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solxamber · 20 days ago

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Unstable Stable || Leona Kingscholar

You were an S-ranked Guide just trying to live your life, but now you're emotionally (and spiritually) babysitting SS-class menace Leona Kingscholar—who’s decided you're his personal charger and refuses to unplug.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

Life used to be normal.

You know, back when your biggest problem was whether to risk food poisoning for that suspiciously cheap sushi combo. Taxes were annoying, capitalism was soul-sucking, and people still thought “ghosting” only applied to dating. Cute times.

Then the gates showed up.

Like surprise holes in the fabric of reality. No warning. No gentle push notifications. Just BAM—mystical rift to MonsterLand™ opens in the middle of your grocery store and suddenly your choices are “fight or die with a half-priced avocado in hand.”

And that would’ve been it for humanity—extinct in a week if not for the emergence of Espers. Superpowered humans with the ability to close these gates and yeet the nightmare creatures back into the void.

Cool, right?

Except—Espers are dramatic. They're the “I’m fine” as they bleed out types. The “I didn’t sleep for three days, but I still went into a Class-A gate because I felt vibes” types. They save the world, but emotionally? Spiritually? Mentally? Absolutely not okay.

That’s where you come in.

You're a Guide. The human equivalent of emotional duct tape. Your job is to wrangle these unhinged battle gremlins post-gate before they disintegrate or cry themselves into a psychic nosebleed. Sometimes both.

It’s like babysitting, except your babysitter is also a licensed therapist, a soul mechanic, and sometimes a romantic interest depending on how "fanfic" things get.

Is the job dangerous? Constantly.

Are the Espers dramatic? Tragically so.

Is there a union? Not unless you count the Group Chat of Collective Suffering.

And does it pay well? HAHAHA.

Still, between dodging death and massaging the egos of glorified magical toddlers, you’ve somehow become really good at this.

Which is great, because your next assignment?

Is going to change your entire life. Probably ruin it. Possibly give you feelings. Definitely not covered by health insurance. (But then again, what is?)

It’s raining like the gods themselves are ugly crying, but you? You’re bone-dry and smug. Perched on your little foldable stool like a judgmental gremlin, your umbrella is perched just right. Stylish. Functional. Invincible.

Across the street, a cluster of fellow Guides are soaked to their very souls. One of them is trying to use a clipboard as shelter. Another’s shoes have absolutely given up on life. They glare at you like you personally invented weather.

You take a sip of your lukewarm vending machine coffee and shrug.

“Sorry losers,” you say cheerfully, “get on my level.”

Then the gate sputters, flickers, and folds in on itself like a haunted paper fan. The Espers return—bloodied, bruised, twitchy-eyed and definitely seconds away from fainting like overcooked noodles.

Chaos erupts.

Guides leap up, yelling names, waving emergency blankets, fumbling for their med kits. People are screaming things like, “Catch him, he’s falling—OH GOD, HIS ARM,” and “Who packed juice boxes in the trauma bag again?!”

You stay seated. Sip your coffee again. It's mostly rainwater now. Whatever.

Then someone stops in front of you. Tall, soaked, radiating the exact vibe of someone who has murdered for being woken up too early.

And he yanks your umbrella to cover himself.

“I am not getting soaked again,” he grumbles, shaking rainwater out of his hair like an angry golden retriever with a six-pack.

You blink.

“Uh. Hello?”

Leona Kingscholar. SS-Class Esper. Walking lawsuit. The man once growled at a government official for chewing too loudly.

And now he’s under your umbrella like this is some shoujo manga and he’s your tsundere warlord boyfriend.

He side-eyes you. “Aren’t you gonna guide me or whatever?”

You panic a little. “I—I’m not certified for SS-Class. I’m just S-Class.”

He snorts. “Didn't think you'd forget me, herbivore.”

What does that even mean??? Is this… Esper code for “I like you”? Or “I won’t kill you today”? Who knows. He’s already sinking to the ground like a dramatic cat, using your thigh as a pillow without even asking.

And just like that, you’re guiding Leona Kingscholar while sharing an umbrella in the pouring rain, your fellow guides still watching like you’ve been chosen by some eldritch force.

Welcome to your life now. Hope you brought snacks.

Leona is basically half-dead in your lap, but still manages to look like he owns both the rain and your dignity.

You sigh and set your coffee down, running your fingers through his wet hair. It’s soft, unfairly so, and smells like something expensive. His breathing starts to even out under your touch, eyes fluttering shut as your stabilizing energy pulses through him.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests there with his head in your lap like this is a Tuesday afternoon nap spot and not the wet, cracked sidewalk outside a gate that just tried to eat reality.

You keep going. Until—

He grabs your wrist, eyes suddenly sharp. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

You blink. “Uh. No? Pretty sure I stopped doing that in college. Why?”

He scowls. “You’ve been channeling too long. Idiot. Burn yourself out and you’ll fry your nerves. Can’t stabilize anyone if you’re unconscious in a puddle.”

You try to pull your hand back but he doesn’t let go. “I’m fine, Leona—”

“I need you alive, herbivore.”

You freeze.

Your brain does a little Windows error sound.

And then he’s standing, still holding your umbrella like it’s his now, yanking you up by the wrist like you’re the fragile one. You try to protest, but he ignores you entirely.

“Your car’s this way, right?”

“…How do you know where I parked—”

“Because you always park near the vending machine. Which is stupid, by the way. You don’t even lock it.”

