May i request a guideverse troupe? Basically a yandere S-rank guide with a reader who is an low ranker (E or F rank). Reader feels like they dont deserve a top tier guiding from the yandere but the yandere insist on it despite the fact every other top tier rankers will fight just for a miniscule of his attention.
Yandere!Esper x Guider!Reader
The building is nothing like you imagined.
The Aegis Institute of Regulation and Guidance, called “Aegis” for short, is the largest Guide agency in the country. It towers over the city skyline, a fortress of glass and steel, its upper levels glinting like a blade under the afternoon sun. From the outside, it looks untouchable. Inside, it’s a machine.
You clutch the strap of your worn bag tighter and step through the sliding doors. The lobby alone feels like a cathedral—white marble floors, recessed lighting, a ceiling that stretches up three stories. Screens flash with data: live Esper-Guiding statistics, recruitment ads, rankings. Young Guides in sleek uniforms stride past like soldiers.
You feel completely out of place, but you had no choice.
The hospital bills stacked up fast after your father’s diagnosis. Even with insurance, his treatment costs more than you could ever earn from your low-rank clerk job. You’d tried everything else—loans, part-time shifts, even selling family heirlooms—but it wasn’t enough. So you came here.
Guides are rare. Registered Guides even rarer. Aegis offers pay most people would kill for. If you passed their evaluation, even as a low-tier, you’d at least have a somewhat steady income. Enough to keep your father’s treatments going.
You force yourself to the reception desk. The woman behind it gives you a bright, polished smile.
“Welcome to Aegis. New applicant?”
You nod. “Yes. For the Guide Program.”
“Name?” she asks, fingers already flying across her tablet.
Her screen lights up. “Perfect. You’re scheduled for baseline testing in Lab B-12. Just down that hall, elevator to sublevel three. You’ll need your ID.”
You fumble out your worn ID card and hand it over. She scans it, hands it back, still smiling like this is all routine. For her, it probably is. For you, it feels like stepping into another world.
“Good luck,” she says brightly. “They’ll take good care of you down there.”
You’re not sure you believe her.
The elevator ride feels like it takes forever. Sublevel three is silent, sterile, a labyrinth of white corridors. Signs point to various labs. Compatibility screening, neural regulation training, emergency stabilization units. You pass them all until you find Lab B-12.
A man in a lab coat sits at a console, scrolling through holographic screens. He barely looks up when you enter. “Applicant?”
You nod, holding out your papers.
He takes them, glances at your ID, then gestures toward a sleek reclined chair surrounded by equipment. N4eural interfaces, sensory monitors, a halo of shimmering light above the headrest.
“Sit. We’ll run your baseline psychic metrics and scan for compatibility. Takes about ten minutes.”
Your palms sweat. “Is it…dangerous?”
He smiles, but it’s thin. “Only if you fight it. Just relax.”
You sit. The chair conforms to your body instantly, straps sliding across your arms and legs like a seatbelt. A faint hum fills the room as the halo descends, settling just above your head.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs. “Focus on your breathing."
There’s a soft chime, then a rush of warmth at the base of your skull. A strange tickling sensation, like someone gently pressing fingers against your mind. You flinch.
“Relax,” the technician murmurs. “Just reading your guiding resonance. Nothing invasive.”
But it feels invasive. Like invisible hands turning pages in your head, searching for something hidden. The warmth builds, spreads through your body, then fades. The chime sounds again.
“Baseline metrics complete,” the system intones. “Compatibility testing commencing.”
Another hum. This one deeper, more resonant. The halo pulses faintly as the system cycles through Esper profiles—thousands of them, you imagine, each one a psychic fingerprint. You’ve heard how it works: they scan for resonance patterns, compatibility markers, mental harmonics. Most people match with a handful of Espers at low percentages. Rarely, someone gets a high match.
But you’re not expecting anything like that. You’re not special.
The technician watches his screen, expression unreadable.
You tense. “Is something wrong?”
“No…” He tilts his head, scrolling faster. “Just…unusual.”
The hum deepens again. The halo above you flickers with a pale, eerie light.
You swallow. “Unusual how?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes dart across the holographic display, then widen slightly. He leans closer, typing furiously.
“What is it?” you ask, your voice thinner now.
He glances at you, then back at the screen. “The system’s flagged a high-level compatibility. Extremely high. I need to verify.”
Your heart skips. “High-level?”
“Stay still,” he says sharply. “It’s running cross-verification now.”
