sea

about me ⋆｡°✩

sea, 21, she/her, just a burnt out uni student trying her best- u will find me writing extensively on fandoms I'm hyperfixated on atm (I generally do not accept requests but if the prompt resonantes w/ me and gets the hamster wheel in my brain spinning then i will write!)

completed works

ᡣ𐭩 revenge is a dish best served sweet: hoshina soshiro x doctor!reader

the five times hoshina flusters you and the one time you fluster him-

ᡣ𐭩 beneath the painted smile: wandering samurai!hoshina soshiro x geiko!reader

(I), (II), (III), (IV), (V), (VI finale)

in the floating world of kyoto's entertainment district, she performs beauty like a ritual–every laugh rehearsed, every tear hidden behind silk. a wandering swordsman with calloused hands and kind eyes sees the sorrow she thought she had long since buried. love, she learns, was one art she was never trained to master

ᡣ𐭩 under your supervision: hoshina soshiro x older!reader

you’ve been part of the defense force longer than most. from your place in the operations room, you’ve seen vice-captains come and go. but there’s something about hoshina soshiro–his precision, his quiet humor, that unflappable smile–that makes you forget your own composure. he’s younger, but every bit the soldier you respect. you only meant to tease him now and then–just a little levity between the long hours and Kaiju alerts. you don’t realize how much it gets to him… or how much he’s gotten to you, too.

ᡣ𐭩 cool people don't know gundom lore: narumi gen x platoon leader!reader

in which narumi tries (like, ironing-shirts kind of trying) in an attempt to impress the cool, seemingly normal new platoon leader. because there was no way someone like them would like something so nerdy and lame like gundoms, right? right?

ᡣ𐭩 the things we don't name: narumi gen x platoon leader!reader

(I), (II), (III finale)

yes hi anon im alive i promise (^^;;

Narumi Gen x Platoon Leader!Reader

Synopsis: in division one, silence is survival. orders are obeyed, reports are written, and emotions are cast aside in spaces between missions. shinonome rin dreams outloud–about the captain with the lazy grin and steady aim. you listen, smile, and tell yourself you're happy for her. but narumi's gaze keeps finding you in the quiet hours–when the rain won't stop, and the distance between you feels paper-thin. you can fight kaiju, yes. but how do you fight the kind of feeling that grows in the shadows of loyalty towards your best friend?

previous chapter

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The sky bled red of rust and smoke. Kaiju residue hung in the air with its unmistakable stench, drifting through the ruins in shimmering threads that clung to armor and skin. Division One advanced down what used to be an industrial thoroughfare–concrete split open, twisted beams jutting out like ribs. The scent was a mix of burnt insulation, gun oil, and the faint copper tang of blood. 

“Hold the East line,” you ordered your platoon, voice steady through comms, “Captain Narumi, the intersection ahead has been cleared.”

“Copy,” came his reply–flat, professional, colder than it used to be.

The first kaiju struck before you even reached the midpoint. A low-level type, but broad and heavy, its carapace glowing from within like molten glass. Its roar made the ground beneath you vibrate.

Narumi darted forward–fast, lethal precision in every movement. His bayonet barked light into the haze; each shot found a seam in the creature’s armor. You covered his flank, adjusting your position with each thunderous step of the monster. 

You’d always moved in sync, no words needed.

Until the second one appeared. 

It erupted from below, tail lashing through the street like a whip. You caught the flask of motion, and without thinking, your body lunged. 

You hit Narumi square in the chest, shoving him out of the strike zone as the kaiju’s tail tore through the wall behind you. The shockwave hurling you both into the wreckage.

Concrete folded. Beams snapped. You fell in a rush of light and sound, the world seemingly exploding into white dust around you. 

When the chaos stilled, you were pinned beneath what had once been a wall, the air thick of powdered cement and the hot metallic sting of ruptured wiring. The muffled din of gunfire echoed somewhere above. 

Narumi’s harsh voice broke through the ringing in your ears, “You really have to stop doing that!”

“Saving your life?” you gasped, finally catching your breath following the impact.

“Risking yours,” he shot back. He was now kneeling before you, blood running down his temple, eyes burning with something that wasn’t quite anger–but close. 

You said through gritted teeth as you brushed the pieces of debris off of your body, “We don’t have time for this–“

He shifted closer, his gloved hand bracing against the rubble behind you to keep it from collapsing further. His jaw tightened, “You could’ve been killed.”

“So could you.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t–“ He cut himself off, breath sharp.

“Can’t what?”

His other hand hit the wall beside your head, successfully trapping you within the confines of his arms, the concrete dust sifting down around you, “Stop pretending like there’s nothing between us!”

The words had struck harder than the impact. And suddenly you forget how to breathe. You stared up at him, heartbeat pounding in your ears louder than the gunfire outside. 

He leaned closer, voice rough. “Do you think I don’t see it? The way you look at me–like you hate every second you have to stand near me, but you still don’t walk away.”

“Don’t,” you said whispered, throat tight, “Not here. Not now.”

“So you’d rather get yourself killed than admit it, huh?”

Your restraint cracked. “You think this is easy for me?” you hissed, eyes stinging from more than just the dust as your vision blurred, “You think I don’t–“ The words caught in your throat.

“You think I don’t feel it too?”

Narumi froze, staring at you. The tension in his shoulders faltered, and his eyes widened, with disbelief or unguardedness, you couldn’t tell. 

“Then why do you keep pushing me away?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because Rin–“ your voice broke, “–she’s my best friend. She looks at you like you hung the damn stars, and I can’t just–“

He cut you off, voice low but unrelenting, “Rin isn’t the one you threw yourself in front of a kaiju for.”

The silence that followed between you wasn’t empty–it was full. Heavy with everything you hadn’t said. 

You turned your head away slightly, as you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, “I can’t stop caring about you,” you whispered, “And I hate that I can’t…”

For a long moment, Narumi didn’t move and neither did you. Then his hand fell from the wall, brushing against your arm, tentative, “You don’t have to hate it,” he said quietly, as if testing how his words sound as they rolled off his tongue, “Not with me.”

Before you could speak, the rubble above groaned, and light broke through the cracks. Voice shouted–Rin, Tachibana, the rest of the quadrant tearing through the debris. 

Narumi stepped back, eyes still locked on yours, expression shuttering as the daylight spilled over both of you. 

The wall gave away. And Rin’s voice came first, breathless and relieved, “Captain Narumi! Platoon Leader! Are you okay? We thought–“

“I’m fine,” you relied a touch too quickly. 

Narumi straightened beside you, already slipping back into command, “We’re clear. Resume formation.”

Rin nodded, but her gaze lingered a second longer. She saw it–the faint tremor in your mask, the emotion you hadn’t managed to hide before sealing it back in place. 

When she looked away, something in her expression had changed: confusion giving way to quiet realization. 

Outside, the rain hissed against the ruins. You fell back in line, steps matching Narumi’s without a word. 

The battle wasn’t over. Neither was what had just happened. 

But the space between you now felt different–charged, inevitable.

And somewhere behind you, Rin’s voice carried over comms, steady but softer than usual.

“Everyone accounted for. Moving out.”

You couldn’t shake off the weight of Narumi’s words under your skin–

Stop pretending like there’s nothing between us. 

——

Following the operation, training resumed and paperworks piled up. The world, as always, didn’t care about the feelings of soldiers, it carried on. 

Narumi was quieter. His usual cocky remarks were half-hearted at best, as though even he couldn’t stomach pretending for long stretches anymore. 

And yet – he was always there. A steady figure in your periphery. Watching, but never pushing. 

Some nights, you caught him lingering outside the analysis room door before walking away. Some mornings, he’d leave an extra coffee on your desk without a word. 

You didn’t thank him. But you didn’t throw it away either. 

——

It was late when you found Rin. 

The mess hall was empty except for her – a lone figure cradling a cup of tea gone cold, her elbows propped on the table, her hair loose from the absence of her braids. 

You hesitated at the doorway. 

She looked up before you could think about turning away, and smiled faintly, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you said, dropping opposite her, “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

“Could say the same to you.”

You tried for a smirk but it didn’t land. Your hand gripped tightly onto the bench, afraid that if you were to let go, your composure would go along with it. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward–just heavy. Like you both knew what sat beneath it. 

After listening to the ticking of the clock for what seemed to be an eternity, Rin said, softly, “Tachibana brought me dinner earlier.”

You glanced up, “Oh?”

She stirred her tea absentmindedly, “He keeps saying he likes how I eat with a smile. That it makes people think the food’s edible.” A short laugh escaped her, but it faded quickly, “I don’t know why that hit me so hard.”

You said nothing, and waited for her to continue.

Rin stared into her tea, voice soft and vulnerable, “I realized maybe… I didn’t love Narumi the way I thought I did. Maybe I just admired him. Maybe I loved how he fought, how he stood. But Tachibana–“ she trailed off, shaking her head, a quiet, confused laugh breaking her words, “He makes me feel like I can stop performing for once. Like I can just be–me.”

Her words caught you off guard–the tenderness in them, the quiet realization that she was changing. 

You should’ve felt relief. Instead, something sharp twisted inside you–guilt, grief, gratitude, all tangled up in one jumbled mess. 

When Rin finally looked at you, her eyes turquoise eyes were shining, “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded.

“Since when?”

You found that no words came to you at first. You just stared at her–at her open face, trembling but brave. 

Until the air between you cracked open. 

Your throat tightened. You tried to form words, but nothing came out. Instead, tears rose fast and hot, slipping down your cheeks before you would stop them. 

Rin’s expression softened instantly, “Hey–“

You shook your head, pressing a hand to your mouth in an attempt to muffle the broken sob that followed, “I tried,” you whispered, “I really did, Rin. I tired not to–“

Rin’s hand reached across the table and covered yours. You gripped it like an anchor. 

“I tired to ignore it,” you said, the words breaking between breaths, “Because you were my person. You’ve always been my person. And I thought… if I could just bury it deep down and forget, maybe I wouldn’t ruin it for you.”

Rin’s tears came next, “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You let out a small, broken sound–half laugh, half sob, “I thought I did...”

“No,” Rin said, squeezing your hand tighter, “You loved me enough to try. That’s not something I could ever hate you for.”

Whatever remained of your dam broke completely at her words. You leaned forward, and she met you halfway, wrapping her arms impossibly tight around you. The contact was warm, solid–two people who had fought side by side through kaiju and headache, and somehow, still remained by each others’ side at the end. 

You cried into her shoulder–no words, no restraint. Just everything you’d been holding back since the day you realized your heart had crossed a line it shouldn’t have.

Rin’s voice trembled against your hair, “We both deserve to love and be loved without hurting each other for it.”

You nodded against her, unable to speak.

When the sobs finally slowed and the tears subsided, you sat back, red-eyed, exhausted, and lighter somehow. Like a weight placed on your shoulders had been taken off. 

Rin chuckled softly, wiping her equally tear-stained cheeks, “Look at us. Mighty Platoon Leaders, crying over feelings.”