You're still processing the fact that Leona Kingscholar, Mr. I-Hate-Everyone, has apparently been keeping track of your parking habits, when he tosses your keys back at you like a lazy monarch commanding his carriage.

And that’s how you end up being frog-marched to your own car in the rain by a grumpy, half-stabilized SS-Class Esper who refuses to let go of your umbrella.

You’ve barely had your morning caffeine and the email has the audacity to say: Transfer Notice – Effective Immediately. No warning. No prep. Just vibes and bureaucracy.

You're sent to the high-level West Sector Guidance Office. The same one with SSS-Class Guide Vil Schoenheit, the gold standard of grace, glamour, and glaring disapproval.

So naturally, you walk in clutching your sad little cardboard box of office plants and off-brand snacks, looking like a lost intern who accidentally wandered into a luxury spa for dangerous superhumans.

The receptionist is too busy having a breakdown over printer ink to help, so you start aimlessly wandering the halls, trying not to make eye contact with any Espers that could punch through concrete.

And then someone yanks your box out of your hands.

You flinch, ready to throw hands, until you realize it’s Leona. Hair still a mess. Hoodie on like he just rolled out of bed. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t ask how you are. Just nods his chin, “Keep up, herbivore.”

You scramble after him like a duckling with no sense of direction. “Leona—what the hell is this? Why am I here?”

He doesn’t even look back. Just strolls down the corridor with your office supplies like they belong to him now. “Told ‘em I only want you.”

You short-circuit. “What?!”

“They asked if I’d take Vil or the new SS-rank from Sector 4. I said no. Told ‘em to transfer you instead.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. “You… requested me?”

He shrugs like this isn’t causing you a spiritual meltdown. “Whatever. You’re not annoying. You stabilize me fast. You don’t treat me like a bomb about to go off. You’re fine.”

And then—like this conversation hasn’t just rewritten the structure of your career—he dumps your box onto a random desk and starts walking off.

“Wait, that’s it?” you call after him. “You’re just—leaving me here?”

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “See you tomorrow.”

You stare at the desk. Then the hallway. Then the spot where your sanity used to be.

You don’t understand what’s going on. But let’s be honest—you’ve never understood anything and that’s never stopped you before. You graduated on sheer vibes and a terrifying ability to guess multiple choice answers with unearned confidence. You once guided a Class A Esper while half-asleep and running on a breakfast of sour candy and spite. You thrive in chaos.

So when you show up at your new desk (which may or may not have been assembled incorrectly), you take a deep breath, sip your mediocre vending machine coffee, and prepare yourself for another confusing day of “just wing it and hope no one dies.”

And then Leona walks in.

No knock. No warning. Just opens the door like he owns the place—which, considering the way your coworkers scurry out of his path, he might as well.

You’re ready to guide. You roll up your sleeves. You stretch your fingers. You mentally prepare for the usual Esper touch-their-hands routine.

Leona?

Leona lays down on the office couch like it’s a five-star hotel bed. Puts his head in your lap. And knocks out like a tranquilized jungle cat. No explanation. No shame.

You blink. “Um. Hello? Sir?”

No response.

You glance around to see if this is some prank. Nope. Just you, a couch, and a warm grumpy lion man making your lap his personal pillow.

So you do the only logical thing: sigh, roll with it, and start guiding like this is completely normal.

The stabilization process is smoother than usual. Leona’s energy calms fast, his breathing evens out, and it’s honestly the most peaceful you’ve ever seen him. He doesn’t even twitch when you accidentally brush a hand through his hair mid-guidance.

When you're done, you gently nudge him. “Hey. Nap time’s over, sunshine.”

He grumbles like you’ve just committed a crime and blinks up at you with all the judgment of a cat disturbed mid-snooze. Then, with the reflexes of a seasoned villain, he sits up, grabs your coffee off the table, and chugs it like it’s his birthright.

“Hey!” you cry, scandalized. “That was mine! That was my life juice! That’s the only thing tethering me to this mortal realm!”

He hands you the empty cup with all the remorse of a man who steals from vending machines and sleeps through emergency drills. “You can get another.”

And then he leaves.

You stare after him. You stare at your empty cup. You stare at the void where your caffeine used to be.

This job is going to kill you.

But you’ll die confused and employed, and that’s the best you’ve got.

You’re at the farmer’s market. Living your best domestic fantasy. You’ve got your reusable tote bag, your overpriced jam, a bundle of fresh herbs like you’re the protagonist in a cottagecore fever dream, and a leek that you're weirdly proud of because it was the biggest one in the pile. Life is good.

Then a gate opens.

Right there.

Next to the cheese stall.

The sky splits like a broken lightbulb, the air warps, and BAM—there's a rift to monster hell spewing nightmare fuel in the middle of tomato season.

You don’t know how it happened. One moment you were asking about eggplant pricing, the next you were in a technicolor void smacking a drooling, three-eyed creature with your leek like your life depends on it. Because it does.

You’re cornered by something that looks like the illegitimate child of a bear and a blender, just about to accept that this might be it—death by demon at a farmer’s market—when a figure crashes in, trailing lightning and rage.

Leona.

He surveys the chaos with a look of supremely irritated confusion. “Why the hell are you here?”

You, still holding the leek like it’s a holy weapon: “I don’t know, man, you tell me! I was just buying root vegetables!”

He groans like you’re giving him a headache worse than the gate, and with a single swipe of power, the monsters start dissolving into nothing. He suppresses the gate like he’s swatting a fly, and before you can say “gluten-free honey loaf,” he’s grabbing you by the arm and dragging you back to solid, blessed, non-nightmare reality.

