#a nuclear bomb is bad enough

[trippingontheescalator]

So, like, potions require a witch, wizard, goblin, house-elf, whatever-- a magical person to actually create a viable potion. Even if a muggle got their hands on a recipe and the ingredients and followed each step, they would just end up with gross soup. Not a potion. Because they don't have magic hands or whatever.

And that just makes me to create a muggle chemist oc to ship Snape with, and they would be so frustrated that they can't reproduce the same results Snape gets when he throws random ass shit into a cauldron-- not because of like magic envy, but because it's slapping the scientific method in the face. And they would just be constantly asking Snape to do simple chemistry experiments to see how his "magic" will affect it. Like combining bleach with ammonia. It's supposed to create mustard gas. Except when Snape pours bleach and ammonia in his cauldron it becomes a potion that, when you drink it, flips your organs upside down.

And then our little chemist oc will be like, "Okay, you know what, let's see you split an atom with your 'magic hands.'"

And, anyway, that's how Snape destroys the concept of time.

[jomnki]

time is a flat circle where we watch a country go to another country and randomly will civilians because "what if they're the enemies haha we totally aren't clearing people out to steal their land" etc and we all go "wow thats fucking messed up, good thing it won't happen again!" and then the exact same thing happens right now and the same people somehow are just incapable of accepting that fact that we are living through history and letting the thing we said wont happen again fucking happen again.

[seaweedstarshine]

To be fair they NEVER let franchises win anything I swear

They’re snobs !!!!!

Don't get me wrong, I think it deserved Best Picture!!! but I know that's unreasonable to expect of those snobs. </3 Like, sometimes they make exceptions for categories that are less about the main content of the films, most often Best Visual Effects.

I remember last year Black Panther: Wakanda Forever was nominated for Best Original Song (it deserved to WIN). A Best Original Score nomination for A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes shouldn't be too much to ask for 😭

(You're SO right anon and they need to take a real hard look.)

[tedmustache]

Married Name

Pairing: Michael "Robbie" Robinavitch x reader

Warnings: jealous!Robbie

Summary: Robbie decides to casually reveal their marriage in the most dramatic way possible.

a/n: I had this idea and NEEDED to stop everything and write it.

Requests are open | Main Masterlist

[...]

There were a few constants in Robbie’s life.

One: shift change was never on time.

Two: someone always stole the last cup of coffee.

And three: he’d never get tired of watching Whitaker try (and fail) to flirt with his wife.

Not that anyone knew she was his wife. Not officially. It was a quiet, mutual decision. She didn’t want special treatment. Wanted to build her own reputation, not ride his coattails. And Robbie, proud bastard that he was, respected the hell out of that.

Didn’t mean he didn’t get a little twitchy every time some poor idiot looked at her like she’d hung the moon.

Especially Whitaker.

The kid had it bad. Could barely string a sentence together when she was in the room. Red-faced. Tongue-tied. Dropping things like it was a nervous tic.

It would’ve been funny, if it didn’t happen every single day.

Tonight, they were finishing rounds, both bone-tired and running on fumes. Robbie’s back was aching. He arched it slightly, trying to shake out the stiffness.

“You drink anything at all during this shift?” she asked, brow furrowed with that soft concern she reserved only for him.

God, he loved her.

He didn’t respond. Just gave her a smirk and one raised brow.

She huffed. Reached into her bag at the nurses station and handed him a bottle of water.

And there it was again: Whitaker, standing just a few feet away with a gaggle of residents, eyes all wide and stupid like a puppy who just witnessed someone else catch the stick.

Robbie took the water, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink

And the look on Whitaker’s face?

Even better

He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and, because he could, leaned just a bit closer to her and said, loud enough for Whitaker to hear:

“I don’t know what I’d do without you. Good thing I’m married to you.”

Then he took another sip and strolled away like he hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in the middle of the emergency department.

He didn’t have to look back to know what was happening. He could feel the silence. The stunned, heavy stillness. Could practically hear Whitaker’s jaw hitting the floor.

Collins’ cackle echoed from somewhere behind him.

Robbie didn’t stop until he hit the supply closet. Waited exactly ten seconds.

Then the door creaked open.

There she was.

“You’re insufferable,” she said, but she was smiling, arms crossed, trying not to laugh.

“You love me,” he said easily.

She rolled her eyes, stepped in, and shut the door behind her. “You couldn’t have waited until we got home for the PDA?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Robbie tilted his head. “Let the kid down easy. He was getting his hopes up.”

She stepped closer, poked a finger into his chest. “You’re jealous.”

He caught her hand and grinned. “Delighted, actually. Whitaker’s expression might be the best thing I’ve seen all week.”

“Mm.” She leaned in, just enough to make his heart pick up a beat.

And then, instead of kissing him on the mouth like he’d hoped, she pressed a soft, warm kiss to his cheek. “You’re lucky I like you.”

His grin widened. “I’m married to you. That’s more than luck.”

And she was still smiling when she walked out first, leaving him in the supply closet with a bottle of water and a satisfied smirk that lasted the rest of his shift.

[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

[harmoonix]

MY LOVE

~ Astrology Observations ~

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Having Venus in air sign or house 3H/7H/11H is the best indicator to show that you need lots of communication in your relationships, is a good placement if you like to be more extrovert

Cancer in your big 3 *Sun, Moon, Rising* are empathetic placements, cancer is usually connected so much with the mother nature and feels a deep empathy for everything surrounding

Sagittarius Placements especially in big 3 or big 6 (Sun, Moon, Rising, Mars, Mercury, Venus) is that BITCH. Wild, carefree, savage, all that plate. They're iconic

Can I please say how happy I am when I check (black, poc natives) charts and I see LEO PLACEMENTS???? EMBODY THAT FELINE INSIDE YOU. I love seeing Leo Placements in their chart 100/10.

Leo Venus is top, Leo Mars is fire, Leo Rising is a nuclear bomb. I LOVE THEM. The sun being your ruler makes everything to be perfect

Mars aspecting the Midheaven can bring you faster to the things you want to manifest in your career/job

I love how much Capricorn in big 3 (Sun, Moon, Rising) embodies the dark traits of the sign. Like Capricorn was always seen as a dark sign, I love the lore behind this sign and how much it can influence your life

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When the rhythm make it vibrate

Tell me how much can you take

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Venus aspecting Neptune or Neptune aspecting Moon can often have "love dreams" like dreaming about love, dreaming about a partner, or a relationship

Taurus Moon/Rising/Mercury/3H can have a very sensual voice.. like is so blessed by Venus vocally, I love their soft tone

Jupiter in Scorpio/8H/ at 8° 20° is a deep placement in a sense that it makes to discover your life the fullest, also gives you sexual power

Juno in Aries/1h may love a spouse who can take the lead in their relationship, not in a dominant way but more as a role

Jupiter aspecting Neptune can make you more of a dreamer if you have these aspects in your chart, like you can be a part of a fairytale movie

Mars aspecting the ascendant natives have an inner fire inside them that makes them so ambitious. They wanna achieve big things in life

The dark romance between Moon - Pluto aspects is not described enough on this app. There is something so intense about the natives who have the moon in aspects with a destoryer planet

Something I saw within the sun and moon in the 9H natives is that they love their culture/traditions so much. They may also love to share their culture with others

Moon aspecting the ascendant natives is a sensitive placement in a good way. They can feel the energies around them and are able to protect from the bad ones

Venus in Sagittarius/9H may have a very funny love language. They're more playful in their love relationships. They can appreciate partners who have a good humor

Venus in Capricorn/10H may wanna be seduced first and to hit the rock, they wanna act dominant and all but they still a sensible side

Mercury in Gemini is a placement I rarely see. I'm not gonna lie. Even if Mercury is at home here, still is not seen that much, I love how social they can get, I ended up with one once, and we wouldn't stop talking at all

Even if Virgos are highly critical, we have to appreciate their self - care cus' is always on point.

