#But that's what it takes to be Infinite∻【IC】

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (32 - Wanda's Offer)

Chapter Summary: She is calculating something now. What you’re worth. What you cost. She’d spent the last several hours stitching you back together, watching the sweat bead on your forehead as fever gripped your body. She held ice to your temples and whispered to no one. She sat beside you, wondering if saving your life was a mistake. Because while you’re here, she can’t begin what comes next. She can’t take the steps the Darkhold has shown her. Wanda wheels around. “Why did you come back?” she asks suddenly, the question slipping through clenched teeth.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 6k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: angst, wanda being rightfully unforgiving but reasonable, physical abuse (poor y/n)

A/N: Sorry this update took long enough! I hope the word count for this chapter will make up for it :) Please do note that this Wanda is not as corrupted as the one in MoM // More author's notes here. // Lol I've ran out of gifs XD

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Wanda stares at the spot where you stood moments ago. You’ve rushed outside, maybe to confront her physical form waiting on the steps. She’s been studying the Darkhold for weeks now, and in that short time, she’s gained more knowledge and undergone more transformation than most do in a lifetime.

That’s why rescuing you from that cannibalistic mutant has thrown her off balance. Maybe it’s why today’s lesson won’t settle easily the way it usually does. The Darkhold ruled against your survival—and Wanda ignored it. Now, it’s punishing her for her disobedience.

When she left Westview in the middle of the night, it wasn’t a split-second decision. She stood there for a long while, alone in the empty lot where you once bought a home for the two of you to “grow old together.” 

When the Westview version of you tore out of her, willed into existence from her pain and desperation, it was the only thing she could still believe in.

The real you were gone. That's what they told her. That while she dusted in the snap, you didn’t survive the five years that followed. She didn’t get a body to grieve nor a funeral to attend. That pain became the town. The illusion. The lie. And from that lie came you. Or at least, what remained of your memory that will forever live on in her. 

That Y/N had loved her without hesitation, had kissed away her nightmares, had stood in a sunlit kitchen teaching the twins how to make pancakes. That Y/N was how she remembered you. And when the unthinkable happened, when you arrived to wake her up from the fantasy she created—

All her careful stitches splitted open at once. 

Wanda left because she didn’t believe you truly came for her. If you had, you’d be right where she left you, waiting. She never stopped to consider the reasons behind your actions. She hasn’t had the space to. Her mind’s been elsewhere, tangled up in more urgent things. The boys, most of all.

Where could they have gone? The Darkhold has revealed to her that they live. Maybe not in this universe but there are a thousand others. Wanda only has to choose which. Choose and have them back. Maybe you’ll be there too. And maybe that version of you will love her better—infinitely better—than the one who walked away.

So why did she save you from the edge of death?

Was it the Avenger in her?

Or was it because if anyone was going to tear you down, it would be her?

The Darkhold growls at the thought.

It approves.

—

“Wanda!”

It’s still unsettling, the way her consciousness slips back into her body like an afterthought. It moves—brewing tea, cooking breakfast, eating—but only on autopilot. The Darkhold isn’t just a curiosity anymore; it’s become a kind of escape. 

Every moment since Westview has felt hollow. She tried normalcy, relocating to an even more secluded Vermont town, hiding in its autumn forests. Peaceful enough, yet even a cemetery would have been quieter than her own mind.

That’s when she remembered the book she’d seized from Agatha.

The instant she opened it, the clamor stilled, and a new purpose took hold. 

Oh, the possibilities are endless. But Wanda can’t seize them all at once. The book insists she learn them first. The Darkhold never judges her grief. Only demands her focus.

But you? You ruin everything. And, well—you’ve just thrown a wrench into her lesson streak.

“Wanda!”

You hobble from the kitchen into the living room, your uneven steps setting the floorboards groaning underfoot.

Wanda’s eyes snap open in her body a second before you reach her. She’s standing at the porch now, a steaming mug halfway to her lips. Her fingers spasm; hot tea sloshes over the rim. She doesn’t drop it, of course. Even rattled, her control is surgical. She inhales once, lets it out slowly through her nose, and the tremor vanishes.

But she still doesn’t look at you. Even though she sat at your bedside for hours, even though she memorized every crease of your bandages and every flutter of your lashes, she’s still not prepared to see your eyes open and looking back at her. 

As you get closer, the panic rising in your chest begins to ease. Whatever you saw in the other room—was it even real?

It takes another second for Wanda to turn, slow as a door swollen by rain. Your breath sticks.

It’s her, and it isn’t. 

You remember Wanda’s eyes as a soft green shot through with gold. Even back in Westview when you first gazed into them after five long years. It’s different now. Clouded by something else that’s utterly foreign. You’re looking at a woman who came back from the blip just weeks ago, but it feels like she’s lived a lifetime since.

You realize you’re staring, despite knowing you’re no different. She braces both hands around her mug. It looks too small for how tightly she holds it.

“I—I opened the door down the hall,” you stammer, still catching your breath. “You were in there… floating, reading that…book. What was that, Wanda?”

She feels the Darkhold’s leftover pulse under her skin, but her face remains unapologetically stoic. She lifts the mug again, lets the steam veil her eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You shake your head. It looked all too real. “No. I’m not hallucinating—”

“You’ve been out for nearly forty-eight hours, Y/N,” she mutters coldly. “You lost a lot of blood. Half that time you were burning so hot I put snow on your wrists. People see things.”

It comes back to you slowly. The creature who attacked you. The sharp bite of its teeth and claws. If it weren’t for Wanda—

“I should’ve been dead,” you whisper. 

A sardonic curve tugs at her mouth. “Yeah, I keep hearing.”

You stare at her, struck still. Not by the cruelty of it, but by the guilt that surges back the moment you recall the lie you let her believe.

“Wanda, about that—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Your throat dries out. But you try. “You thought I was dead. And I—”

“You are. I buried you in Westview,” Wanda says.

The blade in your chest turns cruelly. You’d braced for pain, but not for her to twist it herself, not to make it hurt like this.

“Wanda,” you exhale softly. “Please, just let me explain—”

She snorts, bitter and humorless. “Too late.”

“I—”

“This,” she says, gesturing vaguely between you, “is the last time we talk. I need you to understand that.”

She turns, her sweater catching on the breeze, and for a split second you see her back the way she was in Westview, the relief in her gaze when she looked up at you as you cradled her in your arms.

You almost call out. You almost beg.

Instead, you say, “No.”

Wanda’s hands curl into fists at her sides. The last of the tea’s warmth burns harmlessly against the pads of her fingers; the real heat now lives in her blood.

“No?” she repeats, barely in control.

“I’m not leaving,” you say. “You can shut me out, scream at me, make me sleep on this porch for a week—but I’m staying.”

Deep in the house, the Darkhold lies where she left it. Its pages do what they always do in moments of hesitation: they conjure possibility. They suggest that your stubborn devotion could serve as a lesson, that your pain might yet be an ingredient in her greater purpose. 

You’ll never reclaim the twins while you’re anchored to this, it warns Wanda. 

You take a breath, unaware of the conversation Wanda’s having on the other side. “I’m not going to force you to talk. I just want to stay.” To be near you. 

Wanda’s arms cross tightly over her chest. She is calculating something now. What you’re worth. What you cost. She’d spent the last several hours stitching you back together, watching the sweat bead on your forehead as fever gripped your body. She held ice to your temples and whispered to no one. She sat beside you, wondering if saving your life was a mistake.

Because while you’re here, she can’t begin what comes next. She can’t take the steps the Darkhold has shown her. 

Wanda wheels around. “Why did you come back?” she asks suddenly, the question slipping through clenched teeth. 

You know she won’t like the answer. Won’t believe it no matter how truthful it is. But you say it anyway. “Because I never wanted to leave you. And if I could take back what I did—”

“You can’t,” she snaps.

The wind shivers through the trees. 

“I should’ve thrown you back out into the woods,” she grits out, turning away. “Let the snow have you. Let that thing finish the job.”

“But you didn’t,” you say, almost breathless. “You saved me.”

“I regretted it.”

“You stayed by my side.”

“I needed a reminder,” she says, “of what regret feels like.”

It hurts. All of it.

“I’m not going anywhere, Maximoff,” you mutter—falling back on that old habit of using her last name when you’re trying to be cheeky, a desperate bid for normalcy.

Wanda doesn’t even blink at your old nickname for her. She stares through you to the dark tree-line. Grasping for something, you glance down at your hand and curl your thumb around the band still snug on your finger. You’d pulled it off its chain and slipped it back where it belonged the day you started tracking her.

You twist the ring once. Wanda’s eyes drop to follow the movement.

“I wore it all these years,” you murmur. On your finger, around your neck. It doesn’t matter. You never completely removed Wanda from yourself. “Not once.”

“How touching,” she drawls dryly. “A trivial fact, considering you never intended to show yourself again.”

“Wanda, that’s not—”

She lifts a hand. Enough. Without another word, she turns her back to you and walks toward the cabin. She steps inside without looking back. 

You’re left alone on the steps, thumb still circling the ring on your finger. Wanda disappears again—this time just on the other side of a wall. And you realize, with a dull kind of clarity, that she didn’t slam the door.

She didn’t have to.

—

Wanda drifts off sometime after midnight, head tipped back against the rough cabin wall.

In the dream, morning light pours over the kitchen table she never bought. Billy and Tommy sit side-by-side, their knees knocking as they race each other through bowls of cereal.

She hums while the pan warms, levitating batter in lazy spirals that sizzle into perfect pancakes. Tommy steals the first one straight from the skillet; Billy laughs so hard milk slips from the corner of his mouth.

“Mom, you’re burning the next batch,” Billy teases.

“I’m letting them get golden,” she answers.

She sets plates, ruffles hair, kisses foreheads. The world is small, bright, whole. And right when she’s at her happiest, it all stops—abruptly. Forcefully snatched from her, as if to say, they’re not yours to keep.

Wanda jolts awake, her breath catching hard in her chest. She expects to find herself alone, as she has every morning since she returned, but—

You’re kneeling beside her bed, a cautious hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey,” you whisper, careful. “You were crying out. I—”

Red light ignites behind Wanda’s pupils before the sentence finishes.

Her power snaps loose. You lift off the floor, spine arching as scarlet bands snare your ribs. A heartbeat later you’re airborne, and then driven sideways, slammed into the wooden wall so hard the boards groan. Dust rains from the ceiling. 

Wanda commands her power with reckless abandon more than ever. She’s on her feet before you even hit the floor. Her breath comes in ragged pulls, eyes wild and unseeing. You groan, trying to push yourself up. You’ve barely recovered, and you could feel the wet oozing from your stitches. 

“Wanda,” you choke out, trying to hide your discomfort. “It’s me.”

She blinks, slowly coming back to herself. Horror creeps into her eyes when she realizes what she’s done, but she doesn’t move toward you.

“You shouldn’t have woken me,” she whispers hoarsely.

Your attempt at a smile dies before it forms. You brace a shaking palm against the splintered wall, struggling to stay standing. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Nightmare?” Wanda's laugh is bitter and scathing. You realize this might be the only version of her you get now. “Sleeping’s the only time I get to see them.”

Your brow knots. “‘Them’?”

Wanda doesn’t clarify. She pushes to her feet and strides for the door, snatching her coat on the way. The cabin protests with a low groan as she yanks it open. Gray dawn floods the room. Cold air rushes in.

You flinch at the burst of light. “Wanda. Wait.” It’s little more than a croak. 

She ignores you and the door thuds shut behind her. You’re left there, bleeding and confused. And hurt. She couldn’t stand the sight of you long enough to stay in the same room.

Outside, frost rims the clearing. Wanda drags in a lungful of brittle air, as if doing so would clear the haze of yet another dream about her children. Her hands shake, so she shoves them deep into her coat. 

The dreams come more often now. Billy and Tommy, so vivid and real, appearing nearly every night. She soaks it in, greedy for every second, knowing fully now that they are real but will never be hers to keep. Every morning is harder than the last, waking up to find that she’s back where she’s supposed to be. 

Alone. 

Sometimes, she dreams of you, too. In those dreams, you’re standing in a different kitchen—one that doesn’t belong to this cabin or any real place Wanda’s ever lived. The counters are a soft sage green, the kind of color you used to say felt like spring. You’re barefoot as you whip up breakfast, the smell of eggs and coffee curling through the room. You smile when you see her watching you. And then, as if on cue, Billy and Tommy come bounding in from another room. You kneel down to ruffle their hair, tease them, hand them fruit before the sugar.

Just like you used to in Westview. 

Wanda shakes her head, refusing to go back to that headspace. Instead, she walks deeper into the woods. Branches snap softly underfoot as she moves further from the cabin, from you, from everything. Thankfully, you don’t follow. Which might have something to do with giving her space. But more likely, it’s because you're still too frail to make the effort. She clenched her fists at the thought.

It’s the same pattern; every time she sees you hurt, a part of her wants to turn back, to help, to care. But that’s supposed to change. At least, she's been practicing indifference for a while now. 

Ever since the Darkhold first whispered to her, just nights after she’d hidden herself away here, it had become impossible to trust her own thoughts. Its voice had slid inside her like smoke, showing her truths she'd never asked for. Like why you faked your death and allowed her to mourn a loss that never happened.

That revelation changed everything. It flipped her world upside down, erased every certainty she’d ever held close. For Wanda, it felt exactly like falling asleep beside you, wrapped in promises, only to wake up to an entirely different world, one in which your love had been a lie. It was you and her. Always. No matter what. 

Hadn’t you meant that?

She can’t help but wonder about those five years she missed, years you spent alone. What changed inside you? It was the only thing the Darkhold refused to show her. It urges her to look forward and not back. 

But whatever it was, you chose running away over facing her with the truth. Over staying, even just as a friend.

She knows it’s irrational to blame you completely, but rationality has lost its grip on her these days. All she knows is that you left her, chose to disappear, and now you're back as if you could simply squeeze your way into her life—into her heart—again.

As if the whole thing were just some cruel, elaborate joke.

