Somethingâs going on with Ace. He's being nice which either means he's possessed or has done something extremely illegal. (Spoiler alert: It's neither)
âYouâve been weird,â you say, squinting at Ace from across the cafeteria table. âNew levels of weird. Scary kinds of weird. Are you possessed or something?â
Ace just leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs with that infuriatingly carefree grin plastered across his face. He tosses a piece of bread into his mouth before raising an eyebrow at you, clearly not fazed by your accusation.
âI wish,â he responds with a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. âThen I could blame all this weirdness on a curse or something and not just... you know, life.â
You cross your arms, not letting him brush it off so easily. âNo, seriously. Youâre being freaky. You helped me carry books to class the other day. Without asking for a favor in return.â
âYeah, so?â Ace shrugs, but the slight twitch in his grin gives him away. âMaybe I was feeling generous.â
âMaybe youâre losing it,â you counter, leaning forward. âSince when do you do anything without an ulterior motive? Iâm starting to think youâre planning something.â
âMe? Plan?â Ace feigns innocence, one hand over his heart. âYou wound me, Prefect. Youâre thinking of Azul, not me.â
âNice deflection,â you deadpan. âBut itâs not just that. You havenât pranked Deuce all week.â
Aceâs smirk falters. âOkay, first of all, Deuce is too easy to prank. Itâs like dunking a biscuit into water and calling it an achievement. Secondââ
âI heard that!â Deuce calls out from the next table over, turning around to glare at Ace.
âYou were supposed to hear that,â Ace shoots back without missing a beat, tossing a crumpled napkin at his friend.
You wave your hand in the air, trying to reel the conversation back in. âSee, this is what I mean! Youâre off your game! The Ace Trappola I know would be messing with Deuce every chance he got. Not sitting here, being... helpful and nice. You even opened the door for me yesterday.â
Ace looks horrified. âWait, I did?â
âYes! And you said something ridiculous like, âYou can go first.â It was spooky.â
He seems to visibly recoil, his face scrunching up as if heâs genuinely disturbed by the thought. âWow. That is scary. Who am I turning into?â
âThatâs what Iâm saying!â you exclaim, throwing your arms in the air. âYouâre possessed!â
He leans in toward you, voice dropping conspiratorially. âOkay, real talk? Maybe Iâm evolving.â
âInto what, a decent human being?â you ask, sarcasm dripping from every word.
âHa. Ha. Very funny.â Ace rolls his eyes again but leans closer, his expression strangely serious now. âLook, Iâm just trying to... I dunno, be more... considerate.â
You squint at him, not buying it for a second. âWhy? Who put you up to this?â
Ace huffs, running a hand through his hair, his face growing a little red. âNo one put me up to anything, alright? I just thought... maybe youâd like it.â
Your mouth opens, then shuts. Youâre not sure what to make of that.
âWhat?â Ace asks, noticing your bewildered expression. âCat got your tongue?â
âNo, Iâm just... processing. Youâre being nice because you think Iâd like it?â
He shrugs, averting his gaze now. âYeah, well... youâve been giving me a hard time lately, so I figured, why not? You know, mix things up. Be nice for a change.â
âUh-huh.â You narrow your eyes, suspicion creeping back in. âBut... why me?â
Ace avoids eye contact, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his collar. âDoes it matter? Just... shut up and let me be nice, okay?â
You stare at him for a long moment, trying to figure out whatâs going on in that mischievous head of his. Finally, you let out a sigh, leaning back in your chair. âFine. But Iâm still convinced youâre up to something.â
Ace smirks, the cheeky glint returning to his eyes. âWouldnât you like to know?â
Over the next few days, Ace continues acting suspiciously... well, nice. He doesnât trip you in the hallway or throw random jabs at your study habits like usual. He even brings you snacks during lunchâwithout eating half of them first.
Itâs weird. Unsettling, even.
And every time you ask him about it, he brushes it off with a nonchalant âjust felt like itâ or âdonât read too much into it, Prefect.â But his little quirks keep poking through. Like when he sneaks up behind you, pretending heâs going to scare you, only to offer a helping hand with your bag. Or when he gives Deuce a hard time, only to turn around and cover for him when he forgets his homework.
Deuce, for his part, seems equally as confused. âIs he dying or something?â Deuce whispers to you one afternoon. âHeâs not usually this nice unless heâs pulling something.â
âI know, right?â you whisper back, eyeing Ace from across the courtyard where heâs currently chatting with a group of students. âItâs unnatural.â
âHe even let me borrow his notes last night,â Deuce continues, shaking his head. âHis good notes, too. Not the ones he scribbled in crayon to mess with me.â
âOkay, now Iâm seriously concerned,â you mutter. âHeâs definitely plotting something.â
But the more time passes, the less it feels like a trick. Thereâs no punchline, no grand reveal. Ace is just... being Ace, albeit in a more considerate, slightly awkward way.
One evening, youâre leaving the library when you spot Ace waiting for you outside, leaning against a wall with his usual lazy posture. He looks up as you approach, flashing you a casual grin.
âYo, Prefect,â he calls out. âNeed help with your stuff?â
You raise an eyebrow, adjusting the books in your arms. âAre you really offering, or are you about to âaccidentallyâ trip me again?â
Ace chuckles, pushing off the wall and walking over to take some of the books from you. âWhat, you donât trust me by now? Iâve been an absolute angel lately.â
âYeah, and thatâs the problem,â you retort, but you let him take the books anyway. âYouâve been too nice. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.â
Ace smirks, walking beside you as you head toward Ramshackle. âMaybe Iâm just growing up. Becoming a responsible, dependable guy.â
You snort. âNow I know youâre lying.â
âHey!â Ace protests, nudging you with his elbow. âIâm serious. I can be responsible when I want to.â
You side-eye him. âSure. And pigs can fly.â
Ace rolls his eyes, but thereâs a soft smile on his lips. âYouâre impossible, you know that?â
âTakes one to know one.â
The two of you walk in comfortable silence for a while, the moonlight casting long shadows on the cobblestone path. Itâs peaceful, almost... nice.
Then, out of nowhere, Ace speaks again, his tone quieter this time. âSo... you really think Iâve been weird lately?â
You glance at him, surprised by the question. âYeah, kinda. Why?â
He shrugs, looking up at the sky. âI dunno. Just curious.â
You narrow your eyes at him. âAre you seriously still playing this ânice guyâ act? Whatâs your angle, Ace?â
He doesnât answer right away. Instead, he stops walking, turning to face you with an uncharacteristically serious expression.
âThereâs no angle,â he says softly. âI just... wanted to see if itâd make a difference.â
You blink, caught off guard by his sudden sincerity. âWhat do you mean?â
Ace rubs the back of his neck, looking unusually nervous. âI mean... Iâve been trying to... yâknow, be a better person. For you.â
Your heart skips a beat, but youâre not sure if itâs because of his words or the fact that heâs actually being vulnerable for once. âFor me?â
Ace avoids your gaze, his cheeks tinged pink. âYeah. I figured... maybe if I stopped being such a jerk all the time, youâd... I dunno... like me more.â
You stare at him, your mind racing to process what heâs saying. âWait. Are you... confessing to me?â
Ace scowls, clearly embarrassed now. âUgh, donât say it like that. Youâre making it weird.â
âYouâre the one making it weird!â you shoot back, feeling your face heat up. âI didnât ask you to go all soft on me!â
Ace glares at you, but thereâs no real malice behind it. âWell, excuse me for trying to be nice for once.â
Thereâs a beat of silence as the two of you stand there, staring at each other, before you both start laughing.
âYouâre an idiot,â you say, shaking your head.
"Yeah, but you hang out with me anyway," Ace finishes with that signature smirk of his.
You roll your eyes, but there's no denying the truth in his words. There's something about his brash honesty, his ability to keep things light even when they're serious, that you can't help but be drawn to. His quick wit, the way he keeps you on your toesâit's always been part of his charm.
"Maybe I do," you admit, crossing your arms and giving him a playful look. "But you're still a jerk sometimes."
Ace grins wider, stepping a little closer. "Oh, I'm totally a jerk. But I think that's why we work so well. You need someone to challenge you, and I need someone to keep me in check."
You snort. "So that's why you've been weird? Trying to impress me?"
Ace shrugs, his gaze softening just a bit. "Something like that. I just... didn't want you to think I'm always messing around. Sometimes, I actually want to be serious."
It's strange hearing him say that, but in a way, it makes sense. You've always known there was more to Ace than the mischievous, carefree front he puts up. He's clever and observant, and maybeâjust maybeâhe's been paying attention to you in ways you hadn't realized.
"So, what now?" you ask, feeling the tension between you shift from playful to something a little more... real.
Ace takes a breath, glancing up at the stars for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "I dunno. Guess I was hoping you'd say something like... 'I like you too, Ace.'"
You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. "And what if I do?"
His eyes widen, just for a second, before his cocky grin returns in full force. "Well, then that'd be great. 'Cause I'd say I like you too, Prefect"
You both stand there for a moment, the air between you charged with something new and exciting. Itâs not the usual back-and-forth banter, not the endless teasing. This is real, and Aceâs normally confident posture seems just a little unsure, like heâs still figuring out how to navigate this new territory.
"Alright, fine," you say, your voice softer now. "I like you, Ace."
He blinks, clearly taken aback that you actually said it. For once, he's the one who seems at a loss for words.
"...You serious?" he asks, sounding almost vulnerable. It's a rare thing to hear from him, and it tugs at your heart just a little.
You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. "Yeah. I mean, you've been acting all weird and nice, and it kind of freaked me out, but... I get it now. And I like you too."
Ace lets out a relieved breath, his grin softening into something more genuine. "Well, that's good. 'Cause I was starting to run out of ways to be nice. Itâs exhausting."
You laugh, the tension finally breaking as the two of you slip back into the ease thatâs always existed between you. But now, there's something more. Something deeper.
"So," you start, tilting your head at him, "does this mean you're going to stop being a jerk to me?"
Ace snorts. "Nah, thatâs part of my charm. Besides, youâd get bored if I went all soft."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "Fair enough."
Without warning, Ace reaches out and ruffles your hair, grinning like a kid whoâs just won a prize. "You know, you're not too bad. Maybe we can make this thing work."
You swat his hand away, laughing. "Maybe. If you stop being so weird."
"Deal," Ace says, though you can tell from the look in his eyes that heâs already planning his next prank.
Deuce, whoâs been watching the whole thing from a distance, finally decides to pipe up, calling out to the two of you from the other side of the courtyard. âHey! Did you guys seriously just confess? In front of me?â
Ace turns around and shouts back, âYeah, what of it?â
Deuce groans, looking exasperated. âCouldnât you have waited until I wasnât around to witness that?â
âYouâre just jealous!â Ace calls, slinging an arm around your shoulders with a triumphant grin.
Deuce rolls his eyes but grins anyway. âYeah, yeah. Just donât go getting all mushy on me.â
Ace laughs, giving you a sidelong glance. âNo promises.â
And as you walk back toward the dorms, Aceâs arm still around you, you canât help but smile. Itâs a weird, unexpected kind of happiness, but somehow, it fits. Just like Ace.
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You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholarâwhoâs decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.
or: Guideverse AU!
Series Masterlist
Life used to be normal.
You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought âghostingâ only applied to dating. Cute times.
Then the gates showed up.
Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAMâmystical rift to MonsterLandâą opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are âfight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.â
And that wouldâve been it for humanityâextinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.
Cool, right?
ExceptâEspers are dramatic. They're the âIâm fineâ as they bleed out types. The âI didnât sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibesâ types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.
Thatâs where you come in.
You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.
Itâs like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.
Is the job dangerous? Constantly.
Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.
Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.
And does it pay well? HAHAHA.
Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, youâve somehow become really good at this.
Which is great, because your next assignment?
Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)
Itâs raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? Youâre bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.
Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Anotherâs shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.
You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.
âSorry losers,â you say cheerfully, âget on my level.â
Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers returnâbloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.
Chaos erupts.
Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, âCatch him, heâs fallingâOH GOD, HIS ARM,â and âWho packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!â
You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.
Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.
And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.
âI am not getting soaked again,â he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.
You blink.
âUh. Hello?â
Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.
And now heâs under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and heâs your tsundere warlord boyfriend.
He side-eyes you. âArenât you gonna guide me or whatever?â
You panic a little. âIâIâm not certified for SS-Class. Iâm just S-Class.â
He snorts. âDidn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.â
What does that even mean??? Is this⊠Esper code for âI like youâ? Or âI wonât kill you todayâ? Who knows. Heâs already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.
And just like that, youâre guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like youâve been chosen by some eldritch force.
Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.
Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.
You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. Itâs soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.
He doesnât say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.
You keep going. Untilâ
He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. âAre you trying to kill yourself?â
You blink. âUh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?â
He scowls. âYouâve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and youâll fry your nerves. Canât stabilize anyone if youâre unconscious in a puddle.â
You try to pull your hand back but he doesnât let go. âIâm fine, Leonaââ
âI need you alive, herbivore.â
You freeze.
Your brain does a little Windows error sound.
And then heâs standing, still holding your umbrella like itâs his now, yanking you up by the wrist like youâre the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.
âYour carâs this way, right?â
ââŠHow do you know where I parkedââ
âBecause you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You donât even lock it.â
You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.
And thatâs how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.
Youâve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice â Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.
You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.
So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.
The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.
And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.
You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize itâs Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesnât greet you. Doesnât ask how you are. Just nods his chin, âKeep up, herbivore.â
You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. âLeonaâwhat the hell is this? Why am I here?â
He doesnât even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. âTold âem I only want you.â
You short-circuit. âWhat?!â
âThey asked if Iâd take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told âem to transfer you instead.â
Your mouth opens. Closes. âYou⊠requested me?â
He shrugs like this isnât causing you a spiritual meltdown. âWhatever. Youâre not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You donât treat me like a bomb about to go off. Youâre fine.â
And thenâlike this conversation hasnât just rewritten the structure of your careerâhe dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.
âWait, thatâs it?â you call after him. âYouâre justâleaving me here?â
He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. âSee you tomorrow.â
You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.
You donât understand whatâs going on. But letâs be honestâyouâve never understood anything and thatâs never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.
So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of âjust wing it and hope no one dies.â
And then Leona walks in.
No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the placeâwhich, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.
Youâre ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.
Leona?
Leona lays down on the office couch like itâs a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.
You blink. âUm. Hello? Sir?â
No response.
You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.
So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.
The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leonaâs energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and itâs honestly the most peaceful youâve ever seen him. He doesnât even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.
When you're done, you gently nudge him. âHey. Nap timeâs over, sunshine.â
He grumbles like youâve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like itâs his birthright.
âHey!â you cry, scandalized. âThat was mine! That was my life juice! Thatâs the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!â
He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. âYou can get another.â
And then he leaves.
You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.
This job is going to kill you.
But youâll die confused and employed, and thatâs the best youâve got.
Youâre at the farmerâs market. Living your best domestic fantasy. Youâve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like youâre the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.
Then a gate opens.
Right there.
Next to the cheese stall.
The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAMâthere's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.
You donât know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.
Youâre cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be itâdeath by demon at a farmerâs marketâwhen a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.
Leona.
He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. âWhy the hell are you here?â
You, still holding the leek like itâs a holy weapon: âI donât know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!â
He groans like youâre giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like heâs swatting a fly, and before you can say âgluten-free honey loaf,â heâs grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.
Youâre trying to catch your breath. Youâre covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And youâre shaking.
âOkay,â you say, trying for calm but sounding like youâve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), âletâs get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.â
You reach for himâbut your hands are trembling too much. Youâve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.
Leona notices. His brow furrows. âTch.â
Thenâsoftly, carefullyâhe pulls you into his chest.
You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like heâs not sure how to comfort but heâs trying anyway.
âYou donât go in the gates,â he murmurs. âI go in. Iâll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.â
Itâs the first time youâve ever seen him look at you like thatânot annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.
You nod into his shirt. âOkay.â
And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.
You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because letâs be honestâyour energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in manâs clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.
Leona didnât even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, âTook you long enough.â
Now, youâre guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest youâve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are âcertified emotionally soothing.â
Youâve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesnât even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like itâs routine, and is unconscious within minutes.
You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). Youâve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.
You are, shockingly, thriving.
Every now and then Leonaâll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, âYouâre getting better.â
Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.
Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.
But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.
The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a âGood luck lolâ from your supervisor. Youâre standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like itâs a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.
Thenâbamâsome random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like youâre the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like âthere, there, emotionally damaged soldier,â when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.
Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from âI need a napâ to âI'm about to commit a felonyâ in zero-point-three seconds.
Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.
"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.
You donât even get the chance to complain. Heâs already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.
And you? Youâre stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.
Just another day in your life.
You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says âI pay taxes and win arguments.â The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.
Youâre weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags whenâ
SWOOSH.
The jackets are gone.
You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.
