Greetings . I am Crissy, however, you may have known me as Psy from before. You can address me as Psy, Cris or Crissy, I don't really care. Feel free to use any pronouns when addressing me. I am pansexual and a dressmaking student. My old accounts were : @psyzcraze , @crystxlseesu and such. Although, I cannot open those accounts anymore due to technical issues, Do still interact with my works there.
a/n: for @nensi pookie, because she drew me was a gachiakuta character with star hair clips that become like shurikens as my vital instrument 🥹
ac goes to casa_corvo
synopsis: academic rivals with zanka… but it leads into admiration. wanted this to be more motivating with a reader who reminds him of himself.
the training grounds always smell like iron and scorched stone.
it’s burned into zanka’s memory the same way his name is – etched, heavy, unavoidable.
hell guard trainees line up every morning before the sun finishes clawing its way over the spires, weapons in hand, backs straight, eyes forward. nobles, commoners, kids who were born into legacy and kids who scraped their way here with bloody knuckles. zanka stands near the front like he always does, posture perfect, jaw tight.
second place.
always second.
the instructors praise him constantly. prodigy. disciplined. the son of a noble family – everyone whispers about the golden throne like it’s already carved with his name. some say it’s inevitable. nepotism wins in the end, they mutter. lineage over merit.
zanka pretends he doesn’t hear it.
but then there’s you.
you stand at the very front of the line, not stiff, not arrogant. just focused. your uniform is always a little more worn than the others’, sleeves frayed, knuckles taped. you don’t look like someone born for this. you look like someone who earned it.
top of the class.
every drill, every written exam, every combat evaluation – your name sits above his. it drives him insane.
not because you’re a girl. he’d never admit it out loud, but that’s not what burns.
it’s the way everyone says you’re natural.
“some people are just born gifted,” the other trainees whisper when you’re out of earshot. “you can’t teach that.”
zanka hates that word.
natural.
because he’s worked for every inch. every muscle carved through repetition, every technique memorized until it lives in his bones. he trains until his lungs feel like they’re tearing, until his hands shake when he tries to sleep. he studies formations by candlelight, eyes stinging, refusing rest.
and still – there you are.
effortless, they say.
then hyo arrives.
the new kid is quiet, unreadable, eyes sharp like she’s already measured the room and found it lacking. first day in, she keeps her head down. second day, she starts winning.
by the end of the month, she’s untouchable.
even you.
the training match draws everyone in. instructors lean forward. trainees crowd the edges, breath held. zanka watches from the sidelines, nails digging into his palms.
you don’t go down easy.
you push hyo back again and again, blade ringing against hers, boots skidding against stone. you adapt fast, too fast. every time she gains ground, you answer with something new. your defense holds longer than anyone expects. your offense forces her to retreat more than once.
it’s not enough.
hyo wins, eventually. barely.
the silence afterward is loud.
no one laughs. no one mocks.
because everyone saw it – you didn’t get overwhelmed. you didn’t crumble. you fought.
later, when hyo offers a stiff nod and calls you talented, you shut it down immediately.
“no,” you say, voice steady even as sweat drips down your jaw. “don’t call it that.”
the room stills.
you talk about the nights you didn’t sleep. the way you crammed manuals until the words blurred together. the hours you stayed after training, repeating movements until your body screamed. the injuries you hid because you didn’t want an excuse.
“nothing about this was handed to me,” you finish. “i worked for it. every bit.”
zanka doesn’t breathe the entire time.
later, he finds you by accident – or maybe not.
the corridor is quieter this time, lamps glowing low and warm against stone. the training grounds are emptying out, voices fading, the world narrowing until it’s just you and the sound of your own breathing.
you’re cleaning your weapon when you feel it – that familiar prickle at the back of your neck.
zanka doesn’t announce himself.
he’s standing a few steps away, arms crossed, jaw tight like he’s still holding something in. his eyes aren’t angry anymore. they’re… conflicted. searching.
for a moment, neither of you speaks.
then he exhales, slow, like he’s letting something fragile out of his chest.
“earlier,” he says, voice lower than usual, “when ya talked about yer trainin’.”
you glance up. he’s not looking at you directly – his gaze is fixed somewhere just over your shoulder, like he’s afraid if he meets your eyes he’ll lose his nerve.