Wanda stops walking. Her breath mists the air as she exhales slowly, staring blankly at the trees. The Darkhold whispers softly from somewhere deep inside her mind, promising answers, tempting her toward actions she’d once sworn never to take.

—

You sit on the floor until the cabin stops spinning.

Breathing hurts, but that’s nothing new. What’s new is the warm trickle soaking your side. You ease up your shirt—three of the hastily placed stitches have split clean through, red shining in the morning light.

Great.

You shuffle to the table, fetch the needle and fishing-line thread you found in Wanda’s mending kit yesterday. No antiseptic, but there’s vodka in your pack. You bite down on a strip of blanket and jab the needle through skin that’s already on fire. Six clumsy knots later the bleeding slows. 

When it’s done, you rest your head back against the wooden wall and stare at the ceiling for a long minute. Then you force yourself upright again, slowly, carefully, like you’re learning your body all over again.

You go looking for fresh clothes, but most of what you brought, what little you could carry, are still crumpled in a heap near the bed, soaked through from melted snow and blood and sweat. You pick through it anyway, hoping something might be salvageable, but they’re all soiled. 

So you go to the dresser.

You hesitate only a second before pulling open one of Wanda’s drawers. You pull out a flannel shirt and some loose sweatpants, fingers trailing over the collar of the shirt. Wanda’s scent clings faintly to the fabric—subtle, but unmistakable. You try not to think about how, just weeks ago, you were sharing clothes with someone else entirely.

You mutter an apology to the empty room and pull them on, rolling the waistband so they don’t slide off your hips. 

The cabin’s cold. You can see your breath if you stand still long enough. You don’t know how long she’ll be gone, or if she’ll come back at all, but you know one thing: when she does, she’ll be cold. And probably starving.

So you head to the kitchen. The eggs are a little old, but they’ll hold. You crack a few into the pan, add salt, whatever spices you can find. You boil water. Throw together something from a canned broth, potatoes, and greens that are just on the edge of turning. 

You wait for her for about an hour before sleep finally pulls you under, curled up on the couch. When you come to again, the sun is sinking low, spots of orange scattered around the living room. 

Your throat is dry, your body heavy from the nap, but instinct has your voice calling out before you're fully awake.

“Wanda?”

Silence.

You sit up slowly, blinking against the fading light. You shuffle into the kitchen and find the pot right where you left it, a thin skin filmed over the soup, the eggs congealed and gray on the plate. A sigh slips out before you can reel it back. Worry hits first; she hasn’t eaten, she hasn’t even been inside, but it’s chased fast by irritation. You patched yourself up, you cooked, you waited. None of it mattered.

Your stomach growls loud enough to echo. Fine. You dump the eggs, scrape the pan clean, and set the pot back on the burner. You gulp it straight from the ladle, too impatient for bowls, the heat scalding your tongue in a way that feels almost deserved. Three ladles later the pot’s nearly empty and your limbs hum with new strength.

You rinse the bowl out, wipe the counter, then stand there for a long moment, staring at the closed door to her room.

You should leave it alone.

But you don’t.

Instead, you drift back down the hall, checking quietly not out of curiosity, but to make sure she’s still here. That she hasn’t packed up and vanished while you were passed out on her couch like an idiot. You open the top drawer of her dresser just enough to see what’s inside.

Her things are still there. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. She hasn’t left you. Not yet, anyway.

But the relief is fleeting. You’ve never felt more out of place. Wanda’s made it clear: she doesn’t want you here. And still, here you are, clinging like a parasite. It’s pathetic. Desperate. But none of that changes the fact that you’re worried about her. Because everything isn’t fine. It couldn’t be, not after what happened in Westview. The people she held hostage weren’t the only ones who walked away damaged. Wanda carries every bit of the trauma on her shoulders, too. You’re not here to beg her to take you back. 

You’re here to understand what’s next.

To figure out what happened to her after the fight with that other witch—what changed in her, what broke. How she came back from it all wearing a crown. And why it doesn’t feel like a victory.

Suddenly, the door blows open on a gust that turns your breath white. The cold rushes in, unforgiving, and you jolt, goosebumps rising instantly on your arms as the wind slithers in around your ankles.

Wanda steps inside without a word. Her coat hangs heavy off her shoulders, damp with snow at the hem. She doesn’t seem surprised to see you wearing her clothes. Her eyes quickly sweep the room as if to confirm nothing’s changed in her absence. She barely looks at you.

You collect all details you can get, now that she’s finally back in your line of sight. Her face is pale but not flushed. No wounds. But your eyes catch on the blackened dirt under her nails, dark and packed tight.

You open your mouth, wanting to know if she’s eaten anything the entire day. “Wanda, have you—” 

She drops a canvas bag onto the dining table with a thud before you can finish. Out come three cardboard clamshells, still steaming, a pair of plastic forks. She pushes one box toward you without meeting your eyes.

“I brought food,” she says finally, still not looking at you.

Your mouth opens again—maybe to ask where it’s from, or how far she went, or if she’s okay—but then she does look at you. Just for a breath. And whatever you were going to say, you can’t seem to remember now.

“Eat,” she says.

Her tone leaves no room for argument, so you take a seat. 

Wanda settles opposite you, legs folding tight beneath the chair. A slim paperback appears from her coat pocket, spine already broken in half a dozen places. She props it on one knee, fork in the other hand, and starts to read as though you aren’t there.

You eat in complete silence. You're quietly grateful for the takeout—especially since the soup you made earlier was little more than hot water with a few scraps. You’re hyper-aware of every sound you make: the hiss of your breath when the sauce hits the cut on your lip, the careful clack when you set the fork down to cool another mouthful. Wanda doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does and simply doesn’t care. She turns pages with her thumb, eyes skimming lines you can’t see.

A strange gratitude coils in your chest. She went out, she bought dinner, she came back. And now she’s feeding you.

You look away before she can catch you staring.

Minutes pass. The steam fades. Your box is almost empty; hers is half-gone, eaten with the same absent efficiency she gives the novel. When you finally set your fork down, Wanda’s eyes lift—not icy, just tired.

“Finished?” she asks quietly.

You nod.

She snaps the book shut without marking her place, collects your take-out box with hers, and stands. You stay put, hands useless in your lap, watching Wanda tidy up—a plain domestic moment you haven’t witnessed in five years.

Wanda finishes flattening the last box, turns off the tap, and dries her hands. You’re still gripping the edge of the table when you feel her shadow fall over you. Wanda’s suddenly close—too close for how skittish the air is between you. Your eyes go wide. She lifts a hand and, with the pad of her thumb, wipes a smear of sauce from your cheek like it’s perfectly normal, like she’s done it a hundred times.

The touch is feather-light, gone before you can lean into it.

“You should go,” she whispers.

“Wanda, I told you—”

“I know now why you did what you did.”

Your breath snags. How? Clint never knew. You’ve never said it aloud—never even let yourself think it in plain language. Confusion must flash across your face, because she offers the smallest tilt of a smile. 

Before you can form a coherent response, Wanda’s eyes suddenly grow distant.

“You can get your old life back, you know,” she murmurs softly, her gaze drifting just over your shoulder. “With that woman. Kia.”

You go utterly still. Kia’s name in Wanda’s mouth feels wrong. Not only is it wrong, it’s impossible. You’ve never breathed a word of her to Clint, never spoken of her to anyone from the old days.

“How…?”

Wanda’s gaze drops to the table, and you follow it. Her pocketbook is there, but it’s no longer the slim paperback you’ve just seen. Now it looks ancient, leather-bound, edges frayed, the pages yellow as parchment.

It’s the same book you spotted yesterday in the other room, so that wasn’t a hallucination. Suspicion curls in your gut. Whatever this thing is, it has been guiding Wanda since she disappeared.

Maybe she sifted through your memories while you were unconscious. She once swore she never would, yet that promise feels like it was made in another life, broken by everything you forced her to believe and do.

“Whatever motive you think I had,” you say, “you’ve got it wrong.”

The mask she wears falls, revealing a smirk. “Is that so?”

Wanda’s fingers brush the book’s cover, and scarlet threads unfurl like veins across the leather. A pulse kicks behind your eyes—

—and the cabin dissolves.

You blink and find yourself on a quiet cul-de-sac bathed in late-spring gold. The hair on your arms rises from the sudden, familiar never-ending winter in the North. There’s the mailbox with Kia’s last name. There’s the porch step that always creaked when Kia came in late from a shift. Everything matches the house you once shared, right down to the dent in the gutter you kept meaning to fix.

Kia kneels in the front yard, dirt on her jeans, coaxing herbs into a planter box. She looks up and smiles, that same easy grin you’ve miraculously adopted over some time through osmosis. She stands, wipes her hands on her shirt, and walks over. Her scent reaches you a second before your lips find hers.

It’s perfect. 

And it’s wrong.

The scene stutters, the colors drain, and you’re back on the cabin floor, knees aching. Wanda stands over you, the book shut in her hands. Your body feels hollow, as if the vision siphoned the strength right out of you.

“What was that?” you manage, voice rough.

“A life where no one had to lie,” she says. “A life you could still have, if you choose.”

Tears cloud your vision, not because of the promise but because you know it isn’t real. Because you’ve been exposed. Because Wanda has seen, firsthand, that you tried to move on without her. You’re not ashamed of loving Kia. Wanda was gone, for God’s sake. Still, it feels like betrayal, something you’d never want Wanda to witness or even hear about.

She watches you with a scholar’s detachment, looking down as you tilt your head up to meet her shrouded stare. 

You lurch upright, dizzy. “What was that?”

“I don’t know which is worse,” she says quietly. “That you erased yourself instead of telling me you’d moved on, or me believing you loved me enough to always tell the truth. That you wouldn’t just throw me away like I meant nothing.”

You plant a hand on the floorboards and shove yourself upright, legs shaking. The cabin tilts, but you lurch toward her anyway, arm outstretched. Wanda steps back. Just one small pivot, but it’s enough to keep you an arm’s length away.

Red light tightens around her knuckles. A clear warning.

“You know that’s a lie,” you rasp. “You’ll never be nothing to me. If you could just let me explain—”

“There’s no explanation that would make sense to me, Y/N.” 

For the first time, Wanda’s voice betrays the raw place she’s been shoving down and down.  You feel it in your bones, how much you’ve hurt her. 

“I thought you were gone forever. I—” Your words stagger, teetering at the edge of everything you’ve buried. How do you explain that the moment she vanished, she took the part of you she loved with her?

How do you explain that fear has driven every choice you’ve made since? Fear she would return to find only half the woman she loved. Fear that the way you survived her absence would repulse her.

How do you admit you would rather let her think you were dead than see what you have become?

How do you tell her that the monster she might find learned to love someone else? When you had Wanda you had all of her; now she no longer has all of you. How do you make her understand five years have passed for you, changed you in irreversible ways? The last time you ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was before Wakanda, and when you tried again months ago, you’ve realized it no longer brings the same comfort.

Physically, you’re alive and well. But in all the ways that mattered you died the day she vanished.

“I didn’t walk away because you stopped mattering to me,” you say, eyes lowering in defeat. “I thought it was kinder to let you grieve than to watch you try to love what I’d become. That person,” you swallow hard, “spent five years crawling through mud, taking…t-taking lives, and—”

You dare to lift your gaze. Wanda’s eyes are shining now, no longer empty, and the sight sparks a small, stubborn hope.

“—learned to love someone else just enough to keep breathing.”

A bitter laugh leaves her lips, hollow and aching. Wanda shakes her head slowly, blinking back tears that refuse to fall. She spent her last tear on you when she let the Hex dissolve.

She has already said goodbye.

“That was never your choice to make.”

“I know,” you whisper, suddenly aware of just how wrong you were. “I was terrified that seeing me would make you feel like you’d lost me all over again.”

“But you weren’t terrified of losing me.”

“Wanda—”

“Losing you to death was agony—but losing you like this?” Her voice comes out in a hiss as she circles you. “It feels like betrayal.”

You don’t move or breathe. “I never wanted to betray you. I wanted to spare you.”

“You should’ve let me decide if your broken pieces were worth it.”

You close your eyes, knowing there’s no argument to that. A bitter heat climbs your throat. “You weren’t the one left counting days—”

“And you weren’t the one who held a whole town hostage because the counting never stopped,” she snaps back. Then, softer, almost bewildered: “It’s unfair both ways, isn’t it?”

It is. All the darkness you clawed through after losing her doesn’t justify what she’s laying at your feet now.

“I’m offering you a choice,” Wanda says. Your head lifts, thinking you misheard. Gratitude already starts to form on your lips, but it stalls when she finishes her sentence.

“To go back to Kia.”

Is that what the vision was for? Can she even do that? Her powers have evolved, grown into something terrifying and divine—but reshaping reality like that? Is it even real?

Still, you won’t take it.

Because it won’t be Kia’s choice.

And it won’t truly be yours either—not after all the weeks you’ve spent chasing Wanda across the wreckage, trying to make this right.

“That’s not what I want,” you tell her earnestly. 

“Isn’t it?” she asks. “Because that vision was your heart, Y/N. I didn’t invent it—it came from you.”

“No,” you rasp immediately, shaking your head. “That vision was an impossible wish.”

Wanda’s eyes gleam sharply. “It’s crueler if you lie, Y/N.”

You swallow hard, holding her gaze even as it scorches. “If being with Kia was what I really wanted, I would have begged you the moment that vision faded.”

Wanda lifts her chin defiantly, refuses to believe you. The Darkhold has never lied to her. It has shown her hidden corners of the universe and whispered that everything she wants is within reach. When it revealed that someone else had claimed your heart, that your disappearance let her mourn a love already gone, it fit too neatly to doubt.

You keep talking, because at least, you’re able to. She’s letting you. 

“Kia kept me alive. She kept the nightmares from swallowing me. But she never erased you.” Your palm presses to your sternum, as if you could show her the bruise that never healed. “I carried you, every day, every mile, in every fucking moment I wished I was dead. I still do.”

She studies you carefully, finally seeing just how broken you truly are. When you lay unconscious after Sabertooth nearly killed you, Wanda allowed herself to pretend nothing had changed, not in you, and certainly not in her. As she tended your wounds, wrapped fresh bandages, she let herself linger, running her fingers softly over your temples, through your hair. When your eyes were closed, you still looked like her Y/N, though now your face held more lines, your cheekbones sharper, etched by years she had missed.