You whirl around and see Leonaâyes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnateâcasually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:
âą The jackets
âą The socks you forgot you picked up
âą A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"
âą A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)
You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. âExcuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!â
Leona doesnât even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.
âYou were taking too long,â he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.
âI was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!â
He pays. Effortlessly. Doesnât flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.
You arrive at the register breathless and confused. âI didnât ask you to buy myâmy impulse garments.â
He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. âDidnât say you had to ask.â
You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. âAre youâare you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?â
âCanât have my Guide dying of hypothermia,â he mutters. âEspecially not because they canât pick a jacket.â
âThat doesnât explain the mug, Leona!â
âSure it does.â He turns, smirking slightly. âYouâll need it tomorrow.â
âFor what?!â
âCome to the gate.â
And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.
You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.
Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitudeâeven while passed out.
It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesnât get back up. You waitâhe always gets up. Even when heâs cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like heâs just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.
You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.
You canât leave him thereânot sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would doâyou throw all logic out the window and start dragging.
Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that youâre certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine wonât sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.
Finallyâsomehowâyou make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driverâs seat, sweating like youâve just run a marathon. And thenâbecause fate is a comedic little gremlinâyou have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.
You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.
Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.
Because he still isnât waking up.
You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesnât react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You donât drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before itâs an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.
Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, youâre just about to commit to panic when he stirs.
He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.
âYou absolute menace!â you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. âYou scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good trackââ
He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like youâre background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand andâpat patâsmooths it over your head like youâre the one that needs comforting.
ââm fine,â he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like youâre a weighted blanket.
The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.
He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but havenât said.
âLeona,â you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.
âSleeping,â he grumbles, completely unmoved. âYou should too. Youâre loud.â
So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towelâbut you stay.
And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.
Itâs not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeahâbut theyâre not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.
You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, andâ
You freeze.
Itâs a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like itâs auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.
And blood.
So much blood.
You see espers fightingâfamiliar ones, ones youâve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.
You step forward and your stomach lurches.
You force yourself to take a deep breath. Youâre a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.
Thatâs when you feel itâwarmth behind you, a solid presenceâand then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.
âDonât look, herbivore.â Leonaâs voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything youâve clung to today. You donât even flinch at the touchâjust close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.
You breathe out, finally.
When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.
He doesnât say anything elseâjust places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.
Leona sits you down first.
You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. Heâs watching you the whole time, like heâs memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You donât say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.
When youâre done, he doesnât move. Doesnât make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.
You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.
âHerbivore,â he mutters. âYou okay?â
âNo,â you say honestly. âBut Iâll do my job.â
And he doesnât argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about âstupid guides forgetting theyâre human too.â
You smile, small and tired, but real.
You lasted longer than most wouldâve. Thatâs what you keep telling yourself.
But it doesnât make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesnât make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesnât make it easier when the manager doesnât even try to talk you out of itâjust looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like theyâve seen a thousand others do the same.
And it really doesnât make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.
Itâs not that you donât love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach⊠after seeing what happens when youâre too late⊠something inside you cracked.
You canât keep holding people together when youâre falling apart.
So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.
You donât expect the knocking.
Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.
You open the door and Leonaâs thereâdisheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple âI donât careâ speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.
âWhyâd you leave?â he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.
You look at him. And you break the news gently.
âI quit.â
He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.
You try to explainâhow you canât take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friendâs body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.
âI just⊠I canât do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.â
You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.
But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, âYou happier like this?â
You blink. â...Yeah.â
He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.
You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then heâs lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.
You donât ask him to leave. You donât even sit far.
You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didnât leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesnât move, doesnât make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.
You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.
Maybe the world can wait a little longer.
You're not supposed to be here.
You're retired. Done. Free. Youâve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. Youâve earned it. You deserve it.
But the moment the alert flashes across your screenââCategory Red Gate Breachââyour blood runs cold.
You tell yourself youâre just going to check. Just to make sure. You donât bring your badge. You donât bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someoneâs tired suburban mom.
When you arrive at the site, the streetâs already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaosâEspers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.
Youâre not supposed to get involved. Youâre not.
But then you see him.
Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coatâs half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edgesâlike heâs running on fumes and sheer attitude.
You run to him.
âI told you to take care of yourself!â you shout, more out of panic than anything else. âYou absolute menaceâwhat the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!â
He doesnât answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like youâre a dream heâs too tired to question. His breath stutters.
And then heâs pulling you forwardâno warning, no wordsâjust grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasnât ended yet because you showed up in time.
And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.
You guide himânot with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way youâre pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every âI missed you,â every âYou idiot,â every âPlease be okay.â
And slowlyâslowlyâhis breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, âKnew youâd come.â
You hold him tighter.
It happens on a normal, sunny day.
Leonaâs in your apartment, lounging like he lives hereâwhich he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. Heâs flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.
âYouâre wasting perfectly good yarn,â he mutters. âThis thing looks like a limp sea anemone.â
You throw a cushion at him. âShut up. It has character.â
He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and itâs riding up just a bit at his waist.
And youâyouâre just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.
You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, âI want to form a permanent bond.â
The room stills. Leona doesnât move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.
âWhat?â
You swallow. âI want to bond permanently. With you.â
He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. âYou serious?â
âDead serious.â
âYou sure this isnât the post-massacre adrenaline talking?â he says, voice flat. âPeople say weird shit after trauma.â
You raise your eyebrows. âOkay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but Iâve been thinking about this for a while. Iâm not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.â
Leonaâs quiet for a long time. Then he sits upâreally sits upâand leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.
âYou donât get to change your mind after this,â he says, low. âItâs a one-way door.â
âI know.â
âYouâll feel what I feel,â he says. âYouâll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.â
You smile. âLeona, Iâve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.â
He groans like youâve physically injured him and slumps back again. âYouâre gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.â
But thereâs a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.
He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like heâs giving you one last chance to back out. You donât. You reach out and link your fingers through his.
And he exhales shakily. âOkay then.â
He presses you back into the couchâyour stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergentâand his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.
He looks at you, eyes bright. âYouâre stuck with me now, yâknow.â
You grin. âWouldnât have it any other way.â
And just like that, youâre not just a guide and an esper anymore.
Youâre his. And heâs yours. Permanently.
Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dreamâa chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.
Heâd been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didnât need a guide. Didnât want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.
And then you happened.
He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.
Instead, they got you.
You mustâve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.
And thenâthenâyou had the audacity to guide him.
It wasnât the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. Heâd cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something youâd regret.
And you? You pulled his ear.
Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.
âSit still, Iâm working,â youâd snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.
And thenâ
Then it all bled away.
The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your auraâbright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadnât earned yet, but hell, it worked.
By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.
He had to ask someone your name.
It pissed him off for weeks.
Because you hadnât even realized who youâd grabbed. You hadnât known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadnât cared. Youâd just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.
And somehow⊠it had worked.
He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rainâgray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.
The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.
The rain hadnât touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadnât just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.
And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his earâhe didnât even hear it anymore.
It was you.
The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didnât even need to reach for his senses to know it was youâthe one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.
Heâd spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.
And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.
You didnât even flinch when he stepped up to you.
Didnât bristle.
Didnât bow like the others.
Just blinked at him and went, âI'm just an S class guide.â
And thatâ
That pissed him off.
Because you didnât recognize him.
After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?
You didnât even remember.
Leonaâs eye twitched.
No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.
Heâd just have to remind you.
He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. âDidnât think youâd forget me, herbivore.â
Still blank.
âOh?â you said, sipping your coffee like he wasnât radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. âShould I have?â
Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.
Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. Heâd just put himself on your schedule. Heâd get stabilised. Regularly. By you. Heâd show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.
Heâd make sure you remembered.
And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.
He remembered that day like a fever dream.
The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didnât remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.
And youâ
You were pacing.
Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for helpâand that was when it hit him.
You were scared.
For him.
You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.
Leona would never forget that look.
Wide-eyed. Raw. Like youâd just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.
He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reactionâSevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close youâd come to losing your âlife juice thief.â
And something in his chest broke a little.
He didnât say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.
You didnât argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.
He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.
And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of youâpanicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of himâwas burned into his brain like a brand.
He thought: No oneâs ever looked at me like that.
And maybe thatâs when it happened.
Maybe thatâs when he stopped running from what you meant to him.
Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.
Not because it was the bloodiest heâd seenâthough it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.
No.
He remembers it because of you.
You werenât supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.
Heâd spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.
Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.
You didnât flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.
"Donât look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.
You made a small soundâshaky, half-chokedâand he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.
And he knew, right then, that heâd never forget your expression. The look of someone whoâd seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.
He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.
You guided him thereâyour hands still trembling, voice quietâbut you guided him all the same.
He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, youâd disappear. Like if he wasnât careful, you'd shatter.
And he sworeâ
If he could help it, heâd never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.
Leona had felt fear before.
The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.
But none of itânot onceâhad made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.
Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said âEspers are drama queensâ was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.
Youâd burned outâand you hadnât said a word.
Leona didnât even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
And you smiled.
Small. Tired. But real.
It wrecked him.
You explained in soft wordsâwords that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said âI needed a break.â
And Leona⊠he said nothing.
Because what could he say?
âCome back?â
âLet me fix it?â
âI need you?â
No. He wasnât good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.
And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.
Leona didnât sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.
He stayed until morning.
Because if you couldnât carry the world for a while, heâd hold it up for you instead
Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.
They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.
He didnât want calm. He didnât want pristine.
He wanted you.
And it wasnât like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it lookedâhow reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, heâd shrug them off like their hands burned.
Because letting someone else guide him after you?
It felt like cheating.
Even if youâd never been his. Even if youâd never called him yours. Even if youâd left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadnât just ripped something vital out of him.
He endured. And endured. And endured.
Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.
Scolding him for not taking care of himself.
You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like heâd carved a hole in your chest and left it open.
He barely heard the words. He couldnât think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.
So he kissed you.
He didnât ask. Didnât hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.
You didnât pull away.
You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like youâd been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeksâmonths, maybeâhe could breathe again.
You were his fate. You always had been.
And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.
Now, you're permanently bonded.
Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartmentâbut to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because âsheâs sensitive to cold.â
He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.
Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like heâll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.
But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, âWelcome home, dumbass,â with that soft tone you always save just for him.
And it hits him again: youâre his.
You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.
Leona doesnât care for sentimentality. But he knowsâknowsâheâll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.
Because something about the way you touched him⊠the way your hands didnât shake⊠the way your voice didnât flinchâŠ
He hadnât felt fear. He hadnât felt chaos. Heâd just feltâsettled.
Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before heâd ever earned it.
He comes home to that now.
To you.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesnât feel like heâs enduring the world.
He feels like heâs living in it.
Youâre both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, âHey⊠why me?â
Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. âWhy not you?â
You nudge his side, unconvinced. âNo, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?â
Heâs quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, âYou donât remember, do you?â
âRemember what?â
âOur first meeting. It wasnât during that gate in the rain.â He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. âIt was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.â
You squint, thinking hard. âYou meanâ?â
âI was a mess,â he says, lips twitching at the memory. âRaw, half-feral. Iâd just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.â
You stare at him. He stares back.
âYou,â he says, tapping your forehead lightly, âstomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to âstay put,â like you werenât terrified Iâd snap your arm off.â
And then it clicks. It clicks.
âOh my god,â you gasp. âThat was you?!â
He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.
You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.
Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugsâgentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.
He thinks, this.
This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldnât possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the countryâthis is what he wants every damn day of his life.
Youâre still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.
âI pulled your ear,â you murmur, like itâs the funniest thing in the world. âNo wonder youâve been so whipped since day one.â
âWatch it,â he warns, but thereâs no heat in it. Just fondness.
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 youâre his personal fixer-upper project. Shockingly, itâs the best thing thatâs ever happened to you.
or: Guideverse AU!
Series Masterlist
The world was already hanging on by a thread â economic collapse, melting ice caps, influencers starting cults via TikTok. It was a mess. Youâd think that would be enough. Youâd hope that would be enough. But no. Some ancient cosmic being â probably named something dramatic like Tharâzul the Chronovore â looked down at Earth and said, âYou know what this needs? Fun.â
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 someoneâs wedding ceremony. (âDo you take thisâOH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT?!â)
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, powerfulâand also dangerously dramatic.
Like, âcries during dog food commercialsâ dramatic. âBlew up a vending machine because it ate their dollarâ dramatic. If they donât have someone helping them regulate their powers (and by extension, their feelings), theyâre 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 âhave you tried deep breathing?ââexcept instead of calming down toddlers, theyâre 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? Itâs not. Itâs 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 â and only â 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 comingâone after another like it was a clearance sale on eldritch horrorâand now your knees were shaking, your head was pounding, and you were 99% sure you were hallucinating the talking goat that told you to âgo into the light.â
You stumbled out of the Gate zone, vision blurry. There were Guides waiting beyond the perimeter, crisp in their uniforms, radiant with that âI got 8 hours of sleep and drink waterâ 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 couldnât be right.
Standing a few feet away, untouched and oddly pristine, was a man who looked like heâd 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 Importantâą. The other S-Ranks had actively avoided him, which shouldâve been a clue. But your frontal lobe was melting. You didnât have the bandwidth to care.
You wobbled forward like a dying Roomba, grabbed a handful of his sleek uniform, and mumbled, âGuide. Thatâs you, right?â
And then you slumped forward and face-planted directly onto his collarbone.
There was a pause.
ââŠDo you have any idea who I am?â he asked, incredulously.
You groaned. âYeah. Youâre a Guide. Youâve got the badge.â
Another pause. Longer, this time.
He sounded⊠offended. And faintly intrigued.
ââŠYou donât recognize me?â
âShould I?â you mumbled into his neck.
You didnât see the expression on his face, but if your ears werenât 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 âholy shit youâre good at thisâ before your knees gave out completely.
You passed out in his arms.
And Vil SchoenheitâSSS-Rank Guide, national treasure, and walking perfectionâstood 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.
Thatâs 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.
âOh,â you mumbled, sleep-dazed. âMy bad.â
He tilted his head, glossy hair catching the light like it had a sponsorship deal with a shampoo brand. âAre you done?â he asked, voice sharp. âOr shall I assume youâve permanently relocated to my clavicle?â
You peeled yourself off him with all the grace of wet laundry sliding off a countertop. âThanks for, uh, not letting me die,â you offered, scratching your head.
He stared at you for a long moment. âDo you know who I am?â
You blinked. ââŠA Guide?â
He inhaled. Visibly. Offended on a spiritual level. The look on his face couldâve soured milk. âUnbelievable,â he muttered. âAre you actively trying to offend me?â
âWhat? Youâve got the badge! Thatâs all I need, right?â
Vil Schoenheitâas he introduced himselfâflicked you on the forehead. It was somehow both dismissive and full of judgment. âRecover. Properly.â he snapped, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. âYouâre lucky Iâm magnanimous.â
He swept out of the room like a disgruntled ballerina.
You blinked after him, rubbing your forehead. âWhat the hell was that about?â
A nurse walked in and immediately gasped like she'd just witnessed a royal birth. âOh my Sevenâwas that Vil?!â
âVil⊠who?â you asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.
She turned to you so fast her clipboard flew off the counter. âVil Schoenheit. SSS Guide. Heâs a legend. Do you have any idea how many Espers have tried to bond with him and been turned away in tears?â
You stared at the door where heâd just vanished. âNo? He just kinda⊠guided me.â
The nurse screeched. âYOU JUST KINDA GOT GUIDEDâare you INSANE? That man once made a Grade-SS Esper cry because they wore Crocs to an informal debriefing!â
You slowly sat back against the pillow, eyes wide.
ââŠI told him âoops sorry lol.ââ
You were still internally combusting about the whole âOops sorry lolâ situation when you finally worked up the nerve to go to Vilâs office. Not to bondâyou werenât delusionalâbut 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 wasnât a flexâit was just how the system worked. Youâd 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.
âPlease,â she was whispering, clutching Vilâs coat like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. âPlease, just once. I know Iâm not SSS, but my compatibility score is so closeââ
âI donât guide based on some arbitrary number,â Vil said coolly, extracting himself with the same disdain you'd use to avoid stepping in gum. âI guide based on worth.â
You were already edging away when his eyes snapped upâand softened.
ââŠWhat are you doing here?â he asked, voice shifting so drastically in tone it gave you whiplash.
âIâuh. I just wanted to apologize. For, you know. The slumping. And the drool. And the calling you âa Guideâ like youâre not the Guide.â You laughed nervously. âAlso. Uh. I can repay you?â
He stared at you like youâd 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, âLeave.â
She looked up, stunned. âW-what?â
âI said leave.â His voice sharpened like glass under velvet. âNow.â
You watched her scramble out in silence. Then Vil turned to you, posture relaxing like you were an entirely different species of Esper.
âSit,â he said, pointing to the velvet chair.
You obeyed. Of course you did. Your legs moved like they belonged to someone else.
