Obsessed with the character of Kudo Shinchi. Imagine this smug little rich kid, ooh, he thinks he's the smartest person in the room at any given moment, he solves crime as a hobby because his parents don't give him enough attention at home and also because he really likes Sherlock Holmes. He's extremely autistic. He is vaguely aware he should have hobbies outside of murder (because Sherlock Holmes had hobbies outside of murder) so he's also a varsity player. He makes every conversation about his interests and is genuinely very confused when people find this upsetting (because one of his special interests is murder). He's a sarcastic little greasestain. He's extremely rude and abrasive. He firmly believes that all human life is worth saving. He's a niche micro celebrity. He carries himself like nothing can even touch him. He's walking around just asking to get his ass kicked. And he does. He gets his head smashed in with a lead pipe in the pilot episode of the show in which he is the main character.
I just saw a post of @auratux on Dottore's segments... and yea I had to write this drabble(?)
idk what kind of warnings I should put here, so help me out I guess! maybe sexual tension?
assistant reader x dottore segments
Another assistant reader if you wanna read!
(A note: Someone legit sent me a messaga and said "ai slop" lmao, i am a teaching student, studying english. And i have been writing for like 10 years now, it helps you to improve definitely. Ai paranoia is real😭😭)
The kitchen smelled warm. Melted cheese, baked dough, oregano.
You leaned against the counter while the youngest segment stood on a chair beside the oven, watching through the glass with narrowed eyes like he was conducting a scientific experiment instead of baking pizza.
“Do you think it’s cooked yet?” you asked.
The 8 year-old huffed softly, then crouched down closer to the oven door. His little brows furrowed in concentration. After a moment he nodded once, serious as ever.
“I think it did,” he said quietly. “Smells delicious.”
Your smile came before you could stop it.
“Well then, Doctor,” you teased gently, “let’s eat.”
You slipped on the oven mitts and pulled the pizza out carefully while he watched with obvious satisfaction. Together, you cut it into uneven slices and carried everything to the table.
It felt oddly domestic.
Just you and him sitting there, finally ready to enjoy your hard-earned pizza.
And then—
“Oh, for the love of—”
“You started it, which means you asked for it.”
The familiar voices grew louder down the hall.
Sigh
The 18 year-old and the 25 year-old entered mid argument, both looking equally irritated. Neither even noticed the pizza at first.
“You are unbelievably insufferable,” 25 snapped.
“And you’re old and bitter,” 18 shot back immediately.
Then they both stopped. Their eyes landed on the table.
On you.
And of course on the youngest segment sitting proudly across you with flour still dusted across his sleeves.
25 scoffed.
“So this is what the two of you spent the afternoon doing?” His eyes dragged over the pizza critically. “How adorable. I leave for a few hours and suddenly the lab turns into a daycare cooking class.”
The youngest frowned immediately.
Before you could say anything, 18 leaned against the doorway with a grin.
“At least they can create something useful,” he said lazily. “Which is not something I can say for you.”
25 shot him a glare sharp enough to kill.
18 only smirked wider before dropping into the chair beside you like he absolutely belonged there.
25 clicked his tongue in annoyance and turned like he was about to leave.
“Maybe taste some before judging it,” you said casually while reaching for another slice. “I made it. Wouldn’t you like something I made?”
That stopped him, which was something predictable.
His expression twisted like he wanted to refuse on principle alone, but after a long moment he sighed dramatically and sat down on your other side.
“You’re insufferable too,” he muttered.
“And yet here you are.”
The youngest looked deeply offended by all of you.
For a while, things settled surprisingly peacefully.
The four of you ate while small conversations drifted around the table. Research updates. Complaints. Petty arguments. Bickerings, as usual.
Mostly complaints...
18 was currently ranting with full enthusiasm.
“I’m serious, Omega keeps stealing you,” he grumbled around a bite of pizza. “Every time I finally find you, suddenly he needs ‘assistance.’ And you just go with him.”
You took another bite calmly.
“Well,” you said with a shrug, “I enjoy obeying him. He’s kind of crazy hot, you know?”
The youngest immediately looked disgusted.
Actually disgusted.
He stared at his pizza like he regretted existing in this conversation at all.
18 nearly choked.
“You say things like that on purpose,” he accused, ears turning red.
You laughed softly.
Then your eyes caught the bit of oil at the corner of his mouth.
Without thinking much of it, you reached over with your thumb and wiped it away. He froze instantly beneath your touch.
And when you licked the oil from your thumb-
His entire face turned scarlet.
You burst into laughter.
“Oh, come on,” you teased. “I thought we passed that stage already. But you really are just a teenage boy full of hormones, huh?”
25 leaned back in his chair, openly amused now.
“Pathetic,” he murmured.
“Screw you.”
The youngest looked like he wanted to disappear permanently.
Then he pointed suddenly.
“You have oil on your mouth too, Y/N”
“Oh?” You blinked. “Can you pass me a tissue?”
You turned toward 25.
“If you want it so badly,” he drawled, “Get it yourself. Maybe if you lean far enough I’ll finally get to see what you’re hiding under that skirt.”
You stared at him, you couldn't decide whether to admire or despise this randomly appearing frankness, because that kind of thing wasn't his style.
“You do realize your 8 year-old self is sitting right here?”
“I couldn’t care less.”
The youngest groaned in pure disappointment.
Muttering under your breath, you leaned over him to grab the tissues anyway. You could practically feel both older segments watching you shamelessly.
And then the sharp tap of a walking stick echoed down the hall.
Everyone looked up.
The oldest segment entered the room wearing his usual expression of permanent irritation. His gaze swept across the table slowly before landing on the pizza.
His face somehow looked even more judgmental.
“You people waste astonishing amounts of time,” he said gruffly. “Sitting around stuffing yourselves with grease while actual work remains unfinished.”
You held up a slice toward him.
“You’re criticizing it before trying it too?”
“I don’t need to taste burnt bread to know it lacks sophistication.”
You smiled knowingly.
“I made it though.”
Then you added sweetly, “Wouldn’t you like something I made?”
25 snorted quietly because now someone else was falling into this trap, and for him, it was very entertaining to see what had been done to him being done to someone else.
The old man looked deeply unimpressed.
But after several long seconds, he finally took the slice from your hand with a dissatisfied grunt.
And despite all his complaints he finished the entire thing.
By the time dinner ended, a voice echoed sharply from deeper within the lab.
“Assistant.” This was 35 years old.
You immediately sat up straighter.
“Yes?”
“Come to my office. Immediatley.”
Your smile turned almost automatic.
“Okay.”
18 groaned loudly while you stood from the table.
“You’re proving my point.”
And you chose to ignore him completely.
After brushing your teeth quickly, you returned to the dining room to fix your makeup using the reflection in a darkened glass cabinet. The exaggerated noises you made while reapplying your lip gloss earned increasingly irritated looks from all three segments.
Which only encouraged you further.
Finally satisfied, you turned back toward the table.
The youngest was first.
You leaned down and kissed his cheek gently. He frowned immediately afterward, pretending he disliked it even while leaning subtly into your hand.
Then you moved to 18.
He was sitting there with his arms crossed and the most dramatic sulking expression imaginable.
“Aww,” you cooed softly.
He rolled his eyes.
You slipped your fingers into his hair, pulling his head back enough to make him stare up at you before leaning down and kissing him properly.
He melted instantly.
When you pulled away, his face was burning red all over again.
25 looked unbearably smug watching it happen.
So naturally you climbed into his lap next.
“You’re annoying,” he murmured, though his hands settled on your waist immediately.
“And you like me anyway.”
“Not really.”
You kissed him quickly before he could turn it into something longer by biting at your lip with a grin.
Then you stepped over toward the oldest segment.
His expression barely changed as you bent down and pressed a gentle kiss against his temple.
Still-
His hand rested briefly against your wrist before you pulled away.
You smiled at all of them afterward.
“Bye bye, guys,” you sang lightly while backing toward the door. “Don’t miss me too much.”
“You’re unbearable,” 85 called after you.
“Don't come back alive,” 25 years old muttered.
18 looked personally betrayed already.