But you're right about one thing: time never stopped. Wanda feels a painful ache at the truth, that she no longer knows every piece of you, that you've grown and changed without her watching. She has missed five of your birthdays, missed countless meaningful milestones she should have shared with you.

And she sees clearly now that you don’t feel the same way about her. At least, not the way she remembers. Not the way she's clung to all this time.

“That’s not love,” Wanda murmurs softly. “That’s guilt dressed up as devotion.”

The Darkhold hisses, urging her to banish you into the perfect life it promises. She resists it for the first time. She intends to give you the choice you never gave her. And until you decide, she will pour every ounce of herself into finding her boys.

Your face crumples at the rejection, at the depth of her distrust. She wants nothing to do with you. And wasn’t that what you wanted all along?

“You have seven days,” Wanda says suddenly. “Seven days to decide what life you really want. After that, the choice won’t be yours anymore.”

Your eyes snap to her face, unable to hide your disbelief and panic. “Seven days? Wanda, this is… this is insane. You’re talking about rewriting reality. And for what? Just to get rid of me?”

Wanda simply smiles, tucks the book under her arm, and starts down the hall toward the last room.

You stare after her, mouth hanging open, searching for something to say. “This is absurd. This isn’t you, Wanda.”

She pauses and looks back over her shoulder, face strangely calm. “This is me being reasonable.”

[shinyeclair]

UNDERFELL ESHA

Introduction video here ! Important before checking her trivias ! 🎨 Arts & design by @erineas 🧡 Personality art by _hiroakiriri_

Trivias (there's a lot) and arts ↓

The story is a detective/cop action series centered around the trio Papyrus–Sans–Esha, who investigate and solve gritty Underground cases. It’s got strong seinen energy, blended with slice-of-life comedy/romance (because the trio’s dynamic is hilarious) and a solid thriller edge.

There’s action on all levels : Think John Wick, Black Lagoon, City Hunter or Arcane, to absurd, over-the-top situations and magical fights like Jujutsu Kaisen, Helluva Boss, Brooklyn 99 or Panty & Stocking.

She was the first Esha AU ever created, and exists for almost a year now.

Fell!Esha’s story takes place decades before Frisk’s arrival in the Underground, the event that kicks off the Pacifist route. She "disappears" before Frisk falls, meaning the original plot remains intact.

Her signature flower is the orange rose (duh). Fun fact: I picked the flower after her design, and later realized with Erineas that her hair already looked just like a rose with two thorns. Best coincidence !

She uses a customed Beretta 92FS (often two) loaded with SOUL-charged bullets, which she can adjust in intensity : lethal or non-lethal depending on the situation. But the bullets aren’t infinite, so she has to manage her mana wisely.

As shown in her intro video, she’s a former mafia enforcer turned Royal Guard agent. Basically, she’s a tough field cop specializing in crime, arrestations, investigations, and interrogations. She actually does her job pretty well... even if she’s rarely opposed to a liiiiiittle police brutality here and there. It’s not uncommon to see certain arrested monsters with bruises from heel kicks all over especially in the sensitive areas.

🧡

Despite being a powerhouse, Fell!Esha is impulsive and can definitely get outsmarted or outmatched. Having a trained human SOUL doesn’t make her invincible. Plus, hers is orange, not red, so if she dies, she dies. No "continue". No second chances.

🧡

To help her go undercover, Alphys built her a magical device that lets her completely change her appearance for a short time. She uses various monster avatars, both male and female. Sans and Papyrus can use it as well.

Limitations: She can’t change her height (stuck at 1.58m though she cheats with heels), and the magic breaks down under sudden temperature shifts (for example, ice water or boiling water = ruined disguise). (Hello, Ranma ½ !)

Like other Eshas, she can sing and dance for fun, but it’s not her main thing. Her actual hobby is painting : self-taught through books and videos. The use of the word "ochre" for her rose’s color is because ochre is a orange classic pigment in paint-making. Full circle.

She only smokes thin cigarettes (Vogue or Mademoiselle-style) because she finds regular ones disgusting. Her favorite drinks are cherry-based alcohols.

🧡

She might come across as charming and charismatic at first, but in the beginning, but Fell!Esha is far from likable. She’s short-tempered, mocking, verbally, even sexually abusive, a bully, a liar, manipulative and predatory. She’s left more than one person (especially men) traumatized in her wake.

Fell!Esha is someone who constantly evolves : She’s had very little rest in her life. Even though she thrives in chaos and action, she secretly dreams of a peaceful, boring life where she could just breathe and reconnect with herself and the world.

She was taught to survive under constant threat, even before falling down in the Underground. Then, she learned to survive while destroying others. And now, she has to live by protecting others with the Royal Guard and show compassion...

She’s a broken, exhausted woman. But a brave one. A soul that had to rebuild herself from scratch over and over again. Someone who, more than anything, just wants to trust someone and finally know what it’s like to love and be loved in return (whatever form that love takes).

Fell!Esha is a danger looking for safety.

Her evolution is both touching and satisfying.

[nuin-giliath]

He chuckled softly at the confirmation and was torn between keeping it like that for a while longer, or continue to fluster the younger Vala because Melkor simply could not take his hands off of him. Indeed, he was so very different from the rest.

Melkor growled from somewhere deep in his chest. It was a primal, feral sound when he heard Namo gasp, pressed against his thigh. But he slowly parted, still holding onto him, moving a hand at his waist and the other caressed the strands of hair from his face. He pulled him slowly along towards the nearest armchair and took Namo's hand in his, "As much as I enjoy your pleading, here, take a seat. Relax. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you," at least not yet, "and answering your question as to what is happening to you,... Well... I've already told you but I'd have to also show you." he smirked leaving it at that, perhaps it was enough for one day as most of all, Melkor took a strange liking to Namo. What was there not to like since everything about him was exactly what made Melkor come undone. The innocence, the way he reacted and those flushed cheeks and wonderful sounds drove him wild with need so he had to stop before his own desire became apparent.

To give Namo some space, Melkor paced the room, his hands behind his back and the darkness fell behind him like a cape of shadows, tasting the air and shifting with their master's moods. And he was calm now, even the storm outside halted and everything beyond the window seemed frozen in place in a landscape of infinite whiteness, silence and the cracking of ice.

"I see now, there is so much you do not know and," Melkor turned and walked over to his own chair, just out of need to be closer, "it's so endearing how unaware you are of your own beauty." and Melkor closed his eyes and hummed, a wicked smirk on his lips, thinking of Namo's silver hair against the black silky sheets of his own bed.

Namo felt completely taken aback by Melkor's actions. Namo had never planned to be that close, and yet. He had never had that feeling, and yet. He was feeling it.

Hot. Cold. Then hot again. Something crawling right underneath his skin. "N-no... I have no idea..." He had not been thought of having emotions, and yet there he was. Was that also part of the Song? Was that something Melkor himself was doing?

And then he felt it, when Melkor held his hip, and slid his thight between his legs, and Namo emitted a surprised gasp. "A-awakening my senses?" He asked, his voice nearly a moan. He did not know how to react. He did not know he could feel that, his cheeks flushed red and his blue eyes wide, and his silver hair now all over the place.

"What... is happening?" He rasped, the feeling under his skin not stopping. He felt his own heart beat faster than he could have ever imagined. "Melkor... Please..." Please stop? Please continue? Please let us recompose ourselves? He did not know.

[solxamber]

Sync or Sink || Vil Schoenheit

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

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

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

And by fun, it meant Gates.

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings us to Guides.

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

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

So, to recap:

Gates = Bad.

Espers = Powerful but emotionally unstable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause.

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

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

Another pause. Longer, this time.

He sounded… offended. And faintly intrigued.

“…You don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?” you mumbled into his neck.

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

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

It was… good. Too good.

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

You passed out in his arms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “…A Guide?”

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

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

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

He swept out of the room like a disgruntled ballerina.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slowly sat back against the pillow, eyes wide.

“…I told him ‘oops sorry lol.’”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She looked up, stunned. “W-what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hush.”

You blinked.

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

“But I—”

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

You did.

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

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

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

“Did I say you could talk?”

You shut your mouth.

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

“Good. You learn quickly.”

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

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

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

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

You didn’t care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were too tired to be offended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A crinkle.

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

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

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

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

You blinked, deeply touched. You took a sip.

It was… heavenly.

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

And then—your eyes stung.

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

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

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

“Are you… saying you like me?”

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

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

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

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

And then gave you juice.

You sniffled again.

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

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

Even if he bullied you the entire time.

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

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

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

A door creaked open.

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

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

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

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

“Yup,” you replied.

“Oh no.”

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

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

—but the door slammed open behind you.

“Absolutely not.”

You turned around.

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

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

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

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

“—was laughable. They’re mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “So…?”

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

“I didn’t consider you ‘new'.”

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

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

You, apparently, had been claimed.

And worst of all?

You thought you might have liked it.

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

You just wanted a hoodie.

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

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

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

Vil.

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

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

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

But then—

“You.”

Oh no. Oh god. Oh no god.

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

“Come. I need hands.”

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

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

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

The next hour? Was… actually kind of amazing.

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

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

It was great.

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

And then, miraculously, he let you live.

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

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

Vil laughed.

You were not prepared.

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

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

You didn't say it out loud.

But you thought it really hard.

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

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

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

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

So you sat. For about three seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stayed there for a long time.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t even get guided afterward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t call the Guidance Office.

You didn’t reach for your communicator.

You didn’t even consider getting guided.

Because why would you?

You hadn’t earned it.

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

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

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

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

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

And in the hallway, your door remained unlocked.

Because honestly?

Let the monsters come.

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

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

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

100 missed calls.

37 texts.

All from: Vil Schoenheit.

Each message angrier than the last.

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

You did.

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

“Address. Now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He froze.

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

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

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

THWACK.

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

“OW—what the hell, Vil?!”

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

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

“...but—”

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

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

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

You slumped forward again, forehead on his shoulder.

“…thank you,” you whispered.

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

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

Honestly?

That sounded kind of nice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow. He’s perfect.

There was a pause.

A silence that felt loud in your own brain.

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

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

You were so, so screwed.

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

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

So, you just accepted your fate.

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

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

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

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

…Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t deny it.

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

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

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

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

To the Guidance Office.

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

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

A shadow loomed.

Perfume wafted.

And the temperature dropped ten degrees.

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

“Up. Now.”

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

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

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

Then—rip.

Your transfer form disintegrated in his hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You opened your mouth to say something.

He kissed you again.

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

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

You blinked. “I—wait, what?”

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

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

He pointed at you. “Sit down.”

You sat. Immediately.

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

“…Yes?”

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

You obeyed. Because frankly? You were.

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

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

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

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

“Give me one example.”

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

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

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

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I was tired that day,” you whispered.

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

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

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

“Okay. Ouch.”

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

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

“...Can I kiss you again?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

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

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

The first time Vil met you was… unfortunate.

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

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

Until you.

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

Correction: onto him.

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

His first thought was: Excuse you?

His second: Do they not know who I am?

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

Then you woke up.

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

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

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

And that was when it happened: the first crack.

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

And that’s when the thought struck him:

I wish more Espers were like this.

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

He didn’t say yes to your offer.

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

Disaster or not, you had… made an impression.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vil's soul left his body.

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

You blinked. “What?”

“Guiding you. Sit down. Shut up.”

“...Okay?”

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

He was doomed.

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

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

No, he did not pout.

He did not sulk.

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

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

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

“Um… you mean, you want to—?”

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

“Sir, do you mean romantically—?”

“Professionally.” A beat. “For now.”

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

You saw him.

You tried to leave.

He grabbed your wrist.

“I need hands,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

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

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

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

He laughed.

He laughed.

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

I’m doomed.

Because he liked you.

He really, really liked you.

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

And you had no idea.

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

So yes. Vil was doomed.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

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

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

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

And for once, you didn’t joke.

No "What’s up, Guidezilla?"

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

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

Vil froze.

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

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

And that was when he broke a little.

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

But it was enough.

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

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

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

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

And in his fridge?

There was already more of your favorite juice.

He told himself it was just being thorough.

He was a liar.

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

But then he heard the reports.

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

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

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

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

And that was when the spiral started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Vil?”

And that was enough.

“Address. Now.”

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

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

The front door was unlocked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What. Is. This.”

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

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

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

Vil’s brain short-circuited.

He kissed you.

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

Your sentence died like a bug on a windshield.

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

You blinked.

“I—what—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vil closed his eyes.

And all he could think was:

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

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

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

Which is exactly why he jinxed it.

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

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

So naturally, you pulled him closer.

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

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

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

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

Then, quietly:

“Finally.”

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

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

But—

You had Vil. And that made it survivable.

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

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

It was progress.

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

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

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

You blinked. “Will it be salad?”

“No. I’m ordering dumplings.”

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

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

And that was it.

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

Honestly?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

[arolesbianism]

Also in my current main oni playthrough I'm at 22 duplicants and my goal for the playthrough is to get all of them so I'm abt halfway there but god damn do I not have enough space for more of these fuckers I'm going to be able to shove some more into my two newest colonies on the two planetoids I've traveled to so far but one of them like Just got started so it's going to be a while before I'm confident in upscaling it, and the other one is mostly made up of radioactive biomes and salt water biomes with the only more livable biomes being at the very edges and the very bottom of the map, so while I do have a pretty stable base getting set up over there it's going to be pretty obnoxious getting the living space set up due to how little space I have in my current main base area and how far away the other forest biomes are from that. On the bright side I found the mysterious hermit home on the brand new planetoid so I at least don't have to worry abt him as much, although I'm gonna be real idk how I'm going to get food production up and running since there's like No dirt, and I don't rly want to have to send someone back up through the surface magma biome to pick up any dropped off supplies.

[bluerosefox]

Little Marriage Demands

Just had a funny idea I wanna share.

Deaged!Dani/Ellie and Dan! Princess and Prince of the Infinite Realms! Ghost King/Mom Danny! Maybe Dead on Main?