âI didnât come here to be guided,â you said quickly. âI just thought Iâd offer some compensation since you took care of me back at the Gate, andââ
âHush.â
You blinked.
âI didnât guide you for compensation,â Vil said, moving closer, âand I certainly donât require repayment.â
âBut Iââ
âDo not interrupt me,â he said smoothly, placing his hand just under your jaw and tilting your head with two fingers. âClose your eyes.â
You did.
And just like before, the storm in your chest went still.
He hadnât 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 againâbecause, honestly, who wouldnât panic under that much raw focusâbut his voice cut in before a single syllable escaped:
âDid I say you could talk?â
You shut your mouth.
Vil smiled. Like heâd just won something important, and wasnât ready to tell anyone yet.
âGood. You learn quickly.â
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 Godâs gift to humanity despite the fact they were clearly holding a vape pen and a clipboard.
You didnât care.
You lurched toward him, arms outstretched like a cryptid emerging from the woods.
âBRO NO,â he yelped. âDUDE, IâM NOT CERTIFIED FOR THIS LEVEL OF TRAUMAâDONâT PUKE ON MEââ
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.
âAbsolutely not,â a cool, smooth voice said with the unmistakable tone of expensive disdain. âYou are not grounding with him.â
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. âAm I in trouble?â you mumbled.
Vil arched a brow. âYouâre seconds away from slumping onto a Guide who once tried to ground an Esper by playing lo-fi beats through his AirPods. Yes, youâre in trouble.â
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, âOur bad, weâll behave now.â
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.
âPost-gate recovery is non-negotiable,â he said, like he hadnât just watched you nearly expire in public.
You closed your eyes and focused on the cool, steady rhythm of his guidance, and thenâ
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 whoâd just had a very bad day at daycare.
You stared at the juice. Then at him. âIs this for me?â
âNo,â he said dryly. âItâs for the other S-class Esper currently drooling on my coat.â
You blinked, deeply touched. You took a sip.
It was⊠heavenly.
You made a soft noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.
And thenâyour eyes stung.
âNo,â Vil said immediately, without looking at you. âWhatever emotional reaction youâre about to haveâdonât.â
You sniffled. âBut you brought me juice. Nobodyâs brought me juice since I got classified. Everyone just shoves me into Gates and tells me not to die.â
He flicked your forehead. âIf you die, I have to find another Esper whose personality doesnât give me hives. That sounds exhausting.â
âAre you⊠saying you like me?â
âIâm saying your emotional resilience is marginally less pathetic than average,â he said, adjusting your posture so your head leaned more comfortably on his shoulder. âAnd I donât hate your voice.â
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. Youâd been weaponized, categorized, and told to sit still and kill things on command. You were a tool. A number. A sharp object.
But Vil wasnât afraid of your sharp edges. He looked you in the eye and said, âThatâs a guide badge youâre drooling on, potato. Not a chew toy.â
And then gave you juice.
You sniffled again.
âIf you sob, I will end you,â 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 hadnât just been juice boxes and emotionally confusing hand-holding.
No. It turned out you had to take something called a Routine Compatibility Check for âguidance efficiency optimization.â
You hadnât known what any of that meant, but someone had shoved a clipboard at you and told you to âgo sit in the glow room and donât touch anything,â so there you were. Sitting in a sterile white room that smelled like hand sanitizer and despair. Waiting to meet your newly assigned âguidance match.â
A door creaked open.
You turned aroundâand in walked a guy who looked like he hadnât seen direct sunlight since the invention of the lightbulb. His shoulders were hunched, hoodie too big, blue glowing hair all mussed like heâd 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 harderâand visibly recoiled like youâd just bit him.
ââŠUhhh,â he said, voice high and trembling. âYouâre the S-class?â
âYup,â you replied.
âOh no.â
This man looked like he was seconds from writing âHELPâ on the window with a dry erase marker. His hand was already twitching toward the panic button. He was mentally Googling âwhat to do when assigned a battle demon.â
You opened your mouth to say something reassuringâlike, âHey, I only explode on some guides,â or âIâve never actually flattened a building during a meltdownââ
âbut the door slammed open behind you.
âAbsolutely not.â
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 wasnât from the office vending machine.
He eyed the situationâyour tentative shuffle toward your new guide, the way the poor guy was gripping his ID badge like a rosaryâand his lip curled like someone had just handed him expired tofu.
âIâm taking them,â Vil said flatly to the Guidance Office rep standing nearby. âThis is non-negotiable.â
The rep blinked. âBut, Mr. Schoenheit, the matchââ
ââwas laughable. Theyâre mine.â
Your poor assigned guide looked so relieved it was almost insulting.
âThank the stars,â he mumbled, already gathering his things like you were a bomb thatâd just been safely disarmed. âNo offense, but I really donât do well with⊠uh⊠physical contact or eye contact or conflict orââ
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. âOkay, hi, hello? What was that?â
âI saw your assignment,â Vil said coolly. âI couldnât, in good conscience, let that continue.â
âButâI thought you werenât accepting new matches?â
âIâm not.â
You blinked. âSoâŠ?â
He glanced over his shoulder at you, slow and deliberate, like you werenât quite connecting the dots fast enough.
âI didnât consider you ânew'.â
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 âinspired by the blood of fashion victimsâ collection. No, no. You wanted one of those oversized, marshmallow-soft hoodies that whispered âlay down and give up, my liegeâ 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 â3 for 2: Emotional Support Wearâ, when fate struck.
Or rather, sashayed past in four-inch heels and an aura of contempt.
Vil.
You froze. He looked like heâd 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?
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 thenâ
âYou.â
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 whoâd just discovered a stray in his favorite restaurant.
âCome. I need hands.â
âSorry,â you said. âI left mine at home. Canât help you.â
He blinked. Then, with all the confidence of someone who didnât 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 didnât 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: âThe Endangered Fashion Icon in His Natural Habitat.â
And then, miraculously, he let you live.
He suggested a coffee break and even let you payâprobably out of pity. You made a mental note to deduct it as a business expense under âaccidental deity encounter.â
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, âIâve been guiding murder monsters all week and now suddenly I believe in joy againâ kind of cute.
You stared. He looked at you. You looked away, sipping your drink very intently, trying not to say âplease laugh again, it heals my soul.â
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 toddlerâabsolutely done with life. He was muttering to himself under his breath, phrases like, âEspers with zero gratitude... how dare they ask for guidance without a thank-you,â and, âI swear if one more person thinks my time is free like it's some kind of community resourceâ
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, andâwithout a wordâstarted massaging his shoulders.
Vil tensed like a cat about to fight god. Then slowlyâslowlyâmelted into it.
âThis isnât part of your session,â he grumbled, but it lacked bite. His head tilted forward, giving you better access. âYouâre not guiding me, you know.â
âIâm aware,â you said, digging your thumbs in just right. âYouâre welcome.â
He didnât 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 wasnât five seconds away from incinerating someone with nothing but his glare.
Eventually, you sat back down on the couch. And thenâshock of all shocksâVil 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.
ââŠDonât say a word about this,â 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 didnât move. You didnât speak.
You just sat with him in silence, wondering how the hell youâd gone from emotional demolition expert to comfort pillow. And, weirdly, feeling kind of honored.
You werenât 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 cellsânone of which were cooperating.
Youâd 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 wasnât 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, âsnarling, vomiting monsters that defied physicsâ badly. And youâfoolish, heroic, caffeine-soaked gremlin that you wereâran 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 kidâs shoe and had a breakdown mid-punch. You tried to do everything, and your body just⊠stopped cooperating.
You didnât 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 âokay coolâ and left like a ghost clocking out after a double shift at a haunted Wendyâs.
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 didnât 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 Youâs 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 didnât 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 didnât call the Guidance Office.
You didnât reach for your communicator.
You didnât even consider getting guided.
Because why would you?
You hadnât earned it.
Guidance was for espers who did good. Who came back whole. Who saved people and feel okay about it.
You didnât want anyone to see you like this. Least of all Vilâthe 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:
âPotato, why didnât you call?â And youâd go, âBecause I sucked. And also I was busy eating my weight in sadness on my couch.â
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.
Youâd 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: âPick. Up. Now.â
You did.
The moment the line connected, there was a beat of silenceâthen his voice, sharp and low like the edge of a knife:
âAddress. Now.â
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.
âThe door was wide open. Wide. Open. Are you out of your mind?! What if someone broke in?! What if something followed you?! What ifââ
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.
âWhy didnât you call me?!â he snapped, voice wobbling between fury and panic.
You sat up slowly. Your limbs felt like wet noodles. You looked at himâactually looked at himâand saw the edges of worry in his perfect posture. You didnât 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.
âYou didnât respond,â he murmured, voice much softer now, like heâd deflated the moment you touched him. âI was at a gate, and youâyou shouldâve called me. You idiot.â
âI didnât deserve it,â you croaked, still clinging. âI couldnât save everyone. I didnât earn it. I didnâtââ
THWACK.
He flicked you so hard on the forehead you saw colors. You yelped and recoiled, holding your skull like heâd smacked you with a frying pan.
âOWâwhat the hell, Vil?!â
âUse your brain,â he snapped. âYou donât have to earn guidance. You lived. You fought. You made it back. Thatâs enough.â
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 didnât know what to do with this information. It flailed.
â...butââ
âNo.â He pressed two fingers to your temple. âQuiet.â
And just like that, warmth bloomed across your skin. Calm, grounding, steady. His presence wrapped around your rattled mind like a weighted blanket.
You hadnât realized how loud your thoughts had been until everything went quiet.
You slumped forward again, forehead on his shoulder.
ââŠthank you,â you whispered.
He made a soft, exasperated noise and squeezed your hand.
âNext time,â he muttered, âif you donât call me, I will drag you to a spa against your will and lock you in a bathhouse for six hours.â
Honestly?
That sounded kind of nice.
You nodded into his shoulder and let the warmth pull you under again.
It wasnât 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.
âYou donât even check the sodium levels, do you? Of course not. Why would you? That would require basic self-preservation instincts, which you clearly lack,âare you even listening to me?â
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 madâelegant, 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 ânot a landfill for factory-processed poison,â you thought:
Wow. Heâs perfect.
There was a pause.
A silence that felt loud in your own brain.
Not because he noticedâno, 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 heâd dropped his phone into lava. Because you knew exactly what this meant.
You were so, so screwed.
You didnât even try to deny it. You were too tired for that. Too experienced in emotional disasters to think, âmaybe itâs just a crush!â
Nah. You liked him. For real. In the "Iâd wear sunscreen just to impress him" kind of way. In the "he could tell me I look homeless and Iâd 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 werenât 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 youâd survive.
âŠMaybe.
âAre you even paying attention?â Vil snapped, snapping his fingers in your face.
You jolted back to reality. âYes! Yes. Sodium bad. Body temple. I got it.â
He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. âYouâre acting weirder than usual.â
âIâm always weird,â you said quickly. âThatâs my brand. Very consistent.â
He sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of his nose. âHopeless.â
You watched him for a second longer and thought, God, Iâm doomed.
And then you smiled and said, âYeah. But at least Iâm charming about it.â
He rolled his eyes.
But he didnât deny it.
You were just trying to survive. Thatâs 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 ârecklessâ or âinsufferableâ or âa walking cautionary tale,â 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 guideâs contact. The poor intern looked like heâd 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 whenâ
A shadow loomed.
Perfume wafted.
And the temperature dropped ten degrees.
You didnât 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.
âUp. Now.â
Vilâs 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.
Thenârip.
Your transfer form disintegrated in his hands.
âOUT,â he snapped, voice tight, angry. âIf youâre going to be a complete and utter fool, then get out of my sight.â
You blinked. âWhatâwhy are you mad? Iâm doing you a favor!â
âA favor?â he repeated, like youâd just spat in a glass of ChĂąteau Margaux.
You held your ground, though you were 97% sure he could kill you with a single sigh. âYou didnât want to guide me in the first place! Iâmâlook, Iâm making it easier for both of us. No more clingy potato energy. No more⊠emotional spirals. You can guide someone who isnât a complete mess.â
He stared at you, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, and then heâkissed 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 youâfroze.
You opened your mouth to say something.
He kissed you again.
This time, slower. Angrier. Like he was trying to shove every word you werenât letting him say directly into your bloodstream.
âI love you,â he hissed when he finally pulled away, chest heaving. âYou stupid, overthinking potato.â
You blinked. âIâwait, what?â
âOh, now youâre speechless?â he snapped, pacing. âYou think I guide you because itâs convenient? You think I chose to rip you away from that quivering ball of social anxiety just to be charitable? I donât have to guide anyone. I chose you.â
You were still stuck on the part where he said âI love youâ and hadnât immediately revoked it.
He pointed at you. âSit down.â
You sat. Immediately.
He sat next to you, crossed one leg over the other, and glared. âWeâre going to talk about this. Then youâre going to delete the idea of transferring from your thick, tragically underutilized brain. Understood?â
ââŠYes?â
âGood. And drink some water. You look like youâre about to combust.â
You obeyed. Because frankly? You were.
âYouâre serious?â 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. âYou love me?â
Vil stared at you with the exhausted patience of a man who had been in love with a rock for three years. âYes. Iâve loved you for a while, and youââ he poked you in the forehead again, harder this time, ââhave been blissfully, astoundingly oblivious.â
âThatâs not fair,â you said, already sweating. âYouâre very hard to read!â
âIâm not,â he said flatly. âYouâre just emotionally illiterate.â
âGive me one example.â
âOh, one?â He tilted his head and actually laughed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. âLetâs start small, then. Remember the time I brought you a silk-lined weighted blanket because you said you liked âbeing squished by fabricâ and your apartment âfelt like a haunted fridge?ââ
You blinked. âI thought that was just you mocking me with luxury.â
âI custom-ordered it in your favorite color and personally dropped it off.â
ââŠOkay, thatâs fair.â
âAnd 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?â
ââŠYou said that was because Iâm âemotionally six.ââ
âThat was a joke.â He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed at you again. âWhat about when I held your hand during guidance and you told me, âThis is wildly intimate,â and I said, âThatâs the idea, darling,â and you laughed and said, âHa ha good one,â and proceeded to talk about raccoons for twenty minutes?â
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. âOr 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, âYouâd make such a good husband, wow,â and then called me bro.â
âI was tired that day,â you whispered.
He paced. âI 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 didnât deserve comfort, and I guided you anyway! I even brought snacks!â
You were holding your head in your hands now, processing. âOh my god. Iâm the clown. Iâm the whole circus.â
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. âI assumed you didn't like me. But this?â He smiled a little. âThis is honestly worse.â
âOkay. Ouch.â
âI love you,â he repeated, quieter now, thumb brushing over your knuckles. âIâve loved you for a long time. And I donât want you to change guides. I want you to stay.â
You looked down at your joined hands. Then up at his face, soft and real and so, so stupidly beautiful.
â...Can I kiss you again?â you asked.
He rolled his eyes. âFinally.â
And he did. And this time, when he kissed you, you didnât 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 youâd wasted missing the obvious.
(But you did apologize to him later. After the third kiss. And after asking if heâd consider writing a âVil Schoenheitâs Guide to Realizing Your Guide is Flirtingâ 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 breachânothing 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 youâd just gone twelve rounds with the concept of mortality. You locked eyes with himâbriefly, like a bird recognizing glass mid-flightâand then passed out straight into his arms.
Correction: onto him.
He wasnât 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 didnât 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. âOh,â you mumbled, voice hoarse. âSorry. My bad.â
No recognition. No fawning. No demands for priority guidance.
Just thatâthanksâlike 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: Theyâre 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, âHi. Just wanted to thank you again. For yesterday. And, like, if you want anythingâcoffee, or uh, a meal, or maybe a really good nap on my couchâI can return the favor.â
He blinked. âYou're offering me compensation?â
âYeah,â you said, like it was obvious. âI didnât mean to fall on you. Also, you helped me not die. That deserves at least a smoothie.â
He stared at you. You stared back, unbothered and vaguely hopeful, like someone trying to barter with a raccoon theyâd wronged in a past life.
And thatâs 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 didnât say yes to your offer.
And later that evening, sipping the mango smoothie you left on his desk with a sticky note that said âThanks again, Your Highness,â 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 âhappenedâ 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 didnât need them.
A week later, he spotted you in the hallway again. You were coming out of a gate looking like youâd 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 didnât even think. He stomped across the hallway, yanked you away like a cat stealing laundry, and declared, âAbsolutely not.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âGuiding you. Sit down. Shut up.â
â...Okay?â
Heâd 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 Guideâbecause of some nonsense about âcompatibility testsâ and âemotional interferenceâ (rude)âhe 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 couldâpart charm, part cold-blooded menaceâand made it very clear that you were off the market.
âThis Esper is mine,â he said, crisp and cool like a glacier in a fur coat. âOfficially. Put it in writing.â
The poor intern at the desk blinked up at him, then at the screen.