Mercury aspecting the Sun natives can bring others in a good mood with their energy, somehow they always bring some peace in your life

Scorpio Mars should be classified as a sex king, like always horny, always in a mood for racing in bed, and always prepared ( I said king because Mars is a masculine planet)

Men with a Venus in the 6h/10h are husbands material placement. You won in life if your husband has these

Cancer in the 10H/Moon in the 10H, the career or job you choose can play a big role in your emotional being and development

North Node in the 11H/ at 11° 23° or in Aquarius can get popular in online/wealthy on social media, some kind of influencer

Jupiter in Libra/Jupiter in 7H/Jupiter at 7° 19° have a deep need/focus for partnerships. This energy makes the native to be liked/loved by people

Jupiter aspecting Uranus natives have a knowledge of 'future', somehow they have an idea of how the future will influence the world

Lilith in the 1h/5h/8h/12h makes the native to have a sensual aura. Sensuality may play a big role in their lives

People have said that Lilith in the 6H can be one of the most difficult positions for this placement, and I don't blame them at all. Being the house of mental power and health with Lilith here, everything can go into chaos, but you have the power to manage the chaos 🤍

Air Mercuries/Mercury in the air signs 3H/7H/11h can be influenced more easily by music, feelings + music is what this Mercury has to give

North Node in the 7H/Libra can indicate that you tend to depend on others much more in this life, due to focusing only on yourself in a past life with Aries south node/south node in the 1H

Pluto in 2H may indicate intense experiences with your self - worth and your material resources. Sometimes, you may able to control both

══════ •『 ♡ 』• ══════

Melody fire, sweet pasi sewu

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Saturn/Capricorn over the 6H/12H might have a fight with their subconscious sometimes, feeling tired, sleepy, even if you sleep enough your body still loves to sleep/relax

Some astrologers have said that after your saturn return happens, you'll be a new person, you will change, and saturn returns happen to change you

Virgo over the 8H/12H can have lots of phobias. These houses can represent fear to some extent, so it can happen, like snake phobias, spiders, deep sea, insects, and many more

Juno aspecting the Moon can indicate you tend to fall in love with people who can understand your emotional needs

Juno in Gemini natives can end up calling their spouse with nicknames (it can be any nickname)

Juno in Taurus/2H may love when their spouse takes them to a fancy place/restaurant. They can also fall in love with ppl who have the same passion for food like them

~ Not a heart on earth can beat my love ~

💚💚💚💚 On Friday we honor the love, THE day of Venus

[asha-mage]

Because I am coping with current world events in a completely normal manner I've been thinking a lot about how one of the tensions that underpins the whole of Wheel of Time is Robert Jordan as 'person who likes history' vs Robert Jordan as 'person who had to live through the Cold War.'

Something that can be really hard for people born after the Cold War (like myself) to grasp is that for a long time history was the ultimate reassurance against existential dread. Civilizations could rise and fall, empires could crumble, disasters could wipe out a hell of a lot of people, but human beings as a species, where never in any real danger of dying out. New countries would eventually rise out of the ashes of old ones, societies would change to be unrecognizable but they would still be there, religions, cultures ideologies etc might all die out but the people would still be around. History provided the ultimate comfort: whatever happened in our brief finite lives human beings as an group would eventually be fine.

But that changed after World War 2 and the invention of a little something called the atomic bomb. Suddenly human beings had the potential to destroy not just ourselves but all life on earth if things went wrong enough. For the first time in history their was no real guarantee that human beings as a species would make it, and in fact their was a whole lot of reason to believe based on the patterns of history that eventually that power would get used and human kind would destroy itself. That was the Cold War- two nuclear states who really really wanted to start blasting each other to pieces but couldn't without risking the end of life as we know it.

The tension between these two realities- the assurance of history that life will go on and the reality that human beings could in theory actually end the fucking world, is built into the core of Wheel of Time. The first lines assure us: time is cyclical. It's all happened before. It's all going to happen again. Human being will live out the same stories in endless variation, the same patterns will always reemerge. And the world has already survived one apocalyptic event: the Breaking, and come out the other side not doing fantastically, but still around. The world has been reshaped forever and whole eras of progress have been undone, but humanity remains.

But at the same time doomsday weapons with the potential to wipe out the species are everywhere. The Choden Kal can crack the planet open like an egg. Balefire burns apart time itself. A plague of madness is waiting for any old schmo to wander into it's den and carry it back outside so it can infect and destroy everyone. Their are all kinds of different big glowing red 'destroy humanity' buttons laying around in WoT just begging to get pressed. And in a way the Dark One is the ultimate version of that because that button has already been pressed. The Bore has been opened. Left alone humanity is fucked and everyone knows it. It can be delayed and pushed back, but never truly stopped, except by the intervention of destiny- the intervention of the Dragon. That's the core conflict of the series. Rand is struggling to stop a missile that's already been launched, prevent an end everyone can see coming. It's not just 'I need to defeat the big bad evil overlord or everything will be bad forever', it's 'I need to stop the Dark One or that's the end of human beings as an idea'.

What's especially interesting is that Jordan isn't even framing the Wheel/Pattern as uniformly good, because it's history and history is messy and complicated and full of contradictions and no easy answers. The Wheel, the Pattern, is not some force for righteousness. It's a neutral fact of existence. Not what's best or what's ideal- those are subjective and grounded in human understanding of the world- but what's necessary and what's true. To want to break free from history, to break the Wheel, is to want to break free of being human. That's what the Forsaken all truly want (as I have talked about before): to leave behind their humanity, and their willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to do it. What that looks like and what motivates that desire is different for each of them but their united in that common goal, and they all either disregard the consequences of what it will mean or don't understand them.

The story of history is one of incredible suffering and amazing triumph: it's full of heartache and joy in equal measure. It's not fair or just or simple to understand, but it is a reflection of who we all are collectively. The fight to preserve the Wheel isn't a fight to preserve what is good or ideal, it is a fight to preserve what is human. Because as long as the story can keep going, we can have hope for tomorrow.

And Jordan promises right from the offing that their will always be a tomorrow. No beginnings. No endings. Just whatever comes next.

As we enter a period of history that is the most uncertain it's ever been in my lifetime, I can't help but I think of the incredible courage and strength it must have taken be staring down the barrel of nuclear armageddon and stubbornly insist that there would be a tomorrow. The man wrote eleven of the best books ever made exploring this exact struggle- about never giving in to despair or pain, never buying into the belief that things are hopeless, that humanity sucks and we're all doomed.

And remembering that...I don't know. It makes a little easier to breath and keep walking towards tomorrow myself.

[woollypoison]

Bedroom warfare: part 1

Itzy Yuna x m reader A/N: Angst, smut is for the next part! Word count: 2,434 words.

You’re looking forward to this. A rare night off, some drinks, catching up with your best friend, and finally meeting the girl who has him acting like she hung the very stars in the sky. He talks about her constantly, non-stop bragging. How she’s different, how she keeps him on his toes. You can’t remember the last time he was this into someone, so yeah, needless to say you were curious.

The roads are getting bad, snow already piling along the curbs. You should’ve come earlier, but fuck it, you made it.

You step up to the door, stomp the snow off of your boots and knock twice before letting yourself in. The second you touch the handle, time stops. The cold hits you, but it's a different kind of cold from the snow. A voice in your head screams that opening this door will certainly lead to doom.

The feeling is so sharp, so visceral, you freeze.

A warning.

You ignore it. This is ridiculous. Staying outside any longer might actually make you freeze. You push the door open.

And then you see her. The voice was right.

Yuna. 

She’s curled up on the couch, leaning casually into the cushions like she’s not a demon wearing human skin. Like she hasn’t detonated a nuclear bomb just by existing in this room. There’s no flicker of shock on her face, no moment of hesitation. Just a perfectly practiced smile as she glances up at you, eyes alight with smug confidence and feigned warmness. She was prepared.

“Hey, man!” Your friend’s voice cuts through your brain’s searching for an escape route as he claps a hand on your shoulder. “Glad you made it. Roads are getting bad out there.”

“Yeah,” you manage.

Your friend smiles that big, dumb smile of his, completely oblivious to the way Yuna’s gaze hooks into yours like a knife. “Come in, man. Get comfortable.”

You step forward on autopilot, hanging your coat by the door like you’ve done hundreds of times. Yuna watches without a single crack in her facade, her body language relaxed, deliberate. As if she’s making sure you understand—play along. Do not fuck this up.

“This is Yuna,” your friend continues, gesturing proudly. “Babe, this is my best friend. The one I told you about.”

The one she already knew. The one whose hands were once all over her, whose voice whispered filth into her ear, whose name she moaned as he took each hole of hers as his, whose life she set on fire and walked away from without looking back.

Yuna smiles, tilting her head just slightly. “Nice to finally meet you.”

The fucking nerve on her.

Emotions swell inside you, a festering wound ripping open, but your face doesn’t betray it. You match her smile with an empty one of your own. “Yeah. Likewise.”

You sit across from them, forcing yourself to ignore the way she’s curled into his side, the way his hand rests on her thigh like a claim. It’s all too much.

Your friend, completely unaware of the hurricane tearing through the room sweeping up only you and Yuna, leans back with a content sigh. “She’s incredible, man. Like, seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone like her.”

Yuna meets your gaze, and you’d have died if looks could kill, then smiles at your friend. “You exaggerate too much.”