You grip the armrests as the halo pulses brighter, warmth flooding your skull again. It’s stronger this time, almost dizzying. Like someone’s brushing their fingers against your soul.
A new chime rings out, louder.
On the screen, bold letters flash:
COMPATIBILITY CONFIRMED — 97%
The technician exhales, low and disbelieving. “Ninety-seven percent,” he mutters. “That’s…impossible.”
Your stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
He finally looks at you, eyes sharp now, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“It means,” he says slowly, “you’ve just been matched with one of the most powerful Espers in the country.” He hesitates, then adds, “And one of the most unstable.”
The words 97% compatibility hang in the air like a noose.
You’re still strapped to the chair, your body tense, palms clammy against the armrests. The technician looks rattled—far more than you think someone in his position should.
He snaps a series of commands into his console. “Stay there. Don’t move.” His voice is clipped, brisk, almost panicked.
Before you can ask anything else, he’s already speaking into his comm. “B-12 to central. Flagging priority case. Candidate ID number—” He rattles off your details. “Confirming anomalous high-level compatibility match. Ninety-seven percent.”
Static. Then a sharp reply: “Hold position. Escalating to Director-level clearance. Do not release subject until further notice.”
The word makes your stomach twist.
The technician avoids your eyes now, focusing on locking down the data, securing the files.
The waiting drags on. After what feels like half an hour, two uniformed staff arrive, not lab techs this time but handlers—the type you’ve only seen on news broadcasts, always shadowing S-rank Espers. Their posture screams authority.
“You’ll need to come with us,” one says, his tone polite but firm.
Your voice comes out hoarse. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Not at all,” the other assures you, offering a practiced smile. “This is protocol for extraordinary compatibility findings. We’ll just run you through further assessments.”
You’re unstrapped and escorted out, your legs unsteady as you follow them down another series of sterile hallways. Staff passing by give you strange looks—curious, speculative, some even...pitying?
They bring you to another room. This one isn’t clinical. It’s more like a corporate office. Clean lines, neutral colors, a glass desk, and a stack of papers waiting neatly in a folder.
“Please complete this intake packet,” one of the handlers says, sliding it toward you. “Medical history, psychological disclosures, personal background. Full honesty is required.”
You stare at the pile. It’s thick, but you do as told. You list your father’s illness, your family history, your school record. You mark no under criminal history, no under substance use, no under mental health red flags. Your hand cramps after so many pages.
When you finish, they trade the paperwork for another round of tests—reflex assessments, focus drills, even an invasive series of neural scans where lights flash until your vision blurs. Every result goes into the system. Every beep feels like a verdict. You’re starting to feel less like an applicant and more like a specimen.
Finally, they sit you in yet another room. This one is more comfortable, almost too comfortable. A plush chair, a low table with untouched tea, walls lined with tasteful art. It feels staged.
The door opens and a woman walks in. Tall, elegant, dressed in a tailored cream suit that probably costs more than your entire apartment lease. Her hair is silver-white, sleek and pinned, her eyes the pale gray of storm clouds. She smiles at you as though you’re her favorite person in the world.
“Hello, dear,” she says warmly, her voice smooth like honey stirred into tea. “You must be so tired. All this running around, test after test and now paperwork on top of it.” She sets a folder down and sits gracefully across from you, folding her hands.
“I’m Gray,” she says. “Head of the Aegis Institute.”
Your mouth goes dry. The head? You’ve only ever heard her name in news reports, always framed as a benevolent pioneer who expanded Guide rights, a visionary administrator. People talk about her like she’s untouchable.
And now she’s smiling at you.
“Y-you didn’t need to come personally,” you manage, nervous. “I’m just a new applicant.”
Her smile widens, but something in it feels too sharp, like glass under velvet. “Oh, but you’re not just anything, sweetheart. Do you know how rare this is? Ninety-seven percent. Why, I don’t think we’ve ever recorded a match that high in Aegis history.”
Gray leans forward, her chin resting delicately on the back of one hand. “You must be frightened. Overwhelmed. I would be, too. But don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.”
The words are soothing, but her gaze pins you like a butterfly under glass.
She continues, “Tell me…why did you decide to sign up with us? You must have had your reasons.”
You hesitate, shifting under Gray’s gaze. The room feels too quiet, her eyes too attentive, like every word you say will be weighed and recorded.
Finally, you clear your throat. “It’s my father.”