âUm⊠you mean, you want toâ?â
âYes. I want to take full responsibility for their guiding.â
âSir, do you mean romanticallyâ?â
âProfessionally.â A beat. âFor now.â
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.
âI need hands,â he said.
âFor what?â
âEverything.â
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, âThat color makes your cheekbones illegal,â and âIf I try that on Iâll look like a deflated beanbag.â You actually enjoyed yourself.
And it wasnât 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:
Iâm doomed.
Because he liked you.
He really, really liked you.
Not in the âyouâre tolerable and I guess I wonât smite youâ way. In the âI want to wring your neck for not wearing gloves but also maybe hold your handâ way. The âI will destroy that junior Guide if he even looks at you againâ way. The âplease stop getting injured or I will cry and then deny it until the sun explodesâ way.
And you had no idea.
You were still out here calling yourself âemotionally bulletproofâ and stealing his granola bars like it was normal. Still calling him âVilbo Bagginsâ and poking his forehead like you werenât holding the shreds of his dignity in your little chaos-stained hands.
So yes. Vil was doomed.
And he couldnât even blame you.
Because of all the Espers in the world, it had to be youâyou 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 didnât joke.
No "Whatâs up, Guidezilla?"
No "Did your skincare try to abandon you too?"
You just took one look at him, walked over, andâgentlyâplaced 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 exhaledâshaky, involuntaryâyou didnât tease him for it.
You just said, softly, âYou donât always have to do everything alone, you know.â
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 minuteâmaybe twenty seconds.
But it was enough.
Enough to make him realize: This is the safest Iâve felt all day.
And the fact that it was youâyou, with your chaos and your grin and your glitter stickers stuck to your ID badgeâthat was terrifying. And comforting. And utterly, stupidly addicting.
He didnât say thank you. Not out loud.
But later, when you werenât 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 wasnât uncommon anymore. It was annoyingâyes, he preferred to keep you in armâs reach like a chaotic, overly affectionate pet raccoonâbut manageable. You hadnât called, hadnât messaged, so he assumed it was fine. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe youâd 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.
âDid they get guided after?â he asked, voice sharp.
The other Guide had shrugged. âApparently not. Took off the moment debrief ended.â
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.
â"Pick up your phone, I swear to the God, if you are ghosting me because youâre feeling âemotionally crunchyâ againâ"
ââIf you're hurt, I need to know. If you're not hurt, I'm going to kill you myself.â
ââPotato, Iâm serious. Answer the phone.â
When you finally picked up, sounding groggy and like someone had drop-kicked your soul, all you said was:
ââŠVil?â
And that was enough.
âAddress. Now.â
You sent him a dropped pin and then promptly passed out again.
Heâd 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.
âYou left the door open. What if someone hadâ?! You didnât evenâ! I called you a hundred times! Why didnât youâ!?â
You blinked up at him, slow and a little disoriented. âVil?â
He was kneeling next to the couch before he realized it, shaking you like an overcaffeinated nurse trying to keep a patient conscious. âWhy didnât you call me?!â
Your voice was small. âDidnât think I deserved to.â
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 youâwho put yourself on the line for people who didnât know your nameâcould think for one second you didnât 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 donât know if Iâll survive it.
And he realized, with an unflinching kind of horror, that this wasnât just fondness anymore.
This was love. Stupid, all-consuming, feral love.
Oh, when Vil saw the transfer form in your handsâhis potato, his utterly chaotic, absurdly self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated Esperâfilling out a request to switch Guides?
He saw red. No, scratch that. He saw every shade of fury on the spectrum. He didnât 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.
âWhat. Is. This.â
You blinked at him like a cat caught stealing food, caught between guilt and indifference. âA transfer form? Iâuh. Itâs not a big dealââ
âNot aââ Vil looked genuinely scandalized. If he wore pearls, he wouldâve clutched them. âDo you think Iâm 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 isnât a big deal?!â
You stared at him, flustered and slightly confused. âIâI just thought maybe itâd be easier for both of us if I wasnâtâlikeâaround all the time, you know? Iâm not exactly low maintenanceââ
Vilâs 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, âI love you, you stupid overthinking potato.â
You blinked.
âIâwhatââ
He kissed you again. You werenât going to ruin this with words. Not today.
When he finally let you breathe, you looked dizzy. In love. Slightly offended. Vil understood.
âYouâve been in love with me?â you asked, voice very much in the âI missed every single sign like a blind NPC in a dating simâ zone.
âOh finally,â Vil groaned. âYes. 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.â
You looked like the Earth had tilted sideways. âOh my god. I thought you were justâlike that.â
ââLike that?!ââ he cried. âI 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!â
âOh my god,â you said again, very softly. âI am Stupid.â
Vil sighed like he was asking the universe for strength. âYes. But youâre mine now. So unless you want to see what a real tantrum looks like, stop trying to fill out transfer forms like weâre in some tragic rom-com and just stay.â
You looked at him for a moment, soft and stunned and still processing the part where he said âI love youâ more than once.
Then you reached for him, and he let you pull him into a hug, and despite everythingâdespite the rage, the confusion, the two destroyed pens on his desk and the emotional whiplashâyou smiled into his shoulder like you couldnât 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 didnât expect it to come up like this.
You were lying on Vilâs fancy designer couch, head on his lap, while he scrolled through his tablet like he wasnât also playing with your hair and ruining your heart. It was a quiet kind of peace, the kind you didnât get often, the kind you didnât want to jinx.
Which is exactly why he jinxed it.
âI want to permanently bond,â he said, tone casual in the way a gun cocking across the room is casual.
You blinked. âWhat?â
He looked down at you like you were the idiot for not reading his mind faster.
âI donât want to guide anyone else,â he said. âYouâre mine.â
Your heart made a sound like a microwave short-circuiting.
âYouâre sure?â you asked, because you had toâbecause you needed him to say it again, to look you in the eye and confirm this wasnât just heat-of-the-moment emotion, or drama, or guilt, orâ
Vil gave you a glare so sharp it could slice through reinforced glass. You didnât 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 youâd 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 whoâd waited far too long to do this.
There was nothing dramatic about the bond itselfâit 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 matchâhis 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 didnât 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:
âFinally.â
You laughed, breathless. âYeah,â you said, hugging him tighter. âFinally.â
Life was still mildly cursed. You werenât about to tempt fate by saying otherwise. The gates still opened at the worst times, your body still ached in places that didnât make sense, and someone still managed to microwave metal in the guidance office kitchen every single week.
Butâ
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 âIf You Die, I Will Be Very Upset (And Also Kill You) â A Visual Threat.â
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 âabsolutely not, we are not breaking furniture today.â
You peeled off your jacket, dropped your bag, and turned to him, still stuck in your boots. âIs it bad I want to sleep on the floor?â
âYes,â he replied instantly. âGo shower, you reeking gremlin. Iâll order dinner.â
You blinked. âWill it be salad?â
âNo. Iâm ordering dumplings.â
You stared at him like heâd grown a second head. âWho are you and what have you done with my overachieving nutrient-balanced microgreensââ
Vil shoved you gently toward the bathroom. âShoo. Iâll be waiting here with your emotional support carbs when youâre done.â
And that was it.
You went to shower, and he ordered dinner. And maybe life was cursed and weird and exhaustingâbut it had given you Vil. And now, the worst thing he threatened you with was hydration reminders and forehead kisses.
- a/n: it's mentioned that the reader is the daughter of bruce and selina, but it's never mentioned that she's biologically related, so you could definitely interpret it as her being adopted by them!
9. step 2: pants on fire
- synopsis\\ you watch as dick runs off after batman betrays him for the last time, causing the family to fall apart. after an explosion, and a time machine, with a speedster to help you, you have one last chance to stop history from repeating itself.
âą word count: 1,372
âą masterlist
you were back in detroit with bart, though this time you two had picked a diner that served fries and milkshakes. âokay step two sort of builds off step one, we need to create distance between them by subtly lying to them about the otherâs availability.â
âwouldnât easily be able to figure that out though?â bart questioned. you ever so slightly frowned and responded with,
âthatâs just the thing, barbara is already starting to communicate less and less with dick. all we have to do is speed up the process; itâll be like the donut shop, barbara will jump at the chance to have alone time especially if she thinks dick is already going to be busy.â
âi just donât get how dick isnât noticing these changes,â bart said. âtheyâre not exactly subtle.â
âthatâs the thing about love, youâll interpret everything however you need to in order to make sure everything is okay. heâs blind to barbaraâs changes because heâs too in love with her to see that she just doesnât feel the same anymore,â you answered.
âokay but then why doesnât barbara just break up with him, why avoid him and drag this on,â he continued.
âsame rules apply,â you said. âbarbara is so used to being in a relationship that used to mean everything to her, i think sheâs just not ready yet to accept that itâs over.â
that confused bart even more, âso then how does she end up having an affair with batman if all of this stems from her not wanting things to change yet.â
you frowned even more, âmy guess is that it was a combination of two things, in four months sheâs going to be far different, emotionally speaking. adding to that, my dad probably couldnât keep it in his pants and barbara was vulnerable, so one thing led to another.â
âyou really think batman would betray dick over lust? just like that?â bart asked. you paused, and pushed your fries slightly forward having lost your appetite.
âi mean, he technically already has. hasnât he?â
~~~~~~~~~~~~
you walked into the library that barbara worked at. you walked through the aisles, looking through all your favorite genres. she was sitting at the front desk, helping people check out books and movies. you wanted a smooth reason to go up and talk to her, itâs true you were practically family but it wasnât often that you came to the library to visit her and you didnât want to raise suspicions this early. after only a few minutes, you picked out a few different books making sure they werenât from the same aisle.
you went up to where she was and began to check out the books. as you did so, you also took the chance to start talking to her. âhey babs, howâs work going?â
ânot bad, weâre a little understaffed though and itâs kind of overwhelming to be honest.â for some reason, hearing her say that frustrated you. not that you didnât understand why she was overwhelmed. yeah, people think of calm and quiet when they think of libraries but you understood that all jobs had their hardships. thatâs what makes all jobs important in their own way. but, you were all overwhelmed when dick left. again, sure it was her who got pregnant and lost her fiance but you lost your brother for something that wasnât even your fault.
âmaybe you could pick up some more shifts? extra cash plus maybe you can get some stuff done faster than it can build back up. then the rest of your shifts for a while will hopefully be more relaxed,â you suggested.
âi thought about it,â she opened up. and then she said, âbut bruce asked me for some help around the batcave and i think i should probably prioritize him right now.â what a strange way to word that. she wasnât going to âprioritize thatâ she was going to âprioritize himâ. and it filled you with the dread of 'what if youâre closer to her cheating than you originally thought?â because in truth you had no idea how long her affair with bruce might have been going on before she actually got pregnant and finally got caught. in fact, for all you knew the affair had already started and the âhelpâ your father wanted around the help wasnât all that innocent. how had this not hit you before? ây/n?â she asked in a lightly concerned tone. âyouâre spacing out, is everything okay?â
you quickly snapped out of it, âoh, i was just thinking about how unfair that is to you! you know? i mean my dad is always making you do so much! let me handle whatever it is that he wants, afterall the library could lead to a great career for you. donât let your nighttime routine consume your life like he lets his be consumed.â it sounded really sincere, and in another universe it probably would have been. but in this universe, in this timeline that you were stuck in, your ulterior motive was not as sincere to barbara as it was to dick.
âisnât dick going to be upset if i pick up more shifts? it would take away from our time together,â she worried. and while it might have sounded nice on the surface, it was becoming increasingly clear she didnât actually care about spending time with him. if anything, she should be happy to have a legit reason to see him less. really, it sounded like she was disappointed she wouldnât be able to spend more time with bruce.
âheâll understand,â you told her. âheâs always gonna want whatâs best for you.â you thought you had convinced her. originally, the plan was to lie to her about dick being busy so that she wouldnât push herself to make plans with him. thinking he was busy was supposed to allow her to avoid him without guilt. you had no way of knowing this interaction would go much smoother but you werenât complaining. at the time, it seemed like youâd succeeded in keeping them apart in a far more legit manner. unfortunately, you ended up learning from dick a week later that things didnât go quite as smoothly as you had hoped.
~~~
âi think babs is lying to me,â dick confided in you one night. you were helping your dad organize some recent case files and relevant papers that heâd acquired in the last couple weeks or so and dick was down there just offering his presence.
âwhat makes you say that?â and this time you were once again genuinely lost. everything was supposed to have worked out. you were helping your dad out with the work he was hoping barbara would do, which meant it was innocent work at least this time. and barbara had a genuine excuse to not see dick because she was at the library. there was no sign of cheating or any foul play yet, so what was dick worried about?
âwell she said she was going to be picking up more shifts down at the library to make up for them being so understaffed right now,â he started. âi think sheâs making up excuses because she doesnât wanna see me, but i canât figure out why.â he couldnât seem to lift his gaze up from the floor.
you still thought he was being paranoid for the most part, so you didnât stop what you were doing as you tried to ease his nerves. âi was just at the library the other week talking to her, she told me about the extra shifts too but i encouraged it because i didnât think itâd bother you this much,â you werenât being totally honest but it wasnât a complete lie.
âwell see thatâs just the thing, iâve been talking to her coworkers and she hasnât actually picked up any extra shifts yet but she keeps insisting overtime is why sheâs been so busy,â he elaborated. and if it were anyone else in any other situation you would have first assumed a reasonable explanation. but, knowing where this was heading your heart dropped. you were even helping out in the batcave so that babs wouldnât have to, so where was she?
âCâmon, Sebek,â you said, grinning. âI bet I could carry you.â
Sebek blinked at you, utterly baffled. âWhat?!â His voice shot up an octave. âPreposterous! I am a knight-in-training my strength far exceeds yours!â
You folded your arms. âOh? So youâre scared I might actually manage it?â
His jaw dropped. âSCARED?!â He puffed out his chest immediately. âI fear nothing! Very well then! Attempt it, if you wish to embarrass yourself!â
That was all the permission you needed.
You stood in front of him, braced yourself, and tried.
For a solid three seconds, you strained with heroic effort, your arms around his waist, your face buried against his muscled chest, your balance slipping dangerously.
Sebek looked down at you, caught between alarm and awe. âYouâŠ! Youâre actuallyâŠtrying!â
You grunted. âYouâre⊠so⊠heavy!â
âOf course I am! Iâm- wait donât-!â
Too late. You lost your footing, stumbling forward until your forehead bumped his chest. He caught you instinctively, strong hands steadying you before you could fall.
âCareless!â he scolded, though his voice was softer than usual. âYou could have injured yourself!â
You looked up, slightly out of breath but smiling. âYouâre lucky I didnât pull a muscle.â
Sebek crossed his arms, trying to look stern. âThis is why you must leave such feats to someone properly trained! Allow me to demonstrate.â
Before you could protest, he bent down and swept you up into his arms like you weighed nothing at all.
âSebek!â you squeaked, clutching at his shoulders.
He stood tall and proud, muscles tensing slightly as he adjusted his grip. âYou see? Effortless! I could carry you through battle if I had to!â
You blinked up at him, warmth creeping up your cheeks. âOh yeah? Planning to carry me into a lot of battles?â
That was when it hit him. How close you were.
Your arms looped naturally around his neck. Your faces barely inches apart. Your breath mingled with his, and all at once, the proud knight went completely still.
His ears turned bright red.
âTh-Thatâs not what I meant!â he sputtered. âI-I would onlyâŠif necessary! For your protection! I-!â
You bit back a laugh, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. âYouâre cute when you panic, you know that?â
Sebek froze again, his whole body going rigid. âC-Cute?! How dare youâŠ! I am a warrior of-â
â-a very strong warrior whoâs blushing,â you teased gently.
He made a strangled noise that was somewhere between a growl and a whimper. âYou! Silence!â
But even as he barked the word, his grip around you tightened a little, protective and warm. His heart was racing so fast you could feel it through his chestplate.
After a moment, his voice softened, barely above a whisper.
ââŠI would not drop you,â he said quietly. âYou can trust me on that.â
You smiled against him. âI know.â
He stayed perfectly still for a long moment, as if moving might shatter something fragile. The only sound between you was his heartbeat; steady, strong, and far too fast for someone claiming to be composed.
Finally, with painstaking care, Sebek exhaled and began to lower you back down. His arms didnât tremble once; he kept you close until your feet touched the ground as gently as if you were made of glass.
âThere,â he said, straightening immediately, hands lingering a second longer at your waist before he remembered himself and snapped them back to his sides. âNo injury. No imbalance. Perfectly executed.â
You smiled up at him, voice light. âPerfectly executed, huh? You even remembered to blush.â
His whole face flamed crimson. âI-I was not! The temperature in here is unreasonable!â
You tilted your head. âSure it is.â
He crossed his arms, looking anywhere but you. âYou truly have no sense of self-preservation. Trying to lift someone twice your weight, unthinkable. You could have been hurt.â
You stepped closer, your tone teasing. âAw, were you worried about me?â
âI- of course I was!â he blurted, and then instantly looked like he regretted saying it aloud. His hands clenched at his sides, the tips of his ears bright green from embarrassment. âA knight must always be aware of potential danger to those under his protection.â
âRight,â you said, smiling. âSo Iâm âunder your protectionâ now?â
Sebek opened his mouth, froze, and then, very quietly, âYes.â
The word hung between you; simple, earnest, and a little shaky.
