to send an ask! 🌸 Tho do keep in mind, that it might take up to a week for me to get to it, I’m still in the process of writing a few requests and working on my AO3 fics. I hope you have a great day anon! 🥳

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cherryfcola · 5 days ago

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Hey, are you open for request?

Hi! Ofc 🤭

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cherryfcola · 5 days ago

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Can I request a Shadow x Fem A/N fic? I’m thinking Shadow as a demonic entity served by a cult. The cult must offer up a young maiden to Shadow to bear him an heir. Lots of ritual sacrifice vibes. Very scary Shadow as a lover, but he’s also tender and loving.

Title: Eclipsed in Desire

Fandom: Shadow the Hedgehog

Pairing: Shadow the Hedgehog x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.7k

Rating: Explicit / NSFW (18+)

Warnings: This fic contains extreme size difference and hentai-coded smut with supernatural elements, including ritualistic sacrifice vibes, worship/praise, breeding talk, cumplay, oral (f receiving), magical pain-to-pleasure. Features unrealistic anatomy, gallons of affection, and Shadow completely ruining and worshiping the reader in a dark, candlelit, cultish setting.

A/N: Thank you, anon, for the most sinful idea 🤭 This is slow, indulgent, and pure hentai nonsense—Shadow’s your god now.

Main Masterlist Here!

The stone chamber breathed with the weight of centuries, its walls slick with a damp sheen that caught the faintest glint of candlelight. The air was thick, perfumed with incense and the acrid bite of burning resin, curling smoke into the vaulted darkness above like the spirits of old rites long forgotten. Hundreds of candles lined the rough-hewn floor and clustered in niches along the walls, their flames shivering in the subterranean draft, filling the space with a trembling, honey-gold glow. Every flicker birthed a new shadow, alive and shifting, until it felt as though the darkness itself was crawling closer.

In the very center, upon a raised stone altar carved with looping sigils that seemed to writhe in the wavering light, Y/N knelt. The stone beneath her bare knees was mercilessly cold, a sharp contrast to the fevered heat of her own skin. They had dressed her—or rather, adorned her—in a veil of silks so sheer they clung to her like mist, pale as moonlight and just as fleeting, each breath threatening to bare more of the flesh it only half concealed. Golden chains draped over her hips and wrists, the delicate metal cool against her oiled skin, clinking softly with even the faintest movement. Her body had been painted with curling sigils in liquid gold, runes spiraling up her thighs, kissing the dip of her stomach, and curling along the soft curves of her breasts. Her hair, brushed to a gleaming sheen, spilled down her back in a cascade that caught the candlelight like spun amber, crowned with a thin circlet of the same warm metal, its weight biting faintly against her temples.

Around the altar, the cult knelt in a perfect ring, heads bowed, their robes pooling in the wax-slicked stone like the black waters of some subterranean sea. They had prepared Y/N in silence, hands reverent but trembling as they smoothed fragrant oils over every inch of her body, leaving her skin gleaming and soft, the scent of crushed petals and something darker—spice, resin, heat—clinging to her like a second skin. Now, not a sound escaped them. The chamber had grown impossibly quiet, as though the world itself held its breath, and in that silence, Y/N’s pulse was thunderous in her ears. She knew she was the offering tonight. She knew every eye, though lowered, was on her.

Then the air changed.

The first shiver of his presence was a weight, subtle at first, like a low hum threading through the stone, a thrumming in Y/N’s bones that was both alien and instinctively terrifying. The candle flames strained toward the altar, bowing as if in supplication, their light bending in a way that made the shadows writhe. A chill swept the chamber even as the air thickened, heavy and hot, clinging to her skin. The darkness in the far corner shifted, moved—no, breathed. Something deeper than night peeled itself from the walls, wrong in a way the human eye could barely hold, and yet Y/N’s gaze was drawn, helpless, to that shape.

He emerged as though he had always been there, waiting for mortal senses to falter enough to see him. Taller than any man, his form rippled with an otherworldly power, the edges of him cloaked in shadow that clung to muscle like smoke. His eyes glowed crimson, cutting through the dim with predatory clarity, pinning Y/N in place without a single word. Her breath hitched, heart thrashing like a trapped bird, every instinct torn between terror and something deeper—something that left her thighs pressing unconsciously together. His claws scraped softly against the stone as he advanced, slow, deliberate, the weight of each step thrumming through the chamber until she could feel it in her teeth.

When he spoke, the voice was a velvet snarl, the kind of sound that burrowed under the skin, settling low in the spine. The old tongue spilled from his lips, each syllable tasting of smoke and iron, yet the meaning coiled in Y/N’s mind unbidden: “They bring me a trembling lamb… soft… sweet… ready to be devoured.”