And the youngest just reached for another slice of pizza with the exhausted expression of someone far too young to be dealing with any of this.
The lab door slid shut behind you moments later.
And somewhere deeper inside the halls 35 was waiting for you.
"Did you kill him?" You appear behind the thirty-five year old Segment one day, tone oddly serious and firm despite the slight tremble in your voice. Omega studies you for a moment before one of his usual smiles curls on his face, as he turns to give you his attention.
"Well, you're going to need to be a bit more specific than that, darling. Who exactly do you believe met their end by my hands?"
"Zandik. The original Zandik, Omega." Your gaze is hard and cold, and yet the Segment just shakes his head and lets out a sigh.
"As I said before, the original 'me' died of-"
"You said that Zandik died by himself. Natural causes. Old age. I believed you. I had no reason not to, and your reasoning was sound, as disheartening as it was," you bitterly finished the sentence. In the beginning, when you had finally woken up from centuries-long rest, it was hard to accept that your Zandik, the original, had long since died. However, you had at least had some peace with the Segments he had left behind. They had treated you with care and respect. You could sense a bit of Zandik within each of them, and you grew to love them. But now...
"You didn't say that you watched him plead for help. You didn't say you could have saved him. You didn't say that you... watched him die."
"And how exactly did you come to this conclusion?" The Segment's hands are calmly folded behind his back as he observes you.
"I saw it, Omega." At that statement, the Segment's smile slightly fell, and it seemed like he was starting to understand what you were getting at. It appeared you had pried into something that was never meant for your eyes. "I saw what you did to Zandik."
"... Then tell me, what exactly did I do?" But Omega seems almost undisturbed by your response, which only makes you ball your hands up tighter.
"You recorded what you did, no, what all of you did. Both on paper and... visually." Your throat runs dry at the memory of the dissection, which you could hardly read and watch a few seconds of before turning away. To see your darling Zandik suffer such a fate... Your time with him may have been cut short, but there was nothing else you loved more than the boy you met in the Akademiya. "... Why... Why would you do that? Why would you lie to me? And- And how many other times have you lied to me?"
And yet the scholar only lets out another sigh as he abandons his work in favor of pacing toward you.
"The original Zandik was already near the end of his life. It was only thanks to the elixir that he managed to surpass the average life expectancy of a human." The click of his heels as Omega strolled toward you made your heart race. "He would have died sooner or later, with or without any intervention. So, there was little harm in speeding things up a bit." Before you could counter, he spoke again.
"You've long known of our nature, of the experiments. Surely you aren't too surprised we took the opportunity to dissect ourselves." But you were. Too much had happened while you were away. Maybe if you were with Zandik, things could have turned out differently, but you weren't. The selfishness and hatred had already taken root and could only dissipate with some drastic measure, like a great tree burning to the ground with the mightiest of fires.
"And as for the last question... I anticipated a reaction of this nature. I knew it wouldn't bode well with your condition. However, do rest assured that I have been truthful in many other matters." At last, Omega stood in front of you, looking at you with a smile that still carried fondness for you. He was selfish enough to think that he was protecting you by hiding the truth.
"Regardless, the outcome would have been the same. The original 'me' would not have survived to the present day to see you again. Do the details truly matter? What matters is that you now have-" He reached to caress your cheek, when-
Before Omega could finish the sentence, a resounding slap echoed in the room, with the clinking of his mask dropping on the floor.
"If you truly think that the details wouldn't matter to me, then you do not know as much about me as you think... Dottore." For once, the Segment seemed to be stunned into silence.
A part of you knew that the attention Omega gave you was real. You knew his affection was real, that he desired to help you break free of fate, too. But yet, in light of this revelation, it felt like all of that had shattered into pieces.
"You forget one thing. The one I first fell in love with was Zandik. The one who would bare his heart to me. You might call yourself Zandik, but you're not him... And you're certainly not mine. You are just... Dottore." The Segment remained quiet as he gazed at you. There was no fear in your eyes. Just anger, sadness, and... pity. Pity for a man who could never make peace with who he was.
As you left, you found solace in the fact that one day, you'd see your Zandik again.
Description of Complaint: The patient reports having persistent headaches, low energy, and a lack of appetite.
History: Patient tends to face pain of this nature every so often. Frequently struggles to convey the extent of their condition and shuts down.
Treatment: Oral administration of pain relievers. Instructed to rest in bed until given the okay to do otherwise. Avoid bright lights. Apply compresses and massage if needed. How come you didn't write about the kisses? :3
Recommendation: To the others, stop nagging them for frivolous things so often. You are exhausting them. You don't need to be so harsh. :(
Investigator: Omega
-
Age: 427
Complaint: Immense boredom
Description of Complaint: The patient reports being super bored for the last few weeks, and having nothing fun to do despite asking everyone else for help! They are very, very sad.
History: The patient states that Dottore and the Segments have frequently been too busy to pay attention to them, leaving them dejected.
Treatment: Get the others to stop working and spend some time with the patient. Maybe ask the others nicely and explain the situation. Or I can just threaten them.
Investigator: Zandy
Note: This entry is not relevant to the record, but will be kept at the request of the patient. - Zandik. And you better listen to him! Otherwise, I'll ask Zandy to put one of these entries in every week!
-
Age: 432
Complaint: Dizziness
Description of Complaint: The patient reports feeling light-headed, unsteady, and struggling to stay focused.
History: Patient struggles to stand for a long period of time. Has previously fainted and experienced bouts of needing to sit down.
Treatment: Hydration. Patient will be temporarily moved to another room for closer observation. Must be accompanied by a Segment for a period of time. So I get to stay in your room now? How fun! Is there a chance I could wake up to you now? I'm afraid that won't be the case. ...Pretty please? ♡ ︎
Investigator: Zandik
-
Age: 435
Complaint: Fatigue, shortness of breath
Description of Complaint: The patient reports having a foggy mind. Difficulty and unwillingness to get up. High level of tiredness.
History: Patient often feels weak. Unable to complete tasks by themselves.
Treatment: Examine iron levels. Ingestion of supplements. Adjust diet. Supporting documentation is attached. Follow-up is required.
Recommendation: Shame how the treatment doesn't include a visit from you... How saddening. ... How many times have I said not to edit the record? It must be kept concise. I should be allowed to access and state my opinion on my own medical records, thank you very much. Now, are you going to come or not? Hmph...
What is it like dating the second Fatui Harbinger?
Synopsis - People pity you the moment they hear you are dating the Il Dottore. How terrible it must be! Little do they know, Dottore treated you like you hung the damn stars
Tags - OOC Dottore/ Golden retriever energy/ lots of praise/ Dottore and his clones are obsessed with you/ Obsessive Dottore/ But not gross obsessive
Eli note! Dottore is SUPER ooc in this, not cannon at all, so don't come for me!! This is because I played the new Archon quest...no spoilers but im sobbing. ENJOY
People feared Il Dottore.
No — fear wasn’t a strong enough word for it.
People dreaded him.
The Second Harbinger carried a reputation soaked in blood and whispered rumors, spoken carefully behind closed doors and only in hushed voices.
Mad scientist. Monster. Inhuman.
A man so brilliant that even fellow scholars regarded him with unease.
The kind of man mothers warned their children about.
The kind of man soldiers straightened for the second his footsteps echoed down a hall.
And somehow—She was dating him.
Not trapped.
Not threatened.
Dating.
The realization alone always earned the same reactions from people unfortunate enough to learn about it.
Wide eyes.
Careful sympathy.
Concern disguised as politeness.
“Oh…”
“That must be difficult.”
“Are you…safe with him?”
As if she were some poor thing being held captive in his laboratory.
If only they knew.
If only they saw the way Dottore looked at her when nobody else was around.
The way his sharp crimson eyes softened the second she entered a room.
The way his gloved fingers immediately sought her waist, her hand, the sleeve of her shirt—anything to establish contact.
The way his voice lost that cold clinical edge and melted into something quieter.
Warmer.
Possessive, yes.
Obsessive, absolutely.
But cruel?
Never.
Not with her.
