hello

i am forever your most devoted believer [19]

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Something something about gentle yanderes.

The ones who plead with you as you hide behind a locked bathroom door, begging for you to please let them back in. The ones that make you your favourite foods over and over until they can cook it perfectly, hiding all the burnt mistakes inside the bins. The ones who come home every day with gifts in and because they missed you so much during their eight-hour shift. 

The ones who hold you so sweetly every night, hoping one day you'll aclimitise enough or become so touch starved that you eventually reciprocate their hugs. Maybe one day those hugs can evolve into more, into bare skin against bed sheets and breathlessness, but for now you allowing yourself to be held is a luxury they hold deeply against their hearts every night. Its progress from at first, when you first woke up in a home that wasn't yours, kept in a guest room until you were settled enough to move into the master bedroom. 

Everything was taken at your pace, he is patient, and he wanted so hard to prove how patient he can be, thinking of you, knowing just how much he cares for you than perhaps you can stop being so terrified of him. Don't you know, sweet thing, that he would sooner burn off his own hands than ever lay them on you in anger? That he'd sooner cut off his tongue and feed it to himself before yelling at you or calling you something he would never dare say before his mother? How mother raised him right after all, raised him to be gentle and kind, he could never disgrace her memory and how hard she worked for his sake to ever harm you. He begs you to understand that no matter what you do, he would never dare to hurt you. He sits you down one night and makes a promise on his mother's well-kept grave that if he ever were to lay a finger on you in violence, then he will unlock the door and allow you to leave him. Because by the lord, he already doesn't deserve your sweetness in his life, and if he can't be grateful for you, he will not allow himself to have you. That was the first night you slept soundly beside him.

And he tries, you have to understand how hard he's trying for you, he doesn't expect you to be grateful. In fact, he expects you to hate him, to curse his name out and fight back like a cornered dog. He doesn't deserve any better than that treatment from you; he knows full well what a selfish, irredeemable man he is. How you were all set to live a beautiful life, but he stole you away from your rightful future because he could not stand that that future could never include him, as he wants to be included. Not as your friend, co-worker, or a stranger on the bus, he could never accept that role from the fates. So instead, he stole your fate from you.

You had so much promise, didn't you? So much potential? All that means nothing now as you lie down beside him on the couch, watching an old DVD copy of your favourite childhood film, the bright colours clouding together from behind your stifled tears.

[strzxrin-deactivated20260303]

MY CORPSE FRIEND

pairing. yandere!corpse x gn!reader

synopsis. you love your friends, you really do, but maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to go to a graveyard in the middle of the night? because why in the hell is there someone trying to graveyard rob and a corpse just suddenly came alive, and being told he’s your husband?

content warnings. horror-esc, graveyard robbery, yandere tendencies, possesiveness, obssesive tendencies, house husband trope, some angst is there, kind of cracked, lowkey pretty fluff actually, soul-connected concept

word count. 4.9k

it all starts like most bad decisions do; a friday night, cheap food, and devon’s stupid grin across the table.

you’re at that one diner you always go to — the one with the sticky booths and a jukebox that hasn’t worked since high school. everyone’s half-listening to will complaining about his boss when devon interrupts with, “okay, okay, but hear me out… what if we went somewhere haunted?”

you groan instantly, head dropping to the table. “here we go,” you mutter.

“i’m serious!” devon insists, leaning forward like he’s pitching a million-dollar idea. “like, a real haunted place. graveyard. midnight. just us, flashlights, vibes.”

tasha perks up. “graveyard vibes? i’m down.”

mia raises her eyebrows at you. “cmon, that actually sounds kind of fun.”

“no,” you say immediately. “nope. why would we do that?”

“because we’re bored,” will says, picking at his fries. “and because we’re twenty-something and stupid. let’s lean into it.”

you shoot him a look. “i like being boring and alive, thanks. i’m not trying to end up on some ghost documentary with blurry security footage and a tragic piano soundtrack.”

devon points at you. “you always say that, but you still hang out with us. that makes you complicit.”

“i hang out with you because i’ve made peace with your idiocy,” you say. “that doesn’t mean i want to be dragged into a literal graveyard in the dead of night to summon spirits who didn’t ask to be summoned.”

mia grins. “you’re scared.”

“i’m smart,” you correct, sipping your drink. “there’s a difference. this is literally the plot of every horror movie ever. you start with, ‘let’s go somewhere spooky for fun,’ and end with half the group dead and the other half possessed.”

will shrugs. “could be worse.”

you stare at him with a deadpanned expression. “you are literally describing the worst-case scenario.”

devon’s already got his phone out, searching up maps. “there’s this old cemetery just outside of town. like, super old. forgotten. no lights. real horror movie vibes.”

“why is that a selling point?” you ask.

no one listens. of course they don’t. you consider backing out. you really do. but then tasha says, “don’t be a buzzkill,” and mia says, “it’ll be fun,” and devon grins that grin and for some reason, some very dumb, regrettable reason, you agree.

it’s the following weekend when you find yourself at the gates of a cemetery that looks like it fell out of a victorian fever dream.

there’s no official entrance — just a rusted iron gate halfway off its hinges, creaking every time the wind breathes too hard. the trees hang low and heavy like they’re trying to smother the place. everything smells like damp leaves, mold, and something older.

you clutch your flashlight like it’s going to save you from anything, and already, your stomach is doing that sinking thing. that deep, awful churn that says, you should not be here.

“this is already cursed,” you muttered out but no one hears you.

devon’s filming, obviously. “night one of exploring the haunted hollow creek cemetery,” he narrates, phone in hand. “some say no one’s been buried here since the 1800s. some say those who have never left…”

will throws a stick at him. “shut up.”

tasha skips ahead, flashlight beam bouncing wildly. mia hums the twilight zone theme.

you trail behind them, stepping carefully over gnarled roots and crumbling gravestones. the fog is thick tonight, weirdly so, curling at your ankles like it’s alive. your flashlight catches statues and names that are more worn than readable.

you read one outloud. you feel like your eyes are playing tricks on you, like the name changed in front of you but you rubbed your eyes and shook your head. “enzo… damn you can’t even read his last name because it’s faded. died in 1851.” 

mia steps next to you. “you think he’s still in there?”

“no,” you say. “i think he’s right behind us.”

she flinches, then laughs. you don’t. because even joking about it makes your spine crawl. “alright, huddle up!” devon says ahead. “let’s split into two groups and explore.”

“nope.” you say instantly.

“i’m with them,” will says, motioning to you. “splitting up is how people get murdered.” you muttered out a ‘thank you,’ because someone finally gets it.

devon shrugs. “fine, all together then. just, like, be cool. don’t disrespect anything, don’t step on graves, don’t say anything latin.”

“i never say anything latin,” you mutter. “that’s the first rule of not dying in a horror movie.”

they’re all laughing, playing. tasha makes up fake ghost names, mia pretends to do a séance, will keeps trying to scare you by stepping on twigs behind your back. you keep telling yourself it’s fine. you’re being paranoid, overthinking, but it doesn’t feel funny. not to you.

you feel like the ground is watching you.

and then you hear it. a metallic clink. sharp and hollow. everyone stops their tracks.

“... did you guys hear that?” you ask, almost praying to every other entity out there.

“yeah,” devon says, suddenly serious. “over there.”

you follow the sound to a corner of the graveyard you hadn’t noticed before — past the mausoleums, under a tree that looks like it’s been struck by lightning more than once.

that’s when you see them, not ghosts but people. real people.

three of them, dressed in black. one with a shovel, another with a flashlight. the third holding something that glints in the dark — maybe a crowbar.

they’re standing over a grave. digging.

“no,” you whisper. “no no no.. what the hell.. are they robbing it?”

no one answers. you’re all frozen, ducking behind an old angel statue, too afraid to move. then it happens. the ground shifts.

at first it’s subtle. like the dirt is settling, but then it swells, breathes, and something beneath it is pushing upward. you can’t look away. and then—

a hand.

pale, gray, bloated. fingers curl over the edge of the grave, and then an arm, a shoulder, a head.

you think your heart might stop.

the thing climbs out in stuttering, unnatural jerks. its clothes are rotted, skin stretched too tight over its bones, jaw hanging slightly askew.

and it looks around.

with eyes. not empty sockets. not glazed-over death stares. eyes. fogged and pale, but aware. you can’t breathe. and then it sees you. its head snaps unnaturally in your direction and you feel it.

not see, not hear, but feel. like a hook buried in your chest.

its mouth opens slowly, and when it speaks, it’s like gravel soaked in blood. “who dares.. wake me?”

your legs won’t move. your brain is screaming run, but your body is frozen in place, eyes locked with his. his name punches into your skull before anyone says it.

enzo.

but wasn’t that the name from the grave you passed by earlier? hell, you don’t know how nor do you know why, but you know his name.

the grave robbers drop everything and bolt. mia grabs tasha, will yells something, devon’s gone. but enzo is still looking at you. only you.

he smiles, not like a person. like something that wants to eat your soul. your flashlight flickers, your knees finally give out and you stumble back into a headstone, heart jackhammering so loud it drowns out the world.

and then, in the quiet, you hear it. low, raspy. a laugh. 

just for you.

and you screamed.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

enzo was a man once.

before the silence. before the dirt, before the stillness of a grave that never should have opened.

he was a man. he had a name.

enzo marlowe.

born 1821, a quiet life, a simple one. not always easy, but full.

he lived on the edge of the woods in a house he built himself. stone and timber, thick walls and thick hearths. he liked his life there — secluded, yes, but peaceful.

and then he met her.

no one remembered her name anymore. not really. time had a way of wiping women like her from the record — those who didn’t fit neatly into the roles they were given.

she was wild-eyed, brilliant. she studied medicine, plants, stars, things no woman was supposed to know. they whispered “witch” in town long before the torches came.

he loved her immediately. not because she was different. but because she saw him. not just the man. not just the quiet loner in the woods. she saw his kindness, his softness. the parts of him the world didn’t want.

they built a life together, and when the world kept children from their bodies, they made room for others.

three, in total.

marisol, the oldest, stubborn and bright. luca, the boy who never spoke above a whisper but always knew when someone needed a hand. and josie, wild and sweet, with laughter like windchimes and a fierce loyalty to the people she loved.

they were happy. maybe too happy.

the town didn’t like things it couldn’t understand. a quiet man and his brilliant wife and their mismatched children, always walking too close to the trees, speaking too softly, reading too much.

it didn’t take much. just a sick animal. a failed crop. a muttered accusation from the wrong mouth at the right time. and then they came.

with fire.

he remembers the smoke before the screaming. he was in town. picking up salt, flour, apples — josie’s favorite. he was humming. it had been a good morning. he didn’t notice the silence until he reached the trees and realized no birds were singing.

he ran. and then.. the smoke. the screams. the fire. the smell.

they’d tied them inside, boarded the doors, piled the kindling themselves.

he reached the clearing too late. the house was already swallowed in flame, the windows glowed orange, the roof crackled. he screamed their names until his voice broke. he ran inside anyway.

he got burns down both arms, trying to tear the door apart, trying to find a way in. but there was only heat, only the sound of beams collapsing. only death.

the villagers stood at the edge of the trees and watched.

and when it was over, when the sky turned gray and ash coated the ground like snow, they said it was his fault.

he should never have brought her here. he should never have adopted those strange children. he should have known better.

he buried their bones in the charred garden.

and then he walked into the woods, deeper than anyone dared go, and dug a hole. no one found him. no one looked. the forest swallowed him whole.

and he slept.

longer than anyone should sleep. the soil grew over him, roots wove through his bones. his name vanished from memory.

the world moved on. until it didn’t. until noise shattered the silence. a crowbar. a flash of light. laughter. footsteps. intrusion.

his grave — violated.

he had not asked to return. he had made peace with death. but the living pulled at the veil. and something inside him stirred.

not rage. not vengeance. just… ache.

he clawed his way up through damp soil and fractured wood. the first breath in centuries burned like fire in a chest long dead.

and the sky. the sky was wrong. too bright. too loud. everything was wrong.

except.. you.

standing still as stone. half-hidden behind an angel statue. light in your hand, fear in your eyes.

and something… familiar.

he couldn’t place it. not yet. but it pulled at him. like the tether he’d lost so long ago, like the last warmth of a fire he thought had died. he looked past the grave robbers. past the others. past the world that was not his.

he looked at you. and something ancient moved in his chest.

not life. not exactly. but memory.

of a hand in his. of a smile shared across candlelight. of trust, of love. of home.

it wasn’t her face. it wasn’t her voice. but it was her presence. and so he smiled.

he hadn’t smiled in over 170 years. he smiled at you, and only you. because even in this decayed shell of a body… even with dirt in his lungs and death in his bones.

he knew you.

not your name. not your life. but your soul.

and now he can’t look away. the others scream. they run, but not you. your eyes stay locked on his, wide with terror — but something deeper too. a flicker of… recognition? no. it couldn’t be.

and yet… he steps forward.

your flashlight trembles in your hand. you stumble back, heart racing. you don’t understand what’s happening. you don’t understand why he’s coming toward you.

but he’s not hunting, he’s remembering, he’s mourning. he’s reaching for something he thought was gone. and now he’s awake. and he’s looking for the only thing in this world that doesn’t feel rotten and strange and lost.

you.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

you don’t run.

you should. every instinct in your body is screaming at you to move, to turn, to bolt into the trees the way your friends did — screaming and stumbling into the dark, into anything but this.

but you stay frozen. not out of bravery. not out of courage.

just… confusion. paralysis. a cold that has nothing to do with the night.

he’s standing in front of you now. the corpse. the man. the thing with dead eyes and a name that doesn’t belong in your century.

enzo.

he says it again — his voice like cracked earth and forgotten prayers.

“my love… you came back.”

your heart stumbles against your ribs.