You’re trying to catch your breath. You’re covered in monster goo. Your leek is bent in half. And you’re shaking.

“Okay,” you say, trying for calm but sounding like you’ve just survived the apocalypse (because you kinda have), “let’s get you stabilized so I can go sit in a bathtub forever.”

You reach for him—but your hands are trembling too much. You’ve seen monsters before, sure. But not that close. Not nearly getting your face chewed off.

Leona notices. His brow furrows. “Tch.”

Then—softly, carefully—he pulls you into his chest.

You freeze. Not from fear this time, but from the sudden warmth of him, from the way he smells like dust and heat and something grounding. You feel his hand gently settle between your shoulder blades, like he’s not sure how to comfort but he’s trying anyway.

“You don’t go in the gates,” he murmurs. “I go in. I’ll suppress every last one of them, no matter how many pop up. You just stay out here, alright? You wait for me.”

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him look at you like that—not annoyed, not smug, but serious. Protective. Like your safety matters more to him than anything else.

You nod into his shirt. “Okay.”

And he holds you a little longer. Just until you stop shaking.

You form a temporary bond with him after the whole gate-at-the-farmer's-market debacle because let’s be honest—your energy reserves were not built for stabilizing a lion in man’s clothing on a daily basis. You were running on fumes and instant noodles. One more session and you'd have crumpled like a used juice box with a sad little wheeze.

Leona didn’t even flinch at the idea of a temporary bond. Just looked at you like finally and said, “Took you long enough.”

Now, you’re guiding him and only him every day. Which sounds intense, but honestly? This is the freest you’ve been since graduating. No more being pinged at 3 AM to rush to a different gate across the city. No more sorting through esper tantrums or being asked if your hands are “certified emotionally soothing.”

You’ve got one glorified cat man to take care of, and he doesn’t even talk during sessions. He just shows up, flops onto your couch, puts his head in your lap like it’s routine, and is unconscious within minutes.

You're so free, you picked up a hobby. You, the overworked guide formerly known as Burnout in a Coat, now crochet lopsided scarves while waiting for Leona to show up. Sometimes you experiment with baking (badly). You’ve even started watching those long, slow documentaries about birds that people put on to fall asleep.

You are, shockingly, thriving.

Every now and then Leona’ll glance at your latest attempt at a potholder-turned-coaster-turned-abstract-art and grunt, “You’re getting better.”

Which, in Leona-speak, is basically high praise.

Life is weird. Life is monsters and gates and nap-hungry espers with bad attitudes.

But life is also calmer now. Just you, Leona, and the occasional crocheted disaster.

The rift today is the kind of thing news stations send helicopters for. It's so massive that your phone buzzes with emergency alerts and a “Good luck lol” from your supervisor. You’re standing just outside the barrier, watching chaos unfold like it’s a live-action anime, umbrella in one hand, your thermos of emergency caffeine in the other.

Then—bam—some random, shaky-looking esper stumbles out of the gate and straight into your arms like you’re the protagonist in a romance drama. You're mid-stabilization out of pure reflex, patting his back like “there, there, emotionally damaged soldier,” when a low growl cuts through the sound of the rift and monster screeching.

Leona storms out of the rift next, all raw power and pissy vibes, his coat half burned and dust clinging to his hair. He sees you cradling Random Esper #453 like he just walked in on something illegal. His expression goes from “I need a nap” to “I'm about to commit a felony” in zero-point-three seconds.

Without saying a word, he grabs the guy by the scruff of his tactical vest like a misbehaving kitten and just yeets him toward another approaching guide.

"Not yours," he growls, before quite literally collapsing into your arms with all the elegance of a sack of emotional bricks.

You don’t even get the chance to complain. He’s already out, breathing slow and heavy, head tucked against your neck like he belongs there.

And you? You’re stuck holding one of the most powerful espers in the world like a sleepy toddler while another guide screams in the background about how Leona threw someone at them.

Just another day in your life.

You are three seconds away from emotionally combusting in front of a full-length mirror, clutching two jackets like they personally offended you. One is sleek, black, mysteriously expensive-looking, the kind of jacket that says “I pay taxes and win arguments.” The other is fluffy, cozy, slightly ridiculous, and makes you look like a sentient marshmallow with excellent taste.

You’re weighing your options with the seriousness of someone deciding between saving the world and saving ten puppies. There are charts. Internal debates. You're about to do the unthinkable and consult the price tags when—

SWOOSH.

The jackets are gone.

You blink. Arms empty. Sanity shaken.

You whirl around and see Leona—yes, Leona Kingscholar, SS-class esper, noted napper, chaos incarnate—casually walking away with everything you were holding. That includes:

• The jackets

• The socks you forgot you picked up

• A weird little plush you were definitely only holding "ironically"

• A novelty mug that says #1 Guide, Certified Not Dead (Yet)

You trail after him, fast-walking with the energy of a startled mall pigeon. “Excuse me?! What the hell are you doing?!”

Leona doesn’t even slow down. He makes a beeline for the register like this is just a regular chore.

“You were taking too long,” he says over his shoulder, as if that explains anything.

“I was deciding! With purpose! With nuance!”

He pays. Effortlessly. Doesn’t flinch at the total. Just swipes his card with the bored grace of someone who buys entire coffee shops out of spite.

You arrive at the register breathless and confused. “I didn’t ask you to buy my—my impulse garments.”

He takes the bag, hands none of it to you, and starts walking out. “Didn’t say you had to ask.”