“Not even,” he laughs. “I told him you were different. I mean, look at you.”

You do. She stares back at you. Right at you. Like she’s daring you to say something.

You force a smirk. “Yeah. I’m happy for you.”

The night stretches on, a slow suffocation wrapped in forced pleasantries and underlying malice.

Yuna brushes past you as she walks to the kitchen, her nails grazing your wrist just enough to feel like a scratch. It’s intentional, a silent reminder that she can still reach beneath your skin whenever she wants.

You let your expression remain neutral, but when she returns and settles beside your friend, you decide to push back. You swirl your drink in hand, voice casual but with deadly precision. “You ever think about loyalty?”

Your friend laughs, oblivious. “Deep question, man. What, you been betrayed by someone?”

Yuna knows. Her grip on her boyfriend’s hand tightens, her jaw flexing for the briefest second before she smooths it over with a small, cutesy sound. “Is that something you’re struggling with?”

A sharp retort, coated in molten sugar.

You grin, eyes transfixed on hers, where her soul would be if she had one. “Nah. Just thinking about how rare it is these days.”

She tilts her head unimpressed, expression unshaken by your taunt. “Guess it depends on who you’re with.”

Your friend laughs again, oblivious to the daggers flying inches from his head. “Damn, this is getting deep for a casual night.” Bless his stupid heart.

Yuna goes on to laugh a little too hard with one of your friend’s jokes, her fingers running over his arm as she throws a glance your way. It’s like she wants you to know. See? I can be happy without you.

While your friend isn’t looking and off to get another drink, you lean in slightly, whispering just loud enough that only her ears catch it. “So how long will it be before you cheat on him, too?”

Yuna’s smile doesn’t waver, but her eyes flicker with something dark. “Didn’t know you were still this bitter. Having a hard time getting over me?”

Your friend is none the wiser, sipping his drink and rambling on about something you aren’t even listening to. He doesn’t see the silent war happening right as he returns, doesn’t feel the tension stretching thin enough to snap.

And Yuna? She sits there, composed, graceful, effortlessly charming. Like she hasn’t spent the entire night digging her nails into old wounds just to watch them bleed.

You can’t wait for this night to end.

Your friend’s phone buzzes against the coffee table, cutting through the forced, suffocating conversation. A moment of relief. He barely looks at the screen before answering.

“Hello?”

A pause. His expression shifts. It’s subtle at first, then tightening with concern.That big, dumb smile evaporates.

“What? When?”

Yuna straightens beside him, her fingers curling slightly on her lap. You watch the way her entire body goes rigid, instinctively responding to the shift in energy. The room tilts, like the balance of power is about to change. A ceasefire is called, as your common concern grows ever more concerned.

Your friend exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. No, of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He hangs up, already moving towards the door.

“I have to go,” he says, grabbing his keys from the counter. “It’s my mom. She’s in the hospital.”

Yuna blinks. “Oh my god?”

The snowstorm outside has only gotten worse, and the roads are probably a nightmare. You’re sure he knows that, but there’s no hesitation in his movements. You can’t blame him, you’d be much the same. He’s already halfway to the door, shoving on his coat.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, then glances between you and Yuna. “You two will be fine, right?”

Like hell you will.

No. No, you won’t be fine. Not alone. Not with her. Anything but that.

You clear your throat. There’s not enough time for an excuse, and you’d feel even worse using one in this situation. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, man.”

He frowns, halfway into pulling on his other sleeve. “What? Are you serious?”

“The roads are bad. You shouldn’t be out in this. Or I could come with you?”

“It’s my mom,” he says, like that explains everything. And in a way, it does.

You swallow any goodness you have left in yourself, attempting one final protest. “Still—”

“Please, stay here, just in case something happens. Yuna doesn’t know what to do if the power goes out. It’d make me feel more at ease.”

If only he knew half of it. But this is not the time to be selfish. He’s your best friend.

Your jaw tightens. Yuna doesn’t react, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say a damn thing. She doesn’t need to. Everything she wanted to say, you already did. She wants you nowhere near her. But your friend was right. This was the better solution.

Your friend claps a hand on your shoulder. “Just stay, alright? Keep each other company.”

You nod in reluctant agreement. “Yeah. Sure.”

And just like that, he’s gone. The door slams behind him.

A rotten silence taints the air.

The performance shatters instantly.

The false smiles, the polite distance—it’s all destroyed the second his car pulls out of the driveway.

You exhale sharply, rubbing a hand over the back of your neck as you peered over to Yuna. “Fucking hell.”

Yuna scoffs, her arms crossed. “Yeah, I’m not happy about this either.”

She walks past you, and you hate that you recognize every little sway, tilt and strut her body makes. The controlled tension in her shoulders, the barely concealed hostility humming in her eyes. She’s coiled tight, inches away from snapping.

You don’t give her the satisfaction of speaking first. If anything you’d prefer to just sit in silence, minding your own business until your buddy is back.

“Guess it’s just us now.” She laughs. Fuck. So far for silence. It’s sharp, bitter. Venomous. “Like old times.”

Your hands clench at your sides. “Not fucking funny.”

Yuna turns to face you fully, her lips curling into something devious. “Never said it was.”

A charged tension crackles between you, thick with unresolved filth. You can’t look at her without the memories flooding back. The way she felt beneath you as you pounded her down to where she belonged. The way she used to moan your name, confessing her filthy desires and so-called love. The way she made you feel like the only person worthy of her in the whole world—before she tore it all apart.

And yet, despite it all, despite your veins burning with hatred, you can feel it. You know she’s thinking the same thing. Seeing the same memories.

The past isn’t dead between you. Far from it. It’s alive, thrashing, screaming, demanding to be acknowledged.

Yuna tilts her head, breaking your introspection. She’s studying you like a bug nailed to the wall. “You look like you want to say something.”

You exhale sharply. She’s wrong. You don’t want to say something. You want to stay silent. You have to say something. “Yeah. I do.”

“Then fucking say it.”

Your hands tighten into fists, your venomous glands activating. “You cheated on me.”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look guilty. Just crosses her arms and raises a brow. “Yeah. I did.”

The sheer lack of remorse in her voice sends you over the edge. You expect her to at least soften, to at least pretend like it wasn’t that bad, saving her own skin. But she doesn’t. She stands in it, owns it, like she’s daring you to throw it in her face. Daring you to do something.

She knows just how to press your buttons. It never works out in your favor, but you bite back.

“And yet I’m still the villain?”

Yuna steps forward, voice razor-sharp, knowing exactly what you’d say. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Oh, right. I forgot. Because you think what I did was worse.”

She doesn’t agree, and the snap in her scowl all but confirms it. “It was.”

You step closer too, closing the distance between you until there’s barely a foot between your bodies. She won’t get the best of you. “You spread your legs for another guy, Yuna.”

“And you turned me into some sex trophy to fucking show off,” she spits.

She’s right, both your words serving as the flame used to light a fuse burning toward an explosion neither of you cares to stop.

Yuna’s voice drops lower, more venomous. “You think fucking me over behind my back was okay? At least I had the decency to keep it private. At least I didn’t—” She cuts herself off, centering herself before continuing. She knows her strikes will land harder if she’s calm to deliver them. “Do you have any idea how it felt?”

You don’t respond. You can’t respond, and she doesn’t stop.

“I found out months later,” she says, voice quieter now, but no less dangerous. “Randomly. Just—stumbled across a conversation between you and your drinking buddies. ‘Look at her tits, isn’t she fucking unreal?’” Her eyes are burning now, the reflection of the impending explosion clearer than ever. “And they agreed. Told you how fucking lucky you were. All while I had no idea you were passing those pictures around like a fucking trophy.”

She had you dead to rights, but you didn’t care. “I was drunk.”

Her laugh is pure ice. Unamused and willing to kill. “Oh, fuck you.”

You began forming something that barely resembles an excuse. Against your better judgement. “I didn’t think—”

“That’s the fucking problem,” she snaps, stepping forward until she’s practically in your space. “You never thought. You never cared.”

You snapped back, your version of the truth different from hers. “That’s not true.”

Her head tilts again. It’s her tell for being in disbelief, her eyes dark. “Isn’t it?”

Silence. You wanted it not long ago, but now it’s suffocating.

You don’t have an answer.

Or maybe you do, but you don’t want to say it. Maybe there is some truth to you being an asshole.

Yuna scoffs at your lack of response, then turns away. You expect her to storm off, to put as much distance between you as possible, but she doesn’t. Instead, she walks to the counter, grabs the bottle of whiskey sitting there, and pours herself a bottom. She knocks it down without effort.