You sniffled, laughing through the remnants of your tears, “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

She smiled–not the brittle kind you’d seen before, but one that was tender and genuine, “Only if you promise to do the same.”

—— 

The rooftop was always where things ended–and began.

You were there after lights-out, seeking air that didn’t smell like gun oil or antiseptic. The night was still, the city lights twinkled beneath you in streaks of silver and gold. 

Footsteps approached. 

“You’re predictable,” Narumi said behind you, his voice was low, tired, but warmer than you had heard in weeks. 

You didn’t turn around, “You followed me again.”

He came to stand beside you, leaning against the railing, “Well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t fall asleep out here.”

“I’ve done worse.”

He glanced at you, “You always say that like it’s a comfort.”

You almost smiled, “Old habits.”

A long silence followed–the kind that fills itself with everything you can’t say aloud. 

“Rin knows,” you said finally, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

“I figured,” Narumi replied quietly, “She’s smarter than both of us combined.”

“She’s okay,” you added, more to yourself, “She’s… figuring herself out.”

“That’s good,” he said, “She deserves that.”

You nodded. The wind tugged gently at your sleeves. 

Narumi turned to face you then, shifting closer, his presence calm but it only helped to worsen your thundering heart, “And you?”

You hesitated, “I’m… tired of pretending I don’t feel things I do.”

“Good,” he said simply. 

You turned then, studying his face under the pale wash of the city lights–the faint shadow under his eyes, his slightly disheveled violet locks. The man who drove you up a wall and saved your life in the same breath. 

He was watching you too. 

Except there was no teasing in his eyes this time, no walls. Just quiet understanding–and something like relief. 

He reached out, slow, deliberate, his fingers brushing yours, “We don’t have to make it complicated,” he said softly. 

You exhaled, feeling that knot in your chest finally loosen, “No. Just honest.”

He nodded once, and that was all it took. You let your hand slide into his, fingers interlocking like it was something inevitable. Like it was all meant to happen. 

The night breeze was cool against your cheek, the metal rail biting faintly through your sleeves. But his hand was warm, steady. 

You didn’t need words. You didn’t need promises. 

Just this–the small, fragile peace of two people who had finally stopped fighting what was already there. 

Below, the city lights shimmered like constellations trapped in glass. 

Narumi’s thumb traced lazy circles over your knuckles, “Guess this means we’re both bad at efficiency,” he murmured.

You smiled, eyes still on the horizon, “Maybe somethings aren’t meant to be efficient.”

He laughed under his breath–the soft, genuine kind you’d forgotten how much you had missed hearing. 

And for once, there was nothing left to say. 

Just the sound of the wind, the warmth of his hand in yours, and the quiet understanding that you’d both finally stopped running. 

—————

Narumi Gen x Platoon Leader!Reader

Synopsis: in division one, silence is survival. orders are obeyed, reports are written, and emotions are cast aside in spaces between missions. shinonome rin dreams outloud–about the captain with the lazy grin and steady aim. you listen, smile, and tell yourself you're happy for her. but narumi's gaze keeps finding you in the quiet hours–when the rain won't stop, and the distance between you feels paper-thin. you can fight kaiju, yes. but how do you fight the kind of feeling that grows in the shadows of loyalty towards your best friend?

previous chapter

next chapter

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The review room smelled of circuitry and disinfectant alcohol–the sterile aftertaste of battle. The holographic projectors hummed quietly, throwing fractured light over the steel walls. Every flicker of the combat footage cast your shadow beside Narumi’s, stretching and merging until you could no longer tell where one ended. 

You stood at the console, arms folded, jaw tight. The glow of the monitor stung your tired eyes, but you didn’t look away. On-screen, Division One clashed with the kaiju again and again–replayed, dissected, stripped of chaos until only mistakes remained. 

You could almost taste the air from that day, scorched dust, cordite, the faint tang of adrenaline that clung to your tongue long after the fighting stopped. 

Narumi stood beside you, too close. He always did.

He wasn’t wearing his uniform jacket, just a black undershirt that clung to the shape of his shoulders, hugging the contour of his lean muscles and leaving little to imagination. His heat pressed against the thin margin of air that separated you. The faint scent of gun oil and soap teased your nose whenever he shifted. Your nails dug into your palm, the sharp pain dulling his scent and keeping it from obstructing your thoughts. 

“Frame seventy-two,” you said, “Pause.”

He tapped the key, and the battle froze mid-motion–smoke like fractured glass, kaiju limbs suspended in the air. You pointed at the image.

“Your line broke here. You pivoted before Unit Three’s reposition was complete.”

He studied the projection, eyes narrowed, “If I had waited, I’d have missed the window to strike.”

“And you left yourself open.”

“I can take a hit.”

“You can’t take one you don’t see coming,” you said. 

He turned his head then, just enough for the blue light to cut across his profile. The projection light painted sharp lines across his face–jaw tense, eyes steady, unreadable in a way that made you uneasy. For a second, he wasn’t the reckless captain who mocked the rules; he looked like the soldier who had stood between you and a charging kaiju without hesitation. 

His mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, “Guess that’s why you decided to play human shield.”

This time, you were the one on screen–mask adoring your face, weapon raised, eyes cutting across the frame just before impact. You hadn’t realized he’d recorded your sector that closely. 

Narumi leaned forward, elbows on the console, eyes flickering from the image to you, “You were covering my blind spot.”

You kept your tone neutral, “Protocol dictates that those with lower combat release power shields combatants with higher combat release power in times of crisis–“

“Don’t,” he interrupted. His voice was quiet, controlled. But something in it cracked the air open. 

He didn’t look away from the screen, but his hands–gloved and steady a moment ago–tightened around the edge of the console until the faint whine of stressed metal joined the hum of the projectors. His shoulders shifted, visible tension coiling under the surface. 

On the monitor, the frame replayed in slow motion. You, moving between him and the kaiju’s strike. The impact caught in frozen light–the split-second of your body twisting to take the blow that should’ve hit him. 

He watched it once. Twice. Each repetition sharper than the last. 

You said, softly, “I was within acceptable parameters. The impact didn’t breach my shield–“

“You call that acceptable?”

“Statistically, yes.”

He laughed once–a hollow and humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes. Then he leaned forward, one hand pressing flat against the console, while the other braced the back of your chair. He wasn’t looking at you; He was looking at the image of you on the screen. 

The proximity was unbearable–his breath warm against the side of your bare neck, the quiet rage rolling off of him so tightly contained it felt like static in the air. 

“You think this is efficiency,” he said, almost under his breath, “Throwing yourself in front of something like that.”

“It’s my job.”

“No,” he said quietly, “It’s not.”

He straightened, exhaling slowly, as if physically forcing himself to let go of the thought before it burned through him. The tension in his shoulders didn’t fade–it just changed shape. 

You turned to look at him, uncertain if the pounding in your chest was guilt o defiance, “You would’ve done the same.”

“Maybe,” his violet eyes flicked towards you, dark and unreadable, “Doesn’t mean I’d want you to.”

His brows were furrowed, a quiet fury burning beneath his violet irises. You expected him to yell at you, to question your utter audacity to even think about tanking an attack in his stead despite having a lower combat release power than him. But he stayed uncharacteristically silent, his eyes boring into yours. And when you attempted to search for an answer within them, you were surprised to find a hint of sorrow and rage swimming in them. 

You quickly reminded yourself that this was work. A debrief. Tactical analysis. And nothing more. Except your body wasn’t listening to the part of your brain that understood that. The heat radiating off of his body was intoxicating and made it hard for you to think straight. 

You should have said something then–clarified, deflected, anything–but the words stayed caught in your throat. 

The hum of the monitors filled the silence. The footage looped again, the image of you taking the hit replaying endlessly in the cold, impartial light. The sound you hitting the concrete echoing like a twisted lullaby. 

He ejected the flash drive with one sharp motion. The faint click was the only sound. Then he set it down beside the console–carefully, almost too carefully–and turned away. 

“I’ll finish the written report,” he said, his voice flat and stern leaving no room for argument. 

You nodded, but he wasn’t looking. 

He paused at the door, hand resting against the door knob. For a moment, you thought he might say something else. Instead, he just breathed out–one slow, steady exhale that sounded more like surrender than calm–and left.

The door slid shut behind him, cutting off the sound of his footsteps. 

You stood alone, surrounded by the hum of electronics and the faint residue of his presence–his warmth, the smell of his detergent and gun powder, the ghost of his restrained fury. 

You told yourself you had done the right thing. That protecting him wasn’t personal, just protocol. That any other soldier would have made the same call. 

It didn’t feel true no matter how many times you told yourself that. 

You stayed until the footage ended and the screen faded to dark. The silence that followed felt too heavy, too personal. 

When you finally stepped into the corridor, the lights seemed harsher, the air cooler. 

Rin was there, leaning against the wall, his uniform half unzipped, hair still damp from drills. She straightened up when she saw you. 

“I just saw Narumi,” she said, smiling faintly, “He looked… upset. What happened?”

You froze, mid-step.

Upset. 

Her tone was light–curious, nothing more–but the word hit somewhere deep. You forced your face into one of neutrality, “Nothing. Just routine tactical review.”

Rin’s brows furrowed, “You sure? He seemed pretty worked up, didn’t even acknowledge me when he stormed out.”

You swallowed the rising heat in your throat, “He’s probably just tired, you know how he is.”

Rin shrugged, evidently unconvinced but didn’t probe any further, “He worries too much about everyone. Even you. Even if he might not act like he does.”

You laughed once, too quickly, “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” she said warmly, “That’s what he likes about you.”

You went still. 

Rin didn’t notice. She pushed off the wall and started walking down the corridor, calling over her shoulder, “Get some rest, okay? You’ve been running on fumes lately.”

You nodded, but your feet wouldn’t move. The echo of her words–that’s what he likes about you–followed you down the hall like a heartbeat you couldn’t silence. 

Back in the review room, the monitor light had finally died out. 

And yet you still felt the weight of his gaze, the quiet anger in the shape of his hands, and the guilt curling sharp behind your ribs. 

You told yourself you’d sleep the feeling off.

But you knew better. 

——

Mornings at Ariake Base were filled with a kind of disciplined noise–boots on metal, the low whine of servo-motors, the rhythm of rifles locking into place. 

You were already on the floor of the training bay when Narumi arrived. His shadow stretched long under the fluorescents, casual as always, but something in his gait had changed–tighter, deliberate.

“Platoon Leader,” he greeted, voice neutral.

“Captain,” you replied, without looking up from your tablet. The cold of the morning air coloring the tips of your fingers red.

You logged the performance data of your squad with exaggerated clam, pointedly refusing to acknowledge the heat of his gaze on the side of your face.

Narumi stopped beside you, arms folded, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t override my training sequence without consulting me first.”

“Your sequence had holes,” you said flatly, “Unless you plan to let your recruits get torn apart at thirty meters again–“

He tilted his head, “You think I didn’t see that? I was adjusting spacing before you–“

“Well, you were too slow,” you interrupted, “They’d be dead in the field.”