Jason stared at the determined frown on the toddler that stood in front of him. Hands on her hips and if she was actually on the floor, because she was floating a few feet off, her stance in that 'I am standing my ground' way children did when they were demanding something in a huff.

She had long white hair in a pony tail that whisped upwards like gravity was a option and glowing, almost Lazarus green but more cleaner? Neon? Compared to the pits. She was dressed as a little royal princess, complete with a tiny crown made of twinkling stars and ice crystals that were floating in a tiny aurora boleros.

Next to her, in a baby roller was an equally similar looking baby, only male from the tiny royal outfit he wore, and who also had an floating crown above its head only even smaller than the girls. The baby also had a blanket that looked it had been plucked from the galaxies itself in his tiny hands. The baby was no doubt grumpy from the pout and glaring eyes it was giving him.

"Come again?" Jason asked, trying to make heads and tails of what he was just... demanded of?

The girl took in a deep breath, huffing, and looked so freaking annoyed that she had to repeat herself, as if Jason was the one making things difficult to begin with.

"We needs yous to marries Mama so the Eyeballs stops bullying Mama to 'gets a ghost consorty!' Mama keeps beatings theirs off but its annoyings cause Mama can't plays with us anymores nows!" the girl said, her young age showing strong from the way she spoke in the way toddlers did. The baby in the walker seemed to agree with her annoyance at not being able to play with their Mama cause he gave a grumpy noise in agreement "Clockpa saids if they keeps doings this they do something baddy bad to us to try to make Mama dos as they say and Mama is gonna gets really mads and do really bads to ummm the.... multi... multiver-vers-? To alls the worlds! everythings everywhere!"

Jason took a deep breath at that tad bit of information.

What the fuck!?

The girl kept going, not caring about Jason's mental freak out.

"Sooo Clockpa, Auntie Pan, Uncie Frosty, and Auntie Gothy alls gots together to talks and they'd talked abouts yous becoming Mama's futures constory causes yous well liked bys everyones for helpings somes moves on and stoppings bads people from doing bads anymore! ANDS you are good with kids! And and re-re...respectful to peoples with Mama problems!" The girl, who had when she first showed up in his safe house and said her name was Princess Ellie, future Fright Knight and Explorer of the Infinite Realms or tried to say with her toddler speak. "Theys says yous were at the tops of the list and to maybes push yous to meets buts its takes too longgggggggggggg..."

Ellie stretched the long word out, showing just how much patience children at her age had. The baby seemed to agree with that as well when he made baby gurgle sounds and threw its tiny fists in the air.

"So's me and Dan want-teds to make it goes fasters!" Ellie said as she moved her hands from her hips and crossed her arms and floated higher up as she stared at Jason's face with a smug look of 'I'm so smart with this idea' "We sneaked offs and founds you! Nows all yous gotta do is marries Mama and the Eyeballs wills stop bullying us and leaves us alone!!"

Yeah... Jason needed to go to the cave and make sure he wasn't doused with something... Cause this was insane.

[elysiansparadise]

Ceres in the natal chart

⚳ Ceres [1] is a dwarf planet that in astrology has a strong relationship with health, nutrition and sustenance (both physical and emotional). It represents the way we give care and support as well as how we like to receive it. Although it also tells us about our relationship with food, motherhood and the perception we have of our mother, in this post I will focus on care.

═════════ ✧ ❀ ✧ ═════════

🩶Ceres in Aries: Like the first ray of light at dawn, a warm impulse that pushes you to get up, to face your fears with its borrowed strength. Here we find very protective people, who do not hesitate to jump to defend what they love most if they feel that they are in danger. These people do not seek to be suffocating towards others, so they will not fall into the group of overprotective, on the contrary, they prefer to encourage others to be self-sufficient. Their caring may include encouraging you to take risks, overcome challenges, or advocate for your interests. They will care for your individuality, admire your personality and encourage you to be yourself. They are not usually overly communicative when it comes to showing that they care, their style is more direct and action-oriented. When faced with the discomfort or stress of those they love, they can solve problems quickly and not let things stagnate, the classic person who does not complain and resolves, making them extremely comforting in times of crisis. 

🩶Ceres in Taurus: They care with delicate caresses, offering the aroma of security and the sweet taste of eternal love. They offer constant and comfortable care, without becoming overbearing. They are not people of large dramatic gestures, but rather small significant acts that demonstrate their commitment. Their presence is like a safe haven, because you know they will be there when you need them. They are considerate people who make sure that your needs are met, they look after your comfort and well-being. Many of them often show their affection through gestures such as gifts and acts of service. They are extremely patient and know when to give you space to heal or process your emotions at your own pace. They don't rush you, but instead create an environment where you can feel accepted just as you are. For them, loyalty is important, so they will seek to be there for you no matter how time goes by. Their calm and steady energy can be like a balm, especially if you are going through times of stress.

🩶Ceres in Gemini: It is the care that comes in the form of curious questions and illuminating answers, words that come as a balm for the most wounded sides of your soul. They show care by listening carefully, asking questions, and offering helpful advice. They always have something to say to cheer you up, make you laugh, or help you see a situation from a new perspective. With them you don't feel like you're walking through thin ice, they make you feel understood and give your words the value and importance they have. Their ability to maintain constant contact, even through short messages or quick calls, makes you feel supported. The beautiful thing about these people is that they deeply value connection, so they will make small gestures so that you both spend time together and will seek not to leave you alone in times of crisis. Something that I have noticed about many of them, they will share their hobbies or interests with you, in turn, being open to knowing what your world is.   

🩶Ceres in Cancer: It is the infinite sea that keeps your tears, the refuge on stormy nights and the blanket that wraps you. Care with unconditional tenderness, building a home in every corner of your heart. These people have the ability to care for others on a practical as well as an emotional level. They tend to provide strong emotional support in which they validate your feelings and can help you process them through patience and empathy. They are incredibly loyal and will not abandon you in difficult times. If they care about you, they do it from the heart and in the long term. They stand out for their warm and enveloping energy and always make sure to give you the space to feel your emotions, even those that you do not openly express with others. Many of these natives can come to be considered a protective figure in their groups or with their friends, and people see them as people they can rely on. They can give off vibes of being very maternal or paternal.

🩶Ceres in Leo: Like a radiant sun that illuminates with generosity, it is their warmth, their fire and their passion that elevates you, reminds you that you are unique and loved. They will take care of you by highlighting your qualities and making sure you know how valuable you are. Their support includes words of affirmation, praise, and recognition of both you and the little things you do. They inspire those they love to be the best version of themselves. Their care includes encouraging you to shine and be authentic, as they want to see you succeed and feel proud of yourself, and they can be a great source of motivation. They will encourage and care for your inner child. They are fiercely loyal to those they love and will not hesitate to defend or back you up in public if necessary. Their sense of care includes making sure you don't go unnoticed or feel ignored.

🩶Ceres in Virgo: They care with patient dedication, with small gestures that are like soothing whispers that comfort and bring peace to any turmoil in your mind and heart. They are quite reserved people regarding their desire to care for other people, however they seek to be very supportive of those they consider special to them. They care by making sure your physical and practical needs are met, such as organizing your tasks, reminding you of appointments or important things, and even helping you solve everyday problems. They notice details that other people miss, making you feel valued in the little things. They are able to intuit what small changes they can make in the environment that guarantee your comfort. They make you feel like your life is under control, helping you regain control with their support, presence and advice. They are able to notice your small gestures that reveal your feelings, especially when you are tense or stressed. 

🩶Ceres in Libra: They are the echo of an "I understand you" in the silence, the beauty of shared care, where everything is fair and serene. They value connection and will take care of you, fostering a relationship of reciprocity, where both feel valued. They care that you feel accompanied, supported and appreciated in their company, that you never doubt the affection you deserve. They value your well-being in every way, both emotionally and physically, and seek to ensure a balance prevails or at least, to be there to contribute with whatever is missing. They are great conversationalists and make sure you feel heard and understood. They often give thoughtful advice, helping you see all perspectives before making decisions. They make you feel calm, helping you find stability in times of chaos or stress. They will let you know that they will always be there to listen to you and share with you, as they seek to create an authentic and enriching connection with those who are special to them.

🩶Ceres in Scorpio: They are the deep night where secrets are hidden, the hug that holds you when everything collapses. They care with transformative intensity, stripping the soul to heal it from its roots. They do not avoid difficulties, but rather address them head-on, accompanying you in the most challenging moments and staying by your side no matter how hard the journey is. They care about your deepest feelings, even those you don't express openly. They have a gift for detecting what you need emotionally. It may not be evident at first, but when they really trust you, they give themselves completely and use their time to create an intimate bond that is healing for both of you. They make you feel like they know aspects of you that other people don't, and they accept them unconditionally. They are able to give you a feeling of powerful protection, as if nothing can harm you while they are around. They transform your life from care, appreciation and devotion, causing a strong, yet comforting impact.

🩶Ceres in Sagittarius: They are like laughter shared under starry skies, the freedom that invites you to dream beyond the known and encourages you to think that everything is possible. Life often gives us tense and difficult situations, they seek to give you a break from all that, giving you joy and understanding. Its warmth gives your life hope that there is something more for you, that you can enjoy life too. They deeply respect your independence and support you to follow your own path. They do not seek to limit you, but rather to encourage you to discover your true potential, passion and that which invades you with joy. They like to create meaningful and exciting experiences with you, in which they allow themselves to discover each other. These natives are a source of inspiration when you feel trapped or unmotivated. They make you feel like you have space to be yourself, without judgment or restrictions. They encourage you to think big and dream, validating what makes your heart beat.

🩶Ceres in Capricorn: They care by building a safe future, weaving acts of love that, although silent, remain embroidered, uniting the fragments of your heart. They value your effort and always highlight your achievements, although in a practical way and without exaggeration. They are incredibly consistent in their caring, they may not be very emotional, but they are always there when you need them. And not only that, you can trust that they will deliver what they promise and will have your back during difficult times. Although they will seek to support you, they recognize your independence and capabilities, and do not hesitate to remind you of your strength and ability to overcome challenges. They make you feel that you have a shoulder to lean on and that you can count on them at any time, as they give you a feeling of security and confidence that everything will be fine in the long term.

🩶Ceres in Aquarius: Like a rainbow after a storm, it clears the skies and opens ground for you to explore and fly towards your own destiny. They deeply respect your independence and encourage you to be yourself without conforming to other people's expectations. They don't try to control you, but instead support you to explore your own path and make your own decisions. These natives will always seek to make you feel included and valued and may even invite you to be part of their activities. They take care of you without invading your personal space, maintaining a balance between support and autonomy. They are usually the type of friends that unites the group and makes sure that those who love them have a pleasant time. For them there is no true affection without freedom, they will never invade your personal space or seek to get into your private life, however, if you need to talk or vent, they will listen to you attentively. They can nourish your creativity and originality, and make you feel more inspired.

🩶Ceres in Pisces: They are like the song you never forget, the empathy that heals even what you can't name and warmth that envelops you in tenderness and care. They are incredibly understanding and are there to listen to you and offer comfort during your difficult times. They often help you find inner peace, whether through words of comfort, physical contact, doing small gestures that make you happy or keeping you company after stressful events in your life. They offer a safe haven where you can be vulnerable and express yourself fully. They never demean your emotions but, on the contrary, seek to understand them. There is a quality to them that helps the ones they love tp find meaning or purpose in times of confusion or difficulty. They are people who are very sensitive to the pain of the people that they consider close ones or special, often being able to feel it themselves. They stand out for their empathy and seeking reassurance rather than seeking to be right or point out.

🤍Ceres in the 1st house: Being naturally caring and attentive, these natives focus not only on nurturing the environment or people they love, but taking care of themselves in equal measure. Many of them encourage others to embrace themselves and treat themselves with care and understanding. They take care of themselves by leaving those places or connections where they are not allowed to be themselves, letting go of complacent behaviors, and refusing to give up their individuality and identity. They have a strong protective instinct and there is something about their attitude and personality that makes people feel drawn to them. They can easily motivate and encourage others through example, so they can be the go-to role for many.

🤍Ceres in the 2nd house: These natives enjoy caring through concrete acts and ensuring the comfort of those they love. They tend to nurture others through gifts and material goods, and they enjoy being able to provide for themselves or have those they love provide for them in that way. They can find joy and comfort with the physical contact initiated by the people they love, feeling security and reassurance without saying a word. They nourish themselves by surrounding themselves with beautiful things and can pamper themselves by going shopping. They look for small ways to nurture their self-esteem and that of those they love. It is important for them to feel that their actions are seen and valued. They manage to make others feel grounded and bring calm to chaos.

🤍Ceres in the 3rd house: These natives find comfort through communication, more specifically, having long meaningful conversations with those they love in which they share deep things that they would not tell anyone, where they can know each other better and fully. They like to maintain constant communication with everyone they love, reassuring each other even if they cannot see each other. These people seek to nourish themselves mentally and form connections with people who allow them to continue learning, and contribute meaningful and positive things to their lives. Many of these natives may have a unique ability to give comfort to others through words and speeches.

🤍Ceres in the 4th house: These natives focus on emotionally nurturing and offering shelter to those they love, not only giving physical security, but also emotional security, as well as protection and appreciation of their emotions. They need to feel like they belong in a safe place, so they pay a lot of attention to making their house, room, or whatever their safe place is, a welcoming place. They tend to feel more comfortable being at home, finding comfort there after a tense day. Likewise, they may prefer meetings with their loved ones indoors or in a more intimate place. For them it is crucial, as well as talking about their emotions, to have time for themselves to process and understand them. They are not afraid of emotionally charged conversations with others, so they can be very good at comforting.

🤍Ceres in the 5th house: They offer emotional support by making those around them feel special, unique, and loved for who they are. Often, their care includes moments of enjoyment, laughter, and authentic connection where the concerns of day-to-day life do not interfere. They love to motivate others to discover their talents, motivations, joys, value and to express themselves fully. A huge tendency to praise and cheer up those they appreciate. These people nourish themselves by exploring their creativity, having fun and allowing themselves to pamper themselves, doing activities that they like, taking care of and prioritizing their me-time and appreciating their body. Taking care of themselves means honoring their sense of individuality, embracing passion in their projects, and not stifling their creative spark.