You grinned. âThatâs very gallant of you, Sir Zigvolt. I feel safer already.â
He tried to recover his pride, straightening his shoulders, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch upward. âYou should feel safe. I will not allow harm to come to you. Not from clumsy lifting, not from anything.â
You leaned in, close enough that he instinctively took a half step back, though his gaze never left yours. âSo if I trip againâŠâ
He swallowed hard. âI will catch you,â he said quickly.
âYou promise?â
Sebek nodded once, fierce but bashful. âI swear it. I would never let you fall.â
You smiled softly, stepping closer until your fingers brushed his. âGood,â you murmured. âBecause I think I like being in your arms.â
That did it. His breath hitched audibly, the proud knight completely undone by a few quiet words. âY-You⊠You cannot simply say things like that!â
âWhy not?â you teased, eyes bright. âYouâre the one who carried me.â
Sebekâs lips pressed together in a thin line as if trying not to smile. âYou test my composure far too easily,â he muttered, half-fond, half-flustered.
You laughed softly. âGuess youâll have to keep catching me until you get used to it.â
He blinked, then sighed, defeated, smiling despite himself. âThen I will simply have to become the strongest knight in all of Briar Valley.â
And as he turned away, ears still burning, you could hear him mutter under his breath, so quiet you almost missed it:
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âCâmon, Sebek,â you said, grinning. âI bet I could carry you.â
Sebek blinked at you, utterly baffled. âWhat?!â His voice shot up an octave. âPreposterous! I am a knight-in-training my strength far exceeds yours!â
You folded your arms. âOh? So youâre scared I might actually manage it?â
His jaw dropped. âSCARED?!â He puffed out his chest immediately. âI fear nothing! Very well then! Attempt it, if you wish to embarrass yourself!â
That was all the permission you needed.
You stood in front of him, braced yourself, and tried.
For a solid three seconds, you strained with heroic effort, your arms around his waist, your face buried against his muscled chest, your balance slipping dangerously.
Sebek looked down at you, caught between alarm and awe. âYouâŠ! Youâre actuallyâŠtrying!â
You grunted. âYouâre⊠so⊠heavy!â
âOf course I am! Iâm- wait donât-!â
Too late. You lost your footing, stumbling forward until your forehead bumped his chest. He caught you instinctively, strong hands steadying you before you could fall.
âCareless!â he scolded, though his voice was softer than usual. âYou could have injured yourself!â
You looked up, slightly out of breath but smiling. âYouâre lucky I didnât pull a muscle.â
Sebek crossed his arms, trying to look stern. âThis is why you must leave such feats to someone properly trained! Allow me to demonstrate.â
Before you could protest, he bent down and swept you up into his arms like you weighed nothing at all.
âSebek!â you squeaked, clutching at his shoulders.
He stood tall and proud, muscles tensing slightly as he adjusted his grip. âYou see? Effortless! I could carry you through battle if I had to!â
You blinked up at him, warmth creeping up your cheeks. âOh yeah? Planning to carry me into a lot of battles?â
That was when it hit him. How close you were.
Your arms looped naturally around his neck. Your faces barely inches apart. Your breath mingled with his, and all at once, the proud knight went completely still.
His ears turned bright red.
âTh-Thatâs not what I meant!â he sputtered. âI-I would onlyâŠif necessary! For your protection! I-!â
You bit back a laugh, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. âYouâre cute when you panic, you know that?â
Sebek froze again, his whole body going rigid. âC-Cute?! How dare youâŠ! I am a warrior of-â
â-a very strong warrior whoâs blushing,â you teased gently.
He made a strangled noise that was somewhere between a growl and a whimper. âYou! Silence!â
But even as he barked the word, his grip around you tightened a little, protective and warm. His heart was racing so fast you could feel it through his chestplate.
After a moment, his voice softened, barely above a whisper.
ââŠI would not drop you,â he said quietly. âYou can trust me on that.â
You smiled against him. âI know.â
He stayed perfectly still for a long moment, as if moving might shatter something fragile. The only sound between you was his heartbeat; steady, strong, and far too fast for someone claiming to be composed.
Finally, with painstaking care, Sebek exhaled and began to lower you back down. His arms didnât tremble once; he kept you close until your feet touched the ground as gently as if you were made of glass.
âThere,â he said, straightening immediately, hands lingering a second longer at your waist before he remembered himself and snapped them back to his sides. âNo injury. No imbalance. Perfectly executed.â
You smiled up at him, voice light. âPerfectly executed, huh? You even remembered to blush.â
His whole face flamed crimson. âI-I was not! The temperature in here is unreasonable!â
You tilted your head. âSure it is.â
He crossed his arms, looking anywhere but you. âYou truly have no sense of self-preservation. Trying to lift someone twice your weight, unthinkable. You could have been hurt.â
You stepped closer, your tone teasing. âAw, were you worried about me?â
âI- of course I was!â he blurted, and then instantly looked like he regretted saying it aloud. His hands clenched at his sides, the tips of his ears bright green from embarrassment. âA knight must always be aware of potential danger to those under his protection.â
âRight,â you said, smiling. âSo Iâm âunder your protectionâ now?â
Sebek opened his mouth, froze, and then, very quietly, âYes.â
The word hung between you; simple, earnest, and a little shaky.
You grinned. âThatâs very gallant of you, Sir Zigvolt. I feel safer already.â
He tried to recover his pride, straightening his shoulders, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitch upward. âYou should feel safe. I will not allow harm to come to you. Not from clumsy lifting, not from anything.â
You leaned in, close enough that he instinctively took a half step back, though his gaze never left yours. âSo if I trip againâŠâ
He swallowed hard. âI will catch you,â he said quickly.
âYou promise?â
Sebek nodded once, fierce but bashful. âI swear it. I would never let you fall.â
You smiled softly, stepping closer until your fingers brushed his. âGood,â you murmured. âBecause I think I like being in your arms.â
That did it. His breath hitched audibly, the proud knight completely undone by a few quiet words. âY-You⊠You cannot simply say things like that!â
âWhy not?â you teased, eyes bright. âYouâre the one who carried me.â
Sebekâs lips pressed together in a thin line as if trying not to smile. âYou test my composure far too easily,â he muttered, half-fond, half-flustered.
You laughed softly. âGuess youâll have to keep catching me until you get used to it.â
He blinked, then sighed, defeated, smiling despite himself. âThen I will simply have to become the strongest knight in all of Briar Valley.â
And as he turned away, ears still burning, you could hear him mutter under his breath, so quiet you almost missed it:
ruggie bucchi has always been scrappy. sharp eyes, sharp teeth, and even sharper instincts. in the harsh slums of the afterglow savanna, it was survival of the fastest, the smartest, the greediest. and ruggie was all three.
thatâs why he doesnât share. not his food, not his money, not his time. if he has a full belly and jingly pockets, thatâs all he needs. or at least, thatâs what he tells himself.
until you.
you, with your dumb little pack of emergency snacks. you, who breaks your bread in half before you even take a bite. you, who laughs and calls him a âscavengerâ when he swipes extra pastries from the cafeteria, but never once judges him for it. you, who says âthanksâ even when he hands you a squished onigiri from his pocket, like itâs gourmet.
it started small. he started to pretend he was too full, offering you the last dumpling. tosses you a wrapped rice ball, says itâs a âfavorâ so you owe him later.
but the truth? the raw, scary truth?
he wants to share. wants to see you eat. wants to feed you like it proves something he canât say out loud.
maybe itâs love. maybe itâs loyalty. maybe itâs the terrifying realization that heâd go hungry if it meant seeing you full.
and that is terrifying. because ruggie bucchi does not share.
ruggie bucchi has always been scrappy. sharp eyes, sharp teeth, and even sharper instincts. in the harsh slums of the afterglow savanna, it was survival of the fastest, the smartest, the greediest. and ruggie was all three.
thatâs why he doesnât share. not his food, not his money, not his time. if he has a full belly and jingly pockets, thatâs all he needs. or at least, thatâs what he tells himself.
until you.
you, with your dumb little pack of emergency snacks. you, who breaks your bread in half before you even take a bite. you, who laughs and calls him a âscavengerâ when he swipes extra pastries from the cafeteria, but never once judges him for it. you, who says âthanksâ even when he hands you a squished onigiri from his pocket, like itâs gourmet.
it started small. he started to pretend he was too full, offering you the last dumpling. tosses you a wrapped rice ball, says itâs a âfavorâ so you owe him later.
but the truth? the raw, scary truth?
he wants to share. wants to see you eat. wants to feed you like it proves something he canât say out loud.
maybe itâs love. maybe itâs loyalty. maybe itâs the terrifying realization that heâd go hungry if it meant seeing you full.
and that is terrifying. because ruggie bucchi does not share.
Hello again, my lovelies, and happy New Year! I have returned to Tumblr courtesy of the @nagamas event! (Sorry it has taken me so long, life tends to get in my way.) Regular posts will return after this, but first, I would like to wish a very lovely holiday season to my recipient, Denpring, over on Twitter! Somehow, this grew to be a Claude-centric blog, so I found it a little funny that the user I was paired up with had a plethora of Claude prompts to choose from. This one caught my eye right away, and I can't wait to share it with you all!
I hope you receive this gift, Denpring! Enjoy!
The story will continue under the cut.
Stepping outside the small cottage she now called home, Lysithea smiled at the light breeze ruffling her skirt and tossing her hair. The sun beat down lightly onto the warm grass. A perfect day for a picnic.
Off in the distance, she could make out the silhouettes of the three people she loved most. Together, they shifted as the largest one chased the smallest around the great willow tree which had come to be so familiar to her. The third figure could be seen lying on his stomach, a book in his hand and a blanket beneath him.
Her approach was silent, though perhaps it could be attributed to the amount of focus she needed to spend just getting to the tree. Stubborn as always, Lysithea tried to carry everything- napkins, food, and drinks- in one trip.
Though she was quiet, her impending arrival did not go unnoticed by the company near the willow.
âLook, Papa!â came a young girlâs faint cry, âMamaâs got the food all ready!â
âM-Mother!â the boy set down his book once he caught sight of Lysithea, getting up off the blanket and rushing to her side, âYou shouldnât be carrying all that by yourself! Stay there; let me help you!â
She smiled, allowing her son to help her carry the picnic to where he was resting just a moment ago. Claudeâs laughter mingled with that of their daughterâs. It appeared her husband had taken advantage of the little girlâs excitement and caught her. He tickled her a bit before she ran away toward her mother, giggling the whole time.
Lysithea and her son just barely caught their balance, unstable after the little girl attempted to hug them both while they walked.
âCareful, sister! We could have spilled the drinks!â
Finally, she made it to the blanket. Claude helped take the beverages from her hands, allowing her to set down the sizable basket weighing down her arm.
âThere. Once I unpack all of this, we can start on lunch,â Lysithea remarked proudly. âSorry it took so long! I had a bit of trouble figuring out how to pack everything.â
âHonestly, Mother, you could just call for help. I would be happy to make a few trips if it meant saving you from spilling lemonade all over yourself!â her son worried.
The woman began unpacking the sandwiches, âI didnât spill anything! Though I am grateful for the helpâŠâ
Her husband just laughed, listening to the playful dispute between the two as their little girl already began to pick at the fruit that had been set out.
Everything found its way out of the basket and onto the blanket. The family took their seats, Claude sitting between the two children as Lysithea sat next to her son. They formed a spacious semi-circle, talking about whatever came to their minds between bites. Discussions of books, studies, magic, flowers, games, and other topics found their home among the lips of the family members.
Naturally, the food didnât last long. It never did. They were a rather active family after all; Lysithea and her son used their energy to study while Claude and his daughter preferred to train, fly, and play throughout the day.
Like always, their son would work with his mother to clear off the blanket so the family could all lie down and watch the clouds, and like always, their daughter would get bored too quickly and beg her papa to braid her hair. He would always give into her pleas, and the little girl would always follow with the same exclamation:
"Papa, Mama, tell us a story!"
"Who could have guessed?" her brother smiled softly.
Then, Claude and Lysithea would think over the stories they knew, trying to recall one they hadnât already told (or, if one was requested, they would be relieved of this step).
Out of the corner of her eye from her spot lying on the blanket, the sugar-loving lady caught a grin spreading across the lips of her love.
âHereâs one we havenât told yet,â he announced. âHow about the tale of the prince that gave up everything for a sorceress he fell in love with?â
Lysitheaâs brows scrunched up a miniscule amount, âIf Iâm thinking of the same story you are, then Iâm pretty sure the sorceress had to give everything up, too.â
âOoh! I wanna hear that story!â their daughter beamed.
âRight, but I canât seem to remember how the story begins,â Claude frowned.
Lysithea took her cue, âIt would start when they first met, of course! Years ago, there was a sorceress who spent her time studying anything she could. Naturally, she was exceedingly talented with her magic, but she never limited her studies to tomes.â
âThe prince,â the brown haired marksman joined her storytelling, âwas known to spend his time flying in the sky on a dragon he had received as a gift when he was young. By the time he grew up, he had become more skilled with the bow than anyone else he faced.â
He continued, âThe two met at a great gathering of warriors. The sorceress was attending in the hopes that she could expand upon her studies while the prince was attending to learn how to lead his army.â
âTheir relationship grew through meetings alone in the library, orâŠâ Claude thought for a moment, â...no, yeah, thatâs pretty much it. Aside from communicating on the battlefield, the two would study together from time to time.â
The little boy nodded, âThat sounds useful and practical. I suppose it would be easy to grow close through important work.â
âNo! But thatâs boring!â their daughter drawled.
Claude gave a small chuckle, kissing her forehead, âBe patient, will you? Every story has to start somewhere.â
âEventually, a great war began. The sorceress and the prince had to fight for a great many years to bring peace back to their homeland. They lost many of their friends along the way, but they were always able to rely on each other.â
âOh, soâŠkind of like the war you and Mama talk about? TheâŠumâŠthe uni..â
âThe Unification War,â her brother filled in the rest.
Claude smiled at him, âExactly like the Unification War. Anyway, during that time, the prince came to realize he had fallen in love with the sorceress. Once the war was won, he quickly asked for her hand in marriage.â
âYay! She said yes, right?â
Lysithea turned to her daughter, âActually, if I remember the story correctly, she initially told him âno.ââ
The boy grew confused, âWhat? Why?âÂ
âWell, the sorceress had been keeping a sad secret from her allies. You see, long ago, an evil group of people had captured her. They performed dangerous experiments on her. The experiments succeeded, but there was a catch.â
âThatâs so sad!â pouted the younger girl. âI donât like this story anymore!â
âHang on. If these experiments had succeeded, then nothing bad actually happened, right? What does this have to do with marriage?â
Claude laughed, then turned to his wife, âI think they both inherited your impatience. Didnât you kids hear her say there was a catch?â
âThey most certainly did not inherit that from me!â Lysithea huffed. âBesides, their curiosity could have come from either of us!â
The little girl tugged on her motherâs skirt, âWhat was the catch, Mama?â
âHey, I thought you said you didnât like this story,â Claude teased.
âThe catch,â Lysithea glared playfully at her husband, âwas that the color of her hair became white. More horrifyingly, her lifespan had been shortened considerably. The sorceress was destined to die young.â
âBut the prince was determined not to let such a thing get between them. As soon as he heard the news, he dropped everything and began working with the sorceress to find a cure. They searched every library they could access.â
âThe prince even flew far away to search for a cure. He and the sorceress did not see each other for many months as they continued to hope for a solution.â
âEventually, the prince returned with a leadâŠâ
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was a rumble outside the cottage at which Lysithea had taken refuge for the night. An older couple had graciously allowed her to sleep there while she spent her days at the libraries and bookstores nearby.
Someone knocked on her window, and just like that, she was wide awake.
Her head whipped over toward the noise. As soon as she saw who waited on the other side of the glass, the mage raced to unlock the window.
âClaude? What are you doing out here so late? How did you find m-?â
âI can answer everything on the way, I promise.â
The head of the Golden Deer was balancing on his wyvernâs back, extending a hand out to Lysithea.
âWh-What?â
âI think I found the solution to your problem, but we have to go right now. There isnât much time left if we want to get you healed in the next decade or so.â
She hesitated, letting his words sink in and thinking for a moment before taking his hand.
âOkay. I trust you.â
Claude extended his other arm, helping her out the window and into his arms. He lowered her onto the wyvern in front of him, then sat and took the reins from behind her.
A faint blush appeared on his neck; not that Lysithea could see it in the darkness.