The first time she’d visited one of his laboratories, she’d expected something intimidating.
Complicated machinery.
Guards.
Security measures she wouldn’t understand.
Instead, Dottore had calmly taken her hand and pressed it against a glowing mechanism near the entrance.
The machine whirred softly.
“Biometric authorization accepted.”
She blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he answered smoothly, “you may enter any of my laboratories whenever you please.”
“…Any?”
“Yes.”
“And everyone else?”
Dottore tilted his head slightly.
“If an unauthorized individual attempts entry, the defense system will eliminate them.”
Silence.
Then—“
You said that *way* too casually.”
“I fail to see the issue.”
“Zandik.”
His lips twitched beneath the edge of his mask at the sound of his real name.
That stupid, tiny reaction nearly always happened when she used it.
A terrifying Harbinger capable of unspeakable things, and his composure still cracked over hearing his name from her mouth.
“It is important that you are protected,” he said simply, as though he hadn’t just informed her his laboratory would kill intruders on sight. “You will never be denied access to anything that belongs to me.”
And that was the problem, really.
Dottore cherished her with the same frightening intensity he applied to everything else in his life.
Every emotion he possessed existed in extremes.
His ambition.
His anger.
His curiosity.
His devotion.
Especially his devotion.
It manifested constantly in little things that left her flustered beyond belief.
A passing comment about cold hands resulted in him redesigning the lining of her gloves himself.
One mention of struggling to sleep earned her an entire absurdly expensive mattress specifically engineered for “optimal spinal support and temperature regulation.”
When she admired a dress in passing, he bought it before she’d even finished the sentence.
And the praise—Archons, the praise.
It never ended.
Sometimes she genuinely suspected he enjoyed embarrassing her.
She’d stepped out wearing a new dress once, smoothing down the fabric nervously.
The silence from Dottore had been immediate.
Intense.
His gaze traveled over her so slowly she could physically feel herself heating up.
“…What?” she’d asked cautiously.
He approached without a word, resting both hands on her waist before turning her gently.
“Again.”
“What?”
“Turn again.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And you are beautiful. Humor me.”
Her face burned, but she spun once more anyway.
Dottore watched her with undisguised fascination, like she was the most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen.
“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
She groaned and covered her face while he leaned down, clearly delighted, pressing kisses against her knuckles despite her complaints.
Another time, she’d made the mistake of criticizing herself aloud after a particularly exhausting day.
“I look awful.”
Dottore had gone still.
Slowly, dangerously still.
“What,” he asked carefully, “did you just say?”
She immediately regretted it.
“It’s not a big deal—”
“You,” he interrupted, stepping closer, “are attempting to call my partner ugly.”
“…Maybe a little?”
His expression turned almost offended.
“Absurd.”
“Zandik—”
“No. Absolutely not.” He cupped her face firmly in both hands, forcing her to look at him. “Do you have any idea how frequently I am distracted by you?”
She stared at him.
He continued without hesitation.
“You are beautiful when you wake up. Beautiful when you are angry. Beautiful when you are speaking. Beautiful when you are silent.” His thumbs brushed warmly over her cheeks. “You are quite possibly the loveliest creature I have ever encountered, and I am growing increasingly irritated by your inability to comprehend this.”
By the end of it, she could barely form coherent thoughts.
Which, unfortunately, seemed to amuse him greatly.
“There,” Dottore murmured, smug satisfaction bleeding into his voice as he watched her turn red. “Much better.”
------
There was one major problem with dating Il Dottore.
Actually, several problems.
But the *main* one?
The segments.
At first, she’d assumed they would ignore her.
Perhaps tolerate her at best.
After all, each segment possessed different objectives, personalities, and levels of patience. They were all Dottore, technically, but fragmented into different versions of himself across various ages and mindsets.
Which meant, unfortunately for her—Every single one of them inherited the obsession.
The moment she stepped into the laboratory halls, it began.
Every.
Single.
Time.
The heavy laboratory doors hissed open, and instantly heads turned.
Conversation stopped.
Pens paused.
Mechanical limbs froze mid-adjustment.
And then—
“There she is.”
“Good afternoon, beautiful.”
“You visited later than usual today.”
“She braided her hair differently.”
“Oh, she did.”
“It suits you.”
“Very pretty.”
Heat flooded her face instantly.
“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.
One of the younger segments leaned halfway over a worktable just to wave enthusiastically at her.
Another abandoned whatever horrifying experiment he’d been working on entirely.
The eldest among them merely looked up from his notes, eyes narrowing thoughtfully before speaking in that calm, intelligent voice that somehow made everything worse.
“You appear fatigued. Did you sleep poorly again?”
“She definitely slept poorly,” another chimed in immediately. “Look at her eyes.”
“She is still adorable.”
“Agreed.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Would you all stop—”
But they never did.
That was the problem.
Dottore’s mind, regardless of age or fragmentation, apparently reached the collective conclusion that she was the most fascinating creature alive.
Which meant traversing the laboratory hallways felt less like walking and more like enduring an onslaught of affection from dangerously intelligent men who all shared one consciousness.
“You should stay longer today.”
“You smell nice.”
“That color is pleasing on you.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Your heartbeat increased the second we noticed you.”
“Oh, don’t tell her that. You’re embarrassing her.”
“I believe she’s already embarrassed.”
She kept her head down and walked faster.
Which only made them more entertained.
“There she goes again.”
“She’s hiding her face.”
“Her ears turned red first.”
“Cute.”
“Extremely.”
By the time she finally reached the main laboratory, she was fully flustered beyond recovery.
Dottore himself barely had time to look up before she marched directly toward him and buried her burning face into his chest.
Silence.
Then his hand settled automatically against the back of her head.
“…What did they say this time?” he asked, sounding entirely too unsurprised.
She groaned.
“That does not answer the question.”
“They’re horrible.”
A pause.
“They are technically me.”
“You know what I mean.”
She could feel the faint vibration of amusement in his chest.
Traitor.
“They seem fond of you,” he said smoothly.
“‘Fond’ is not the word I’d use.”
Dottore hummed thoughtfully while stroking a hand slowly through her hair.
“They *are* behaving more tolerably than usual today.”
Her head snapped upward in disbelief.
“More tolerably?!”
“Yes.”
“Zandik, one of them analyzed my heartbeat!”
“That narrows it down very little.”
“Another one told me I smelled nice!”
“That was likely an observational statement rather than flirtation.”
She stared at him.
He stared back.
Then, slowly—The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“You’re enjoying this.” She huffed.
“A little.”
“Unbelievable.”
Truthfully, though?
She suspected he liked seeing her flustered because he caused it just as often himself.
Especially whenever he made things for her.
Dottore approached care with terrifying thoroughness.
Nothing involving her was ever rushed.
A passing complaint about restless sleep had resulted in nearly three straight weeks of research.
Not because he wanted to sedate her.
Quite the opposite.
He refused to make anything habit-forming or harmful.
“It would be irresponsible,” he’d said flatly when she suggested ordinary sleep medication. “Most solutions merely force unconsciousness rather than improving sleep quality itself. Inefficient.”
So naturally, he made his own.
When she arrived at the lab that evening, he was already waiting near his desk holding a small glass vial filled with pale lavender liquid.
“I have completed it,” he announced.
She immediately reached for it.
Dottore lifted it slightly out of reach.
“Before you drink unidentified substances, perhaps allow me to explain what they are.”
“You wouldn’t poison me.”
“Correct. But your confidence remains concerning.”
She held out her hand expectantly instead.
Without missing a beat, Dottore glanced around the laboratory.
Then, with complete seriousness, opened a drawer and retrieved a glass straw.
He handed it over like this was a perfectly normal interaction.
Which, unfortunately, for them?
It was.
Satisfied, she took the vial back and waited patiently while he adjusted his gloves and picked up a notebook.
“It should encourage natural sleep onset by calming excessive neural activity,” he explained, already slipping into lecture mode. “Non-addictive. Mild herbal base. No dependency formation during trials.”
She took a sip through the straw.
“…Sour.”
Dottore stopped speaking immediately.
“Sour?”
“Mhm.”
He picked up his pen instantly.