🤍Ceres in the 6th house: They enjoy adding personal care routines in their free time. They do comfort activities like watching the movies they like over and over again, cooking, painting or anything that allows them to relax. They look for ways to nourish their body, from their diet, exercise, techniques or even spiritually. They care for others through small gestures and looking for ways to help them if they feel stressed or don't know how to do things. They are people who genuinely enjoy helping other people, as this brings them satisfaction. For them, it is crucial to work on something that provides them with emotional well-being, that nourishes them and contributes something, but above all, that genuinely makes them happy.

🤍Ceres in the 7th house: These natives can nurture themselves a lot from their relationships, as well as find care and comfort in them. They enjoy lasting relationships in which affection and nourishment is mutual, in which both are the other's safe place and where they can allow themselves to show their emotions freely. They like to create relationships in which the other person feels accepted, appreciated and loved. People find comfort in them very easily, given their fair, caring personality and the fact that they are aware of others' emotions. These people take great care of the connections that they consider important and do not mind having to put effort into them, highlighting not only their commitment, but loyalty.

🤍Ceres in the 8th house: They are not very open people with this protective side, but despite this, they help others go through crises and face their shadows. They are people who encourage others to let go of everything that is no longer useful to them, to leave behind what does not contribute to their lives and work on healing those deep wounds that others do not see. They empower others by helping them accept their vulnerability and reassuring them that it is okay to feel or step back to charge their batteries. They are not bothered or uncomfortable dealing with emotions that for others could be overwhelming and they prefer to face them rather than evade them or sweep them under the rug.  Moments alone bring them peace of mind and help them manage their emotions. It can be difficult for them to be gentle with themselves.

🤍Ceres in the 9th house: These people are a great source of inspiration for others. They always try to be there to support you with advice; they're classics at offering a wise comment from the heart and with sympathy. They tend to support others during existential crises or moments of growth and know how to stay even when others don't understand what's happening to them. They accompany without imposing, helping others discover their own path in a compassionate way and nurturing your authenticity. They don't tell you how to live your life; they just ensure you feel comfortable and happy in the process. Their style isn't the most verbal or loving, but it's highly valuable because they manage to resonate with you. They need to feel free to explore and grow, and they feel most comforted when others respect and understand their need for personal space.

🤍Ceres in the 10th house:There's something comforting about the way they project themselves; they're the kind of people who attract people, because those who orbit around them feel comforted, understood, and very comfortable. They are able to provide structure and stability in a way that meets the emotional needs of others. They may opt for jobs that involve caring for others or nurturing them in some way. It often seems as though these natives are the ones who "hold the world up" for others when everything seems to be falling apart. They are the ones who show others that it's okay to take a break, that they don't have to carry everything on their own, and that they can rely on others. They may have a tendency to take on responsibilities that aren't theirs. They have a knack for helping others find their purpose and path in life, as well as helping them align with it.

🤍Ceres in the 11th house: These natives have a strong protective instinct toward their friends, often taking on the role of counselor or supporter. They stand out for their empathy and are the kind of people who can defend and care for a stranger without hesitation. Emotional support for them comes in the form of inclusion, active listening, and solidarity. They don't try to solve anyone's life, only to adapt to whatever their friends need; an active listener? They will be that. Any advice? Without a doubt. A wake-up call without sugar-coating? Gladly. They feel nourished when they're with someone or in a place where they can be themselves. They have a strong need to nurture their self-expression and authenticity; anything that blocks it will be discarded. They need to surround themselves with people who nurture their desires, dreams, and aspirations if they want to avoid frustration.

🤍Ceres in the 12th house:They are not very demonstrative people, nor do they go for showboating. They seek to care for others through sincerity and meaningful actions. They are a strong source of comfort to those who are or feel forgotten, lost, marginalized, or emotionally broken; they are capable of deeply understanding others and seeing behind them and what they show to the world. They are people who are unaware of how comfortable they make others feel, nor of the subtle, positive effect they have on others' lives. They may not have felt cared for, which led them to become very aware that before they can do it, they need to understand and know how to do it effectively. They are the ones who hold your hand when you feel alone in the emotional storm; the silent companion that fills you with security, the knowledge that nothing can destroy you while they are with you.

💟Ceres-Sun aspects: Not only do we find people naturally attentive and caring towards others, but these natives also have strong empathy. They tend to find fulfillment in caring for others or creating safe environments for themselves and their special people. They may have a strong protective instinct and take pride in their ability to support others. People feel confident in relying on them given their warmth and understanding. In the case of tense aspects, the person could occupy the role of caregiver towards their own parents or others to whom it did not correspond to them, likewise, they may have problems balancing caring for others and caring for themselves. 

💟Ceres-Moon aspects: These people have a strong focus on emotional needs, they are aware of what makes them feel good and they try to know and understand those of other people. They are naturally caring people and like to preserve the emotional well-being of those who are special to them. They have a natural talent for comforting others and making them feel loved and taken into account. They like to feel that in their emotional ties, both give the other reassurance, peace and a lot of care. If the aspect is tense, these natives may have issues with the mother or their parenting style. They may feel that they look out for the needs of others but that no one looked out for theirs when they were younger.

💟Ceres-Mercury aspects: They are people who feel more comfortable supporting others through meaningful conversations or practical solutions, which is one of the reasons why others rely on them when they need advice or feel heard. Your words can bring a lot of comfort to other people and leave significant teachings. These aspects favor the flow of ideas, creativity and the talent to write texts with high emotional weight. With tense aspects, these natives may have problems verbalizing their emotional needs or accepting help from other people, leading them to rationalize excessively, to the point of not allowing themselves to feel. 

💟Ceres-Venus aspects: Natives with these aspects usually show love and affection through acts of service, as they enjoy making small gestures towards their partner to remind them that they are loved and cherished. They love to feel pampered in their relationships, that care is mutual, and to build a safe place for them and their partner to feel protected and adored. They are loving people in their relationships who are not afraid to express their love freely and warmly. Likewise, they enjoy pampering themselves and having self-care methods. In case of tense aspects, they may be people who fall into people-pleasing behavior for fear of hurting other people's emotions.

💟Ceres-Mars aspects: These people show their love and support through decisive actions, active protection and practical solutions. They have a strong tendency to defend those they love and do not tolerate disrespect for those they love. They are not afraid to take the initiative to show affection, initiate physical contact or take that first step into a more serious conversation. They know when to act and when to allow those they love to fend for themselves. In the sexual sphere, they seek to have their and their partner's emotional needs met and prefer relationships with people with whom they have already created a bond. Tense aspects can cause internal struggles between protecting others and a strong need for independence.

💟Ceres-Jupiter aspects: These people tend to be extremely generous, offering emotional, material or physical support in abundance. They can find true satisfaction and joy in helping other people and it can make them feel fulfilled. They care through warmth and move with the ideal of giving what they receive to others. They are the mixture of loving and independent care, knowing what limits not to cross. They love to shower others with positive and memorable experiences, as well as teach others through patience and thoughtfulness. Tense aspects often cause natives to be overprotective/have grown up under overprotection or in environments where their needs have not been met.

💟Ceres-Saturn aspects: Natives with these aspects tend to be very practical and serious in the way they support others, often focusing on providing stability and security and tangibly and constantly showing affection and care to those they love. They are reliable and are usually seen as confidants, stable and loyal supports, making the people around them rely on them. Here we have people with a lot of emotional responsibility and strongly devoted to bonds with people they love. Tense aspects can cause natives to acquire burdens that do not belong to them, but to others who are supposed to be the protectors. Possibility of not feeling appreciated or cared for when young.

💟Ceres-Uranus aspects: These people seek to encourage those they love to follow their own path and can help their friends realize that they don't have to repress who they are just to fit in. They inspire others to be themselves, help them feel accepted and included and, despite their strong independence and rational approach, they seek to let those they love know that they are there for them. Tense aspects may create one of the following extremes, or have grown up in a place with emotionally negligent people or, on the contrary, excessive overprotection from which the natives seek to reveal themselves or distance themselves.

💟Ceres-Neptune aspects: When they aspect these planets, natives tend to be very empathetic, compassionate and often take care of those they love in a selfless way, ensuring their well-being and happiness. They seem to have a good sense of what the people they love need, and they give them the feeling that they understand them better than anyone else. They love unconditionally and keep the promise to be there for others through ease and storms. Tense aspects can show us that natives must take great care of their energy, as they can easily drain themselves, as well as the tendency to take care of others so much that they forget to take care of themselves.

💟Ceres-Pluto aspects: These natives have a quality and that is that they can get people to open up with them in a deeper light, unearthing their emotions, insecurities or innermost thoughts with them. These natives are not afraid of depth, there are few things that scare them on an emotional level, allowing them to help others understand and accept the most intense emotions. There is something about them that gives strength to those around them, motivates them, fills them with courage and impetus and makes them rebuild themselves. With the tense aspects, they may have felt that their emotional needs were in the shadows, not seen or met, likewise there is an issue of not wanting to trust their more intense sides to people, unless there is a strong trust.

💟Ceres-Rising aspects: They take great care of their physical appearance, their emotional and physical well-being and, in the same way, they are people who can be very caring and protective of the people they love. They can be people who take the time to make their surroundings enjoyable for them. These natives have a natural beauty and their figure can be a mix between harmonious and attractive. It is important for them to have "me time" and they can find some comfort and comfort in their own company. If they make a tense appearance, it is possible that these people have a tendency to take a lot of care of others, even forgetting to take care of themselves. They have a natural ability to give comfort to other people.

💟Ceres-Midheaven aspects: There is something about your vibe that people perceive as safe, emotionally grounded and calm. People tend to trust you and are likely to make them open up to you easily. Your work may be closely related to providing support, care and encouragement to other people. You are someone very productive and focused on your work, capable of building stability through it. If the aspects are tense, it is likely that at times you tend to feel that it is difficult to mediate your focus on your career and goals with your self-care. The "reward" method in which after a hard day of work, you give yourself time for yourself and do things that make you feel comfortable is likely to work well for you.

[nereidprinc3ss]

in infinite universes

in which spencer reid picks up uni!reader from a party. you're drunk, and he's in love with you

fluff:) warnings/tags: established relationship, fem!reader, university!reader x professor!spencer but you're not his student, unspecified age gap, um statistic about deaths from drunk driving, spencer is a nerd a/n: this is accidentally so romantic I'm gonna puke

The night is chilly—a still, dry type of cold that comes before snowfall. It’s quiet, like the world is preparing for that heavy blanket of white. Even the pounding bass from the frat house doesn’t make it very far before falling flat at the end of the yard. By the time Spencer gets you to his car down the block, it’s a thready pulse. 

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, giving him a saccharine smile as he opens the passenger door for you. His scoff is a thick white cloud, crystallizing against cold, shining skin, slightly pinkened from the temperature. Spencer is glowing like a star tonight. You don’t know if it’s the blurriness from the alcohol in your system smudging the edges of him, or if it’s just that incandescent halo that always seems to follow him around.

“You know I wasn’t going to let you walk down frat row by yourself at one in the morning.”

You pout and look up at him, leaning close. 

“So you don’t want me to say thank you?” 

Spencer’s mouth is curved in absent-minded affection as he takes advantage of the opportunity to study you up close with darting eyes, entertaining your girlish flirtation, and you in turn get to admire the starlit flush of his cheeks, the way his hair falls around his face and thick eyelashes frame irises that could melt ice. You’re not entirely conscious of the huge grin that cracks open your face, but you suspect its presence when his own lips part, still smiling, like he’s maybe going to say something sweet. Or teasing. 

“You’re drunk.”

At this absolute and unarguable truth, you frown. He’s grinning now as he adjusts the thick scarf around your neck, shielding your ears and neck further from the chill that the open car door can’t block. 

“No I’m not.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and before you can process it he’s leaning down, so of course your eyes are going to flutter shut and of course you’re going to kiss him back. The gentle ferocity of it only has you stumbling in place a little bit, and he steadies you with hands around your waist. It’s over entirely too soon. You blink up at him, your shock and fluster betrayed by the visible huff of air dispelled as soon as he pulls away. He’s smiling even wider now. Vindicated. Eyes sparkling. “Gin? Wow. You are drunk.”

It takes you a moment longer than it usually would to decipher how he figured this out. 

“So you just kissed me to prove your theory right?”

The sparkling satisfaction from his indictment softens around his eyes. 

“I knew you were drunk when you almost fell down the stairs a minute ago. The kiss was purely selfish.”

“It’s icy,” you defend, and your heart flutters as he comes in for another kiss. It’s soft and still shockingly deep for being on the street, where anyone could see—although everyone smart is inside, and anyone else is too drunk to care that his mouth is open against yours and the heat of it is translating deep in your stomach. You’re dizzy by the time he laughs quietly against you. 

“What college student is pounding gin and tonics at a frat party?”

The thick wool of his coat bunches under your searching fingers. 

“Me,” you whisper. “I was classing up the joint.”

The final kiss he presses to your lips is sweeter and half smile. “Drunk.”

The murmured accusation shouldn’t make you feel so giddy. Maybe it’s all the gin. 

“Not.”

Another little chuckle warms the tip of your nose and your lips as he breathes it out.

“So you’re good to drive us home?”

You itch to kiss him again, but instead, you respond, “One person dies every thirty nine minutes in America from drunk driving.”

“Good job. You passed.”

The praise is accompanied by a thumb rubbing at your hip through denim. He probably thought you weren’t listening when he’d spouted that particular statistic a few hours ago. 

“Do I get a gold star?”

He kisses your head. 

“We’ll see. Get in.”

On the way home, that last shot hits you. You slump down in your seat and hide your face in your hands. 

“Oh, Spencer. I’m… I’m drunk.”

You feel him glancing at you before he sets a concerned hand on your thigh. 

“You okay?”

Morosely you nod. 