The words landed like a slap in the sterile air. He stared at you, expression unreadable, jaw tight.

“Guess I’ll have to try harder to impress you next time,” he said finally, through gritted teeth, the smirk on his lips not quite reaching his eyes. 

“Guess you will,” you returned, matching tone for tone.

You didn’t wait for him to reply. You stepped around him, posture rigid, the faint scrape of your boots the only sound between you.

He watched as you go, shoulders drawn, fingers flexing once like he was resisting the urge to throw something your way. 

——

The corridor smelled faintly of ozone and gun oil. You rounded a corner and nearly collided with him–again. 

He steadied you instinctively, hands on your elbows. You stepped away from his touch as if it had burned you, muttering, “You should look where you’re going.”

“You walked into me,” he countered, his tone too calm for your liking.

“I didn’t realized the hallway was your territory now.”

He arched an eyebrow, “Want me to put up a sign?”

You brushed past him, your shoulder grazing his, “No need. It already smells like overflowing ego in here. I got the message.”

He chuckled once, low and humorless, “Careful, Platoon Leader. Your professionalism’s slipping.”

You didn’t turn back, “Only around distractions.”

You heard his breath hitch–soft, sharp–and then his voice, quieter this time, “Guess that makes two of us.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your silence was the only weapon sharp enough to match his.

——

Rin was halfway through a tray of curry when you joined her. Across the room, Narumi sat with Tachibana and Hasegawa, laughter threading through the dull hum of mealtime chatter. You told yourself you weren’t staring.

“Rough morning?” Rin asked, shoveling rice into her mouth.

“Productive,” you said, eyes fixed on your plate.

She followed your gaze, “You and Narumi still… fighting?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” Rin leaned back, smirking, “You glare at him like you’re one second away from biting his head off, and he looks at you like he’s enjoying every second of it.”

You stabbed a piece of chicken too hard, the metal of your fork scraping against the tray, “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” she said, appearing entirely unconvinced. 

Across the room, the sound of Narumi’s banter with Hasegawa carried over again–low and easy. For half a second, his eyes flicked toward your table. The look he gave you wasn’t playful this time. It was unreadable, something intangible simmering underneath its surface.

Rin followed the glance and exhaled softly, “You two are going to implode at this rate.”

“Maybe,” you said, keeping your tone even, choosing to pick at your plate of food instead. 

Rin rolled her eyes and changed the subject, “Anyways, Tachibana was talking about the new recruits’ meal plans. You know he used to cook professionally before enlisting?”

You blinked, “He did?”

“Yeah,” Rin said around a bite of rice, “Said something about food being another kind of weapon. Keeps morale up. I didn’t know that about him.”

You smiled faintly, “You’ve been talking to him a lot lately.”

“Not really,” she said quickly, “Just–he’s easy to talk to. He listens.”

You tilted your head teasingly, “Unlike Narumi?”

Rin hesitated, chopsticks stilling, “It’s not that. Narumi’s just… I don’t know. He’s larger than life. Maybe I confused my admiration for–“ she trailed off, voice softening, “For something else.”

You said nothing. She didn’t need you to.

Rin’s expression shifted–half relief, half confusion, “Weird, right? Realizing you might’ve been chasing an idea of a person instead the person.” 

“It’s not weird,” you said quietly, “You’re just being honest.”

She smiled at that, tender and genuine, “Tachibana said something earlier, actually. Said he liked that I ‘always eat with a smile.’ It’s silly, but… it stuck with me.”

You glanced at her tray–empty except for a few grains of rice–and smiled faintly, “He’s not wrong.” 

Rin laughed under her breath, “Maybe I should stop overthinking for once.”

“Maybe you should,” you said, and for the first time that day, your voice softened. 

——

The lights dimmed in the strategy room. Holograms flickered to life–kaiju silhouettes, field grids, causality estimates. 

You stood beside Narumi, both of you too composed, too still. 

When your fingers brushed reaching for the same data pad, neither of you moved away immediately. 

“Don’t worry,” he said dryly, “I’ll let you take control.”

“You always do,” you replied. 

The tension was thick enough to taste–gunpowder and coffee and something dangerously sweet. 

Rin sat across the room beside Tachibana, the two of them whispering over data sheets. You saw the way she smiled now–lighter, freer. It made something twist in your chest, sharp and unfamiliar. 

The shift in your gaze didn’t escape Narumi’s watchful eyes. His tone was deceptively casual, “Something interesting?”

“Just watching people do their jobs.”

“Right,” he said, lips curling faintly, “You’re an expert at observation.”

“And you’re an expert at deflection.”

A few officers glanced up, sensing the undercurrent. You both went silent, professionalism snapping back into place like armor. 

For the rest of the briefing, neither of you spoke. Not even when your elbows nearly brushed on the console. 

The sound of quiet chatter filled the air, and underneath the pale blue light of the projector, the two of you looked every bit the same–unflinching, unreadable, pretending you weren’t burning alive. 

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Narumi Gen x Platoon Leader!Reader

Synopsis: in division one, silence is survival. orders are obeyed, reports are written, and emotions are cast aside in spaces between missions. shinonome rin dreams outloud–about the captain with the lazy grin and steady aim. you listen, smile, and tell yourself you're happy for her. but narumi's gaze keeps finding you in the quiet hours–when the rain won't stop, and the distance between you feels paper-thin. you can fight kaiju, yes. but how do you fight the kind of feeling that grows in the shadows of loyalty towards your best friend?

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The debrief room buzzed with low voices and the faint hum of cooling circuits. Combat footage played in a silent loop–the rising gray smoke, the flash of kaiju claws, the blinding beam of fire caught mid-frame.

You stood at the center table, posture straight, gloves still caked with dried kaiju blood that you haven’t had the chance to scrub off. You didn’t bark out orders, you simply stood, calm and composed. The rest of Division One listened because you gave them nothing else to listen to. 

“Formation B held for forty seconds before collapse,” you said, eyes trained on the hologram display, “Reason?”

A few beats of silence. Someone shifted in their seat, uncomfortable. 

Then a quiet voice, “I broke line, Platoon Leader.”

Your gaze flicked to the officer in question, voice steady, “Good, being able to acknowledge your mistakes is a valuable trait to have. You’ll review your combat footage tonight and fix your recoil timing. Same place, same drill tomorrow. Did I make myself clear?”

The officer nodded firmly before breathing a sigh of relief.

You never raised your voice, but people followed it the way they followed a compass. 

From the far side of the room, Narumi was slouched in a chair like he had been poured into it–hoodie half-zipped, a handheld console balanced in one hand, stylus tapping lazily against the screen. 

He looked up every few seconds–his eyes peering from underneath his bangs, tracking you through the flicker of the screen light. 

He said nothing through the debrief. No jokes nor his usual snide comments. He just watched. The tapping of his stylus slowing every time you spoke. 

When the debrief had come to an end, you dismissed the unit. The room was filled with the sound of shuffling papers and the scraping of chairs against the hardwood floor. You turned towards the exit and found Narumi still there, game paused, the soft hum of the device filling the space between them. 

“Something wrong, Captain?” you asked.

He looked at you, his grin lazy but eyes sharp, “Nah, just admiring how terrifyingly efficient you are. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that tone.”

“Then don’t mess up in the field,” you simply stated.

“Can’t promise that,” he shrugged half-heartedly, flicking his console shut, “But I’ll at least do it with style.”

You fought to keep the smile off your face, barely, “Glad to hear it, Captain.”

He leaned back, arms now situated behind his head, “I’ve always wondered how you managed to make a room full of elite officers look like they’re back in middle school.”

“I give them homework.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Narumi. 

He straightened back up, sliding the console into his pocket, “You’re scary, you know that?”

“I think you meant to say efficient,” you corrected him. 

“Right. Scarily efficient.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and turned to leave, seeing no point in arguing further. Your boots clicked against the floor as you walked out the door. 

With your back turned towards him, you missed the way his eyes lingered on your retreating back, his grin fading into something resembling a tender smile. 

——

Rin didn’t knock before barging into your room. She never did. 

You had stopped expecting her to somewhere around your third year as cadets. Your door swung open, letting in a rush of cold corridor air and the irresistible smell of instant ramen. 

“You’re up,” Rin said, holding two cups in one hand, grin wide, “Good. I brought sustenance.”

You looked up from your report terminal and frowned, “That’s not sustenance. That’s slow-acting poison.”

“Then die with me,” Rin said, already flopping on the edge of your bed. 

You sighed but took the offered cup anyways, “You’re impossible.”

“Admit it,” Rin said, cracking open her chopsticks, “You missed me.”

You didn’t answer, just smiled helplessly. You didn’t need to answer, because you’ve known each other for far too long to play that game. 

Steam filled the quiet between the two of you. Rin’s hair was still damp from the showers, her uniform swapped for the Division’s lounge tee and sweatpants. You had changed too, finally free of the suffocating tightness of your uniform. 

Rin slurped loudly, “So.”

You didn’t look up, “So?”

Rin leaned back against the headboard, “Don’t play dumb. You know what ‘so’ means.”

You took a slow sip of broth, “Narumi.”

Rin’s grin widened, “Narumi.”

You exhaled through your nose, “What did he do this time?”

“He didn’t do anything,” Rin began, already going on the defensive, “he just–complimented me.”

“That’s not newsworthy.”

“It is when it’s him! He said, and I quote, ‘Good work out there, Shinonome.’”

“Riveting,” you fought the urge to laugh.

Rin launched a pillow your way, “You’re impossible! You have no sense of romance.”

“Romance doesn’t usually start with a performance review.”

Rin groaned dramatically, falling back onto your bed, “You’re such a realist. It’s depressing.”

Your lips curved, barely, “Well, one of us has to be.”

For a while, it was easy–just laughter and nonsense and the kind of teasing that came from years of shared drills, night watches, and field rations. But slowly, as the steam from the ramen dissipated and Rin’s voice softened, the air shifted. 

Rin pulled her knees up, her chin resting against them, “Do you think he ever… notices me? Like, really notices me? Or am I just another soldier to him?”

You paused mid-bite, chopsticks stilling in your hand. 

You had heard this question before–versions of it whispered across cafeteria tables, locker rooms, and your personal quarters–but this time it hurt in a way it hadn’t before.

“Of course he notices you,” you said softly.

Rin’s head snapped up, eyes hopeful, “Yeah?”

You nodded, “He pays attention to effort. You never stop trying. He respects that.”

Rin smiled a little, but the uncertainty lingered, “You really think respect is all it is?”

You hesitated, then forced a calm laugh, “You want me to say he’s secretly in love with you?”

Rin laughed too, embarrassed, “Maybe.”

You looked away, hiding the tightening in your chest behind another sip. You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell her that Narumi had probably noticed everything–the way Rin’s hand shook when she loaded her weapon, how her eyes always flicked to the horizon before every battle. But that wasn’t true. Because you knew how he looked when he noticed someone. And he didn’t look at Rin that way. 

“He’s… complicated,” you said finally.

“That’s just code for dense,” Rin replied, “He’s got that ‘genius idiot’ thing going on. You know, all instinct, no awareness.”