You make a strangled noise, flapping after him like a duckling trying to make sense of capitalism and emotional whiplash. “Are you—are you okay? Did you hit your head in the last gate? Why are you shopping for me?”

“Can’t have my Guide dying of hypothermia,” he mutters. “Especially not because they can’t pick a jacket.”

“That doesn’t explain the mug, Leona!”

“Sure it does.” He turns, smirking slightly. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”

“For what?!”

“Come to the gate.”

And with that cryptic nonsense, he strolls off into the distance.

You stare after him, confused, and wonder how exactly you ended up in this weird half-domestic cold war with a man who solves problems by spending money and napping through consequences.

Dragging an unconscious SS-ranked esper to your car is not as easy as it sounds. Especially not when that esper is six feet of solid muscle, deadweight, and attitude—even while passed out.

It starts at the gate. After the monsters are suppressed and the chaos settles, Leona doesn’t get back up. You wait—he always gets up. Even when he’s cranky, bleeding, covered in soot and monster gunk, he always stands with that infuriating smirk, like he’s just taken a nap in a flower field. But this time? Nothing.

You run to him, heart slamming against your ribs, calling his name. No answer. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest. Stable vitals, sure, but his magic signature is drained.

You can’t leave him there—not sprawled out in the dirt like a fallen war god. So you do what any sane, worried, emotionally-compromised Guide would do—you throw all logic out the window and start dragging.

Getting him into the car is a series of humiliating maneuvers that you’re certain would be classified as a war crime if recorded. He keeps slipping down. You have to brace your back against the seat and heave like your spine won’t sue you in the morning. At one point, his leg knocks the gear stick and almost sends the car rolling down the street. You cry a little.

Finally—somehow—you make it. You slam the door shut. Collapse in the driver’s seat, sweating like you’ve just run a marathon. And then—because fate is a comedic little gremlin—you have to carry him again. Up the stairs. To your apartment.

You consider leaving him in the hallway for a second. Just one second. But then he mumbles your name in his sleep, and your heart betrays you by going all soft and stupid.

Once inside, you get him on the couch, check his vitals again, and then begin your descent into spiraling anxiety.

Because he still isn’t waking up.

You pace. You hover. You poke. You even lightly slap his face once (he doesn’t react, but you apologize anyway). You check the clock. You make tea. You don’t drink it. You Google how long can espers sleep before it’s an emergency and get conflicting answers and a concerning ad for calming dog chews.

Two hours later, with your thumb hovering over the call button for emergency services, you’re just about to commit to panic when he stirs.

He stretches like a lion waking up from a particularly satisfying sun nap. Hair a mess, shirt rumpled, magic signature humming faintly back to life. You gasp like someone just turned the world back on and smack his arm with all the force of a mildly annoyed wet sock.

“You absolute menace!” you cry, voice cracking under the weight of emotional exhaustion. “You scared the life out of me! Do you want me to die first?! Because you are on a damn good track—”

He blinks up at you, unbothered. Like you’re background noise to the dream he just left. Then he raises his hand and—pat pat—smooths it over your head like you’re the one that needs comforting.

“‘m fine,” he mutters, which is frankly not the point, and then he drags you down onto the couch like you’re a weighted blanket.

The couch. The tiny two-seater couch that you got on sale and have never once regretted until this exact moment.

He adjusts slightly, making enough room for exactly one leg and half your soul, then shuts his eyes again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at him, betrayed by the calm of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the weight of everything you feel but haven’t said.

“Leona,” you whisper, voice too raw to be anything but honest.

“Sleeping,” he grumbles, completely unmoved. “You should too. You’re loud.”

So you stay. Your hand still buried in his hair, your heart still halfway out of your chest, your soul wrung out like a wet towel—but you stay.

And somehow, in that cramped, lumpy, too-small space, surrounded by exhaustion and emotion and quiet, you find the first real moment of peace that day.

It’s not supposed to happen like this. Gates break, yeah—but they’re not supposed to breach before the espers arrive.

You're still in your uniform, badge clipped on, hair barely brushed, breakfast halfway digested (a mistake), when you arrive at the scene, and—

You freeze.

It’s a remote town, or used to be. Right now it looks like a war zone someone dropped from the sky and left in ruins. Roads cracked and splattered. Buildings collapsed like toy blocks. Smoke curling into the sky like it’s auditioning for a post-apocalyptic music video.

And blood.

So much blood.

You see espers fighting—familiar ones, ones you’ve guided before, their faces hard and blank as they tear through monsters like paper. But the monsters got people first. You see the cleanup teams already moving in. You hear crying. Someone screaming names. And then you see bodies being carried out in bags.

You step forward and your stomach lurches.

You force yourself to take a deep breath. You’re a Guide. You have training. You are not allowed to cry. You are especially not allowed to cry in front of espers who just fought through hell. You breathe in, focus on your mantra: I am here to help. I am here to help. You swallow down the nausea like it owes you rent.

That’s when you feel it—warmth behind you, a solid presence—and then large, rough fingers gently slide over your eyes.

“Don’t look, herbivore.” Leona’s voice is low, soft, somehow more grounding than anything you’ve clung to today. You don’t even flinch at the touch—just close your eyes properly under his palm and let the sounds of chaos fade a little.

You breathe out, finally.

When he lets go, you turn your head, eyes shut, and nod once.

He doesn’t say anything else—just places a hand on your back and steers you gently toward the tents that have been set up nearby. Emergency stabilization camps. Medical supplies stacked up. Guides running back and forth. Your people. You should be helping.

Leona sits you down first.