“Noted.”
“It’s fine.”
“You dislike sour flavors.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“The formulation can be improved.”
“Zandik.”
He was already writing.
“Reduced acidity. Possible floral sweetener addition—”
She laughed softly, reaching over to push the notebook down slightly.
“You do not have to optimize every single thing for me.”
Dottore looked genuinely confused by that statement.
“Why would I not?”
“Because normal people don’t completely redesign medicine over flavor.”
“I am not normal people.”
“…Fair point.”
He looked oddly pleased by her concession.
Then his gaze flicked toward the vial still in her hands.
“Continue drinking it.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are mocking me.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Hm.”
Despite the dry response, he stepped closer anyway, one hand settling against her waist while he watched carefully for any sign of discomfort.
Not clinical.
Not detached.
Just attentive.
Careful.Like every tiny reaction she had mattered.
-----
I hope you guys enjoyed!! I made a little book on Ao3 with my upcoming Dottore oneshots! You can commission or request stories there!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/85298991?view_full_work=true
His online friends tease him about it all the time; you know that they do, because you’ll be making the bed or folding laundry, and you’ll hear him hiss into his mic some sassy retort. But even despite all their relentless taunting, he never changes his avatar.
He knows he could easily be some macho, muscular man, but he chooses not to be. He wants his avatar to have this particular frame, to have this particular shade of eyes, to have this particular style of hair. He won’t change it for anything.
You don’t mind that he games so often -especially since he’ll frequently pause (or just let his teammates suffer and die if it’s a game he can’t pause) to pull you into his arms and pepper you with kisses so you know he hasn’t forgotten about you- but sometimes you like to give him a hard time anyway, saying that apparently one woman just wasn’t enough for him so he had to make himself another one in game. It isn’t until you peek over his shoulder to see who he’s “cheating” on you with, that you realize his avatar looks exactly like you. That’s your frame. That’s your eye color. That’s your hairstyle.
When Gen Narumi games, his avatar is a woman, and that woman is you. Because why would he want to look at anyone else?
there he is, sitting comfortably in the rubble as he waits for the rest of the mission to come to an end. his weapon laid down beside him, phone in his hand to get his daily log-in rewards.
“this is l/n from the operation room.”
you ignored the knowing glances of the officers inside the room. it wouldn’t have been bothering. as one expects to be a committed anti-kaiju defense force officer assigned in the first division, important figures have taken notice of your existence that brought a great contribution to subjugation missions. you maintained the facial muscles to not contort anything near to what you feel right now.
the young man on the large screen immediately perks up at the sound of your voice right next to his ears. narumi stood up and brushed off the dust in his suit. when he was certain, there was no untidiness left in his body — narumi’s hand ran through his hair to push them back.
as if his antics weren't bad enough already, he had to go and give a serious look to the hovering camera.
yet no officers in the operation room are blind. they could clearly see the corner of his lips curl up!
show off!
it wouldn’t have been a bother if captain narumi did not obviously have a crush on you. your superior is seriously making it difficult for you to get stuff done.
“oh, is that l/n i hear?” narumi mused. “i thought you were in the 2nd division. i didn’t know you were back.” he grabs the camera and moves it to his best angle, flashing a smile. “welcome home.”
“i appreciate the gesture but captain…” the blinking red circle moves, your gaze remains fixed upon it.
“yes, do you have something to say to me?”
“…sir, there’s three kaiju estimated to be honju-classified currently on the move in your direction.”
“oh…”
the officers seem more concerned with playing the audience to a budding romance than actually wrapping up the mission.
"what's with the tone? i have a report to submit right after this, captain. take care."
hi jika!!! may i ask for an smau of what gen would be like if his gf ignored him and stopped replying (unintentionally cause of work). i think he’d be like a silly feral cat
too busy to reply!
feat. narumi gen
kaiju on the phone (the smau series)
despite his ego, narumi would do anything for you. especially when it comes to video games.
vaguely suggestive. video game violence and an infatuated narumi.
The whole world is aware of First Division Captain Gen Narumi's massive ego. Billboards are constantly plastered with his face, viral social media videos float around of clips of him bragging, and best believe everyone he saves makes sure the public knows. And like his ego, everyone knows how video game obsessed he is.
So, evidently, when a game releases where you can play as a any distinguished member of the Defense Force to fight against Kaiju, everyone knows Captain Narumi will play as himself and be glued to his screen until he can beat the game. An unhealthy habit, really, but someone with an ego like him didn't care too much about health.
Enter you. Nobody really knew about you, despite your rank as a platoon leader in the First Division, but you didn't particularly mind too much. The only people who needed to know you were the officers you commanded and the superiors who commanded you. It was enough to make the world a safer place. You didn't need everyone to know you did.
You and Narumi were practically opposites, if you only looked surface level, no further than your quick public interactions, the quiet acknowledgments on the battlefield. But in reality, it wasn't as linear as everyone made it out to be, and it was far more complicated than anyone understood. In the moments no one saw but the two of you, it didn't matter where your egos were.
You knock on Narumi's door, in the quick succession of the short pattern you always knocked in, before entering. If the neon lights glaring across his room weren't so bright, the night sky would trickle in through the curtains. Animated screams echo from the television, acoompanied by the sound of video game fighting effects.
Narumi briefly looks at you from his perch on his bed, gaze flickering back to the screen to deliver a final blow. "Aren't ya gonna sit?" He asks, leaning back and taking a sip of the third half empty can lining littering his bed. He scoots over so you can sit on the cleaner side before he returns to his game.
He clicks back a few times to return to the home screen, then retrieves a controller for you and selects the co-op mode.
The console buzzes as the game enters the character selection and as Narumi chooses himself and hands the other controller to you.
You select Captain Ashiro, as you always do, because you don't exactly exist in this game, while is completely okay to you.
Narumi clear his throat, taking another sip from his can. "Scroll a little further. I heard they added some new characters recently."
Confused, you scroll, further and further down the list of playable characters, until you reach a familiar name. You click select, met face to face with a pixelated replica of you, down to the tilt of your nose and the shape of your hair and the details in your permanently adorned jewelry.
"How did you...?" You trail off, shock coating your features.
Narumi shrugs. "Called in a few favors. Nobody says no to the greatest captain in the Defense Force." He clicks next and moves on like it's no big deal, like he didn't go out of his way for you.
You notice a shift in his play style once the game starts. He's not as brash as he usually is, not running straight up to the front lines and striking every enemy down. This time he hangs a little closer to you, a little more protective, cutting down the Kaiju when they get too close, but never straying far.
"Gen, you know you don't have to stay near me right?"
"Yeah, but I wanna protect ya," he mumbles out through gritted focused teeth.
His comment comes out of his mouth too naturally, and you turn, distracted and unfocused on the game.
A Kaiju attacks from behind, and animated Narumi dives in to shield you too late, resulting in a bright flashing, game over sign taking up the screen.
You let out a quiet curse, ducking your head in an apology. "I'm sorry. I made you lose."
"It's fine. I said I was gonna protect ya. I meant it."
And with the way he's looking at you, you know he doesn't just mean in game. As if to clarify, to make your heart beat even faster into its chest, he adds "I don't know if you realized, but I care about ya."
Before you can regret it and before you can think too much, you lean in and press a kiss on his lips.
He kisses you back almost greedily, savoring the flavor of your lips like he'd always wanted to taste them. His hands find your waist to pull you closer. His lips trail down your jawline, across your collarbone and your neck, planting itself into a soft spot of your skin.
You tangle your hands into his hair, just as he tilts his head up to whisper "I'd do anything for you, y'know."
And you know he means it. Gen Narumi, the man with one of the world's biggest egos, would toss all of that aside for you.
Comments and reblogs are always appreciated! Requests are open!
The surveillance room on the third floor of the Third Division headquarters had seen better days. Decades worth of dust coated every surface, and the cramped space was filled wall-to-wall with filing cabinets, outdated equipment, and boxes upon boxes of documents that nobody had bothered to digitize.
"Remind me again why we're the ones stuck with this job?" Kafka Hibino groaned, lifting yet another heavy box onto the sorting table. His back was already protesting, and they'd only been at it for an hour.