“Sounds accurate,” you smiled faintly.

Rin leaned sideways, her shoulders nudging teasingly against yours, “Enough about me. What about you, huh? Anyone caught your eye lately?”

You shook your head and laughed, voice even, “No time for that.”

“Please. You say that, but I’ve seen you stare at people during strategy meetings. That’s the face of a woman judging, or pining. You just mask it so well I can’t tell which is which.”

Your hand tightened imperceptibly on the ramen cup before you laughed, “You’re seeing things.”

“Maybe,” Rin said, stretching out on your bed, her voice fading softer, “Still… you’d tell me, right? If there was someone?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You simply watched the steam rise between them–fading, curling, disappearing into the hum of the air vents. 

“Yeah,” you said finally, quiet but steady, “I’d tell you.”

Rin smiled, satisfied, eyes drooping with exhaustion. 

Within minutes, her breathing slowed. 

You stayed awake, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. 

You had meant it in the moment–that you would tell her. But you knew that even if you wanted to, you couldn’t. Not about him. 

Not when Rin’s heart was already halfway there. 

—— 

Division One Headquarters always felt different past midnight. 

The noise died first. The shuffling of boots, the barking of orders, the ceaseless chatter–gone. Only the hum of monitors and air vents remained

You sat alone in the strategy room, half-finished report open on your tablet. Your jacket hung on the back of your chair, your sleeves rolled up, hair tied up and out of your face. You had been staring at the same line for the past ten minutes.

‘Recon data cross-check complete’

The screen blinked.

You didn’t move until you heard the sound of the door sliding open behind you. 

Narumi didn’t announce his presence, didn’t need to. The air always seemed to shift when he walked in the room. 

He had his gaming console in one hand, and a flash drive in the other. His uniform jacket hung open, shirt rumpled, his eyes catching the sterile white light like they were reflecting mischief and exhaustion at once. 

“You look like you’ve been awake since the Meiji era,” he said.

You didn’t glance up, “Well, someone has to keep this division running while its captain plays Tetris.”

“It’s Mecha Fortress Online,” he corrected you pointedly, stepping inside, “And I can multitask, thank you very much-” 

“Your actions suggest otherwise.”

He grinned, tired but amused, and dropped into the chair across from you, setting his console down on the table. It was still on, tiny 8-bit explosions flickering across the screen. 

You resumed typing, “If you came here to distract me, you can go.”

He didn’t move, “I came here because Hasegawa said you’ve been camped in this room since morning. That’s… concerning.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always fine,” he said, tilting his head, eyes glinting in the light, “That’s what’s concerning.”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer.

He set his console down on the table, face-down this time. Silence settled between the two of you, broken only by the faint click of your pen and the distant buzz of the fluorescent lights. 

Narumi leaned back, arms folding in front of him, “So what’s keeping you up this time? Reports? Or your habit of rewriting the same sentence until it bleed?” 

You exhaled through your nose, “…Both.”

He grinned, “Knew it.”

There it was again–that maddening balance of his flippantness and perceptiveness. He always sounded like he was joking until suddenly, he wasn’t. Like his words slipped past humor and hit somewhere that mattered. 

“If you wanted company you could’ve just said so,” you joked in an attempt to change the topic. 

“Figured you could use some. Company makes paperwork less painful,” he said, deadpan, “I’m humanitarian like that.” 

“Right. And the console is for emotional support?”

He looked down at it, smirking, “Exactly. You’d be surprised how many lives have been saved thanks to handheld gaming.”

You hummed, unimpressed. But you felt your lips twitching involuntarily–forming the closest thing to a smile. 

He noticed. 

He always noticed. 

It should’ve been irritating, you thought. It was. 

Except it wasn’t 

Ten minutes passed in near silence. You typed. He fidgeted. The low hum of his presence filled the room in the same way light filled the darkness of the room. 

He scrolled absently with his thumb before asking, voice quiet this time, “Seriously though, you doing alright?” 

You paused and looked up, brows furrowed, confused, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“‘Cause you’re staying up late. Again.”

“I had reports to finish.”

“You’re lying,” he said easily, not accusing, just observing.

You blinked, caught off guard, “Excuse me?”

“You only pretend to work when something’s eating at you. You’ve been staring at the same document for the past ten minutes.”

“That’s an oddly specific observation,” you stared at him.

He shrugged, “I notice things.”

You wished he didn’t. Or at least, that he noticed less. 

“Then maybe you should focus on your game instead,” you said evenly.

He smirked faintly, “I can multitask, remember?”

His console chimed–a bright, cheerful sound that didn’t fit the quiet. He muted it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Leaving only the faint buzz of the monitor lights to fill the space between them. 

Narumi leaned forward again, his eyes boring into yours, “If you ever need to talk–“

“I don’t.”

He raised an eyebrow, “You sure?”

“Yes.” Your voice was calm and perfectly level, but your words had landed heavier than you had intended for it to. 

Narumi nodded once and moved to stand up, pocketing his console, “Alright.”

She half-expected him to leave then–to make some dumb quip on his way out, as he always did. 

But instead he stopped by her chair.

“You’re allowed to lean on people sometimes,” he said.

You don’t look up, “That’s inefficient.”

He chuckled quietly, “You really do sound like Hasegawa.”

“Then I must be doing something right.”

He tilted his head, studying you in that way that made it hard for you to breathe. The rain outside flickered against the windows, soft and distant, like it was trying to listen in.

Finally, he said, “Don’t stay up too late,” and left. 

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

You stared at the space he’d been standing in. 

It was easier, you told yourself, to let him leave thinking you didn’t need anything. It was easier than admitting that you did. 

Your tablet screen dimmed, the cursor blinking against the half-finished paragraph. You closed the report, leaned back in your chair, and pressed your palms against your eyes until the ache subsided. 

Outside, the rain had started–soft against the windows, rhythmic, relentless. 

You told yourself you’d finish the report tomorrow. But tomorrow always came too late.

——

The cafeteria was nearly empty by the time you arrived. The dinner rush had passed hours ago, leaving only the faint echo of trays and the steady stir of the vending machines. 

Rin was already there, sitting at one of the corner tables with her knees drawn up and a tray loaded with enough food for two people. She looked up as you approached, already halfway through demolishing a bowl of rice. 

“You’re late,” she said, mouth full. 

“You said ‘grab food if you’re free,’ not ‘report for duty’” you rolled your eyes playfully, setting your tray down on the cafeteria table. 

She grinned, cheeks puffed slightly, before placing a taiyaki from her tray onto yours, “You’re lucky I saved you anything. I was stress eating.”

“You stress eat everyday.”

“Yeah, but today it’s justified.”

You sat across from her, picking up your chopsticks, “Something happen?”

Rin hesitated–not her usual kind of pause, not the dramatic build up she used for gossips either. This one was quieter, edged with something uneasy. 

“I saw Narumi in the firing range earlier,” she said finally.

Of course. 

You didn’t sigh, but your shoulders almost did, “And?”

“He was helping the new recruits. The ones who can’t aim to save their lives.”

“I bet it’s because Vice Captain was holding his BS5 hostage,” you laughed.

“Probably,” Rin smiled, stirring her bowl of miso soup half-heartedly in her hand, “But he looked so focused. Like… he actually cared. And then he smiled at one of them when she hit the target and I–“

She stopped herself, looking down quickly. 

You didn’t push. You waited. 

Rin’s chopsticks tapped lightly against her tray, “I just… I wish he’d look at me like that sometimes.”

There it was– quiet, raw. 

You leaned back slightly, folding your arms, “Maybe he does, and you just don’t notice.”

Rin gave a dry laugh, “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” you said definitively, even though deep down maybe you weren’t. 

She went back to eating, slower now. The rhythm of her chopsticks faltered. 

Then she said in a voice almost too soft for you to hear–“Do you think I eat too much?”

You paused mid-chew, caught off guard, “What?”

She didn’t look up, “I mean… everyone’s always grabbing something small–a protein bar, maybe an energy drink. But I always end up with a full tray. Two, sometimes. I don’t know, maybe that’s why he–“

“Rin,” you interrupted with a stern voice that made her head snap up. 

You met her gaze evenly, “You eat because you fight harder than anyone else. You need it. And if anyone has a problem with that, they’re idiots.”

Rin’s lips parted, her voice still filled with uncertainty, “You don’t think it’s… unattractive?”

You frowned, “What’s unattractive about staying alive?”

Rin laughed quietly, a sound that cracked something in your chest.

“God, you’re so practical,” she said, shaking her head, “You make everything sound easy.”

“I’m just being honest,” you said, voice softer now.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The cafeteria lights buzzed faintly, filling the silence with their own brand of noise. 

Then Rin’s smile returned–small, fragile, but real. 

“You know, I’m glad you’re here,” she said, “I don’t think I’d survive Division One without you.”

You poked absentmindedly at your tray of food, a small grin on your lips, “You’d be fine. You’re tougher than you think.”

She tilted her head, “You don’t give yourself enough credit either. You talk like you’re made of steel, but you care more than any of us.”

You shrugged, pretending not to notice how her words hit too close, “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t starve from overthinking.”

Rin grinned, “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

She laughed again–bright, careless, the kind of laugh that made the whole place feel a little less sterile. You two lingered even after your trays were long since empty. 

Rin leaned back in her chair, legs stretched out, the picture of exhaustion and contentment.

“Do you think he likes confident girls?” she asked suddenly.

You looked up from your drink, “Why?”

“Because I think I come off as too much sometimes.”

“You should stay loud,” you said, “Quiet doesn’t suit you.”

Rin smiled faintly, eyes soft with something unreadable. 

Then she said, almost to herself, “I’m going to tell him. Someday”

You felt that sentence land like a blade with its flat side pressed against your skin–harmless, for now. 

“Then I’ll support you,” you said. 

You meant it. You wanted to mean it. 

Rin nodded, satisfied, stretching her arms above her head, “Good. Because if I make a fool out of myself, you’re going down with me.”

You laughed quietly, “Deal.”

When you walked her back to her quarters, the corridor lights flickered with the rhythm of your footsteps. 

At the door, she turned, still smiling, “You know, you’d make a great liar if you ever caught feelings. You’d just bury them under all that professionalism.” 

You smiled back, controlled, steady, “Good thing I don’t have any.”

Rin grinned, “Right.”

She disappeared inside, door sliding shut behind her. 

You stayed there a moment longer than you should’ve. 

Because she was right.

And that made it worse. 

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hoshina soshiro x older!reader

synopsis: you’ve been part of the defense force longer than most. from your place in the operations room, you’ve seen vice-captains come and go. but there’s something about hoshina soshiro–his precision, his quiet humor, that unflappable smile–that makes you forget your own composure. he’s younger, but every bit the soldier you respect. you only meant to tease him now and then–just a little levity between the long hours and Kaiju alerts. you don’t realize how much it gets to him… or how much he’s gotten to you, too. 

-----

There was a constant buzz inside the operation room. 

