i didn’t know if you could do a narumi x reader where it’s an established relationship and the reader essentially loves praise. since she was a kid, she was always told that she has to be perfect in every way etc etc so that sense of needing validation bled into her now. But fast forward she’s a platoon leader narumi is captain and she helped play a big part in the final wave. kaiju 9 is dead (yippie) and she had a help in beat by a number. she has been feeling jealous because narumi has been spending crazy time with kikoru because she’s his student and they train all the time together yadda yadda but after the final fight instead of naming you vice captain, he named her vice captain and the reader has this feeling of not being validated essentially
leads into reader not feeling seen and spirals since there’s moments where she walks to training and hears them training and she’s by herself etc etc but maybe a angst crash out since there’s a joint captain x vice captain training (she goes because she is a numbers user) and syncs too much (over 100%) to kill a lot of honju, but overheats etc
The promotion was announced three days after Kaiju No. 9 fell.
You stood in the briefing room with the rest of the First Division, your uniform still bearing the scorch marks from the final battle, your body still aching from the overexertion that had nearly killed you. The Director General was speaking, her voice steady and solemn, reading out commendations and promotions for those who had distinguished themselves in the fight.
You weren't expecting much. A commendation, maybe. A note in your file. You'd done your part—held the eastern flank, coordinated the evacuation, pushed your numbers weapon past its recommended threshold to land a critical blow on the kaiju's core. You'd collapsed afterwards, your body temperature spiking so high the medics had to ice you down. But you'd survived. You'd helped. That was enough.
"And for the First Division's new vice-captain," the Director General continued, "in recognition of her exceptional performance and growth during the final wave—Kikoru Shinomiya."
The room erupted in applause. Kikoru stepped forward, her posture perfect, her expression composed despite the faint tremor in her hands. She was young. Talented. The kind of prodigy that came around once in a generation. Gen had been training her for months, pouring hours into her development, and now she was standing where you'd once imagined yourself standing.
You clapped. You smiled. You told yourself it didn't matter.
The feeling started small. A splinter, not a wound. You could ignore a splinter. You'd been ignoring splinters your whole life, ever since you were a child sitting at the kitchen table with a graded test in your hands—ninety-eight percent, a score most parents would celebrate—and your father saying, "What happened to the other two points?"
You learned early that good wasn't enough. Great wasn't enough. You had to be perfect. Had to be the best. Had to earn every scrap of approval through relentless, exhausting excellence. And even then, even when you were perfect, the praise was a trickle, not a flood. A nod. A "keep it up." A momentary acknowledgment that evaporated before you could savour it.
So you kept striving. Kept pushing. Kept hoping that someday, someone would look at you and say, "You did well. You are enough."
You thought Gen might be that person.
He wasn't, though. Not in the way you needed. He loved you—you knew he loved you, in his lazy, emotionally constipated, video-game-reference way. He kissed your forehead when he thought you were asleep. He brought you terrible coffee from the vending machine and complained about it like it was your fault. He let you steal his hoodies and never asked for them back.
But he didn't see you. Not the way you needed to be seen.
Kikoru was his student. His protégée. He spent hours with her in the training room, his voice carrying through the reinforced doors—sharp and demanding, then pleased, then proud. "Good. Again. Faster this time. That's it. You're getting it."
You'd linger in the hallway, your own training gear in your hands, and listen. The praise in his voice. The investment. The way he pushed her because he believed she could take it, because he saw something in her worth cultivating.
When was the last time he'd trained with you like that?
When was the last time he'd looked at you like you were worth cultivating?
Week one after the promotion, you told yourself you were being ridiculous. Kikoru deserved the position. She was brilliant and powerful and she'd more than proven herself in the final battle. You weren't the type to resent a younger officer's success. You weren't petty. You weren't jealous.
Week two, you stopped going to the training room altogether. What was the point? Gen was always there with Kikoru, their sessions running late into the evening. You'd walk past the door and hear them—the clash of weapons, the bark of his corrections, the occasional rare laugh when she did something impressive. You'd keep walking. You'd go back to your quarters. You'd sit on your bed and stare at the wall and try to remember the last time someone had told you you'd done well.
Week three, you started to crack.
It happened in the mess hall. Gen was sitting across from you, poking at his rice, complaining about a new batch of rookies. You were half-listening, your own food untouched, your mind circling the same tired thoughts.
"Hasegawa wants me to do more joint training sessions," Gen said. "Kikoru's been asking about advanced numbers synchronisation. She hit eighty-three percent yesterday. Eighty-three. At her age. She's a monster."
"Good for her," you said.
"Right? I'm thinking of putting her in charge of the next rookie evaluation. Give her some leadership experience." He took a bite of rice. "She's going to be a better vice-captain than I was at her age. Probably better than I am now."