“Yeah. I took a shot with this… Delta Phi Epsilon guy, right before you got there. I wasn’t gonna, but he was like, no, you have to! And now I realize that was dumb.”

Spencer’s hand finds the back of your head, stroking your hair. 

“Do you know what I’m going to say about frat boys pressuring you to drink?”

“It wasn’t like that. He was really nice.”

“I’m sure he was,” Spencer says dryly. “Lots of men become really nice when they think they might have something to gain.”

“I thought he was gay!” You laugh, uncovering your face. “Sorry, dad. I won’t drink alcohol or talk to boys anymore.”

Spencer makes a face and you know you’ve successfully traded pounds of flesh. 

“If you call me dad again I’m making you take an abnormal psych class.”

You give him a lazy smile which he only takes his eyes off the road for a few seconds to admire. 

“I’d take abnormal psych if you were my professor.”

That perpetual upturn at the corners of his perfect mouth flickers wider. 

“Wow. Does gin make you sexually frustrated?”

“It makes me lazy. The professor-student thing is really low hanging fruit.”

“Yeah, it is. You know I’ll expect better material from you once you’ve sobered up.”

You sigh and let your head loll to the front again, studying the tunneling road through the windshield. A few flakes slash the headlights. Your mind wanders. You don’t bother reeling it in. 

“I’m really glad I’m not your student. I’d have the worst crush on you.”

Spencer casts you another side-long glance before adjusting the rear-view mirror. 

“You don’t have a crush on me now?”

“Of course I do. But you like me back. If I was your student you’d never look at me like that. I would just have to pine after you and fall in deep unrequited love like all your other female students.”

He hums skeptically. 

“I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t imagine not being in love with you.”

“There are universes where you’re not. There are infinite realities where I am your student and you don’t like me back and you’re dating other girls who aren’t me and you’re saying this exact stuff to them.”

“True. There are also infinite realities where I find you and I fall in love with you.” Spencer reaches over again, taking your hand and settling them, joined, in your lap. “For each trillionth of a billionth of a second of the life I’ve lived thus far, there are infinite universes which exist solely so I can fall in love with you in a new way. Over and over again. There’s not a choice I could make in any timeline, or in any universe, that doesn’t lead an infinite number of me’s to an infinite number of you’s.” 

The engine hums. The tires roll. 

Other than that—it’s dead silent. 

Because how could he ever expect anyone to respond to that?

You slink low in your seat and bring his hand to cradle your face, warm against your cheek. 

“I hate you,” you mumble. Spencer strokes your jaw absentmindedly, not at all concerned by your dramatics. 

“You hate me? I just said I love you.”

“No, you did not. You said th—I don’t even wanna call it romantic. Romantic doesn’t—I don’t even know what that was. You can’t just say things like that, Spencer! You can’t just casually say stuff like that to me, and especially not when I’m drunk, because I’m gonna start crying!” 

The last word pitches up and perfectly illustrates your point as tears begin to roll down your cheeks—still nipped by the cold. 

Spencer quickly pulls the car off to the side of the abandoned road. 

He’s all affection as he twists to face you and take your face in his hands properly, thumbing away tears. 

“What? What’s wrong?” 

“You j-just love me so much,” you sob.

“Yes,” Spencer laughs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I do. I love you so much. I didn’t mean to make you cry, sweetheart.”

“You—you don’t even realize, that you said the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to anyone, and you love me more than anyone’s ever loved anyone, and—and—”

You cut yourself off with another hot wave of tears and a shuddering cry. 

“Oh, my girl,” Spencer coos through an adoring little laugh as he pushes hair out of your face. “You are so drunk, baby. Come here.”

You let him undo your buckle and pull you across the console-less seat (thank you, vintage car) into his arms. For a minute or two you can hardly speak, crying into the warmth of his jacket as he holds you. 

Eventually, you manage to raise your head and pull back enough to look at him. Immediately he’s assessing you with those soft eyes, watching how you wipe away whatever tears didn’t soak into his clothing. Under his watchful gaze, you exhale a sniffing laugh. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

It’s so immediate you’re knocked off balance again. “Well—you were just being nice, and I—”

“I do love you more than anyone has ever loved anyone.”

Usually, you dislike being interrupted. 

In this instance, you’ll let it slide. 

It’s simply too earnest, too honest as his eyes dart between yours like he couldn’t contain it. Like you said it and the thought struck him right in the face—an obvious truth he hadn’t considered before. 

“In infinite universes?” You sniffle. 

“In infinite universes,” he agrees. 

Both of you notice the snow has started to come down outside. Over the course of a few silent minutes, it gets heavier and heavier—a soft hail, sheets of whispering white. 

You’ve never been afraid to break the silence with him. 

But maybe if you weren’t drunk you could keep your questions to yourself. 

“How many snowflakes are we looking at?”

Spencer hesitates, drawn from some kind of hypnosis. 

“Hard to be sure. Heavy snowfall like this could easily put us at six inches within the hour. In that case we’ve watched around point two inches fall. Visibility is probably reduced to about a quarter mile… point two inches across a square quarter mile is a hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred square feet of snow, average density of flakes at this temperature being about three kilograms per cubic foot of snow, and a snowflake weighs maybe… point zero zero zero zero zero two kilograms, so, roughly… very roughly… we’re looking at one hundred and forty two million snowflakes. That’s my best guess.”

You look up at him from where you’d been resting your head on his shoulder. 

“You’re the coolest person ever.”

He blushes. 

Tries to reply. 

Looks back out the window and huffs a nervous laugh, like you’ve flustered him. 

“Lots of people could do that. The math isn’t too complicated. It’s also probably wrong.”

A slow smile blossoms on your face. 

“You’re never wrong. So… what percentage of infinity is a hundred and forty two million?”

“Uh… undefined,” he laughs, looking back down at you. “But… in tangible terms, which is inherently contradictory because infinity is completely intangible, and actually pretty meaningless to mathematicians—more of a philosophical concept than a numerical one… it is a very small fraction. It’s nothing.”

“I don’t want philosophical,” you murmur, reaching up to graze your knuckles along his cheekbone. “I want hard numbers.”

He catches your hand and holds the tips of your fingers to his lips as he thinks, watching hundreds of millions of snowflakes falling from the wide black heavens through narrowed eyes. 

“A googol is written as a one followed by a hundred zeros, and a googolplex is a one followed by a googol of zeros. That’s the largest named number we have. It surpasses the estimated number of atoms in the universe. It’s too large to conceptualize. Mathematicians don’t really have any practical use for numbers above one trillion, but the largest number you’ll find in a dictionary and which might be formally accredited is a centillion, which is a one followed by three hundred and three zeros. It’s bigger than a googol but hardly a fraction of a googolplex. But—okay, we’re setting aside the conceptual numbers. What was your question?”

Your head spins as you laugh. 

Too much gin. Too many IQ points. 

“Infinity divided by, uh… the number of snowflakes I can see right now.”

The engine is still on—heat blows steadily, warming your arm through a coat and sweater, and whatever it can’t reach is warmed by Spencer. 

“Right. Okay. Well—to put it into perspective, with snowflakes, you have around one septillion that fall each year. That’s twenty four zeros, so… a lot. Are you with me?”

“No.”

“Great. So, a hundred and forty two million is basically infinity.”

This earns a clumsy, drunken laugh from you, and he smiles like he’d been hoping for that. 

It’s so warm in the cab of his car. It’s so warm under his gaze. 

Outside, the snow continues to fall. 

For each flake, there is a world where you and Spencer fall in love. And in the grand scheme of things, you’re not looking at very many. 

In infinite universes, you’ll find each other. For eternity. 

You’d be happy with just this one. 

[emacrow]

Hey, did you lose this?

A gargantuan looming form that was black as the night sky, coated in stars, cosmic dust, planets, and nebula. Extremely long snow white hair defying gravity floating above the ceiling spreading across like a growing cloud. Bright blue eyes like jewels staring down at tim

Tim could only stare dumbfounded with his sleep deprived eyes after searching for the right summoning in his backup backup bunker to find batman after escaping the arkham asylum.

In its right thin hand holding like a wet napkin was batman unconscious, coated in deep blue ice.

"I believe this belong to your dimension, at first, I thought it was a miniature cat at first when it tried a pathetic attempt at fleeing my children's toy box was when I noticed it was just another misplaced humans and they don't last long in the infinite realm much less my children's toybox. It took me a moment to figure out the right dimensions where it originated, but you thankfully made it easier for me to find with the summoning." The bring lightly drop Batman down to the ground as the deep frozen ice easily melted away.

"D-don't you need a payment?" Is what Tim spoke after his mind reset back from shock.

"Oh no~, visiting this dimension is a grand payment considering this where I can finally nib the bud of those pesky sewage ectoplasm that been a pain in my ankle for long enough. At best, you would be rewarded for giving me such a gift." The being lightly tapped Tim's head with its glowing index finger, ruffling the black hair lightly.

"Should you need me for any favor, Call upon me, the High King of the Infinite realm, Danny Phantom, Protector of the Dead and Alive, Center of the Eternal Vast Sp" The be- Danny did a light bow, as his towering being faded away, the summoning circle disappearing as well.

Leaving only Tim alone with a Bruce coughing a bit, taking a couple of heavy breaths of fresh air which snapped Tim out of his stupor.

"Bruce, Bruce, are you alright?" Tim rushed over and lightly shook Bruce's shoulder as Bruce's eyes opened slowly to see Tim, except there was something different about tim. His hair wasn't black but now a strikingly bright white with specks of stardust.

Fanart -> link

Part 2-> link

[fanaroff]

DP x DC: Downed Danny Prompt

The Justice League are enlisted/hired by the GIW to capture and contain a dangerous ecto-entity. With the media blackout of Amity Park, the JL only have Constance’s input on these types of creatures. Since dangerous beings of the Infinite Realms, ones with intent on destruction, are the ones known to leave the Realms, the JL believe the GIW and begin to work with them on a plan.

The GIW have a ghost contained as bait. A big white creature covered in fur and ice, not unlike descriptions of yeti. It growls and howls at anyone that happens to come near or make eye contact. It speaks in what seems to be a mix of Esperanto and static. What is understood from it tends to be along the lines of “destroy you if you-“ before whatever is said is lost to ear-splitting static.

The creature is all claws and danger and does little to make the JL think that the entity they are after is not a villain. It only makes it seem more likely.

With a trap set far north, above any human civilization that could get caught in the crossfire, and following the tracking path the entity seems to be taking (following the bait), they wait to enact their plan. Drs. Jack and Maddie Fenton work with them to create the weapons and containment unit that can burst on with the press of a button.

When the entity appears, the JL do not expect it to look like a child. At least, not this much. All lanky limbs and awkward posture, it almost seems the perfect image of a teenager. Until one notices… the uncanniness. Bright, wild, green eyes that reminds Batman of one of his sons. Untamed white hair that drifts without a breeze. Claws. Fangs. It’s not human.

It barks something that strange screeching mixed language at them. It’s angry and has spotted the bait. It says the same thing, this time it’s hands light up green. Demanding. Its stance changes. It’s looking for a fight.

The yeti says something back that seems to only anger the entity further. Its fangs seems to grow longer, nails sharper, eyes brighter, and it aims a hand in the general direction of those present, outside of the yeti.

This is “Phantom.” The ecto-entity the GIW have been after for its destruction on the living plane for years. The one that seems hundreds of years old with pottery and paintings and crafts backing up the claim. It needs to be stopped. So the JL don’t hesitate.

The skill sets of ghosts were explained early on, so each member is ready with a Fenton-made weapon. Phantom’s eyes only harden when they aim them towards him.

Rather than immediately fight, like they assumed it would do, it flies straight towards the yeti. And suddenly, it’s falling.

None of the JL took the shot, but one of the Fenton’s (bundled in ghost proof arctic gear and holding the strongest hitting weapons), did.

Phantom goes down, hard.

The yeti flips out, growling and pulling at the exit chains that bind it. It’s making horrible, gut wrenching sounds and pulling towards the downed ghost until the binds break and it’s leaping towards it. The GIW slam on the ghost shield containment unit and the two are trapped together.

It’s only when the yeti is making mournful cries, holding a small shape as close as it can, green spilling and staining the white, white snow does the JL think that maybe, just maybe, they fucked up. That they should have done more research rather than blindly trust a group that convinced them that they only have humanity’s best interest.

*Feel free to use or add to it. I may make a full detailed one-shot of it soon too

[nelkcats]

The Great One

Far Frozen is not the only place with carvings of a half-ghost hero, and Danny has been inadvertently traveling between dimensions during his adventures, causing impacts both good and bad.

For one thing, carvings of his battles with Vlad are in Themyscira itself, assessed by an excited young Diana who wonders if such a being really existed, someone who relentlessly pursued evil and fought for justice. The young Amazon spent days admiring the murals, much to the dismay of her mother who was unsure if this happening was a good thing or not. In a way it was part of the reason she decided to leave her island later in life so maybe a mix of both.

Elsewhere, in Nanda Parbat, Ra reflects on murals of a creature bathed in shadows and ice, toxic green eyes that betray his connections to the afterlife and razor sharp fangs. A story for children who fear monsters under their bed, except that his family has proof that it existed, the Lazarus pits only served to confirm their theories. Ra thinks this is what the powerful deserves, immortality.

Even Arthur has found his castle walls filled with carvings of two creatures chasing each other, like day and night. There are tales of how they set the city ablaze in a single day, causing irreparable damage but not taking a single life despite their battles. Beings driven by emotion, persecution and intrigue, but without being benevolent or malevolent. A sample that any creature is imperfect, in a way he thinks it is poetic.

Everyone interprets these beings in their own way, creating their own legends from the anecdotes that were recorded by their ancestors. They never have the same title, no one decides on a name and no one seems to agree on whether these beings are benevolent or malevolent. Whether they are enemies, friends, rivals, or something else.

For some they are a moral lesson, for others a guide, in some cases they are considered righteous heroes, while in others they are the worst enemies of the living, the only sure thing is that they are recognized, one way or another.

Of course, this leads to disaster when Danny decides to explore the dimensions connected to the Infinite Realms.