It wasn’t filled with the sound of chaos, instead with a steady rhythm–the low drone of consoles, the shuffle of boots, the clipped voices calling coordinates through headsets. It was the pulse of the Defense Force, awake even when the city was asleep. 

You’ve worked in this room long enough to know its tempo by heart. Calm under pressure–that’s how they called to you. When alarms wailed and the red lights flashed, you didn’t flinch. You breathed. You listened. You directed. 

The first time you spoke to him over the comms, you didn’t even see his face. 

“Vice Captain Hoshina,” you said, voice steady, eyes flickering across the tracking monitors, “Kaiju cluster detected to your Southeast. Redirect Squad Four and hold formation until backup arrives.”

A short pause crackled through the headset before his reply came, “Roger that, ma’am.”

Professional. Efficient. Textbook.

You smiled despite yourself. Most officers were brisk, all clipped tones and filled with adrenaline. But there was a certain warmth to his voice–a quiet steadiness that made the chaos of the control room feel smaller, somehow manageable. 

That night, when you were filing the mission report, you caught yourself rereading his comms transcripts. His “yes, ma’am” echoing in your head longer than it should. 

——

Weeks passed, and you grew accustomed to the sound of his voice in your earpiece–the smooth Kansai drawl, polite and warm. He never once raised his voice, even when the situation escalated for the worse. 

You began to notice the little things: the breath he took before replying, the way he says ma’am like he means it. There was a steadiness to him that reminded you of sunlight breaking through smoke. 

Still he was younger. The kind of youthfulness that showed in the way he moved–too fast, sometimes. Too eager. 

You were a few years his senior. And maybe that was why you couldn’t resist nudging at his composure every once in a while. 

Or at least that’s what you told yourself.

“Vice Captain, you’re drifting right,” you reminded him one afternoon during live ops.

“Copy that.”

“You’ll hit the neutralization zone faster if you trust your instincts instead of the manual. You do trust yourself, don’t you, Soshiro?”

You heard him inhale softly on the other end. 

“…Y-yeah, ma’am.”

You bit back a smile, “Good, I’d hate to see your confidence shaken.”

For a man who could dissect a Kaiju with surgical precision, he sounded awfully unsure when he answered, “N-no danger of that, ma’am.”

Later, when the feeds cut and the operation comes to an end, one of your senior analysts nudged you playfully, “Don’t tease the new Vice Captain too much, yeah?”

You shrugged, smiling faintly, “Hard not too when he’s so calm.”

“Makes me want to break his composure.” 

——

The first time you messed with him in person was weeks later. 

Hoshina visited the operations rooms following a mission–sweat-slick from the field, still in partial armor with his jacket draped casually over his shoulders. The fluorescent lights softened against his skin, casting a light shadow under his eyes. He smelled faintly of steel and rain.

You were leaning over the console and scrolling through tactical footage when he stopped beside you

“Evenin’, ma’am. Wanted to hand these in before I forget.”

He placed a stack of reports on your desk, and you glanced up–just briefly. He was close enough for you to notice the faint tremor in his hands. 

“You always this tense after a mission?” you asked lightly, signing off on the last page.

“Ah–not usually,” he rubbed the back of his neck bashfully, “Sorry if I, uh, sound off.”

You hummed, “You sound fine, Soshiro. Though I didn’t expect for you to get nervous off the battlefield.”

He froze mid-movement, “Nervous? I-I ain’t–“

You looked up at him, eyes calm but teasing, “They why are your ears red?”

His mouth opened, shut, and opened again. You laugh softly, sliding the signed documents back to him.

“Relax, Vice Captain. I’m just teasing.”

“…You do that a lot,” he muttered before he would stop himself.

“Do what?”

“Tease me.” 

Others would’ve missed the change in his expression, but you didn’t. A small, barely noticeable pout had formed on his face as his grumbled out his reply. That made you laugh–quiet, genuine, surprised. The sound seemed to catch him more off guard than anything you’ve said. 

You tilt your head playfully, “Maybe you make it too easy.”

He groaned quietly, half-embarrassed, half-amused–and left the room with his dignity only mostly intact.

——

The two of you came to share a comfortable routine. 

You greeted him on comms with, “Good morning, Vice-Captain,” in the mornings and he answers a beat too quickly. You corrected his coordinates and threw in a casual “Good, Soshiro” just to see if it would make him trip–and he did, every single time. 

But you were careful too. When the battle turned serious, you spoke decisively, your voice a grounding point. He never says it, but you knew he listened for it. You could feel the tension in his breathing ease when you talked him through a difficult fight. 

And somewhere along the line, your teasing became something else–something warmer, heavier. 

You caught yourself waiting for him to check in with his reports. And when he didn’t, you found your chest tightening uncomfortably. You told yourself it was just your duty to look out for your junior. 

But you don’t quite believe what you told yourself, either. 

——

A storm lashed against the glass walls of Tachikawa base. The thunder grumbled low, steady as heartbeat. It was half past midnight and you were one of the last left in the control room, half of the lights had dimmed, monitors casting a cool blue glow across the floor. The Kaiju assault that took place that morning had been brutal; Hoshina’s squad had barely made it back in one piece. 

The door slid open behind you, and even before he spoke, you knew it was him. 

“Yer still here?”

You didn’t turn, “Someone has to keep the lights on.”

“Figured ya’d gone home hours ago.”

“Figured you’d be asleep by now.”

“Couldn’t,” he admitted as he stepped closer. His voice was quiet tonight, gentler. 

You finally turned toward him. He was still in his uniform, rainwater glinting on his collar, hair damp and uncharacteristically out of place. The fluorescent light framed him in soft edges–his eyes shadowed but bright. 

“Rough day?” you asked.

“Long one,” he hesitated, “But better, now.”

You tilted your head ever so slightly, “That so?”

He nodded, a shy half-smile tugging a this lips, “Ya got a way of makin’ things feel better again. Even just talkin’ to ya.”

There was something disarming about the way he said it–there was no teasing this time, no bravado. Just quiet sincerity. You stepped closer, and your hand almost, almost reached for his sleeve. 

“You should give yourself more credit,” you murmured, “You hold half this Force together out there.”

He shook his head, but his eyes never left yours, “Not without ya in my ear tellin’ me which way’s up.”

The silence between you hummed–charged, soft, inevitable. 

You smiled faintly, “You always this charming when you’re tired?”

“Only when I mean it.”

You found the courage to reach up, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, the touch of your fingertips ghosting against his temple. He goes still under your touch. 

“You did well out there, Soshiro,” you whispered, afraid that if you spoke any more loudly the moment between you two would shatter to pieces, “Don’t carry what isn’t yours to carry.”

He swallowed audibly, his adams apple bobbing in its wake, “Ya always talk like that?”

You blinked, “Like what?”

“Like ya know exactly what to say to make me forget what I’m saying.”

Your breath caught in your throat, but you kept your tone steady, “Maybe I do, Soshiro.”

For once, he doesn’t fluster or look away. He just studied you–eyes steady, searching. Then quietly:

“Ya always say my name like it’s somethin’ soft. Makes it hard to think straight…”

The air between you hummed with things neither of you should say. 

You smiled faintly, “Maybe you shouldn’t think so hard, then.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh–tired, relieved, fond. 

“Yeah. Maybe not.”

You let your hand linger a moment longer before stepping back. He gives you a look that said everything he didn’t dare to voice yet–something warm, something waiting to be spoken. 

“Ya’d still be here in the mornin’, right?” he asked quietly, almost timidly. 

You nodded, “Always.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes softening, like your words meant more to him than you had realized.

“That’s what I’m countin’ on.”

Then he turned towards the door. 

When it slid shut behind him, you realized it wasn’t the sound of the thundering storm outside, but the sound of your thundering heart beating against your chest. 

——

Weeks later, during another mission, your voice crackled through his comm again. 

“Vice Captain Hoshina, your left flank’s clear. Nicely done.”

He smirked, catching his breath, “You always sound proud when you say that, ma’am.”

“Maybe I am,” you replied, tone smooth as ever, “You’ve earned it, Soshiro.”

The warmth in your voice reached him even through the static. 

He grinned–a real, unguarded grin–and answered softly through your private channel. 

“Keep talkin’ like that and I might start thinkin’ you like me.”

“Then maybe you should start thinking.”

Static hummed. And his laughter crackled through, low and bright. 

The line goes quiet again, and the hum of the operation room returned–but it felt different. Lighter. 

Like the quiet between words when he left you smiling. 

You weren’t sure when it happened, but somewhere between the orders, the teasing, and the late night visits, you’ve started to look forward to his voice more than you should have. 

And you’ve started to like him–more than you ever intended to. 

-------------------------------------------

omg that's such a cute idea akjsdflkajsdhlfk

Narumi Gen x Platoon Leader!Reader

Synopsis: In which Narumi tries (like, ironing-shirts kind of trying) in an attempt to impress the cool, seemingly normal new platoon leader. Because there’s no way someone like them would like something so nerdy and lame like Gundoms, right? Right?

----------

Narumi wasn’t used to anything being out of his league.

He was used to leading the charge, dropping kaiju twice his size with a grin on his face and his bayonet in hand. He was used to being the strongest guy in the room–or at the very least, the loudest. 

But when you walked into Divison One Headquarters for the first time, freshly transferred and personally scouted by him, something in his brain short-circuited. 

It had started with your combat footage.

Precision. Confidence. That eerie clam under pressure that only came from having seen enough chaos to befriend it. He liked that. You didn’t flinch, you didn’t freeze, didn’t hesitate. You were sharp, ruthless, efficient. And handled your weapon like it was an extension of your spine–fast and unforgiving. 

So of course he had fast-tracked your transfer and told the higher-ups you were Division One material. 

“Bet on her,” he’d say, leaning back in his chair, popping open a can of carbonated soda, blissfully unaware that in a matter of weeks he’d be completely obsessed with the person behind that combat footage. 

He wasn’t expecting you to show up looking like the walking embodiment of confidence. 

Your uniform was always sharp, firmly pressed and not a wrinkle in sight. Your boots always scrubbed clean as if they hadn’t been covered in kaiju remnants merely the day before. You talked just enough to make an impression, but never so much that you invited unnecessary questions. You nodded through chaos like it was background noise you had grown bored of. 

And yet, when you cracked a joke, it was dry, deadpan, devastating, and sent the entire room into hysterics. The corners of your lips lifting ever so slightly in satisfaction. 

You were cool. 

Like, annoyingly cool. 

And Narumi, unfortunately, was not. 

Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except for the fact that somewhere between your third mission and your first energy drink-fueled briefing banter Narumi realized he had it bad. 

Like, atrociously bad. 

He wasn’t sure what did it. Maybe it was the way you handled your team–efficient, fair, no-nonsense but not cold. Maybe it was the way you tossed him a spare protein bar after a mission without even sparing a glance his way, like you knew he’d forgotten to eat. 

Or maybe it was the day you muttered, deadpan, “Tastes like despair,” after biting into the day old cafeteria curry bread. 

He had laughed. Like, actually laughed. And then spend the rest of the day spiraling over it. 

