#infinite bombs is fun

[pressurebomb-3]

just got two quality 4 items on the same floor what the fuck

[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

[evilcarmona]

Okay, just listen to me…

So this story starts with the Fentons. Their little omega son was born not so long ago (I don't believe in ABO, where people learn their gender in adolescence, it's weird). In general, he is just a kid, but they decided to go on an expedition because they had an exclusive opportunity… What could have gone wrong?

All. You see, their poor little boy was lost in the mountains. There was nothing they could do. At least their daughter was safe… But because of their carelessness, they lost a child. Because of this, they will never build a ghost portal. In fact, they'll give up ghost hunting altogether and even start visiting Vlad out of guilt (he's a little less of a jerk because they finally remembered him).

In fact, it was a little more complicated.

Let's move to the League. How lucky they were to spot a couple of scientists studying what looked like the Lazarus Pits Water. even better, these idiots were next to their child. Of course, the League took Danny away to blackmail the Fentons into working for them later. But as they delved deeper into their work, it became clear that the Fentons were simply obsessed with ghosts… They are unlikely to be useful.

So they had an omega baby in their arms. Of course, you can get rid of it… But isn't he the same age as the young master? Of course, young alphas benefit from having an omega of their own age around. Why not keep it? Ra's simply waved his hand. He's a f... old man who thinks omegas are cute furniture, if his grandson can get a nice little thing, why not?

So, they grow side by side. Danny's learning some self-defense, but he's not in the best of health, and he's just an omega, so no one thinks he's going to make it. Nor does he show any interest in it. He seems to have inherited all that mad scientist energy from his parents? In this case, he simply joins the scientists working for the League. He tolerates the Water of the Lazarus Pits surprisingly well (after all, when Maddie was pregnant, she was infected with ectoplasm).

So, when Damian got his first missions (let's do the League of Assassins missions with Mom), he started bringing Danny all sorts of things: small hairpins-stars, souvenirs and sweets. It's cute. They became very close. When they promise to marry each other in the future, it's just charming, but Talia doesn't take it seriously, and Ra's just doesn't care (he probably thinks that in 20 years his grandson will have a harem in the spirit of Luo Bingge).

Unfortunately for them, even little Damian takes his promises very seriously.

Only then does Talia pick him up from the League and bring him to his Father. She promises to look after Danny (she lies ). Events follow one another. Soon, Danny joins a project to study the Lazarus Pit water treatment device. What do you think it builds? A few years pass, and Danny becomes the one who launches the portal to the Infinite Realms. Needless to say, he didn't plan on it.

It die. He is alive. When he found out what was on the other side, he destroyed the portal. After collecting the blueprints, he runs out of the league (because now it's much easier for him to do it).

It wasn't that he didn't know where to look for his dear young master. The young master is the only one he can trust with this secret.

After all, it's something fun.

Alfred: A courier came by today. Did Young Master Damian order anything?

Damian: No, what is it?

Alfred: The big box.

Bruce: Be careful, what if it's a bomb?

Danny, jumping out of the box: Has anyone ordered an ectoscientist? A ghost? Maybe the bride?

Somewhere in Amity Park, one of Vlad's inventions starts beeping. He immediately informs the Fentons that an overly powerful ecto-energy burst has been detected… And now it's making its way to Gotham City. They didn't want anything to do with it until Vlad said it was originally near the place where they lost their son.

Could it be the ghost that killed him? Or maybe this is the ghost of their baby, who can be seen for the last time? Anyway, it's the last time the Fentons are out hunting.

(Well, they'll end up hunting really well. I'm not sure what Ra's has to do to get away from Maddie.)

By the way, do you see this ugly suspension with a ghost and a heart? Jack had made it for Maddie before they were married. He was with Danny when he went missing…

[nayziiz]

Pillowtalk | OP81

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x reader

Warnings: some smut, fluff

Author's note: Short and sweet for Osc. Been getting a ton of CS55 requests, so expect some of that coming soon.

Masterlist

Oscar groaned as the recycled air whooshed through the MTC simulator room. Another sunset he wouldn't see thanks to another gruelling preparation session.  Sure, F1 was all about pushing boundaries and whatnot, but right now, pushing the snooze button on his internal alarm clock sounded infinitely more appealing.  He glanced at the blinking steering wheel in front of him, a million buttons mocking him. 

"Essential," his brain chanted sarcastically.  Yeah, essential torture.  At least the stale protein bar he choked down earlier wouldn't fight back when he pretended it was a juicy steak. 

The prospect of her back in their apartment, her absence, a constant ache in his chest, made the cramped simulator room feel even smaller.  He knew she'd be prepping her "welcome home" ritual by now.  First, it would be the low lights, the ones that mimicked a real sunset. Then, the soft jazz that always seemed to melt the tension out of his shoulders, a stark contrast to the incessant hum of the simulator.  Next came her magic touch.  Oscar could practically feel her fingertips already, working their way across his scalp, a symphony of relaxation that could turn his frown upside down faster than any race car in the world.

He pictured her fingers moving down his back, her gentle pressure a welcome contrast to the stiff chair he'd been glued to for the past eight hours. Oscar knew the routine well enough by now. Her efforts were like a well-worn path leading him to sleep, each step a familiar comfort. But Oscar had one quirk in this carefully constructed relaxation ritual: his chattiness. The more exhausted he was, the more his voice box seemed to loosen, overflowing with nonsensical observations and half-baked conspiracies.

Sometimes, she found it endearing. She would play along, asking leading questions, feigning interest in his theories.  Other nights, his ramblings stretched on like an endless loop.  She would listen patiently for a while, her eyelids growing heavy with the drone of his voice.  But inevitably, fatigue would claim her, and she would drift off, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips, only to be woken up later by a trailing sentence or a nonsensical question that hung in the stale air.  Oscar, blissfully unaware, would keep talking, his voice a lullaby of exhaustion until it finally sputtered out, surrendering to the weight of his eyelids.  The silence that followed was a welcome sound, a sign that the bedroom was finally bathed in the quiet hum of sleep.

Other nights, she was too tired to entertain his delirium. He blinked at her, a goofy grin spreading across his face. 

“You know,” he started, his voice thick with sleep, “I was in jail once. It wasn't very fun, let me tell you.”

He hiccuped, a sound suspiciously close to a giggle. Struggling to keep her own eyes open, she jolted awake at his statement.

“Jail? Oscar, what are you talking about?” she retorted.

They had been together since high school, partners in crime when it came to studying. Jail? The closest he ever came to incarceration was detention for accidentally setting off a stink bomb in their high school’s chemistry lab.

“Monopoly,” he mumbled, the word slurring slightly. “Went to jail for, like, three turns. Worst experience ever.”

He punctuated his declaration with a dramatic sigh, then rolled over, burrowing deeper into the  bedsheets with the air of someone who had just solved a major existential crisis. She couldn't help but snort with laughter.  This was classic Oscar behaviour. 

“Honey, if you don't quiet down and get some sleep, you might end up in an early grave, not jail,” she teased, rolling her eyes playfully.

She reached out and gently swatted at his shoulder, the familiar warmth of him a comforting presence.  Oscar's pout, even obscured by sleep, was enough to disarm her.

“You’re so mean,” he mumbled, the accusation laced with a sleep-induced vulnerability.

“Look, it's three in the morning. You haven't slept a wink, and you have practice later this morning.  Think you can handle G-Force with no sleep?” She countered, her voice softened.  She knew the pout was a facade, a sign he was close to drifting off.

“Call it the 24 hours of Montreal,” he teased and nuzzled his face into her neck.

“Call it your last conscious moments before I suffocate you with a pillow,” she retorted, her fingers tracing circles absently on his arm.  She could feel the rise and fall of his chest with each breath, a slow, steady rhythm that was lulling her back to sleep.

“I'm in love with a bully, what has become of this world?” he sighed hopelessly, his breath hitting her neck at the right angle to make her skin tingle.

“Might need to call your Mom and tell her I'm in love with a criminal who went to Monopoly jail, bet she'd be impressed I've lasted this long with you,” she continued to tease him.

“If you continue to be mean to me, I will have to-” he began, but she interrupted him.

“What, Osc, what are you going to do?” she teased, knowing exactly what he intended.

A beat of playful silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken desire.  Then, before she could even form another witty retort, Oscar was a blur of movement.  With a whoop that startled her awake, he was on top of her, his laughter echoing in the room.  His hands, surprisingly nimble for a man who had spent the last eight hours glued to a chair, sought out her ticklish spots with an almost professional ease.  

Caught off guard, she erupted into helpless giggles that filled the room.  She squirmed and swatted at him weakly, more laughter than resistance escaping her lips.  Oscar, emboldened by her reaction, rained kisses down her neck, each one sending shivers down her spine.  Playfulness soon gave way to something more heated.  The laughter died down, replaced by a low moan that escaped her lips as Oscar's kisses migrated south, his touch turning from playful to urgent.

Their make-out session was a slow burn, fueled by exhaustion and a deep longing for each other. Each kiss was a whispered promise, a way of erasing the miles that separated them from a normal life at times. Hands explored, clothes became an impediment, and soon they were tangled together, in a universe of their own making.

The act itself was a whirlwind.  Oscar, fueled by a potent mix of sleep deprivation and pent-up desire, moved with a raw intensity that left her breathless.  He poured every ounce of remaining energy into it, their bodies moving in a perfect rhythm, a silent conversation spoken only in touches and moans.  

Afterwards, as quickly as it had begun, it was over.  Oscar collapsed beside her, a contented sigh escaping his lips.  He fumbled for a cloth, wiping away the afterglow on her skin with a tenderness that belied his previous intensity.  Flushed and breathless, she leaned into his touch, a wave of post-coital bliss washing over her.  

Within minutes, the steady rhythm of his breathing filled the air.  Exhaustion, finally winning the battle, claimed him.  He was out cold, a peaceful smile playing on his lips.  She watched him for a moment, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow on his face.  Oscar, with his sleep talk and his goofy Monopoly anecdotes, was her home, her safe harbour in the unpredictable world they found themselves in.  She snuggled closer to him, the gentle hum of the city in the distance a lullaby lulling them both into a shared sleep.