You frown, knowing what kind of omen this was. “Drinking already? That’s a bad idea.”

She scoffs, pouring herself another. “Yeah, you’re famous for being good with alcohol.”

You don’t respond to her accusation. There’s no point. What she did was worse anyway. “Alcohol makes you messy.”

She smirks bitterly, raising her glass in mock salute before taking a slow, deliberate sip. “Yeah?” Her eyes drift to yours, heavy-lidded and absolutely unimpressed. “And whose fault is that?”

You don’t answer.

Because you both know exactly whose fault it is.

And now, there’s nothing left between you but impending destruction. It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’, it was a matter of ‘when’.

[p0orbaby]

I have an idea for Leah. Maybe Leah preparing to propose to reader? Like picking out the ring, arranging the plans to do it & what to say. Being super stressed that it goes well.

-

The engagement ring is currently sitting in the drawer of Leah’s bedside table. It’s been there for three days. That’s seventy-two hours of her life spent mentally cycling through increasingly absurd ways to ask you to marry her—none of which feel remotely good enough. Yesterday, she briefly considered hiring a flash mob but abandoned the idea when she realised she couldn’t name a single person in her life who would willingly agree to dance in public.

The ring itself is a masterpiece—or, at least, Leah tells herself it is, because the thought of you hating it makes her chest constrict like a bad asthma attack. It’s a gold band, delicate but not fragile, and the diamond is small but impossibly bright, practically nuclear under artificial light. It reminds her of you. Elegant, unassuming, but blindingly brilliant. She spent hours debating between gold and platinum, flipping through online forums and texting Beth for advice, only to be told: Mate, just get what she’ll actually like. Helpful.

She chose gold, naturally, because you once mentioned in passing that platinum felt too cold. You probably don’t even remember saying it, but Leah does. She remembers everything. Like the fact you can’t stand carnations (“soulless flowers”) and that you always eat the crusts off your toast first because it’s more “structurally satisfying.” She’s built this proposal on a foundation of your quirks and preferences. It’s practically a thesis at this point.

Her plan is a dinner reservation at that restaurant—the one with the hand-written menus and waiters who always remember you like your wine dry. She’s already called them to arrange for a quieter table in the corner, away from the clatter of silverware and the prying eyes of other diners. She’s even considered what to wear: a crisp, white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the perfect midpoint of her forearms (which you once confessed makes her look “obnoxiously fit”) and tailored trousers she had altered just last week.

But even with all this planning, Leah feels like she’s holding a ticking bomb. She’s stressed in a way she hasn’t been since that penalty shootout against Brazil. She’s pacing the flat now, her steps echoing faintly on the hardwood floor. “This is ridiculous,” she mutters under her breath. “It’s just a question. Four words. Five if I add a ‘please.’ Six if I say her full name.”

“You alright there?” Beth’s voice crackles through the speakerphone, equal parts curious and entertained. Leah forgot she left her phone on the kitchen counter, still connected to the ongoing call.

“I’m fine,” Leah says, glaring at her phone like it’s personally betrayed her.

“No, you’re not. You’re spiralling”

“I’m not spiralling”

“You’re literally pacing like a dad waiting for news in a hospital drama”

Leah stops pacing. “I just… I want it to be perfect”

“It will be perfect. She loves you, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, but what if she hates the ring?”

“She won’t”

“What if she says no?”

“She won’t”

“What if I say something stupid like, ‘I can’t wait to do your taxes together’?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Beth’s laughter bursts through the speaker like an explosion. “Honestly, that’s probably exactly what she’d expect from you”

Leah groans, rubbing her hands over her face. “This isn’t funny”

“It’s a little funny”

She ends the call before Beth can continue her unsolicited pep talk and sits down on the sofa, staring at the box in her hand. It’s absurdly light, considering the weight it carries. She snaps it open, then shut. Open, shut. Like the world’s most expensive stress toy.

You walk into the flat a few hours later, shrugging off your coat with a small sigh. Leah, who’s been pretending to read the same page of a book for the past twenty minutes, immediately tenses. The ring box is hidden in her pocket now, a phantom weight pressing against her thigh.

“Hey,” you say, dropping onto the sofa beside her. “You alright? You look… weird”

She blinks at you, heart pounding. “Weird?”

“Yeah. Like you’ve seen a ghost or just remembered you left the oven on”

She laughs nervously, her hand twitching towards her pocket. The words are there—Will you marry me?—but they stick to her throat, stubborn and immovable.

“Leah?” you prompt, looking at her curiously.

And just like that, she panics.

“Do you want takeaway tonight?” she blurts, the words spilling out in a rush. “I’m thinking Thai”

You raise an eyebrow but nod. “Sure. Thai sounds good”

The proposal will have to wait. Again.

[forever-rogue]

Hi babes! So I’ve had this idea running around my brain for days.

Basically Cooper Howard and the reader knew each other pre-apocalypse (up to you wether it was romantic or platonic) but after the bombs go off, the reader makes it to a vault where she is put in a cryopod for 200 years to see that the rest of her vault is dead from asphyxiation (I definitely didn’t think of this by playing fallout 4). So she escapes and later finds Cooper (she recognises him and then realises it’s him), it’s up to you how it goes from there 🫶🏻.

Anyway, I love your work! Hope you’re doing great! 💗

AN | I love this concept. Enjoy❤️

Pairing | Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x fem!reader

Warnings | language; mentions of canon typical violence

Word Count | 3.1k

Masterlist | Main 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind, sugar,” Cooper came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist before resting his chin on your shoulder. You made a small sound of content before leaning into him and turning your head to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek.

“I’m just…thinking,” you whispered before turning around so you were facing him. The warm evening breeze swirled around the two of you as you leaned against the porch railing, and looked down the Hollywood hills. He took your face in his hands, brushing his thumb along your cheek.

“You do that a lot,” he teased as you rolled your eyes in amusement, “too much thinking ain’t good for you.”

“Well, between the two of us, one of us has to use a brain cell once in a while,” he scoffed as he gently squeezed your cheeks before pressing a kiss to your lips. When he let go, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, kissing him a few more times, “I love you, you know?”

“I know,” he confirmed with a soft nod, “I love you too, sweetheart. You gonna tell me what you’re thinking about?”

“I suppose,” you sighed lightly, resting your hands on his chest, “do you think that...it seems silly, but do you think that it'll ever happen? The nuclear war. Or do you think it’s all just a big pissing contest?”

“I think,” he took one of your hands and brought it to his lips in order to press a kiss to your knuckles, “that you worry too much too often.”

“I know,” you agreed, “I know I do. I just can't help it sometimes. What if something happens?”

“If anything were to happen, we’d face it together and figure it out,” he promised and while you liked the idea of his sweet words, it didn’t totally alleviate your worries. He’d been trying to convince himself as much as you.  It had been a constant in his mind as well. He wasn’t as good of a liar as he believed he was.

“Rest assured Cooper Howard,” you whispered softly, “that I will always find you and be with you. No matter what life brings.”

He pressed his forehead to yours and let out a small sigh. You echoed the sound sweetly before kissing him again, “I promise, Coop.”

“I promise too.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“Cooper?” your brow furrowed as you looked at the tall figure standing in front of you. The first time seeing a Ghoul had almost caused you to have a heart attack; you hadn’t been expecting to see someone so…crispy. Being asleep for the last two hundred years hadn’t prepared you for half the things you’d seen in the short time since you’d escaped Vault 111. Like the radroaches - seriously? Weren’t those things bad enough normal? Nature had definitely fucked up with that one. 

Some things you could get used to easily, but other things were definitely going to take time. Two hundred years had passed and you hadn’t experienced a single thing. In some ways it felt like you’d been a lamb left to slaughter. 

After you’d gotten over your initial shock at the Ghouls, you’d realized, with a heavy heart, that they were just people too. People had suffered unfortunate circumstances but they were still just people…mostly. Realistically you’d been rather lucky when it came down to it. You had a long nap while others suffered.

But you’d recognize him anywhere; you’d memorized every part of him so many years ago. You weren’t sure if you could ever forget him. 

But this…this wasn’t who you were expecting to see. Honestly, you didn’t expect to see him ever again, but here he was…alive and breathing. Maybe.

“Cooper,” you took a step closer while he took a step back, his hand brushing along the holster at his side. You held up your hands in a meek attempt to show your innocence; it still made your heart constrict to see his response to you, “i-it’s me.”

“I’m ain’t fallin’ for that one, sweetheart,” he drawled, causing a frown to tug down the corners of your mouth, “I know when I’m hallucinating and I’m not about to go feral.”