"Because Vice-Captain Hoshina said it builds character," Kikoru Shinomiya replied dryly, carefully opening a box labeled '2010-2012 Personnel Records.' "Though I suspect it's more accurate to say he wanted us out of his hair for the afternoon."
"The Vice-Captain was smiling when he gave us this assignment," Reno Ichikawa observed quietly as he sorted through a stack of maintenance logs. "That's never a good sign."
Iharu Furuhashi laughed, plopping down on a rickety chair that creaked ominously under his weight. "That's just his face, man. Vice-Captain Hoshina always looks like he's plotting something."
"That's because he usually is." Haruichi Izumo muttered, meticulously organizing documents into labeled folders. As someone who actually appreciated proper record-keeping, he was the only one who seemed genuinely invested in the task.
Aoi Kaguragi, ever the gentle giant, carefully moved a precariously stacked tower of boxes to prevent an avalanche. "We should focus on finishing quickly. Captain Ashiro mentioned wanting this room cleared by the end of the week."
"Yeah, yeah," Kafka sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Let's just get through these boxes and—whoa, what's this?"
He'd opened a box marked 'MISC - Photographs 2008-2015' and found it filled with old photo albums and loose pictures in protective sleeves. Unlike the boring documents they'd been sorting through, these actually looked interesting.
"Photos?" Kikoru perked up, her curiosity piqued. "Let me see."
Within moments, the entire platoon had abandoned their assigned boxes and crowded around the table where Kafka had spread out several photo albums. The images were a fascinating glimpse into the Third Division's history—formal platoon photos, candid shots from training exercises, and even a few party pictures from various celebrations.
"Look how young Captain Ashiro looks here!" Iharu pointed at a photo from what must have been her early days in the Defense Force. She couldn't have been more than twenty, her expression already carrying that same focused intensity.
"Is that Vice-Captain Hoshina?" Reno leaned in closer, examining a group photo from 2012. Sure enough, a younger Soshiro Hoshina stood in the back row, his signature lazy smile already in place, though his face still carried a hint of youthful roundness.
"He looks exactly the same," Kafka observed. "Just... slightly less terrifying?"
"I didn't know officers kept personal photos in the archives," Kikoru mused, flipping through one of the albums. "Oh, look—these must be from the New Year's celebration in 2014. Everyone's in formal wear."
Haruichi adjusted his stance, studying the photos with analytical interest. "It makes sense. The Defense Force is like a family for many officers. These are memories worth preserving."
They continued sorting through the photographs, commenting on how different everyone looked, laughing at particularly funny candid shots, and marveling at how much the base had changed over the years. It was a pleasant distraction from the tedious sorting work.
Then Aoi, who had been quietly examining a stack of individual photos, suddenly went very still.
"Um... everyone?" His deep voice carried an unusual note of uncertainty. "You might want to see this."
The others clustered around as he held up a photograph, and for a moment, nobody spoke.
The image showed Vice-Captain Hoshina—definitely younger, maybe in his mid-twenties—standing in what appeared to be a traditional Japanese garden. Cherry blossoms drifted in the background, and the lighting suggested either early morning or late afternoon, that golden hour that made everything look soft and dreamlike.
But it wasn't Hoshina that had captured their attention.
Next to him stood a woman.
She was beautiful in an understated way, wearing an elegant kimono in shades of soft pink and cream, patterned with delicate cherry blossoms that complemented the scenery. Her hair was styled in a traditional manner, adorned with ornamental pins that caught the light. She wasn't wearing a Defense Force uniform—in fact, everything about her appearance suggested she was a civilian.
And she was clearly pregnant.
Despite the flowing sleeves of her kimono that draped gracefully over her midsection, there was an unmistakable gentle swell to her stomach—not dramatically large, but definitely present. Her hand rested naturally on the bump, a gesture so instinctive that it spoke of months of habitual protection.
But what truly caught their attention was the intimacy captured in the photograph.
Hoshina's arm was wrapped around her waist, his hand covering hers where it rested on her stomach. His usually playful expression had softened into something tender, almost reverent, as he looked down at her. The woman gazed up at him with such open affection that it made the photograph feel almost too private to be viewing.
They looked like...
"Is that... Is Vice-Captain Hoshina married?" Kafka finally broke the silence, his voice climbing an octave in disbelief.
"There's no way," Iharu breathed, leaning in so close his nose nearly touched the photograph. "Vice-Captain Hoshina? The guy who practically lives at the base? The one who turns every conversation into a swordsmanship lecture?"
"And apparently has a wife," Kikoru added, her eyes wide. "A pregnant wife. Or... had? When was this taken?"
Reno carefully turned over the photograph, looking for any identifying information. In faded ink, someone had written: Spring 2015 - H & Y
"2015," Reno announced. "Ten years ago."
"H & Y," Haruichi repeated thoughtfully. "Hoshina and... Y? Does anyone know a Y-name associated with the Vice-Captain?"
They all shook their heads, still staring at the photograph in stunned fascination.
"She's really beautiful," Aoi observed gently. "And they look... happy."
"Happy?" Iharu sputtered. "They look like they're in a romance movie! Look at how he's looking at her! I didn't even know Vice-Captain Hoshina's face could make that expression!"
"His hand is on her stomach," Kikoru said slowly, as if working through a complex equation. "On the baby. Which means..."
A collective realization seemed to dawn on the group simultaneously, and various shades of red began creeping up necks and across faces.
"Oh my god," Kafka choked out. "Vice-Captain Hoshina... and she... they..."
"Of course they did, you idiot," Kikoru snapped, though her own face was decidedly pink. "That's generally how pregnancy occurs."
"I KNOW THAT!" Kafka's voice cracked. "It's just—he's Vice-Captain Hoshina! Our Vice-Captain Hoshina! The guy who makes us run laps until we puke! The weapons master who can take down Kaiju with just swords! And he... he..."
"Had sex?" Iharu supplied helpfully, though he looked equally flustered. "Yeah, man, that's... that's a mental image I didn't need."
"Do you think they're still together?" Reno wondered aloud, mercifully steering the conversation away from that particular topic. "He doesn't wear a wedding ring."
"Lots of Defence Force officers don't wear rings," Haruichi pointed out logically. "They can interfere with combat suits and equipment. It's actually discouraged during active duty."
"But he's never mentioned a wife," Kafka insisted. "Not once. And I've been here for months now!"
"Have you ever asked him about his personal life?" Kikoru countered.
"...No?"
"Then why would he volunteer that information?"
Aoi carefully set the photograph down on the table, and they all stared at it some more, trying to reconcile the image of their stern, sword-obsessed Vice-Captain with the tender man in the photograph.
"Look at his smile," Aoi said softly. "It's different from his usual one. More... genuine."
He was right. Hoshina's typical smile was sharp, almost predatory—especially when he was about to put them through particularly hellish training. But in this photograph, his smile was warm, unguarded, full of unmistakable love.
"She must be someone really special," Kikoru murmured. "To make him look like that."
"Do you think something happened to her?" Kafka asked quietly, voicing the worry that had started creeping into all their minds. "I mean, if he doesn't talk about her, and this was ten years ago..."
"Don't jump to conclusions," Haruichi said firmly, though his expression was troubled. "There could be many reasons he keeps his personal life private. The Defense Force is dangerous work. Maybe he wants to keep her safe by maintaining that separation."
"Or maybe she left him?" Iharu suggested, then immediately looked guilty for saying it. "I mean, not that I'm saying she would! But being married to a Defence Force officer has to be hard, right? Especially someone as high-ranking as Vice-Captain. He's always here, always working, always in danger..."
"Look at this photograph," Reno interrupted, his quiet voice cutting through the speculation. "Really look at it. Does this look like a relationship that would end badly?"
They fell silent, studying the image once more. The way Hoshina held her, protective and gentle. The way she leaned into him, trusting and content. The way they both cradled that precious bump, their unborn child, with expressions of wonder and anticipation.
"No," Kikoru finally said. "It doesn't."