Because now he couldn’t stop watching the way you tied your hair back before a mission. The smooth expanse of your nape proceeding to haunt him in his dreams. Or the way you always sat with your legs crossed and your arms folded like you were too bored to care. He couldn’t stop noticing how you always gave a little nod of approval when someone said something smart, or how you somehow managed to make twirling your pen look chic and effortless. 

It was stupid. 

He was stupid.

And the worst part?

He was certain you thought he was a total loser. 

And to be fair… he wasn’t entirely wrong.

You were tactical, competent, and wore your uniform like it belonged on a runway. 

Narumi once attended a briefing in a hoodie with a ketchup stain shaped like a kaiju claw. You had looked at him, blinked once, and said nothing–which somehow made it worse. 

After that, he made up his mind. 

A firm yet doomed decision:

Become the type of man you’d actually take seriously. 

Which meant trying.

Trying to look put-together. Trying to be a little more like you. Calm. Controlled. Less “Gundom pilot on his off-season” and more like “respectable captain of Division One of the Japan Anti-Kaiju Defense Force.”

He started wearing collared shirts. Tucked them in. Even ironed one. (Just once. He almost died.)

He got a haircut. Bought real deodorant. Started responding to emails with punctuation and showed up to meetings in a timely manner. 

He even read part of a leadership book his stupid apprentice left lying around–though he bailed halfway through and watched Gundom lore breakdowns instead. 

Worst of all, he tried to clean his room. 

Which was hard, because his room was… not just “messy”. It was a shrine.

Narumi’s quarters were a fully weaponized nerd den. Floor-to-ceiling shelves of Gundom figures. LED-lit display cases. Dioramas with tiny, battle-damaged mobile suits frozen mid-action. He had multiple model kits in the building progress, a themed mousepad, and a premium HDTV dedicated to his BS5 gaming. 

He had never seen Hasegawa smile as wide as the day he finished up tidying his room. 

It didn’t take long for him to catch onto his antics. 

——

Narumi was minding his business in the break room. 

He had a canned energy drink in hand, a mission roster on his tablet, and was doing his absolute best not to think about the way your voice dropped an octave when you were giving orders to your subordinates. 

So of course, this peaceful, quiet moment was immediately ruined by the sharp knowing voice of his baka-deshi.

“New shirt again, baka-shisho?”

Narumi didn’t look up, “No.”

“It’s black, and tucked in. And it has actual buttons,” she leaned against the break room counter, arm crossed and eyes full of wicked amusement, “You know what that smells like, Vice Captain Hasegawa?”

Hasegawa, sitting calmly on the couch with a mug of tea, didn’t miss a beat, “Desperation.”

“I will personally demote both of you–"

Kikoru grinned, “Big words for someone who wore a hoodie that said ‘platinum rank holder’ last month.”

“And now you look like you’re trying to qualify for a government interview,” Hasegawa added. 

Narumi shot back, “You people have no chill, maybe I just decided it was time for me to fully assume my duties as captain!” 

“Whatever you say, baka-shisho,” Kikoru agreed teasingly, “We do have eyes, you know.” 

She walked around him in a slow circle, inspecting him like a cat sizing up a mildly interesting box.

“New dress shoes,” she said, pointing, “Hair’s been styled. And you finally stopped using that awful citrus body spray that smelled like anime con bathrooms.”

“I don’t recall asking for this character assassination.”

Hasegawa turned a page in his report, “It’s not an assassination. It’s an intervention.”

Narumi furiously scrolled through the reports, “You two are imagining things–“

“Mm-hmm,” Kikoru said, perching on the table, “You’re just coincidentally acting like a functioning adult the exact same week platoon leader starts hanging around the strategy briefings more.”

“They're a platoon leader. They're supposed to be there.”

“And you suddenly care about punctuality,” Hasegawa added, raising an eyebrow, “Yesterday, you beat me to the meeting room. I thought I was having a stroke.”

Kikoru nodded, “You even brought a tablet instead of scribbling on the back of a ramen wrapper.”

“That was one time–“

“That was every time,” both of them said in unison. 

“I’m not trying to impress anyone–“

“Sure you’re not,” Hasegawa said, sipping his tea.

Kikoru smirked, “And you just happen to be reading deployment schedules like they’re love letters.”

“I–“ words got stuck in Narumi’s throat. 

“You’re pining, baka-shisho,” she teased, sing-song, “Like a protagonist in a slow-burn manga. The pathetic kind.”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there, red creeping up his ears, and drank his energy drink as if that would kill the part of him that felt emotions. 

Kikoru leaned in close and whispered, “So what’s your plan? Gonna win her over with professionally stapled mission reports?”

Hasegawa looked up again, “Better idea, he’s hoping she walks by and says, ‘Wow, Captain Narumi, your tactical readout formatting is so clean. Take me now–’”

Narumi bristled at the comment but before he could protest Kikoru patted him on the shoulder, “Look on the bright side. At least she hasn’t seen your room yet.”

Narumi flinched so hard the tab on his can snapped off. 

Hasegawa’s eyes widened in mock horror, before a mischievous smile appeared, “She hasn’t, has she?”

“Don’t you DARE send her in–“

“We’ll see about that.”

You’d never been in his room. He avoided it at all costs. Because the idea of you seeing the full extent of his plastic addition?

Immediate death. Fatal.

You were too composed. Too mature. Too normal.

You wouldn’t understand his nerdy obsession. 

So when you offered, casually, to drop off a stack of mission reports that evening while passing his room, he panicked and cursed Hasegawa.

“Uh, you don’t have to, I can just pick them up–“

You looked at him, unblinking, “You live three doors down, why not drop them off right now?”

He choked, “Right. Totally. Just. I might be… reorganizing.”

“…You okay?”

“Fine!” he exclaimed a little too loudly, “Just–uh–cleaning up some tactical paperwork. Very classified. Very explosive. Dangerous, really.”

You squinted at him. 

He wanted to dissolve into atoms. 

But you just shrugged, “Alright, I’ll make it quick.”

“Just, give me one second–“

And with that he sprinted back to his room like a man on fire and tried to hide everything remotely shameful. 

He threw a blanket over his figurine wall. Haphazardly shoved his open model kits into drawers. Closed his Gundom-themed laptop and flipped his “I ♥ Gundom” mug around. 

He even sprayed a little cologne into the air like a coward trying to mask the scent of desperation. 

And then, you knocked. 

He opened the door like he was bracing for impact. 

You stepped inside with a clipboard under one arm and zero expression on your face–until your eyes landed on the corner of the blanket draped over the shelves.

There was a single Gundom figure sticking out from underneath. 

Glowing. 

He cursed internally.

You titled your head. 

“Is that… a Siege Unit model?” you asked, stepping closer. 

Narumi blinked. 

You pulled back the blanket. Revealing the full display.

And Narumi watched as your face–your entire face–transformed. 

Your eyes lit up. Your mouth parted slightly. You turned towards him, stunned. 

“…You have the Iron Siege Battle-Damaged Edition?”

He stared, “You… know what that is?”

You looked at him like he had just confessed to being the chosen one.

“I tried to get it. Camped for hours only for it to sell out in two minutes.” you said with exasperation and with more emotion on your face that he’d seen yet. 

He blinked again.

You pressed closer to the shelf, “Wait–wait, you have the Solaris Trench diorama too? That was a limited run–only two hundred ever made–“ your voice cracked mid-sentence, “Oh my god. Is that the Aegis Eclipse Frame with the magnetic joints?”

“…Yeah?”

You turned slowly. 

And for the first time since he met you, the first time through all the cool glances and calm expressions and carefully measured silence, he saw you grin. 

Wide. Gleaming. 

Like a kid in a candy store. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” you said quickly as you regained your composure, “I’ve been trying to keep a low profile about this stuff. But I’ve watched every Gundom series. I’ve played the strategy sims. I once called Vice Captain Hasegawa ‘Commander’ by accident because I was thinking about the Reversal core storyline–“

“You’re insane,” he whispered, awestruck.

“I wrote fanfiction in high school,” you admitted with a whisper, leaning in ever so slightly towards him as if sharing a terrible secret. 

He dropped the mission folder. 

You stared at each other. 

And then Narumi blurted out, without thinking. 

“Marry me.” 

You laughed. God, you laughed. 

“You’re such a loser.”

“Yeah,” he said, breathless, “But so are you.”

You both ended up sitting cross-legged on his floor, surrounded by model kits and Gundom parts, talking until 2 AM about timelines, ranking systems, favorite betrayal arcs, and how overrated Gundom Reignite was. 

And somewhere in the middle of it–when your shoulders were touching and your voices hoarse from laughing–Narumi realized. 

He didn’t have to try to be someone he wasn’t.

Because you were exactly the kind of disaster he’d been hoping for.

˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ✦ˎˊ˗

wandering samurai! hoshina soshiro x geiko! reader

synopsis: in the floating world of kyoto's entertainment district, she performs beauty like a ritual–every laugh rehearsed, every tear hidden behind silk. a wandering swordsman with calloused hands and kind eyes sees the sorrow she thought she had long buried. love, she learns, is one art she was never trained to master.

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chapter 6 - the choice

The days passed slowly after Hoshina left. 

The city moved on around you–nosily, easily, without care for the silence he left behind. The teahouse lit its lanterns, and the wine still flowed. Men came and went, laughter echoing through shoji screens, rice paper doors sliding open and close like breaths. 

You smiled. You danced. You played. 

But none of it belonged to you anymore. 

The merchant came again, as promised. He did not pressure. He did not boast. He only asked, with patient eyes and an open palm, what your answer would be. 

“You would be safe,” he said, offering the future like a sealed letter, “You would be cared for, cherished.”

And he meant it. 

But still, your heart twisted like a sleeve wrung out to dry. 

You bowed your head that night and told him, “I am grateful. Truly.”

But he saw the rest in your eyes. 

That your heart already belonged to another. 

He left with dignity. And did not return. 

——

That night, you returned to your room. Removed the pins from your hair one by one, the weight of them unfamiliar now. Rubbed away the white paint from your face, layer after layer, until your skin showed through: bare, flushed, vulnerable. 

You stared at your reflection in the mirror. 

You looked like a woman again. 

Not an ornament. Not a mask. 

Just someone trying to find her way home. 

The tears came slowly, then all at once. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just quiet and steady, like rain leaking through a crack in the roof. They tasted of fear, and of freedom. Of grief of the life you had known, and trembling hope for the life you had yet to claim. 

You pressed your palms together. 

And made your decision. 

——

You left the next morning. 

Not with ceremony. Not with fanfare. 

Only a note left folded beneath your comb stand, addressed to the house mistress alongside the coins you had earned from pawning the merchant’s gifts:

“This name is yours to give again.”

Your kimono was plain. Your sleeve light. You carried only what you could tie to your back–your shamisen, your sandals, a packet of dried plum and rice wrapped in cloth. You walked out as the sun lifted just above the tiled roofs, casting long shadows behind you. 

And you did not look back. 

——

You found him two days’ journey west, in a village with no name on the maps.