[novelistwriter]

Clones of the Crumbling Phantom

DP x DC Prompt

Danny was captured by the GIW when he wasn't paying attention after constantly having to play fight with his rogues back to back during summer break, and with his Ice Core, he was at a disadvantage because of the heat of the summer amd wasn't at his best.

He's been cut open, cut apart, tested on for their weapons, and more. But he's still persistent. He hasn't given up hope, despite what he was put through. He's seen some machines and heard the GIW say something about a group called 'CADMUS'

He doesn't know how long he's been in GIW custody, but he knows that the GIW are making clones of him. And he's been falling apart, literally. The GIW put an experimental Blood Blossom formula in him that causes his limbs or head to fall off of his body at random times. It keeps him alive, but it's uncomfortable to have a part of his body to just fall off of him. Plus, the body part(s) that fall off of him will eventually reattach to his body.

The GIW aren't smart enough to keep his Clones in stasis, so there is an entire room of clones of him next door to the room he is in. The Clones are close to infants in their brain activity, and the GIW are pulling their hairs out to try and make a clone of him that isn't like the others.

The GIW and Danny don't know that the Clones are going to have their brain activity developed over time, so now Danny has about 10 other clones of him that will be teenagers in a few weeks, amd Dani/Ellie has younger clone siblings to dote on when Danny is eventually free with them.

As Danny entered the room with his Clones, he just embraced some of them in a hug to try and comfort them, as he felt their distress even from his room, and he couldn't leave them alone, so he broke free to be with them, and now it's a cuddle pile with all his Clones and he is in the middle of it.

Meanwhile, the Justice League has been tracking the movements of a mysterious group that has been collecting CADMUS cloning technology. They couldn't ask the JLD for any help because the entirety of JLD were helping a dimension known as the 'Infinite Realms' locate their missing King/Prince.

It's been a few weeks, and they finally tracked down the group with the CADMUS tech. They began their raid on the facility to take the CADMUS tech before anything could be done with it.

But the League members hadn't expected to be too late. They came across a room with multiple teenage boys hugging who they assumed to be the original of the obvious clones. Then, the head of the original boy fell off of his body, with both the head and body still operating as if nothing happened.

[crushmeeren]

heyy idk if this is where we put requests but by any chance could you do the mha boys reacting to you putting on the pheromone perfume and you smelling hella good possibly resulting in something freaky ( denki, shinsou or bakugo) or anyone is fine🙏🏾

⋆⋅ I love this idea! I did twist this a bit, it’s basically the love potion “amortentia,” from Harry Potter but as a perfume. Why the fuck it’s so hard for me to shorten things down when I write, I have no damn idea. So here, have this. (.づ◡﹏◡)づ.

All characters aged up/18+. ❲ ̽ ⋆ FEM READER ̽ ⋆❳

⋆⋅ Between the ⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆ symbols are memories of reader and whichever character!

Thank you @pastelbakugou for helping me figure what to write for Shinsou. ( ˘ ³˘(◡‿◡˶)

⋆ ft. kaminari, shinsou, bakugou, todoroki ⋆

..⃗. master list link

The sickly sweet scent of vanilla ice cream infused with honey is what overwhelms Katsuki’s senses first when he leans in and hugs you in greeting. You squeeze him back just as affectionately and he’s in the middle of nosing at your throat when he’s hurtled back in time through his memories.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Katsuki mutters hotly. He’s trying, key word trying, to wipe the sweat covering his phone screen onto his tank top but it fails miserably, seeing as how his shirt is soaked fucking through. He’s more or less just smearing it around and he’s debating on just obliterating the useless piece of shit phone.

He curses whoever the fuck is up there and uses sheer willpower not to tear his hair out from the roots because of this scorching heat wave.

Finally, he’s able to read his latest message from you. It tells him to meet you at the ice cream stand nearby his patrol route on his next break.

Katsuki wipes the back of his forehead with a glove free hand, but it slides right across his sticky skin and then sweat drips into his other eye with a harsh sting and goddammit, he’s royally fucking pissed off now.

For your sake, he swallows his swelling rage and makes his way to you swiftly. The two of you have tried to make it a habit to meet a couple times a week when Katsuki has time during his shifts, he gets so busy that sometimes it gets hard to see each other as often as you’d like.

As always, his heart stutters when he lands a few feet from you. The tension drains from his shoulders even as he witnesses drops of sweat being flung off his jaw from the impact of landing and coloring the light gray pavement darker.

You look so, so pretty in your sundress and Katsuki’s stomach swoops when a sweet smile lights up your features. You reach out a cup of ice cream for him to try, teasing him for looking like he’s just taken a shower but he sticks his tongue out at you in retaliation and takes a bite of the treat. Katsuki practically moans when cool cream melts on his tongue. He feels infinitely better.

The sun beats down harshly on you both, but it brightens your eyes and the playful way you blow a coy kiss at him when you part ways leaves him with fingers crunching the empty cup and pants that fit a bit too snug. God, he’s disgustingly in love with you.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Kat?” Your concerned tone brings him back to the present. Katsuki can’t stand another minute with your clothes on and hauls you up with a rough grip to the backs of your thighs. You yelp in surprise and scramble to hold onto his shoulders as he strides towards your bedroom.

“I don’t know what the hell you did to smell this way, but you’re gonna keep your eyes on me and I’m fuckin’ you until you pass out. Understood?”

How could you ever hope to say no?

When you’re both naked and tangled in the sheets, Katsuki pushes one of your legs to your chest, curls his fingers around your throat, and pushes his forehead against yours as he stretches your tight pussy out completely with his thick cock. He stays true to his word, hand gripping your jaw and forcing your eyes to stay locked with his own ferocious stare when you grit your teeth and cum.

Then he kisses your forehead afterwards when you’re fast asleep.

Muscle memory tilts Shouto’s head to the side as he leans closer to sniff you curiously, an adorable habit that he’s never been able to break when he wants answers to something.

“What is that?”

“What is what, Sho?”

“You smell like the end of a campfire. Why?”

You raise an eyebrow and saunter closer to where he sits at his desk, his office quiet with most heroes currently out of the building. You step around the corner of his desk and hop up on the edge to sit next him, feet kicking gently.

“That’s important to you? A campfire? Huh I would’ve thought you’d smell something like soba,” you comment with a shrug, half smile tugging at your lips.

Now Shouto’s thoroughly confused.

“I don’t understand. Why would you smell of soba? Are you alright?” Shouto sounds as deadpan as usual, if not slightly concerned. He crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, staring at you as if he could find the answer by checking out your body. It makes you laugh.

Animatedly, you explain to him about the new “perfume,” Mina let you try. Apparently, whoever wears it prompts the object of their affections to smell whatever scent is important/attractive to them. And suddenly Shouto gets it

“Oh, I see,” he says with an understanding nod. He can narrow it down specifically as to why you smell of a campfire on a cold night.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Sho, are you sure we can’t just use your quirk to roast these marshmallows? It’s so much faster!” You protest halfheartedly, but you’re already stabbing one of the fluffy sweets with a stick, assembling a second one for Shouto.

“No. This will be more fun, I promise. I watched Touya-nii and the others do this once, it seemed as if they were very happy afterwards.” Shouto flicks his hand and fire shoots towards the pile of sticks, engulfing them until a decent fire roars.

This sobers you considerably, and Shouto sits down next to you, accepting the offering of marshmallow on a stick happily and oblivious to the depressing sentiment he just offered.

So, you roast marshmallows. You tease each other and laugh as you assemble the s’mores and then lean into Shouto’s left side to fend off the chill of the autumn night afterwards. The stars are brighter away from the city and Shouto has always enjoyed the quiet of the countryside. His heart is close to bursting from his chest every time you laugh and he blurts what’s on his mind.

“I love you.”

It comes out of nowhere and Shouto only feels nervous for a few seconds before you return his feelings. Shouto’s dragging you into the tent before you can blink.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

In hindsight, at least to Shouto, he understands exactly why you smell like a campfire. With slightly rosy cheeks and a matter of fact tone, he recounts the memory for you and he’s sure his hair’s about to catch fire from the way you’re looking at him.

Without caring to lock the door, the two of you end up reliving part of that memory.

Shouto pushes you until you’re flat on your back on his desk, sliding your pants off and making sure your ass is on the edge of it. He drops to his knees and eats your pussy until your thighs squeeze his head.

And when you beg him to fuck you, he bends you over the desk and presses his cock inside you roughly. The snaps of his hips are frantic, and when there’s a knock at the door, all Shouto does is cover your mouth with one hand and keep going until you’re seeing stars.

“Denki!”

Said blonde whips around at the muffled call of his name. Denki feels his smile aching in the apples of his cheeks as he watches you weave through the crowd of people on the dance floor to get to him. You grin in return and wave warmly, which makes his pulse run overtime.

“Baby!” Denki almost squeals, yanking you in for a crushing hug when you get close enough. “You made it! I thought you got lost,” he says teasingly against your ear and you lean back to laugh and punch him in the arm. You crowd into his space once again so he can hear you but an overpowering and delicious scent of coffee and rain pushes up Denki’s nose.

He startles, head jerking back and brows shooting up. Your expression turns questioning but Denki cuts you off before you can speak.

“Holy shit baby, you smell super good. Like, fucking amazing! What are you wearing? It makes me want to rip your clothes off,” He says enthusiastically, tangling your hands together in the process.

“Oh! It’s this new perfume. Well, technically it’s not a perfume but honestly I didn’t think it would work! I assumed it was a scam.” You give him a run down of how it’s supposed to work and he suddenly comes to the realization of why you smell like coffee and rain of all things that could be important to him.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

“Oww,” Denki whines, sticking his tongue out and fanning it quickly.

“Did you burn your tongue?” You bump his shoulder playfully, taking care not to spill your own coffee. “I told you it would be hot, it’s a latte Denki,” you scold him good naturedly, trying not to laugh. He pouts at you, blowing into the lid in hopes to cool it off.

“Well I didn’t expect it to be the surface temperature of the sun!” Denki protests, gingerly taking another sip and humming in contentment when he finds it’s cooled off enough to be drinkable. You laugh again, but then Denki almost runs into your back when you stop abruptly in front of the glass door exit.

“It’s raining! Shit, I didn’t bring an umbrella. How are we supposed to make it back to the station?”

Denki studies the way it’s pouring cats and dogs, before making a noise of triumph and pointing to a bench under an awning not too far away.

“We can go wait for a bus over there!”

You side eye him. “Fine, but if I spill my coffee, you’re buying me a new one.”

The two of you take off, and in true Denki fashion, he trips and spills his coffee everywhere. By the time you both make it to the awning, you’re both soaked to the bone and breathless from laughing.

“Here,” you offer Denki your coffee with a grin, water dripping from the ends of your hair.

“You don’t have to share baby, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, yeah I do. I love you, Denki.”

Your boyfriend short circuits.

“Dammit Denki! Those were the only two lampposts on this street, now I can’t see anything!”

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

Denki blinks the memory away and spins you, pulling your back flush to his chest. His body is a long, lean line of muscle as he moves your bodies to the beat and murmurs in your ear.

“Let me take you home and show you just how well this perfume works on me, my dick is hard as a fucking rock baby,” Denki giggles, squeezing your hips when you shove your ass back into his pelvis.

The two of you abandon your friends quick enough to race home, stripping carelessly in your living room until Denki can bend you over the armrest of the couch. He guides his cock inside you unhurriedly, pushing until his pelvis is nestled snug to your ass.

A breathy moan escapes him, and then he’s fucking your pussy as if he could never get enough.

He never will.

Hitoshi’s exhausted when he gets home from work late that night. Being an underground hero is rewarding, but it certainly comes with its downfalls.

He closes the front door delicately and toes off his shoes by the door. It doesn’t take long for him to make his way down the hall and into your bedroom, a tiny half smile worming its way into his expression despite his bone aching weariness when he spots you sound asleep in bed. He pauses to stare at you for a moment.

Hitoshi then showers as fast as humanly possible before crawling under the blankets and curling an arm around your waist, tugging you close until he can nose at the back of your neck. You sigh in your sleep and smuggle closer into his embrace.

Hitoshi trails his nose down the side of your neck and he freezes once he gets to your shoulder. You smell….good. Insanely fucking good, and he can’t quite pinpoint the specific scent but it’s soft and warm and maybe even a little musky. It sends warm blood rushing south and his cock twitches with interest.

He wracks his brain and the only thing he can associate with the scent is your cat, Kiko, when she was a kitten and you first brought her home.

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

Hitoshi’s in the middle of playing a game when you return home that day, calling out for him to come to the living room for a second.

“Why?” He yells back. He’s just about to finish this round.

“Just come out here you dick!”

Hitoshi rolls his eyes, but is amused nonetheless by your slightly frustrated tone. He pauses his game and makes his way to where you wait, but stops in his tracks, lips parting in shock and eyes going wide when he sees what you’re holding.

You’re cradling an itty bitty, all black, fluff ball of a kitten in your arms. You grin delightedly at his shocked expression and hold her out almost as if you’re offering her to him.

“You wanted a kitten right? An all black one, like the one you had as a kid at Aizawa’s.”

Hitoshi manages to close his mouth and nod, cautiously reaching out to take the small creature and cradle her to his chest.

He…can’t believe you remembered. You remembered how much his cat had meant to him and went out of your way to find this kitten.

“Thank you,” he says softly, petting the purring kitten’s head with one finger. You step closer and do the same, scratching under her chin until she meows.

“What should we name her?”

“Kiko,” Hitoshi responds with no hesitation, glancing at you for approval and you smile back at him.

“I love it.”

⋆｡ ﾟ ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ ☾ ﾟ ｡⋆

Hitoshi blinks back to the present, the fond memory lingering at the edges of his mind. He remembers how his heart squeezed against his rib cage in the best kind of way that day and how he knew then he wanted to marry you.

“Baby,” Hitoshi whispers lowly as he kisses your cheek. You stir enough to lazily flip over and hum in question. “I love you, so much.”

“Mm, love you too Hitoshi,” you mumble, sleepy rasp coloring your voice.