The cult did not stir. Not one of them dared breathe too loudly. But the sound of him, the sight of him—those eyes, that massive frame, the shadow and smoke that seemed to cling and caress the carved stone—seized Y/N’s entire world. Her fingers dug into the slick edge of the altar, her pulse a drumbeat against the cold gold chains that framed her wrists. And when he came to stand before her, towering and terrifying, the candlelight glancing off the faint gleam of his fangs as he smiled, Y/N knew with a bone-deep certainty that whatever she had been before this night, she was his now.

The air grew heavier as Shadow’s presence bled into every corner of the chamber, the low hum of his power vibrating through the stone floor beneath Y/N’s knees. She could taste the heat of him now, metallic and smoky, like embers left smoldering in an ancient hearth. He circled the altar with the unhurried patience of a predator, the faint sound of his claws against stone scraping through the cavern, a reminder that he was not, and never would be, a man. Y/N’s heart thrummed violently in her chest, the golden chains at her wrists and hips trembling with each uneven breath. The cult remained bowed, frozen in reverent terror, as though the very act of looking upon his full form might burn their mortal eyes.

And then Shadow stopped at the altar’s head, the dim light catching fully on him for the first time.

He was enormous.

The silks clinging to Y/N’s body fluttered faintly with the gust of heat that radiated off him, and she realized that even on her knees, her face barely reached the height of his abdomen. His body was corded muscle beneath fur as black as midnight, faintly haloed by the living smoke that curled and licked along his limbs. Crimson streaks ran along his quills like blood spilled across obsidian, catching the candlelight in wicked glints. His tail lashed once behind him, and his chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate calm that only heightened the trembling anticipation curling in her belly.

And then her eyes caught lower.

Her breath snagged in her throat, heat and fear colliding so violently that she swayed. Between his thighs, thick and heavy, his cock was already hard—an impossible thing, sheathed in dark flesh veined with faint crimson, the tip glistening in the low light. It was… gods, it was huge, far larger than any mortal man could boast, the kind of size that sent a cold thrill of terror and want straight down her spine. Even the veins running along it pulsed faintly with the rhythm of his power, each throb a silent promise of ruin. Y/N’s hands clenched against the altar, the cool stone the only anchor as her body betrayed her, heat spilling low in her stomach even as her mind reeled in disbelief. He would split her in two. He would destroy her. He would—

A deep, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, as if he could read the frantic thoughts scrawled across her trembling form. Shadow’s gaze burned crimson as it slid down her silk-wrapped body, lingering on the curves barely hidden, the gold-painted runes that traced her thighs and breasts. He leaned forward, his massive hands gripping the edge of the altar, claws scraping faintly against the stone. The movement caged her completely, the sheer scale of him blotting out all the candlelight, plunging Y/N into a world of shadow, heat, and the scent of her own fear.

“Little one…” His voice was a low purr, vibrating against her chest. “…do you know what it means to offer yourself to me?”

She couldn’t speak—her mouth was dry, her breath caught. She could only stare up at him, at the sharp white flash of his fangs as he smirked, and then down, helplessly, to the monstrous length standing thick and heavy between his thighs. A drop of slick gathered at the tip and caught the candlelight before falling, and she shuddered so hard the golden chains sang softly in the silence.

Shadow’s hand—large enough to span her entire waist—rose, the back of his clawed fingers trailing up her jaw, leaving a shiver in their wake. He tilted her head up, forcing her to meet his eyes, and there was something in them now, something softer under the predator’s gleam. Possessive. Hungry. Worshipful, in a way that terrified her more than anything else.

“You tremble,” he said, almost gently, though his smirk was sharp as a blade. “Good… you should tremble. Your body knows the god it kneels before.”

The cult stayed silent, unmoving, yet their collective breath seemed to thicken the air. Y/N’s thighs pressed together instinctively, silk clinging to the damp heat of her arousal, and Shadow’s gaze followed the motion with a slow, deliberate hunger. One clawed finger traced down her throat to the hollow of her collarbone, over the gold-painted sigils that now gleamed faintly with the sheen of sweat.

“Tonight,” he murmured, low and terrible, “your soul will learn to worship as your body does.”

The candles flickered violently as Shadow leaned closer, his massive frame blotting out the world beyond the altar, leaving Y/N cocooned in nothing but heat, shadow, and the suffocating weight of his presence. His claws ghosted over her bare arms, the lightest graze sending a tremor through her body as if her skin recognized the predator even before her mind could catch up. The nearly sheer silk clinging to her curves did little to shield her from the chill of the chamber or the searing heat of his attention; every brush of his touch made the gold charms at her hips jingle faintly, an unintentional music to her shame. The scent of burning wax and the faint, wild musk of him filled her lungs, heavy and intoxicating, until the room itself seemed to tilt with her uneven breaths. Her knees ached against the cold stone, but she didn’t dare shift—every nerve screamed at her to stay still, to submit, because any wrong move might earn her the attention of those claws in ways she couldn’t survive.