[catbolt]

Hi! I have 2 chronic illnesses (specifically me/cfs and fibromyalgia) and I've always wondered how the boys would help to take care of a chronically ill mc? I know Xavier would probably nap with her, but I was hoping you could write some drabbles or something please? I really, really appreciate you reading this, even if you don't take it up. Thank you! :) <3

— TAKE CARE

[TAGS] fluff, xavier x mc, zayne x mc, rafayel x mc, sylus x mc (no caleb bc tbh i'm not quite sure how i want to write him yet), 2nd person but canon hunter mc is referenced

[A/N] hii anon! did this sort of headcanon style, hope it's to your liking! don't have any personal experience with chronic illness so kept things pretty vague to avoid mischaracterization (but hopefully still suiting the prompt.)

xavier

doesn’t overburden you with too much talk or make a big deal out of your flare ups, instead spending most of the time just silently, patiently by your side . Napping, watching mindless TV, reading a book side by side with you in bed. 

xavier def gives parallel play vibes-- even if you two aren’t doing the same activity he’ll be next to you, comforting you with the simple warmth of his presence. “need anything?” “want a massage?” “tired?” is as much as he’ll probe. he understands what you need without you even having to say it, often anticipating your needs before you even realize them yourself.

personally he does not gaf about work drama but since he knows you get antsy not knowing what's happening at hunter HQ whenever you have to call out from work, he always prepares a rundown of any work tea for you. he finds himself being even more nosy and attuned to the other hunters at work, just so he can see your eyes light up whenever he gets to tell you about which of the new recruits are flirting with who.

zayne

sometimes it’s a little hard for him not to go fully into doctor mode whenever you're having symptoms, but he tries to rein it in so as to not frustrate/overwhelm you.

he would have very strong reactions to any signs of physical distress from you. seeing you in the middle of a flare up makes him have to confront that you're not one of his patients, you're... you, which is harder, makes things infinitely more complicated. he can't just be calm and orderly as he usually is and prides himself on being when it's you who's in pain.

he's trained himself to panic less and stay logical when it comes to your symptoms, but he has to concentrate to do so, walking himself mentally through his own medical training on your condition to talk him down from overreacting. you wouldn't have thought a doctor of all people would be the type to be on edge about something like this, knowing he's familiar with similar conditions, but for zayne, he definitely has to care for you while also battling his own emotional rollercoaster.

rafayel

cheers you up with little doodles and gifts, trying to keep your spirits high whenever symptoms get particularly bad.

i have this image of him just making little sculptures out of shells from the beach and putting them on your nightstand to decorate the space especially during those times where you're stuck in bed for days. even if he can't be around 24/7, he makes sure reminders of him are around when you go to sleep and when you wake up

video calls you a lot whenever he's out and about by himself, at the studio, taking a walk, even at events, because he doesn't want you to miss out on any of the fun even when you can't physically join.

sylus

definitely the doesn't ask questions and anticipates your needs easily type. sometimes he even overdoes it because he gets carried away but it's sweet either way, like when he prepares a bubble bath for you with a bath bomb and a bunch of essential oils to soothe your muscles and then you have to remind him you took a shower like three hours ago already

sends mephisto to watch over you during flare ups when you're napping or if he's out, and will send checking in texts frequently even though you know he has a full live feed of you from mephisto.

makes luke and kieran also do whatever you need whenever he's not around and you're having strong symptoms. notes under the door saying "boss wants you to check your phone" "boss wants to know if you need anything" "boss says he's working late and that he ordered you dinner, so you should eat without him" are a frequent amusing feature of sylus' care

[cerastes]

Having complete both Monster Hunter World and Monster Hunter Rise and dabbled in both postgames, I do like Rise more.

I liked World a lot. It was a great game for me, I sincerely enjoyed my time with it, but it did have some important lows. I particularly feel like they were trying a lot with Master Rank (DLC) with great intentions but it did not pan out well as part of user experience, such as enemies developing a lot of resistance to Flash Bombs after the first one. I get why, Flash Bombs are stupid strong in Low and High, but if you are going to make Flash Bombs weak in Master Rank, you ought to also compensate by not making enemies that fly 80% of the time, like Shrieking Legiana and Azure Rathalos. You may think it's to incentivize Flinch Shots to ground them... But Flinch Shots only work on non-Enraged monsters. If they are Enraged and you already got your first knockdown with a flash, you are shit out of luck, you just have to poke with your tall verticals, if you have them, and otherwise wait it out. This is the only cause those fights can take 30+ mins a piece: You are just waiting until they can be hit at all.

And it's a lot of other decisions like this, too: If you don't have a blocking weapon, fighting Black Diablos is miserable. In a game where positioning and knowing when to take your turn is extremely important, they introduced Bazelgeuse, who drops random bombs around itself at random intervals (automatically, without an animation) that can just shave off 70% of your HP + Burn, effectively meaning that not only you don't get to take your turn, but you also have to sacrifice another turn to heal after getting bad bomb RNG (hell, literally every other version of Bazel, even Seething from Master Rank in World, is infinitely better because they don't random bomb anymore), Raging Brachydios breaks every rule the game taught you about and then its own rules at the end, being massive, fast, and having a flush set of extremely horizontal moves with area of denial mechanics, and then changing the rules of its exploding slime to "this explodes when I roar", except it's a specific roar that is an attack and not its entering Enrage roar, so you have to look out for which roar the special boy is using.

These are just a few examples, but what I mean to say is that when World hit lows, they were LOW lows. It was actively miserable to have to play those moments. Zorah Magdaros was another insanely miserable moment... Why Are We Using Cannons To Fight This Stage? It's Not Fun. Xeno'jiiva is a nice spectacle the first time and a miserable slog you have to pursue 50% of the time every other time. I do Not Care about the Sieges.

It all feels... Like, why IS this in the game? The highs in World are high, but the lows are very low. I took one look at the World postgame and I outied right out.

I never felt that way in Rise.

Sure, it has some lows -- the DLC final boss was eh and Amatsu is straight ass -- but these moments are so brief and tame compared to the prolonged suffering a bad moment in World brought that I didn't even think about it. Hell, old offenders like Diablos are much more fun in Rise, where they don't use One Single Move 99% of the time that sends them running to the other side of the map. It just feels better designed.

I understand that I am a new fan in the franchise, and that Rise can be considered a sanded, neutered experience to the immersion brought by older titles, like tracking, collecting herbs, and so on... But, see, from that selfsame stance as a new player, it's why I'm sticking with the games now. I hear about the hours of small monster killing and herb picking you have to do in older games before you get to fight your first jobber large monster and I ask myself if I want to do that or I could just go do literally anything else. I like fighting monsters. I fight monsters. I have absolutely no connection to The Classic Experience. I don't want to have any connection to it. Or maybe I will!

Listen, you especially, veteran Monhun player. I am an Armored Core 1 veteran. Grew up playing that and all subsequent games. I don't tell people to go play the classics, I tell people to play 6. And if they like 6, to try For Answer. And if they like that, then I tell them to knock themselves out on whichever they want, be that 1 or Last Raven, because at that point I know they are down to clown with mechanics that have had important QoL changes. Before Armored Core 6, you couldn't hard lock on, needing your manual input to track with the camera. I know the last thing a newcomer wants to hear when playing AC6 is me telling them to Not Lock In Because We Didn't Do That In The Old Days. That newcomer has all the right to tell me to go eat shit. Likewise, I can tell you, as a new player, that I really don't care about how the old games were more immersive. When I care about that, I'll check the old games. Games with more QoL like World and especially Rise are great entry points for people that aren't entrenched with the systems already and would be willing to go back to explore them in the future.

Going back to topic, the focus on combat that Rise had over everything else -- like Did You Bring Your Hot/Cold Drink for the environment? kinda useless ass additional press of a button -- is welcome to me, and it giving us a lot of more moves that you could swap in and out, wirebugs, ukemi, and all those other Rise things make it very fun to play. I am also engaging with the postgame, albeit a bit slower now, but still, the fact that I am around lv.180ish on Anomaly research should tell you I did in fact dabble pretty deeply at least, and I don't consider it wasted time.

But, yeah, wanted to put into words why World, while a great game I enjoyed, ultimately falls below Rise, a great game I still enjoy. I personally think of "High highs and low lows" as a bad thing, because the low lows weight much more on me than high highs.

[goyardgoyangi]

𐙚 bad habit pt. 1 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

⌗ pairings: ino takuma x reader, slight! choso x reader

⌗ summary: you met in your first computer science course— not because either of you were brilliant, but because you were both bombed the first quiz and were too stubborn to quit. he’s the guy you kept bumping into at the campus convenience store at 1AM and a habit of muttering “chat, we’re so cooked” under his breath during quizzes. you? you just wanted to pass. and maybe cry in peace. you study together now— a little too often, a little too late. he makes fun of your variable names. you wear his hoodie during all-nighters. and no one says it out loud, but maybe friends who suffer through CS together… fall for each other a little, too.

⌗ word count: 1.8k

♥ pt. 2 ♥ masterlist ♥

You thought getting into the computer science major would be the hardest part.

Beating out a 71% application rate had to mean something.

Surviving weed-out courses, crafting a personal statement that didn’t make you sound like every other overachiever who taught their grandparent how to restart a computer— that was supposed to be your final boss.

Wrong.

Apparently, the game’s just beginning.

Because it’s Week 1 and there’s already a test. Not even a quiz, a full-blown exam worth 15% of your grade.

Not a quiz. A test. The syllabus had said something vague about "assessment checkpoints," but you hadn't realized they'd be checking if you were built for this within the first five days of class.

The professor just breezes through the rest of the syllabus like it’s Terms and Conditions, casually mentioning that attendance points will also be cumulative and mandatory.

Like it was a fun little bonus. Like it wasn’t about to completely derail your mental health.

You are, in every definition of the word, cooked.

Especially since you, in your infinite optimism, decided to skip linear algebra and now he’s name-dropping matrix multiplication like you’re all old friends.

Which, sure, is a prereq— but you thought you could squeeze it in next quarter. Because you thought, “How bad could it be?”

So now you're here, sitting in the second row with your laptop open, staring blankly at the slides you’ve written meticulous notes about, trying to decode phrases like "eigenvector interpretation" while suppressing the urge to scream.

Long story short: you’re fucked.

But you can’t drop. Not when you clawed your way in. Not when you’ve already fantasized about the stupid little LinkedIn post you'll write when you graduate.

You wanted this. This major, this future— you chose it. So now you get to suffer for it.

So instead of clicking “Unenroll,” you find yourself at the campus convenience store at 12:03AM, hoping a Celsius will give you the will to survive reviewing the sheer number of questions you got wrong on that first quiz.

You don’t expect anyone else to be there this late, except maybe the sad grad students.

But while you’re squinting at the flavors, someone rounds the corner of the aisle. There’s the low rumble of skateboard wheels and the crinkle of plastic as he picks up a Red Bull. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a worn black hoodie and plaid pajama pants like it’s a uniform. And he's—

He’s cute.

Boyish, really. His hair’s a little messy, his under-eye bags dramatic and kind of adorable, and you can’t help but admire how youthful he looks for someone also up past midnight.

You’re not in the mood to crush, not when you’re running on 3 hours of sleep and academic shame, but… God. His eye bags are really cute.

You try not to stare.

You also try not to fall asleep standing up, but your body is fighting you on all fronts. When you move toward the counter to check out, your foot catches on the edge of the aisle carpet.

You stumble forward.

And suddenly, someone’s hand is on your elbow— steady, warm. Holding you up.