“What are you…talking about?” you watched in confusion as he reached into his pocket and grabbed a small vial before downing it in one go. He tossed the bottle to the side, letting it clink off the side of a building, “I don't ... I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t understand anything here, but I know it’s you. I’d know you anywhere.”

He made a sound at the back of his throat as he blinked a few times, still looking at you as if he was trying to decide if he’d already gone feral or whatever it was called. You wondered if he would even possibly shoot you. 

“That’s impossible,” he said quietly as he studied you. It was like you were frozen in time - you looked exactly the same as you did two hundred years ago. It wasn’t possible for you to look like that when he looked like…a monster, “you look just like her but you can’t be her.”

“Cooper Howard,” you sighed in exasperation, running a hand through your hair. You’d always done that and he’d seen that look on your face a thousand times before, “I don’t know exactly what happened to me. I-I woke up and I was in one of those weird vaults that they used to talk about and there was no else there. A couple of skeletons and a bunch of these giant cockroaches-”

“Radroaches.”

“Radroaches,” you rolled your eyes and that almost had him let down his guard, “and I got out. I don’t know what year it is and I don’t know what’s happened. I’m just here. And I have no fucking clue what I’m doing or where I’m going or what’s even happening in the world anymore. But I found you. I know it’s you. I told you that I’d always find you.”

He allowed himself to relax as he tried to put the pieces together to see if your story made sense. The worst part of it all was that it made sense. The day the life as he’d always known it stopped, he hadn’t seen you. But he knew that you’d been at the Vault-Tec headquarters that day. It made sense. It made sense.

He hated that. Hated that you were forced to experience this strange new world, and even more that you had been all but abandoned to figure it out for yourself. But he couldn’t deny that there was a palpable feeling running through his entire being at the sight of you. Your smile was just as pretty as he remembered; he thought about it a lot. Thought about you a lot, still to this day, despite the fact that it had been literal centuries. 

He’d accepted that you were dead a long time ago. But here you were, a ghost of a life that once was. 

You let out a nervous laugh at his silence, feeling like a fool, “are you gonna say anything or am I just going to keep standing here like an idiot?”

“You should turn back around and walk to the nearest vault and pray that they take you in,” was all he managed to choke out as you felt the tears start to sting at the back of your eyes. You opened and closed your mouth a few times, trying to figure out what to possibly even say to him, “you ain’t cut out for his world. You weren’t made for it. You ain’t gonna survive up here on the surface.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you stomped your foot, an unwitting little habit that you had, “you want me to just walk away?”

“Yeah,” he pulled the brim of his hat lower, voice gruff, “I do.”

“Oh,” you scoffed, trying to hold back all that you were feeling, “and what? You’re cut out for this world?”

“Look at me,” he growled deeply, “I’m a fuckin’ monster made for this world.”

You flinched at the sound of the self hatred in his voice. He wasn’t anything like you’d remembered or expected, but he was still your Cooper. 

“You should get going, darlin’.”

You turned on your heel, ready to walk…somewhere. Anywhere other than there, left to be humiliated.

“Tell me one thing,” you turned back to face him, finding that he was still watching you intently, “what year is it?”

“2296.”

Your heart almost stopped for a moment as you tried not to panic. 

Over two hundred years since you’d last walked the world. You’d been sleeping for over two hundred years while Cooper had been suffering. You had so many questions, but more than anything your heart hurt for everything that he’d been through.

You offered him a nod before walking away, this time for real, trying to figure out what the actual fuck you were going to do.

Cooper watched you go wordlessly, eyes on you until you were but a small speck in the distance.

“Who was that?” Lucy appeared at his side along with the canine companion they'd named Dogmeat, a curious expression on her face, “did you know her?”

“It was no one,” the sharpness of his voice caught Lucy off guard and she raised her eyebrows in question, “just lost.”

“Okie dokie,” she hitched her backpack higher onto her shoulders, “we should keep going before it gets dark.”

“Yeah,” he agreed with her, finding his heart wasn’t quite in it, “get a move on kid.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

This was a weird world. Like really weird. There were creatures that you'd encountered that appeared to be descendants of the ones you'd known during your previous life. Roaches definitely weren't supposed to be the size of dogs. Dogs really shouldn't have been up to your shoulders. And that thing that you'd encountered that was maybe a fish? Wild.

It was all so much to get used to and it felt like you were a child all over again. You had met a kind woman that had taken you into her diner (or whatever a diner was these days) and helped to get you back on your feet. The first order of business? Getting rid of the vault suit; not'd noticed an immediate shift in how people treated you once the suit was gone. 

The one thing that hadn't changed? Men. Men continued to the worst, leering shamelessly after you. Looks like not even radiation can evolve that out of men.  

You still had not clue what you were going to do with your life or anything really, but at least now you had a safe space to learn to adapt and overcome. Now you just had about two hundred years of history to catch up on. Learning about places called the New California Republic and New Vegas definitely told you that something big had happened.

Everything else, you hoped, would fall into place over time. You did, however, have your suspicions that Vault-Tec were nothing but a bunch of liars confirmed. There was that at least. And you'd learned what a Ghoul was - what Cooper was. It didn't sound like it had been a fun reality for him.

At least if you were going to start aging naturally, you wouldn’t have to suffer in this hell forever.

You were helping around the diner one afternoon when the doors swung open to reveal Cooper, along with a young woman and a dog. Funny, you thought to yourself, Cooper had always adored dogs.

The rag dropped from your hand as blinked wordlessly at them. Neither you nor Cooper said anything, silence thick and heavy between the two of you.

“Do you have any pie?” The young woman asked, a nervous chuckle escaping her lips as she looked around, “and maybe some water?”

“S-sure,” you stammered nervously pointing at the table towards the back, “I'll get that pie.”

And just like that, Cooper was back in your life.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Without Cooper, you weren't quite sure what to do. Honestly, you had been sure what you'd do once you left the vault along, but you figured when you found him that things would fall into place…or make a little more sense anyway. But as you'd made your way through the skeletons that littered the vault, you weren't entirely convinced that this wasn't some sort of fever dream.

And Cooper had turned his back on you.

Only to come back to rescue you.

“What happened?” He asked, his voice dropping softly, almost like he was letting down his guard, “how did you end up in one of those pods?”

“I don't know,” you admitted, wiping your hands on your knees as you looked at him, “I-I remember bits and pieces but not the whole thing.”

He made a small sound of acknowledgment but didn’t say much else. You’d been wracking your brain for weeks now - ever since you’d escaped the vault - about what exactly happened before you took a centuries long nap.

“The last thing I really remember was speaking with that Maclean kid, the one that had recently started working at Vault-Tec. We got into an argument about something and he shoved me around and then…I think he hit me. The next thing I can remember is waking up.”

“Life is funny, ain’t it,” he pinched his brow before looking at you with a pained expression, “Hank Maclean is still alive. The girl I’ve been traveling with…she’s his kid. I think everyone finally found just what kind of a person he is. And it ain’t a good one.”

“He’s still alive,” you breathed out heavily, trying to decide if you were angry with him or…in a twisted way, thankful. You supposed the last two hundred years could have been a lot worse than just sleeping through them. But then again, if you’d been awake and aging, you’d have been long dead by now, “this is all so…weird.”

Silence fell over the two of you for a few bit, as you started at the roaring fire. It was dangerous, or so you’d been told by almost everyone you’d encountered. But somehow with Cooper by yourself, you didn’t feel scared or nervous. 

“I looked for you,” he said after a short while as your attention snapped to him, “for a long time. Decades.” 

“Really?” your voice cracked on the simple question as he nodded.

“After a while, I realized you were probably dead,” your heart twisted at that, “it was the only logical answer. Unless you’d ended up like me and I would never wish that on you.”

“What happened, Cooper?” you asked softly. You wanted to know but you also didn’t want to push him either. You still had so many questions about this strange new world, “you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Your curiosity was one of the things I always loved about you, sweetheart,” he chuckled, almost sounding just as you remembered, “to put it simply, radiation. I got a little bit too much of that radiation and then I became like one of them radroaches, adapting and surviving.”

“Radiation,” you repeated softly, “fuck me. Am I going to-”

“You’ll be fine,” he reassured you, “radiation levels are livable now.”

“Oh,” you swallowed thickly as you gave him a nod, “that’s good…I think.”

“You don’t deserve to have to live in such a world,” he caught your eye and looked at you intently, “in a way I wished you’d never have had to experience it. It would have been easier if you’d just…died that day they dropped the bombs. But in a selfish way, I’m glad you’re here, sweetheart. Still the prettiest face I’ve ever seen.”

You snorted in amusement as your face warmed up, “still the biggest flirt I’ve ever met Cooper Howard. In a selfish way, I’m glad you’re here too.”