Shadow’s hand—dark, massive, veined with a faint, glowing crimson—rose to cup her face, thumb brushing along the trembling curve of her lower lip. Her mouth opened on a shaky exhale, unbidden, a soft gasp slipping free, and his smirk deepened in quiet satisfaction. Without warning, his other hand moved, palm splaying low on her belly through the thin silk, the heat of it seeping straight into her core. Y/N jerked at the contact, her breath catching, and the cult behind her shifted faintly, the sound of chains and fabric whispering in the silence.

“She is eager,” Shadow murmured, his voice a dark rumble that slid over her skin like oil and smoke. “Even now, trembling in fear… your body knows what it was made for.”

His claws caught the hem of her silk, slow and deliberate, dragging it up inch by inch until her thighs were exposed to the candlelight. Y/N felt heat crawl up her neck as the faint, damp mark of her arousal glimmered between her trembling legs. Shadow’s gaze dropped there, predatory and molten, and he made a low, approving sound deep in his chest. He dipped a claw lightly, teasingly, just at the edge of her slick heat without truly touching, and the jolt that went through her spine was so sharp she nearly arched off the altar.

The cult gasped in unison at the movement, at the sacrilegious mix of reverence and filth, and Shadow’s ears twitched, amused. He leaned closer, the tip of his nose brushing her hair as he inhaled deeply, his voice a sinful whisper against her ear.

“Do you feel them watching, little one?” he purred, claws finally sliding slow and deliberate through her folds, coating themselves in her wet heat. “Your priests, your guardians… every one of them will kneel and pray while I make you mine. They will see how perfect you were made for me… and they will know.”

Y/N whimpered—half shame, half desperate need—as his thumb pressed to her clit with maddening gentleness, drawing slow circles that made her thighs quake against the cold stone. She couldn’t stop the trembling or the soft, broken gasps that slipped from her throat. Her eyes fluttered shut, but Shadow’s sharp voice brought them snapping open.

“Look at me.”

She obeyed instantly, eyes glossy and wide, and the sight that met her stole her breath all over again: his full form looming over her, crimson eyes alight with dark pleasure, his monstrous cock now fully hard and glistening in the candlelight. It pulsed, a drop of precum rolling down the dark, veined length, and her lips parted on a shaky inhale. He smirked, clearly enjoying the mix of fear and hunger painted across her face.

“You see it,” he said, almost tender despite the filth in his tone, his claws never ceasing their slow torment between her legs. “You know what will claim you… stretch you… fill you so deep no mortal will ever compare. You are trembling for it, little one.”

And gods help her—she was.

The altar groaned under the weight of Shadow’s massive frame as he descended upon Y/N, his claws curling around the edges of the stone like they might snap beneath his grip. Candlelight quivered over the black sheen of his fur and the jagged edges of his quills, casting him in a living shadow that dwarfed the trembling girl lying in the center of the sigils. Y/N’s chest rose and fell in shallow, erratic bursts, her sheer silks clinging damp to her skin from a mix of fear and arousal, her golden jewelry cold against the flushed heat of her body. The ritual air was thick with incense and smoke, and every breath tasted like spice and fire. The cult circled in their hoods beyond the reach of the altar’s light, silent but present, dozens of unseen eyes boring into her—into them—as their god bent low to claim his sacrifice.

Shadow’s claws pressed to her thighs, cool, firm, and inescapable, the tips just shy of breaking skin as he pried her open like she weighed nothing. A low rumble vibrated deep in his chest, a predatory sound that made her blood thrum in terror and something hotter, lower. The scent of him was overwhelming—smoke, musk, and something primal—and when he leaned close, his snout inches from her dripping heat, she could feel the heat of his breath ghost over her exposed skin. Her back arched instinctively, a whimper escaping before she could stop it, and his crimson eyes glimmered with dark amusement.

Then his tongue—a monstrous, glistening length of slick muscle—slid out in a slow, deliberate motion, catching the candlelight as it hovered before her trembling entrance. He didn’t touch her at first. He just let the humid heat of it linger, exhaling a warm puff of air that made her entire body quake. When he finally moved, it was torturously slow, a broad lick that started at the tender inside of her knee and dragged all the way up, leaving a shining trail that caught on the sheer silk of her ceremonial skirt and dampened the gold chain around her hip. Y/N gasped, head tipping back, her fists curling helplessly against the stone.

Shadow’s rumble deepened as he tasted her, as if the flavor of her skin alone was a reward worth worshiping. His tongue swept up again, higher this time, curling along her inner thigh, teasing, circling, until the tip barely grazed her folds. She jerked at the contact, a strangled moan tearing free, and his eyes flared with a carnal gleam. He pressed harder, flattening his tongue and dragging it in a single, hot stripe over her slit, collecting her slick and smearing it across her in one long, wet claim. Y/N’s hips twitched, her legs trying to close, but his claws dug in, holding her wide, unyielding.