“i don’t.. i don’t know you,” you manage, barely above a whisper. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

his expression doesn’t change. he looks at you like he’s known you forever.

his eyes, clouded with the fog of death, but still impossibly human, search your face like he’s waiting for a flicker of recognition. as if the shape of your lips or the tilt of your eyes is something he’s memorized across centuries.

you take a shaky step back. “please don’t,” you say, your voice cracking.

and then — his hand moves. slow. deliberate. he raises it toward your face like he’s reaching out to touch something delicate, something holy.

you flinch, instinct screaming that he’s going to grab you; maybe tear at your skin, maybe sink those gray hands into your chest and pull out your heart like a flower. 

but he doesn’t.

he cups your cheek. and suddenly, you don’t feel fear. you feel warmth. impossible. quiet. wrong.

his hand is rough, but not rotting. cold, but not dead. and under your skin, where his palm rests gently against your face, something sparks.

like a memory you don’t remember having. like the echo of a feeling that doesn’t belong to you.

you open your eyes wider; startled, breathless, and that’s when you see him.

he’s changing.

his face, once sunken and slack with death, begins to fill out. the color returns, little by little, bleeding into his skin like ink into water. his jaw tightens. his cheeks smooth. the lines of his youth begin to reappear beneath the hollow mask of decay.

his hair stays in that same white shade but his lips regain shape. his eyes, while still misted with the long fog of death, begin to shine with something painfully human.

enzo.

not the corpse. the man. and for just one, suspended second, he looks like someone you could have known. someone you should have known.

he smiles.

and it breaks your heart a little. because there’s no horror in it. no hunger. just love. just recognition.

“you found me again,” he says softly.

your lips part. the words are there, what the hell is happening? but your voice refuses to carry them.

his thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, as if memorizing the lines of you all over again. and then he says it. 

“eleanor.”

the name rips through your mind like a bell. your head jerks back. the sound feels wrong, too loud, too sharp. it’s not a name, it’s a scream made quiet. it slams into your skull and rings in your ears like a siren only you can hear.

you reel from it. step away. press your hands to your ears as if that will muffle the noise echoing inside your bones. “no,” you breathe, shaking your head. “that’s not. stop.”

he blinks, confused. but calm. waiting.

“that’s not my name,” you manage. “my name is…”

you say it. your name. your real name. the one you’ve carried your whole life. the one on your license. the one your parents gave you.

he hears it. he nods. and still, he smiles. soft. understanding. with something quiet and aching in the corners of his mouth.

“you don’t remember,” he says.

you swallow. “remember what?”

“me.”

his voice is so gentle, it almost kills you. “her,” he adds after a beat. “who you were. who we were. the life we lived before… before they took it.”

you shake your head slowly, but the world spins when you do. because there is something there.

not memory. not quite. just pressure. a feeling at the back of your mind like the outline of a dream you can’t hold onto. a fire. a garden. someone calling your name — not this name, not the one you know, but eleanor.

your stomach turns.

“you’ve got the wrong person,” you whisper, unsure if you’re lying or not.

enzo’s eyes never leave you. he doesn’t argue.

he just looks at you the way people do when they already know the truth, even if you haven’t caught up to it yet.

“you don’t have to remember,” he says softly. “you just have to be here.”

you breathe in sharply, chest tight, lungs aching. you want to run again. you should. but your legs don’t move.

because whatever this is; it’s not over. you don’t know what he is. you don’t know what you are. but some part of you, some ancient, buried thing.. 

is listening.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

a month slips by.

you’re not sure when exactly it happened, when your boundaries softened, when your loneliness outweighed your logic, when the sound of your own thoughts at night became too loud to bear. maybe it was that night you found him sitting by your doorstep in the rain, hands limp in his lap, dirt still clinging to his skin. maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were the last thing tethering him to this world.

so you let him in. and he never left.

enzo has no concept of space or routine. but he’s trying, in his own quiet way, to fit himself into your life. your mornings are a slow dance, fumbling, careful, strange.

you’re in the bathroom now, toothbrush in one hand, hair a mess, sleep still clinging to your bones. enzo’s behind you. again. arms circled tightly around your waist, cheek resting against your shoulder like you’re an anchor and he’s afraid the tide will take him.

you groan, leaning forward to spit into the sink. “enzo, i can’t brush my teeth with you glued to me.”

his voice is soft, rough from disuse, barely above a whisper. “just… a little longer.”

you glance at him in the mirror. his eyes meet yours there, wide, distant, like he’s still not used to reflections. or maybe like he doesn’t recognize himself anymore.

“you said that ten minutes ago,” you mutter, trying to reach for your face cream.

he buries his nose into the side of your neck. “you’re warm.”

you sigh. “you say that every morning.”

“because it’s true.” there’s a faint lilt of stubbornness in his voice now. “the bed’s cold when you leave.”

“so is my paycheck when i don’t go to work.”

he frowns against your skin, arms tightening like he might actually try to keep you hostage if he thought it would work. “i don’t like it when you go.”

“yeah,” you say gently, untangling his hands. “but i always come back.”

he’s silent for a moment. then, quietly:

“you didn’t before.”

your chest tightens. you turn around and cup his face. it’s still cool to the touch, too still, but his eyes… his eyes are full of something that almost feels alive.

“i’m here now,” you whisper.

his gaze flicks between your eyes, searching for something he never says aloud. then he nods. just once. and lets go.

friday night.

your apartment smells like takeout and cheap candles. the lights are dimmed, couch cushions scattered, blankets tossed over armrests. it’s your monthly hangout, devon, will, tasha, mia. your people. they’re here like they always are, except now everything’s different.

enzo is sitting on the floor by the window when they arrive, watching the night sky like it’s something unfamiliar.

you greet them at the door.

“hey,” devon says first, handing you a plastic bag filled with snacks. “we brought the weird popcorn you like.”

“bless you.”

mia hugs you lightly. “how’s, um… you know.”

“enzo?” you glance over your shoulder. he hasn’t moved. “quiet. weird. clingy.”

tasha raises an eyebrow. “so basically a cat with attachment issues.”

you huff a laugh. “yeah. if the cat was a dead guy who crawled out of a grave.”

they file in slowly, eyes drifting toward him. will’s the last to come in, pausing by the door a moment longer than the rest.

“he doesn’t blink,” he mutters.

“he does. just not often.”

you all settle eventually, pizza boxes open, movie picked, wine passed around. enzo stays close, but not too close, sitting cross-legged near your feet, staring at the tv like he’s trying to decode it. you can feel his gaze flicking to will every few minutes.

the group tries to pretend it’s normal.

“so…” tasha sips from her glass. “does he… like, sleep? or just stand around in the dark and watch you?”

“he doesn’t sleep,” you say, matter-of-fact.

devon leans forward, lowering his voice. “have you asked him how he, uh… came back?”

you nod. “he said he doesn’t know.”

“what does he tell you then?” mia asks.

“mostly that i’m warm and he misses me while i shower.”

will snorts. “romantic.”

enzo finally speaks then, soft, direct, like his voice cuts through everyone else's.

“you smell different when you’re wet.”

the room goes still.

“…okay,” devon says, blinking slowly. “gonna go ahead and file that under ‘things i never wanted to hear from a corpse.’”

you just sigh and pat enzo’s head. “he means well.”

“does he?” will mutters.

enzo’s eyes shift to him. they stay there.

the movie starts. you try to relax. conversation quiets down. the group slowly gets pulled into the plot. enzo doesn’t. he’s still focused on you. or more specifically, your proximity to will, who keeps leaning too close, laughing too loudly, brushing against your shoulder.

then it happens again.

will reaches over you for the popcorn bowl and his fingers brush your hand. barely. not even intentional.

enzo moves.

he stands slowly, like something ancient waking up. your body tenses before your mind even catches up.

he walks over, silent and deliberate, and kneels in front of you. everyone’s eyes are on him now. the air in the room shifts—heavy, unsure.

he leans in close. too close.

“…( name ).”

his voice is cracked marble, something broken and echoing. your name comes out like a warning. or a reminder.

will shifts away immediately. you hear devon exhale. tasha straightens. mia clears her throat but doesn’t say anything.

you look down at enzo. “really?”

“yes.”

you sigh. “come here.”

he climbs up beside you without hesitation, curling into your side like he was built to fit there. his hand finds yours. his head rests against your chest. the tension doesn’t fade, not really, but no one says anything.

he’s not watching the movie.

he’s watching your friends. counting how many times they smile at you. memorizing the ones who laugh too loud. wondering how easy it would be to remove them from the equation.

just in case.

you wrap an arm around him and feel him relax instantly. his grip on your shirt loosens, but he still doesn’t look away from the group.

you don’t say anything.

you just hold him. because if you don’t, you’re not sure who, or what, he might become.

｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡  ｡

another month passes. enzo has changed.

not in the way you were afraid of. he still sleeps curled at the foot of your bed like a loyal pet, still stares too long at your face when you’re trying to eat dinner, still whispers your name like it’s the only word that matters, but there’s something different now.

he’s… learning.

you started noticing it in small ways. the way he stopped flinching at the microwave. how he started replying with full sentences instead of one-word mumbles. how he stopped calling your phone a "tiny black mirror" and started asking for the wifi password instead.

you came home once and found him watching youtube tutorials on how to fold laundry. another time, he said “lowkey” in a sentence and you nearly dropped your keys.

today, you’re exhausted. work dragged you across the coals and back, and you’re two seconds from collapsing onto the couch when you step through the door.

enzo is waiting.

he’s standing in the hallway, wearing one of your old sweatshirts and joggers you thought you threw away. his hair’s tied back in a small, messy bun. his eyes are wide, bright, strangely focused.

“welcome home,” he says.

you blink. “…hey?”

he steps forward. not close enough to trap you in a hug like usual. just close enough for you to feel something coming.

then, “i want to be your househusband.”

you freeze mid-step. “what?”

he tilts his head, hands clasped in front of him. “i’ve been researching. i understand the role. i think i’d be very good at it.”

you just… stare. because what else do you do when your dead ex-husband from a whole different timeline asks to be your domestic partner like it’s the most natural thing in the world?

he keeps going, calm and serious like he’s rehearsed this. “i can clean. i can do the dishes. i can cook you food. i made a list of meals i want to try. i’ll get groceries too. i saw there’s an app for it. or i can walk to the store—”

“enzo.” you hold up a hand, overwhelmed. “you… can’t go outside.”

he goes quiet for a second. thinking. then he nods slowly. “because i don’t breathe and my blood doesn’t move.”

“…yeah. that.”

“i’ll wear a hoodie.”

you rub your forehead. “enzo—”

but when you look at him again, you stop.

he doesn’t look like he did two months ago. his skin isn’t as sallow, his eyes not as sunken. there’s a strange flush of color beneath his cheeks, faint but noticeable. his posture isn’t stiff anymore, and his movements are more fluid, less… unnatural.

you step closer, studying him.

he looks almost alive.

if it weren’t for the silence in his chest, the way he doesn’t blink unless he remembers to, the stillness behind his breathless words, you’d almost believe it.

he watches you closely. always watching. waiting.

you sigh, lowering your bag onto the counter. “okay. fine. you can try.”

his expression shifts — hope blooming behind his eyes like something sacred. he doesn’t smile, not quite, but his hands twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with the joy flooding into his bones.

“you’ll need to get a debit card,” you add, walking to the fridge. “you can’t walk around with cash. and if you’re ordering groceries, here’s what you usually need to buy—”

you grab a notepad and scribble down the basics. enzo stands beside you, nodding carefully, almost solemn.

“i watched videos,” he says. “i searched for what people make for the people they love. i want to cook things that make you feel safe.”

you pause.

your hand rests on the counter. you glance at him again, but this time… something’s softer. your gaze lingers longer. not out of wariness. just curiosity.

affection, even.

he feels it.

the way your eyes settle on him, the way your voice doesn't carry hesitation, just tired acceptance. the way your presence doesn’t shrink away from his anymore. you’re not running. you’re not pushing him away. not tonight.

for the first time since he clawed his way back to you, enzo knows, this is working. this is right.

you finally see him as something more than what he was. maybe not quite alive. maybe not quite human.

but his. yours. real.

you hand him the list. “don’t blow up the stove.”

“i won’t,” he promises.

you arch a brow. “seriously. last time you thought oil was ‘a flammable blessing.’”

enzo stares at you, dead serious. “i’ve learned.”

you snort, shaking your head. “god, you’re weird.”

he steps a little closer. “but you’re smiling.”

you realize you are. and for once, it doesn’t feel forced.

he reaches out carefully, brushing your hand, then gently pressing his fingers to your wrist like he’s trying to feel your pulse. like it’s a sound he wants to memorize.

“i’m going to be good to you this time,” he says, voice low.

you don’t respond. not right away. but you don’t pull away either.

and he knows, this is how it starts again. not with fire. not with a grave. but with warmth. and slow, quiet love.

[my-fancy-hat]

still wondering what was yoshiki's initial wish here. it's true both yoshiki and 'hikaru' have been succefully avoiding bad endings until now, so maybe what yoshiki wanted to ask to 'hikaru' was the possibility to bring original hikaru back? thus repeating the hichi-san tragedy, another bad ending. 'hikaru' grant the wish, hikaru comes back to life but only as a severed head (that was attached to the body merely by 'hikaru' supernatural powers) carrying og hikaru's consciousness, and bring calamity to the village and yoshiki. I highly doubt at this point in the story yoshiki would be capable to ask for something like this, after all the things he went through with 'hikaru', he looks more accepting about reality than before.

after all, when encountered with the real opportunity to make one of his wishes come true, all he ask for is for 'hikaru' to come back to him.

there's something so beautiful about a god existing solely to grant people's wishes, getting asked for HIM. just for him to stay. he IS yoshiki's wish.