“He’s sick. The treatments are expensive. I’ve been trying to keep up, but nothing I earn is enough. When I found out Guides could apply here, even low-level ones, I thought…” You swallow hard, embarrassed at how small your reasoning sounds compared to the grandeur of Aegis. “…I thought it might be my only chance.”
Gray tilts her head, studying you. “So, you didn’t come here for power? Status? Ambition?”
“No,” you say quickly. “Just money. Enough to pay for his care.”
Her smile blooms, radiant and approving, but you can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t sympathy—more like satisfaction. “Selfless. Practical. How refreshing. So many who walk into this building are hungry for glory, clawing for prestige. But you? You only want to protect someone you love.”
You shift uncomfortably. “I guess so.”
She leans back, steepling her fingers. “That, my dear, is precisely the kind of heart a true Guide should have. You don’t realize it yet, but Espers need that grounding. They need someone who doesn’t see them as trophies or stepping stones.”
Her eyes gleam. “And you—” she gestures lightly at you, her voice lowering. “—are about to become very important.”
Your stomach knots. “Because of the match?”
Gray’s smile never falters. “Yes. Ninety-seven percent is extraordinary. Almost unheard of.” She taps the folder she brought in. “I’ve reviewed the system’s findings myself, cross-verified with every method we have. There’s no error. You are uniquely compatible with one Esper.”
The air feels heavier suddenly.
You ask, barely above a whisper, “Who?”
For the first time, Gray doesn’t answer immediately. She watches you, as though savoring your tension, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Finally, she says it, each word deliberate:
“You’ve matched with him.”
Your brows furrow. “Him?”
“The strongest Esper alive,” Gray continues smoothly. “Rank SSS, off the charts in every measurable category. He has no rival, no equal. Entire cities would crumble if he ever lost control. He is a living weapon—and until now, he has been…untamable.”
You blink, your mouth suddenly dry. “Untamable?”
Her eyes glint, her tone sweet as honey. “His compatibility with Guides has always been abysmal. Less than one percent with most. Attempts to stabilize him never last—Guides burn out, sometimes permanently damaged. Some…” She pauses delicately. “Some didn’t survive.”
Your blood runs cold. “And you want me to—”
Gray’s laugh is soft, melodic, completely at odds with the dread building in your chest. “Want? Oh, darling, this isn’t about what I want. This is about what you are. Fate, if you believe in such things. The system doesn’t lie. You are his ninety-seven percent. The one who can reach him.”
You stare at her, heart pounding. “But he’s dangerous.”
She leans forward again, her perfume faint and cloying, her smile unwavering. “So dangerous that governments fear him. So dangerous that the world holds its breath when his name is spoken.”
You whisper, “Then why would you put me with him?”
Her voice lowers, intimate, conspiratorial. “Because you’re the only one who can save him from himself. Without you, he’ll spiral until he burns this world down. With you,” She tilts her head, her expression almost maternal. “With you, he might finally be contained.”
Your chest feels tight. This isn’t what you came for. You just wanted money for your father’s care. Not this. Not him.
Gray straightens, smoothing the lapel of her suit. “Of course, this is a heavy burden. A frightening one. But it is also an honor. Do you realize how many would kill for even a fraction of his attention? And yet, he belongs to you, whether you want him or not.”
You grip your knees under the table, knuckles white. “...Who is he?”
Her smile turns sharp, almost gleeful.
“His name,” she says softly, “is Kael.”
And just hearing it sends a chill down your spine.
The rest of the day passes in a haze.
One moment, you’re sitting in that plush interview chair with Gray smiling at you like a serpent in silk. The next, you’re on your feet, handlers ushering you through a series of halls you don’t remember walking down. Everything blurs together—the clip of heels on tile, the swish of automatic doors, the murmur of hushed conversations that die the moment you pass.
Paperwork appears in front of you, stacks of contracts and waivers. Your signature scratches across page after page, your hand moving faster than your mind. “Standard procedure,” the handler murmurs when you hesitate. “Just confirming your rights, your medical coverage, your father’s transfer.”
By the time you reach the surface again, it’s already happening. Aegis has dispatched a private medical transport to your neighborhood. You barely get a moment to explain to your father what’s happening before they’re moving him, gently but efficiently, onto a gurney.
“Sir, we’ll have you settled into the facility in less than an hour,” one of them reassures him. “Your treatment will be covered in full. No delays, no shortages.”
Your father looks bewildered, eyes darting to you. “What did you do?” he whispers hoarsely.
You don’t have an answer.