You meet his gaze, honey brown eyes, amused and warm.

"Be careful, yeah?"

You mumble a thanks and practically flee to the self-checkout, embarrassed beyond belief. You don’t look back.

The next day, you drag yourself to your professor’s office hours. You’re so tired your vision blurs a little. You’d spent the whole night trying to understand where you went wrong— how you could have possibly missed that many questions on the quiz.

You’re five minutes early. The office is quiet except for the hum of a desk fan. There’s someone already there.

You freeze.

It’s him.

Red Bull guy. Skateboard guy. “Be careful” guy.

He’s sitting across from the professor, leaning over the desk with a notebook open and pen in hand, looking deeply focused. His hoodie’s different today, but just as lived-in.

How the hell did you not notice him in class?

You convince yourself he must be from a different section. You would’ve noticed someone like that, right? The bone structure? You definitely would’ve noticed.

You also assume he’s a TA or grader or something. He just looks so comfortable in here, like he knows what he’s doing. Probably here to help debug someone's recursion disaster.

Until—

“I just don’t get how I got the lowest score,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like, I thought I did alright, but when I checked Canvas it said 35 out of 100. That’s... beyond terrible.”

Your jaw drops.

Thirty-five?

You’re not even sure if that’s comforting or depressing, and nearly choke on your own breath.

You’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry.

On one hand: thank God you’re not the only one struggling. On the other: there’s someone who actually did worse than you

You take a hesitant seat next to him. His gaze flicks toward you.

It takes a second, but he recognizes you too. “Yo,” he says, like you didn’t almost faceplant in front of him nine hours ago.

You blink. “Hi.”

And just like that, you’re no longer alone in your academic downfall.

Because after office hours, just as you’re packing up your laptop with a sense of mild defeat, Ino clears his throat beside you.

“You wanna come study with my tutor?” he asks, eyes hopeful but tired. “Nanami. Took the class last year, has a file of all the assignments. And he interned for Riot Games over the summer, so he actually knows his shit.”

You blink, surprised. “You have a tutor?”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching in a sheepish grin. “I mean… tutor might be a strong word. More like a friend who’s already survived this mess and doesn’t mind explaining it to the rest of us.”

You hesitate for a moment, but honestly, you really need help, and the idea of learning from someone who’s already been through this feels like a lifeline.

“Okay,” you say, finally giving in. “I’ll come. Riot intern, huh? That’s pretty cool— you actually know someone like that?”

“Yeah, we used to skate together all the time when we were younger. Then we both ended up interning at Riot. He did backend dev, and I was doing data science for Valorant.”

He shrugs, flicking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Not that I play PC anymore— too busy trying not to fail this class, honestly.”

His grin turns sheepish but still has that effortless cool that makes you smile back without even trying.

You step out together into the crisp evening air. The campus is quiet, lights flickering on the pavement as students scurry past or lounge on benches, headphones on, notebooks out.

He doesn’t rush like you expect. Instead, Ino slows his pace to match your tired steps. You notice he’s watching you carefully, adjusting his stride so you don’t have to sprint just to keep up.

The gesture is small but feels... considerate. Like he’s already looking out for you, even though you barely know each other.

The walk to the undergrad library takes about ten minutes. Ino casually talks about how he’s been skating since middle school and how he prefers skating at night because the cool breeze helps him relax. When you mention you’ve never learned to skateboard, he laughs and teases that you’d probably be the type to rent a Lime scooter instead.

The library’s glass doors slide open smoothly. Inside, the quiet hum of fluorescent lights and the soft tapping of keyboards greet you. It’s comforting, familiar.

You both find a table tucked in a corner, away from the main clusters of students.

“Here’s the plan,” Ino says, pulling out his laptop. “We wait for Nanami to finish his lecture downstairs, and in the meantime, we try to finish as much of the homework as we can before he gets here to review it.”

You nod, setting up your laptop. You try to start on the first problem, the one about recursion, but your brain immediately threatens to shut down.

Ino leans over your screen, pointing at your code. “You named that variable ‘ballerinaCappuccina’? Dude, what?”

You laugh despite yourself. “More memorable than ‘x’ or ‘temp’, okay?”

He snickers, shaking his head. “You're so brainrot.”

Time slips by as you swap dumb jokes and lament the professor’s cryptic hints. You find yourself relaxing, your earlier dread melting into something softer.

Then the door opens again, and Nanami steps in.

He moves with an easy confidence, glasses sliding down his nose, hair a little tousled but neat. His tee sports a pixelated game logo you recognize, and he’s carrying a backpack that looks surprisingly clean for a CS major.

You glance up, surprised by how different he is from Ino.

If Ino’s energy was all skater-boy charm and casual cool, Nanami's would be hot, slightly nerdy, and intensely focused— like someone who clearly spent all night grinding out code but still somehow looks handsomely tired in the morning.

You catch your breath for a moment.

Cute, you think. Definitely cute.

Ino waves him over. “Yo, Nanami! This is my study buddy— also failing this class with me.”

Nanami gives a small smile as he slides into the seat next to Ino. “Ino, try not to embarrass yourself. It’s not that hopeless— yet.”

With a calm confidence, he starts breaking down the first week's concepts— functions, APIs, database calls— with a precision and clarity that almost makes you think you could pass this class if you had him as your professor.

You and Ino trade notes, nodding along, asking questions, laughing when Nanami mocks the actual professor’s habit of using vague buzzwords.

Between explanations, Nanami looks at you briefly and says, “You’re doing better than most first-timers. Keep at it.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest.

Hours pass, the late-night study session stretching into the early morning. The three of you share snacks from Ino’s backpack— a sad assortment of Takis, a couple of peach ring gummies, and a can of Red Bull you suspect was bought last night at the convenience store.

You realize, with a little startle, that this is the first time you’ve felt truly at ease since the quarter began.

The three of you fall into a rhythm— Ino’s lighthearted jokes, Nanami's steady patience, and your stubborn determination.

The future still looks impossible.

But for now, with these two by your side, it feels a little less like you’re totally cooked.

[blank-potato]

Best Friend's Brother

Pairing: Lochlan Ratliff x Reader

Summary:

She smiled again, a little brighter this time. “Just– no more ditching. And absolutely no seducing my brother.” You held up your hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honour.” You had nothing to feel guilty about; you hadn’t done anything (yet). And you meant what you said. You’d never get with Saxon. Lochlan, on the other hand… Or You're Piper's best friend, and you know Lochlan likes you. So, in your infinite wisdom, you decide to tease him until he finally makes a move.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, p in v sex, sex on the beach, teasing, pining, childhood crush, flirting with Saxon to make Lochlan jealous, first time, loss of virginity

WC: 4.9k

A/N: The link to the request is here. Enjoy Lochy being the best at pining.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

He was eager. Loyal. A little awkward, but always endearing. 

Lochy was cute.

He was the sweet, quiet, unassuming type. And he liked you a lot, you’d noticed it ages ago. Like during a sleepover at Piper’s place when you were kids, he kept finding excuses to come into the room. Or when you were lounging by the pool during the summer, and he spent the whole afternoon showing you all the new magic tricks he’d learned just to impress you. Or how he’d practically be at your beck and call whenever you were over, fetching you drinks and sneaking into the kitchen to grab your favourite snacks without even being asked.

Back then, it was just fun to tease him a little. You never really considered anything more. He was Piper’s little brother, after all. Just a kid with a crush.

But he wasn’t so little anymore. He was heading off to college soon, taller now, his features sharper, handsome, even. You’d caught yourself staring once or twice.

Piper invited you on holiday with her family, mostly to act as a buffer when she inevitably dropped the bomb that she was moving to Thailand after graduation. You were like family to the Ratliffs at this point, practically their second daughter, so it made sense. You could smooth things over, soften the blow. Distract her mum with stories from university, help her dad process the news over a cold beer by the pool.

Not that you’d ever do anything. Best friend's brother? Such a cliché.

Still… the thought was tempting.

Maybe, just maybe, you could have your cake and eat it too.

You weren’t exactly thrilled about being used as a human shield, but it was hard to say no. Plus, after the semester you had, a week away in the sun didn’t sound like a bad way to spend the break.

You didn’t factor Lochy into the equation.

Not really.

You knew he’d be there, of course. Piper said as much. But you didn’t expect him to look like that. He was taller than you remembered, his curls a little longer, falling into his eyes in an unfairly charming way.

It’s a little distracting. But not as distracting as you are to him.

You’re sitting out by the pool, legs stretched out, sunglasses on, pretending to scroll through your phone. But you can feel it, his eyes on you. Not full-on staring, but those lingering glances he thinks you won’t notice. He’s trying to be casual about it, but he’s terrible at being subtle.

“Lochy…” you call in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up.

There’s a beat, then he’s at your side like a puppy who’s just heard the treat bag crinkle. “What’s up?” he asks, already hanging on every word like it might be important.

You tilt your sunglasses down just enough to catch his eyes. He freezes under your gaze, trying to look cool but failing adorably.

You smirk.

“Can you put lotion on my back? I can’t reach,” you ask, adding a little pout that makes his knees visibly weaken.

“Yeah. Of course,” he says quickly, his voice slightly higher than usual as he grabs the bottle. You roll onto your front, propping your chin on your arms, giving him full access.

He kneels beside you and starts spreading the lotion across your back, his hands warm and steady, moving in slow, deliberate circles. His touch is careful at first, almost too polite, but you sigh contentedly and start to relax. 

“You’re so good at this, Lochy,” you murmur, voice full of teasing praise.

“Anyone could do this,” Lochlan deflects, his tone a little too fast, a little too flustered.

But you’re not letting up.

“No, I’m serious,” you say, voice smooth and syrupy. “You have such strong hands.”

His fingers pause for a fraction of a second and then resume, slower now, more deliberate. You can practically feel him concentrating on not reacting, not letting you see how affected he was. You know he’s already on the edge, but you can’t help pushing him a little further; it’s too easy. 

“It feels really good,” you add, practically moaning when you say ‘really’.

He swallows. You hear it.

“Yeah?” he says, his hands lingering at your shoulders.

***

You bite back a smile, “I wouldn’t lie to you, Lochy.”

It was only the second day there, and you knew it was going to be way too much fun.

"Piper, I love you, but there’s no way I’m getting out of this pool."

Piper sighed, standing at the edge with her arms crossed. "It’s just a trip to the monastery... and I really want to go."

You blinked the water from your eyes, squinting up at her. "I went with you last time."

"I know," she said, her voice softening. "But I think you could get something out of it; it could even be enlightening for you."

You supported Piper’s spiritual journey, you really did, but you didn’t sign up for this. You were here for the sun, the water, and maybe a chance to forget the world for a while.

And of course, you were just barely out of the pool, water dripping from your skin, when Lochlan and Saxon arrived.

Saxon smirked as he strolled over, eyes openly tracking the droplets sliding down your body. Lochlan lingered a few steps behind, awkward but curious.