[todoriin]

silent treatment fic, i've probably written and thought about this scenario a million billion times, so very self-indulgent, hot-headed!reader and phainon is puppy coded

it's hard to ignore phainon, yet you've somehow nailed the art perfectly.

even as he trails behind you through the crowds of marmoreal palace like a pitiful chimera, even as he tries to strike up ways of talking to you, luring you with the best conversation starters, even as he drapes himself all over you. because while you may like your personal space, phainon likes it even more.

yet, none of it is enough to get you to budge, stubborn with your silent treatment as punishment for not listening to you and going out of his way to disobey your concerns.

from the last expedition aglaea had sent him out on, he had come back with a pretty nasty injury. you were concerned over him for days, pampering him, making sure he didn't exert himself too much so the wound would open back up.

only to find out that he couldn't resist sparring with mydei.

and lo and behold, it reopened and you were left patching up a bleeding phainon in deathly quiet silence, irritation dripping off you in waves. you had a mountain of things you wanted to say, scold him until his ears fell off, but you kept quiet and refused to let the frustration boil over.

your lover had sat as still as a tree while you worked, not making a sound- not even wincing as the needle pricked into his skin.

he was waiting for it, your wrath, the flames he'd have to endure, yet it never came. you packed up your kit and left him without another word, and phainon didn't know which hurt more; the ache in his side or the pang in his heart.

obviously, he ran after you, keeping five steps behind you obediently, your combined footsteps echoing off the marble wall like a ticking clock, waiting for you to explode at him.

but it never came. he was getting antsy, nervously rubbing his palms against his pants.

phainon followed you all the way to the markets, where you browsed the stalls with keen interest, never once glancing back at the despite all the commotion that flocked to him. enthusiastic children that came up to him, stall owners that wanted to thank him for helping, trying to give him something in return; while he was getting held back, you kept moving without so much a second thought.

he reconvened with you in front of a fresh food vendor, where you were carefully scanning the produce, and he simply returned to your side as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"ah, phainon!" the owner greeted with a big smile. "thanks for your help carrying the boxes the other day, i wanted to say thanks with some produce on the house."

you didn't react to the praise occurring right in front of you, simply assessing which apple was fresher than the other.

"please, that's not necessary," phainon waves it off. "i'm happy to help any time, free of charge!"

"such a good lad," the owner turns to you. "aren't you lucky, y/n? got yourself the finest catch here."

phainon hears you huff. "so lucky that i have to spend my time fretting over him. i'll take these, thanks."

"i'm sorry," phainon murmurs just between you two. you don't move, waiting for your purchase to be wrapped up as phainon keeps staring at the side of your head, anticipating for the moment you'll finally look at him.

it passes by and before he knows it, you're setting off again. this time, heading back in the direction of your shared home.

he would open all the heavy doors in marmoreal palace for you, running ahead just to hold them for you to walk through without so much a glance at him. when you finally entered the privacy of your shared abode, he was all over you, arms around your shoulders, holding your waist, anywhere he could touch, he held on to.

"y/n," he'd whine your name over and over again, frowning even harder at every ignored attempt. "i'm sorry for worrying you, won't you at least look at me so i can tell you how sorry i am?"

you just acted like he wasn't there. as if there wasn't an oversized chrysos heir holding onto you, as if he couldn't just easily manoeuvre you with his ridiculous strength.

he didn't, though. didn't want to anger you even more.

he left you reluctantly when aglaea and tribbie summoned him for another thing that they needed his assistance with, but his thoughts kept drifting back to you, anxiety settling deep in his chest. even a dip at the hot baths couldn't even soothe him, mind running with ways to make it up to you- how can he even do that if you refuse to look at him? or even breathe in his direction?

her returned that evening to you preparing dinner, the portions still for two, and still accounting for his massive appetite.

it was even his favourite, phainon swears he didn't tear up a little. despite how angry you were with him, you still go out of your way to care for him. you didn't react when he sidled up as close to you as possible, chest pressed flush against your back. he thanked you for the food, and you didn't say anything, eyes glued to your cooking as he peppered gentle kisses along your shoulder, scared to provoke you even more.

even though you ate side by side, his thigh staying against yours, he was still antsy. you were so close, yet still felt so far, you still haven't even spared him a glance, and he was losing his mind.

phainon could only be so patient before the desperation boiled over.

by bed time, you slid into bed next to him and stayed on your side, reaching for the book on your nightstand. phainon, who had forgotten about his nightly-reading, stared at you, waiting for you to break, but you had simply opened your novel to the bookmarked chapter and began reading.

the sheets beside you rustle. next thing you know, there's a heavy weight spread completely over your bod, his chin resting on your chest as he was practically pleading for your attention with puppy dog eyes. yet, your book seemed to be more important, because you just adjusted your arms and used his head like a book rest instead of giving him what he wanted.

displeased, he wraps his arms around you with a suffocating tightness and rolls around so that you're the one lying on him, book dropping on the mattress.

he squeezes you close to his body, muscular arms constricting you like chains and you wheeze in his tight grasp.

"i'm sorry, please, stop this unfair treatment," he wails, pushing your head into his collarbones.

you squirm above him and punch his shoulder in protest. "phainon!"

"you need to forgive me first!"

"i can't breathe!"

"say you'll stop ignoring me!"

"i'll stop ignoring you!"

he finally loosens his embrace and you gasp for air, pushing your face out away from phainon's skin.

"have you gone mad?" you immediately ask, eyebrows furrowing with displeasure. your words fizzle away when you catch sight of his teary eyes and the pitiful sadness glistening in them, matched with a pout that made it seem like he was a second away from crying. "phainon?"

he rolls over on his side with you still in his grasp, shuffling down so he could hide his face in your chest. he wraps himself around you, arm snaking around your torso and thigh thrown over your hip. you couldn't even leave if you tried.

"i thought i was going to die," he whimpers.

"die? you?" you ask.

he nods. "please, never do that again. it felt like torture."

you sigh. "you deserved it for being an idiot and not listening to me when i was just showing concern for you. instead, you go out of your way to disregard my orders."

"mydei asked me to spar."

"you should have said no! i bet he even tried to be worried about you, asked how you were healing, and you just lied through your teeth and insisted you were fine, when you know very well you weren't!"

"i'm sorry, i was stupid, i won't do it again, i'll properly listen this time, i promise!"

"why didn't you listen to me last time?"

"i wanted to spar with him!"

"you buffoon! now i'm getting mad again!" you try to turn in his grasp and he whines, large hands forcing you to face him again, refusing to let you show your back to him again.

"be mad at me all you want, curse me out, pray for my downfall, but won't you at least look at me?" he pleads, lips quivering as he stares up at you, all teary-eyed.

"you're being dramatic."

"i'll jump off the highest mountain in okhema if i'm not in your gaze."

"you'd rather face my wrath then my silence?"

"yes, a thousand times yes," he burrows himself further into your chest, clinging to you. "i'll take everything you hit me with, but i can't handle it if you give me nothing, i'd rather fight nikador singlehandedly."

you sigh, hands snaking up to reside in his snowy hair and he hums in relief when you start playing with the strands.

"fine," you relent, "you're forgiven."

his fingers creep under your night shirt, and he all but nuzzles his face closer to your body warmth, content.

"you were very mean to me today," he mumbles.

you shift in his arms, pushing at his shoulders, trying to create some distance. "i was mean? you have the gall to say-"

"-i was kidding! don't leave me."

you sigh when you feel him pull you into a bone-crushing embrace.

"for your own sake, phainon, you should really stop biting the hand that feeds you. in other words, taunting me just because you find my reaction entertaining."

"but it's just so fun."

"it'll be real fun when i don't talk to you for a whole week."

"you can't do that!"

"i can. i'll run away, i'll hide from you," you joke.

"i won't give up until i find you, i'll search every corner of amphoreus, and i'll plead for your forgiveness every time."

"great, so how about we avoid that scenario completely and you exercise some self-preservation?"

"fine."

phainon manages to pin you to the bed for hours the next morning, insisting that it was to make up for all the time he spent agonising over your punishment, all the time he should have gotten with you, his neediness depleting slowly as he lays on top of you.

© todoriin 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site, do not feed to AI

[phantasmallussion]

The Equation of Us

In which Phainon is a hopeless chemistry student who finally understands the subject by falling hopelessly in love and turning every exam into a love letter.

content: phainon x gn!reader, modern university au

word count: 1.7k

note: i wanted to make something before his banner drops, so here's an attempt. this is my first time writing phainon, so i'm so sorry if it's bad or ooc. formatted on phone, so the format might be a bit off as well.

I. Phainon is Bad at Chemistry (Until He Isn't)

Phainon is, by all definitions, a disaster at General Chemistry.

It's not that he doesn't try. He studies, shows up to classes, and even volunteers to mop the lab floor when someone drops the potassium-filled beaker again. But there is just something about acids, chemical bonding, and thermodynamics that just... won't stick.

Until you came along.

Somehow, the moment he started associating chemical principles with you, everything clicked. Like how ionic bonds are one-sided love. Or how magnetic fields reminded him of the ways you make his heart pull sideways when you walk into the room. Soon his notes are no longer filled with the complicated jargons and diagrams as was shown by his professor, Anaxagoras, on the board but is instead replaced with little doodles and analogies connected to you.

Suddenly, chemistry is Phainon's favourite subject. Not because he's good at it, but because every question feels like a metaphor for his hopeless crush.

II. A Guide to Chemistry (Written in Phainon-Speak)

(Or, a glimpse into Phainon's notebook)

He's doomed. And Mydei, his best friend, is now aware of it.

They were studying together after classes, reviewing notes and discussing lessons. But this study session has long devolved into Phainon drawing stick figures of you and him with electrons drawn between them. He has not been paying attention to any of Mydei's words for the past 15 minutes and Mydei is starting to be annoyed at the lack of response. So he turned his gaze to his silent friend and came face-to-face with a very concerning list of things.

✧ Note A: Bonding Types ○ Ionic bond: When someone gives away everything—like I would, if they asked. One-sided, but powerful. Painful and devastating, very me-coded. ○ Covalent bond Shared electrons = shared food and drinks. Strong and stable. Very couple-coded. ○ Hydrogen bond Small and fleeting, like when their hands brushed against mine once and I couldn't breathe for three minutes.

✧ Note B: Magnetic Fields Technically it is formed when charges move. But also, when they enter a room and all my atoms realign. North Pole, South Pole? All irrelevant, my compass only points to them.

✧ Note C: Activation Energy The minimum energy needed to start a reaction. For me, that's three hours of inner turmoil, two hours of Mydei pep talks, and one caffeine overdose just to text them: 'hey do u wanna study together later maybe if you're free haha'.

✧ Note D: Chemical Equilibrium When the forward and reverse reactions are equal and occur at the same rate. It's like when they flirt with me by accident and I flirt back on purpose, they get flustered and I get flustered, we both freaked out and retreated at the same time. Balance. Equilibrium achieved. Both parties suffering.

"You're gonna fail both chem and romance in the same semester at this rate."

"HEY!!"

Mydei is tired and exasperated.

But Phainon? Phainon has never understood chemistry better.

III. Midterm Examinations and the Paper That Started It All

Phainon's Chemistry Midterm Paper

(Graded by: Professor Anaxagoras Professor Cerces)

Comment (all written in Cerces' handwriting): Professor Anaxa has refused to grade this paper properly so I have taken the liberty of grading it in his stead.

Question 1: Define polar vs non-polar covalent bonds. Answer: A polar bond is like when I like them more than they like me. Unbalanced, but still connected. A non-polar bond is when we're both blushing idiots too afraid to confess. Equal, with maximum tension. (I prefer non-polar, personally) Comment: Full marks.

Question 2: Describe an exothermic reaction. Answer: An exothermic reaction releases heat into the surroundings. Like when they laughed. Or when they brushed my hair back last Tuesday and I short-circuited. Pretty sure I melted internally. 100% heat released. No regrets. Comment: Correct. Also, too much detail.

Question 3: Explain Le Chatelier's Principle. Answer: When a system is disturbed, it shifts to restore balance. If I start ignoring them (usually by accident), they start sending me dog memes. When they forget to reply, I send them stupid chemistry puns. We always shift to equilibrium, return to chaotic harmony. It's the balance of love. Comment: Scientific accuracy = ✔️ Emotional damage = also ✔️

Question 4: What is an intermolecular force, and how does it differ from intramolecular force? Answer: Intermolecular = between separate molecules = the gravitational pull I feel when they walk by. Intramolecular = inside the molecule = the feelings I try to supress but fail to contain. TL;DR: both are responsible for me being completely stuck on them Comment: Perfectly phrased. It's brilliant, but also tragic.

Extra Credit (Free Response): What does chemistry mean to you? Answer: Chemistry is the invisible pull between two elements. Sometimes reactive, sometimes dangerous. but sometimes... just right. They are the element I wasn't supposed to discover, but now that I have, I don't think I'll ever be inert again. Also, please pass me. I need this for graduation. I'll even name my next molecule after you. Comment: A+ Score. And do note that the one who graded this paper is me, Cerces, not Anaxa.

Final Score: 85/100. PASS.

IV. And The News Spreads

It starts small.

Anaxa "accidentally" leaks a few lines to Aglaea in the faculty lounge. A student nearby heard their conversation and got their hands on the original paper. An anonymous student submitted it to the school zine as a meme; it somehow passed checks and got published under the title "Chemical Bonding: The Sappy Edition". The zine was quickly stopped soon after but word still spread faster than flu season in the dorm halls.

But they weren't just laughing at it, they were studying with it. Freshmen started using it as study guides. Then came the memes, the academic forum post, and a bootleg version was reprinted under the name "Chemistry of Love 101" in a study zine.

And Phainon... Phainon became a chemistry icon.

V. The Dreaded Day (But This Time Phainon Is Ready)

Phainon walks in early with a confident stride and sit front and center. He was calm. Too calm. Anaxa side-eyes him from his position on the podium.

A few hours later, the exam papers had all been collected and ready for grading. Anaxa's hands reaches for one at random. He took a quick glance at the answer, then stared hard at the name column, and finally released a huge sigh. Today is going to be a long day.