You start working. Slowly. Mechanically. He leans against your side as you place your hands on him, guiding the storm in his mind back into stillness. He’s watching you the whole time, like he’s memorizing your breathing pattern, your expressions. You don’t say anything, not even when your hands shake slightly at first.

When you’re done, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a smart remark. Just sits with you, quiet.

You lean your head against his shoulder for a second. Just one.

“Herbivore,” he mutters. “You okay?”

“No,” you say honestly. “But I’ll do my job.”

And he doesn’t argue. Just lets you rest before getting up and hauling a blanket off the supply pile and dropping it onto your lap with a grumble about “stupid guides forgetting they’re human too.”

You smile, small and tired, but real.

You lasted longer than most would’ve. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

But it doesn’t make it easier when you turn in your resignation. Doesn’t make it hurt less to watch your fellow Guides blink in stunned silence. Doesn’t make it easier when the manager doesn’t even try to talk you out of it—just looks at you with that tired, knowing gaze and signs the form like they’ve seen a thousand others do the same.

And it really doesn’t make it easier when you go home and cry into your instant noodles like a defeated anime protagonist.

It’s not that you don’t love your job. You do. Or you did. But after the last breach… after seeing what happens when you’re too late… something inside you cracked.

You can’t keep holding people together when you’re falling apart.

So you go home. You unplug your work tablet. You turn off your work phone. You decide, firmly, that for the foreseeable future, you are retired. You make a little ceremony out of it. You throw your Guide badge into the drawer, slap a cartoon band-aid on your mental wounds, and decide your new job is to be horizontal and useless.

You don’t expect the knocking.

Frantic. Panicked. Desperate.

You open the door and Leona’s there—disheveled, annoyed, and clearly having run through multiple “I don’t care” speeches in the hallway before deciding none of them applied.

“Why’d you leave?” he says, skipping greetings entirely. His voice is rough like he ran here. Or yelled at a few people on the way.

You look at him. And you break the news gently.

“I quit.”

He stares at you like you just said you decided to become a professional soap-eater.

You try to explain—how you can’t take another bloody battlefield, how the sound of someone sobbing over a friend’s body has made a permanent home in your ears, how the pressure of always needing to be stable is crushing your chest like a vice.

“I just… I can’t do it anymore, Leona. I need a break. I need to feel human again.”

You expect pushback. Some snide comment. Accusations of cowardice or weakness.

But all he does is stare at you a moment, eyes sharp but quiet. Then, finally, he asks, “You happier like this?”

You blink. “...Yeah.”

He nods once. Then pushes past you like this is his house, grabs the half-eaten bag of chips from your counter, flops onto your couch, and turns on your TV like nothing happened. The audacity.

You just watch as he scrolls past every serious movie and lands on the stupidest slapstick comedy you have saved. And then he’s lounging there, one arm slung across the back of your couch, chewing chips like he pays rent.

You don’t ask him to leave. You don’t even sit far.

You curl into his side, just a little. Just enough to feel someone warm, someone solid, someone who didn’t leave even when you quit the one thing tying you together. And he doesn’t move, doesn’t make a snide comment, just lets you sit there while two characters on-screen fall face-first into a giant wedding cake.

You snort softly. He huffs a laugh.

Maybe the world can wait a little longer.

You're not supposed to be here.

You're retired. Done. Free. You’ve been living a soft life, surrounded by overpriced lattes and therapy podcasts, learning to crochet ugly little hats for your houseplants. You’ve earned it. You deserve it.

But the moment the alert flashes across your screen—“Category Red Gate Breach”—your blood runs cold.

You tell yourself you’re just going to check. Just to make sure. You don’t bring your badge. You don’t bring your stabilizing gloves. You bring anxiety, a hoodie, and a tupperware of homemade cookies, because apparently trauma turns you into someone’s tired suburban mom.

When you arrive at the site, the street’s already cordoned off, flickering with damage and Gate residue. Monster ash drifts through the air like cursed snow. The temporary field hospital is chaos—Espers limping, bloody, barely upright, Guides running ragged trying to stabilize them before they keel over.

You’re not supposed to get involved. You’re not.

But then you see him.

Leona. Stumbling slightly as he walks, covered in dirt and blood and smoke. He bats away the hands of every Guide that comes near like they're flies. His expression is sharp, but his eyes are glazed. Too bright. Too wild. His coat’s half off his shoulder and his aura is fraying at the edges—like he’s running on fumes and sheer attitude.

You run to him.

“I told you to take care of yourself!” you shout, more out of panic than anything else. “You absolute menace—what the hell, Leona?! Have you not had a single guiding session since I left?! Are you trying to die?!”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns his head slowly, eyes locking on you like you’re a dream he’s too tired to question. His breath stutters.

And then he’s pulling you forward—no warning, no words—just grabbing you and kissing you like the world hasn’t ended yet because you showed up in time.

And you freeze for a heartbeat. Just one. Then your hands are on his shoulders, in his hair, your lips meeting his as the unstable storm of his aura crashes against yours.

You guide him—not with standard channels, not with gloves or focus crystals, but with your whole self. Through the kiss, through the desperation in your grip, through the way you’re pouring every unspoken emotion into him. Every “I missed you,” every “You idiot,” every “Please be okay.”

And slowly—slowly—his breathing evens. The twitch of his muscles fades. The trembling stops. He leans into you, forehead pressing against yours, and whispers, hoarse and raw, “Knew you’d come.”

You hold him tighter.

It happens on a normal, sunny day.