“You know,” Saxon said, tilting his head, “you’re not bad when you’re half-naked.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing a towel. “Wish I could say the same about you. Still awful, even with the good looks.”

Saxon gave a confident smirk that made you want to throw a chair at him. “So you think I’m good-looking?”

Before you could fire back, Piper groaned and threw her hands up in exaggerated frustration. “Fine. Stay here and flirt with my brother.”

“Piper…” you whined, reaching out with wet fingers, but she was already turning away, tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Don’t mind her, she’s a bore,” Saxon says before looking you up and down, “I never recalled you looking like this. When did you get hot?”

“Seriously, Saxon? Got tired of being rejected by the girls by the pool, you’ve come to try your hand with me?”

“It’s a numbers game,” Saxon said in his usual confident tone. “And something tells me you’re just as into this as I am.”

He was sitting close now, too close. You could feel the heat of his body, even without contact. It radiated off him like a challenge, like a dare.

But you could feel something else, too. The quiet, familiar pressure of Lochlan’s gaze. Even without turning, you knew he was watching. And from the corner of your eye, you could see the tight line of his jaw, the way his arms crossed like he wasn’t sure whether to walk away or intervene. He looked… uncomfortable, a little sad, conflicted. And definitely jealous.

Why not keep having fun?

You leaned in closer to Saxon, your lips brushing just shy of his ear as you whispered, “You couldn’t handle it.”

He laughed, low, breathy, surprised. His fingers slid along your side, hands finding your waist like they belonged there. He pulled you in, just enough that your skin almost touched.

“Let me prove you wrong,” Saxon murmured, his breath hot against your skin, voice low and full of intent.

You placed your hand on his thigh, slow and deliberate, eyes locking with his before flicking down to his lips.

“I think you’re losing your touch,” you said with a teasing smirk, then winked. And just like that, you stood.

Water still clung to your skin as you walked toward the house, hips swaying with more purpose than necessary. As you passed Lochlan, you gave him an innocent smile, like you hadn’t just been this close to making out with his brother.

Your smile said nothing and everything.

You didn’t look back, but you knew what you’d left behind: two brothers, equally frustrated, but only one of them truly rattled.

Because while Saxon was playing the game, Lochlan wasn’t. 

***

You were getting ready for dinner, towel-drying your hair and trying not to think too hard about the heat still lingering in your skin. Piper finally came back from the monastery, stepping quietly into your shared room.

“Pipe!” you exclaimed, rushing over and throwing your arms around her from behind. “I’m sorry. I ditched you. That wasn’t fair.”

She let out a slow breath. “I’m just… disappointed. And that whole thing with Saxon—”

“Absolutely not,” you cut in quickly, stepping around to face her. “I’d never do that to you. And Saxon? Come on. He’s not even my type. You know that.”

Your voice was steady, honest. Reassuring.

“I’d never get with Saxon,” you said again.

And that part was true. Completely. You weren’t lying. But still, you knew Piper. She’d have an actual conniption if something did happen. 

“So…” you said, glancing back at her, forcing a smile. “You forgive me?”

Piper sighed, her expression softening. “Yeah. I mean, I was fine on my own. I can sulk about it or I can let it go, right?”

You gave a small, relieved nod. “Right. Let it go.”

She smiled again, a little brighter this time. “Just– no more ditching. And absolutely no seducing my brother.”

You held up your hands in mock surrender. “Scout’s honour.”

You had nothing to feel guilty about; you hadn’t done anything (yet). And you meant what you said.

You’d never get with Saxon.

Lochlan, on the other hand…

***

The next day, you have him all to yourself. Hanging out with Lochlan was fun, especially when it was just the two of you, no interference, no one to sway him, just Lochlan.

You’re sitting together on the beach when he drops a bomb on you. 

“I just... I don’t know if I want to go to Duke.”

You look at him, a little surprised. Duke had always been the plan for him. His father’s alma mater, his brother’s alma mater, the family legacy. There were even pictures of a baby Lochy in a Duke sweatshirt, for goodness’ sake.

You lean back, your elbows digging into the warm sand. “Where do you wanna go?”

Lochlan hesitates. In the rush of college decisions and pressure from his family, no one had really asked him that. It had always been assumed he’d go to Duke, and that was final. But he had actually been applying to schools across the country, quietly, almost guiltily.

“I want to go out west,” he says finally. “I actually got into Berkeley.”

“You got in?” you repeat, eyebrows raised, voice full of disbelief and excitement.

He nods sheepishly.

“I’m so proud of you!” you say, sitting up and brushing the sand off your elbows before throwing your arms around him. You basically tackle him into the sand, but he doesn’t seem to mind; he laughs, arms wrapping around you without hesitation.

“Thanks,” he says. “But it’s not like I can go.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His beautiful brown eyes are serious, clouded with doubt. You know he’s someone who often puts everyone else’s needs before his own.

“You can totally go,” you say, your voice firm but kind. “They might be mad at first, but they’d get used to it. You have to do what’s right for you.”

Plus, you knew Piper was about to drop an even bigger bomb, so you doubt they’d mind as much. He stares at you like he’s trying to figure out why you talked to him like this when no one else did. 

“My mom will be worried about what her friends at the country club will say. Not to mention my dad, Saxon—”

You shake your head. “This isn’t about them. It’s about you. If you want to go to Berkeley, then you should.”

“They’ll disown me,” Lochlan says with a small smile, trying to make it a joke, but the weight in his voice betrays the truth underneath. He wouldn’t be surprised if it changed everything.

“Then you can come hang with me instead,” you grin, ruffling his hair. “I’m more fun anyway.”

He preens under your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. Your hand in his hair felt like something he didn’t know he’d been craving until just now.

“If you want something,” you say, voice dropping as your fingers linger for a beat too long. You pause, eyes flicking down to his lips, just briefly, but not so briefly he doesn’t notice. His breath catches.

“…take it.”

For a second, the world stills. The waves hush. The heat between you blooms like fire in your chest. He looks at you like he’s not sure if this is real, like he might be dreaming.

And then… he moves.

“I should go. I told Saxon I’d meet up with him after he went to the gym.”

You shake off the rejection as best you can, forcing a light tone. “Oh yeah. Wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

Right. Of course.

He moves away from you, and the shift in energy is immediate, like the sun just dipped behind a cloud.

He hesitates for half a second, like he might say something more, but then just gives you a faint smile.

“I’ll see you at dinner?”

You nod, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Sure.”

You watch him walk off, hands in his pockets, the space between you stretching with every step. He glances back at you once… then again. He wants you; you just had to be patient.

***

You’re stretched out on a lounge chair, tucked beneath the overhang near the side of the house, half-hidden, soaking up the last golden stretch of daylight. After you had come back to the villa to lick your wounds, you spent your time entertaining Victoria’s country club gossip, reading and thinking about Lochlan’s lips. All great activities. Now you’re waiting until the rest of the Ratcliff family filters down for dinner. 

And then you hear them.

Saxon’s voice floats up from the path leading back to the house.

“Are you just gonna stare at her all week or fuck her?” Saxon chides.

“But isn't it kind of weird? She's Piper’s best friend,” Lochlan says, his voice uneasy.

“A pussy’s a pussy.” Saxon’s voice is blunt, unapologetic. “Don’t act like you don’t want her. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

You watch as the younger brother takes in his words and hesitates, his expression torn like he knew just what it’d do to Piper if she found out.

“Lochlan, you can't just sit on the sidelines your whole life. If you want something, take it, and trust me, she wants it.” Saxon’s words are sharp, daring. Lochlan considers your words from earlier on and kicks himself for not doing anything about it. 

“I just–”

“No little brother of mine is going to die a virgin, alright?” Saxon interrupts, the challenge clear in his voice. “You’re cute, girls like her like that.”

“Like her?” Lochlan questions.

Saxon shrugged, like it should be obvious. “You know. College girls.”

“It’ll be good practice for when you start at Duke in the fall,” Saxon added, grinning as he reached out to ruffle Lochlan’s hair just like you had. “They’re gonna be all over you.”

From your hidden spot, you peeked just in time to catch the moment, Saxon’s hand messing up Lochlan’s already windblown curls, Lochlan trying not to smile but failing just a little. Still quiet. Still unsure.

Lochlan looked down, his voice quieter now. “Yeah?”

It wasn’t really a question.

“Yeah,” Saxon replied, softer this time. Then, with a grin, he added, “You better fuck her before I beat you to it.”

He slung an arm around Lochlan’s shoulders as they stepped inside, still laughing, their conversation fading with the sound of the door clicking shut behind them.

You stayed frozen, lying low on the lounger, hidden from sight. The warmth of the day was still clinging to your skin, but it couldn’t compare to the slow burn under your ribs.

You stared up at the sky, watching the clouds shift lazily, your mind buzzing with what you’d just heard.

You hoped Lochlan wouldn’t make a move. You really did. If anything happened, your friendship with Piper would end up hanging by a thread. Everything would get messy.

But at the same time…

You wanted him to.

You wanted him to find you alone, to kiss you like he’d been thinking about it for days, to touch you like he meant it, like he couldn’t help himself.

***

After dinner, you found yourself locked in yet another verbal sparring match with Saxon. No less heated than the last three. Honestly, it was starting to feel like a tradition, one you didn’t particularly enjoy.

Piper sat between you two, trying her best to play peacekeeper. “It’s not worth arguing over,” she whispered, giving you a pointed look.

But Saxon just smirked at you, that smug tilt of his mouth that made you want to throw your napkin at him.

You needed air. Space. Time to cool off. So instead of heading back with the others, you slipped out and took a quiet walk to the beach. The sun had fully set, and the stars were beginning to blink into view. The sand was cool under your feet, the tide low, and the shoreline nearly deserted.

“I know a cool place,” came a voice behind you.

You turned to find Lochlan, hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie, his eyes soft in the moonlight.

“Yeah?”

He nodded. “C’mon.”

You follow him barefoot across the sand, the moon casting silver shadows as the sound of the ocean grows louder. He leads you to a secluded curve of the beach. This part of the shoreline feels untouched, almost sacred. It was lit up with a soft, otherworldly glow, like the ocean had swallowed the stars.

“What is that?” you say in awe.

“It’s bioluminescent plankton,” he says, his voice low, reverent. “They react to movement in the water, chemicals in their bodies light up when disturbed. It’s like… nature’s magic.”

“I love that you know things like that,” you say, eyes never leaving the glowing tide as it curls in and out.

He smiles shyly and sits down on a smooth, flat rock, brushing a bit of sand off the spot beside him. Then he offers you his hand.

You take it without hesitation, settling beside him, close enough to feel his warmth against your side. 

“You okay?” he asked finally, glancing sideways at you.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I just… needed to get away for a minute.”

“Same.”

You can tell he’s holding something in; there's something just below the surface that he’s been dying to get out. 