Hitoshi bends down to kiss you sweetly, encouraging you to throw a leg over his hips and straddle his waist. He settles you on top of him and wiggles a hand between you to shove his briefs down, cock stiff since he first smelled you, and slides your panties to the side.

Your limbs are still laced heavy with sleep when Hitoshi helps you sink down on his cock. You melt into his chest, face buried in his throat and arms locked around his neck.

He bends his knees and grips your ass to help you sensually ride him, rocking up into you at a leisurely pace until the warmth finally bubbles over the edge and you cum with a shiver and he follows right behind you.

When he asks you about it the next day, it all clicks into place when you give him the watered down version of how the “perfume” works.

He hums noncommittally before asking you to wear it again.

[nightingale-prompts]

Field Trip-DCxDP prompt

(Another Danny the Cosmic Babysitter pompt)

Danny had little patience for the adult heroes with a handful of exceptions. That is most of the heroes are fine but Danny likes to complain because he isn't called to be on missions often.

Instead, he often gets calls on Friday nights to watch Superboy and that means Robin comes too.

Danny is their favorite babysitter and the only people Danny doesn't complain about. He treats the boys with as much care as he does his little sister but he is also pretty negligent. If the boys were unharmed and not traumatized then he lets them do whatever they want. Much to their father's concern.

The boys were dropped off at Danny's portal after school with their bags and Clark gave Danny one of his mother's cheese apple pies and a batch of Alfred's cookies.

Clark wished them luck and reminded them to do their homework and to be respectful to Danny.

Bruce called and reminded Danny to....blah blah blah. Danny wasn't listening he was a busy god.

Danny instead took the boys on a field trip when Jon asked for help on his science homework.

Danny took them to his observatory and showed them just a fraction of the infinite cosmos. The observatory was a place he made to monitor the realms, tracking the path of stars and galaxies, and the life on planets.

"So how does life form on different planets?" Jon asked staring into the rainbow-colored galaxy twisting around them.

"Let's go see!" Danny opened a portal to a far-off desolate world under a purple sun making sure to put a protective barrier on the boys so they would survive the environment.

"Are suns supposed to be that color?" Damian asked.

"They can be any color," Danny said reassuring "Large amounts of potassium salts cause the star to look this way."

The boys looked around on this planet hoping to see new aliens. But there were none. Danny laughed at their puzzled expressions.

"This planet has no life on it. In 5 billion years the right conditions will be met to form organic life when this star burns enough of the potassium around it. Frozen ice in asteroids will hit this planet and water will form and the heat will create an atmosphere. Organisms will form and die and for a brief moment, this world will have life." Danny explained laying out the beginning of life.

"What? So they won't live? Why not?" Jon asked in distress of the idea.

"Haha, don't worry. That's how it's supposed to be. Life is a miraculous thing and the beings that will one day grow here are one of the billions of planets that share the same fate. They will never gain sentience of course but they will live and living in a universe so fickle and absurd is a testament. Think of just how amazingly it is to live on earth." Danny said taking the boys into another portal to a world populated by beasts.

Alien beasts that walked on four legs and birds flew.

Damian marveled at the giant birds that dwarfed any on Earth.

"This is a super planet with enough oxygen to support 50 Earths. Full of life and animals who have evolved from the small bacteria that would have died like on the planet before had the environment been different. Life is a roulette wheel though and even the same environment could yield different results." Danny said as they stood on the grassy clift.

"There really are no people?" Damian asked.

"No, and there never will be. You two are the only people who will ever reach this planet. This world will never know society. No government. No civilization." Danny hummed in thought.

"That's a good thing." Damian said.

"Is it? Maybe. Even a lowly beast still looks up at the sky and dreams of a better existence. But here this world will never know a truly peaceful life. It will always be predator and prey. Survival is all they know. No, they will mostly live short lives knowing only fear and violence. They will not know art or music, things gained from learning and sharing. They have not reached that part of development and they never will know. An ice age will soon come when their planet loses its orbit and they will all die." Danny said as he ushered the boys to another world.

Jon and Damian when silent in despair. Learning the benign cruelty of the universe was harder when you had to see it.

The next was a world that was a smoking wreckage.

"This world was once populated with billions. The people had evolved from the smallest life forms, surpassed their beastly heritage, and grew into tribes. They built cities and hubs. But they also built weapons. The truth is boys that the progress of a species hinges on the ability to evolve and the greatest driving force is competition. The greatest opponent is yourself. These people chose to give in to that call and they suffered for it. Some turned towards the stars and had long fled to start a new life on another planet." Danny said soberly.

Damian and Jon looked at the space god and noticed he suddenly didn't look like his usual self. He was slightly weathered and creased at the edges.

Danny opened another portal to another world. A city full of lights where below them.

"This boys is a planet of strange aliens. They dream constantly of a better life but don't know how to achieve it. They work together and they break apart, always arguing. But time and time again they come together to prove they care for one another. True there will be those who work against this collective and care only for themselves. Take pity on them, they have succumbed to their instincts from when they were just simple beasts trying to survive. If they can one day look up and see that all they have in this lonely universe where life can be blinked out of existence if the tide shifts differently then they'd truly become a better species. Boys you must understand that your existence is nothing short of a miracle upon miracle. We are all made from stardust and it is next to impossible that you exist at this moment but despite all odds you are here." Danny said as he flew over the city carrying the boys.

As Damian and Jon looked down they recognized landmarks this was earth.

"Will the same thing happen to us as that other planet?" Jon asked.

"I don't know. You mortals tend to surprise us. I can probably predict a billion futures and still be wrong. I'll have to ask the time god. Still, there is no telling what I do know is that the future will have you two and that tells me that it's going to be okay.

[yeonmuse]

˗ˏˋSUMMARY ´ˎ˗ Park Sunghoon doesn’t usually like getting close to new people, but when a little girl shows up to his place of work in need of skating lessons he finds himself getting oddly close to her older sister. Now he’s starting to realize himself developing some uncontainable feelings while having to teach not only her little sister to skate, but her as well.

ᥫ᭡ f!reader x Park Sunghoon ── 𝒢enre. Uni au. fluff, non idol enha. feats. ot7 [reqs are closed] ᝰ.ᐟ 𝓁ibrary ⛸️

ૢ CASTING ༉ ot7 Enhypen. THE GANG ot9 andteam, lesserafim chaewon, katseye manon. READERS FRIENDS boynextdoor woonhak, boynextdoor leehan, blackswan fatou, loona jinsoul, theboyz chanhee, txt yeonjun, pamalaaam as mari. HONORABLE MENTIONS theboyz sunwoo, soloist alexa.

⍣ ೋ AUTHORS NOTES . This is part of admins Enhypen University Special Event. This series also has slight connections to every series in said event so occasionally characters from the other members chapters may appear in this series as well.

TAGLIST IS CLOSED❕ 🏷️ | SERIES PREVIEW

ღ GENRE smau & written parts, fluff|slight angst, acquaintance to lovers, non idol enhypen, university enha, crack tweets & texts. 3rd person reader pov

CHARACTER PROFILES › ENHA & FRIENDS | READER & FRIENDS | HONORABLE MENTIONS

1 › prince of the ice

2 › let’s go bears

3 › UOA vs DVU

4 › take this L

5 › aint no party like a yeonjun party

6 › fuck you sim jaeyun and nishimura riki

7 › park sunghoon

8 › jinsouls shayla

9 › I’m sorry

10 › you did what ??

11 › case of the stolen teammates

12 › three thousand dollars

13 › @/princeoftheice followed you !

14 › failed ransom

15 › the zamwhati?

16 › according to google 🤓☝️

17 › am i literally stupid ?

18 › should I flea the country ?

19 › im cooked

20 › soft hands

21 › swimmin with the fishes

22 › snowed in

23 › Fuck you mother nature

24 › sweatpea?

25 › skate night

26 › yn and sunghoon sitting in a tree

27 › place your bets

28 › im so screwed

29 › this isnt a kdrama

30 › happy soobin day

31 › nurse shes out again

32 › mr lonely and the girl with infinite homework

33 › you like krabby patties don’t you squidward

34 › wonder about you

35 › ice cream you scream we’re all screaming

36 › jealously jealousy

37 › the club is calling

38 › liquid courage

39 › dont fuck this up

40 › sweater weather

41 › bitchless activities

42 › ending: Merry Christmas

[deadsetobsessions]

It takes a lot to break a ghost. After all, even death didn’t keep them down for long, not in any way that mattered.

There is, however, a sure fire way to utterly crush a ghost’s core without even touching it.

Find their grave, and defile it.

It is the height of cruelty. It is the ultimate act of disrespect. It is violation, of the deepest kind, an act that can never, ever be allowed to go unpunished.

As Danny stared at the remains of the toppled over rock tower that Tucker and Sam had made for him all those years ago, to honor his death, he wasn’t sure if he could survive this.

——

Please.

Zatanna looked around. The magician knew better than to write off the sound as a trick of her mind.

You have to help him. Please. He’s just a child.

“Who? What’s wrong?” Zatanna asked, heart aching for the grieving whispers of the young voice.

My brother. His grave. It’s been destroyed. Please.

Zatanna’s hair stood on ends. “What’s his name? Where is it?”

Amity Park. His name is Phantom. Please. Hurry.

Her heart skipped a beat. Phantom. The name of the Infinite Realm’s Champion, the future king.

“Shit. I’m on my way. Can you lead me there?”

I can’t. I won’t be here for much longer. Tell him Jazz sent you. Please. Help him. Help him.

“I will.”

When Zatanna portals out of her dressing room, she catches a flash of red hair.

——

“CONSTANTINE!”

“Gah! Zatanna?” John Constantine fell out of his chair, legs slipping from their place propped onto the table.

“Emergency! Infinite Realms level. Someone destroyed Phantom’s grave.”

Constantine scrambled upwards, pulling on his coat as his mind all but bleated like a highland goat at the sound of “Infinite Realms” and “Phantom’s grave.” Destroying a ghost’s grave might destroy the ghost, but if they survive the initial splintering, right before their final death, they’ll explode in a ball of fury. Normally, it would be slightly less of a problem. Normally, it wouldn’t be the most powerful ghost in the Infinite Realms. Normally, this wouldn’t happen. Normally, even if it did, it wouldn’t risk a war none of the universes would win. The Infinite Realms loves prince Phantom. Their grief over this… even if he survives, the consequences would be unimaginable.

“You contact the League. I have to go fix this, right now.”

John doesn’t bother going for his hottle, because he unfortunately needed to do this sober.

“Go, go!”

——

Danny doesn’t turn even as he hears the crunch of grass blades. He sits, staring blankly at what used to be his grave marker.

“Hi, there,” it’s a woman. She sounds sad. Danny understands, because all he feels is a whistling hole where his heart used to be. “Are you Phantom?”

Danny sighs, ice crackling at his lungs. He knows, when this is over, he’ll find it in himself to rage. If he doesn’t shatter from this, he knows he’ll take Amity out. Perhaps he’d spare this one. It’s been a long time since anyone bothered visiting or even knew about his grave.

“Your highness…your sister sent me. Jazz?”

That got Danny’s attention. Glowing green eyes peeked from the curled ball of ghost to stare Zatanna down.

She swallowed.

“She… had red hair?”

“Why are you here?” Why did she send you? He doesn’t say. Zatanna seems to understand anyways.

“To help. Please, will you let me help?”

Danny looks down at the ice freezing her feet to the ground and thinks of the kind set of her eyes, the steel backing her spine, the carefully nonthreatening posture. Yes, Jazz would send this kind of person to help him.

The ice melts.

“Thank you.”

Danny watches as she approaches his destroyed grave. She glances back for his permission. He shrugs. It’s destroyed. Nothing would ever bring it back.

And then, he was proven wrong.

Zatanna���s eyes glow, and the stones began melding itself back together- no, it was reversing the damage and zooming back to its proper place.

“Oh.”

The damage to his core was still there. But… he won’t kill this one at all.

Or her friends, who stand at the edge of the clearing with the soul-torn one standing at the helm.

“Is this… alright, your highness?”

Danny stares at Zatanna. His voice is hoarse but… but it’s not on the verge of insanity anymore.

“Do you always come to graves without an offering?”

He knows he’s being rude. He’s past the point of caring. Zatanna’s response is to pull a bouquet of lilies from behind her back.

——

Phantom’s face is so young, and it’s even younger when he smiles.

“Not always,” Zatanna replies, rolling her eyes. But when she settles the flowers down, they’re gently placed.

“Can you magic clovers around it?” Phantom asks, that note of painful hope cracking her own heart. She wonders how old he was when he died.

“Of course.”

A field of clovers surrounds the rock tower, and Zatanna adds four layers of heavy wards around the area when she grows them. Phantom notices, and looks up at her with… trust.

“I am Zatanna. Your sister, Jazz, sent me.”

“Okay. You can call me Phantom.”

——

“I want their heads.” Danny says.

“We don’t kill.”

“Then hand them over to us, for they have hurt the Great One. They will answer for their crimes.” Frostbite settles a hand on Danny’s shoulder.

“Alright.”

“Constantine.”

Constantine somehow manages to drag Batman away to hiss in his ears.

“Shit in a hole, Batsy, I’m not fucking with the Infinite Realms. My demons won’t fuck with the Infinite Realms. Destroying a ghost’s grave is an act of war, and an act of complete violation, and we’re lucky Phantom liked Zee enough not to completely bring ruin to our universe. So shut up, and get the bastards that did this.”

“Hm.”

——

Zatanna sits in the visitors chair, Batman’s and Constantine’s disgruntled selves standing behind her.

“How old are you, Phantom?”

“Hm?” The future King looks exhausted, understandably. “Oh, sixteen.”

“You’re… sixteen? That’s how old you look, right?”

She’s hoping that he’s older, that he’s a millennia and a half years old. Because if he wasn’t, whoever broke Phantom’s grave, broke the grave of a child.

“No, I’m sixteen. My body looks fourteen. I died when I was fourteen.”

Constantine swears.

Batman straightens and walks out, fists clenched.

Zatanna eases the hum of hunting magic at her finger tips and smiles at Phantom until he sleeps.

Then, she gets up, and hunts.