Leona’s in your apartment, lounging like he lives here—which he sort of does at this point, considering how often he shows up without knocking. He’s flicking at one of your crocheted cactus hats with a deeply unimpressed expression, like it's personally offended his sense of aesthetics.

“You’re wasting perfectly good yarn,” he mutters. “This thing looks like a limp sea anemone.”

You throw a cushion at him. “Shut up. It has character.”

He snorts and catches it easily. He looks too big for your space. Too dangerous for your IKEA throw pillows. Too important to be wearing a hoodie you accidentally shrank in the wash, but he is, and it’s riding up just a bit at his waist.

And you—you’re just watching him, feeling the weight of it. The Gate breach. The kiss. The way he let you in like you never left. The way you still know exactly how to guide him better than anyone.

You set your tea down a little too firmly and blurt, “I want to form a permanent bond.”

The room stills. Leona doesn’t move. His hand is frozen mid-poke, just inches from your succulents-in-hats lineup.

“What?”

You swallow. “I want to bond permanently. With you.”

He turns to look at you slowly, eyes sharp, reading every inch of your face. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You sure this isn’t the post-massacre adrenaline talking?” he says, voice flat. “People say weird shit after trauma.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay, yes, I saw several eldritch nightmares and had to fight one with a leek, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’m not going back to guiding just anyone. I only want to guide you.”

Leona’s quiet for a long time. Then he sits up—really sits up—and leans forward, forearms on his knees, staring at the floor like it's hiding answers in the carpet pattern.

“You don’t get to change your mind after this,” he says, low. “It’s a one-way door.”

“I know.”

“You’ll feel what I feel,” he says. “You’ll know what I feel. Even the ugly stuff. Especially the ugly stuff.”

You smile. “Leona, I’ve seen you eat cold pizza at 7 a.m. while shirtless and complaining about filler episodes. I know ugly.”

He groans like you’ve physically injured him and slumps back again. “You’re gonna make me regret this with your dumb jokes.”

But there’s a warmth in his tone now, soft and fond and careful.

He stands up and walks to you, crowding into your space, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You don’t. You reach out and link your fingers through his.

And he exhales shakily. “Okay then.”

He presses you back into the couch—your stupid, lumpy, too-small couch with the blanket that smells like lavender detergent—and his hands are cupping your face, his forehead resting against yours.

He looks at you, eyes bright. “You’re stuck with me now, y’know.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And just like that, you’re not just a guide and an esper anymore.

You’re his. And he’s yours. Permanently.

Leona remembered the first time he met you like it was a fever dream—a chaotic, embarrassing, infuriating fever dream.

He’d been a rookie then. Raw, unstable, claws out at the world and not interested in anyone who thought they could leash him. He didn’t need a guide. Didn’t want a guide. Especially not in some packed training center with too many bodies and not enough air.

And then you happened.

He had just come out of an intense simulated Gate. Aura flaring wild, brain buzzing with static, teeth gritted like he could physically bite down on the overwhelming noise in his head. The instructors had already radioed for a Class A guide, probably even a Class S, someone who could deal with an untamable lion.

Instead, they got you.

You must’ve been nearby and operating on some unhinged kind of autopilot, because you stumbled into the fray like a grad student five espresso shots deep and grabbed him by the collar without even checking his ID tag.

And then—then—you had the audacity to guide him.

It wasn’t the gentle coaxing kind either. It was hands in his hair, forehead pressed to his temple, murmured words like a mantra while he struggled to get away. He’d cursed, snarled, told you to back off before he did something you’d regret.

And you? You pulled his ear.

Pulled his fucking ear like he was a naughty cat on a countertop.

“Sit still, I’m working,” you’d snapped at him, voice sharp and fed-up like this was your fourth Gate that day and you were not about to let some rookie cat-boy ruin your stats.

And then—

Then it all bled away.

The noise. The storm. The static. It melted under your touch, under that weird, grounding, relentless presence of yours. He remembered your aura—bright, strong, so confident in a way you clearly hadn’t earned yet, but hell, it worked.

By the time he came back to himself, panting and blinking in the too-bright light, you were already gone, off to stabilise the next idiot without even sparing him a backward glance.

He had to ask someone your name.

It pissed him off for weeks.

Because you hadn’t even realized who you’d grabbed. You hadn’t known he was a potential SS-class Esper. You hadn’t cared. You’d just seen a wild beast and told it to sit down while you fixed it.

And somehow… it had worked.

He remembered it like a film reel soaked in rain—gray skies cracked open, streets slick and flooding, people scrambling like wet rats to get to cover. And in the middle of that chaos, you.

The only dry, smug bastard in the entire goddamn city.

The rain hadn’t touched you. Not one drop. Umbrella balanced perfectly, a coffee in one hand, phone in the other, like the gates of hell hadn’t just burst three blocks over. You were humming. Humming, for crying out loud.

And Leona had frozen mid-step. Not because of the gate, or the suppression order blaring in his ear—he didn’t even hear it anymore.

It was you.

The same energy. Same aura. That same maddening calm like a slap to the face. He didn’t even need to reach for his senses to know it was you—the one who yanked his ear and made his soul stop screaming all those years ago.

He’d spent months trying to forget that moment. Or rather, trying not to remember it too fondly. That was the worst part: how easy it had been to just give in to your touch. No fights. No snarling. No claws. Just... quiet.

And now here you were, in his city, acting like the rain had never met you, walking through a Gate breach zone like it was your stupid, peaceful backyard.

You didn’t even flinch when he stepped up to you.

Didn’t bristle.