The innkeeper pointed you to the hill beyond the river. 

“Strange man, that one. Doesn’t speak much. Keeps to himself. Polite enough, though. Paid for his room in full with a sword he refuses to use.”

You found the small house nestled at the edge of the forest, near the fields where old women hung persimmons to dry. Smoke rose from the chimney. There was no gate.

You paused before the door, unsure if your feet would hold. 

But then the door opened. 

And there he was.

Barefoot. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. He looked like a man half-remade–slower, quieter, but still him. Still with those same crimson eyes that unsettled and steadied you at once. 

He did not speak. 

He only stared, disbelief etched into every line of his face. 

You stepped forward.

“I thought about it,” you said. 

He didn’t move.

You took another step, “About what I wanted. In winter. In hunger. And in silence.”

His breath caught. 

“And still,” you whispered, “I want you.”

“I choose a life with you over the finest silk robes.” 

Then, only then, did he move–swift and sure, pulling you into his arms with a gentleness that belied the strength in him. He hand cradled the back of your head like you were fine china, your name pressed into your hair like a prayer. 

No promises. No ceremony. 

Only presence.

Only truth. 

——

Years passed. 

Not with fanfare, but with the rhythm of small things: morning tea left to steep too long. Rice drying on the porch. The sound of your shamisen echoing faintly through pine trees. 

Your cottage was modest–a single room with a hearth, a slanted roof that leaked during storms, and windows that looked east toward the hills. 

But beside it stood a plum tree. 

You planted it the first spring. 

It bloomed slowly. 

Stubbornly. 

And in time, it blossomed wildly. 

——

In the village, neighbors spoke quietly of you both. 

Of the woman who played the shamisen at sunset, whose posture was too straight to be from the countryside, whose footsteps made no sound in the gravel. 

Of the swordsman with the quiet voice and restless hands, who stood with his back to the wind like he was waiting for something that never came. 

They whispered of your pasts–half-truths spun from wandering tongues. 

But in your home, none of it mattered.

You danced only when you wished to. 

He fought only when he had to. 

And on cold nights, when the wind shook the shutters and the fire crackled low, you would sit beside him beneath worn quilts and rest your head against his shoulder. 

He would trace your fingers like notes on a page, and whisper:

“You ruined me, you know.”

And you would smile, eyes closed, hand resting above his heart.

“You ruined me first.”

And outside, the plum tree would bloom again. 

Quiet.

Wild. 

Unapologetically real. 

Just like the life you chose. 

wandering samurai! hoshina soshiro x geiko! reader

synopsis: in the floating world of kyoto's entertainment district, she performs beauty like a ritual–every laugh rehearsed, every tear hidden behind silk. a wandering swordsman with calloused hands and kind eyes sees the sorrow she thought she had long buried. love, she learns, is one art she was never trained to master.

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chapter 5 - the offer

The first signs of autumn crept in quietly.

The air had lost its heavy summer stillness. The nights cooled faster, and the scent of smoke began to drift in from the hills–farmers burning old rice stalks in the fields. The maple trees had begun their slow transformation, their tips tinged red like embers waiting to catch. In the garden, the last of the summer flowers curled in on themselves, giving way to chrysanthemums and quiet decay.

Even the lanterns in the teahouse seemed dimmer now, their gold lights softer, as though mourning something not yet lost. 

You had not seen Hoshina Soshiro since that night. 

Not properly.

There had been whispers of him. A few words exchanged in passing–an attendant mentioning a glimpse near the western road, the sound of a sword drawn in a back alley no one wanted to speak about. But there were no knocks upon the doors of the teahouse. No name on the guest list. No warm, weathered voice asking for tea or the song of your shamisen. 

You told yourself it was for the best. 

Too many lines were crossed that night. Not in action–but in what was allowed to rise to the surface. The way he had looked at you, the warmth of his touch that seemingly seared itself into the depth of your memory. The way your body had betrayed you, leaning closer without realizing. 

Distance was a mercy. 

And yet, each evening, when you touched your brush to your lips and tilted your head just so, you felt the space he had left behind. Empty. Measured. Waiting. 

—— 

The offer came on the fourth night of the harvest moon. 

The teahouse was lively–wealthier clients returned from the summer countryside, eager to spend and be seen. You had been requested for a private gathering, but upon arrival, you were surprised to find only one man seated in the room. 

He was dressed in expensive but modest robes. The unmistakable natural sheen of the fabric under the light was enough to tell you he was wearing fine silk that would cost you years of performance to dare to afford. His hair was nearly combed, the scent of sandalwood clinging to his sleeves. His hands bore no calluses, but his posture was clean, deliberate. A merchant, then–though not just any merchant. 

He rose when you entered, bowing deeply. Too deeply.

“You honor me with your presence,”he said. 

You returned the gesture with the grace expected of you, “The honor is mine, sir.”

He did not press for song or dance. Instead, he spoke quietly, politely, asking you questions you rarely heard from clients. 

Were you born in the city? Had your family been geisha before you? What music did you favor when no one was listening?

You answered as you always did: with grace but distance, a voice like porcelain. But he wasn’t fooled by the mask. He didn’t try to peel it away, either. Only watched, admired it, as one admires a fine painting behind glass. 

When the tea cooled, he finally said what he had come to say. 

“I would like to buy your contract.”

The words sat in the room like a held breath. 

Your fingers stopped mid-motion, the fan in your hand closing with a soft click. 

He continued, voice gentle, business-like, “Not as a man chasing fantasy. I’m not here to toy with illusions. You are… remarkable. And I can offer you a different life. A house of your own. Silk that doesn’t belong to anyone else. Music when you wish it, not when you’re told.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words hand. Letting you imagine it. 

Freedom, in exchange for ownership. 

You bowed your head slightly, the practiced smile returning to your lips, “Forgive me, but I am not in the habit of answering such requests on first meetings.”

He gave a knowing look, “Then I shall return.”

And he did. 

——

In the weeks that followed, the merchant returned twice–always with gifts. Perfumed paper riddled with elegant lines of poetry. A comb carved from ivory. A small mirror etched in silver, far too fine for the guest room in which he left it. The mistress began to drop comments, soft but pointed. 

‘He’s respectable, and patient’

‘His offer is made without lust in his eyes.’

‘You’re not as young as you once were.’

You listened. You bowed. You smiled.

But you did not answer. 

Because the only answer you wanted to give belonged to someone who had not returned. 

Until one night, when he did. 

—— 

The moon was thin that evening, a silver thread caught in a cloudy sky. You had slipped into the garden after the guests had retired–seeking air and momentary peace. The chrysanthemums were in bloom now, heavy with the scent of earth and smoke. 

He stood near the gate, as if he had always been there. 

Hoshina Soshiro. 

He looked different. Tired. His hair pulled back not carelessly, a faint shadow of stubble adorning his jaw. The same worn sword at his hip. The same eyes that made your breath slow without permission. 

You did not speak at first. Neither did he. 

You turned toward him slowly, sleeves rustling softly in the cool night breeze. 

“You’re late,” you began softly. 

“I didn’t know if I should come back.”

“Then why did you?”

His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for something he didn’t deserve to find, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His words were too plain, too honest. They made your throat tighten. 

You took a step towards him, “And yet, you said nothing. Not a letter. Not even a rumor left in the wind.”

“I didn’t know what I could offer you,” he said, “Not when someone else was offering you everything.”

Your breath caught, “You heard.”

“I’ve heard many things. I just didn’t want to believe them.”

You looked down, the night pressing in around you.

“He’s respectable,” you said quietly, “Generous. He’s promised me a house. A roof over my head. A name. A life without secrets or shame.”

The silence between you stretched on, delicate and trembling like the last leaf on a withering branch. 

Finally, he exhaled, low and bitter, like he could already feel you slipping from his hands.

“I have nothing,” he said, “No land. No name. Just a pair of blades and a body that won’t stop bleeding.”

“But even if I have nothing to offer you but this body,” he stepped forward then, his voice lower.

“Do you want me?”

That broke something in you.

You met his eyes, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The lanterns. The sickeningly sweet scent of chrysanthemums. The years of training. 

“Yes,” you breathed, “But wanting you won’t feed me when I’m old. It won’t keep me safe.”

“No,” he agreed, “It won’t. But it would be real.” 

You looked at him–this man who had nothing. This man who had bled in your hands. Who saw you without paint or poetry. Who offered no promises, only truth. 

And still, part of you hesitated. 

Because you knew what choosing him would entail: a life of uncertainty. Of struggle. A future bound not in silk, but in sacrifice. 

But you also knew this:

You had never danced more freely than when he watched you. 

You had never spoken more honestly than when he listened.

And your name had never felt more your own than when he said it. 

“I want you,” your voice broke, words barely above a whisper. 

He reached out then, but stopped just before touching you, his fingers hovering near your face as though afraid you might vanish at contact.

“You shouldn’t say something like that,” he whispered, voice raw, “Not unless you mean to ruin me.” 

You leaned in, just enough for your sleeve to brush against his. The contact was barely there–but it was real. And it was enough. 

He stepped back–just a half-step, but it felt like a chasm. 

“You deserve to choose the kind of life that doesn’t ask you to bleed for it,” he said, “And I won’t drag you into mine unless you’re sure.”

You swallowed, the ache in your throat sharp and sudden, “Then what are you saying?”

He looked away briefly, to the faint glow of lanterns behind the garden wall, then back to you. His voice was gentler now, but no less firm. 

“I’m saying think about it. About what you want. Not just tonight. But in ten years. When our hair turns gray. In winter. In hunger. In silence.”

You said nothing. 

Because you had already begun to think about those things. 

He gave you a final, lingering glance, eyes full of something too deep to name, and offered a shallow bow. 

And then he turned.

You watched him disappear through the garden gate, the sounds of his footsteps lost in the rustle of wind and falling leaves. 

You did not call after him.

But long after the petals had stopped falling, the air had gone still again. 

You remained there.

Thinking. 

wandering samurai! hoshina soshiro x geiko! reader

synopsis: in the floating world of kyoto's entertainment district, she performs beauty like a ritual–every laugh rehearsed, every tear hidden behind silk. a wandering swordsman with calloused hands and kind eyes sees the sorrow she thought she had long buried. love, she learns, is one art she was never trained to master.

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chapter 4 - the line between

The first heat of summer had arrived–not in thunder or flame, but in stillness.

The kind of warmth that softened the edges of the world, where the cicadas had not yet begun their chorus, but the silence between their absence pulsed thick through the air. The river no longer smelled of cold stone, but of moss and faint iron. Inside the teahouse, fans moved lazily in the hands of patrons, the scent of sweat began to replace the crispness of the good, expensive incense. 

You had changed out of your kimono for one of lighter silk, pale lavender lined in white, the fabric clinging faintly to your skin despite the thin layer of powder along your neck. The season had shifted. You could feel it in the weight of the air, in the way the plum blossoms no longer drifted but curled to the ground, drying into memory.

He came just after nightfall.