“You’re telling me that you’re happy to see his ugly old face?” he asked, his voice turning gruff and bitter, “darlin’, you could be looking at a gulper and it’d be a prettier sight.”

“What’s a gulper?” your mind reeled with possibilities of what in the actual hell a gulper was. 

“I…nevermind,” you didn’t need to know about those horrors just yet, “there’s a lot of things that are prettier than I am.”

“Agree to disagree,” you insisted with a soft laugh, “I’m glad you’re here, you know. Even if it sucks and this whole world sucks. I’m glad you’re still here. Selfish or not.”

You stood up and brushed yourself off before walking over to him and plopping onto the ground next to him so you were facing him. You reached for his hand and took it in yours, giving it a squeeze so tender that it almost made him cry. He never thought he’d get to feel such a touch ever again.

“So,” you whispered softly, “what’s next?”

“You’re not ready to run for the hills and hide?” he joked, half serious.

“Nope,” you promised, “besides, what the fuck am I going to do here by myself? I know nothing about anything anymore.”

“Want to help me and the kind find Hank Maclean?” he asked as your eyebrows raised up, “it’s a long story.”

“I’m in,” you promised, “but there’s one thing I want to do first.”

“And what’s that, sugar?”

“This,” you leaned in and took his face in your hands, before gently leaning and kissing him. When you pulled away he looked at you in surprise, “that’s all.”

“C’mere,” he put his hands on your hips and hauled you onto his lap, “you should know better than to start something you can’t finish.”

“Oh, I fully intended to finish,” you grinned, “I’ve missed you, Coop.”

“I’ve missed you every day for a long time,” he sighed, “I’m not letting you go again.”

“Good.”

[dangermousie]

Because I've seen so many people comment to the effect of "how come if he loves her, he never bothered to learn sign language?" etc and I want to talk about it.

But since it involves the novel, it's behind read more as spoilery.

So yeah, in the novel he does not know sign language. (Who knows if they keep that in the drama.)

But the thing is - I think a lot of wtf reaction from people is because they operate from "but how would he not bother if he wants to woo her/be with her/or just even take care of her well" standpoint.

But that's the thing. The situation is not "he loves her and wants to have a true marriage with her, he just does not know how to woo her or is worried she will only go along because of her mom" or even "he would love to be nicer but he has to be mean/standoffish etc for her protection or to take care of her."

Sae Eon is FUCKED UP. Like FUCKED UP FUCKED UP. He's not really a person, but a whole bunch of traumas in a fancy suit. There is a reason that at the end of the novel he asks her to give him a name because he's literally never had one, or when he tells her that the real him is someone who's always hated all of humanity. The very end is his diffusing a hostage situation on the way to their wedding and he saves a little kid not because he's innately nice but because he knows she'd like it. It's very much a "she's got a leash on a nuclear bomb in human shape" set up in the novel. He will never innately care for other people but she does so he just mirrors that because he cares for her.

So he didn't learn sign language because he had no intention of ever having a relationship with her of any kind - not a marriage, not a friendship, not even any meaningful interaction. Marrying her to save her from that dude (and if I remember correctly in the novel there wasn't even a bad dude for her to be married to) and then putting her in his house to occasionally look at and not touch, like a fancy art piece (or as he put it, a fish tank) to calm all the devils in his head was literally the most interaction he could manage.

In a lot of ways, his situation is vvvv similar to that of LJK in Flower of Evil - down to fake parents with an OG serial killer son who he knows would murder him for a corn chip and having to live with a fake identity in a monster lair - but instead of choosing to become the bestest husband ever to compensate, he just withdrew. It's made clear the moment he was old enough and had enough power, he fled all the way to the other side of the world as a war correspondent into some fictional hellhole of a country because that felt better to him than home. He and HJ were never friends even as kids because he had no bandwidth for that at all - she was his little bit of piece in childhood but even with that he couldn't really have proper human interactions with her (the thing with him giving her a plate in the drama is a drama thing; significantly in the novel, she is the one who gives him her food because she notices his eating issues and feels bad and coaxes him to eat. This is not a kid who has any mental or emotional room to spare for anyone else.)

So basically tl;dr - he didn't learn because he is operating at about 0.2% of normal emotional capacity and ability to interact. He's a bastard and a cold jerk and it's not an act to save her or because he's just awkward. It's because he's very very very very damaged.

Now, a novel is a novel and a drama is a drama so who knows how much of it will be kept. They already softened him up from the novel as is. But at least in the novel, it totally made sense...

[gay-jesus-probably]

Let me just preface this by saying everyone is allowed to have their own opinions, TOTK is a really fun game, and I'm glad that other people have been able to enjoy the story as well.

...But I'm being dead serious with my complaints about the narrative being 100% imperialist propaganda. And I'm getting really tired of people replying to those posts by saying it can't be imperialist propaganda, because imperialism is bad and the game says that Hyrule is the good guys.

Like, guys. That's not the argument you think it is. Yes, I am aware that the game tells us Ganondorf is a flat, one dimensional character with no ambitions, interests or motivations beyond destroying the entire world for the hell of it, and also it's totally not racist because he's green, not brown like literally every other member of his race. Unfortunately literally all of these things are kind of the entire goddamn problem.

See, the thing is, everyone trying to make these arguments is accepting the game at face value. Hyrule is the perfect and almighty nation chosen by the demigod Zonai, and whose royal family has the right to rule due to their divine heritage. The other races exist to serve the glory of Hyrule, and they're happy to do it. Ganondorf is pure evil and must be stopped at any costs.

But that's not how anything works. The story informing me that Hyrule is the ultimate good that has done nothing wrong is the whole goddamn reason why I don't trust Hyrule at all. There's always more of a reason than that. And the game fucking suggests there was more going on! Ganondorf mentions Rauru has repeatedly 'invited' the Gerudo to become Rauru's subjects, and let's be clear here, it doesn't matter how peaceful those 'invitations' were, when the guy who owns every single magical nuclear missile in the world repeatedly demands you surrender to him, there's always going to be an implied threat of 'do it or get magically nuked'. Just that power difference alone shows us exactly why Ganon would feel threatened enough to invade. It's because Rauru was holding a gun to his head, and Ganon was expected to just trust that he'd never pull the trigger.

And yes, even if it wasn't intentional Hyrule was always threatening to wipe out the other nations, considering the entire royal family walked around openly wearing their magical nukes as cute accessories. If they couldn't be safely hidden away, there wouldn't be four other secret stones sitting untouched in a vault until the last second.

But that's never acknowledged. Of course Hyrule is the only nation with the right to the secret stones; even if other races get to touch them, they can only have them if they swear eternal blind loyalty and servitude to the glory of King Rauru and Princess Zelda. Ganon wanting to have one magical nuclear bomb out of a stockpile of eight of them is proof that he's dangerous and evil. I mean my god, what if he just walked around all day wearing a magical nuke and using its power for his own benefit, that would be terrifying. It's only okay when Hylian royalty does it.

And you can't argue that Ganon betrayed his own people, considering we don't get to know fucking anything about his relationship with his people. He's shows as the leader of the Gerudo, we're told he's a hero to his people, he has soldiers that loyally follow him into battle... and then oh nevermind, they all hate him and will spend eternity trying to atone for sharing a race with him. How did the entire race do a complete 180 in the span of at most a few months? Who cares, what's important is that now they accept they exist to serve Hyrule so they get to be the good guys now and we don't need to know why they were following Ganondorf, or why they stopped following him.

Basically my point is that yeah, I fucking know how the game insists everything went down. That's the entire reason I think it's imperialist propaganda, because the entire story feels like Hylian propaganda to conceal and justify some horrific atrocities that caused all of this. I literally do not believe that I'm getting the story through reliable narrators, especially considering that the only people allowed to actually tell me the story are all the characters that have the most reasons to be heavily biased in favour of Hyrule.

When the game shows me protagonists that have a massive amount of power and control over the entire world, then says the bad guy doesn't like that system just because he's evil, and literally nothing and nobody in the game says anything to oppose that take, I have some questions about what the fuck the story isn't telling me. And I'd really appreciate it if people would stop trying to argue with me just by telling me to stop asking those questions.

[sugarpasteltmnt]

wow first of all THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who voted for my silly little story in the AU comp!! seriously you all are so wonderful and sweet and i'm just so happy to be in the comp period 😭🩵

as a big thanks i wanted to tell ya'll i'm working on the next chapter of 'Purgatory Paradise' ( • ̀ω•́ )✧ i'll try my best to have it out within the next week!! (`･ω･´)ゞ here's a sneak peak:

in the meantime, please enjoy this list of some of the references and easter eggs i had put in 'The Neon Void' while writing it! (hehe how many did YOU spot while reading?)