The facility they bring you to isn’t a hospital—it’s something far beyond that. Aegis’ private medical wing gleams with polished chrome and glass, staffed by doctors in immaculate coats, nurses who move like clockwork. Everything is quiet, efficient, seamless.
Your father is placed in a private suite that looks more like a luxury hotel room than a ward: wide bed, panoramic window, state-of-the-art monitors humming softly in the background. Within minutes, specialists are already running updated scans, recalibrating his treatment plan, adjusting dosages of medicine you could never have afforded.
“This level of care is—” you start, stunned.
“Routine, for Aegis dependents,” a doctor interrupts smoothly. He barely glances at you as he updates your father’s chart. “Your father is one of ours now. You have nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about. You should feel relieved. The bills, the constant stress, the helplessness—you should feel them lifting off your shoulders. But instead, you feel heavier. Like every step forward is walking deeper into something you can’t escape.
By the time night falls, you’re installed in a suite of your own not far from your father’s. It’s pristine, more than you’ve ever lived in. Everything you could want is provided: fresh linens, a wardrobe stocked in your size, even a datapad with your schedule pre-loaded for the coming weeks.
You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the city lights glittering far below.
Less than twelve hours ago, you were scraping to make rent, watching your father fade day by day. Now you’re in the heart of Aegis, your father surrounded by the best medical technology in the country.
And all because you matched.
You bury your face in your hands, trying to steady your breathing, but the thought gnaws at you no matter how you push it away: They didn’t do all this out of kindness. They did it because you’re his.
And tomorrow, you’ll have to meet him.
You’ve been lying there for hours, staring at the ceiling, sheets twisted around your legs. Sleep won’t come, not with everything pressing against your thoughts. You shift, roll over, bury your face in the pillow. The city lights spill faintly through the window, a soft glow painting the floor.
It should feel safe here. It doesn’t.
At some point, your eyelids grow heavy. You start to drift—
You push yourself up, heart hammering, ears straining. Maybe a nurse checking in? Maybe just the ventilation system? But then—
Your gaze jerks toward the far corner, where the shadows seem deeper than they should be. The hairs on your arms rise.
Before you can call out, a hand clamps down over your mouth.
You jolt, panic surging like electricity, but the grip is iron, unyielding. A second hand presses your shoulder down against the mattress, pinning you effortlessly.
You thrash, clawing at the hand over your mouth, nails scraping skin but it doesn’t matter. The strength holding you down isn’t human. You can’t move. You can’t even breathe properly.
Your muffled cries dissolve into the dark.
And then you see him. Eyes glinting red in the dim light, sharp and merciless. A shadow cut from something larger than life. He looms over you, close enough that you feel the weight of his breath against your cheek.
Even without anyone saying it, you know. The air around him crackles, thick with psychic pressure that makes your bones ache, your skin crawl. It’s like gravity itself bends for him.
He leans closer, his hand still firm over your mouth, and whispers, low and rough:
Your pulse skyrockets. You buck against him, frantic, but it’s like fighting a mountain. His body doesn’t shift an inch.
“I knew it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His voice is ragged, hungry. “I felt it the second you arrived.”
Your muffled protest earns you nothing but a sharper squeeze of his fingers against your lips.
“Shh.” His eyes darken, burning with something feverish. “Don’t fight.”
The hand at your shoulder slides slowly up to your throat. Your lungs burn from panic. Your nails dig helplessly into his wrist, but he only smiles faintly, as if your resistance excites him.
“Stop struggling,” he whispers. “You’re not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”
And even though the world outside is silent, inside the room it feels like a storm has broken loose. The hand over your mouth is huge, hot, unyielding. You’re pinned to the bed like an insect under glass, your heart hammering so loud you can barely think.
Kael’s eyes glint in the dark. His breath brushes your cheek. You thrash, claw at his wrist, but it’s like fighting stone. The air around him is so heavy with psychic static it makes your teeth ache. His aura is unstable—thrumming, jagged—like a live wire about to snap.
If he breaks here, you’re dead.
Panic claws up your throat. And then, past the panic, instinct takes over. Training. Every lesson you’ve learned about in school. Stabilize the field. Harmonize the flow. Reach out.
Your hands are still clutching at his wrist when you close your eyes and push, not with your muscles but with your mind.
It’s like throwing a rope into a storm. Warmth spills out of you, raw and trembling, sliding along the jagged edges of his power. You catch a rhythm and latch onto it. Pull. Sync. Ground.