Then, one afternoon, the results came in

Students filtered out of the lecture hall in waves, clutching their graded papers with expressions ranging from mild horror to cautious joy.

You were sitting on the steps outside the chemistry building, drink in one hand and phone on the other, scrolling aimlessly. The air was buzzing with noise and the breeze was warm. You honestly didn't expect much from today—maybe a nap, maybe existential dread. But what you certainly didn't expect is for Phainon to stand in front of you, nervously hugging a stack of papers like it contained both his future and his grocery list.

"Hey," he said.

You looked up. He was flushed, hair a little messy, expression nervous but hopeful.

"Hey," you answered, smiling. "You okay?"

He hesitated, then dropped onto the step beside you with a dramatic sigh.

"I'm about to do something dumb," he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow at that. "Is it the same kind of dumb as replacing Mydei's sugar and salt bottles, or...?"

"No, like—emotionally dumb," he said, then pulled a single sheet from the middle of the stack and held it out. "Here. Read this."

You blinked. "You're... giving me your final exam paper?"

"Just look at it. Please?" he said, eyes wide and weirdly intense. "I swear it's not about the grades."

You took the page. At the top was his name written in familiar scrawl.

And right below that is what you could recognise as Anaxa's handwriting:

Grade: 100/100

Comment: I refuse to ever lay my (singular) eye on this paper again. I recommend you send these "texts" to the actual recipient instead of my grading inbox.

You snorted. "Already promising," you said, flipping the page.

What followed is less like a science exam and more like a romantic thesis disguised as academic desperation.

Some carefully selected excerpts from Phainon's finals:

"A chemical reaction must overcome activation energy. I overcame mine the day I met them."

"Endothermic reactions absorb heat. But being around them is exothermic, they make me burn and I will do so happily."

"Stability constant, K = [Products]/[Reactants]. And I am more stable when they are near."

"When I say I love them, it's not hyperbole. It's data. Proven through every beat of my heart and every laugh of theirs that knocks the air out of my lungs. They are the catalyst and I am hopelessly, irreversibly reacting."

And at the very end, written almost like a postscript, is your name followed by "will you be my equilibrium?"

You stared at the last line for a long moment, something warm and strange tightening in your chest. Beside you, Phainon was silent. You turned your head. He was staring straight ahead, hands fidgeting on his lap, as if afraid to look you in the eye.

"You really wrote all this?" you asked softly.

He let out a breath that trembled at the edges. "Yeah. I didn't think Professor Anaxa would read the whole thing. I was just—y'know—sleep deprived, emotionally compromised, and full of caffeine."

You traced the margin of the paper with your finger.

"But I meant all of it," his voice was firm although he still wasn't looking at you. "Even if i flunked, i figured i should try telling the truth, just once."

You reached into your bag and pulled out a red pen of your own. Phainon blinked as you uncapped it and scribbled something at the end of the paper, then passed it back to him.

He read it. Paused. And nearly fell off the steps.

Beside the black ink of his own handwriting is your newly added words written in red.

"will you be my equilibrium?"

Grade: 100/100

Comment: Yes. Always."

[kukukurona]

#WELOVELOSERS — isagi yoichi.

all art by yuexere.

a/n; feel free to send me requests!

gamer!isagi who, despite being very intelligent when it comes to playing basically any kind of game, was actually quite stupid when it came to school. although his computer science (and sometimes math) grades were high, the other subjects basically ruin his report card.

gamer!isagi who ended up meeting you through his chemistry class, which happened to be one of his worst subjects. you were pretty good at the subject but lately your test grades have been low, so you asked the teacher if there was anyone you could tutor for some extra credit.

gamer!isagi who groaned when his teacher told him to stay after class, already knowing that he was going to be talked to about his grades. annoyed by the thought, as his games were waiting for him at home and he really wanted to play some valorant or something.

gamer!isagi who, when the bell rang and everyone left — leaving just three people in the room, eyes widened and jaw slightly dropped when he saw you. sure, you had been in his class for like a good half year by now, but he was never one to pay attention to girls.

gamer!isagi who couldn’t keep his eyes off of you when the chemistry teacher was explaining that you were to be his new tutor, trying to hopefully get his grades up.

gamer!isagi who forgot all about the games when you started to talk, you leading the conversation and asking which days he was free afterschool and if he needed help in break times or not. your voice was really pretty.

gamer!isagi who’s grades in chemistry went up, so much so infact that he started not needing a chemistry tutor anymore. that can’t be good, he wanted to be with you more.

gamer!isagi who asked you, during one of the tutor sessions for the upcoming tests, if you were good at any other subjects. to absolutely no one’s surprise, you were. score!

gamer!isagi who wasted no time in asking you to help him with other subjects, with you having no opposition to it because you quite liked helping and also being with him.

gamer!isagi who started getting closer to you through the tutoring, you both became good friends. the time you spent together extended to more than just study sessions.

gamer!isagi who, you found out, was really fond of playing games. as if it wasn’t obvious though. he liked any type of game, and was willing to try basically everything.

gamer!isagi who you were able to discuss your favorite games with, as he probably played it too. there’s no problem if he hadn’t yet, as he immediately would pull allnighters finishing your favorite games just so he could talk to you about something.

gamer!isagi who became your bestfriend — the tutoring sessions that brought you two together becoming redundant, as his grades genuinely improved because of you.

gamer!isagi who you played games with a lot, going to his house often to spend time with him. his parents didn’t mind either, they were such kind people.

gamer!isagi who plays horror games with you, both of you screaming at the jumpscares and laughing your asses off every two seconds.

gamer!isagi who became your minecraft and roblox buddy, also just your buddy for everything to be honest.

gamer!isagi who became part of your daily routine and vice versa.

gamer!isagi who genuinely was so inlove with you since the first day you met, always trying to be the best version of himself for you.

gamer!isagi who helped you in your lows and always was there for you, never minding if his shirt was soaked in tears whenever you let the walls crush down and you finally let everything out.

gamer!isagi who you also fell inlove with, despite your feelings taking much longer to develop.

gamer!isagi who tried his best to stay just friends with you, thinking you would never like him back.

gamer!isagi who was also so dang obvious to the point where he couldn’t even hide his feelings for you anymore, despite his best efforts.

gamer!isagi who was too scared to confess, but with the help of his friends’ encouragement (and also you purposely giving him very large hints that you did like him back) he finally thought out a plan to confess.

gamer!isagi who asked you to be his girlfriend through flowers, your favorite chocolate, and a beautiful handmade minecraft pop up card, which he totally did not spend hours on and repeat dozens of times to get it perfectly right for you.

PROOF-READER: @bigbootyamongusimposter

a/n ; huhu this was lowkey rushed but its okay i think, i hope this didn’t suck that much :x also gradient text is such a hassle to do. weote this instead of updating my series, whoopsies! sorry guys, nerdsagi has just been stuck in my head all day.

thank you for reading !! ᢉ𐭩 please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending an ask if you enjoyed, it would really motivate me hehe! do not copy, translate, edit, or repost, any of my content on any platforms. this is my only account.

[sakuraiiz]

Reposting this cuz it flopped💔

[chlorny]

The Queen has arrived

I wanted to make Vil and Riddle look alike since they both represent the queens of the big seven

I don't know who does the piercings underwater but I love adding them 😭 stop me

[rubydragon16]

✦ be kind, love yourself, and tsubaki-chan ✦

[egophiliac]

The funniest part of this new event is the fact I can't find out what's going on it from spoilers. All context is lost in the wave of Hot Eel Mom. I love her, all hail Georgina, mother of This and That, but where is the context? What *is* the event?

to be fair, we're still in the intro part, so not much has actually happened yet! Jade and Floyd were supposed to go to their mom's friend's wedding to help with the ancient merfolk marriage custom of

❤️❤️❤️~the Test of Love~❤️❤️❤️

but Floyd last-minute changed his mind (on account of being Floyd) and Azul was like "I'm not going if your mom is going to be there". at which point Jade realized he'd just been handed a golden opportunity to invite the absolute funniest group of people he could think of.

anyway tl;dr Jade manipulates a bunch of nerds into joining him to heckle/throw bricks at/try to drown a couple of randos in the name of love, what could possibly go wrong

[yatori-morgana]

This is the best fucking description of what's going on (also you draw everyone so scrumptiously)

[solxamber]

Leech Mom reveal... prayed for days like these

Jade, Floyd is your mom single and is she free for dinner

[stargirlrchive]

blue collar!simon who every time you pass a building he’s worked on he’ll tell you about it.

“did that beauty right there.”

he’s so proud of his work.

calloused hands holding yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss to the back of your hand as he promises that he’s gonna build you your dream home one day.

[machveil]

[solxamber]

Sync or Sink || Vil Schoenheit

You, an overworked S-Class esper with the survival instincts of a damp sock, catch the eye of SSS-Class guide Vil Schoenheit. He decides you’re his personal fixer-upper project. Shockingly, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

The world was already hanging on by a thread — economic collapse, melting ice caps, influencers starting cults via TikTok. It was a mess. You’d think that would be enough. You’d hope that would be enough. But no. Some ancient cosmic being — probably named something dramatic like Thar’zul the Chronovore — looked down at Earth and said, “You know what this needs? Fun.”

And by fun, it meant Gates.

Gates are like if cursed portals, radioactive sinkholes, and a haunted Etsy store had a baby. They pop up anywhere and everywhere: in libraries, parking garages, yoga studios, even in the middle of someone’s wedding ceremony. (“Do you take this—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT?!”)

These glowing tears in the fabric of reality are basically open invitations to every monster, demon, and unholy abomination in the neighborhood. And if left unchecked, they break, releasing those nightmares into your already-taxed existence like a hellish game of whack-a-mole.

But don't worry! Humanity, against all odds, did not die out immediately.

Because the universe, in its infinite chaos, also gave rise to Espers. Special little guys. Think emotional time bombs with telekinetic temper tantrums and the ability to level buildings if they stub their toe too hard. Espers are the only ones who can suppress Gates and fight back the monsters. They're strong, fast, powerful—and also dangerously dramatic.

Like, “cries during dog food commercials” dramatic. “Blew up a vending machine because it ate their dollar” dramatic. If they don’t have someone helping them regulate their powers (and by extension, their feelings), they’re a walking nuclear disaster waiting to happen.

Which brings us to Guides.

Guides are born with the power to soothe, ground, and stabilize Espers before they turn into emotional IEDs. They go through rigorous training. They meditate. They are the human equivalent of “have you tried deep breathing?”—except instead of calming down toddlers, they’re keeping an Esper from melting the freeway with their grief-powered fireballs.

This entire survival system hinges on compatibility between Espers and Guides. Sounds romantic, right? It’s not. It’s mostly screaming, paperwork, and sometimes unspoken sexual tension.

So, to recap:

Gates = Bad.

Espers = Powerful but emotionally unstable.

Guides = The only thing standing between civilization and utter monster-induced ruin.

Together, Espers and Guides form the first — and only — line of defense between humanity and total monster-induced annihilation.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, this system hinges entirely on two people getting along.

Which, as anyone who's ever been in a group project can tell you, is a complete joke.

The Gate had been rough. You were bleeding, caked in monster goop, and running on exactly one granola bar, four energy drinks, and pure spite. Monsters just kept coming—one after another like it was a clearance sale on eldritch horror—and now your knees were shaking, your head was pounding, and you were 99% sure you were hallucinating the talking goat that told you to “go into the light.”

You stumbled out of the Gate zone, vision blurry. There were Guides waiting beyond the perimeter, crisp in their uniforms, radiant with that “I got 8 hours of sleep and drink water” glow. Unfortunately, most of them had already been snagged by the other Espers, who were quicker, cleaner, and not currently dripping ectoplasm from their sleeve.

You blinked. The only one left was… well, no. That couldn’t be right.

Standing a few feet away, untouched and oddly pristine, was a man who looked like he’d walked straight out of a high-end fashion magazine shoot titled "War-Torn But Make It Couture."

Tall, composed, and stunning in a way that made your brain short-circuit, he was clearly someone Important™. The other S-Ranks had actively avoided him, which should’ve been a clue. But your frontal lobe was melting. You didn’t have the bandwidth to care.

You wobbled forward like a dying Roomba, grabbed a handful of his sleek uniform, and mumbled, “Guide. That’s you, right?”

And then you slumped forward and face-planted directly onto his collarbone.

There was a pause.

“…Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked, incredulously.

You groaned. “Yeah. You’re a Guide. You’ve got the badge.”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

He sounded… offended. And faintly intrigued.

“…You don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?” you mumbled into his neck.

You didn’t see the expression on his face, but if your ears weren’t lying, he audibly gasped. Like someone had just told him dry shampoo was canceled. Like the very idea of not being recognized was a personal attack.

But instead of pushing you off, he slowly brought a hand up, fingers grazing your temple. You felt a wave of warmth radiate through your skull like a breath of fresh air had crawled into your ribcage.

It was… good. Too good.

A jolt of relief punched through your nervous system. Your heart rate settled. The Gate static stopped screaming in your ears. Your whole body sagged, weightless and calm, and you barely had time to mutter “holy shit you’re good at this” before your knees gave out completely.

You passed out in his arms.

And Vil Schoenheit—SSS-Rank Guide, national treasure, and walking perfection—stood there holding your limp, grime-covered, unconscious form with a complicated look on his face.

You came back to consciousness the way a phone boots up after being thrown into a wall. Slow, glitchy, and confused.

Something was warm under you. Something was very firm. You blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the strange sensation of not being in pain anymore. The Gate headache was gone. Your soul no longer felt like it had been sandpapered. You were, inexplicably, comfortable.

That’s when you realized: you were still wrapped around the fancy Guide like a human backpack.

Face: mashed against his shoulder. Legs: around his waist. Arms: locked in a desperate hug like a koala going through a rough breakup. And he… was just sitting there. On a recovery bench. Completely calm. Holding you like this was something that happened to him all the time.