"So where is she?" Kafka asked. "Where's the baby? They'd be, what, nine or ten years old now?"
"Maybe they don't live on base," Aoi suggested. "Maybe Vice-Captain maintains a separate family home. For safety."
"That would make sense," Haruichi agreed. "If Kaiju attacked this base, which has happened before, having his family elsewhere would be strategic."
"It's still weird that he never mentions them though," Iharu insisted. "Not even in passing?"
"The Vice-Captain is a private person," Reno observed. "Have any of you ever heard him talk about his personal life at all? His hobbies, his family, anything outside of work?"
They all thought about it and realized Reno was right. For all his chattiness during training and his constant presence around the base, Hoshina never actually shared anything truly personal. They knew he came from a prestigious family with a strong military tradition, they knew he was obsessed with perfecting his sword techniques, they knew he had a complicated relationship with firearms and conventional weapons.
But beyond that? Nothing.
"He keeps his walls up," Kikoru said thoughtfully. "Captain Ashiro does the same thing, but at least she's obvious about it. Vice-Captain Hoshina hides behind that smile and all his teasing, so you don't notice that he's not actually letting anyone in."
"That's kind of sad," Kafka said softly. "If he has this whole other life—a wife, a kid—but feels like he can't even mention them..."
"Or maybe he's just professional," Haruichi countered. "There's nothing wrong with maintaining boundaries between work and personal life. In fact, it's probably healthy."
"Healthy?" Iharu scoffed. "The man practically lives here! I don't think I've ever seen him leave the base except for missions!"
"Maybe he visits them when we're not paying attention," Aoi suggested diplomatically. "During his time off."
"Does Vice-Captain Hoshina even take time off?" Kafka wondered aloud.
They all looked at each other. Nobody could remember a single instance.
"Okay, this is getting depressing," Iharu declared, shaking his head. "Can we go back to being shocked that he had sex? That was more fun."
"Please don't," Kikoru groaned, covering her face with her hands.
"What don't you want him to do?"
The voice came from directly behind them, cheerful and unmistakable, and every single member of the platoon froze in perfect, synchronized horror.
Slowly—so slowly it was almost comical—they turned to find Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina standing in the doorway of the surveillance room, his hands in his pockets, his expression pleasantly curious.
And his eyes were closed in that familiar, deceptively friendly expression that usually meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
"V-Vice-Captain!" Kafka stammered, unconsciously moving to stand in front of the table where the photograph still lay in plain view. "We didn't—I mean, you're—what are you doing here?"
"Well, I came to check on your progress," Hoshina said casually, stepping further into the room. "It's been awfully quiet up here, and knowing you lot, quiet usually means trouble."
His gaze swept across the group, noting their guilty expressions and suspicious positioning, before landing on the table behind them.
On the photographs.
On that photograph.
For just a fraction of a second—so brief they might have imagined it—something flickered across Hoshina's face. Surprise? Recognition? Nostalgia?
Then his usual smile was back in place, perhaps a touch sharper than before.
"Well, well," He said softly, moving forward. The platoon parted like the Red Sea, unable to do anything but watch as he picked up the photograph. "I haven't seen this in a long time."
The silence was deafening.
Hoshina studied the image, his expression unreadable. His thumb traced the edge of the photograph with surprising gentleness.
"Sir," Kikoru finally found her voice, standing at attention despite her obvious nervousness. "We apologize if we intruded on your privacy. We were sorting through the archives as ordered and found—"
"It's fine," Hoshina interrupted, though his tone was distant. He was still looking at the photograph. "These are old personnel files. They're technically public record for Defence Force members."
"Even personal photographs?" Haruichi asked carefully.
"Even those." Hoshina finally looked up, and his eyes were open now, fixed on each of them in turn. "Though I'm curious what conclusions you've drawn from this particular image."
Oh, this was a test. They all recognized that tone.
"That you were married, sir?" Reno offered cautiously. "Or are married?"
Hoshina's smile widened fractionally. "Good observation. What else?"
"That your wife is a civilian," Kikoru added. "Based on her clothing and the setting."
"Also correct."
"And that she was pregnant," Aoi said gently. "Congratulations, sir. If that's appropriate to say."
Kafka raised his hand hesitantly, like he was back in school. "Sir? If you don't mind me asking... why doesn't anyone know about this?"
Hoshina set the photograph down carefully, his fingers lingering on it for just a moment before he straightened.
"Tell me, Hibino," He said instead of answering. "When you joined the Defence Force, what did they tell you about Kaiju?"
Kafka blinked at the sudden change in topic. "Uh... that they're dangerous? Unpredictable? That they can attack anywhere, anytime?"
"Exactly." Hoshina's voice was quiet but intense. "The Defence Force isn't like a normal military. We can't predict where or when attacks will occur. Our enemies don't follow rules of engagement. They don't care about treaties or cease-fires or civilian casualties."
He paused, letting that sink in.
"Everyone in this room has seen what Kaiju can do. You've seen the destruction, the casualties, the chaos. You've felt the fear of facing something that could kill you in seconds." His gaze swept across them all. "Now imagine having people you love more than your own life, and knowing that any day, any mission, could be the last time you see them. Or worse—that they could become targets specifically because of their connection to you."
The room had gone very quiet.
"The higher you climb in the Defence Force, the bigger the target on your back," Hoshina continued. "And on the backs of anyone associated with you. I'm Vice-Captain of the Third Division. I've personally killed more Kaiju than most officers see in their entire careers. I've made enemies—not just monsters, but rival divisions, political opponents, criminals who've lost their operations to our raids."
"So you keep your family secret," Haruichi said slowly, understanding dawning. "To protect them."
"To protect her," Hoshina corrected softly. "To protect them both."
"Both?" Kafka's eyes widened. "So the baby—"
"Is nine years old now," Hoshina confirmed, and there was no hiding the pride in his voice. "Nine years old and absolutely fearless, just like her mother."
"Her?" Kikoru's voice rose with excitement. "You have a daughter?"
Hoshina's smile turned genuinely fond. "I do. Smart as a whip, stubborn as a mule, and completely convinced she's going to join the Defence Force someday, no matter how many times her mother and I tell her to consider literally any other career."
Despite the serious conversation, several of them couldn't help but smile at that.
"What's her name?" Aoi asked.
"Nice try, Kaguragi." Hoshina's eyes crinkled with amusement. "I'm not giving you ammunition for future teasing."
"And your wife, sir?" Reno ventured. "The woman in the photograph?"
Hoshina picked up the photo again, and his entire demeanor softened in a way they'd never seen before.
"Her name is [Y/N]," He said quietly, as if the name itself was precious. "We met when I was twenty-one, married when I was twenty-five. This photo was taken at her family's estate during Hanami—cherry blossom viewing. She was six months pregnant at the time."
"She's beautiful," Kikoru said sincerely.
"She is," Hoshina agreed without hesitation. "Though if you tell her I said that, she'll probably hit me with a rolled-up newspaper again."
"Again?" Iharu couldn't help but laugh.
"My wife is not impressed by my rank or reputation," Hoshina said dryly. "She treats me exactly the same as she did when I was a cocky young officer fresh out of training. It's... refreshing, actually."
"Does she know about your work?" Haruichi asked. "The danger?"
"She knows everything." Hoshina's expression grew serious. "I won't lie to her, not about that. She knew what she was signing up for when she married me. Doesn't mean she likes it, but she understands."
"That must be hard," Kafka said quietly. "On both of you."
"It is," Hoshina admitted. "There are nights I don't come home. Missions that keep me away for weeks. Injuries I can't fully explain because the information is classified. And every time I leave, neither of us knows if I'll come back."
The weight of that reality settled over the room.
"But," Hoshina continued, his voice stronger now, "that's exactly why I do this job. So that she can live in a world where Kaiju attacks become less frequent, less deadly. So that my daughter can grow up without the fear I grew up with. So that maybe, someday, families like mine don't have to make these kinds of sacrifices."
He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze sharp and assessing.
"You all have people you care about, don't you? People you want to protect?"
They nodded, thinking of their own families, friends, loved ones.