“i’ve never heard anyone say it like that before,” he continues. “not without complainin’. not without tryin’ to make it sound noble.”
his fingers curl slightly, then relax.
“ya weren’t tryin’ to impress anyone,” he says. “ya were just… honest.”
there’s a pause. the kind that hums.
“i used to think i hated ya,” zanka admits, a quiet huff of disbelief slipping out. “or maybe i told myself i did, because it was easier than admittin’ i was watchin’ ya.”
that gets your attention.
he finally looks at you then, eyes sharp, but unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.
“ya don’t train like someone who thinks they’re special,” he says. “ya train like someone who’s terrified of wastin’ their chance.”
his throat bobs as he swallows.
“i envy that.”
the word lands heavy between you.
“everyone keeps tellin’ me i’m destined for something,” he continues. “that i’ll sit on the golden throne because of my name, my blood, my family.”
his lips press into a thin line.
“but when i see ya,” he says quietly, “i don’t think about destiny. i think about effort. about choosin’ to be better even when it hurts.”
he steps a little closer. not enough to crowd you. just enough that the air feels different.
“i don’t want to surpass ya because i’m supposed to,” he admits. “i want to reach ya because… because ya make me want to work harder. think harder. be someone i’d actually respect.”
his voice softens, barely there.
“and i think that scares me more than losin’.”
there’s something unspoken in his expression now – something tender, restrained, like a feeling he hasn’t learned how to hold yet. it’s not a confession. it’s not a promise.
it’s a choice.
zanka straightens, composure slowly knitting itself back together, but his eyes linger on you a second longer than necessary.
“… don’t stop,” he says. “whatever it is yer doin’. don’t change.”
then quieter, almost to himself:
“i want to become someone who can stand beside ya. not above ya.”
he turns to leave, footsteps steady, but the heat of his words stays behind.
and for the first time, rivalry feels a lot like the beginning of something else.
a/n: for @nensi pookie, because she drew me was a gachiakuta character with star hair clips that become like shurikens as my vital instrument 🥹
ac goes to casa_corvo
synopsis: academic rivals with zanka… but it leads into admiration. wanted this to be more motivating with a reader who reminds him of himself.
the training grounds always smell like iron and scorched stone.
it’s burned into zanka’s memory the same way his name is – etched, heavy, unavoidable.
hell guard trainees line up every morning before the sun finishes clawing its way over the spires, weapons in hand, backs straight, eyes forward. nobles, commoners, kids who were born into legacy and kids who scraped their way here with bloody knuckles. zanka stands near the front like he always does, posture perfect, jaw tight.
second place.
always second.
the instructors praise him constantly. prodigy. disciplined. the son of a noble family – everyone whispers about the golden throne like it’s already carved with his name. some say it’s inevitable. nepotism wins in the end, they mutter. lineage over merit.
zanka pretends he doesn’t hear it.
but then there’s you.
you stand at the very front of the line, not stiff, not arrogant. just focused. your uniform is always a little more worn than the others’, sleeves frayed, knuckles taped. you don’t look like someone born for this. you look like someone who earned it.
top of the class.
every drill, every written exam, every combat evaluation – your name sits above his. it drives him insane.
not because you’re a girl. he’d never admit it out loud, but that’s not what burns.
it’s the way everyone says you’re natural.
“some people are just born gifted,” the other trainees whisper when you’re out of earshot. “you can’t teach that.”
zanka hates that word.
natural.
because he’s worked for every inch. every muscle carved through repetition, every technique memorized until it lives in his bones. he trains until his lungs feel like they’re tearing, until his hands shake when he tries to sleep. he studies formations by candlelight, eyes stinging, refusing rest.
and still – there you are.
effortless, they say.
then hyo arrives.
the new kid is quiet, unreadable, eyes sharp like she’s already measured the room and found it lacking. first day in, she keeps her head down. second day, she starts winning.
by the end of the month, she’s untouchable.
even you.
the training match draws everyone in. instructors lean forward. trainees crowd the edges, breath held. zanka watches from the sidelines, nails digging into his palms.
you don’t go down easy.
you push hyo back again and again, blade ringing against hers, boots skidding against stone. you adapt fast, too fast. every time she gains ground, you answer with something new. your defense holds longer than anyone expects. your offense forces her to retreat more than once.
it’s not enough.
hyo wins, eventually. barely.
the silence afterward is loud.
no one laughs. no one mocks.
because everyone saw it – you didn’t get overwhelmed. you didn’t crumble. you fought.
later, when hyo offers a stiff nod and calls you talented, you shut it down immediately.