“Oh,” you mumbled, sleep-dazed. “My bad.”

He tilted his head, glossy hair catching the light like it had a sponsorship deal with a shampoo brand. “Are you done?” he asked, voice sharp. “Or shall I assume you’ve permanently relocated to my clavicle?”

You peeled yourself off him with all the grace of wet laundry sliding off a countertop. “Thanks for, uh, not letting me die,” you offered, scratching your head.

He stared at you for a long moment. “Do you know who I am?”

You blinked. “…A Guide?”

He inhaled. Visibly. Offended on a spiritual level. The look on his face could’ve soured milk. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Are you actively trying to offend me?”

“What? You’ve got the badge! That’s all I need, right?”

Vil Schoenheit—as he introduced himself—flicked you on the forehead. It was somehow both dismissive and full of judgment. “Recover. Properly.” he snapped, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. “You’re lucky I’m magnanimous.”

He swept out of the room like a disgruntled ballerina.

You blinked after him, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell was that about?”

A nurse walked in and immediately gasped like she'd just witnessed a royal birth. “Oh my Seven—was that Vil?!”

“Vil… who?” you asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.

She turned to you so fast her clipboard flew off the counter. “Vil Schoenheit. SSS Guide. He’s a legend. Do you have any idea how many Espers have tried to bond with him and been turned away in tears?”

You stared at the door where he’d just vanished. “No? He just kinda… guided me.”

The nurse screeched. “YOU JUST KINDA GOT GUIDED—are you INSANE? That man once made a Grade-SS Esper cry because they wore Crocs to an informal debriefing!”

You slowly sat back against the pillow, eyes wide.

“…I told him ‘oops sorry lol.’”

You were still internally combusting about the whole “Oops sorry lol” situation when you finally worked up the nerve to go to Vil’s office. Not to bond—you weren’t delusional—but at the very least, to apologize. Maybe offer him a thank-you fruit basket. Or one of those luxury hair masks. Something.

Espers were better paid than Guides. That wasn’t a flex—it was just how the system worked. You’d always thought it was kind of unfair, but now, standing outside his office, you suddenly felt even worse. Because if Vil was being underpaid to deal with Espers, plural, like you? He deserved hazard pay.

You raised a shaky fist and knocked on the door before pushing it open.

The door opened, and you were hit with the distinct scent of wealth, vintage cologne, and spiritual intimidation. The office looked like it belonged in a magazine titled Power & Passive Aggression: Interiors for the Elite. It had velvet chairs. A chandelier. And on the floor, sobbing, was an SS-ranked Esper.

“Please,” she was whispering, clutching Vil’s coat like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “Please, just once. I know I’m not SSS, but my compatibility score is so close—”

“I don’t guide based on some arbitrary number,” Vil said coolly, extracting himself with the same disdain you'd use to avoid stepping in gum. “I guide based on worth.”

You were already edging away when his eyes snapped up—and softened.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked, voice shifting so drastically in tone it gave you whiplash.

“I—uh. I just wanted to apologize. For, you know. The slumping. And the drool. And the calling you ‘a Guide’ like you’re not the Guide.” You laughed nervously. “Also. Uh. I can repay you?”

He stared at you like you’d offered to give him pocket lint.

Then, without even glancing at the SS Esper still on the floor, he waved a perfectly manicured hand and said, “Leave.”

She looked up, stunned. “W-what?”

“I said leave.” His voice sharpened like glass under velvet. “Now.”

You watched her scramble out in silence. Then Vil turned to you, posture relaxing like you were an entirely different species of Esper.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the velvet chair.

You obeyed. Of course you did. Your legs moved like they belonged to someone else.

“I didn’t come here to be guided,” you said quickly. “I just thought I’d offer some compensation since you took care of me back at the Gate, and—”

“Hush.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t guide you for compensation,” Vil said, moving closer, “and I certainly don’t require repayment.”

“But I—”

“Do not interrupt me,” he said smoothly, placing his hand just under your jaw and tilting your head with two fingers. “Close your eyes.”

You did.

And just like before, the storm in your chest went still.

He hadn’t even made full contact yet, and already your frayed nerves calmed, your aching muscles relaxed, and that hollow echo left by the Gate quieted.

You opened your mouth to speak again—because, honestly, who wouldn’t panic under that much raw focus—but his voice cut in before a single syllable escaped:

“Did I say you could talk?”

You shut your mouth.

Vil smiled. Like he’d just won something important, and wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet.

“Good. You learn quickly.”

You staggered out of the Gate like a soldier crawling back from the front lines of a war no one believed in. Your clothes were singed, your limbs were shaking, your skin was buzzing with leftover energy that had nowhere to go, and your brain was running the Windows 95 shutdown noise on loop. You had fought monsters for the past hour with all the grace of a dying blender.

Everything hurt. Your body felt like it had been used as a battering ram. Your soul felt like it had been microwaved.

So when you saw the sweet, merciful glow of a Guide badge ahead in the crowd, your instincts took over. You staggered forward like a half-dead Roomba on its last cycle, locked onto the nearest beacon of safety.

The Guide in question had orange hair and the smug look of someone who thought they were God’s gift to humanity despite the fact they were clearly holding a vape pen and a clipboard.

You didn’t care.

You lurched toward him, arms outstretched like a cryptid emerging from the woods.

“BRO NO,” he yelped. “DUDE, I’M NOT CERTIFIED FOR THIS LEVEL OF TRAUMA—DON’T PUKE ON ME—”

But before your forehead could connect with his very punchable shoulder, a blur of movement swept in.

You were yanked back by the collar like an untrained dog trying to bolt into traffic.

“Absolutely not,” a cool, smooth voice said with the unmistakable tone of expensive disdain. “You are not grounding with him.”

You turned sluggishly to your new captor and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Vil. Hair perfect despite the apocalyptic weather conditions of a gate zone. Wearing a coat that probably cost more than your entire existence and looking at you like you were a particularly unfortunate stain on said coat.

You blinked at him. “Am I in trouble?” you mumbled.

Vil arched a brow. “You’re seconds away from slumping onto a Guide who once tried to ground an Esper by playing lo-fi beats through his AirPods. Yes, you’re in trouble.”

You were too tired to be offended.

He sighed, took your hand, and suddenly, bliss.

Like every nerve in your body was dunked in lavender oil and told to shut up. Your breathing evened out. Your vision cleared. Your bones climbed back into their sockets like, “Our bad, we’ll behave now.”

You let him guide you to a nearby bench, too dazed to do anything but follow the magical angel who had just saved you from the worst decision of your life.

Vil sat gracefully. You slumped next to him like a dying cactus in a thunderstorm.

“Post-gate recovery is non-negotiable,” he said, like he hadn’t just watched you nearly expire in public.

You closed your eyes and focused on the cool, steady rhythm of his guidance, and then—

A crinkle.

You opened one eye to see him pull a juice box from his bag. With a bendy straw.

He inserted the straw and handed it to you like you were a toddler who’d just had a very bad day at daycare.

You stared at the juice. Then at him. “Is this for me?”

“No,” he said dryly. “It’s for the other S-class Esper currently drooling on my coat.”

You blinked, deeply touched. You took a sip.

It was… heavenly.

You made a soft noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.

And then—your eyes stung.

“No,” Vil said immediately, without looking at you. “Whatever emotional reaction you’re about to have—don’t.”

You sniffled. “But you brought me juice. Nobody’s brought me juice since I got classified. Everyone just shoves me into Gates and tells me not to die.”

He flicked your forehead. “If you die, I have to find another Esper whose personality doesn’t give me hives. That sounds exhausting.”

“Are you… saying you like me?”

“I’m saying your emotional resilience is marginally less pathetic than average,” he said, adjusting your posture so your head leaned more comfortably on his shoulder. “And I don’t hate your voice.”

You sipped your juice box, trembling like a Victorian child given a warm meal for the first time.

No one had treated you like this since you joined the system. You’d been weaponized, categorized, and told to sit still and kill things on command. You were a tool. A number. A sharp object.

But Vil wasn’t afraid of your sharp edges. He looked you in the eye and said, “That’s a guide badge you’re drooling on, potato. Not a chew toy.”

And then gave you juice.

You sniffled again.

“If you sob, I will end you,” he muttered, but his hand never let go of yours.

And you knew, deep in your wrecked little Esper heart, that you would fight a thousand more gates just to be guided by him again.

Even if he bullied you the entire time.

So apparently, post-gate recovery hadn’t just been juice boxes and emotionally confusing hand-holding.

No. It turned out you had to take something called a Routine Compatibility Check for “guidance efficiency optimization.”

You hadn’t known what any of that meant, but someone had shoved a clipboard at you and told you to “go sit in the glow room and don’t touch anything,” so there you were. Sitting in a sterile white room that smelled like hand sanitizer and despair. Waiting to meet your newly assigned “guidance match.”

A door creaked open.

You turned around—and in walked a guy who looked like he hadn’t seen direct sunlight since the invention of the lightbulb. His shoulders were hunched, hoodie too big, blue glowing hair all mussed like he’d lost a fight with a hairdryer. He had eyebags for days and the posture of a raccoon caught mid-fridge-raid.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

He looked at you harder—and visibly recoiled like you’d just bit him.

“…Uhhh,” he said, voice high and trembling. “You’re the S-class?”

“Yup,” you replied.

“Oh no.”

This man looked like he was seconds from writing “HELP” on the window with a dry erase marker. His hand was already twitching toward the panic button. He was mentally Googling “what to do when assigned a battle demon.”

You opened your mouth to say something reassuring—like, “Hey, I only explode on some guides,” or “I’ve never actually flattened a building during a meltdown”—

—but the door slammed open behind you.

“Absolutely not.”

You turned around.

Vil Schoenheit stood in the doorway like the wrath of God dressed in Gucci. Impeccable coat. Sunglasses indoors. Holding a coffee cup that you knew wasn’t from the office vending machine.

He eyed the situation—your tentative shuffle toward your new guide, the way the poor guy was gripping his ID badge like a rosary—and his lip curled like someone had just handed him expired tofu.

“I’m taking them,” Vil said flatly to the Guidance Office rep standing nearby. “This is non-negotiable.”

The rep blinked. “But, Mr. Schoenheit, the match—”

“—was laughable. They’re mine.”

Your poor assigned guide looked so relieved it was almost insulting.

“Thank the stars,” he mumbled, already gathering his things like you were a bomb that’d just been safely disarmed. “No offense, but I really don’t do well with… uh… physical contact or eye contact or conflict or—”

You were too stunned to reply as Vil grabbed you by the wrist, effortlessly pivoted on his heel, and strode out of the room with you in tow like a high fashion tornado.

You stumbled after him. “Okay, hi, hello? What was that?”

“I saw your assignment,” Vil said coolly. “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that continue.”

“But—I thought you weren’t accepting new matches?”

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “So…?”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, slow and deliberate, like you weren’t quite connecting the dots fast enough.

“I didn’t consider you ‘new'.”

You shut your mouth because your brain was full of static. Something about the way he said that made your knees consider filing for divorce from the rest of your body.

He guided you all the way to the elevator, in silence, while you tried to process what had just happened.

You, apparently, had been claimed.

And worst of all?

You thought you might have liked it.

It all started with a noble quest. A simple dream.

You just wanted a hoodie.

Not a fancy one. Not a designer one. Not a limited edition “inspired by the blood of fashion victims” collection. No, no. You wanted one of those oversized, marshmallow-soft hoodies that whispered “lay down and give up, my liege” every time you put it on. The kind of hoodie that could absorb emotional damage.

So there you were. Financially stable (thanks, murder gates), emotionally unstable (thanks, murder gates), and elbows-deep in a display bin labeled “3 for 2: Emotional Support Wear”, when fate struck.

Or rather, sashayed past in four-inch heels and an aura of contempt.

Vil.

You froze. He looked like he’d just walked out of a fashion spread. Every strand of hair in place. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life. Cheekbones that could slice open a space-time rift. And where was he going?

Straight into a boutique so fancy it looked like it would ask you for a résumé just to step inside.

Naturally, you turned the other way. This was not your world. You were not dressed for it. You were wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt with a questionable graphic of a goose wielding a knife. You were simply a humble raccoon-person in search of softness.

But then—

“You.”

Oh no. Oh god. Oh no god.

You turned around slowly, hoodie clutched to your chest like a shield. Vil stood there with shopping bags and the expression of someone who’d just discovered a stray in his favorite restaurant.

“Come. I need hands.”

“Sorry,” you said. “I left mine at home. Can’t help you.”

He blinked. Then, with all the confidence of someone who didn’t hear nonsense, he handed you his bags and turned around, fully expecting you to follow.

And you did. Because unfortunately, curiosity was stronger than shame.

The next hour? Was… actually kind of amazing.

Vil didn’t shop. He conquered. He moved through stores like a well-dressed storm, flinging judgment at poor fabric choices and muttering dark things about asymmetrical hemlines. Store staff parted for him like he was royalty. Other customers wilted under the weight of his gaze.

You, meanwhile, trailed after him like a high-end goblin, carrying his many, many bags, dressed like a sleep-deprived college student who had just lost a fight with a laundry machine.

It was great.

You watched him try on outfits with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. He was graceful. Efficient. Disgustingly photogenic. You felt like you were witnessing a documentary: “The Endangered Fashion Icon in His Natural Habitat.”

And then, miraculously, he let you live.

He suggested a coffee break and even let you pay—probably out of pity. You made a mental note to deduct it as a business expense under “accidental deity encounter.”

Sitting across from him, sipping overpriced lattes, you made a joke. Something dumb. Something about a pair of jeans you'd seen that looked like they'd been personally attacked by a cheese grater.

Vil laughed.

You were not prepared.

It was real. Warm. Shockingly cute. Like, “I’ve been guiding murder monsters all week and now suddenly I believe in joy again” kind of cute.

You stared. He looked at you. You looked away, sipping your drink very intently, trying not to say “please laugh again, it heals my soul.”