"Then you understand why I keep mine separate from this life. It's not because I'm ashamed or because I don't love them. It's because I love them so much that I'll do anything—including erasing my presence from their public life—to keep them safe."
"The Captain knows everything," Hoshina confirmed. "She's actually met [Y/N] several times. They get along frighteningly well, which means they probably spend their time together discussing all my flaws."
Despite the tension, that drew a few chuckles.
"So what now?" Kafka asked. "Now that we know, I mean."
Hoshina's expression turned serious again, and when he spoke, it wasn't Vice-Captain Hoshina the hardass trainer or Hoshina the playful tease. It was simply a man asking for a favor.
"Now, I'm trusting you all to keep this information to yourselves," he said quietly. "Not because I don't trust the other divisions or our subordinates, but because the fewer people who know, the safer my family is. Can I count on you?"
"Of course, sir!" They chorused immediately, standing at attention.
Hoshina smiled, the gesture warm and genuine. "Thank you. Truly."
He moved to return the photograph to the box, then paused, studying it one more time.
"You know," He said conversationally, "this was taken the day [Y/N] told her parents she was pregnant. They were... not thrilled initially. I was still relatively junior, my career was dangerous, and they'd had different hopes for their daughter. But by the end of that day, after seeing how happy she was..." He trailed off, lost in the memory. "Her father pulled me aside and told me I'd better take care of both of them. Best threat I ever received."
"Do you see them often?" Aoi asked gently. "Your family?"
"Not as often as I'd like," Hoshina admitted. "But I make it work. Late night visits when I can slip away. Video calls when I can't. And [Y/N] brings our daughter by occasionally, though they use false names and she dresses down to avoid attention."
"Wait," Iharu's eyes widened. "Has she been here? To the base?"
Hoshina's smile turned mysterious. "Maybe. Maybe not. That's for me to know and you to wonder about."
"Evil," Kafka declared. "That's just evil, Vice-Captain."
"I learned from the best," Hoshina said cheerfully, clearly referring to Captain Ashiro.
He finally placed the photograph back in the box, handling it with obvious care.
"All right, enough slacking off," He announced, his usual brisk tone returning. "This room isn't going to organize itself. I want this done by 1700 hours, understood?"
"Yes, sir!" They scrambled back to their assigned boxes, suddenly motivated to actually complete the task.
Hoshina moved toward the door, then paused at the threshold.
"Hibino."
Kafka jumped. "Yes, sir?"
"That photograph..." Hoshina's voice was casual, but there was something weighted beneath it. "It stays in the archive. But if you happen to find any others of my family, I'd appreciate it if you'd set them aside for me. Some memories are worth keeping close."
"Of course, Vice-Captain," Kafka said softly. "I'll make sure they're kept safe."
Hoshina nodded once, then left, his footsteps fading down the corridor.
For a long moment, nobody spoke. They simply stood there, processing everything they'd learned, seeing their Vice-Captain in an entirely new light.
"He's kind of amazing, isn't he?" Kikoru finally said. "Balancing all of this—being one of the strongest officers in the Defence Force while maintaining a secret family."
"It must be lonely sometimes," Reno observed. "Not being able to talk about them."
"That's why he told us," Aoi said wisely. "Because he knew we'd understand. That we'd protect his secret."
"And because we caught him with evidence," Iharu added pragmatically. "No point denying it at that point."
"Either way," Haruichi said firmly, "we have a duty now. To Vice-Captain Hoshina and to his family. No one outside this room learns about this."
They all nodded in solemn agreement.
"Now come on," Kafka said, rolling up his sleeves with renewed determination. "Let's finish this sorting. And keep an eye out for more photos. If Vice-Captain wants them, we're going to find every single one."
Over the next several hours, the Third Platoon worked with newfound purpose. What had started as tedious busy work had transformed into something resembling a treasure hunt, though they were careful to remain respectful of the privacy they'd been entrusted with.
As they meticulously sorted through box after box, they did indeed find more photographs—not many, but each one was carefully set aside as Vice-Captain Hoshina had requested.
There was one of Hoshina in what appeared to be a hospital room, looking absolutely exhausted but radiantly happy, cradling a tiny newborn wrapped in a pink blanket. [Y/N] was visible in the background, resting in the hospital bed, her expression one of tired contentment. The date on the back read simply: Best day of my life.
Another showed a toddler—presumably their daughter—with her mother's features and her father's mischievous smile, wearing a tiny kimono and holding what appeared to be a toy sword. Hoshina was crouched beside her, his hand steadying her grip, clearly already teaching her the basics of swordsmanship. [Y/N] stood behind them, her arms crossed and her expression caught between amusement and exasperation.
There was a family photo from what must have been New Year's, all three dressed in formal traditional clothing, standing before a shrine. Their daughter looked about five years old, holding both her parents' hands and beaming at the camera with unrestrained joy.
Each photograph was a glimpse into a life completely separate from the Defence Force—moments of normalcy, love, and domestic happiness that seemed almost surreal when contrasted with their stern, sword-wielding Vice-Captain.
"It's strange," Kikoru mused as she carefully placed the photos in a protective folder. "Seeing him like this. He's still obviously the same person, but..."
"He is happy." Came another unexpected voice from the doorway.
They all spun around to find Captain Mina Ashiro standing there, her usual stoic expression in place. She'd entered so quietly that none of them had heard her approach—a testament to her skill and their distraction.
"Captain!" They immediately stood at attention.
Ashiro waved them at ease, stepping into the room with her characteristic composed grace. Her sharp eyes immediately found the folder of photographs on the table.
"So you've discovered Vice-Captain Hoshina's secret," She observed, no question in her tone.
"Yes, ma'am," Haruichi confirmed. "He found us reviewing the photographs and explained the situation. He's asked us to maintain confidentiality."
"Good." Ashiro picked up the folder, flipping through the images with an expression that might have been the slightest hint of fondness. "The Vice-Captain's family is one of the Defence Force's best-kept secrets. It needs to stay that way."
"You've known the whole time, haven't you, Captain?" Kikoru asked.
"I was at their wedding," Ashiro replied simply. "Small ceremony, very private. Just close family and a few trusted friends. The Vice-Captain asked me to be a witness."
That revelation sent a wave of surprise through the group. The idea of Captain Ashiro at a wedding—their normally stoic, all-business Captain attending something as sentimental as a marriage ceremony—was almost harder to imagine than Vice-Captain Hoshina being married in the first place.
"What was it like?" Kafka couldn't help but ask. "The wedding, I mean. If you don't mind sharing."
Ashiro was quiet for a moment, as if deciding what she could reveal. Finally, she spoke, her voice carrying an unusual note of warmth.
"It was beautiful," She said simply. "Traditional ceremony at [Y/N]'s family estate. The Vice-Captain wore formal hakama, and [Y/N] wore a Shiromuku—a white kimono. I've never seen Hoshina look so serious. Or so terrified."
Despite themselves, they smiled at that image.
"He was terrified?" Iharu asked, delighted. "Vice-Captain Hoshina, who faces Kaiju without blinking?"
"Terrified," Ashiro confirmed with the ghost of a smile. "He told me later that fighting Kaiju was easier than standing before [Y/N] and promising to love her for the rest of his life. The weight of that vow, knowing his dangerous work, knowing he might not be able to keep it... it shook him."
"But he made the promise anyway," Aoi said softly.
"He did." Ashiro's gaze grew distant, remembering. "And [Y/N] promised the same, knowing full well what she was accepting. They went into that marriage with complete honesty about the risks and challenges. I respect them both for that."
"What's she like?" Kikoru asked curiously. "Mrs. Hoshina, I mean. [Y/N]."
Ashiro considered the question carefully. "Strong," She finally said. "Not physically—she's a civilian with no combat training. But mentally, emotionally... She's one of the strongest people I've met. It takes a particular kind of strength to be married to someone in the Defence Force, especially at the Vice-Captain's level. The constant worry, the long absences, the injuries, the near-misses with death... it wears on you."
She paused, her expression thoughtful.