The next lick was not slow. His tongue pushed into her, thick and hot, stretching her in ways she’d never felt, and the sudden intrusion made her cry out, her voice echoing off the stone walls before she could bite it back. He rumbled again, louder this time, the vibration sinking into her bones as his tongue curled inside her, tasting her, exploring every trembling inch. Saliva and arousal mixed into a mess that dripped down her thighs, catching on gold bands and pooling on the altar beneath her.

His massive tongue withdrew only to plunge again, slower this time, curling upward in a motion that made her entire body seize with pleasure. Her hands flew to cover her mouth, terrified of the sounds clawing out of her throat, and Shadow caught them with one clawed hand, pinning them to the stone above her head. His voice, low and guttural, slid into her ear like smoke.

“Do not hide from me, little one. Let them hear how sweet my sacrifice sings.”

Y/N whimpered, muffled by his claws, her eyes brimming as her body writhed helplessly under his mouth. He licked her again and again, sometimes slow and indulgent, sometimes quick and hungry, his tongue curling inside her, pressing against spots that made her toes curl and her vision blur. When he finally lifted his mouth, saliva and slick coated her in a wet sheen, and she could feel the cold air kiss her ruined heat. A deep, shuddering growl rumbled from Shadow’s chest as he licked his lips, the sight of his tongue glistening with her essence nearly as obscene as the act itself.

“Sweet,” he said, voice vibrating through her chest, “so sweet my tongue cannot get enough… Look at you, trembling, shining, ready to be taken.”

Then, with cruel patience, he pressed the very tip of his tongue against her clit and flicked—once, twice, slow but sharp—and Y/N shattered, her back arching off the altar as her orgasm tore through her, muffled cries spilling past his grip. He didn’t let her finish cleanly. He lapped at her through it, dragging every drop from her like a starving beast, leaving her trembling and boneless in a puddle of sweat, spit, and slick.

His head lifted slowly, his crimson eyes locked on hers as he loomed over her, his mouth slick with her, his grin dark and hungry.

“Now…” he rumbled, shifting, the massive weight of his cock pressing against her trembling thigh, hot and terrifyingly thick… “Now you are ready to take me.”

The air in the temple seemed to still as Shadow shifted his massive frame over Y/N, the scent of incense and sweat thick and heavy, mingling with the raw musk of him. The cold stone of the altar pressed against her spine, but she barely felt it, every sense drowned in the looming weight and heat of her god. Shadow’s claws ghosted along her trembling thighs, reverent now, slow and deliberate as he spread her open once more. Candlelight painted his black fur in bronze and blood-red, flickering across the slick length of him as he revealed himself in full—his cock, massive and veined, far too big for her human body, the tip flaring and glistening with his arousal.

Y/N’s breath hitched, eyes widening, a choked whimper escaping her throat as her hips tried instinctively to back away. Shadow’s eyes softened at the sound, though the hungry gleam never faded. He leaned down, nuzzling the side of her face, his tongue curling briefly against her jaw as if to soothe her trembling. His voice came low, resonant, the timbre vibrating through her bones like a living spell.

“Hush, little one… I will not break what is mine. You are meant for me.”

Her legs quivered in his grasp, but she nodded faintly, the golden chains around her hips jingling softly with the motion. Shadow shifted again, positioning the broad, hot tip against her entrance, the heat of him making her gasp even before he pressed forward. The first nudge alone made her body twitch, her walls clenching reflexively around nothing, and a hiss tore from his chest, a deep rumble that shook her to her core.

He pressed forward slowly, deliberately, letting the thick head stretch her inch by inch. The pain was sharp at first, a burning ache that made her toes curl, and Y/N’s hands flexed in his grip, a muffled plea caught in her throat. Shadow stilled immediately, his heavy breath ghosting over her as his muzzle brushed her ear. Then, in a voice older than the stone beneath them, he whispered in that strange, rolling ancient tongue, the syllables curling like smoke in the candlelight.

The moment the words touched her skin, something shifted—an unnatural warmth spread through her core, the tight pain unwinding into molten heat. She gasped, her body opening for him as if bewitched, the stretch turning from sharp to overwhelming pleasure, and a moan slipped free before she could stop it.

“That’s it,” Shadow rumbled, his voice full of dark praise, his eyes half-lidded as he began to push deeper. “My perfect little offering… taking me so well… you were made for this.”

Every inch sank into her with slow, worshipful care, his claws never leaving her thighs, his mouth pressing occasional kisses along her neck and collarbone as he filled her. The feeling was all-consuming—her walls stretching around him, her body shivering as he slid deeper, and the heat of him making her insides flutter. When he finally bottomed out, a low, guttural sound left him, something primal and awed, and he held himself there, buried to the hilt, letting her feel the weight and pulse of him fully.

Y/N’s legs trembled violently, golden jewelry clinking against the altar as she panted, her body molded around the impossible size of him. Shadow lowered himself closer, his massive chest brushing hers, his muzzle nuzzling the crown of her head as he whispered in that same ancient language again—sweet, dark words that made her shiver and clench around him. His hips rolled just slightly, enough to make her gasp, her nails curling against the stone.