Didn’t bow like the others.

Just blinked at him and went, “I'm just an S class guide.”

And that—

That pissed him off.

Because you didn’t recognize him.

After all that? The ear-pulling? The spiritual mugging you gave his aura? The time you wrangled his chaos into submission with the annoyed grace of someone trying to fix a printer jam?

You didn’t even remember.

Leona’s eye twitched.

No. Fine. That was fine. He could work with this.

He’d just have to remind you.

He leaned in, voice low and lazy, that smile curling sharp and knowing. “Didn’t think you’d forget me, herbivore.”

Still blank.

“Oh?” you said, sipping your coffee like he wasn’t radiating enough energy to fry the sidewalk. “Should I have?”

Leona huffed a laugh through his nose.

Okay. You wanted to play this game? Cool. He’d just put himself on your schedule. He’d get stabilised. Regularly. By you. He’d show up with his whole chaos bleeding out and dare you not to remember what you did to him back then.

He’d make sure you remembered.

And by the time you did, he'd already be sleeping in your lap.

He remembered that day like a fever dream.

The burn of energy spent down to the marrow. The static buzz in his skull, everything blurred and muffled. He didn’t remember passing out. Only that when he cracked his eyes open again, he was on a couch that was too soft, under a blanket that smelled like you.

And you—

You were pacing.

Pacing like your heart was about to break through your chest. Muttering to yourself. Swearing quietly. Picking up your phone like you were about to call for help—and that was when it hit him.

You were scared.

For him.

You, who once yanked his ear like he was a brat in time-out. Who lectured monsters and officials alike with the same exhausted sigh. You were standing there, shoulders hunched, knuckles white, about to call an ambulance like he was something fragile.

Leona would never forget that look.

Wide-eyed. Raw. Like you’d just lost the world and were scrambling to piece it back together.

He stirred just to stop you from dialing, more out of instinct than anything, and your reaction—Sevens. You swatted him like he was the one who gave you heart failure, your voice wobbly as you whined about how close you’d come to losing your “life juice thief.”

And something in his chest broke a little.

He didn’t say anything. Just patted your head with a heavy hand, tugged you onto the couch like you weighed nothing, and pulled you close. Too tired to talk. Too overwhelmed to pretend.

You didn’t argue. You just curled against him, the two of you folded together on that stupid couch not built for two.

He fell asleep with your heartbeat right there, under his hand.

And later, when he pretended it was the proximity that calmed him and not you, he knew he was lying. Because that image of you—panicked, pacing, nearly in tears because of him—was burned into his brain like a brand.

He thought: No one’s ever looked at me like that.

And maybe that’s when it happened.

Maybe that’s when he stopped running from what you meant to him.

Leona remembers the gate break too clearly.

Not because it was the bloodiest he’d seen—though it was. Not because the air had smelled like ozone and rot, or because the monsters had crawled out of that rift like nightmares given shape. Not even because they lost people, though the weight of that had sunk deep into his spine.

No.

He remembers it because of you.

You weren’t supposed to be there. You were supposed to be off somewhere doing idiot hobbies and yelling at your succulents. Not standing there, pale as ash, looking at the wreckage with wide, hollow eyes.

He’d spotted you across the chaos, just as another stretcher went past you, another guide screaming for medics. And you just stood there, frozen. Staring. Not blinking.

Leona moved before he even realized it, instincts kicking in harder than battle mode ever had.

You didn’t flinch when his hand covered your eyes from behind.

"Don’t look, herbivore," he muttered. Not like a command. Like a plea.

You made a small sound—shaky, half-choked—and he felt it. That tremble that ran through your body like a frayed wire.

And he knew, right then, that he’d never forget your expression. The look of someone who’d seen one horror too many. The kind that made you never sleep easy again.

He turned you around, tucked you under his arm like he could shield you from the world with just his presence alone, and walked you to the temporary camps.

You guided him there—your hands still trembling, voice quiet—but you guided him all the same.

He watched you carefully the whole time, like if he blinked, you’d disappear. Like if he wasn’t careful, you'd shatter.

And he swore—

If he could help it, he’d never let you wear that look again. Not for gates. Not for anyone. Not even for him.

Leona had felt fear before.

The kind that came with being outnumbered by monsters too big for even his claws to take down. The cold sweat of overusing his abilities to the point his bones felt like glass. The fury of watching comrades fall mid-battle.

But none of it—not once—had made his stomach drop the way it did when he opened your office door and saw the place getting cleared out.

Your desk was bare. The plant you used to scold for not thriving was gone. The mug that said “Espers are drama queens” was nowhere to be found. There was just a box, some paperwork, and a couple of Guides gossiping in the hallway.

“Transferred?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“Nah,” someone said. “Resigned. Burnout, probably.”

His vision tunneled.

Burnout.

You’d burned out—and you hadn’t said a word.

Leona didn’t even remember leaving the office. He just remembered standing in front of your door, knuckles aching from how hard he knocked, heart rattling in his chest like something was trying to break free. You opened it after what felt like eternity, hair a mess, hoodie too big, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

And you smiled.

Small. Tired. But real.

It wrecked him.

You explained in soft words—words that he barely heard because he was watching the way your shoulders curled in, the way your voice wavered when you said “I needed a break.”

And Leona… he said nothing.

Because what could he say?

“Come back?”

“Let me fix it?”

“I need you?”

No. He wasn’t good with words like that. So he just walked past you, flopped on your couch, and turned on the dumbest show in your streaming queue. The one with the laugh track you always made fun of. The one you claimed made your brain smooth enough to nap.