You didn't say it out loud.

But you thought it really hard.

You walked into Vil's office like a responsible little murder gremlin, fully prepared for your weekly check-up guidance session.

What you were not prepared for was the sheer atmospheric rage brewing inside.

Vil was pacing like a cat who'd just realized its favorite toy was in the hands of a toddler—absolutely done with life. He was muttering to himself under his breath, phrases like, “Espers with zero gratitude... how dare they ask for guidance without a thank-you,” and, “I swear if one more person thinks my time is free like it's some kind of community resource—

He saw you, exhaled the deepest sigh known to man, and pointed at the couch like he was casting a curse. Not a word of greeting. Just The Finger of Sit.

So you sat. For about three seconds.

Then, something in your little gremlin heart said: No. He is cranky. He is suffering. This is a job for Emotional Support Esper.

You got up, walked behind him, and—without a word—started massaging his shoulders.

Vil tensed like a cat about to fight god. Then slowly—slowly—melted into it.

“This isn’t part of your session,” he grumbled, but it lacked bite. His head tilted forward, giving you better access. “You’re not guiding me, you know.”

“I’m aware,” you said, digging your thumbs in just right. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t reply. Just… breathed. It was weirdly serene. You, massaging one of the most powerful and terrifying guides in the country. Him, finally looking like he wasn’t five seconds away from incinerating someone with nothing but his glare.

Eventually, you sat back down on the couch. And then—shock of all shocks—Vil slumped down next to you.

No dramatic speech. No biting commentary. Just one very exhausted, very overworked guide leaning on your shoulder like gravity had personally betrayed him.

“…Don’t say a word about this,” he murmured, eyes already closed. He reached for your hand, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and held it tight.

You stayed there for a long time.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

You just sat with him in silence, wondering how the hell you’d gone from emotional demolition expert to comfort pillow. And, weirdly, feeling kind of honored.

You weren’t sure how you got home, but judging by the trail of blood, sludge, and crushed energy drink cans leading up the stairs, you had clearly made the journey using sheer spite and possibly a small miracle. Your legs moved on autopilot, powered by rage, trauma, and about four remaining brain cells—none of which were cooperating.

You’d just come back from a gate that had gone so poorly, it might as well have been cursed by the gods, the devs, and your second-grade math teacher. Breach. Casualties. Screaming.

There was definitely a moment where you almost flung a monster into a building and then screamed louder when you realized it was the emergency response building. Whoops.

It wasn’t even your assigned gate. It was a last-minute scramble. You and a handful of other S-rank espers were yanked in because the gate was behaving badly. Like, “snarling, vomiting monsters that defied physics” badly. And you—foolish, heroic, caffeine-soaked gremlin that you were—ran in first like someone had dared you.

You fought. You fought so hard you forgot your own name for about two hours. And still, people died. People always died. But this time, it felt like too many. You saw a little kid’s shoe and had a breakdown mid-punch. You tried to do everything, and your body just… stopped cooperating.

You didn’t even get guided afterward.

Vil wasn't at this gate. The other guides were all assigned or recovering themselves. Some were crying. A few had fainted from strain.

And you? You looked around, felt your knees give out a little, then just muttered “okay cool” and left like a ghost clocking out after a double shift at a haunted Wendy’s.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were so dissociated you forgot how doors worked. You stood outside yours for a full minute before realizing the knob turned left. You walked in, left your boots and weapon where they fell, and didn’t even consider locking the door behind you.

Let fate come. Let a gate burst into your living room. Let some criminal wander in and steal your furniture. That was Future You’s problem. Current You was Busy.

You peeled yourself out of your battle gear like a sad, oversized fruit roll-up, leaving it in a heap that would absolutely start growing mold by tomorrow. You wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared inside for three solid minutes, and then closed it again. There was nothing in there but expired yogurt, an empty ketchup bottle, and the overwhelming sense of despair. Just like your soul.

Your eyes landed on the couch. You made eye contact. It made eye contact back.

You didn’t go to your bed. The bed had too much hope. The couch? The couch knew. The couch had seen things. It was your emotional support furniture, and it beckoned you with lumpy cushions and the faint scent of Febreze and failure.

You collapsed into it with the grace of a dying walrus, grabbed the nearest throw blanket like a life raft, and curled up.

Your muscles throbbed. Your eyes were dry, too tired to cry. Your heart was heavy and hollow, a contradiction wrapped in fatigue.

You didn’t call the Guidance Office.

You didn’t reach for your communicator.

You didn’t even consider getting guided.

Because why would you?

You hadn’t earned it.

Guidance was for espers who did good. Who came back whole. Who saved people and feel okay about it.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this. Least of all Vil—the most terrifyingly elegant guide in existence, whose soothing voice could calm a charging bull but whose judgmental stare could reduce you to ash on the spot. You could already imagine it:

“Potato, why didn’t you call?” And you’d go, “Because I sucked. And also I was busy eating my weight in sadness on my couch.”

So no. No guidance. No messages. No crying. Just you, your depression blanket, and your ever-growing collection of trauma under a mountain of emotional avoidance.

You passed out like that, too. Face-down, limbs sprawled, snoring gently, still wearing one sock and gripping the couch cushion like it owed you rent.

And in the hallway, your door remained unlocked.

Because honestly?

Let the monsters come.

You’d either sleep through it or invite them in for leftover yogurt and mutual despair.

You woke up feeling like a truck had hit you, reversed, parked on your spine, and left its high beams on just to be petty. Every bone in your body creaked like an abandoned haunted house. Your mouth tasted like regret and half a protein bar. Your blanket was half off the couch, half on the floor, and a mysterious corn chip was stuck to your elbow.

You blinked at the ceiling in confusion. Then your phone screamed.

100 missed calls.

37 texts.

All from: Vil Schoenheit.

Each message angrier than the last.

The final one simply said: “Pick. Up. Now.”

You did.

The moment the line connected, there was a beat of silence—then his voice, sharp and low like the edge of a knife:

“Address. Now.”

You mumbled something barely coherent, possibly your zip code, possibly the ingredients of a burrito. Either way, you texted him your location, dropped the phone on your chest, and passed out again like a Sims character who ignored every need bar until they collapsed.

The next time you woke up, it was to someone violently shaking you like they were trying to exorcise a demon.

“The door was wide open. Wide. Open. Are you out of your mind?! What if someone broke in?! What if something followed you?! What if—”

You cracked one eye open. Vil was kneeling beside your couch in full luxury casuals, flawless hair tied back in a silk ribbon, eyes blazing with a fury usually reserved for war crimes or off-season fashion.

“Why didn’t you call me?!” he snapped, voice wobbling between fury and panic.

You sat up slowly. Your limbs felt like wet noodles. You looked at him—actually looked at him—and saw the edges of worry in his perfect posture. You didn’t think. You just leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, clinging to his surprisingly warm, cologne-scented form like a soggy baby koala.

He froze.

Then he hugged you back, one arm sliding firmly around your waist, the other hand smoothing over your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten.

“You didn’t respond,” he murmured, voice much softer now, like he’d deflated the moment you touched him. “I was at a gate, and you—you should’ve called me. You idiot.”

“I didn’t deserve it,” you croaked, still clinging. “I couldn’t save everyone. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t—”

THWACK.

He flicked you so hard on the forehead you saw colors. You yelped and recoiled, holding your skull like he’d smacked you with a frying pan.

“OW—what the hell, Vil?!”

“Use your brain,” he snapped. “You don’t have to earn guidance. You lived. You fought. You made it back. That’s enough.”

You stared at him, stunned and blinking. Your brain, which had been curled in a ball screaming failure failure failure, screeched to a halt. It didn’t know what to do with this information. It flailed.

“...but—”

“No.” He pressed two fingers to your temple. “Quiet.”

And just like that, warmth bloomed across your skin. Calm, grounding, steady. His presence wrapped around your rattled mind like a weighted blanket.

You hadn’t realized how loud your thoughts had been until everything went quiet.

You slumped forward again, forehead on his shoulder.

“…thank you,” you whispered.

He made a soft, exasperated noise and squeezed your hand.

“Next time,” he muttered, “if you don’t call me, I will drag you to a spa against your will and lock you in a bathhouse for six hours.”

Honestly?

That sounded kind of nice.

You nodded into his shoulder and let the warmth pull you under again.

It wasn’t a thunderbolt moment. There was no dramatic gasp, no heart-skipping beat, no rom-com soundtrack swelling in the background.

No. It happened while Vil was in the middle of passionately criticizing your instant ramen consumption.

“You don’t even check the sodium levels, do you? Of course not. Why would you? That would require basic self-preservation instincts, which you clearly lack,—are you even listening to me?”

You were, actually. Kind of. Mostly you were just watching the way his eyes flashed when he got worked up, how his voice lilted, how his hair caught the light like he had a personal filter on at all times. His hands moved a lot when he was mad—elegant, precise little gestures like he was conducting an orchestra of outrage.

And somewhere in the middle of him saying something about how your body was “not a landfill for factory-processed poison,” you thought:

Wow. He’s perfect.

There was a pause.

A silence that felt loud in your own brain.

Not because he noticed—no, he was still going. But you did. You noticed. And you felt your entire emotional infrastructure collapse like a badly built IKEA table.

You sat there, nodding along, eyes wide and empty like a man realizing he’d dropped his phone into lava. Because you knew exactly what this meant.

You were so, so screwed.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You were too tired for that. Too experienced in emotional disasters to think, “maybe it’s just a crush!”

Nah. You liked him. For real. In the "I’d wear sunscreen just to impress him" kind of way. In the "he could tell me I look homeless and I’d say thank you" kind of way.

So, you just accepted your fate.

You nodded solemnly while Vil insulted your meal plan and thought:

Well. I guess this is my life now. Time to emotionally implode in private.

You weren’t going to tell him. Absolutely not. The man had standards higher than Mount Everest. You were a gremlin in sweatpants. He guided you out of what had to be some misplaced sense of moral responsibility, not because he liked you.

So, your plan was simple: keep it quiet. Let the crush rot in your chest. Maybe it would fade. Maybe Vil would never find out. Maybe you’d survive.

…Maybe.

“Are you even paying attention?” Vil snapped, snapping his fingers in your face.

You jolted back to reality. “Yes! Yes. Sodium bad. Body temple. I got it.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You’re acting weirder than usual.”

“I’m always weird,” you said quickly. “That’s my brand. Very consistent.”

He sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hopeless.”

You watched him for a second longer and thought, God, I’m doomed.

And then you smiled and said, “Yeah. But at least I’m charming about it.”

He rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t deny it.

You were just trying to survive. That’s all.

Because being around Vil Schoenheit every other day, breathing the same air as him while he guided you while scolding you, was no longer tenable. Your heart was staging a full-blown coup against your sanity.

Every smirk he threw your way shaved years off your life. Every time he flicked your forehead for being “reckless” or “insufferable” or “a walking cautionary tale,” you internally swooned like a Victorian maiden on a fainting couch.

So, you did what any emotionally fragile raccoon-person would do when faced with unattainable love and regular exposure to flawless cheekbones: you fled.

To the Guidance Office.

You kept your voice steady when you asked for your previous guide’s contact. The poor intern looked like he’d rather explode than question you, especially once he realized who your current guide was.

Still, he handed over the transfer form and you sat down, heart racing, tapping your pen like a death drum. You were halfway through scribbling your tragic little freedom request when—

A shadow loomed.

Perfume wafted.

And the temperature dropped ten degrees.

You didn’t even have time to look up before the form was snatched from your hands with all the grace of a man committing a stylish crime.

“Up. Now.”

Vil’s voice was frost and fury and every hair on your body stood up like soldiers called to war.

You stumbled after him, too stunned to protest, as he marched you through the hallways with terrifying grace. You passed several people who were clearly wondering if they were witnessing a kidnapping, but no one dared interfere.

His office door slammed shut behind you, and he turned on you like a beautifully irate weather phenomenon.

Then—rip.

Your transfer form disintegrated in his hands.

“OUT,” he snapped, voice tight, angry. “If you’re going to be a complete and utter fool, then get out of my sight.”

You blinked. “What—why are you mad? I’m doing you a favor!”

“A favor?” he repeated, like you’d just spat in a glass of Château Margaux.

You held your ground, though you were 97% sure he could kill you with a single sigh. “You didn’t want to guide me in the first place! I’m—look, I’m making it easier for both of us. No more clingy potato energy. No more… emotional spirals. You can guide someone who isn’t a complete mess.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, and then he—kissed you.

No warning. No build-up. Just lips crashing against yours like your poor little romantic delusions had summoned it from the abyss. His hands cupped your face, tilting it just right, and you—froze.

You opened your mouth to say something.

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Angrier. Like he was trying to shove every word you weren’t letting him say directly into your bloodstream.

“I love you,” he hissed when he finally pulled away, chest heaving. “You stupid, overthinking potato.”

You blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Oh, now you’re speechless?” he snapped, pacing. “You think I guide you because it’s convenient? You think I chose to rip you away from that quivering ball of social anxiety just to be charitable? I don’t have to guide anyone. I chose you.”

You were still stuck on the part where he said “I love you” and hadn’t immediately revoked it.

He pointed at you. “Sit down.”

You sat. Immediately.

He sat next to you, crossed one leg over the other, and glared. “We’re going to talk about this. Then you’re going to delete the idea of transferring from your thick, tragically underutilized brain. Understood?”

“…Yes?”

“Good. And drink some water. You look like you’re about to combust.”

You obeyed. Because frankly? You were.

“You’re serious?” you asked, voice a little cracked around the edges, sitting on his plush office chair like you were squatting in a throne you had absolutely no right to. “You love me?”

Vil stared at you with the exhausted patience of a man who had been in love with a rock for three years. “Yes. I’ve loved you for a while, and you—” he poked you in the forehead again, harder this time, “—have been blissfully, astoundingly oblivious.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, already sweating. “You’re very hard to read!”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “You’re just emotionally illiterate.”