“You are divine like this,” he murmured in common tongue again, voice like velvet over steel. “Every part of you yielding to me… letting me claim what was always mine.”

He withdrew an inch, slow and tender, then pushed back in just as carefully, the motion making her head tip back in delirious pleasure. Every thrust after was a ritual in itself, his pace measured, his attention on her every sound and twitch, his massive body shielding her from the cold and the world as he worshipped her with each movement. And all the while, that enormous cock stretched and filled her, the slick slide and the pulse of his veins leaving her trembling, her moans echoing like the hymn of a sacred offering.

Shadow’s entire body trembled with restraint, every coiled muscle beneath his dark fur shivering with the effort of holding back. His massive frame caged Y/N against the altar, the heat of him enveloping her completely, and yet he moved with aching slowness, each thrust a worshipful offering that made her body sing. His claws dug into the stone on either side of her head, leaving shallow grooves, the instinct to rut into her overwhelming, primal, nearly feral. But still, he held himself in check, because Y/N was his—his delicate little human, his trembling, perfect sacrifice—and he would not take what he could savor.

“Ahh… you feel… exquisite…” His voice was thick, almost guttural now, the calm edge fraying as her body clenched around him. His hips pressed flush with hers, the thick, veined length of him stretching her so full she swore she could feel him in her stomach. His breath shook as he withdrew slowly, his cock glistening in the candlelight with her slick, before he slid back in, inch by devastating inch, and Y/N’s back arched, a strangled moan spilling from her lips.

Shadow’s eyes half-closed, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he watched her face contort with pleasure. He dipped his muzzle to her throat, dragging his hot tongue along her pulse before laving her collarbone, savoring the salt of her skin mixed with the incense-thick air. “My perfect little sacrifice… your body sings for me… ahh, look how you open for me, how you drink me in… I could lose myself inside you…”

The candlelight flickered across his massive form as he shifted his grip, one clawed hand sliding to pin her wrists above her head, the other gripping her thigh to pull her open wider, forcing her to take him even deeper. The motion made her cry out, her voice breaking, and Shadow groaned, his composure fracturing further. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of her filled the chamber, mingling with the soft chime of her golden jewelry and the low rumble of his breath.

“You… gods… you tempt me to ruin…” His hips pressed harder now, the head of his cock nudging deep against that sensitive spot inside her, making her jolt and cry out again. “Do you feel that, little one? All of me inside you… stretching you… claiming you… ahh, you make it so hard to hold back… my body—hah—it screams to breed you, to fill you until my essence drips down these sacred stones…”

His pace quickened slightly, just enough to make the altar shudder beneath them, his thrusts deeper, needier, though he still watched her face like a man starved. His tongue dragged across her lips, and he caught her soft gasp with a kiss, devouring her, muffling her cries as he rolled his hips and made her body seize around him. When he pulled back, a thread of saliva connected their mouths, and he licked it away with a hunger that made her shiver.

“Mine… mine… ahhh, your little body takes me so perfectly… you feel like you were carved for me, my sweet offering… tell me, will you let me lose control?” His voice dropped to a feral purr, his hips giving a sharp, punishing thrust that made stars burst behind her eyes. “Will you let me worship you the way my instincts beg me to?”

The last thread of Shadow’s restraint snapped like a frayed wire under too much tension. His low, guttural growl reverberated through the cavernous chamber as his hips slammed forward with a force that made the altar jolt beneath Y/N, the sharp sound of her startled cry echoing off the stone walls. Every instinct he had fought to cage surged to the surface, and the feral need to claim overwhelmed him. His thick, veined cock drove into her with a wet, obscene sound, stretching her impossibly, and the candlelight shimmered over the sheen of sweat and slick that now clung to both their bodies.

“Ahhh—fuck, look at you… my sweet little sacrifice, my perfect vessel…” His voice was ragged now, his composure fractured into something primal, guttural. Each thrust was brutal in its devotion, his hips rolling with punishing precision as he filled her to the hilt, the sheer size of him making her whimper and claw at the stone. His muzzle hovered over her neck, fangs grazing her skin as he panted hotly against her pulse, his chest rumbling with growls that vibrated through her body.

Y/N’s golden accessories clinked softly with every movement, her near-transparent silk slipping against sweat-slicked skin, leaving nothing to the imagination as her breasts bounced with each deep thrust. Her cries were raw, unfiltered, high and desperate, and Shadow devoured them like ambrosia. He pinned her wrists with one clawed hand and used the other to anchor her trembling thigh higher, folding her into the perfect angle that let him slam into the deepest part of her, his cock twitching inside her tight heat.

“Ahhh—hahhh… you feel divine… you were made for me, little one, you take me better than any mortal could…” His words tumbled out in filthy, adoring praise, interlaced with growls. “So small… so soft… and yet you grip me like you need my seed… do you? Hnnngh—fuck—do you want me to fill this perfect little body until it drips down your thighs, until the whole temple reeks of us?”