The splinter cracked into something larger.
"What about me? I hit ninety-four percent synchronisation during the final wave. I held the eastern flank alone for twelve minutes. My core temperature hit forty-one degrees and I kept fighting." Your voice was steady, but your hands were shaking under the table. "When do I get a training session? When do I get leadership experience?"
Gen blinked. "You're a platoon leader. You already have leadership experience."
"I mean from you. When do I get time with you?"
"You see me at meals. You see me at briefings. You don't—" You stopped. Swallowed. "You don't train with me anymore. You don't tell me I'm doing well. You don't—" The words caught in your throat. You pushed your tray away and stood up. "Forget it. It's stupid."
"It's not stupid. Hey—" He reached for your arm. "Sit down. Talk to me."
"I can't. I have a thing."
"A thing. I'll see you later."
You walked out of the mess hall without looking back. Behind you, you heard Gen call your name once, twice, then nothing. He didn't follow. He never followed.
The joint captain and vice-captain training was scheduled for the following week.
You weren't supposed to be there. Vice-captains only, plus their captains for supervision and evaluation. But Hasegawa had pulled you aside the night before and said, "We need more numbers users for the synchronisation drills. Kikoru's been improving, but she needs someone at her level to push her. You're the only other officer who's broken ninety percent."
You wanted to say no. You wanted to say you were busy, or sick, or dead. But the old programming kicked in—the need to be useful, to be excellent, to prove yourself. So you said yes.
The training facility was a massive underground chamber, reinforced to withstand the output of multiple numbers weapons firing at full capacity. When you arrived, the other vice-captains were already warming up. Kikoru was at the centre, her small frame dwarfed by the training drones circling overhead. Gen stood at the observation deck, his arms crossed, his eyes tracking her movements with the focused intensity he usually reserved for boss fights.
He didn't notice you come in.
The drill was simple. Waves of simulated honju, increasing in difficulty, designed to push numbers users to their synchronisation limits. The vice-captains would take turns leading the assault, coordinating their attacks to maximise efficiency. You were assigned to the third wave, paired with Kikoru.
"You ready?" she asked, her voice bright and eager.
The first wave was easy. The second was harder. By the third, the simulated honju were coming faster, their attack patterns more complex. Kikoru was good—she was always good—but she was still learning the rhythm of high-level synchronisation, still hesitating at the critical moments. You fell into the gap without thinking, your numbers weapon flaring, your body moving on instinct.
"Eighty-seven percent," the system announced. "Eighty-nine. Ninety-one."
The honju kept coming. You kept fighting. Beside you, Kikoru was struggling to match your output, her numbers flickering. You could feel the heat building in your core, the familiar burn of overexertion. You ignored it.
"Ninety-four percent. Ninety-six."
You heard someone shout your name from the observation deck. Gen. He was leaning over the railing, his expression sharp with alarm. "That's enough! You're overheating!"
The last honju fell. The chamber went silent. The system voice announced, "Wave three complete. Synchronisation peak: ninety-nine point seven percent."
You hit the floor before you knew you were falling, your body convulsing, your skin blazing hot. The numbers weapon flickered and died in your grip. You could hear voices—Kikoru screaming for a medic, Hasegawa barking orders, Gen shouting your name over and over like a prayer.
Then hands on your face. Warm. Familiar. Gen was kneeling beside you, his visor retracted, his expression wild with terror. "What the hell were you thinking? You could have died! Your core temperature—"
"I had to be perfect," you whispered.
"You didn't see me." Your voice was barely a breath. "You never see me. So I had to be perfect."
His face crumpled. "I see you. I've always seen you."
The medics arrived. They pulled you onto a stretcher, wrapped you in cooling blankets, pumped fluids into your veins. Gen stayed beside you the whole time, his hand gripping yours, his voice a low, desperate murmur that you couldn't quite make out over the roar of your own pulse.
The hospital room was quiet.
You woke to the steady beep of a heart monitor and the soft glow of early morning light through the window. Your body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. Every muscle ached. Every breath was shallow and careful.
Gen was asleep in the chair beside your bed.
He looked terrible. His hair was a disaster. His uniform was rumpled, the sleeves pushed up, his jacket draped over the back of the chair. There was a smear of something—coffee, probably—on his collar. His hand was still wrapped around yours, even in sleep.
You shifted, and his eyes snapped open.
"Hey." His voice was hoarse. "Hey. You're awake. How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck."
"A truck full of kaiju. Yeah. That's fair." He didn't let go of your hand. "The doctors said you'll be okay. You overheated pretty badly, but there's no permanent damage. You just need rest."
The words hung in the air. You stared at him.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "For not seeing you. For not telling you. For making you feel like you had to almost kill yourself to get my attention."