And you came and curled next to him without saying a word.

Leona didn’t sleep that night. He watched you instead. Watched your face soften as the tension bled away. Watched your chest rise and fall. Watched the proof that you were still here, even if a little frayed at the edges.

He stayed until morning.

Because if you couldn’t carry the world for a while, he’d hold it up for you instead

Leona refused to let anyone guide him after you left.

They tried, of course. S-class guides who were calm and polished, eager to work with him. People with pristine records and delicate, careful hands. They hovered around him after every mission, offering stabilizing touches and soft-spoken reassurances, but he bared his teeth at every single one of them.

He didn’t want calm. He didn’t want pristine.

He wanted you.

And it wasn’t like he meant to be dramatic about it, either. He knew how it looked—how reckless it was to take on gate after gate without being stabilized. He could feel it in his bones, the exhaustion chewing at the edges of his mind. His temper frayed easier. His sleep was worse. But every time someone reached for him, he’d shrug them off like their hands burned.

Because letting someone else guide him after you?

It felt like cheating.

Even if you’d never been his. Even if you’d never called him yours. Even if you’d left the job entirely and moved on, arms full of groceries and that stupid smug grin on your face like you hadn’t just ripped something vital out of him.

He endured. And endured. And endured.

Until that gate. The breach that nearly turned into a disaster. His vision had been half-gone from the overload, his hands shaking from pushing himself too far. He was stumbling toward his car, snarling at the idiots trying to grab him, when you came out of nowhere, yelling at him.

Scolding him for not taking care of himself.

You, who had no reason to be there. You, with your arms full of cookies and your dumb little apron still dusted with flour. You, who looked so heartbreakingly angry and worried all at once, like he’d carved a hole in your chest and left it open.

He barely heard the words. He couldn’t think past the rush of your voice and the you-ness of it all.

So he kissed you.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just leaned forward, dizzy with the ache of needing you, and kissed you.

You didn’t pull away.

You kissed him back with a kind of fury that made his knees weak, like you’d been waiting just as long, like all your feelings were poured straight into your touch. You guided him with your hands on his face, your forehead pressed to his. And for the first time in weeks—months, maybe—he could breathe again.

You were his fate. You always had been.

And Leona Kingscholar had never once considered being free.

Now, you're permanently bonded.

Leona comes home, not to silence or tension or the eerie calm of an empty apartment—but to you. You, burning something in the kitchen again. You, curled up on the couch in those ridiculous socks that he secretly bought two more pairs of because you kept losing them. You, complaining about your houseplants like they personally offended you, even as you tuck a blanket around one because “she’s sensitive to cold.”

He walks through the door and something tight in his chest unwinds. Every time.

Sometimes he still expects it to go away. Like he’ll blink and wake up, stuck in some sterile recovery room with a lecture coming and a headache already forming.

But then you smile at him, bright and familiar, and you say, “Welcome home, dumbass,” with that soft tone you always save just for him.

And it hits him again: you’re his.

You bonded with him. Not temporarily. Not out of desperation. You chose him.

Leona doesn’t care for sentimentality. But he knows—knows—he’ll never forget the day you tugged on his ear and made him yours.

Because something about the way you touched him… the way your hands didn’t shake… the way your voice didn’t flinch…

He hadn’t felt fear. He hadn’t felt chaos. He’d just felt—settled.

Even now, when you steal his hoodies and press kisses to the corners of his mouth and scowl when he eats the last cookie, he still remembers that exact moment. The tug on his ear. Your hand in his hair. The audacity you had to treat him like a person before he’d ever earned it.

He comes home to that now.

To you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Leona Kingscholar doesn’t feel like he’s enduring the world.

He feels like he’s living in it.

You’re both tangled up in the sheets, legs braided together, skin warm with the afterglow, when you roll onto your side and ask, “Hey… why me?”

Leona blinks at the ceiling, arms behind his head. “Why not you?”

You nudge his side, unconvinced. “No, seriously. You had your pick. So what made you want me?”

He’s quiet for a second. Then he says, almost casually, “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“Our first meeting. It wasn’t during that gate in the rain.” He shifts, turning to face you fully, voice low and quiet. “It was way before that. Back when we were both still rookies.”

You squint, thinking hard. “You mean—?”

“I was a mess,” he says, lips twitching at the memory. “Raw, half-feral. I’d just come off a surge and nobody could get near me.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

“You,” he says, tapping your forehead lightly, “stomped over, grabbed me by the ear like I was a misbehaving mutt, and told me to ‘stay put,’ like you weren’t terrified I’d snap your arm off.”

And then it clicks. It clicks.

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “That was you?!”

He raises an eyebrow, almost smug.

You burst out laughing. Actual, full-body, face-hiding, breathless laughter.

Leona watches you lose it, and something deep in his chest tugs—gentle, powerful, unmistakably warm.

He thinks, this.

This right here. The sound of your laughter in his sheets, the crinkle of your nose, the disbelief in your eyes as if you couldn’t possibly have manhandled one of the most dangerous espers in the country—this is what he wants every damn day of his life.

You’re still giggling when you huddle closer to him, pressing your forehead to his.

“I pulled your ear,” you murmur, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “No wonder you’ve been so whipped since day one.”

“Watch it,” he warns, but there’s no heat in it. Just fondness.

You grin, and he kisses it right off your mouth.

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #leona kingscholar x you #leona kingscholar x reader #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twst leona #guideverse x reader #guideverse

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solxamber · 10 days ago

Text

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.

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

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