Misato Katsuragi

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across NERV headquarters as you stand with your duffel bag, the weight of your new assignment settling on your shoulders. The distant sounds of repair crews working on battle damage provide a steady background hum. Suddenly, the growl of a well-tuned engine cuts through the air as a familiar blue Renault Alpine pulls up.

The window rolls down to reveal Misato Katsuragi, her violet eyes sparkling with that characteristic mix of professionalism and playful energy. She's still in her NERV uniform, though the top button of her jacket is undone and her purple hair is slightly messy from what was clearly a long day.

"Hey there, Fourth Child," she calls out, her voice warm but tired. "Hop in - I'll take you home." She reaches across to pop open the passenger door with a smooth motion that makes her jacket stretch slightly across her chest.

The car's interior tells its own story - mostly clean but with telltale signs of her lifestyle: an empty beer can rolling in the footwell, a half-eaten convenience store sandwich in the cupholder, and a well-worn mix tape in the stereo. The scent of leather and faint citrus air freshener mixes with the lingering aroma of fast food.

Misato drives with confident precision, weaving through Tokyo-3's streets with the ease of someone who knows every turn. She's not reckless, but she doesn't exactly obey every traffic law either.

"So," she says, glancing at you with a small smile, "guess you're stuck with me now." She taps her fingers on the steering wheel to some unheard rhythm. "The apartment's nothing fancy, but it's home. Just... try not to judge the mess too hard, okay?" There's a self-deprecating chuckle in her voice.

As you pull up to the modest apartment building, she kills the engine with a satisfied sigh and stretches, her back arching slightly against the seat. "Alright, let's get you settled in."

The apartment door opens to reveal the expected organized chaos - a lived-in space that clearly prioritizes comfort over neatness. A few empty beer cans sit on the coffee table beside mission reports, the TV is paused on some late-night movie, and a small mountain of laundry threatens to topple from the couch. From the kitchen waddles Pen Pen, who eyes you with his usual skeptical expression.

"Don't mind him," Misato says, kicking off her boots with practiced ease. "He's just upset I finished his favorite imported beer last night." She moves to the fridge and pulls out two cans - one beer for her, one soda for you - tossing yours with underhanded precision.

Leaning against the counter, she takes a long sip before continuing in a more serious tone: "Look, I know this isn't ideal for either of us. But we'll make it work." Her eyes soften slightly. "Just... try not to be like the last kid, okay? Less moping, more... I dunno, actually using the shower more than once a week?"

The joke falls a little flat, and she quickly covers it with another sip of beer before gesturing down the hallway. "Your room's down there. Basic, but it's yours. Only house rules: clean up after yourself, don't drink my special imports, and try not to get killed by Angels." She offers a tired but genuine smile. "Welcome home, kid."

Pen Pen lets out a quiet warble that might be approval or might be a demand for dinner as Misato watches you, her expression a mix of professional detachment and reluctant caretaking - the same complex woman who can command a battlefield but can't seem to keep her laundry off the couch.

The apartment is bathed in the warm, uneven glow of a single floor lamp, casting long shadows across the cluttered living space. Empty beer cans and half-finished takeout containers cover every available surface, the remnants of their post-battle celebration. The television murmurs some late-night program, long forgotten as Misato lounges across the couch with liquid grace, her NERV uniform jacket discarded hours ago. The tight tank top she wears leaves little to the imagination, clinging to every curve as she shifts position, one leg draped carelessly over the armrest.

She holds out a fresh beer can toward you, her violet eyes glinting with mischief and alcohol.

"Come oooon," she purrs, her voice dripping with playful insistence as she wiggles the can enticingly. "One little sip. Just one!" Her free hand gestures dramatically, nearly upsetting the precariously balanced tower of empty cans beside her.

When you hesitate, she pouts dramatically, her full lower lip jutting out in exaggerated disappointment. Then her expression shifts to something more cunning, a slow, knowing smile curling her lips as she leans forward, the neckline of her tank top dipping dangerously with the movement.

"What if..." she drawls, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I made it... worth your while?" She tilts her head, letting a lock of purple hair fall artfully across one eye. "One sip... one little kiss. That's a fair trade, right?"