"But [Y/N] handles it with grace. She's built a full life for herself and their daughter, independent of Hoshina's career. She doesn't sit around waiting for him to come home—she's a successful calligrapher and teaches traditional arts at a cultural centre. She's made sure their daughter has stability and routine despite her father's chaotic schedule. And when Hoshina is home, she makes every moment count."
"She sounds amazing," Kafka said sincerely.
"She is," Ashiro agreed. "The Vice-Captain is lucky to have her. Though he's very aware of that fact."
"How often does he see them?" Reno asked.
"That's not my information to share," Ashiro said firmly, though not unkindly. "But I'll say this—Vice-Captain Hoshina is very careful about maintaining the separation between his work life and home life. There are established protocols for his visits, security measures to ensure his family's safety, and contingency plans in case his identity is compromised."
"That must be exhausting," Haruichi observed.
"It is," Ashiro confirmed. "But he considers it worthwhile. As should you all. The Vice-Captain has chosen to trust you with this information. Don't make him regret it."
"We won't, Captain!" They chorused seriously.
Ashiro nodded, satisfied. She set the folder of photographs back on the table.
"Finish organizing this room by the end of the day. Those photographs should be returned to the Vice-Captain directly—I'll inform him that you've set them aside. Everything else is to be properly filed or disposed of according to regulations. Understood?"
"Yes, ma'am!"
As Ashiro turned to leave, Kafka's curiosity got the better of him once more.
"Captain? One more question, if that's all right?"
Ashiro paused, looking back at him with one eyebrow slightly raised.
"Does Vice-Captain Hoshina ever..." Kafka hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Does he ever regret it? Choosing to have a family while serving in the Defense Force? Given how dangerous and complicated it makes everything?"
For a long moment, Ashiro simply studied him, her expression unreadable. Then, surprisingly, she answered.
"I asked him that once," She said quietly. "Years ago, after a particularly difficult mission where he was severely injured. He was in the medical bay, recovering, and I asked him if he thought it was fair—to [Y/N] and their daughter—to continue putting himself in danger when he had so much to lose."
She paused, and something almost tender crossed her face.
"He told me that having them didn't make him weaker or more cautious. It made him stronger. Because he wasn't just fighting for some abstract concept of humanity anymore—he was fighting for his wife's smile, for his daughter's laughter, for the future they would share. He said every Kaiju he killed was one less threat to their world. Every mission he completed was another day his family could live in peace."
The weight of those words settled over them.
"So no," Ashiro concluded. "I don't believe he regrets it. Not for a second."
With that, she left, her footsteps echoing down the hallway until they faded entirely.
The platoon stood in silence for a moment, processing everything they'd learned. Then, without needing to discuss it, they turned back to their work with renewed determination.
They had a job to do, and now it felt like more than just busy work. They were protecting something precious—a family, a secret, a piece of happiness in a world filled with monsters.
And they would guard it well.
(Ughhh! Both Soshiro and Narumi have me in a CHOKEHOLD!! I love both of them so much!!!)
you come back fully expecting to be met with an interrogation about the very secret bunnies you smuggled in, but instead—
“soshiro, what the hell are you doing.”
your boyfriend is lying on the floor with the bunnies. one is sitting on his chest. another is curled up by his head. he slowly turns to look at you, completely unbothered, as if you didn’t just catch him bonding with the creatures he was definitely supposed to scold you about.
“they like me,” he says simply, scratching behind the ears of the bunny on his chest. “i think they see me as their leader now.”
you blink. “their leader?”
he nods, completely serious. “yeah. look at them. they follow me.”
as if on cue, the bunny by his head twitches its nose and hops just a little closer to him. there’s just no way this is real.
“so you’re just… fine with this?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
soshiro shrugs, finally sitting up, which makes the bunny on his chest slide onto his lap. “well, yeah. you already brought them in. might as well make sure they’re comfortable.”
you stare at him, waiting for something. a warning? a lecture? an anything?
instead, he picks up one of the bunnies and gently places it in your arms. “besides,” he says, smirking a little, “if anyone finds out, i’ll just say they’re yours. i’d never do something as reckless as bringing bunnies onto base, obviously.”
your jaw drops. “you little—”
but before you can finish, he’s already back on the floor, arms behind his head, letting the bunnies climb all over him.
there he is, sitting comfortably in the rubble as he waits for the rest of the mission to come to an end. his weapon laid down beside him, phone in his hand to get his daily log-in rewards.
“this is l/n from the operation room.”
you ignored the knowing glances of the officers inside the room. it wouldn’t have been bothering. as one expects to be a committed anti-kaiju defense force officer assigned in the first division, important figures have taken notice of your existence that brought a great contribution to subjugation missions. you maintained the facial muscles to not contort anything near to what you feel right now.
the young man on the large screen immediately perks up at the sound of your voice right next to his ears. narumi stood up and brushed off the dust in his suit. when he was certain, there was no untidiness left in his body — narumi’s hand ran through his hair to push them back.
as if his antics weren't bad enough already, he had to go and give a serious look to the hovering camera.
yet no officers in the operation room are blind. they could clearly see the corner of his lips curl up!
show off!
it wouldn’t have been a bother if captain narumi did not obviously have a crush on you. your superior is seriously making it difficult for you to get stuff done.
“oh, is that l/n i hear?” narumi mused. “i thought you were in the 2nd division. i didn’t know you were back.” he grabs the camera and moves it to his best angle, flashing a smile. “welcome home.”
“i appreciate the gesture but captain…” the blinking red circle moves, your gaze remains fixed upon it.
“yes, do you have something to say to me?”
“…sir, there’s three kaiju estimated to be honju-classified currently on the move in your direction.”
“oh…”
the officers seem more concerned with playing the audience to a budding romance than actually wrapping up the mission.
"what's with the tone? i have a report to submit right after this, captain. take care."
NARUMI was sent to the battle field sick and craving for your cookies he wished he'd appreciated more last time you made them. which meant he had to get you to make more for him.
narumi should have called in sick. his throat had been feeling scratchy since he woke up this morning. the uncomfortable warmth spreading across his body and the splitting headache that's pounding against his skull really weren't making his mood any better either. looking down at the 100-foot tall kaiju from his copter, all he can think about was neutralising it as quickly as possible and go home.
also your cookies. those hideous gundam-shaped cookies.
he had called them ugly, which he's totally not sorry about. but if only he'd known beforehand that they'd taste like heaven, he'd have just eaten them and be grateful he's alive to get the experience at all.
"the target had moved to the designated location. you're free to commence operation now, captain", your voice came in from his earpiece.
narumi's pout intensified, "yeah, yeah. on it". he'd meant to sound nonchalant, but with his sore throat and stuffed nose, he sounded weaker than he cared to admit.
being the sharp and attentive girlfriend you were, you immediately changed the communication channel to private with him, "oh, what's this? is japan's strongest combatant is down from seasonal flu? my condolence to you, sir".
the other confused operators saw the first division's captain grinding his teeth and throwing a tantrum while you stifled a laughter.
"well, is there anything that could make my hero feel better?".
narumi didn't care if you're asking out of sincerity or still making fun of him, but he saw his chance to get his treat without the need to beg for it. "i don't know. you can bake me something or whatever".
"by whatever, you mean the cookies you called ugly last time?".
"i mean, they were ugly".
"but they're amazing. i saw they way you looked at them before you left, gen".
well, damn, he thought. but he's already fucked this far. he might as well get his cookies while he's at it, ugly or not, "fine. they're good. there's your praise. can i get some now?".
"only if you say the magic word".
a vein burst on his forehead, which was not good for his already pounding head, "what do you think i am? five?!". he was basically yelling at this point, which was good because otherwise, you'd not heard him over the sudden attack by the kaiju at his direction. your little banter unfortunately had to end there.
by the time he got back, his fever had flared up pretty bad that he had to drag himself to the infirmary and instantly passed out.
he must have slept the whole day because it's quiet when he woke up, and it's often like that at night at the base. on the table next to him was a bag of ugly gundam-shaped cookies he'd dreamed about. you're sleeping on the chair next to it, drooling a little. narumi snorted. at least your pretty face made up for the cookies' lack of appeal.
cool people don't know gundom lore ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧
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.