“Do you…like Saxon?”

You laugh, guffaw, even. 

“Saxon? What gave you that idea?” You reply. 

“The way you guys were talking at dinner, and yesterday too. The way you…” He pauses as if seeing it for the first time,”...touched him.”

“Oh, Lochy, did you get jealous?” You tease, already seeing his ears starting to turn red. Lochlan’s cuteness was truly unmatched. 

“I’m not–”

“You don’t need to lie to me. You’re not too hard to read.”

Just as you finish the sentence, you shift a little closer to him, barely closing the space between you, but enough that he notices. Your fingers find his leg, tracing lazy, delicate patterns on the fabric of his jeans. The touch is featherlight, but it sends a ripple through him.

You don’t miss the way his body tenses, or the subtle gulp he tries to swallow down. It’s quiet, but unmistakable.

You glance up at him through your lashes, pretending not to notice, like this isn’t a test he’s already failing beautifully.

“Tell me you were jealous,” You say, all glib and smooth. 

It’s mostly to feed your ego, but seeing him be so all out of sorts because of you was giving you goosebumps. 

“I was jealous.”

“Because…?”

He hesitates, his gaze dropping to the floor like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. His fingers fidget in his lap, and for a moment, you think he might shut down altogether.

But then he looks back at you.

“Because I like you… a lot,” he says, thankful that his voice didn’t sound weak. “I have for years. Since you used to come over with Piper and had braces and wore that oversized hoodie every day.”

You blink, surprised. Not because you didn’t know, but because you weren't expecting it to affect you this much. 

“You used to sit on the porch and actually listen to me rant about dumb high school drama,” he continues, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “And you gave me advice about girls, which was unbearable, considering how much I liked you and…”

He trails off, shaking his head like the words are coming faster than he can catch them.

“And every time you come home from college, you’d bring me something. A snack I liked, or some little thing you saw and thought I’d want. No one ever does that. You actually listen to me. You see me.”

You freeze, eyes widening just a little.

You thought it was a crush. A “you’re pretty and older and cool” kind of thing. Harmless. Shallow.

But you should’ve known better.

This was Lochlan. He was sweet and sensitive. The same wide-eyed Lochy who used to trail after you, telling you facts about the ocean and all the creatures that live in it.

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Please, say something.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, like he was scared to break the moment, or break himself. He was hanging onto every breath you took, like one word from you could either save him or shatter him.

“And I want you.”

“I like you too, Lochy.”

His eyes widened, full of hope and disbelief, like he didn’t think he’d ever hear those words come out of your mouth.

Something in the air shifted. Softer, slower, charged in a way that wasn’t just about want, it was about trust. His breath caught, and you could see him piecing it together. He knew what you meant. He always did. But now he was letting himself feel it.

“The thing is…” he started, swallowing. “I’m a virgin.”

You moved closer, your knees brushing his, your body warm and inviting. His eyes flickered down to your mouth, then back up. He could smell your perfume now, something soft and sweet that made his head spin.

You smiled, one hand moving up to his cheek again, thumb grazing his jaw.

“That’s okay,” you whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”

You straddle him slowly, deliberately, your knees on either side of his hips as you settle into his lap. His hands hover at your waist like he’s waiting for permission before resting there softly. 

You kiss him deeply as you both melt into each other’s touch.  You feel the way his breath catches in his chest, the way he melts beneath your touch. You have him right where you want him.

By the time you finally pull back, his lips are parted, his eyes heavy and full of something raw and pleading. They flick between your eyes and your mouth like he can’t decide which to worship first.

“Please,” he whispers, voice wrecked even though you’d barely touched him. “Let me fuck you.”

The way he said it would replay in your mind forever.

You lean in again, this time to rest your forehead against his, your fingers drifting up into his hair, petting it softly. 

“How can I say no to that?”

You give him a chaste kiss before hopping off his lap and starting to strip. Every working part of his brain, every flicker of attention, was now fully dedicated to you. To memorise the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your smile, the way your eyelashes brushed your cheeks when you closed your eyes.

“What if someone sees us?” Lochlan says, but you wave away his concerns. 

“It’s quiet and dark enough over here, so no one will see. Now get naked, or do you want me to get started on my own?” You tease with a pout, and before you know it, he’s pulling off all his clothes.

In a wave of assertiveness, he’s pulling you back to him and laying you down onto the sand like he can’t keep his hand off of you. 

He kisses you again, soft at first, then deeper, fuller, like he’s trying to memorise the way you taste, the way you feel beneath his hands. Like it might be his last chance, and he doesn't want to waste a second of it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice shaky with sincerity. Each word is pressed against your skin, your lips, your breath. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

He wanted to show you just how good he could make you feel. He has been thinking of this for far too long and didn’t want to waste it, especially when you looked so perfect underneath him. 

“I’m so lucky…,” Lochlan says, and you can tell it’s genuine, something about the breathlessness in his voice or the fact that he’s rubbing your clit while say it. 

“Lochy,” you moan out, and that only gives him more reason to keep going; you bring yourself that much closer to the edge. You buck your hips against his, feeling his hard cock pressing against you. “Please, I need you just…”

He didn’t need to be told twice, so he slowly entered you. You were tight around him, the sensation so good that he thinks he’s died and gone to heaven.

“Want me to give it to you?” he asks, his voice low and husky, barely containing the tension coiled in his chest.

You nod fervently, but that’s not enough for him. He stays still, now completely inside you, eyes locked on yours.

“I want to hear you say it,” he says softly, looking into your eyes. It’s not demanding, not arrogant, it’s vulnerable. Like he needs your words, not just your touch. Like he wants your permission, your trust, your validation.

His eyes darken, his breath catching, and for a moment, all he can do is look at you, like you just undid him completely with those words. Then he leans in, forehead against yours, his hands anchoring you gently in place.

You swallow, your voice trembling with need, but firm.

“I want you to give it to me,” you whisper. “Make me forget anyone else I’ve ever been with.”

“You will,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

And with that, he starts rocking into you, intent on pleasing you. 

You cup his face gently, your thumb brushing along his cheekbone as you lean in, your lips grazing his neck, then his collarbone. He shudders under your touch, eyes fluttering closed, completely at your mercy.

“Is this good?” he whispers against your skin.

He smiles down at you, feeling so lucky that he gets to see you like this. All messy and desperate just for him. He could get addicted to you needing him to please you. He thinks back to all the times when you flirted with Saxon in front of him and intentionally teased him, all of that leading to this. To you, squealing and begging for him. Holding onto him like he’s all that matters. 

You nod, unable to form words, your fingers tangling in his hair as you hold him close.

“Don’t stop…” you breathe, the plea spilling from your lips before you can second-guess it.

You didn’t care about the risk, not now. If your friendship with Piper imploded tomorrow, you’d deal with it tomorrow. You only needed this. His hands, his mouth, the way he looked at you like you were the only girl in the world. 

His brow furrows in pure pleasure as he grinds his hips against you. Loving the way each of his thrusts made you moan for him. He had you saying “fuck” repeatedly like it’s your new mantra.

“Tell me how much you want me,” You whine, as your legs twitch and tremble around his waist.

“Want you so bad,” Lochlan breathes, voice rough and full of heat. His forehead presses gently to yours, his hands trembling just slightly where they rest on your hips. “Wanted you for so long.”

Tonight was everything.

Finally being able to be with you, to touch you, to feel your skin against his. It was right, he wouldn’t want to lose his virginity to anyone but you. 

“I’m close,” you yell out and Lochlan can tell your pussy clenching down on him as you whimper into his ear. 

It isn’t long before you’re finishing together, moaning out each other’s names. When you both come down from your high, you look at Lochlan, with his blissful expression, making you feel a little proud. You’re sure the shame and guilt would come eventually, but not today. 

“We should go skinny dipping tomorrow night,” you murmur, a lazy smile playing on your lips as you lean your head on his shoulder.

Lochlan lets out a soft laugh, his arm tightening around you. 

“You’re such a bad influence.”

Main Masterlist || The White Lotus Masterlist

[villain-enthusiast]

heyy i don’t have something specific in mind but can you please right something about a morally grey villain and a civilian. make it romantic and flirty and stuffff

Civilian was going to die.

The explosion from the bomb had obliterated half the bank within fractions of a second. The blast was far enough from their office that they weren't directly affected, but evacuating the actively crumbling building could easily kill them.

Rubble rained down as they desperately ran down the dusty hallway to the stairwell. Why did they have to be three stories up? Would they even get all the way down before the place collapsed?

Boom!

Civilian barely had time to react before they were thrown off their feet from the force of the blast that had detonated from the room beside them. Their back smacked into the opposite wall, pain and shock rippling through them as they hit the ground, rendering them helpless.

They couldn't move. This was it. They were going to—

"Oh, sweetheart."

Civilian jerked their head up to see someone standing over them, not a single speck of dust visible on their impeccable black clothes. Not the uniform of a co-worker or a rescue team member, Civilian realized with dismay.

The person crouched down in front of them, head tilted. "I could've sworn I got everyone out in time. I guess you're just a little elusive, huh?" They smirked and ruffled Civilian's hair, wildly playful considering the life-or-death situation they were in right now.

Wait.

The realization struck them like a brick to the head. “You set the bomb off,” they wheezed. “You’re Villain.”

Villain gave them a mock salute. “Nice to meet you too."

The floor wobbled dangerously and Civilian squeaked in fear, trying and failing to prop themselves up. "Please...please don't kill me," they blurted.

"Wow, who do you think I am?" Villain placed a hand on their chest in mock disbelief. "Eh, besides, you're too cute to murder. Or leave for dead,” Villain added as the building groaned, swaying on its foundations.

Civilian flushed, not sure if they should be flattered or absolutely terrified that their whole fucking workplace was about to collapse and that this bastard was trying to flirt with them—

Villain scooped Civilian up without warning, hoisting them into a bridal carry. They yelped in surprise as a block of cement crashed down onto the exact spot where they were laying just seconds ago.

“See?” Villain grinned at Civilian, bearing in close. “Too cute to leave behind.” Their face was near enough for Civilian’s eyes to flick down to their lips. Their grin widened in acknowledgment.

Villain turned abruptly and ran down the hallway towards the stairs, throwing the door open. Three flights down stared back, seeming infinitely long, too long.

But Villain was still smiling like they were gonna make it out of the bank on time. They looked down at Civilian, who had unconsciously fisted their hands into the lapels of Villain’s jacket.

“Yeah, just like that,” Villain said, winking at Civilian.

Civilian blinked, their mind flailing for footing. Just like what—

“Hold tight!” Villain whooped, and instead of booking it down the steps, they jumped onto the railing and slid down, handless.

Holy fucking shit. Civilian squeezed their eyes shut and held on so tight onto Villain’s jacket, stomach lurching. If the bombs didn’t take them out, then this would definitely—

They felt the Villain jump onto solid ground before they could even finish their thought. Oh.