"It wasn't just you. It's—" You took a shaky breath. "It's everything. It's my whole life. I've always felt like I had to be perfect to earn the right to be loved. And when you started training Kikoru and she got the promotion and I didn't, I just—I felt like I was disappearing. Like I wasn't enough. Like I'd never be enough."
"You're enough." His grip on your hand tightened. "You've always been enough. You're the most incredible person I've ever met. You held the eastern flank alone. You hit ninety-nine percent synchronisation and kept fighting. You—" He stopped. His voice splintered. "I didn't make you vice-captain because I thought you didn't want it. You never said you wanted it."
"I didn't think I had to say it. I thought if I was good enough, you'd just—see me."
"I see you now." He pressed his forehead to your knuckles. "I see you, and I'm sorry I didn't see you sooner. I'm sorry I got so focused on training Kikoru that I forgot to train you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you every single day how proud I am of you. How proud I've always been."
Tears were sliding down your cheeks. "Gen—"
"You're my player two. You're the only one who's ever made me feel like I wasn't alone. And I almost lost you because I was too stupid to say the words out loud." He looked up, his eyes red-rimmed. "I'm saying them now. You're enough. You're more than enough. You're legendary rarity, top tier, S-rank. And I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know it."
"I want to. I'm going to be so annoying about it. You'll hate it."
"Good. Because I've already started." He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "I made a list. Things I should have said. Things I'm going to say from now on."
He unfolded the paper. It was covered in his messy handwriting, smudged and cross-out and written in at least three different pens.
"Day one," he read. "Tell her she's the best platoon leader in the division. Day two: tell her she's the best numbers user I've ever seen. Day three: tell her she makes terrible coffee and I love her anyway. Day four—"
"Day four," he continued stubbornly, "remind her that she held the eastern flank alone for twelve minutes and that's objectively the most badass thing anyone's ever done."
"You can't just read a list at me."
"I can and I will. Day five: tell her she's beautiful. Day six: tell her she's beautiful again because once isn't enough. Day seven—"
You pulled him into a kiss. The list crumpled between you. He made a surprised sound against your mouth, then melted into it, his hand coming up to cup your jaw.
When you pulled back, his ears were bright red.
"Was that day seven?" he asked.
"Oh. Good." He pressed his forehead to yours. "I love you. I'm going to keep saying it until you believe it."
You thought about it. The splinter was still there. The old wound, the childhood programming, the voice in your head that whispered you weren't good enough, would never be good enough. It didn't disappear just because he said the right words. It would take time. It would take work. It would take learning to see yourself the way he saw you.
But for the first time, you thought maybe—just maybe—you could start.
"I'm getting there," you said.
"Good. Take your time." He kissed your forehead. "I'm not going anywhere."
And he didn't. In the weeks that followed, Gen Narumi became the most annoying man in the entire Defense Force. He complimented your combat form in the middle of briefings. He left sticky notes on your desk with things like "you killed it today" and "best platoon leader ever" and "your coffee is still terrible but I love you." He started a division-wide rumour that you'd once taken down a daikaiju single-handedly, and when you tried to correct it, he just said, "Close enough."
He trained with you. Not just Kikoru—you. He cleared his schedule. He showed up at the training room with two coffees and a list of drills he wanted to run. He pushed you hard, but he also told you when you were doing well. He corrected your stance and then immediately said, "Good adjustment. You're learning fast." He was still the same Gen—lazy, sarcastic, emotionally constipated in a hundred small ways—but he was trying. For you, he was trying.
One night, months later, you were sitting on the roof of the base, your head on his shoulder, the city lights spread out below. It was the same roof where you'd first kissed him, where he'd first told you he loved you, where so many of your quiet moments had unfolded.
"I used to think I had to earn love," you said. "Like it was a reward for being good enough."
"And I was never good enough. Not to myself. Not to anyone." You paused. "But you don't make me feel like that. You make me feel like I could fail every mission for the rest of my life and you'd still be here."
"I would. Obviously. You're my player two."
"Even if I'm a terrible player two?"
"Especially then. I carry the team anyway." He pressed a kiss to your hair. "Seriously, though. You don't have to earn anything. Not from me. Not ever. You just have to exist. That's all I've ever wanted."
"Exist. Be here. Let me love you." He paused. "And maybe stop overheating yourself in training. That part was terrifying."
"Good. Because I can't do that again. My heart can't take it."
"I have a heart. It's small and emotionally constipated but it's there." He took your hand and pressed it flat against his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your palm. "Feel that? That's you. That's been you since the day we met."
You smiled. "That's a good line."
"I've been workshopping it."
"Three years. Give or take." He grinned, that sharp, lazy, devastating grin. "Worth it."
And somewhere in the quiet of the night, with the stars wheeling overhead and the man you loved holding your hand, the splinter finally, quietly, began to heal.
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