âWeâll uhâŠâ he turned his head to the side, âweâll find you something better than those nightclothes on the way.â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The children were quite invested in the story, looking between their parents as they worked together to weave a captivating tale.
âAnd so,â Claude continued, finishing his daughterâs braid with a yellow hair tie that complimented her brown hair, âthe sorceress and the prince traveled to an island that could not be located on any map. They worked together to create the cure the prince described, using the resources on the island.â
Lysithea nodded, âJust off the shore, a plant with a purple stem and white petals grew beneath the waves. The sorceress waded into the water to retrieve it, though she only found one such plant.â
âOn this island,â Claude added, âthe shore would turn to pearlsand under the light of the full moon. The prince filled half a vial with it.â
âThese ingredients were already quite rare on their own. Finding them both prepared on the same day was nearly impossible; thatâs why the two needed to leave right away.â
Claude smiled, supporting Lysitheaâs addition, âSo the two reconvened. The plant was burned, and its pure ashes were placed into the vial with the pearlsand. The vial was shaken so that the pearlsand would mix with the ash, and the vial was filled the rest of the way with water elsewhere on the island that had never been touched by the light of the moonâŠâ
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lysithea watched Claude emerge from the darkness, shaking a vial of ash, sand, and water in his hand.
âIâm supposed to drink that?â
Claudeâs eyebrows lowered a bit, âNoâŠitâs not supposed to be like this. The way the tome described itâŠit was more of a-!â
Staring at the vial, their attention focused on the solution as it melted and mixed until the ingredients formed a shimmering silver liquid.
Lysitheaâs breath had been taken away, though she wasnât certain if it was because she was amazed at the transformation or relieved she wouldnât have to choke down what could only be described as gritty mineral water.
âYeah. More of a silver,â Claude allowed the corners of his lips to turn up, handing the finished product to the mage.
She eyed him warily, accepting the small glass container, â...youâre certain Iâm meant to drink this?â
âYep.â
âEvery drop?â
âThatâs what it said.â
â...and you do realize that once itâs gone, itâs gone? No going back.â
âHey, drink it or donât! Iâm just saying, if we have any shot at keeping you aliveâŠthis is probably our best bet.â
Lysithea pursed her lips. Finally, with a determined gleam in her eyes, she held the vial to her lips and drank.
Claude could only stare, waiting for something to happen. The tome didnât go any further into detail than the recipe. Whatâs more, he didnât know how much more of this search he could take. He had no idea how much longer Lysithea had to live, and he was running low on hope.
When she took the vial away from her mouth, it was as clear as when Claude had first bought it. He watched her closely, though he physically gave her space. The archer had no clue what was about to happen, after all.
It was then that the vial slipped through the fingers of the rosy-eyed woman, landing with a light sound on the white shore.
âI feelâŠstrange,â she was swaying a bit, and her eyes found Claudeâs own, â...maybe this meansâŠitâs workingâŠ?â
âLysithea?â he noticed her unsure footing. âLysithea! Hey-! Lysithea, stay with me!â
The prince stepped into her as she lost consciousness, catching her and lowering both himself and the sorceress to the sand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
âThe prince did everything he could to awaken her. Anything he could think of, he tried-â
âDid he try kissing the sorceress?â the little girl piped up. âThat works in most of the other stories youâve told, Papa!â
âWell, he did try that too, but it didnât work-â
Lysitheaâs eyes went wide, âH-Hold on! Iâve never heard this version of the story before! The prince kissed the sorceress? While she was unconscious?â
In a rare moment, a fair amount of red began to dust Claudeâs cheeks, âIâŠhe was desperate! He thought she had died, or fallen into eternal slumberâŠor something worse! Look, the prince was dealing with a curse, and he pulled from the only sources of help he had, okay?â
His son raised a brow, âThe prince relied onâŠfairy tales? That sounds more like an excuse to me.â The boy turned his nose up a bit, âFather, this prince sounds like a creep.â
âGah! Letâs just move on, then!â Claude covered his eyes with his hand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When light penetrated her eyelids, Lysithea began to stir from her slumber.
It took all of Claudeâs willpower to keep from smiling.
âGood morning, princess.â
About half an hour after the noble had passed out, Claude held a good suspicion that the potion had worked. Of course, he had made sure to fly them both to the closest inn by that island. The stroke of bad luck came in the form of a language barrier between himself and the innkeeper. Still, it was nothing a bit of money and a V-sign couldnât communicate.
Lysithea groaned, bringing a hand to her head as she shifted into a seated position. Immediately, she opened her eyes and looked to the man standing across from her.
âI remember what happened,â she started, âbut judging by your expression, I donât know if I want to get my hopes up.â
He helped her to her feet, then pointed her to the bathroom, âWhy donât you go get ready for the day, first? We can talk once youâre ready.â
Claudeâs eyes followed Lysithea as she drowsily made her way towards the bathroom, shutting the door.
Not a moment later, a muffled cry came from that very room.
âOh! M-My hair!â
The grin easily slid onto his face as the door of the bathroom flung open.
âClaude-! My hair-!â her own smile was wider than he had ever seen it, âThe color is back-! I-!â
Seeing him smiling too, Lysithea ran to her partner. Laughter spilled from both of their lips as Claude caught her in his arms, hugging her for a moment before picking her up and taking her back to the mirror in the bathroom. He set her down in front of him, both of them continuing to laugh as they stared at the mageâs hair, which was now full of color.
The wyvern rider lowered his head to kiss the top of her head, then brushed her hair out in front of her shoulders.
âI think itâs safe to get your hopes up.â
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
âAnd so, unable to wait any longer with the final barrier between them shattered, the prince proposed to the sorceress. She accepted, and then they lived happily ever-â
âHe proposed to her in the bathroom?â Claudeâs son recoiled.
âIf itâs true love, it doesnât matter where the question is asked,â the green-eyed man reached over and ruffled the boyâs hair. âAll that mattered to them was that they could be together.â
Lysithea smiled, shifting to a seated position, âThatâs right. Youâll understand one day when you feel the same.â
Ahhh itâs been a while since Iâve seen a new fe3h acc like this! Can I request a Claude x Reader. Like Reader is part of the Golden Deer and is secretly Almyran as well.
You? Hiding somthing from claude? Nice try.
It doesn't take him long to put two and two together- partly thanks to being Almryan himself, and being, well, claude. Maybe it was the way you spoke, or a subtle difference in your manners, or maybe you muttered somthing no one outside Almyra would have said- but he had figured you out in two weeks, tops.
But that doesn't mean hes a snitch. When you're alone, he might subtly hint that he knows, but he wouldnt tell anyone- especially if he knew you were keeping it secret.
Regardless, you have his curiosity peaked. How did you end up here? What other secrets do you have tucked up your sleeves? Why cant he stop looking at you?
Well, he knows why.
His hints aren't exactly subtle- both about knowing your secret and liking you. No, they're so painfully straightforward you might think hes messing with you.
Once you do put it together that he knows- either from his hints or him just cornering you and telling you, you start to feel a bit more secure.
I mean, if *someone* had to find out it might as well be him, right? You start talking with him about it- if you left young, he'll tell you what he can about it, he has a little smirk on his face when he does. You cant tell if it's from talking about home or from knowing more then you. Either way, it's not an unwelcome sight.
If you end up telling other people, after a little bit of being dramatically proud of you, he likes to brag about figuring it out first.
He gets playful- teasing about how he knows you best, passing touches starting to linger longer then necessary. He starts getting more dramatic with his almyaran stories, Almost showboating.
And once he gets his feelings in check, hes all over you. Regardless of if you left too young to know anything about Almyran culture, he not at all subtly incorporates it into your relationship. People are a bit confused when he starts pressing his nose to your face instead of kissing you- not that he doesnt adore the latter.
All in all hes very understanding about it- and a bit amused at your attempt to keep it a secret. You could be married with kids years later and he'll still tease you about how quickly he figured it out. Hes very proud of how well he knows his love.
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âłsummary: you confess some of your worries to claude when you canât go to sleep
âłwarnings: mentions of war and desertion
âłword count: 2.2k
âła/n: I began writing this back in may 2020 and Iâve been writing this on and off again ever since so this piece is kinda my baby I canât believe I finished this
It was quiet.
Not awfully so but something like this only took place during the peak of night. Despite everything happening in the world, this was the time where people stayed blissfully ignorant to the events around them; even if itâs just for a few hours. Looking back, this was something you always took advantage of; your past self always expecting it would be there. But, if the past five years taught you anything, peace and quiet was somewhat of a privilege.
Despite this, you lied numbly in your bed, eyes wide open and observed how the moonâs light casted patterns on your roomâs ceiling. Shifting around the bed, the sheets ruffled loudly. You knew you had to sleep; being sleep deprived could cost you your life on the battlefield. All the benefits of some rest were basically being presented right in front of you with your limbs feeling as heavy as lead. Your body was screaming at you to sleep yet, no matter how long you closed your eyes for, your mind buzzed with useless thoughts. A flurry of irrational worries littered your mind for no reason. The warrior in you felt like scoffing; how could you doubt yourself or your comrades when youâve reached this far?
You weighed out the choices you decided to take mentally. Logically, you should have tried to go to sleep again. But youâve already tried that a number of times with all the same fruitless outcome. Whatâs the use in fighting a pointless battle when you knew you were going to lose?
You sighed deeply. It wasnât the right thing to do but it was really the only thing to do at this point. With the little sensibility you had thrown out the window, you heaved yourself out of the bed. Wincing as your bare feet touched the cold stone, you padded to your desk and retrieved your cloak. After hastily fastening the clasp to it, you retrieved the lantern that was still barely burning and made your way out of your room.
The door creaked too loudly for your liking. If it was any louder, others would have suspected a surprise attack. You speedily paced through the halls of the monastery, a flickering flame illuminating your path and steadily made a beeline through the dining hall, out to the fishing pond. You hissed as the cool breeze made its way underneath your cloak, and tingled your skin as it brushed past (you were expecting it though, what a great idea going out barefoot in pyjamas and what was essentially a glorified blanket).
Ignoring this, you cast your gaze up at the moon and sighed wistfully.
The moon was free, you thought to yourself. It didnât have any noble obligations and definitely didnât need to participate in a war. The moon only had one job; to rise at night and set during the day. Imagining how easy that must be, you continued to admire it mindlessly. You even felt yourself feeling a bit sleepy.
âA little late for sightseeing, donât you think?â A voice called from your surroundings.
You stopped your actions at an instant and spun around, shifting your feet into a defensive stance. You groaned, feeling stupid for not thinking of any possible unwanted intruders lurking outside of the monastery. You bit the inside of your cheek, cursing yourself for not bringing a weapon with you; reason magic was out of the question too - you couldnât even call yourself proficient. The professor had always told you to practice using it and you guessed this was the reason for it. You were an absolute fool for going outside and your past self was as much a fool (if not more) as you were now for not putting effort in their studies.
You grew wary and stepped back towards the inside of the monastery. As the footsteps got increasingly audible, the person (was it a man?) slowly emerged from the shadows of the night with their arms up innocently. Rays of moonlight danced upon his face and you released the breath you held unknowingly. Your nose shrivelled in distaste.
âClaude von Riegan! What the hell was that for?!â You shrieked.
âHow so? I was only asking a question.â The Alliance leader chortled as he sauntered his way over to you. Huffing, you smacked his shoulder lightly.
âSneaking up on somebody in the middle of a war, even if itâs just a harmless scheme thatâs quite silly isnât it?â You questioned rhetorically. You crossed your arms underneath the cloak to retain your increasingly depleting body temperature, the chilly winds finally catching up to you. âWhy are you up at this hour anyways?â
The man next to you merely shook his head and shrugged. âA Master Tactician like myself is far too busy to rest, even when I want to⊠what about you? I remember asking you the same thing before you diverted the question.â
You scoffed, waving your hand as you made your way to sit on the ledge which overlooked the pond âItâs nothing complicated; there was too much on my mind to actually sleep. I was hoping a change of scenery could lull me to sleep but all I got was our oh so great leader trying to scare me out of my skinâ Your legs dangled off the side freely, relishing the cool breezes that went past them
Claude raised an eyebrow curiously, âToo much on your mind, huh? Willing to give me a penny for your thoughts? Wha- donât give me that look! You never know, it might help you ease up a bitâ
âItâs fine, you donât need to worry about it. Theyâre stupid anywaysâ You insisted yet the inquisitive twinkle in his eyes pressed on the topic. You exhaled in defeat, accepting the fact you couldnât escape the situation.
âYou sure you wonât judge?â
Claude nods.
âWell- how do I start this? ⊠sometimes I just get paranoid yâknow? This warâs got everyone on edge, itâs made me realise a lot of things and one of them is the fact that I really donât want to die. Like literally just now when I thought you were an intruder, I was even thinking about using reason magic to defend myself - and you know how hopeless I am with that⊠Sometimes I donât even care what happens or who wins. I guess I just want to be alive.â
Your stomach twisted uncomfortably as you recounted your thoughts. As much as you were aware of its awful implications, speaking your thoughts felt like a weight being lifted over off your chest and you could finally breathe again.
How long have you felt this way?
An awkward silence ensued after your statement. Great, you thought. He probably wasnât expecting that kind of confession. First thinking he was an enemy and now oversharing your darkest of thoughts - what a way to fuck up your relationship with the Leader of the Lieciester Alliance.
Now you couldnât bear to look at Claude, ashamed, embarrassed, guilty.
You cleared your throat, catching his attention quite easily. âUh-⊠sorry about what I said. I didnât mean to offend you or anything; it was selfish of me to think thatâŠâ
âItâs okay.â Claude stated firmly. âDonât apologize for something you canât control.â
Okay, so he pitied you, even after youâve basically offended him. Just how could he put up with you like this?
âI was being presumptuous.â You insisted with your head hung low as you turned around and slid off the stone wall you sat on. âJust ignore what I said.â
âNo, I think that-â
âStop. Please, you donât have to listen to my stupid irrational fears.â You pleaded to him. Feeling uncomfortable tingles behind your eyes, you rushed back inside the monastery with your feet slapping against the freezing ground.
âHey- Just wai-â he called out to your steadily retreating form before huffing. If he didnât hate you before, he definitely did now. Just fantastic.
Whatâre the chances he might send you off to a skirmish where you have no chances of winning or maybe even imprison you for thinking about desertion? Great. Great. Greatgreatgrea-
You were promptly pulled out of your thoughts as a force pulled the neck of your cloak and sent you falling backwards. You braced for a fall that never came as Claude grabbed you and turned you to face him. One hand on your shoulder secured you still while another was placed on your head to direct your gaze to meet his.
âWould you please just let me finish my sentence?â He expired jokingly. He lightly smoothed down the top of your hair, sensing your nerves and embarrassment.
âTo put it frankly, youâre not the only one whoâs thought about it.â
You gave him an incredulous look. Did that mean that-?
âIn my opinion, thereâs no shame in wanting to run away. Itâs a normal human instinct.â
No way. There was no way you just heard him say that. He wasnât gonna kill you? And heâs maybe wanted to do it before too?
âNo one wants war. Itâs unnecessary and it takes more from you than what you get in the end, even if you do win. Itâs easy enough to want to get away from it all.â
âBut you're the leader of the alliance! Havenât you been basically raised from birth learning how to prepare for one?â You almost scoffed, still hesitant. He gave you a small smile, and shook his head, hair falling out of place slightly from the action. Though that did little to diminish his appearance - the tousled hair giving him an air of effortlessness and making him look more attractive than anyone should be this late at night. Goddess, youâve known Claude all these years and somehow youâve never thought about how hot he was? You really were discovering new things about yourself (and Claude).
âBeing prepared for something barely holds a light to actually doing it.â He explained. âJust when you think youâve thought of every possible situation, life slaps you in the face and gives you a scenario youâd never even considered! The stress it gives you, urgh!â
You snorted, only Claude could crack a joke about something like this. His grin stretched, teeth almost peeking out between his lips, and patted your head lightly. âWelcome back. Frankly, seeing you so scared like that was unlike you, but itâs understandable. Glad to see you can still smile like thatâ
Rolling your eyes, you slapped his chest halfheartedly. He gasped accusingly and clutched at his chest to play along with you. It was a crime how nice it felt to be around him - the way he made you feel relaxed and safe during a war was something only he could do.
âAlright I get it now. You donât need to worry about me.â
Claude gave you a look suggesting that he was still unconvinced. Noticing this, you scowl slightly.
âIâm serious! Thanks to you, I have absolutely no more self deprecating thoughts about running away.â
You assessed his face to gauge his reaction but he simply wore his tried and true smirk, as if this too was just one of his schemes.
âUrgh what do I have to do to make you believe me?!â You groan out. By now, youâve been outside for longer than youâve expected (the skyâs colours were changing to a much warmer tone now) and you would like to at least get maybe a couple hours of sleep.
âDo you think Iâm just gonna leave you alone after what you just told me? Whatâs the point in helping you calm your nerves if I just send you back to your room and have you just spiral all over again?â Claude pointed out which made you scoff, crossing your arms.