“Aren’t you a scaredy-cat,” Villain teased, that shit-eating, infuriatingly charming grin back on their face. “Ever been on a roller coaster before?”

“No, I’ve never had fun in my life before, actually,” Civilian snapped back sarcastically.

“Hm,” Villain made their way out of the stairwell, casually walking towards the entrance as if the bank wasn’t crumbling around them. “Well, they’ve been saying amusement park dates are all the rage. Maybe this is my sign to take you out.”

Civilian fumbled for a response. Why was this criminal so good at rendering them speechless?

“You’re not saying no…” Villain murmured, exiting the building seconds before it promptly collapsed, throwing onlookers into chaos and allowing them to blend in with the crowd. The timing was almost comedic.

They slipped into an empty alley, Civilian still in their arms.

“I’m not putting you down until you say yes,” Villain urged, eyes glinting with playful mischief.

Civilian, despite themselves, rolled their eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be a bad guy? What happened to ‘Now I take you back to my spooky dark lair and lock you up and torture you until Hero comes and I fight them to the death’?”

Villain smiled, but it was warmer, more genuine this time. “I guess I prefer it when people look at my lips and clearly want to kiss me instead of looking at me like I’m a monster.”

Civilian paused, dissecting the layers of that statement before—damn them—glancing again at Villain’s perfectly kissable mouth.

Villain ran their tongue over their bottom lip, clearly toying with Civilian, but fuck, it was working.

It was the nearing wail of police sirens that shook them out of their trance. They groaned, stupefied at how they almost fell for the person who just blew up their workplace. “Please put me down.”

“And here I thought I almost had you.” Villain sighed and set Civilian down on the ground. “Unfortunately, the authorities tend to annoy me a bit, so this is where I take my leave. It was nice meeting you, sweetheart.” They bowed to Civilian and began to make their way down the alleyway.

Fuck, the way the nickname made Civilian’s stomach flutter. Fuck fuck fuck— “Disneyland, this Friday, 10 AM,” they blurted.

Villain stopped in their tracks, and although they didn’t turn around. Civilian could feel that stupid little smirk on their face.

“See you then.” Then they disappeared around the corner.

As it turns out, roller coasters really weren’t so bad when you have someone doing it with you.

[edibleashell]

TUA S4 feels

Pretty sure that Umbrella Academy S4 finale left a permanent scar on my psyche. Still one of my favorite shows but I might just end after season 3 in future rewatches. So many issues with S4.

In like episode 1 we got Ben and Jennifer touching and that started a countdown to the end of the world and the whole season was just junk to fill that time. So many good ideas that weren't done properly at all. Shuffling their powers? Alternate timelines? Hargreaves owning pretty much everything? Abigail just being alive? Pointless.

Luther was just a repeating loop of stripper and home decorating jokes.

Diego should have been a martial arts instructor or something not a depressed delivery guy. A bunch of jokes about him getting out of shape only to reveal that he's still jacked. He throws a potted plant and misses. His arc is just Big Sad for no reason and the relationships he built in the first three seasons were apparently irrelevant, if anyone would have been taking care of Safety Klaus it would have been him.

Allison's character was just an accessory to Klaus, after three seasons of her trying to reclaim the family she lost she ended up spending more time as a tool to Klaus's arc than she did with Claire. And Ray just being casually written out was so disrespectful.

Klaus, oh poor Klaus, my favorite character, what did they do to you? He should have been a nurse or something but instead he was paranoid, then pissed off because the writers decided that Klaus would equate marigold with drugs and just fall right off the wagon? And then he goes to some sketchy guy he owes money to even though S1 Klaus is shown just buying drugs from random people? All to justify his prisoner plot, none of which had any real impact. And he can fly for a second for some reason. Okay.

Five working for the CIA was bad. He should have been the retired fun uncle to Claire and Grace. After spending fifty years trying to get back to his family why did he keep leaving them? Why did he hook up with his brother's wife after only six years? And am I supposed to believe that in every timeline he has the same haircut? That none of the other Fives lost their arm? How did he never notice his boss's blatant umbrella tattoo? He just casually strolls through "his" apocalypse as though he doesn't have ptsd, and why were he and Lila living off sewer rats when they had infinite timelines to scavenge?

I was so excited to see Ben witg the family but one episode in he becomes a bomb and fucks off with a girl who can hardly be called a character.

Viktor was the only character I thought got some form of authenticity and justified growth, his arc kind of seemed like a ripoff of S3 Klaus though. And we missed out on what could have been a really beautiful scene of him drawing the upside down umbrella on his arm.

Lila went from "I don't want to be like my mom" to a motherhood cliche. And what was the deal with her family? She just found her parents and they immediately accepted her or something? Was there another Lila in this universe? That made no sense. If anyone would have joined the CIA it would have been her. Her and Diego should have been weird parents teaching their kids how to fight and kill but instead they got some domestic life that those characters never belonged in.

And there's so much more! Abigail is alive? Hardly relevant. Why did she body snatched Gene, it didn't really seem to change anything. The Keepers existed only to be a minor obstacle in the last episode. And are her and Reggie aliens? Why? How? What's the point?

AND DURANGO? THAT'S A CAR! Harland named marigold and for a farm kid that makes sense (though the retconned acceptance of that word into Umbrella vocabulary was irksome) But Durango? Abigail is a scientist and she names The Bad Dust after an SUV? Why?

AND WHY WAS THERE ZERO QUEERNESS? Each of the first three seasons had some sort of queer arc but not this one. I still wonder if some higher-up didn't intentionally assassinate the show as backlash for the immense respect S3 gave Elliot Page.

One last thing, music is a big part of the show, they've always put such thought and care into the soundtrack and it makes sense knowing who the creators are, so why, of all songs, was Baby Damn Shark the first song to be featured in like three episodes? It seems intentionally disrespectful.

I'm done, rant over, I'll never recover from this.

[billpottsismygf]

Doctor Who: Lux

I've surprised myself by absolutely loving that episode! The pacing was great and it had some really interesting ideas that were very well executed, and I also love the continuing development of the Doctor and Belinda's relationship.

The set up with the haunted abandoned cinema and the Doctor being so infectiously excited to investigate that Belinda went along with it was really charming and atmospheric, and it only got better from there. I was initially a bit disappointed when the whole giggle and harbinger thing came up, because I liked it more as its own distinct thing, but actually it didn't get too bogged down in the previous stuff with the pantheon. Lux stood really well as his own villain.

This was a surprisingly economically told story, as from there the Doctor and Belinda get trapped in the film strip and stay there for most of the rest of the episode. It was clever having them breaking out of the animation by adding emotional depth (even though, of course, animation can absolutely have emotional depth). It also managed to make some of the usual emotional exposition (mostly about Gallifrey being destroyed (again)) quite funny without completely belittling it. It's a different way of doing this plot beat that the show has to repeat over and over again, which is fun! I love when new ways of doing these things can be found.

Obviously, though, the biggest swing here was them literally breaking the fourth wall and befriending some Whovians. Again, I wasn't sure what to think for a while, and possibly I would have hated it if it had been done slightly differently (eg. if they had been actually real and the Doctor fictional, or if there had been more punching down at fans beyond a mostly sweet 'we know we're a bit annoying'), but I actually love it. Of course the pantheon know all of the Doctor's adventures and can create fictional fans who happen to resemble real world fans and know the Doctor's adventures via titles such as Blink. Again, if it had been done differently, I might have hated it, but I didn't!

The solution was really pleasing as well. I love that Lux kind of gets what he wants, but in a way that doesn't harm anyone. He doesn't need an atom bomb. He can absorb all the light he wants and become the universe. As Belinda points out, he is now a real god: 'infinite, invisible, intangible'. It's all very cosmic.

I also thought the episode did a good job of depicting the realities of 1950s segregated America. It was ever present and important without being the main focus, which is a difficult line to balance. That heart dropping scene where you think the boy's mother has called the police was extremely effective, even though it turned out to be fictional. Even without that, there are enough bits of dialogue and pointed looks that help to ground the episode in the reality without sensationalising it or making it a Very Special Episode where we all Learn About Racism. I'm hardly an authority on these things, but it seemed very sensitively handled to me.

I continue to love Belinda, even more than from last week's episode. I love that we learned about her parents - hopefully we'll get to meet them soon - and I loved her slowly coming to trust the Doctor. Even though she definitely got into the excitement of travelling a bit this time, she still feels much more mature than a lot of companions, which I love. I loved her mentioning Rock Hudson and how strange and sad it is to know his fate. I loved her gently ribbing the Doctor for wanting to investigate and for not having a real name. I especially loved her trying to help the Doctor with his burn. The Doctor, of course, can't just take her help but has to use up his (supposedly) precious store of regeneration energy. All perfectly in character, I just think he's a silly, silly man.

Yeah, really great episode! After feeling pretty lukewarm about last week's, I'm really happy. I actually want to rewatch this one quite soon because I now know that I actually like the things that I was initially skeptical about (the pantheon and the whovians, mainly).

Little things:

Did Reginald die? It seems a shame and also unnecessary. It might have been nice to have had a line acknowledging or mourning him.

It seems like Mr Ring-a-Ding used a lot of regeneration energy, an amount that seems like it would maybe cause the Doctor some ill effects.

Mrs Flood can time travel now, I guess. Cool.