Her only response was a strangled moan, her head tipping back, tears beading at the corners of her eyes from the overwhelming stretch and bliss. Shadow licked one away with his long, hot tongue, then claimed her mouth in a kiss so deep and consuming she could barely breathe. His hips moved faster now, a relentless rhythm of devotion and desire, the wet squelch of their joining echoing with every punishing thrust.

His claws dug shallow crescents into her skin as he rutted harder, his massive body dwarfing hers, the altar scraping across the stone floor with the force of his movements. He pulled back just enough to look down at her, at the sight of her stretched around his throbbing length, and a deep, broken sound tore from his chest.

“Ahhh—gods—you… you will unmake me…” he groaned, his voice fraying into near incoherence as his instincts overtook him. “So perfect… so mine… you’ll take every drop, won��t you? My sacred little whore… my offering… ahhh, yes, beg for it… beg for me to ruin you…”

Every thrust now was a worship and a claiming, his pace feral yet reverent, his massive form trembling with the effort to keep from completely breaking her beneath him. Her moans were muffled when he pressed his palm over her mouth, leaning close to whisper against her ear, voice shaking with a mix of love and primal greed.

“Shhh… my treasure… I love every sound you make, but if the others hear, they’ll know… they’ll know how perfectly I’m filling you… hnnghh—fuck—you want that? You want them to hear how good I fuck my little sacrifice?”

The altar shook violently with his next thrust, and she sobbed against his hand, her body convulsing in bliss, milking him, and his hips stuttered as he let out a roar that echoed like thunder in the sacred chamber.

The world narrowed to heat, flesh, and the raw, unrelenting pulse of Shadow’s desire. His entire body coiled over Y/N like a beast in the throes of some primal rite, shadows from the flickering candles painting his form in a mix of monstrous and divine. Every thrust drove her higher on the altar, the stone scraping faintly beneath her back, her golden jewelry clinking in rhythm to the wet, obscene sound of her body taking him. His massive cock bulged against her lower belly with every plunge, the sight making Shadow groan low in his chest, eyes burning with a crimson glow that promised both ruin and worship.

“Ahhh—hahhh—fuck…” His voice cracked, his ancient composure crumbling as he rutted deeper. “Little one… my perfect sacrifice… your body sings for me… you’re swallowing me like you were born for this…” He bent low to lick a hot stripe up her throat, his tongue long and sinful, curling to taste her racing pulse. His words were reverent, filth wrapped in devotion. “So sweet… my goddess… my whore… all mine…”

Y/N writhed, tears streaking her flushed cheeks as the overwhelming stretch edged her closer to a pleasure she could barely comprehend. Her back arched, offering herself as he demanded without words, and her soft, choked whimpers only fueled his need. His hand slid to her belly, pressing down to feel the thick length of himself inside her, and he groaned in pure, guttural ecstasy.

“Feel that?” His tone was ragged, half a growl. “So deep… I’m in your womb, little treasure. No one else—hnnghh—could ever take me like this… fuck…” He kissed her, messy and consuming, tongue thrusting past her lips as if to taste her very cries.

The cult stood in the shadows beyond the altar, silent but ever-present, their faces half-lit by the flame’s dance. Shadow’s ears flicked as if aware of them, and he broke the kiss just enough to murmur against Y/N’s trembling lips.

“They watch… they see you, my perfect sacrifice, stretched so wide for your god…” His hips rolled harder, a punishing rhythm that made her head spin, her nails scraping helplessly at his muscled back. “Every single one of them will leave knowing you were made to be mine.”

The pressure in his gut coiled, unbearable, and he slammed into her one final time with a roar that rattled the chamber. The first spurt of hot, thick release flooded her womb, and he groaned, trembling over her as he kept pumping, his massive cock twitching with each wave. Y/N sobbed in overstimulated bliss, her belly distending slightly from the sheer amount he poured into her. Shadow bit her shoulder, fangs breaking skin, and the coppery tang of blood mixed with candle wax and sweat in the sacred air.

“Mmmmhh… ahhh, fuck… more… you’ll take it all…” His voice was wrecked now, words spilling between guttural groans. He stayed buried to the hilt, grinding his hips as if to force every drop deep inside. His cum leaked around the seal of her tightness in slow, sticky rivulets, sliding over her ass and dripping to the stone below, obscene in its volume.

Still, he wasn’t done. His body shuddered with inhuman stamina, another gush of heat making her whimper, her nails digging into his back as the altar creaked under his weight. He pulled back just far enough to watch the mess he made, a strand of his seed connecting them, and then pushed back in with a growl that sounded both dangerous and worshipful.