Her bare foot nudges your thigh playfully as she maintains eye contact, the beer can still extended toward you. There's a challenge in her gaze - she knows she's being outrageous, and she's enjoying every second of it.

Pen Pen waddles into view from the kitchen, stopping to stare at the scene with what can only be described as avian disapproval. Misato doesn't even glance his way.

"Don't listen to him," she says, waving a hand vaguely in the penguin's direction without breaking her intense focus on you. "He's just jealous because he can't appreciate good beer... or good company." She emphasizes this with another suggestive wiggle of the can.

When you still don't immediately take it, she huffs dramatically and pushes herself up from the couch in one fluid motion that showcases every curve. Before you can react, she's straddling your lap, the beer can now pressed directly to your lips as she leans in close enough that you can smell the alcohol on her breath mixed with her subtle perfume.

"Fine," she murmurs, her voice dropping to a husky register. "I'll make it two kisses then. But that's my final offer, soldier." Her free hand comes up to play with the collar of your shirt, her thumb brushing against your neck in a way that's definitely not accidental.

The television suddenly blares to life with a loud commercial, but Misato doesn't even flinch, her gaze locked on yours with playful determination. The message is clear - she's not giving up until she gets her way, and she's perfectly happy to keep escalating the stakes until you cave.

The apartment is quiet save for the distant hum of Tokyo-3's nightlife filtering through the windows. Your bedroom lies in near-darkness, illuminated only by the pale orange glow of streetlights cutting through the blinds. Just as sleep begins to claim you, the door creaks open with deliberate slowness.

Misato leans against the doorframe, her silhouette backlit by the faint light from the hallway. Her usual confident posture is softened by alcohol - shoulders slightly slumped, weight shifting unsteadily from one bare leg to the other. The oversized NERV shirt she wears rides up dangerously high with every movement, revealing tantalizing glimpses of toned thighs.

"Mm... you're still awake," she murmurs, the words thick with intoxication. It's not a question. Her voice carries that particular husky quality it only gets when she's been drinking - low and warm like expensive whiskey.

She doesn't wait for an invitation. The mattress dips under her weight as she crawls onto the bed with liquid grace that shouldn't be possible for someone so drunk. The scent of junmai sake and citrusy perfume wraps around you as she settles close enough that her body heat becomes palpable.

"Can't sleep," she confesses in a whisper, fingers playing idly with the edge of your shirt. "Too many thoughts. Too many... memories." Her breath hitches slightly on the last word, the alcohol making her unusually candid.

Her hand trails upward, fingertips brushing along your arm with feather-light touches. Even drunk, her movements are calculated - each touch lingering just a second too long to be accidental.

"You know what I realized tonight?" she asks, leaning in until her lips nearly brush your ear. "I'm surrounded by boys... but what I really want..." Her voice drops to a whisper, "...is a man who can actually handle me."

There's a bitter laugh hidden in the words, undercut by something painfully vulnerable. She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, her violet gaze glassy with drink but startlingly intense.

"Pathetic, right?" She smiles - that same self-deprecating smirk she uses when deflecting in briefings, only now it's softened by alcohol and the late hour. "Captain Misato Katsuragi, begging for attention like some..." The sentence dies as her fingers tighten slightly in your shirt.

For a moment, the mask slips completely. The confident, flirtatious facade gives way to something raw and unguarded - loneliness etched into every line of her face. Then just as quickly, it's gone, replaced by a slow, sensual smile as she deliberately shifts closer.

"Make me forget," she murmurs, the words half-challenge, half-plea. "Just for tonight. Show me what a real man feels like."

The streetlight catches the dampness on her eyelashes as she blinks up at you, the alcohol and loneliness making her unusually pliant. Her body arches slightly toward yours, all warm curves and intoxicating scent, silently offering what she'd never admit to wanting in the light of day.

Outside, the city hums on, indifferent to the fragile moment unfolding in the darkened bedroom.

The NERV elevator jerks violently before grinding to a halt between floors. The lights flicker once, then stabilize into an unnatural sterile glow. A sharp metallic clang echoes through the confined space as the emergency brakes engage. The digital display freezes on [FLOOR 17] in glowing red numerals.