[stanwixbuster]

jynx absolutely fascinates me as a game dev because they're like. inspiration but in the opposite way of literally everything they've ever done

jynx decided they want to make touhou-like shmups, and decided to approach this by building most patterns around extremely fast bullets relying entirely on player reaction or having already seen a pattern before, infamously the most disliked and player-antagonistic way of approaching bullet hells

jynx added a great iteration on touhou-like shmups with flash bombing, an infinitely regenerating way to clear bullets if you put yourself in active danger in contrast to the use of bombs as a safe but finite resource, and then made sure you could only use it if you aren't focusing your shots, which you spend over 90% of a touhou-like doing

jynx created "absurdly extra" stages just as a complete fuck you to the player. half of them are humanly impossible to complete

jynx's version of character development is to add more characters. jynx will drop one of the most fascinating backstories you've ever heard that has groundbreaking and sweeping impacts on len'en lore, yet somehow being entirely consistent with it, and then proceed to do literally nothing and minutes later introduce another character with one of the most fascinating backstories you've ever heard. len'en has 40+ characters and all of them have been in perpetual Big Things Are Coming hell for over half a decade

jynx has spent over an alledged 15 years working on the world and lore in mugenri and the outside world, desperately wants to share this and continually mentions the short stories and lore dumps they write, which we never see, because they have somehow convinced themself the only way to show this story is through touhou-likes, which are notable for showing "story" as an excuse for people to shoot bullets at each other

jynx treats feature creep like an arms race. there isn't a single idea they come up with that doesn't end up in a game or is planned to at a later date. len'en 4 is still technically unfinished despite it having enough paths to dwarf all the previous len'en games combined thrice over and featuring the entire cast of the series in it (i will stress again, 40+ characters), and they've promised a dlc with even more stuff to do

jynx wanted to make a mobile cafe management simulator after having made nothing but bullet hell shmups on pc, just because it sounded fun, realised their previous tools couldn't make mobile games well, realised they'd be going in entirely blind on a new tech stack, realised they'd be going in blind on a genre they have no experience with, decided to tag on a second entire game to the cafe management with a turn-based rpg, realised they also have no experience with that genre, continued anyway, learnt how to use unity from the ground up, realised the multitude of issues unity development brings, decided every single character also needed to be in this one with unique boss battles, realised the problems of having 40+ character assets and 5min+ music themes in a mobile game that very infamously is a platform you need to stick to strict asset and tech limitations, decided to stream in assets from a server, made it a live service game because it would be online and that was an obvious next step, stuck through it, totalling in five years of dev time to make a full "gacha" game that is generous beyond belief and makes them a net zero in ad revenue vs server costs

jynx iterates nothing. literally everything you see in their games is the first go and if it sucks, too bad

jynx creates all their music with default fl studio sounds and the touhou trumpet. everything's unmixed. they earnestly believe that loud = better

jynx, allegedly, "blacks out" when making music after hitting some kind of flow state, and wakes up with a complete track. like everything else, these are never iterated on

jynx wrote the entirety of len'en 4's 100,000+ word script in one week. i don't even have a funny comment for this one

jynx doesn't think len'en would fit the format of a visual novel despite the fact len'en 4 has a 100,000+ word script

jynx refuses to collab with anyone for any reason. motives unclear

jynx did three 12 hour back-to-back livestreams crunching to finish book of the cafe. literally no part of this is a good idea

jynx is like the quintessential representation of everything you shouldn't do as a game dev. they should have burnt out years ago and been remembered as nothing but a random quirky touhou ripoff that was an interesting yet janky interpretation but ultimately went nowhere and YET here we are coming in to len'ens decade anniversary

how the fuck is jynx a real person. why am i so obsessed with everything they've ever made

[4lmog]

Hi! For the ask game, perhaps Ryoken and 25 + 26 ?

Hi, Thank you so much for asking me to respond! I absolutely love Ryoken so I'm excited I got him first hehe

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

I'm a SUCKER for Yu-Gi-Oh over the top, overdramatic villain. I loved this guy ever since his first apperance but especially started to appreciate him when we started to see in Episode 9 what a MENACE bro is. I understand why they toned him down for S2 but man his middle-school boy syndrome in the first season (Especially in the duels against Go, Ghost girl and of course, Playmaker) is just so good!! It's what originally drew me to his character. And now I have over 50 drawings of the guy oops.

He just radiates charm and glowing personality and good looks ✨

(Warning for some negativity) I must admit though seeing him straight up lose to Playmaker in Episode 12 kind of ruined the stakes of the season (then again this is a problem with the whole show, since Playmaker has a "if I lose this bomb will explode" attached to his wrist,) for me. I didn't understand why they had to Duel again when Playmaker's shown already he's more than capable of defeating him- In a sense, it would make more sense if Playmaker was Revolver's rival, because Revolver is the one that needs to grow stronger and face his opponent again- Then again, I do really love him no matter what!! And I guess I have to appreciate the Playmaker vs Revolver duels we DO have after he stops being a rival entirely in S2+3

realized this is a little long 26 under the cut!

26. What's something the character has done you can't get over? Be it something funny, bad, good, serious, whatever?

I think I've already known the guy was going to use mirror force from The Memes TM But I genuinely cannot tell you how unprepared I was for it. I'm NEVER letting that go. then all the other goat format staples I swear dude tell this guy about Forbidden Droplet and we are cooked

I really love how they kept that kind of reference throughout all his duels and the fact that Mirror force is so Unbelievably scary (in a show where they use Infinite Impermanence btw) that it has to GET FORESHADOWED A DUEL PRIOR WITH THE DUEL VS GHOST GIRL I'M DEADDDD The way they don't even reveal it and Ghost Girl is just laying there like Playmaker... Revolver has an incredible card... Man if I was playmaker I would be thinking this man evolved to play facedown link summon seals pass level of gameplay

Thank you so much for asking me!! This is a lot of fun!!

[cerastes]

Any thoughts on stronghold protocol?

I think it's very fun and an excellent concept, but it needs fine tuning if they want to make it a permanent mode.

The concept is solid and I love it: Familiar units work differently because 1) of the auto-battler nature of it, where you set up everything and then let the game do its thing, especially important in this being the fact that skills activate based on effective auto attack range, and 2) there's no distinction between melee and ranged tile, and the maps are linear, simple rows that are designed around you having to necessarily meet the enemy yes or yes.

That in of itself is fun thanks to the variety of units and restrictions placed on the usual rules of engagement: You need to make sure your unit can actually activate their skill in a meaningful way, so you can't put Goldenglow or Laptop on the far back and global snipe, they won't activate unless an enemy enters their range. There's also a fun team-building aspect, more micro and immediate than Integrated Strategies, since you know what you'll be fighting from second 1 instead of having to gimmickproof your party in case of X or Y, with X or Y perhaps never happening in your run (ie: getting an Anti-Gopnik setup ASAP in IS3 if going for Last Knight ending). The items, cost opportunity, and ability to deploy doubles or make a strong Operator out of having three of them all make for a fun time, plus, every Operator costs 3 Coins no matter their Tier, meaning there's a very explicit incentive for you to upgrade your Supply Level ASAP so you can start getting those Tier VI Operators.

Now, what are the mode's weaknesses? Well, it's very hard to bounce back from a bad hand. If you just don't get something decent in the first 4 rounds, it's VERY hard to come back from that. You do have multiple lives and some rounds you just gotta lose and try again later, but if you didn't manage to win against an enemy, your odds are Very Bad for the next round because now they are even stronger while you may not increase in power significantly; Rerolling the shop is very cheap at 1 coin, which is encouraged until you can get a unit or item you can use, but at the same time, the deeper you go into the match, the more necessary it becomes to be able to make triples to get enhanced stats and free high rarity recruits, because Beagle can only tank for so long before she starts getting Bloodline of Combat'd out of existence in three attacks. In other words, RNG plays a huge, huge role, which is to be expected in a game mode that is as auto as its ever gotten in a game that has always had execution be involved in its endgame, but at the same time, it wouldn't kill to add some more consistency to your matches, such as the ability to spend perhaps 3-4 coins for a reroll that guarantees a Supply Level Tier recruit or a Supply Level -1 recruit, making it so you can pay a significantly more steep price in order to get something that's more likely to start paying dividends back when you are already on the back foot.

Now, this isn't an issue with Normal Mode, because that one isn't overtuned. It's Hard Mode (or Core Protocol) that really needs some fine tuning. I'm lenient on it because, well, it's literally the Hard Mode, it's meant to be hard and I want it to be more difficult, but there is a huge disparity in difficulty when it comes to the possible factions you are fighting: Hard Mode Sarkaz + Convicts is way, way easier than Hard Mode Sankta or Icefield + Anything. Sankta are insanely difficult, FAR more than any of the other factions in my opinion, with an enemy that's bulky, needs 4 block, and restocks Ammo to enemies that can use it meaning the Bomb Car Carts can produce infinite Bomb Cars to nuke the hell out of your composition, when they express counter to Bomb Cars is to not block them in the first place... Which is impossible due to the way the maps are built, as mentioned before. The way the HP scaling works, you'll never be able to meaningfully kill the Bomb Cars consistently before you get nuked, made all the more difficult by the Sankta units also including the Stun Crossbowmen from the Schwarz event and the freaking Lost Colossus from IS2 for some reason, so you are constantly eating long Stuns while you get Zerg Rushed by Bomb Cars that explode for lots of damage if blocked, or take Lives if they get past you, either because all your Block is already taken, or because your entire line is Stunned. Mind you, not even having two S3 Lumen is enough to take on this onslaught, as once you start actually blocking the Crossbows, they will stun their blocked, making for just too many units for Lumen to unstun, even when cloned. The only counterplay is literally to just have gotten a broken set up before this escalates. Which is... Kinda ass from a player experience perspective. I understand it's Hard Mode, but losing to the game not giving you the perfect storm of things you need, a very unlikely molotov cocktail of Operators and Items, to meaningfully play against this raw amount of units and crowd control, can be very frustrating. It's like I'm really playing late Overwatch 1 with all this crowd control.

In many ways, it's very reminiscent of SSS 1.0 where it was just very, very unfun because you could just get absolutely shafted by bad luck and Physical Damage was worthless. Unlike SSS 1.0, however, this is a temporary mode that they can refine and rebalance for an eventual permanent addition, which I think would be very, very fun. Overall, I love the game mode, and I hope they make it permanent. Right now, I think Hard Mode should be taken as something truly difficult, and Normal Mode for general play, because Hard Mode is pretty overtuned to the point where even factions that aren't the Evil Two, like Sarkaz, can completely shit over you with their Lifesteal guys, and if you get to Round 13 and have no counter to Mudrock, good fucking luck.

[anteroom-of-death]

Unnecessary Evil

Synopsis: What was going on in the Doctor's mind when he escaped the Confession Dial? At what limits did he let his mind wander to? What prompted his redemption?

A/N: it's so fun playing with characters that don't have concepts of human morality. Warnings for general darkness and such.

Coming out of Hell, his ears rang like a bomb detonated in his general vicinity. Deafening. Blood-draining. The paranoia seeping in. Both of his hearts shot cold.

He turned to face wherever he was.

Of course! His own traitorous, ungrateful race. Of course! Jealous and naturally unambiguous, these demented fools, ever so committed to his demise. At the cost of her.

Never satisfied. Even after he, all of him, bailed them out of the War. It probably caved in their illusions of dignity. Saved by one of the ones they cleaved into rejecting. Useless unless used…

He craved to reach into the chest of whoever was responsible, and crush their hearts. Probably Rassilon. Or that general who called him mad, even as he held the fate of their entire survival in this hands. Mangle theirs as his had been. He craved to beat them as bloody as he was in that dial. (Although, the blood draining from him each time took on new levels of pleasure in her absence.) He felt more animal than Time Lord, all fried nerves and the lust to take his teeth and tear into their jugulars. Every single last of the arrogant high-born class he had the displeasure of being born into. Watch them regenerate helplessly as he ran their lives out.

No plan, yet.

And violence on this level would disappoint her. His beautiful Clara, her rage would never cease if he saved her after he slaughtered every single last one of them.

He had to do a cleaner job for her sake.

The image of wanting to reach his hands into their bleeding chests still gave him a rush. A just cause- a million lives for one…he had done it before.

What did he call himself once? The Time Lord Victorious.

Yeah, he could do that once more. Being the only one of his kind seemed delicious at the moment.