“no,” you say, voice steady even as sweat drips down your jaw. “don’t call it that.”
the room stills.
you talk about the nights you didn’t sleep. the way you crammed manuals until the words blurred together. the hours you stayed after training, repeating movements until your body screamed. the injuries you hid because you didn’t want an excuse.
“nothing about this was handed to me,” you finish. “i worked for it. every bit.”
zanka doesn’t breathe the entire time.
later, he finds you by accident – or maybe not.
the corridor is quieter this time, lamps glowing low and warm against stone. the training grounds are emptying out, voices fading, the world narrowing until it’s just you and the sound of your own breathing.
you’re cleaning your weapon when you feel it – that familiar prickle at the back of your neck.
zanka doesn’t announce himself.
he’s standing a few steps away, arms crossed, jaw tight like he’s still holding something in. his eyes aren’t angry anymore. they’re… conflicted. searching.
for a moment, neither of you speaks.
then he exhales, slow, like he’s letting something fragile out of his chest.
“earlier,” he says, voice lower than usual, “when ya talked about yer trainin’.”
you glance up. he’s not looking at you directly – his gaze is fixed somewhere just over your shoulder, like he’s afraid if he meets your eyes he’ll lose his nerve.
“i’ve never heard anyone say it like that before,” he continues. “not without complainin’. not without tryin’ to make it sound noble.”
his fingers curl slightly, then relax.
“ya weren’t tryin’ to impress anyone,” he says. “ya were just… honest.”
there’s a pause. the kind that hums.
“i used to think i hated ya,” zanka admits, a quiet huff of disbelief slipping out. “or maybe i told myself i did, because it was easier than admittin’ i was watchin’ ya.”
that gets your attention.
he finally looks at you then, eyes sharp, but unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before.
“ya don’t train like someone who thinks they’re special,” he says. “ya train like someone who’s terrified of wastin’ their chance.”
his throat bobs as he swallows.
“i envy that.”
the word lands heavy between you.
“everyone keeps tellin’ me i’m destined for something,” he continues. “that i’ll sit on the golden throne because of my name, my blood, my family.”
his lips press into a thin line.
“but when i see ya,” he says quietly, “i don’t think about destiny. i think about effort. about choosin’ to be better even when it hurts.”
he steps a little closer. not enough to crowd you. just enough that the air feels different.
“i don’t want to surpass ya because i’m supposed to,” he admits. “i want to reach ya because… because ya make me want to work harder. think harder. be someone i’d actually respect.”
his voice softens, barely there.
“and i think that scares me more than losin’.”
there’s something unspoken in his expression now – something tender, restrained, like a feeling he hasn’t learned how to hold yet. it’s not a confession. it’s not a promise.
it’s a choice.
zanka straightens, composure slowly knitting itself back together, but his eyes linger on you a second longer than necessary.
“… don’t stop,” he says. “whatever it is yer doin’. don’t change.”
then quieter, almost to himself:
“i want to become someone who can stand beside ya. not above ya.”
he turns to leave, footsteps steady, but the heat of his words stays behind.
and for the first time, rivalry feels a lot like the beginning of something else.
IM SORRY BUT DOES HOYO REALISE IM ACTUALLY INSANE WHEN IT COMES TO VARKA?????
YEAH MY MAN USES NOT ONE BUT TWO CLAYMORES????
hold on cuz i actually have to yap about this. How f* buff is this man, to be able to wield two claymores, seirling and throwing them around like they weight NOTHING???
if you compare the way other claymore users wield their weapons you see how they usually move slightly slower, their abilities showcase how their bodies actually move like the weapon is heavy (for example diluc and eula)
this man is jumping around and slashing away like he is wielding wooden sticks. Oh my god.
also not to mention him leaning against hus claymore, holy look at his legs, as wide as the average male model’s waist btw 💔
oh and goddamn does it look HEAVYYY to carry. And im not talking about his claymores.
One boy from my school got beaten up badly by a group of guys from different school with a hammer, and my class wants to protest along with others but they mostly want to avoid exams instead of supporting the boy....