“Give me one example.”

“Oh, one?” He tilted his head and actually laughed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. “Let’s start small, then. Remember the time I brought you a silk-lined weighted blanket because you said you liked ‘being squished by fabric’ and your apartment ‘felt like a haunted fridge?’”

You blinked. “I thought that was just you mocking me with luxury.”

“I custom-ordered it in your favorite color and personally dropped it off.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

“And what about the emergency juice box I carry around exclusively for you, because you tend to spiral into a puddle after difficult gates and refuse to ask for help?”

“…You said that was because I’m ‘emotionally six.’”

“That was a joke.” He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed at you again. “What about when I held your hand during guidance and you told me, ‘This is wildly intimate,’ and I said, ‘That’s the idea, darling,’ and you laughed and said, ‘Ha ha good one,’ and proceeded to talk about raccoons for twenty minutes?”

Your face was hot. Like boiling kettle hot. You were being roasted over the open flames of your own idiocy.

Vil, now fully in his villain origin arc, stood up, arms crossed. “Or the time I made you lunch because you skipped breakfast three days in a row and you cried a little, and I wiped your tears, and you said, ‘You’d make such a good husband, wow,’ and then called me bro.”

“I was tired that day,” you whispered.

He paced. “I took a personal day to guide you after that one breach because you refused post-gate care. I showed up at your house! You were curled up like a soggy blanket and told me you didn’t deserve comfort, and I guided you anyway! I even brought snacks!”

You were holding your head in your hands now, processing. “Oh my god. I’m the clown. I’m the whole circus.”

Vil sighed and came to kneel beside you again, gentler now. He pulled your hands from your face and took them in his, lacing your fingers together like it was second nature. “I assumed you didn't like me. But this?” He smiled a little. “This is honestly worse.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“I love you,” he repeated, quieter now, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And I don’t want you to change guides. I want you to stay.”

You looked down at your joined hands. Then up at his face, soft and real and so, so stupidly beautiful.

“...Can I kiss you again?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

And he did. And this time, when he kissed you, you didn’t freeze or black out or say anything about raccoons. You just held him closer and kissed him back, trying very hard not to think about how many brain cells you’d wasted missing the obvious.

(But you did apologize to him later. After the third kiss. And after asking if he’d consider writing a “Vil Schoenheit’s Guide to Realizing Your Guide is Flirting” manual for future dumbasses like yourself.)

The first time Vil met you was… unfortunate.

You'd collapsed on him like a sandbag flung from the heavens by a god with no taste.

He'd been called in to assist after a gate breach—nothing unusual, really, just a high-stress emergency with far too many untrained espers and not enough functioning brain cells among them. His job was to stabilize, guide, and keep anyone from combusting mentally or emotionally, preferably both. It was clinical, routine, and efficient.

Until you.

You stumbled out of the smoke and screaming with wild eyes and your uniform half-burnt, looking like you’d just gone twelve rounds with the concept of mortality. You locked eyes with him—briefly, like a bird recognizing glass mid-flight—and then passed out straight into his arms.

Correction: onto him.

He wasn’t sure how you managed to fall with such inconvenient geometry, but one moment he was standing, perfectly composed, and the next he had an unconscious stranger face-planting onto him, limbs sprawled like a freshly felled tree.

His first thought was: Excuse you?

His second: Do they not know who I am?

Honestly, the offense was justified. People didn’t usually touch Vil without permission, let alone treat him like a fainting couch. And yet when the medics arrived to assist, he waved them off with a sigh, brushing soot out of your hair and stabilizing your exhausted psyche with the practiced ease of someone too annoyed to be fazed. You were just another Esper, he told himself. Another mess to be cleaned up.

Then you woke up.

You blinked at him. Groggy. Confused. Soft in the eyes in a way that caught him off guard. “Oh,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “Sorry. My bad.”

No recognition. No fawning. No demands for priority guidance.

Just that—thanks—like he was your local neighborhood guide and not one of the most in-demand SSS-ranks in the country.

And that was when it happened: the first crack.

A hairline fracture in his perfectly sculpted composure. Something warm and startlingly gentle wedged itself in his chest. The faint, whispering thought: They’re not like the others.

He'd left soon after and that should've been the end of it.

But the next day, you came to his office. Not to request a partnership. Not to ask for more guidance sessions. Not even to praise his skill, as most did when they finally found out who he was.

No.

You walked in with a slightly bent energy drink and said, “Hi. Just wanted to thank you again. For yesterday. And, like, if you want anything—coffee, or uh, a meal, or maybe a really good nap on my couch—I can return the favor.”

He blinked. “You're offering me compensation?”

“Yeah,” you said, like it was obvious. “I didn’t mean to fall on you. Also, you helped me not die. That deserves at least a smoothie.”

He stared at you. You stared back, unbothered and vaguely hopeful, like someone trying to barter with a raccoon they’d wronged in a past life.

And that’s when the thought struck him:

I wish more Espers were like this.

Earnest. Direct. Not wrapped in ego or desperation. You treated him like a person and not a tool or a celebrity. Like someone who deserved appreciation, not worship.

He didn’t say yes to your offer.

And later that evening, sipping the mango smoothie you left on his desk with a sticky note that said “Thanks again, Your Highness,” Vil caught himself smiling.

Disaster or not, you had… made an impression.

And for better or worse, that impression was starting to stick.

Soon, he found himself buying your favorite juice on the way to work.

He told himself it was to bribe you into being less reckless. That he just “happened” to know your favorite. That it was a coincidence.

He also started carrying headache meds. And bandaids. And snacks. And spare gloves because you kept losing yours and pretending you didn’t need them.

A week later, he spotted you in the hallway again. You were coming out of a gate looking like you’d been mugged by gravity and a brick. But what truly horrified Vil was not your appearance (which was a hate crime against fashion), but the fact that you were about to be guided by someone else.

Some junior Guide with too much gel in his hair and the audacity to step away from you.

Vil's soul left his body.

He didn’t even think. He stomped across the hallway, yanked you away like a cat stealing laundry, and declared, “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Guiding you. Sit down. Shut up.”

“...Okay?”

He’d never been so professionally compromised. He gave you the most aggressive, possessive, emotionally repressed guiding session in history. It was like channeling affection through gritted teeth.

He was doomed.

Vil Schoenheit was a man of control. Precision. Elegance. He kept his calendar color-coded, his wardrobe steamed, and his guiding sessions timed to the minute.

So when he heard through the grapevine that you were about to be reassigned to another Guide—because of some nonsense about “compatibility tests” and “emotional interference” (rude)—he did not react well.

No, he did not pout.

He did not sulk.

He marched directly to the Guidance Office, pulled rank in that way that only Vil could—part charm, part cold-blooded menace—and made it very clear that you were off the market.

“This Esper is mine,” he said, crisp and cool like a glacier in a fur coat. “Officially. Put it in writing.”

The poor intern at the desk blinked up at him, then at the screen.

“Um… you mean, you want to—?”

“Yes. I want to take full responsibility for their guiding.”

“Sir, do you mean romantically—?”

“Professionally.” A beat. “For now.”

Vil was shopping for seasonal essentials, which of course required strategic planning, multiple fitting rooms, and approximately seventeen judgmental head tilts. He saw you wandering out of a soft-clothes store with a hoodie that looked like a blanket and a dream.

You saw him.

You tried to leave.

He grabbed your wrist.

“I need hands,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

And then he handed you a bag and moved on like a model on a mission.

You carried his bags for hours. You offered no complaints, just commentary like, “That color makes your cheekbones illegal,” and “If I try that on I’ll look like a deflated beanbag.” You actually enjoyed yourself.

And then—then—when you ended up in a café and he reluctantly allowed you to buy his coffee, you sat there, sipping from your little cup, and made some stupid joke about luxury couture and cheese graters.

He laughed.

He laughed.

And it wasn’t polite or dismissive. It was the kind of laugh that knocked loose something in his ribcage. The kind that made him stare at you over the rim of his drink and realize, with full-body horror:

I’m doomed.

Because he liked you.

He really, really liked you.

Not in the “you’re tolerable and I guess I won’t smite you” way. In the “I want to wring your neck for not wearing gloves but also maybe hold your hand” way. The “I will destroy that junior Guide if he even looks at you again” way. The “please stop getting injured or I will cry and then deny it until the sun explodes” way.

And you had no idea.

You were still out here calling yourself “emotionally bulletproof” and stealing his granola bars like it was normal. Still calling him “Vilbo Baggins” and poking his forehead like you weren’t holding the shreds of his dignity in your little chaos-stained hands.

So yes. Vil was doomed.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

Because of all the Espers in the world, it had to be you—you with your messy hair and shiny eyes and stupid brave heart.

Fast-forward to a Tuesday. Or maybe Thursday. Vil had lost track. It had been a day full of Espers with no manners, no boundaries, and one who tried to touch his hair mid-guiding.

By the time you wandered into his office, he was one broken string away from full violin villainy.

And for once, you didn’t joke.

No "What’s up, Guidezilla?"

No "Did your skincare try to abandon you too?"

You just took one look at him, walked over, and—gently—placed your hands on his shoulders.

Vil froze.

You kneaded the tight muscles there with surprising skill. Still no words. Just the quiet press of your thumbs, the steady warmth of your touch. And when he exhaled—shaky, involuntary—you didn’t tease him for it.

You just said, softly, “You don’t always have to do everything alone, you know.”

And that was when he broke a little.

Not obviously. But his posture slumped just slightly. His head tilted just enough to rest against your shoulder. Not even for a minute—maybe twenty seconds.

But it was enough.

Enough to make him realize: This is the safest I’ve felt all day.

And the fact that it was you—you, with your chaos and your grin and your glitter stickers stuck to your ID badge—that was terrifying. And comforting. And utterly, stupidly addicting.

He didn’t say thank you. Not out loud.

But later, when you weren’t looking, he moved your next few guiding sessions to the prime slot on his calendar. The one reserved for important things.

And in his fridge?

There was already more of your favorite juice.

He told himself it was just being thorough.

He was a liar.

It had started like any other deployment day. You and he had both been assigned to different gates, which wasn’t uncommon anymore. It was annoying—yes, he preferred to keep you in arm’s reach like a chaotic, overly affectionate pet raccoon—but manageable. You hadn’t called, hadn’t messaged, so he assumed it was fine. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you’d just fallen asleep.

But then he heard the reports.

Talk around the guidance center was that your gate had gone bad. A breach. Casualties. They'd barely managed to contain it. The kind of mission that rattled even the seasoned Espers.

Vil had frozen mid-conversation, a pen slipping from his hand and clattering onto his desk.

“Did they get guided after?” he asked, voice sharp.

The other Guide had shrugged. “Apparently not. Took off the moment debrief ended.”

And that was when the spiral started.

He called you. Once. Twice. Ten times. Fifty. A hundred.

Pacing his office like a man possessed, he left increasingly deranged voicemails.

—"Pick up your phone, I swear to the God, if you are ghosting me because you’re feeling ‘emotionally crunchy’ again—"

—“If you're hurt, I need to know. If you're not hurt, I'm going to kill you myself.”

—“Potato, I’m serious. Answer the phone.”

When you finally picked up, sounding groggy and like someone had drop-kicked your soul, all you said was:

“…Vil?”

And that was enough.

“Address. Now.”

You sent him a dropped pin and then promptly passed out again.

He’d never gotten to your place so fast in his life. Nearly crashed into two pedestrians, scared a delivery driver into a full existential crisis, and parked in a tow zone without blinking.

The front door was unlocked.

He burst in like divine judgment, only to find you curled up on your couch like a sad, emotionally fried ferret.

“You left the door open. What if someone had—?! You didn’t even—! I called you a hundred times! Why didn’t you—!?”

You blinked up at him, slow and a little disoriented. “Vil?”

He was kneeling next to the couch before he realized it, shaking you like an overcaffeinated nurse trying to keep a patient conscious. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t think I deserved to.”

Something in Vil's chest cracked with a soundless, incandescent rage. Not at you. Never at you.

At the situation. At himself. At the idiocy of a world where someone like you—who put yourself on the line for people who didn’t know your name—could think for one second you didn’t deserve comfort.

You sat up and hugged him before he could speak. And Vil, for all his pride and poise, let you.

He guided you right there on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around you like he could anchor all your scattered pieces back into place with sheer force of will. His fingers were steady against your temple, his voice low and soothing.

You didn't fight it this time. Not really. You were too tired. Too raw.

But later, when you were dozing against him and he felt the weight of your breathing even out, he looked at you and thought:

If I ever lose them, I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

And he realized, with an unflinching kind of horror, that this wasn’t just fondness anymore.

This was love. Stupid, all-consuming, feral love.

Oh, when Vil saw the transfer form in your hands—his potato, his utterly chaotic, absurdly self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated Esper—filling out a request to switch Guides?

He saw red. No, scratch that. He saw every shade of fury on the spectrum. He didn’t even remember walking; one moment he was across the hallway, the next he had the form in his fist and you in his office, the door slammed shut behind you with enough force to rattle the entire floor.

“What. Is. This.”

You blinked at him like a cat caught stealing food, caught between guilt and indifference. “A transfer form? I—uh. It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a—” Vil looked genuinely scandalized. If he wore pearls, he would’ve clutched them. “Do you think I’m running a halfway house for wayward Espers?! I have been guiding you, carrying juice boxes for you, putting up with your ridiculous snacks, and you think this isn’t a big deal?!”

You stared at him, flustered and slightly confused. “I—I just thought maybe it’d be easier for both of us if I wasn’t—like—around all the time, you know? I’m not exactly low maintenance—”

Vil’s brain short-circuited.

He kissed you.

No thought. Just lips. Panic. Longing. Rage. Chapstick.

Your sentence died like a bug on a windshield.

Vil pulled back just long enough to snarl, “I love you, you stupid overthinking potato.”

You blinked.