[warning; spoilers ahoy! avoid reading if you haven't finish TNV yet!]

here's a rough list of some of the references I snuck in or jokes i was quite proud of when writing 'The Neon Void' haha!

Houdini 

● silly reference to ‘ooze’ hehe (not so much of an easter egg but more of a bad joke lol)  ● “…What in sweet Marie Curie’s name was that about?” – Marie Curie was a physicist who studied radioactivity, and her research ultimately was used in the creation of the atomic bomb, which uses nuclear fission (aka, atoms splitting apart) (lol get foreshadowed, nerds.) 

The Shrine 

● The Jupiter Jim issue number 84 is a reference to 1984, the year the TMNT comics first came out. 

Mosaic 

● Leo’s hideout is inspired by an episode in the 2003 TMNT, where the fam hides in a water tower when the lair is discovered by the Foot Clan. (And I believe a water tower comes into play in other TMNT iterations, but I wasn’t 1000% sure) 

Marigolds 

● The area where Mikey fights Leo and cuts off his arm is heavily inspired by some of the 2003 sewer layout scenes, with the giant atriums and criss-crossing skywalks over giant areas of water. I loved those designs and wanted to incorporate that. 

Ground Control 

● Another silly joke reference of ‘shellphones’ used in the 2012 series   ● “I doubt it was unimportant considering you made enough to feed the entire New York Dave’s team,” Donnie pressed. He picked up a butterfly, inspecting it, but Mikey knew that he was trying to get to the root of the cause, “What did he say?” – Homage to early concept art of Donnie, where he has a butterfly on his knuckle (look at this cutie)

(BTW i for the life of me CANNOT find the original tweet where this photo was so if you have it let me know!) 

Mad Dog: Haunted 

● Call-back to the Krang carcass you see for 0.2 seconds in the season finale inside of the Crying Titan, which I thought was a really neat detail. 

Strings

● The book excerpt Donnie reads is written by Professor Honeycutt, a referencing the 2003 Professor Honeycut who studied teleportation and invented the teleportal  ● ‘October 28, 20:20’ written on the sticky note Donnie looks at is a reference to the release date of ‘The Last Ronin’ (10/28/2020) ● ‘By Carl Sagan–! It worked! We’ve established contact–!’ – Carl Sagan lead the effort in the creation of the Golden Record aboard the Voyager spacecraft, whos purpose was to send a message to extraterrestrials who might find the spacecraft as it traveled through vast spans of space. Since Donnie was trying to reach Karai and the ancestors from what felt like an impossible distance, it felt fitting. 

Bed and Breakfast 

● ‘He groaned. His brain was pulsing painfully behind his eyes. His whole body was achy. Great Pythagoras, what happened?’ – Pythagoras was a Greek philosopher referred to as the ‘lover of wisdom’ and made numerous mathematical and scientific discoveries, and I felt like Donnie would just generally be a fanboy of him lol.  ● ‘Sweet Friedrich Sertürner was that blood–?!’ – while working on this chapter, i asked my best friend and beta reader for some inventors/scientist names to make into funny Donnie Swears. She suggested Friedrich Sertürner because he invented morphine which is used to treat pain… and she said 'would be funny...considering how much of it they were gonna need by the time things were said and done with the Key/Leo's infection.' (SHE WAS SO REAL FOR THAT LOL)   ● The ‘Void ducking in and out of doorways just to come out of a totally different door’ chase was 100000% a Scooby-doo reference, lol. It was one of my fav cartoons growing up and that gag felt very on-brand for Leo’s silly ‘Void’ persona and i’m a little proud of it hahaha 

The Deal 

“Neon Void was literally blasted into the air. All the while laughing merrily as he soared. He went crashing into a poor, unkept, unsuspecting billboard for the Super Slam Hockey Game that already happened over ten years ago.” – This is SO obscure but this is a reference to one of my favorite 2003 TMNT episodes, ‘The Golden Puck’. The episode is so peak 2000’s cartoon to me with its silly premise and I just loved it LOL. (Southern millionaire who hires sci-fi-technology cowboy bounty hunters to steal a sports trophy in the middle of New York city? Peak old cartoon synopsis.) 

Rap Battle 

● The first few lines of Leo’s freestyle rap are the 2012 TMNT opening theme lyrics 

Boop!

● Leo runs past a ‘Space Heroes' game cabinet– Space Heroes is a reference to the 2012 TMNT, which was the show that Leonardo was obsessed with 

Tag Part I: Sonic 

● Leo bounces off the back of the Sonic the Hedgehog balloon in the parade in reference to the fact that they share the same voice actor LOL Extra fun fact this entire fic was set in autumn/fall JUST to write this NICHE SCENE

I’m sure I missed a few I couldn't remember off the top of my head, but I had a lot of fun putting these little references and easter eggs in the story 🩵 TMNT itself always makes call-backs and references to it's other iterations, and i love love love that and wanted to try myself!

[woradat]

SCENARIO : FINE PRINT

PAIRING - swindle x reader

After the war ended with the Autobots technically “winning” and all – what was left of the economy and legal system resembled a scrapyard fire on a windy day

Enter you: the infamous gray-area legal consultant with a perfect courtroom win streak and a billing rate that makes senators sweat. As long as clients bring enough shanix, you're their savior in a three-piece suit. Which is why you haven't had a single peaceful recharge cycle — former Decepticons are lining up outside your office like it's a Black Friday sale, all begging for: “record wipes / charges dropped / confiscated property restored”

Apparently, galactic war crimes are just.. paperwork now

And one of the most unhinged clients you’ve ever had the misfortune (or financial fortune) to take on?

 Swindle

Arms dealer. Con artist. Entrepreneur. A one-mech Wall Street crash with wheels. He swears up and down he’s done nothing wrong—he just happens to maintain a “business contact list” featuring every name responsible for minor incidents like, oh, intergalactic war. According to him, he's not guilty, he's just networked

—

“I didn’t sell weapons to radical insurgents! I just... opened a pop-up shop next to their hideout. Coincidence!”

“You literally put up a sign that said ‘Half off for certified terrorists"

“That was just marketing!"

·

·

Swindle talks like he’s being paid by the word, lies like it’s a religion, and schemes with the grace of a turbofox in a jewelry store. He’s slippery, shameless, and morally bankrupt—but hey, he pays on time. (In stolen tech, counterfeit credits, or suspiciously ticking crates, sure. But still.)

You? You’re sharp, strategic, and so chronically unimpressed you might be legally classified as allergic to bullshit. You despise his laugh, dread his entrance, and yet… you keep taking his jobs. Because, well. Money smells better than morals.

Every deal starts with ten rounds of shouting, legal threats, and Swindle trying to weasel out of his own paperwork. Every time ends the same

“Swindle” you begin, with the tone of someone who’s about ten seconds from launching themselves into the sun. “You just confessed to registering a business that sells personal nuclear energy... under the names of three dead bots.. that's–”

Swindle beams like a mech who just got away with shoplifting a tank “It’s called creative accounting! And hey, I never used those names to buy bombs. That was, like, a totally different Thursday”

You inhale slowly. Exhale even slower. Somewhere in your frontal processor, a stress circuit quietly fries itself

“Do you want to walk out of this courtroom, or should I go print out the arrest warrant myself in Comic Sans and hand-deliver it to Ultra Magnus with a bow?”

Swindle raises both hands like he’s being held at blasterpoint—optics wide, grin wider “Okay! Okay! I’ll follow your script! Just—please—don’t write ‘intent to defraud’ in the summary. It’s bad for the brand”

You blink “Brand? You’re a glorified black-market vending machine with legs

·

·

Swindle and you? It started as a business arrangement—a painfully loud, legally questionable business arrangement. But somewhere between the bribes, the threats, and the deeply unethical invoices, things got... complicated

You both are survivors. Quick with your words, quicker with your lies. Not evil, just desperately allergic to poverty. And as much as you hate to admit it, Swindle: the galaxy’s most untrustworthy lifeform, might just be the one who gets you the most

He’s a walking lawsuit in a sales pitch, you’re a ticking stress ball in a three-piece suit. He flirts like it’s a side hustle, and every time he drops some smug one-liner your way, there’s this... weird tension. The kind that makes you grip a file folder hard enough to bend steel, just to stop yourself from throwing it at his smirking face

Because sure, he’s slippery, shameless, and full of scrap. But primus help you—he always pays and worse… he always comes back

—

NOTE - I wrote it just in case I ever make a fanfic about him in the future or I'll just leave it to rot. Just thinking about Swindle, he's funny guy. Why not write it down? What my mind was thinking at 2am when I should have been asleep

[moonlightcycle571]

For some reason, in so many Naruto time travel fics, they always try to prevent the Uchiha massacre by preventing the idea of an Uchiha coup. And I’m out here thinking. Would it have been so bad if the Uchiha did do a coup? Considering the ones in power were horrifically incompetent (Hiruzen Sarutobi), horrifically corrupt (the Elders) and just evil (Danzo). So many issues could have been resolved had Itachi and Shisui not gotten involved.