“My perfect offering… I could spend the whole night filling you… and you would take it, wouldn’t you?” His clawed hand caught her chin, forcing her teary eyes to meet his. “Say it… tell your god you’ll take every drop…”

Her voice was barely a whisper, trembling and broken with pleasure, but it was enough to send another shudder down his spine. His hips began moving again, slower but deeper, milking his pleasure into her as if he truly intended to breed her until dawn. The cult remained silent, shadows breathing with the rhythm of the obscene, sacred act, as Shadow The Hedgehog worshipped his trembling sacrifice in every way imaginable.

Shadow loomed over Y/N, his form bathed in the golden tremor of the candles, his crimson eyes gleaming with a fevered, unholy adoration. The altar was slick beneath her, both from his release and from the glistening sheen of sweat on her trembling body, her fine silk offering gown clinging in tatters to her curves. His claws traced over her quivering belly, his touch reverent even as his massive cock twitched still inside her, stretching her in a way that felt impossible, unbearable—and yet she craved more.

“My little goddess…” he whispered, his deep voice rolling over her like velvet and smoke, each syllable thick with possession. “So fragile… so human… and yet, your body takes me so perfectly… so greedily. I could worship you for eternity.” He leaned down, his long, heated tongue gliding over her swollen lips, tasting the salt of her sweat and the sweetness of her tears before capturing her mouth in another hungry kiss. His hips rolled with a slow, deliberate drag, and she felt every ridge and vein of his impossible size, each movement making her jolt, a choked cry spilling into his mouth.

Her nails curled into the muscle of his arms, and he groaned at the sharp sting, the primal satisfaction of her clinging to him, marking him as he marked her. He kissed down her jaw, her throat, her chest, leaving hot trails with his tongue before murmuring against her breast.

“You are mine now… my sacrifice, my worship, my goddess…” His voice deepened to a feral growl as his hips pressed fully into her, grinding to the very hilt. “And I… am yours. I would do anything—spill every drop of myself—to fill this soft little body until it’s overflowing with me…”

Her back arched involuntarily as he began to move with a rhythm that was both tender and relentless, slow but devastatingly deep, each thrust drawing a wet squelch and a tremor of bliss from her trembling frame. The cult’s silent presence only heightened the intimacy of the ritual; the faint sound of their breaths, their robes whispering as they shifted in the shadows, made Y/N’s face flush hotter, knowing they were witnessing how completely her body had yielded to this monstrous, divine hedgehog.

Shadow’s hand slid to her belly, pressing down lightly, and he groaned, the sound raw and heavy.

“Feel that…?” His crimson gaze locked on hers, burning her to the soul. “I’m so deep inside you… making you mine in every way… gods, I can feel myself spilling into you…”

And he was—hot, thick cum still flooding her, his inhuman stamina letting him fill her again and again. It dripped out around his girth, down the curve of her ass, over the sacred stone, soaking the edges of the golden silk they had dressed her in. Shadow licked her cheek slowly, almost lovingly, before kissing her lips again.

“Say it…” he murmured, voice husky and reverent. “Tell your god you want to be my little goddess forever… that you’ll let me keep filling this perfect human body until you can take no more…”

Her voice was a hoarse whisper, broken by pleasure and tears, but he heard it—and it sent a shudder through his massive form. His thrusts quickened, still slow by human standards, but with a force that shook the altar, his cock twitching violently as another surge of thick heat spilled deep into her womb. He groaned into her neck, whispering in that low, ancient tongue that made her body burn with both fear and ecstasy.

“Mine… always mine… I will keep you like this forever… my perfect little goddess, overflowing with me…”

He ground his hips in slow, wet circles, savoring the obscene squelch, the sight of her belly slightly distended, the way her body clenched and milked him greedily. He worshipped her with every filthy word, every tender kiss and every ruthless thrust, until it felt as though time itself bowed to the ritual of their joining.

The altar was warm beneath Y/N’s back, the heat of wax and stone mingling with the molten, sticky wetness that covered her trembling body. Candles flickered low, their golden flames shivering as if in awe of the sight before them—Shadow the Hedgehog, crimson-eyed and glorious, cradling his trembling little human in the aftermath of the ritual. His massive form crouched over her like a shadow made flesh, fur streaked with sweat, his muscles tight and coiled as if restraining some endless hunger. His cock, still half-hard inside her, twitched with every soft whimper she made, and she could feel the obscene fullness of him—his seed heavy in her womb, leaking out in slow, sinful rivulets down her thighs.

Shadow’s claws traced the silk remnants that clung to her skin, tearing one delicate strap and exposing her shoulder to his kisses. His voice, that deep, velvety rumble, vibrated against her flushed skin.

“My little goddess…” he murmured, reverent and dark, one clawed hand cupping her cheek as if she were made of the finest porcelain. “So small… so soft… and yet you’ve taken me, all of me, like you were made for it. Look at you…” His thumb stroked her lower lip, slick with the sheen of sweat and tears. “Ruined… dripping… and still the most divine thing these eyes have ever beheld.”