âWhat do you propose I do then, Mr Master Tactician? I donât really fancy staying out here all night.â
âWell then just sleep with me in my room, of course!â
You gave him an incredulous look, eyes probably bulging out of your eyes. Were you hearing correctly? For such a smart guy, does he even know what heâs saying? Youâre almost definitely sure heâs messing with you.
âAre you serious?â You gaped. He gave a confident nod.
âBut you only have one bed in your room?â You clarified, just to be sure.
Claude huffed in amusement and tugged on your arm. âIt will be fine. Câmon, bed is big enough for the two of us. â
You rolled your eyes but moved your arms so that you linked your with Claude, finally giving in. He beamed at you, excited to have accepted his request. Beginning to guide you the way to his room, you stopped the man in his tracks to give him a stern glare.
âIf you push me off the bed, Iâll lose all my hope in you and then Iâll really run away.â
âWell then it's a good thing that I donât have any weird sleeping habits! Youâll get plenty of sleep tonight.â
You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he canât anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts donât hurt.) 4k words, fem.
Ëâ§ê°á â€ïž à»ê±â§Ë
Itâs mildly manipulative, what youâre doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.Â
You donât flirt. Thatâs important. You donât tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Wonât mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how itâd look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. Youâre⊠teasing him.Â
For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldnât that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, itâs all very boring and your skirt is very short.Â
Alright, itâs not that short. Itâs the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.Â
Youâre not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know thereâs a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely canât reach.Â
You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. âHey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.âÂ
You canât glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, âSure,â with warmth on his lips, like heâd gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.Â
Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has âsweetheartâ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.Â
âHere, sweetheart,â he says.Â
You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. âThank you.âÂ
âCan I make it for you?â he asks.Â
Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. âYou know how I like it.âÂ
Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. Youâve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week âan exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.Â
Youâre leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.Â
âOkay?â he asks.Â
âAre you sharing?â Â
âObviously.â He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.Â
âThank you.â
Your quiet doesnât perturb him. He matches your tone, âYeah, donât mention it.âÂ
âWhereâs this from?â you ask, taking your first bite.
He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. âBeanies.âÂ
âThat explains why itâs still warm.âÂ
He shrugs. You donât get what it means but you donât care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, âcos heâs a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.Â
âWas that good?â he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.Â
You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. âYouâre spoiling my appetite.â
âDo you have big dinner plans?âÂ
âHuge! Iâm testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. Itâs not particularly healthy,â you confess. âBut snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesnât matter if itâs true, though.âÂ
âWhy not?âÂ
You like his tone. âIt has more allicin. Thatâs what makes it taste good.âÂ
âAllicin is antibacterial,â he says.Â
âBrilliant. Antibacterial risotto.âÂ
He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. âI hope it goes well,â he says.Â
Itâs a measured sentence, like heâs crafted each word carefully as he said it.Â
âIâll bring you some if it does.âÂ
âIâd like that.âÂ
You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobodyâs business but your own, and Clarkâs, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.Â
âClark Kent on time?â you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. âWho wouldâa thought weâd ever see the day?âÂ
âI can be punctual,â he promises.Â
âCan you? Arenât you on probation?â
âThat wasnât for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. Iâm no longer on probation.â He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. âIâm on the straight and narrow.â
You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack youâd inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.Â
ââCos youâre a good boy,â you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).Â
Clarkâs face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. âCoffee?âÂ
Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! Whatâs important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you itâs good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. Heâs killing you. Youâre dying at the Daily Planet.Â
Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You donât play short-skirt with him for days.Â
When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isnât as short as youâd expect considering the name of the game, but itâs nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume youâre displaying what youâd seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You arenât trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. Itâs not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isnât much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.Â
Itâs not entirely a sex thing. Itâs to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if itâs a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.Â
And Clark âhe doesnât notice. Doesnât say a word about it, doesnât clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.Â
You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.Â
â
The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.Â
âThat smells amazing.âÂ
You lighten at his dulcet tone. âItâs pretty good. Dâyou want some?âÂ
âIâm trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,â Clark says, placing down your âsweetheartâ mug and a small plate, ânot the other way around. Thank you.âÂ
His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.Â
The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.Â
âWhat have I done to deserve all this?â you ask.Â
âYou donât have to do anything at all. Itâs your afters. Your dessert.âÂ
âI havenât done anything?â you ask.Â
He shakes his head kindly. âItâs inherently deserved.âÂ
If heâs charming or teasing, you canât tell.Â
His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. âCan I?â he asks.Â
You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldnât have faked it better. âSure,â you say under your breath.Â
Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.Â
âYouâre dressed really pretty, today,â he says.Â
You smile at the joke before youâve said it. âAs opposed to every other day,â you say.Â
âThis is beautiful. You look beautiful.âÂ
You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.Â
âThank you, Clark. Iâm⊠glad you think so,â you say eventually. Thereâs emphasis there for him to take or leave.Â
You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.Â
âItâs a nice skirt,â he says quietly.Â
Thereâs nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesnât need to be. He isnât tall, dark, and handsome, heâs incredibly, scarily brilliant. Heâs smiling at you like youâve given him a compliment.Â
âItâs a little brave,â you say.Â
âBravery suits you. Anyways,â âhe touches your arm brieflyâ âdonât let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee wonât be too cold to enjoy when youâre finished.âÂ
You wish heâd press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And⊠yeah, thatâs working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.Â
â
Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kentâs self control.Â
Youâre lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. Itâs barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness youâre carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where youâre laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Todayâs skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you arenât worried about, not when heâs guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.Â
âTell me if you feel too warm,â he says.Â
âIâm not worried about the sun.âÂ
âWhat are you worried about?âÂ
âOh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,â you croon.Â
He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. âI wonât let anything kill you.âÂ
Youâd kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadnât expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as heâd smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as heâd hugged you with one arm.Â
So now youâre here in the park because you hadnât wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasnât part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. Youâre hoping youâll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you arenât sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like itâs the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think youâd quite like that.Â
âDo you worry about that a lot?âÂ
âHm?âÂ
âThe aliens⊠The space creatures, do you worry youâll get hurt?âÂ
âNot really. We have a great protection detail, donât we?â you ask.Â
Heâs quiet for a bit. âWhat do you think about him?â
You donât ask, Superman? Of course heâs talking about him. âHeâs extremely handsome.â
Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. âAlright. Knock it off.âÂ
âOr what?âÂ
âOr nothing. Just knock it off.âÂ
He makes everything sound so satiny.Â
âI wouldnât let anything happen to you,â he adds.Â
âPromise?âÂ
Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. âYeah. I promise.âÂ
You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then thereâs a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, âI think you could ask me for anything after today and Iâd try to do it for you.â Heâs laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.Â
A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesnât mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. Youâve seduced him (have you?) but now youâd really like to keep him.Â
Itâs a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.Â
Jimmy begins the morning with praise. âI made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.âÂ
âAnd?âÂ
âAnd? They were amazing! Youâre such a goddamn genius,â he says.Â
He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. âTheyâre amazing!â you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.Â
âWhatâs amazing?âÂ
You remember where you are urgently.Â
âI made macarons,â Jimmy says.Â
Clark doesnât make fun of his pride. âReally? Thatâs awesome, man. Can I try one?âÂ
You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.Â
âMorning,â Clark says.Â
âHi. Good morning.âÂ
âHi,â he says, fond. âHow has your day been so far?âÂ
You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. âIt was good, yeah. The tram was hot.âÂ
âYou look good.âÂ
Jimmy wrinkles his nose. âGuys, we talked about this.âÂ
ââBout what?â Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite.Â
Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.Â
âYou do look good,â he says again.Â
You look down in mild bewilderment. âItâs laundry day.âÂ
Youâre in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isnât. Youâd saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but itâs nothing like the stuff youâve been wearing as of late. Of course heâd notice.Â
âThisâŠâ He raises a hand to your hip but doesnât touch.
âWhat?âÂ
His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadnât noticed it was visible. His brow creases like heâs been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.Â
âClark?â you ask tentatively. âYou okay?â
âYou have no clue⊠no clue what you do to me.âÂ
His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.Â
Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. âWhat do I do to you?â you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk. Â
âDonât.âÂ
âWhat do I do, honey?â you ask, nearly whispering now. âI donât have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?â
âWhat am I supposed to do?â His fingers adjust against your hip. âWhy would you do this here?â Clarkâs voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. Heâs still smiling. âWhat am I supposed to do, here?âÂ
âTake me somewhere else.âÂ
His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.Â
He hits the button for the basement as you step in.Â
âI think theyâre still printing,â you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and itâs an all day affair. âItâll be as busy there as it isââ
No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.Â
âClark!â you say.Â
âCan I kiss you?âÂ
He doesnât laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.Â
You raise your hand to wipe it away.Â
âYeah, okay,â you say, tilting your chin up slowly.Â
Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you arenât expecting. Thereâs genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as youâd always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over andâ and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isnât the slip of control youâd imagined it to be.Â
Clarkâs kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.Â
âHow long does that work?â you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.Â
âI donât know. Iâve never done that before.âÂ
âReally?âÂ
âWhen would I have had reason to try?â Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. âYouâre so pretty.â He steals another quick kiss. âDo you know that?âÂ
âI canât believe this is what got you to crack,â you laugh.Â
His eyebrows pinch. âWhat?âÂ
âThis,â you gesture to your clothes. âOf all the things Iâve worn.âÂ
âI donât understand.â Though itâs dawning on his face quickly. âOh. Youâ The⊠Oh.âÂ
His neck goes all shades of rose.Â
âSorry,â you whisper.Â
He tips your head back nicely. âFor what? I wouldâve cracked anyway. You couldâve worn anything, but⊠The little purple skirt, that was for me?âÂ
You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. âClarkâŠâ you mumble.Â
He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. Youâre surprised he doesnât whine your name back to you, what with the mood heâs in, but Clarkâs got a propensity for sweetness that wonât quit.Â
âOn purpose,â he whispers, vindicated. âI knew it.âÂ
The elevator chugs back to life.Â
â
You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute youâre being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next youâve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.Â
âMiss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?âÂ
You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. âOh my fuck,â you squeeze out.Â
âIâm sorry! Iâm taking you back down. Thereâs a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.âÂ
You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.Â
âYouâre okay,â Superman assures you.Â
His little curl is ever so darling. âLike Clarkâs,â you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.Â
âAre you alright?â he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.Â
âI thought I was gonna die.â You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. âFuck.âÂ
âEverythingâs fine, now. I promise you.âÂ
You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.Â
âGood girl,â he murmurs.Â
Too much like Clark. âMy boyfriend, he wasââ
âEveryoneâs safe.âÂ
You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. âOkay.âÂ
âOkay?âÂ
âYeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.âÂ
âYou donât have to thank me for anything,â he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.Â
âI really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.âÂ
Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. âWouldnât wanna ruin a skirt like that,â he says knowingly.Â
You shake your head, not without fondness.
All boys are the same.Â
Ëâ§ê°á â€ïž à»ê±â§Ë
thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times
clark kent blurbs where he has a crush on the office sweetheart and she is very bubbly and feminine and he is head over heels for her PLEASE
Heâs trying to be normal about it.
Itâs kind of hard, though, because sheâs both very pretty and incredibly kind in a way thatâs both disarming and beguiling. Sheâs a bit enchanting, and this is a hard fact to deny. Clark thinks of it often, the way she floats through rooms and leaves them brighter and warmer than he couldâve ever imagined one person could be capable of doing. She laughs with her whole chest, and looks him in the eye when he speaks, the weight of her fond, kind gaze threatening to buckle his knees. She giggles at his jokes too, when he says âgollyâ in a sweet way, not the way that people often do when he says things like that.Â
Sheâs kind and warm, makes him tea when itâs raining. Annotates his articles that he asks her to edit with little â:)âs and âyouâre so well spokenâs, and he preens at the praise every time.Â
Sheâs just so lovely, with a laugh that rings through the air like music, and a kind disposition, heavy handed with praise. Sheâs always quick to tell him he looks lovely, or that his glasses make him look distinguished. She wears fun earrings and colorful lipstick and has stickers for her desk, and he knows this because sometimes she puts one on his desk as a âprankâ.Â
(One time, sheâd said âThank you kindly, my love,â with that trademark brilliant grin, and heâd walked directly into a wall.)
They actually have a little tradition, of her leaving little post-its by his desk every other day. Sometimes a âhiâ but also, sometimes a âI loved your article. Youâre such a good advocate for the voiceless.â She always knows what he needs to hear for some reason, even before sheâs seen him.Â
And of course, she is very, very beautiful. Clark was raised right and tries not to notice how lovely and femine and appealing she looks on most days, but some days she chews on the edge of her pen when she thinks and makes the most adorable faces, or when she comes in in a floral sundress with little daises all over, he swears she looks like dream brought to life. The crush he has on her is frankly absurd, especially for someone who canât seem to pull it together long enough to actually charm a girl like that.
Today, sheâs wearing an oversized Superman sweatshirt. Itâs over a collared shirt, but still. Itâs kind that they sell at the airport to tourists that he definitely did not approve the sale of, but wow. Itâs his name, on her.Â
Sheâd strolled in late, and heâd caught her mid-writing his post-it. Heâs actually very excited to read it, but Clark- itâs hard to ignore.Â
âWhereâd you get that sweatshirt?â
âGood morning to you too, Clark,â she teases, voice all aglow despite her teasing remark, âI read your new article! It was incredible, you really had a great voice in this one. I know I say it a lot, but you always do.âÂ
She sips her tea as she finishes scribbling.Â
âHello-hi, sorry. Thank you,â Clark is sure he is bright red. Crimson. Her praise and his namesake on the chest of the woman heâs been trying very hard not to doodle with his last name in the margins of his notes is probably not helping. âI really appreciated your edits! Itâs a lot thanks to.â
She leans on the edge of his desk, hands folded backwards, looking at him with an easy, fond gaze. He can smell her body wash, a floral scent that clings to her skin, and Clark looks up at her from where heâs leaned back in his swivel chair. Sheâs beautiful.
âThe sweatshirt is from my dad, if you can believe. When I got the job and had to move here, he thought it was hilarious that I went to where Superman lives. I normally wear it to sleep, but itâs laundry day.â sheâs a little embarrased of the admission, and Clark tries not to notice her lipstick transferring to the cup, and how itâs devastatingly pathetic to be jealous of a cup.Â
Heâs also trying not to picture her getting ready for bed in that sweatshirt. The version of her no one gets to see, hidden away and sleepy and still, carrying a piece of him. Itâs a tiny bit horrifying, how satisfyingly possessive that makes him feel.
âI like it,â he says, his voice an attempt and being deep and smooth, a charming smile playing on his lips, âYou look like a big fan. It suits you.â
âYeah, what girl doesnât wish Superman was her boyfriend?â She sighs, in a dreamy wishful way that Clarkâs never heard before. She never even talks about Superman- when he comes up in team meetings sheâs quiet, doodling little hearts in her margins she thinks he canât see. What is it about the Superman persona?Â
Heâs so startled by he chokes on his coffee, and spills a good bit of it down his shirt.Â
âClark! Is that hot, are you okay?â She jumps to his aid, dabbing him dry with some paper towels she had on her desk, her eyes colored with concern. Heâs so embarrased itâs absurd.Â
âYeah,â he chokes out, âItâs like, cold. Itâs no big deal.â
âOkay,â she half laughs, still eyeing him and patting him dry, âGosh, you scared me! Canât be burning my favorite reporter.âÂ
âSmooth,â Jimmy murmered to him when she went to the breakroom to grab more towels, walking by with smoothness.Â
Whatever. She wants to be Supermanâs girlfriend. Thatâs half the battle, anyway.Â
He just needs to figure out how to get her to like him as Clark, too.Â
clark, who perks up when you call his name the way dogs react to hearing the word walk. pleasantly startled, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed energy in a six-foot-something frame.
clark, who insists on carrying all the groceries. so now you just walk beside him, one arm looped through his, watching him play pack mule with unconcealed joy.
clark, who sits beside you at the fountain, tearing bread crusts into little hunks for the doves.
clark, who taps your knee when he spots a squirrel in the park. stops mid-step and whispers, âlook, look,â with the same excitement of one pointing out a cometânever mind itâs just a rodent with a peanut.
clark, who sets his lockscreen to a selfie of you both. candid, taken mid-laugh. your head resting against his shoulder, his smile half-formed, cheek pressed into your temple. he carries a printed copy in his wallet, too.
clark, who texts you pictures heâs taken. things that remind him of you, or things he knows youâd like. a cat loaf in a patch of sunlight, a diner chalkboard advertising your favourite pie, or a silly meme he figured youâd laugh at.
clark, who always ends up the big spoon, no matter how you start. even if you fall asleep facing him, curled into his chest. by morning, youâll wake up with his arm around your waist.
clark, who really knows how to cook. real food, tooânot just bachelor chow reheated in a pan. iâm talking soups from scratch or stews that simmer for hours. he doesnât let you lift a finger unless itâs to taste-test something off the spoon.
clark, who hums commercial jingles around the apartment while doing chores, such as lifting the entire couch (with you still on it) so he can vacuum underneath.
clark, who carries you bridal-style to bed.
clark, who packs little sandwiches in wax paper when you work late. your name written in block letters across the front.
clark, who leaves post-it notes behind cabinets, in the pockets of your jackets. blue ink scrawled sideways. âi love you,â âyou looked really pretty this morning.â
how about Jason with the prompt "text me when you get home"? the one time they forget/fall asleep before sending the text and Jay loses hid mind. rushes over expecting them to be dead but they passed out on the couch as soon as they got home
really superbly SCRUMPTIOUS prompt Aud. I love protective jaybird đ„°âŒïž thanks for sending something in đ«¶
jason todd x gn!reader. worried protective snuggly jason. no warnings really, ya boy is just paranoid and madly in love with you đ
request something! I rb all fics to @sanguinelibrary
****
As soon as you get out of your last class of the day, your phone rings.