“I—what—”

He kissed you again. You weren’t going to ruin this with words. Not today.

When he finally let you breathe, you looked dizzy. In love. Slightly offended. Vil understood.

“You’ve been in love with me?” you asked, voice very much in the ‘I missed every single sign like a blind NPC in a dating sim’ zone.

“Oh finally,” Vil groaned. “Yes. For ages. Do you think I just carry juice boxes for anyone? I had to go to a wholesaler to find your weird imported apple-lychee thing. I do not do that for strangers.”

You looked like the Earth had tilted sideways. “Oh my god. I thought you were just—like that.”

“‘Like that?!’” he cried. “I forced you to carry my shopping bags through an entire mall and called it a bonding experience! I let you pay for my coffee! I let you touch me when I was emotionally unbalanced! Me!”

“Oh my god,” you said again, very softly. “I am Stupid.”

Vil sighed like he was asking the universe for strength. “Yes. But you’re mine now. So unless you want to see what a real tantrum looks like, stop trying to fill out transfer forms like we’re in some tragic rom-com and just stay.”

You looked at him for a moment, soft and stunned and still processing the part where he said “I love you” more than once.

Then you reached for him, and he let you pull him into a hug, and despite everything—despite the rage, the confusion, the two destroyed pens on his desk and the emotional whiplash—you smiled into his shoulder like you couldn’t quite believe your luck.

Vil closed his eyes.

And all he could think was:

If I have to live in this ridiculous, broken world... let it be with you.

You didn’t expect it to come up like this.

You were lying on Vil’s fancy designer couch, head on his lap, while he scrolled through his tablet like he wasn’t also playing with your hair and ruining your heart. It was a quiet kind of peace, the kind you didn’t get often, the kind you didn’t want to jinx.

Which is exactly why he jinxed it.

“I want to permanently bond,” he said, tone casual in the way a gun cocking across the room is casual.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked down at you like you were the idiot for not reading his mind faster.

“I don’t want to guide anyone else,” he said. “You’re mine.”

Your heart made a sound like a microwave short-circuiting.

“You’re sure?” you asked, because you had to—because you needed him to say it again, to look you in the eye and confirm this wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment emotion, or drama, or guilt, or—

Vil gave you a glare so sharp it could slice through reinforced glass. You didn’t even need to hear him speak. The look alone said: If you ask that again I will end you and then raise you from the ashes just to scold you properly.

So naturally, you pulled him closer.

He kissed you like you’d insulted him and he was trying to forgive you with his entire mouth. And then he pushed you down onto the couch with all the grace and pent-up need of someone who’d waited far too long to do this.

There was nothing dramatic about the bond itself—it was warmth, deep and golden, spreading between your minds like a whispered promise. Familiar, grounding, and so right it made you dizzy. You felt him in a way that no one else could ever match—his feelings humming beneath your skin, threaded through your heartbeat, echoing in your thoughts.

It felt like falling and landing and being caught all at once.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just pressed his forehead against yours and held you close, letting the bond settle between your chests like a vow.

Then, quietly:

“Finally.”

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah,” you said, hugging him tighter. “Finally.”

Life was still mildly cursed. You weren’t about to tempt fate by saying otherwise. The gates still opened at the worst times, your body still ached in places that didn’t make sense, and someone still managed to microwave metal in the guidance office kitchen every single week.

But—

You had Vil. And that made it survivable.

He had finally, finally reprogrammed you out of your self-destructive nonsense, though it had been a war. You were talking metaphorical trench warfare. It took a thousand forehead flicks, an aggressively color-coded sleep schedule, and a terrifying PowerPoint presentation titled “If You Die, I Will Be Very Upset (And Also Kill You) – A Visual Threat.”

And in return, you had managed to make Vil Schoenheit loosen up. The man who once flinched at the idea of touching door handles with his bare hands now shared hoodies with you and let you kiss him with gate-dust still in your hair.

It was progress.

So when the door to your shared home clicked shut behind you both after another long day, you let out a sigh and slumped like a corpse released from its mortal coil. Vil caught you by the collar before you hit the floor like “absolutely not, we are not breaking furniture today.”

You peeled off your jacket, dropped your bag, and turned to him, still stuck in your boots. “Is it bad I want to sleep on the floor?”

“Yes,” he replied instantly. “Go shower, you reeking gremlin. I’ll order dinner.”

You blinked. “Will it be salad?”

“No. I’m ordering dumplings.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Who are you and what have you done with my overachieving nutrient-balanced microgreens–”

Vil shoved you gently toward the bathroom. “Shoo. I’ll be waiting here with your emotional support carbs when you’re done.”

And that was it.

You went to shower, and he ordered dinner. And maybe life was cursed and weird and exhausting—but it had given you Vil. And now, the worst thing he threatened you with was hydration reminders and forehead kisses.

Honestly?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

[fresasmp3]

How I feel rn:

[kiaitame]

Hellfire

Castlevania Nocturne | Castlevania: Symphony of the Night

[ceruark]

campus crush - pt. 1

synopsis: bllk men as uni crushes you see around campus! (ft. itoshi sae & michael kaiser) words: 2.0k notes: gn! reader a/n: let me know who you'd like to see next! :>

itoshi sae - gym crush

it’s virtually impossible to not know of the itoshi brothers on this campus; their reputation of being gorgeous but absolutely untouchable precedes them. 

you’ve never had a class with sae— being in two completely different disciplines, the only time your paths cross is at the gym. not that you ever approach him, god no. you’re much smarter than to willingly subject yourself to someone so cold and condescending, thank you very much. you’ve seen how that’s gone over for other people, and you'd much prefer to keep your self-esteem intact rather than delude yourself into thinking that you might be “the one” to finally get through to sae.

however, you do find yourself… staring at him when you’re at the gym. it’s not in a creepy way, you swear. it’s just that there’s not many people who bother to go to the gym early in the morning before classes, and he obviously knows what he’s doing when he’s using the complex machines that you’ve always wanted to try, but have been too intimidated to even attempt to use. so, you’ve taken to watching him do a few reps on some of the machines while you do your warmup on the treadmill and then approaching the machines a few minutes after he’s left it. you feel kinda stupid following him around the gym like a lost puppy, but after a few weeks you’re already starting to notice that using the machines is paying off, so you swallow your embarrassment and keep doing it.

besides, it’s not like you’re the only person in the gym ogling him. you just happen to be doing it for more respectable reasons (not that you’re entirely innocent when you’re watching him— you’ve had to look away on more than one occasion when he gets to doing bicep curls, for your own sanity).

in fact, people staring at sae and his brother when they’re in the gym is such a normal occurrence that you’re genuinely surprised when he comes up to you and proves that he seems to have actually noticed you watching him.

it’s midterms, so naturally, you’re a bit out of it, the stress leaving you distracted as you think about all the work you have to get done before the end of the day. despite how busy you are, you still came to the gym to blow off some steam— you’re quite proud of yourself for rolling out of bed this morning instead of wallowing in your misery.

it happens like a train wreck in slow motion. at first, when you see sae walking in your general direction, you’re unconcerned. but as he draws nearer, gaze locked on you, you start to question yourself, wondering if maybe you didn’t get as much sleep as you thought and now you’re hallucinating. 

no such luck for you, though. when he comes to a full stop beside the machine you’re on, watching you expectantly, you can feel your heart come to a full halt as well, experiencing equal parts dread and awe as you process what’s happening. you reach up to press the pause button on your headphones and one side of it off your ear. 

when you look at him, he just blinks and says, “your form is wrong.”

you blink back, uncertain of what to say or do. “oh, um—” you look around, not wanting to meet his gaze. “thanks for letting me know.”

after a moment of awkward silence, he sighs— as if you’re inconveniencing him and he’s not the one who approached you first— before taking a few more steps forward. sirens go off in your head as he leans over you and reaches forward, nudging at your arms with his fingertips. “bend more at the elbow, and pull in before you lift up,” he instructs. you do as you’re told, but he stops you as you’re bringing your arms back down. “don’t let your elbows lock all the way. and don’t let the weight drop entirely unless you’re done with the rep. you’ll hurt yourself if you keep doing that.”

the next rep is the longest one of your life— not just because you can feel the strain more now that you’re using the machine properly, but mostly because sae is standing right beside you the entire time, making sure your form is correct and you don’t slip up again. once you let the weight drop, you spring out of the seat, eager to get out from under the microscope he’s decided to hold over you today for whatever reason.

“well, uh, thanks again.” you pick up your water bottle and nod at him politely, already beginning to turn on your feet. the stairmaster on the other end of the gym looks more appealing now than it ever has.

“your incompetence is distracting,” he says, stopping you in your tracks. you glance back at him, stunned. he sounds annoyed, yet he adds, “just ask me how to use a machine if you need help.”

your ego is a little bruised, but your friends will not shut the hell up about how you’ve gotten explicit permission to talk to itoshi sae, which— yeah, okay, you guess your pride can take a bit of a beating here and there if it means you get to talk to him.

michael kaiser - library tablemate

now, of course, you know who he is long before that fateful night in the library. you’re pretty sure there’s not a single person on this damn campus who doesn’t know he is.

he’s tall, gorgeous, muscular, and commands attention every time he walks into a room. sure, he’s egotistical, but it’s justified in just how intelligent and talented he is. he can even be a bit flirty if you catch him in a good mood—something a few of your friends have put to the test a few times. needless to say, you had a bit of a “hallway crush” on him for a long time— you know nothing about him besides the fact that he’s hot. but, then again, who at this university doesn’t have a thing for michael kaiser?

so it’s reasonable to say that you nearly have a goddamn stroke when he drops into the seat diagonally across from you where you’re sitting in the library. 

it’s midterm season, and you— along with many of your peers— have holed up to study or take care of essays and take-home exams. you’re abruptly snapped out of your essay-writing fervor by the sound of the chair across the table being pulled out, and your stomach backflips so violently when your brain registers the familiar blonde-blue hair and tattoo that it’s a miracle you don’t start gaping or otherwise make a fool of yourself.

every table in this part of the library has at least one person at it, but for whatever reason, kaiser has decided that you’re the person in the room least likely to be a nuisance to him. and he’s right, for you quickly avert your eyes back to your laptop and return to writing your essay, even though you’re hyper-aware of yourself right now and haven’t been able to complete a sentence since he got here. 

you’re in the middle of spam-texting your friend about your current situation when someone commits the cardinal sin: they call out their friend’s name loudly, yelling on a strictly noise-free floor. you glance up briefly, irritated, and you also catch kaiser throw a look over his shoulder in similar annoyance before going back to studying. to your chagrin, the two girls start talking to each other, occasionally bursting out in loud, grating laughter.

for a few minutes, you just watch them, willing them to notice your death stare and get the hint to take their conversation elsewhere. they don’t, though, too caught up in gossiping to notice the countless people around them giving them dirty looks.

at some point, kaiser looks back up from his psychology textbook, making direct eye contact with you— you were still glaring at the girls standing behind him. he’s clearly pissed off, and he holds your gaze for just a moment, as if commiserating with you. then, with a slow exhale through his nose, he shuts his textbook loudly, drawing the attention of the girls to your table. he turns the full intensity of his glare on them and asks, “can you clowns fuck off somewhere else?”

the girls scurry off in record time, and there’s a collective sigh of relief that travels through the room before everyone returns to their own work.

that weird moment of commiseration seems to have solidified a bond between you two— at least, that’s what you think, given that kaiser continues to sit at the same table as you after that. you’re doing mental gymnastics trying to downplay the whole situation, convincing yourself that he’s just taking a preference to this specific part of the library and this particular table the same way you have. it’s most likely got absolutely nothing to do with you. (besides, those times you’ve caught him already looking at you when you go to sneak a glance at him are not what you think they are. he’s probably just irritated that you keep looking at him. you should stop.)

“if you’re so sure it’s not you, then try sitting somewhere else for a change.” your friend’s words echo through your mind as you enter the library during finals the following semester. it’s been months at this point, and your entire friend group is just as invested in this as you are. you’re actually considering testing your theory today, especially because you really need to finish this essay and don’t need any distractions in the form of gorgeous blondes sitting nearby.

you catch a glimpse of him already sitting at your usual table as you walk up the stairs, and you hesitate for just a moment before going up two more floors— it’s not like he’s even gonna notice you’re not there. you find a secluded nook that has four large, plush chairs facing each other, two placed on each side of a table set between them. it’s much cozier than your usual spot, so you curl up on one of the chairs and settle in to work on your paper.

the sharp sound of something slamming against the table cuts through the music playing on your headphones and startles you out of your flow state. it’s been about an hour and a half since you started, and you’ve made good progress. you look up, ready to give your fellow student a piece of your mind, but you falter when your eyes meet kaiser’s. his eyes are stormier than usual, conveying his irritation with something. with a quick glance down, you realize the sound you heard was him dropping his textbooks on the table.

you pause your music and ask, “um, do you need something?” it’s the first time you’ve actually spoken to him, and you’re trying really hard to ignore how nervous you feel. he glares at you for a moment longer, before he just rolls his eyes and takes the seat across from you. you wait for a response, but once he resumes his own studying, you return to your essay.

you end up wrapping up your assignment before he finishes his studying, and as you’re slinging your bag over your shoulder and preparing to leave, he says, “if you’re finally tired of this shitty library, i know a nice cafe off-campus you can study at.”

your heart leaps into your throat, and you swallow before you answer to ensure you don’t choke on it. “oh, sure, that sounds nice. do you have the address?”

he looks up from his notes and slides his gaze to you, his expression appearing as cold and bored as ever as he gives you a once-over. “just go to our normal spot at the usual time,” he says, turning back to his notebook. “i’ll take you there.”

“oh my god,” your roommate gushes later that night as you relay the tale to them, “was he looking for you?”

“is it a date?” your other friend shrieks.

well, way to make you more nervous about tomorrow.

[sunstone-garden]

Olrox after Erszebet says literally anything