Even the Gallifreyans that weren’t a part of the Time Lords would benefit. Lives under such disgusting and pathetic ponces would be better off erased from the count of the universe. The elite grew fat off pretense while everyone else starved- where they could still breathe, his Clara lay dead in the long-forgotten past on Trap Street.

A past that the High Council and him remembered. That stupid little human he regretted saving had probably blotted her from her bratty memory. All of Clara’s loved ones lay dead and drained of existence.

All but erased.

It sucked the air from his lungs and felt like glass had waded its way into his guts.

To forget Clara Oswald, in her infinite sass, her boundless character, her goodness? A sin worse than any recorded by any faith imagined by any weaker mind. How nobly she had gone off to die! Without him.

How he regretted not going to her, to hold her warm, little hand as she breathed her last. Not alone, die in her place or even die right with her? To lay in his final death beside her? To lie in the cold ground of Earth right beside her? Silent bliss. What he was owed.

Another sin.

A necessary evil to blot out an inexcusable one? He already knew he wasn’t a good man. He’d long since established that within himself.

He wouldn’t grieve for her, he’d go to her. Save her. Fix this. Burn this planet and all its people out of existence.

A plan began to form.

Alone with all he stood for draining out of him. He needed new clothes. Nothing she would call Doctor-y or enjoy.

Doctor no more.

Of course the wee folk, the ones that truly recognized his sacrifice over the years would welcome him, and they did.

The hospitality was worlds-class as he laid himself down and rage took over.

Of course, the first thing these parasites did was threaten them to get at him. Weak, parasitic creatures. Getting an immortal earthling to bring him to heel?

One line was drawn in the sand.

He crossed another line.

Rassilon had all of time now to run terrified of him, terrified of what the bastard son of these Time Lords may do to him. His hearts could stop in fear every time he saw a shadow. His brain may eat at him in agony of it all. Maybe he’d become a sacrifice to a mad Dalek or even worse, some foe of the Time Lords that they blotted out of reach and memory.

Maybe he’d chase him down. Nowhere to run, just get it over. Dispatch him as cleanly and get it over as quickly as that man ordered the death of her. The Lord President, frozen in fear as he realized that he had no way out, no place to run. Not even a scream escaping his lips as he died like a fox torn by beagles.

Good.

That image felt good.

He found himself the new President, control slipping as he sat around as they quizzed him on the stupid myth of a hybrid. The ludicrous rumor of something half Time Lord- half Dalek…

He couldn’t lie to himself; the windows and walls would benefit from a coat of every single one of these aristocrat’s blood as paint. This body loved to draw and paint. He could even draw his beloved Clara’s face (even though he always had trouble with faces and found it difficult to memorize even his favorite face, hers…) in exquisite detail. Then he could drag the rest of the Time Lords up here and make them apologize to her as he dispatched them.

A slow genocide…

Every single time someone called him by his chosen name, he recoiled. The Doctor was someone Clara could count on. Some title that felt more natural off her tongue. Someone, something that belonged to her.

Who was he now? Was he that Valeyard, whom he would become eventually? Possibly. He didn’t feel there yet. The name didn’t feel remotely natural. He’d have to find a new one to bridge the gap between the Doctor and the Valeyard…

The Sisterhood of Karn stood there as his world divided. Useless. Saccharine. Pretending to play both sides.

There were places in the cosmos where they’d fetch pretty prices. Maybe he could sell them? He had no use for money, but their faces as he sold them to people who’d ruin them in body, mind and spirit would please him. Perhaps he’d purchase the services and watch them flounder in service to him…

The white-hot rage burned through him. All but purifying his mind and detaching himself from the table in which he sat.

So he sat, trying to figure out a new plan, a new name, a new anything. Something to rid him of this guilt, he felt a tug at his gut and an image blind his mind.

Her face.

His Clara’s face. Finally clear, despite this current body’s inability to process faces. Radiant as the day he lost her.

Unlined, except for crinkles around her eyes just beginning to form. Brought on by years of laughter and smiling at him when he managed to save everyone and everything. The little furrow that would smooth itself out after a few hours she’d get when she was deep in thought or grading papers aboard the TARDIS. All these effete elite’s faces had lines from regeneration and ageing into their bodies.

Clara was cut off before she would go grey, before she could wrinkle. Before he could add more lines to her face with smiles and proposals. He was thinking of making their life together official, in a way close to her species. He’d give her anything, a wedding, a million little Clara’s totting around the TARDIS, as bossy and good as their mother, adventures to all of time and space…

Anything. She was what was best of him.

She stopped him from teetering into the entrance of this body’s darkness and preoccupied with morality. She made him good when he didn’t know if he was good.

She wouldn’t want him like this.

Clara wouldn’t want him to be this.

Could he do this? Save her and remain the Doctor?

Did he want to do this?

Could he want this?

The images of what he could do or have done to his entire traitorous race still brought him glee. Glee and pleasure. He still wanted them to pay. He wanted them to feel a single grain of sand compared to the desert of pain he felt. He knew it was sadistic, but he'd been sadistic before. The thin, young, freckly man with the dark eyes and brown hair was certainly a sadist. So was the broad one with the curly blonde hair and a penchant for cat pins and sarcasm. Certainly, his first body was. Before Susan taught him to bleed it out of him. That little blonde bastard enjoyed killing Torvic for Koschei. He enjoyed the god-like feeling that killing someone with your bare hands gave from the very beginning.

Why did this form of sadism feel remotely different?

Options and his plans that started to form became colored with her of course! Clara wouldn’t enjoy his sadism.

Wasn’t he the smartest an most exemplary of then all? He could have his cake and eat it to. If he wanted. He could be sadistic and good too.

Many things can be true at once, he reasoned with himself.

Clara wanted him good.

He could be good for her.

He could bury these past mad days behind him and focus on that. Follow her orders.

He was in obeisance only to her. Even Missy knew. Missy even enjoyed it.

A plan snapped into place. He knew what needed done.

The image of Clara in a woven wedding dress slashed out of his mind’s eye. If he were to save her, he’d never get to offer himself to her on bended knee. Never get to hear her laugh or insults again, or that soft warm slightly-tanned hand in his large pale cold one. Her stomach round and tight with child…

He mourned the infants they should have had. Cradles sadly empty, tombs gladly never filled…

He prayed for love and his mortal dreams now dashed. Prayed to her, his Clara. His life never realized. Her life only a quarter-lived.

Their lives together, cut dreadfully short.

No more yesterday’s or tomorrow’s…

He set out and went to make her happen, to make her happy and alive.

Maybe that would be good enough, to echo her alive like her echoes did theirs. Not ideal, but just enough to give her a chance.

That was the man that he’d want to be for her. Good, or at least trying his best to not be, and not totally stained with the reality of what he was. What she refused to see. What she formed him to be. Different that he should be.

Her perfect Doctor.

And thus, the Doctor was reborn once more…

[zahri-melitor]

Poking at timeline stuff again:

So Kon was ‘born’ in 1993, and hatched from his tube aged… 15ish? He turned 1 in Nov 1995 (Superboy Annual #2 of his series) – note Kon is STILL AGING here, and after this point he’s usually described as 16 physically. His age ‘froze’ in July 1997 (Superboy #41) and then started aging again after Sins of Youth in May 2000 (Superboy #74) Kon died in May 2006 (Infinite Crisis #6) Kon returned in June 2009 (Final Crisis: Legion of 3 Worlds #4)

2000-2006 is about a year in Comics Time. I think it’s 100% fair to say Kon was physically 17 year old, at his youngest, as at his death, and mentally 17-18.

Kon enrolled in Smallville High on his revival – he’s almost certainly in Year 12/a Senior – and 2009ish is known as the ‘start’ of a school year by a bunch of correlating factors (Steph starting college is one). Flashpoint interrupts and this school year likely never finished. He may or may not have celebrated his 18th birthday before Flashpoint but it either happened or was due imminently.

Known timegaps – Kon lost slightly over a year between Infinite Crisis and Final Crisis. His aging stopped either for over a year (if you use Bat timelines) or more like 6 months (given it was 3 years real time). In total I want to say Kon’s ‘age’ went backwards about 18 months to two years over this period. His mental age, however, probably only lost 15 months or so.

By Flashpoint, Kon probably was due to celebrate his 18th birthday in his personal timeline.

In comparison: Jason Todd died aged 15 (if you take canon at its word) or 14 years 9 months (if you use the canonical birthday and death day dates). He was officially dead for 6 months before getting resurrected (- 6 months) and then in a coma for a year (-12 months). He then had a fun amnesiac period which does not have a defined length of time before Talia got sick of it and pushed Jason into a Pit.

Using Bat timelines, 18 months after Jason’s death is probably some time around Contagion or Legacy. Legacy in particular makes a lot of sense for Talia to see Jason in Gotham and pick him up to take home with her. He probably had to go into a Lazarus Pit during No Man’s Land, given Bane and Bruce start the ‘destroy all the Lazarus Pits’ campaign post-NML, culminating in Death and the Maidens in 2003-2004.

Either way, Jason Todd is still mentally 15 years old as of 2000.

Jason’s not in a position to return to Gotham with Talia’s urging until AFTER the rebuild for the famous bomb the Batmobile moment (realistically probably 2000-2001), and from the rebuild process IN DC comics 2001 is a better call than 2000 if you don’t still want rubble everywhere (they didn’t manage to get Ivy out of Robinson Park until Jan 2001)

He then does his world travel training trip… but is back in Gotham for September 2003 and Hush (and Tim’s 16th birthday).

Given Tim’s birthday is canonically on 19 July, the longest Jason’s world training trip can be is 6 months, and is probably more like 3-4 months given the required futzing time either side.

Jason doesn’t legally turn 18 until March 2004 (Tec #790). He’s still almost certainly mentally 16 years old here. He’s arguably physically 17.5 here.

A set of preboot timeline facts from all of this that is hilarious (to me):-

Jason and Tim are mentally about the same age, given their canonical 23 month age gap by date of birth. Depending on how long a period Talia keeps Jason around as an amnesiac, Tim may actually be mentally older.

Yes. The Titans Tower fight was essentially two 16 year olds having a spat.

Kon, despite also having fun death times, is 100% mentally older than Jason for all periods, though they’re close to drawing even after Final Crisis. He’s probably close to physically the same age as Jason for a lot of the time up to Infinite Crisis.

Tim may actually have spent a similar amount of time training in Paris (between Robin I and some time during Legacy and the summer leading up to Cataclysm) as Jason did on his Lost Days world trip.

Anyone who questions how Tim can be one of the greatest bo staff fighters in the world when he’s working off the same time frame of intense training from masters as Jason is (and has a far more substantial training time with Bruce and Dick) is honestly discounting that Tim has more extensive vigilante experience than Jason does, particularly in terms of Gotham-focused skills.

Kon and Tim end up by Flashpoint as within a few months of each other in age.