The house of quieting, most guests already fading into the night, their laughter echoing down the stone alleys towards the river. You were just finishing with a group of young nobles–tiresome boys with too many opinions and not enough poetry–when your apprentice hurried to your side, bowing low. 

“Onee-sama, please forgive me,” she whispered softly, “but… the ronin is here. He’s asked for you.”

You did not ask why he had come again. You simply moved.

——

The room he waited in was one of the smallest–the kind usually reserved for late, unremarkable guests, or those without coins enough for finer settings. The screen slid open, and there he was. 

Hoshina Soshiro sat against the far wall, body folded in a strange posture–too still, too rigid. His haori was dark with dampness, his right hand pressed tightly into his side beneath the fabric. His hair had come loose in places, strands clinging to the sweat along his jaw. And though his expression remained as calm as ever, you knew, something was wrong. 

You stepped inside and swiftly slid the door shut, the shoji rattled behind you like a breath being held. 

As your eyes gradually adjusted to the dim candle-lit room, you saw it. 

“You’re injured.”

You moved forward, kneeling before him in a single, fluid movement. The scent hit you then–iron and sweat, and something bitter underneath. 

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at you, “It’s nothing,” he replied, his voice hoarse.

You reached for the folds of his haori, but he caught your wrist.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his voice void of harshness but heavy with weight, “It’s not… appropriate.”

You stared at him. At the blood seeping through his haori. At the paleness in his lips. 

Then your voice, low and sharp, “Proper?”

HIs grip loosened.

“You come bleeding before me and dare speak of being proper?”

He let go. 

You pulled the cloth aside carefully, the layers peeling back to reveal the wound: a long, fresh gash along his ribs, shallow but angry, swollen and red. You hissed softly through your teeth at the sight. 

“You should’ve gone to the healer,” you scolded him quietly.

“They’re too expensive,” he said casually. 

You froze, and before you could stop yourself, you shot back, “And I’m cheap?” your words sharper than you had intended for it to be.

His eyes visibly widened, before locking onto yours. You didn’t shy away, eyes meeting his, searching his irises for an answer. And from there, you found a fire burning within his gaze.

“No,” he said, voice low, “You’re priceless.”

This wasn’t a line spoken to impress or flatter. There was no flourish in it, no grin. Just something still, and certain, that turned the air between you into something electric. 

You stared at him, and for a moment, the breath in your chest became something foreign. Unsteady. 

You looked away first, “Hold still, I’ll dress your wounds.”

He nodded once. 

You rose, walked with quiet purpose to the back cupboard where linens and ointments were kept. You could hear your own heart–louder than your footsteps. Louder than the wind brushing against the paper screens. 

When you returned, he had slipped his arm from the haori, baring his shoulder. The sight of his skin caught you off guard. Not from the sudden exposedness of it, but because of the scars that littered across his body. Faint. Some old. One along the back of his shoulder that looked like it had been poorly stitched years ago. 

He didn’t move as you knelt beside him, as you dipped cloth in water and gently cleansed the blood away. But you felt his eyes on you. Always watching. Not with desire–but with something else. Something deeper. Something that made you wish he’d look anywhere else because it made you crave something you could not have. 

“Does it hurt?” you asked softly, your voice filling the silence between the two of you. 

He exhaled, slow, “I can manage.”

You bound the wound as carefully as you could, fingers nimble but cautious, tying the bandage tight enough to hold but not enough to cause him further pain. As you worked, his breath hitched only once–when your knuckles brushed the side of his chest. You almost apologized, but the moment passed too quickly. 

You tied the final knot and sat back slightly, “There.”

He looked at you, and for a second–just for a second–his gaze dropped to your hands. Then to your eyes. 

“I shouldn’t have come,” he began, “Not like this.”

“No,” you agreed, too quiet, “You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“There are inns.”

“They’d turn me away.”

“There are other women.”

“There’s only you.”

The room stilled. 

The summer night pressed in through the walls, hot and breathless. You could feel the warmth of him still, where your hands had been. You could feel the ache behind your ribs–not of pain, but stemming from something more dangerous. The beginning of wanting. 

“This is foolish,” you whispered, voice quiet out of fear of the mistress overhearing your conversation. 

“I know,” he offered a small smile.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you protested weakly. 

“I know that, too.”

“And yet…”

He smiled, the type that turned in eyes into crescent moons, “Here I am.”

Contrary to his words, he began to shift, to rise, perhaps sensing the distress in your voice. 

You reached out–without thinking–and touched his shoulder. Just enough to stop him. 

“Wait,” you said, “You shouldn’t go yet.”

“Stay.”

His gaze flickered up to yours, sharp and unreadable in the dimly lit room. 

“You shouldn’t go saying things like that to a man,” he said quietly. His voice had changed–still calm, but lower now, rougher. As if holding something back. 

You froze, fingers still resting against his shoulder. 

The silence between you thickened, hot with things neither of you dared name.

But then, after a breath too long, he stilled again. The moment passed, barely.

You withdrew your hand, slower this time, fingertips lingering on warmth of his bare skin. 

He said nothing more. 

You adjusted the fold of his haori, drawing the fabric gently back over his shoulder. Your hand lingered for a moment too long. Not in longing. Not yet. 

But in something else. 

Something not yet spoken aloud. 

“You should rest,” you tried again, voice soft, “Just for a little while.”

He didn’t answer right away. But when he did, it was quiet, “If you stay.”

You hesitated. The world outside this room still existed–the teahouse, your contract, the knowing glances of other women, the sharp eyes of the mistress. You could not afford rumors. You could not afford indulgence. 

And yet–you stayed. 

When he leaned back against the wall, exhaling slow, you remained beside him. Knees tucked beneath your kimono, hands folded in your lap, your gaze fixed on the flickering candlelight rather than his face. 

You did not speak. Neither did he. 

But the space between your silence was filled with something new. 

Not the strum of the shamisen.

Not the mask of polite smiles you wore for others. 

You were simply left in each others’ presence. 

And for the first time in your life, that felt like it was enough. 

So therefore, you get a follow and a likes from me. ❤️

— 💭

wandering samurai! hoshina soshiro x geiko! reader

synopsis: in the floating world of kyoto's entertainment district, she performs beauty like a ritual–every laugh rehearsed, every tear hidden behind silk. a wandering swordsman with calloused hands and kind eyes sees the sorrow she thought she had long buried. love, she learns, is one art she was never trained to master.

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chapter 3: the second visit

The cherry blossoms had begun to bloom along the riverbank, their pale petals drifting through the air like pieces of soft, delicate snowflakes. The streets of Gion had shed the hush of winter; laughter spilling from teahouses, and the air smelled of incense and new beginnings. 

You walked through it all with practiced grace–head bowed, back straight, your painted lips curving in that delicate, effortless smile you had mastered. Beneath the perfume and the color, you were tired. The first dance of the season had ended not an hour ago, and your fingers still trembled faintly from holding the shamisen for too long. 

The world around you shimmered with warmth and renewal. But you, as ever, were merely an ornament meant to reflect it–not to feel it. 

Then you saw him again. 

Hoshina Soshiro stood near the low wooden gate that opened onto the garden path of the teahouse–a swordsman among merchants, his worn haori faintly dusted with fallen petals. His hair, it was longer now, held on stubborn blossom tangled near his temple. 

He looked impossibly out of place. And yet so impossibly certain. 

When his gaze met yours, the noise around you seemed to thin. The street’s laughter dulled, and the drifting petals slowed. For a moment, there was only him, and the quiet recognition that you felt something that was too dangerous to name.

“I didn’t think you would return,” you said softly when you reached him. 

“I told you I would,” he replied, his voice carried the weight of someone who had walked far to keep his promise.

“Men say many things when the sake is sweet.”

He smiled faintly, “Good thing I’m not most men.”

A lie, perhaps. But one that made your heart beat all the same. 

——

Inside, the teahouse was dim and golden, the air warm with the scent of cedar and plum wine. You poured for him in perfect rhythm–the flick of your wrist precise, the tilt of your head in the perfect angle to showcase your hairpin, not a drop of sake spilled. The room had the softness of spring light caught behind shoji screens. 

“You came at an auspicious time,” you began, setting the cup before him, ensuring the hand-painted design of the cup were facing him, “The blossoms are early this year.”

“Maybe they knew you’d be waiting,” he chuckled lightly. 

You looked up, startled. You had heard compliments like that countless times before, spoken by men who wanted something to own, not understand. But his tone was different–playful, yet quiet, almost reverent. The sincerity in his voice made something in you ache. 

You hid it behind a practiced laugh, “Then the blossoms are more foolish than I thought.”

“Or braver,” he added, and took a slow sip. 

For a time, silence hung between you, gentle and full. You busied yourself with small gestures–adjusting the sleeve of your kimono, setting the cups just so, ensuring the lantern light caught you at the right angle. These things were habits older than comfort. 

Silence wasn’t something you were used to when meeting with clients. You were trained to listen, but not to be listened to. You were trained to time your smile when complimenting your clients of their business ventures, to fill their cups before they were empty of sake. And yet, the man before you looked at you like he wished to know you. 

His gaze was fixed on you. He wasn’t looking at the curve of your lips or the dip of your neckline. He was studying you, as though trying to read something beneath the white paint. 

It unsettled you–the way he saw. 

“Tell me,” he said suddenly, voice low, “When you dance… is it for them? Or for yourself?”

You blinked, caught off guard, a practiced line flowing from your lips, “A geiko dances for no one but her guests.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You met his eyes then, and the weight of his gaze felt like something solid, tangible. It made you want to speak the truth, and you almost did–almost told him that you danced because it was the only time you could forget the confines of your own body, the only moment when pretending felt like freedom. 

Instead, you smiled, “You ask dangerous questions, Hoshina-dono.”

“Only because I want to know the answers.”

“You’d do better not to.”

“And yet,” he said quietly, “Here I am.”

——

He stayed longer that evening than he should have. You spoke of small things–the taste of sake, the fickleness of spring weather, the first fireflies that would come soon with summer. Every so often, you would catch him tilting his head slightly, listening not just to your words, but to the spaces between them. 

When he finally rose to leave, the world outside had softened into dusk. He slid the door open, the faint evening breeze sweeping through, scattering stray petals into the room. One blossom landed against your sleeve, pale against the deep indigo silk.

“A gift,” he jested with a wry smile, “Proof I was here.”

You looked down at the fragile thing, at the curl of its petal, already beginning to wilt, “Cherry blossoms fall as soon as they’re noticed.”

“Then I’ll remember it before it does.”

You practiced smile faltered, just slightly. You hoped he didn’t see. 

“Goodnight, Hoshina-dono.”

“Until next time,” he said, you didn’t miss the certainty he held in his voice.

——

When he left, you sat there long after the room had gone still, the cup before you untouched, the single blossom resting in your hand. 

For years, you had learned to hide every flicker go truth behind gestures of grace and obedience. But now, you could not help but wonder what it might feel like–to be seen not as a dream, or prize, but as a person. 

Outside, the wind rose softly, carrying with it the scent of river and falling petals. You turned your face toward it, and for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to simply breathe.