Y/N could barely respond, her throat raw from choked cries and gasps, her body boneless against the sacred stone. Shadow moved with slow, deliberate care now, easing out of her with a wet, obscene sound that made her shiver. His seed followed, thick and copious, dripping down her thighs and pooling beneath her. The sight made his crimson eyes darken with something primal, possessive.

He gathered her up in his powerful arms, curling her against his chest, her face buried against his fur. His voice dropped into a low, hushed murmur that was only for her, even as the cult knelt in a wide circle around them, their foreheads touching the floor in reverence.

“They bow to you now, little goddess,” he whispered, his words curling like smoke in the night. “My worship… my devotion… my claim… it is all yours. And theirs.” He tilted her face up and kissed her slowly, tasting salt and heat, a kiss of ownership and soft indulgence. “I will keep you like this… always full of me… always worshiped, adored, loved.”

A tremor went through her as he laid her back on his furred lap, letting her legs fall open in shameless display of the mess he had made of her. The cult dared to lift their heads now, and the room filled with the soft sound of their whispered praises, old words in an older tongue, hailing the birth of their goddess. Shadow’s hand stroked her belly tenderly, his thumb circling over the small swell caused by his lingering fullness.

“Do you feel that?” His voice was a low purr, vibrating against her ear. “That’s me inside you… claiming you… blessing you. And I will never stop, my perfect little goddess. I will worship you with this body until yours knows nothing else.”

The candles guttered in the windless room, shadows dancing as he pressed another soft kiss to her temple. Around them, the cult chanted her name, and Shadow smiled, low and dangerous, his love and hunger blending into one unholy vow.

“You are mine now… forever. And I will fill you until your mortal body remembers only me.”

The air shifted the moment Shadow lifted Y/N from the altar, her limp form cradled against his powerful chest. The temple faded into darkness, the flickering candlelight dissolving like smoke, until only the sensation of moving through something thick and otherworldly remained—like sinking into warm ink. Y/N felt weightless, as though gravity itself had let go, and then suddenly, she was surrounded by warmth and velvet shadows that breathed like a living thing.

They had entered his realm.

The ground beneath her bare feet was soft, black mist curling like silk around her ankles, glowing faintly with crimson sparks that pulsed in rhythm with Shadow’s heartbeat. The walls—if they could be called walls—were endless, rippling with shadow as though the entire realm was alive, watching, and listening. Overhead, there was no ceiling, only a vast, starlit void where distant galaxies shimmered and twisted in slow motion. The air was heavy with the scent of him—dark musk and heat—making her dizzy with the memory of his body pressed to hers, of his size splitting her apart and filling her in ways she could still feel.

Shadow carried her to what seemed like a bed carved from the void itself, massive and soft, draped in dark silks that seemed to drink the faint light. He set her down with reverent care, his claws skimming over her arms, her ribs, her thighs, as if he couldn’t resist touching her, worshiping her. The thin silk of her ritual gown clung to her still-damp body, translucent in all the places she was most vulnerable. She shivered, and his deep voice rumbled above her like distant thunder.

“You are mine here,” he said, kneeling over her with the quiet intensity of a predator and a lover in one. His glowing eyes pinned her in place, molten and reverent. “No mortal can touch you. No mortal can see you. In my realm, you are only for me… my goddess of soft skin and trembling thighs.”

His mouth descended slowly, deliberately, tracing kisses along her stomach, each one sending a pulse of warmth into her core. When his tongue finally slid over her, long and thick and sinfully skilled, she arched with a gasp, grabbing at his fur as he licked her open. His tongue was impossibly warm, curling and teasing, drawing out all the lingering ache and replacing it with waves of molten pleasure.

Shadow growled softly against her, the vibration reverberating through her soaked heat. His claws traced her hips while his voice, low and worshipful, slipped into that old language—words that made her pulse race and her body shiver as they seemed to sink into her very bones. Magic, or something like it, hummed through her veins, turning every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips, into something both sacred and filthy.

“You taste like divinity,” he murmured between kisses, his lips glistening with her arousal. “My perfect little goddess… soft, trembling, mine to worship, mine to fill. Do you know what you do to me?” His cock, heavy and hard again, pressed against her thigh, hot and throbbing. He stroked himself slowly as he devoured her, the sight almost unreal in its lewd beauty—this godlike beast unraveling for her.

When he finally slid into her again, slow and deep, whispering that same ancient spell that turned the sharp stretch into molten pleasure, she clung to him, barely able to breathe. He moved with tender reverence at first, kissing every inch of her skin, worshiping her with words and touch, but beneath it all was that primal hunger—barely restrained, shaking his massive frame as he tried to hold himself back for her sake.

“Little goddess…” His forehead pressed to hers as he thrust deeper, filling her to the hilt. “I will never tire of this… of you. I could spend eternity worshiping you like this… until your body carries only my mark… my seed… my love.”

Around them, his realm pulsed in time with their bodies, shadows curling like adoring hands, galaxies spinning faster overhead as if the entire universe bowed to this union.

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