Kael’s body jolts. His grip on your mouth slackens, but he doesn’t move away. He just stares at you, eyes blown wide, like he’s been shocked. The static in the room shifts, folds inward.
You push harder. The Guiding surges from you in a rush, steadier this time, flooding his chaotic aura with a soft, anchoring pulse. His tremors stop. His breathing slows. The pressure in the room eases.
Kael’s hand slides from your mouth, trailing across your cheek.
And then, without warning, he collapses forward. His full weight presses you into the mattress. Not crushing but heavy. His forehead drops to the crook of your neck. Hot breath spills against your skin in uneven bursts.
Kael’s shoulders twitch, a faint shudder running the length of him as the last of the storm inside him bleeds out. It’s not the violent tremor of instability anymore; it’s the tremor of someone finally, desperately, coming down. You feel it through your palms, through your chest, all the way to the marrow of your bones. Your hands are still trapped between you, still clutching at his wrist. Slowly, very slowly, you slide them up. They move over the hard plane of his forearm, over the ridges of muscle under his shirt, up to his back. Every inch feels like trespassing on something dangerous. You’re terrified but something in you moves anyway.
Your fingertips ghost along the tense line of his spine. Kael lets out a sound you can barely hear—a ragged, broken exhale. His back arches just slightly under your touch. The warmth between you pulses again, the Guiding still open, still feeding him. You can feel his power, huge and heavy, but no longer jagged. It’s smoothing out under your hands, syncing to your rhythm. For a moment it feels like you’re holding the ocean at bay with your bare fingers.
Kael’s voice is a whisper against your neck. “…don’t stop.”
His fingers curl into the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. He’s still shaking, still breathing you in. Every breath fans against your skin, searingly intimate but not quite touch. You can tell he’s fighting for control, the tremor of his power threading through his body even as you keep grounding it. You swallow hard, your fingers trembling against his back. You’re scared. But the part of you that trained for this keeps moving, tracing slow circles, feeding the pulse of your Guiding into him until the twitching in his shoulders eases a little more.
Kael makes a low sound—half sigh, half groan—and presses his forehead harder against your neck. “No one’s ever…” he murmurs, voice frayed. “No one’s ever done this.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your heart is hammering too loud, your body caught between terror and something you don’t have a name for. The scent of ozone still lingers faintly in the air. Gradually, his weight shifts. He props himself on his forearms, still close enough that his breath brushes your lips. His eyes find yours, still blown wide, but the edge is different now. Less rage. More hunger. More need.
He cups your jaw with a trembling hand, thumb brushing along your cheekbone. “You feel it too,” he says quietly, as though it’s not a question. The Guiding thread throbs once more between you, and you realize you do. You wish you didn’t.
Kael’s smile flickers—small, almost disbelieving. “Good,” he whispers. “Good.”
The trembling in his hand steadies as the grin pulls at his lips.
“You really don’t understand what you’ve done,” he murmurs.
Before you can speak, his head dips. His mouth brushes your collarbone, deceptively gentle at first, then his teeth sink in.
You gasp, a muffled cry spilling out, your body jerking beneath him. The sting shoots hot under your skin. It’s deep. Stinging.
Kael’s breath hitches as though the act itself feeds him. His grip on your jaw tightens, holding you still, keeping you caged against the mattress. He lingers there, biting down just long enough to leave the ache seared into your flesh, before finally pulling back. His grin is wider now, lips brushing the mark he’s left. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost reverently. “You fit me so perfectly.”
You tremble, your hands still pressed against his back. You want to shove him off, scream, run, but your body won’t obey—caught between fear and the dizzying echo of the Guiding that still thrums faintly between you.
Kael tilts his head, watching your expression shift. His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone again, grazing just shy of where he bit you. “You’ll remember that,” he says softly, like a promise. “Every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember you’re mine.” The words are quiet, but they cause a shiver to run up your spine.
Then, just as suddenly as he’d descended on you, the air around you twists. A ripple of displacement distorts the space and Kael is gone. The bed is empty. The room is still.
You sit up slowly, chest heaving, pressing a trembling hand to your collarbone. The mark burns faintly under your fingertips. The silence feels wrong now. Hollow, echoing with the rush of your heartbeat and the phantom warmth of his body. You curl in on yourself, clutching the sheets. The bite still tingles, the Guiding ache still lingers, and somewhere in the back of your mind you already know:
Sorry I forgot about the actual prompt while writing this!!! I PROMISE I’ll get to it in later stories!!!