You answer it, wedging the phone between your ear and shoulder as you fish in your bag for a couple of bills. You're already walking to the train station.
"Hi, snookie bear," you say into the phone, slightly delirious with hunger and sleep deprivation.
Jason snorts on the other end. "That's a new one. Hey, baby. Y'heading home?"
"Indeed I am."
"Need a ride?"
You wait and listen. Eventually, you hear the sounds of hitting and grunting in the background. You roll your eyesâonly Jason would be in the middle of a fight and then ask if you need a ride home.
"No, I'm okay. It's not dark yet. Plus you sound busy."
"I'm never too busy for you," he says immediately. "And it's gonna get dark in an hour. Are you sureâ"
"Yes, Jay," you say gently. "I'm sure. Don't worry about me. I'm going straight home."
You're already at the station. There's a good amount of people, students and workers alike. The university is in a relatively okay part of town, especially during the day. You're not worried. It's not like you traipse through Crime Alley on your downtime.
"Okay." Jason takes a deep breath. "Justâjust be careful. Text me when you get home."
You note the hint of worry in his tone. Maybe this week has been particularly saturated with crime. Jason tends to get a little overbearing about your safety when he's had a tough week. You know he had go down to BlĂŒdhaven and help his brotherâwith what specifically, you don't know.
Most of the time, you're sure you don't want to know.
"I always do," you say. The train pulls up to the station. "Ooh, train's here! I'll talk to you later. I'm thinking of ordering takeout. Too tired to cook."
"Okay, sweetheart. Be safe. Love you. Lock your door."
You roll your eyes fondly. "Yes, Jay. Love you too. Bye."
You hang up as you step onto the train. You pull your headphones out of your bag and shut your brain off during the ride. By the time you get off the train, you've lost hope that you'll be doing any work tonight. You're absolutely wiped out after three back-to-back classes.
It's still light when you get home. You lock the door after you get in, the habit ingrained into you, and dump your bag onto the couch.
Takeout is a no-go. You're hungry now and about thirty seconds away from passing out on the couch.
You change into your home clothes, eat a granola bar, and call it a day. You'll eat more later.
You turn off your phone to bar any annoying notifications and fall into bed, eyes closing immediately.
****
The sound of your deadbolt being teared off its chain wakes you up. You flinch and jump awake, trying to blink through sleep. Your mouth is dry from how hard you slept, and your eyesight is slightly blurry from the sudden flood of moisture.
Your bedroom door swings open, and suddenly you're pulled into warm, heavily muscled arms. You hug back on instinct; you'd know the feel of your boyfriend anywhere.
"Jay, hâ"
"You didn't text," he says, voice shaking. "You said you would. I wasâI thought you wereâ"
You tense, guilt knocking into you.
"Shit. Jason, I'm so sorry. I meant to, I was just so tired..."
Jason pulls back to look at you, hands still on your shoulders. His expression is stern.
"I'm gonna pick you up from now on. When are your late days?"
"Jay, no, GCU is across town. You can't possibly pick me up three days a week. That's too much! What about patrol?"
"Somebody else is out at this time," he says stonily. "Crime Alley can wait an hour while I get you home."
His eyes blaze green, a side effect of the Pit. You can tell he's putting every effort into keeping a lid on the worry and fear and anger over your silence.
"Jason." You cup his face. "Honey, I'm safe. I'm sorry I didn't text you. I'm sorry I worried you. But your adrenaline is spiked right now, Jay. Everything feels magnified. I don't need to be picked up. I was perfectly safe coming home. Okay?"
He shakes his head, holding your wrists. "Anything could've happened. I was soâfuck, baby, I was so scared. I-I checked the station footage and the traffic cams, and I didn't see you after you cut through the park, and I thoughtâI was sure you'dâ"
Jason pulls your arms around his neck and buries his face into your shoulder. He supports you by the backs of your thighs, tugging you into his lap. Then he clings tight.
"Oh, Jay," you murmur, petting his curls. "I'm alright. This end of Gotham isn't so bad. And I know you'd have found me even if something had happened. But nothing did."
"Can't lose you," he chokes out.
"You won't lose me, honey," you say. "You keep me safe."
He trembles in your embrace. You kiss the shell of his ear and continue to pet his hair.
"Let me pick you up tomorrow, at least," he pleads. "We'll get dumplings at that place you like. You barely ate anything when you came home."
"Okay, Jay," you say, because you know he needs that reassurance. He won't relax without it. "That sounds good."
You keep stroking his hair. "Y'wanna order in now?"
"In a minute."
Jason lays you both down on the bed. He throws a leg over yours and pulls you into his chest. It's now that you see just how much tension is locked in his shoulders. He's exhausted.
"Jus' wanna hold you for a bit," he says, lips resting on your shoulder.
He's drowsy, the adrenaline finally ebbing. You close your eyes and snuggle into his arms.
"You can hold me for as long as you want," you say, threading your fingers with his. "I'm not going anywhere."
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could I request a fic with insomniac!reader and tim? i love your writing im excited to see how you make his character your own! <3
thanks for the request! first time writing tim... kinda nervous like I'm on a first date 𫣠hope you like! this one isn't as mushy gushy as my usual fics (jason) so yeah. also my knowledge of yj is purely through fic đ€
tim drake x gn!reader. tw insomnia, tim being so awkward but maybe... there are feelings... who can say. tim's character is so interesting to me (probably because I identify with him the most lmao).
****
It's really, really nice of the team to let you stay over tonight. Like, really nice.
You haven't even done much. You're pretty much a nobody in the superhero world, not even a D-list hero. Certainly not anybody that should be hanging out with the likes of Wonder Girl and Superboy and, God, Tim freakin' Drake.
Kon was just overly generous in his cool, brash way, herding you into a spare room after last night's battle. After tonight, you'll politely break away from the team to give them some reprieve. It didn't escape your notice that they didn't hang out last night like they usually do.
You've been awake for an hour now, listening for sounds of life in the corridor. If you were home, you'd already be on the couch watching crappy TV. But you really don't want to run into anyone here.
Maybe you have some chamomile tea leftover from the last time you stayed over. You hadn't stayed the whole night, slipping away without interference as most of the team had gone to their own homes.
You get up, stretching and popping joints. It's always a little cold in the Tower, and it wakes you up as you walk to the kitchen first. You're as quiet as you can be in heating the water and finding the tea.
You take your mug and head to the den. As you enter, you freeze.
Tim turns his head from his place on the couch. The blue light from the TV makes him paler, and his eyes bluer. Sometimes, he looks so much like Bruce Wayne, it startles you.
"Oh," you say, unsure what else to say. Your brain is tired and fried. "I... was just looking for my watch."
That's definitely your dumbest lie. You don't have a watch. Tim sure as fuck knows that.
His eyes flick to your wrist, as if reminding you both how stupid your lie is, then to your mug. He mutes the TV.
You stay where you are. Tim stands, obviously shouldering his own bout of insomnia.
"It's... you can come in," he says, just as awkward as you.
That's comforting. Tim's usually so suave, the few times you've interacted. He's all Gotham Heights, his upbringing never quite sloughing off no matter how many times he's probably tried to blend in and not be so... private school.
"I was just going to bed," he says quickly.
"No, you weren't," you say. You don't mean for it to come out so shrewd. Tim looks a little startled.
"I mean, you don't need to go," you add. "I'll take this to my room. It's fine. Sorry."
"No, I've been here too long anyway. I should work on my case."
Here's the thing. It's not that Tim avoids you because in order to do that, you'd have to see him more than three times a year.
But there's a distance. You've tried not to take it personally, tried to chalk it up to the fact that you're introverted and Kon and Bart are Kon and Bart, and Cassie's too straightforward to beat around the bush, and you've somehow won her over, which is nice.
And Tim is just... cautious. Paranoid.
Those are understatements, and you can't imagine the psychological damage caused by being raised by Batman, but, well, you've seen the previous and current Robins, so you can hazard a guess.
Anyway, Tim kind of acts like an unsocialized cat with you. You once mentioned it to Kon, in nicer words, but he dismissed you, saying, "Whaddya mean? Rob likes you!" Which had assuaged nothing, but whatever.
"I won't be here long," you say, as a last-ditch effort to not make it feel like you're kicking Tim out of his own space. "I just, uh, couldn't sleep."
He watches you in that freaky Bat way, like he's trying to determine if you're a threat or not. Jesus.
"It's hard for me to sleep after a battle," you add, trying to show your belly. That's how it feels, being around Tim Drake. Like you always need to be vulnerable first. Like you're in a battle of wills you didn't know you entered.
He doesn't sit down, but he does say, "Me too."
You nod and drink your cooling tea. "There's more tea in the kitchen if you want. Chamomile."
"I'm... good. Thanks."
You edge over to the armchair diagonal to the couch and sit.
"You can work in here," you say. "Unless, uh, it's too distracting. I'll keep the TV muted."
His laptop is on the other side of the couch. Tim is still, only his eyes moving from you to the laptop.
"I don't wanna push you out," you say.
"It's really fine," he replies immediately.
It's so not fine. This isn't boding well for your insomnia. You're definitely going to be agonizing over this interaction all week.
"I won't bother you," you say.
"I didn't say you would."
Then what's the problem?
Slowly, Tim returns to the couch. You look away, so it doesn't seem like you're watching his every move (you are), nor is Tim clocking your every move (he is).
He settles on the couch and opens his laptop. You drink and try to figure out what's playing on TV. It looks to be a rerun of Columbo. You smile.
"You like Columbo?"
Tim looks spooked that you're still talking to him, but he answers. "Yeah."
"Me too."
You watch Columbo silently look for clues. Tim types, fingers flying over the keyboard. Then his fingers pause.
"I used to watch it with Dick," he says. "When I first became Robin."
You nod, giving him your full attention. "Yeah? He seems like the type."
"He does a pretty good impression of him. He likes detective shows."
"You don't?" you ask.
Tim shrugs. "They're fine. I guess I just hate how predictable they can be."
"Of course the boy genius would say that," you say, smirking.
Instantly, Tim's face turns to stone. He hums, looking back at his laptop. You blink. What happened?
"Sorry. That was a joke," you say.
"I know," Tim says, any trace of warmth gone.
You're startled by the shift. "I don'tâI wasn't making fun of you. I mean, you are smart. Really smart."
Tim carefully looks at you. "...Thanks."
You nod clumsily. You should've just stayed in bed.
It's quiet for a long time. You're trying to muster up the confidence to escape to your room when Tim speaks again.
"People have said stuff like that to be facetious. I... reacted without reading your tone."
It's not an apology, but it's probably the closest thing you'll get.
"It's okay," you say.
Tim nods. His shoulders aren't so tense, though his posture is atrocious when he's off-duty.
He gets up and gives you the remote. You take it, smile small. Tim retreats.
"You can unmute it if you want. I don't mind."
So you do, and you and Tim spend the next hour half-watching Columbo and half-watching each other. Eventually, your tea finishes, and the episode ends, so you get up.
"I think I'll try and sleep," you say.
Tim nods. "Good luck."
You hum. "Thanks. Good luck with the case."
"Yeah. Thanks."
You wash the mug and leave it on the dish rack. Then you escape back to your room. You really do feel like you could sleep again. Maybe Columbo reruns are the magic ingredient to a good night's sleep.
Hey! Can I request a Clark x reader where they're dating but reader doesn't know Clark is superman. And then superman interacts with them for whatever reason and is flirty bc that's his person!!! But reader is like âïž hey buddy back off. I'm HAPPILY taken
this is such a cute request!!!! Argh!!!!
clark kent/superman x gn!reader. fluff, brief danger but r is okay. superman flirting with you but he's dating you? he's just a goober. i lub him <3 PLEASE feel free to imagine maws!clark. I feel like this is very himcore đ„°
****
Being a florist in Metropolis is good work. Lots of people still buy flowers, which is great. Many actually buy bouquets for Superman and leave them on display as support. Poppies, yellow tulips, and cornflowers. They're one of your favorite arrangements.
The downside to being a florist in Metropolis, however, is that on occasion, your flower display ends up the target of a killer robot.
You're not sure why that is. Mostly, you wish people would stop building killer robots.
You've gone outside to see what the commotion is about when you're grabbed by a metal claw. It squeezes hard, almost cutting off your air. You squirm in terror as the robot stomps down Main Street, crushing cars and asphalt in its wake.
"Help!" you scream when you catch your breath, and the robot squeezes you harder.
A dizzying blur of red, yellow, and blue zips past you. You think of your flowers.
The blur cuts through the metal like nothing. The robot begins to collapse, twitching and groaning. Its metal creaks, grip loosening on your body.
You hardly fall before Superman is there, cradling you to his chest.
"I've got you," he says, tucking you close.
You look up at him, and he beams at you, like saving you from a killer robot has been the best part of his day.
Come to think of it, Superman came to your aid surprisingly fast, even for him.
And he holds you... intimately. Like you've known him for years. Your heart picks up.
"Uh," he says, cheeks flushed. "Areâare you okay?"
You smile politely, arms around his neck. "Yes, I'm fine. Thank you, Superman."
He nods, flying down the street. "Good. I'll get you back to your shop and clean up the flowers."
You tilt your head. "How do you know I'm a florist?"
Superman looks at you, blue eyes wide.
"Oh! I... uh, I've seen your arrangements all over the city. They're beautiful. I'd never forget that they belong to an equally beautiful face."
Goodness. If Superman is this forward with everyone he rescues, it's no wonder your flower arrangements are in high demand.
"I'm flattered," you begin, and Superman once again aims that grin with the power of a thousand suns at you. "But, respectfully, I'm very happily taken, so I would appreciate it if you'd keep this rescue professional."
Superman raises an eyebrow. To your surprise, he smiles wider.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't realize you were taken. My sincerest apologies. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."
"No, it's alright. I'm honored, but you couldn't pull me away from my boyfriend even with your super strength."
Superman's cheeks turn pinker. He sets you down in front of your store with the utmost care, not letting go until you have your bearings. He takes a step back, rubbing his neck. The gesture makes your brain itch. You don't know why.
"Well, uh, he must've done something right if he's lucky enough to be with you."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," you say fiercely. You don't know why you're so indignant about defending Clark's reputation to Superman. It's not like Clark will ever hear about it.
"No?"
"Not at all. He's an incredible person, kind and smart and loving, and if anyone's lucky, it's me."
Superman makes an aborted gesture to take your hand, then redirects and awkwardly pats your arm instead. You squint at him. He quickly moves away.
"Ah. Sorry. Well, I doubt that. I bet you're equally spectacular."
"Oh. Thank you."
You primly take his hand and give it a good shake. Superman bows his head and laughs.
He takes a step back, eyes bright like you've just made his day.
"Well, I wish you the best with your boyfriend. I'm sorry for being so forward. I've seen your Superman bouquets; your reputation precedes you. I make it a point to know reputed people in Metropolis."
"I can't imagine I'm very high on that list," you say.
"Ah, you'd be surprised. Besides, I never forget a face."
Superman darts behind you and moves at neckbreaking speed to clean up your partially maimed flowers. In three seconds, it's returned to its former glory.
"Well, uh, I'll be seeing you," Superman says, hands clasped behind his back. "I mean, I hope not in a circumstance like this! Th-then again, when else would we see each other? Scratch that, I hope there's no reason for us to cross paths because that would mean you're in danger. Uh, but I don't mean that in a bad way! I justâ"
You snort and reach over to take a yellow tulip from your display. You give it to Superman, who takes it like you've just handed him a newborn baby.
"I'm still taken," you say. "But you're very sweet, Superman. Take care, alright?"
"Yeah," he says, tucking the tulip into the strap of his cape. "Yes, you too. Goodbye!"
He soars away, the tulip like a star on his cape.
Superman is handsome and kind, no doubt. But he's certainly no Clark Kent.