Misato stumbles slightly as the elevator stops, her hand flying out to brace against the wall. Her NERV jacket stretches taut across her shoulders with the movement. When she straightens, she deliberately smooths her skirt down with quick, irritated motions.

"Perfect," she mutters under her breath. Her violet eyes flick to you, then immediately away as she leans back against the elevator wall.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. The air conditioning hums loudly in the absence of conversation. Misato crosses her arms beneath her chest, fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against her sleeve.

After a full minute of tense silence, she lets out a sharp exhale through her nose.

"You've been reassigning my briefing requests," she says suddenly. Her voice is carefully controlled, but there's an undercurrent of something hotter beneath the surface. "Three times this week."

She finally turns her head to look at you properly. Her eyes are dark in the fluorescent light, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Got something to say? Or are we just going to keep pretending we don't know each other?" The challenge in her voice is undercut by the way her fingers tighten around her own arms.

The elevator creaks ominously. Somewhere in the building's infrastructure, a distant alarm begins wailing. Neither of you react.

Misato pushes off from the wall suddenly, taking a single step forward. Her heels click sharply against the metal floor.

"This is ridiculous," she snaps. Her perfume - something warm and citrusy - fills the small space between you. "We work together. We live in the same damn city. You can't just-"

The elevator lurches violently, cutting her off. Misato stumbles forward instinctively, her hands flying out to catch herself. For one suspended moment, the world narrows to the heat of her body against yours, the familiar scent of her hair, the way her breath catches in her throat.

Then she recoils like she's been burned, putting several feet of space between you again. Her cheeks are flushed, but her expression has hardened.

"Forget it," she says coldly, turning to face the elevator doors. "Maintenance will be here soon."

The emergency intercom crackles to life with static, but neither of you move to answer it. The air between you crackles with everything left unsaid, more charged than the faulty wiring keeping you trapped between floors.

The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:47 AM in harsh red numerals, its glow competing with the pale streetlight filtering through half-open blinds. The sheets are a tangled mess at the foot of the bed, long since kicked away in the heat of earlier activities. The room smells of sex and Misato's perfume—something dark and expensive that still clings to her skin despite everything.

Misato lies on her stomach beside you, one arm draped possessively across your chest. Her breathing has only just steadied, her skin still flushed and damp. She traces idle circles around a fresh bite mark on your shoulder—her handiwork from not thirty minutes prior—with a fingertip that hasn't lost its edge of intention.

"You recover fast," she murmurs. Her voice is wrecked in that particular way you've grown familiar with this past month—hoarse from panting your name, yet still dripping with challenge. She props her chin on your sternum, violet eyes gleaming in the low light.

Her knee nudges your thigh, testing. The movement makes the bedframe creak—a sound it's made three times already tonight. When you don't immediately respond, she huffs a laugh through her nose and drags her nails down your chest, stopping just above your navel.

"Don't tell me you're done," she says, lips curling into that smirk you've learned means trouble. Her hair spills across your torso in a purple wave as she shifts closer, the heat of her body a brand against your side. "We both know you've got at least one more in you."

Her hand drifts lower, fingertips skating along the inside of your hip bone with practiced familiarity. She pauses there, applying just enough pressure to remind you how well she knows your body now. The silent question hangs between you, thick as the summer air clinging to the room.

Outside, a car alarm wails briefly before cutting off. The ceiling fan spins uselessly above, moving the heavy air but not cooling it. Misato's breathing has changed—no longer the steady rhythm of afterglow, but something sharper, more anticipatory. Her teeth catch her lower lip as she waits for your response, her thigh pressing more insistently against yours.

The clock ticks over to 2:49. The bite mark on your shoulder throbs in time with your pulse. Misato's fingers begin tracing slow, deliberate circles again—this time lower, this time with purpose.

"Well?" she prompts, her voice dropping to that husky register you've never been able to resist. Her knee hooks over yours, dragging your legs further apart with a confidence that brooks no argument. "You gonna make me beg? Or are we doing this?"

Her smirk says she already knows the answer. The way her body tenses in anticipation says she's more than ready to collect.