The Uchiha held military power in military village. It really wouldn’t have been hard to assume power after the death of the third hokage and his three main evil advisors. Especially Danzo.

Also, Mikoto is often theorised to be Naruto’s godmother. Ain’t no way she didn’t know exactly who his parents are. With Hiruzen down, she has no more obstacles that could prevent her in taking Naruto in.

Hiruzen Sarutobi did not have a handle on his own village or his own forces. He should have made someone Hokage who he knows would have done a good job.

His main issue was trusting those around him when he really shouldn’t have. He no longer had the means to evaluate who is trustworthy and who wasn’t.

But do you know who had the ability to gain that information? Jiraiya, a literal spy master. He would have put those skills and frogs to work, root out Danzos ROOT and schemes. The Uchiha would have never been shunned if he got wind of the smear campaign. AND he would have had custody of Naruto, aka the resident junchuuriki, aka the ninja equivalent of a nuclear bomb. Naruto would have also been in a safe enough situation where his heritage could be revealed (giving Jiraiya and extra PR boost as his guardian).

Anyways, I remembered that Naruto existed and decided to ramble.

[floralcyanide]

𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 - 𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧!𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫

cillian murphy!oppenheimer x reader

DISCLAIMER: this is fanfiction. it isn’t real. Oppenheimer is a real person, however Cillian!Oppenheimer is not. he is a character. if you have something bad to say just keep it in the drafts (:

“let's all go play Nagasaki, we can all get vaporized. hold my hand, let's turn to ash. I'll see you on the other side.” - 137 by Brand New

warnings: spoilers for Oppenheimer, descriptions of nuclear bomb/ explosion, fear

word count: 1316

author's note: I love Cillian so much, and he did so good in Oppy!! I just had to write about it. please keep in mind there are spoilers in this, don't read if you haven't seen the movie. also, there's only like, one other fic on here for Cillian!Oppy which is sad but I'm sure there'll be more soon. (:

masterlist | add yourself to the taglist here

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

For the last few nights, Robert has woken up abruptly from his sleep. He’ll sit upright and pant, trying his best to catch his breath. It alarms you every time he does this despite him acting like it didn’t happen. But you know he doesn’t go back to sleep after because you feel him toss and turn until morning. Test day is tomorrow, and you can feel Robert’s nervous energy radiating off him. This was it- this was the epitome of his life’s work, and if it failed, he would be lost. And you’re torn between wanting it not to work for humanity’s sake and wanting it to work for Robert’s. 

You have worked alongside your husband for many years despite the pushback from society. But he knows your intelligence and insisted you be involved in the Project. He refused to have anything to do with it unless you assisted him. Lieutenant Groves reluctantly agreed, but he still knew just how capable you were to help with the Project. 

You’re very much a housewife outside of work, though. Despite being a knowledgeable person, you still have duties at home. You’re busy folding laundry when Robert exits the bedroom after getting ready for a meeting. It was the last one before tomorrow’s events. Robert doesn’t say much to you before bidding his farewell and heading out. It wasn’t abnormal for him to mumble a goodbye before putting his hat on and leaving without anything else said. He was reserved unless it was necessary to say something. That’s one thing you admired about Robert; he could be cynical and sarcastic yet humble and a man of few words. 

You would attend a later meeting that evening, so it’s possible you may not see Robert until bedtime. You aren’t worried about him not kissing your son goodnight or missing dinner. You mostly worry he won’t sleep enough.

Later in bed, you and Robert both lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling wordlessly. 

“How are you feeling?” you suddenly ask, breaking the eerie silence.

Robert opens his mouth before shutting it again, shrugging.

You sigh, turning on your side to face him, “I can feel you have nightmares, you know.”

Robert cuts his eyes toward you before giving in and rolling over to face you as well, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you furrow your brow, “There’s nothing to be sorry for. What we’re- what you’re doing is incredibly stressful and world-changing. It’s normal to be anxious over it.”

“That’s exactly why I’m anxious.”

“Which part?”

“The world-changing part.”

You’re quiet for a moment before answering, “What do you dream about?”

Robert’s eyes study yours closely, searching for any instance of potential recoil from what he’s about to tell you. He searches even though he knows he won’t find it because Robert knows that you’d never leave him no matter what. Even if his nightmares were incomparable to even the most descriptive horror stories. What’s worse is that Robert knows no one has ever seen the results of a bomb the magnitude of the one he’s created. So it’s up to his imagination. And his imagination is one of grotesque imagery that he hopes won’t come to fruition.

“Death,” Robert says plainly, with a cold look, “Destruction. Everything in my dreams is obliterated by fire and disintegrates into ash, and even the ash turns into nothingness.”

You purse your lips, gently reaching your hand up to touch Robert’s cheek, running your thumb over his cheekbone.

“I don’t fear for me or for us. I fear for our children,” Robert gives a watery laugh, “And the world they’ll have to grow up in knowing that such weaponry exists.”

You tuck Robert’s head into your chest, “You are merely the creator, darling. You have no control over how they use your creation. And I know that worries you, but you cannot do much about it.”

“I know. You’re right. But the fact I’m the one responsible for such a destructive device,” Robert trails off.

“Your creation is for science exploration and nothing more,” you say, “Remember that tomorrow.”

When you awake at two in the morning to prepare for the test, Robert has already gotten up from bed. You figure he didn’t sleep and has already made his way down the street to prepare. You hurriedly get dressed, grab your son, and walk out the front door. You let your neighbor, one of the wives of another scientist, watch over your son while you and Robert are away. A vehicle has been sent to your home, probably by Robert, to retrieve you. The ride is quiet and bumpy. You figure they would take you to the main hall, but they keep driving into the desert. Everyone must already be at Trinity. 

Trinity is alight, with people who worked on the project scurrying around to find the perfect spot to watch the explosion. You climb off the vehicle and run to the tent where Robert resides with the others. A relieved smile grows on his face when he sees you walk in.

“I didn’t want to see this without you,” he says, pulling you in for a tight hug.

“Did you sleep at all?” you mutter into his shoulder.

“Unfortunately, no. But sleep can come later,” Robert says, returning to the detonation station. 

You cross your arms and walk around aimlessly, watching the scientists scramble to take their places and put sun shades on.

“Ninety minutes,” Robert says from behind you.

You turn around to look at him, a half smile growing on your face, “I’m proud of you.”

“And I’m proud of you, too. Without your suggestions, we may not be here,” Robert plays with a loose strand of your hair.

“I doubt that,” you chuckle, “Your brainpower alone has done the job.”

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Robert says.

After a little under an hour and a half of checking that everything was perfect and prepared, everyone took their places where they wanted to view the test. You’re next to Robert, with goggles on your face that match his. Both of you have ports to get a fantastic view. The countdown begins.

Everyone becomes dead silent as the bomb is detonated. The flash causes you to gasp, your eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness despite the goggles. When the light subsides, you see a mushroom cloud of nothing but fire beginning to rise to the atmosphere. Beside you, Robert grabs hold of your hand and grasps it tightly. 

“Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds,” Robert says with a haunting tone.

You remove your goggles along with everyone else as you squint against the harsh brightness. Before you is the most terrifying, breathtaking thing you’ve ever seen. A firestorm that is capable of mass destruction. A scientific miracle. But before anyone can relax, the sound of air rumbling and rushing toward the tent is heard. The sound of the explosion hits the viewing base violently. The blast wave smacks everyone as they brace themselves against the high wind. Once the hot gust of air subsides and the explosion tapers down, everyone begins to cheer and clap.

“We did it,” Robert says in disbelief before he looks up at you, “We actually did it.”

You nod, smiling at him proudly before engulfing him in a hug.

“I have destroyed the world,” Robert whispers in your ear, and you pull away to see an odd flash of emotion cross his face.

“You haven’t,” you whisper back, as people begin to approach your husband, “But you’ve changed it forever.”

As colleagues surround Robert and move him outside, you remain in the tent for a moment. You replay the mushroom-looking explosion in your head. You begin to ponder what the Manhattan Project’s creation will do for the world. And whether it’s good or bad.

Either way, everyone has been forever changed.